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Friday, June 30, 2006
Shish KebobShish Kebob. I love the way that rolls off the tongue. Like Slobodan Milosovic. Pronounced
Milosovitch, right? Say his name out loud, you can't help but take on the persona of some little old babushka. Slobodan Molosovitch eats shish kebob with his beloved babushka. Ya ya. My friend
Annie landed in Prague on the first leg of her solo European tour. Said with the jetlag and
absolutely foreign everything she inwardly screamed "What the hell have I done to myself?!"
Imagine how exhilarated and free she must've felt making her way slowly West, as she gradually heard more and more snippets
of English and saw recognizable words. By the time she debarked the Chunnel at Waterloo she must've felt like staking
the concrete with her flag. (Maybe she did and her flag's still there!) But this post digresses.
I think I'll grille shish kebobs tomorrow night. Chunks of steak, onion, mushroom and green bell pepper soaked
in Stubb's. What should I write next? I got myself into this shish kebob daily object writing mess and I better get myself
out. All I'm really thinking about is the remaining serving of cherry cobbler that I'm going to
re-heat and douse in whipped cream for breakfast as soon as I post this. Even make a cup of tea to go with
it. Then surf the net a bit, catch up with my two favorite bloggers. Then what? Open all the bills and write
checks - I know I should start doing them on-line again, I did for one month. I wonder how the shape of my bones has
changed since starting to sit in front of this computer so much?
Thursday, June 29, 2006
ThermometerBeep-ee dee beep, beep-ee dee beep, beep-ee dee beep. This is the stab of the Bestmed
digital thermometer to my heart. The jab of a butterfly's scream. Bach's highest violin on his
lowest day. 103.2 No, please go down. She can't be this hot. Please. Little
body burning up, her skin red. No, no, no. Holding her limp and listless near-naked form
in my arms, her eyes puffy and barely moving. The thermometer must be wrong, broken. So I frantically
jam in a new battery, shaking fingers fumbling the tiny disc into place. Try again. Oh God
no, 103.7 No, no, please. 103.9 Stop, stop, stop!!! She's going to die. Please, this can't
really be happening. Somehow I get her into the carseat. Jim runs every yellow light, twenty
minutes seems a lifetime. She throws up green stuff, won't take a sip of water. Please, hang on, Sweet
Pea, hang on. Heavenly Father, I'll do anything if you just let her be okay, I promise. Please. Throws up
again. Her eyes are closed now. No, please, no please, no please, no. Is she still breathing? The UVs
beat down on my non-sunscreened forearems. I don't even think to cover them with a sweatshirt in my usual
vain custom. God, give me skin cancer, I don't care, just please don't let my baby die today.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
MotorcycleYes, gliding along the shore road chasing a September sunset or being one with the mountains in
wildflower season is probably as good as driving gets. But tell that to the parents of Clyde
Gammon or Kenny Doucette. When they had to identify the young bodies in the middle of the night, was there
any pleasure of the open road in their eyes? As they stared into the slack faces of their almost-grown babies,
boys who would never walk their brides down aisles or drop grandchildren off for weekends, was there any joy of
wind stinging their faces, the arms of their sweethearts clasped tightly 'round their waists? The
breaking-down mothers would've crashed to the morgue floor but for their husbands somehow catching them.
Oh, sweet danger of life. Who knows how we will leave this realm, whether by highway or a heart that just
stops. My little Honda Civic could be bombarded by a truck today or a brain hemmorage could take me to Jesus
in my sleep tonight. Yes, the chrome and steel are lovely, the handle bars so firm beneath the leather gloves,
the motor so eager to please. Each curve in the road as delicious as pumpkin pie to
sink into. But no - not me, not my Jim and not our Kelly. No murdercycles for us.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
PaperWaiting on the doorstep is a heaping helping of recycled tree. Triple-processed renewable resource.
(I'm a lumberjack but that's okay!) Layer upon layer of newsprint daily, a dozen trees to make a ton.
Pulp mill stinks up the town but we are grateful for the jobs which bring us hotdogs and beer. Meanwhile, the
finance section of The Tribune emblazoned with multi-colored ads flies out the bed of an old Chev truck to pass the
winter near Chicago deep in a crystalline haze, oblivious to February's skeleton trees and sleeping grasses;
come April to be tromped on unknowingly by rosy-cheeked maidens in new rubber boots. Once hot of the press. Now but
a lump of mush beside a barbed wire fence, ink and photos blurred to blah. Few good rains. Wind stronger
than cloud. Sun stronger than fading ozone. By next November barely a wafer left, nemotodes with their bellies
bursting. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Why read a paper when CNN and Fox News are to trust?
