A THOUSAND WORDS - Alex Waterhouse-Hayward's blog on pictures, plants, politics and whatever else is on his mind.


November Tomatoes
Saturday, November 17, 2012

Lillooet tomatoes
I remember with a luxury of detail (except the exact date) the first glass of tomato juice I ever had. It was followed by many more, so many more that the Minister of the Philippine Ministry (not yet an embassy) in Buenos Aires, Narciso Ramos commented, “Andong (Alex) you really like tomato juice.”

I was sometime around 1950 and I was 8 years old. It was the fourth of July and at the time the Philippines celebrated their independence from the US the day they got it, July 4, 1946.

The ministry occupied a branch of the US Embassy on Calle Florida, which also housed the often bombed Lincoln Library (a branch, secret to some, of the US Information Service, so the head librarian was also a spook).

We had been invited to the party because my grandmother worked as a stenographer at the ministry. Besides the very large pitcher of strange and very red juice which I soon became addicted to, there were some Filipino musicians who played some strange instruments. They were Hawaiian style electric guitars and the music, sung in Spanish, English and Tagalog was reminiscent of the melodic music of Hawaii.

I have enjoyed tomato juice since. In my four years at St. Ed’s High School in Austin, Texas, during the mid 50s I would go to our basement store, run by Brother Emmett Strohmeyer, C.S.C. and sometimes (when I had extra pocket money, not a frequent situation) I would buy a small can of Libby’s Tomato Juice and a little package of cheddar cheese crackers. I would sit in the nearby ping-pong room and savour the delightful juice.

I have never stopped my desire to drink tomato juice. There is always a large can of Heinz in the house but of late I have been enjoying V-8, the Smooth & Seasoned V-Go variety.

Rosemary does not like tomato juice or V-8 so I indulge in comfortable solitude. I may sprinkle my glass of juice with Maldon Sea Salt Flakes and a tad of pepper. If adventurous I might squeeze some lemon or lime and add some Tabasco.

Now there is something new in my tomato life. Today I made a batch of tomato juice from the many tomatoes that my daughter Ale brought us from Lillooet. We have been having tomato sandwiches, pasta with fresh tomato sauce, scrambled eggs over very darkly fried tomatoes and I have even spread the fried tomato mixture to make our pizza. There were many tomatoes still and they were beginning to over-ripen.

Making tomato juice is easy. You quarter them and throw them into a large pot. I added a couple of soup spoonfuls of sugar, and some kosher salt. I spiced it up with Lea & Perrins and chile flakes. After simmering for 30 minutes I used a ladle to fill (halfway) my blender. Here you must be careful as hot liquids shoot up. I keep the pouring section of the blender container covered with a kitchen towel. Once I have done this I press the mixture through a fine sifter. And you get pure and wonderful tomato juice. If you want you can add celery (complete with the leaves) parsley, red peppers and an onion.


Unfolding At The Speed Of Impulse
Friday, November 16, 2012

There were two writers in my family. One was my father who was a journalist. By some sort of tragic quirk the only evidence that I have is his signature in his King James Bible. I only have half of it as part of the page was torn out. I have no idea why. Some years ago I went to Buenos Aires and persuaded the editor of the Buenos Aires Herald to allow me to search the microfiche files to see if I could find my father’s byline. He warned me that in the 40s and early 50s reporters wrote anonymously. My father simply did not exist in those files.

The other writer was my mother’s sister Dolly de Irureta Goyena Tow Humphrey (unmarried name, and two as married). She wrote several books of poetry but had the peculiar talent of writing killer letters. Some of these could get you riled up and angry. While in the Argentine Navy in the 60s I corresponded with her regularly and we compared notes on the staff working with the president of the United States, LBJ.

I believe that I may have inherited from both my father and my aunt Dolly, an ability, if not to write well, to at least write good personal letters. I have written many in my past and I remember the frustration of not being able to type them (dyslexia always prevented me from writing smoothly on a machine) or being able to write legibly. Sometime when I was in my early 20s my handwriting began to deteriorate. At age 70 I am unable to sign my name completely. Something in my brain prevents me so I finish with gibberish scratches.

I have written letters that while not quite being poison letters have made people concerned, angry at me and in some cases worried about my mental health. I may have hinted suicidal tendencies in some of my past missives. But then I am one of those who find solace in being depressed and finding ways of intensifying the feeling by listening to Kind of Blue or reading melancholic poetry.

There is a new columnist for the NY Times who used to be the paper’s food critic. He is Frank Bruni. He is terrific. I read everything he writes. This Sunday’s Review (I am writing this today Sunday, November 18, 2012 and read the Bruni column last night) features something by Bruni called Our Hard Drives, Ourselves. It is about a computer’s ability to ease us into writing much too intimately, much too quickly and without much concern of its consequences.

A couple of paragraphs and one line caught my eye:

Back in the era of Jane Austen novels a suitor put pen to paper, his pace slow, his pauses frequent and the reply – itself written in longhand – probably weeks away. Romance had a rhythm that accommodated reconsideration. It had a built-in cooling off period.

The sexting, cyber-assisted hookups and online affairs of today have nothing of the sort. They unfold at the speed of impulse, in part because they have such a hypothetical, provisional aspect, negotiated as they are in a cloud of sorts, no contact required. But their weightlessness is paired with their durable record.

Reading that line “speed of impulse” made me think of those days so long ago when I penned intimate love letters to Suzy. I was in Buenos Aires and she was vacationing in resort town called Pinamar. I would anxiously await her replies, her neat handwriting on crisp Hotel Pinamar letterhead.

I might start writing long hand love letters to my Rosemary except there is one problem, she cannot read my handwriting. That’s two of us.

