The Luniferous Gazette #25: Five Rituals that Bind Me to My Mother's Memory

Celebrating Early December's Child

*

I am not a winter person, and I never will be no matter how hard I try to pretend. However, the season of ice and frost stars ties me to my mother. A December child, “Bonnie Bess” is forever enshrined with the coming of snowfall and Christmas lights in my mind. She passed away quite suddenly when I was twenty-four. 

I know I should be grateful for how much time I had with her on this Earth, but the older I get, the more mundane silly things I miss being able to share and celebrate with her, like that time I (probably) found a real 1980’s Valentino necklace at the thrift store for under ten bucks! (*Saving that for another post). 

Her memory fades faster than melting snowflakes each year, and I hate that. I want to keep her silhouette crisp as silver tinsel and clear as starlight, which is why I’ve decided that as long as I’m penning The Luniferous Gazette, the first issue in December will always be dedicated to her loveliness.  

 

 Photo from her teenage years

 

So what are the little rituals that still bind me to my mother’s gentle presence?

1. Listening to Gregorian chant and choral music on Sundays. My sisters and I all have fond memories of waking up to the serene echoes of monks, nuns, and a cappella singers as our mom played Chant and Anonymous 4. Christmas also reminds us of our mother whenever we replay Maggie Sansone’s Sound of the Seasons I & II. She was an avid BMG and Columbia House CD club customer, so we were lucky to grow up in her lyrical sanctuary. 

2. Keeping at least one African Violent in my home. Our mother, like her grandmother before her, loved African Violets. Every time I pass a colorful collection of these flowers in the garden section of a grocery store, I can’t help a little smile as I think how much my mom would’ve enjoyed them, too.

 

 

3. Writing down poetry and quotes in a notebook. My mother kept a notebook full of her favorite poems and sayings her entire life, and she’d often share them when I was going through tough times. This is one of my personal favorites: 

“If at night you cry for the sun, you won’t see the stars.” –Rabindranath Tagore.

It’s a bit wrinkled, but the Spanish version of this quote that belonged to my mom accompanied me all through college, and is now framed and jeweled (albeit a tad crookedly) on my dining room wall:

 

 

I have a habit of screenshotting any online quotes or poems I like to reread later, but that fills up my phone fairly fast, and frankly, I often forget about them. So, I’ve started transcribing them in my own notebook with my terrible handwriting. I find the process quietly soothing. More than that, it makes the author’s message more believable and memorable, as if by taking the conscious effort to pen them on paper, I am etching their words deeper into my heart, too. 

One of my favorites is from my sister B: “Don’t look into the void! Fill it with sparkles. There’s always enough room for sparkle.”                                                                      

4. Reading stories aloud. My sisters and I all have vivid memories of our mother reading the Green Knowe book series by Lucy M. Boston to us at night. She in turn inspired me to read J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings series to my younger sisters, and now they have fond recollections of my attempts at a Gollum voice. 

Although I can’t help cringing a bit at my awkwardness on camera, I also enjoyed recording Iffy Magic as a read-aloud series on YouTube. I plan to record more stories and poems starting next year, and already have a ridiculous podcast title in mind that makes me snicker each time I think of it (sorry, no hints). Sometimes, you must set aside the fear of being “cringe-worthy” to allow for a little fun. Reading aloud becomes both an act of confidence and a creative blend of ink and voice, which is why I think it can be such an imaginative experience.  

5. TV Entertainment. Thanks to our mother’s wide curiosity and interests, we grew up with Reading Rainbow, Nova, Star Trek, British mystery series like Miss Marple and Poirot, the whimsy of Shelley Duvall’s Faerie Tale Theatre, the thrill of watching the Triple Crown horse races and Olympic Ice Skating competitions, and oh yes—disaster movies. And not just any, I mean potential MEGA disasters like the sudden volcanic eruption of Yellowstone! 

My mom probably would’ve really enjoyed John Cusack’s crazy 2012 film. I was so excited to tell my sisters about the Norwegian series La Palma when it came out on Netflix, because we all remembered watching a documentary with our mother about just such a hypothetical mega-disaster. Watching such flicks and chatting about them afterwards may be a silly sort of ritual, but one that brings us all a good chuckle. 