Unless ... unfolded gently and savored in a sunny Sunday New York loft where Armani is laid out on black satin sheets.
The breakfast tray brimming with espresso and cream cheese bagels. (Maid comes once a week.) Only then is
one truly free to revel in the laborious dream of some copy editor who is curently boffing his secretary in the
photo lab closet.
Monday, June 26, 2006
DynamiteEven though Grandmother bribed me with both chocolate icing beaters all those years ago, I can
still feel the sting of injustice at having to stay in the house that
June evening. Family needed cows. Cows needed water. Crater in ground so cows could drink
water in summer pasture. (Dynamite good.) From the big porch window, beater in
each hand, I had a clear view of the male figures almost a quarter of a mile back the lane. Even at that
distance I could make out Dad in the setting sun's light by the quickness of his steps and the slant of his
shoulders. (Isn't it funny how even at quite a distance you can discern someone you know well just from their walk
and posture? You can even tell their mood.) Easy to tell my brothers, smaller and running
around a lot. Uncle Ken with his hand to his chin and slower gait. The two burly neighbors off to the side,
obviously smoking because at regular intervals their arms went from hanging straight at their sides to their mouths.
Then everybody except Dad marching off to one side and suddenly disappearing. Dad hurling something
hard and wide and then darting to where the others had fallen to the earth. Dad ducking too. Then the
cloud of earth and smoke punching the air. One second later the blast's muted thunder. Then the men all back on
their feet, high-fiving and jumping up and down.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
ChinaI am four years old and someone has done my hair in curls and put me in a pink satin dress, white tights and black
patent leather shoes for the occasion. What is the occasion, a bridal or baby shower? There's a table
of presents I'm not allowed to touch. The hall is a gaggle of womens' voices. Young and old ladies, all
of them wearing bright hats - my mother's is yellow with small feathers under the band. Grandmother
must be here too, yes there's her smile. I hope I don't embarass her by breaking or spilling something. The older girls are
so well behaved, that's not my leaning. Clinking of spoons. Din of tea drinkers. I love the delicate rattle
of cups on saucers, each bone china set different yet equally pretty as the others. I covet the ones painted
with small pink and gold roses but am made to drink from a lowly green plastic cup. The Church
hall has that same good smell it always has, must be all the old wood, hardwood but I'm not sure what kind. (Oh,
all the oak and walnut felled for the walls and cabinets of white man's comfort. The once-great forests of Europe weeping.)
But we are eating finger sandwiches and smallcakes in Clifton, NB in 1968, happy in our orange pekoe with milk. I can't stop eating the goodies and as hard as I try to look
broody and aloof, I cannot attain the status of tragic figure in the corner dressed in this pink. Neither
will my blonde hair and blue eyes afford me the comfort of such dark luxury.
Friday, June 23, 2006
SphereSnug between my palms is the comforting wooden Montessori sphere of a blue somewhere between the intensity of royal and the deep darkness of new denim. My
fingers roll the orb back and forth, passing it from hand to hand. I've got the whole
world in my hands, about the size and weight of a large crab apple. I want to carry it around with me forever.
Why am I always so drawn to it when there are other blue solids nestled in the basket too -
hemisphere, ovoid, ellipse, cube, cone, round and rectangular cylinders and three kinds of pyramids. Did
you know a sphere is the most energy-efficient form there is, a smooth one having the smallest overall surface energy of any known
formation !!! Soap bubbles - how do the molecules know where to line up to form a soap bubble!? Not
fashioned from Man's clumsy brain but from divine creation. All suns and their orbits caught up in perfection.
The eyeball. Window to the soul. Soul diver. Diving for these pearls. Pearl - there's another one!
Planets, bubbles and pearls. Blown-glass ball, see how Nancy carefully balances the glass tube on her own lonely
orbit. Mysteries like DNA, ahh yes, the eternal ocean in our veins. How do you turn a soap bubble inside
out? There are scientists with computers working on the solution Right Now. Add a little physics
to the math. Who can turn a donut inside out, following the path of least resistance?