A Film Reviewer - Truly Madly Deeply
Thursday, November 15, 2012

Juliet Stevenson

Except for people who might value the benefits of having a very expensive car or a quality Savile Row bespoke suit quality has taken a dive in this 21st century.

A few who read good books might understand that one of the lions of British literature (the term was coined before political correctness took hold so I believe there is not gender equivalent like Margaret Atwood the lioness of Canadian letters), Graham Greene was a very good film reviewer. Few who read our local press would appreciate (am I wrong here?) that one of our finest local writers, John Lekich writes film reviews for the Georgia Straight. Even fewer would understand the difficulty of reviewing a film with a 300 word max count. Nor would they understand the sheer difficulty in attempting to have a positive approach to films which in Lekich’s case, involves seeing the worst movies out there. Lekich is not the sort of man to lose his composure or let his disdain for lousy movies show up on what he writes. He is an even-keel kind of guy who in a better world would deserve better and get it.

I dedicate this blog to John Lekich and I do hope that he will continue reviewing films (even if lousy) with his own brand of objectivity that does not mine the depths of nasty cynicism or uses a review to show off his good taste and knowledge just because he has both.

In that place where the king is alone ( a term I translate from Spanish, “Donde el rey va solo.”) and which happens to be what in my native Buenos Aires used to be called “el watercló” I have books that are light and fun reading. I suppose that having such books as Tolstoy’s War and Peace or Stephen King’s 11/22/63 would keep one so gripped in the reading that one of the unwelcome byproducts would be severe constipation. In fact I would make a guess that two of the most famous historical members of the constipated, Martin Luther and St. Thomas Aquinas must have sat, where the king sits alone, with a bible in hand.

In my bathroom, on the top of the pile is a book I purchased from my Oakridge Library book bin for $1.00. A Guide for the Curious Film Lover -The New York Times – The Best DVDs – You’ve Never Seen, Just Missed or Almost Forgotten edited by Peter M. Nichols and with an introduction by A.O. Scott makes terrific reading and shows how brief but how good film reviews can be.

I have chosen Anthony Minghella’s 1991 Truly Madly Deeply with Juliet Stevenson and Alan Rickman for two reasons. For one I concur with the review and two, I photographed Juliet Stevenson during an interview she made with John Lekich. By a strange quirk of coincidence I had a visiting nephew from Buenos Aires, Georgito O’Reilly in tow who found the whole process of interview and photo session interesting.

Here is the review:

Before Minghella directed the lavish romance of The English Patient he made this exquisite, fanciful love story about a woman who feels her dead lover is still with her. Stevenson and Rickman are at their most charming as Nina and Jamie, the lovers who seemed perfectly matched. They shared enthusiasms: classical music (he on the cello, she on the piano), sex, poetry, old movies. Then one day he gets a sore throat and that’s that.

Nina takes a picturesque flat in London and tells her analyst that she hears Jamie’s voice everywhere. Then, one evening as she is playing the piano, he materializes as if in the flesh.

Jamie says he is back because he didn’t die properly. Once again they sing and dance and enjoy many of the things they shared together. Nina’s friend can’t understand why she is suddenly so happy again.

Momentum begins to build for her to cast her lot with the living, though. How long can she go watching Fitzcarraldo on video with Jamie and his friends from the beyond?

Minghella warmly makes a case for honoring the past, while finding a way – however bizarre – to let go and move on.

Lauren's Long Spring
Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Lauren showed up with a plastic bag and asked me to guess what she had in it. I could not. She produced a couple of Snoopies that her mother used to play with at perhaps her same age, 10.  I smiled inwardly and outwardly. There is a charm to a little girl who is still a little girl. I always remember a quote from Dag Hammarskjöld's Markings:

You find it hard to forgive those who, early in life, have come to enjoy the advantages that come with maturity. Aside from any other consideration, why don't you put into the balance the long spring enjoyed by a youth who matured late.

¡Twinky Wonder! ¡Twinky Wonder!
Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Hilary - "¡Quiero mi Tuinky!"

Much has been written these last few days on the demise of Hostess and that Twinkies will no longer be available.

I have little knowledge of the wonders of Twinkies as I never ever had one. I had plenty of opportunities as I lived in Mexico for many years where Hostess (it went by the name of Bimbo and or Wonder) made many variants of the original Twinkies. To this day I can remember the ads and the particular Mexican pronunciation of Twinky Wonder which is beyond the scope of this blog to explain how funny those two words sound in English. The letter W does not exist in the Spanish alphabet so it only makes it presence in foreign words like Twinky, Wonder, BMW and Volkswagen. In most Latin countries (Mexico is the exception) the letter W is called a double V. In Mexico it is the double U.

Through the many years that Twinkies have been available in Mexico the brand name has changed from Twinky to Twinkie to Tuinky and other variants to help Mexican sort of pronounce the word correctly. And Mexican bread companies were not going to be left behind in the market for North American junk food. A Mexican company called Marinela produced a similar product called Pingüinos Marinela.

You might wonder (ha! Unintended pun) why I am so well versed on the subject of Twinkies.

It is all because of my youngest daughter Hilary who is now 40. When we lived in Mexico, she was born in 1971 (we left for Vancouver in 1975). Hilary as a little girl in Mexico ate nothing except beans, tortillas, chocolate milk and yes! Twinkies.

Hilary refused to drink plain milk we soon discovered. We made the mistake of mixing her baby bottle milk with Choco-Milk a chocolate powder that had an impractical ability not to dissolve even with severe shaking. I soon, too discovered the pleasure of spooning the chocolate from the top of a glass of milk with the product that was made in Mexico by a pharmaceutical company called Richardson & Merrill that also made Vick’s Vaporub. Choco-Milk had a character called Pancho Pantera who promoted the product's ability to produce muscles of steel.

