Two Parts of a Whole

I wrote this several weeks ago and after diddling with it, I just thought I'd like to post it as it would have been then. I could have tried to update it, but I really just didn't want to.

It all came down this morning to an envelope. The envelope was full of photos of my nephew. Yes, my nephew...mine and my husband. I have been trying for some reason to separate the two families: these are your relatives, these are mine. But life doesn't separate them, why should I compartmentalize? His funeral service is coming up soon. And the practice these days is to have something like a memory wall, full of pictures of the life of the deceased. I have been to viewings where there are even videos. I'm still not sure how I feel about that--the pictures and the videos I mean. Whose benefit are these things displayed? I know in my logical brain it serves a purpose, it helps to show the person in other circumstances--so the final thought you have of them won't be in the casket. Or it shows you what the person looked like if you are only an acquaintance of the immediate family, but a good friend of one of the lesser mourners.

I realized that in the envelope I had neglected to add the picture on the fridge. The one of his wedding. The one with his dad,my brother-in-law, and his new bride. So I dutifully scanned the image and placed the picture in with the other pictures--the ones of his birthdays, the backyard barbecues, the graduations. All those events with him smiling, laughing out loud or looking like a typical teen, bored with the family gathering. How could these events be done without him I wondered. He actually lived quite a long way away from the rest of the family, so we didn't see him much anymore. But he was part of the fabric of the two clans, spun out in threads across the US: threads in California, Florida, Ohio, New York, Pennsylvania. Interwoven, whether we see the threads on a daily basis or just on Christmas and Thanksgiving.

I had been talking with some people recently and they seemed to think that since it was my husband's nephew to die so suddenly that it was somehow less than a tragedy to me, because it was my husband's side of the family--at least I guess that was the reasoning. It's hard to know what people are thinking (or not thinking as the case may be) when people are trying to tell you they care. And that's when the thought of the envelope came to me. The memories I have of my nephew are of the times we spent with my husband's family, yes. But also I have been blessed to have been part of that family for more than 30 years. That's longer than I lived at home with my biological family. To say that these people are not related to me except by marriage is sort of insulting. I have been through many things with them and they are as much a part of my emotional sphere as any of my siblings or parents. The people who shrugged off the loss of this young man so suddenly didn't really know me that well. If they had, they would have realized how the envelope of pictures was just a symbol of the hole left in the family fabric of both my husband's and my heart.

Age Musing

I turned 56 the other day. When I say that out loud, I don’t cringe. Or shudder. I smile. I say I bought my red hat pin and intend to wear it proudly on my lapel. But in the inner self, I don’t think I’m so thrilled. Not that the alternative is better. Not that I want to go backwards, except sometimes. Sometimes I do want to go backwards. But with the knowledge I have now. I want to view the world as a twenty-something with the fifty-something mentality. Maybe the world or at least my choices would have made more sense then. Maybe I would have been wiser in some of my choices. Maybe not.

Anyway, 56 is my age. Within that time I have married, helped to raise two kids—successfully I might add. They are wonderful young people. I have worked inside and outside of the home, full and part time. I’ve kept a sort of clean home—the Board of Health hasn’t caught up with me yet at any rate. Is the fact that I have done those things, sometimes well and sometimes not the sum and total of who I am? No. They point to who I am. They are nuances of who I am. But they are not the “me” in my skin. The “me” who listens to Frank Sinatra because I like his voice and the songs. Who sings along with show tunes because I like them and know the words. Who taps her foot to the Who, the Stones and the Beatles as well. The me whose running commentary while driving is not always the nicest, Christian way of looking at things, which is what I claim to be. I was reading a book (of course I was reading a book, I’m almost always reading a book) that said I should observe the way I view my life. For some it’s a carousel, for some it’s a trial. But I thought of mine like a journey. And I’ve been on this journey for 50 plus years. A lot of people my age say they remember saying to their friends when they were much younger, that people in their fifties were old. But I don’t remember saying that kind of thing. My grandmothers were old, but I don’t remember thinking that that was necessarily a bad thing to be. I liked my grandmothers. I never thought of my mother as old. Or my father either. They were ageless entities. Always there. Until my dad wasn’t anymore. But my mother is there and still outside the bounds of age. I don’t know why this is. Age just wasn’t important to me. I didn’t pray to God to make me old enough to drink or vote. I just accepted age as what happened when you lived day to day and you didn’t die before you woke up. I supposed at one time I might have lamented not being old enough for something. But I honestly can’t remember wishing to be older. But I didn’t wish to be ancient either. Or crotchety. Or infirm. I’m not--yet. Will I be? I find myself wondering about “what’s around the bend”. Suddenly thinking of growing older. Its’ a new experience for me.

