It Takes All Kinds

After gardening and observing gardeners for some time, I've developed a loose theory about people who plant.
I think there are Process gardeners and Product gardeners.

Product gardeners plant and dig and design with the end "product" in mind.  They almost always have a plan; they're the ones you see in the green house with a list in hand, filling their cardboard box with very specific plants. When they get the plants home, they'll plant them according to the plan they made that winter. There may be a diagram, or even a pot how-to that they printed off the computer like so:

When Product gardeners plant vegetables, they only plant the ones they know they have a specific purpose for when the plants mature. If they don't eat swiss chard, they won't plant it, no matter how eye catching it is.  Product gardeners have very neat gardens and pots with well-behaved plants.  There really are no surprises and that's comforting to them. 

When they look out the window, everything is as it should be and the gardens generally look something like this:

Product gardeners are the epitome of discipline and their end products are enviable. In fact, Product gardeners are usually the reason people get into gardening in the first place; they want THEIR yards to look like that, too.

(Incidentally, I presume they're also the people who have their canned goods in order, alphabetically, and their bathrooms are always clean.)

Process gardeners generally begin as Product gardeners, I believe, but once they realize the variety of plants and the magic of a seed turning into a hollyhock, something inside them snaps and they're never the same. 

Process gardeners go to the greenhouse with the vague notion that they're going to get "some flowers" for the pots on their deck and "some vegetables" so they'll have something to put in their salads later in the summer.  They're very open minded and adventurous when buying plants; this is both their charm and downfall...

Process gardeners often get home with an SUV full of plants and not the vaguest notion of where to put them.  Their enthusiasm is bigger than their space (AND their wallets), but they're undaunted.

They love digging and planting, they grow attached to their plants and posies....mourning the loss of a tomato plant as personally as one would a great aunt.  

Their pots generally look something like this:

There could be a tomato lurking at the back of this container....

one never knows with a Process gardener.

Seed packets are always enticing to Process gardeners, with pretty pictures and relatively cheap cost.

To be painfully honest, almost anything plant related is enticing to Process gardeners. 

Their gardens often look like this:

The delight is in the mystery.

Process gardeners are generally forgetful and end up overplanting a zinna in a bed they've already seeded to lettuce or something. 

I assume this is where French intensive gardening got started; someone cleverly thought to make a Process gardener's absentmindedness into a fahncy sounding plan that really just means "I planted too much in this bed and can't bear to tear any of it out". 

I've never really met anyone who lives with a foot in both camps, a Process oriented Product gardener. Some gardeners will try to pretend they're one when they're really wired the other way. It's funny for me to watch Product gardeners try to do a "casual" pot or bed. Try as they may, they can't help making it neat and tidy, with crisp edges.  What is "relaxed" to a Product gardener is considered "formal" to the rest of the world....even if they use sprawl-y plants, the plants will be trained to sprawl in a specific direction. 

Likewise, it's equally amusing to hand a Process gardener a specific amount of money (say, $50) and a detailed list, stating that they must stay within those bounds.  They cannot, and end up cutting deals at the checkout over the extra ivy leafed geranium, 4 pack of banana peppers, seed packets for bachelor buttons that somehow slipped into the cart. 

There's nothing morally superior about either type of gardener, no matter what anyone says.

(I'm a Process person who tries not to envy the Product folks OR pity their lack of adventure.)

No matter how we go about it, gardening makes the world a more beautiful place for ourselves and others. 

And now, I'm going to go plant some flame red salvia and a rosemary plant that called my name yesterday while I purchased a hanging basket.

I think there's room in the carrot/zinnia/pea/cucumber bed....

Hollyhock Hold-Em

Gardeners are gamblers.

There. 

I said it. 

There's no gardener twelve step recovery program, no Alcea Anonymous, no counselling or therapy groups because....get this....gardening has gotten this reputation for BEING therapy. (Can you beat that? It's being introduced in grade schools and prisons, for crying in a bucket! There's all this concern over legalizing marijuana in the U.S., while an insidious addiction is being released to vulnerable and unknowing citizens LEGITIMATELY.)

This time of year is the worst for gamblers....er....gardeners.

