1958

I am seven. 

My bike is passed-down, passed around, bent up and beat up 

but it rolls

And when you’re eight that’s all that really matters.

Golden broomsedge ripples in heat,

shimmers in the vacant lot;

blue-flowered chicory

lines the road and closes its petals in resignation.

It is August.

I am riding around our block,

along the sidewalk in front of the houses 

and kept gardens and trees bending 

under the weight of ripe damsons.

Tar bubbles glisten like my mother’s jet earrings

and pop under my tires,

like hot applesauce on the Tappan stove 

in Grandma Compton’s kitchen.

I pass behind her house, 

her orchard of apple trees as old as she is,

Then to the gravel road and the old dump

Where concrete chunks provide habitat for dragonflies and bamboo,

a hiding place 

for girls with sweaty hair and bare feet.

I watch the dragonflies skim over algae-green puddles

And dream of flying, cool in the water’s reflection,

Into the shadows of hidden places where my mother’s voice

Will not reach me. 

Back on my bike I ride

Into the shadow of mulberries, maples, apples and ash.

Dust turns me golden, ghost-like, 

a mirage that shimmers 

in five o’clock heat.

It is 1958.

On a back road in a small town all that matters

 is flying, flying, 

my sunburnt hair streaming behind

my face pushing eagerly ahead

while all the world is rushing by.

This poem was inspired by pulling words out of a bag of paper strips. Each strip contained a different word or phrase--in this case the words I pulled out were blue-flowered chicory, damsons, heat shimmers, bamboo and tar bubbles. Immediately I was back on my rattling bike, riding on a dirt road in mid-August. Funny how words can do that.

Remember

I remember little things--
a little hand in mine
a little toy truck mired in dirt
little overalls coated in mud
little gloves hung to dry by the fire
a little boy, held in memory,
held in my heart
by little things.

Snowy Sunny Sunday, and So Quiet

It's been bitter cold this weekend. Friday night dropped almost to zero, and last night wasn't a lot warmer. The sun is bright but it isn't sharing its warmth with us today. Joe's Run yesterday morning was frosty-beautiful.

The possible to-do list I posted yesterday got shortened quite a bit because I was on the phone with one of my sisters until almost 2 am. Can you imagine? We had a lot of catching up to do, and at such times the clock seems to move with lightning speed. I didn't get up until almost eleven this morning. So not as much got done as I planned.

What did get done: the grant first draft is almost done. That's a big thing on my list right now, but the end is in sight. Donna and I were on the phone a good while working through our plans. I sure hope this goes through because we've got a lot of plans for the money--storytelling up and down the Ohio River, in libraries, parks, theaters, and museums. We've rounded up 10 partners who are willing to contribute to the matching funds, and we have a few more possibilities to contact. What did not get done: making noodles, working on the picture books.

Canning beans wasn't on my list, because I forgot to put it there. But that got done today too. I ended up with 17 pints of red beans in tomato sauce, black beans, and black-eyed peas with ham, onions and molasses. I cooked chicken for this week's lunches (I'm still on a mostly bread-less diet and it seems to be working), and spaghetti sauce for dinners. The laundry is caught up, and that's about the extent of what I got done. Larry pruned grapevines, cut firewood for the fireplace, cleaned up the porch, fixed a porch table that was on the brink of collapse and took a long walk with the dogs. Now he's in bed and I'm catching up here.

Weekends go so quickly, and the weeks seem to drag on. On my desk I have a countdown of the number of days left before retirement. Every day I cross one day off, and the number of workdays left is now under 80. It's exciting and kind of scary. Will we have enough money? Will I get enough storytelling work? Will I really have time for all of the many, many projects, ideas, and new things I want to do? It's a new adventure, and I think we are in for an interesting time after May 10th.

Meantime, back to the grant I go; maybe I can finish the draft tonight. First, though, here is today's entry into the River of Stones Project:

Cat and Mouse
Catlike, she moves
as she should, being a cat--
uncatlike, she nudges the sliding door
until an opening no wider than her claw appears.
Slowly, she works the opening until it is large enough
for her paw. Both paws slide in, and she pulls and pulls;
the heavy door creeps along its track. It is open enough to allow her
to slide though. She glances around, jumps onto the couch, and sleeps
in the warmth of the stove and the sun. She is a cat; this is where she belongs.

Winter Blooms

The day after I wrote about my father buying primroses when he was 83, I found primroses, marked down, at the grocery store. They were meant for me obviously, so of course I bought them. They have been terribly over-watered and are recuperating on my kitchen windowsill.

