Tag Archives: tea

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Arrive and engage

Home again! I came home from Grand Junction, Colorado via Denver. Wrong direction and an additional 440 miles, more or less. I spent two nights at my daughter’s home and she and her boyfriend took me to the Botanic Gardens and to a birthday high tea at the fabulous Brown Palace Hotel. I guessed it was built in 1880. Close: 1892. We had tea in the atrium with ten or more stories above us, balconies all around and stained glass at the top. Quite gorgeous.

From Denver, I drove north and then northwest, Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, Oregon and Washington. The pass in Wyoming had sleet and slush, terrible visibility and ice on the road. The speed limit was 35 and everyone ignored it. That was my second day and over 400 miles and both the cat and I were very glad to arrive at the hotel. Sol Duc complained quite a lot the first day and then settled down.

Driving into Oregon over another pass, suddenly it is green. Shades of brown before that but once over the pass, bright startling green. In Washington, Snoqualmie Pass brings the smell of the Salish Sea and we are close to home! We left Denver on Monday and arrive in Port Townsend on Thursday afternoon, delighted to get out of the car.

And hooray for being home! It was a little disorienting after being gone for most of eleven months. I miss Elwha cat and I think Sol Duc wondered if he was in the house too. A friend came over and brought some staples and another friend dropped off my first CSA farm box, from Wednesday! How wonderful!

On Friday I went to walk with another friend downtown, while her husband and daughter went scuba diving. The alpacas were downtown, being socialized and wading in the sound. They have very expressive ears and clearly the sound tasted peculiar. They were all well behaved and so were we.

Home, arrived and engaged already, alpacas, friends and demonstrations against P47’s insanity.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: arrive and engage.

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Tea bear

My friend C. is a bear.

People don’t know she is a bear. She carries a bear, a teddy bear. It is named S Bear, after her husband. He died of cancer a while ago. So she carries a bear named after him. The first time I met the bear, I asked if it needed a teacup too. Because people make clothes for it and I don’t know how far it all goes. No, the teddy bear did not need a teacup.

My friend C. is a bear. She writes horror stories under the name lostcauser. The writer is from Tennessee and so is C. The stories are horrid. Lostcauser is an anagram. Rearrange the letters and you get closet ursa. Closet bear. Hidden bear.

She is not my only friend who is a bear. She is aware of her bearness, her ferocity, the beast inside. Bears like honey and blueberries, too, they aren’t just monsters. My other friend dreams of a one room shack in the woods. His dead brother is at the door shouting for help. His brother is being attacked by a bear. A huge terrifying bear.

“Did you invite it in?” I ask.

“It’s a BEAR.” says my friend.

“It’s a Dream Bear.” I say, “I would ask what it wants.”

“You don’t understand bears,” says my friend.

“I understand a lot about dreams. Some think that everyone you see in a dream is a part of yourself. It can be a part that you don’t accept.”

“Bears attack. You can’t invite them in.”

“I would ask the bear in. I would ask the bear if it would like some tea.”

I tell another friend about one of my dreams. There are monsters screaming. I go towards them.

“TOWARDS them?” says my friend. “Why would you go TOWARDS them?”

I have to think about it. “Well, they are screaming. They might be hurt. They might need medical care. I have to go help them.”

My friend shakes his head. “Only you,” he says, “would go towards the screaming.”

One time in my neighborhood, I hear horrible screaming. I get up. It is 1 am. I go out and try to find the screamer. I don’t find anyone. A few days later, I read that someone nearly severed their arm somehow, in my neighborhood. A policeman saves his life with a tourniquet. It was three blocks from my house, at the grade school. The grade school is where I went. I think the person was knifed, but I don’t know. My neighborhood does not get a lot of that sort of thing, at least, not a lot of screaming that wakes me up.

I wonder about my friend that is attacked by a dream bear. A bear that is much bigger than his dream self and his dream brother self. There must be a lot of darkness in that bear. It is angry about being ignored.

My friend C. is a bear. She knows she is a bear. Reading her stories, I do not think she likes being a bear.

I don’t mind if she is a bear. I wonder if we will have tea again some day.

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For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: fan. Why? Maybe I am a fan of bears. Or maybe fans make me think of hats and gloves and tea parties. And bears.

This is based on speculation and some true events.

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Tea and talk

Tea and talk and tittle tattle
exchange of views among some boomers
solving problems as ideas rattle
or spreading nasty damaging rumors?
Talk of science and books and space
are the words mean or kind?
whispers about someone’s face?
Rumors about someone’s mind?
It’s hard to fight a rumor mill
people talking behind your back
the poison seeps and spreads and spills
a deadly dagger in your back
Time passes and people find
sometimes it’s the accuser who lost his mind

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: tittle tattle.

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Keeper

Here is my lovely momento.

I write a poem called “In my parents’ house”.

In 1995 my mother, Helen Burling Ottaway, makes teapots with the poem on the pot. She gives me one for Christmas.

She dies of cancer in 2000. My sister chooses my poem to read at her memorial.

A friend then reads the poem at my sister’s memorial in 2012 (also cancer), because I missed the California memorial. I was sick at home with pneumonia #2.

After she dies, I am sent a box of a few things from her house. Yarn and a second teapot. My sister had one.

