Elaine Reardon's Blog

Upcoming in Worcester

You are all most welcome to come to this event, one of the last NEPC events of this year. In August I got covid for the first time, and I’ve been thinking of how much covid has changed our lives. I wrote the following poem back at the beginning, when many people were critically ill or dying. That spring I got into gardening with a LOT of enthusiasm. I especially loved the okra and potato flowers, and I enjoyed stuffing zucchini flowers with goat cheese and pan frying them in batter. I really don’t have enough sun except on one small spot, so I’ve cut back this year. As our growing season ends, I hope you are passing into this new season with comfort.

Delicious

Covid brought me 

the year of my vegetable garden,

time to lavish on the garden each morning.

Okra— crimson pods push out 

from blossoms with blood-colored veins.

Huge squash blossoms unfurl,

catch dew and every bumble bee.

Orange Kabocha and Zucchini flowers, 

new each morning.

Purple eggplants droop,

into leafy shade. 

I roast them, mix in tahini,

garlic, and lemon juice. 

Beet greens grow behind okra,

sprawl their way towards autumn.

This morning the endive was perfect.

I imagined soup with chunks of ripe tomato,

summer squash, okra, endive, seasoned 

with garlic, parsley, cilantro, all simmering. 

There’s something about soup that sets things to right.  

Not just the choosing 

what the bees have

just flown from, also

the simple act of carrying

a vegetable basket into the kitchen. 

Aroma of broth simmering                                                                                                             brings me into balance

Chopping, slicing, waiting, noticing.

Nourishing. 

Breathing.

Turning

Turning Season

Brown stalks and seed heads  

along the path.

An umbrella of oak leaves

diverts rain from a patch of chanterelles.

Scarlet blueberry leaves on the hillside woo the last robins.

In the dark velvet of pines     raindrops drip through branches

where old bird nests hang empty.

Birds have flown

    except for that Blue Heron 

who silently glided

  downstream.

Cherry and maple  stacked on the porch.

Woodstove ornamented

with swans and sailing vessels

begins to warm the room.

Flames dance their heat    send hiss and crackling my way.

September

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Miro, Miras, Mira I see you see he/she sees

Today I offer another tiny flight of imagination story, born from a prompt at my writing session. All photos are my own, taken in Florida.

Mira Largo 

It was a sunny morning at the Mira Largo House. Parrots flew through the bamboo trees, and soft breezes gently lifted the smallest waves. A newly constructed drawbridge connected the large white mansion to a golf course on the other side of the small man-made canal. It was a lovely vista from the bedroom porch, where the President was being served coffee, sausage rolls, and donuts. He was on the phone with contractors. 

“NO No.  I need you to hire a dozen hunters from the Amazon NOW”. Get them up here!”

“I don’t care if they are  sharpshooters or from a tribe that uses poisoned darts. They’ll know how to hunt alligators!” The President had changed the course of the small river so that it formed a ring around his home, much like a moat. Because this was a subtropical climate and the other side of the river backed onto his private  golf course and beach, once a new watery tributary fed the area nature naturally changed. First it was more birds, then alligators and snakes found the waters.There was an abundance of fish here that fed the gulls. Often one could watch alligators rise from the waters, jaws snapping at low-flying sea gulls. A boa constrictor had fed on a guest’s dog.  Most recently feral pigs were spotted on the golf course.  

Now the alligators had bred and the moat around Mira Largo was now filled with young alligators of all sizes. It was only a short crawl to the ocean for them, so the beach was no longer available for use. The President no longer could invite guests here. In fact, he could only get out himself if he used the small helicopter that landed on the front lawn. The only other way out was the drawbridge over to the golf course which now was filled with hungry alligators sunning themselves and marauding feral pigs. The President and his immediate staff had become prisoners of their own alligator alley.

Alligators proved too difficult for the National Guard to kill off, and the pigs, well, they were wild and crazy beasts, beyond anything the guard had been trained for.  It wasn’t safe. Miro Largo had become an ecological nightmare.

