Lamenting the Normal Life

A friend told me I should write a memoir of my life because growing up in various parts of the country could be interesting. Since I grew up in the 50s and 60s, he said it would make a great nostalgia piece. Possibly so. I did have some fun times. But what I really wanted to write was the Great American Novel - the tragic story of the rise and fall of...whom? My problem, I lamented many times as an English literature major yearning to write the Big One, was that I had lived a perfectly normal life. No big tragedies, no cruel parents one of whom was a sad, but creative and sometimes lovable drunk. No brother who ran away from home at 14 to hitchhike across the country and turn out to be a famous comedian in Vegas. My minimally dysfunctional family provided no fodder for humorous satire or sad commentary. What can you do with a middle-class American family that gets along reasonably well, whose parents never divorced or separated, whose pets were even the average dog and cat or two? Not much,it turns out.

Yes, I know memoirs are not always totally factual and I certainly can understand why. If you lived an average life, you would need to embellish a lot to make it interesting. If you lived a unique life because of horrendous family relations, you might need to change some names and tone some things down if any family members are still alive. If you experienced an interesting, unique life, memory may not serve you well. So, fact becomes laced with fiction. It's the way of the genre and most readers expect a little fluff with their facts. But I wanted the real thing to write about and I didn't have it. Therefore, the memoir remains a two page sketch, hidden in a file I probably cannot find. But that's ok. Now I am glad I had a good family. So I wrote a poem instead.

Shall I Pour?

Sometimes I wish I’d had
literarily or artistically talented parents
who made great art from
daily pain
and who had
passed down to me their talent
or interest or knowledge or
just the opportunity to be
among art as a child.

Wouldn’t it be
so much easier for me to be a
teller of tales if one of
them had told them before me?
Wouldn’t I then have
naturally picked up this skill through daughterly osmosis?

Wouldn’t it be easier if I’d
been steeped in the tea
Of parental talent as a child and
brewed slowly over the years
to pour the words now
In a golden arc of honey-sweetened images
for others to drink and exclaim, “Yes, that’s it.
How true. I wish I’d said that.”?

But, my childish
excuses do not put herbs in the pot;
I must arduously brew my own words into ideas and images
to fill mugs
with warmth and wit and wonder.

I alone am the
tea maker
pot pourer
leaf reader
who must steep myself in life
If I am to pour at all.

Literary parents would have been nice and very, very helpful,
but they just weren’t my cup of tea.

Be Brave, Put On Those Carpet Slippers and Stride Out

Did you do anything courageous today? Was merely getting out of bed an act of courage? I hope getting out of bed was an act of embracing what was coming in this day. If getting up didn't require bravery, what courageous thing did you do today? Not that we have the opportunity to be overtly brave every day, but some days require more courage than others. Have you been brave lately? In the last week, month, year? I hope you are cultivating your courage muscle because we all are going to need to be brave at some point.

Bette Davis said that growing old wasn't for sissies. She was right about that. "They" say that the positive thing about growing old is the wisdom we attain. I suppose it may be wisdom that lets the old ones see the misstep a person is about to take and exactly where that step will land them. Perhaps it is wisdom that says, "Wait and see." "Forgive." "Don't judge until you have walked a mile in her shoes." "Ask why." "Don't take yourself too seriously." "Do you really want to do that?"

I cannot think of myself as wise, but I do see myself as experienced in life. That experience allows me to see things from a wider, longer perspective-a view that sees the probable end or consequences of an act. Hey, maybe I can see the future! Is that wisdom or is it just experience? Does it matter what we call it?

Acquiring wisdom as we age is supposed to be the great trade-off for losing our youthfulness. As for me, the jury is still out on that one. I'm not sure about how wise we get, but I recognize that we do need courage as we age. Courage will be the companion that allows us to embrace our lives, even with the limitations that sneak in as we add on years. One interesting thing about aging is how we respond to it. Will it be with whining and bitterness or with wit, wisdom, and courage?

The following poem is one I "taught" in tenth grade classes. What those 16-year-olds got from it, I cannot say, but it speaks to me more and more as I get older. I hope I can find my carpet slippers when I need them.

Courage by Anne Sexton


It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.

Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.

Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.

Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you'll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.

Anne Sexton

"My Life was More Wasted and Stupid than Yours" NOT!

Just saw these two poems and want to share. Let's not ever go to the conference titled "My Life was More Wasted and Stupid than Yours". In fact, let's make sure we never even come close to being asked to attend.

The Fury of Reminiscence
The conference was titled
"My Life was More Wasted and Stupid than Yours"
and it attracted over 15,000 participants
who occupied much of the hotel space
in downtown Boston, spilling to Newton & the burbs.

For three days the fury of reminiscence
scorched the rugs with tears, oi oi's, and
why, o Lord, why?'s

till finally the theme fell to silence
and many of the 15k flew home
shaking with disbelief that _______'s life
had been voted most wasted and stupid
by those who watched the conference
through online hookup.

"Stupid! maybe—
but waste?! They don't know waste!"
shouted an ethnographer from San Diego
as he ordered a 13 dollar
bagel with salmon
near his boarding area.

Edward Sanders -

Edward Sanders's Let's Not Keep Fighting the Trojan War: New and Selected Poems 1986-2009 was recently published by Coffee House Press. He is a founding member of the legendary rock group The Fugs, a classics scholar, publisher, former bookseller, and pioneer in investigative poetry. He lives in Woodstock, New York.

I LOVE the fact that this poet founded the Fugs!!! Apologies to Mr. Sanders. The format of the previous poem isn't exactly as he made it. I couldn't get it exact. To make up for this slight, I have to include his next poem also. Timely.

