How Often Do I Need Ice Skates?

“Kobe Bryant is in a court battle to try to keep his mother from auctioning off mementos from his high school days.” (news item)

I went away to college,

my parents sold the house,

I never got back to claim my possessions,

don’t remember exactly what was lost—

diaries, artwork, papers, keepsakes, outgrown clothes—

except my ice skates.

 

I hated PE and wasn’t athletic,

When I made a pact with a co-worker to go skating, she gave me this Christmas card.

but I swam through summers

and skated through ice-bound Ohio winters—

on Lacy’s Pond, the city reservoir, the Huron River,

even a flooded vacant lot.

 

Skated alone, skated on school nights,

skated on Sunday afternoons with my church youth group.

Skated as a grownup with my kids—

resentment rising every time

I had to wear rented skates.

 

Then we moved to Texas,

where I’ve skated only once, at a kid’s birthday party.

I still imagine myself gliding over rink-smooth ice,

made a promise with a friend that we’d go one day

but never did.

 

Whether it’s maturity or weak ankles,

I think it’s time to let go

of that resentment toward my parents.

A Life’s Work?

Lying in bed the other night, I got to thinking about people who have found their life’s work, whether it’s painting, teaching, singing, performing brain surgery or designing bridges. I am still trying to find my passion.

I went with my granddaughter to her school’s “art night” last week, and it was so much fun seeing the kids fired up about art. They had nature sculpture (bits of wood, bark, rocks, leaves etc.), shaving cream, origami, paper hat-making and some tables we never got to. Chloe proudly introduced me to her music, art and PE teachers (and I am thrilled her elementary school still HAS music, art and PE teachers!). They had some canvases set up with palettes (wisely limited to a few colors) for people to paint on, and the finished abstract paintings were given away in a raffle. I made a few dabs and chatted with the young man (a fifth-grade member of the school’s art club) about how much I enjoy the spring of a paint-filled brush on canvas. It made me want to come home and set up an easel and paint.

I have so many other projects going on right now it’s unlikely I’ll get to painting, except with Chloe, any time soon. I am working on a Shutterfly photo album of my daughter’s January 25 wedding; on Saturday I put together a quick flyer for our church choir’s variety show and fundraiser this week; then there is household stuff, personal care, shopping–I don’t need to go into detail.

I usually have a blog item and a couple of poems in the works. Plus there’s the list of dream projects I have started, either in reality or in my head–enough to last me years: my father’s journal from his time in India, which I want to scan and combine with the photo album (now residing with my niece) that I intend to borrow back to scan the photos; a couple of poetry chapbooks, including one of dream poems; a children’s book, “Granny’s Happy Coat,” for which I have written the story but need to do illustrations; a cookbook of my favorite recipes (for what purpose I’m not sure, since my daughters aren’t much into cooking–maybe my grandchildren will like it some day); the aforementioned painting, plus drawings in various media (pencil, oil pastel, soft pastel, water color pencil, ink, charcoal); and my longtime goal of acquiring and learning to use a digital SLR camera. Oh, and learning French. Finishing some knitting and needlework projects…. Gone for now is my desire to do freelance writing, editing and design, although if I ever needed the income that’s what I would do.

Lying there thinking about what prevents me from getting this done, I realized it was right beside me, snoring softly. This is my life’s work, at least for now. It was Saturday night and Chloe sleeps with me (while Gary goes upstairs to the guest room) in order for us to take her to church on Sunday morning, where we hope she learns our Unitarian Universalist values in a loving community.

