|
Home
Archives

|
|
Monday, June 28, 2010 The Gardens of
Michael Trapp. I created a new
gallery today of my photos of our trip to the gardens of Michael Trapp.
And thanks to Elizabeth Avedon
I will be next creating a Blurb Book for this gallery; Elizabeth gave me a
Blurb Coupon. Here's one image from the gallery:

Sunday, June 27, 2010 The Grass at
Bunny William's House.

Saturday, June 26, 2010 Adventure in
West Cornwall. (editing) Friday, June 25, 2010 The Daises in
Our Garden. What joy they bring!
To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its
own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture
which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again.
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
|

Thursday, June 24, 2010
Morning Light.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Sarah. A favorite portrait:

Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Side of the Road. This photo is for Danielle as I am thinking of what
she wrote on her Father's Day card to me:
| ...I will always remember dancing with you as a little girl to
the Talking Heads, Lucinda Williams or Sam Phillips.... |

Monday, June 21, 2010 Summer.
The first day of:

Sunday, June 20, 2010
Father's Day. Great Father's Day! Spent
with Susan, her Mom, and Danielle (and Nadine!)! Grilled Turkey Burgers
(Grilled in the pouring rain!); coleslaw;
potato, corn, broccoli salad; wine; desert; more wine; great gifts from Danielle (wine
cooler and 2 bottles of red and a beautiful card); World Cup Soccer and
photography. A call from Mike, my future-son-in-law. And a call from Daryl
in Spain (having just arrived home in Seville after spending the day in
Morocco!) Morocco!!!
Self-portrait with Hydrangeas:

And, always, remembering my Dad; not just today, but every day. Remembering
this, the year; 2006:
Fort Lee, New Jersey. I am in my father's
apartment. I am alone. I am all alone--except for the photographs of
his beloved family; his grandchildren. So many photographs. So many
memories. It is late Thursday evening. He has been dead for twelve
or thirteen hours. I am not sure of the time. Only the time of
death. He was alive and well at three in the morning. He was dead at
four. We are waiting for the results from the autopsy; there are
many unanswered questions.
My Dad went into the hospital for knee replacement surgery and nine
days later (last Thursday morning) a complication caused his death.
We are waiting for the autopsy report. What can I say? One never
thinks something like this will happen: the totally unexpected; my
Dad was healthy; a great tennis player and dancer (As a child, he
tap-danced on Vaudeville! As an adult, he was an accomplished
ballroom dancer.). And he continued to work in real estate--at age
83!
The obituary (see below) will read, in part: "Alfred was known as
the epitome of a gentleman who loved his realtor job and being a
mentor for the new comers. He shared a yearning for dance and tennis
and will be sorely missed by those friends. However, Alfred's
biggest joy in life came from loving his family and grandchildren."
On my family's saddest days, the final four days in April and the
first day in May, we were blessed with a bright blue sky and nature
in bloom: red azaleas (The Royalty of The Garden) and pink flowering
dogwoods. I knew what I wanted to say at the Monday Memorial
Service--a very short comment: how when I made a new friend I always
said to that friend, I can't wait for you to meet my Dad--you are
going to love him; and when she/he did meet my Dad, they did love
him--and he them.
One day after your Dad's death you start to think that you can't
possibly cry again--ever; your eyes red and tired, dry, painful,
filled with memory; you believe this to be true but you doubt this,
today's truth, which is filled with scenes from a life story, like a
movie which keeps forever dissolving until there is but fire, then
cold and then blackness: and then a get-well card from your daughter
(mailed the day before his death) arrives and although you do not
read it upon its opening you promise to do so--later; but a
photograph falls from the envelope to the kitchen table--a
photograph from four short weeks ago; your son, daughter, you, Kiley
and your Dad sitting and smiling at a table in the restaurant,
The Big Red Tomato (his favorite) in Fort Lee, New Jersey, and as it
falls you see yourself and your dad and your son and your daughter
and Kiley and the tears they fall, too, your cheeks wet, flush;
there is the sound of sobbing and running water, sobbing and running
water, the coi pond you think, wind chimes, voices, you wonder now
where is your Dad.
My sister Michelle spoke of The Perfect Child. I think in my
father's heart, in his soul and spirit, Michelle, Darlene, Dennis
and I are all The Perfect Child as you, too, his family and friends
are The Perfect People. Darlene spoke of The Lucky Ones. Yes, we
four are lucky to blessed with a father filled with such
unconditional love, a man who never spoke an ill word of anyone, his
heart always filled with love for his neighbor. And Dennis spoke of
our Dad as The Greatest and certainly he was for who could say what
I want to say to you now, who could say this of their Dad, how many
children could say that when they made a new friend, when I made a
new friend, I always said to this friend, I can't wait for you to
meet my Dad, you are going to love him, and invariably, she or he
did love him, and my Dad them and he would then always inquire about
them, their day, their joys, sorrows, dreams. Thank You for joining
my brother and sisters, thank you for joining us today.
I am sure there will be more words to follow. And pictures. I am
okay, yet devastated. Tired--emotionally, mentally, physically. I am
home. Daryl and Danielle both said, "He loved us so much." Yes, he
did.
|
BARONE - Alfred D., age 83, on April 27, 2006 of Fort Lee.
Beloved husband of the late Shirley (nee Lawson) (1978).
Cherished father of Michelle and her husband Stuart
Heinzinger of River Edge, Darlene and her husband Paul
Lipp of New Hampshire, Bruce Barone and his wife Betsy of
MA, and Dr. Dennis Barone and his wife Dr. Deborah Barone
of CT. Dear brother of Myron Barone of MD. Alfred is
pre-deceased by his sister Victoria Derow in 1970. Adored
grandfather of Christopher, Scott, Nina, Craig, Sara,
Danielle, and Daryl. Alfred was also a proud
great-grandfather of Jay, Brad and Nicholas. Alfred was
known epitome of a gentleman who loved his realtor job and
being a mentor for the new comers. He shared a yearning
for dance and tennis and will be sorely missed by those
friends. However, Alfred's biggest joy in life came from
loving his family and grandchildren. Family will receive
friends at The Beaugard Funeral Home, 869 Kinderkamack
Rd., River Edge, Sunday 2-4 and 7-9 PM. Church Services
will be held at The First Congregational Church in River
Edge on Monday at 10 AM. Interment is at George Washington
Memorial Park Cemetery in Paramus. In lieu of floral
tributes, donations are requested in Alfred's memory to
the Memorial Fund at The First Congregational Church in
River Edge. |
|
Published in The Record and Herald News on 4/28/2006 and
4/29/2006 |
|
|
Saturday, June 19, 2010
My Garden. Watch it grow. Susan says I tend to it over and over again
each and every day! LOL!
 Friday, June 18, 2010 Shade Tobacco
Farm. An old poem follows the photograph; from when I worked on a
Tobacco farm many years ago.