During a trip to San Francisco (Hilary was 3) we were staying at the venerable and beautiful St. Francis Hotel on Union Square. We were having breakfast and Hilary was screaming. Our maître d' came to our table (he was dressed in tails) and said with a very English accent, “Is there anything we can do to satisfy the young lady?” I answered, “I don’t think so unless you can find some tortillas and beans.”

To this day Hilary is unable to drink milk without chocolate and in the many trips that she has made in the past to Mexico she would gorge herself on Twinky Wonders and Gansitos or Pingüinos Marinela. It seems that the Mexican versions are superior to the original.

As they say grandparents sooner or later get even with their children, when their children have offspring of their own. Hilary’s older daughter Rebecca (15) will eat anything. She is adventurous. But her sister Lauren, 10 was always a fussy eater and virtually ate nothing except Heinz Zoodles. She is much better now but she refuses to eats sauces with her food. She will not touch mayonnaise and refuses to eat salad with oil and vinegar or any kind of salad dressing.

I remember when Lauren was around five or six when she refused to eat something at the table. I told her she was going to stay at her seat until she did. We left her alone. From our living room we watched as she sat motionless for almost an hour. I finally gave up and told her she didn’t have to eat it.

In a trip to Mexico last year Hilary had lots of Gansitos and Pingüinos. And she brought several containers of Choco-Milk.  Both Lauren and I have been eating Oreo Double Cremes, of late.

Twinky Wonder

Photographs of Hilary taken with Pentax S-3, 50mm Takumar lens and Kodak Tri-X

Thanatos & Two Tiny Rhododendrons
Monday, November 12, 2012

This past week as I visited Horst Wenzel the skillful and elegant man (who happens to repair my photographic stuff with neatness and elegance of solution) told me, “Your colleague….was here a few minutes ago. He left this to be repaired. He looked at me grimly. I said nothing so he added, “Your colleague has been given six months of life then…” When one of your contemporaries faces such immediate mortality it is impossible to ignore. I drove home reflecting on death, my own.

Wenzel may be 75 to my 70 but he has a completely different approach to life. He may be fatalistic, like yours truly, but he is much more cheerful. His house is a marvel of neatness, it is clean, shipshape and he is constantly repairing and improving it. Only a few weeks ago he not only made a new cedar fence from scratch (and consider that he lives on a corner lot) but he also built a new swinging door to his car port. To boot he varnished the whole fence. Wenzel suffered heart problems some years ago and had his chest cut up and his interior plumbing was bypassed a few times.

He smiles when I tell him I want him to repair this camera, or that one, as he might not be around to repair it if I procrastinate. He is busy attempting to finish his elaborately detailed model German battleships. He says he wants to finish them so that I can photograph them. He says there is a possibility that I might not be around before he puts the finishing touches.

Like most gardeners I live in the hope of a next spring as I look into my decaying fall garden. Rosemary has been a bit more active than I in putting the garden to sleep. Of late I had been considering that a year from now I would try to convince Rosemary to sell the house and move to a rental house (a small one, perhaps in Burnaby which is not affected by bridges, tunnels or freeways). We would put a big chunk of money in the bank and then we might travel to warmer and drier parts and visit museums here and there. It is appealing to me but not to Rosemary. A few weeks ago she brought home to tiny species rhododendrons. She tried to hide them behind the house but I spotted them.

I could not understand the wisdom of buying plants that need time to grow in a garden we might vacate soon. Every plant in the garden like every book in my library will be a friend that in some way will have to be abandoned. That makes me wince when I consider it. Buying more plants seems a folly.

There are repairs that have to be done to the house and Rosemary is ashamed how shabby the house is beginning to look outside and inside. But we have no money for the repairs or any minor renovations. I am simply not in the mind of lending my own hand to perform the repairs. Selling seems to be a very good idea.

I called up Beau Photo and asked about my colleague. I was told the man looks great and is renting photographic equipment. Is this a folly like my Rosemary buying rhododendrons?

A month before my friend Abraham Rogatnick died three years ago he held court in his living room. It was the first time he was not fully dressed with his usual tie. This time around he was wearing a Noel Coward type of smoking jacket. Coward-like he reclined on a divan. There were four of us. George Bowering, then Canadian Poet Laureate, architect Bruno Freschi and my granddaughter Rebecca. I had told her in advance that Rogatnick was dying.

A year before Rogatnick had told me he was going to die and he had given me as a gift a life-size Mexican papier-mâché skeleton (we call him Pancho) that alternately sits by our dining room table or observes the proceedings of our living room conversations.

That year before his death, Rogatnick was 83 and had decided that he would not proceed to for treatment of his prostate cancer. He prepared for his death, wrote out his will set aside money for his art charities and disposed of stuff.

A couple of weeks before he died he had a carpenter build an elaborate ramp from his kitchen door that allowed him to wheel himself to the garage where he was going to install some sort of equipment in his car (with the help of his friend Sam Sullivan) so that he could board it in his wheel chair. The ramp was beautifully built. As far as I know Rogatnick tried it once, gave his approval and never used it again. He became very sick and died in hospital. After he died I thought about the useless procedure and the useless craftsmanship of a ramp that was never used. Would this become as I thought a few weeks ago, similar to my Rosemary’s purchase of tiny juvenile rhododendrons?

That afternoon when Rogatnick held court is an afternoon I will never forget and one that I will constantly remind Rebecca to never forget. Rogatnick and Bowering argued as to who had been the first English poet laureate. I remember that Bowering was right and this was confirmed when Rogatnick read the citation from his Britannica.

It was an exciting but somber afternoon. I admired a man who was facing death with aplomb and calm. If anything he was outwardly looking at the inevitable procedure with a smile on his face.

