Fleur-de-Keith

You can take the girl out of Kutztown, but you can’t take Kutztown out of the girl.

Nor would I want to.

My daughter Marina has been exploring the world since her graduation from Kutztown Area High School in 2008. This past Christmas she came upon an idea to share a part of Kutztown with her Belgian family.  She made arrangements to take them to the Keith Haring exhibit at the BOZAR/Centre for Fine Arts, Brussels.

Last weekend was Family Weekend so off they went. Marina and Koen, Koen’s twin Sven, his wife Fleur and their two daughters Milena and Filippa, Maria (Marina’s mother-in-law) and her partner Jos (who took the photo), Lais (Richard’s daughter) and her mother Sabine.

The adults knew of Keith Haring, his cartoon-like dancing figures, crawling babies and barking dogs. Haring created large murals in The Netherlands and Belgium, even painting his graphics on the cafeteria walls in Antwerp’s Museum of Contemporary Art.  They knew he died too young, at age 31, of AIDS-related illness.

“The public has a right to art … Art is for everybody.”  K.H.

The exhibit was crowded, and Marina only saw one mention of Keith growing up in “conservative Kutztown.” She knew a lot about his artwork, that the New York City subway became his studio and urban buildings, giant canvases. But at the BOZAR she learned of his activism—protesting nuclear weapons, racism, drug abuse, and even painting a mural on the western side of the Berlin Wall, three years before it fell.

Activities during the Family Weekend included inventing art-inspired dances, creating characters, drawing on giant chalkboards and writing messages to the world, which enthralled “the girls,” Marina’s three nieces.

Marina’s Belgian family didn’t realize Keith died in 1990, the year Marina was born and seven years before we moved to Kutztown. But now they know that you couldn’t live in a close-knit community like Kutztown without “knowing” Keith Haring.

“Children know something that most people have forgotten.”  K.H.

Keith’s parents, Al and Joan, live down the road from our old place at the intersection of Eagle Point and Hottenstein roads. Al drafted me to help with the vegetable and scarecrow contests at the Kutztown Fair.  Keith’s uncle was Marina’s English teacher and Keith’s niece was Richard’s classmate.

There is a fire-engine red Keith Haring steel sculpture in Kutztown Park not far from the Little League field.  In the Kutztown Middle School all-purpose room, a mural of red, blue and green figures romping across a bright yellow background, “In the spirit of Keith Haring.” When Richard went to Brazil as a Rotary Exchange student, Al gave him a bag of pin-back buttons printed with vivid barking dogs and dancing figures to share with his hosts, “In the spirit of Keith Haring”. Keith Haring’s legacy and the Haring family network is one of the joys of raising a family in Kutztown. Laurie Lynch

The Charm of Coincidence:  Over the years I’ve emailed Al Haring photos of Keith’s images wherever I find them— Brussels, Venice, even a copycat in Ghent. And so, this week, I emailed the Belgian family photo.

Al opened my email while at the quarterly meeting of the Keith Haring Foundation in NYC.  Needless to say, the timing was perfect, and the Brussels-Kutztown connection was passed around the boardroom table.  The KH Foundation was established a year before Keith’s death to provide funding and imagery to AIDS organizations and children’s programs.

Going to Brussels?  The Keith Haring exhibit at the BOZAR continues through April 19. The major retrospective was organized by Tate Liverpool in collaboration with BOZAR and Museum Folkwang, Essen, Germany.

Written on Slate:  “Drawing is still basically the same as it has been since prehistoric times.  It brings together man and the world.  It lives through magic.” –Keith Haring

 

 

 

 

 

Fleur-de-02/02/2020

The year’s palindrome 02/02/2020 started with baking Spicy Groundhogs and echoes of Bill Murray.

The charm of the goofy holiday began with my days of working at my mother’s shop, The Country Sampler, in the 1970s.  The Sampler had racks of unusual cookie cutters, including groundhogs.  We also sold the Punxsutawney cookbook The New Gourmets & Groundhogs by Elaine Light. Come February 2, the store smelled of molasses, cinnamon, clove, and ginger when dozens and dozens of Spicy Groundhogs stood piled high for customers to sample.

Sunday, after my cookies are cooled and stored, an email arrives from my Master Gardener friend Sue.  She and her husband just returned from the Lehigh Valley MG Groundhog Day Party—and, she adds, “The groundhog was present.”

(Back in the 1990s, I was the MG coordinator for the Lehigh Valley.  We were planning a volunteer recognition potluck and I suggested a Groundhog Day theme.  I baked groundhog cookies and borrowed my dad’s old tails (tuxedo).  A top hat materialized from somewhere … shades of Gobbler’s Knob. I dressed in the get-up for the awards ceremony but all eyes were on Phil.  Rita, another MG, donated the groundhog that bedeviled her garden.  Her husband shot the critter and had it mounted as a gift for Rita, who generously donated it to our annual Groundhog Day MG celebration.)

Sue’s real reason for emailing was to tell me she read Fleur-de-Poetry. Remarkably, Barbara Crooker lives right down the road from her. They know each other from church where their kids went to youth group together. And, on Feb. 1, Sue gave a winter woodland walk at her fifth straight Women’s Weekend.  After reading my blog, Sue forwarded Fleur-de-Poetry to Barbara.

The next morning another email, this one from Lisa tagged Thinking of You.  She writes that she and her daughter looked at each other and said, “It’s Groundhog Day.  We should make some Groundhog Cookies.”  As Hottenstein Road neighbors they were frequent visitors to Fleur-de-Lys farm for eggs, etc., and ventured down on more than one Groundhog Day when I baked cookies and left them in the shop to celebrate the eventual coming of spring.

