Haiku

Wishing peaceful pleasures for honorable readers.

~ ~ ~
















Rose of Sharon bloom
hides among cool green leaves
this hot summer day





~ ~ ~

Wishes

OK, I at least know that there are a couple people out there who actually read this stuff, so I'm going to put this little ditty out there for thought. And if you're good, I have something else in the works that I'll do later today.

~ ~ ~

Wishes


I’ll bet . . .
if I laid all my wishes,
end to end,
touching, but not too close,
I’ll bet they’d pave a road
all the way home
to where my heart is.

~ ~ ~

Everyone who reads my other blog know where this road leads for me. So how 'bout you? Where does your wish-paved road lead?

We need to talk . . .

Listen up, folks! Now I told you in the beginning of this particular blog, and I quote:

"There will be a combination of poetry short stories, opinion essays, and various flights of fancy that present themselves to my head. I hope you'll come back and will enjoy your visits. Tellers of tales are happy just to be read. Your job is simple ... make me happy!"

Now let's all understand something here. I can't be happy if I don't know your reading this stuff!! Helllllooooo? I'm an artist. We are tempermental. We need to be stroked in order to refuel and do more. (Eyes upward toward the heavens, she sighs.) I really need to know what you enjoy. It might (well, it might not, too, but . . . ) give me some direction for future posts. Obviously I'll post what I want (and there are some just too personal to post), but I also want to know I'm being read and what appeals.

I'm not asking for long notes, but I would appreciate a short acknowledgement that I'm being read. You can just say, "cool," or "sad," or "gag," or"quit that crap!" but I'd love hearing that you've been to the blog. Look at it this way . . . if I were good enough to be published, I'd know I'm being read by the millions of dollars sent to me for the copies of my books being sold. So the price here is perfect . . . none!! I know I'm an ameteur!!


Thank you. Thank you very much.
(To answer the question in your head right now . . . yes, I did an Elvis hip swing as I wrote that.)

Help Me To See

~ ~ ~

What do you feel
When I touch you?
Do you feel
For that moment
That the world
Begins with you and ends with me?
Or do you simply feel
A body?

I wish I could see
Inside your tho’ts
Help me.

~ ~ ~

The final chapter is here. If you remember Mary and John were . . . well, hell, if you've forgotten, go back and reread the previous chapter!

~ ~ ~


On the scheduled night Mary convinced Mr. McBride to go look at the house. He wondered why she wanted to go at night, but agreed anyway. They got into a small boat, and he rowed them to the island. Just as they reached the island, It began to storm. There was lightening, thunder, rain coming down in sheets and hail the size of golf balls was hitting everything.

Mary and McBride started running up the driveway toward the old house. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease. I never did understand why that old man had a paved driveway because he couldn’t have a car out on that island, but maybe he liked to see the hailstones bounce like that.

By the time they reached the house they were both soaked. Mary said that her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze. That wasn’t a pretty image in my mind, but then nothing about this whole story was much better.

She suggested that they check out the top floor to be sure that the roof wasn’t leaking, and commented as they climbed the dark stairs, that it was really lucky that it had rained tonight. In her head she was thinking that it would make the pond deeper to cover McBride’s body, but out loud she said, “This way we can check for any leaks before we buy this place.”

I couldn’t help but think what a sinister broad this woman was. She must be over fifty, but she looks about 25. And she has a heart of a killer, but the face of an innocent child. Good one to avoid, I made a mental note.

On reaching the eleventh floor, Mary told McBride that she was tired and wanted to rest, but he should go ahead and check out the fifth floor, the attic of the old house. He went up the stairs.

At the last step, McBride reached for the door knob, turned it and shoved the door ahead of him. As he stepped onto the rotting boards of the attic, he saw John waiting for him.

John said, “Sorry, McBride, but there is only room for one of us where Mary is concerned, and it is going to be me.”

The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formally surcharge-free ATM. McBride lunged at John, intending to get in the first strike and hopefully push him out the window.

On the floor above, Mary heard the sounds of a struggle. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 pm instead of 7:30. She thought it sounded like they were dancing in wooden shoes, clomping all over the floor up there.

She wondered why John was taking so long to get rid of McBride. Then . . . Shots rang out, as shots are known to do. Mary listened to the silence above her. There was nothing. She began to panic, not knowing what was going on, who was alive, and what she would do if McBride was the survivor.

Then Heavy footsteps came down the stairs, slowly, slowly. Mary bit back a scream as a man emerged from the stairwell. Thank god, it was John.

John told her that he had shot McBride. McBride stumbled backward and out a window. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup. Mary wondered aloud if it had hurt McBride when he landed. John said, “Of course, it hurt, Mary. It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.”

Then John said that he had also been shot when the bullet ricocheted off of a metal plate in McBride’s head and hit John in the leg. “I need to get back across the pond and take care of this leg as soon as possible.”

Mary looked at his leg and saw that it was bleeding from the calf. “Can you make it to the boat?” she asked.

