The Constant Harper

Mauve Madness

T’is the season to be mauve at Seattle’s Green Lake.

Tree nuts flock  to Green Lake all year round to marvel at the towering Sequoias, noble Elms and whispering Cottonwoods. In spring the cherry trees gnarled with age billow with blooms of palest pink and white. In autumn golden Plane trees shower the paths with luminous leaves.

Books and poems laud the arboreal splendor of the plantings, which are fastidiously maintained by the city’s parks department.  Cherished by locals and visitors alike, many of the trees were planted to honor significant events or citizens, although not all were planted out of love. For instance,  the city’s publication “Outstanding Trees of Green Lake” notes: “The six Cedars of Lebanon by the tennis courts are the largest in Seattle and have a fascinating history. They were planted in 1934 to placate an irate lawyer.”

Yet while the mighty Redwoods and and soothing Cedars get top billing on the star tree program, even the lesser trees have their moments.

Pinked to perfection.

Right now, it’s showtime for the Red Hawthorns. Normally, they don’t excite much interest, being either too small to catch the eye, or too shapeless to ignite passion. And they’re not even red, really. More a kind of pinky mauve.

Pretty in Pink

But in their own quiet way the masses of tiny mauve blooms sweeten the mix.

Yes, she said, yes, only pinker.

The artist James Whistler once said “Mauve is just pink trying to be purple.”

Maybe so, but I give it points for trying.

A walk on the pink side.

Every parent is a lifeguard.

Maurice Sendak just died, at the age of 83.

Though I never knew him, the loss feels personal to me. Some of my happiest hours as a parent were spent reading books with my kids. For a time there I knew “In the Midnight Kitchen” by heart.

Sendak was a marvelous illustrator, but what set his work apart from most childrens’ books of his day was the way he confronted the terror, the vulnerability, the monstrous unfairness of childhood. Sendak infused his stories with humor and the courage of little people forced to survive in a world ruled by giants.

As this spring’s graduation season commences, attention will be focused on the bright young scholars heading out into the world while their once-giant parents are left behind with framed photos and video tapes. The story continues, the readers change.

In honor of Mr. Sendak, and all the writers and artists whose works give encouragement to parents and children alike, I offer here a column I wrote in the year 2000, when my oldest child graduated from college.

This column originally appeared in The Fauquier Citizen,  a weekly newspaper in Warrenton, VA.

Make Way for Graduates

In the thickening dusk I could just make out the shape of something standing in the road ahead as I drove my younger daughter home from soccer practice recently.

Slowing to a crawl, I edged the car closer until the shape gained definition, feathers, wings — lots of wings. A pair of Canada geese was attempting to escort four baby geese across the perilous winding road to the pond on the other side.

I stopped the car. The geese gave us a measured look and carefully shepherded their goslings back to the grass while my daughter and I watched spellbound.

“It’s like “Make Way for Ducklings,” I said to my 13-year-old. She smiled, recalling one of the favorite books from our family’s read-aloud years.

In Robert McCloskey’s Caldecott Award-winning book, a pair of mallards go through the full cycle of the parenting process. They find a safe place to nest, hatch their eggs, teach their children how to swim, find food and avoid danger, and then, in the book’s climax, the proud parents lead their children to the park pond and launch them into their new lives.

Although written in 1941, the simple story still resonates with parents everywhere, because it deals with issues every parent experiences — the desire to keep children safe, to prepare them to live on their own and the excitement of watching them try those wings for the first time.

I couldn’t help thinking about Mr. and Mrs. Mallard last weekend as my husband and I watched our oldest daughter graduate from college.

To me, it seems like just last week she got her acceptance letter, a moment of high celebration. Now suddenly four years have disappeared, and it’s time to watch our daughter fly yet farther on her journey.

I promised myself I wouldn’t be too soppy about the whole thing. After all, we had a lot of practical work to do between the various graduation events. In addition to attending the celebratory garden party, brunches and dinners, we had agreed to help our daughter buy furniture and move into her new apartment during the weekend.

In one sense, this was good. We were so busy it didn’t leave time to get too mushy. But finally, after the popping of champagne corks dies down and the rustle of graduation gowns stills the murmur of the crowd, the moment of passage appears, clear and  solemn despite all the euphoria.

