When Borders Was Alive and Well

I'd been working for two years as a barista in a Starbuck's in a giant, two-story Borders in an upscale mall on Rt. 355, a main artery between Washington D.C., and Frederick, Maryland. I'd finished my M.F.A in 2000 and was trying to build up steam for more grad school--steam and money. I wrote poetry. So, the accepted way to make a living doing that was with a college-level teaching job, which meant a Ph.d. Jeez louise, I hated the thought of doing the doctorate. However, I was tired to the bone of making fancy coffee drinks.

On one of these endless days an eighty-something man came up to the counter with a short stack of books. (We took all kinds of purchases at the café register.) I could see a large magnifying glass jutting out of a pocket of his tweed jacket. He gave off a spicy aroma as if he wore this jacket while he cooked curries and burned incense in a closed room every day. I liked him.

"I'd like a coffee, too, please. A plain, black coffee. Medium? Grande, I suppose? And could I have one of those blueberry scones?" His voice sounded rusty. I wondered how much use it got.

I smiled at him and scanned his books and added in the coffee and pastry. When I started working at Borders, I'd made a point of noticing what people were buying, but I'd stopped looking at titles after a month or two. The store sold bestsellers, mysteries, Harry Potters, celebrity bios, diet books, and never, ever poetry.

"That's $64.76, sir." Damn, but there was something about this old guy that tugged at me. Should he really be spending so much on books? He looked more like someone who'd do better searching for something to read in a Goodwill stack or a library, not in a Borders. That's where I'd be looking if I didn't have the employee discount, well, even with the discount. I was poor but young and strong, though. This  man looked poor but frail and definitely frayed. He was wearing an old canvas hat that might have been green once and the sleeves of his sweater were so stretched they covered his hands up to the middle of his fingers. And there was that magnifying glass. He handed me a Visa card. I automatically asked him for his I.D.

"I haven't driven in years, Miss, but here's my driver's license. It expired four years ago." He was leaning against the counter and I had a sudden urge to hurry up and get him his coffee. But I dutifully checked everything and finally the penney dropped and I registered his name, "Edward Lake."

"That's fine, Mr. Lake. Just sign here. Why don't you find a table and I'll take your coffee and scone to you in a second."

"Thank you. That's kind of you." He picked up his bag and turned  to the tables. I noticed his cane, then, and that he wore his topsiders like backless slippers. He wasn't wearing socks! I wanted to buy him some socks!

Just as I brought him his order, my co-barista came back from break and I rushed off on mine. On the poetry shelf (only one and I knew it by heart) I grabbed a thick anthology. Back at the counter, I paid for it, even though I had the damn book at home, and I went over to Mr. Lake.

"Excuse me, sir. Would you autograph this for me?" I'd opened the book to one of his poems. Edward Lake and his wife Constance had written poems in their letters to each other during the two years he'd fought in France and Italy during World War II. Edward's first volume of poems was published in 1946, but his editor also collected the couple's letters and published them a year later. "Edward and Constance" became one of the most famous books about the war, even though it was poetry. It seemed every couple who had been separated by the war had read and found something of themselves in the poems. By 1950 it had gone into its third printing. (I knew all this, and much more, because I'd written a paper about the Lakes when I was an undergraduate. But, everyone knows something about Edward and Constance Lake. No, I'll amend that. Everyone should know something about Edward and Constance Lake. I think so.)

With great dignity, the poet took his magnifying glass out of his pocket and peered at the page. Then he looked at his wife's poem on the facing page.

"Constance died three years ago," he said. "Oh, she was a fine poet. And wife. A fine wife. I don't do so well without her… Yes! Of course I'll autograph this for you, my sweet girl. And after I finish my snack, I'm going to go buy some socks. Constance always did the clothes shopping, you know. She wouldn't like it if she knew I'd lost all my socks."

He beamed at me and signed his name under "You Saved My Life Today." It's my treasure, that book. Every now and then the author would show up at Borders for a snack and a few new books. I'd insist on having a break when he came in so that I could sit with him and talk about poetry. I didn't care if I got sacked, but somehow I didn't. After six months or so he stopped coming by. And a few months after that, I went back to grad school.

