traveling up and down the blind highway

Dear readers,

It was brought to my attention that the author’s husband first name is Sanford Rosenthal not Samual.

My apologies to Sally Rosenthal and to you, the readers.

I heard it incorrectly with my voice over program.

Carol Farnsworth

On a cold drizzling day, I listened to this book by Sally Rosenthal. Her poetic memories, take the reader from an English cottage to a small village in Pennsylvania. Along the way we are introduced to Sally’s grandparents, parents and her husband Samual. Her family’s circle was complete with three guide dogs and the seven cats that adopted her.

With a cup of coffee, I listened as Sally shared her losses, grief and endurance.

I felt the underlying joy with rememberences. The scent of peonies sprayed on the wrist, a gift from her deceased husband. The talents contributed to her in her grandparents DNA. The felted ears and furry head nuzzled by her animals made moments of joy, knowing she was loved.

The book helped me to consider loss as a part of living and the lost are not forgotten, but kept alive in these stories.

After reading “Peonies in Winter,” I was left with hope and comfort that love, once experienced, is never diminished.

You can order this book from Amazon as an ebook or as a print edition. All proceeds will be donated to Guiding Eyes for the Blind in Huntington New York.

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The Scent of Remembrance

On a warm Spring day, the scent of violets profuse the air.

Mild in small clusters, the field of blue assults my senses.

I am taken back to a little girl,

wanting to bring every flower as a love offering to her Mother.

She is allowed to pick all the violets she wanted.

They will be encouraged to bloom more.

Her gift is accepted and placed in a clean jelly jar.

carolaspot@aol.com

copyright 12/14/2021

Before I get into the peanut brittle story let me offer you a MP3 to listen to of an interview at my local library. They have a podcast studio and asked me to come and talk about my poetry book, “Leaf Memories.” I read four of my poems. The recording is about a half an hour.

https://www.podbean.com/media/share/pb-qpkbs-114c2ea

Now to the Peanut brittle and aging. My Husband John has made several types of brittle for family and neighbors. He has it down to a science. I assist with the prep, and breaking and packaging of the tasty treats.

On the days he makes the candy, the house has a sugary smell that you can almost taste. It hangs in the air for hours.

This year, the process didn’t go as smoothly. John’s cooked candy was dark and tasted burnt. He tried several batches with the same results. He decided that he had bought an off brand of Karo syrup and that must be the reason for the ruined candy.

He was able to produce several batches of peanut, cashew and pumpkin seed brittle with some success.

When we went to buy more syrup, the shelves were bare. When we saw the syrup in a small store, we grabbed it!

Having two bags of peanuts and one of cashews, John decided to attempt the peanut brittle again. During this cooking, the two glass thermometer were fogged and were difficult to read the temperature of the candy mixture. Again even with three thermometers, the candy was still overdone.

Again, John looked at the Karo syrup, but it was the name brand and was what he had used in the successful batches of brittle.

As a last resort, he rechecked the recipe closely. In all the years of making the brittle, he had put the vanilla, water and baking soda mixture in just before done at 300 degrees.

He had forgot the correct time to put in this mixture and was adding it at a much lower temperature, causing the candy to burn.

Following the recepe, the cashew and peanut brittle came out perfectly.

As we age, our memory may tell us incorrect information or think we can do a task without checking. We had four batches of ruined brittle to prove that this is not a good idea.

I find that I have started to check and re-check directions even if I am sure I remember. Sometimes I am correct and sometimes I am wrong. This is Just a price of aging. I called it muddled thinking.

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Breaking Brittle

a large round brittle piece,

When cool, breaks into small tasty sections,

loose peanuts left for squirrels.

carolaspot@aol.com

copyright 12/9/2021

In 1976, my parents took a trip to Hawaii with the Knights of Columbus group. They paid for me as a graduation gift from college. I spent a week exploring the island of Oahu. One of the memorable moments was accompanying my Dad, a WWII veteran to the memorial in Pearl Harbor.

We took a short boat ride from the docks to the floating memorial that straddles the hulk of rthe sunken Arizona. The crowd grew quiet as we drew near and debarked on the platform.

