Happily married, mother of two ornery boys, one striped cat and a puppy. They inspire the stories I tell and art I make.
This morning as Blue and I walked through the park I savored the scent of the lilacs. Their fragrance reminded me of a long ago art fair conversation, with a painting woman who has the same first name as mine. She told me she was named for the song, “Jeannine, I Dream of Lilac Time.” I found it years ago to listen to, but had forgotten. Rediscovered it today on YouTube, and listened again with a smile this morn. Ah yes. It’s lilac time.
Blue stole the snowman arm (a.k.a. dried sunflower stalk) as I took this picture. Wish I’d been fast enough to snap one of him prancing away, tail wagging, with a snowman arm clamped tightly in his grinnin’ mouth. Fun memories. Fleeting moments.
March 25, 2013
a.k.a. The Snowiest Spring Break Ever
In one of the bedtime story collections my children have from long ago was this prayer, “I see the moon and the moon sees me. God bless the moon and God bless me.” I often think of it, and whisper it aloud, especially when the moon is glowing big and bright, sometimes by day, but usually at night. ~ Janean
September 30, 2012
Dear Queen Anne,
I love your lace.
I always have.
Since childhood.
When I’d tuck a stem behind my ear and the delicate blooms would tickle my face.
I picked a dozen and wove the long stems into a crown, oblivious to the minute white petals in my hair long after the crown was gone.
I chose the prettiest blooms and presented them to my grandma in a great big bunch.
Flowers, flowers everywhere in her multilayered gardens, but the only one I was allowed to pick was your lace, Queen Anne.
Time passes.
That young girl, once so carefree, grew into a woman with a family of her own.
But I’m still me.
In the light of early morning, walking my sweet pup on a new path, I spied a familiar flower.
For I never could call it a weed, with a name as lovely as, “Queen Anne’s Lace.”
Hello my friend.
Thank you for waking up my memories, of those childhood days long gone.
My grandma is gone now too.
Smiling down from heaven as I snapped off a single bloom and kept on walking.
Heading home.
Puppy slowing down, pulling less, heeling more.
I know full well it’s against the rules to pick flowers in a public park, as they are there for everyone to enjoy.
I rationalized no one would miss one weed…
Even though in my heart I didn’t think it so.
Thank you for the beautiful, pure white, intricate blooms of your lace, Queen Anne.
I’ll be walking that way again and a flower may or may not follow me home again…
(Depending a bit on who is reading.)
Love,
Janean
I walked past this hammock for sale at the store today and flashed back to my childhood summers. On the most special of days my dad would tie the big white hammock between two skinny walnut trees. We’d take turns climbing in to sway gently from side to side. How I wanted to buy a hammock today to recapture the peace and ease of those long ago summer days. I resisted though. No where to store it. No good place in the yard to serenely sway either. Street sounds. Lawnmowers. Basketballs hitting pavement in pre shot dribbling. Dogs barking (not just mine). I’ve landed a hundred miles from the deep, sloped, tree filled backyard at the end of a dead end street behind the little yellow house that I called Home for my first twenty one years. I grew up in a town of 20,000 surrounded by factories, farmland, and highways to anywhere but here. Now I think to myself, “Those were the days.” These were my fleeting thoughts this morning, as I pushed my shopping cart past the hammocks toward the aisles that held stuff actually on my list. The only other thing I wondered was whether my parents, my dad specifically, would like a hammock once again to enjoy on summer afternoons from his screened in porch that overlooks the Mississippi River. You can be sure I’m going to ask him and hope the answer is, “Yes.” My ulterior motives are quite transparent…I want a turn too. ~ Janean
upon waking
I know what I am about to do
the anticipation makes my mouth water
no coffee today
no herbal tea
made one mug at a time
today is a spice tea day
my mom’s recipe
a taste of home
the one I grew up in
the little house
at the end of the dead end street
the one with the kitchen so small
it was like an afterthought
oh, but the meals my mother made there
I smile at the memories
spice tea was special
not for everyday
for company
like when she hosted cards
the only outing with friends she went to each month
sometimes they’d come to our house
the living room would be filled with women
sitting at card tables in folding chairs
talking, laughing, snacking and even smoking
and no one smoked at our house
except my grandfather
the few times a year they visited
usually we went to them
spice tea became a Christmas traditon
mom would make it early
we’d drink it as we opened presents
ladled into Christmas mugs
one after the other
until the giant saucepan was empty
it is made for winter days and snow days
gloomy gray days
for the scent of cinnamon and cloves
makes you smile
even before the sugary citrus flavored tea
passes by your lips
I’ve burned my tongue more than once
rushing to take the first sip
oh, how I love it
today is one of those days
I didn’t make it on Christmas this year
I usually do
it’s early morning on New Year’s Eve day instead
the spice tea is on the stove
my first mug is at my elbow
almost time for the second
it’s as good as I remember mom making it
my sister too
a taste of home
soul food
comfort in a mug
memories too
© 2011 Turquoise Tangles
he touches me
gently
sweetly
lovingly
close enough
at bedtime
to share my pillow
hand in my hair
arms around me
sitting close
on the couch
hand in mine
as we walk outside
or listen
side by side
in church
wiping my tears
as they fall silently
sometimes
my youngest son
what a good man
he will grow to be
loving
thoughtful
insightful
a poet himself
who knows already
how to
heal a hurting heart
soothe frazzled nerves
and show love
with small touches
that mean the world
in the moment
and in the memories
the power of touch
© 2011 Turquoise Tangles
I’m playin’ with fire
dancin’ ever closer
stayin’ just out of reach
I’m playin’ with fire
turning back the clock
in my mind and heart
and remembering
I’m playin’ with fire
dredging up memories
best left buried deep
I’m playin’ with fire
hopin’ not to get burned
or burn another
I’m playin’ with fire
red, orange, yellow
bright blue glow
of the flame
as I stare
mesmerized
by what I see
I’m playin’ with fire
the danger attracts
I admit it
my rebellious side
isn’t quashed
yet
I’m playin’ with fire
drawn like a moth
to a flame
with memories
of you
OUCH!
Got too close
for just a moment
while I was
playin’ with fire
© 2011 Turquoise Tangles