|
Crimes, Follies & Misfortunes
"I was standing on a bridge, having risen up to
see, so that I had not taken hold of a rock I should have fallen
below without a push; and my Leader, who saw me so intent, Said:
'Within the flames are the spirits: each is swathed in that which
burns him.'"
~Dante, TheDivine Comedy, XXVI
Striping tobacco, rain, cold November morning
Frost the color of milkweed moves, cracks as I step
From pavement to field.
Holding damp stalk in left hand, ripping leaves
Down and off with right, in a dark barn;
Pioneer Valley, with an old farmer,
Less his left pinky, left big toe, and touch in his right hand:
"They went right in an' got it."
The vein that is.
Today I learn "a Jew" is coming to buy
A lame calf; the farmer tells me
"Jews always lookin' for a deal."
Just like the "niggers" he used to see
In Boston, when he was a kid, sixteen
Stripping tobacco for weekend, drinking
"And the nigs," he said
"Cleared right out of the bar
"When we came walkin' in."
And with his right hand, black
And gummy from the wet tobacco leaves, he grinds
Down to the floor in one motions
Pointing at his left foot;
"I cut the toes right off. Couldn't
"Even feel it. Lots of blood though."
Back one month, Autumn burning
Leaves of a thousand colors, blood--
Like, streaks of paint, Judge Tamburello stating
"Lawlessness has become a way of life
"In America." In Northampton
Outside courtroom steps
A killer roams as Smith student
Convalesces in Boston hospital from knife-wounds,
Walking the streets the slasher confident
Testing women, studying their movements
And not to be seduced by body, sensual
Delight, he fondles his blade, dagger
Retaining his sharpness.
It is called what--no.
No. Us. We. No. I. Many
Words and then nausea, incredible
Pain: the wound tearing.
But stop? I shall not.
In Phoenix, Arizona; Heroin.
A junkie sits sweating on a toilet-bowl,
Arm coagulating, vein-tight, the color of burnt rust,
Preparing fix bought by mother:
"I didn't want out name
"To get in papers. Not my son."
Even the drug cheap, mixed to sell
Quickly--heroin, strychnine, flour;
Mexican grade, not poppies of Turkey, France.
And in Florence, Massachusetts
Police investigate discovery of dead
Man, the color of rotten wood,
20 years old, missing two years;
Found bug-ridden on forest floor,
A Bosch skeleton perused by brother.
And in Beirut there is no peace:
"If you must kill, go ahead
"Until you kill each other,
"But be human as in other nations.
"Don't shoot at firemen,
"Ambulances and newsmen."
And poor Charles Kropp of Bristol, Connecticut;
Luckiest dead man, lucky Charles: Chuck won
Three million lottery dollars six months ago
After he died--and what of the money? |
Thursday, June 17, 2010 A Rule of
Thirds. 
Wednesday, June 16, 2010 Rose
Garden. 
Tuesday, June 15, 2010 My Cup
Runneth Over. 
Monday, June 14, 2010 Stormy Monday.