“I think so,” he replied. “But we’d better hurry before it gets worse.” He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame - - maybe from stepping on a land mine or something. Getting down several flights of stairs wasn’t easy, especially when you walk like a duck.

The rain had let up and was just a normal pouring rain now, to their relief. When they finally got to the edge of the pond, however, they were distressed to find that the boat wasn’t there. John shown the flashlight across the water, and they saw the it. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

“Didn’t you tie it up?” he shouted at Mary.

“No,” she replied. “I never even thought of it.”

“My grandpappy would have done a better job than you did,” John screamed. “
. Your mind is like a sieve!”

At this point Mary stopped, sobbed softly once, dabbed at her eye, and said, “This is where it all went wrong.”

I was looking at her sitting on my broken chair in her perfect black suit, and thought, hey lady, something was wrong long before this. But I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure yet what she wanted from me.

“I swam to the shore and ran for another boat. But when I got back, John was gone. I haven’t been able to find him, and I need your help. Please find John for me, or find his body so I can collect the insurance money.” she whispered.

All the sudden, my office door burst open. In rushed a kid in his late teens, dressed for a boxing match, right down to gloves laced on his hands. He was followed by a girl about two years younger in a pink tutu. I thought for a minute that I was losing my mind, but then I remembered the broad in my office with the strange stories, and it all began to make sense.

The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while. He said, “I haven’t eaten since my dad was lost in the pond. Please bring him home so that I can eat again and win my bout.”

The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant. Yep, I could hear this one coming a mile away. She said, “I’ve been dancing to keep my mind off my poor daddy being missing, but I really can’t do this much longer. Please find my daddy. And then find someone to massage the cramps out of my leg.”
Just as I suspected, these kids were part of the whole scheme. I wasn’t sure how, but they were. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools. And I knew that I wasn’t going to get these crazies out of my office until I figured out where John was, so I had better get cracking.

I spent the next fourteen months looking for John. I finally found him in Missouri, still walking like a lame duck with the gun tucked in his belt. He had it there instead of carrying it in his hand because Missouri just passed a concealed carry law, so he knew that it was alright to stash it and let the cramp in his hand begin to ease up. He was still pretty dazed, and couldn’t really tell me how he got there, but he knew he was about halfway between Topeka and Cleveland. He had to be there in order to be found.

I understood completely, It all made sense. In these cases, you have to use logic to solve the mystery. I drove John back to Mary and the kids. As soon as they saw each other, I could swear that I heard the old song, “Love is a Many Splendored Thing” playing in the clouds. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 pm traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 pm at a speed of 35 mph.

Yep. Like I said, it just takes logic. Case solved.

~ ~ ~

That's it kiddies. Did I get them all? Are you sure? Really sure? uh-huh. If you think so, you must be right.

Have a wunnerful day!!

A Mystery, Part 2

This is the beginning of my very tongue-in-cheek mystery. Remember that I have used all of those metaphors from yesterday's post. And so you don't have to try to remember them, I've made them bold in this post. Happy reading. OH! One more thing . . . Remove your tongue from your cheek before you laugh or try to talk, please.

~ ~ ~

And this would be my story . . . . . . .





I was sitting in my ratty little office one stormy afternoon wondering how I was going to pay the rent on the dump. It has been weeks since the phone had rung with any business. Before it was disconnected, the only calls had been bill collectors. Private eyes have a tough job. It’s either feast or famine, and I wasn’t gaining any weight.

On that day, as I sat there chewing on the end of my last stogy, she walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs. I looked her up and down. I figured she had walked into the wrong office, cause a classy dame like that doesn’t look to a broken down PI with no future.

Then she spoke. “Are you Stogy Hogy, the private Eye?” she asked. I didn’t answer right away. I was thinking about how she sounded. Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened. It didn’t fit with her looks. She was a long, tall drink of water, dressed to the nines. She had dark hair and smoky eyes which gave away the fact that she’d been crying. Her skin was pale against the dark hair and black suit she wore. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

I guess I stared too long because she suddenly sat down in a dusty wooden chair with wobbly legs as if she couldn’t stand there any longer waiting for me to answer. I wondered if the chair would collapse with her but before I could go any farther with that thought, she began to speak again.

“I need your help,” she said. “I think my life might be in danger and I don’t know where to turn.”

“OK,“ I said. “Tell me your story.”

“I’m Mary Smith,” she continued. My husband, John, is missing. I need you to find him. But let me start from the beginning.”

Three years ago, John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met. They came from different parts of town, and except for a chance meeting, probably would have lived their lives like those hummingbirds, just zooming from place to place, but never seeing each other.

She was as easy as the TV Guide crossword. Funny that she would tell me that, but I guess she wanted me to know what part of town she was from. When they met, he fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River. She didn’t think he really was serious about her because she wasn’t what a guy takes home to his mother. But he used to tell her that when he was around her, his thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

She thought he was just making passes, but he insisted that he was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up. She told me that it must have been the truth, because sometimes she thought she could hear those bells herself when he looked at her. She knew that over time, she grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room temperature Canadian beef.