 

Lavender, a Liberal

Betty, batty from hormones, in a fanciful fit,
named her daughter Lavender. Husband Don winced.
Brothers Donald, John, Billy, and Tom
were puzzled and pleased by this sister, this girl,
who was a little bit like them, yet not like them at all.

Each night and most afternoons Betty told Lavender
stories, sang her songs, opened books full of pictures
where stout hearts bamboozled evildoers that lurked,
and rags became ball gowns glowing with pink.
Poor maids, Auroras, Swan Queens and their ilk
with true lovers, often princes, used cunning and tricks
to free castles from brambles, lift spells, smote the slick.

As happens, Lavender grew grown, moved on and away
from her mother's fine songs to live songs of her own.
She searched for a prince, found several at least,
vanquished evils and weasels, fiercely scolded some trolls,
got caught in the muck, found her footing, soldiered through.
No castles came calling; never mind she made homes.

With mostly good luck, Lavender aged right up to old.
Though her body got cranky,
she kept close to her heart
certain fluttery trills

Arthur Rackham

and persistent whisps,
of fast stallions,
wize wizards,
dances,
feasts,
and folk
loving out loud--
as dead dragons smoldered
in heaps on their hills.

Foolish Dancer

Late November, New York City, 1967.

An 18 year old dance student, let's call her Susan, woke up in a rebellious mood. She'd been craving a day to herself in the city, but never had the time. Every weekday she was at Juilliard from 9 to 9, and when she had a rare rehearsal-free weekend, her parents expected her to take the bus out to New Jersey to visit them. So Susan got up her nerve and called the dance department secretary and told her big lie-that she was sick and wouldn't be able to make her classes that day. She'd never have thought of doing this on a day when she was expected to rehearse, but on this particular Wednesday she wasn't needed by any of the choreographers who had cast her in their pieces. Susan's roommate had already left for her day of music classes and piano practice, so there were no witnesses to her tiny revolt.

The day was cold and sunny, and Susan had it all to herself. She didn't have much, in fact hardly any, cash, however. But the Metropolitan Museum was free and she could walk across Central Park from W.91st St. It would be a long walk, but Susan was young and strong and feeling adventurous.

This was a day of firsts for Susan: she'd played hooky, walked the width of the chilly park alone, and enjoyed hours of roaming the Metropolitan with only herself to please. She felt sophisticated, artistic, and, because she'd chosen her favorite outfit that morning,  stylish.

The thunderstorm started a little after three. Susan was wandering around the Rodin sculptures, in love with them, but getting tired and a little worried about how she'd get back to her apartment before dark and with the storm. (She didn't know bus routes very well yet, and certainly couldn't afford a taxi.) A man in dark gray suit made a comment to her about the Rodin bronze of Balzac. The tall dark stranger was good-looking, older-at least in his thirties-and wanted to talk to her about art! Susan, flattered by his interest in her, did not have a moment of wariness about this guy. When, after a very pleasant conversation, he, let's call him Dick, mentioned that he lived across from the museum, had a car, and that he could give her a lift home if she'd like, Susan only thought, "he's lives in one of NY's best neighborhoods, he loves art, seems very nice, okay-fine-it'll be fine!"

Susan and Dick hurried across 5th Ave. to his car, a black Corvette (!) but he said his keys were in his apartment and would she come up for a drink while he got them. She wasn't quite sure she liked this, but it was windy and pouring, and it would be fine. Fine! But it wasn't.

Dick took her coat, poured her a glass of wine, and attacked. Within minutes of entering the apartment, Susan was on her back on the couch, fighting off a bastard who was trying to fuck her. But he gave up, because Susan, a dance major at Juilliard, had strong enough legs to push him off of her enough times to convince him he wasn't going to get off that way. So he masturbated. She wasn't a virgin, had gone all the way on her 18th birthday and then once with the young artist she'd started dating, but she didn't know about masturbation, had yet to even look at an erect penis properly, and was wholly, completely horrified by Dick, his cock and what he was doing to it and saying to her, being alone with him, and most of all, by what she thought of as her own stupidity. He insisted she watch him but she cried and refused until he started yelling and cursing. Dick finally finished, tidied himself up, gave Susan her coat, and actually drove her home! She didn't want to get in his car, but was too fragile to argue. And, little as she knew at the time about predatory men, she sensed he was spent and she'd be safe.

