Art in the public square — or garden.
On a recent visit to the Missouri Botanical Garden, I varied my route.
And there–sitting on the lawn–was a sculpture reflecting my notion of tender, loving, care.
What do you see? Playtime? A farewell?
Something sinister–kidnapper and victim?
It makes a pleasant picture of peace and tranquility. The predator and the prey sharing space without danger or fear.
It’s also a scene I don’t expect to find in ordinary life. Predators are interested in survival. So is the prey. And the proven methods are actions such as flight or hiding or staying with the group. If I lamb does not want to become lunch — stay with the bunch.
So imagine my surprise when I noticed two signs in the same garden.
These are “Lion’s Ears”
And a few steps away:
“Lamb’s Ears”
No “preying” allowed.
Yesterday the United States celebrated a holiday.
No — it’s not named End of Summer BBQ.
Labor Day — in honor of the men & women who do the difficult, often physical work, to make out society function. And while I’ve never been a member of a Union — other family members have been and currently are.
So this is my belated “THANK YOU” for the 40 hour week, paid vacations, and the many safety standards initiated through the years.
Recently, while concentrating on other objects in the photo — I even recorded a man doing skilled labor.
Have you ever taken music lessons?
Or received coaching for a sport?
What about learning to cook a favorite dish?
How to you become expert (or even moderately proficient) at any of the above?
Practice. Practice. Practice. And then some more practice.
While natural talent and ability gives immeasurable assistance — the best in their field practice, practice, practice. It does not matter if they have a world-wide reputation for excellence. To keep that standard they practice.
The water slides past in silence. Millions and billions of drops, collected into depressions and moved by gravity. The small units merge until they are measured not by pints or buckets or barrels, but by cubic feet per minute as they hurry on their way.
Downstream. Always seeking the lower elevation. They would go deep into the earth if a hole opened.
They don’t appear to rush as I stand high on the shore. And I let my thoughts drift. Where are they bound? Will they be diverted into the water system of a town or city? Or evaporate, defying gravity until they form a cloud? It’s pleasing to think of them having an adventure, passing new places, until they join the mighty waters of the Gulf of Mexico and the ocean beyond.
Mighty Mississippi — The Father of Waters
We all have our favorite colors. And often they are the ones which look best on us. Perhaps they bring emphasis to eye color. Or compliment a skin tone. And once in a while — they’re just cheerful and fun.
But what if you like a color that does not flatter? Perhaps confine it to an accessory? Or use it around the home. Pick that red you love for an accent pillow. Or a few dishes. Or a piece of artwork.
I like green. And it is one of three or four colors which flatter. But it’s not popular. At least not in the bargain stores where I shop. So I have a few things. And then I fill the house with plants in the winter.
New addition this year. A gift from a relative. In a beautiful green skirt.
Midwestern farms, especially a few decades ago, needed to be for self-sufficient then our small town or city friends. One feature of this was that each farm (and in some instances homes in small towns or edges of larger ones) needed their own water and sanitation systems.
Our water supply was green. No, not the color. But in energy use. It was not the sort you would find in the small town — unless it was grandfathered into the regulations from a farm absorbed into the boundaries.
We had one of these:
There were differences. The one on our farm was forty feet tall and pulled the water up over 300 feet. Able to rotate and use wind blowing from any direction, it served us well. And if the wind didn’t blow for a day?
Good question. We directed the flow from the well into a cistern. We also had it fixed up so with a little practice a person could move the pipe and fill the stock tank. (Dairy cows are thirsty.) From the cistern the water moved with a combination of gravity and an electric pressure pump and tank in our basement into a dependable supply.
It was a small chore to turn the windmill either on or off or move the pipe. But we kept track of the time when filling the stock tank (and to a lesser extent the cistern). Water is precious and not to be wasted by making a large muddy puddle.
Be careful crossing the street. Look both ways. Twice.
Good advice from parents to children. Good habit for adults, and not limited to crossing streets.
One quick look is often not enough. What’s moving in the grass? Where’s the hamster? (or kitten, or puppy, or other pet) Is the mess cleaned up? The stain removed? Often a careful examination now will save time and effort in the future.
And sometimes people play tricks on others.
For example:
Taking a nap on these rocks would be comfy.
Reason: They’re pillows.
Eighty years ago, the world looked a little different. It also looked the same.
Young people married. My parents exchanged vows Sept 10, 1936.
Young couples worked. Dad was a farmer. They rented a place. Later they bought another. Worked the land with horse power — the kind that ate hay and furnished fertilizer. Pumped water with wind power. Kept house without electricity.
Times changed. Inventions became available to less populated, rural areas. Children were born. Houses and farms were bought and sold. A job with the post office furnished the bulk of financial stability. Travel became more comfortable. And faster.
By the time the marriage ended (with the death of my father) it was sixty four years, ten months, and twenty three days later. They lived in a house in a small town with an oil furnace and air conditioning. An automobile and riding lawn mower occupied the garage. The water well pump was electric and low maintenance.
Times changed. People stayed the same — living a life of honest work, kindness to neighbors, and tolerance to those unlike them.
On this day I feel we could do well to do the same – regardless of the number of “gadgets” or dollars in our bank account.
Immigrants are not unusual in the United States. If you shake nearly any family tree you’ll find an immigrant or two fall out of one, two, or perhaps five or six generations past.
Many came from Europe by choice. They moved to improve their financial, religious, or educational opportunities. Some came from Africa against their will to labor for others. Asians were imported to work in agriculture and build railroads.
Not all immigrants survived. They became victims of disease, poverty, and accidents. A great many managed to carve a place for themselves and their children in this new land. A few accumulated fortunes and power.
They continue to arrive to this day — centuries after Jamestown, St. Augustine, and Plymouth.
And just a quick reminder. Not all immigrants are human. Consider this lovely import.
Mexican feather grass
