Liza Gyllenhaal — a writer in the garden

I wanted you to know that a book I’ve been working on for many years, my first work of creative nonfiction, is about to be published.  Written under my married name Liza Bennett, Georgia & Anita tells the little-known story of the enduring friendship between Georgia O’Keeffe, America’s first great woman artist, and Anita Pollitzer, a charismatic leader of the suffragist movement.

Here’s a link to the website for the book that gives some background to the story, along with photos and paintings that, due to printing costs, I wasn’t able to include in the book: https://www.georgiaandanita.com

I’ll be doing an event on Wednesday, May 7th at 6 p.m. with Ellen Feldman, the author of many acclaimed historical novels, at the New York Society Library to launch the book. If you’re in the city, it would be great if you could be there, though you can also attend remotely. Here’s a link with more information and to register: https://www.nysoclib.org/events/liza-bennett-georgia-anita-friendship-georgia-okeeffe-anita-pollitzer-ellen-feldman

There will be books for sale at the event.

I’ll be doing other events in the Berkshires in Massachusetts over the course of the summer, details to follow.

Though it’s officially astronomical spring in the Northern Hemisphere, winter isn’t budging in the Berkshires. It snowed again last night. Just a light dusting, but enough to make it clear that it’s a little too early in the game to start counting our spring chickens. Desperate for a little color, we stopped by the Berkshire Botanical Garden’s Bulb Show. The air was warm and fragrant and dense with an almost equatorial humidity. Though not large, the Fitzpatrick greenhouse was packed with enough tulips, daffodils, jonquils, grape hyacinths, and forest lilies to overwhelm the winter-deprived senses. On a dull cold windy day, we were magically transported to the height of spring’s full, riotous bloom. Here’s a poem on the subject by A. E. Stallings, who uses poetic form with such wit and dexterity.

Tulips

by A. E. Stallings

The tulips make me want to paint,
Something about the way they drop
Their petals on the tabletop
And do not wilt so much as faint,

Something about their burnt-out hearts,
Something about their pallid stems
Wearing decay like diadems,
Parading finishes like starts,

Something about the way they twist
As if to catch the last applause,
And drink the moment through long straws,
And how, tomorrow, they’ll be missed.

The way they’re somehow getting clearer,
The tulips make me want to see—
The tulips make the other me
(The backwards one who’s in the mirror,

The one who can’t tell left from right),
Glance now over the wrong shoulder
To watch them get a little older
And give themselves up to the light.

The snows have been arriving in waves, long rolling breakers of foam, blurring the line between earth and sky. White beasts lumber across the garden where a row of bushes had been. Trees sway and tinkle under their weight of crystal chandeliers. The forecast calls for high winds that will bring down branches and knock out power. But there’s something exhilarating about being snowbound — stranded in uncharted territory that’s both beautiful and terrifying. Waking up the other morning to a landscape magically transformed, I thought of this poem by the prolific and versatile American poet William Jay Smith whom I was privileged to meet in his later years.

Winter Morning

by William Jay Smith

All night the wind swept over the house
And through our dream
Swirling the snow up through the pines,
Ruffling the white, ice-capped clapboards,
Rattling the windows,
Rustling around and below our bed
So that we rode
Over wild water
In a white ship breasting the waves.
We rode through the night
On green, marbled
Water, and, half-waking, watched
The white, eroded peaks of icebergs
Sail past our windows;
Rode out the night in that north country,
And awoke, the house buried in snow,
Perched on a
Chill promontory, a
Giant’s tooth
In the mouth of the cold valley,
Its white tongue looped frozen around us,
The trunks of tall birches
Revealing the rib cage of a whale
Stranded by a still stream;
And saw, through the motionless baleen of their branches,
As if through time,
Light that shone
On a landscape of ivory,
A harbor of bone.

For the first time in several years, we’ve been waking up to sub-zero temperatures. It’s the kind of cold that can’t really be measured by windchill factors. Biting and mean, it feels more like some kind of outsized mythic creature– the Abominable Snowman, perhaps – marauding across the landscape, freezing locks and playing havoc with your tire pressure sensor.  It’s the kind of cold that can only be compared to the deep, snow-bound winters of childhood when, insisting on wearing your thin Christmas mittens to a sledding party, you walked home sobbing because you’d lost all feeling in your fingers.