The President had a wonderful idea after the National Guard didn’t work out. He would hire a group of hunters from the Amazon rainforest. After all, this was like their home environment, wasn’t it?  They’d be able to hunt down and kill the snakes, alligators, and feral pigs, and he would make it worth their time. He’d find something they wanted! The problem was none of them had passports, and traveling to the US with temporary papers was not was not anything anyone would do.  

Thus far, this is a work of fiction.

August’s Tale

First, I have good news to share. Farm Girl Press has accepted two poems for their Autumn/Winter journal. When the time comes, I’ll share the online version with you. Today I heard from my cousin Deb, who is mentioned in the following poem, and it brought the poem in mind. For New Englanders Cape Cod has been a place that only grows more wonderful in our memories as the years pass. It has more traffic, more shops, and simply getting over the Bridge is an experience in itself. But off season is still pretty wonderful.

Cape Cod Vacation

On vacation Gram was the cook. She prepared

clam cakes, spaghetti sauce with steamers, stuffed quahaugs.

We’d find that inlet by Menuhaunt Beach, spread out

in the warm water, dig clams all afternoon, gathering 

basins of clams, huge pots of them. Aunts, uncles, 

cousins, a whole tribe, crouched in salty water 

with any kind of digging tool we could find.

Our first supper always began with steamed little necks 

and corn. Once my sister Mary ate so many she got sick,

couldn’t look at another clam for three days.

Karen, Ken, and Debby roasted marshmallows 

over coals. Ken roasted his until they drooped off the stick,

crispy on the outside, melted to perfection inside.

Auntie Bea and Auntie Lilly made drinks at happy hour

served small whiskey sours to Vickie and me, the oldest,

when we were fifteen. We felt sophisticated. Mom still 

used the walker then. We gathered outdoors on folding chairs by

Green Pond when crickets sang in the dusk,

watched sunset darken the tide to purple.

For that whole week our world was safe.

Did you have a special place your family vacationed? I still don’t eat steamers witout remembering my sister eating too many clams!

An Albany NY Armenian Poem

I met David and we found our grandparents were survivors of the Armenian genocide from the same general area, close enough to speak the same dialect. He grew up with Sunday visits to his grandparents, and I grew up with us all living together.

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Refugees from Endearments

He always wondered

what endearments Grandfather

had uttered in the language

he didn’t understand.

His grandfather commanded attention

with blue eyes that noticed everything.

Torn from Hye mountains near Harput,

he settled in the foothills near Albany.

Grandfather planted string beans

and cabbages each spring,

cherished the grape leaves rather

than the purple globed fruits.

Cleaned up and on best behavior,

his family drove up to visit.

Dressed in church clothes, they’d

changed into play clothes later.

When Grandfather stepped on the porch

to proclaim dinner, he’d appraise them

when they tumbled up the porch steps

to wash hands at the kitchen sink.

He’d watch with piercing eyes

and pronounced tutum golukh,

as they scrambled into the kitchen

tucking in their shirttails.

This endearment still stayed

with him forty years later.

It didn’t matter what the words meant,

just that they were endearments.

These Armenian words traveled

to New England with refugees

that settled here, endearments that

had grown rusty from disuse.

Now he was settled with family

of his own, and found another child

of survivors from that distant village

who knew the dialect and translated.

Ah yes. I know that phrase well.

My grandmother often said that to me.

Tutum golukh—pumpkin head,

foolish empty like a gourd.

Remember, in our culture you don’t want

to draw too much attention to what is precious.

For David, who asked if I could translate his grandfather’s words.

August Slows Things Down

Late August

I sit on porch steps,

watch the sun burn

off the late August dew.

Fog fronds curl away

from Brown-Eyed Susans

and squash flowers.

I sip tea and watch bumblees

already working. They hover and dip

into each separate chive blossom,

feet first, bury their heads

deep in its glory. Orange pollen sacs

fill on their back legs, travelers

with tiny brocade carpet bags.

I move close, follow their progress

as they make morning music, moving

to purple thyme and oregano. Buzzing,

clicks when grasshoppers jump,

wings spread wide,

and cricket song,

all before the sun heats the day.

