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castielchitaqua · 3 years

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kaddish, allen ginsberg

I Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph the rhythm the rhythm—and your memory in my head three years after—And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud—wept, realizing how we suffer— And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers—and my own imagination of a withered leaf—at dawn— Dreaming back thru life, Your time—and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse, the final moment—the flower burning in the Day—and what comes after, looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed— like a poem in the dark—escaped back to Oblivion— No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream, trapped in its disappearance, sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worshipping each other, worshipping the God included in it all—longing or inevitability?—while it lasts, a Vision—anything more? It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder, Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shouldering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant—and the sky above—an old blue place. or down the Avenue to the south, to—as I walk toward the Lower East Side—where you walked 50 years ago, little girl—from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America—frightened on the dock— then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?—toward Newark— toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards— Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream—what is this life? Toward the Key in the window—and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk—in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater—and the place of poverty you knew, and I know, but without caring now—Strange to have moved thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again, with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstoops doors and dark boys on the street, fire escapes old as you -Tho you’re not old now, that’s left here with me— Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe—and I guess that dies with us—enough to cancel all that comes—What came is gone forever every time— That’s good! That leaves it open for no regret—no fear radiators, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end— Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul—and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger—hair and teeth—and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability. Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it—Done with yourself at last—Pure—Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all—before the world— There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, it’s good. No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more fear of Louis, and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts, loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands— No more of sister Elanor,.—she gone before you—we kept it secret—you killed her—or she killed herself to bear with you—an arthritic heart—But Death’s killed you both—No matter— Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and weeks—forgetting, aggrieve watching Marie Dressler address humanity, Chaplin dance in youth, or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin’s at the Met, hailing his voice of a weeping Czar—by standing

room with Elanor & Max—watching also the Capitalists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds, with the YPSL’s hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920 all girls grown old, or dead, now, and that long hair in the grave—lucky to have husbands later— You made it—I came too—Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer—or kill—later perhaps—soon he will think—) And it’s the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now—tho not you I didn’t foresee what you felt—what more hideous gape of bad mouth came first—to you—and were you prepared? To go where? In that Dark—that—in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the Void? Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream? Adonoi at last, with you? Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon—Deathshead with Halo? can you believe it? Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence, than none ever was? Nothing beyond what we have—what you had—that so pitiful—yet Triumph, to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower—fed to the ground—but mad, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe, shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth wrapped, sore—freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless. No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife—lost Cut down by an idiot Snowman’s icy—even in the Spring—strange ghost thought—some Death—Sharp icicle in his hand—crowned with old roses—a dog for his eyes—cock of a sweatshop—heart of electric irons. All the accumulations of life, that wear us out—clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, breasts—begotten sons—your Communism—‘Paranoia’ into hospitals. You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later. You of stroke. Asleep? within a year, the two of you, sisters in death. Is Elanor happy? Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over midnight Accountings, not sure. l His life passes—as he sees—and what does he doubt now? Still dream of making money, or that might have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Immortality, Naomi? I’ll see him soon. Now I’ve got to cut through—to talk to you—as I didn’t when you had a mouth. Forever. And we’re bound for that, Forever—like Emily Dickinson’s horses—headed to the End. They know the way—These Steeds—run faster than we think—it’s our own life they cross—and take with them. Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, married dreamed, mortal changed—Ass and face done with murder. In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under pine, almed in Earth, balmed in Lone, Jehovah, accept. Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless, Father in death. Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I’m hymnless, I’m Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not light or darkness, Dayless Eternity— Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some of my Time, now given to Nothing—to praise Thee—But Death This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Wonderer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping—page beyond Psalm—Last change of mine and Naomi—to God’s perfect Darkness—Death, stay thy phantoms! II Over and over—refrain—of the Hospitals—still haven’t written your history—leave it abstract—a few images run thru the mind—like the saxophone chorus of houses and years—remembrance of electrical shocks. By long nites as a child in Paterson apartment, watching over your nervousness—you were fat—your next move— By that afternoon I stayed home from school to take care of you—once and for all—when I vowed forever that once man disagreed with my opinion of the cosmos, I was lost— By my

later burden—vow to illuminate mankind—this is release of particulars—(mad as you)—(sanity a trick of agreement)— But you stared out the window on the Broadway Church corner, and spied a mystical assassin from Newark, So phoned the Doctor—‘OK go way for a rest’—so I put on my coat and walked you downstreet—On the way a grammarschool boy screamed, unaccountably—‘Where you goin Lady to Death’? I shuddered— and you covered your nose with motheaten fur collar, gas mask against poison sneaked into downtown atmosphere, sprayed by Grandma— And was the driver of the cheesebox Public Service bus a member of the gang? You shuddered at his face, I could hardly get you on—to New York, very Times Square, to grab another Greyhound— where we hung around 2 hours fighting invisible bugs and jewish sickness—breeze poisoned by Roosevelt— out to get you—and me tagging along, hoping it would end in a quiet room in a Victorian house by a lake. Ride 3 hours thru tunnels past all American industry, Bayonne preparing for World War II, tanks, gas fields, soda factories, diners, loco-motive roundhouse fortress—into piney woods New Jersey Indians—calm towns—long roads thru sandy tree fields— Bridges by deerless creeks, old wampum loading the streambeddown there a tomahawk or Pocahontas bone—and a million old ladies voting for Roosevelt in brown small houses, roads off the Madness highway— perhaps a hawk in a tree, or a hermit looking for an owl-filled branch— All the time arguing—afraid of strangers in the forward double seat, snoring regardless—what busride they snore on now? ‘Allen, you don’t understand—it’s—ever since those 3 big sticks up my back—they did something to me in Hospital, they poisoned me, they want to see me dead—3 big sticks, 3 big sticks— ‘The Bitch! Old Grandma! Last week I saw her, dressed in pants like an old man, with a sack on her back, climbing up the brick side of the apartment ‘On the fire escape, with poison germs, to throw on me—at night—maybe Louis is helping her—he’s under her power— ‘I’m your mother, take me to Lakewood’ (near where Graf Zeppelin had crashed before, all Hitler in Explosion) ‘where I can hide.’ We got there—Dr. Whatzis rest home—she hid behind a closet—demanded a blood transfusion. We were kicked out—tramping with Valise to unknown shady lawn houses—dusk, pine trees after dark—long dead street filled with crickets and poison ivy— I shut her up by now—big house REST HOME ROOMS—gave the landlady her money for the week—carried up the iron valise—sat on bed waiting to escape— Neat room in attic with friendly bedcover—lace curtains—spinning wheel rug—Stained wallpaper old as Naomi. We were home. I left on the next bus to New York—laid my head back in the last seat, depressed—the worst yet to come?—abandoning her, rode in torpor—I was only 12. Would she hide in her room and come out cheerful for breakfast? Or lock her door and stare thru the window for sidestreet spies? Listen at keyholes for Hitlerian invisible gas? Dream in a chair—or mock me, by—in front of a mirror, alone? 12 riding the bus at nite thru New Jersey, have left Naomi to Parcae in Lakewood’s haunted house—left to my own fate bus—sunk in a seat—all violins broken—my heart sore in my ribs—mind was empty—Would she were safe in her coffin— Or back at Normal School in Newark, studying up on America in a black skirt—winter on the street without lunch—a penny a pickle—home at night to take care of Elanor in the bedroom— First nervous breakdown was 1919—she stayed home from school and lay in a dark room for three weeks—something bad—never said what—every noise hurt—dreams of the creaks of Wall Street— Before the gray Depression—went upstate New York—recovered—Lou took photo of her sitting crossleg on the grass—her long hair wound with flowers—smiling—playing lullabies on mandolin—poison ivy smoke in left-wing summer camps and me in infancy saw trees— or back teaching school, laughing with idiots, the backward classes—her Russian specialty—morons with dreamy lips, great eyes, thin feet & sicky fingers, swaybacked, rachitic— great heads pendulous

over Alice in Wonderland, a blackboard full of C A T. Naomi reading patiently, story out of a Communist fairy book—Tale of the Sudden Sweetness of the Dictator—Forgiveness of Warlocks—Armies Kissing— Deathsheads Around the Green Table—The King & the Workers—Paterson Press printed them up in the ’30s till she went mad, or they folded, both. O Paterson! I got home late that nite. Louis was worried. How could I be so—didn’t I think? I shouldn’t have left her. Mad in Lakewood. Call the Doctor. Phone the home in the pines. Too late. Went to bed exhausted, wanting to leave the world (probably that year newly in love with R my high school mind hero, jewish boy who came a doctor later—then silent neat kid— I later laying down life for him, moved to Manhattan—followed him to college—Prayed on ferry to help mankind if admitted—vowed, the day I journeyed to Entrance Exam— by being honest revolutionary labor lawyer—would train for that—inspired by Sacco Vanzetti, Norman Thomas, Debs, Altgeld, Sand-burg, Poe—Little Blue Books. I wanted to be President, or Senator. ignorant woe—later dreams of kneeling by R’s shocked knees declaring my love of 1941—What sweetness he’d have shown me, tho, that I’d wished him & despaired—first love—a crush— Later a mortal avalanche, whole mountains of homosexuality, Matterhorns of cock, Grand Canyons of asshole—weight on my melancholy head— meanwhile I walked on Broadway imagining Infinity like a rubber ball without space beyond—what’s outside?—coming home to Graham Avenue still melancholy passing the lone green hedges across the street, dreaming after the movies—) The telephone rang at 2 A.M.—Emergency—she’d gone mad—Naomi hiding under the bed screaming bugs of Mussolini—Help! Louis! Buba! Fascists! Death!—the landlady frightened—old fag attendant screaming back at her— Terror, that woke the neighbors—old ladies on the second floor recovering from menopause—all those rags between thighs, clean sheets, sorry over lost babies—husbands ashen—children sneering at Yale, or putting oil in hair at CCNY—or trembling in Montclair State Teachers College like Eugene— Her big leg crouched to her breast, hand outstretched Keep Away, wool dress on her thighs, fur coat dragged under the bed—she barricaded herself under bedspring with suitcases. Louis in pajamas listening to phone, frightened—do now?—Who could know?—my fault, delivering her to solitude?—sitting in the dark room on the sofa, trembling, to figure out— He took the morning train to Lakewood, Naomi still under bed—thought he brought poison Cops—Naomi screaming—Louis what happened to your heart then? Have you been killed by Naomi’s ecstasy? Dragged her out, around the corner, a cab, forced her in with valise, but the driver left them off at drugstore. Bus stop, two hours’ wait. I lay in bed nervous in the 4-room apartment, the big bed in living room, next to Louis’ desk—shaking—he came home that nite, late, told me what happened. Naomi at the prescription counter defending herself from the enemy—racks of children’s books, douche bags, aspirins, pots, blood—‘Don’t come near me—murderers! Keep away! Promise not to kill me!’ Louis in horror at the soda fountain—with Lakewood girlscouts—Coke addicts—nurses—busmen hung on schedule—Police from country precinct, dumbed—and a priest dreaming of pigs on an ancient cliff? Smelling the air—Louis pointing to emptiness?—Customers vomiting their Cokes—or staring—Louis humiliated—Naomi triumphant—The Announcement of the Plot. Bus arrives, the drivers won’t have them on trip to New York. Phonecalls to Dr. Whatzis, ‘She needs a rest,’ The mental hospital—State Greystone Doctors—‘Bring her here, Mr. Ginsberg.’ Naomi, Naomi—sweating, bulge-eyed, fat, the dress unbuttoned at one side—hair over brow, her stocking hanging evilly on her legs—screaming for a blood transfusion—one righteous hand upraised—a shoe in it—barefoot in the Pharmacy— The enemies approach—what poisons? Tape recorders? FBI? Zhdanov hiding behind the counter? Trotsky mixing rat bacteria in the back of the store? Uncle Sam in Newark, plotting deathly

