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Wednesday, May 31, 2006
DogThere's a dog crying outside and it's breaking my heart. I don't know exactly where he is nor
can I actually hear his cries but I know he is out there somewhere beyond the reaches of this room because
I feel his grief compressing the air around my shoulders and chest, weighing down my breath. He is tied to
an oak in a backyard. Leaves and a family of cheeky squirrrels have been his only companions for the
past two days. He has a little water left in his bowl but he is past hungry and way past lonely.
I am going to go to him and release his chain and sorrow. Feed him a double burger, then sit quietly
until he is used to me and lets me pet his shaggy head and bear-hug his chest. His matted fur will smell
good, like sheets fresh from the clothesline. For the first time in a long time he will feel happy.
I will steal him. After I post this I am going to go find him or a dog like him and take him home with me where
he will never have to cry again. I am going now. His eyes are waiting.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Business CardsEmail to me yesterday: 'Your Order Has Shipped.' On
Memorial Day Monday, really? Wow, cracking the whip over there at Vista Print on a holiday, I'd say. Guess what? I'm getting business
cards, I'm getting business cards!!! Sure hope they arrive soon so I can hand them out at Pat's song-writing seminar Saturday and Sunday to life-long friends
I've yet to meet. God, 15
years and 90 boxes of Loreal Preference LB03 ago I actually had some cards printed up saying Actress. Luckily
I realized early on that my heart lies in songstering instead. Yep, waiting on those 500
cards, pale pink (surprise) background emblazoned with the picture at the top of this
page and my website name underneath. Simple, yes. Effective? Hopefully. Hi,
I'm Jannie Funster, here's my card! No need to jot my name down on a scrap of paper that will be
sucked out of your car's window, laundered with your loose-fit Levis or used to get a beach fire started in
Corpus next fall. Girls reading poetry under willow trees and waitresses with quick smiles will carry my
cards in their backpacks. Maybe one of my cards will find its way to the Sydney Opera house before
I do.
Monday, May 29, 2006
FeetCouple years ago on a rainy Monday I scored some dressy 3" wedge heels at Target that elevate
me comfortably to a lofty 5' 6". Strappy yet sturdy, pretty kinda-tan leather. Not that I actually wear
them very much, my usual foot armor being good old sneakers or the sandals I'm wearing in the photo Kelly took of me on our back deck. But this writing is supposed be be about feet not
shoes, so back to it... Some decree their feet the ugliest part of their anatomy but mine are rather
cute. My toes (Dad's toes,) are as crooked as live oak limbs but I can still move the wee-wee-wee-all-the-way-home ones
independently of the rest. (Quite the crowd-pleaser!) The most beautiful feet I've ever seen are Kelly's, same basic blueprint
as mine but daintier. And softer of course, with 37 years less road-wear on them. Mine have meandered Heidelburg
cobblestones, scampered past bag pipers in Edinburgh and scaled the Eiffel Tower. Even danced me safely
through the streets of Belfast where nary a stray bullet made it's way to my heart. After breakfast I might
just replace this fraying toe paint with 3 fresh coats of Maybelline's "Ballet on Ice." Later perm my bangs. I can already smell the delicious stab of nail polish and perm solution!
Wow, this is gonna be an awesome day. Maybe I'll even take the loofah to these pale towers I call legs and treat
them to a bit of fake tan. Hot dog! I'll have to go out somewhere later to show-off, like Starbucks
or the grocery store.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
EggsI remember dacshund-ing down scrambled eggs the Hallowe'en night I was 12 or 13. (Believe
me, wolves have nothing on our little wiener dog whose dinner always hits the bottom of his tummy before his
bowl even touches the floor.) Anyway, after having skipped supper and gorged on candy out on
the trick-or-treat trail, I came home ravenous and scrambled me up 5 or 6 of those little babies in butter and
scarfed them down with salt and pepper. I can't recall what my costume was that year, probably a last-minute creation
from Mom's tickle trunk (the tender age of Perfect Costumes long since past.) Nor do I remember
which friends I probably semi-terrorized the streets of our neighborhood with that night but I do remember loving
those eggs. A scrambled egg still often saves my day. Protein, easy to fix, tasty. I wonder which
came first - the egg or the apple? Hard to say. Eve must've been one hell of a cook. Sneaky little
minx. Thanks a lot Eve, for this life of indentured servitude. You really were a pain in the ass
for someone supposedly created so perfect. I could sure use you as a maid these days, so what if you're practically
naked - I run around naked myself all the time. As long as you can scrub that bathtub, do laundry, dishes and
vacuum, I don't care if you prance around in stiletto heels and nipple rings with your fig leaf. Just come
and clean for two hours a day and I'll forgive you the whole snake-in-the-garden thing which by the way, has really messed
life up for people like me who just want to play all day.
