Aunt Sally Defies Color Solution #58

Kellen, on Neighborhood Chromaguard Watch for Orange, or O Section, had long known his Aunt Sally was unruly, so he wasn't unduly surprised when he spotted her wearing a bright blue baseball cap. She sat in the shade of a leafy tree and on her lap sat a tattered black book. Sally ate a sandwich although public eating was frowned upon and wearing blue in O was something one simply could not do.

"Morning, Aunt Sally," he said.

"Morning to you, dear Nephew."

"Do I have to fine you? Or will you take off the cap?"

"What kind of fine could it be? I have nothing left but this cap, my notebook, and this hideous orange dress. Oh, and half a sandwich."

"What are you on about? You get your allotment, don't you? Same as everyone. I'll fine that."

"Ah, you could, if I had it, but you can't, because I don't. I've left the envelope on my porch for my poor former neighbors who'll live on, they avow, in this dustbowl of creative thought known as O. I don't want any more of that crap from your color crazed plutocrats. I'll mooch off my old friends and the occasional kindness of strangers, pardon me, Tennessee."

"What do you mean, former neighbors? What have you done, you crazy old bat, you bane of my life, you dysfunctioning Aunt?"

"I've moved out of my loathsome orange cube. I'm in permanent transit now. I'm going visiting. G section is next. Most of my old crowd are Greens these days I discovered and I won't tell you how I uncovered their color. But now I know so that's where I'll go. They were your sweet dead mother's pals too, you know. Don't you remember Keisha and Irv? Or their daughter Conchita? I've already been to Blue. I found happy folks who gave me this cap."

"No way. You can't do what you've done or what you're going to do."

"Way. I've done it and I'm doing it."

"I don't want to take you in, you dim woman. Won't you at least surrender that damn hat?"

"Cap. It's not a hat, it's a cap. Take me in? I think not, you brat. You'll have to use your weapon, which you won't do, because you're my nephew, or drag me somehow, but I'd make a scene. I'd scream, and O section rules forbid any fuss. You might get fined yourself."

"You are a pain in the ass, Aunt Sally!"

"You may well yell Kellen, but I will no longer agree to comply   with this silly regime of color control. It doesn't work and never will. We, most if not all, remain human. We've personalities, souls, memories, goals, loves, appetites, tendencies, and qualities. Lumping us into Chromazones, based on random lotteries, is a pathetic attempt to control us all and will unravel. I'm sure it will but I've no patience to wait. Besides, orange has never been my color. So, unless you are going to manhandle me, Kellen, I'm going to finish this bananafish sandwich given to me, willingly, by one of the few friends I still have in this monochrome place and move on to see how things are going in Green. I've heard they hold poetry readings which is quite hard to believe but I hope is true. Did you know they show movies in Blue?"

"How are you getting out of O? Transport doesn't go between zones."

"Oh, Kellen. Really. I'm going to walk, my dumb dear. Green is only three orange blocks away from here. Have you young people forgotten all the things we can do?  Well. So be it. Fine. I'll live to Re-mind, starting small with a cap and I'll see after that. I'll wear the colors I choose, yellow, purple and blue, and walk where I want. It's easy, believe me. Now get out of my way. Write a report to the O Section boss. Orange doesn't suit you either, you know. Must be a family thing-our sallow skin. Pity you think you're stuck with it. I love you. Good luck."

Fleeting Laziness in Birds and Catching Myself Being Selfish

My brother built a planter for roses

in the garden on the side of our house.

A dove couple came and thought things over.

There in the corner they whispered.

Could they dutifully take their turns,

(as doves do) she from three to ten,

he from ten to three, 

until they hatched the usual two?  

They wondered if my brother had done all

this work just for them and their young?

They were tempted, I knew.

But, no. He raised objections.

She made several good points.

Building in this easy, shady,

new-wood-smelling spot would not

be a sound dove decision.

Neighborhood cats were known to jump

right off the roof into the garden.

There's Blossom, the dog, who can get

overexcited and occasionally loud.

Sam, the cat, is meant to stay

inside his screened-in porch,

but could they really count on that

always being the case?

Their cool gray heads prevailed.

The house-hunting birds flew off and after they'd left,

I found a mound of red mulch, dove-sized, dented and soft.

They were right to take flight. I know that, of course.

“It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.”
 Mark Twain 


3/13/12-Brainstorming Session among like-minded private citizens (okay, writer friends) responding to national tough nut to crack. 



Reason #1 for outreach plan:


Public Policy Poll (Democratic polling)
52% of Republicans in Mississippi think President Obama is a Muslim
45%  "  "                   "    Alabama     "        "                  "   "          " 

Okay, ideas?

•  ASAP mobilization of friendly Peace-Corps type trip to rural and small-town America to lure folks to reconsider some. (you can end a thought on the word "some" in the South
• Aren't we being too cynical, Nonnie?  

• Hold events on Sundays after church services-don't want preachers spotting us and talking about us from their pulpits

• A completely unofficial, pleasant gathering of folks.  Most at least middle-aged, children ok, not too many 18 to 35s, bunch of over 65s. Nice clothes, not too fancy, not too sloppy. No faking accents. Avoid urban... or hippy-dippy. Discreet cell phones okay. Leave laptops in motel.

• Don't quote Mark Twain. Don't quote anybody.

• Everyone wearing plain crosses? (research needed)
• Little Obama buttons-real little-tiny-maybe just lower case "d" pins

• Everyone Welcome to (name of town, or county, maybe) Barbeque! (Big sign, hand-lettered, magic marker on white posterboard)

• Find people to man grills. None of us wants to.

• Barbeque set up across the street from all those little churches out in the middle of nowhere, and in vicinity of mega churches where people pouring out of church parking lot will see us

• Flea market/garage sale type tables with people hanging out in lawn chairs behind tables. Useful/pretty stuff-good prices.
• See if we can find any books that might sell and yet woo? (further discussion needed on this.)
• Sweet tea, cokes, coffee, pulled pork, coleslaw, potato salad, deviled eggs, rolls, cakes, pies (what kind?) ice cream

• Gospel & Country singers
• Bluegrass
• child soloists

• lawn chairs set up in circles

• tell personal stories about coming to believe our President is a good guy, and Christian

• free tobacco products (research first)

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Comment section via private office of a password protected writer's site on the World Wide Web. These people are not googleable.