She saw Dick again a few months later in the Museum of Modern Art. She had to pass him on the staircase, and he glanced at her without a flicker of recognition. Susan left without seeing the Picasso sculpture exhibit. She did see it before it closed, but she went with her older brother.

She hated Dick, and what he'd done, but she kept it all a secret, because she thought she'd been so stupid, you see. So very foolish. She blamed herself. She went up to his apartment, didn't she? The whole sorry story remained her shameful secret  until well into her twenties when she told a friend, let's call her Linda, after a few glasses of wine. As she told the story, Susan finally unraveled her confused thoughts about that wet November afternoon, and she finally assigned all the blame for Dick's abuse to him. I've known about Susan and that guy, that dick, for ages, but it seems to me that right now is a good time to tell the story to you, because Susan and I are angry again-legitimately angry.

Robert in college

Nonnie and Robert are Leos

My brother Robert has always been five years older than me. Almost exactly-we both have August birthdays. His is today. Our sibling order is Robert, Drago, me and then Ric, who died in 2008. Ric died several times, I think. Certainly more often than most of us do. Alcoholism does that. Three out of four of us kids turned out to be alcoholic, but Robert and I were able to get out of the mire years ago. Ric sank with the weight of it all. I miss him. Drago is a social drinker. He has a glass of wine with dinner, not a bottle. He doesn't even want the bottle. I have become a sparkling water afionado. Robert is picky (in a good way) about his coffee.

So, when I was a little kid, Robert (we called him Bobby then) was big, smart, and having adventures way beyond my ken. He started high school when I started 4th grade. 4th grade! I didn't even have permission to ride my bike out of the neighborhood and he was a teenager in full throttle. Drago's only 18 months older than me and he teased me day in and day out as I remember it, but Robert didn't give me a bad time. He was sweet to me. Robert gave Drago hell, though. Growing up.

When I was 13, Drago was 14, and Ric was just a little kid in 2nd grade (but already playing his heart out on the drums) Robert came home from college with The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan and a Joan Baez album, thereby shifting his younger siblings' leanings decidedly to the left of wherever the hell they had been. His visits home from RIT and the University of Arizona (fine arts major) were hallmarks of our high school years. I listened to dinner conversations when Robert was home with intensity. It was, after all, the sixties and there was a lot going on.  They talked (I was pretty much still in my Silent Sam phase, although I loosened up a little if I got a glass or two of wine) about everything and I gobbled every morsel about the world, seen through Robert's eyes, that he brought to the table.

Dad was much more liberal than most of the dads we knew, although even he had a "Get a haircut!" period, and he and Robert could discuss most things without yelling at each other until they started on art. Dad painted, usually oceans or mountains, and he had no use for most modern art, no, I'll say all modern art; the good stuff stopped after Impressionism. They'd get into it and Mom would get tense, and we'd hear, "Not at the dinner table. NOT AT THE DINNER TABLE." Didn't do any good, though. The argument would escalate, reach a peak, then one or the other of them would cease fire-without any surrender on either side whatsoever.

Then, Drago and I were in college and Robert was an adult. Then we were adults and eventually my little brother was in the ranks of "out of the house." We've stayed close and kept on talking (I talk now, too, a lot and without wine) as we've limped, zoomed, changed, and grown all this way up. My big brothers are my rocks, you know. Happy Birthday, Robert!


       

Gene Kerrigan wrote this in the Irish Independent on Sunday, July 29. (Croke Park is a sports stadium that seats 82,300.)

"Imagine a million dollars. Imagine it sitting on a seat in Croke Park. Imagine every seat in the stadium had a million dollars wrapped and stacked on it. Altogether, that would be upwards of $82bn. Now, imagine 12 Croke Parks, each seat similarly decorated with money. Now, you've got a trillion dollars.