*Bonus Ritual

I accidentally started this little ritual a few years ago. I began buying bouquet brooches whenever I saw them at the thrift store to place in front of my mother’s jar of ashes and photos. It’s just a minor symbolic way to honor her memory, but it brings me a tiny thimble’s worth of joy. I like placing this vintage Avon rose brooch in front of a snowflake-frame picture my mother gave me of herself when I went off to my first year of college. 

 

I hardly have any photographs of my mother in her later years as she was very self-conscious about how health issues had impacted her body image, so I cherish her smile and the shining swoop of her dark hair here. Not that I’m biased as her daughter or anything, but I believe her kind spirit and beauty deserve all the bouquets in every multiverse!

 

A Final Note 

At the very winnowed end of this year, I hope you take time to let those dear to you know of that velvet-warm dearness, deep as a hug. And not just what they mean to you in all their big ways, but in the small slices of happiness they bring your life, too, rich as pumpkin pie. Because one day, that moment will simply pass. There will be no more plates to share, no feast among gone-away family and friends, just little rituals that bring a pang and a smile and maybe, a treasured echo of their presence. 
 

Ink Afterthoughts 

In honor of my mother’s birthday, my poetry ebook Tangible Creatures will be free to download off Amazon from Friday, December 5th to Tuesday, December 9th this month. Many of the poems are about her, both the losing and the finding: 

“Mother ash undone universe
Breathe into me—
(Just one more time)
But how does one plead with a ghost?
How dare I ask for some
MORE.”

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #24: Vivid Viands

A Stroll Along the Linear Trail

* 

I recently asked my best friend what she would like to see more of in the gazette. I’ve barraged her long-suffering ears with my story ideas for at least twenty-five years now, but this time, she got to pick what I inked. Anna (*her chosen nickname henceforth in my writing) requested “a post on pearls” and “more pictures.” Oddly enough, last year I picked up a peculiar book on the history of pearls from the thrift store. So that post is definitely coming later! However, today I wish to present a pictorial tour of the Linear Trail as a minor visual feast. “Vivid viands” seem a fitting theme for this week, after all. 

When I visited the New England side of my family in September, I found myself alone for a few hours one hot and humid afternoon. The golden slant of the sun hit just right on the skin—you know, that feeling when the rays waver between unbearable prickles and cozy radiance? 

 

 

I couldn’t resist taking a stroll on the Linear Trail, which was luckily accessible within minutes from my family’s apartment complex. The Linear Trail is a splendid little necklace of connecting walking paths, a slim-paved ribbon bordering a river with wild groves of trees, skunk cabbage, jewelweed and copious poison ivy on both sides. 

I spent many of my adolescent years wandering there. Many times, when I was fractured by the immensity of teenage emotions, I would walk or bike on the Linear Trail until all my energy was spent. Until nature swallowed my little mind in her wide-open miles, and I gratefully dissolved my own frazzled entity under dendritic shadows and the falling green and orange blossoms of the Tulip Tree, Liriodendron Tulipifera.

I was so happy for a brief chance to greet my old friend. The Linear Trail offered its bounty once again to my tired soul, and I hope these tinted fragments of beauty cheer your spirit, too.  

Let’s start with a fine garnish of scattered star spray for the eyes’ enjoyment: 

Followed by an appetizer of fairy-berry hues:

Aren’t they just as pretty as pastel pearls, or Easter eggs?

Let’s start the first course with a miniature bouquet of sunlight:

Then complement it with a petite sprig of Jewelweed gold:

 

Course number two is dark and heavy with luscious midnight hues:

Wash it down with a gaze upon this nebula-burst of nascent pink dreams: 

 Leave room for a bold and heady streak of yellow light like a comet’s tail:

Now we reach the third course: shadow-play. Bitter as dark chocolate, but somehow, you can’t get enough of these divine snaps of shade. 

Let the delicate blue syrup of the sky drizzle and filter through the soft shadows directly into your pupils:

Oh! I almost forgot the final treat. Let your eyes (not your mouth) devour the gummy-glow of these scarlet candified hues:

Winter is already very much here where I live. Nature has put many of these bright colors to rest for a season. I’m glad that I could share this little handful of gems that dazzle even in the darkest, coldest hours. 

