WHAT TO WEAR TO A SOUTHERN WEDDING

Poetry can be fun.  I wrote this when I was living high as Mother of the Bride.  One of the best times in our lives, full of love and joy.

I would not suggest black lace –

always out of place.

Considering the clime

this is not the time to favor a frock of cut velvet –

you would just melt in it!

If this rain keeps up for twenty-one days

raincoats may be all the rage –

with matching canoes in pastel hues.

Silk never failles but linen does wrinkle.

Why not a jersey knit in a floral print

or back to the 80’s for a lady-like chintz?

Of course,

you must not wear white.

White is reserved for the bride

even if her dress is growing tight.

My Georgia RaeNell has always been a size four-

nothing less and nothing more!

Your options are endless.

The responsibility stupendous!

But since I already have my dress

I am beyond this couture stress.

At this point I’m just along for the ride.

Hugs and kisses,

The Mother of the Bride

Amy Holt Taylor 5-2009

HOW THE MIGHTY

The saddest sight I have ever seen

because of one word -

no.

The seed of hate

sealed the fate

many decades ago.

I won’t reveal the town’s name.

Actually, many places

have suffered the same,

of their own choosing,

in trying to shut others out

based on race and religion.

A river town

bustling with commerce.

Brick stores and spacious apartments.

Proud city, too proud.

The shiny storefront windows

were used for looking out,

keeping “them” from walking in.

The town looked successful.

A large library

and corners built up with churches.

Did the people go to hear the Word preached

or were their hearts beyond reach?

Was Sunday just a day to pass

their manners around,

among their stalwart like and kind?

They built the town –

monuments to business acumen

and to men.

They bled the town,

one drop at a time

as those who were kept out

 left.

A dying town

 bound together

by the growing measure

of verdant vines

dressed in false buds and trailing tendrils.

Buildings once standing tall,

standing now like ghostly corpses

looking for lost parts,

hope and promise long deceased.

Where does hate start?

I have seen the saddest sight-

a town that hate devoured.

Was there not just one who knew what was right?

Amy Holt Taylor September 2, 2011

POETRY - YEA!

As a trained English Major in fairly good standing with the National English Major Society created by Garrison Keillor, I consider it an honor and a necessity to share Poetry Month with anyone who will listen.  I hear your sighs and see rolling of eyes. I began writing poetry when I was twelve.  I am working on a book in progress, breathing poetry.  I wanted to put all my poems in a notebook so I could see them and have easy access.  I memorized my first poem in grade school, The Swing by Robert Louis Stevenson.   

I will catch a phrase in my head.  Walk into a grocery store.  Drive by the Daffodil Lady.  Think on a few lines.  Then find paper and pencil.  I often remember where I was when the idea was birthed. Sometimes I just sit down and start writing. The words and rhymes just happen.  And some of them take my breath away.

I am not perfect or published or the Nation's Poet Laureate.  I have read thousands of lines of poetry. I can walk into Robert Frost's home in Franconia, New Hampshire.  Go up the stairs to his simple room and stand at his desk, looking out the window at his view of the White Mountains and wonder.  What was on his other road?

Whatever my talent, I believe it is a gift.  God has wired my brain a certain way.  He is the creator. My talent is just sitting down to write.   And then He lets me breathe. 

CANTRELL AND KAVANAUGH

Daffodil lady.

A handful, just a few

early season blooms

of yellow and green.

She stands on the corner

trying to catch the eye

of the person driving by.

She steps closer.

Look at me.

Don't you see

what I have to offer?

Flowers for just a dollar or two,

a way to brighten your day.

Dollars to pay my way

back home,

money to buy some food.

Daffodil lady

where do you belong?

With your bucket bouquet

have you paid your way?

Are all the flowers gone?

Amy Holt Taylor

LOLLYGAG FESTIVAL 2016

I hate to get too personal (being a blogger, ha) but I have been sick with the galloping crud.  For eight days, I have been participating in the Great Lollygag Festival of 2016.  Lollygag is one of my favorite words.  Sounds so appropriate and definitive.  In my gowntail, coughing and sneezing and wheezing.  Would it never end?