Friday, May 26, 2006
BeethovenThe Mooonlight Sonata in my headphones almost drowns out the blare of Kelly's t.v. cartoons as I type this.
Jim left for work 10 minutes ago, his car by now awash in the torrent of Friday morning drivers lost in their
Friday morning thoughts out on Bee Caves Road. He is probably listening to jazz. I wonder who else is listening
to Moonlight Sonata right now. An old man in a New York loft, about to take his last breath? A premature
baby in a hospital incubator? A teen in a dentist's chair? Someone crying in a castle somewhere?
(Cheery tune.) An artist in her rented rooms over a 4-car garage in the Hamptons? Yeah,
she must be creating something blue on canvas, sky or ocean. She will paint all day and at sunset find
a perfect starfish exoskeleton on the lonely shore as the wind whips the scarf around her greying hair.
She will dine by herself on ceasar salad with grilled chicken and as night settles into
the corners of her studio, the Louis Jadot will morph her palettte into deeper indigo and violet swirls. Later, as the Sonata lures her dangerously
close to sleep she will suddenly remember the tolling of bells in Vienna. She will feel the warmth of
cobblestones under her bare feet again and taste the wine of a forgotten September. She will recall the
gold flecks in the eyes of a street violinist playing Famous Blue Raincoat in the square where children tossed coins into fountains.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
RorschachWho was Rorschach anyway and how did he sink to what could have only been a full-blown obsession
with observing how people interpret smushed ink? "Hey, Hans, check this splotch out - it looks like a horny
zebra sporting Tchaikovsky's earrings. And pass me another beer with that strudel will ya? Ya-ya."
Rorschach, Rorschach where have you been? With Freud in a tutu to visit the queen? But really, somewhere in Pasadena sits
Bob, a past-middle-age-but-not-quite-senior-citizen, former bartender from Tulsa who flunked out of Johns-Hopkins
Psychiatry and now sells frying pans on Sundays to underweight lesbian hookers. There's a glint in his eye, actually
more of a gleaming glaze as he sparks up another bowl in his darkened one-room flat and mumbles to his eggs and bacon, "
I'd be somebody if it wasn't for the Rorschach." Seems he aced all his other studies but just couldn't
grasp the theory behind inkblot analysis. Couldn't get behind the blobs and blotches, splatters
and splotches, smudges and smears. Booted out of school. Lost his savings, his wife, his house,
his Toyota Corolla and his toothpick collecton. Lost his beloved Westie "Siggie," to alley mutts.
Now staggers the streets in smelly rags with his frying pans, muttering "The Rorschach, the Rorschach, the god-damned Rorschach."
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
SpatulaSpatula City, of course, is where my husband got me mine for Mothers' Day. What better way to say "I love
you," than with a new spatula! Okay, Weird Al fans, you know I stole that from his wonderfully quirky UHF
movie. Remember the blind guy sitting on the bench trying to figure out a Rubik's cube and asking his sighted buddy,
"is this it? ... Is this it?... Is this it?" But seriously folks, any baker
worth his or her pastry flour knows a rubber spatula is essential for charming the last of the batter from the bowl.
