Valentine's Day

 For those of us who kept them, wrote in them

When we were young

And decades later.

Written words formed from shyness, sadness, awkwardness 

Introverted, quiet, expressive, artistic.

Conveying thoughts, revelations, anger

Love, sadness, ideas, creativity, happiness.

Misunderstood, unrequited, forlorn

Release, emotions, low and high.

Diary or Journal

Hidden away

Hoping no one ever found them.

Happy Valentine's Day (for those who recognize the day, and those who simply write about it). 🩷

I Like...

 One of the best covers of any song is Katie Melua's version of The Cure's classic Just Like Heaven. It's shared below. While it has nothing to do with the words I've written in this post, I do like it. A lot. 

I Like…

A book that I don’t wish to end but can’t stop reading until it does

The smell of coffee in the morning and my need for it 

The familiar things being comforting

My dog sleeping at my feet

Snow falling in the evening when I’ve no reason to be outdoors in it

The nostalgia of hearing a song and what it meant to me a lifetime ago

Wandering antique stores…remembering and imagining.

The scent in the air announcing rain before it actually happens

The way the afternoon sun angles, hinting autumn is near while the calendar says summer

Bonfires, and fire pits in crisp air,

And fireplace glow

Scents of pine, and cinnamon, and nutmeg,

From candles burning and ovens baking

The way a grocery store smells weeks before Thanksgiving through Christmas,

Apples and pumpkins and jack-o-lanterns

Leaves falling, carpeting the earth’s floor, crunching under our feet

That everything is haunted in October.

I Like…

Bookstores and public libraries

Freshly baked bread, the smell and taste of it

Drinking hot chocolate and finding different ways to make it

Always learning

The joy of travel and the greater joy of returning home 

Sleeping in my own bed

Finding art in everything…the way tea pours, the curve of a vase, the shape of a tree,

Music and the peace of mind it gives me listening to it

Writing…composing my thoughts, creating with it

Wine in the evenings

My cameras, capturing magic, freezing time.

I Like...

Spruce trees covered in snow, the branches sloping from the weight of it,

Strands of multi-colored holiday lights woven around it reflecting and muted through the whiteness

Decorating the Christmas tree with ornaments from my travels 

Holiday movies and shows of my youth, shown every year, watched every year,

Wearing hats and jackets and coats, the more variety the better

Anticipation…of good, of normalcy, and receiving it

Daydreaming

Never being let down

Unexpected kindness

Peace.

Release

 

I attended the funeral of a dear old friend this past week. It’s always difficult to say goodbye, even though physical distance had made regular visits fewer than they had been in the past. Illness, too. The memories of nearly forty years of friendship being all that’s left, and knowing the years ahead are fewer than the years behind make life these days sobering. Too many good ones are leaving. It’s a fate for all of us. A sense of melancholy is hitting me pretty hard right now; I’m also very tired.

Into the Woods

(By Veronica Randolph Batterson; ©Veronica Randolph Batterson)

There’s an empty bridge

Beckoning

Offering what you will make of it.

Into the woods

To escape the realities

Of the somebodies using the nobodies.

To clear your mind

Of the unfairness 

That “lesser” women and men

Being used by the Big Man and Big Woman is the norm

That life doesn’t always give fair shakes,

Regardless of how hard you work and sacrifice.

There’s an empty bridge

Beckoning

Offering what you will make of it.

Into the woods

To take deep breaths

While getting angry,

And screaming with tears, cursing the skies above.

Plotting revenge 

Or reconciling acceptance,

Acknowledging that Grace over spite

Is being an adult,

As is offering kindness to people who don’t deserve it.

Women's History Month

 

March is Women's History Month, so I thought I'd share a select few poems written by women about women. I've kept the last several posts simple and stress-free, which has allowed me to continue with this blog. Balancing demands and life require cutting back a bit. The direction is going forward, and not in reverse (thank goodness!) with respect to the next book, but I'm taking my time with it. In addition to painting with acrylics, I've revisited using watercolors and remember how much I loved it. Slowing the pace with everything is needed. 

As always, thanks for checking in and reading what I share.

A Suggested Campaign Song

Alice Duer Miller - 1874-1942

(“No brass bands. No speeches. Instead a still, silent, effective influence.”—Anti-suffrage speech.)

We are waging—can you doubt it?
   A campaign so calm and still
No one knows a thing about it
   And we hope they never will.
          No one knows
          What we oppose,
   And we hope they never will.

We are ladylike and quiet,
   Here a whisper—there a hint;
Never speeches, bands or riot,
   Nothing suitable for print.
          No one knows
          What we oppose,
   For we never speak for print.

Sometimes in profound seclusion,
   In some far (but homelike) spot,
We will make a dark allusion:
   “We’re opposed to you-know-what.”
          No one knows
          What we oppose,
For we call it “You-Know-What.”

Alice Paul

Katharine Rolston Fisher - 1871-1949

I watched a river of women,
Rippling purple, white and golden,
Stream toward the National Capitol.