I don’t think I was nearly so aware, raising my own children, of the value of the time spent with them. I did try to provide enrichment with my kids, getting out in nature, doing art, cooking and sewing and being involved in 4-H and scouts when they were interested. But being a grandparent is a fresh opportunity, and I have been given a gift to help shape this beautiful, bright little girl’s future. Yes, she is also willful, contrary and sometimes unbearable, but stubborn and willful can translate to tenacious and tough in an adult.*

I took her to the Austin Mini Maker Faire Sunday. I was exhausted after church, with noisy bands and crowds, and she was the one propelling the bicycle-driven merry-go-round. I don’t know what I was thinking getting her that alien, but at least the cost went as a donation to the Austin Planetarium project. However, I didn’t go for me,  and I hope it’s another good memory for her. The other projects wait until the days when Chloe is grown and no longer wants to spend much time with her Gramma.

* In case you’re wondering, yes, I do have two grandchildren. My grandson, Bryan, turns 10 next week. He’s a great kid,  incredibly bright and fun, but because of a combination of his age and interests, geography and family dynamics, I see him less often than Chloe. I hope to get the two kids together for some outings and trips during summer break. Chloe adores Bryan as though he were a big brother.

Gary with the grand-kids at the Cameron Park Zoo during spring break.

Kid power makes the merry-go-round go round.

She calls it “Purple,” but I prefer “Violet.”

A Little Monday Poem

We have some wonderful friends who own a house on the water in Rockport, Texas, that they let us use. We go once or twice a year, and have even started taking the grand-kids. The house is a perfect beach cottage and I have many wonderful memories of fixing shrimp boils, taking Zen-like walks on the fishing pier, and just relaxing on the porch.

From the Porch, Rockport

Wedgwood bowl above,

cotton puffs drifting westward.

To the east, thin silver streaks

illuminated by the autumn sun

pouring gold and white

onto the southerly Gulf chop.

Palms rattle like maracas.

Gulls scream, unseen birds chirp.

Live oaks lean northward

permanently bent by relentless south wind.

The pier’s blue heron

and yesterday’s giant pelicans

must be at breakfast elsewhere.

–for Dorothy and Pete

The poem was written when we were in Rockport last November, from a prompt by poet and teacher Lori Desrosiers about “observing nature.” The photo, from several years ago, was taken from the porch, our favorite spot to have morning coffee and an evening glass of wine.

The Alchemy of the Critique

For my “poem of the fortnight” (which, if you’re keeping track, isn’t an exact term because my critiquing group meets only twice a month, and sometimes I don’t even take anything), I’m including a look at the process by which this poem was finalized.

Here is the finished poem:

Millstone

How do you know you are bearing

a load you have borne every day?

 

Then suddenly, by sleight of pharmaceutical magic

you are lightened, relieved,

find yourself facing obstacles calmly, fearlessly,

swimming from the deep of dreams each morning,

diving back again at night,

living fully in between.

 

After a half-century

fighting for every scrap of joy,

you have let go of the load,

and never want to bear it again.

Here is a mashup of the first two hand-written drafts:

I took a typed version–a third or fourth draft–to my critiquing group, where I got oral and written suggestions. Here are samples of some jotted comments:

Next I reviewed it all and incorporated many of the ideas into a final version. But the magic is that I went beyond the suggestions in the critiques, pushing the poem even further. We joke in our group that someone who brings a two-page poem might leave with a haiku, but the hewing process usually removes dead wood. I often hear or read a poem that’s so-so and think, “That poem would be so much better if it was submitted to a critiquing group.”

I recommend to any poet who isn’t working with a group, whether in person or online, to get involved. Not only do you meet and make friends with other poets, you will learn ways to improve your work that you can’t see working away in isolation.

Thanks to my Writers’ League of Texas Monday night group, of which I have been a part (and one-time leader) since 1990!

Simplifying, Lazy or Agoraphobic?

Slowing down and simplifying have been “trending” in the past few years. (When did “trend” become a verb?) Numerous articles, books and magazines are available to help people slow down and live more simply.

Even though it may seem contradictory, despite my over-scheduled radical retirement and my more recent decision to do it if it’s something I want to do, I have always stopped to smell the roses. My phone is full of pictures of flowers, leaves, bird houses, flowing water and the like that I have snapped on walks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I love going out with my granddaughter and stopping to pick rain lilies or observe a dead possum in the street.

rain lilies

 

 

 

Chloe was fascinated with this, so I took the photo and then called 311 for dead animal pickup

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So I embrace the movement to slow down and simplify—without need of books and magazines.