*I’m squeezing in one last jewelweed picture as takeout treasure to warm up later:

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #23: Anadem!

Let's Play with Various Assorted Crowns

* 

I interrupt the Gazette’s normal pontification pattern for a little epeolatry, which is the worship of words. In particular, the singular appreciation of a word I—

Even if I never heard it uttered aloud by modern tongue, surely in all my 4+ decades, I’ve encountered this word on a page at least once before . . . right? I’m an English Major, so it can’t be the first time on planet Earth that I read this shiny strand of letters, and thought—

Mmm, what a scrumptious syllabic truffle. 

“Anadem” was Dictionary.com’s word of the day on May 1st, 2025. A noun of Greek origin, this word is associated with ornamental headbands, like “a wreath or garland of flowers worn on the head” (Dictionary.com). I’ve wanted to devote an entire issue just to this word for a while now, but I wasn’t sure how to ink it until today. 

When I read this word, I felt like I’d found a long-lost synonymic sister to “Tiara,” “Diadem,” and “Coronet.” I collected sparkly word sets when I was younger, and discovering this fourth form of ornamental headwear was like a sudden meet-and-greet with a missing quadruplet princess! The dazzle is real. 
                 
My sisters and I were homeschooled for much of our education, and for several of those years, our mother would assign us twenty-five new words per week from our trusty Webster’s Dictionary. We were required to look their definitions up, write the words down three times, and use them in a sentence. 

“Anadem” deserves the full royal treatment, so why don’t we get fancy and try it out in a poem:

Petal Potential

I don’t think I have a soul exactly,
but perhaps a cerebral anadem 
woven from flower-bursts 
of thought twinkling 
in my brain. 

One day, I must lay this ephemeral 
wreath at the edge of all I am,
return my sparkling electron
cloud to the universe, 
but until that day 

I shall braid garlands of cosmic 
glitter and gossamer-grown
dreams into ink. 

There, now the word is properly emblazoned upon my neural matter forever. And if you’re wondering why you followed this thread of nonsensical musings, you’re far too late. Now you’ll never forget the meaning of “anadem,” either, and perhaps might even feel tempted to drop it into casual conversation.  

For anadem is an underappreciated circlet of syllables and well deserves its spotlight among various assorted crowns.  

*Six pearls were sacrificed in the making of this picture. 

A Sequin for Your Thoughts 

Have you ever wondered what the difference is between a tiara, diadem, and coronet?

A diadem is a full-blown circle that rests on the forehead, a tiara is a half-circle crown that sits higher up on the head, and a coronet, well, its definition made me chuckle when I looked it up. It’s a wee bit smaller and less ornate in design, as this demure headpiece is reserved for lesser royalty who aren’t cleared to flaunt a regular-sized crown. 

Regardless of their distinguishing differences, just like their linguistic sibling anadem, I believe all three make fabulous names for cats, unicorns, space palaces, and the odd human.  

*If you want to know more about royal crowns, I highly recommend checking out Moon Honey’s Ancient History Jewelry Stories. This professional goldsmith does a “Tiara Tuesday” special that is always full of fascinating historical insights on the evolution of crowns. For example, she explored the fashion precedent set by people who dared to wear their tiaras upside down. 

I hope you enjoyed this amateur foray into epeolatry! Expect more in the future. I can’t say when or what word will next be placed on the altar of appreciation, but coy syllables are always waiting in the margins for us to notice their bright wink and scribble. 

Sources:

“Anadem.” Word of the Day. Dictionary.com.
<https://www.dictionary.com/e/word-of-the-day/anadem-2025-05-01/>

“Crown, Tiara, or a Coronet? How to Tell the Difference Between the Three.” Town and Country Mag.com. <https://www.townandcountrymag.com/style/fashion-trends/a43085809/crown-tiara-coronet-difference/>

“Difference between Tiara, Diadem, and Crown.” Adastrajewlery.com.
<https://adastrajewelry.com/blog/difference-between-tiara-diadem-and-crown?srsltid=AfmBOorcLkTsLc3rYC4BzF5cmR8Ll-lm4LBfvkbTwzQtf7Xs_Zm4sxw8>

  ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #22: Hello, Hattie! I lost you for awhile . . .