Grandmother

I wrote this for my grandchildren, Lina and Ella/Nico. I hope it finds them.

Her Grandmother Wishes

I would have liked to hear her

call Seanmháthair—

to hear her toddler tongue shape

that word. Perhaps I would have

fed her porridge some morning,

lifted her to pull an apple right

from the tree. We would go

into the garden, salute yarrow

and heart’s ease near the fence gate,

push our noses into lemon balm and rose

then press rose petalsonto our tongues.

She would say Seanmháthair

and I would pick her up with

mint & chamomile. We’d go inside

for tea, drink from Peter Rabbit mugs.

She would tell me about those fairies

she glimpsed from the corner

of her eyes, then mention

that she’d like to use the bathroom.

We’d rush upstairs just in time.

She would say Seanmháthair.

I would wash her sticky hands and face.

We’d pick up a small storybook,

murmur the words, touch each picture.

Then we’d climb the stairs to bed,

peeking out the window to say “good rest”

to the bird on the windowsill.

We’d sing a small song together

to soften the journey to rest.

* Seanmháthair is the Irish word for Grandmother.

Reckless July

I’d like to dedicate this week’s blog to Gabby, a former student who is now a friend and mother of four really great kids. Gabby and her children have grown a vegetable gardenin past years and loved eating many fresh veggies. This summer they’ve turned thier hands to caring for a backyard flock of chickens that will soon be laying eggs.

Reckless July Fills My Garden

Cucumbers ripen early, perfectly-sized,

ready for quart pickle jars 

with just-picked dill and garlic,

also ready to pick early this year.

Clusters of green beans droop like the Hanging Gardens 

of Babylon. Vines heavy with bounty climb the fence,

make a shaded portico. I reach to pluck enough

for supper. The largest squash in the county

grows in this bony New England land, transforming

this 20 x 25 garden to a tropical paradise,

replete with bulging tomatoes, okra

and green chard leaves. Eggplants are

tiny amethyst jewels, still slow to grow. 

Mint fills any available space

like party gate crashers.

July days swing between hot, humid, sunny,

thunder booming, lightning, and wind. 

We loose elecricity,  rain pours

like a forgotten faucet spraying hard.

Frogs, from the size of my thumb nail 

to a dinner plate, loudly call at dinner time. 

Not the frantic calls of springtime, more like 

my Uncle Paul on long-past vacations,

his deep voice chuckling when he sat

at the end of the day with a beer,

reflecting on the day, with pleasure.

Deep Summer

I find the same things that delighted me whan I was a child still delight me now- the idea of ice cream on a warm day, picking any kind of berry, no matter how hot the weather, and making jam for the next morning, eating berries with just about anything. I even mix fresh berries and smoked salmon into scrambled eggs. What does summer hold for you? What have you done that you enjoy, or what summer memories do you hold dear? I’d love to hear your answers.

My Body Remembers Summer

Taste of vanilla ice cream

filled with ripe blueberries,

somehow juicy enough

to stain chin and cheeks.

A bowl of oatmeal, steam rising,

holds a small pool of sweet cream

poured from a glass jar 

left on the porch by the milkman.

Juicy peaches and blackberries

scented with cardamom spooned

over biscuits for breakfast, a Lunasa

celebration this August harvest time.

Basil, garlic, and oregano cover

juicy home-grown tomatoes, all

from the garden, drizzled 

with olive oil, fill a large bowl.

Sounds of cricket, buzzing  of wasp

and bee as day begins. Thrum

of  hummingbird’s wings

as he sips each bloom.

Frogs splash and dive dragonflies

whir in a choreographed dance

over the pond, and the soft swish 

when a grasshopper lands.

Smell of cut grass rises 

in the morning sun, 

sweet fern fragrance and a tumble

of wild roses, a feast for my senses.

And some good news, a poem about blueberries and my mum

just posted at this site:

Blueberries by Elaine Reardon (MY FAVORITE THINGS Series)