But since my pharmaceutical and therapeutic epiphany, I am slowing and simplifying even more. I schedule fewer events. After many years of attending the Austin International Poetry Festival, I skipped this year. The third annual Mom Prom is coming up. For the first one, I wore my 15-year-old hot pink wedding dress, and soon after the party gave it, and the dyed-to-match shoes, away. Last year those women of a certain age in their 40-year-old bridesmaids’ dresses seemed pathetic with their flabby backs and silly headwear. Have I also lost my sense of whimsy? Maybe, but I’m skipping it this year (and since it’s for a cause I totally support, Planned Parenthood, I made a contribution).

My friend Lissa looks mah-velous, but my dress should have been left in the 90s. I had already ditched the shoes by then.

This is my dilemma: am I slowing because I prefer savoring all that I do; because I am calmer for my family; because it reduces my stress levels not to have something scheduled nearly every day? Or am I getting lazy? I love not dashing off to an appointment or engagement unless it’s necessary or desirable. (I still go to choir practice, and I will attend a bridal shower this week for one of the women from my Montevideo “posse.” )

Another reason I go out less is the hassle of dealing with traffic, parking, and overcrowded Austin  events.

Could this be a symptom of agoraphobia? Between staying home and going out, my default is staying home. Using my granny obligations as an excuse, I skip things I might otherwise do. After I take Chloe home from church on Sundays I burrow into our nest to read the Sunday paper, watch (recorded) CBS Sunday Morning and fix a nice meal.

It may be a factor of age. A friend says we become more attached to home as we get older, and I absolutely love being at home. After a busy weekend I look forward to Monday and a perfectly ordinary day: working out, doing laundry, sweeping, writing or working on a creative project, practicing music, studying French, reading, preparing meals, maybe watching TV or a movie in the evening. If every day were like that I might get bored, but right now I am deeply happy with things as they are. I guess I’ll go with the “simple” explanation. Or accept being a little lazy, a bit agoraphobic—for now.

Lammy’s Latest Adventures

You may recall our adventures with Lammy on our trip to San Diego last summer, and the all-out effort it took to find her when she got lost.

My making a fetish of Lammy is having some unforeseen results, probably more for me than for Chloe. Lammy got left in my car yesterday when I took Chloe home, and I had to text my daughter at my next stop to let her know Lammy was safe and that I’d take good care of her until I see them again Tuesday.

I find myself carrying on conversations with Lammy. She listens beautifully and is usually agreeable, except when someone says “Lamb chops!” Then she covers her ears and doubles over into the fetal position. Chloe loves to taunt her with “Lamb chops! Lamb chops!” as Lammy cowers.

“Not lamb chops!”

Last Sunday the opening hymn at church was “Comfort Me.” Chloe had just handed Lammy to me so, from the choir loft, Lammy pantomimed the hymn: “Comfort me…” I rocked her in my arms; “Sing with me…” she raised her paws (hooves? what kind of feet does a chenille lamb have?) in song; “Dance with me…” she did a little jig. “Speak for me…” was tougher, and she remained silent.

Lammy even has an adopted sibling, “Sharon.” We got her at Barnes and Noble right before Easter, and once again it was I who was seduced by that face. After we got her we couldn’t figure out what she was–sort of a rabbit/lamb cross, so we named her “Shammy.” (All Chloe’s animals are female.) Then I noticed the receipt said “Sharon the Sheep,” so that was settled, but “Shammy” stuck even though she’s a real, not sham, sheep.

“Shammy,” not “Sharon”

I realize how silly this is, but as long as it’s not causing Chloe to have a pathological attachment to stuffed toys, I’m not worried. She still has her “blankie,” too, and when she’s ready it will be left behind, as I suspect will happen to Lammy as well.

