“My (Favorite) Pillow!”

my favorite pillow –

hank of gramma’s feather bed

passed on to ‘her’ boys! *

 

*(Mom’s mother, Becky, came to America just before the turn of the century – yup, that’un, not this Y2K-come-lately, – with some pillows made from the feather bed upon which she slept after being “adopted” into relatives’ family in Vienna.  She served as cook, scullery maid, and seamstress and much else besides to earn her bread and board and those skills later served as she took her infantile paralysis-survived daughter Chaya “Sally” to the Catskills resorts at which she worked most summers as her husband Dovid “David” toiled a runway tailor in the Fashion-show mobbed-up Garment District, close to where they lived in upper Manhattan – then called Spanish Harlem.  David Feldman ben Asher Anshell sent for Rebecca bas Joseph Leib  to come marry him and with his success came the enablement of much of Becky’s Eastern European Jewish family and his own as well to come to America a generation before The Holocaust,  Stalin already had killed – starved – much if not most of his relatives in Ukraine before the solution became final for Hitler’s SS.  And, so, this Scots-Irish lad treasures that little feather pillow – and it fits where ever I tuck it and only a few escapees each year crawl their way through the barriers to say “hi!” and float away.  Next time I shall ask: “Goose or Duck?”)

“Wild Garlic Stalks”

Wild garlic stalks full,

opens to reveal its ‘cloves’

and another bulb*.

 

*(Just like its domesticated cousin, some garlic matures by throwing up a “spike” which when it flowers and unfolds reveals some seed-pod “cloves,” a miniature mirror image of the head-n-cloves arrangement just underground.  But a few of the wild kind – and I presume you can just drive out to Gilroy and check it out yourself – send up a spike atop the already-spiked arrangement of seed-cloves to eventually reveal a micro-head of garlic as well.  I use the leaves mostly for stews, soups and salads and garniture, as I have yet accumulated enough of the wild garlic sets to do other than use as a seed-source.  Now, as to the Wild Onions I have, they are slugabeds and have yet to notice the sixteen minutes we allotted for Spring since has passed and Summer climbs high on its back legs and boasts a full Nine-Zero degrees for a time.  Both the wild onions and garlics were given me by a homeless old lady of sufficient melanin content to get her called all kinds of things but I think human such a full term, whom I have known for several decades in her strolls about town trailing a rolling laundry cart (since stolen or broken, Mattie sayeth not, and now has a rolling small luggage device.  She stops by for fresh greens and onions and shares some shade and water – she’s still pissed I prefereth not pepsi, but if you gonna h ave friends you gotta make allowances for at least one major failing, no?)