Non-healing wound

The scar that doesn't heal
The hurt that keeps on hurting
Cannot be dismissed by ibuprofen
Or Tums.
The heart can't be healed
With band aids or duct tape
Or explained away with
Self serving solicitations on TV.
Each day takes you one step away
From the fresh pain
The newer hurt, the unforgiving ache.
Each day steps more into the world of
Now instead of then
And the world seeps itself into
Your conscious mind, blurring the thoughts
Numbing the tracks, smearing the lines
Of thought.
Until time slowly slips a skin over the
raw mark. But it never goes away.
And it breaks afresh once in a while
In a tide of onrushing emotions that can't
Be held back with tissues, but is helped with hugs.
Until, once again, the steps of each new moment
Take you out of the past into the day with
A broken heart and a scar that can't be healed.

Dreaming About?

I read a post recently about dreaming and it was obviously on my mind today. I stayed home from work, feeling nauseous and blah. In the middle of the morning I succumbed to a nap and the dream I had was so intense in its reality, I had a hard time waking up and leaving it on the couch where I was slumped.

So this was the dream. I dreamt that I was asleep on the couch and I began to hear kids voices. They were the voices of my children calling to me. My children in reality are young adults and not living at home. But in this dream they were in the house again. I could feel the pull of them calling to me and then hear them pounding down the stairs. The feelings I had hearing them were the same feelings I used to have when they were home--exasperation on their needing me yet again, concern that they had somehow just done something to the house that was irreparable, tired of being "on call." In the dream, my son appeared to me at the door on the porch and said as plain as if I were awake, "Mommy? Come upstairs. We have to show you something." I swear I felt myself rising from the couch, my arms raising to take his hand and then I heard my dream voice saying, okay I'm coming. In this dream I got up and went upstairs to my son's room where it became more weird and dreamlike in the things that took place. But the "feeling" of having them in the house with me again, running up and down the stairs and yelling and calling me, well, I woke up somewhat startled to realize that it was a dream and the reality was that they aren't here anymore and haven't been for a while.

And the rest of the day I missed them and that time with an ache that had nothing to do with the bug I was trying to chase from my system and everything to do with the quiet house.

Being a Slave...to Fashion?

What is it about women and clothes? I mean, I watched, "The Devil Wears Prada" and understand why fashion mavens do what they do and why we buy into it, I guess. But sometimes I believe this stuff was pounded into us subliminally when we were in the womb and we just can't escape.

I offer as an example (this statement said in my best Rod Serling impersonation) this past Friday. My husband and I attended a late afternoon/early evening wedding. It was a lovely day, but very hot. The week previous to this happy occasion, we had attended a funeral and well, let's just say the contrasts between the one service and the other within a week was dizzying. Now as a woman who has spent the last 40 or so years trying desperately to figure out what to wear and when to wear it, the funeral was easy. Basic black is always the preferred. Even navy blue or brown or even gray are fine. But see, weddings elude me. Do you dress festively? Do you wear lighter colors? Since it's fall, aren't your lighter colors already packed away next to the beach towels? I originally decided on a black dress. But I had been in black so much lately with the funeral, I thought I should somehow be more light-hearted! I noted right away at the wedding that this was wrong thinking. Every single woman there had on something with black on it, in it or swirled through it. All of their shoes were black--all of them. I stood there with my cheery, shimmering bronze blouse with a floating bronze and off white skirt and thought, Oh, God, I've done it again. I tried to remain in the background next to the wall paper the rest of the evening. I even wore beige strappy high heels. Horrors! I couldn't even claim to have a darker color wrap to put over my glaring faux paux.

Now I need to point out that not one single person said anything to me, or even looked like they were sneering. Everyone we talked to was gracious and genial and we all thought the company was fine and fun. But, I knew deep down that every woman who saw me, thought, "thank God I wore black." And next time, for sure, I'll wear it too.

a Long Time Ago

It was a long, long time ago
When my hair was longer
And I was thinner, in a skirt set
That was so trendy, I thought it belonged
To my sister.

We went to someone's house
For a christening
Someones I didn't know but he did
And chatting and eating
He talked a lot that day
So unlike his usual self.

I stuck to the outskirts
in my Skirt set
Watching and waiting for what
I'm sure I don't know.
But trying not to put a
Well shod foot wrong
To break the image of belonging with him
In amongst the programmers and office staff.

It was then, trying to remain invisible
Someone gave me a baby to hold.
They --the baby that is--was not fussy or loud
Or uncomfortable
and it wasn't the child of honor.
But a baby nonetheless.