A Review of Hattie and the Wild Waves by Barnara Cooney

* 

I still have my childhood copy of Hattie and the Wild Waves by Barbara Cooney. It’s wrinkled, the spine is peeling, and the pages are starting to tear loose from their bindings. Yet the pressed treasure within is still as vibrant as the first day I opened the paperback book, and my eyes drank in the deepest dreams that travel across time through the lives of mother and daughter.

Cooney is one of my favorite illustrators of such splendiferous books as Roxaboxen and Miss Rumphius. Her lines are soft and gentle, yet filled with intricate details in every nook and cranny. Hattie and the Wild Waves is a tribute to her mother, Mae Bossert Cooney, and takes us on her journey to becoming an artist. 

The story opens with Hattie and her brother, Vollie, and sister, Pfiffi, discussing what they wish to achieve when they grow up. Pfiffi wishes to become the most beautiful of brides while Vollie wants to follow in his father’s steps in the family’s woodworking business. As for Hattie, her heart is set on painting, and her thoughts filled with “the moon in the sky and the wind in the trees and the wild waves of the ocean.” 

Hattie is so entranced by “picture-making,” that even falling sick cannot stop her. In fact, these interludes give her the perfect opportunity “to make pictures from morning until night, interrupted only by bowls of milk toast and broth.” I particularly love this passage, because it reminds me that even when health issues flare or anxiety tangles one’s brain into knots, it’s not truly the end. Dreams are stubborn little things, after all, and spring back in the most unexpected of ways. 

Cooney’s illustrations bring all the keenest moments of Hattie’s life into focus. From the bow of the family’s yacht, The Coronet, where salty breezes take “all the curl out of her hair,” and overflow Hattie's mind with fresh ideas for artwork, to her summer haven, Far Rockaway, a house beside the ocean. Here, Hattie’s solitary walks on the beach with only her tiny black dog fill her with boundless questions as she takes in the variable toss of stormy sky and sea spray.  

“‘Oh, Ebbie,’ she would say, picking up the little dog, ‘what are the wild waves saying?’” 

This same question follows us all through life as the clamor of our heart tosses our own deepest unnamed wishes like star foam. Hattie doesn’t get an answer right away, and her young heart must set such questions aside when her beloved Far Rockaway is later sold. 

The reader follows Hattie through many homes in the story, from “the red-brick house on Bushwick Avenue,” to the grand castle-like estate “The Oaks” in Long Island. Through every season of change, her little paint box and Ebbie go with her. It doesn’t matter if she can’t play piano beautifully like her mother, or stitch elegant needlework like her sister. For Hattie’s true passion lies in capturing black swans gliding across a pond on her canvas. 

Eventually, the three siblings grow up, and Hattie’s sister marries in a grand ceremony while her brother travels for work on family business. Only Hattie remains with her parents in a towering hotel that has a sweeping view of the East River and New York City. Sometimes, Hattie can paint the Statue of Liberty or even the shimmer of the ocean. However, more frequently she must relinquish the brush as she finds herself caught up in daily social demands. 

In our own lives, there are times where we must drop the dream, as well—but not forever. No, our little whisper will aria anew when we least expect it. One night, while attending the opera, Hattie hears a woman sing so soulfully from the depths of her heart, that she can’t deny her own feelings anymore.

She can’t waver one second longer: “The time had come, she realized, for her to paint her heart out.” 

The next day, Hattie enrolls in an art institute and then takes a trolley to Coney Island to meet her dear old friend, the ocean. The attractions are mostly shut down as the weather is fiercely inhospitable and “spitting snow.” Yet a paper scrap from a fortune-telling booth and the wild, breaking waves both echo the truth that she’s known, all along:

“You will make beautiful, beautiful pictures.”

To this, Hattie finally acknowledges, “Oh, yes, I shall.”

I love the word “shall.” It’s stronger than just a wish, for it means “to express what is inevitable.” And Hattie, in all her glorious will, is inevitable. 

Yet the older and more worn I get by time, the easier it is to forget what my own wild waves are saying. Rereading Barbara Cooney’s lovely illustrated homage to her mother reminds me that even if you drop a dream, the waves will return it. Maybe they’ll tumble it around like sea glass first, but when we’re ready to receive it again, the dream will return with new gloss.  

A few post-review thoughts . . . 

