Words are held

Close by each

,

With different

Meanings fraught.

Don’t you love it?

In its way

It’s poetry

Or just verse

In the lines.

Not loud

Like a computer turning on

In the night

But soft

Like rustling wind in the trees

Through the glass.

Which can be loud

But even then

Not so

That when it wakes

It would hurt

to hear.

I tried writing a Rondeau (pronounced “ron dOe”).

The Rondeau is a form of French poetry. In its classical 16^th century form, a Rondeau is composed of 15 lines with only two rhymes (represented by “a” and “b”) in three stanzas (stanza breaks are represented by a dash or “-“) and a refrain (represented by “R”) at the end of the second and third stanzas, with the refrain also being the opening phrase of the poem. In poetry lingo, you write this scheme as follows: aabba-aabR-aabbaR.

The reason I found the Rondeau and wrote one of my own is that I remembered one of my favorite poems from grade school and looked it up on the Internet. Lo and behold, it was and is a Rondeau. It’s hard for a poem to change its stripes.

The poem is “In Flanders Field” by John McCrae. Here it is. See if you can find the Rondeau.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place, and in the sky,

The larks, still bravely singing, fly,

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead; short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high!

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Do you see it? The rhyme scheme is: aabba-aabR-aabbaR (blow, row, sky, fly, below – ago, glow, lie [In Flanders fields] – foe, throw, high, die, grow [In Flanders fields]).

In this poem, each line (except for the refrain) is eight syllables long, divided into two-syllable groupings, with the accent on the second syllable. For example, the line “If ye break faith with us who die” can be written as follows to show the two-syllable groupings, each separated by a forward slash (/), and the accents shown with an apostrophe (‘): “If ye’ / break faith’ / with us’ / who die.’”

The syllable grouping of a line is the “foot” or imprint or stride or cadence of the line – you can see and hear someone walking or skipping with that beat. A two-syllable grouping with the accent on the second syllable is referred to as an “iamb” or “iambic” foot (this was Shakespeare’s favorite syllable grouping and it is the beat of the human heart, “ta Dum”).

The number of feet in a line is the meter of the line. A line with four feet is a tetrameter (“tetra” is the Greek prefix for the number “4”). So, each line “In Flanders Fields” is a line of iambic tetrameter, which is a fancy way of saying “eight syllables long, broken into groupings of two, with the accent on the second syllable.”

There you have it. Now, you are ready to write your own poem in lines of iambic tetrameter. And, if you follow the  scheme of “In Flanders Fields,” you will have written a Rondeau.

If you like, and are so inclined, try lines of iambic pentameter (with “penta” for “5” in Greek), which means lines of ten syllables, in groupings of two, with the accent on the second syllable. Iambic pentameter was Shakespeare’s favorite, and here’s a good example from his Sonnet 12 that tells us the hour:

“When I do count the clock that tells the time”

“When I’ / do count’ / the clock’ / that tells’ / the time’”

It is too late the clock does show to me.

So back to bed and wait the dawn to see.

And in your sleep so let your mind rhyme free.

To wake and find the poet you can be.

Fun dreams,

Grandpa Jim

This is not your normal parade and these are not your normal cars.

What is an “art car?”

First, it must be a car, something with wheels that moves down a street. Most have motors, but this may be optional.

Second, it must be art. As is said, art is in the eye of the beholder. In the case of the art car, it is in the eye of the molder or owner of the car. Many cars are too old for ready car duty, but too dear for their owners to let them depart. So, they are transformed into something of memory, figment, fantasy, the nostalgic, even the apprehensive, and in it all there is at work the wildly vivid imagination of the cartist transforming his or her old mobile into something beyond time, age, space and street.

You must decide for yourself.

We did this last Saturday as we wandered Allen Parkway in Houston, Texas, wide-eyed and wondering at the lined art cars waiting to begin their march to memory in the 26th Annual Houston Art Car Parade.

Let me start with what I consider the classic art car. Here are three examples of “Glue at Work.” You’ve got a car, stick something on it. That’s art.

Another of my classic art car looks is the “Glue and Glitter.” Here is one that has been around for years. As with most art cars – at first glance – you’re never sure what it is.

Not all art cars are molded. Some are painted. Please observe the following, which I call, in order, hopefully: “Teeth for Two,” “I Can Paint,” “Hip, Hip, Hooray for Hippies Too” (this is two shots of the hood and door), and “Where Did I Put That Planet?”