perfumes in the Negro district? Uncle Ephraim, drunk with murder in the politician’s bar, scheming of Hague? Aunt Rose passing water thru the needles of the Spanish Civil War? till the hired $35 ambulance came from Red Bank——Grabbed her arms—strapped her on the stretcher—moaning, poisoned by imaginaries, vomiting chemicals thru Jersey, begging mercy from Essex County to Morristown— And back to Greystone where she lay three years—that was the last breakthrough, delivered her to Madhouse again— On what wards—I walked there later, oft—old catatonic ladies, gray as cloud or ash or walls—sit crooning over floorspace—Chairs—and the wrinkled hags acreep, accusing—begging my 13-year-old mercy— ‘Take me home’—I went alone sometimes looking for the lost Naomi, taking Shock—and I’d say, ‘No, you’re crazy Mama,—Trust the Drs.’— And Eugene, my brother, her elder son, away studying Law in a furnished room in Newark— came Paterson-ward next day—and he sat on the broken-down couch in the living room—‘We had to send her back to Greystone’— —his face perplexed, so young, then eyes with tears—then crept weeping all over his face—‘What for?’ wail vibrating in his cheekbones, eyes closed up, high voice—Eugene’s face of pain. Him faraway, escaped to an Elevator in the Newark Library, his bottle daily milk on windowsill of $5 week furn room downtown at trolley tracks— He worked 8 hrs. a day for $20/wk—thru Law School years—stayed by himself innocent near negro whorehouses. Unlaid, poor virgin—writing poems about Ideals and politics letters to the editor Pat Eve News—(we both wrote, denouncing Senator Borah and Isolationists—and felt mysterious toward Paterson City Hall— I sneaked inside it once—local Moloch tower with phallus spire & cap o’ ornament, strange gothic Poetry that stood on Market Street—replica Lyons’ Hotel de Ville— wings, balcony & scrollwork portals, gateway to the giant city clock, secret map room full of Hawthorne—dark Debs in the Board of Tax—Rembrandt smoking in the gloom— Silent polished desks in the great committee room—Aldermen? Bd of Finance? Mosca the hairdresser aplot—Crapp the gangster issuing orders from the john—The madmen struggling over Zone, Fire, Cops & Backroom Metaphysics—we’re all dead—outside by the bus stop Eugene stared thru childhood— where the Evangelist preached madly for 3 decades, hard-haired, cracked & true to his mean Bible—chalked Prepare to Meet Thy God on civic pave— or God is Love on the railroad overpass concrete—he raved like I would rave, the lone Evangelist—Death on City Hall—) But Gene, young,—been Montclair Teachers College 4 years—taught half year & quit to go ahead in life—afraid of Discipline Problems—dark sex Italian students, raw girls getting laid, no English, sonnets disregarded—and he did not know much—just that he lost— so broke his life in two and paid for Law—read huge blue books and rode the ancient elevator 13 miles away in Newark & studied up hard for the future just found the Scream of Naomi on his failure doorstep, for the final time, Naomi gone, us lonely—home—him sitting there— Then have some chicken soup, Eugene. The Man of Evangel wails in front of City Hall. And this year Lou has poetic loves of suburb middle age—in secret—music from his 1937 book—Sincere—he longs for beauty— No love since Naomi screamed—since 1923?—now lost in Greystone ward—new shock for her—Electricity, following the 40 Insulin. And Metrazol had made her fat. So that a few years later she came home again—we’d much advanced and planned—I waited for that day—my Mother again to cook & —play the piano—sing at mandolin—Lung Stew, & Stenka Razin, & the communist line on the war with Finland—and Louis in debt—,uspected to he poisoned money—mysterious capitalisms —& walked down the long front hall & looked at the furniture. She never remembered it all. Some amnesia. Examined the doilies—and the dining room set was sold— the Mahogany table—20 years love—gone to the junk man—we still had the piano—and the book of Poe—and the Mandolin, tho needed some string, dusty— She went to the backroom to lie down in

bed and ruminate, or nap, hide—I went in with her, not leave her by herself—lay in bed next to her—shades pulled, dusky, late afternoon—Louis in front room at desk, waiting—perhaps boiling chicken for supper— ‘Don’t be afraid of me because I’m just coming back home from the mental hospital—I’m your mother—’ Poor love, lost—a fear—I lay there—Said, ‘I love you Naomi,’—stiff, next to her arm. I would have cried, was this the comfortless lone union?—Nervous, and she got up soon. Was she ever satisfied? And—by herself sat on the new couch by the front windows, uneasy—cheek leaning on her hand—narrowing eye—at what fate that day— Picking her tooth with her nail, lips formed an O, suspicion—thought’s old worn vagina—absent sideglance of eye—some evil debt written in the wall, unpaid—& the aged breasts of Newark come near— May have heard radio gossip thru the wires in her head, controlled by 3 big sticks left in her back by gangsters in amnesia, thru the hospital—caused pain between her shoulders— Into her head—Roosevelt should know her case, she told me—Afraid to kill her, now, that the government knew their names—traced back to Hitler—wanted to leave Louis’ house forever. One night, sudden attack—her noise in the bathroom—like croaking up her soul—convulsions and red vomit coming out of her mouth—diarrhea water exploding from her behind—on all fours in front of the toilet—urine running between her legs—left retching on the tile floor smeared with her black feces—unfainted— At forty, varicosed, nude, fat, doomed, hiding outside the apartment door near the elevator calling Police, yelling for her girlfriend Rose to help— Once locked herself in with razor or iodine—could hear her cough in tears at sink—Lou broke through glass green-painted door, we pulled her out to the bedroom. Then quiet for months that winter—walks, alone, nearby on Broadway, read Daily Worker—Broke her arm, fell on icy street— Began to scheme escape from cosmic financial murder-plots—later she ran away to the Bronx to her sister Elanor. And there’s another saga of late Naomi in New York. Or thru Elanor or the Workmen’s Circle, where she worked, ad-dressing envelopes, she made out—went shopping for Campbell’s tomato soup—saved money Louis mailed her— Later she found a boyfriend, and he was a doctor—Dr. Isaac worked for National Maritime Union—now Italian bald and pudgy old doll—who was himself an orphan—but they kicked him out—Old cruelties— Sloppier, sat around on bed or chair, in corset dreaming to herself—‘I’m hot—I’m getting fat—I used to have such a beautiful figure before I went to the hospital—You should have seen me in Woodbine—’ This in a furnished room around the NMU hall, 1943. Looking at naked baby pictures in the magazine—baby powder advertisements, strained lamb carrots—‘I will think nothing but beautiful thoughts.’ Revolving her head round and round on her neck at window light in summertime, in hypnotize, in doven-dream recall— ‘I touch his cheek, I touch his cheek, he touches my lips with his hand, I think beautiful thoughts, the baby has a beautiful hand.’— Or a No-shake of her body, disgust—some thought of Buchenwald—some insulin passes thru her head—a grimace nerve shudder at Involuntary (as shudder when I piss)—bad chemical in her cortex—‘No don’t think of that. He’s a rat.’ Naomi: ‘And when we die we become an onion, a cabbage, a carrot, or a squash, a vegetable.’ I come downtown from Columbia and agree. She reads the Bible, thinks beautiful thoughts all day. ‘Yesterday I saw God. What did he look like? Well, in the afternoon I climbed up a ladder—he has a cheap cabin in the country, like Monroe, N.Y. the chicken farms in the wood. He was a lonely old man with a white beard. ‘I cooked supper for him. I made him a nice supper—lentil soup, vegetables, bread & butter—miltz—he sat down at the table and ate, he was sad. ‘I told him, Look at all those fightings and killings down there, What’s the matter? Why don’t you put a stop to it? ‘I try, he said—That’s all he could do, he looked tired. He’s a bachelor so long, and he likes lentil