So they baked a batch. Lisa admits they don’t have a groundhog cutter but made due with a bison, donkey, cat, and heart, and figure Punxsutawney Phil will forgive them. And, she sent photos.  I don’t want to embarrass a teen-ager, so I’ll just post the photo of a plate of their pseudo-Groundhog Cookies. (Cat cookie cutters make a darn good substitute.)

I take a tin of Groundhog Cookies to the office Monday morning.  The hunter guys I work with make lots of jokes about the cookies being made from last fall’s roadkill but I can take the ribbing.

Kutztown Ken, who runs the sheet metal shop at our plant, takes a cookie and says, “I’m going to trace this before I eat it so I can make a cookie cutter.”

“Oh, don’t bother, I’ll bring the actual cutter back after lunch,” which I do.

Kutztown Ken lives in Centre County now but spends some weekends in Historic Bethlehem’s 1750 Smithy demonstrating his metalworking trade.  The bearded tinsmith also sells hammer-forged creations—and soon, perhaps, groundhog cookie cutters with his own special flare. Laurie Lynch

The Scoop:  Meanwhile, another email arrives, this one from Barbara Crooker who received the forwarded newsletter from Sue.  She thanks me for the mention and tells the backstory of the photo on her website.

It was taken in Southern California during the 2019 Super Bloom. Barbara went hiking in Walker Canyon when the mountainsides were abloom with poppies.  And that’s not all.  The reason for her trip was to attend a concert at the Walt Disney Concert Hall where a selection of her poems was set to music and performed by the Los Angeles Master Chorale Orchestra.  OMG.

Spicy Groundhogs:  The recipe is found in my Feb. 1, 2011, blog post.  Use the search box and type in Groundhog. Why wait for 2021? Make spicy Valentine’s Day cookies.

Today’s Last Groundhog Story:  Yes, I’m smitten. And I’m sure my feisty little boy will send last summer’s deck-snoozing, now-hibernating, groundhog off to the woods in search of a new burrow as soon as the snow melts. I mean, take a look at that bow tie!

 

 

 

Fleur-de-Poetry

I can’t remember the first time I heard The Writer’s Almanac but I remember the last time I read it—this morning.

The email newsletter arrives in my Inbox each morning.  It opens with a poem, then anniversaries of cultural and historical red-letter dates—such as the Venetian opera house La Fenice burning to the ground or the first woman to receive a medical degree or details about the author of Paddington Bear.  When a poem really tugs at me, I look down at the name of the author.  Lately, the name that shows is Barbara Crooker.

The first time I saw her name, I heard a soft whisper.  The second time, a little louder:  “You know Barbara Crooker.”

The voice comes from a woman who also chose to name her firstborn Marina. Perhaps I am putting words in her mouth that were never spoken, except in my mind.

This keeps happening.  Each time a Barbara Crooker poem leads The Writer’s Almanac, I read of cornbread or of the empty page craving the pen, and I’m wrapped in a cloak of familiarity.  Her subjects are so close to my heart.  The name Barbara Crooker echoes in my subconscious.

Finally, I Google her. It is “Poem with an Embedded Line by Susan Cohen” that did it. A recipe embedded in a poem of our times. I love the reference to her husband, “that sweet man,” who could live on “garlic and onions slowly turning to gold”.

I didn’t recognize her photo.  The background is definitely not Pennsylvania, stark hills painted with yellow and orange blossoms. I read more of her poems.  Hens with names like Silver and Little Red.  Fried eggs that “grow lacy around the edges.”  I know this woman; I love this woman.

I emailed her.

Did you ever live in Kutztown, PA?

Within hours, she writes back. No, she has not. But she “knows” me from the Women’s Weekend.

Well, that sent me reeling back in time.

I was invited to present a program at a Women’s Weekend, held at a camp in Kempton, I believe.  I found a copy of the handout I gave those who attended.  “Eating Through the Seasons: A Calendar of Culinary Adventures.”  It is dated Feb. 5, 2005.

So here we are, 15 years later. Barbara, who lives in the Lehigh Valley, tells me the Women’s Weekend is still going strong.

Her latest book of poems (she’s written nine!) is Some Glad Morning, where you will find “Poem with an Embedded Line by Susan Cohen”.

https://tinyurl.com/y3gf586w

I’ll be buying it as soon as my budget allows. And, I have to admit, I think it will be the first book of poetry I’ve purchased since my addiction to Rod McKuen in the 1960s and 70s. Heaven help me, I am confessing too much.

It was simple poetry for my soul when, in her email, Barbara added that she is still using some of my recipes from Women’s Weekend.  Ah, garlic and onions. Laurie Lynch

Looking Back:  The February recipe listing in “Eating Through the Seasons” includes Spicy Groundhogs (cookies) and Fleur-de-Lys Herbal Infusion with mint, rosemary and ginger. If my memory serves me, I think I brought both to Women’s Weekend to soothe my presentation jitters and share a cup of brew with a community of women.  Happy Groundhog Day, by the way.

Looking to Belgium:  I was reading about the life of Rod McKuen, and it turns out he moved to France in the 1960s, where he met Belgian singer-songwriter Jacques Brel.  McKuen is credited for translating Brel’s French songs and introducing him to the English-speaking world.  Alexa is playing a collection of Jacques Brel (in French) as I type.

Puppy Politics: Wag softly and carry a big stick.