“Terry the Pterodactyl” reminded us of our visit to the Natural History Museum:

And, of course, there’s always an Edsel. This was actually redesigned as an art car earth mover, of sorts; but don’t be hood-winked, it’s still an Edsel. You can disguise it, but you can’t hide it.

Simply stated, strawberries are best:

Birds of a Feather, Flock Together – here under the watchful eye of the Bird Master:

And, what’s a home or car without a Nome or two?

Around this one, the crowd was deep and the laughs loud. The bass and claw-fish were well articulated and moved to the orchestrated notes of classical and other more raucous tunes from the dock of the bay to down on the bayou. What will they think of next?

There you have it, a sampling at best. I bet you get the picture and wish you could have been there. Sometimes a picture is worth a 1,000 words. For these cars, sometimes more.

Take a stroll down the street and if you’re quick and look up quickly you may just spy

A bird bath on wheels, a musical mongoose or grandma’s pies glued on high.

It’s not every day or at every corner that you can wave and see

An artsy car rolling down the street dressed as a bee

Or glittering in rhinestones like Liberace,

But there it may just be

For you to see.

Wow, gee.

Grandpa Jim

“Are we in Anaheim?” I asked.

“Anaheim who?” the driver answered.

“Anaheim, California,” I mused, “because that sure looks like Sleeping Beauty’s Castle at Disneyland.”

With that, the driver, my classmate, drove over the lowered drawbridge, through the open gate and into the courtyard of Neuschwanstein Castle.

“Ta Da!” my student acquaintance announced. “We have arrived at the global symbol of the era of Romanticism, commissioned and built — at exorbitant personal expense, I might add — by none other than King Ludwig II of Bavaria!”

“Do you think he’ll be mad?” I asked naively.

“Some think he may have been. Sadly, he only lived in his fairy-tale retreat for 172 days before his body was found floating mysteriously in a nearby lake.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Many are. But the House of Ludwig continues in this magnificent structure. We must tour it.”

“Why are those military types running this way with guns in their hands,” I asked with heightening concern.

“Oh, right, driving is not permitted. I saw the sign back beyond the turn.  You were sleeping.”

“And you drove on?”

“Of course, this is a once in a lifetime experience.”

“I was hoping to continue my lifetime beyond this experience.”

“Tut, tut, my sleepy student friend. I am sure art will triumph over folly.”

And somehow it did. We weren’t arrested. In my memory, my jovial student archive of arcana, with his erudite knowledge of the premises, won us a private showing of the nooks and crannies of Ludwig’s aviary.

It was a once in a lifetime experience.

I’m still continuing mine and had forgotten that particular experience. Then, the email arrived with the picture of Neuschwanstein. A young friend of ours was visiting, and she sent us a shot from her cell phone of the white limestone structure rising high into the skies.

The article on the Internet says construction began in 1868, the topping out ceremony was in 1880, the King moved into the unfinished castle in1884, his mother visited in 1885, and by 1886 the external structure was mostly finished, but not all.

On June 13, 1886, King Ludwig was found, head down, arms extended, shoulders floating above the shallow near-shore waters of Lake Starnberg.

The King’s watch stopped at 6:54 pm.

No one knew or knows what happened.

* * *

Neuschwanstein means the “New Swan Stone Castle.”

A swan floating in the waters, King Ludwig died beneath the ramparts of the house of stone he spent so long to build and lived to enjoy for such a brief time.

The castle lives on and invites its friend to visit. Since it opened to the public on August 1, 1886, only 49 days after the Swan King left us, over 50 million visitors have passed beneath its portals and wondered at its beauty and meaning.

Some say he was mad — King Ludwig.

What he left behind is not the dream of a madman.

It is a vision of another and better place, one reaching to the heavens and freed of earthly bounds.

We hope King Ludwig has reached that palace he sought so long and built to share. Our wish is that the monarch may find it complete, to wander at peace through the spacious hallways and around the soaring turrets, admiring the view beyond and now within his reach.

Beauty is often the product of a kind and determined mind.

Thank you, friend, for allowing us to visit.

Rest well,

Grandpa Jim

140 million miles by the 2030’s: That’s the word on the street and in the papers. Governments and corporations are focused on that date to reach the Red Planet and establish the first Martian Colony.

In the early 2030’s, the orbits of Earth and Mars will approach a near point.