Gotta love icing or whipped cream on it as a kid. Mom's old spatula was chewed at the
edges from years of me sampling all manner of tasty goo. Little sweet tooth kid. You should've seen the tears of pride
and gratitude well up in her eyes when on her 50th birthday I presented her with a new gold-plated one from, you
got it - "Spatula City!" (For all your spatula needs.) Yep, little sweet tooth
kid. And now big (but not too big,) sweet tooth lady. Sugar Lady draped in scarlet satin, singing folky-pop
jazz with my naturally blonde tresses in a 40s do, black velvet gloves carressing the microphone. Red
roses in a vase on the grand piano. Abdomen flat, torso long, breasts high and well restrained as the
notes come undulating out in waves of silk, "I need a man with a chainsaw. I need a man with an axe..."
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
SilenceEven in silence there is always noise. The rush of blood cells through veins. Breathing.
Computer's fan motor. Fish tank trickle. Birds waking. Pesky fly living it up. The tapping of
my fingers on these keys. Is it quiet in space? I'll probably never know first-hand. What did they hear
on the first Moon landing? The rush of their own blood cells in those helmets? Whooshing hormones, oceans in their
veins, all bodily systems working together better than any man-made machine ever will. If a rock falls on the Moon does
it make a noise? Silence. Silence of the lambs. Silence of the woods on a winter's day, every now and then
a clump of snow sliding from a branch with a 'whumph' to join its fallen brothers below. Under the frozen ground a family
of mice breathing, breath as soft as cotton balls. Drone of some distant jet splitting the faded blue of the February
sky's eyes. Crows scolding. Silence of sensory deprivation tanks. I could try that for maybe a minute, would
be claustrophobic. Remember that movie with William Hurt? I do vaguely, he was a slave to the tank as I remember. Nah, I won't go into one of those. I'll just make the
tea and breakfast and decide what the child will wear today. I like the silence of empty churches.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Steering WheelThe nut behind the wheel, that's me. Steering wheel connected to the drive shaft. Drive shaft
connected to the axles. (Or rack and pinion? Chassis? Something like that. ) Transmission connected
to the motor. Motor connected to the all-important air conditioning and back to me at the wheel. I'm a good driver
(aren't we all.) My 1997 Toyota 4-Runner is a smooth ride but Kelly says "Mama, I don't like this
car, it goes too fast around the corners." Poor Kelly stuck in the back seat. It'll be many years before she can join me up front. Isn't it 80 lbs or 12 years old before a child is
finally released from rear seat prison? Currently she's a very petite 4 at 30 lbs. I must
say, it'll be nice having her company up front. It gets lonely up there sometimes trekking to the grocery, the
auto title office, the park, gymnastics, acting class, the Childrens' Museum, etc. Yes, I could aim the rear view mirror at her dear little face to make our conversation more meaningful but
isn't that for watching the cars behind me, or something? Sometimes I reach back and grab her precious ankle
in my hand and we drive around like that for miles in comfortable silence 'til my right shoulder cramps up.
One day she'll be a teen in the seat to my right and either holding my hand and telling me she loves me... or
leaning her body away in steely defiance over something I either won't let her have and / or do, as in "ruining
her life." I really hope the former scenarios will far outweigh the latter.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
AlabasterI picture a Victorian lady of about 35 years old in a drawing room after dinner, her mother and sister also reposing.
She gazes absently at her needlepoint hoop, current project a mimosa tree in full blossom encircled by two
bluebirds above spring grass so bright it is almost an assault. She wears a single ring, a gold band with a large ruby
on the middle finger of her right hand. Her dress of silver-blue poplin whispers as her arms make their motions.
Her chair creaks a bit as she readjusts her legs. Shoes of black with twenty laces holes on each - her feet will be
glad to get out of those soon. The gas lamps cast a fuzzy warmth over the room clothed in yellow paisleys. There is
a smell of wood smoke and lemon oil. She does not look up from her work as the silver tea service clacks onto the walnut table.