It brought to mind one of my favourite quotes by a former Secretary-General of the United Nations Dag Hammarskjöld:

If even dying is to be made a social function, then, please, grant me the favour of sneaking out on tiptoe without disturbing the party.

From this I make that Hammarskjöld was a private man, a shy man but also not very curious. Who would not want to be present at one’s funeral? I have always ascertained that a good friend is one who is willing to help during a house move. A good friend might be honest, then in giving an opinion on the stiff occupying the open coffin, or not? Rogatnick who did not believe he was going anywhere, much less to his maker, would have been delighted to hold court, silently at his funeral.

Felt A Funeral In My Brain

by Emily Dickinson.

I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through.
And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb
And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead, again.
Then space began to toll
As all the heavens were a bell,
And being, but an ear,
And I and Silence some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here.

I have a bit of advance knowledge on this as I have died three times.

It was about 7 or 8 years ago that I heard from a former student from my high school teaching class in Mexico City in the early 70s. She told me she was traveling all over the world on her job and that she particularly liked to observe all the different people and their different customs. In what was probably a fit of jealousy on my part (at the time I was already finding it difficult to justify the expense of driving to Coquitlam) I told her she sounded like that song by Barbra Streisand about liking people who like people. She was miffed. I answered via an email message signed by my wife Rosemary where she informed her that I had died suddenly. She further advised not to send flowers. My student answered with a gushing letter apologizing for her unruly behaviour to a dying man. When I answered her telling her that I was indeed still alive I received a terse answer (How could you…) and I have never heard from her since.

My second demise happened when my two Argentine painter friends decided to call their marriage quits and they separately went back to Buenos Aires. I no longer had the daily mates, the conversations, the joint exhibitions, the talking in Argentine Spanish. I became very angry telling them that they had ruined my life in Vancouver and that they had left me to live in an artistic isolation.

I didn’t blame Juan Manuel Sánchez as much as I did his wife Nora Patrich. When she wrote me an email inviting me to one of her shows in Buenos Aires (if I could not justify driving to Coquitlam…). I replied with Rosemary as my proxy. Again she informed Patrich not to send flowers. I think that her answer (not swallowing my joke) was that she was too poor an artist to even consider the expense of buying flowers. Since then we have sort of made up and I will see her when she returns to Vancouver for a visit in January.

I heard a Fly buzz 
by Emily Dickinson

I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air –
Between the Heaves of Storm –

The Eyes around – had wrung them dry –
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset – when the King
Be witnessed – in the Room –

I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away
What portions of me be
Assignable – and then it was
There interposed a Fly –

With Blue – uncertain stumbling Buzz –
Between the light – and me –
And then the Windows failed – and then
I could not see to see –

My third death was temporarily proclaimed to the world on facebook (note that this has to be in lower case). A very good model and friend of mine seemed to ignore my emails and phone calls. Finally I killed myself and had Rosemary tell her of my terrible and unexpected death. She answered with a very sweet letter of condolence and announced on facebook the death of a very good Vancouver photographer (I was sadly disappointed. I thought I was at least the best).

A week later my friend's boyfriend sent an email apologizing to Rosemary if I were indeed dead. But he pointed out that someone was still writing daily blogs and he only wondered if I was still alive. If this was the case he would keep it to himself and not tell his girlfriend.

She was a bit angry to learn of my resurrection but in the end she not only forgave me but she even posed for me and I took some terrific portraits.

I can only now write here a wonderful transformation in my life that came after I realized why my photographic colleague rents photo equipment and is living life as normal. He is living with hope, one day at a time. I now see the wisdom of Rosemary’s rhododendron purchase and Wenzel’s cedar fence and German battleships. My garden will be good for at least this spring. If I live life the way it should be lived, it does not matter how many more springs may be in my future or not. Should my arthritis get worse I can always have a carpenter build me a ramp…

For There Is No Friend Like A Sister
Sunday, November 11, 2012

Thoenn & Yeva Glover

 My world ever since I can remember has been divided between what I think I know and what I know I will never understand.

My mother often told me, “Alex, you will never understand because you will never be a mother.” Ever since, I have been jokingly fighting for the elimination of Mother’s Day which is a gender specific holiday. There is no room for it in our 21st century, a century of caution, banality and of that 11th Commandment pioneered by us Canadians, “You must not offend anyone.”

As an only child I would watch brothers and sisters with puzzlement and sometimes with longing. On the other hand, I thought, it must be terrible to have to share one’s toys.

My only-child-syndrome was suddenly put to a test when my mother confessed to me that I had had a red haired sister, Vicky (Victoria) who had been born dead. I felt, without knowing there was such a feeling, like I had lost a limb that in someway was still there.

A definitive moment in my life when I at last knew something I knew happened in calculus when I figured out (independently of Newton and of Leibniz) how to calculate the volume of a cone. In one method I took an infinitesimally thin coined shape sliver and moved it from the base of the cone, up to the apex. In the other I swirled around a sliver of a triangle about the base and center of the cone. The formula, the formula for the volume of a cone, which until then had been a memorized combination of letters and gibberish numbers, suddenly was a fact that was entirely in my head.

But of sisters I will never know and I wonder if either Newton or Leibniz had sisters and if they ever wondered how they communicated with a glance and how they seem to have a comfortable knowledge of each other’s bodies.

I can only imagine what it must be like to be sisters who happen to be sisters that dance. Like Thoenn (she is the younger one) and Yeva (the older one) Glover. I have seen only the former dance and I can attest to her power, strength, grace and elegant class. I must see the two dance soon (at Dances for the Small Stage). It will confirm that even though I will never know about them and what it is like to be sisters together but separate, that the bond that exists is one that is more special simply because I will never be able to swerve that triangle around to compute the volume of a cone and know any more than just that.