Blankie when she was a lot newer.

However, the other day, Chloe said she hoped she kept Lammy for her whole life, and then Lammy would be buried with her. Now many Grandmas would find this creepy, but I am impressed with how nonchalant she is the with the understanding that she, like every other living thing, is not immortal. All I said was that I hoped it was a hundred years from now, when she’ll be 106. She said, “Longer than that!”

Poem of the Fortnight: In Lakeview Cemetery

In memory of my brother, Tony Wiggins, who died on this date 13 years ago:

In Lakeview Cemetery

A sanctuary of trees and flowers,

burial place of James Garfield and John D. Rockefeller,

once, up high, you could see Lake Erie

before the city grew and blocked the view.

 

It is Father’s Day

Tony’s grave

the day after my niece’s wedding.

Three middle-aged and two elderly women

are placing flowers from the wedding

on their men’s graves

(always the women are left behind).

Susan and Rose, the elders

tell us the stories of the graves.

I see, for the first time,

my brother’s smooth black granite stone.

Because my brother had the good sense

to marry into a large Italian family

despite our small, chilly English one

and our penchant for cremation,

I am spending my first Sunday placing flowers on graves

as these warm generous people welcome me:

the only member of my brother’s family to attend his daughter’s wedding.

 

That evening we eat pasta and drink red wine

in their favorite neighborhood restaurant:

my sister-in-law, her cousin and husband,

my nephew and his Parisian girlfriend

and I realize this is what family feels like.

Lakeview Cemetery, Cleveland, Ohio

The Virtues of Slacking

Last Sunday we went to a birthday party in a winery in Driftwood, about 40 minutes away, where the Austin area meets the Texas Hill Country. What could be nicer than good wine, artisan pizza, a beautiful setting and celebrating the birthday of one of my favorite people in the world, my friend Jane?

Photo from Duchman Family Winery

Her husband, Sonny, retired soon after Jane and I did. He said he was going to do absolutely nothing, and since he had been a middle school shop teacher, who was going to argue with that? So my husband asked him if he was still doing absolutely nothing. He said “Yes,” but when pressed he said his son had given him a tiller for Christmas and had been tilling their garden.

That surely didn’t sound like doing “nothing,” but I got it. After years of working for other people, doing just what you want to do feels sort of like nothing—nothing you have to do.

I’ve explained my struggles with time and over-commitment many times here, and I’m thinking Sonny has the right idea. I’m tired of chasing the clock, the calendar and my own tail, and I’m slacking off a little.

I skipped my poetry critique group this week; I didn’t have a poem to take, which is not a good reason not to go, but it’s OK that I’m not writing poetry right now, and it’s OK to stay home if I feel like it. I considered skipping choir practice this week, but if I don’t go Chloe will think she can skip kids’ choir, too. I’d also miss singing, and I don’t want to turn into a recluse.

On days when I have no commitments I try to avoid looking at the clock and just go with whatever I get involved in. This week it has been organizing and clearing out books. I bought my granddaughter a book, “Corduroy’s Easter,” which I’m virtually certain I brought into the house, and it has vanished. In searching everywhere for it I got involved in cleaning out bookcases and took a box of books to Half Price Books. I’ve also been studying my French a bit, planning our trip to England this summer, and working on the condo spring newsletter. I’m reading “The Book Thief,” by Markus Zusak, which I’m enjoying after slogging through “The Corrections” by Jonathan Franzen (what was Oprah thinking?) I stay up later and get up later, which means more reading and less working.

That’s the way retirement should be, right?

I’m thinking about revising “Radical Retirement” to “Rational Retirement.”