From lankywoman:


What kind of pies? Chess pie, naturally, and raspberry. Gotta have peach pie cuz everyone from TN to GA to Ala and Miss just as easy pass it up than take it onaccounta they ate way to manyof them growing up...


Lowercase "d" buttons - I LIKE that!


Gotta have all kinds of cokes, like pepsi, moutain dew, orange, you know, all kinds of cokes. My favorite kinda coke, and the only one I'll drink - Verner's Ginger Ale. 


Gotta decide whether you want North Carolina cole slaw or TN coleslaw, and southern BBQ or St. Louis BBQ, and then, when you decide, stick with your choices. To the death.




From lakehugger:


I'd not call it cynical. Rather, pointed.


From justsayin':


I don't know if this would be cynical or realistic, but I suspect the appropriate ending would be to have the red necks beat you all up, then eat the goodies and say they were doing God's work.


From almostoutahere:


Never try to teach a pig to sing...you waste your time and annoy the pig.


via email:


From wilsnote:

as to southern pies

moonpies definitely

Neopolitan ice cream pies 

cut with a small biscuit cutter 

on Famous Chocolate Wafers in an iced cooler

and chicken pot pies kept warm on the grill

       
I was in a battle once. Nine year-old to nine year-old combat. Big stick to big stick. Martha, from the bottom of the hill, and me. I'm pretty sure she started it. Her bunch was trying to keep my frinds and me from the path that led down to our best play spot-a pond and its swampy environs. Martha was being even bossier than usual and then this wierd fight started between the two of us. The whole mob split into sides, everybody was shouting, but Martha and I were deadly quiet as we did stick to stick (oh, yeah, we really had big sticks) Robin Hood and Friar Tuck type combat. I can still conjure those feelings: furious, scared, out of control, and above all shocked that I had gotten into such a mess. One of my big brothers, Drago or Bobby, got between us and Mark, Martha's brother, got her mother, who came out and yelled, mostly at me, and the war ended. It had probably only lasted twenty minutes, and no one got hurt, but the whole thing shook me up in all kinds of ways. I ran home and straight to my mother's lap, like a little kid. Cried off and on the rest of the day. Mom didn't even scold me. No need.

When I was in my teens, protesting against the war we had going then, I thought the "make love not war message" would take hold, it seemed so sensible, but, no, it hasn't. There's still violence all over the damn place. Bomb talk, you know? Amazing. Bigfuckingstick bombs.  Where are the big brothers? Where are the moms?
----------------------------------------------------------------

On another note:

In an Effort to Forestall Self-Pity, I've Been Pondering

bowls of spaghetti with fresh marinara
family tossed stories of our living and dead
coffee, jokes, confessions with cake,

cobbled streets, shady footpaths, corners to turn,
hotels with verandas and gardens, no pools,
bookstores with feelings, small time cafés,

musicians to fall for, a loudmouth to hate
newborns to visit, fences to fix,
payments, thank yous, grand plans to make.

Until I feel better,
my desk will work fine.
Rain today, sun tomorrow
play your cards, take your time.

Two Bits

Brother and Sister Hash it Out

“It’s better to have one,” said Simon.
“It is?” asked Maddy.
Simon got off the stool they used to reach the sink. “Yeah.”
“But why? I can pee good."
“I can pee standing up. You have to sit down. And I have something to hold,
and you don’t have anything.”
“But you have to sit down sometimes.”
“Sure, but we’re talking about peeing. And mine feels good. Do you want to feel it?”
“I don’t think so. Anyway, Mom doesn’t have one. I’m like Mom.”
“Right. That's what they said before. You and Mom have vaginas but Dad and I have peanuts. Okay. I gotta put my trucks away."

“Maddy, did you brush your teeth yet? It’s past bedtime.” said  Dory.
“Not yet, Mommy.” Maddy’s elbows rested on her knees, her head in her hands.
“Honey, are you sad about something? Was Simon mean to you?”
“He said it was better to be a boy.”
“And why did he say that?”
“Because boys had peanuts and girls just have a hole and it doesn’t show.”
“It’s not better to be a boy. It’s just as good to be a girl as to be a boy, and I want you to believe me about that because it’s very important.”
Maddy stood up and flushed. She stepped on the stool and reached for her toothbrush.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Good. ‘Cause it wouldn’t be fair.”

_______________________________________________

Me, Jane

My sex life started in the back of a bus
on the way home from a middle school football game.
Dickie Young and I smashed our lips together
until one of us had to breathe.

Tongues got busy in high school-
necking was serious business.
I first did it on my 18th birthday.
It was time, and anyway, I was drunk.

Two months later, on a roof-top in Manhattan,
I finally got the kiss that plunged
from lips to spine, groin to knees.
And I'm telling you, I'd had no idea!
Take me to the jungle, Tarzan.
I'm ready to swing.

Nonnie's Poetry Trip: Part 3

So…the poetry festival over, signed editions packed, laundry bag bulging, I left Delray Beach to start my trip home to Panama City Beach. The feathers in the pillow that is me had been plumped and I felt fat and happy. (Er, let me be clear. I'd actually lost a little weight-lots of walking, fore-going restaurants except for lunches, and yogurt.) If I'd any tendency toward bluishness, it was insignificant, because I wasn't just trudging home. I was on my way to spend a night with Yvette, who I've known online for six years give or take, but only met in person last year, and from there on to Cormac and Nancy's. I've known Cormac my whole life.