soup.’ Serving me meanwhile, a plate of cold fish—chopped raw cabbage dript with tapwater—smelly tomatoes—week-old health food—grated beets & carrots with leaky juice, warm—more and more disconsolate food—I can’t eat it for nausea sometimes—the Charity of her hands stinking with Manhattan, madness, desire to please me, cold undercooked fish—pale red near the bones. Her smells—and oft naked in the room, so that I stare ahead, or turn a book ignoring her. One time I thought she was trying to make me come lay her—flirting to herself at sink—lay back on huge bed that filled most of the room, dress up round her hips, big slash of hair, scars of operations, pancreas, belly wounds, abortions, appendix, stitching of incisions pulling down in the fat like hideous thick zippers—ragged long lips between her legs—What, even, smell of asshole? I was cold—later revolted a little, not much—seemed perhaps a good idea to try—know the Monster of the Beginning Womb—Perhaps—that way. Would she care? She needs a lover. Yisborach, v’yistabach, v’yispoar, v’yisroman, v’yisnaseh, v’yishador, v’yishalleh, v’yishallol, sh’meh d’kudsho, b’rich hu. And Louis reestablishing himself in Paterson grimy apartment in negro district—living in dark rooms—but found himself a girl he later married, falling in love again—tho sere & shy—hurt with 20 years Naomi’s mad idealism. Once I came home, after longtime in N.Y., he’s lonely—sitting in the bedroom, he at desk chair turned round to face me—weeps, tears in red eyes under his glasses— That we’d left him—Gene gone strangely into army—she out on her own in N.Y., almost childish in her furnished room. So Louis walked downtown to postoffice to get mail, taught in highschool—stayed at poetry desk, forlorn—ate grief at Bickford’s all these years—are gone. Eugene got out of the Army, came home changed and lone—cut off his nose in jewish operation—for years stopped girls on Broadway for cups of coffee to get laid—Went to NYU, serious there, to finish Law.— And Gene lived with her, ate naked fishcakes, cheap, while she got crazier—He got thin, or felt helpless, Naomi striking 1920 poses at the moon, half-naked in the next bed. bit his nails and studied—was the weird nurse-son—Next year he moved to a room near Columbia—though she wanted to live with her children— ‘Listen to your mother’s plea, I beg you’—Louis still sending her checks—I was in bughouse that year 8 months—my own visions unmentioned in this here Lament— But then went half mad—Hitler in her room, she saw his mustache in the sink—afraid of Dr. Isaac now, suspecting that he was in on the Newark plot—went up to Bronx to live near Elanor’s Rheumatic Heart— And Uncle Max never got up before noon, tho Naomi at 6 A.M. was listening to the radio for spies—or searching the windowsill, for in the empty lot downstairs, an old man creeps with his bag stuffing packages of garbage in his hanging black overcoat. Max’s sister Edie works—17 years bookkeeper at Gimbels—lived downstairs in apartment house, divorced—so Edie took in Naomi on Rochambeau Ave— Woodlawn Cemetery across the street, vast dale of graves where Poe once—Last stop on Bronx subway—lots of communists in that area. Who enrolled for painting classes at night in Bronx Adult High School—walked alone under Van Cortlandt Elevated line to class—paints Naomiisms— Humans sitting on the grass in some Camp No-Worry summers yore—saints with droopy faces and long-ill-fitting pants, from hospital— Brides in front of Lower East Side with short grooms—lost El trains running over the Babylonian apartment rooftops in the Bronx— Sad paintings—but she expressed herself. Her mandolin gone, all strings broke in her head, she tried. Toward Beauty? or some old life Message? But started kicking Elanor, and Elanor had heart trouble—came upstairs and asked her about Spydom for hours,—Elanor frazzled. Max away at office, accounting for cigar stores till at night. ‘I am a great woman—am truly a beautiful soul—and because of that they (Hitler, Grandma, Hearst, the Capitalists, Franco, Daily News, the ’20s, Mussolini, the living

dead) want to shut me up—Buba’s the head of a spider network—’ Kicking the girls, Edie & Elanor—Woke Edie at midnite to tell her she was a spy and Elanor a rat. Edie worked all day and couldn’t take it—She was organizing the union.—And Elanor began dying, upstairs in bed. The relatives call me up, she’s getting worse—I was the only one left—Went on the subway with Eugene to see her, ate stale fish— ‘My sister whispers in the radio—Louis must be in the apartment—his mother tells him what to say—LIARS!—I cooked for my two children—I played the mandolin—’ Last night the nightingale woke me / Last night when all was still / it sang in the golden moonlight / from on the wintry hill. She did. I pushed her against the door and shouted ‘DON’T KICK ELANOR!’—she stared at me—Contempt—die—disbelief her sons are so naive, so dumb—‘Elanor is the worst spy! She’s taking orders!’ ‘—No wires in the room!’—I’m yelling at her—last ditch, Eugene listening on the bed—what can he do to escape that fatal Mama—‘You’ve been away from Louis years already—Grandma’s too old to walk—’ We’re all alive at once then—even me & Gene & Naomi in one mythological Cousinesque room—screaming at each other in the Forever—I in Columbia jacket, she half undressed. I banging against her head which saw Radios, Sticks, Hitlers—the gamut of Hallucinations—for real—her own universe—no road that goes elsewhere—to my own—No America, not even a world— That you go as all men, as Van Gogh, as mad Hannah, all the same—to the last doom—Thunder, Spirits, lightning! I’ve seen your grave! O strange Naomi! My own—cracked grave! Shema Y’Israel—I am Svul Avrum—you—in death? Your last night in the darkness of the Bronx—I phonecalled—thru hospital to secret police that came, when you and I were alone, shrieking at Elanor in my ear—who breathed hard in her own bed, got thin— Nor will forget, the doorknock, at your fright of spies,—Law advancing, on my honor—Eternity entering the room—you running to the bathroom undressed, hiding in protest from the last heroic fate— staring at my eyes, betrayed—the final cops of madness rescuing me—from your foot against the broken heart of Elanor, your voice at Edie weary of Gimbels coming home to broken radio—and Louis needing a poor divorce, he wants to get married soon—Eugene dreaming, hiding at 125 St., suing negroes for money on crud furniture, defending black girls— Protests from the bathroom—Said you were sane—dressing in a cotton robe, your shoes, then new, your purse and newspaper clippingsno—your honesty— as you vainly made your lips more real with lipstick, looking in the mirror to see if the Insanity was Me or a earful of police. or Grandma spying at 78—Your vision—Her climbing over the walls of the cemetery with political kidnapper’s bag—or what you saw on the walls of the Bronx, in pink nightgown at midnight, staring out the window on the empty lot— Ah Rochambeau Ave.—Playground of Phantoms—last apartment in the Bronx for spies—last home for Elanor or Naomi, here these communist sisters lost their revolution— ‘All right—put on your coat Mrs.—let’s go—We have the wagon downstairs—you want to come with her to the station?’ The ride then—held Naomi’s hand, and held her head to my breast, I’m taller—kissed her and said I did it for the best—Elanor sick—and Max with heart condition—Needs— To me—‘Why did you do this?’—‘Yes Mrs., your son will have to leave you in an hour’—The Ambulance came in a few hours—drove off at 4 A.M. to some Bellevue in the night downtown—gone to the hospital forever. I saw her led away—she waved, tears in her eyes. Two years, after a trip to Mexico—bleak in the flat plain near Brentwood, scrub brush and grass around the unused RR train track to the crazyhouse— new brick 20 story central building—lost on the vast lawns of madtown on Long Island—huge cities of the moon. Asylum spreads out giant wings above the path to a minute black hole—the door—entrance thru crotch— I went in—smelt funny—the halls again—up elevator—to a glass door on a Women’s Ward—to Naomi—Two nurses buxom white—They led her out, Naomi

stared—and I gaspt—She’d had a stroke— Too thin, shrunk on her bones—age come to Naomi—now broken into white hair—loose dress on her skeleton—face sunk, old! withered—cheek of crone— One hand stiff—heaviness of forties & menopause reduced by one heart stroke, lame now—wrinkles—a scar on her head, the lobotomy—ruin, the hand dipping downwards to death— O Russian faced, woman on the grass, your long black hair is crowned with flowers, the mandolin is on your knees— Communist beauty, sit here married in the summer among daisies, promised happiness at hand— holy mother, now you smile on your love, your world is born anew, children run naked in the field spotted with dandelions, they eat in the plum tree grove at the end of the meadow and find a cabin where a white-haired negro teaches the mystery of his rainbarrel— blessed daughter come to America, I long to hear your voice again, remembering your mother’s music, in the Song of the Natural Front— O glorious muse that bore me from the womb, gave suck first mystic life & taught me talk and music, from whose pained head I first took Vision— Tortured and beaten in the skull—What mad hallucinations of the damned that drive me out of my own skull to seek Eternity till I find Peace for Thee, O Poetry—and for all humankind call on the Origin Death which is the mother of the universe!—Now wear your nakedness forever, white flowers in your hair, your marriage sealed behind the sky—no revolution might destroy that maidenhood— O beautiful Garbo of my Karma—all photographs from 1920 in Camp Nicht-Gedeiget here unchanged—with all the teachers from Vewark—Nor Elanor be gone, nor Max await his specter—nor Louis retire from this High School— Back! You! Naomi! Skull on you! Gaunt immortality and revolution come—small broken woman—the ashen indoor eyes of hospitals, ward grayness on skin— ‘Are you a spy?’ I sat at the sour table, eyes filling with tears—‘Who are you? Did Louis send you?—The wires—’ in her hair, as she beat on her head—‘I’m not a bad girl—don’t murder me!—I hear the ceiling—I raised two children—’ Two years since I’d been there—I started to cry—She stared—nurse broke up the meeting a moment—I went into the bathroom to hide, against the toilet white walls ‘The Horror’ I weeping—to see her again—‘The Horror’—as if she were dead thru funeral rot in—‘The Horror!’ I came back she yelled more—they led her away—‘You’re not Allen—’ I watched her face—but she passed by me, not looking— Opened the door to the ward,—she went thru without a glance back, quiet suddenly—I stared out—she looked old—the verge of the grave—‘All the Horror!’ Another year, I left N.Y.—on West Coast in Berkeley cottage dreamed of her soul—that, thru life, in what form it stood in that body, ashen or manic, gone beyond joy— near its death—with eyes—was my own love in its form, the Naomi, my mother on earth still—sent her long letter—& wrote hymns to the mad—Work of the merciful Lord of Poetry. that causes the broken grass to be green, or the rock to break in grass—or the Sun to be constant to earth—Sun of all sunflowers and days on bright iron bridges—what shines on old hospitals—as on my yard— Returning from San Francisco one night, Orlovsky in my room—Whalen in his peaceful chair—a telegram from Gene, Naomi dead— Outside I bent my head to the ground under the bushes near the garage—knew she was better— at last—not left to look on Earth alone—2 years of solitude—no one, at age nearing 60—old woman of skulls—once long-tressed Naomi of Bible— or Ruth who wept in America—Rebecca aged in Newark—David remembering his Harp, now lawyer at Yale or Srul Avrum—Israel Abraham—myself—to sing in the wilderness toward God—O Elohim!—so to the end—2 days after her death I got her letter— Strange Prophecies anew! She wrote—‘The key is in the window, the key is in the sunlight at the window—I have the key—Get married Allen don’t take drugs—the key is in the bars, in the sunlight in the window. Love, your mother’ which is Naomi— Hymmnn In the world which He has created according to his will Blessed Praised Magnified Lauded