Goblin Market
Christina Rosetti

Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpecked cherries-
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries--
All ripe together
In summer weather--
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy;
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye,
Come buy, come buy."

Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bowed her head to hear,
Lizzie veiled her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger-tips.
"Lie close," Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?"
"Come buy," call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.
"O! cried Lizzie, Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men."
Lizzie covered up her eyes
Covered close lest they should look;
Laura reared her glossy head,
And whispered like the restless brook:
"Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds' weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes."
"No," said Lizzie, "no, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us."
She thrust a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man.
One had a cat's face,
One whisked a tail,
One tramped at a rat's pace,
One crawled like a snail,
One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry-scurry.
Lizzie heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather.

Laura stretched her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
Like a lily from the beck,
Like a moonlit poplar branch,
Like a vessel at the launch
When its last restraint is gone.

Backwards up the mossy glen
Turned and trooped the goblin men,
With their shrill repeated cry,
"Come buy, come buy."
When they reached where Laura was
They stood stock still upon the moss,
Leering at each other,
Brother with queer brother;
Signalling each other,
Brother with sly brother.
One set his basket down,
One reared his plate;
One began to weave a crown
Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
(Men sell not such in any town);
One heaved the golden weight
Of dish and fruit to offer her:
"Come buy, come buy," was still their cry.
Laura stared but did not stir,
Longed but had no money:
The whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste
In tones as smooth as honey,
The cat-faced purr'd,
The rat-paced spoke a word
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
One parrot-voiced and jolly
Cried "Pretty Goblin" still for "Pretty Polly";
One whistled like a bird.

But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
"Good folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather."
"You have much gold upon your head,"
They answered altogether:
"Buy from us with a golden curl."
She clipped a precious golden lock,
She dropped a tear more rare than pearl,
Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flowed that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She sucked and sucked and sucked the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore,
She sucked until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away,
But gathered up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turned home alone.

Lizzie met her at the gate
Full of wise upbraidings:
"Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
How she met them in the moonlight,
Took their gifts both choice and many,
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
Plucked from bowers
Where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the moonlight
She pined and pined away;
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago
That never blow.
You should not loiter so."
"Nay hush," said Laura.
"Nay hush, my sister:
I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still;
To-morrow night I will
Buy more," and kissed her.
"Have done with sorrow;
I'll bring you plums to-morrow
Fresh on their mother twigs,
Cherries worth getting;
You cannot think what figs
My teeth have met in,
What melons, icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Too huge for me to hold,
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead
Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink,
With lilies at the brink,
And sugar-sweet their sap."

Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other's wings,
They lay down, in their curtained bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fallen snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipped with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars beamed in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering owls forbore to fly,
Not a bat flapped to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Locked together in one nest.

Early in the morning
When the first cock crowed his warning,
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura rose with Lizzie:
Fetched in honey, milked the cows,
Aired and set to rights the house,
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
Next churned butter, whipped up cream,
Fed their poultry, sat and sewed;
Talked as modest maidens should
Lizzie with an open heart,
Laura in an absent dream,
One content, one sick in part;
One warbling for the mere bright day's delight,
One longing for the night.

At length slow evening came--
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep
Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags,
Then turning homeward said: "The sunset flushes
Those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags,
No wilful squirrel wags,
The beasts and birds are fast asleep."
But Laura loitered still among the rushes
And said the bank was steep.

And said the hour was early still,
The dew not fallen, the wind not chill:
Listening ever, but not catching
The customary cry,
"Come buy, come buy,"
With its iterated jingle
Of sugar-baited words:
Not for all her watching
Once discerning even one goblin
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
Let alone the herds
That used to tramp along the glen,
In groups or single,
Of brisk fruit-merchant men.

Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come,
I hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look:
You should not loiter longer at this brook:
Come with me home.
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
Each glow-worm winks her spark,
Let us get home before the night grows dark;
For clouds may gather even
Though this is summer weather,
Put out the lights and drench us through;
Then if we lost our way what should we do?"

Laura turned cold as stone
To find her sister heard that cry alone,
That goblin cry,
"Come buy our fruits, come buy."
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
Must she no more such succous pasture find,
Gone deaf and blind?
Her tree of life drooped from the root:
She said not one word in her heart's sore ache;
But peering thro' the dimness, naught discerning,
Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
So crept to bed, and lay
Silent 'til Lizzie slept;
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And gnashed her teeth for balked desire, and wept
As if her heart would break.

Day after day, night after night,
Laura kept watch in vain,
In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
She never caught again the goblin cry:
"Come buy, come buy,"
She never spied the goblin men
Hawking their fruits along the glen:
But when the noon waxed bright
Her hair grew thin and gray;
She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To swift decay, and burn
Her fire away.

One day remembering her kernel-stone
She set it by a wall that faced the south;
Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root,
Watched for a waxing shoot,
But there came none;
It never saw the sun,
It never felt the trickling moisture run:
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
She dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees
False waves in desert drouth
With shade of leaf-crowned trees,
And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.

She no more swept the house,
Tended the fowls or cows,
Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
Brought water from the brook:
But sat down listless in the chimney-nook
And would not eat.

Tender Lizzie could not bear
To watch her sister's cankerous care,
Yet not to share.
She night and morning
Caught the goblins' cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy."
Beside the brook, along the glen
She heard the tramp of goblin men,
The voice and stir
Poor Laura could not hear;
Longed to buy fruit to comfort her,
But feared to pay too dear,

She thought of Jeanie in her grave,
Who should have been a bride;
But who for joys brides hope to have
Fell sick and died
In her gay prime,
In earliest winter-time,
With the first glazing rime,
With the first snow-fall of crisp winter-time.

Till Laura, dwindling,
Seemed knocking at Death's door:
Then Lizzie weighed no more
Better and worse,
But put a silver penny in her purse,
Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze
At twilight, halted by the brook,
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look.