Now multiply that by 21. We're looking at over 250 Croke Parks, each holding $82bn. Now, unless the batteries on my calculator are dodgy, we're looking at something approaching the amount of money hidden offshore by the super-rich in 2010.

The figure of $21trn is the conservative estimate (it could be up to $32trn) in a report published last week by the Tax Justice Network (TJN). The research for the report was done by the former chief economist of McKinsey, a consulting firm that's hired by major corporations and governments."

I didn't know this. Did you know this? There is plenty of money out there, isn't there? For things like malaria tents, clean water, low cost housing, FOOD!

What are these people who have hidden all this money made of? I think they are aliens. I admit, when I was a kid, I thought I might grow up to be Sister Saint Nonnie, but I became more realistic about the chances of that happening long before I discovered sex, alcohol, drugs and assorted behaviors that go along with the aforementioned. However, even if I abandoned my try for sainthood, I always shared my chocolate bars, metaphorically, with my friends.

My mother, and yours probably, used to tell us to eat our vegetables because there were starving children in China (or somewhere) that didn't have any. (Never mind the logic regarding the "how" of this Motherism-we all argued with Mom but had to eat our string beans anyway.) The point was that there were others, not just our best friends, who needed pieces of our chocolate bars. There were invisible others in the world who had less than we did and our mothers wanted us to think, or better, care about them.

In spite of my career choices, which have been sort of anti-wealth-accumulation (dancer, teacher, poet) I've earned enough to be taxed by the government and I've paid. On time, even. I figured that was how parts of life worked. I couldn't build a new school, but I could pay my property tax and so do my part. And so on and so on. I have also thought that , on the whole, most people have a heartstring that tugs the "fairness," principle that was lodged in their brains by assorted adults when they were very young. We feel a good firm yank, or the slightest possible tweak, but, if we're sane, we live somewhere in the land of people who try to have a "good conscience" in their behavior towards their fellows. We struggle with this, of course.

Damn. I keep saying "we." I've slowly, over a lifetime, been absorbing the truth that "we" is an idiotic pronoun to use when talking about values. Those guys with the 21 to 32 trillion in hidden accounts? They don't use that money to share, help, support, etc., etc. anyone.  They keep it for themselves. If you've already forgotten how much money is in these black money holes, re-read Gene Kerrigans's excellent imagery.

Dylan Thomas wrote,"I hold a beast, an angel and a madman in me, and my enquiry is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation and victory, downthrow and upheaval, and my effort is their self-expression.” Thomas exhorted us to "Rage, rage against the dying of the light."  We need (there's that "we" again) to rage against these aliens, these super-rich, so that they cannot consume our light. They are bastards.

Link for Kerrigan article: http://www.independent.ie/opinion/columnists/gene-kerrigan/gene-kerrigan-rich-hiding-250-croke-parks-of-cash-3182543.html



   

After Another Reading of Raymond Carver's "All of Us"

Young, strong, brave me, doing all that!
Dancing, teaching, performing, making this,
making that. I drank great draughts
of art, all kinds, you name it.
Used the fine work out there
to define, refine, defend my being,
my sincere effort to soar. And let
me tell you it was almost glorious.

There was, of course, a catch. For many
of those potentially triumphant years,
I helplessly slogged through a swampy mess
each night.Yes, every night. I'll stand by that.

Same old, same old. So and so loved me, but
I wanted you and you wanted her, then her.

And for all that time I couldn't get free,
couldn't toss you off, over, away, used Scotch
to dull my fury and so became more pitiful.

From here, out of all that, well-rested,
I can see that awful catch of mine
has a place at the table, in fact, near
the head, across from the almost glory.
My foolishness can be read, watched,
listened to, painted. And it has been.
Will be. Now it's time for some lunch.