Every hardware/office supply/pharmacy/grocery store has a little auxiliary greenhouse set up to "deal" the cards (plants).  It's impossible to resist, even for those without dominant horticultural genetics. The greenhouses are just so...green, and bright, and smell good! After a long Montana winter, the colors beckon even the strongest willed curmudgeon.  

"Ooooo! Petunias! My grandma always grew petunias..."

and

"The tomato plant is $2.00 and will produce, like, 50 tomatoes.  I just spent $2.00 on ONE tomato at the grocery store and it'll be gone in 24 hours..."

or

"I grew a sunflower in a paper cup in first grade.  I could TOTALLY grow a garden this year. With petunias. And a hanging basket.  No...TWO hanging baskets."

You see?

EVIL!

And that's just the beginning!

When the soul is truly lost, one begins cutting moral deals with oneself. 

Example: "I don't spend money on cigarettes or gym memberships or even brand name salad dressing. I DESERVE a few flowers. And a couple tomato plants. And a rototiller."

Or so I've heard.

But the really ugly secret is about the underground plant deals going on in May, between gardeners of a certain level of commitment/addiction...

Here's the thing.

You can't move a day lily, iris, salvia, or viola in these circles unless you have a new varietal bootlegged from a cousin in Texas, say, who got it from Mexico, say, and "borrowed" the "cuttings" or "seed" from a garden they were walking past on a historical tour, say...

These are serious players. 

They're pro. 

Don't think you can offer up a regular old Harrison's Yellow rose *yawn* and get a blue poppy root. 

You'd better have something good. 

Something coveted in that zone.

Something....special.

The tricky thing about putting plants on the table in eastern Montana is that there are very, very few organisms that can survive in these conditions....-40 with windchill and no protection in January, 98 degrees with no humidity in July.  Basically, anything that will grow in either Siberia OR the aforementioned Mexico; preferably something that will grow either/or. 

Kind of like gardening on Mars.

And that's not mentioning the soil factor! 

The plant also has to be alkali tolerant, for the most part, and acclimated to gumbo soil which is basically clay pot stuff...goopy slick to cement consistency. 

This reduces the pool of plants even further.

Montana garden-lers have to learn to bluff really well or discover new species every few years.

If I lived in Missouri, I'd be throwing down Sophora secundiflora starts (Texas Mountain Laurel) and fishing for Aquilegia coerulea (blue columbine)...*wistful zone 5 dreams*...but here in Cohagen, I'm stuck with Russian sage and yarrow. 

I'm down to shuffling my own plants in my own yard, having no talent for bluffing or money for discovery.  

It's bleak.

HOWEVER...

It occurred to me when I was trying to unload some perennial geraniums and Siberian iris this spring that my mother-in-law (of the Pluhar Botanical Gardens) retired and moved last fall, forgetting to pack her abundant inventory of plants. Google searches don't have any information on the "respectable time to wait before garden salvage may commence" so I'm still in flux as to how long to refrain from relocating the loot.
I mean, saving the abandoned plants, of course.
And then...

Deal me in, kids; I'm back in the game!

actually
steal my MIL's plants. I may use the rhubarb and asparagus, but we've had a longstanding agreement about that for years, so it's not a dramatic showdown in any way.>