Exalted the Name of the Holy One Blessed is He! In the house in Newark Blessed is He! In the madhouse Blessed is He! In the house of Death Blessed is He! Blessed be He in homosexuality! Blessed be He in Paranoia! Blessed be He in the city! Blessed be He in the Book! Blessed be He who dwells in the shadow! Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be you Naomi in tears! Blessed be you Naomi in fears! Blessed Blessed Blessed in sickness! Blessed be you Naomi in Hospitals! Blessed be you Naomi in solitude! Blest be your triumph! Blest be your bars! Blest be your last years’ loneliness! Blest be your failure! Best be your stroke! Blest be the close of your eye! Blest be the gaunt of your cheek! Blest be your withered thighs! Blessed be Thee Naomi in Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be He Who leads all sorrow to Heaven! Blessed be He in the end! Blessed be He who builds Heaven in Darkness! Blessed Blessed Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be Death on us All! III Only to have not forgotten the beginning in which she drank cheap sodas in the morgues of Newark, only to have seen her weeping on gray tables in long wards of her universe only to have known the weird ideas of Hitler at the door, the wires in her head, the three big sticks rammed down her back, the voices in the ceiling shrieking out her ugly early lays for 30 years, only to have seen the time-jumps, memory lapse, the crash of wars, the roar and silence of a vast electric shock, only to have seen her painting crude pictures of Elevateds running over the rooftops of the Bronx her brothers dead in Riverside or Russia, her lone in Long Island writing a last letter—and her image in the sunlight at the window ‘The key is in the sunlight at the window in the bars the key is in the sunlight,’ only to have come to that dark night on iron bed by stroke when the sun gone down on Long Island and the vast Atlantic roars outside the great call of Being to its own to come back out of the Nightmare—divided creation—with her head lain on a pillow of the hospital to die —in one last glimpse—all Earth one everlasting Light in the familiar black-out—no tears for this vision— But that the key should be left behind—at the window—the key in the sunlight—to the living—that can take that slice of light in hand—and turn the door—and look back see Creation glistening backwards to the same grave, size of universe, size of the tick of the hospital's clock on the archway over the white door— IV O mother what have I left out O mother what have I forgotten O mother farewell with a long black shoe farewell with Communist Party and a broken stocking farewell with six dark hairs on the wen of your breast farewell with your old dress and a long black beard around the vagina farewell with your sagging belly with your fear of Hitler with your mouth of bad short stories with your fingers of rotten mandolins with your arms of fat Paterson porches with your belly of strikes and smokestacks with your chin of Trotsky and the Spanish War with your voice singing for the decaying overbroken workers with your nose of bad lay with your nose of the smell of the pickles of Newark with your eyes with your eyes of Russia with your eyes of no money with your eyes of false China with your eyes of Aunt Elanor with your eyes of starving India with your eyes pissing in the park with your eyes of America taking a fall with your eyes of your failure at the piano with your eyes of your relatives in California with your eyes of Ma Rainey dying in an aumbulance with your eyes of Czechoslovakia attacked by robots with your eyes going to painting class at night in the Bronx with your eyes of the killer Grandma you see on the horizon from the Fire-Escape with your eyes running naked out of the apartment screaming into the hall with your eyes being led away by policemen to an aumbulance with your eyes strapped down on the operating table with your eyes with the pancreas removed with your eyes of appendix operation with your eyes of abortion with your eyes of ovaries removed with your eyes of shock with your

eyes of lobotomy with your eyes of divorce with your eyes of stroke with your eyes alone with your eyes with your eyes with your Death full of Flowers V Caw caw caw crows shriek in the white sun over grave stones in Long Island Lord Lord Lord Naomi underneath this grass my halflife and my own as hers caw caw my eye be buried in the same Ground where I stand in Angel Lord Lord great Eye that stares on All and moves in a black cloud caw caw strange cry of Beings flung up into sky over the waving trees Lord Lord O Grinder of giant Beyonds my voice in a boundless field in Sheol Caw caw the call of Time rent out of foot and wing an instant in the universe Lord Lord an echo in the sky the wind through ragged leaves the roar of memory caw caw all years my birth a dream caw caw New York the bus the broken shoe the vast highschool caw caw all Visions of the Lord Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Paris, December 1957—New York, 1959

#im a collector im a maniac #poetry #not mine

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oneweekoneband · 4 years

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Five Taylor Swift Photos From Magazine Spreads Which Make Me Feel Unmoored In Space And Time

This 2014 Rolling Stone piece is called Reinvention of Taylor Swift and heralds that she’s “left country behind”. I’ve always felt Taylor’s relationship to country music is more complicated than the simple case of a country darling seeing a chance at crossover superstardom and abandoning her down-home roots for bubblegum, namely because Taylor doesn’t actually have any down-home roots. Total domination was always the plan, and everything I know about this woman says it was always going to work, too. If anything, the country years represented a transactional relationship between an ambitious young woman and the genre best positioned to uplift and provide an instant audience for a white, blonde singer who wants to write love songs. The whole this is less A Star is Born, more A Star is Intentionally And Calculatedly Built. But 1989—the release of which feels so long ago now, so much more than six years, farther away in my mind even than the older albums for being less firmly planted in my own psychic landscape and heart, that to try and recall the experience of having been 22 and reading this article is close to impossible—mark a coronation of sorts for a whole new girl, shorn, shined, and repackaged for mass distribution, as this stripped down and honestly kind of hot cover shoot shows. During the interview, Taylor offers the interviewer a choice of six different flavors of sparkling water, which is a level of decadence that I cannot imagine, then starts talking about HBO’s Girls. In 2014 it was still basically talk about Girls or be instantly murdered by roving death squad. That was just what life was then. Taylor says she is a Shoshanna but my brain, brave ally, has erased every piece of knowledge I ever accumulated about that show so I don’t know if she was right. What I like about this particular photo, wherein “I like” means, “makes me a little feral” is how it calls to mind, like, the kind of black & white snapshot of lads being lads on a beach somewhere during a long ago war which, were it to find its way onto Twitter today, would be immediately quote RT’d like fifty thousand times like, “seems gay imo.”

The critical takeaway from this Vogue article is that until 2016 Taylor Swift hadn’t been to her Pennsylvania hometown in a decade. Yes, the family relocated to Nashville when she was a teenager to begin the construction of the Taylor Swift Industrial Complex but there’s still something odd and compelling to me about the fact that she never once went back to visit the supposed best friend Britany whose wedding is the impetus for the visit chronicled here. Maybe it means nothing! She did have kind of a busy decade, and things happen. Time passes faster than you’re ever expecting it to and the ten years between sixteen and twenty six are particularly slippery ones. Maybe! Or maybe Taylor Swift left that pre-fame life coolly in the dust, useless to her now, and doesn’t think of it at all except to clinically mine for content. Maybe Britany only had Taylor in her wedding because if you can get Taylor Swift to come, with a Vogue writer in tow, be your maid of honor, it would be difficult to resist the temptation not to do it, like, for the bit, and for probably a really expensive gift. Maybe the truth is more like a little bit of both. Regardless, there’s this proto-”seven” passage.

During a car ride earlier in the day, she excitedly pointed out landmarks: the creek where she and Britany used to play as kids; a weathered tree house in the front yard of the former Maack family home; the piney woods she and her friends used to think were haunted

Could be that Britany was the inspiration for the friend with the dad whose always mad in that dreamy piano track, but if pressed I’d put my money on Taylor just being enamored of the romantic americana of dirty children clamoring over creek beds full of ghosts, and unfortunately I can’t begrudge her that because same.

Every image from when Taylor did that Soft Focus Harley Quinn thing last year while in the throes of her full court press media blitz about how she is not only not a nazi but also Loves Gays, is to me an unbearable agony, a ruthless torment, a knife in my back, a stitch in my side, a terror I can’t unsee, a silent scream I can’t get out, but I find this one from Entertainment Weekly most upsetting of all. I am not saying that it is illegal to sit in the dirt wearing a pink and blue matching argyle sweater and short shorts combo with dumb dip-dyed hair and then not come out as bi, even, but I am saying abolish prisons for everyone except Taylor Swift, who should be in one.

This goofy goth photo shoot from 2017 is one thing, but the really important historical detail to note here is that UK Vogue, clearly absolute limp-wristed freaks, agreed to run these photos accompanied not by an interview with their covers star, but with a fucking poem she wrote. While I do think a poem in place of a proper profile is actually less morally objectionable than the famous person-”interviewed”-by-other famous person trend that’s eaten up so much of celebrity journalism, it’s still not really something a reasonable person can condone. If you have never read the poem... I actually think it’s not that bad! But, honestly, when I was sixteen I volunteered myself to edit my high school’s litmag (in order to be given a little money to have a litmag) and to my great surprise, having really assumed that I was basically just going to have, like, my own writing and some weird slightly, porny drawings from the anime club, shortly found myself inundated with piles of the most truly awful poetry ever produced, and was left to judge it all myself, and I believe the experience scarred my mind so badly that I still have great difficulty determining a good poem from a bad one with any clarity. “Hold on to childlike whims and moonlight / swims and your blazing self-respect” definitely would have made it into The Knightwriter, is all I’m saying.

When I am on my death bed, reeking and gasping, alive only technically, my family will gather close to provide comfort and receive my last words, hoping that they can offer me a sense of peace before the darkness falls. “Bring me my darling,” I’ll rasp, then choke on the air. And when nervous human children of my lineage are pressed to the bedside I’ll shake my head painfully, no, no, no, until finally they bring to me the one thing I truly love: this picture of Taylor Swift wearing a Blue Oyster Cult t-shirt in a 2015 Lucky Magazine photo shoot, for some reason.

#taylor swift #folklore

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kameronthefishsermanblog641 · 3 years

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Forget Fishing: 67 Replacements You Need to Jump On

Loading fishing line onto a spinning reel is an easy process still numerous anglers expertise difficulties once they load the reel with new fishing line. There are a selection of causes for this and I hope this brief clarification will eradicate them to suit your needs.