Before heading out, I asked at the desk of my hotel, and no, there was no way to get to Titusville from Delray without using I-95. The young man made his point, with lovely patience, when he said, "you'll have a horrible drive and besides it will be ugly." But, you know? Once I drove through the south Florida crush, the interstate wasn't bad. And I got to Yvette's in the early afternoon. This was a good thing, because we needed to talk non-stop for seven hours. Only Downton Abby's new episode interrupted the conversation.

We talked about: books, writing, men, dogs, cats, parrots, horses, childhood, children, photography, journaling, home décor, books, poetry, The Linnet's Wings's, (the magazine we both help edit,) World War 2, Holland, names, death, books, cooking, (Yvette's good at this-I'm getting better) the many parts of the country we've in common, drinking, not drinking, Zoetrope Virtual Studio, money, money for writing, other people's writing, men, friends, being a twin (Yvette is) ancestry, pets, divorce, politics (we are both liberal, fairly sensible, and women) health, treasures, dance, music, road trips, films, films from books, and family. We talked a lot about family. Then, after all the superb conversation, chicken curry, and Downton Abby, we collapsed. Yvette had to get to work the next morning, and because she had to be there so early, (normally she gets to work at 6am, but she was going in a little later) I'd called Cormac and told him I'd probably show up at his place by 7am and he'd said that was fine. In fact I didn't wake up the next morning until 7:30. I called Cormac, Yvette and I had a final coffee together, she went off to her re-arranged day at her lab, and I set off to find my old friend and meet his wife.

They didn't mind that I got there three hours later than we'd planned the night before. Cell phones are great for situations when you are running a little behind, don't you think? Ah, well. Beautiful, sleek, airy house. Nancy, who I immediately liked, plied me with coffee and offered eggs, but I settled for an English muffin. Jeez louise I had fun at Cormac and Nancy's! He'd been Tarzan to my Jane when we were little. (I'd always wanted to be Cheetah, but hardly ever got to.) My brother Drago performed the ceremony when, as Princess Sunny Feathers, I married Cormac, who was The Chief. We had the best neighborhood to play in! Woods, a pond with a swampy part, front, side and back yards that connected to each other, streets that were ours to play in until the dads got home from their NYC jobs, a mob of kids, and in winter, ice-skating, a huge, by our standards, sledding hill, snow forts, all of that. Everyone knew everyone and the grown-ups got together on Saturday nights for a party at one house or other. Cormac's mom was my mom's best friend. I hadn't seen Cormac since the 70's, so this was quite a catching-up session. Funny, sad, astonishing lives.

Nancy made me maps for my trip home on the cross-state road that Cormac suggested. Rte. 40 was an uncomplicated drive through Ocala horse country and beyond. The easy drive was a good thing, because, man, did I have stuff to think about! My head and my heart were full-up. I made it all the way to Perry late Monday afternoon, where I stayed in a spiffy new Holiday Inn (the first chain motel I'd been in on this ten-day jaunt.) Tuesday morning I woke up at 4:30 (!) and hit the road soon after. I was that anxious to get home to Drago and our cat and dog. There was fog for awhile, but the kind I could deal with, and then the lovely Big Bend of Florida's Gulf Coast. I was unpacked by the time Drago got home from teaching yoga.  Since getting home, I've seen two of my three doctors, started the damn breathing machine, and settled back in to my quiet life. I know my loved ones are relieved that I made it home safe and sound, and I am too, and I can't say I'm anxious for another road trip just yet. Not just yet.


 

Nonnie's Poetry Trip: Part 2

Who would think, if they met me today, in bed with dog, cat and computer, that I am a woman of such passions? There has never been a time in my life when I haven't been deeply in love with something or someone. As a child my fervors were directed toward ballet and Catholic saints. I would read biographies of famous ballerinas, when I could find them, and the lives of cannonized women  with equal intensity. Could I somehow become the first ballerina-saint, I wondered?

With "boys" went my plans for sainthood, but my love of dance surged. And, indeed, I became a dancer of the daily class or classes; sweaty hours in studios; bloody ugly feet; living to perform and choreograph; GROW; variety. But I turned thirty and became a mess. Serious physical injury, a year or so of full-time drinking, and then, thanks to family love bucking me up and the help of a 12 step program (you know which one) sober living.
I believed, briefly, I could now become a less driven woman. I even pretended to be a secretary but was caught out.

After floundering about I became a teacher of children who were challenged by differences in mental, emotional, or physical states of being. The first priority for these lost souls was to help them "experience their environment with pleasure." Ah, yes.  Passion, for these kids, was back in my life. Then my heart got sick and I had to stop.

This blog was to be about my poetry trip, and indeed it will be. Poetry was and is a passion right there beside me, behind me and in front of me, leading me. From the first memories of my Nonnie teaching me nursery rhymes, I've been a fan. "My poets" have known, challenged, comforted, mirrored, and lord knows, amused me. One of the firsts dances I choreographed was inspired by a line from T.S.Eliot. My last group of special education students were able to recite, with sensitivity, and in front of the class (!) Robert Frost's, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening."

Atlantic Ave, early morning

Atlantic Ave, Delray Beach, Florida

Poet David Kirby

Me, blurred by passion

A few weeks ago I went to my second Palm Beach Poetry Festival, which is not the least concerned, by the way, with taking place in Delray Beach, Florida. (I don't know. Is that whole beachy yet utterly urban sprawl Palm Beach?) I had a full schedule of workshops (with scholar, poet, rock and roll historian, prince of a man, David Kirby), craft talks and readings by top-shelf writers who gave and gave and gave, an invaluable manuscript conference with Ginger Murchison (oh, yeah, I want to publish a book) and many, many walks between my hotel, The Colony Hotel and Cabana Club (I love that name) and Old School Square, the festival venue. Walks along Atlantic Avenue were exciting imput-events for me. Cafés, fancy restaurants, boutiques, antiques, great dogs, and old, young, rich, homeless, Jewish, Cuban, European, black, bohemian, Americans. I had an excellent time in Delray. Weather was great and all and…poetry astounds me. During the readings I discovered new voices speaking to me and of course, those who have always been around will not go away. This passion will carry on,  I think, forever.