I don't remember holding a baby
Before this afternoon of
Grown ups and parties.
I supposed I must have.
But I was careful and nervous
And remembered that children
Will know your nervousness and react to it
Like a dog can smell fear.
And I didn't want to be afraid,
So I placed this little child on
My lap and gazed at its little face
And it's pumping fists.
As it gazed at me from it's almost
Non-existent lids.
I don't remember if a boy or girl
Was what occupied my lap
But I do remember thinking,
"I can do this"

A thought that never occurred to me before.

Autumn Thoughts

I sat at a red light recently and saw the season had changed. Just like that. With a snap of her saucy finger, Mother Nature had begun to change the leaves. It was hotter than blazes as my grandmother used to say. Sticky and humid and stale as only New Jersey can be. I sat at the light and saw a tree had already changed its color. It wasn't dried out. Its leaves weren’t shriveled as though diseased. They were gold and brown with a blush of red. It looked like fall. It reminded me of so many autumns of the past. When we were rushing to get school supplies. When we rushed down to see the class listings posted on the front doors of the school. When we rushed to a relative’s house for one last picnic before the schedules and responsibility filled all the upcoming weekends. And I thought to myself, I wish for just one more of those fall seasons. My youngest has gone off to live in the land of one season. My oldest will again be teaching. I'm sure she has a whole new set of feelings when she sees the trees change color. But for me, I remember the squeaky new shoes, the starched new dresses, the slicked back hair, the smell of the chalkboard dust, the garbled morning announcements. And for my children, I’ll remember the nervous laughter of the kids gathered at the front of the school on their first day back. And their quick glance in my direction before entering the doors, as if to verify that yes, indeed, summer is over and fall is really here. The tree informed me in a hundred and one different memories and smells that the fall is just a season, no longer an event.

Observations

One of the things that I like to point out to people in my exasperating way, is that I am an observant person. Observant of either physical or empathic things. I have been known to see caterpillars where others have missed them and sensed angst where others have insisted none existed.

I'm not sure why this is. I like caterpillars as much as the next guy I guess. But I like seeing the anomalies that others can't or won't take the time to see. Of course I have friends who hate creepy, crawlies and so therefore, wouldn't look for these things if given a chance or even a reason to.

I think the reason I can sense feelings has to do with being able to feel so deeply when I was younger. I was a lonely kid, not many friends and some of them were rather a pathetic excuse for friends. So I would try and figure out why others acted the way they did and I could do this without attracting attention because, well, no one was paying attention. It was an atmosphere conducive to investigation. And I think I got rather adept at reading facial expressions and body language. Coupled with my lack of hearing, I think I've gotten more attuned to these ques.

Hasn't gotten me much more in the way of friends, but at least now I can understand why...sort of...

And Then There Are Days

Some days are filled with endless, um, stuff to do, I guess is the right phrase-ology. Go to the store, go to the bank, get gas for the car, water the plants, you know, stuff. And then there are the days when the stuff seems like nonsense and you stare for a very long time at the violets on your windowsill, the shape of the flowers, the fuzziness of the leaves, even the color of the blooms is amazing and you aren't even smoking pot! You get frozen in time sort of. Something catches your eye that you've seen lots of times before and maybe it's the way the light is hitting it or the way the breeze is moving it and suddenly it's like nothing you've ever seen before.

The thing that really catches you up though, are not the inanimate things. Mostly, the breath seizing moments are from those you love. You see them suddenly so clearly and so sharply in focus, you wonder how you didn't notice this before. Or maybe you did notice before, but it's been so long you don't remember the last time.

Our mother is 79 (sorry mom, don't read this if you can't "handle the truth" I say grinning). She has whitish, reddish, blondish short hair that either curls or bends its own way. She has a good sense of self most days. People think she is as close to a real-live saint as anyone could get. But I'm thinking of the morning a few weeks ago when I went out to breakfast with her and my step-dad. She and I both love a good breakfast out and we happen to serendipitously have a day when we could indulge ourselves. We went to a place with good pancakes, good coffee and the atmosphere wasn't as loud as a lot of other places. That last is important because we (my mother and I) both wear hearing aids and some places it just doesn't matter how high the volume is cranked on those helpful devices in ours ears, it's just too loud for conversation. Anyway, we got seated in a booth, made our selections and began to talk about this, that and the other thing. I remember thinking how lovely it was to sit and talk to mom, as I have almost always been able to do, about anything. And that her husband would throw in a comment, quip or joke now and then to punctuate our conversation.