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How persistently Have you ever noticed Or even even done this you? You purchase a different spinning reel and once you go to put in the road you've got anyone stick a pencil in the Heart with the spool the line will come on, and whilst They may be holding it You begin reeling the road on to your reel. You fill the reel to wherever it is actually amount While using the spool lip on the spinning reel and Imagine you have accomplished an excellent task.

Alright your spinning reel is now comprehensive and that means you tie on a hook and weight or maybe a entice and visit Forged and as soon as you open up the bail from the reel your line jumps of like it was a spring which was just launched. Now you receive this mess cleaned up and the line back on the reel and take a look at to cast realizing the road wishes to bounce off the spool this time you ensure that you maintain the line restricted with all your finger once you open up the bail ah ha you fixed the issue. Now any time you head to Forged once more your line comes off in an enormous tangled mess that looks something similar to a loosely constructed birds nest.

Allow me to inform you I have been there myself and when you might observe these basic measures you might stay away from ninety nine% of those issues.

Let's begin with tying the line on the reel spool this is an easy process so maintain it that way. Just tie an easy around hand solitary knot to the tip within your line and pull it restricted. Now set two wraps of line round the reel spool and once again tie a straightforward more than hand knot and pull the road tight. The knot you tied to the end within your line will cosy up in opposition to the knot you merely tied over the spool and will tighten when you pull on the line. You'll be able to trim the excess line which can be left driving the 1st knot therefore you are wanting to commence filling the reel.

Place the spool of line down on the bottom with the label aspect up. Now you wish to stand to in which the spool of line is straight underneath the tip within your rod. Seize the line among your index finger and thumb so you're able to utilize pressure to the line when you reel. You wish to apply simply enough stress you could feel the tension as you reel but not so tight that it would make the reel hard to transform. Transform the spinning reel take care of and start applying the road after about fifteen turns on the deal with cease. Lower you rod idea slightly toward the spool of line, the line hanging from a rod tip into the spool really should hang straight, if it desires to twist simply flip about the spool of line and repeat this method. The road should really now cling straight without twisting.

Once you have the line hanging with out twisting when you take out The strain of the road you happen to be all set to begin loading the reel spool with line. Go on to apply barely enough strain together with your index finger and thumb to the road as you reel. After the line is inside of an 8 of the inch of the spools lip quit reeling along with your reel has become absolutely loaded with line. When you are employing a major line over the reel say everything around 25 lb. examination you might want to give your self a little bit more home involving the line as well as the spool lip.

You are now prepared to start out fishing therefore you line should really keep about the reel with out having All those frustrating twist.

The smallmouth bass fishing accessible in Missouri is recognized, but sometimes is overshadowed by several of the other fishing options through the point out. Several fly fishermen target trout in the various streams, trout parks, and lakes that hold trout or are stalked. A lot of bass fishermen target the largemouth Model of your species. This information will give a rundown over a pretty a few of the better streams.

Major Piney River

The massive Piney River is a superb smallmouth stream. Among the initially Ozark rivers to get Specific smallmouth bass restrictions, this stream has lengthy been seen for a Unique asset for smallmouth fisherman. The large Piney is clear, spring-fed stream with exceptional fishing for heritage strain smallmouth bass. It will be hard to find a river with far better scenery or smallmouth bass fishing.

Existing River

The existing River is additionally a great smallmouth stream. Climbing from springs deep within the Ozarks, the Current is without doubt one of the prettiest during the condition. Various reaches of the river offer you myriad choices to the smallmouth angler. With about one hundred twenty miles of fishable drinking water around the river, there are various superb areas to the river.

Eleven Place River

The Eleven Place is Just about the most scenic streams inside the Ozarks, along with the smallmouth bass fishing is superb too. The Eleven Issue holds a smallmouth population from It really is headwater deep during the Ozark Mountains the many way into Arkansas. In all, You can find about fifty miles of smallmouth drinking water around the Eleven Place, starting from tiny, wadeable stream, to substantial river.

Gasconade River

The Gasconade River could be the longest river that flows solely by way of Missouri, and each mile of it retains smallmouth bass. The Gasconade is one of the rivers that would seem too excellent being legitimate, a 250 mile river with great quantities of smallmouth bass in the course of. Many people express that it is the greatest smallmouth bass river within the country, and There may be benefit to that claim. You'll find number of other streams while in the place with much smallmouth drinking water, a great number of fish, and as numerous trophy sized smallmouth.

Huzzah Creek

Huzzah Creek is undoubtedly an often missed smallmouth stream. Situated in the course of terrific smallmouth bass country, it is not difficult to discover how fisherman can search earlier this small gem. Nevertheless, this creek is generating top quality smallmouth bass angling For some time, and those who are informed about it may possibly vouch for It really is productiveness.

When compared to the opposite waters on this checklist, the Huzzah is a little stream. It isn't going to widen into deep, slow pools like most of our Ozark streams do. Even now, the habitat is certainly there. There are several deep, if brief pools, that happen to be studded with boulders, weeds, and woody include. In addition there are quite a few fast runs exactly where smallmouth bass like to carry, particularly when They are really feeding actively on crayfish and insects.

Jacks Fork River

The Jacks Fork River is among the best while in the Ozarks. Flowing as a result of beautiful Ozark canyons and hills, this stream has Significantly to provide equally in how of smallmouth and landscapes. This well known float fishing stream flows through stunning, remote territory, and is truly a sight to determine.

As Ozark streams go, the Jacks Fork is much more isolated than most. Simply put, it is found in the course of nowhere. Starting off significant during the Ozark hills, and floating via The gorgeous Ozark plateau every one of the solution to It really is mouth at the Current River. It's really best inshore spinning reels a large gradient river, and it is closely spring-fed. The two of such attributes predispose the Jacks Fork to excellence as a smallmouth stream. The river has an abundance of riffles and deep swimming pools, and it has a wonderful meals supply. It has been mostly untouched by gentleman, Primarily now, as a result of the fact that it truly is safeguarded because of the Ozark National Scenic Riverways Park. Increase to the river's quick access, and you have an almost ideal stream.

Meramec River

The Meramec River can be a wonderful smallmouth stream. Flowing by means of The gorgeous foothills from the Ozarks, this stream has A great deal to supply on the severe and everyday smallmouth fisherman. This is one of the most popular, if not the preferred smallmouth stream in Missouri, and There's also a large amount of leisure floating website traffic. Nevertheless, the Meramec has a superb fishery plus the fishing is adequate that these difficulties can feel unimportant.

Niangua River

The Niangua River is the http://query.nytimes.com/search/sitesearch/?action=click&contentCollection®ion=TopBar&WT.nav=searchWidget&module=SearchSubmit&pgtype=Homepage#/kayak most effective smallmouth streams during the state. While the Niangua is mostly known for It is really exceptional trout fishery under Bennett Spring, the smallmouth fishery is great in addition. The river has miles of traditional smallmouth habitat with several Light riffles, and deep, oxygenated swimming pools. This is a prototypical Ozark stream with higher than ordinary smallmouth fishing.

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Other Smallmouth Streams in Missouri

Other good smallmouth streams in Missouri incorporate the large River, Black River, Bourbeuse River, Elk River, James River, Moreau River, North Fork on the White River, St. Francis River, and also the Salt River.

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airmanisr · 4 years

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We don't like foamers here, son. Now git! by Kevin Madore Via Flickr: When our Lerro Productions photo freight stopped at the concrete trestle over Tailes Creek, just a couple of miles west of Maydelle, our leader, Pete Lerro, cautioned all of the patrons that we would be on private land and that the landowners would be meeting us to escort us to the photo location. So, most of us hung pretty close to the train awaiting their arrival. It didn't take long before folks started coming out of the woods....literally......one-by-one. The first one was a stern-looking lady with a rifle. Within a minute we were surrounded by about 9 people....all of whom were packing. Not wimpy little handguns.....long guns, rifles, shotguns....yikes! I'm not much into firearms and this made me rather nervous until Pete met with them and it became clear that they were friendly. They were actually hoping we could photograph them in costume, with the train....which we were glad to oblige. The above scene looks like the sort of greeting you DON'T want to see, as you wander the Piney Woods of Texas, looking for that perfect railroad shot. As noted above, I get a little nervous around people who are openly carrying firearms, particularly when I don't know them. You never really know what you're dealing with. I tend to watch them closely and see if they exhibit proper discipline, which tells me they care about the safety of folks around them. This group generally did well. The award for most professional handling goes to.....the young lady second from the left, with the riding chaps and the short, double-barrel "persuader." She always guarded the trigger and never let that muzzle come even close to being pointed at anyone. This clearly wasn't the first time she ever picked up a shootin' iron. Although railroad photo charters are typically carefully planned months in advance, and all of the photo locations are normally scouted and proper permissions obtained, we have, over the years, had a few "interesting encounters." I recall our party being challenged by a fellow back in 2009 at a railroad in New Hampshire, who claimed to be the landowner.....and who was clearly inebriated. He shouted all kinds of threats before retreating to a dwelling. The most memorable one however, was what we ended up calling "Meth-Head Trestle", on a railroad in Washington State back in 2014. A couple who appeared to be living in the woods near a railroad bridge and who were clearly jacked up on some sort of narcotic shouted threats at our charter party, and vowed to stop us from doing our runbys. The man then summarily dropped his trousers and pooped on the rails right before our eyes. Fortunately, none of these incidents involved any firearms!

#Locomotive

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unfolded73 · 4 years

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Petrichor (1/1) - schitt’s creek ff

Reaction fic to 6x02. David and Stevie talk. Rated T for drug use, 1250 words. References past David/Stevie.

Other Season 6 reaction fics: 6x01

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Stevie lay back on the picnic table behind the motel and stared up at a cloudy sky, the air smelling of rain and the piney stench of the joint that dangled between her fingers. When David approached, summoned via text message, she could hear the shuffle of his sneakers through the grass. He didn’t say anything, just lay down next to her on the table. Stevie lifted her heavy hand, holding the joint out, and David took it from her fingers and put it to his lips. Letting her head loll to the side, she watched him take a drag, his pink lips pursed. David had a very pretty mouth; it was one of the first things she’d noticed about him. Okay, maybe not one of the first. First would have been his eyebrows and his leather jacket and the fact that he used the word ‘thrice’. But she’d noticed his mouth at some point in those first couple of days. It was one of the things that had gotten her in trouble back then, before they settled into this comfortable friendship.