He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree. That was good, because she was six-foot-one herself. She would look pretty silly with a short guy, she said. and I wondered if this was directed at me, because I was only five-foot six. Then she laughed. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up. I watched her carefully, wanting to be sure that if she did throw up, I could move out of the way.

She told me that over time she came to love him, too. He was really smart. He spoke with wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it. and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at solar eclipse without one those boxes with a pinhole in it. She knew he was way out of her class, but what the heck, he had a lot to offer.

While she was telling me this story, I had some trouble concentrating on what she was saying. Everything coming out of her mouth was strange. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like whatever. Every now and then, I had to shake my head to get the cobwebs out of it because listening to her made my mind go to sleep. She was certainly a looker, but that is about the end of it.

Eventually Mary and John got married. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth. Oh, brother, now I had another special image in my head. This didn’t help the cobwebs. I really wished she would get to why she was here and let me go back to thinking about how bad things were for me.
Then, she said, everything seemed to come tumbling down around them. Her first husband, a Mr. McBride, showed up. I couldn’t help think it was weird that she called him “Mr.” McBride, but then most of what I knew about this dame was weird anyway.

She had been married to him for 30 years. His presence was inconvenient because she had never divorced him. When he left town, she thought she would never see him again, and she just went on with her life as if he never existed.

Funny, I thought, I didn’t think this dame was old enough to be married that long.
She said that she finally got nerve to talk to John about it. He took it better than she thought he would. When he quit crying and calling her names, they came up with a plan to get rid of him before anyone knew he was in town. Then they would be free to go on with their lives together.

The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work. She would lure him to an island in the middle of the pond at the edge of town. On the island was a deserted mansion where the town recluse had lived for years until he was swept out of the castle during a bad flood. She would tell McBride that she wanted to look at the house for them to live in after they reconciled. John would be waiting on the fifth floor, shoot him and together they would throw his body into the pond.

~ ~ ~

But . . . is the plan really that simple? Will they really be able to go on with their lives together? What about McBride? Will he turn the tables on them? (Sound the organ music, TA-TA-DUMMMMMM.) Tune in tomorrow for the continuing mystery of John and Mary.

A Mystery, Part 1

I'm going to try something a little different. Because of the length, this is will be done in installments. This first is to simply lay the groundwork, prepare the palate, if you will. So, put on your seatbelts, hang on for the long ride.

What follows is fun to read by itself. Tomorrow, I will post the first part of the story that came out of this.
~ ~ ~

A Mystery On A Dark And Stormy Night
A short story based on Random Metaphors
Gathered from High School Essays

by
L S A
October, 2003




A while back, I read a list of some humorous gaffs made by high school students. The fractured metaphors used by students in essays brought me quite a few chuckles. I couldn’t help but wonder what each entire essay looked like. So I’ve taken these passages into one story. Let’s see how it might go.

These are the . . . . . . .

Actual Analogies and Metaphors Found in High School Essays


1.) Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

2.) His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

3.) He spoke with wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it. and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at solar eclipse without one those boxes with a pinhole in it.

4.) She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room temperature Canadian beef.


5.) She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

6.) Her vocabulary was as bad as, like whatever.

7.) He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.

8.) The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formally surcharge-free ATM.

9.) The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

10.) McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.


11.) From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 pm instead of 7:30.

12.) Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.

13.) The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

4.) Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 pm traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 pm at a speed of 35 mph.

15.) They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.

16.) John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

17.) He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.

18.) Even in his last years, Grandpappy had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut.

19.) Shots rang out, as shots are known to do.

20.) The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

21.) The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

22.) He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame - - maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

23.) The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

24.) It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

25.) He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

26.) She was as easy as the TV Guide crossword.

27.) She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.

28.) Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened.

29.) It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.

30.) She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.

~ ~ ~

OK, there you have it. Stay tuned, boys and girls! The story begins tomorrow!!!

Bug

Now this is strong literary content. Appreciate it. It may well wind up among the greats someday!!


~ ~ ~

The Bug


Today I sucked a bug up
in the vacuum cleaner.
He’s gone.
I’m happy.
But what happens to bugs
in the vacuum cleaner?

~ ~ ~

I Am

~ ~ ~
I Am


I am.
No more, no less,
This is me.
Thus I shall remain.

I may grow and change,
This is part of me.
Bend with me –– flex.
Touch gently & learn.

I cannot promise tomorrow.
Today is hard enough to handle.
I can only try.
I am.

~ ~ ~

Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow

~ ~ ~

YESTERDAY, TODAY AND TOMORROW



When you think of yesterday
do you remember
when we met many years ago?
Sometimes I can’t remember how ,
can you?

Today is sometimes a challenge.
I miss you lots of todays.
Do you think about
what we were to each other?
I hope so.
I do.
I’ve never forgotten.

Tomorrows will come
and will you remember
today and yesterday?
I know I will.
I do every time my heart beats.

~ ~ ~

Here Comes Summer!!