Reasons We Live For Summer

• FISHING.
• There are no school nights for three months.  THREE MONTHS! We can stay up with glow sticks and sparklers and movies on the Disney channel.  
• Bare feet or flip flops; either way...it's a glorious way to live.
• Milkshakes. (Or any other form of ice cream, but this is the pinnacle of ice cream perfection....) 
• Campfires, which occur on non-school nights wearing only flip flops or nothing on feet.
• Running through the sprinkler! 
• Windows open 24/7, drowning in fresh air....aaaahhhh....
• Days that last for approximately 18 hours, give or take a couple on either end of summer. (That's not a "fact", but it sure feels good to say it...)
• Tomatoes
• No school nights!!!! Did I mention that already?
• Baseball. (Go Red Sox!) (No. Really. GO!!! Hit, run, field, pitch strike outs....GO!!!!)
• Running in shorts...not insulated coveralls or fleece lined anything or stocking caps.
• Digging in the dirt. All of us.
• Fat, black cows with gorgeous big calves in a green pasture, grazing and growing the best steaks in the United States, amen. 
• Sidewalk chalk pictures of happy things, bright imaginations on display fearlessly.
• Bubbles
• Lakes and boats and eating chips in swimming suits before hitting the water again....barefoot, on an 18 hour day, before a campfire where the best steaks in the United States are grilled. 
• G&Ts on the deck....or at aforementioned lake.
• Friends and family in the Redneck Guesthouse!  We don't really get company the rest of the year, but in the summer our loved ones come sleep in our ancient camper/bunkhouse until they can't stand it. (About 3 days is the brave average.)
• Hammocks.
• Geraniums in pots that are, yes, predictable and unoriginal, but dear...and we have to water them every day. 
• Vacation Bible School...I'm going on nearly 20 years of VBS (with stops and starts in the middle), my kids have been every year of their life.  God touches lives here, you all; pray for your local VBS leaders and kids.
• Car windows down, hair blowing, Eagles blasting from the speakers....
• County fairs.
• COLOR!  Oh, my goodness....for 9 months of the year, all we see is grey, brown, and the occasional John Deere green on the tractor. In the summer we see dandelion yellow, popsicle blue, the indescribably beautiful red-white-and-blue of our nation's flag, green winter wheat, orange sunsets....we're so thirsty for color, and for three months of the year we just soak it up.
• Rodeos. My kids don't see nearly enough, but rodeo = summer to me.
• The smell of warm sagebrush....  I'm pretty sure God will pipe that into Heaven for us.
• Birdsong.  It's silent here, except for the wind.  The larks and blackbirds are the soundtrack to summer on the prairie in the summer.
• Branding smoke.  Oh, for homesick if you're gone this time of year!
• Potato salad and potato chips.  I know you can make it any time of the year but it really and truly is seasonal for me. 
• Swimming til cold, sear on the shore, repeat...
• Beer. Don't judge.
• No school nights. For three months. Barefoot. 18 hour days.

To be continued...

(Why do YOU live for summer?) 

Who's On First?

This is our first year of Little League baseball.

Yes.

It's a big year for our family....first year of basketball, first year of baseball, first year of being a sports mom. 

The only LL baseball is in Miles City which is about an hour away; from our house, roughly 80 miles. The good thing is that there are really only about two games or practices a week and we usually need groceries and/or parts for the ranch so it doesn't feel like a "wasted" trip. The bad thing is that practices and the first couple games fall when the kids are still in school and we're branding.

This week, after two practices two weeks ago, Angus had his first baseball games! 

Lucky readers of the Chronicles will now have the opportunity to see our big adventure in the first game....

The first thing you need to know is that our team is the Horizon Implement Tampa Bay Rays. 

Our sponsor is the John Deere dealer in Miles City, which is SO appropriate.  Come to think of it, considering the amount of money the ranch spends there, the team really should be named the Langs Fork Inc./Horizon Implement Tampa Bay Rays.  (On most of the little shirts, though, it's all they can do to fit "Horizon" above their number. These players are not very big.) 

Also, I feel it's worthwhile to note that we paid the $40 get-out-of-jail-free-fee that ensures we do not have to sell candy bars to friends and family as a LL fundraiser. At the first game, I saw quite a few mothers dragging around the cardboard suitcases of candy bars, resigned to the fact that when they signed their little kid up in March, the candy bar sales seemed a long way off and no big deal. Fast forward to May, however, and the $40 seems a bargain. (Especially since 89% of the general populace is on restricted diets of one sort or another. I'm pretty sure the candy has gluten, sugar, peanuts/GMO cacao oil and so forth.) 

Anyway.

On to the good stuff.

We got to the first (and second) game about 45 minutes early. Mostly because I'd been asked since 9 a.m. "What time is it?" and "What time is my game?" 

The coach showed up in a relaxed fashion and handed out tshirts and lined up the roster numerically. 

My son was #6.  

He was batting early in the line-up since they were going numerically this first game.

This is his first moment at home plate:

It's like he thinks his sister is going for his Halloween candy or something....

Aside from the look on his face (which is kinda disturbing in its intensity), I was impressed with the stance...feet are a good yard apart.  

After some coaching, this is the modified ball killing position:

Much more effective, not nearly as entertaining....

A base hit!

The base being a rather vague concept, really. 

"Close" is as good as "on".

Besides, our friend the first baseman isn't exactly johnny-on-the-spot looking to tag the boy out.