“What’s up?” she asked. She’d been in her own little bubble of worry and anxiety ever since she admitted to Mr. Rose yesterday that she maybe — no, definitely — wanted to take a step back from the motel business. And since David had practically moved in with Patrick, she hadn’t seen him in days.

“Nothing I feel like talking about. What’s up with you?” He took a second hit before he could have even begun to feel the first one and then handed the joint back to her.

“I’m pretty sure I broke your dad’s heart,” she sighed, flexing her toes, shifting her head back and forth and enjoying the brush of her own hair against her neck.

Stevie could feel David looking at her. “What are you talking about?”

“I told him I want to try something besides running a motel. Figure out if there’s anything else I could be doing with my life.”

“Uh huh. And what did he say to that?”

“That he wouldn’t stop me. And he hopes I’ll come back. And something about a button factory,” she said, drawing more smoke into her lungs even though this weed was pretty good and she was already feeling it.

“Mmm.”

She had hoped for more from David than a noncommittal hum, but he seemed to be wrestling with some heavy thoughts of his own.

“I’m still afraid, though,” Stevie said.

“Of trying something new?”

She nodded, but he was back to staring up at the sky. “It’s what’s kept me here. Even the thought of it has always scared the hell out of me, like the world out there is too big for me. Like outside of Schitt’s Creek, I’ll just… disappear.”

David reached down and took her hand, threading their fingers together. “So what changed?”

“Cabaret taught me that being afraid of something doesn’t mean I can’t do it.”

David squeezed her hand. “I’m proud of you.”

“Gross.”

“So what are you gonna do now?”

“I have no fucking clue.” The clouds above their heads darkened, and Stevie glanced at David’s clothes to see if he was wearing something that couldn’t get wet. She could feel the texture of his sweater against her arm, but she didn’t know anything about luxury knits so it didn’t really give her any additional information.

“I’m gonna be married,” David murmured.

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.”

“No, Stevie, I mean for real. I don’t mean I’m going to have a wedding. I mean, I’m going to be married.”

She closed one eye and looked at him through the other, but it didn’t help her understand what he was talking about. “I know.”

“Like, even when I said yes to Patrick’s proposal, there was a voice inside me… you know the voice that tells you you’re worthless? Do you have one of those?”

Stevie snorted. “What do you think?”

“I think you and I are too much alike for you not to. When I said yes, that voice was still telling me that it wouldn’t last. That I’d get a few nice years with him, and then all of my quirks that Patrick thinks are cute would wear him down and he’d want a divorce.”

“That’s dark,” Stevie said. The breeze picked up and she shivered.

“Yes, and therefore very on-brand for me.” Stevie passed him the last stub of the joint. David took one more hit and extinguished it on the picnic table. “But…” He paused and inhaled deeply, sighing it out. “Patrick loves me.”

“What an incredible insight, David.”

“No, like he really loves me. Like, he’s in it for the long haul.”

“That voice in your head must really have done a number on you if you’re just now figuring this out.”

“I just never imagined anyone would…” While she watched, a tear slid down the side of his face into his hair. “I’ll get old.”

“Eventually, yes… although if your dad is any indication, your hair will look great,” Stevie said.

“I’ll get old and gray and wrinkled, and Patrick won’t care.” He proclaimed this like he’d just uncovered one of the great mysteries of the universe, squeezing her hand again for emphasis.

“No, I imagine he won’t.” Stevie said. “Because he loves you.” This was the real reason they still got high together sometimes, she dimly realized. To facilitate this kind of truth-telling. To burn away the acerbic outer shells to reveal the gooey marshmallows within. She gasped. “We should roast marshmallows.”

David whipped his head over, staring at her. “That’s an amazing idea.”

“Right?” She grinned widely.

Stevie didn’t feel attracted to David anymore, but she could remember what it felt like to be attracted to David. She could remember the things she liked about sex with him. He smelled really good, and she’d liked the way his hands looked on her body. She’d liked the things he knew how to do with them.

“Also, I really need to get laid,” Stevie sighed.

“So I can’t help you with that, but I can help you with the marshmallow thing.”

“You have marshmallows?”

“No,” he said, looking crestfallen, and then his face lit up. “Patrick can bring us marshmallows.”

“He’s nice. He probably would do that.” She giggled. “What a dork.”

“Hey, that dork is my future husband.”

“You love saying that word, don’t you?”

“I love it so much,” David said with a grin that brought out his dimples.

“David, what if I try to do something bigger and I fail?”

“Then it won’t be the end of the world,” David said, still meeting her gaze. “It turns out that things that feel like the end of the world usually aren’t.”

Stevie blinked slowly. That was deep. She needed to write that down.

“Tomorrow I’ll help you brainstorm some ideas,” David said. “Come to the store. We’ll make a moodboard about your hopes and dreams.”

“Sounds fun,” she said flatly, rolling her eyes.

“Hey, it’s either that or you go to my future husband and he tells you to write a pro and con list.”

She grimaced. “Let’s do the moodboard.”

Thunder rumbled, and a fat drop of rain hit Stevie’s cheek. There was a screech from David, and then the two of them were tumbling off the picnic table, running and laughing until they reached the protective awning of the motel. Stevie inhaled the fresh smell of the rain and smiled.

#sc s6 #sc spoilers #schitt's creek ff #schitt's creek fic #david & stevie #my fic

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wonkybraingirl-blog · 6 years

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The destination must be pretty special for us to leave the house at 5:15 a.m. We loaded the ole Chevy down with the kayaks and gear and headed out. 80’s rock on the radio, windows down breathing in some fresh air, with Willis in the rearview mirror.

The sun wasn’t up when we got there but the water was already active with schools of shad. We knew before we hit the water not much had been biting for the past few months. The Texas heat tends to take a toll on lake and creek fishing. Hey, any day on the water is a good day, right? Catching just makes it that much better.

Headed to “our spot” in hopes of snaggin’ a Crappie our two, we noticed alligator gar snapping at the shad. A little further up the creek, as our yaks stirred up the water, the gar rolled in response. A Beetle Spin with a chartreuse, triple tail grub was my bait of choice. We cast along the bank as we made our way to “the spot” where a few days prior, our buddy Shane tore up some Crappie. Cast after cast, no luck. Eventually, I got a bump but no commitment. Eager, water still rippling, I cast right back to the same spot. Bam. A Crappie. Tiny but mighty. A Crappie, nonetheless.

Stuart is a White Bass catching machine. Even with the Texas heat and odds against him, he managed to snag a few small ones.

Further down the creek, Stuart noticed a school of White Bass feeding on shad. He heard the water splashing before he saw the commotion in the water. Of course, we did what any anglers would do. We started paddling towards the action. Sadly, by the time we got there, the frenzy was over.

We cast for a couple more hours. I hooked but didn’t land a nice size catfish on a Mepps. Stuart caught a few more small White Bass. Once the sun started heating up and got higher in the sky, we decided to call it a day. No fish to brag about so to speak, but we didn’t get skunked. Again, any day on the water is a good day. Catching just makes it that much better.

As we were heading back to the boat ramp, I decided to cast a few more times. Truth be known, I was just going through the motions, not expecting to entice any takers. Out of nowhere, something took my bait and took it hard. I set the hook and the drag started singing. Whatever was on the other end of my line started pulling me across the creek. “You got your drag set momma?” “Yes, Stuart.” “Let it play out, don’t horse it.” “Ok, Stuart.” It’s been the same back and forth for years. I thought I had a monster catfish. To my disappointment it was only a Gaspergou. Not much to boast about but a kick in the head to catch. Catch – Photo – Release and we called it a day.

No trophy fish today but great memories made on Harmon Creek. Looking forward to our next adventure.

Harmon Creek Marina, located in Huntsville, is one of Texas’ best kept secrets. I hesitated to bring attention to “our” little hideaway in the Piney Woods, that is until I got to know, Donnie.

Donnie Robbins is the owner and operator of Harmon Creek Marina. He relocated from Farmington, New Mexico in 2015 to remain close to his son who was attending Sam Houston State University at the time.

Donnie owned an auto repair shop in Farmington for 32 years. Harmon Creek Marina is now Donnie’s passion.

My family has been fishing Harmon Creek for the past five years. Since taking over the marina in 2015, Donnie has made many improvements. First and foremost, I have to brag on the bathrooms! These suckers are always clean. They are brand spanking new. They even have showers. Clean potties are much appreciated! Kudos Donnie!!

If you’re an angler, the little store at the marina is sure to please. Live minnows, worms, liver, dead shad and shrimp are readily available. If artificial suits your fancy, Donnie has a variety on the walls to choose from. Drinks and snacks are available as well.

If you don’t have a boat but want to explore the creek or try your luck at fishing, boats and kayaks are ready and waiting for you. Donnie offers gas and electric boats for a half day or full day rental.

If you don’t have the luxury of living close by, don’t fret. Cabins, RV sites and tent sites are available. The tent sites are waterfront and include water and electricity.

The pool at the marina is always clean and just waiting for some kiddos and families! Enjoy the refreshing water after a day of fishing on the creek.

I had the pleasure of meeting this super cool young man after we got off the water today. Logan Parsons is 10 years old and lives down the street from Harmon Creek Marina. When he isn’t in school, chances are you’ll find him hanging out with his buddy, Donnie. Donnie boasted that Logan is “his right hand man.” He went on to say that “Logan was 10 going on 20.” I was impressed by this young man’s manners and the way that he carried himself. Folks, teach your kids to fish and they won’t want to go looking for anything else to get into. Logan helps Donnie out around the marina and “loves to drive the z-turn mower.” When I asked him if liked to fish with wide eyes he replied, “A LOT!” After talking to him for a while, I’m convinced if left to his own devices, Logan would fish every day from sun up until sun down. Now, that’s a kid after my own heart. He and I have already started planning a kayak fishing trip.

In the creek, catfish can be caught year round. Crappie are biting in the spring and white bass are spawning during the colder months.