Along its border,
Like a purple flower floating,
Moved a young woman, worn, wraithlike.
All eyes alight, keenly observing the marchers.
Out there on the curb, she looked so little, so lonely,
Few appeared even to see her;
No one saluted her.

Yet commander was she of the column, its leader;
She was the spring whence arose that irresistible river of women
Streaming steadily towards the National Capitol.

I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl (443)

Emily Dickinson - 1830-1886

I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl— 

Life's little duties do—precisely— 

As the very least  

Were infinite—to me— 

    

I put new Blossoms in the Glass— 

And throw the old—away— 

I push a petal from my gown  

That anchored there—I weigh  

The time 'twill be till six o'clock  

I have so much to do— 

And yet—Existence—some way back— 

Stopped—struck—my ticking—through— 

We cannot put Ourself away  

As a completed Man  

Or Woman—When the Errand's done  

We came to Flesh—upon— 

There may be—Miles on Miles of Nought— 

Of Action—sicker far— 

To simulate—is stinging work— 

To cover what we are  

From Science—and from Surgery— 

Too Telescopic Eyes  

To bear on us unshaded— 

For their—sake—not for Ours— 

Twould start them— 

We—could tremble— 

But since we got a Bomb— 

And held it in our Bosom— 

Nay—Hold it—it is calm— 

    

Therefore—we do life's labor— 

Though life's Reward—be done— 

With scrupulous exactness— 

To hold our Senses—on—

Oughta Be a Woman

June Jordan - 1936-2002

Washing the floors to send you to college
Staying at home so you can feel safe
What do you think is the soul of her knowledge
What do you think that makes her feel safe

Biting her lips and lowering her eyes
To make sure there's food on the table
What do you think would be her surprise
If the world was as willing as she's able

Hugging herself in an old kitchen chair
She listens to your hurt and your rage
What do you think she knows of despair
What is the aching of age

The fathers, the children, the brothers
Turn to her and everybody white turns to her
What about her turning around
Alone in the everyday light

There oughta be a woman can break
Down, sit down, break down, sit down
Like everybody else call it quits on Mondays
Blues on Tuesdays, sleep until Sunday
Down, sit down, break down, sit down

A way outa no way is flesh outa flesh
Courage that cries out at night
A way outa no way is flesh outa flesh
Bravery kept outa sight
A way outa no way is too much to ask
Too much of a task for any one woman

And a favorite, which I shared here in 2016:

After A While (Comes the Dawn)

By Veronica Shoffstall 

After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security,

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises

And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open,

With the grace of a woman,
Not the grief of a child

And you learn to build all your roads on today,
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn that even sunshine
Burns if you get too much

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers

And you learn that you really can endure…
that you really are strong
and you really do have worth,
and you learn and learn…
With every goodbye you learn.

Appalachian Hands

 "They think it's strange to see a woman carve. A woman can do most anything she wants to...puts her mind to."  ~  Polly Page, in 2013, at age 94.

Aunt Polly (in her studio) with Dolly Parton 

My aunt, Polly (Pauline) Randolph Page, passed away in 2020. She was 101 years old. She was a well-known folk artist, whose wood carvings were in the Smithsonian Museum and in Folk Art Museums around the globe. In 2013, she was awarded the Tennessee Folklife Heritage Governor's Arts Award at the age of 93. I own some of her wonderful wood carvings.

She was a pioneer...independent, talented, opinionated, and (in my opinion) a feminist for her time. She believed that women could do anything they wanted if they worked for it. 

Sharing a poem that I wrote with her in mind. As always, copyright applies. 

Appalachian Hands

By Veronica Randolph Batterson 

©2022 Veronica Batterson

The hands speak volumes

As they cradle the wood

Gnarled and misshapen

Skin chapped, stained with blood.

The wood is their infant

Molded and created

Delicately balanced

Shaped between arthritic fingers.

The knife moves swiftly

Cedar shavings cover the floor

The slightest miss

Bears testament to scars she’s worn.

As life emerges

Directly from her palms,

Fingers move as if caressing

Breath from shapes appearing.

An artist carves her creation

With tenderness, with love

Never hesitating.

The knife and wood are one

Under nimble fingers they work,

Peeling layers away, skilled

Twisting, turning until

Forms of beauty are birthed.

The life of this master

Molding wood like clay,

Deftly she moves

Never flinching or pausing.

She works until finished

And carves shavings away,

Then as if releasing, a whisper

Touches graceful artistry in Appalachian hands.

What a Year

Tattered Cover Book Signing

As the title of this blog states, what a year. What an f-ing year. To think my January 2021 post was all about being happy that the wicked 2020 was over… That was good and everything, but 2021 socked me, sucker-punched me and almost knocked me out with surprising health issues and potential life changes that I didn’t see coming. 