Poem of the Fortnight: Imagining Being Rich in River Oaks

We went to Houston the weekend before last, partly to do the River Oaks Garden Club annual azalea trail. We stayed with dear friends who live in a fabulous mid-Century modern house, ate out, saw a Picasso exhibit at the Houston Museum of Fine Arts, watched movies on TV, and spent a lot of time talking and catching up. With the time change to daylight savings, we slept late and hung out in our pj’s till about 3 p.m. Sunday–very relaxing, but we never made it to the azalea trail. We tried to catch the end on our way out of town, but it was too late so we just drove around River Oaks. I wrote this on the way home, and of course took it to my trusty critiquing group before posting.

Imagining Being Rich in River Oaks

Instead of seeing myself luxuriating in opulence,

serving Champagne to guests

even more elegant than I…

 

I wonder who walks the perimeter looking for fences needing fixing,

calls the plumber when there’s a leak

or the tree surgeon when branches break,

or takes care of the other thousand things that can go wrong.

Do you have a full-time housekeeper,

A cook?

How many gardeners,

groundskeepers,

pool guys?

Who hires them all?

 

How do you decide how often to redecorate, remodel or relocate?

 

Who hires the interior designer,

contractor, painters, carpenters?

Who makes all the decisions?

 

Who watches it all

while you are at your villa

on the Costa del Sol

or skiing in St. Moritz?

 

And all that money—who manages it?

Somebody has to pay the house staff,

yard men,

lighting designer,

security guard.

 

It must not be easy to be very rich.

I wonder if it’s learned,

or is it better to be born to it,

marry it?

Would I choose this life?

 

I see maintenance.

Being a slug I didn’t get any pictures. This is from YourHoustonNews.com

 

It’s About Seeing

Recently while I was working out I noticed that several unrelated objects randomly placed on the coffee table formed a colorful still life: an ancient paperback copy of Larousse’s French dictionary (sitting on top of my other French class books), my 2013 Texas Poetry Calendar, a set of my granddaughter’s word-and-picture flash cards, the UU World magazine, and some weights.

I’ve been doing this for years. At church recently I noticed a conversational group of people who were perfectly color-coordinated in shades of blue and purple. Another Sunday, many of my fellow church-goers (including me) were wearing the same shade of dull moss-green. I was always the one at work who observed who “got the memo” and showed up wearing red and black, or the same shade of blue shirt with khakis. I notice when the cars around me in traffic or a parking lot seem to be bunched together by color. I have a  poem, Why I Write Poetry, with a line about the jewel tones of all the runners on the hike-and-bike trail.

And it’s not just a visual thing. I notice it with words and even music as well. Flipping between two radio stations in the car, from classical to jazz, I’ll notice that the two pieces of music are in the same key. Sometimes I’ll be reading and the TV is on and I’ll read a word—any odd word, like “bishop” or “horizon” or “strawberry,” and at the same moment I’ll hear the same word on TV. One of the weirdest was when “Wake up Little Susie” was playing on an oldies station in the car. At the exact moment the Everly Brothers were singing “Oooh la la,” I passed a Pepsi billboard with the same words.

(Michael J. Smith photo)

I have read Jung’s book on synchronicity and find it fascinating. I used to have a sort of Jungian view that these were messages from the Universe. Many years ago I had tickets to see the violinist Joshua Bell, and for days I ran across bell-related images and words. Literally, I thought I needed to be listening to these “bells.” I never found any deeper meaning, and I now believe these phenomena happen everywhere, all the time, and anyone can notice them if they pay attention. At lunch with a friend the other day, we talked about whether we do this because we are artists, or if we become artists because we do this. He likes the way Café Express arranges sweeteners in a display that makes them look like arrangements of flowers, and he has photographed them at different locations. An architect and designer, he thinks the artist/poet comes first and we see this way because we’re artists, not the other way around. It was reassuring to discover maybe I’m not so terribly weird.

Since bloggers are artistic and creative, I’d love to hear from others who share this strange little gift.

Soon after I posted this I was looking at pictures taken yesterday at the zoo in Waco, and realized  we were in perfect red, white and blue!

With the grandkids at the Cameron Park Zoo, Waco, Texas