You may recall the wealthy Dennis Tito, who paid $20 million in 2001 to hop a Russian rocket to the International Space Station. Dennis is advertising for a nice young couple to do a Mars flyby in 2018 – all expenses paid, of course. This would apparently be a test run to check out the equipment and get a close-up view of available home sites for a permanent move round about 2030.

Acknowledging the logistical difficulties in coordinating a move to the 4^th planet’s suburban neighborhoods, NASA Administrator Charles Bolden recently stated: “We’re developing today the technologies needed to send humans to Mars in the 2030s.”

The Dutch group Mars One is out in front of those NASA types and is asking for money to be mailed to the non-profit organization to fund a landing in the 2020’s. Mars One already has simulated pictures of a nice little colony, with small white homey motel units connected by tubes, and a space-suited parent walking to the Mars rover parked out front to begin the morning commute to work.

The colony resembles the one my nephew visited to work on Mars in Utah just a few weeks ago. They have Mars set up there . . . in the painted desert . . . way out there between the isolated mesa’s — row-on-row, while in the sky the far-off sun still bravely shines. Water is scarce and the whole place has the look and feel of an other-worldly planetary adventure. It is, of course, a simulated Mars, not the real thing, and its purpose is to prepare young engineers and their friends for a flight to the real thing.

Whereas mine was the Sputnik generation with heads turned up at night scanning the nearer skies for the streaks of satellite flashes, these new engineers, scientists, explorers and colonists are the SpaceShip generation waiting to board and head out “to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilization, to boldly go where where no man or woman has gone before.” Star Trek is upon us. Let the flight begin.

Never wonder that wonders never cease.

Turn on the computer and book a personal space.

The heavens have always been out there, but they have never been so close.

They are waiting and the Red Planet is beckoning.

For you to board and reach for the stars.

Safe travels,

and

don’t

forget to

send a postcard.

You know we’ll be waiting,

Grandpa Jim

Brother Charles informed us that he was pulling the radishes in his garden. This was three weeks ago. I was amazed. In early April, the rich farmlands of central Texas had already begun to yield their bounty.

We had driven into the front lot of Uncle Joe’s farm, and Charles was headin’ to his pickup. As we unloaded, he stopped and stood and talked with us and shared his tale of radishes.

In the country, you stop to talk. It’s the thing to do. Sometimes, it can be a while before you make it to the front door. It’s not just Garrison Keillor and tales from Lake Woebegone. I hail from the Midwest, and the stand-and-talk was there. It’s here along the gravel roads of the Lone Star State. I bet you it’s ‘bout everywhere ‘round the world where there’s country and folks workin’ the land — ‘cause that’s the way it is in the country. You betcha’ and pass the biscuits.

As the stop-and-talk progressed, my mind wandered out over the newly planted fields and I wondered about the radish.

The radish is an edible root vegetable:

A fruit you are not, round red radish knot

Vegetable you be, a delight to see.

Not always round and red, some of my favorite childhood radishes were long and white. They were in Grandma Sally’s garden. She could grow anything, and many things she did grow quite well indeed, behind the little house in the city. Her entire backyard, down to the crick and almost reaching the lot lines on each side, was garden. Sally was from the country. In the country, you didn’t just grow grass. You grew real stuff you could eat. You grew food.

“Them city folks got no sense,” she’d say in my mind.

“What ya’ need a lawn of green to walk on?

When a garden of greens you can munch on.”

That lady had a way with words and with plants, and she was right on.

There was always something to eat when I stopped by to mow the front lawn. Grandpa wouldn’t let her garden the front. Can’t have the neighbors talking now. Can we?

No one knows for sure when the radish was first established as a domestic foodstuff. It was well-established as a back-yard crop with the early Greeks and Romans. Little seed packets with the hand-drawn pictures on front were likely being traded over the back fence, say some 2,300 years ago. They still are today.

Wild forms of Rambunctious Radish can be found in west Asia and Europe, along with its near relatives, Mr. Mustard and Topsy Turnip.

The Greeks called the little fella’ “raphanus,” which  means “quickly appearing.” It certainly is that to this day, as Brother Charles can and did so well attest to us just the other day.

The name “radish” derives from the Latin word “radix,” which means simply “root.”

The root of the word is the root itself

With pun intended and fun extended.