I bought a pink one,

and a yellow one,

and one that shall remain a mystery until it blooms, but since it's in a purple pot I am hoping it's a purple one.

 

I bought a few other poor sufferers too--a kalenchoe that looks healthy but is past its prime as far as blooms, and two clay pots of miniature roses. All of them have been over-watered, but I've had good luck with plants that I've put in this window in winter, so we'll see. The roses were worth the $1.99 just for the clay pots, I think--and the white one is full of buds. The other rose is a dark, dark red. 

So the windowsill is in bloom and I am pretty sure I owe it to Dad.

Possession

Blue lace around thin linen 

waits in my dresser drawer

to surprise me with a memory 

of my mother, dabbing the white cloth 

with lavender scent

and tucking it in her sleeve.

Skipping Stones

Suddenly I saw him as he must have been--
a scrawny boy with scraped elbows in dusty bib overalls
squatting by the side of a rocky creek,
skipping stones across its surface--
In his jeans, flannel jacket and straw hat
he stretches on the post office's metal bench
and sings Rolling in My Sweet Baby's Arms
and carries on a conversation with himself
about being in the Air Force
and walking to the post office--
But before he came to this,
before he was a working man,
before he was a father,
or a husband or a student,
he was a small boy with scabby elbows
and nothing more important to do
than skipping stones across a rocky creek.

Primroses

 My father, at age 83 and walking with a walker

asked my sister to stop at the garden center 

so he could pick out three primrose plants--

one deep yellow, one indigo, and one of the brightest rose.

With my sister's help he planted them by his garden gate

where he would see them every time he looked out the window.

He did not get to see the flowers the following spring;

he rested with them beneath the winter's snow.

The primroses returned to bloom and bloom again

and Dad's memory, like those bright flowers

shines each time I see a primrose

blooming by a garden gate.

The Music Within

The bass rests, quiet.

But I can hear

the music within.

Ohio River in January

Beneath the ice

 the river slides

and the catfish goes about his business

We drove north along the Ohio this evening, on our way to Sistersville, and the river prompted these lines.

Home

At the end of the day, warmth spills from welcoming windows.

Home.

Where my husband waits to hear about my day.

Where the dogs are glad to see me, and the cats don't mind.

Where I can put up my feet, listen to silence and know that all is well.

I'm home.

200,000

Quietly, right around New Year's Day, this blog passed the 200,000 visitors mark. Since it began on January 7, 2007, that mile marker is also pretty close to the blog's 4th birthday. Who knew I would keep at it so long, or meet so many good friends along the way?

Thank you to all who have followed along with my daily small adventures, joys, sorrows and musings. I value each and every one of you.

To mark the anniversary, I will send a copy of my poetry chapbook, Lives Unheralded, to five people who respond to this post. Your names will be picked using the random number generator, to keep it fair and square.

Thank you again. And I hope you will continue to visit, read and comment.

This is my River of Stones post for today--a small thing suddenly noticed in my busy day--a tiny number at the bottom of the blog populated by people from all walks of life.

January Jewels

winter diamonds

sparkle, an icicle necklace

draped 'round frosty eaves

Coffee and Tea

Coffee--
we perk it
we gulp it
from sturdy mugs
and on-the-go-cups.
It gets us going.

Tea--
we brew it
we sip it
from china cups.
It relaxes us.

Thank goodness for both.

Quilt

nineteen-thirties fabrics, sewn together by long ago hands

keep out the winter's breath

as we snuggle deep beneath velours, brocades and wools

softened by age and love.

Symphony of One

The cardinal drips notes 

blood-like

into freezing air. 

Thawed, the music 

swells against echoing hills.

Mid-Winter

Firelight, lamplight, tree lights

share the glow of the new moon,

and the new year.

Old grief lingers

in places least expected,

soothed by soft growth of

new dreams.

Begonia in Winter

A begonia blooms in my window 

waving its pinkness at winter 

hunched beyond thin glass. 

A River of Stones: God's Eye

 
A yarn God’s-eye on our Christmas tree is not perfectly crafted and perhaps seems out of place with the other ornaments on the tree. “Where did you get that ornament?” a friend asked, and prompted a flood of memories. An adult basic education class gave me the ornament almost twenty years ago as I left one job to move to a better position in the library. I remembered how they taught me the joy of knowing I had made a difference in their lives. Twenty years later the ornament is a reminder—doing for others brings more happiness than anything we can do for ourselves.