If I hadn’t joined Substack, I probably wouldn’t be writing this little review of Hattie and the Wild Waves. Why not? I simply wouldn’t feel a compelling drive to do so, and would be content with a quiet, unexpressed fondness for my favorite children’s book. 

But I made the motto of The Luniferous Gazette “Weird. Weekly. Wondrous.” It certainly makes for a pretentious boast, or a tall challenge to ink from the deepest parts of my soul, heart—whatever one calls a lost repository of stray wishes these days. 

I must confess that I was a bit downcast last week when I read multiple Substack posts warning about how this platform is changing and supposedly becoming more like other social media platforms; inundated with an overabundance of notes, writers, and influencers, etc. 

Hi! Bless my sparklestars, I guess I must include myself among that paltry throng of newcomers. 

When my husband urged me to consider joining Substack after reading how it was a platform geared specifically towards writers, I didn’t realize that I was a part of a mass influx of people this year. But I’m happy to be here regardless of whether the Almighty Algorithm notices me or not. It never has before, so I presume we shall continue mutually ignoring each other. 

My personal opinion? Ignore the doom stats and allow yourself the freedom to have fun playing in this digital playground, whatever that means for you.  

I don’t know of any other social media platform that offers so many multimodal ways to communicate for free. Now, I’m contemplating turning into a podcast princess and recording some of my novels just for the joy of it next year. While other platforms feel more like pretty folders for random thoughts, organizing ink dreams on Substack reminds me of opening my Trapper Keeper in sixth grade: a deluxe delight!

And now I can include my childhood book friend, Hattie. I would love to know more about yours.  

 

Princess photobombs the book spotlight.

 

Sources:

Cooney, Barbara. Hattie and the Wild Waves. Scholastic Inc. 1992. 

“Shall.” Merriam-Webster.com Dictionary, Merriam-Webster, https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/shall. Accessed 12 Nov. 2025.

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #21: Grammie, Tag Sale Queen of Quiet Legend

Sequin or Sapphire, a Sparkle is a Sparkle

* 

My writing group has been urging me to ink an issue on my secondhand treasure hunts, but I can’t really do that before first talking about who inspired them: my grammie, Nancy Anne, a tag sale queen who scoured yard sales on the East Coast for decades. 

I grew up on the West Coast and didn’t know what a “tag sale” (yard/garage sale) was until I moved to Connecticut and would travel up to New York to visit her. The first time I asked if I could accompany her on a tag sale run, she warned me that she got up early, so I’d better be prepared to hit the road. 

Tag sales meant serious business for her. She’d underline sale announcements in newspapers, plot the fastest routes between stops with her trusty car map (she had no GPS then), and be out the door at the crack of dawn. Sometimes, we'd venture as far as Saratoga Springs for the fancy tag sales. I must confess that rummaging through random boxes, shelves and crates for treasure on a strict schedule made the hunt even more thrilling!

She’d also check out stores that were closing, which is how she ended up acquiring this fabulous tiara for me: 

So you want to be a princess? Trust in Grammie, dear. She had a Maine accent, so that term of endearment sounded more like an airy “dia” as she would drop the “r.” 

All my memories of my grandmother are filled with queenly gleam. She always wore sweaters and fluttery skirts embroidered in beads, sequins, faux jewels and pearls. I can’t think of her without a trace of fairy glitter on the heart. She could find anything, just like a real fairy godmother.

Sometimes, the items we wanted to bring home had unexpected proportions and required ingenuity to fit into our vehicle. I’m still not sure how Grammie managed to expertly wedge a sturdy pink steel Canadian bike that I paid only 5 bucks for into the back of her small, cube-shaped car that was already full of granddaughters. Secondhand magic, I suppose! 

Of course, the best part of the experience was at the end, when Grammie would say with a twinkle in her eye, “Now don’t tell Grampa.” Then she’d take my sisters and I out for a secret ice cream run.

I was talking to one of my sisters yesterday about how our grandmother really didn’t care if something was expensive or popular, she just bought any sparkly thing that caught her eye that she thought someone would like. So sometimes I might end up with a pretty pink plastic heart necklace . . . and one time, a 14k gold chain she undoubtedly acquired at a random tag sale. 