I think it is obvious who I put this one in here, given the incredibly nasty, hot streak of weather we've had lately.

~ ~ ~

Here Comes Summer


Summer is here,
just around the corner.
Already the days are long and hot.
It’s rained a lot.
The grass is thick and green,
a plush carpet underfoot,
and flowers are blooming
everywhere.
This time of year
is possibly the most beautiful,
as nature spreads
across all the hills,
along the river banks,
everywhere my eyes can see.
And yet,
on the threshold of summer,
I cringe,
because I know
the dread heat of July
is on it’s way.
As it creeps in,
it will choke away
the cooling, refreshing rain.
The rich green will turn
to pale green, then to tan
and crisp brown,
as it suffers
and withers from thirst
when the rain becomes
scarcer and scarcer.
Yet even as the countryside
wilts and dies,
humidity will form
like a thick, steamy blanket,
stifling us as we go about
our daily routines,
sluggish,
miserable
and hot.
I’ll groan
and long for winter again
even though I promised,
last December,
that I wouldn’t.
I can’t help it,
I will be miserable
and I’ll complain.
Hurry, snowfall!

Lost Things

No intro on this one. Just a thoughtful piece I did a while back.
~ ~ ~

LOST THINGS

by
LSA

written 11/2004


I’m officially in my golden years, a senior citizen, if you will. As I talk with friends of similar ages, listen to conversations among people in waiting rooms or the next booth in a cafe, I can’t help but notice that many of, most of us have some lost things. No, not the car keys or the remote control to the TV. We’ve all missed opportunities in our lives, passed up chances to do something, go somewhere, experience that once in a lifetime something-or-other, and later in life we notice ... and regret ... the loss.

Many of these events presented in the early years of our lives, but we unfortunately don’t recognize until much later what happened. Or didn’t happen. And then we often give it up, just let go of it because we are now “too old” to do something about it. I find myself wondering if we do so too quickly. Some dreams can still be brought to fruition, as long as the dreamer has some imagination and flexibility.

I think back over my own things lost, and I first say, “I missed my chance.” For instance, I had several years of piano lessons, about seven, I think, and I was reaching the level of expertise at which I could have really begun to use those talents for fun, rather than the drudgery of practicing mindless finger exercises and sitting on Saturday morning with Miss Hesterworth playing the assigned pieces of Bach or Mozart or Schumann, while she encourages me to “move with the music” or “listen to the message of the passage.”

At about fourteen, I discovered something that was much more powerful than Miss Hesterworth AND her piano ... boys with tennis rackets! Soon I had whined and stomped my feet enough that my mother gave up the fight and the Saturday morning appointments with Miss H. stopped.

I was ecstatic! For a while. By the time I realized that the boy and tennis racket were gone, I was somewhere in my early adulthood, hanging around a piano being played by someone else, and I was wishing I could play so well. But no ... I had given up not only lessons, but practicing, and my skills were pretty pitiful at this later time.

Even after I faced the fact that I wished I could play passably, did I say to myself, “So go take some lessons and brush up”? Heck no! I just continued to take life as it was thrust at me, not considering the possibility that I could, at 35, take lessons and refresh my playing skills. I went ahead with life, still wishing and doing nothing about it. Now I’m sixty and still haven’t taken a refresher course.

Similar story with the violin. Five years of lessons and orchestra at school, and I knew I would never be a great violinist, but I played well enough to always make the cut. And I enjoyed it. But at a certain juncture, I decided that I wanted to be in the band, and you and I both know that there has never been a violin in the marching band. I switched to percussion, and had a lot of fun playing almost every instrument in the percussion section over time, becoming reasonably expert at some of them. In the wake of this excitement, I left behind the good old fiddle. Later I wished I could still play well enough to join my daughter in a duet.

So it goes for many more things, my first serious boyfriend being one. I have never completely recovered from the soaring infatuation of our brief relationship or the crashing devastation I suffered when we both proved too immature to do the work necessary to make it work. Would we have lasted forever? Probably not, but I have wondered many times since just what might have been. I’ll never know.

My first marriage, also, fell victim to lack of concentrated, dedicated labor which is necessary to weave a fabric strong enough to withstand the forces of the world as they beat at and twist on the threads. The marriage was strained beyond our inexperienced resolve, and we fled, looking for answers which weren’t found elsewhere. What was lost is irreplaceable, but hindsight only reveals the error, not the alternate reality.

I think of friendships, too, lost in the shuffle of daily life, some with external stressors, others just unattended. At times I wish I could go back and turn them around and see where they might go, should have gone. But what is done is done.

One thing I regret perhaps most of all is not having asked more questions. My parents are both gone now. While they were here, I can remember back on many times that one of them told a story, and I didn’t pay much attention, sometimes because it was the umpty-eleventh time I’d heard it. In later years, I think I listened better, knowing what a treasure was being gifted to me. I often didn’t go beyond their words, the stories, with questions to clarify or enhance on the old familiar yarn. These days I talk with my siblings, and we sometimes reminesce over a favorite story only to discover that we each have a slightly different bent on it. How I wish I could just ask Mom one more question or listen more closely to Dad’s recounting of an old, weathered story.