I give the teapot to my niece, my sister’s daughter, telling her her grandmother made it.

My mother signed things with an H inside an O.

Here is the poem:

In my parents’ house
love is dispensed in teacups

When they notice you
Pacing in some empty mood
Or with that blank deserted face
Eyes shutters into an empty mind
They say, “Would you like a cup of tea?”

The warmth of the cup in your hands
And the hot liquid, sweet and milky
On your tongue works wonders
And binds your soul to your body

When my sister is twelve
She embroiders a patch for a quilt
In yellow flosses, a cup
with steam curling upwards
And the words, “Such a comfort. TEA.”

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I think my maternal family still has the quilt, with jeans patches. My grandmother Katy B handed out squares to everyone at the cabins in Ontario and we all made squares. She and my cousin sewed them together and tied the quilt.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: momento.

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Tea with a friend

I have a friend over for tea on Thursday.

I make Katy B’s fruit torte, recipe here. Katherine Burling was my maternal grandmother.

The friend worked with me for five years and is surviving lung cancer. She has one of the new treatments. She gets an infusion every three weeks. “For the rest of my life.” she says, but they may come up with something new eventually. She feels pretty terrible after the infusion for a few days.

I use this tea set. I love this set. It says Rose China, Japan, on the bottom. What I like best is that the lid of the teapot has the roof of the pagoda, to line up before I pour. There are six plates, but only three cups and saucers. The sugar bowl and creamer are intact.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: tea.

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homage

Homage to the Jubilee and a woman who has seen so many changes. I had two friends over for tea yesterday and had fun dressing up. The suit is made of wool, probably from the 1940s. The gloves were my mother’s. She loved gloves and I have a box. The hat should be pale yellow green too, but this is what I could find.

I am glad that I don’t have to dress this way every day, but it was very fun yesterday. I did not feel encumbered. How DID they keep the gloves clean?

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: emcumbered.

The first song has tea! And a place in heaven for those who teach in Public School. Sigh.

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practicing grandmother

My sister sends me a t-shirt years ago.

It said, “I don’t know if I am the good witch or the bad witch.”

I burst into tears and put it in the trunk of my car. I never wear it. I am the designated bad witch for half my family. We won’t go into that.

She gets a shirt too. Hers is the green one. Mine is black.

She is dead, in 2012, breast cancer. It’s hard to describe the fallout. Toxic and radioactive. But… I have decided not to be a witch.

Instead, I am a practicing grandmother.

Really I’ve been one for a while. There was a young couple who lived down the street with two children. This was in 2014. I was a Facebutt friend, so sometimes noted what was happening. The father has to travel for his job. The mother is trying to care for two kids and work and so on… been there.

In 2014 I am recovering from my third round of pneumonia. This third round it takes six months before I can return to work. Short of breath and coughed if I talked. The state medical watch doctors went to disable me but I fight them tooth and nail. I win.

I wander down to the neighbor and offer my services. She already knows me. She is instantly grateful and two year old T is introduced to me, again. He doesn’t really remember me. She explains that he is coming to my house for a little while and then back home.

T and I walk towards my house.

A nuthatch calls.

I stop and reply. In college I took ornithology and the teaching assistant could do a barn owl call so well that the barn owls would do a territorial fly over at night to see who had the weird accent. Marvelous.

The nuthatch and I went “enh” back and forth. T is amazed. This woman talks to birds. Then we see the nuthatch! I point out how nuthatches come down a tree head first. “If you hear that call, it’s a nuthatch. Look for it.” The nuthatch is very cooperative. Magic.

We get to my house. T is clutching a book. “He’s taking it everywhere,” sighs his mother. “I’m not sure why.”

So first we read the book. It is a board book about a farm. Each page has a central picture and then there are pictures around the edges with the word under each picture. On one page T says, “Haaaaay.”

“Oh!” I say, delighted. “You can read HAY!”

His face lights up. An adult who gets it! Yes! He can read HAY!

On another page he says HAY. “Oh,” I say, “That is straw. Straw is a lot like hay but it’s not exactly the same.”

He is very serious absorbing that information.

I show him my closet. There is a stick horse. Only it isn’t a horse: it’s a unicorn dragon, with a forehead horn and wings. When you press a button it’s eyes flash and it roars.

Ok, that’s pretty scary. He wants the closet door closed and he does NOT want to play with the dragon.

Next is pouring. I get out a towel and put it on the kitchen floor. I get out a rather nice expresso set. Bright colors. Orange and green and yellow and blue. I fill the coffee pot with water and invite him to sit on the towel. “You can pour the tea.”

He looks at me with surprise. He picks up the coffee pot. He looks at me again. “Go ahead. It’s ok.” He starts pouring into a cup. He pours until the cup overflows and the saucer overflows and he keeps pouring. The coffee pot is empty. He looks at me a little warily. This is technically spilling and he knows it.

“Would you like more in the teapot?”

He nods.

I refill the coffee pot with water and he starts again, with a different cup.

When I return him to mom, after two hours, he’s damp. “Sorry, he got a little wet, but it’s just water,” I say cheerfully. Mom is too harried to do much more than look resigned at a change of clothes.

Next time he comes with a change of clothes and his large stroller, in case he goes down for a nap.

And first off, he goes to the closet. Time to hear that dragon roar again.