It is usually during these talks with mom that my concerns about my children or husband or work come out. Depending on the severity or mood of either of us, we either talk about how to solve the problem, poke holes in everyone else's assumptions about how to work through this or laugh about how you can't choose your family, or employment is hell except for the paycheck. But this particular morning I had picked up that she was concerned about something, I could see it in her eyes. I asked her about it and after briefly dancing around the subject, it came out that she feared she was becoming too much like her mother and it worried her. Now my mother loved her mother fiercely--this I know. But Mom was always able, or at least as far back as I remember, to see my grandmother's flaws--not as a blunt instrument with which to pummel her, but a tool to show others how thinking can be different for different people. My grandmother was not a bad person, she was a person like all others. She had prejudices and feelings about the way things "ought to be" and she shared them relatively freely. Our mother taught us to take those granny-isms and sift through them. Not to take them as decrees from the Almighty, but take them as opinions from someone older and experienced in life. Mom saw a family home movie at our house recently and seeing my grandmother in it, projected the the ways they were alike onto herself--the fact that Mom walks with a limp now and so did our grandmother. The fact that our grandmother couldn't hear and Mom has to wear hearing aids. She saw herself as becoming her mother and she didn't want to be her.

I point out that I loved my grandmother fiercely as well. But saw her as an old woman who frequently did not wish to see the world as it was and by force of will would try to bend it back to the way it "ought to be." But our mother does not do that and I don't believe she ever will. I endeavored to help her see this by saying, "You're not your mother," I told her in my most convincing "Mommy-tone". "You cannot be. You have experienced things she never did, saw things she never saw, reacted to things she never even dreamed of having to deal with. You lived in a different era, you married a different man than your father (we both rolled our eyes at that one!) and you had four children. She only had two. You didn't experience life as she did. Although you shared a past, you had a different future. You are able to see things differently, more openly, more compassionately than she was able to in her lifetime. That isn't a bad thing, it is simply a different thing. As much as you and I are alike, we are not the same person. We can't be. And so neither can you be your mother."

She looked down then. I thought I had upset her and was mad at myself. I didn't know whether she agreed with my assessment or not, but felt it had to be said. After a moment she looked up and mouthed the words, "thank you." I was hit then with the love our mother has for us. The fact that she sees things in us we don't always see, loves us with an unconditional love that I know I feel I don't deserve at times. It was a breath catching moment between us that only lasted a moment, but will remain with me for a long time.

We don't get days of this kind of connection. Just moments. I hope I recognize them when they happen again, just for a moment.

Look it Up

I began to notice that when I want to look something up...no topic in particular, just general random stuff, I go to internet. And one of the things that almost always pops up is something from Wikipedia. Have you noticed that handy-dandy resource? Of course, you have! The problem is trusting Wikipedia for too much. You see anyone can add to it. No expertise required. This is not necessarily a good thing. It's especially bad if you feel too lazy to go somewhere else to look up whatever you are trying to find. Because Wikipedia is soooo easy. Quoting it however, is probably not a wise thing. I mean, once in a while for a quick piece of information its okay. But to trust this site with all your information needs is probably asking to get burned by "Wacked Out Bob in Minnesota."

It is good though for some background things. Some quick reference that you vaguely knew, and just need to have it verified. Or maybe not. See I want to trust the site and the people on it, I just can't. Every time I think it's okay to believe something on there, there's some little quirky piece of info that sort of sounds right, but maybe not.

The hubby is notorious for not believing anything he reads on internet. He's skeptical of everything. I'm not that bad yet. I still believe, well some of the time.

I found myself going to our World Book Encyclopedia on the shelf the other day to look something up. The books seemed reluctant to open in a way. Perhaps they were miffed at being used so seldom. Perhaps they are just old and it's harder to make the old binding work (kind of like me). Anyway it was sort of nostalgic to look something up the old fashioned way. I felt virtuous for having gone this route. But the information I wanted wasn't in there, the books are too old. I perused the pages anyway, looking at this and that. I remember how much I liked to do that as a kid. Just sit and browse the encyclopedia (I didn't get out much). And so I decided that I will try to not be so quick on the trigger (or keyboard as it were) next time I want to look something up. I'll just go to the books on the shelf first. And then consult Wacked Out Bob to see if he has the same info. This might just improve my detection skills. Or it might just remind me to use more than one resource--which is what the old librarian at my elementary school taught us in the Stone Age. Some things just need to be reinforced as we get older.

It had 8 legs and was moving fast!

I am not a fan of spiders. I don't think I ever was. My mother probably gave me the fear, but if not, I probably cultivated it by myself. I was never squeamish about other bugs. I used to lift rocks and sort through underbrush to see beetles, sow bugs, ants, any kind of creepy crawly. But if it had 8 legs, I was out of there. I didn't wait around to see what it would do as I did with other bugs. I was gone. This reticence about arachnids extends to scorpions, though I don't live in an area where they seem to live, so I'm lucky I guess. But spiders are everywhere, I'm told. Even Antarctica. I wonder what penguins think of them...