Let's Not Keep Fighting the Trojan War

Simone Weil took a train to the front
when the Civil War began in the summer of '36

She joined the ranks of an Anarchist Unit
and picked up a rifle though never fired

She suffered an injury, not from a bullet
and her parents came to her rescue

She'd been taken aback by the violence
her own side had committed

and soon published an essay
"Ne recommençons pas la guerre de Troie"

which I have slightly changed to
"Let's Not Keep Fighting the Trojan War"

especially now that the Air Force is insisting
on designing all-terrain cluster bombs
able to crawl and hop for miles
in search of a victim

Extraordinary People

The movie Julia and Julie inspired me to start a blog as Julie did, but Julia is the woman I find more fascinating than the modern day blogger. I read Julia's autobiography and a few minutes ago started a short story about Julia, her husband Paul and some friends dining out in a San Francisco Chinese restaurant. Julia had lost her voice and was writing notes to communicate and the restaurant owner would not speak but wrote notes back to Julia as she considered that to be polite. Paul was upset because the restaurateur would not accept payment for the meal and it was the Childs' policy always to pay to avoid the appearance of favoritism coming their way. Later, Julia writes that they should send the owner a book and also writes, "We must all help to cheer up Paul. He gets depressed when anything wrong w. wife." This reminded me of the way the movie portrayed the relationship between the two - very loving, supportive and understanding. To me, this little note reveals the sweetness of Julia's nature and I was impressed with how extraordinary this competent, determined, talented woman was.

That started me thinking about extraordinary people. What traits do I want in those I think are extraordinary and who do I think to be extraordinary? The traits are easier than selecting the people. An extraordinary person affects other people in a positive way, whether those people be the world, a nation, their community or acquaintances. An extraordinary person, in my opinion, shows strength of character. She does the right thing in each situation, and the right thing is usually the harder choice to make. An extraordinary person lives by ideals and stays true to them. This enables him to live straight and true and frees him up to accomplish things. What things? Things that are hard to do: write a book, build a company, invent something and carry it through to reality, teach children or adults who need teaching, negotiate peace, fight for a cause to the detriment of lifestyle, become so immersed in an idea that the idea actually becomes a reality that positively impacts others.

I suppose all this means that an extraordinary person carries through and does not give up when things get tough. A child who is subjected to a horrible youth and surmounts this to become a functioning adult, a positive member of society, is extraordinary. A mother who digs in Haitian ruins for over 70 hours to rescue her toddler is extraordinary. The man who several years ago, rescued fellow airline passengers from the freezing Potomac river and lost his life after going back in time and time again is truly extraordinary. A firefighter who enters a burning building; a father or mother who endures a grinding, uninspired job because that is the only way to support the family; a friend who brings another friend back from the brink of suicide; an artist who can create a work that provides beauty: these are all extraordinary people.

Being famous does not make one extraordinary. Think of some movie stars and singers whose lives are train wrecks. Their talent may be extraordinary, but they are not. They are destroyed by it and the fame that accompanies it. Being rich does not make a person extraordinary. What one does with the money may, but money may simply make you affluent, not extraordinary. Being smart, beautiful, or powerful does not lead to being extraordinary. Character does.

So who are some extraordinary people I know? Right away I think of a long-time teaching friend who died too soon. Her dedication to her students and to helping other teachers be successful was quiet and strong. It was a thread that stitched her life together. She took more classes, read voraciously anything that would help her teach better, provided information for teachers, parents, and students that would improve their educational and personal lives. She was extraordinary even though I didn't truly recognize this until she was gone. Isn't that always the way? You don't know what you have until it disappears. Very sad. (This brings up another topic, possibly fodder for a future discussion: we need to appreciate what we have while we have it.) My teacher-friend was a person who positively impacted so many people, but she didn't think this was anything out of the ordinary. It was her nature. Not that she didn't sacrifice for this impact. She sometimes felt guilty that she didn't spend more time with her daughters - although she was an active, involved, loving mother. She could have spent more time with her husband just traveling and enjoying each other. And she could have paid more attention to her health and visited the doctor in time to halt the condition that suddenly killed her. But she was too busy teaching and helping. What a loss we sustained when she left us.

Another extraordinary person of course, was Mother Teresa. No discussion needed. I always think of Margaret Meade as being outstanding, but, I don't know much about her which means I had better study her if I want her to remain on the list. The women who fought so that I may vote and not be considered property. Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Edison, Albert Einstein, Eli Whitney and their ilk, yes. Martin Luther and Martin Luther King, Jr., Ghandi. Jesus, not in a religious way, but what he proposed in his teachings, if the Bible can be believed, was extraordinary. Treat others in the same way you want to be treated? Profound. If we all did that....

Those are famous people, but if we look around, we can find outstanding people in our own lives. I challenge myself and any readers I may have to look for those people in our own lives. Appreciate them and learn from them. And maybe be one.

A Gary Soto poem about an ordinary, extraordinary person. Read it a couple of times, at least. It's a really good one.

A Red Palm


You're in this dream of cotton plants.
You raise a hoe, swing, and the first weeds
Fall with a sigh. You take another step,
Chop, and the sigh comes again,
Until you yourself are breathing that way
With each step, a sigh that will follow you into town.

That's hours later. The sun is a red blister
Coming up in your palm. Your back is strong,
Young, not yet the broken chair
In an abandoned school of dry spiders.
Dust settles on your forehead, dirt
Smiles under each fingernail.
You chop, step, and by the end of the first row,
You can buy one splendid fish for wife
And three sons. Another row, another fish,
Until you have enough and move on to milk,
Bread, meat. Ten hours and the cupboards creak.
You can rest in the back yard under a tree.
Your hands twitch on your lap,
Not unlike the fish on a pier or the bottom
Of a boat. You drink iced tea. The minutes jerk
Like flies.

It's dusk, now night,
And the lights in your home are on.
That costs money, yellow light
In the kitchen. That's thirty steps,
You say to your hands,
Now shaped into binoculars.
You could raise them to your eyes:
You were a fool in school, now look at you.
You're a giant among cotton plants.
Now you see your oldest boy, also running.
Papa, he says, it's time to come in.
You pull him into your lap
And ask, What's forty times nine?
He knows as well as you, and you smile.
The wind makes peace with the trees,
The stars strike themselves in the dark.
You get up and walk with the sigh of cotton plants.
You go to sleep with a red sun on your palm,
The sore light you see when you first stir in bed.