Hot water pouring into cups, tiny rustlings as the maid tries to remain inconspicuous, tinkle of spoons on china. Outside
the tree limbs claw at the gable roofs. A door creaks down the hallway. The cat bats at a ball of string, then
pounces at something unseen. Even though she has just eaten, she feels hungry. Tosses her hoop into the basket of flosses
and fabrics beside her chair. Settles into her tea and lemon cookies. Closes her eyes and feels the mint vapor warm
her alabaster cheekbones. Raises her eyes to the clock on the mantel and sighs.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Baby BootieThe ones I'm thinking of are of dainty white crochet, pink lace and satin ribbon. They
are stashed high on a shelf in my daughter's keepsake box along with her birth annoucement, hospital bracelet,
first t-shirt and hat she ever wore and other irreplaceables. Diane George, one of my two
dear penpals in Brisbane, Australia crocheted them. Boy, won't it be the day when I get to meet her -
we've been writing for 14 years! Through International Penfriends. And I do mean real old-fashioned letters, some written on my best pink linen-laid cotton with pressed pansies set
in an embossed header, probably still faint with the Calvin Klein Eternity I bought in Halifax the summer Chance was a
puppy. Diane is my age and petite, with hazel eyes and brown hair - single, no kids.
Once in a while we've exchanged audio cassette 'letters' and a few phone calls here and there so I know her voice
but her mannerisms and facial expressions are still a mystery. Is she fidgety or calm? Does she speak with her
hands and eyebrows? Does she have a brisk step or more of a saunter? Is she quick to smile?
How does she hold her fork? I do know she sews almost all her own clothes. Crochets. Knits.
Needlepointed the Great Pyramids on a 3' x 3' tapestry! Made those booties with her own sweet hands and sent them
winging across the Pacific to me back when I was still having miscarriages and crying myself to sleep at night.
Faithful one was she, even when I had almost given up hope. I've not yet seen Australia but it's gonna be
more than dinky-di when I finally do!
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Bin LadenBin Laden, are we really so bad that your life's mission is to kill us? Do you not realize we
are a good people with trees and parks, Minnie Mouse, Barbie and Corn Pops? You should see the grins on gap-toothed
children eating popsicles. Little ones dashing through water sprinklers on August afternoons. Boys eating
pizza while riding pel-mel down hills on bicycles. Grand-mothers reading Curious George to sleepy ones.
After seeing, is it still necessary to murder us? Come with me to my mother's and father's farm. Spend a night
under the stars in a sleeping bag with crickets calling by the ocean. In the morning accept my mother's eggs and toast.
Sip her tea with milk served in simple blue cups. (See the care lines on her face, she lost two children to the highway.)
See the tall gladioli and dahlias she raised from seed in her little makeshift greenhouse? Smell the strawberries and
carrots in her garden? Taste the sweet peas she and God grew? See the way she hangs the clothes on the line with
such care, dish towels lined up neatly first, then shirts, pants, socks and underwear? Is she worth killing? See my dad harness his
horses and head off to the woods to cut timber for next year's raging winter? Hear his contented whistle? Do you
really want to annihilate those sweet innocent people going about their lives in Godly prayer? See their daughters,
sons and grand-daughters tied by love and chicken dinners? Hear our silly banter? See any hate in our eyes?
And you want to stab us in our sleep or better yet - crash planes into our towers. Bin Laden, come with me to my mother's
garden.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
SuitcaseBoth my "wheelie" bags of burgundy and grey brocade interlaced with shiny green leaf motifs are still
sturdy and hardly tattered at all after all these years and flights. How many different planes have they
been thrown onto by burly-armed men? 100? 150? Maybe not exactly frequent flyer status in the 12 years I've
had them but they have had their share of vacations and have whirled on carousels in the finest airports of the Western world.
Deep in cargo holds I'm sure they've comforted many a skitterish guitar and frightened dog. Squashed
together with all the other luggage, my suitcases have no doubt been as well mannered as the strangers above
taking care not to jostle each other or hog the arm rests. Carry-on bags are lucky, they get to
see the real action and flaunt the juicy items, the essential stuff that guides us safely from one passage
to another; the passports, cash, credit cards, video cameras, lap-top computers, lipsticks, wet-wipes, paperback novels,
prescription medicines, diamond bracelets and grandkids' photos. Oh, and the granola bars and bottles
of emergency water and soy milk stashed in the bottom of carry-on backpacks will surely save us from certain death should
the plane plunge into the ocean. Hey, wouldn't it be fun if everybody on planes would show everybody
else everything that's in their suitcases?! We'd be like 4-year-olds again. No pretense or masks of
adulthood, just wide-eyed excited kids going on trips, happy to display our undies, be they silk and frilly or
good old white cotton Fruit-Of-The-Looms.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
The EquatorJust a horizontal line on a metal globe, a seam that often obliterates place names. Spin the
globe, wherever your finger lands is your next vacation spot. Equador?! No, I wanted Australia.