So, linguistically speaking, the Greeks and Romans had a hand in its upbringing. It is from those tongue-tied origins, that we surmise the beginnings of back-yard bounty. The truth is that no one knows for sure when the first grandma planted the first new seed and handed that first washed and cleaned little root to her grandson for a nibble.

Thank you, Grandma Sally, I still look forward to greeting that rambunctious little fella’ and welcome its early arrival down at the farm.

Thank you, Charles, for stopping for a talk.

We gotta’ get a goin’ now.

On, into the house.

You betcha’

Grandpa Jim

Mabel and Margaret are two little girls. They live in Egypt. It is about 3,500 years ago. They and their parents have a little house near the Nile River. They do not have a brother, yet.

One day, Mabel and Margaret are throwing little rocks at a big rock. It is hot and dry.

* * *

“We gotta get out of this place,” Mabel says tossing a stone.

“You got it there,” Margaret echos. She pings another little rock off another big rock and starts singing,

“Yeah yeah yeah yeah

We gotta get out of this place

If it’s the last thing we ever do

We gotta get out of this place

‘Cause girl, there’s a better life

For me and you.”

“Wow, Marg, that’s good, really good. I think you just invented rock music. I mean, it’s cool.”

“I wish it were, out here. Heh, Mabe, let’s go down to the river and dip our feet. Who knows? Maybe we’ll find something.”

* * *

“What’s that? In the river, over there, Marg. See it, a basket floating this way?”

“Let’s go.” Margaret wades into the shallow water, her sister following.

“Careful,” Mabel says, “something’s moving under the blanket.”

“I’m pulling the cover back,” and Margaret does just that.

“It’s a baby boy,” the sisters chime together.

“Let’s call him ‘Moses.’” Margaret is thinking and talking. “It’s an ‘M’ word, like us, and it’s got two ‘S’s,’ for sisters, like us. And, we found him, so we get to name him.”

“I like the name.” Mabel looks around. “Let’s take him to Mom before anyone sees us. Besides, I’m hungry.”

At that, the baby cries.

“Him too!!” they laugh together and hurry off, over the hill.

* * *

“What you scratching on that rock, Margaret?”

Little Moses is sitting and watching.

“Words, Mabel, words.”

“What ya’ doing that for?”

“Teaching Baby Moses his words.”

“Which words, Marg.”

“Important ones.”

Mabel looks over her sister’s shoulder. “I see the first letters, Margaret. They’re really big. I like how you did that.” She reads: “G I S S, P A M, S L C.” Margaret counts on her fingers. “Ten, that’s ten. Ten big words.” She looks closer. “What are the words?”

“God, Idols, Swearing, Sabbath,” Margaret speaks slowly and precisely, looking at the baby, who is listening intently, “Parents, Adultery, Murder,” she pauses, “Stealing, Lying, Coveting.”

Baby Moses nods his head.

* * *

“Land of Goshen,” their Mom yells with a laugh, as the children race through the house and out the door, “if you don’t slow down, you three will drive me the Promised Land.”

And, they did.

But, that’s another story.

* * *

The two girls and young Moses sit in the sand throwing little rocks at a big rock.

“I don’t like my last name,” Margaret says with a frown.

“What’s wrong with ‘Gump’?” Mabel asks.

“It’s kinda’ lumpy.” Margaret pings the big rock.

“People never remember last names,” Little Moses smiles at his older sister.

“Where’d you learn that, Smartie Pants?” Margaret playfully reaches over and pushes her young brother.

“Don’t know. I just know . . . things.” There is thoughtful, far-away look in Moses’ eyes.

“He does,” Mabel turns her head and watches her brother.

“And, what do you know about lumpy names, Little Brother?” Margaret asks.

Moses picks up a rock and answers without turning his head. “Lumpy is good. The lumpy candies down at the market are good, and the man who runs the booth – he’s kind. He lets us pick one from the tray of all the different treats. Life is like that, like a tray of candies. You never know what you’re gonna’ get, but they’re all good.”

The little boy tosses the rock and hits the big stone. He picks another, aims and strikes the rock hard.

“Good aim, Mighty Mite!” Mabel giggles. “But did you have to smack it twice.”

“Give me ‘Five.’” Margaret reaches over with one hand up, open and wide. “Slap my hand with yours, right there,” she instructs.

Moses does and grins at the sound of the “Slap!”

“What do you call that one, Big Sister?” he asks.

“The ‘High Five.’ I just invented it.”

“You’re a true ‘Gump,’” he adds.