Gary Soto

"Fluffy bunny + twitchy nose + big ears = great stew."

I like laughing. I think laughing is important for good mental health. I think Robin Williams, Lily Tomlin, Gildna Radnor, Carol Burnett and the like have helped millions of people who needed a laugh in order to step back from their troubles for a few minutes. Troubles that threatened to overwhelm them but became smaller because of the short laugh-vacation that allowed them to gain some perspective. Or perhaps laughing let them say to themselves, "I'll think about this tomorrow. Right now I'm taking a break." And with distance, the pressure was released just enough that they could get a handle on their situation and face it.

Laughter is just good fun sometimes. Being silly is a necessary part of the human condition. Laughing just plain feels good. Why else would we pay people to make us laugh? Why else are class clowns popular with their fellow students? Why is YouTube so popular?

Ever watch kids laugh? Their mouths open, their eyes crinkle; sometimes their entire body shakes and jiggles. It's fun to watch them. And how about charting the ability of a baby to laugh and chortle? How does a little baby know what's funny or pleasurable enough to make her smile? Sure, tickling can make a baby or toddler laugh, but the really interesting thing is to watch a sense of humor develop in a child. She starts out laughing at Daddy's funny faces and moves on to appreciate the cat's antics or a sibling's silly dance. When she gets a wicked little grin on her angelic face and runs away from Mommy when it's diaper-changing time, her sense of humor probably has something to do with power and escape and ending up in Mommy's arms. And so it goes, a sense of humor is developed and laughter ensues.

Why we laugh is the subject of scientific studies and is fascinating in itself, but why we laugh may not be as important as the laughing itself. We need to laugh. I had a few good laughs today when I discovered a blog called The Sleep Talkin' Man. It seems a guy in England talks in his sleep - a lot. And he says the craziest, funniest things. In fact, they are so funny that his wife set up a voice-activated recorder and in the morning she transcribes his bon mots onto the blog. They even sell T-shirts with some of his sayings. My partner, Mr. Cynical, says there is no way this guy is asleep, but I saw the couple on a British TV morning show courtesy of YouTube and they look legit to me.

What does Adam say? Here is a sample: "Fluffy bunny + twitchy nose + big ears = great stew." or "I've got a really terrible terrible feeling about this custard tart. Terrible." And,"Peeing standing up rules!" These are mild ones. Don't tell your kids about this Sleep Talkin' Man blog because some of the language is not suitable for young eyes. I like these:"Don't... Don't put the noodles and the dumplings together in the boat. They'll fight! The noodles are bullies. Poor dumplings." Imagine these in a British accent said by a guy with his eyes closed. Hilarious. I was really enjoying this stuff. Apparently he has a thing about badgers as these animals appear in his nighttime conversations with - well, who knows who he is talking to? He's asleep.

I've had my shot of laughter today, have you had yours?

Here is my "poem" for this post. It consists of some of his nightly proclamations artfully arranged to approximate free verse. I call it


"Skipping to work makes everything better."


"I'd rather peel off my skin
and bathe my weeping raw flesh in a
bath of vinegar
than spend any time with you.
But that's just my opinion.
Don't take it personally."

"Elephant trunks should be used for
elephant things only.
Nothing else."

"My vision of hell is a lentil casserole."

"Badger tickling: proceed with caution"

"Vampire penguins?
Zombie guinea pigs?
We're done for.... done for."

"I don't want to die! I love sex.
And furry animals."

"Put it down!
Step away from the yam.
Step away!"

"I've got a really
terrible
terrible
feeling about this custard tart.
Terrible."

"Be happy happy happy happy."



I leave you with the perfect reply to someone injudicious enough to remark upon your girth.

"I haven't put on weight.
Your eyes are fat."

Thank you Adam, your brain is a wondrous thing.
Here is the URL for Sleep Talkin' Man.
http://sleeptalkinman.blogspot.com/

The Spark is Lit Once More

Many times in the past I have fallen off the write-something-every-day wagon, advice many aspiring writers try to follow. Often real life does get in the way of the life of the mind for most of us. I used to feel guilty about this. When I was teaching literature and writing to high school students, I found it ironic that by encouraging them to read and write I wasn't reading what I wanted or writing anything other than remarks on their papers and grocery lists. Or grades, which can hardly count as writing especially since they were inked into tiny squares in the gradebook to be transferred to the computer. No, that was not writing; neither were the comments I sprinkled their papers with. I used to fantasize my retirement: sunshine flowing through my windows, cup of tea by my side, writing for a couple of hours early in the morning, working out, riding my bike, preparing lovely gourmet meals and then more writing deep into the night. Ha! Now I am no longer in the classroom but not entirely retired. Retired enough to have a lot of time for good stretches, however, and not much of the fantasy has materialized. That's why this blog is important to me.

Finally, I am writing. Well, I did co-write a book with my cycling buddy so I suppose that counts as writing, but I haven't written much poetry except for a poem about the death of a good teaching friend who died too young. As for the daily journal or working on another book - not so much. Not at all. Real life has been fun and I do have time to just pick up and do something unplanned occasionally which is heavenly after 31 years of a working life divided into 57 minute time slots every day. And the guilt about not writing receded into the minutia in the back of my mind. I sometimes thought about the feminist writer whose name escapes me at the moment, who opined that after a lifetime of serving others as wife, mother, daughter, worker, many women writers lose that creative urge. They must indulge the urge to keep it alive. Or they just lose their spark, their creativity. I certainly understand that. I was sure that is what had happened to me. I had lost the light of creativity. I had the time but I didn't take it for writing. I did so many other things instead. And they were necessary or fun or educational. But they weren't writing.