Nonnie's 2nd Obsession (1st is one post back, if you are interested)

Kittens aside, (Gracy is doing fine, by the way) the other obsession in my life is TV. Not TV TV, but Roku TV. I bought this charming little device a couple of months ago and it somehow lets me stream movies, miniseries, and episodes of TV shows directly onto one of our televisions and it's dead easy. So, that's what I've been doing a lot of lately. My brother Drago joins me sometimes, but he has more of a life than I do, so I mostly watch alone, except for Sam, Blossom, or Gracy. (See previous post for pictures of them, if you like.) I was on a BBC miniseries kick for awhile, and Drago would drop in to the porch room where I watch and make fun of the upper class English accents, but that was about all of his participation until I started on The Tudors. That one got him too.
Four seasons! We got through all the episodes in about ten days. Drago missed a few, because, as I said, he has a life, but I'd catch him up on those over supper. We know a great deal more about the first half of the 16th century in Europe than either of us knew we didn't know, if you get my drift. I'd just read Hilary Mantel's excellent books, Wolf Hall, and Bring Up the Bodies, so I was fairly well-versed up until Ann Boleyn lost her head, but the series went much further-all the wives, the nobles, the clerics, the ladies-in-waiting, the diseases, the ghosts, and Henry VIII himself and his remarkable conscience, his redoubtable powers of rationalization, his lusty ways, and his astonishing clothes. I felt closest to Thomas Cromwell, because I'd looked through his eyes while reading the Mantel books, and I hated the clerics and nobles who conspired against him. I don't mean in the usual way you hate someone in a movie or book. For a few days I positively ached to revenge him! I'd find myself plotting the undoing of Bishop Gardiner and his cronies while I cooked or brushed my teeth or what have you.

I am, and always have been, grateful for the imagination of others-for books and movies of books, for the people who dream up Roku devices and their ilk, for kittens who unfailingly entertain with their mysterious games and ability to make such adventure out of thin air. I have rather bad heart disease, and this other weird thing called Myasthenia gravis. Hot weather aggravates both conditions, so I don't go out much in the summer and I suppose I spend most of my time living in stories. (Oh, sure, I try to stay informed, although I've slipped a bit lately.) But, you know, I'm older than I've ever been, and I have had a pretty colorful life, so I'm fairly content, except when I hit a restless patch.

Our kitten is giving herself a thorough scrubbing, (she's especially determined to have clean feet) Blossom is working in the garden with Drago, hoping to get to play with the water hose, Sam is blocking the hallway as best he can, and I've just been writing. So…it's all good. A pleasure.

Nonnie, Drago, Sam, and Blossom Adopt Gracie

There are two good reasons why I haven't been writing much lately. Two good obsessions. Well, one is definitely good and the other is almost certainly good. Cats (specifically our new kitten, Gracy, but also her relatives and friends), and my brother Drago's and my Roku devise. Yes, product placement.

The night before becoming a witch in cats' eyes, (I'll explain) we adopted the runt of the backyard litter. There's a blog about them a couple of weeks back, with a slideshow and a Randy Newman tune-doing that one was hi-tech for me and I was, as the English say, chuffed. I didn't choose the smallest kitten just because she was an underdog, (I know) but also because Drago wanted a girl this time (less likely to mark territories, we hope) and she was funny and friendly as hell. I knew this because I'd spent a lot of time with the kittens already. A lot of time. In my Zoetrope office, (an online workshop for all kinds of creative endeavors) my topic for the week we took Gracy unto our bosoms was "witches," and on June 20, I wrote this:


    Turns out, I feel something of a witch myself today. I'm in the business of capturing the remaining kittens and their mother. I already have the two small adorables in my cat carrier, (they'd just eaten the breakfast I'd put out when I put them in there. They are so used to me they didn't even struggle when I picked them up, traitor that I am!) and I have this malevolent looking cage set up carefully in front of the carrier, to lure the mother. The kittens are supposed to be mewling for her piteously so that Mamacat will creep into the cage, trying to get them out, but so far the kittens are just curled up napping. They are not afraid of the carrier, you see, because I've had it out there where I put the food since they were tiny (ier). I wanted them to have a place to go in the rain. Drago said that wasn't a big deal for outside cats; they could always find dry spots when they wanted them.


Marcia is a dedicated cat lady who is hooked up with vets who neuter stray cats. She is a kind person who works hard to help all the strays in her neighborhood and now is helping me. (Well, not me. I was once something of a stray, but I've been tame for some time now.)  She says I will feel better when all this is over. The cage belongs to one of her covens. (Kidding!) She already has Petey, the biggest, friendliest kitten of the litter, and is socializing him, which is Very Important (nod to A.A.Milne, who was a Huge Influence on my development as Writer.)


