This was written by an 83-year-old woman to her friend, and sent to me by e-mail from a listener. “I’m reading more and dusting less. I’m sitting in the yard and admiring the view without fussing about the weeds in the garden. I’m spending more time with my family and friends and less time working. Whenever possible life should be a pattern of experiences to savor, not to endure. I’m trying to recognize these moments now and cherish them. I’m not ’saving’ anything: we use our good china and crystal for every special event such as losing a pound, getting the sink unstopped, or the first amaryllis blossom. I wear my good blazer to the market. My theory is if I look prosperous, I can shell out $28.49 for one small bag of groceries. I’m not saving my good perfume for special parties but wearing it for clerks in the hardware store and tellers at the bank. ‘Someday’ and ‘one of these days’ are losing their grip on my vocabulary.”
We had our first fire of the season over the weekend. It just so happens that something caused a power blackout in our neighborhood and the wood-burning fireplace came in handy to keep us warm. Looking back, it’s as if I knew something was going to happen that night. I lit candles around the house while doing the dusting earlier in the day. The candles were still burning when the power went down. My wife had just finished preparing dinner as well. It was on the dining room table and the meal was just about over when the house was plunged into darkness. We didn’t have to scramble looking for a flashlight in order to use its illumination to find the candles.
This truth was included in the short story “The Mist” by Stephen King from his collection “Skeleton Crew.” It is a Signet Book published in 1985 by the New American Library. He wrote, “Candles are funny things, you know. You lay them by every spring, knowing that a summer storm may knock out the power. And when the time comes, they hide.”
I opened the glass doors of the fireplace today and realized it’s now time to clean out the cold ashes. This may have been the first fire of the season, but it certainly won’t be the last.
Watching the burning wood Saturday night, I remembered what author Jack London wrote. “I would rather be ashes than dust. I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stiffled by dry rot. I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in the magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.”
This is a poem that was sent to me through my e-mail. It was written by an unknown author. If you ever do find out who wrote it, please let me know so that I can give credit where credit is due. “Dust if you must, but wouldn’t it be better / To paint a picture or write a letter, / Bake a cake or plant a seed, / Ponder the difference between want and need? / Dust if you must, but there’s not much time, / With rivers to swim and mountains to climb! / Music to hear and books to read, / Friends to cherish, and life to lead, / Dust if you must, but the world’s out there. / A flutter of snow, a shower of rain, / This day will not come round again. / Dust if you must, but bear in mind, / Old age will come - and it’s not kind. / And when you go - and go you must - / You, yourself, will make more dust. / Remember, a house becomes a home when you can write, ‘I love you’ on the furniture…”
It was J.S. Owens who invented the first dust counter. A suction pump was devised to draw dust-laden air through a tube that was lined with wet blotting paper. This helped to moisten the air passing through the tube. Dust particles would then be able to stick to a glass plate which was then taken to a microscope to be counted. I read this in a very old encyclopedia. These are the numbers they came up with at the time. “Normal country air contains about 2,000 particles per cubic inch; city air about 115,000…”You can just imagine how those numbers for the city have increased over the years.
“There are songs that come free from the blue-eyed grass, from the dust of a thousand country roads.” An excerpt from Robert James Waller’s modern day romantic classic, “The Bridges of Madison County” published in 1992 by Warner Books. Its ISBN is 0-446-51652-X. He also wrote, “I live with dust on my heart. That’s about as well as I can put it. There were women before you, a few, but none after.”
A portion of tonight’s show is devoted to dust. Some of it comes from the archival dust. Some it was inspired by dust even more ancient. You will hear some recent findings about our origins on this planet. Dust seems to have played an important role in our being here. Researchers had to look clear across the galaxy to a black hole and a quasar for some of the answers.
We rose from the dust and to the dust we will all return. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
“She is coming, my own, my sweet; / Were it ever so airy a tread, / My heart would hear her and beat, / Were it earth in an earthly bed; / My dust would hear her and beat, / Had I lain for a century dead, / Would start and tremble under her feet, / And blossom in purple and red.” The words of Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Centuries ago, Han Wu Ti wrote this on the death of his mistress. It comes from “Chinese Poems” translated by Arthur Waley. “The sound of her silk skirt has stopped. / On the marble pavement dust grows. / Her empty room is cold and still. / Fallen leaves are piled against the door. / Longing for that lovely lady, / How can I bring my aching heart to rest…”
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Don Jackson