Sunday, June 13, 2010 The Spun
Clematis. 
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Daisy. 
Friday, June 11, 2010 And Then She
Kissed Me.

Thursday, June 10, 2010
Kat.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010
A Field of Flowers.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010 In The Grass.
A poem from Mary
Oliver and a photograph.
The Summer Day
Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?...
See More
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
from New and Selected Poems, 1992
Beacon Press, Boston, MA |

Monday, June 7, 2010 What's New.
A letter to Daryl:
| A Poem for my Son in Spain My garden, Susan says
I nurture and cultivate
As if it were a child
I
water the garden
Each and every morning
My English cottage garden
I marvel at the order, seeing
In each planting the divine
Spark of life, I watch
Arugula, Sweet Basil, Lime
Basil, Cilantro, Lettuce
Tomatoes and Zinnias
Cosmos, too, each planting
A poem, the garden bed
A continent in the yard
Gladiolas now breaking
Through the soil, green
Soon pink and red
The peas, too, in the bottom
Draw of the chest I found
Anxious to grow up
The string I hung
On both the chest and
The old wood ladder
Nadine, too, anxious
To come outside if she is
Not sleeping inside
I love to see the pink
Peonies,
early in the morning
Moist with dew and now dying
I think they are beautiful
In this state, in evening
I watch too
Last year's painted pink
Wheelbarrow sits nearby
The freshly painted picnic table
A white canvas on green
Grass with two white
Stripes on either side
Here you and I are
At MOMA or the Met
Seeing Stella, Dekooning, Rothko
So much depends
Upon
A pink wheelbarrow
Often I stand at the sink
And look out the kitchen window
Watching the birds flutter
At the feeder, the Bluejay
Sparrow, Cardinal, Starling
Flicker, Yellow Finch, but
I have yet to see
A Hummingbird
In our front yard
Though I know, I must
Be Patient, she will
Arrive any afternoon
As sure as the Clematis
Blooms and blooms
Bursting in its glory
You always said, Dad
What's for breakfast
Lunch and
dinner?
I remember the way
I saw you in another
poem, years ago, I wrote
Sitting as perfect as God
Created you, the naked son
An Edward Weston image
Beautiful, son
In all ways
Always
After dinner I go
Outside and see my garden
Has been disturbed. Birds?
Susan says, this is
The plight of the farmer
I am okay with this
And, Daryl, if you wonder
About the dog, the dog
The dog behind us
The dog behind us is still
Barking day and night, Coco
We call out Coco Coco
|
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Storms.

Saturday, June 5, 2010 The First
Daisy. And a children's poem.