I suppose I had fallen prey partly to the thought that 1) What could I say that hasn't been said before and said better? and 2) Who would want to listen to anything I had to say anyway? Those are deadly thoughts to a writer who has to have the confidence to write despite them. I keep telling a good friend to get rid of her internal editor who makes her try to write perfectly so much that she doesn't write at all. She was a real editor before her retirement so I am sure it is very hard for her to lose that judgmental devil on her shoulder as she writes. But I was under the influence of another devil when I listened to it saying, "You have nothing worthwhile to write about. No one is interested in what you have to say."

Here is where the blogging phenomenon did me a colossal favor. People are writing about everything, anything and nothing. Many are being read and many more don't care if they are ever read. Well, I can't quite believe that. I think the reason we write is to be heard as well as to express ourselves. I secretly hope that my blog catches on and spreads worldwide. I don't expect it, but it would be pretty cool. Writing a blog is an interesting way of expressing yourself - of finding your voice.

So I am writing again and it feels so good. Writing also makes me pay more attention to the details of life. I'm looking for things to think about and write about. I pay more attention to people and situations and colors and scenery and buildings and conversations. And lots of other stuff. Writing adds another dimension to my life. So even if no one reads my blog, it is making me more alert and interested in life. And that, as Martha Stewart says, is a good thing.

The following poem, not one of mine, seems appropriate.

you don't stop writing girl, go girl go

You don't stop writing girl
You cannot stop, It is part of your nerves now.
Each vein looks for the proper word.
Each red blood corpuscle has become a syllable
For an imaginary poem in your mind.

Each beat of your heart recites a rhyme
A rhythm. A sonnet. A couplet.
Each curl in your cerebellum thinks of
An imagery. Another metaphor comes
And you grasp them with each breath.

You are alive girl. Go girl stop watching
The snow and make your imagination
Run wild like a snowstorm.

The sound of a snowfall. A snowflake
Layering on the side of your window pane
Speaks to you about this coldness
This beautiful sound of a very lonely song
Harking for Love.

Far away from your homeland
You weep for a while and then recover
Compose yourself and see your face in that mirror.
You are strong. You are as vast as the ten thousand miles
Away from us.

Go girl. Another poem knocks at the door of your heart.
Write it. Write about a chaff. The grain. The wheat germ.
Go girl. You are one of us, chosen not to speak
But to write.

I am waiting for your next poem. Gladly, I am.

RIC S. BASTASA

http://www.poemhunter.com/

From Son to Father

How does a son turn from an irresponsible teen to a hard-working, loving husband and father? I suppose most people would say it's just the way things are supposed to be, and I agree. We want our children to grow up to be productive, positive members of society and while we are rearing them we have faith that they will turn out well while doubting our abilities to make it happen. After all, we don't really know what we are doing as parents. We have no manual, no program, no map. We do have our own history and the way we were raised to either emulate or reject, most of us thinking that we can be better parents than the ones we had, even if they were really great parents. We make mistakes; we make some brilliant moves. The parent-child relationship waxes and wanes having its good and bad times. Life goes on. And suddenly the kid you had to sit down with at the kitchen table to make him do his homework, the kid who liked to make his cat sit on top of his head, the kid who made a bazooka out of several paper towel rolls is a father singing to his infant. He's changing diapers, giving baths, planting kisses on his baby. He is patient with the fussy child while he heats bottles. He is loving to his wife as he hands her the baby to be fed. In short, he has become a productive, positive member of society - an adult. A good one. So, in spite of parents who tried their best but stumbled sometimes, despite the fact that they didn't stay together till death did them part, the miracle has occurred. Their son has a son. Let the cycle begin again.

I wrote this poem when my son was 15. It seems appropriate now in a different way than it was back then. Isn't that one of the great things about poetry?

Conversation Overheard Between Mother and Son

“What’s most important in this world?" he asked.

“Being loved,” she replied,
"With mother-warm baby toe-kisses,
And Daddy-tossed jet journeys to the clouds.
With your first love’s glowing cameo ring
To look at in the bedtime dark
And your last love’s shining face
Basking you in the sunrise morning gold.
With a homemade nurse’s dryer-heated towels wrapping you
Against the fever’s freezing lull
And hot cocoa presented with soft white top on ice blue nights.
With warm cookies and carefully packed lunches
And healthy early bedtimes to grow strong on.
With friends’ smile-lit eyes when you walk into the room
And reach out and touch someone calls from far continents or nearby towns.
With someone who shines with your joys, saddens with your sorrows,
Laughs with your undiminished spirit,
And who sits, waiting with you for the end
In the quiet room
Of crisp white smells, emptiness-terror, and loss.”

“Being loved,” she replied, "is most important always."

“I’m not so sure,” he ventured.
“Being loved is powerful and very, very, good.
But what about
Loving?”

“Ah," she sighed, new respect illuminating her eyes,
“I’ll have to think about that.”

The baby has come to visit along with his mother and father. No time to write a blog. Just time to look at and love him. At four months, he and his parents know each other quite well. They know what to expect from each other and they know how to show their love for each other. It is a beautiful thing to watch your own child care for his child. Now he knows the fears a parent can have for a child, but he also knows the fierce love a parent holds for a child. Now your child knows how you felt while you were raising him. That knowledge is a wide bridge connecting you now. It leads to understanding and  perhaps vindication for past discipline. It is an interesting process to be part of, this parenting and grand-parenting. Most instructive. Yes, the baby has come to visit "trailing clouds of glory."

Two poems, the first by Gerard Manly Hopkins and the second by William Wordsworth

The child is father to the man

‘THE CHILD is father to the man.’ How can he be? The words are wild. Suck any sense from that who can: ‘The child is father to the man.’ No; what the poet did write ran,         5 ‘The man is father to the child.’ ‘The child is father to the man!’ How can he be? The words are wild.       My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold, by William Wordsworth   My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. 1802.

A Poem of My Own

It has been suggested that I post some of my own poems. So I will once in a while and here's one.

