Wadsworth vs. Wordsworth

For the longest time in grade school, I confused William Wordsworth with Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I could never remember which one was the Gitche Gumee guy who envisioned shining Big-Sea-Water and which one wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o'er vales and hills. No amount of stern coaxing from my fourth-grade teacher, "Miss Glenn," would do the trick.

Then one day it hit me: one of these guys was British and loved flowers, the other was American and loved Indians. Why that helped, I'll never know. But it did. I have kept them separate and fairly in their own quarters ever since.

Thus, when Garrison Keillor told us yesterday in his Writer's Almanac that it was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's birthday, I instantly knew he was not British. I did not know which birthday it was for Henry until I looked it up (how quaint is this?)in my printed-paper, hardbound encyclopedia.

So Happy 201st, dear Henry. In my giddy celebration, I also looked up the birthdate and age of your pal Mr. Wordsworth. He will be 237 in April. I trust you both are enjoying the long rest, the peace and quiet of Poet's Corner at Westminster Abbey.

But now I have a new problem: which of you is which, now that I see from your pictures that you both were bald with white-tufted ears, had long skinny noses and wore bushy white beards??

The Wren in the Wreath

Should you stop by for a visit anytime soon, watch out for the wren in the wreath as you enter the front door. She and her nest are real, the wreath is artificial. But the wren doesn't seem to know--or to care that the circular bouquet is as fake as Hollywood eyelashes. It's all kosher as far as she's concerned. She gets flapped only if the two of you arrive at the same moment. In that case, she's likely to beat you through the front door, zoom around in a frenzy for a time, then figure her way back outside and fly the friendly skies until you're gone.

She's apparently good neighbors with the pair of nuzzlers I told you about--the birds that roost inside the eave of that same porch at dusk before a nighttime storm. Happy little community here. Birds of a feather, one supposes.

What a Dame!

Dame Joan Plowright is the dame of whom I speak. Or Plowwright, maybe. Both spellings appear in print. In any case, this graceful, aging actress and widow of Sir Laurence Olivier is vastly underappreciated here in the colonies, methinks. I was reminded last night when two women friends and I watched her in a touching, charming, funny film entitled "Mrs. Palfrey at The Claremont." If you haven't seen it, you can catch it now on DVD. I will save the details in case you want to see it, but the gist is this: an aging woman declines living with her daughter and determines to be independent to the end.

That said, I also associate Dame Plowright with a disappointing moment in one of the least disappointing days of my life. Here's THAT story...

The day before Thanksgiving 1989, I stood in a Jewish cemetery in Baltimore, dressed in 1950s black funeral attire, respectfully posing as a mourner at the casket and gravesite of a character played by Dame Plowright in Barry Levinson's "Avalon," one of three autobiographical films set in his native Baltimore. "I wish he'd called Dame Plowright to come and lie down in the casket," I thought. "At least I might have caught a glimpse of her that way."

Instead, the director had me stand behind and peer between the shoulders of actors Aidan Quinn and Armin Muehller-Stahl--no slouches themselves--who played Dame Plowright's son and husband, respectively. There we all stood, listening to the Rabbi, and mournfully staring at (of course) a closed and empty casket.

To my surprise, when the movie premiered, there I was on the Big Screen. With no less than my closeup, Mr. DeMille (Mr. Levinson). I won't ever forget it--or forgive Barry Levinson for denying me the glimpse of greatness when the Dame, independent to the end, didn't lie down in the casket.

The Peace Lily Prance

Every week to ten days, I trek to the living room, pull the pulchritudinous peace lily from its pedestal, and prance with it all the way to the backyard. There my graceful partner "takes the air," as we say down South, and gets a giant drink o' water. After last night's stormy deluge, it seems absurd to speak of watering, but there you have it: my indoor partner needs a shot. So she's out there today, taking her H20 and waiting for the sunshine. We're told it arrives again this Saturday.

Meanwhile...

My love affair with peace lillies was born at the death of my father in March 1990. Two close friends--Susan and Lynne in Missoula, MT--sent me a grand specimen as an act of condolence. It meant the world to me to see my father's death measured by my friends in such a life-affirming way. I have loved the variety ever since. I haven't gone so far as to give the current plant a name, but I do pet it often and think of it as a pal.

Do you name or favor YOUR plants? I have a notion you do. If you're willing, click on "comments" and tell us about it. We promise not to laugh!