I'm doing this for several good reasons: 1) the kittens will get used to more people (not just me) and become easily adoptable  2) Marcia will whisk Mamacat away and get her fixed, thus helping to keep down the wild cat population in our neighborhood, 3) Blossom, our dog, will have her backyard again, 4) birds, 5) fleas.


Drago, Blossom, Sam, our grown-up cat, (who embodies the best of our late brother Ric, his first owner;there are blogs and poems about him back there in these confessions) and I have adopted Gracy, who's black and white and has a ladylike goatee. She seems to feel like she's landed in heaven. Loves us all, but especially me. I know this.


But I still feel like a witch. Will this cat-trapping day never end?

 Gracie likes everything I write

Most of the pictures I take of Gracy look like this

Gracy out of focus, Blossom and Sam in

Well, it did end, of course. The kittens in the carrier went to the Cat Lady, and the next day Mamacat (trapping her was horrible and she and I both hated it as much as I thought we would) got neutered and then was brought back to our backyard. She's still wildish, but eats the food I put out for her and someday will let me pet her. I know this, too. I haven't told Drago about the three other cats who are also showing up for lunch.

So…this was all about cats, wasn't it? I would go on to my second obsession, the Roku, but who likes long blogs? And I want to play with Gracy. I'm in a very good mood, by the way. The Supreme Court upheld the Affordable Care Act today and weren't we worried for awhile about that?

Fred and Ginger, Just Because I Love Them

Alice Turns Adam Down

"So, you see, you are simply the wrong partner

for this part of the dance. I'd thought 

someone in a blue shirt, with a side part 

in his blond hair, and your hair is red. 

So even if you changed your shirt to a blue,  

I wouldn't, simply couldn't, choose you.

Dance with someone else, why don't you?

You could dance with the woman over there 

wearing that very long string of pearls.

Or how about that woman in the long red dress. 

Do you like long dresses? Or someone else?

Oh. You often wear blue shirts, do you? 

You don't care for long dresses or pearls? 

You like my green eyes and so choose me? 

But that doesn't matter, to me, you see. 

You are simply the wrong partner for this part of the dance."

Duet Between Two Performers Who Had Been Lovers


Duet Between Two Performers Who Had Been Lovers


She dances alone in a long purple dress with thin satin straps.
The arc of her full skirt sweeps up and back as she lifts a leg. 
Her curved spine, neck and arms complete the line.
She is safe and sure on stage, under the lights.


The sole musician is fierce at his keyboard.
His chords pound deep within her torso.
The two performers are one and brimming with purpose
and the audience is in thrall to their intimacy.


She dances the Maid, pius, resolute, constant.
The music, a stately pavanne to begin,
builds in pace and she swirls, leaps, and takes 
long soldier strides until the rhythms slow,
the melody fades and the final chord sounds 
as she kneels, feels she channels Jeanne d’Arc.


Silence, then the startle of applause. 
The dancer dips low, and extends her arm 
to her partner who bows from his waist.
When they turn to each other, she sees
remorse darken his eyes, but she turns
away. The heavy curtains close and they part.

If I Could Have,

I would have liked to have been in one of the villages Jesus visited. Not to witness miracles or anything, I haven't cared about those since I was a child, but to have seen for myself how he looked, seen the light in his eyes, heard the timbre of his voice as he spoke to people, gathered his followers. Heard for myself what he talked about when he talked about love, to paraphrase Raymond Carver.  I like to think I would have trusted him, maybe followed him to his next stop, maybe everywhere he went. I would have liked being there, with the man in sandals, before all the hoopla started.

Did you hear that Joshua Bell story? He's a genius violinist-American, young, ordinary-looking. They (Washington Post reporters) got him to play Bach cantatas in a D.C. subway station for 45 minutes, and only a few people stopped to listen to him. There were children who were interested in what he was up to and had to be dragged away by busy parents, but not many adults took a music break. Mr. Bell earned $32 playing in the subway that day. Not bad for a busker. Why didn't more people stop, I wonder? Have you heard him play his three million dollar and change violin? Listen to him on Spotify.