There she goes, walking across the stage, smiling so wide, shaking the Dean’s hand, holding her diploma.

I’m reaching for my tissues, blowing my nose, fumbling for my camera. Even with 20 years of preparation for this moment, I still wasn’t ready.

During the long commencement ceremony more than 400 students received degrees of one kind or another. My husband and I, along with hundreds of other parents and well-wishers, sat on folding chairs outside the peaked white tent which looked like a meringue whipped to perfection under the clear blue skies. On the dappled lawn beyond the rows of chairs free spirits gamboled in the sun, unable to sit still for the long haul.

Most eye-catching were the toddlers and infants sporting fetching sunbonnets and straw hats. Doting parents and grandparents hovered around the small fry, applauding every new trick, every bright smile.

That’s what we do, parents. That’s our job. We watch the children grow, we teach them all we know, we applaud their efforts and  their courage and try to help them pick up the pieces when things fall apart.

That’s why graduation is such a big deal for parents. Yes, we’re proud of our children. Yes, we’re happy for them. Yes, we’re grateful for them. But it’s more than that.

We’re also a little proud of ourselves, for somehow getting through all the obstacles, for enduring the years between 12 and 18, and for somehow managing not to fall apart in the process.

To be honest, a part of me envies the graduates who have their whole lives ahead of them. I envy their energy, their optimism, their can-do attitude. I remember how it felt to think that my generation would change the world, and in a good way. Now, of course, I think the world changed my generation as much as we changed it, and not necessarily all to the good.

But the battle goes on. We need fresh troops. And I’m encouraged by what I see in these graduates.

So cut them some slack, world. They’ve worked hard and they’ve learned a lot and they have some new ideas. They may not be able to fix all the problems we’ve left for them. But they’ll give it a good effort.

Make way for graduates.

It's a big planet; someone has to pollinate it.

Too long for a science fiction title, you think?

Yeah. In these attention-challenged times it would need to be shorter, sharper.

But I have to say when I read that Edvard Munch’s beloved work “The Scream” sold for $119.9 million at an auction on Wednesday, I felt a kind of primal rage.

I understand the appeal of the work. Surely we’ve all been there, felt that. And Munch’s depiction of a soul in torment is subtle in a florid sort of way. Unlike the works of other more literal artists (Hieronymous Bosch springs to mind with a pitchfork), Munch didn’t illustrate actual nightmarish scenarios. “The Scream” instead reflects the existential horror which lurks just below the conscious level of thought. You never see the monster under the bed, after all. The imagination has no limits.

I love art. I think life would be immeasurably diminished without it. But there’s something obscene about that amount of money being spent on a small pastel. If we had already solved all the world’s problems, eliminated famine, war and pestilence, then, maybe, we could earmark a bit more for decoration. But I realize that’s not how the world works. It’s supply and demand everywhere you go. And as my husband commented when I began ranting about the price of the painting, “They’re not making any more of them.”

Yeah. Well. I get that. But I feel that way about Earth, and the sense of urgency doesn’t seem to be universally shared.

One reason this particular “Scream” is said to be worth more than the average poster is that it has a few lines by the artist describing his inspiration for the work hand-written within the frame:

I was walking along a path with two friends — the sun was setting — suddenly the sky turned blood red — I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence — there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city. My friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety — and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.

Now it makes sense. Munch, it appears, was an environmentalist, waaay ahead of his time.

In 1962, back when the word ecology was something new and many people thought recycling was a kooky fad, Rachel Carson wrote “The Silent Spring,” a prescient warning on the unchecked use of pesticides and chemicals. Many people thought she was a kook too.

But now, when bee colonies are disappearing around the world because of exposure to the toxins spread by corporate farming, when frog species are vanishing as pollutants poison once pristine habitats, and the toxic clouds forming above cattle feedlots can be seen from space, it’s time to wake up and smell the methane.

Yes, I am a tree-hugger, haunted by the silent screams of disappearing nature.

Earth is the Big Tree and we’re killing it. If it falls, we all go down with it. Probably screaming our heads off.

Where is Munch when we need him?

In the 1990′s I was fortunate to spend a number of years working as a columnist for The Fauquier Citizen, a small weekly newspaper in Warrenton, VA. My editor, Lou Emerson, pretty much let me write about anything and everything. It was a great learning experience for me.

The artist as a young know-it-all.