There have been men along the way. Sex and great love and all that. I'll write about them in another blog or two, I think. No, scratch that idea. Poems, definitely poems, for all that.

Chalet Suzzanne, Lake Wales, Florida

Nonnie's Poetry Trip: Part 1

Last night was my first with a home oxygen delivery system. I have an apparatus, that looks like a gas mask, which straps around my head and covers my face, a CPAP machine that takes up most of my night table, and a big blue square thing that supplies additional oxygen and makes soft factory noises. Blue does not go with the color scheme of my bedroom. Neither dog nor cat stayed in the room, let alone got on the bed, once I started my machines, and my brother wouldn't even look at me while I was wearing it. Maybe he has to get his courage up a little more. Maybe it's hard seeing someone you love needing help to breathe through the night?

Before starting this life-prolonging indignity, though, I went on a road trip. Two days driving and staying at historic hotels, six days and nights at a poetry festival, then a night with Yvette Managan,  a kindred spirit and fellow editor (The Linnet's Wings), and a morning with Cormac Tully, who I first met when I was three and he was four (and a half!) Ten days away from Drago, my brother and housemate, Blossom, our dog  and Sam, our cat. I missed them and they missed me, but jeez louise, what a time I had!

On the way to the Palm Beach Poetry Festival in Delray Beach, I drove along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico from Panama City to Panacea (I know, right?) with sparkling blue water (well, it was sparkling and it was blue) on my right, tooling gently through small towns or no towns with minimal traffic and Paul Simon, The Band, and Amadeus Mozart to keep me company. I lost the shore for awhile after the Big Bend, but recovered it, on three sides (!), when I arrived in Cedar Key. I spent the night in the Richard Boone room at The Isand Hotel. The building dates from 1859, has survived 150 hurricanes and is said to be haunted by several of the dead, including a prostitute from the days when the place was a Speakeasy.  I took a long walk around the docks then had fresh clams and pasta for dinner. Outside my room was a second-story veranda with a view of the tiny town and the Gulf. There was no TV or phone in my room and I had an Alan Furst novel to start.  Just right.

Cedar Key, Florida

The only time I got lost on this trip was exactly where I thought I might lose my way. Now that I don't have a husband I can stay off Interstates and my route from Cedar Key to Lake Wales looked a little complicated when I studied my many maps. I love maps. Things went fine, however, until a road lost it's mind and instead of going south and east switched to south and west. I ended up in Tampa sprawl land. Not for so very long in real time it turned out, but, you know, when you're in the middle of being lost your perspective gets muddled.

Chalet Suzanne

Then, suddenly, farms, cows, orchards and, tired but once again peaceful, I found Chalet Suzanne in Lake Wales. Before booking the room I'd argued with myself, briefly, about staying there. Expensive. But, I discovered, why not? Unlike much of what we get for our money, this was worth every penny. To me, mind you. Who is, after all, the one who counts. (Was that a pun? I can never do those and rarely even get them without some puzzling.) I had a huge, elegant, yet cosy and old-fashioned room! Maple-glazed duck (sorry Doctor Stokes) for dinner at a table with a lake view in a restaurant that was a magic palace of 1930's Mexican-influenced Turner Classic Movies Hollywood decor. The tables were laid with antique glass and china that didn't match in the classiest way possible. I had the best bath I've ever had! Whirlpool, of course! I could have, but didn't, go sky-diving from the little airplane parked on the tiny airstrip behind the hotel which was built for movie stars, astronauts and such! Susan Hayward stayed there!

I lingered at Chalet Suzanne in the morning. Oh, yes. But it wasn't all that hard to get back in my excellent 2005 Buick, because I only had a few hours to drive before I could check into The Colony Hotel and Cabana Club for a week of top-shelf poetry. That will be Part Two, though. At least.

Grant's Tomb?

Oh, look at this. They're planning to put Grant's Tomb on a Manhattan ghost tour.  It's worth a visit, I suppose-lovely location. It's up in Riverside Park, overlooking the Hudson, in Morningside Heights. But there's nary a ghost. Across the street, now, in the original (1905) Juilliard building, and for that matter, further downtown in the "new" school, the one that opened in Lincoln Center in 1970, spirits abound.     

Sweet Sylvia, dead since 1935, plays her cello in a practice room on the third floor of the old building. In life, she'd been blessed with white blond hair, a tiny waist, strong shoulders and long fingers, but not with the talent to go through to her sophomore year. One night, when the bell sounded at midnight for the music students to leave, Sylvia quietly let old Mr. Metz, the janitor, lock her in. She took her mother's sleeping pills and played Chopin until the barbiturates killed her. Charles, a senior-year violinist, (who did go on to a distinguished career, by the way,) found her sprawled on her back, her heavy cello still between her legs. She and the other ghosts who don't want to leave the place sing, play piano, blow into their woodwinds, and beat their drums late at night or early in the morning, just when the young musicians (it's still a music conservatory) feel most alone in their practice rooms.

The Lincoln Center building has a different brand of spirits-livelier, if you will. As you must realize, in Manhattan, when new buildings go up, existing buildings must come down. The buildings to be demolished become unimportant to almost everyone. These, in the upper west sixties, were hardly given a swan song. They were tenements built in the 19th century for European immigrants. The dingy walk-ups got electricity and hot water in the 20th, but the neighborhood continued to be rough, very rough. Eventually Puerto Ricans joined the ethnic mix, and Leonard Bernstein used the ferociously difficult lives of those who lived there to create "West Side Story" in 1957. They actually filmed the movie on the same streets the city planners tore up only a few years later. So, the ghosts of kids like Tony, Maria, Bernardo, and Riff hang out in the new Juilliard building. They like being around the students, especially the dancers and actors. At the grand opening of the new school, the floors of the dance studios were found scuffed with black heel marks, the mirrors were smeared, as if by lounging backs and shoulders, and the smell of cigarettes hung in the air. The horrified building manager swore he'd found everything in perfect condition when he'd made his final check and locked the doors the night before. Oh, he was telling the truth. The neighborhood ghosts didn't come calling until the construction crews, the finishers, the plumbers and electricians had left, their work completed, and all was ready for the big day. 