I would have liked to have been there, in that subway, and been someone who stayed to listen. Be one of the ones who dropped my plans for the moment and listened for as long as he played-had myself a Joshua Bell plays Johann Sebastian Bach break. Just like I hope I would have listened to Jesus-gotten him a drink of well-water, offered him a place to stay, if he needed one, and I had a place to offer.

I like to think about what I might have done given this, given that. Even if I usually decide that I'd have made good choices, I really don't know, of course. I don't even know if I'd notice when something important came up. But I'm trying to pay attention.

Just the Three of Us

The night before my brother Robert flew in from Philadelphia, I said to Drago, the brother I live with, "It will be the first time it has been just the three of us." Drago said, "Well, it is just the three of us." I don't know if I gulped, or if my jaw dropped, or even if my expression changed, but I was taken aback.  I'd been mulling over things differently-that Robert's wife wasn't coming this time, because she's been helping their daughter with her new baby girl, that there had been all combinations of people in our family together for visits, but that, going back as far as I could remember, Drago, Robert and I had never been just us.  Mom, Dad, and our youngest brother Ric, have all died-Mom in 2006, Ric in 2008, and Dad in 2010. Hellava decade, from our small, immediate family perspective.  So, there it was again, while chatting with my brother over chicken, salad, and baked potatoes. Loss. We taste loss so many times, don't we? And, it comes to us flavored differently each time, doesn't it?

Nonnie, Drago and Robert

But, enough of that! Our visit rocked. Dining out, cooking in, walking the pier, a bit of shopping, watching the Borgias, yoga, reading our various books in various recliners, fine talks about the good, the bad, the stupid, and kittens! A stray cat had 5 kittens in our back yard. Drago, who got to discover them (wish it had been me) is happy about it but trying to stay detached,  and I'm a fool in love; a complete idiot. We did promise Robert, the most concerned bird lover of our threesome, that we'd get them adopted so that they'd be house cats-Robert's gone back to Philly, but we'll keep our promise. They are tiny, and we don't have to do anything responsible yet, so I'm helping the mother cat mother them. I go out there to pet them every so often so that they will be used to human touch and will be easily adopted. Good thinking, there, right? Drago fixed up a shelter for them, and I know they used it during a fierce thunderstorm yesterday (I checked) and I put food out because it seems I can't help myself. I could go on and on, but I won't. Kittens are all over the damn place on the internet, aren't they? People are probably sick of hearing about them or seeing pictures of them or watching video clips of them being almost unbearably cute. But these five are in our back yard! Kittens and brothers. I'm full-up.  

I Don't Know Anything About Relationships

EXCUSE ME?

Did you hear what I said?

You look…unruffled,

like you might even smile.

Maybe I spoke too softly.

(I do that, I know.)

Let me repeat myself more forcefully.

"Our careful lies are killing us."

So, there it is. I'm finished.

Did you hear what I said? Did you?

Put the cat down and listen to me.

PATHOLOGY

How awful it is to dissect a marriage!

It lays naked on the therapist’s steely table.

He makes his first incision

into the bloated stomach

of our malnourished union.

He polishes his glasses and peers,

cuts the thin taut skin of our collusion.

We're paying him to do this!

Dr. Stahler hums, probes, frowns 

as he examines the damage done

by our withholding of nutrients.

“But we took our marriage to England! to Ireland! To the Alps!

It was fine and plump!

We have neglected feedings of late,

but we were busy, pushed and pulled hither and yon!

What will you do, Doctor?

Will you prescribe an elixir, painkillers,

a weekend out of town?”

"My dear fools,  there is no heartbeat!

Here, lying on my table, is an emaciated 

corpse. Take the remains away and cope 

with them quickly before rot sets in and settles 

irrevocably into your poor, careless souls."

Bereft Light

I'm sure I loved him. Almost sure.

His wide smile, straight teeth.

I liked his back. Liked spotting him

in a crowd. Especially at airports.