Daisies
At evening when I go to bed
I see the stars shine overhead;
They are the little daisies white
That dot the meadow of the Night.
And often while I'm dreaming so,
Across the sky the Moon will go;
It is a lady, sweet and fair,
Who comes to gather daisies there.
For, when at morning I arise,
There's not a star left in the skies;
She's picked them all and dropped them down
Into the meadows of the town.
~by
Evaleen Stein |
Friday,
June 4, 2010 Mind. Body. Spirit.
The author, gardener, landscaper designer
Tara Dillard writes:
| I demand
that my garden nurture my mind, my body & my spirit and that it must do this
from both inside my house and outside in the garden. How to have that type
of garden and busy career depends upon a carefully chosen pallet of plants
and the placement of those plants. |

Looking out my office window at the garden in the backyard. Thursday, June 3, 2010
Beauty in the Ordinary. A poem I have always enjoyed and a photo of our
peonies.
To look at any thing,
if you would know that thing,
You must look at it long:
To look at this green and say
"I have seen spring in these
woods" will not do -- you must
Be the thing you see:
You must be the dark snakes of
Stems and ferny plumes of leaves,
You must enter in
To the small silences between
The leaves,
You must take your time
And touch the very peace
They issue from.
-John Moffitt |

Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The Bald Soprano. Susan and I saw a free and wonderful performance
tonight:
The Westfield Athenaeum Presents Dramatic
Readings of Spoon River Anthology and The Bald Soprano.
The announcement read:
|
The Westfield Athenaeum will be
presenting dramatic readings of two plays, Spoon River
Anthology, by Edgar Lee Masters, and The Bald Soprano,
by Eugene Ionesco, tomorrow, June 2 at 7:00 p.m., as part of its
Spring Lecture Series. The readings will be directed by Bob Lehan,
of Westfield, and will feature local actors Bob Lehan, Rock and
Carol Palmer, Kathi Palmer, Chuck Weston, Susannah Adams and Chris
Lindquist. If you have not seen Spoon River Anthology or
The Bald Soprano before, here is your chance to see these
celebrated plays in an intimate setting.
Lehan received his BFA
and MFA in Directing from Boston University's School of Theatre
Arts and became a professor of theatre arts. For 32 years he
directed a lot of college plays and taught most aspects of
theatre, including acting and playwriting, at Westfield State
College. He spent many seasons working in summer stock and also
wrote short plays, winning several awards along the way. Now
retired and a Professor Emeritus, he devotes more time to
scriptwriting.
Spoon River Anthology,
which was written in 1916, has been described as “a collection
of post-mortem
autobiographical portraits of the former citizens of fictional
Spoon River, Illinois,” who tell about the lives they lived with a
stark honesty and realism that has captivated audiences since it
was first produced.
The following lines evoke the
elegiac feeling of the entire play:
In youth my wings were strong
and tireless,
But I did not know the mountains.
In age I knew the mountains
But my weary wings could not follow my vision - -
Genius is wisdom and youth.
Many of the characters that
make appearances in Spoon River Anthology were based on
real people that Masters knew or heard of in the two towns in
which he grew up,
Petersburg and
Lewistown, Illinois.
Ann Rutledge,
regarded in local legend to
be
Abraham Lincoln's
early love interest, is the most
notable, though there is no actual proof of such a relationship.
Rutledge's grave can still be found in a Petersburg cemetery, as
can many of the surnames that Masters gave to his characters.
The Bald Soprano,
written in 1950, recreates an entirely different world that can
only be described as “absurdist.” Indeed, Ionesco is considered
one of the preeminent “absurdist” dramatists. The title is
actually based on a verbal slip-up by one of the actors acting in
the original stage production. The Bald Soprano is one of
the most performed plays in France to this day (Ionesco was
Franco-Romanian and the play was originally written in French).
Following a somewhat conventional beginning, the play devolves
into a series of non-sequiturs, with no resemblance to normal
conversation. Like many plays in the
theatre of the absurd,
the underlying
theme
of The
Bald Soprano is not immediately apparent.
Lehan has this to say about the
plays: “Spoon River Anthology is a beautifully observed
collection of poetic portraits of small town Americans at the turn
of the last century. You will find parallels with your own friends
and neighbors. The Bald Soprano is really not about people.
It's about the theatrical form. You will find introduction,
development and conclusion where you would expect. You will find a
wonderful scene of discovery and an analytical reversal of that
discovery by a famous detective. You will also find the necessary
sex scene. Watch for it, it's hot.”
|
Tuesday,
June 1, 2010 True Objects.
A poem by Martha Rodgers called True Objects:
There is a beach not far from here
that I have come to know and love
and often go to it at sunset,
for at sunset it is quite beautiful
and changes quickly
which I am impatient for--
It is not far from here
but far differently
as all that we come to know and love is. |
 |
|
Links
Contact
|