To this day no student of music, dance, or drama wants to be the last out of the Lincoln Center building or the first to enter. We ghosts don't care for the first floor, with its security desk, bright lights and soulless acres of empty indoor space,  but we love the second and third floor practice rooms, dance and drama studios, and the student cafeteria. Some of us lurk in the dressing rooms (there will always be those types, even well after death.) 

As for me-I've made my home away from life in Alice Tully Hall, the school's main theater. Sometimes I head uptown to the old school for a brief visit to the place where I was so young, passionate, and healthy-I attended Juilliard in both locations, you know. But I died while performing in Alice Tully. It happened in the spring of my senior year. I was doing my best to be brilliant in a new work, choreographed by a young Dutch genius. (I was crazy about him.) The dance ended with me running up a narrow staircase to my partner, who was to lift me even higher over his head. Have you guessed? The idiot dropped me and I broke my neck. Died instantly. I'm glad of that. I could have lived on, but paralyzed or in a coma. No, death is better. I hear the music, attend the plays, help the dancers lift their legs a bit higher, occasionally scare the bejeezus out of a teacher who's gone too far in his or her tirade. Once I got over my own rage at having been, literally, dropped, I've been fairly content and mostly kind. I've learned so much about all kinds of New Yorkers, too-not just the Ivory Tower crowd. 

No, Ulysses and Julia left their tomb right after the crowds dispersed. They were pleased by the turn-out, but had no wish to hang around. Who'd want to haunt their grave? They'd been all over the world, while they were alive, you know. They'd even met Queen Victoria! They've continued traveling and have a weakness for castles, which of course, are on plenty of ghost tours. So, they have fun. Yes, I think the Juilliard buildings would be good, good choices for visitors who like the ghoulish. They might hear music from an empty practice room, see a bright streak cross a dark stage, or smell a dancer's sweat- maybe even mine.

Nonnie and Drago: Two Days After Christmas

That went well. Drago, the brother I live with, loved his iPod, especially after we got it out of the packaging, and I loved my classy black leather gloves and pashmina (now I need cold weather-my other brother and his wife sent me a cashmere scarf from Mongolia (!) in the world's best red. We usually get cold enough weather in the Florida panhandle to dress-for-winter for a week or two, sometimes more. If not, I'll just have to go somewhere, right?) We had breakfast across the street and they have children, who had toys (!), warm smiles, good food. We talked to Robert (he of the scarf) in Philadelphia and heard funny dog and grandson stories. Then Drago and I both napped; Drago because he'd gone to midnight mass (he's a Catholic-Buddhist) and had very little sleep, me because I always nap. My New York cousin Nancy called. She never forgets, even this year
when she has loved ones in hospitals in two states-yes,  on Christmas day. (I know-sickness and death are no respecters of holidays and all. But still.)

After chats and naps I cooked our turkey. Successfully! This is not a big deal for most people. It is, decidedly, for me, because I lack experience in big item preparation. I was single for a long time and while I tried to be a good kitchen helper, I didn't have many dinner parties of my own. Didn't have room or enough silverware anyway. (I'd specialized in low-income careers with panache of one kind or another.) Then I was married for awhile and got into the middle-class, but I never had to cook the big meat/poultry part of the meal. He did those on his super-duper rotisserie. (My mother, during her last year with us, ate a baloney sandwich rather than risk my turkey. The next day, after everyone's survival, she ate the turkey tettrazini I made.) Anyways. Our neighbors, Ralph and Barbara came over for dinner, bringing more for our "splendid table." I love that phrase, although I'm not foodie enough for the NPR show-and we had a fine time. No fancy sauces-plain, healthy food. I'm sure my plakky arteries were grateful since I'd been eating (in moderation, of course) the delicious, buttery cookies Drago's yoga students and the neighborhood children had sent over. Homemade fudge, even.

Boxing Day around here had it's trials. Two of Drago's yoga students got headaches from the scented candle-burner thingy he tried-quite possibly his first-ever complaints from any of them. We couldn't get the iPod connected to the internet; we had Ralph, who can generally fix anything, over helping, but he isn't a kid either, and apparently only kids can do this sort of thing without losing their cool, or in our cases, hard-won serenity. After supper (our friend Romona's wonderful soup) I was locked in to "Little Dorrit" on TCM, the 1988 version, Parts One and Two, so I was up very late. And then even later because there was a major thunderstorm and our dog, Blossom, would not be comforted until it ended at 3amish. She kept Drago awake, too. Maybe because I was watching Dickens in the porch room which has lots of big windows and rain pounds down much louder out there, but I didn't want to move because the tv might have kept my brother up, you see.

Anyways. Here we all are-between holidays again. I'm pretty much full of goodwill.  Really. Maybe because I haven't been watching the doings on news shows for a few days and the consequent lack of Trumpage, etc. Maybe because I had a dream where everyone was alive again and my cousin Renee came to visit with a herd of friendly animals. I've been around children lately, too, which can kick-start goodwill for me. The weather is the kind of shiny breezy day you can get after a big storm. Blossom is exhausted but calm. Sam, our cat, is, well, Sam's always calm. I have the new P.D.James on my Kindle. Drago's teaching, and possibly, possibly using his iPod. So, you know, we're keeping-up. Lucky cusses, we are. You know, some 7,000 clicks have hit on this blog. Lots of them are mistakes or trolls, I'm sure, but for those of you who are here on purpose, and I guess even if you aren't, my best wishes for 2012. May it be chockablock with whatever you wish.  xxoononnie

This doesn't have much to do with the holidays, but I like the picture of Sam

                                           

MARILYN'S SOLILOQUY

Idiots of living time signify nothing.

They merely paint my fall of hair,

mold my shapely legs to tempt

fools who’d be my familiars.