Here’s a random sample from that era: 

Some women like to rearrange furniture.

Some men do too. But they usually get paid for doing it.

Only women move furniture as a form of recreation, a kind of spatial yoga. Naturally, men don’t understand this. Most men consider a house well arranged as long as the couch is in front of the television and not too far from the refrigerator.

In the expanding universe where Men Are From Mars and Women Wish They’d Stay There, only women get satisfaction from adjusting the furniture arrangement. In general, men like to let sleeping couches lie, preferably while they are draped upon them.

Thus, it came as no surprise to me to read about the unfortunate case of Mrs. Pauline Turner of Middlesborough, England. Mrs. Turner’s husband John filed for divorce last year after 38 years of marriage, citing his wife’s constant furniture rearranging as “unreasonable.” The judge apparently sympathized with Mr. Turner, and granted the divorce when Mrs. Turner testified that she expected to continue moving furniture.

Well, before you let that cautionary tale inhibit you from shifting the coffee table to a sunnier position by the window, let’s consider the bigger picture, shall we?

Granted that some women may be guilty of spending too much time fretting about the furniture layout. However, perhaps because on the planet as a whole women control only one percent of the world’s wealth, women seldom get to have much influence on the movers and shakers who rearrange the global picture. Maybe we move furniture as an expression of our frustration. At least we have a sense of our limitations. Unlike some people.

According to a recent article by BBC News Online science editor Dr. David Whitehouse, a group of American astronomers including researchers at NASA have proposed a daring moving scheme which could, they say, prolong Earth’s capacity to support life. The theory was developed as a response to the commonly accepted scientific prediction that the Sun will increase in brightness in the next billion years. This increase is expected to eventually raise temperatures on Earth to such an extent that all life will be eliminated.

Well, rather than wait till the last minute to come up with some dramatic Hollywood style solution, three of our brilliant astronomers, all of them men, have proposed an “alarmingly simple” plan to move Earth farther from the Sun.

Not being a brilliant astronomer myself, I can’t claim to understand the fine points of the program, but from what I could gather the general concept involves the “gravitational slingshot technique.” Apparently this method has been used successfully to send space probes to far-flung planets. According to Dr. Whitehouse, the plan would require getting “a large asteroid, about 100 km (62 miles) across, to fly past the Earth transferring some of its orbital energy to our planet.”

I guess if moving 62-mile-wide asteroids is “alarmingly simple” then you can color me alarmed, all right.

If all goes according to plan, the effect of the asteroid whizzing past Earth once every 6,000 years would cause Earth’s orbit to expand, putting us a little farther from the Sun’s increasing heat. However, the scientists admitted that if they move Earth it would likely have an effect on our galactic neighbors Venus and Mercury.

Not a problem, say the moving men. After all, once they get the hang of this planet moving thing anything could happen, including the possibility, says Dr. Whitehouse, that “many moons and planets could be moved into more favorable positions in the Solar System where their climate might support life.”

Sounds pretty exciting doesn’t it? Imagine a future where space engineers can rearrange the very constellations to suit your tastes. But, as anyone who’s ever tried to carry a couch up three flights of stairs can tell you, never underestimate the power of gravity. And even the astronomers admit that the business of moving asteroids and planets involves a certain element of risk, such as for example, if the 100 km asteroid happened to veer off course and crash into Earth. Dr. Whitehouse quotes the researchers as saying: “This danger cannot be overemphasized.”

I’ll say.

It’s nice to know that better minds than mine are working to solve problems looming a billion years ahead. In the meantime though, maybe they should practice their moving chops on a smaller scale.

How about we start with that sofa?

Bangs for the memories.

In spring a woman’s fancy turns to haircuts.

For those of us lucky enough to live in the First World, hair is something we can afford to obsess about, since most of us have safe drinking water, enough to eat, and somewhere out of the rain to sleep. So, when we get weary of trying to bring about world peace, our thoughts sometimes turn to our hair.

Hair styles have baffled me all my life, and at this point I’m not about to start spending the time I have left trying to make my hair bounce, roll over or be fetching. However, I do sympathize with the urge to do something with one’s hair. And lately it has seemed to me that there’s been a noticeable resurgence of a style usually more common among the preschool set. Call it the Zooey Deschanel Effect if you like. I call the Small Bangs Theory.

