Defining Unamille and Moving On

I am not, as my mother might have said, going to go into a tailspin over the totality of Unamille except to define it as in every way a paradigm for Facebook. I was talking to Chuck, my bicycle riding son, this morning when he gave me an interesting example of the workings of Unamille and how they can mimic (or supersede?) the workings of the divine.

A passenger in his cab, who was from Weiser, Idaho,  bragged that her great-grandmother claimed title to be the first white woman  to live in Idaho. Trust him not to find out a single other thing about this woman’s ancestor except that her name was Rogers. He neglected to ask because he was too anxious to brag about his own background as the great-grandson of Jim Hawley, first governor of Idaho. The woman then told him that northern Idaho was crawling with Hawleys. Now watch how the bits of Unamille join in the dance of events. Chuck’s great-grandmother lived with her mother in one of the towns of Northern Idaho. His father and I had run away to be married in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. His father had gone to school at the university in Moscow, and he had bought the best tent he had ever owned in Moscow.

He was bowing, he told me, to the wisdom of the ages. He knew what to do. He planned to head up to Idaho as soon as he had gotten over the terrible cold that was keeping him home today, and as far as I am concerned, that is the end of Unamille as a discussion, but not as  an instance of the interlocking taps by which it establishes our human experience.

So much has been going on, both in and out of the garden. Yesterday The Garden Club held its annual plant sale at Swart Wilcox, the oldest ecstant house in Oneonta. Several retired  teachers had decided that one way of continuing their involvement with the local community could easily be the long-term restoration of the Swart Wilcox house, a house without electricity or gas, that had been abandoned several years ago at the death of the last of the two surviving brothers. The gift of the Swart Wilcox house has been highly valued  by the Oneonta community. Scores of school children have visited the house and grounds and learned some of the hard facts of life here in a backwater of the new country. Now Swart Wilcox and The Oneonta Garden Club have combined their missions. Garden Club has been developing the gardens at the same time bringing visitors to tour the house and grounds, visitors who buy the overflow plants that come from members’ home gardens, and support our work of beautifying downtown Oneonta with planters and hanging baskets of geraniums. It is the kind of Saturday where people say, A good time was had by all.

Our own garden, here at home, is looking particularly beautiful this afternoon. Betsy had planned a meeting for the Education Club here today, thinking it could be outside, but it has been raining and a bit chilly to sit outdoors, so she set up the dining room table with snacks of cookies and watermelon and lemonade. Betsy is small, and slim and moves like a buzz saw. No job is too big for her as she and Jim prepared the yard for company today.  The young would be teachers at the meeting are gone now, having eaten up the watermelon, I hope, leaving me to continue filling my eyes with the spectacle of this yard on a cloudy day, the sun that has left the sky seeming to emanate from the plants. Of course there always needs to be a hint of something dark to intensify this other green experience. The perennial  poppies are about to dazzle us with their wild blossoms,  and we do see suggestive edges of red on the blossoms. They will be blooming for two or three weeks before they fold into themselves. Almost overnight they become ugly, lying listlessly around, the plants themselves gradually fading until they turn brown. Then they get busy on the root-stock. They send it spreading underground and killing other plants they collide with. It is almost too easy to see the analogy between the life of the poppy and the course of the addict as he drags on his pipe. Unamille at work

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About dorothybloom

Well, I'm a bit on the elderly side , but I'm fighting the decline with my entry into the virtual world. I've been thinking for while that my situation is worth talking a, and for this reason. There is a tension between old and new. The old are intent upon keeping their authority and the young are intent on getting it for themselves. hereThis tension is as old as the Neanderthal and many of his four-legged cousins. And I want to explore that.
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9 Responses to Defining Unamille and Moving On

  1. Lillie Anderson says:

    Dorothy, you have lost me with Unamille. What is it?

    • dorothybloom says:

      Hi Lillie,Unimille is a poetic image of totality. It came to me in a flash of intuition and I declined to use a little effort and start thinking it through. Of course on yesterday self-discipline took a vacation and luckily the chickens came along and allowed me to change the subject. I believe there is some validity in the concept and one of my sons started spouting Kant at me. I’m getting too old for this kind of thinking and need to pull back until or unless I am capable of defending a position. dorothy

  2. Alexa says:

    Maybe you should write one whole post just defining what unimille could mean. I would love to read it.

    • dorothybloom says:

      I started that first day but rtlled on until I got saved by the hickens. I am going to go with it however as it has resonated in an interesting way.Speaking of blogs you have two geat ones–the Japanese prfessor and his concerns aut the people in the area, and the an in Ohio using agriculture as an economic plus for his town.

  3. Alexa says:

    The uses of a chicken seem endless. I’m inclined to go get some, or at least go get a life that would make getting chickens a reasonable pursuit.

    Those were nice posts. I’m glad somebody read them!

    • dorothybloom says:

      go for it Alexa. I can see you now swinging your egg basket on your way to the coop, collecting your fresh brown eggs, going bak to the house (or home) and frying up a mess for Justin’s breakfast.

  4. Nancy Bloom says:

    Walt Whitman predicts Unamille:
    A NOISELESS, patient spider,
    I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
    Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
    It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
    Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them. 5

    And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
    Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
    Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,—seeking the spheres, to connect them;
    Till the bridge you will need, be form’d—till the ductile anchor hold;
    Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.

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