This lavender gem came with that epic chain. I have no idea what it is, or if it once had another life as a beloved ring that was later twisted into a memorial pendant.  

 

 

I’m not sure what the tiny scrawls etched into the metal in the back mean, either. These unknowables intrigue me and are part of the excitement of secondhand gifts. I love wondering about the hidden history behind this mystery pendant and imagining its past.     

For Grammie, sequin or Linde star sapphire—a sparkle is a sparkle. 

My sister B noted that Grammie was the same way in how she interacted with other people. Social standing, appearance, employment status, education, none of that mattered to her, because she treated everyone with equal kindness and dignity. 

Furthermore, I must note that Santa Claus had nothing on her gift system. She had boxes in her basement lined up on wooden shelves with her family members’ names written on each one. All year, she’d slowly fill it with bounty until birthdays and Christmas rolled around. 

And if you ever told her that you liked something, you’d better be prepared to receive it for the rest of your days. I once told her that I liked cameos, and she gave me so many of them over the years in pendant, brooch, and pin form that I could fill a vase. I eventually started giving many of them to my oldest “fairy goddaughter,” and now she apparently loves cameos, too. Thus, my grammie’s legacy of sparkle-giving lives on!

When I was at college, my roommates were always excited when she would mail me a box, because it was inevitably filled not only with loot, but also homemade treats to share. Grammie was always thinking of others and how to bring them just a little bit of happiness.   

I believe the very last tag sale run I embarked on with my grammie was in 2013, shortly before I got married and moved overseas for a while. I paid just 10 cents for this lovely little vintage figurine of a porcelain girl in a pink dress. She’s a bit faded by time, but utterly perfect in the happy silhouette she casts—just like my glamorous grammie. 

Unfortunately, my grandmother’s health would begin a slow decline, and she’d eventually pass away. But every time I make an unexpected thrift score or discover a hidden treasure at a tag sale, I know she’d be proud and cheering me on. Grammie was a huge believer in angels and accumulated over 200 hundred figurines over the course of her life. Personally, I don’t have any firm belief in heaven, but I make an exception for my beloved grammie. 

I like to imagine that she has unlocked a new level in the afterlife: Nancy Anne, Patron Angel of Tag Sales and Thrifty Finds! 

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #20: Death-Come-Quickly, a Haunting Flower for Halloween

  The Demure Gem of Watkins Glen

*

This September, I finally got the chance to visit Watkins Glen State Park in New York with a family member. I was born not far from that location, and not long before he passed away, my father told me that he’d brought me there as a baby and wished we could visit again. So, it felt a bit like returning to my roots to pay homage to this forested gorge—a veritable miniature canyon! 

The park boasts nineteen waterfalls that spangle cliff faces that can reach 200 feet in height. The deeper one ventures into its high-shadowed walls, the more it feels like you are being swallowed up by a secret side path into Narnia or Middle Earth. As the state park’s website declares, those who visit are known be left quite “spellbound.” 

The hike can be steep and muddy at times, and there are markers bored into the rock walls periodically that give the location for emergency services in case someone suffers a serious injury. I couldn’t help wondering if they were affixed due to prior incidents. Either way, the little plaques served as constant reminders to watch my step! 

I also couldn’t help marveling at the way the green foliage caught the sunbeams above. Each leaf seemed to light up like a slice of live emerald and cast a beguiling glint over the stream winding through stony layers of bedrock below. 

All this is to say that the enclosed environment lends itself to an otherworldly ethereality—enter the flower, the true star of this issue and the hidden jewel of Watkins Glen! 

I stopped dead in my tracks and begged my family member to wait so that I could capture a photo of a delicate pinkish-purple flower, hardly as large as the nail on my little finger. I had no idea what it was then, only that its quiet, airy beauty demanded my rapt gaze without delay. 

Later that evening, I would conduct an image search and discover that this tiny flower has numerous names—Geranium robertianum, or more commonly, “Herb Robert.” Some of my favorites include “Jam Tarts,” “Doll’s Shoes,” or even “Stinky Bob” as squishing it can produce an odiferous scent that is described as akin to rotting garlic. My, my, what powerful pungency is hidden in this petite little blossom! Maybe it will work against vampires in a pinch? 