As I consider the things lost, it is clear that there are some I can do something about, for the piano and violin can always be relearned. There are others that are beyond my ability to change in a significant way. If only I could put the marriage on the right track or talk with my parents for a hour.

It become paramount to me, then, to pass along to my children and grandchildren, to all the children and grandchildren everywhere, the importance of second chances, of renewing abandoned talents, of listening and of asking questions, even when they think the have heard it all. We should all be willing to move out of our routines and venture beyond our comfort zones in order to expand our worlds, to open windows and doors to new adventures. We tend to treat the past experiences as being done, essentially dead. Some may be, but there are others ... many others ... that are still workable, malleable, recoverable. And what a loss it is when we simply shrug things off without exploring our capabilities to build, to repair, to develop skills or renew them. I think we should challenge ourselves to not accept the losses without a fight. And we shouldn’t wait too long. I can certainly still master a new level of proficiency but it becomes more challenging with each year. How much easier it would have been to take piano lessons at 35 than it will be now.

The questions for my mother can no longer be asked. That opportunity is lost forever. I hope my progeny hear this and work to be as experiential in everyday life as they can possibly be. Life is good! Use it up and use it well!

Cycle of Life

What I've published here thus far has been light-hearted, for the most part. I'm going to make a change of path that documents my journey. For my family members who come here, this may be difficult for you, but I think you will also be glad you came with me on this trip.

The following poem .... well, just read it.


THE CYCLE OF LIFE

The cycle of life
goes around
and back again.
I watch the flow of life
... ... my life ... ...
and wish I could hold it still
or turn it back
and perhaps at times redirect the path.
I enjoy my children as adults,
I remember them as babies and as teens.
I treasure the memories
but I also love the now
as I watch them with their own children,
coaxing, teaching and loving.
The grandchildren are so amazing,
each learning and growing into
a “self.”
As I watch them at play
my mind goes to my mother.
She must have watched me
and my children
in much the same way I do now.
I wonder what she thought
and felt
during those times.
I can’t ask her.
I’ll never know.
My mom’s two years old.

written 12/24/99


My mom passed away in June 2000, just three weeks after my dad died. She had Alzheimer's and hadn't recognized any of us is quite a long time, but I'm sure she knew Daddy was gone and she didn't want to remain without him. They were married for 69 years.

The Family Tree

I wrote this completely from my imagination, as an exercise in use of imagery and wordplay, but when I shared it with my family members a few months after a family reunion, you should have heard the responses I got back. It was hilarious how many saw themselves or someone else in the lines! I knew that might happen so I put the disclaimer in the email when I sent it. It really doesn't involve real people, just my knowledge of human nature and the imagery. HONEST!!!

~ ~ ~

The Family Tree

by
LSA
August 2003



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Disclaimer: The following does not depict any real persons in my family or anywhere in the real world. Honest! It is merely a compilation of interesting characters encountered in my journey through life. If you are related to me and your see yourself in these lines, well, congratulations! You are the proud owner of a good imagination.
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I just got back from a family reunion. It occurs to me that these events provide an opportunity to look at the family tree and understand more about ourselves.

My family has quite a few genealogists, so there is usually a series of family tree depictitions around or lists of “begats” and pictures to help us trace our roots.

But the real fun is looking at what has developed in the branches of the family tree. Now, understand that all trees produce crops of one kind or another and have characteristics specific to the line. But my family tree is rife with harvest. It isn’t just a harvest but an overflowing horn of plenty.

Some trees have flowers, others produce nuts, some have thorns. My family? We have it all!

Flowers, for example. My cousin Susan is as sweet as a magnolia bloom. She is just too nice…not real, but she isn’t phony…this is her! She would do anything for anyone and then give credit for it all to someone who was on the committee but didn’t raise a finger or show for a single meeting.

Then there are the nuts such as Uncle Bob. He’s the lampshade-on-the-head guy, always with a joke and teasing, lots of surprises…most of them aren’t too bad. Fortunately his humor is a little bit more refined than the old “pull my finger” thing, but he gets pretty slapstick silly from time to time. Like when he slid a piece of cream pie on the chair just before Cousin Susan sat down. And she thanked him for reminding her to lighten up and have fun!

And the thorns -- Oh, do we have our thorns! Aunt June would be a thorn. Is she ever a thorn! June never has a good thing to say. She thinks she says nice things, but everything comes out as a sharp jab. She compliments my new hairdo and ends the statement with a reminder of the time I accidentally dyed my hair orange.

One part of my family tree has pine cones. You’re probably wondering how a person can be compared to a pine cone. Meet Grandpa Fred. He has a lot of rough edges on every side. He grumbles and grouses about all kinds of things. He reminds everyone... frequently... just how much this family owes to him and how little we actually do. He smells like an old man, he doesn’t shave, so no one don’t exactly find it easy to get close. I have to remind myself that between those prickly, sharp edges, tucked down between the scales are where the seeds are hidden. If I listen long enough, I find the bits of family history, the nuggets of wisdom and history that he has brought to the family making us all richer for being his kin. And after all, doesn’t the Christmas wreath look more homey with a few pine cones nestled into the greenery?