Laughed every goblin
When they spied her peeping:

Came towards her hobbling,
Flying, running, leaping,
Puffing and blowing,
Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
Clucking and gobbling,
Mopping and mowing,
Full of airs and graces,
Pulling wry faces,
Demure grimaces,
Cat-like and rat-like,
Ratel and wombat-like,
Snail-paced in a hurry,
Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry,
Chattering like magpies,
Fluttering like pigeons,
Gliding like fishes, --
Hugged her and kissed her;
Squeezed and caressed her;
Stretched up their dishes,
Panniers and plates:
"Look at our apples
Russet and dun,
Bob at our cherries
Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,
Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun,
Plums on their twigs;
Pluck them and suck them,
Pomegranates, figs."

"Good folk," said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie,
"Give me much and many"; --
Held out her apron,
Tossed them her penny.
"Nay, take a seat with us,
Honor and eat with us,"
They answered grinning;
"Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly,
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these
No man can carry;
Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavor would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us."
"Thank you," said Lizzie; "but one waits
At home alone for me:
So, without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I tossed you for a fee."
They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One called her proud,
Cross-grained, uncivil;
Their tones waxed loud,
Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbowed and jostled her,
Clawed with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,
Twitched her hair out by the roots,
Stamped upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeezed their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.

White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood,
Like a rock of blue-veined stone
Lashed by tides obstreperously, --
Like a beacon left alone
In a hoary roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire, --
Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee, --
Like a royal virgin town
Topped with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguered by a fleet
Mad to tear her standard down.

One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuffed and caught her,
Coaxed and fought her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,
Kicked and knocked her,
Mauled and mocked her,
Lizzie uttered not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in;
But laughed in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syruped all her face,
And lodged in dimples of her chin,
And streaked her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot.
Some writhed into the ground,
Some dived into the brook
With ring and ripple.
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanished in the distance.

In a smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie went her way;
Knew not was it night or day;
Sprang up the bank, tore through the furze,
Threaded copse and dingle,
And heard her penny jingle
Bouncing in her purse, --
Its bounce was music to her ear.
She ran and ran
As if she feared some goblin man
Dogged her with gibe or curse
Or something worse:
But not one goblin skurried after,
Nor was she pricked by fear;
The kind heart made her windy-paced
That urged her home quite out of breath with haste
And inward laughter.

She cried "Laura," up the garden,
"Did you miss me ?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeezed from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me:
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men."

Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air,
Clutched her hair:
"Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden?
Must your light like mine be hidden,
Your young life like mine be wasted,
Undone in mine undoing,
And ruined in my ruin;
Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?"
She clung about her sister,
Kissed and kissed and kissed her:
Tears once again
Refreshed her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth.

Her lips began to scorch,
That juice was wormwood to her tongue,
She loathed the feast:
Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung,
Rent all her robe, and wrung
Her hands in lamentable haste,
And beat her breast.
Her locks streamed like the torch
Borne by a racer at full speed,
Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
Or like an eagle when she stems the light
Straight toward the sun,
Or like a caged thing freed,
Or like a flying flag when armies run.

Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked at her heart,
Met the fire smouldering there
And overbore its lesser flame,
She gorged on bitterness without a name:
Ah! fool, to choose such part
Of soul-consuming care!
Sense failed in the mortal strife:
Like the watch-tower of a town
Which an earthquake shatters down,
Like a lightning-stricken mast,
Like a wind-uprooted tree
Spun about,
Like a foam-topped water-spout
Cast down headlong in the sea,
She fell at last;
Pleasure past and anguish past,
Is it death or is it life ?

Life out of death.
That night long Lizzie watched by her,
Counted her pulse's flagging stir,
Felt for her breath,
Held water to her lips, and cooled her face
With tears and fanning leaves:
But when the first birds chirped about their eaves,
And early reapers plodded to the place
Of golden sheaves,
And dew-wet grass
Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass,
And new buds with new day
Opened of cup-like lilies on the stream,
Laura awoke as from a dream,
Laughed in the innocent old way,
Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice;
Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of gray,
Her breath was sweet as May,
And light danced in her eyes.

Days, weeks, months,years
Afterwards, when both were wives
With children of their own;
Their mother-hearts beset with fears,
Their lives bound up in tender lives;
Laura would call the little ones
And tell them of her early prime,
Those pleasant days long gone
Of not-returning time:
Would talk about the haunted glen,
The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,
Their fruits like honey to the throat,
But poison in the blood;
(Men sell not such in any town;)
Would tell them how her sister stood
In deadly peril to do her good,
And win the fiery antidote:
Then joining hands to little hands
Would bid them cling together,
"For there is no friend like a sister,
In calm or stormy weather,
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands."


Previous Posts
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Salmon & Susan Musgrave's Pheromones

A Blast With Photographer Hans Sipma

Stephen Reid - March 13, 1950 – June 12, 2018

Remembering My Father

Cordelia Pentland - In Pirouette to blanch a Troup...

A Desert Fox in My Garden

Ah Little Rose – how easy For such as thee to die...

The Little Prince & The Arts Umbrella Dance Compan...

Lynn Sheppard, Zack Preece & Cordelia Pentland - 3...