As we were leaving, headed back to Willis, I asked Donnie what was his favorite thing about owning the marina and without hesitation he said, “the people.” If you are looking for a great little weekend getaway, head on out to Harmon Creek. If you are coming in from Houston, don’t hesitate to give Donnie a call before hand. He will be glad to give you a report on water conditions and fishing before you head his way. He’ll take care of you and your family and you’re re sure to make some memories on Harmon Creek. (The Harmon Creek Facebook page is under construction but please visit when you get a chance. Harmon Creek Marina Facebook Page

Texas’ Best Kept Secret The destination must be pretty special for us to leave the house at 5:15 a.m. We loaded the ole Chevy down with the kayaks and gear and headed out.

#catfish #crappie #texas #willis #fishing #harmoncreek #hunstville #kayakfishing #marina #smallbusinesssaturday #smallbusinesssunday #whitebass

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uglylittlegoblin · 2 years

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The Lost Creeks Vol 3

My third creek wasn't a creek at all. I don't remember a body of water in the piney little woods just west of my grandfather's house. I think it was technically the neighbor's property but it was treated as no-mans-land. The wood was lined on either side by piles of dried out branches that had been trimmed from the decorative yard trees over the years.

Me, my sister, and some of the other grandchildren played hide-and-seek in the trees, only a couple of times. One of the other grandchildren--a second cousin, I think--fell and hurt themselves and got us all banned from the woods for our safety.

But it sticks out in my memory because these trees were unlike any other I had seen up until that early point in my life. They were old, twisted and gnarled, with thick, sap-sticky bark. The roots were thick and twisty, too, and they jutted up out of the ground to trip trespassers, like the trees were setting booby traps to protect each other. The pine needles above were thick and evergreen, and blocked out the sun year-round. The shade there was black and cool. The ground was carpeted in a layer of fallen needles so thick I could have slept on it. I think I did, once.

When I was much older, in my final years of high school, I went with my father to help my grandpa with his tree-trimming. I dragged the branches over to the trees and piled them up and thought about going in. But thoughts of snakes and tics and bugs were concerning enough to stop me.

My grandfather recently sold the house--too much space for just one widower--but the woods were gone long before that. I don't remember when it happened, but someone purchased the no-mans-land lot and built a house on it. The view of that house is so recent and so familiar that I can't picture those old trees anymore without seeing the new house just next to them, though the two never coexisted.

#the lost creeks #writing #practice #nostalgia

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garykrepak · 2 years

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So you bought a house in the country.

You have to drive 30 minutes north of a downtown of another city to get to it. Deep in the piney woods. Far away from even the road noise of the two interstates that roar through the area. Only the sounds of your distant neighbors’ harvesting of deer or sometimes, the passing of a distant train are heard. The only way your neighbors know you are there, is by the occasional sound of your own deer harvesting, or mowing, or by the sounds of Waylon Jennings or Willie Nelson being carried onto their land, if the wind blows just right as you work on your place.

It’s a lovely little piece of land with tall old trees on it and a creek that trickles its way through just a few feet from the house. You get a plan for the place, and you quickly go about working on it and making a modern renovation of the little log cabin on it. This, is where you plan on spending the rest of your life, where you will live, where you will address your new business, where you will entertain your friends occasionally. Only, you get word that your neighbors are getting fined and fees charged by that somewhat distant municipality.

You had absolutely no idea that municipality, whose already insanely overreached corporation limits were anywhere near your new little piece of rural heaven. You didn’t know. That an appointed body had somehow found itself governing a body of land that reached five miles beyond said Corporation Limits of that city. And that your newly purchased parcel, was at the very furthest point inside of that arbitrary boundary of influence.

You were curious at first. And upon further investigation, became furious and fearful for the sanctity of your dreams for this new homestead.

You have absolutely no interest in developing that land. You don’t want suburban sprawl at your back door where you can no longer hunt.

You don’t have any desires to have your nearby Highway lined with strip malls. You’d just assume the trees get bigger and the place even less populated. You might even be willing to buy up adjoining properties to ensure that your view of the world from your front door, doesn’t have another home or business within sight of it.

You are the opposite of Progress.

You want the place to be as wild and free and unspoiled, as it was when your family arrived on that very same part of your Parish, three hundred years prior. You don’t view this piece of land as an asset or as something to be cut down, paved over and tamed. No. This is land the way nature made it and you’d like for it to stay that way.

You find out that some people from that far away municipality are driving around and citing your neighbors for things like fixing a car in their front yard or, parking a four wheeler where it was visible from the street. Another neighbor that’s an oilfield worker had their fifth wheel camper ticketed for having the audacity of being parked in its owner’s very own land. This appointed body, seemingly decided it was going to act like a HOA Karen, and bitch about every bylaw these people had no idea they were participating under.

And next thing you know, you are having to go to the State Capital several times to plea to have that arbitrary and unrealistically large boundary of influence reduced so that maybe you can live out the rest of your days on that little (or big) piece of land in ways that you decide. You moved out here to get away from HOA Karens, to escape the crumbling infrastructure and the incessant violent crime of that nearby city that all of a sudden thinks it is entitled to control over your distant parcels.

We don’t want a Starbucks. We don’t want a Taco Bell, we do not want a Home Depot.

We DO NOT want Hwy 169 to look like Youree Drive in the next few decades. The entire reason for moving was to escape all of that paved over expanse of commercially blighted tracts of spiritual and natural sterility.

That’s The News From KW Ranch

Where all the women are strong, the men are allegedly crazy, and the children, are above average.

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xtruss · 3 years

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Here’s The Chemistry Behind Marijuana’s Skunky Scent

Newly identified sulfur compounds in cannabis flowers give the plant its telltale funky odor

— By Ariana Remmel | November 30, 2021 | ScienceNew.Com

A new study reveals the sulfur compounds that give cannabis flowers that unmistakable skunky aroma. Martin Deja/Moment/Getty Images

Scientists have finally sniffed out the molecules behind marijuana’s skunky aroma.

The heady bouquet that wafts off of fresh weed is actually a cocktail of hundreds of fragrant compounds. The most prominent floral, citrusy and piney overtones come from a common class of molecules called terpenes, says analytical chemist Iain Oswald of Abstrax Tech, a private company in Tustin, Calif., that develops terpenes for cannabis products (Science News: 4/30/18). But the source of that funky ganja note has been hard to pin down.

Now, an analysis is the first to identify a group of sulfur compounds in cannabis that account for the skunklike scent, researchers report November 12 in ACS Omega.

Oswald and colleagues had a hunch that the culprit may contain sulfur, a stinky element found in hops and skunk spray. So the team started by rating the skunk factor of flowers harvested from more than a dozen varieties of Cannabis sativa on a scale from zero to 10, with 10 being the most pungent. Next, the team created a “chemical fingerprint” of the airborne components that contributed to each cultivar’s unique scent using gas chromatography, mass spectroscopy and a sulfur chemiluminescence detector.

As suspected, the researchers found small amounts of several fragrant sulfur compounds lurking in the olfactory profiles of the smelliest cultivars. The most dominant was a molecule called prenylthiol, or 3-methyl-2-butene-1-thiol, that gives “skunked beer” its notorious flavor (Science News: 11/27/05).

The sulfur compounds have been found in nature, but never before in cannabis, says Amber Wise, an analytical chemist with Medicine Creek Analytics in Fife, Wash., who was not involved in the study.

Oswald was surprised to find that prenylthiol and many of the other sulfurous suspects in cannabis share structural similarities with molecules found in garlic. And like these alliaceous analogs, a little goes a long way.

These compounds “can be in very low concentrations on the flower, but still make a huge impact on the smell,” Oswald says. The sulfur molecules are most abundant in cannabis flowers when they reach maturity and during the curing process.

Smell psychologist Avery Gilbert of Headspace Sensory, a startup company in Fort Collins, Colo., that specializes in quantifying the many scents of cannabis, is excited to see the molecules added to marijuana’s chemical repertoire. “The spectrum of cannabis odor is just amazing,” he says. “I think it beats the pants off of wine.”

The discovery of prenylthiol in marijuana, Gilbert says, is the first step to masking its nuisance odor — or maximizing its perversely pleasant stink. Prenylthiol has a “polarizing scent,” Oswald says. While many people think it reeks, some cannabis users will pay top dollar for skunky grass, which

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bensgaragedoor894-blog · 4 years

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Tips For Turning Customers Into Regulars

No matter what type of business you have, customer retention is critical for success. According to BIA/Kelsey, "repeat customers spend 67 percent more than new customers." That means turning first time customers into repeat customers can drive sales. Here are several ways to turn customers into regulars.

Be Consistent

Providing good, consistent service is key for customer retention. Customers should be able to expect a good experience each time they do business with your company. Part of this involves employee behavior. Companies with high customer retention rates have clear standards for their employees regarding behavior, quality and presentation. This ensures a consistent customer experience.

Customer Retention

Are your customers leaving? Let's determine why. Its impossible to resolve a problem if you don't fully understand what it is. Once the issues is understood, resolutions generally become much easier.

Treat your customers like real people.

The internet can be a great tool, but relating to your customers on a personal level is often the differentiating factor between a successful business model and one that's likely to fail.

Appreciate your clients/customers.

Thank you emails & on-boarding gifts for new clients and discount offers to your most loyal clients can be a very successful strategy. Even a simple mention on social media can be extremely valuable to your customers. Always ask for constructive feedback. Let your customers know that their opinion is valuable to your business. Don't wait for bad reviews or negative feedback to come to you. Reach out to your customers on a regular basis and learn what they liked and what they think you can improve on. Maintaining consistent product & service quality is also critical. Whether you're serving a coffee or offering garage door services , customers expect to see the same quality each time. Delivering a consistently good service creates a sense of trust which will most likely lead to repeat business.

Fix Your Mistakes

Mistakes will happen, and how you fix them is important for establishing long-term customer loyalty. The old adage of "the customer is always right" still has validity in the age of social media. What starts as a simple issue can easily snowball if you don't resolve things quickly. According to a study by RightNow Technologies, "89 percent of customers have stopped doing business with a company because of bad customer service." That means resolving customer issues is a key component of customer retention. Customers that provide negative feedback are actually giving you a valuable opportunity to fix the problem and build loyalty. A 2015 study by LoyaltyOne and The Verde Group showed that 81 percent of customers that had problems on a recent shopping trip did not notify the retailer about the problem. That means when you get the chance to fix a problem, you should do everything in your power to resolve the issue.

Focus on the Customer

Repeat business results from focusing on the customer. This means building rapport and providing customer-focused service. In a restaurant, this could be as simple as getting to know a customer's favorite drink or his usual order. In a retail environment, it could mean remembering color preferences or appropriate sizes. Providing personalized service can turn a casual customer into a regular customer.