The last fun event I remember is going to the grocery store and coming home and stirring up some cheesy chicken noodle casserole.  To have on hand in case this cold bug took hold.  Well, Burt got better and I went downhill fast.  But we had the supreme comfort food on hand for several days.  Obviously, it's curative powers have been reduced, in my eyes.  But Burt begs to differ.

There are days just wiped from my memory like the magic neuralyzer in Men in Black.  Life was  hanging on by a Kleenex.  I was so confused I thought I was binge watching reruns of Steve Harvey.  I'm not a recliner type person but I spent many hours like a carrier ship flattened in the furthermost position with tissues flung across my flight deck.  And that was when I could make it to the den.  I was so sick I only watched one movie, Doctor Zhivago.  And if that was just the one, it was a good one. (Omar Sharif)

Starve a cold or feed a fever?  Definitely feed the cold.  The highlights of my day were Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream, Welch's Grape Juice and Cheesy Chicken Noodle Casserole with sub highlights of Blueberry Pop Tarts and Hall's Tropical Fruit Cough Drops.  Bedside service was five star.  A special meal stands out - chicken noodle soup accompanied with Butter cheese and crackers, a family favorite.  Butter makes everything better.

Other highlights of the week were watching Nancy Regan's funeral and my every four days bathing experience.

Of course, the doorbell rang on days when I was sporting my old chenille bathrobe (it's old enough to vote) and my leopard print p.j's.  I forgot that my bed styled hair had a three inch section standing straight up, at an angle.  Thankfully, these were legitimate calls.  You have to go to the door so the bogey man knows you are home.  Sometimes I would answer the phone.  I have received sympathy from the Unknown Caller and Area Codes of Libyan origin.  My peeps would call daily and be amazed at how awful I sounded which brought me much comfort. 

I didn't just sleep my days away.  Many hours were spent in bed imagining I was cleaning the house.  I would jump from the bed with my hand across my forehead and tell Burt I must get busy and he would remind me I was sick.  You know how it goes when the lady of the house is ill.  Or I would be in bed thinking about taking up a new hobby like kayaking.  Or planning a garage sale.  It is all hazy.  I would try to plan my spring/summer 2016 wardrobe but didn't have the strength to lift my Spring Vogue from off the floor much less turn a page.  Thankfully, there were no fever induced mind games.  Just the dull pulse of a clogged head and raw throat.

Nights were the worst.  Propped up against two king pillows and a standard, practically sitting straight up trying to breathe during the night while managing not to gag myself on the sequestered cough drop between my cheek and my teeth.  Coughing fits and nose blowing were sleep killers. 

I finally went to the doctor.  I kept thinking I would get better.  When I proudly confessed that I had finally been able to cook dinner the night before, he said he wouldn't have eaten my cooking.  I had already been on Tamiflu (separate exposure to the flu) and still had this bug hanging on.  He said it was time to get rid of it.  I agreed.

As they say, a good time was had by all.  The Land of Counterpane was my spring break destination.  The Lollygag Festival did not live up to its billing.   Things are back to normal.  Bath, hair, makeup and real clothes, all on one day.  Think of the places I can go...

EVERYTHING VEGGIE STEAK SOUP

March may be blowing in and daffodils popping up but there are still a few late winter days whipping around the knees.  A cool evening is best headed off with a nice bowl of soup.  Whatever the time of year, this veggie steak soup is the best recipe.  The secret to this recipe is over thirty ingredients - from handfuls to smidges.  Family cooks have found this method to be tried and true.

The following is my most recent recipe in order of when I added the ingredient.  I have a recipe diary.  Every time I stir this up, I write down a list of the ingredients and date it.  Old envelopes are especially handy for this.  The only method required is to include at least thirty ingredients.  The ingredients can range  from meat to veggies to spices.  In the past, leftover pot roast was added.  I have switched to fresh steak.

The amount of each ingredient is totally up to the cook.  A splash, a spoonful, a pinch.  Be daring.  This recipe has a new ingredient never seen before - chili garlic hot sauce. Happy stirring!