In some states, it is considered a noxious weed, although in New York it is merely a “non-regulated class B noxious weed,” meaning weeding is encouraged but not presently mandated. To kill such a gossamer sprite would feel almost like a crime to my heart. It utterly enchanted me upon first viewing, after all. 

Yet these pretty petals hide more than one secret. Despite its fragile appearance, it can release chemicals that crowd out other types of healthy flora. But it’s humans who have given this demure flower its most lethal moniker—“Death-Come-Quickly.” 

This name was tied to the superstition that plucking the flower and bringing it indoors would cause someone to die soon. Some tales even link this flower to Shakespeare’s Puck, or the mischievous fairy “Robin Good-Fellow,” who will surely punish those who dare to harm it. 

Now, I didn’t pick the unassuming specimen that hypnotized me for a bright strand of seconds in Watkins Glen. Yet perhaps daring to steal a picture of Death-Come-Quickly was offense enough to earn me a warning? 

On the return hike, I didn’t trip once on the 832 stone stairs or the steep paths. However, as the parking lot grew tantalizingly close, a prodigious acorn whizzed mere millimeters from my face with extreme velocity. My family member was witness to this errant missile and laughed uproariously as they declared that I almost became Watkins Glen’s first confirmed acorn fatality. 

This near-accident might seem like mere coincidence, except for the fact that I was almost squashed by massive trees on two other occasions in my life—but that’s a story for another day. 

Wishing you all a Happy Halloween! May you gather a bounty of scrumptious candy, but perhaps, have a care—beware of any charming flower you are tempted to bring into your home that spooktacular evening . . . . 

Sources:

“Herb Robert Identification and Control.” KingCounty.gov. 
<https://kingcounty.gov/en/dept/dnrp/nature-recreation/environment-ecology-conservation/noxious-weeds/identification-control/herb-robert>

“Herb Robert (Geranium robertianum, Wild Geranium).” Highbury Wildlife 
Garden. <http://highburywildlifegarden.org.uk/the-garden/bees-faves/herb-robert/> 

“Saint or Sprite?” (June 17, 2011). The Medieval Garden Enclosed. The Cloisters 
Museum and Gardens. Metmuseum.org. <https://blog.metmuseum.org/cloistersgardens/2011/06/17/saint-or-sprite/>    

Watkins Glen State Park. New York State Parks, Recreation and Historic 
Preservation. <https://parks.ny.gov/visit/state-parks/watkins-glen-state-park#about>

“Weed of the Month: Herb Robert” (May 19, 2016). Harringayonline. <https://harringayonline.com/forum/topics/weed-of-the-month-herb-robert>
 

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The Luniferous Gazette #19: Hop onto "A Lake and a Fairy Boat" with me

The Poetic Dream of Thomas Hood

 

I first read Thomas Hood’s poem, “A Lake and a Fairy Boat,” when I was a teenager with a head still full of Lothlórien’s golden murmurings and the wild sails of The Dawn Treader. The three stanzas were filled with absolutely everything I loved—

Whimsy and gossamer, rubies and pearls—and wonder beyond the realm of dragons, beyond the harsh reach of reality until the last two lines. There, the poem breaks against the most forlorn of realizations and the deepest of longings: 

“But fairies have broke their wands,
And wishing has lost its power!”

This poem was published almost 200 years ago in Hood’s book, The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies. And yet, even today, to read it aloud is to taste the echo of melancholy and imagination inked fresh on the tip of the tongue, newly-gemmed as a drop of blood—

Or a castaway jewel of the mind.   

This poem makes me just a little braver every time I read it. Or in this case, draw it. I’ve been messing around with Artweaver since June. I have several big projects in mind, but just the sheer idea of what I want to accomplish can feel overwhelming. Experimenting with digital art in the format of a comic is great practice, and I hope to sketch out a new one every 4-6 weeks. 

Illustrating this single comic took me over five hours, but I don’t regret a second of it. Hood’s words remind me that just because something is daunting doesn’t mean the venture isn’t worth it!

A dear cousin recently shared this wisdom from our late princess, Carrie Fisher: 

“Stay afraid, but do it anyway. What’s important is the action. You don’t have to wait to be confident. Just do it and eventually the confidence will follow.”

May we all hop onto the fairy boat in our heart and follow the currents to the farthest shores of our wishes. 

 

 

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