Anyway, I have cultivated a sort of calm demeanor about sightings as I age. I no longer scream when I see one. At least if it's small, say about a centimeter or so. If they politely scurry out of sight, I can pretend I didn't see it. The bigger ones still bother me, though. I couldn't live in a place where they grow to tarantula proportions. And don't help me out by saying, "any spider if it lives long enough can get that big." I don't want to know. And if it is that big, it had better not show up in my house. Which leads me to the next train of thought. If it's in my house and it isn't tiny, I do not believe it should be in my house, therefore I squish it. Do not tell me how helpful they are about eating other bugs. I will not listen to reason in this respect, so you might as well save your breath. If you're that fond of them, I'll put them in a jar and send them 'round to your place, shall I? A family member bought me a spray can of some noxious stuff that had an ugly gargantuan spider on the front of it. The can said it would kill a spider immediately. I unfortunately tested this out once while my children watched in fascination as I emptied the entire contents on a rather large specimen in our basement sink. It did not die quickly. It's legs folded up under it, while those multiple eyes sparkled at me malevolently, as it slowly collapsed. It was horrifying. Trust me. Even though the kids thought it entertaining. I keep going down the basement sure that it's relatives are waiting for me skulking along the duct work and pipes, waiting to catch me unawares. But I'm never unawares, I'm always armed and watching. It makes for interesting conversation for those around me as they see me prepare to descend the cellar steps. My family also bought me a robotic tarantula. It stays in the top of the closet in the family room. Where I can't see it. It's probably lurking with the real dead spider's kith and kin, waiting for the moment to leap and give me a heart attack.

I realize that I have given these creatures power over me, but I can't seem to help myself. It seems to me that they are more like the evil behemoths from the movie Arachnid than Charlotte from Charlotte's Web. And so yesterday, when I drove down the driveway to park the car outside of the garage and turned the car off, the fates favored the spider over the human. I saw an orange spot about the size of a quarter skitter down the windshield, tethered slightly by a sticky strand off it's rear end. It practically rolled down the glass and slid like a baseball player coming into home plate down under the wipers and then under the hood of the car. It happened so quickly I couldn't even turn the car on to make a token swipe at it with the wipers. And I sat there temporarily unsure what to do. Where would a spider go under the hood of the car? Was it just under the hood, waiting to spring out at me if I opened to look for it? Was it running down through the various wires, metal things and rubber hoses to drop down to the ground and take cover in the ivy next to the driveway? Was it biding it's time waiting for an opening to somehow crawl inside the car and leap on me, sucking the juices from me as I drove into a telephone pole? Where in the hell did it go? I was so unnerved, I slowly got out of the car and wouldn't get back in. My husband had to park the car for me. I told him I would drive him to the train station this morning, and I approached the car with trembling fingers. Fearing that a web would have been woven across the window, the steering wheel or the seat. But none of those things were there and there were no tell tale sticky strands in the car that I could see. But then I suppose, it's just biding it's time, with the fake tarantula and the deceased spider's relatives from the cellar. Waiting, waiting...

A Different World

When you exist in a place, going from day to day
Seeing, but not
Hearing, but not
It takes on the feeling of Musak
Just background without substance.

And so as I look out the window this evening,
In the distance I can see a glow of lights from something, maybe a town?
Six floors up is a unique perspective.

I am in a hospital bed this evening. I was admitted this day with discomfort in my chest. Can't call it pain, really. I wanted to ignore it and now some twelve hours later, I wish I had. The pain from the Nitro-patch is worse than the original experience. Eventually the nurse removes it and gives me pills to ease the headache.
I'm wearing a monitor hung from my neck, like an albatross, only not fuzzy. It doesn't hurt either. It just a reminder, beeping as it does.

The hospital is a strange place at night after the visitors have left. There are far away moans and coughs. Nearby rustlings of bed sheets, murmured questions, clicking of bottles, tubes and paraphernalia. Shoes squeak down the hall and the bing, bing, bing of the nurse's call button is heard in several places.

The blowing of the air conditioning, the grunting of the guy across the hall, backdrops all to the stream of recriminations in my mind. Why did you come here, it asks. You could have ignored it, it states. I'll never get to sleep, it nudges. Unfortunately, that last voice is right.

When I come home the next day, the sounds are there, the ones I hadn't been hearing lately. The birds at the bird feeder. The bubbling of the fish tank. Even the whine of the cat looking for dinner, all remind me I'm home. I like these noises better.

The 4th

What is it about patriotic holidays that makes me so sentimental? I really like all that flag-waving, fireworks shooting, family picnicing. And then they show those war movies on TV and I'll even watch one or two. My eyes well up when I hear the Marine Band play, or the radio plays the occasional all male choir from some military institution or another and "I fill with pride and deep within my breast, I thrill to see old glory paint the breeze."