1.     olive oil
2.     chuck eye steak 1.42 pound -  cut into strips and cubed - sauteed
3.     1 onion, chopped
4.     3 ribs celery, sliced
5.     salt
6.     pepper
7.     28 oz. Hunt's diced tomatoes + 1 can water
8.     3 sliced carrots
9.     2 bay leaves
10.   handful of small peppers - red, orange, yellow - sliced and diced
11.   1/2 turnip - sliced and diced
12.   1 large squash - halved lengthwise and sliced
13.   1 can Del Monte Cut Green Beans, drained
14.   sprig of fresh rosemary
15.   splash of coffee
16.   another large can of water
17.   cayenne
18.   coriander
19.   Hungarian paprika
20.   Cavendar's Greek Seasoning
21.   tarragon
22.   curry
23.   ground mustard
24.   oregano
25.   garlic powder
26.   Old Bay Seasoning
27.   ground allspice
28.   Lea and Perrins Worcestershire Sauce
29.   peppered vinegar
30.   liquid smoke
31.   Grandma's Molasses - one coated spoon
32.   1/8 tsp chili garlic hot sauce
33.   Cattleman's BBQ Sauce
34.   sherry
35.   pickle juice
36.   lemon pepper
37.   soy sauce
38.  1 can Bush's Northern Beans, drained
39.  8 new potatoes, cubed

I usually add one can of no salt kernel corn, drained.  I didn't have it in the pantry.  This recipe is good for using what you have and/or running to the store and buying all the veggies you want.  Anything works - fresh, canned and frozen.  Mushrooms are also good.

Eating the rainbow.

Yummy bowl of Veggie Steak Soup with Toast

WANDERING MINDS

The t-shirt is mine.  Hard won.  And at the acceptance of my shallow, jaded viewpoint in the midst of beauty.  After six years of whole hearted support for our beloved symphony orchestra, Burt and I strayed.  He slept and I wandered.

Two and a half hours of musical rhapsody.  Big. Triumphant.  Grand.  Two hundred voice choir and full orchestra.  I recognized only four words all evening.  Lord, Amen, Christ.  Jerusalem.  I do not know Hebrew or German.  I couldn't read the translations in the dim light.

The music was movingly beautiful.  The combined choirs were pitch perfect and full-voiced.  The orchestra was unfailing in devotion and deliberation.  Our maestro was full of controlled emotion and precise character.  I was the one failing.  I tried desperately to be swept away by the experience.

Did I mention the last performance was the Brahms Requiem?  Lullaby man.  Even with grandiose flair.  Two rows in front of our seats, a man's head went from right to left all night long.  I'm sure he was miserable wondering when his nightmare would end.  Really, it was not a nightmare.  I feel horrible even mentioning it but I hope our experience was atypical.  

My mind wandered all over the concert hall, wondering how many other minds were wandering.  Did I turn the iron off?  Did I pay the gas bill?  I can't remember if I stewed the prunes yesterday or Friday.  She said she would call but now I think it is too late to accept the invitation.  Are those daffodils ever going to come up?  What I'm I going to wear Easter?  I will try shrimp again this year at the beach.  What is the Pantone color this year?  I don't think the back of my hair looks good.  These shoes are pinching me.  How did I let her drag me here?  I think I want scrambled eggs for dinner.  Antiques Roadshow said it was the best example ever.  I should have gone at intermission.  Mmm, that violinist is having trouble with her bow.  The soloist foot is almost hanging off the stage.  I think Revenant will win Best Movie.  The report is due Monday.  I forgot to call my sister.  The paint will be dry by tomorrow.

I once read that Prince Charles had just the cure for the sessions he must sit through.  He began memorizing as a young man and falls back on that technique for keeping alert while sitting on a podium.  Thank goodness we were not sitting front and center.  We wondered how the soloists sat ramrod straight while waiting for their solos.  Their heads did not bobble and they didn't yawn or close their eyes.