Thursday, June 22, 2006
ThroneMannn, you think they could've put a little lumbar support on this thing? It's not easy being
regal up here when my back's killing me and I just want to chase pigeons in the park. Get a load of how many rubies
they put on this new crown, will ya. It's a wonder my head doesn't keel over and pop off. And all the ivory
and gold on this dress - a tad much. Dad, get on with this speech already, Antonio is
waiting. Bla, bla,bla, who gives a rat's ass about the war, anyway? I'd love to go to Starbucks
Right Now and sink into a nice cushy chair with a mocha nonfat latte and a good book and no decorum to uphold (but
this is 1729 and all that's not invented yet.) Why wasn't I born a barefoot commoner free to dart through
the pines and meadows?! Mother expects me to behave. Don't tell her I race without
hat and gloves, screaming and laughing with Madeline by the outer topiaries and Nurse never stops us. And boy, she'd have a cow if she knew I've been sneaking down kitchen
'round midnight to catch up on Jane's frolics with her livery boy. I won't be a queen when
I grow up. I'll be a zoo keeper and swim with the turtles. Wrestle alligators in the moat. I think I could
run from these castle walls, Antonio has a cousin in Barcelona who needs help with the sheep. Hey, watch it
guards, you better not nod off or Dad'll have your heads.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
GrandfatherNever had the chance to meet him but I'm pretty sure I've seen his fingerprints in the dust on
the attic wall. And felt his hand on my shoulder in times of trouble. Poring over his
image in this grainy old photograph I see my dad but with grey hair and a hand-rolled cigarette between his tar-stained
right index and middle fingers. Gosh, he looks like Dad, wouldn't have thought so years ago but it jumps out
at me now. I see myself in him too, our unmistakable Eddy jawline, the jawline I'm one day going to walk the
streets of Cork in search of. What did he dream of as a lad? Did he love the
farm or curse it? Did he dance a little jig in spring with Chestnut Tree in bloom
and lobster on his plate? Did he rejoice in planting and harvesting, humbled by God's power? Did he
whistle like Dad when the August sun draped low and golden over the Bay? Where did he and Grandmother meet - at church or a dance? At the beach with
friends after his barn and garden chores were done for the afternoon? When they courted did she do her hair up
in curls and sew herself a blue poplin dress that rustled like the birches when they danced? How did
he propose? Did he have a ring, could he afford one? I wonder as they were fallling in love if they ever dreamed of
seeing Paris?
Monday, June 19, 2006
LadderI am lost in the constant plop-slop-flop of my brush on these hungry shingles. Over and over,
plop-slop-floppity-flop. Brush to bucket, brush to wall. Brush to bucket, brush to wall. Hypnotized.
Flossing deep into each crevice of old cedar. As I strain to reach above this second-story
window frame, every muscle in my body grins remembering this paint tango from years ago. I am humming.
Vaguely aware of cars passing back and forth down the lane. An occasional boat motor or voice coming
muffled across the harbor. Flies are buzzing about their daily errands but thankfully not attracted to
the sweet-smelling Latex Exterior. Just beyond the gables the cloudless July sky dangles and even
though the afternoon is far from "Texas" hot I am still grateful for the shade of this north wall.
Below, the drift of paint flakes I scraped off yesterday looks like a first snow on the grass and juniper bushes. I
could see clear to town and the three churches from up here if it weren't for the height of the spruces, so high up if Mom saw me now she'd give me the old hands-on-the-hips
head shake and a "Jannie, be careful." But I'm good at this, surefooted
as a wild pony with my sneakers on the third-from-the-top rung and nothing but my body leaning towards the
wall and good balance as my keepers. Besides, the aluminum ladder and I have an understanding - I won't
make any sudden moves if it won't.
TheatreI fold my hands on my lap, tuck my ebows to the sides of my satin shirt, switch my crossed legs
from left to right, draw in a long breath and let it ease out. I run my fingertips slowly over the smooth
front of the printed program and bring it to my nose again, drawing in the smell of recent ink on glossy paper, intoxicating
like a new postcard fresh off the rack - only better. I don't care who sees me as I bury my nose between the pages and
inhale slowly and deeply. This is my respirator. This is my nitrous oxide. I almost laugh out loud. I
return the program to my lap, fold my hands over it and sink into the cushiness of the plush seat back. I
lift my eyes again in reverence to the vast expanse of high ceiling and drink in the rococo light-heartedness. It looks wedding cake edible, and I imagine how the frosting would melt on my tongue.
I ponder whose hands must've raised those timbers and molded the plaster over two hundred years ago. Was one a
poet? One a lonesome wanderer? Did others go whistling home to happy wives, laughing big-eyed
children and chicken dinners? Back to the future, the houselights dim and voices begin falling silent.