You see them everywhere these days, although mostly on Zooey Deschanel, of whom, I will admit, I am a big fan. I loved her in Elf. Enjoyed her deadpan snarkiness in Big Trouble. Even gave her a pass on the too quirky 500 Days of Summer, in which her hair should have received second billing.

But now that she’s “The New Girl” and her trademark locks and big blue eyes are getting over-exposed in advertisements, I find my enthusiasm for the quirky factor waning.

Sure, she’s still adorkable. But after a while one longs for something a bit more sour. Or maybe that’s just me.

I always wanted to be cute when I was younger. I envied the girls with the curls, the sunny smiles, the turned up noses. Try as I might, I couldn’t come close to approximating their look. Although I was a true blonde all through high school, inside my heart was dark, my view skewed toward cynicism. And although I eventually learned how to wear the mask, to play the carefree blonde, I drew the line at bangs.

Bangs are a curse. The instant you decide to try them, you have to schedule your next haircut. Bangs are always either too short or too long. Too crooked or too limp. When I was in first grade I had bangs. That was the closest I ever got to achieving cuteness. Then of course, in second grade my teeth started to fall out, and that’s not a good look on anyone.

Bangs are the hallmark of the frivolous. That’s why most men avoid them. The Beatles got away with them because they could get away with anything back then. Picture the Mona Lisa with bangs. Suffice it to say she wouldn’t be in the Louvre.

However, the urge to try bangs never dies. It can go dormant for years and suddenly reappear as you enter the later stages of life, when foreheads take on a corrugated aspect and mere cosmetics won’t help. Women of a certain age can be tempted into thinking that bangs disguise wrinkles. But bangs will only get you so far in that lost cause.

So, no bangs for me. I’ll leave them to the New Girls, who don’t need them. Especially Zooey Deschanel.

You don't need to be royalty to enjoy this lawn.

What does your front lawn say about you?

Stay out, or come on in?

In the Big Picture, the National Mall serves as our national red carpet, our welcome mat to the world.

It’s where we gather as a nation to air our grievances and grieve for our errors; where we celebrate our victories and honor our heroes. It’s where we mingle with our countrymen and reweave the fabric of our society. No matter how frayed or stained it may get in the heated battles that come with free speech and the rule of law, at the end of the day, we all value the concepts which launched this bold young nation.

Sometimes we lose sight of those original lofty dreams – the speeches fade from memory. Sometimes we need to be reminded of how we came together and why we’re stronger together than we could hope to be apart. Most of us came here to get away from something – religious persecution, harsh political regimes, unfair social systems, stagnant economies. Some of us were here before the newbies arrived in the 1600s. Others were brought here against their will, but fought to gain the freedoms we all hold dear.

Sometimes we forget that this was, and still is, the land of opportunity.

And that’s where the National Mall comes in.

The Washington Monument points upward for a reason.

Each year more than 25  million  visitors pass through  the National Mall to gaze at the exhibits  and treasures inside the museums which flank the majestic sweep of space surrounding  the Capitol and the adjacent  memorials. The National Parks Service,  which oversees the maintenance and development of the roughly 1,000 acre public  site, is currently working toward another revision of the National Mall’s design.

Although some may resist change,  the dynamic nature of the National Mall reflects the dynamic nature of our country. We’ve changed a bit since 1776. And the National Mall is a great place to get a sense of how far we’ve come, and how much we’re still learning.

Unlike shopping malls, which  leave me with a feeling of being buried alive – like being trapped in an elevator  with a food court – I love the National  Mall. Even when it’s mobbed with tourists. I like to see enthusiasm for education, and that’s really what the National Mall is all about.  No matter what you’re interested in – history, science,  art,  human  nature, music,  or simply fun – the Mall has something for you.

A classic moon gate leads to a tranquil oasis on the Mall.

For me,  the difficulty is in choosing which place to visit. But in the spring time, when the clouds skitter above the Washington Monument and the merry-go-round is filled with laughing children,  I like to stroll through the 180 acres of gardens which  soften the edges of all the impressive architecture.

This  year the American Horticultural Society will honor the Smithsonian’s garden staff  in June with the 2012 Urban Beautification Award. Everywhere you look on the Mall you can see reasons why they deserve  it.

The new National Garden is just beginning to fill in.