Time now to undo my estate

of lechers creeping in petty pace

to grasp, fondle, possess

a thousand recorded images

of my charmed, night-shrieking life.

I then was but a walking shadow,

my champagne flavored by fear.

My senses cooled, my candle out,

forty-nine years since flesh

met numbed and sodden death,

I have forgotten the taste of glamour,

and am alive in bloodless dignity-

safe from clamorous bells,

the fury of fame, needing you. 

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,

to the last syllable of recorded time,

players will rouse and stir to shadows

of Marilyn, who briefly strutted upon a stage.

     Macbeth, Act v,scene v

Enough, Trump.


We've had it my dear with your pink ties, your hairs, 
your swagger, towers, your plenty of monies,
your tempers, your honeys. How dared you propose 
that you lead in our name? Are you smart, fair, or fine? 
Do you even have time?


I don't speak for all, not at all, but for many who never 
did like your style or bile, your tenacious temerity,
your specious celebrity. I wonder, I do, who could help
you see through your haze, your self-blinded daze.
Have you read any poets, I wonder?


Some dignity, perhaps? Is it there, under-wraps?
Still...some listen to you. It must be your cash. 
I do hope you know that the time you steal bothers 
me, my brothers, and millions of others. 
Would you just go?

Seasonal Poem                        




I will write your mother's name
and your name on a list,
make a folder for your family,
put it with the other thirty-four.
We can go to fifty.
One morning in December,
your mother and maybe your father
will go to K-Mart and shop for your Christmas.
I'm glad I could do this for you, child.
This writing down names. This easy work.

I used to teach you (children much like you)
to count pennies, sing funny songs, move like an elephant,
line up when you hear the bell, speak one at a time.
Together we had Mother Goose, Beatrix Potter,
the old tales from the old countries,
Maurice Sendak, Ezra Jack Keats, Eric Carle.
Piglet had a high voice and Eeyore had a low one.
I'm no longer the adult on the playground with you-
on guard against trouble, giver of time-outs,
hugs, thumbs-ups, stickers. ( Could I even give hugs, today?)
I was always in awe of you. I was always exhausted.

Now, because I can, and want to, and should have done
something before but didn't because and because and because,
I've become a volunteer in a small office on Thomas Drive.
Everyone who helps out (we hook people up
with donated money) speaks in an inside voice,
tries to follow the rules, washes their hands and coffee mugs.
Seemed simple to me, at first, but it isn't.
Flimsy trailers are hell on electric bills.
I don't make decisions. I keep records, fill in forms,
and I work on the Christmas list.

          

Nonnie Travels, Part 3

Nonnie Travels, Part 3

I never woulda done it on purpose, of course. My plan was to amble south and west from Black Mountain, North Carolina to some point in central Georgia for a night, and then, the next day, on to the Florida panhandle, where I live. I would drive along what I think of as "soft highways." I avoid Interstates to the best of my ability. As soon as I get on one I want off it-so there's little point in trying them. This has taken me many years to learn. I'm a good driver, I think, but I have issues-see Nonnie Travels, Part 2, if you're curious about those-it's right under this post. I did avoid the four-to-six lane, beat up, loud, unforgiving zoomers for the most part. I followed through on that part of my plan, anyway.

Self-navigating with my follow-roads-that-point-south-or-west-or-both rule, I ended up in the southern Appalachians, on two way roads with a hair-pin turn every two seconds. Nobody else around for long chunks of time. The roads had signs with numbers and "south" or "west" posted every now and then, but since I couldn't look at my maps,(I love maps and had lots of them with me) they weren't very helpful. I'd flash by the infrequent shoulders and pull-overs and think, "oh, there was one." Once on this path, I had to go on until I came out somewhere, turning around just didn't seem doable. Hell, I couldn't even think about changing the CD. My hands were too busy. Really, I felt like I was driving with my arms. My entire body. Still, early Tom Waits was rather good company for this drive. He and I had a blast.

Driving up and down and around mountains, in October, on the kind of day that deserves all the best weather words thrilled me and gave my six-year old Buick a happy shock, too. Okay, maybe I wouldn't recommend the sort of morning I had to fellow heart patients, but man, it was fun. I had red, yellow, gold and green trees, dappled sunlight, miles of dense forest and then panoramic views of somewhere (didn't much matter where at that point, did it?) and I was counting only on myself and my trusty car, with Tom for additional spirit. I never woulda done it on purpose, what with my issues, and my promises to be careful, but fate gave me a gift…and a boost. I'd even gone south and west after-all, albeit not very far south or west, mostly up and down. Sort of like swinging. Huh.

This is the Windsor Hotel, dressed up for Christmas, in Americus, Georgia.
I stayed here on my way up to Black Mountain, and again on my way home. Great place. No fooling.

Nonnie Travels, Part 2

Nonnie Travels, Part 2

When I signed up for the Road Scholar program, I did so because I needed to leave the house. I have a dicey heart and Myasthenia gravis and neither of my bugaboos waltz with the humid heat of the Florida panhandle in summer. I decided to go to the mountains in North Carolina in October. Book talk, Appalachian music and humor were on the schedule. Deciduous trees. Cool weather. Not a trip to Paris, maybe, but what with everything, maybe just right.

Indeed. My room at the Inn overlooked a small lake and a  mountain. The leaves came through and God, they were beautiful.
No phone. No TV. Great bathtub. Mornings we had Annie Hall (I know) and Nancy Lewis leading us from writer to writer-many thanks to both of you. Evenings we had Appalachian storytellers, musicians, each others' laughter. I rested most afternoons or took gentle walks around the lake. Oh, and I had to replace my cell phone. I'd lost the charger somewhere on the way up, and there weren't any chargers being made that fit my old phone, at least not in Black Mountain, and I ended up having to buy a whole new deal with a contract and…still, a couple of hours out of six days isn't bad, right?

