June 6, D-day, B-day

My mother’s brother Joseph William Thornton enlisted in the 82nd Airborne, 505th PIR (Parachute Infantry Regiment) when he was 19 years old. He jumped into Normandy on June 16, 1944, according to the Purple Heart presented to my grandparents. My mother used to talk about how Joe loved the woods of Michigan’s upper peninsula where he would go camping with his best friend, and about how he wouldn’t shoot a deer, though his buddies were hunters. She said that the song of the Mourning Dove always reminded her of Joe. Since mom connected the memory of Joe with the dove, I always think of him when I hear that soft, mournful coo, most prevalent here in early June.

Joseph W. Thornton

by Joe, November 15, 1934

44 years later, my son Ross was born on June 6th, 3 weeks ahead of his due date, his birth reinforcing that this date will never be just an average day to me! He turns 21 today, a fine young man making his way in the world!

Ross on Quilt

zzzzzzzz…….

Valentines, Giovanni and Bicycles

I am stitching towards completion on two pieces. In memory of my parents example of love, I want to share these two items. First, this picture of them.

Valentines

Then, a fabulous interview with Nikki Giovanni by Bill Moyers, which I saw last night. This will go, in the words of Van Morrison, “straight to your heart like a cannonball.”

Symmetry / This Recurring Kindness

Symmetry. Multiple dyeing and printing processes on cotton and silk; hand stitched.

My piece, Symmetry (above), followed by the poem Tera Freese wrote in response. To read more about this project see my previous post.

This Recurring Kindness by Tera Freese

Every August it happens white blaze of afternoon ripens the fruit makes even the birds fat as queens.

Here they are now twittering and thrashing in the high sweet grasses, dark wings dusted with deep gold pollens throwing confetti of fireweed days of merriment and feasting.

Even in their tiny eyes – a bright exuberant health as in something that has come ’round again to meet it’s full potential.

These are the same mourning doves that eat dark oily seed from my pale palm after the curtain of Autumn has dropped.

Yes, even when there is not this bounty, there is still enough. For that which dwells in the first hung star is there, too, in the last to fade to morning’s tide.