In the meantime, I was saying "The Swing" by Robert Louis Stevenson in my head and thinking about the days of yore when I still remembered "If" by  Rudyard Kipling.  Memorization is a tricky thing.  It requires regular use.

I was sandwiched between two men.  One was sitting ramrod straight but pushing the sleep odds which left him in physical tatters after the show when his body finally wanted to give into sleep but had to drive home.  The other gentleman was my seat neighbor and towards the end, his man spreading was beginning to encroach on my propriety.  I was not in danger of going to sleep between worrying about the Leaning Tower of Pisa on one side and the spreading situation on the other side.  

This is really not a fair synopsis of the experience.  For the time, the music hall was filled with rich and intricate tapestries of golden notes.  I feel horrible for not fully appreciating the time and energy invested by so many.   The official review was glorious.  My little review is just one little experience.  If you know me, you know I love my symphony and have all my life.  But now I have survived.  No dispersion being cast against the talent and drive offered up to these two wretched representatives of the human experience.  I think we will stick to English.        

IT'S ALWAYS SOMETHING

Automobile.  Air conditioning.  Indoor plumbing.  Just a few of my favorite things.

But my new favorite thing is the washing machine.  I just don't have the arms for all of that lifting and toting and wringing out soap and water.

At nine o'clock last night, I realized how much I had taken this lovely machine for granted.  Suddenly I was reduced to thinking about pounding rocks or making a washboard from all of the good wood we have stashed in the garage.

The fully loaded machine made terrible sounds like giving up the ghost.  And then everything stopped.  The fancy dashboard was still lit up.  But no more wash cycle or the all important - spin cycle.  Full of jeans and socks.  Just about the heaviest load one can imagine.  Clothing items that do not give up the water easily.  I know.  I twisted and wrung out water on two pair of good jeans.  The ones you will wear out of the house to be styling.  These were toted back to the guest bath and stretched out in the tub where, hopefully, some of the water would drain over night.  Another pair was twisted and plied until slightly acceptable for tossing in the dryer.  That pair is now hanging in my closet, dried but soapy.  But not too much to keep me from wearing them.

Of course, Burt had to come assess the situation.  No progress was made in that department.

After talking to the repair service, Tuesday is my earliest date.  I spent a little bit of time hoisting out water - seven gallons worth.  Dealt with wet socks and the last pair of jeans.  Thankfully, this was the last big load.  Other necessary loads had been done on Wednesday.  Of course, a big load of towels would have been the worse.

So that part of living has come to a halt.  But I still have other spin cycles in motion.  My office is in a state of re-do.  No new paint but still activity on the magnitude of the machine in full spin.  Changing things out.  First, it was the long goodbye to a nice piece of furniture which had served its purpose but seemed to loom over my desk and the rest of the room.   Then the two new lateral cabinets arrived, empty but soon to be filled.  This may be the age of data and sticks and clouds floating around, but not for me.  This writer likes to keep all of her unpublished precious papers filed somewhat neatly.  If you grow up writing since you were twelve, thinking you will be the next Faulkner, Eudora Welty or Emily Dickinson, and then you aren't, it is pretty hard to part with the volume which has been produced.  No more need to save it for the museum.  But I have it in a file.

We have looked at new shelves at Home Depot but not purchased yet.  Once the shelves are up, more writer stuff like books will have a place.  I have set up all four lateral files and re-filed every piece of paper in our lives which survived the great purge and shred of 2016.  I'm telling you this for sympathy because it is a thankless job when you are the one starring in the one woman show.

The spin cycle won't be complete until more boxes are unpacked.   This can only be accomplished when more stuff is disposed of.  But I'm holding out high hopes.  Looking to the direction of the office dream being completed,  I offer up my office today, this morning, in the midst of the spin cycle.  Please judge kindly.  Remember I'm stilling bailing water out.  As a good friend said, which is the only kind who can tell you these things, "It didn't get this way overnight."  Ain't it the truth!

Alas, I can't offer a picture because my picture library is acting up.  Some days...or as Rosanna Rosanna Danna would say "It's always something."