I’d like the memory of me to be a happy one.

I’d like to leave an afterglow of smiles when day is done.

I’d like to leave an echo whispering softly down the ways,

Of happy times and laughing times and bright and sunny days.

I’d like the tears of those who grieve to dry before the sun,

Of happy memories that I leave behind when day is done.

Aunt Betty’s Wishes

Kindred Spirits (Revised)

Keep to yourself in your dreaming

And your dreams will all be in vain,

For no grandeur of soul or spirit

Can man and woman attain.

It has been willed that we dwell as kindred spirits,

As kindred spirits we must toil,

We must act with a common purpose

As we work in a common soil.

And each who would see accomplished

The dreams that one’s proud to own

Must strive for that goal together

For no one can do it alone.

You can’t rush death

It will come when it’s ready. Unannounced. You wait patiently for it to arrive. Your breathing rebels, on occasion. Outsiders come along, and interfere, to give you comfort, to make you laugh.  You do not cry. With patience, and humor, you respond to your visitors. The serious bones in your body, have gone away, and said good bye. There is no room for lamenting, or tears. Only goodbyes. Each comes to you with there own personality. You let them express, in their own way. You have seen so much, and understand their ways. You are wiser, than all. Patiently you know, you can’t rush death.

By TiffanyCreek


Morning LightA person’s life: width of a hand
I have heard it said
I look at the early morning sky:
from star to star
even less
The happiness that you wait for,
something that
cannot be measured, only possible
if not measured.
At sunrise small birds, without bursting,
sing out loud the morning dew,
the bright sound of countless droplets.

* * * * * *

Anselm Hollo

1934 Helsinki, Finland – 2013 Boulder, Colorado


Possessive love arrives, it locks the door behind it and settles in forever, always predictable.

Love arrives, it leaves its luggage by the door, in case worse comes to worst, but it still undresses.

Passion arrives, first it lights a hundred candles, then pulls the door off its hinges and breaks the windows. Leaves everything, everything to the care of the wind.


Arto Melleri 1956-2005, Finnish poet and writer.

4th of July, 1826

Nelson, Ohio ~ 1826

Elizabeth Garrett, a pioneer woman, and daughter of John and Eleanor Garrett, the founders of Garrettsville, Ohio, begins a diary dated July 4th 1826. She says, “I shall have transcribe a memorandum which I have kept for a year past Elizabeth Y. Garrett”. Even though the transcription is dated July 4th 1826, the wording suggests that she is writing a memoir looking back at the recent past.

One must admire the sense of immediacy to Elizabeth’s expression and her facility for journalistic prose in the following excerpt. She is not writing a day-by-day account of trivial events, but rather in her mind, chronicling something of great social importance.  In this case, it is the jubilee of American Independence being celebrated in Nelson, Ohio for the very first time. Elizabeth’s journalistic character takes on substance as she shares her knowledge and perception of community in a historical context.[1]  This isn’t the first time she shows appreciation for public opinion and affairs. Elizabeth comes across as a solidly concerned and responsible constituent of her town, despite the fact that women would not vote until almost 100 years later.  She attests to the innovativeness and patriotism of the citizens of Nelson in their enthusiasm to celebrate the American Independence Day. At the time of writing Elizabeth is only 26 years old.

July 4th 1826  attended the celebration of Independence at the centre of Nelson.  It was the first time that any thing of the kind had been attempted in this town as it was the fiftieth year – the jubilee of American Independence they thought proper to celebrate it here, as well as in other places.  The day was fine; and a large number of citizens attended.  A procession was formed and we walked to the meeting house, where a discourse suited to the … was delivered by the Rev’d Mr. Booth the declaration of Independence was read by David Garrett, and an ovation, pronounced by Mr. Washington.  The procession was again formed and they marched to Mr. Bancroft’s tavern and dined, we returned home before night, well pleas’d with the performances of the day.

Curiously, Elizabeth highlights David Garrett’s role as a statesman, reading the Declaration of Independence, without even mentioning that he is her brother. This third person perspective reinforces her intention to maintain objectivity.[2] Elizabeth was obviously pleased by the congregation of citizens in her town and the festivities that ensued on this historic 4th of July.   She shows pride and eagerness to be a part, evidenced by her choice of the pronoun ‘we’. Her words project hopefulness for the future.

One must recognize that Elizabeth Garrett, in the act of writing, is not only making a contribution to her town’s history, but is also beginning a literary tradition found in the next generations of her offspring. Her own daughter, Lizzie Atwood, at 13 years of age, also becomes a fastidious reporter of local goings on. This journalistic aptitude is passed to the next female descendent, Cornelia Atwood Pratt Comer, who becomes a prominent writer in literary circles at the turn of the 20th century.  Like her mother and grandmother, Cornelia writes diligently, leading to a career as a prolific author of short stories and literary criticism.  Although Cornelia publicly denied the influence of her roots,[3] her success may undoubtedly be attributed to the acute intellectual prowess of her mother Lizzie, and grandmother, Elizabeth Yeatman Garrett, who both, faithfully and valiantly, kept pen and paper at their side.

A special thanks to Dave Dreimiller, for reading and editing the script.

[1] In accordance with what Lynn Z. Bloom says in her article ““I Write for Myself and Strangers”: Private Diaries as Public Documents”, Elizabeth’s writing shows that she ‘conceives of an audience external to,” herself.  The July 4th transcription is a perfect example of a diary, which William G. Gass says, ‘originates as “emotionally naked’ writings that metamorphose into public documents.  This happens he says when the ‘writer already has an eye on history’ which is the case here for what Elizabeth writes.

[2] Elizabeth’s objectivity toward her brother David is quite different in tone from the endearing words she uses later in her diary to describe her brother John, who is ill and comes home to visit.

[3] “The Critic”, October 10, 1896, Miss Cornelia Atwood Pratt, p. 205.

Lesson in Fishing

When my son was a little boy, I thought I had to teach him how to fish, because every boy needs to know this. I knew nothing about the sport, but I went out anyway, and bought fishing equipment for our next big camping trip. Upon arrival, at dusk, in Maine somewhere, out to the dock we went. With his nifty fishing hat, dungaree vest, and fishing poll in hand, I told him to stand at the end of the dock, and cast the line. The next thing I knew, he had fallen into the lake, not sure how. I hope he learned a lesson, and that this is not the last time, he will ever fish.

If you come back someday.

I am the forest
I am the forest.

The day is waiting!  Dawn passed before I awoke, and the sun is getting too bright for comfort.  Alas, one mustn’t begrudge the sunshine, though there is nothing like a rainy day to set thoughts in motion.

Having awakened with a clean slate, alongside one of many chores, and things to do, I ask, “Which will prevail?  Meandering my way through unprescribed discovery, or following the rule of accomplishment, and purpose?”  Balance is the prudent course.

To open the day, here is a poem by a Finnish artist, named Eeva Lisa Manner (1921-1995).  The title, “ASSIMILATION”

Assimilation that I have travelled. I will show you a way that I have travelled. If you come If you come back some day searching for me do you see how everything shifts a little every moment and becomes less pretentious and more primitive (like pictures drawn by children or early forms of life: the soul’s alphabet) you will come to a warm region it is soft and hazy but then I will no longer be me, but the forest.