(Are they not the most adorable little pieces of humanity?)

And off he goes!

I daresay his running form is Dutton, while his batting form is Pluhar.

He slid into every base, no matter what. 

Showmanship is ESSENTIAL,

No one remembers the guys who trot across the base, but everyone remembers the dude who slid in, in a cloud of dirt and glory.

It's the most painfully wonderful thing I've ever watched, this LL baseball.

The score at the end of this first game was something like Z-Orange or some such thing. 

They bat until they hit something, and everyone roots for both teams; 1 1/2 hours for two innings.

It was glorious.

  

Cowboy Humor

Grand Godbaby

I have one, you know.
And he's the most perfect little piece of humanity!

His grandparents and I have been friends for 30 years. When I married the Farmer, we became legitimate family while we'd always FELT like family, anyway.  They're Pluhars, too! (This caused some confusion with my godson: "Am I your god cousin, now?" Tricky stuff.) For the first years of their marriage and my college, I practically lived with them....poor kids....and Jason, my godson, was our favorite entertainment most of the time.

Well, we all grew up, somehow, and Jason married a dear girl named Destanie; we laughed and cried and danced at their wedding two years ago. And they had a dear, dear baby this spring. They're kindly letting me be a grand godmother, and IT IS THE BEST THING.

Oh, my goodness....I get those "first date" tummy tickles when I know I get to see him...for reals! And I can't put him down when they let me hold him.
We won't even talk about how many smooches are expertly placed on his little head.

Here are pictures from yesterday. I got to spend the afternoon with my best friend, her grandson, and his great grandma...it was so good!

I understand, now, how grandparents can be just crazy for their grandkids...

All the fun, none of the responsibility! 

Hoppy to See You

For FROGS!
Maggie found one of the tiniest ones we've ever seen. We've learned not to give them names or get too attached because amphibians are ridiculously short lived.

Whenever I see frog pictures, I think of my friend Patricia at Pollywog Creek in Florida. 

She takes the BEST froggie pictures. 

And bird pictures. 

And flower pictures. 

(Try not to read her blog and mine on the same day, okay? She has lovely, deep spiritual thoughts and that stunning photography. You'll never come back to the Chronicles again after that...unless you're looking for grandkid pictures or a recipe.)

Shower Day

Today I'm missing my friend.

The crazy thing is that I didn't realize we were friends until last night when we got the phone call telling us she was gone. 

It wasn't like her leaving was a huge surprise, really....she was 91 years old.  

Her body was 91 years old; a rather big affront to her 45 year old heart and mind. She was always sort of bewildered that her bones and skin had the nerve to age when she had so much to do, yet.  How dare nature pull such a dirty trick?! 

She broke her "good arm" after Thanksgiving and had to spend time in the nursing home in Jordan until January. Spending that much time with THOSE OLD PEOPLE just about killed her, then and there. We talked about that time frequently and it occurred to me that she really hadn't spent much time with elderly people! The oldest folks she fraternized with were her kids, who are now in their late 60s. And their kids...who are in their 40s. No wonder the old people got on her nerves...

She checked out of the nursing home the first week of January and that was when I had the privilege and joy of visiting her once or twice a week to help her shower and reach things in high places or accompany her to the forbidden basement to fetch canned goods. We had always had a funny relationship, built on the mutual respect and understanding of two girls raised in the country who married into the same ranching family, decades apart. Now, we had time and a good reason to visit about things we were both interested in, like cooking and ranching and gardening and family. 

And so a friendship grew.

It's such a vulnerable place, needing help with things like showers; especially for a strong, independent woman who still lived alone past 90 years of age...

We talked about how many people she'd taken care of in her lifetime and I tried to remind her that it was just coming back around for her. We also talked about the reality of her going back to that nursing home if she didn't accept a little help. That kept her on the straight and narrow, project-wise, although I always worried that she'd push it just a little too far some days.

But after showers and on the phone arranging the dates and times for such events, we chatted and clucked and laughed. We could tease each other and forget names of people we should know. She'd feed my kids weird cookies that she'd baked with almond/quinoa/rice flours, and questionable produce from the bottom of the crisper drawer, sending them home with funny, odd things she'd dug up from drawers....old pocketbooks and plastic toys. I came home with Prevention magazine and so many stories of the day. Never once did it feel like a "duty" or something I HAD to do. They were golden afternoons that ended with sincere hugs and "I love you"s; promises to see each other next week.  