Next time you visit D.C., take a break from the wonders inside, and enjoy the gardens that belong to all of us. Sure, our tax dollars pay for all of it, but when you spread it all out it’s pennies a day from each of us. And we don’t have to do the weeding.

A dazzling display of orchids casts enchantment steps from the Capitol.

And that’s a better deal than you can find in any other mall.

Bloomin' Love

Black is the color of my true love’s suit.

Suits – black, serious, ‘don’t mess with me’ suits – crowd the sidewalks of downtown L Street in Washington, D.C.

It’s April, Easter week, normally bloom-time in our nation’s capitol, where this year marks the 100th anniversary of the planting of the cherry trees that frame the Tidal Basin – trees which launched a million postcards and a few haiku.

But not this year.

Pods of tourists, easily identified by their sneakers, backpacks, baseball caps, and bewildered expressions, wander uneasily behind the suits, perhaps wondering where have all the flowers gone. The blossoms came and went before most of the tourists arrived. So now they’re branching out, exploring D.C.’s other options. They take photos of buildings, landmarks, the few Occupy D.C. tents still hanging on in Farragut Square.

The suits are too preoccupied for festivals or protests. The Occupy movement, like the cherry blossoms, is so last month.

Some thoughtful observers wonder if the record-smashing heat in March, which accelerated the cherry blossoms’ bloom and drop, might be another symptom of global warming, like the monster tornadoes in Texas, earthquakes in Central Virginia and the skyrocketing stinkbug population.

Don’t ask me. I just came for the cherry blossoms.

Fluffy, pink, fleeting.
They’re gone. And soon, so am I.
Adios, black suits.

It’s not as easy as it once was to get lost in this world.

In these technology infested times, the proliferation of gadgets that can tell you where you’re going, how to get there, and what it will cost you has taken some of the zest out of travel. Still, most of us would gladly trade the thrill of the unexpected for the assurance that we’ll get where we want to go without undue bother. And after hearing about the recent mid-air mental snaps of some airline staff, I find myself warming to the idea of a quiet book by the fire.

But, like it or not, sooner or later all of us have to get out of the chair and go places, even if it’s only to the dentist. This is why maps will never go out of style.

I love a good map. I can spend hours perusing Rand McNally, marveling at the curious names of tiny hamlets, the abundance of rivers and streams and mountains between the Atlantic and the Pacific, the sheer expanse of our nation.

Yet part of the magic of maps lies in all that you can’t see in them. The personal, political and social history played out in states and cities, to say nothing of the immense physical changes which take place at a pace too slow for our human eyes to fully appreciate. You can get a sense of it at the Grand Canyon, but if we were able to view the rest of the world through that same staggering perspective we might have a better understanding of how long history is, and how short our share of it.

Of course, we’d rather not think about that. We are the center of the universe, after all. The crown of creation, etc. Uneasy lies the head.

But maps – those flat, two-dimensional renderings of the world as we see it – allow us to feel some measure of control. We know where we’re going. We’ve got a map.

Would that it were so easy. The comforting illusion of control that maps provide allows us to function in a world of restless dark matter.

Much as I love maps, I never fully trust them. Everything changes. Roads close, new roads get built, shorelines change, lakes and rivers dry up. The physical landscape has a life of its own, and while our attempts to keep track of it have  improved dramatically since the age of satellites and computers, there’s still a gap.

Perhaps that’s one reason why the maps I enjoy most are of imaginary places. As I child I delighted in the map of The Hundred Acre Wood drawn by E.H. Shepard for the Winnie-the-Pooh books. Since then I’ve always had a fondness for a good imaginary map. I love it when a writer takes the time to fully imagine a world, complete with place names that ring true. Most recently the maps in George R.R. Martin’s brilliant A Song of Fire and Ice have been especially satisfying, and very helpful to a reader embarking on the journey through the epic five-volume (and counting) fantasy.

Of course, in order to create a map of an imaginary place, it helps to have a vivid imagination. To believe in such a map can serve as a coping strategy: “when reality fails and negativity don’t pull you through” (thanks be to Bob) you can always retreat to someplace imaginary until the next election.

Camped out on the far northwest edge of the nation, Seattle sits on a faultline between the real and the imaginary worlds. It’s easy to cross that line here. That’s one reason I included a map of Seattle in my recent fantasy novel, The Goddess of Green Lake. A map of Seattle is a map of an imaginary place. Here people carve out curious niche lives that couldn’t find a toe hold in Kansas, or in New York City, for that matter.