My father was a WWII vet and I'm proud of that. But I'm filled with a sense of wonder about how this country came to be and continues to be. Yes, I know there are things that are wrong with this country. Yes, I know that there are things which need to be fixed. But what other country in the world has a democracy that works so gloriously. So allow me my flag waving, my filling with pride. I will go back to the grumbling about bad policies, bad decisions by law-makers and corporations alike after this weekend. But just for this weekend, Hooray for America!

The Chlorophyll Influence

My son sent an e-mail the other day informing me of his purchase of a plant for his new apartment. He included a picture. He knew I would be pleased with his new purchase because we always have plants in our houses. It was not always so with me. I didn't really pay much attention to plants at our childhood home within. I was always more interested in the flora outside the home, gazing at the "four-o-clocks" in the front yard, looking into the abyss of a hole in the giant maple tree out front. When I got married, one of the first presents was some kind of stalky green thing from the people my husband worked with--to keep me company when he had to work late on a special project. Now 30 something years later, it is that same kind of stalky green thing my son has purchased for his place. What goes around comes around I guess.

I like plants. Looking out the front window of our living room, the green dogwood is framed by the plants on the windowsill. The sun filters through the arrow-head shaped leaves and glances off the upright growth of the plant next to it. I'm not going to name all the kinds of plants I have in the house. I don't think I know all the names of them anymore. I mean their generic names, I never quite mastered the scientific ones of anything. And I don't name them either--Ethel, George. I do talk to them though and gently rub their leaves from time to time. The ones I currently have growing here are a amicable bunch. They don't demand too much.

I don't have a good relationship with certain plants, I've noticed. Boston ferns and I do not understand each other. Their idea of ideal growing environments and mine simply do not mesh. And Fushias are much too picky for me. Water me now, NO, too much, well now I"m bone dry. Nope, I just don't want to hear their whining. Of course, I received one for a present recently so I've placed her in a window and hope for the best. But she isn't with the rest of the plants in the living room. No one likes a whiner. I received an orchid recently, also as a present. Orchids and I do not have a good history either, but I was determined to figure out how to keep this one alive and so far I have--a breakthrough to be sure. Poinsettias and I get along famously. Every year I buy at least four of them, and they happily shed, bring little black bugs and endless watering accidents into the home. But by May, when they are still thinking they own the place, I plant them outside in one of the flower beds. They grow just fine until the cold winds of November. No, I do not dig them up and take them in. I let them die a natural death then buy four new ones to perpetuate the cycle in December. I like to think I'm doing my part in the floral economy with this cycle.

I have a palm tree, too. It was part of a planter that my father-in-law received when he moved into a nursing home. After he died, I took the planter home and re-potted all the individual plants. They all died of something or other except the palm. He has been dead for seven years now and the palm is waist high from the floor. I look at it and think of him, his laughter, his calm demeanor and I feel like I have a piece of him with me.

I add on to my collection from time to time. I have a pink-spotted plant on the porch which is a recent addition. It seems like it can't decide whether it is a close growing bush-kind-of-thing or a taller-more-majestic-kind-of-thing. I'm letting it work itself out on it's own. There are two tree-like stalky things growing on the plant stand above the pinky. They've been in residence for a while--they were the new kids on the block for some time. They grudgingly grow something like an inch every 5 years, so I really can't be certain whether they are okay or not. I think they like to confuse me, so I keep them on because of the challenge in their growth--attitude makes the difference.

My sister seems to think I am a plant guru. But really, I just water and let them go. I do feed every now and then. I pet them occasionally and promise I won't let the cat chew on them (she's getting too old for that challenge any more anyway). The african violets on the windowsill bloom for me in grateful appreciation for finding the right light in a house which has a lot of shade. So the plants and I get along. We've found peace in suburbia together. Watching the sun shift through their leaves day and day out with nary a whine in between.

He Would've Been 86

Dad, that is. Would have been 86 today. I find myself thinking of him between now and the anniversary of his death. He creeps into my consciousness in small sparks of recognition. A phrase here. A song there. A gesture from one of my siblings will remind me of him. The sparkle in my nephews eye makes me remember his. The missing him is not as intense as it used to be--that's to be expected. It was after all 22 years ago he died. But I'm introspective now. And not as easy to distract by the mundane. Will I always do this, I sometimes wonder? Stop what I'm doing and think of him. It's so intense sometimes, the memories. I made a vow to visit the grave this weekend. Because it's Memorial Day, there will be lots of people planting flags. Every year I remember that I promised to make sure there is a flag at his grave. I am supposed to make sure the cemetery knows he was a veteran, bu every year I forget. It's okay. Nobody is keeping score I know. I don't visit the place like I used to. But it's quiet there. And I feel like he knows I'm there when I go. Is that blasphemous? I mean I'm sure he's in heaven wherever that is, but it feels like he just might be there in the quiet and stillness, the small breeze that plays over the grass, the muted traffic whizzing by. So before the picnic and the family I'll go over and say hello just for a little while. Just to let him know I remember.