Spin again. Mongolia, what? Yuck. What would I eat there? What would I say to the natives? One more
spin, 3rd time's the charm. The Caymans - ahh, that's more like it, a nicy cushy vacation spot with clean white linen and poolside bar service - not somewhere
I might be inconvenienced in any way or have my eyes opened to how most of the world really lives. (I'm no Mother
Theresa.) I saw a documentary on t.v. once about sweatshops in China or Thailand or somewhere. 11 young people
sharing a 3-room house so they can be close to the garment factory where they slave 6 days a week for $2. Yes, no longer
just a single dollar - even inflation has taken pity on the poorest poor. Ming is a teen with a baby
she foists on her mother each week until she walks the 9 miles home on Saturday night. Dirty rice with eggs. Roaches
on bare mattresses. Outhouses and opressive humid heat. "Darling, where did you get that fabulous silk
shirt !?!?"... "Yes, isn't it scrumptios, imported of course." Meanwhile, Ming's small needle-pricked fingers
finish her last stuffed Care Bear of the day, 240 today - 10 under quota. She imagines she will soon be fired.
Monday, May 15, 2006
MagazineYesterday while searching our old garage for Home Theatre magazines, I stumbled across a stack of Allures from 1991 and 1992. 1991 and 1992! Am I crazy? What in tarnation possessed me to save those and what am
I possibly going to do with them now? Who would want them at a yardsale, could I even give them away?
Trash. The garage floor which has yet to see a car parked on it, is piled high with crates of
parts for 1936 to 1940 Fords. Shelves the whole width and height of the walls flank both sides - on
the left are obsolete stereo units, old paint cans half-full (yeah, those will really come in handy another 10 years
down the line.) Bungee cords, plastic containers full of nails and screws, candle sticks, car stereos, boxes of
cables and stereo cords, vases, flowerpots, hedge trimmers, a butane torch, power tools, the grille for a Mercedes 280
SL, a set of electric hair curlers I bought at a yardsale and used only once, boxes of assorted odds and ends including old
letters, picture frames and junky knick-knacks. And more! The shelves on the right are lined with magazines
- Model Railroading and Railroad Model Craftsmans, National Geographics, remodeling / renovation magazines, the Allures
and others. The old garage has such a comforting smell and tho I couldn't find the Home Theater mags, I sat
alone on the steps for a few minutes inhaling 16 years of solidity and comfort, 16 years of life and love going
about its business of being, 16 years of smiles and laughs and frowns and tears with the man I'm going to spend the next
16 years with. And the next 16. And God willing, another 16.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
PizzaMushrooms, ground beef, onions, sun-dried tomatoes and green bell peppers crowned with tons of crisp-melted
cheese. Yesss! With a big ol' glass of lemonade I've just mixed from water, ice, sugar. And lemon juice from
one of those plastic squirters (9 out of 10 taste tests reveal the average Jannie-on-the-street can't tell the difference
between that and real fresh-sqeezed juice.) That's the way uh-huh, uh-huh I like it. Hot chocolate at a hockey game,
preferably when our team is clobbering the other. A two-mile jog in the November rain followed
by strawberry bubbles in the bath and my hot-pink sweatsuit warm from the dryer - more hot chocolate please!
Dittoes for the sweatsuit on an August evening after a soak in the lake - margaritas please,
frozen no salt. Sunday morning pancakes and sausages with cafe au lait in a house that was cleaned yesterday. White
russians belted back while I'm draped in elegant but comfortable finery at a wedding reception on a Perfect
Hair Day. Hot licorice tea on a quiet Monday morning. Ahh, these beverage moments of creature comfort. I imagine CroMagnon folk
sipped pinot noir and munched cheezie-poofs around their bonfires too.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
BonesBones never lie. Trace depsosits if opium, cocaine and Froot Loops forever ensconced.