I was surrounded by kindness. Struck by gentility. No phonies. If there were any hidden agendas, I didn't find them. I relaxed with this group. Mine was one cane among many. We were in our sixties, seventies, and well into our eighties, and we enlivened  each other. I got out of the house, got into the mountains, and got to know interesting people who've seen around the corner, who get the joke in the hapless pomposity of "Do you know who I used to be?" I learned to say Appalachia,"apple at ch'a," and that road trips like this are good for me. My next one (poets) is in the works.

Nonnie Travels, Part 1

Before leaving for my 10 day trip to North Carolina for a Road Scholar program, "Southern Writers and Banned Books":

I almost cancelled. (too much chest pain-too tired)

On the way to North Carolina from the Florida panhandle:

"Is this Bonifay?"
"Yes ma'am," the cashier said in a sad, sad voice.

Mamma horse and her colt running flat-out across a pasture,
cows, goats, peanuts, cotton, pecans, sod, brown dirt, red dirt, dirt for sale

Old mansions, (the new ones are around Atlanta I guess, but I didn't go there) gun-shot shacks, tidy small towns with town squares or circles and big churches with long names, railroad tracks with right and wrong sides, the Tricia Yearwood Parkway

yard sales everywhere (I mean, everywhere!)

"Where's everyone going?" I asked.
"The Fair!!!" she said, and handed me my change for a big-gulp  coffee.(Everyone in the Perry, GA. traffic snarl knew but me, and clearly I shoulda.)

front yard sign: "Jesus"

The Windsor Hotel in Americus, GA. Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter go there for dinner sometimes. William Jennings Bryan,  Al Capone, Robert Bly, and Stephen Colbert stayed there. Not bad for a small town hotel.

from a  balconey at the Windsor Hotel

Dining Room, Windsor Hotel

Lost in a mall-crazy loop around Athens, GA.  Lost in one-way streets in downtown Athens, GA.  (It's all true-what they say about the way Southerners give directions.)

Missing my brother Drago, who was home alone at night and didn't like it. Sam and Blossom, our cat and dog, were with him, of course. Excellent companions, the best, but they don't sit at the table with you or watch Chris Matthews.

Springhill Suites are decorated with lots of lime green. Dunno. Springy?

Mountains! (Those others weren't mountains. They were hills. These are mountains)

Montreat, N.C.

Assembly Inn, Montreat, N.C.

And then:

Finding Black Mountain, N.C., (home of Black Mountain College from 1933 to 1957-now there's a story) without a hitch, hardly, unloading my stuff, steering the fucking cart (sorry, but there are times it's the best word) loaded with my stuff to my room at the Assembly Inn at Montreat Conference Center.  Settling in. Dinner with people I liked right away. Feeling fine…and proud of myself.

(to be continued)

A Head Full of Flowers

A Head Full of Flowers

“Okay, Lilah, time to move on,” the young cop said to the bundle on the bench.

 
“I don’t feel so good,” it said in a weak voice.

“You gotta get off the bench, Lilah. It’s already 8 am. I can’t let you sleep here. This is the Upper East Side for chrissakes.”

“It’s a public park. I’m public. And park plants share.”

"Yeah, you're public. You eat in public. Sleep in public. Central Park's not your bedroom."

“Well I can't sleep in my own bedroom. I can't find it anyway." Lilah sat up and rubbed her eyes. She was hungry and sad. She slowly finger-braided her long dark blond hair. 

"They made me leave." She spoke to the dirt path, barely loud enough for Tom to hear. She never said a word to the other cops. This one didn’t scare her.

“Come on, Lilah. Get yourself together and move to some other guy’s beat. I don't have time to hear your life story."

“I’m remembering myself this morning. Most mornings I don’t, but today I remember that I used to teach third grade.”

“Right. And I used to be a Rockette.”

Lilah looked at Tom then and flashed him a smile. A blue foulard necktie belted her baggy yellow t-shirt and there was a pink and green flowered scarf around her neck. She wore black cotton pants that had faded to a greenish-gray. Red flip-flops dangled from her filthy feet.

“I was a teacher. But my Philodendron began to laugh at me, tease me, call me names. The English Ivy was growing too fast. It was going up the walls. You know? And then one day my Calla Lilies told me all the houseplants wanted my apartment to themselves and that I should go for a long walk. So, I did.” Lilah started coughing and pulled a man's whitish handkerchief out of her Macy’s shopping bag.

Tom looked at Lilah’s dirty face more closely. She’s young, he thought. Mid-twenties, maybe. She’s schizo-not a drunk. I’ll be damned.

“When did your lilies tell you to go for a walk, Lilah?”  Lilah?”

“Oh, I don’t know. There were Tulips here, near this bench. They’re dead. See? No Tulips. I'm trying to find my sister's place. She’ll know how I can get my apartment back from the plants.”

Lilah, carrying the Macy’s bag and another from an A&P supermarket, got up and walked alongside Tom. She liked the sound her flip-flops made if she swung her feet up before putting them down and flapped with every step.

“Where did you live, before you moved onto my beat?” Tom twisted to look at her.

“Around someplace. I’ve been looking, but I haven’t seen it again. Bye!” Tom stopped as Lilah abruptly turned to her left and headed into the park, walking quickly and without flapping.

***

Lilah patted her almost full belly. She never asked for money. It never occurred to her to do that, but a white-haired lady had given her five dollars so she’d bought two warm bagels from Sid, a vender she liked. He’d slapped cream cheese on them, because he said she needed dairy.

She hadn’t made it back to her bench until after dark. Today was her day to walk from E. 86th and Fifth Avenue to the river. Her sister, Haley, lived on one of these streets. Haley had houseplants, but Lilah wouldn’t have to go near them. If she ever found her sister’s building, she  would just wait on her stoop until Haley showed up.

Lilah’s brain was full of voices that rarely told her anything useful. She could’t concentrate with all that chattering. Begonias and Impatiens were arguing about how long they had until the first frost. Lilah curled up as tight as she could and tried to sleep.