It’s not the dress

What do poets wear?
 Dresses spun of spider webs?
          (just get arrested for  indecent exposure)
 Skirts of woven cowslips?
          (bit of an Ophelia complex, maybe?)
 Jackets made of full-moon beams?
          (shine on girl, until the fashion police arrive)
 Boots of Spanish leather?
          (gift of an old lover now in the Hebrides)

It’s not the dress; it’s the
Eyes that see more than is there
Ears that hear the beat of life
Feet that dance the rhythm of the earth
And a very open heart.

It’s not the dress that plays the part-- 

Clothes don’t make the poet

Staying up Late

   When you are a kid, staying up late is exciting. If you have permission from your parents, you feel like it's a very special treat. If you don't have permission, you are putting one over on them and that is even sweeter. Like when you huddle under your covers with a flashlight and read late into the night even though your neck gets stiff and you have to shift the book to the other side of your body because the arm you are leaning on feels like an elephant is sitting on it. You know you have to stay under the covers because they've already caught you twice when they saw the light leaking out from under your bedroom door. But the stiff neck is too uncomfortable so you have to think of something. A bathrobe stuffed under the crack takes care of the light situation and you can read until one in the morning - even on school nights. Oh yeah.  And this is just when  you are in seventh grade.

As you get older, you stay up late and do other things besides reading. Exciting, scary, naughty things like climbing out of the window and meeting your good buddy to roam the dark neighborhood speculating on what the people are doing in the few houses where a light is on. Maybe you take a dip in the one pool in the neighborhood. The fact that you are out and your parents have no idea makes you feel daring and dangerous.

But as you become much older, staying up late means writing papers, studying for tests, getting the big presentation put together, grading papers, creating lesson plans. Work - not so much fun. Oh, there is the occasional night out with friends. TGIF and all that. Fun, but not daring and dangerous.

You're even older and the late nights involve children with fevers, croup, bitter tummies, nightmares, perhaps a serious illness. Years go by and you are up because your teen hasn't come home at his curfew. That's a killer: you think of all the terrible things that could have happened. Maybe you even get in the car and drive the dark neighborhood trying to think of where he could be and checking for his car. Relief when you find it at the Perkins a mile away. If he'd only use the phone to call, you would be sleeping at this ungodly hour. Now, staying up late is not exciting or daring. Not so much fun anymore.

But sometimes you stay up late to write or draw or paint because it is a quiet time when no one else is making demands on your time. It is a time of freedom and peace. You know you are going to be tired in the morning when you have to get up at the normal time and take up the responsibilities of your daytime life. But now, in the silence,  you read, sitting in a chair under the only light on in the neighborhood providing a night-wandering kid something to speculate about.

A children's night poem:

Night-Night (Children)
Night-night moon Night-night stars Night-night noisy trucks and cars. Night-night sand box Night-night toys Night-night other girls and boys. Night-night mom Night-night dad Night-night Boogie Man who's not bad. It's time to go to sleep now, most all my night nights said. Night-night blankie Night-night bed. C.J. Heck

A late night poem by Carl Sandburg

II. HOME

Here is a thing my heart wishes the world had more of:
I heard it in the air of one night when I listened
To a mother singing softly to a child restless and angry
in the darkness. 

The Old Dishwasher by Toni Calvello

(In honor of my dish scrubber, I present a poem about a different kind of washer.)

Today we ripped the old dishwasher
from the kitchen where it has made its home
for the last thirty years.

Dust coated pipes and hoses
were exposed in all their nakedness
and seemed to be embarrassed by the intrusion
into their dark, private hole in the wall.

And underneath the old dishwasher,
three different floor coverings,
each with its own story to tell of years gone by.

At the very bottom of the trio lies a beige stone pattern
which looks very much like real stone
but is a linoleum from 40 years ago.
I look down at the linoleum and remember
at the age of 12 when I used to clean the house
for my mother who worked all day.

I’d mop this floor each week and then
wax the beige stones until they shone and sparkled.
And when the job was done, I’d put the chairs and table
back in their places and I’d begin the family dinner.
No one really noticed the waxed, shiny floor.
At the end of the week, I’d receive my 25 cent allowance
and go to the Friday night movie on the corner.

Then the next week, I’d begin all over again.
At twelve, the housework, dinner, and dishes were all my job.
And now, with the old dishwasher gone,
all that is left are memories of the mopping, waxing,
and a girlchild with lots of dreams.

Kitchen Aide

An age-old piece of writing advice is to write about what you know. After all these years I have some degree of kitchen wisdom. I'm not a fancy cook, meaning I don't cook fancy or gourmet meals. No one in my family wants to eat that stuff except for me. However, I do cook a variety of fine dishes and I manage to get the entire meal on the table hot and ready to enjoy all together. I don't claim to know everything about cooking: I just recently learned the term "chiffonade" - to cut into ribbons. As in roll up several leaves of kale like a cigar and cut narrow strips -  which illustrates why we need terms - they are shorter than their definitions.

Anyway, although I don't know all the terms, I can cook fairly well. But sometimes the equipment in the kitchen causes me some concern. Right now I have a little dishwasher gizmo that consists of a hollow plastic handle with a screw-top at one end and a sponge at the other. The theory is that dishwashing liquid is poured into the handle and makes its way to the sponge for quick washing. Some of these devices are better than others. I purchased this particular one because I couldn't find my usual wand last time I needed a new one. Why would I need a new one when I can just replace the sponge when it becomes shredded? Because eventually, no matter who the manufacturer, the wands start to leak dishwashing liquid. Usually this takes quite some time - months or even a year or so. 

But this particular wand is confounding me. Sometimes the liquid leaks out the screw-top end, but other times it leaks from the little rubber  button in the middle of the wand. I do not know what this button is for. When you push it, nothing noticeable happens. This is the first scrubber I have had with this little button and it is about to become the last. The leakage from this one has started way too soon for my money-saving instincts. I've kept it around because I hate spending money on these gadgets, but I really prefer to wash dishes with these devices than with a cloth. Yes, the dishwasher does a great job, but we fill it about every 3 - 4 days and then wash, so I usually have a few things to hand wash after every meal in addition to pots and pans. 