At the end of 2020, I contracted Covid and was quite sick for over three weeks. It left me dealing with some long-hauler issues that have gotten much better, but still linger every once in a while, and followed me into the new year.  Then 2021 brought a series of MRIs, specialists, a lot of pain, cortisone injections, a skin biopsy, bloodwork re-checks, a diagnosis of osteoporosis and small fiber neuropathy. In October, I had my first annual Reclast Infusion for osteoporosis. Both vaccines, plus the booster, and always being masked in public are ways I continue doing my part. Fingers crossed that there are no more challenges, but I won’t assume or take anything for granted. 

Two big (really BIG or B-I-G) anniversaries in 2022…this blog will be a decade old. Then shortly afterward, I will enter the shocking decade, the OMG decade, the ‘I can’t believe it’ decade. Maybe I will have a party, or maybe not. After the last two years, I’m just living with gratitude, and trying to remain focused. Very little surprises me anymore. 

Small trips around Colorado, and then my first air travel in over two years: Thanksgiving in Chicago with family filled in the rest of the year. Many thanks to the Tattered Cover Book Store, one of the best independent book sellers in the country, for the invitation to participate in an in-store book signing in November. It felt as if normalcy is right around the corner. My best girl, Lily, remains part of my life.

Finally, an old friend of mine found a poem that I’d written for a high school publication when I was sixteen-years-old. I’ve been writing and drawing ever since I was old enough to use a pencil, and I’d like to share a bit of my teenaged thoughts below. Since titles and proper names can’t be copyrighted, I’ve done John Lennon no disservice with the title. 

In whatever way you choose to celebrate the season…enjoy the holidays. Put the jobs on the backburner and focus on the people in your life first. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Happiest of New Year! Thanks for the reads. 

 

 

Imagine

By Veronica Randolph (©1978 Veronica Randolph)

 

Imagine soaring high into the sky

As a seagull gliding, spreading its wings to fly.

Imagine seeing the waves crashing onto the beach

Feeling the spray

Seeing the stars

Looking close enough to reach.

 

Imagine a seashell buried deep beneath the sand

Being worn away 

As the waters roll onto the land.

Imagine hearing the surf, its mighty great roar

Sometimes thunderous

Still peaceful upon the shore.

 

Imagine every evening

Seeing a different sunset,

Beautiful colors dancing on the sand, warm and wet.

Imagine the cool breeze during the night

With the moon in the sky

Large, friendly and bright.

 

Imagine sleeping, waking

And living by the sea.

      There being a sense of peace

       Feeling free.

       Imagine.

 

 

 

 

  

The Silent Partner

 

On a visit to Pagosa Springs, Colorado, I bought a book called Coyote Cowboy Poetry from a local antique store. Written by Baxter Black and published in 1986, the book is full of entertaining and straight forward thoughts from a person whose bio describes him as an American Cowboy, Poet, and Western Humorist. One doesn’t have to be a cowboy for his words to resonate. 

I would like to share one of those poems here.  For all the partners, spouses, and couples, the ones that built together, started from scratch, and sacrificed together, the silent ones laying the foundation for the exuberant ones, the behind the scenes ones to those in the spotlight, the worker bees to the queen bee, the ones who know the business and how it works but remain in the shadows for that not-so-silent-partner, the ones who take care of the incidentals so the big stuff can happen, and so many more too numerous to mention…The Silent Partner is for all and is timeless. Its message is clear. Appreciation. Humility. Equality. Acknowledgment. 

As for Black, born in 1945, he is a former veterinarian who has written a number of books, all still available for purchase. 

 

The Silent Partner

By Baxter Black

 

Her name’s on the note at the PCA, boys,

Though she might have questioned the loan

She signed her John Henry ‘neath yours on the line

And she will ‘til the kids are all grown.

 

Nobody’s counted the pickups she’s pulled

Or measured the miles she’s put on the rake

Kept track of the pancakes or lunches she’s packed

Or the number of times she lay there awake

 

Praying her prayers for the man in her bed

God only knows, ‘cause He’s keepin’ track.

She’s buildin’ up interest somewhere down the line

To use in a trade on your first cardiac.

 

She puts up with cows she knows you should cull

Scourin’ calves on the livin’ room floor,

Tracks in the bathroom and mud on the sheets, 

Flies in the kitchen from broken screen doors.

 

She patiently listens to stories you tell

Recounting the skill of your blue heeler mate.

She wishes, herself, if that dog was so smart

You could teach that pot licker to open a gate!

 

She offers opinions that seldom sink in

‘Til time, oft as not, proves she was right.

But it’s damn hard to figger how she coulda known?

You’re not the only one who worries at night. 

 

She’s old as the mountain and young as the spring

Timeless in labor and wisdom and love.

Of all of God’s creatures that man gets to share

The wife of a cowman was sent from above.

 

So lay there tonight when you go to bed.

Remember your partner, she’s tried and she’s true.

You’re lucky, my man, to have such a friend

Take care of her, ‘cause she takes care of you.

 

Illustration by Don Gill, as seen in the book