I tell you this with tears running down my face that yesterday not only did our grandma (for the kids, their great-grandma) leave this old earth, but so did one of my dearest friends. Today was our designated shower day (on a weekend, so she could see the kids), and we are so lost. She died in her garden, in the spring sunshine, at home....right where she wanted to be.  While we're not sad about that...one of our biggest goals was that she could stay home until the end,,,we are already lonesome for her. It's going to be a very long week. It's been a very hard day. 

Grandma Edith taught me so much, but one of the biggest things was that friendship can grow anywhere, anytime, if you're willing to nurture it. (Ever the gardener, wasn't she?!) 

Also...and I'm glad I never had to confess this to her, but....quinoa flour biscotti are really and truly awful. Just use real wheat flour and white sugar. I'll smile every time I see her "modified" recipes in my files.  

The Hundred-Foot Journey

I've found it.
The PERFECT contemporary movie that is NOT produced by BBC.
(At least, I don't think it is...hmmm...)

It's PG, takes place in India and France, is about cooking, finding one's place in the world, applauding both ambition AND contentment. There are small town politics, family politics (don't pretend you don't know what that is, now), a hint at national politics, a whole lot of heart in all of that.
 Did I mention it's mostly set in France and involves cooking?
With Helen Mirrin, of all actresses!

I very rarely love a movie to the core...especially those made after 1965....but I bought this one.
Watch it!
Preferably with an omelette and glass of wine, fresh fruit and cheese close at hand.
If you cannot find it or don't want to purchase it, come to my house and watch it with me!
(Wine and omelette complimentary, of course.)

  

It's a sad state of affairs....

....when flamingos are rustled from the mailbox.

We put new ones down there, but this time they're branded with the OC on the right hip. (I know. I couldn't really find the right hip on the plastic flamingos so I just went for the general area. Flamingo branding is tricky!)

A homemade pie reward will be given for information leading to the swipers of the previous flamingos. 

Easter at the 'fork

It was COLD!

The kids took their coats off for this picture, but I had to hurry up and capture the moment. Maggie was wearing a hat that Grandpa Jasper had found for her, the dress Aunt Bert made specially for her, and new silver shoes that were two sizes too big because I didn't have her to try them on when I bought them and I'm ALWAYS buying her shoes too small.

We're just proud Angus's shirt is tucked in and his jeans don't have holes.

Around 3 p.m. we load up potluck dishes and head over to Susan's Easter party where the kids run amok waiting to gather up the 115-150 plastic eggs she's hidden in her yard.

Meanwhile, we grownups have appetizers and wine/beer, and catch up on each other's lives. Most of these folks I only ever see here at Susan's party, and then only every other year, so I have a lot of news to hear in a short time. 

Here the kids are playing what I think must be their version of Calvin-ball, where the only rule is that you can't play it the same way twice. 

The boys are sitting there trying to figure it out.

It's a girl game, so they're destined to sit there a long, long, LONG time...

I can't stand how dear and smoochable they are!

It could be 20 degrees out, but if there's grass, the boots are coming off!

I don't know whose child that would be....

After a quick bite to eat (on the kids' part), it's off to find eggs!

Susan's son hustled around and made a bonfire for us out of the old Christmas tree...maybe two of them...and we ended the day with wood smoke in our hair, salmon in our tummies, and smiles on our faces.

What a fun Easter!

A Day in the Life in Bigfork

The kids and I loaded up the car with bacon and play clothes, and headed west for Easter.

We haven't been ANYWHERE since last July and our people haven't been here for a visit, so it was high time for a trek.

We just kind of absorbed the neighbors next door as family. Built in cousins, so to speak.

This is baffling to the Farmer, who doesn't even know all his REAL relatives, much less tack on family willy-nilly. 

I grew up this way with the Duttons, so I myself can't understand how one could NOT.

Tricky.

Anyway, here's Angus with one of his very best friends and "cousin"s, Quinn.

They had been waging war on their sisters, although I'm not quite certain the sisters were aware of the onslaught as they were quite busy building fairy houses, themselves.

(Note the armor...the finest plastic available.)

The besieged sisters....