Or is that only for hair? Shoot, my theory already blown. Bones never lie about how blunt the shovel was that
caused the final demise. How many blows to the skull. How sharp the knife. Folks in shallow graves
are nothing but bones within 28 days during the warmer months. First the maggots, then God and the cadaver students
only know what worms and microbes have a good munch. Some treed section of a park or wasteland far off-road boasts
the serial killer's booty. Or maybe just a one-time murder by a jealous husband. Afternoon sun dappling through
the pine needles. Squirrels eyeing the buzzards' feast below. Reeking stench that cleanses. Little Mary
Jefferson who was only 8 will never return to the parents and older brother who will never be the same again.
Mothers of the disappeared, who can ever know their walking grief? Maybe I've seen such a mother at The Home Depot
or Walgreen's - she seems normal enough. Were I behind her eyes for one day, could I stand the heaviness of
her heart? For just one day? The constant silent cry that is her existence? Mamas don't let your
babies grow up to be angry - everybody loses.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Mother-In-LawSilver bracelets on her sun-spotted arms tinkling
as the Chablis makes its way to her lips bright with Revlon's "Lasting Peony," those sharp blue eyes scanning mine for
signs of love. Didn't realize just how much I loved her until we laid her in the ground almost 3
Junes ago, in her 98th year. Ann at 91 in her Toyota Corolla scooting to the flower market or
to the hairdresser's. Ann spending her whole 87th year crocheting a king-size bedspread as our wedding
present. Ann at 82 still selling antiques at her "Pine Shop" in Mahone Bay, (an "antique" selling antiques some mused.) Ann at 64 flying to England on a buying trip. Ann at 56, suddenly
widowed and lost. Ann at 42, the vibrant mother of 3 young boys, the Anglican minister's wife.
Ann at 21, rugged on the Lacrosse field, scoring another for Dalhousie! Ann at 10, the doctor's daughter
with her violin and long tanned legs. Ann at 3 with those eyes. Ann in 1906 a newborn, all eyes and cries.
Ann in heaven watching me as I write this. Do lilacs bloom there beneath your bedroom window? Do blueberries
grow wild? Do your silver bracelets still tinkle before dinner? Do you have a special bone-china cup for
your tea? Are you dining tonight with George and your sisters and little brother, mother and father and all others gone
before? Red-headed Ann from Tatamagouche, your grand-daughter looks just like you, she even has your speech inflections
and lifts her eyebrows as she rolls those blue eyes - your blue eyes. She's got the red in her hair.
She and your son are my greatest blessings. Oh, Annie, you're messing up my mascara.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
FishHot oil beginning to hiss in the pan. Mom bangs the big silver kettle back down on the
boonies of the old wood stove. Bickle-bickle hiss-pop. Bickle-bickle, hiss. Bickle-bickle hiss-pop.
Bickle-bickle, hiss. The dance music of the winter kettle. My right big toe can't help keeping
time, jerking in my heavy woolen sock. And Shitty Kitty pounces. Ouch! Stupid cat, over-excited
at the prospect of fish. Insult to injury, the thawed smelts plop to their second demise.
What did they feel last October the moment the net catapulted them to the surface of the Bay? Panic?
Stupor? Happy to be going on vacation? I know I should get up and help in some way but I have already
peeled the potatoes and set the table. And later will dry the dishes with my mind miles away. I try to remain
inconspicuous in my chair behind the warming oven, partially obscured by the coats hanging from the wooden pegs, my head
in another Nancy Drew. I can smell snow-mobile gas and spruce resin on Dad's parka as the wind continues
to pelt shards of snow at the windows, little random "ticks" as the icy flakes hit their mark.
30 years later and 3500 miles away in Austin, Texas I can still smell those frying smelts and taste the cornmeal crunch of
another of Mom's masterpiece suppers. I would club a baby seal for a heaping plate of them right now!
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