The radio tower in mid-ship could be seen above the waterline. On the starboard side of the submerged ship, bubbles of gas and fuel continued to reach the surface.

The Arizona was hit mid ship with a large bomb and went down with more that 1000 sailors aboard.

As we gazed over the Harbor, quiet music played in the background. It was easy to see how so many ships were sunk or damaged. The ships were docked in a line and back to bow of the next ship. The harbor has been changed to give more room and distance between ship docking.

I looked over at my Dad. He was looking off at a distance. He had tears in his eyes. He had been on a ship in the Pacific but did not see active combat. I wondered if he remembered friends and companions that had not come back from the war.

The Uss Missouri, one of the last battle ships built, was decommision and placed as a museum in 1999. It was not there when we visited .

All the ships except the Arizona were raised and put back into commision during WWII.

I was glad to share this moment with my Dad. It brought home the reality of the war and the impack it had on my parents generation.

So take a moment to remember all the cost of wars and conflicts and pray for peace.

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Flag over Water

A flag waves lazily over the water of the harbor.

Attached to the sunken ship below by the mast.

At half staff, for the sailors that repose below.

The cost of war is so great,it should deter us.

From such distruction and lost of life.

We hope and pray.

carolaspot@aol.com

copyright 12-7-21

A second tradition of the holiday season is the writing and sending of Holiday cards.

As a blind individual, I start early writing braille greetings to my braille group. I found some three dimensional cards in a dollar store. They had paper inserts, making the brailling easy. At a dollar a card, they beat Hallmark’s price of four to five dollars a card.

With Hanukkah arriving early, I found tactile cards at the same place and brailled a message. The added perk was they were Hallmark cards.

In each braille card, I put a felted sheep head on a large paper clip. They will be perfect to mark a place in a regular or braille book. I made and sent out thirty of these markers before December 1st.

Now the team work of John and I sending greetings to friends and family starts. I produce a Christmas letter with events of the year and photos of our holiday decorating for Halloween and Christmas. This year we made a Toys for Tots train. Large dolls are dressed in red outdoor clothes. They are making donations then going to feed the lit deer in a pen,(see below for a photo.

We start with a list of people we sent cards to last year. Dividing the work , we complete about a dozen each day. I fold the letter and put a stamp and a return sticker on each enevlope. John writes the address and we both think of the personal greeting to add to the card. It takes us about a week to complete the task.

Then we sit back and wait for the fruits of our labors.

We keep some cards in reserve for unexpected greetings and service people such as the garbage men and Postal person. We never get back as many cards as we send out but it is good to keep some contact with friends and family who live far away. So I will lick my envelope closed and hope you are a recipient, if not, enjoy the short poem below.

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Holiday Cards

select cards,

gather pens, labels, stamps,

select card and envelope, write a greeting,

Slide it all into the envelope, with our love.

carolaspot@aol.com

copyright 12/22 /2021

It is time for the annual decorating of the interior of the home. That includes the clearing of the mantle to hold the manger and figures coming to the Creche scene. The wall above the tableau is festooned with rice lights and hanging angels.

My job is to place all items relying on my memory while trying not to cause too much breakage.

This year, I had only one casualty, one of the glass angels playing a horn wanted a closer look at the manger. She took a header directly into the baby Jesus. She was history!

I have gone modern with the light switchs. Instead of contorting to plug and unplug the mantle lights, I have a plug that Alexa can turn on. I simply ask the A lady to turn on the TV. light. It is near the television so that was the indicated light. She can turn on and off the whole scene with a command.

Our Christmas tree has shunk from a six footer to a four foot tree that sits on a table in the sunroom. Icicle lights hand around the four sides of the room. Trying to minimize damage by wrapping the tree and stand with soft artificial snow blanket. I try to put every ornament on the tree until the boughs are weighted down. Every year, I vow to use less on the tree but memories of handmade ornaments make their way onto the tree.

The tree is reflected in each of the windows of the porch making a small tree lot of trees in the backyard. Again, I remember this and hope the neighbors enjoy the display.