Reward Loyalty

Loyalty programs are available everywhere from coffee shops to gas stations. Loyalty programs can be as simple as a punch card that provides a discount or free item after a certain number of transactions to an app that tracks purchases and offers free items after reaching certain thresholds. Successful loyalty programs offer tangible rewards for regular customers. You don't even have to establish a formal program. Free samples or a free dessert can also be used to reward regular customers.

Make it Easy

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tipsycad147 · 5 years

Text

SAGE VARIETIES: GROWING TIPS AND RECIPES

by Crooked Bear Creek Organic Herbs

The genus Salvia contains a staggering range of species suitable for every garden use under the sun—and in the shade. But for cooking, none can rival common garden sage (Salvia officinalis) and its cultivars. Sage has long been valued for its contributions to the cook’s palette of flavors. Its robust piney aroma and earthy flavor complement many ingredients. Sage is also an attractive garden plant, particularly in its fancy-leaved forms. Plus, it prospers under a wide range of conditions and adds striking bold texture to mixed plantings.

Growing Info For Sage

• Light: Full sun • Height: 18 to 24 inches • Width: 24 to 36 inches • Bloom time: Late spring, although valued most for its evergreen foliage. • Soil: Well-drained, tolerant of a wide range of soil types.

What’s the Difference Between Types of Sage?

S. officinalis vary widely in the size and shape of its leaves. Sharp-eyed herbalists have spotted numerous selections with unusual leaves, taken cuttings and propagated the resulting plants so that we can all enjoy them. ‘Berggarten’ is a vigorous clone with large, broad leaves and a strong flavor. It’s probably the most productive variety for home herb gardens. ‘Curly’ was selected by Alice Doyle of Log House Plants in Cottage Grove, Oregon, from a wild population in Crete. It’s wrinkled and puckered leaves give the plant a highly textured appearance. ‘Holt’s Mammoth’ has large leaves, although they’re often not as large as those of ‘Berggarten’. Dwarf forms of S. officinalis circulate under a variety of names, including ‘Compacta’, ‘Dwarf’, ‘Minima’, ‘Nana’ and ‘Robert Grim’. In general, these plants will reach 8 to 12 inches in height and width, making them significantly smaller than the species. Use them in containers or in-ground plantings where space is tight. Strains chosen for heavy production and good performance under greenhouse conditions are sometimes available, but these are usually of little interest to home gardeners.

Numerous forms have been selected for coloured foliage. ‘Icterina’ has strong golden-green variegation surrounding a cucumber-green splash. It’s hearty and vigorous in growth. ‘Purpurascens’ (‘Purpurea’) is another strong grower, this time with dark leaves that have a dusky sheen of purple, green and indigo. ‘Rainbow’ is a variegated version of ‘Purpurascens’. Its purple leaves have splotches of cream and rose. ‘Tricolour’ is the more common multicoloured form, with splashes of lilac, cream and green. It’s slow-growing and resents crowding, wet and cold.

Besides these varieties with unusual leaf colours, clones with more typical variegation of white, cream or pale green have recently become available. ‘La Crema’ is a variegated sport from ‘Berggarten’. Its leaves have a thick cream border. It’s vigorous and showy, making it an excellent choice for planting in the ground or in containers. ‘Variegated Woodcote’ has light green leaves with a darker splotch in the centre. ‘White Edge’ has an attractive pattern of cream splashes on typical soft green leaves.

‘Berggarten’, ‘Icterina’ and ‘Purpurascens’ are the easiest to find of the fancy-leaved sages. Look for them at your favourite local nursery. The other forms are rarer—check herb society sales and online herb specialists.

Garden Design with Sage

Salvia officinalis is admirably ornamental in its typical grey-green form. It can be trained into sculpted mounds for a controlled appearance or left to sprawl in irregular clumps. The leaves have a lightly pebbled surface, which makes them look fuzzy. This soft texture combined with a muted flower colour (pastel shades of blue and lilac-pink) gives the plants a soft appearance. Garden visitors will want to stroke them. If they do, they’ll be pleased with the plants’ robust fragrance.

Varieties with unusual leaf sizes, shapes and colours have even more garden potential. ‘Berggarten’ and ‘Mammoth’, with their broader leaves, have a blockier presence and make a great foil to frilly-leaved companions. The leaves of ‘Curly’ have wavy edges that lend a strong texture, making it stand out in mixed plantings. It has the character to make an excellent solo pot specimen. The dwarf forms’ tighter growth habit makes them well-suited to plantings in which forms must be strongly defined, such as parterres and knot gardens.

The coloured-leaf selections have a strong visual impact. Gold and green ‘Icterina’ complements strong blues—it would make an excellent companion for bush delphiniums. The purple-washed leaves of ‘Purpurascens’ are sensational with soft yellows. Try it with Oenothera ‘Shimmer’, a new evening primrose from Colorado with lemon-coloured flowers and silvery leaves. ‘La Crema’ and ‘White Edge’ would look lovely as an edging around cream-coloured roses. Their strong aroma might also help repel insects.

S. officinalis and its selections are useful in containers. Make sure they don’t stay wet, or they’ll rot. Good air circulation is essential, as well—they dislike being crowded. ‘Icterina’ and ‘Purpurascens’ are often used in mixed edible containers. They look good through both cold and warm seasons. ‘Tricolor’ looks especially fine when grown as a specimen in a terracotta pot—growing solo ensures that it won’t be overwhelmed by over-vigorous companions.

A Cook’s Guide to Sage

Unlike the green sawdust, Aunt Mabel used to sprinkle over her turkey, there’s more to sage’s flavor profile than dusty and musty. Fresh sage is deep, robust and earthy. To balance these base notes, fresh sage also has a lively zing that you won’t find in any powder.

This lively—almost lemony—flavor component is most obvious in spring, while the leaves are still very young. Strengthen this taste by combining sage with mint. You can also keep sage from becoming drab by combining it with lemon. As summer approaches and sage’s flavor becomes more robust, try combining it with a multitude of different herbs. Its earthiness adds depth to herbal blends. Autumn cooking is highly supportive of sage. Its haunting aroma can perfume rich meats and carb-rich dishes. Use it to flavor slow-braised pork or starchy cubes of roasted squash.

Sage can easily become overwhelming, so start with a small amount and slowly increase the quantity to taste. The leaves can be rough and chewy, particularly later in the year, so mince them finely. If you want the flavor of sage without its presence in the final result, add sprigs of it to whatever you’re cooking and remove them before serving.

Tips for Growing Sage

Salvia officinalis is an easygoing plant with few demands. But, if you want it to thrive, give it what it needs. At least six hours of full sun per day are essential. Soil should be well-drained, but not constantly dry. Avoid over-rich soil, or you’ll have lush growth at the expense of flavor. That’s it.

Typical green-leaved S. officinalis is winter-hardy in Zones 5 to 9. The coloured-leaf forms are weaker. Plant them high and dry for best results. Even under the best of conditions, they’re not reliably winter-hardy in areas north of Zone 7. Treat them as annuals and be happily surprised if they return for an encore performance. Don’t mulch them with anything moist and composty—they’ll rot. Also, make sure that they’re not crowded—most (particularly ‘Tricolour’) need impeccable air circulation and resent being jostled by their neighbours.

Sage is evergreen in most of its hardiness range, although its leaves will be damaged by extended periods of extreme cold. Wait until hard frosts pass in spring before trimming your sage. Most salvias—including S. officinalis—can be severely damaged by late frosts if they’re cut back early and start into growth while it’s still cold.

Once the weather warms in spring, sages will put forth a new crop of leaves. These will have the best flavor of the entire year. Their flavor intensifies until flowering starts, usually in late spring. After flowering, sage’s leaves toughen. To stimulate new growth, cut the plant back by one-third. Fertilise lightly with organic fertiliser, such as fish emulsion, after pruning.

Sage can be grown from seed, but the easiest way to increase your stock is by taking cuttings. Cuttings are the only way to maintain specific clones (you won’t get variegated seedlings from seeds taken from a variegated plant). Since sage plants often become woody and start to die out in spots as they age, it’s a good idea to take cuttings and start new plants every two or three years—especially because young plants are more vigorous and produce better yields than older plants.

Taking cuttings is as simple as it sounds: cut off a three-inch shoot of S. officinalis, strip off the lower leaves; stick the cutting into the sterile growing medium; keep moist and warm for the next few weeks, and wait for roots and new growth to appear. Once your plants have rooted, prepare them for life outdoors by leaving them in a cold frame or sheltered porch for a few days to moderate the temperature change between inside and out. Then look forward to cooking with your beautiful sage.

Culinary Sage Varieties

Sage Varieties: Pasta with Cream, Ham, Mushrooms, and Sage

Serves 2 to 4

• 2 tablespoons butter • 1/2 sweet onion (preferably Vidalia), chopped • 2 cloves garlic, minced • 1 cup mushrooms, sliced • 1/2 cup ham, cut into 1/2-inch cubes • 1/2 cup heavy cream • 2 tablespoons fresh sage leaves, chopped • 4 cups cooked pasta, preferably farfalle • 1/2 cup fresh Parmesan, grated • Coarse salt and black pepper

1. In a deep pot, melt butter. Once melted, add the onions. Soften over medium-low heat for five minutes, or until lightly brown and soft.

2. Add garlic and mushrooms. Cook for a few more minutes, until softened. Stir in ham and cream. Cook until warmed through.

3. Add the pasta and sage. Cook a few more minutes, or until the sauce has thickened slightly. Stir in Parmesan. Salt and pepper to taste and serve immediately.

Sage Varieties: Salmon with Lemon and Sage

Serves 4

• Large salmon fillet, skin-on • Extra-virgin olive oil • Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper • 2 small lemons • Handful fresh sage

1. Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Grease a large roasting pan. Lay salmon in the pan, skin side up.

2. Drizzle with olive oil, then season heavily with salt and pepper. Slice lemons into thin rounds and tear sage leaves off their stems. Scatter lemon rounds and sage leaves over salmon.

3. Roast 20 to 25 minutes, until salmon, is opaque throughout, and serve.

https://crookedbearcreekorganicherbs.com/2019/07/07/sage-varieties-growing-tips-and-recipes/

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