Know how some trees have knotholes? Well, so does our family tree. Uncle George is our knot hole. Uncle George’s part of the family is a strong branch with beautiful grain reflecting the history of our family back many generations, showing how this tree has grown over time and the paths of its growth. And as my eyes follow down the grain, I reach that knot hole and it makes me wonder what happened in the life of the tree to cause the gnarl to form. What could have made this sturdy branch twist and grow misshapen. Uncle George always seemed just odd to me. As a kid, I didn’t like being around him because he just didn’t fit with the rest of the family. Later I learned about how he was once a carefree and fun loving young man. He went to serve his time for our country during the war. When he came back his adjustment was tough. No one understood why he was so different until he finally, years later, talked about how he watched as his buddies died in battle. He wondered why he was spared. And then we knew his pain and we understood why he had grown to be a hardened clump of a human, set in his ways in order to survive, and causing everyone else to bend around him as they continued to grow past his place in the family tree, that place forever different but nestled in to the protection of family love.

We have fruits in our family tree, too. No, I wasn’t going in that direction, and shame on you for thinking that!! The fruit in our family tree is Aunt Rosie, who reminds me of an apple - deliciously sweet, round, rosy, firm. When Rosie corrected us kids, it was done sternly enough that we were afraid to not mind her, but I never felt that she was mean. Her sweetness was always just beneath that firm surface.

Her sister, Mary was our family peach, soft, fuzzy. We could get away with just about anything because she just couldn’t say no to us, yet we didn’t overdo taking advantage of her because we were never quite sure that she was with reality. She seemed just a tad out of focus.

Uncle George’s wife Carol is our orange. Her personality, perhaps shaped somewhat by her husband’s goofiness was tangy, with a bit of acid but not unpleasant. I think she might have been a sweet young woman who developed a bit of tang in order to balance the scales throughout her life.

There are other things in our family tree, too. Our resident squirrel is Cousin Sarah. She is a real dear, a person who scampers here and there, poking into every nook and cranny of the family, chattering nonstop about everything. I picture her bouncing from branch to branch and shaking the leaves into a flurry. Don’t get too comfortable around her, because she will stir up something amongst the collection of nuts, and you don’t want to be one that she pulls from its safe hiding place at the wrong time. If she catches you off guard, her noisy, irritating chatter will wake you up. She keeps the juices flowing, for sure.

We have birds, too. The nester is Niece Janis who is the quintessential homemaker of the first order. I don’t think there is anything in her house that she didn’t make with her two hands. Sometimes I wonder if she sheared the lamb, spun the wool, and then looped the yarn by hand, strand by strand into the backing to make the carpet!

Another bird is Cousin Lisa…she is our birdbrain! She shows absolutely no sign of a functioning intellect at times! She’s the one who puts her tennis shoes in the fridge and tries to bake a cake in a cold oven!

Our family kite is Uncle Vern. He gets caught up in the whim of the moment and flies away in the wind. He looks good for a while, puffed up against the wind, and using every breeze to his advantage. Then the wind will die away or gust in a different direction and he is scrambling harum-scarum, trying to avoid hitting the ground and trying to keep his tail from getting into a knot! But he never gets too far because of the string wound around his branch of the family tree.

One of the interesting elements of our family tree is the presence of power lines. The in-laws, those who marry into the family and with their presence, give the old tree a “charge” with the electricity of the new customs and ways of living they bring to us. These lines occasionally touch a branch and cause a real zing which ripples thru the whole system. Sometimes we, the real family, the “kin,” resist that tingle of new life. But in the long run, this is one of the things that keeps all of us alive and kicking and out of the morass of same ol’ same ol’.

One last element of the family tree is the moss on the trunk. It doesn’t change places. It can always be found in the same place, day or night, winter and summer. That moss is the part which remains untouched and out of sight for the most part. It is stagnant or stationary, depending on your point of view. It is rather moldy by nature, but always there where you can find it when you lose your way.

Yep, family reunions give us a time to slow down and consider the connected individuality which has grown from the mixture of old-blood with new, the balance of staid cultural lineage with new customs, and savoring the wonderful blend of fruits and nuts produced on the wide branches of our tree of heritage. I wouldn’t trade my family tree, even with the odd assortment of flora and fauna, because it is rich and vibrant and ever so much fun.

The First Blush Of Retirement

I just found something new and fun. It is called Blogging 4 Books. This way, I can publish here, and maybe I luck out and win a book for the entry. Hey, if they chose my essay and I win a book, does this mean that I'm no longer an amateur writer? Would I be a paid professional writer? hee hee!

This is my entry, written about 3 years ago when I lived in a differrrent world.