The whole sunroom’s lights are plugged into a a plug controlled by an interior wall switch.

It will take me hours to put the decorations on the tree as I tell myself the origin and story behind each ornament. Maybe, I will find the time to photograph the ornaments to augment the stories. Again I will take photos with the directions of my smart phone.

Wish me luck!

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Sugar snow

Sugar snow sprinkles the wreaths.

Icy winds shape snow on walls and branches.

Icicles sparkle in the light of the setting sun.

Mother Nature is busy decorating for the season.

I watch her handiwork while I trim my tree.

It is a poor imitation of nature’s glory.

carolaspot@aol.com

copyright 11-30-21

Carol is busy celebrating with her family in her hometown of Northville, Michigan. Here is an Acrostic poem for you all. Have pleasant time visiting with family and friends, even if it’s only a phone call.

Carol Farnsworth

Thanksgiving

Time to come together and remember,

Hearts filled with love and hands touching with love,

All the generations tell stories of past meals,

Now weaving the past with preset events,

Kids play while adults talk,

In rising and falling voices,

Gone in a moment, the present is the past,

Gladness changes to melancholy as the day ends,

It is up to each of us to keep the stories of the past,

Visiting each tale for the next generation,

Including even the smallest child in the celebration,

Now is the time to share those memories,

Giving to laughter and tears, we remember in thankfulness.

carolaspot@aol.com

copyright 11/25/2021

When it comes to the Thanksgiving meal each family has it’s favorite sides. When my Mother hosted the gathering, she made rainbow jello. It had thin layers of different jellos with layers of white made from sour cream, milk, sugar and un-flavored gelatin. It took over a day to assenble and cool the salad. I remember being told to walk softly in the kitchen so the layers of jello were not disturbed. The masterpiece for the table was sixteen layers in each slice.

My daughter’s favorite side is a batch of stuffin Muffins. When she was a teen, she loved the Hannah Swensen Mysteries, written by Joanne Fluke. Each mystery had recipes sprinkled in the story and at the back of the book.Ruth tried many of these recipes but loved the muffins made from stuffing.

We added hot chilies and jalapanos and other spices. They freeze well and have been taken from the freezer to microwave to plate in less than one minute.

I will be taking them down to put in Ruth’s freezer. We will be taking other bisquits to the meal at my brother’s home.

During the meal, the men will sneak out to see what is happening with the Lions and Bears football game. My Mother wisely served the Thanksgiving meal at half time.

Un-like last year, we will gather in person in small groups and I will finally get to see my newest grand niece, Evie.

So make your dishes and think of the stories that go behind those dishes.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

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Carolaspot@aol.com

copyright 11/23/2021

Ocassionally, one of my family members sents me an article that they think I may enjoy. I suspect that one of my sister in laws sent me the following article. I laughted and I hope that it will lighten your day. The poem was written by myself in a light tone about my husband’s sneezing.

WHY MEN ARE NEVER DEPRESSED: Men Are Just Happier People–

Your last name stays put.

The garage is all yours.

Wedding plans take care of themselves. Chocolate is just another snack.

You can never be pregnant.

Car mechanics tell you the truth.

The world is your urinal.

You never have to drive to another gas station restroom because this one= is just too icky.

You don’t have to stop and think of which way to turn a nut on a bolt. Same work, more pay.

Wrinkles add character.

People never stare at your chest when you’re talking to them.

New shoes don’t cut, blister, or mangle your feet. One mood all the time.

Phone conversations are over in 30 seconds flat. You know stuff about tanks and engines.

A ten-day vacation requires only one suitcase.

You can open all your own jars.

You get extra credit for the slightest act of thoughtfulness. Your underwear is $8.95 for a three-pack.

Three pairs of shoes are more than enough.

You never have strap problems in public.

You are unable to see wrinkles in your clothes.

Everything on your face stays its original color.

The same hairstyle lasts for years, maybe decades.

You only have to shave your face and neck.

You can play with toys all your life.

One wallet and one pair of shoes — one color for all seasons. You can wear shorts no matter how your legs look.