In this poem about his childhood, the 20^th-Century American poet Robert Hayden calls the predawn cold “blueblack,” which seems exactly right – as is everything else in these 14 beautiful lines of love and regret.

Those Winter Sundays

by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

Ben Garver, Berkshire Eagle

We hadn’t had a good rain in weeks.  A drought was declared.  Then a severe drought, along with a burn ban. The long lovely stretch of mild weather turned ominous. Leaves rustled in the underbrush, and then were swept up in a frenzied dance by Continue reading →

Photo: Gilles Gonthier

They entertained us all summer long, chasing each other around the garden in dizzying circles.  Their high-pitched chatter drove our cat mad, taunting him as they raced back and forth outside the screen porch before Continue reading →

The Sweet Autumn clematis that festooned the trellis with small glossy leaves all summer has burst into blossom. Swarmed by bees, its tiny, star-like flowers give off a heady aroma of vanilla and clove. In another few weeks, these flowers will morph into clouds of fluffy silver seed heads. The mint and basil in the herb garden have already bolted, sending up soft Continue reading →

There’s something a little fussy and old-fashioned about phlox. The flowers, arranged like over-sized five-leaf clovers, mass into airy clusters that give off a sweet, slightly musty aroma. My phlox paniculata were already well-entrenched in our long border when we bought our place almost thirty years ago, though I didn’t pay much attention to them at the time. I still don’t for most of the summer. With the peonies and lilies in riotous blossom, it’s easy to overlook the lanky plants standing quietly in the back of the border. Until, usually around mid-July, I Continue reading →

What took me so long?  It wasn’t until early this spring that I tasted my first watermelon radish, though I imagine they’ve been around forever. Rough and earthy on the outside, inside they’re a shock of gleaming dark red. Not always solid red, but riffs on the color: rings or spirals or sprinkles of red, swirled against a field of crisp white. It’s no surprise that radishes belong to the mustard family. Though full of nutritional and Continue reading →

A few weeks ago, I noticed something strange at the bottom of our frog pond: what appeared to be two dark fish, swimming in circles. They looked like carp, each about 8 inches long. But how did they get there? Our pond is small, self-contained, and pump fed.  Could a passing bird have dropped them in?  I once saw a crane stalking around the area, but it seemed to be looking for fish, not disposing of them. As the days passed and the two fish kept circulating, I noticed the frog population seemed to be thinning out. I’ve grown to love our frogs, and I couldn’t help but worry: could the carp be eating them? “Carp have a tendency to eat almost anything,” the internet informed me, “bottom matter or even minnows, crawfish and frogs.” Continue reading →

This is the time of year when meadows in the Berkshires take on an almost otherworldly beauty. Clover, wild carrot, violets, forget-me-nots  –- overnight, drifts of wildflowers have spread across field after field. Banks of blue and white wild phlox glow along roadways and at the edge of the woods.  In the deeper shade, columbine, jack-in-the-pulpit, and Indian pipes — complex, curious-looking shapes — have sprung up out of Continue reading →

Up close, they look like loosely scattered pearls or bubbles popping in a glass of champagne. Take a few steps back, and they resemble clusters of far-off galaxies, glistening in the dark. I came upon them the other morning on the northwest corner of our frog pond, right where our Field Guide to the Animals of Vernal Pools said that wood frogs prefer to lay their eggs.  Look closely at the photograph and you’ll see tiny dark brown tadpoles, grazing on the Continue reading →

Photo: Diginatur, CC BY-SA 3.0

The gouges on our garage door were deep and angry, ripping into the old wood, leaving splinters scattered across the breezeway. Our porch, too, had been attacked, the screens sliced diagonally, the cuts clean as a razor — or a bear claw. A very hungry black bear, it turned out, roused too early from its somnolence by this year’s weirdly warm winter weather.

Black bears are a regular feature of life in the Berkshires. Harmless for the most part, sometimes even comical.  One summer, several years back, we had one break into our garage, pull out a full bag of bird seed, and proceed to sit under the trees Continue reading →