 ...and a sample of their fairy dwellings.

Exquisite!

 In the meantime, the grandparents were burning sticks and other assorted dryish things.

The fire danger is nothing in the Flathead after a soggy spring!

Typical scene from the front step in the afternoon....

Lion, sword, bike, sweatshirt.

Sometimes it snows and then they drag out the board games!

Here we have a rather intense game of Clue.

 I think that's Colonel Mustard....

The kids get more into the drama of the game than actually solving the mystery....

When the storm moves out, we go for walks/rides with the cousins.

It always makes me laugh at how ridiculously picturesque Montana scenes are!

Here they are discussing dead squirrels or something, stunning mountains behind them.

Here's where I run in the mornings.
Seriously.
And this isn't even one of the more remarkable mornings...

Here it is on a frigid morning when the clouds have settled on the mountains like a wispy shawl...

The one rule they hold sacred is the "Ice cream MUST be consumed before bed" rule. 

The ice cream was a little hard this round, needing a hammer to dislodge it from the carton.

It softened with all the caramel and chocolate syrup liberally applied after extraction...

Grandma Celestia obsessively crochets afghans.

We each have our own personal afghan under which to snuggle and read by the fire.

A lot of times, we watch deep, insightful films like Rocky and Bullwinkle.

This is just a lovely moment that I had to include.

Some of us give it up earlier than others...

 Even Houdini takes advantage of the afghans and snuggles!

Spaghetti....Doh!

Sand Springs School, 1978

(L to R) Mary Dutton, Kimberly, Pamela, and Ed Kreider, Teresa Nanini

This picture was taken in September, I think. You can tell because we're all still smiling and it looks like we'd had a little sun.  The winter of 1978 was horrific, even for a second grader like I was in this picture. What I remember most about it, though, is spaghetti.

We had spaghetti for lunch today and as I was putting away leftovers, I thought about that winter and all the spaghetti noodles I had eaten then.
Not spaghetti with sauce....just noodles.
And butter. Sometimes salt and pepper on it.
It was my first taste of "batchelor food", being snowed in with my teacher for at least a week.  Maybe it just FELT like a week, but I'm pretty sure it was. I'm certain it felt much, much longer for her.

There was so much snow and so much wind that the highway was closed, I think. Even if it had not been closed, my parents were spending all their days trying to get the cows fed and had no time to spend transporting me to and from school that week.  My teacher, Miss Nanini, and her German Shepherd, Hobo, lived in a tiny little two room "teacherage" (with a bathroom, too...ooo!) right next to the school. The Kreiders lived just across the highway from the school so they were able to go home without too much effort on their folks' part, but my family lived over 40 miles away and it was flat impossible to get me educated AND the cows fed in that sort of weather.

Staying with your teacher in her house sounds really great when you're eight years old. We were never allowed in her house (she had to have SOME privacy) and always wanted to see her secret lair, her den, where she hung her broom! It turns out, though, that teachers aren't nearly as interesting at home as one imagines them to be. It didn't matter that she didn't have a television...we didn't have one at home, either, and I was a reader even then.  She had an 8 track player and about five Dave and Sugar albums that we played over and over and over and....
To this day, I can sing "Queen of the Silver Dollar" to you from start to finish, never missing a word.
I would bet my moonboots that Miss Nanini can, too.

The little house was wicked cold (I'm sure it had little or no insulation), only about a foot out from the propane heater was warm.  The rest of the house SMELLED like propane, but didn't benefit from the heat.  The only real warmth would have been in the kitchen, had she cooked at all, but alas...
The only thing Miss Nanini could and would cook was spaghetti.  Just the noodles. Topped with the butter and "spices". She was more of an outdoorsy person and I really don't think she'd ever HAD to cook for herself or anyone else. The burden of three squares probably floored her, on top of being responsible for this child 24 hours a day for 5 or 6 days.
So, we ate spaghetti noodles for lunch and supper.
Breakfast was white toast, with butter.
AND jam!

Bless her heart, anyway.
What an experience for everyone!
Looking back, I don't really understand why I didn't stay down the hill at Uncle Joe and Aunt Daisy's house. I'm sure there were good reasons and surely no one anticipated my stay being that extended.

Now, whenever I make spaghetti and have a little bite of the ones I'm putting away, I think of that week and wonder where Miss Nanini ended up.
And if she ever learned to cook anything else.