Unlike me, he could carry a tune, 

remembered lyrics, knew the band.

He was a good driver. Kept his cool.

Even on the Beltway. 

And jokes! He had a million.

Got them right. No start overs.

He invented puns. And they were good!

I liked that he was proud of them.

His clever puns.

He was a great Scrabble partner!

Everything I know about Scrabble

came from him. Seven letter words?

No problema. Even stoned.

So, yeah. I miss stuff.

But the illusions?

Playing the fool? 

Nosireebob! Not me.

Not those. Who would?

--------------------------------

"April is the cruellest month" T.S.Eliot

The Watch

She's unable to move her own limbs,

so I lift, shift, hold her wasted 

body and ease her onto her back,

watching her face for the crumblings 

that mean pain. Her whispers don’t tell me

where she hurts or what she needs.

So I make my guess and take a deep breath- 

take her ninety pounds in my arms.

Together we journey to and from the commode. 

I empty the pot and yes, it smells- 

yes, but doing this task is instinctive, 

swiftly accomplished, and never repellent. 

I didn’t know how it would be. None of us do.

I sigh each time we manage 

the hoist to her high queen-size bed.

The sheets and pillows, her hair, face

and delicate, cold hands are all shades 

of wintery white, but there is color-

brown spots, pale yellow bruises, 

and purple stains on her skin. 

I try-I always try-to handle her 

with patience and reassurance.

We are Irish enough that the Banshee 

has come to sing from the hallway 

but I growl and chase the bitch away.

Some months ago my life collapsed

and I tumbled here to this bedside.

I'm the one, the only other woman

in this house, allowed to stand guard,

to share these difficult intimacies, 

to keep this watch. I want to do it well.

Departure      

Strawberry blond! That’s the shade the maple is this year.  I tried for just that color once, didn’t I? Don’t think I managed it, Marnie thought as she approached the house from the paddock. She missed their horses, as she did during every morning walk she’d taken since they’d sold them. Oh, damn this being old!  Marnie wiped mud off her boots on the back doormat and went through to the kitchen where her sister-in-law was drinking coffee and talking, talking, talking to Stephen.

“ I will worry, Steve! I fly in three hours and I haven’t convinced you stubborn fools to sell this place and join me in Ocala. You’ll molder up here in this lonely place, missing all the fun, and I suppose I’m just to take that answer as final and be on my worrying way. Really, I could wring your wrinkled old necks.”

Stephen answered, “We have a home we love and don’t play bridge, nor do we want to learn. Accept it as our happy choice, Ellen. We don’t want to sell. We are as deeply rooted here as the white pines around us.”

They drove Ellen to Albany for her flight to Florida. Ellen’s travel outfit made her look twice as plump, bundled up as she was against the “horrid” cold of October in the mountains, with a cotton blouse and slacks under all the woolies for the return to her beloved southern sun. Sandals were tucked into her carry-on.

During the drive home, Marnie relaxed, relieved the yearly siege was over. After all, they’d been settled in the country since closing their pediatric clinic almost eighteen years ago.  Why ever should they “retire” again? And in Florida?

“You’d better drive, dear.” Stephen’s voice woke her. “I’m dangerously sleepy.”

After they changed seats, Stephen fell deeply asleep. Marnie took his hand and gasped at his cold skin. His fingers had a blue tinge. So, she thought, it’s time already.

Just past five, she helped him into bed and gave him another nitro to put under his tongue. He was pale, clammy, and, she sensed, in much more pain than he’d admitted to. She left him briefly to see to a few things she needed to do, but soon came upstairs bearing a tray with a bottle of champagne, two flutes, and their stash of pills.

They toasted each other, their long, mostly happy lives, and their determination to go together. Marnie had left letters for Ellen and their three children for the postman to pick up in the morning-letters written by both of them earlier that month, after she’d learned that her cancer was back. There was one to the police as well. They washed down their sedatives with the vintage champagne, even got a little giggly, then snuggled under the covers. Whatever came next, they would be Marnie and Stephen, together and themselves, ready to meet it. Or, as the case might be, Marnie thought, not themselves at all, but then, what would it matter?

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)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


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.