Naturally Wonderous

Sitting on the deck
Watching
The wind, its susurration through the backyards of suburbia
Bowing the majestic tree heads, rippling their secrets.
The birds, a profusion of robins
Drop down and lift off through the green, green grass
So green, it looks pretend
But you know it's real because of the dandelions.
The littler birds, the sparrows, I guess, are invisible
Brown and black hiding amongst the occasional bare branch,
They sing across the yards, calling to each other.
What are they talking about? I wonder.
The sun comes out in fits and starts behind the clouds roaring
Endlessly with the jet engines which pierce their foaming majesty.
And it warms me on the deck
Amidst the potted flowers of Mother's Day.

Old Time Poetry

I was thinking about the poetry I used to read when I was younger. It rhymed. All the time. There was no such thing as free verse in my younger universe. All of the poetry that I committed to memory rhymed. It had a certain cadence to it also. I can't quite remember the specific type of cadence (iambic pentameter?), but it all went to a certain beat and was predictable--unless you read Ogden Nash, in which case anything was possible. Do they still write poetry like that anymore? My daughter's friend wrote a book of poetry which won an award. I bought the book as I wanted to support friends of my daughter. But it was, well, not what I expected. It wasn't bad! But it was difficult to decipher for me. I suppose that means that I'm basically a simple person (you probably already guessed that).

Whatever happened to things like, "The House by The Side of Road," or "Abdul Abulbul Amir"? I have two giant volumes of old poetry and almost all of it is rhyming. I came across two of my old favorites the other day and I was amazed at the witticisms in the verse. "Strictly Germ Proof" was a poem I memorized early on because my mother hated the first line, "The Antiseptic Baby and the Prophylactic Pup, were playing in the garden when the bunny gamboled up." She always choked on the word, prophylactic. I didn't really know what it meant, but I loved it because it made her gasp. The other one I looked at was, "The Modern Baby"; a paean to the new way of raising children because the old way was bad for them, as the poem says, "The Washingtons and Jeffersons and Adamese you know." But in perusing the tome of poems I used to love to read, some papers fluttered out. It was a copy of the "Jackdaw of Rheims". I did not know what a jackdaw was when I first read this. So I went about looking the animal up and it's a bird. This was found on Wikipedia, "jackdaws are known to steal shiny objects such as jewelery to hoard in nests," which goes along nicely with the story of the poem. I re-read it and it's still a favorite. There is one poem, though, that is not a rhyming one that I've know about for a long time. In my emotional youth, it struck a chord because it reminded me that things are not always as they seem. I have reproduced, "Motherhood" by Eleanor Agnes Lee as follows:

Motherhood

Mary,the Christ long slain,passed silently,
Following the children joyous astir
Under the cedrus and the olive tree,
Pausing to let their laughter float to her--
Each voice an echo of a voice more dear,
She saw a little Christ in every face.

Then came another woman gliding near
To watch the tender life which filled the place.
And Mary sought the woman's hand and spoke:
' I know thee not, yet know thy memory tossed
With all a thousand dreams their eyes evoke
Who bring to thee a child beloved and lost.

' I ,too, have rocked my Little One.
And He was fair !
Oh, fairer than the fairest sun
And , like its rays through amber spun,
His sun-bright hair.
Still I can see it shine and shine.'
Even so, the woman said, 'was mine.'

' His ways were ever darling ways'-
And Mary smiled -
So soft, so clinging ! Glad relays
Of love were all His precious days.
My Little Child !
My vanished star ! My music fled ! '
' Even so was mine,' the woman said.

And Mary whispered : Tell me, thou
Of thine.' And she :
' Oh, mine was rosy as a bough
Blooming with roses, sent, somehow,
To bloom for me !
His balmy fingers left a thrill
Deep in my breast that warms me still. '

Then she gazed down some wilder,darker hour,
And said -when Mary questioned, knowing not :
Who art thou, mother of so sweet a flower?'--
' I am the mother of Iscariot.'



I'm not a scholar of poetry by any means. And I do a little free verse from time to time here. But I love those old poems. Does anybody still write them like that?