You can “do” your nails with a pocket knife.

You have freedom of choice concerning growing a mustache.

You can do Christmas shopping for 25 relatives on December 24 in 25 minute’s.

No wonder men are happier.

Send this to the women who can handle it and to the men who will enjoy reading it .

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Sneeze

a tickle

my nose twitching

shallow inhales of breath

a pause… it passed, and then the big

Achooooo

carolfarn@aol.com

copyrirht 11-18-21

Yesterday was opening day for deer hunting season here in Michigan. As a child, I have few memories about hunting except this was a time when my Mother and I caught the bus at 5 Points and rode to downtown Detroit,to spend the day shopping at Hudsons.

We would eat lunch in the Hudson’s cafeteria. There was a special floor just for children to shop with no parents. The items were inexpensive and there were clerks to help find items for all the people on my list.

I have one memory of my Dad skinning a rabbit. He had it hung from the basement ceiling. I asked for one of the rabbits feet. Instead he handed me the fluffy tail to hold commenting,”The feet weren’t lucky for this rabbit.” Later , I recall seeing a bowl of rabbit meat soaking in water and salt. Mom remarked,”the meat must be soaked to remove all the blood.” I don’t remember eating the stew.

I do recall a story Dad told about the last deer hunt that he and Grandpa Turnbull were on together. Grandpa Cliff, had experienced two strokes. Though physically he was sound, He had memory losses. He would repeat the same story over and over to my Dad.

They decided to drive to the Upper Peninsula to hunt at Warner’s cabins, owned by friends from town. It was a long trip and Dad was regaled with the same hunting stories until Grandpa smacked the dash remarking,”I have already told you this, Bruce please stop me if I do this again,”

They got to the cabins late in the afternoon and unpacked. They would hunt early the next day.

In the morning, Bruce took his Dad to a deer blind that offered some shelter from the snow and wind. Grandpa was left with a thermos of hot coffee, blankets , a chair and a place to prop up his gun.

“Dad, if you need me, fire several shots in the air and I will come to help.”

“Bruce, I will be alright, just go hunting.”

So with his Dad snug and safe from other hunters, my Dad went off to hunt while walking the woods. He didn’t see any game. After several hours, Dad decided to go and check on Cliff.

As he entered the clearing, imagine his surprize to see a deer, a nine point buck hanging in a tree.

“Dad, how did you dress that deer?”

Grandpa sheepishly admitted that after he shot the deer, he tried to hoist the large deer into a tree. Two hunters, hearing the shots, asked if Grandpa needed some help.

That would be great.”

So the three of them hoisted the deer and dressed it.

When my Dad came back, Grandpa was finishing the last of his coffee. Bruce loaded the items form the blind and tied the deer to the hood of his car.

All the way home and for the rest of Grandpa’s life he told and retold the story of his last deer hunt.

All too soon, Grandpa died several months later. My Dad said that he would give anything to hear his Dad tell the hunting story one more time.

This Thanksgiving take the time to appreciate and listen to those you are with. The stories will be the memories for the future. Remind others of the people who are gone by sharing stories about the family members no longer with us.

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This is a poem from the Weekly Avocet that was published last week. The Avocet is a great to get your poetry out to others to read and comment. For information contact cportolanto@hotmail.com.

Falling

It was a breezy October day.

Blowing the last of the rains away

a scarf dangles around my throat.

As I rummage for a warm coat.

Rushing outside to my woods,

I turn the wind with my hood.

Soon, I find a fallen tree.

A throw (a depression) at the base waits for me.

Snuggling in, my back at the base,

Looking around, I see empty space.

Hues of red and orange form a lacy canopy.

I sit quite still to wait and see.

Soon a wind starts to blow.

Leaves are plucked , swirl like jeweled snow.

I watch until I am covered with leaves.

Smiling, I feel one with the trees.

All too soon, I feel the cold.

Shaking off leaves, I turn to go.

Stopping I reach for a golden leaf.

This one I will keep

In memory of falling leaves.

carolaspot@aol.com

copyright 11/16/21