Sweet, Sweet Strawberries

Louisiana and Florida strawberries are in. As a friend says, the sweetest, plumpest little things on strawberry feet you've ever seen!

Last night my bro, pal Ethel, friend Paul and I dined at a local eatery. On the way back, we stopped for strawberries at the supermarket nearest me. Florida berries this time. Two quarts for $6. Bought and fetched home. Three of us lightly gorged ourselves on berries, angel food cake and ice cream. "M-0-R-E, Sir...please...we want M-O-R-E," cried Oliver and me, at least, if not all three.

Come mid-April, we'll drive south a couple of hours to Ponchatoula, LA, the self-proclaimed Strawberry Capital of the World. Their 37th Annual Strawberry Festival will be in full swing. Parades, fair rides, crafts, food booths, downtown shop displays, deli/bakery treats--all with strawberries at the center. Sound delicious? You betcha. Count me in, please--if, that is, I have gas money left over after April 15!

(S)He Went Thataway

What causes siblings to be so different? One would think two sisters, two brothers, a brother and a sister--each pair from the same parents, same household, and same set of social, economic, religious and political influences would be more alike than different. Tain't necessarily so. One goes this way, the other thataway.

To readers who know my brother and I are temporarily sharing a household (we're a month from his moving into a nice home he and his carpenter pal have built from scratch), please note: I'm not speaking of my brother and me. God knows he and I are different enough, but not as markedly as the two siblings I learned about at my book group last night.

Let's call them Sue and Sally. Born two years apart. Sue is the big sister, Sally the little sister. Parents are poor mill workers in rural North Carolina. Family pressures are intense. The girls have the same angry parents, the same tattered wardrobe, the same crazy aunts and uncles, the same diet, the same schoolteachers. So what makes Sue turn to cocaine, prostitution and loss of her own children down the years, while Sally turns to creative writing, poetry and the life of academia?

Those are the facts as shared by last night's presenter. She would be the younger "Sally," her now-imprisoned sister the older "Sue." When I asked published poet/college professor Sally how she accounts for the differences between them, she said, "Sue was the risk-taker; I was the goody-two-shoes."

Granted. But whence came the larger differences? Will? Personality? Temperament? Genes? All the above? Yes. But I'm not sure it's the whole story. "Tis a puzzlement," as the King told Anna.

What say you? If so inclined, please click on "comments." That should open a space for you to leave an enlightening word or two. God knows we all could use it!

"Live from the Met"

Do you like opera? If you just shouted "No way!" then I have a suggestion: head to the nearest movieplex that carries big-screen, live simulcasts from onstage and backstage at the New York City Metropolitan Opera. You won't believe the fun you'll have.

Trust me: this is NOT your grandfather's boring extravaganza. This is 21st century aural and visual technology at its best. Here you are, all comfy in stadium seating, popcorn and cola in hand, watching world-class tenors, sopranos, basses, baritones and choruses perform under the baton of (yesterday) Maestro James Levine himself.

Half a dozen women friends and I bought tickets (and popcorn) and enjoyed the heck out of Puccini's "Manon Lescaut," an over-the-top melodrama that looked great in lavish costumes covering the amazing bodies and muscularity of the players. We caught the show in a suburban moviehouse near Jackson at a Saturday matinee.

So think about it:

Ever seen a 47-year-old opera star do a gymnastic split in a ton of tulle, net, wigs and pearls? We saw it yesterday! Lead actress/soprano Karita Mattila (Finnish sensation) prepped Met moviegoers during a live backstage interview between acts to watch for her maneuver. She even showed us how she'd practiced. That, mind you, between other live backstage interviews conducted by Met superstar Renee Fleming--in one case, with the married couple who own and train all the animals used onstage. Fascinating. This kind of opera is NOT boring. No way!

P.S. "Manon Lescaut," by Puccini, was first staged and a huge hit in Turin, Italy in 1893. Yesterday's version was faithful to the tale of the poor young girl (Manon Lescaut, she's named) who's headed to a convent and is drawn off-course by her scheming, gambler brother and a wealthy old geezer he encounters who takes her to his Paris salon, uses her and controls her with his wealth and flattery. She and the handsome young boyfriend she'd met along the way wind up in a "wasteland" called "New Orleans" in America. Was Puccini prescient---or what? In any case, it all ends--what else--melodramatically. But if you saw it on the big screen as we did, the real melodrama was in THAT! Super Bowl, move over; Super Opera is on its way.