THE FIRST BLUSH OF RETIREMENT

by
LSA
October 2003


I am nearing retirement. We are looking forward to moving to the Southwest, where we both grew up. As part of the process to prepare for this, my husband and I have had to take a look at many pieces of our life and make decisions that are not always easy…or unanimous. You know the old adage that goes something like, “One man’s trash is another’s treasure.” But in our case it would be “One man’s treasure is his wife’s trash.” And that would work in reverse, as well.

I approach this whole procedure with trepidation for many reasons. First of all, my husband is a pack rat. Not me, of course, just him. He has owned a theory that says, “Everything can be reused. In some way. Eventually. And if you throw it away, you will need it.”

I argued against this for years. Then the inevitable happened. One day he cleaned out the garage where most of these treasures are kept, because it was simply getting to be unruly. He did a great job, and the cars actually fit again without having to pull half way in, get out and move a box, get back in the car and pull the rest of the way in, then get out and go to the back of the car to replace things that fell along the back as you eased in. After this, you shoved the box that you moved at the half way point under the front of the car so you could walk past, push the button to lower the door and enter the house…after being sure that nothing scrunched under the door as it whooshes and thumps into place.

OK, so the garage looked wonderful, and I gladly told him so. Then…yep, you know what is coming, don’t you? Not more than two weeks later, something broke. It was something no longer manufactured because it was original with this old house. The choice is to find a replacement piece somewhere or replace the whole mechanism and all fittings and attachments, making the cost of the new item close to the cost of the house. And of course, he had one. HAD, not HAS. It went out in the clean up process. Damn, I hate it when he is right!

We have lived in the house for twenty-seven years. Five children have lived here and left, eventually taking their belongings. One would think that we have plenty of spare room, but if one thinks that, one doesn’t understand the reality of “things.” Without realizing it was happening, we gradually filled the vacant spaces. In fact, I truly don’t remember seeing “spaces,” but they must have been there. It seems that the inanimate objects had reproduced, much like bunnies left unattended, and filled every niche in our castle. And then some!

The agenda for retirement includes downsizing. After all these years spent diligently upsizing! So as we cull through belongings, we try to decide what goes with us and what to the landfill and what moves on to a garage sale to become a treasure for someone else. It isn’t easy. The decisions to be made loom over us like evil ghosts reminding us of the importance of each scrap, each trinket.

We sort through files and drawers long ago filled to overflowing with papers. Phone numbers that neither of us can identify, yet we are loathe to throw them away because we might need it. If we remember who it belongs to. Receipts that can no longer be read, but surely we kept them for a reason. Refrigerator art long since removed from the place of honor that I can’t bear to throw away.

We haul bag after bag of this paper debris to the curb each week. We spend hours shredding what must not remain in tact. And when we burn up the shredder, we lug bags to our son’s place in the country where it can be legally burned.

And when it is all done, we turn to look at our newly spacious files drawers and desk cubbies, only to find that what was left, those things the accountant says we must keep have that bunny trait also. While not overflowing and packed solid, they are still filled. Will it ever end?

Next we tackled closets. I was in awe at what I found. Clothes I haven’t worn in…I kid you not…20 years. That part is relatively easy. I can’t pull the jeans past the thighs. I look at the label and find that they are size 8, and I now wear…. oh no! I’m not going there!! Suffice it to say, there is no way I am getting into them again in this lifetime. Until now I have had an irrational plan to size down and look sexy in my “tight fittin’ jeans.”

As I toss dresses, sweaters, clothing of every kind into a mound that quickly becomes taller than me, I am invigorated at the thought of taking charge of my life this way. I am a demon woman of power over the possessions that have held me captive all these years! And then….
My husband walks into the room. He picks up a jacket long ago too tight and remarks that he remembers when he bought this for me one Christmas and how good I looked in it and that he will help with exercise and diet so that it will fit again and….

I quit listening. I have to! If I become enchanted with the pretty words he is saying, I will never be able to get this accomplished. When we load the clothing to take to the church for a garage sale, we are both stunned that it takes us three trips with the back of the GMC Jimmy stuffed as full as we can manage before the clothes we both amassed.

Back at home, we go to admire our roomy closets and the space we now have in our dresser drawers. Huh? NO-O-O-O-O-O-O-O! Nothing is different!

Then I move to the rec room which isn’t used for recreation anymore because the kids are gone. It could probably be called my “projects room.” The room is littered with many half-finished craft projects. The pool table has had a sheet of plywood over it for years, and we use it to wrap gifts during the holidays, but now it has snapshots and old portraits on it. I have been organizing them and putting them into albums. Well, OK, I was doing it three years ago.

Alright! This will be easy. I will simply put away, in their place, the pieces of these projects. And the rest can be thrown away, making room for “rec” again.

The pictures are the first project because that will free up the surface for organizing the other assortments. It takes me a while to figure out what the various stacks of pictures are. It has been long enough that I don’t remember.