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11/13/11 - 11/20/11

11/20/11 - 11/27/11

11/27/11 - 12/4/11

12/4/11 - 12/11/11

12/11/11 - 12/18/11

12/18/11 - 12/25/11

12/25/11 - 1/1/12

1/1/12 - 1/8/12

1/8/12 - 1/15/12

1/15/12 - 1/22/12

1/22/12 - 1/29/12

1/29/12 - 2/5/12

2/5/12 - 2/12/12

2/12/12 - 2/19/12

2/19/12 - 2/26/12

2/26/12 - 3/4/12

3/4/12 - 3/11/12

3/11/12 - 3/18/12

3/18/12 - 3/25/12

3/25/12 - 4/1/12

4/1/12 - 4/8/12

4/8/12 - 4/15/12

4/15/12 - 4/22/12

4/22/12 - 4/29/12

4/29/12 - 5/6/12

5/6/12 - 5/13/12

5/13/12 - 5/20/12

5/20/12 - 5/27/12

5/27/12 - 6/3/12

6/3/12 - 6/10/12

6/10/12 - 6/17/12

6/17/12 - 6/24/12

6/24/12 - 7/1/12

7/1/12 - 7/8/12

7/8/12 - 7/15/12

7/15/12 - 7/22/12

7/22/12 - 7/29/12

7/29/12 - 8/5/12

8/5/12 - 8/12/12

8/12/12 - 8/19/12

8/19/12 - 8/26/12

8/26/12 - 9/2/12

9/2/12 - 9/9/12

9/9/12 - 9/16/12

9/16/12 - 9/23/12

9/23/12 - 9/30/12

9/30/12 - 10/7/12

10/7/12 - 10/14/12

10/14/12 - 10/21/12

10/21/12 - 10/28/12

10/28/12 - 11/4/12

11/4/12 - 11/11/12

11/11/12 - 11/18/12

11/18/12 - 11/25/12

11/25/12 - 12/2/12

12/2/12 - 12/9/12

12/9/12 - 12/16/12

12/16/12 - 12/23/12

12/23/12 - 12/30/12

12/30/12 - 1/6/13

1/6/13 - 1/13/13

1/13/13 - 1/20/13

1/20/13 - 1/27/13

1/27/13 - 2/3/13

2/3/13 - 2/10/13

2/10/13 - 2/17/13

2/17/13 - 2/24/13

2/24/13 - 3/3/13

3/3/13 - 3/10/13

3/10/13 - 3/17/13

3/17/13 - 3/24/13

3/24/13 - 3/31/13

3/31/13 - 4/7/13

4/7/13 - 4/14/13

4/14/13 - 4/21/13

4/21/13 - 4/28/13

4/28/13 - 5/5/13

5/5/13 - 5/12/13

5/12/13 - 5/19/13

5/19/13 - 5/26/13

5/26/13 - 6/2/13

6/2/13 - 6/9/13

6/9/13 - 6/16/13

6/16/13 - 6/23/13

6/23/13 - 6/30/13

6/30/13 - 7/7/13

7/7/13 - 7/14/13

7/14/13 - 7/21/13

7/21/13 - 7/28/13

7/28/13 - 8/4/13

8/4/13 - 8/11/13

8/11/13 - 8/18/13

8/18/13 - 8/25/13

8/25/13 - 9/1/13

9/1/13 - 9/8/13

9/8/13 - 9/15/13

9/15/13 - 9/22/13

9/22/13 - 9/29/13

9/29/13 - 10/6/13

10/6/13 - 10/13/13

10/13/13 - 10/20/13

10/20/13 - 10/27/13

10/27/13 - 11/3/13

11/3/13 - 11/10/13

11/10/13 - 11/17/13

11/17/13 - 11/24/13

11/24/13 - 12/1/13

12/1/13 - 12/8/13

12/8/13 - 12/15/13

12/15/13 - 12/22/13

12/22/13 - 12/29/13

12/29/13 - 1/5/14

1/5/14 - 1/12/14

1/12/14 - 1/19/14

1/19/14 - 1/26/14

1/26/14 - 2/2/14

2/2/14 - 2/9/14

2/9/14 - 2/16/14

2/16/14 - 2/23/14

2/23/14 - 3/2/14

3/2/14 - 3/9/14

3/9/14 - 3/16/14

3/16/14 - 3/23/14

3/23/14 - 3/30/14

3/30/14 - 4/6/14

4/6/14 - 4/13/14

4/13/14 - 4/20/14

4/20/14 - 4/27/14

4/27/14 - 5/4/14

5/4/14 - 5/11/14

5/11/14 - 5/18/14

5/18/14 - 5/25/14

5/25/14 - 6/1/14

6/1/14 - 6/8/14

6/8/14 - 6/15/14

6/15/14 - 6/22/14

6/22/14 - 6/29/14

6/29/14 - 7/6/14

7/6/14 - 7/13/14

7/13/14 - 7/20/14

7/20/14 - 7/27/14

7/27/14 - 8/3/14

8/3/14 - 8/10/14

8/10/14 - 8/17/14

8/17/14 - 8/24/14

8/24/14 - 8/31/14

8/31/14 - 9/7/14

9/7/14 - 9/14/14

9/14/14 - 9/21/14

9/21/14 - 9/28/14

9/28/14 - 10/5/14

10/5/14 - 10/12/14

10/12/14 - 10/19/14

10/19/14 - 10/26/14

10/26/14 - 11/2/14

11/2/14 - 11/9/14

11/9/14 - 11/16/14

11/16/14 - 11/23/14

11/23/14 - 11/30/14

11/30/14 - 12/7/14

12/7/14 - 12/14/14

12/14/14 - 12/21/14

12/21/14 - 12/28/14

12/28/14 - 1/4/15

1/4/15 - 1/11/15

1/11/15 - 1/18/15

1/18/15 - 1/25/15

1/25/15 - 2/1/15

2/1/15 - 2/8/15