This scrubber has leaked its last. It may not seem like a big deal to wipe up the liquid soap, and usually it isn't if you have a Corian or formica type counter. But when we built this house, my SO put in 12 X 12 porcelain tiles as the counter top. Love the look, hate to get soap in the grout between the tiles. It just takes a bit of extra effort to be sure the soap is gone from these indentations, but even though I don't mind washing the dishes, I like to get out of the kitchen fast and wiping grout lines holds me up. But that isn't the worst of it. We have a lovely drop in sink that overlaps the counter on all sides but isn't sealed. So the sneaky, slimy dish soap oozes under the lip and I have to figure out how to get the dish cloth under it in order to wipe out the soap. I know that I haven't been totally successful in removing all the soap; therefore, when we replace this sink I know what my SO is going to say when he sees the scum build-up. Or maybe he will just give me the look. That disappointed, slightly incredulous look that says, "I can't believe you couldn't take care of this little thing. Lucky there is a man around the house. What would you ever do without me, you poor, little woman?" He would never say this out loud, but his look speaks volumes. And while I like having him around, I think I am a competent person who has managed to raise two kids on a teacher's salary and live two-thirds her life quite successfully without him. So the look rankles. That is why the dish-scrubber-wand-thing is being replaced tomorrow.

Since my last post featured childhood, here's a poem about a loss we all experience at some point in our childhood. The Death of Santa Claus Charles Webb He's had the chest pains for weeks, but doctors don't make house calls to the North Pole, he's let his Blue Cross lapse, blood tests make him faint, hospital gown always flap open, waiting rooms upset his stomach, and it's only indigestion anyway, he thinks, until, feeding the reindeer, he feels as if a monster fist has grabbed his heart and won't stop squeezing. He can't breathe, and the beautiful white world he loves goes black, and he drops on his jelly belly in the snow and Mrs. Claus tears out of the toy factory wailing, and the elves wring their little hands, and Rudolph's nose blinks like a sad ambulance light, and in a tract house in Houston, Texas, I'm 8, telling my mom that stupid kids at school say Santa's a big fake, and she sits with me on our purple-flowered couch, and takes my hand, tears in her throat, the terrible news rising in her eyes. from Reading The Water, 2001 Northeastern University Press Copyright 2001 by Charles Webb. All rights reserved. Reproduced with permission

Likes and Dislikes: From Kid to Grownup

I was reading a blog called Secret Society of List Makers the other day and the writer was listing things she didn't like as a child that she now does like. I had a hard time thinking of things I disliked as a child, but with some time I came up with a few. That seems to be my way - I  need time to remember things in the far past. For the recent past - forget it. I can't remember what I had for lunch the previous day.I am not a list addict so even if I start out numbering, my items will probably become non-listlike at some point. Like with number 1.

1. I hated my uniform in kindergarten. The public school started with first grade so my mother sent me to St. Rose of Lima for kindergarten. We had to wear these almost-Kelly green jumper-type uniforms over white blouses. Ugly, but easy to put on by slipping it over your head. Or so I thought. Many times the sister would look at me and say, "Barbara, go into the cloakroom and turn your uniform around." Yes, "cloak room". It was an old Catholic school building-- oh, who am I kidding? I'm old. In the course of my kindergarten year I had to go into the cloak room about 5 or six times. I never understood why I had to turn my uniform around but I cheerfully complied each time. No problem. It wasn't until May that I figured things out. The uniform actually did have a front and back. The neck was square cut in both the front and back, but the top-stitching came to a point in the middle of the front. In the back, the stitching just went straight across. The light switched on and I never made the mistake again for the rest of the school year.

    I never thought another thing about the uniform debacle except when I told that story to a friend in college and she said, "Why didn't she just show you which was the front and which the back?  Why did she keep making you go into the cloak room?" Why, indeed?

   "Could it be because you weren't Catholic and she wanted to humiliate you?" suggested my friend. I thought that was far-fetched, but I then remembered a few other little incidents. When the sister played the piano to teach us songs, I usually knew the songs already. I would sing the words along with her the first time she sang the lines so the class could learn the song. Once she frowned at me and said, "Barbara, how could you know the words already? Stop that singing until the class learns the song." Hmm. It didn't phase me then, but maybe my friend was right. Shouldn't she have been glad there was one little student she didn't have to teach the words to? And then there was the matter of chapel. Every Wednesday the class trooped down to the church for a service. Since my family wasn't Catholic, and since I now think my mother must have had some animosity toward the Church, my mother did not give me a scarf to put on my head for church. Yes, I am so old that at the time, girls and women had to wear hats or mantillas or scarves on their heads or they would go straight to -  But I digress. Since I had no scarf, Sister put a paper plate on my head and I had to make the long trek to chapel through the halls of school holding it on my head. Every Wednesday. Now I realize that she must have had some spare scarves around, any teacher would, but did she let the little Protestant girl wear one? Ha! If she was attempting to humiliate me, and I still find that hard to believe, she never succeeded. I was oblivious. I loved school, loved singing, and even liked the cloak room with its warmth and its odor that I couldn't identify but found pleasant. 

2. Garter snakes. I didn't like them as a child. They sunned themselves all over the sidewalks and driveways of our house and the neighbors' because there was a pond at the edge of our back yard which supported hundreds of snake families. In the spring and summer you couldn't take a walk down to the road or over to the neighbors' without coming upon several stretched out languorously in the sun. The boys would terrorize the girls in the playground of school by flipping a snake into the air toward a little girl who would usually run off screaming. I had a reputation as a tomboy (yes, I know we do not use this term anymore, but we did back then in the Dark Ages), and I could not let the boys that I bossed around see any fear. When Tommy H. pulled out a snake and shook it in my face I had to smile and say, "Wow, he's a nice one, Tommy. Let me hold him." Of course Tommy was crestfallen and wasn't going to let a girl touch his instrument of terror. I smiled as he turned away and then wiped the sweat from my forehead when he was gone. But no snakes were ever thrust at me again from any of the boys. Bravado worked. So, I didn't like snakes back then. Hmmm. I still don't like them as an adult. Yes, I know they are not slimy, disgusting creatures. I have touched them and I've even let a python drape itself around my shoulders so my junior high students could lose their fear. But I still think snakes are sneaky, treacherous, icky-looking creatures. I don't have an over-abiding fear of them, but I do not like them.  I guess snakes shouldn't be on the list, but they provided such a good life-lesson that I had to discuss them.