***

"Okay, I get it. Cold is coming. We have to be inside someplace before the cold starts. Stop yelling at me!” Lilah pounded her feet on the ground. She was sick of the Purple Coleus nagging her to find Haley’s place. The morning was gray and cool. She wrapped her arms around herself and swayed side to side. Water. She needed water and every plant in her head was telling her they were thirsty. Lilah stood up and looked under the bench for her flip-flops. 

“Where are they? My shoes-they’re gone!”

“No, your shoes are right under that bush, Lilah,” Tom said.

Lilah straightened up and saw the nice cop pointing to a Boxwood in a hedge that bordered the Fifth Avenue sidewalk. She saw her shoes and laughed. She’d completely forgotten that last night the Begonias told her she’d better hide them before she went to sleep.

“ How ‘bout you come with me to a police station on the West Side?  I’ve got my car, you don’t have to walk. It’ll be okay.”  Tom said. He had a schizophrenic cousin and badly wanted to help this woman get off the streets. He didn’t think she’d been off the radar long and if she’d taught school, they’d have her prints. 

I don’t get this, Lilah thought. Is this bad? Don’t any of you stupid flowers know what I should do?

“Why aren’t you wearing your uniform? Where’s your gun?”

“I’m off today. We’ll go talk to a lady named Colleen. She looks for missing persons. You’ll like her.”

“No. I’m not missing. My apartment and my sister’s apartment are missing.”

Lilah heard Old Rose, who rarely spoke, say in a teacher-voice, “Go with him, Lilah. You need help.”

“Can you get me some orange juice?” Lilah ignored all the high-pitched voices saying bad things about orange juice. They wanted water, but she was clear about wanting cold, tasty, orange juice.

“I can do that. I’ll get you a big glass. But you have to come in my car with me, because the place I know with the juice is over near Colleen’s station.”

“I’m supposed to look for my sister’s on E. 87th today. I think. Maybe it’s 84th. Or 86th.”
Lilah was swaying from side to side and lightly stamping her still bare feet. She didn’t know what to do. She looked at Tom and noticed he had green eyes, like all the green in her head.

“It’s time, Lilah. You need to find your sister and this man will help you. You’re sick child, and you aren’t taking care of yourself. Go with him.” Rose’s voice cut through the chatter and Lilah stopped moving and stood still. Then she put out a scratched, dirty hand, and Tom took it. He picked up the A&P bag, and Lilah picked up her Macy’s bag. She got her flip-flops from under the Boxwood and flapped them loudly as they crossed Fifth Avenue, heading for Tom’s car, orange juice,  and maybe a chance.

first published in The Write Side Up (C.W.Smith)

Nonnie and Drago are Fine, Really

Nonnie and Drago are Fine, Really

The world had a rather bad week, of course. Well, parts of the world have only had a few good weeks, if that, in the last decades, but it seemed to us that what with weather disasters in the Far East, further diplomatic dust-ups in or about the Middle East (where is the Near East, again? I have trouble keeping my Easts straight, and who are they east of, exactly?) and the global economy's inability to hold onto global money, it's been a lousy week. The hiker's got out of Iran, though. I'm happy for them and I hope they don't do anything like that again.

Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, and Bill Maher pretty much covered Drago and my U.S. woes this week. Last night Bill and his panel even discussed Troy Davis and all of that, but it was a writer friend of mine, in Zoetrope, where we sometimes hang, who brought up lawyers and the gazillions in legal fees (not paid by the prisoner in question-I mean, when was the last time the U.S. executed a rich man?) that get racked up when people are in death row for, say, twenty-two years. If I ever have to be executed for something, I think I'd just as soon go the guillotine route and right after getting the bad news. I could pretend I was Ronald Colman at the end of A Tale of Two Cities. I don't want to be on death row, waiting, hoping, then getting whacked anyway, for even one year. Okay? Oh, and there was another Republican debate. So, that happened, and happened, and happened.

One of our neighborhood's best dogs died of digestive problems. A little guy named Ralphie. All the dogs and dog people loved him. And Daisy, a totally non-aggressive Yorkie, got bitten by a visiting dog who was OFF HIS LEASH! This morning our cat Sam fell in the pool. (Yeah. We have a pool. Dad put it in back when you could still be middle class.) Our dog Blossom looked more worried than guilty; we don't think she did it. Sam's okay, now, but he was very sad for awhile.

Drago saved a hummingbird whose beak got caught in a screen, though. That was an upful ting (I'm learning Jamaican slang.) Florida's weather is cooling off, sorta, and our Aunt Peggy sent us pictures of old times and places, people we've lost (on this plane, anyway) and people who are wonderfully alive and kickin'. Here's one of me when I graduated high school. Still shiny, you know?

Heart and Souls

The Best

Oh, dogs. Dogs, dogs, dogs, dogs, dogs.

Here she is. There they were. 

Riding along, running along, alongside, 

At my feet, on their backs, in my lap,

Kisses, kisses, kisses, kisses.

Play, play, play, play, play, oh, play.

Bark, snort, growl, yip, yap, giggle

Brave, yes, ready, always, obey, meh.

Hurray for food, naps, pissing!

Damn all fireworks!

Love, love, love, oh love, love

Dogs…and cats. Of course. Cats.

And

The Lost Elizabeths

Dead, of course. Long dead. The documents tell me who these Elizabeths and Catherines married, and what children they birthed, raised, or lost, but not who they were before they changed their names to his and his. They kept their English, Irish, French, Austrian given names, so often showing up as some version of Catherine or Elizabeth. Kathleen, Katrine, Kate, Kay. Eliza, Elsie, Berta, Birdie.  Last night I found a new (old, so old) marriage record and finally, for Catherine Eulalie, there is a surname. Wonderful discovery, that. Eulalie, as she was called, lived twenty years before she married Charles, and maybe I can find out who her parents were, where they came from, where I come from. Maybe these women who contributed their DNA were harridans,  but I choose to think of these lost Elizabeths as gentle women and as, certainly, brave women.  I’m going to continue to search for them. It feels like I owe them that.