But here, where the moss grows faster than the national debt, crazy  ideas can relax and put down roots. There’s a fair amount of live and let loon attitude. As Mal Reynolds, the noble renegade captain in Joss Whedon’s space-western Serenity once put it: “We’re all out here on the edge. Don’t push me and I won’t pull you.”

While the political stew bubbles and spills with daily infusions of invective and innuendo, it’s helpful to step back, squint your eyes, and try to see the bigger picture. All of this has happened before. Apocalypses come and go. Sooner or later we all dance with the stars.

Mural artist David Heck produced a replica of the famous "Abbey Road" cover.

Why does a Beatle cross the road?

I adored the Beatles in 1964. From the moment they struck up “All My Lovin’” on the Ed Sullivan Show I became a fan and remained so right through “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band” in 1967.

But of all their studio albums, the one that moved me least was “Abbey Road.” Yet if you believe Wikipedia, “Abbey Road,” their 11th and final studio album, recorded in 1969 when the band was beginning to drift apart, remains at the top of the list for vast numbers of rock music lovers.

While it’s true that a couple of the Beatles best-loved songs, “Something” and “Here Comes The Sun,” are on that album, there are also a few dubious selections. Does anyone seriously claim that “Octopus’s Garden” or “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” are great songs? There’s a reason these selections don’t show up on the karaoke menus.

Of course every band has its share of clunkers. And the Beatles produced so many memorable songs, and introduced such innovation to the recording practices of that era that their cultural contribution cannot be overestimated. But what’s equally impressive is the lasting impact of their artistic choices, many of which were impromptu.

One of the best examples of this is the classic cover of the “Abbey Road” album. This simple image of the four Beatles crossing the street, Abbey Road, was shot in a ten-minute window while a policeman stopped traffic to enable photographer Iain Macmillan to perch on a ladder in the middle of the busy street. The resulting image has become so famous in the forty years since it was created that tourists still flock to that crossing spot on Abbey Road. You can watch the action on the webcam.

The “Abbey Road” cover has been often imitated but never surpassed. Obsessive Beatles fans back in 1969 spent hours theorizing about the significance of Paul being barefoot in the photo, the order of the walkers, the meaning of the lines on the crosswalk.

Mock if you like. Fandom makes fools of all. But it also brings us together. We may not agree about politics, or economic policy, or global warming, but most everyone who has heard the Beatles likes some of their music. Possibly even “Octopus’s Garden.”

"Where Did We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?" by Paul Gauguin

Yes, it’s still raining here. Sideways.

Across the city, above the pelting on the windows, you can hear ambulance and firetruck sirens signaling the recurrent collisions of skidding vehicles driven by people who refuse to accept the physics of wet weather driving.

On the East Coast it’s summer already – 80 degrees, cherry blossoms frying on the sidewalk. Lawnmowers and air conditioners churning away.

One could be envious, I suppose. But life’s too short to waste in idle envy. Paradise is a state of mind. You can be there anytime, as most sublimely demonstrated in a classic sequence in “Office Space.”

But the dream of faraway paradise has long lured humans into reckless over-reaching. Sometimes these crazy expeditions have born fruit – Gauguin gained something besides syphilis when he abandoned his family and the Paris art world to go to Tahiti. Yet although the move inspired some of his best known works, the island haven didn’t turn out to be the answer to his problems. Instead it left him more haunted than ever by unanswerable questions.

One of the most vexing aspects of the human condition is our inability as a species to be satisfied with what we have. The quest for more, or better, or at the very least, different conditions, has led us both to greatness and to horrific tragedy. If there is a heaven, will the creatures in it be satisfied eternally? Even Mick Jagger, assuming he gets in?

Well, I’m not expecting to find out. But I am trying to work on my own attitude – aiming for a little more gratitude and a lot less envy. I used to think it would be heavenly to live in Tahiti. These days, my idea of paradise has taken on a more domestic flavor. Something along the lines of Omar Khayyam’s The Rubaiyat:

“A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread – and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness –
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!”

Or, in my case, a six-pack on the porch, a piece of pie, and you picking your guitar. ‘Nuff said.