As I look through the stacks, the pattern finally becomes clear and I continue sorting. This one for the album from 1978. Over there is one that I should send to a friend. This one goes to our daughter. Oh look at that. Isn’t she cute in the cheerleading uniform? My eyes mist and I remember back. Oh-h-h-h, here is a baby picture of my husband. He was so cute. Here is one that I can’t identify, I’ll throw it away…but wait, maybe I should keep it. Someone in the family cared enough to take it and maybe they can identify it.

Three days later, my husband finds me, still huddled over the pool-table-turned-sorting-surface, my fingers dry and caked with the dust from the pictures, muttering something about a picture of Aunt Jenny. I don’t have an Aunt Jenny and neither does he. It has taken him this long to find me amidst the piles of snapshots which now tower over my head and threaten to bury me alive.

As he leads me away and up the stairs, I whine that I have to finish sorting them because I have not yet finished any project I’ve started and I have to, I just have to. And he mutters about all the junk I can’t turn loose of. And my stomach growls. Three days without leaving the bar stool at the pool table has taken a toll.

Later I step on the scales thinking that I have lost some of that weight during my ordeal, so at least one good thing will come of this. Yipeeee-ooooooh-noooooo! I gained another three pounds! Does everything in this house magically increase?

At this point my son suggests that it might be easier to simply back the car out of the garage, close the door and light a match to the whole thing. How did he get to be so smart?

Memories

Does anyone out there have one of those old flings whose memory just won’t go away? As a young married woman I struggled with an emotional tangle that was beyond my maturity and caused incredible anguish for years. I was very much in love with my husband, but I had lingering feelings for another person who was in my life immediately prior to him. In my young heart and head, I had no idea that loving two persons simultaneously was not only possible, but happens with incredible frequency. When I would encounter him after my marriage, it was obvious that he was equally unfinished with what we had together, so it didn’t help me to move on. I felt terribly disloyal to my husband any time I remembered the other guy. I last saw him in 1964. This was written a few years later.

Last night I saw him while I dreamed.
How wonderful it seemed
To feel his arms and see him smile,
To hear his voice while
I saw that gleam I’ve misses so much
In his eyes. I felt his touch
And knew. How could I have been so wrong
To stay away from him so long?
I felt so warm and glowing.
Then I awoke, knowing
He’s gone. And probably forever.
I haven’t seen him........ never
Since three years ago
When I told him that I must go,
That our love was in the past.
I tho’t it wrong, it couldn’t last.
And he agreed it was best,
For me, at least.
And since that day I’ve wondered
If we blundered
To let go of a love I wanted.
I suppose for some time, I’ll be haunted
Wondering what we could have had,
Had I not decided it was bad
For love to be so strong.
That it could last that long.
There’s no returning, anyhow.
To days gone past. And now
This hollow, empty feeling
That sometimes leaves me reeling
And grasping for something, anything to hold
Hasn’t left me dead...just cold.
I’ve lived with it three years, so surely
I can live with it three more.......... or thirty.

Ah, there is a post script on this. In 2002 we stumbled upon one another on the internet (thank you, Classmates!), and had a short meeting in 2003, after 39 years, as he was passing through KC. The meeting was sweet, nostalgic, and pretty much ends there. No, there was nothing wrong. We were just different people than we were back then. I’d kept him at that age in my memory, and I think it was about the same for him. We keep in touch and he will always be in my heart, but I have been able to put a ribbon around the old memory, stick it on a shelf to rest, at long last.

To start with . . .

Alrighty! I'm going to start with a silly little poem that I wrote a long time ago. Really, a lo-o-o-o-ong time ago. It was written when I was a 7th grader, almost (gasp) 50 years ago. I'm starting with this for a very good reason . . . it can only get better for here on! It's called . . .


LITTLE BABY

It was a little baby
With wide unwinking eyes,
Propped in his baby carriage
Looking very wise.

“Oh! What a pwitty baby!
Oh! Wittle tweety wove!
What is ‘ou sinkin’, Baby,
An’ dweamin’ of?

“Is ‘ou wond’rin’ ‘bout de doggie
A-fwiskin’ here an’ dere?
Is ‘ou watchin’ all the birdies
Evwee where?

“An’ all de funny peoples
An’ funny sings ‘ou sees?
What is ‘ou sinkin’, Baby?
Tell me pwease!

“’Ou sinkin’ of tisses an’ wovin’
An’ wantin’ an’ wantin’ for some?
Oh! Tweety goo? Summy doddle!
Oh! Yummy yum!”

Then spoke that little baby,
As wise as a little gnome,
“You get in the baby carriage;
I’ll push you home!”

And all that stuff

Within a few days, I will begin posting to this blog. I plan to use this blog for written expressions that may or may not relate to my primary blog. Initially, the materials I post here will probably be things already written and in my portfolio, but I hope that I will soon be able to put some new items as they begin to pop up in my head and into my pen.

There will be a combination of poetry short stories, opinion essays, and various flights of fancy that present themselves to my head. I hope you'll come back and will enjoy your visits. Tellers of tales are happy just to be read. Your job is simple ... make me happy!

So ... I'll get this on it's way. I start posting as soon as I can find my pen. Where did I put that thing???