Down Home Diner

Cooking is not something I like to do normally. On any given day, if you say take out, I'm right there with the money in my hand and the car warming up. But once in a while I like to make things. Especially things that just taste better home made. Sometimes its a hassle getting the ingredients; if the fuss is too much bother, I come home, play a few games of solitaire until the feeling passes and then take out a frozen-something-or-other from the freezer. Because it is now just the hubby and I, it doesn't feel like I'm hurting anyone much. Hubby doesn't cook, not interested in it at all and is usually content as long as something is hot on the table some time after he comes home. Does this sound sexist? It isn't really. He does so many other things around here I'm getting downright lazy! But I digress.

I decided to make stuffing tonight. I didn't have turkey, but I had pork chops. So I made the stuffing and browned the chops and put them on top of the stuffing to cook in the oven. It's almost a one dish meal, only you have to make the vegetables on the side. Well, I have to make them on the side. I don't like the way veggies come out when they are cooked with stuffing. It's just a personal prejudice--deal with it. And while I was making the dinner, I thought to myself, "I remember our daughter saying one time that one of the smells she liked best at our house was when mom made stuffing." She said it felt like home.

Some food is just does that. Mac and cheese. Meatloaf. They cook and the house smells like home. I sometimes wonder about having a personal cook who would make those things in the house, and I could come home and it would smell like that. Would I regress to my childhood? Probably not. And I probably wouldn't like what the cook put in the dishes. I'm not a huge fan of a lot of spices. Just plain. That's what I like. Not too spicy and not too fancy--forget morrel mushrooms. Or truffle oil. Sometimes even garlic seems like too much. Just the down home smell of something simple and easy. But it has to taste good, or what's the purpose? So come on down to the Down Home Diner. You might want to bring your own spices, 'cause Mom doesn't like things too spicy. And don't forget your manners. We'll set the table for you.

And another one gone, and another one gone...

Another one bites the dust.
A week that is, not a person.
Another week gone. Poof.
Up at 6:00, down at 10:00.
Breakfast at 7:00, break at 10:00, lunch at 1:00,
Off by 4:00.
Then walking, then talking, then eating,
Cleaning--dishes, floors, cats, myself, then
Blessed slumber for another round in another six.
The days go on rumbling
The weeks tumbling
Like the rock tumbling machine.
But nothing much glistens like jewels
Except an occasional laugh or wry grin.
Where is the time of reflection
Wonder, gazing in rapture at the clouds?
Gone with the dust and the dishwasher clatter.
Gone with the silence and no-longer-matters.
And the week ends as the next one
Lines up to take it's place.
Sunday evening, just a breath away.
Another one bites the dust.

Easter Finery

I have a remembrance of this time of year scrambling to Sears or the "nice" store in the local town to find white gloves and frilly socks (and don't forget the hat--had to have a hat) to wear for Easter Sunday. My grandmother more often times than not, made our dresses or skirt sets for my sister and I. She was an incredible seamstress--although I was not always appreciative of her efforts until much, much later. Easter was a time to dress up and look spiffy. Lent was finally almost behind us, with its dreary long days and bare trees. Easter meant that the world began to look green again (and pink and purple and yellow). And we could celebrate and look festive.

Have you noticed the earth in this hemisphere does that too, looks festive, I mean? I was outside cutting some daffodils to put in a vase on the table and thought, "Oh, look, the forsythia are blooming, too" so I cut a few sprigs of those as well. The bright yellow on the kitchen table reflects what I see out the window. The earth is waking up. The lacy white flowers on the Bradford pear trees are out now (and smelling particularly pungent I might add). The bushes around the house are greening up again. The giant trees in the backyard are still bare but the tops are fuzzy with new growth that can't be distinguished from the ground. It gives the mini-forest out back a softer look than the harsh lines of winter. The grass is even getting green again with the dandelions pushing their brash agendas into every nook and cranny, not just in the yard but the driveway as well. And people who have those lovely cherry trees in the yard down the street can wake up the delicate pink cascade every morning--surely a more welcome sight than the previous brown sticks poking from the main trunk.

I really do love this time of year. I have friends who hate it because of their allergies. But since I haven't suffered from that, I get to enjoy the weather even though the pollen count is climbing rapidly. The box elder beetles are making themselves known against the garage doors again, their black and red armor a stark contrast to the ivory color on the doors. They try to blend with the bricks, but they are just too brightly colored. Moths and butterflies are beginning to show as well, although their appearances are shadowy and sporadic as the birds are making a big comeback right about now. Their morning chirps and squawks can nudge even the most sleepy awake unless you happen to have a hearing deficiency. They then become a muted symphony with which to become aware, slowly.

"The earth laughs in flowers," quoth Emerson. And her joyful presence is spectacular at Easter. Go outside and enjoy the world's finery on display at this time of year. Me? I'm still looking for the right hat.