2/8/15 - 2/15/15

2/15/15 - 2/22/15

2/22/15 - 3/1/15

3/1/15 - 3/8/15

3/8/15 - 3/15/15

3/15/15 - 3/22/15

3/22/15 - 3/29/15

3/29/15 - 4/5/15

4/5/15 - 4/12/15

4/12/15 - 4/19/15

4/19/15 - 4/26/15

4/26/15 - 5/3/15

5/3/15 - 5/10/15

5/10/15 - 5/17/15

5/17/15 - 5/24/15

5/24/15 - 5/31/15

5/31/15 - 6/7/15

6/7/15 - 6/14/15

6/14/15 - 6/21/15

6/21/15 - 6/28/15

6/28/15 - 7/5/15

7/5/15 - 7/12/15

7/12/15 - 7/19/15

7/19/15 - 7/26/15

7/26/15 - 8/2/15

8/2/15 - 8/9/15

8/9/15 - 8/16/15

8/16/15 - 8/23/15

8/23/15 - 8/30/15

8/30/15 - 9/6/15

9/6/15 - 9/13/15

9/13/15 - 9/20/15

9/20/15 - 9/27/15

9/27/15 - 10/4/15

10/4/15 - 10/11/15

10/18/15 - 10/25/15

10/25/15 - 11/1/15

11/1/15 - 11/8/15

11/8/15 - 11/15/15

11/15/15 - 11/22/15

11/22/15 - 11/29/15

11/29/15 - 12/6/15

12/6/15 - 12/13/15

12/13/15 - 12/20/15

12/20/15 - 12/27/15

12/27/15 - 1/3/16

1/3/16 - 1/10/16

1/10/16 - 1/17/16

1/31/16 - 2/7/16

2/7/16 - 2/14/16

2/14/16 - 2/21/16

2/21/16 - 2/28/16

2/28/16 - 3/6/16

3/6/16 - 3/13/16

3/13/16 - 3/20/16

3/20/16 - 3/27/16

3/27/16 - 4/3/16

4/3/16 - 4/10/16

4/10/16 - 4/17/16

4/17/16 - 4/24/16

4/24/16 - 5/1/16

5/1/16 - 5/8/16

5/8/16 - 5/15/16

5/15/16 - 5/22/16

5/22/16 - 5/29/16

5/29/16 - 6/5/16

6/5/16 - 6/12/16

6/12/16 - 6/19/16

6/19/16 - 6/26/16

6/26/16 - 7/3/16

7/3/16 - 7/10/16

7/10/16 - 7/17/16

7/17/16 - 7/24/16

7/24/16 - 7/31/16

7/31/16 - 8/7/16

8/7/16 - 8/14/16

8/14/16 - 8/21/16

8/21/16 - 8/28/16

8/28/16 - 9/4/16

9/4/16 - 9/11/16

9/11/16 - 9/18/16

9/18/16 - 9/25/16

9/25/16 - 10/2/16

10/2/16 - 10/9/16

10/9/16 - 10/16/16

10/16/16 - 10/23/16

10/23/16 - 10/30/16

10/30/16 - 11/6/16

11/6/16 - 11/13/16

11/13/16 - 11/20/16

11/20/16 - 11/27/16

11/27/16 - 12/4/16

12/4/16 - 12/11/16

12/11/16 - 12/18/16

12/18/16 - 12/25/16

12/25/16 - 1/1/17

1/1/17 - 1/8/17

1/8/17 - 1/15/17

1/15/17 - 1/22/17

1/22/17 - 1/29/17

1/29/17 - 2/5/17

2/5/17 - 2/12/17

2/12/17 - 2/19/17

2/19/17 - 2/26/17

2/26/17 - 3/5/17

3/5/17 - 3/12/17

3/12/17 - 3/19/17

3/19/17 - 3/26/17

3/26/17 - 4/2/17

4/2/17 - 4/9/17

4/9/17 - 4/16/17

4/16/17 - 4/23/17

4/23/17 - 4/30/17

4/30/17 - 5/7/17

5/7/17 - 5/14/17

5/14/17 - 5/21/17

5/21/17 - 5/28/17

5/28/17 - 6/4/17

6/4/17 - 6/11/17

6/11/17 - 6/18/17

6/18/17 - 6/25/17

6/25/17 - 7/2/17

7/2/17 - 7/9/17

7/9/17 - 7/16/17

7/16/17 - 7/23/17

7/23/17 - 7/30/17

7/30/17 - 8/6/17

8/6/17 - 8/13/17

8/13/17 - 8/20/17

8/20/17 - 8/27/17

8/27/17 - 9/3/17

9/3/17 - 9/10/17

9/10/17 - 9/17/17

9/17/17 - 9/24/17

9/24/17 - 10/1/17

10/1/17 - 10/8/17

10/8/17 - 10/15/17

10/15/17 - 10/22/17

10/22/17 - 10/29/17

10/29/17 - 11/5/17

11/5/17 - 11/12/17

11/12/17 - 11/19/17

11/19/17 - 11/26/17

11/26/17 - 12/3/17

12/3/17 - 12/10/17

12/10/17 - 12/17/17

12/17/17 - 12/24/17

12/24/17 - 12/31/17

12/31/17 - 1/7/18

1/7/18 - 1/14/18

1/14/18 - 1/21/18

1/21/18 - 1/28/18

1/28/18 - 2/4/18

2/4/18 - 2/11/18

2/11/18 - 2/18/18

2/18/18 - 2/25/18

2/25/18 - 3/4/18

3/4/18 - 3/11/18

3/11/18 - 3/18/18

3/18/18 - 3/25/18

3/25/18 - 4/1/18

4/1/18 - 4/8/18

4/8/18 - 4/15/18

4/15/18 - 4/22/18

4/22/18 - 4/29/18

4/29/18 - 5/6/18

5/6/18 - 5/13/18

5/13/18 - 5/20/18

5/20/18 - 5/27/18

5/27/18 - 6/3/18

6/3/18 - 6/10/18

6/10/18 - 6/17/18

6/17/18 - 6/24/18