3. I hated doing the dishes. I thought it a complete waste of my valuable play time.I should be out climbing trees, chasing boys, throwing rocks into the pond - not washing dishes. It is only recently that I have found any pleasure in washing the dishes. Now I like to run very hot water, fluff up mounds of suds and scrub away. Must be my way of dealing with stress. And I like to see the clean dishes stacked in the strainer. I like the fact that I let them air-dry instead of wiping them dry probably because I think I'm getting away with something.  But I still have to put them away in the morning.

So there is my short list of things I didn't like as a child that I do like now. Except for the snakes. Given time, I could probably remember a few more, but I think it would be more fun to think of things I did like as a kid that I don't like now. Like mustard sandwiches.

  

Anne Sexton on Snow

  Snow, blessed snow, comes out of the sky like bleached flies.

It's Going to

snow tomorrow, say all the weather forecasters on TV. They haven't lashed themselves up into their weather-orgy of continuous broadcasting yet, but it is obvious they are champing at the bit. They want this to be a big snow so they can hog the airwaves and tell us about every flake, every icy road, every salt truck, every accident. They really get into the bad side of snow, but I'm looking forward to a good, snowy day. I spent some time tonight getting in wood in preparation for tomorrow's day-long fire. I have nowhere to go so I plan to stoke the fire, make tea, and take down the Christmas decorations. I'll shovel the driveway a couple of times and maybe I'll even take my camera outside and walk through the woods. I love walking as the snow is coating the ground and trees, muffling the sounds of normalcy. Around here, snow is not that normal - at least a lot of it isn't. We are supposed to get 3-6 inches. That doesn't sound like much to a lot of people, but it is more than we usually get and I am looking forward to watching the flakes whirl as they fall outside my tall windows. That's the most fun: being warm and toasty inside while watching frozen crystals paint the world white.

A Billy Collins Poem

Child Development
As sure as prehistoric fish grew legs and sauntered off the beaches into forests working up some irregular verbs for their first conversation, so three-year-old children enter the phase of name-calling. Every day a new one arrives and is added to the repertoire. You Dumb Goopyhead, You Big Sewerface, You Poop-on-the-Floor (a kind of Navaho ring to that one) they yell from knee level, their little mugs flushed with challenge. Nothing Samuel Johnson would bother tossing out in a pub, but then the toddlers are not trying to devastate some fatuous Enlightenment hack. They are just tormenting their fellow squirts or going after the attention of the giants way up there with their cocktails and bad breath talking baritone nonsense to other giants, waiting to call them names after thanking them for the lovely party and hearing the door close. The mature save their hothead invective for things: an errant hammer, tire chains, or receding trains missed by seconds, though they know in their adult hearts, even as they threaten to banish Timmy to bed for his appalling behavior, that their bosses are Big Fatty Stupids, their wives are Dopey Dopeheads and that they themselves are Mr. Sillypants. Billy Collins |

People Who Get REALLY Involved

I was listening to an interview with Stanley Tucci who played Julia Child's husband in Julia and Julie who said that when he was a kid he and his mother were obsessed with Julia Child. They watched her shows on TV and he confessed that he cried when they were over. Julia herself was obsessed with French cooking. This reminded me of a topic I had thought of for a book many years ago. People who are so involved in some idea, person, sport, music, etc., that this involvement  actually has a strong influence or even dictates the way they live. For a long time.

I remembered another radio interview probably 15 years ago with a man who wanted a certain Elvis collectible and in trying to find it he discovered a man in Virginia who had an Elvis museum in his house. An incredibly complete Elvis museum. He had spent his life collecting these items and I think he had even bought this house so he could keep his collection where he lived. He had traveled all over the country to collect his museum items and was now selling some due to financial problems. Even though I'm not an Elvis freak, I had to admire this guy's determination to have the best Elvis museum he could. It was his life; he had traveled to places he wouldn't have without this interest; he had met people all over the country. Through this slightly nutty fixation, he had enriched his life.

Not long after that, I rode in one of only two elevators left in Cincinnati that had operators. Remember when a person worked the controls to take you up or down and open the door? Well, that was a long time ago. This particular elevator operator had decorated her elevator - and make no mistake - it was her elevator, with items that made it look like a tiny room in a house. A little table and chair for her to sit in, pictures on the walls, a newspaper and books, curtains. It was charming even if slightly odd. Then there is the lady who lives not too far from me who has over 47 ceramic figures in her yard including all seven dwarfs and Cinderella, Pocahontas, donkeys, cowboys, various farm animals and a whole lot more. Tacky, maybe, but imagine her search for all these little statues.How much fun has she had finding this menagerie?

And that's why I am fascinated by such people. They are odd, different, some may say slightly crazy. But look what they can do: Julia Child's obsession taught America to cook, Michael Phelps' single-minded desire to be great won him all those Olympic medals. Oprah's obsession with talking to the world made her rich and helped a lot of people in the process.

Not everyone has such involvement - such passion, but I know some personally, mostly athletes. I know runners who will not miss a day of running no matter the weather. I know cyclists who structure their lives so they can cycle on vacations as well as at home. They buy cars that can carry their bikes, eat food and drink fluids that are supposed to help them perform well on long rides and races, hold endless discussions with other cyclists of their ilk about components and how much they weigh.

But these people aren't the ones I find truly interesting. I have a friend who just loves to cycle because she just loves to cycle. It makes her feel good; she gets to travel to beautiful parts of the country to cycle with friends. She reads books about other people who cycle all over the world. Her bike even has a name. Bicycling is joy for her. That's a healthy passion that changed her life many years ago and has allowed her to live her best life. While I love cycling, it isn't as pure a love as hers. Sometimes I just ride to ride and feel the air flow by me, but most of the time I have another motive - weight loss, cardiovascular fitness, leg strength. However, I'd say cycling is a passion of mine that has influenced the way I live in a good way.