“Thanks, Little Brother. You are too, even though no one is going to remember your last name. Who knows? Maybe a Gump will be in the movies one day and we’ll all be famous.”

“What’s ‘the movies?’” Mabel asks.

“Don’t know,” Margaret answers, “I just made up the word.”

Little Moses smiles in thought and carefully sets the stone in his hand down on the ground.

* * *

It is good to remember the little people.

They are often the ones that cause things to happen.

What is in a name? A Moses by any other name may be a Gump. Right?

Who can say if it is so, or not so – wouldn’t you say?

Bet you can’t hit that big rock?

Your toss,

Grandpa Jim

We watched a delightful movie yesterday evening: “Salmon Fishing in the Yemen.” What starts the story and makes the movie move is the novel idea of a governmental public relations guru that a good news report would help the image of the administration. The savvy PR lady directs her staff to give her a good news story. “Find it now!” she commands the suited crew at their laptop stations. The result of that search is what gets the movie going and the fish running to the wonder of us watching.

Where is that good news story?

Today there was scarce to be seen that was not scary in the front section of the paper. I scanned and frowned. National and metro news were generally bleak. The sports section will attract a few fans, and the food fold can stimulate the appetite, but both those pieces are back and behind the opening sections that portend little with a smile and much of concern.

I think the manic PR manager in the movie was right: “We need the good news!”

There is, perhaps, in this wish and plea a comment on who we are and where we’re at. As members of the species homo sapien, we seem often to be portrayed with a club in one hand and a burning torch in the other. It appears we are seen by some to be always looking and searching for something new, never quite satisfied with what we have; and when we find that something new ahead in the light of the torch, well — I know it seems somewhat negative to say this – but . . . there are those who would suggest we tend to use that blunt instrument in the other hand to get our way.

In fairness, it should be noted that we are the only surviving hominid. So, maybe it is important that we are this way. But and still – and I say this with no disrespect – it doesn’t seem to make for the most upbeat and light-hearted news.

Then, again and maybe I am putting too much at the feet of our bipedal ancestors. Perhaps it is not us at all but only the paper, the media, the reporting. We’re perfectly fine, quite upbeat and happily at home where we are on the byways and in the skyways of our own domains. “Blame it on the press!” the shout is heard. “It’s all the fault of the reporters.”

Well, the sensational does sell. Who wants to see the silly sideshows of Main Street, Your Town, when there are explosions, fires and those not behaving as they should?

The news is important. It is important to know what’s going on. But, isn’t there a lot of good going on, and couldn’t we see maybe a little more of that?

In the movie, they have to work to find the good news. When they do find it, they lose it. They pretty much give up. Then, it jumps up right in front of them. Not because they made it happen, but because it was always there and they just didn’t see it until then. I laughed because the fast-talking PR lady with her reporter side-kicks had driven off minutes before and never did find the real story.

The good news is there. Don’t worry. Wait until the TV trucks and sound crews leave. You’ll see it.

In just a second now,

Grandpa Jim

Early this morning on the toll way, I passed a billboard welcoming to town a President of the United States. More signs and banners appeared everywhere — greeting more Presidents. Dallas is in a flurry and flush of excitement. Today is the Day of the Five Presidents.

Current President Barack Obama arrived yesterday. Past Presidents Jimmy Carter and Bill Clinton are joining Past President Dad George H. W. Bush. Together, they will make their way to the dedication of Past President Son George W. Bush’s Presidential Center and Library.

The Library is on the campus of Southern Methodist University. SMU is a gorgeous tree-lined retreat in the midst of the city’s bustle and buzz. Students race to classes — notes, papers, tweets and texts floating free behind them in the soft April spring breezes.

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote

The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,

And bathed every veyne in swich licour,

Of which vertu engendred is the flour

The opening lines of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales are quite appropriate today. Flowers are budding, birds are singing. The skies are clear, and the high will be 72 degrees. It is a perfect spring day. It is idyllic — picturesque, ideal, and peaceful.

The tenure of a President is seldom that — idyllic.

On the trail this morning, only a mile or less from the library and its guests, I asked myself what word distinguished the Presidency of Son George W. Bush. The word that jumped to my mind was “terror.” I thought of the terror of terrorism and the terrorist.