Lyrical

I'm an obsessive reader, devouring books as some might consume M&M candies. Writing, when it's really good, pulls me up short and causes me to reread passages several times (sometimes aloud) in order to savor the way the words create a thought or scene. 

Do you do this?

It's the same way with songs.

I know they're really poems set to music...that alone is kind of stunning when you think about it because the rhythm and meter has to match, never mind the actual tune. When it all comes together...wow! 

There are lyrics that cause me to play and replay a song, marveling at the writer's ability. 

For instance: 

"We run....come undone, like a string on a sweater that you pull but you know better, but doing what you shouldn't's half the fun..."

(We Run Sugarland)

The song is okay, but that little chunk of the chorus grabs me every time.  

Exactly.

All the strings I've pulled in my life...

Or this from Ian Tyson's song Fifty Years Ago:

"If I could roll back the years, back when I was young and limber, loose as ashes in the wind, had no irons in the fire..."

In the chorus we hear:

"And the sighing of the pines up here near the timberline 

makes me wish I'd done things different, but wishin' don't make it so..."

Youth isn't described any better than "loose as ashes in the wind" in my opinion. 

He also has a song about looking back and realizing certain things in your life (especially relationships) have been "gambled and lost like summer wages".

**If you haven't listened to Ian Tyson, run (don't walk) to the nearest music store and get his album All The Good'uns for a glorious introduction to his songs. Then, after you're hooked, I'd recommend Live at Longview.  You won't regret a penny.

(AND you'll feel like you're riding with my Dad in the pickup, driving a pasture in Montana...)**

Tom T. Hall kills me, as you know.

" 'How old do you think I am?' he asks.

Well, I said I didn't know.

  He said, 'I turned sixty-five about eleven months ago.'

I was sittin' in Miami pourin' blended whiskey down

when this old grey black gentleman was cleanin' up the lounge."

And that's just the tip of it! 

(Another album everyone should own...not borrow, my friends, but OWN IT.)

Pat Green has no end to good lyrics in his music...no end. 

Try Poetry on for size:

(You get the whole song, here...it's THAT GOOD. Hit the link to listen along!)

"Some things I've done make my conscience burn

My very spine shudder and squirm
I only hope that I've learned from my sin
I heard a voice when I was thirteen
Got baptized - washed up clean
But the world has a way, if you know what I mean
To scuff you up again and again

I can't explain a blessed thing
Not a falling star, or a feathered wing
Or how a man in chains has the strength to sing
Just one thing is clear to me
there's always more than what appears to be
And when the light's just right
I swear I see poetry

Now, somebody made every natural thing
From the soul, inside out to saturn's rings
How my baby smiles and how Ray Charles sings
Of course we were created
The clouds make rain, the ocean makes sand
The earth breates fire, and lava makes land
Now that took a mighty hand
And a wild imagination

I can't explain a blessed thing
Not a falling star, or a feathered wing
Or how a man in chains has the strength to sing
Just one thing is clear to me
there's always more than what appears to be
And when the light's just right
I swear I see poetry

The dreams I dreamed came back ten-fold
The friends I have, to the woman I hold
I look down, I'm on streets of gold
After all the mud along the way
And sometimes the big old mystery
Just leans right in on me
And whispers that I'm home and I am free
And I'll take that any day

I can't explain a blessed thing
Not a falling star, or a feathered wing
Or how a man in chains has the strength to sing
Just one thing is clear to me
there's always more than what appears to be
And when the light's just right
I swear I see poetry"

-lyrics by Walt Wilkins

Here's my last one for this post:

"The lakes and pines, they bleed of beauty and grace.

And the rivers, they run wild like an endless race.

The forests soar so tall then they fall to the sea,

as the church bells ring and sing in harmony..."

That, if you can believe it, is a Kid Rock song. 

He's not generally known for his poetic soul (see following picture), but he really nailed it with this one.

The tune is really wonderful and the rest of the lyrics are the same.

I don't think I've ever listened to it just once in a sitting; I always rewind for a second round. 

(There will probably be a second "Lyrical" post, but this is all I have time for today.  Besides, it's going to take you a little while to get over my dad, Tom T Hall and Kid Rock being mentioned in the same post...)