I'm searching for more elevator ladies and Elvis museum guys. They have interesting stories to tell and I want to hear them.

So I changed the name of my blog

Didn't really like For Pete's Sake - it just was a random thought. But today in spinning class, Malissa was making us work really hard staying in Zone 4 (anaerobic) for a minute or so instead of just touching it and going back down to Zone 3. Anyway,  I think she was discussing other ways of hurting ourselves on the spinning bike and she said this workout was a different kind of joy. Because she is an animal and loves to thrash herself on the spin bike, the road bike, or the cross bike, this is a type of joy for her. That's what makes her such a good instructor - she loves the pain and she makes us love it too. So I am extrapolating Malissa's "different kind of joy" into a statement on life. We search for different kinds of joy; we revel in joy when we find it. We need different kinds of joy, and most importantly, we need to recognize joy when it comes to us. My blog will not always be about joy but maybe the underlying thread will be, even if I'm complaining or commenting on less than positive issues. My point is, we cannot abandon the search for different kinds of joy. 

A Lobster Poem

As a former English teacher and current poet, I have to confess I've never seen a poem about a lobster before. Well, perhaps this isn't just about a lobster as most poems are about something other than their obvious subjects. Anyway, I got a chuckle from this and hereby reprint it with credit to poet and the website I got it from.

Lobster

Gerard de Nerval, Parisian poet and author, had a pet
lobster which he led through the streets of Paris on a leash.
Ripley's Believe It or Not!

It was eighteen fifty.
Clac-Clac was his name,
a pale salmon color, and dusty
from crossing the city
the way the city was then.

Every night his master
ate him and went for another,
whom he named Clac-Clac again.

"Even a lobster with his carapace
can't stand more than one turn
around this stinking circus,"
Nerval said with bitterness,

rigging himself and his lobster
up for today's appearance.

Kay Ryan
The Jam Jar Lifeboat & Other Novelties Exposed
Red Berry Editions

Copyright © 2008 by Kay Ryan
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

I Love Technology...Maybe

I heard this morning that Tracy Chevalier was going to sign her new book Remarkable Creatures at a local bookstore I like to support. I immediately thought - Yes, I'll go get her to sign my book - before I remembered that I was just sampling it on my new Kindle. Then it hit me (I guess I'm a bit slow on the uptake here), if I read only Kindle books, I can't get them signed by the authors.
Not that I have many signed books. Actually, I have only one, signed by Anna Quindlan, an author I greatly respect. A high school buddy of mine who lives in Manhattan is friends with Anna Q and my friend sent me the book. What a thoughtful gesture. She is a great friend - more about her later.
So, I love my Kindle and maybe I don't love my Kindle. How important is it that I have actual paper copies of books? I don't stalk authors and bookstores to get autographs so that isn't really a consideration. But a few friends and I are forming a new book club this month and even though the Kindle has this place you can put quotes and mark pages, I'm not sure I will like manipulating the Kindle to that place instead of marking and flipping pages. And, yes, I know the Kindle allows you to highlight and write notes on pages, but I'm not sure I will like typing those notes on the unwieldy Kindle "keyboard." It will take some practice to get used to this electronic book thing. I've wanted a Kindle since they came out and my SE (spousal equivalent) gave it to me for Christmas this year so I really do want to like it. And not having all those books around the house will be a very good thing. I think I will still read hard copies of books along with the Kindle books. I love the library and I can't afford to buy every book I want to read. Just hope my SE will understand that not every book I read will be a Kindle.
So the Kindle is one bit of technology that I think I like. Time will tell.
About my friend from Manhattan. Maybe she and my other high school good buddies will be the subject of another blog. We've been out of high school for decades, raised children and now have grandchildren. During the child-rearing part of our lives, we only sent Christmas cards, but after some mini-reunions, we now see each other quite often even though we are spread throughout the country. When we get together, it's just like we never were apart. We share interests, points of view, books, movies, music, humor, life-experiences. The whole shebang. And since we never were competitive or snarky in high school, we certainly aren't now. No big egos in the group - just strong women who know their own worth. I have many friends now who wish they could have such good high school friends as I have. Am I lucky or what?

Here We Go

Inspired by viewing Julie and Julia last night, I finally decided to take the plunge and start my own blog. No, this won't be about cooking Julia's butter-laden and delicious dishes and it's not that I think anyone will ever read it, but perhaps this regular musing and writing will keep my mind sharp. Not that it is dull yet - I can still think fast and grasp concepts quicker than the average person my age. It's just the recall that is slower. Can't answer the questions on Wheel as fast as I used to.
When we were kids in Maine in the summers, we played all kinds of quick-recall games as well as Risk. Man, my recall was fast then. And I could dominate the world of Risk's colorful little cubes as well as the next kid. But now I have concerns for my mental acuity so maybe my blog will inspire me to write almost every day in order to keep my mind agile.
Why "For Pete's Sake"? Because I tried a lot of titles, all of which were taken and I said to myself, "For heaven's sake, when will I find a title?" But I am not religious so do not want to give a false impression. Pete is good. I even know a Pete who will probably play no part in the blog at all, but that's not a problem. What is a problem is getting the font to stay in Trebuchet - guess I'll have to go to help soon.
So this is it for today, a cold day for southwest Ohio as I sit here in my spousal-equivalent's blue Snuggie that I gave him for Christmas because he is always cold. Right now he has on a thermal undershirt, flannel shirt, another grey sweatshirt type thing and a big red fleece jacket as well as warm socks and jeans. Only his hands are cold so I commandeered the Snuggie. I usually make it a point not to buy merchandise that is advertised by cheesy commercials, but this was for him, not for me, so I rationalized my way into buying it. And...it was on sale.