What is terrorism? I asked myself the question as I walked. To me, terrorism is the intentional infliction of death or injury to people and/or damage to property to bring attention to a perceived wrong. I realized that the wrong could be quite legitimate and in need of response. It was not the wrong that was the issue with terrorism. I also realized that the issue with terrorism was not whether the people impacted were connected to or in some way responsible for the wrong. They may or may not be. The concern with terrorism is how the terrorist chooses to bring attention to the wrong. The way the terrorist chooses is to kill, injure and damage. The terrorist chooses violence to highlight a concern. Hurt first, talk later. That’s irrational. A person will never agree with someone who’s hurting them. Terrorism makes no sense. Stop hurting and start talking. No one every changed someone’s mind with a club. You will get your way, but you will have lost your audience.

The President of the New Library, President George W. Bush, did something very brave. He stood up to the terrorists and said “No.” Period, end of sentence, the answer was: No to Terrorism. That’s courageous. He can be criticized for how and in what fashion the response to terrorism was carried out by his administration. In time, the new library will likely chronicle the President’s responses to those criticisms. For now, the stance he took was to me a good one. You have to say “No” to terrorism. We all have to say “No” to terrorism. When faced with the insensible, “No” is the only answer that makes sense.

It’s not easy being President. The buck stops there. All the Presidents today know that, all have suffered criticism for their actions, and all have kept going. It is not a job I would think anyone would want. And, once you get the job, I’m sure the best plans last about a day, if that long.

Presidents serve. They serve the people, the Congress, the Courts and the world. They may enter the oval office thinking, to some small extent, about themselves. I believe they each leave selfless, thinking only of others, having carried the weight of the worries of our planet on their shoulders, and wishing they could have done better. They do deserve our respect.

I have always respected the office of the President. On my quiet walk in the welcoming spring this morning, I realized that I respected each of the men who would soon sit only minutes away. I realized today that the office and the person are both to be respected. Both have shown themselves worthy since the foundation of our country and our first President. They are cut from the same fabric, have shown the same mettle, and have served with honor.

As a people, we should stand quietly and applaud them each and all together.

Thank you, Mr. Presidents. You are always welcome in our town.

Grandpa Jim

In Texas in the spring, the bluebonnets bloom, between the fence strands, row on row, climbing to the sky beyond.

My favorite word-picture of the bluebonnet rests beside a reproduction of the original bloom in a book of paintings entitled “Texas Wild Flowers.” In the late 1840’s and early 1850’s, a young pioneer wife by the name of Eliza Griffin Johnston painted the flowers of the Texas prairies. In her own flowing hand, beside her picture of a single stem of bluebonnets, she writes: “The Lupin, called by the people of the country ‘Bonnet flower,’ it grows in such profusion that in the Prairie in the distance, often closely resembles the blue waters of a lake, and again on the horizon, one can scarcely tell where earth and sky meet.”

On Saturday, we drove the trails of the bluebonnets near Ennis, Texas, south of Dallas. Ennis is a small Czech town located across the farmlands from the other Czech community of West, Texas. West is where the fertilizer plant exploded last Wednesday, April 17, 2013, killing and injuring relatives and friends of so many who live in and around the villages of West and Ennis.

I always think of Ennis as meaning “east.” It is the town to the east of “West.” Between the two rural communities are the home-farms of those who came to this country to find a new home and to do what they do so well, farm the rich soils of central Texas. Where the soils are not so rich, on the sides of hills and sandy slopes near Ennis, the hardy wild flowers gaze out over the pastures below.

In the blooms this year, there seems a tinge of sadness. Yet, the stemmed petals stand bright and sure, encouraging those who travel the winding roads to stop their cars and walk out into the fields. The spirits of those visitors are lifted by the blue flowers nodding their bonnets across the prairies and to the west.

This single bloom stopped us by a small stream.

Driving on, we pulled to the side of the road to watch, through the car windows, Eliza’s blue waters flowing across the hills.

Nearby, we opened the doors and walked with others to kneel and take our pictures.

Continuing on, blues mixed with a spattering of orange tops brought our attention to some Indan paint brushes who had stopped to converse with the bonnetted farm wives.

Through the rust red of the fence, we spied far off the Stars and Stripes waving in a gentle breeze above the flowered heads.

Many a trip is from here to there and back again. For this day, ours was finishing. There is great beauty in the Texas spring, in the bluebonnet’s annual March to May, and the other petalled friends that greet them on their way. The images and the memories will linger long, as will those of the others we hold so dear.

Until the next spring,

Grandpa Jim