After a hushed minute or two a violin wavers softly from somewhere, one long sweet note followed by another and another
as the red velvet curtains slowly part.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
SweatshirtThere's a lump of insole leather starting to bunch up under the ball of my right foot, threatening blisters
with every step. Why do I hang onto these old shoes? The navy suede has gone shiny here
and there. Soles worn thin. Had to crazy-glue a heel back on last time I wore them. Past
time to let them go like it's past time to let my pink velour sweatshirt go too. Ahh, that sweatshirt
- softer than a bunny's back from ten years of wearings and washings, the vibrant rose now faded almost
pinkish yellow in spots and worn to threads at the collar and cuffs. The zipper toggle and waist draw-string long
gone to God-only-knows-where. That sweatshirt, my ten dollar Ross Dress For Less treasure that's seen me through all these Texas and Nova Scotia days and nights, as loved and as loyal as a shaggy
old dog. If I were smart I'd take the ripper to every seam of that shirt, lay the pieces on newspaper to
make a pattern and fashion an exact replica out of new fabric. But I'm not smart - I'm limping
my way in 3 and 1/2" heels and a narrow skirt along a hot city sidewalk, four blocks from my car with four
more blocks to go. Off to meet Sally at her office before our lunch date. Sally in
air conditioning with no trace of perspiration on her smooth brow and beautiful cheeks. Betcha she's got a cinnamon or
bayberry candle burning on the corner of her big oak desk. And betcha she's wearing perfect new shoes!
Friday, June 16, 2006
FinalistHoly Sh*t - I'm a finalist in the ASG song contest! I shouldn't be writing about this. Shouldn't even be thinking about it, I'll break
the spell. I just learned four of my songs are considered worthy in the Jazz and Lyrics categories and I'm
terrified. What if I don't "win?" What if I do? (Please let me win.) Cole Porter's rooting
for me. He and Jobim up there with Mingus, playing something joyous for Michelangelo. Ella in
her feathered hat, beaming. Jazz must be in the bones. When I was only ten and making snow angels and tunnels
in the drifts, I'd sing to myself in what I didn't learn 'til only a few years ago were jazz intervals.
Come snowmelt, I was the knobby-kneed girl with big eyes and stringy blonde hair still humming those
notes to the wind and waves. Did we listen to jazz growing up? No, I recall our home's air
molecules being nudged mostly by the sonic ghosts of Hank Snow, Hank Williams and Wilf Carter. Must've been the
chestnut tree or the timothy hay that plucked the major sevenths and minor sixths from the stars over The Bay Of Chaleur and slipped them into my marrow. Maybe all those years of only two t.v. channels and all that Lawrence
Welk? Yes, of course, all that Champagne Music, lying as dormant as the late blooming lilies by the old
dogwood tree. Good old late-blooming me. Jazz chords - did God stumble upon them as
He was dreaming up sunsets and dark chocolate or were they in His bones from the beginning
too?
Thursday, June 15, 2006
The Hamptons
I've just woken from a dream where James Taylor's neck was but a thin wire. We were on a bus,
he in the window seat. When I asked him where he hung his hat these days he wailed that The Hamptons
are vile. Next dream-scene we were on an island of ice, his neck back to normal and I was playing a mouse in some
weird improv while holding a macrame umbrella to match my vest and sandals, one of the straps on the left sandal broken.
What could J.T. possibly have against the Hamptons? Is everybody there vile? Did he have a vile experience?
Too many ex-wives there for him? That last line is not really fair because all I know of James Taylor's
love life is he was married to Carly Simon. Oh yeah, and obviously had a serious thing with Joni Mitchell.
Funny, both those ladies dubbed him "vain " in their songs. (He walked into the party like he was walking onto a yacht.
Watching his hair-line recede, the vain darling.) My dream James Taylor had plenty of hair, a young him but no hint
of heroin. Did I mention he and I were kissing in the dream? The kiss of the lonely songsters. My
dreams are so transparent. Music. Traveling. Grounded. I still have to learn the guitar for
"Bob's Coffee Shop," which surprise-surprise, is in BB "James T. Latin" style. Ay, there's the rub - my glaring inadequacies. Him, the creme de la creme.
Me, a would-be folk-singer trying to find my way on the bus of life.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
KetchupKetchup oh ketchup, wherefore art Thou today? Beside the mustard squirter upon the faded counter at Frisco's
diner, of course. Good old Flo, will she watch CMT alone tonight in her room over the laundrymat?
Will she wear that pink uniform to bed? Will her bangs stick straight up all night long, catching on the ceiling
fan? I saw her at Bob-Bob's funeral last year but couldn't figure out who she was until later at the
reception when I saw her pouring cream into her coffee. I'd recognize her wrist action and those nine inch
nails anywhere. She looked good in blue silk, nice with her matching eye-shadow. I don't know why but
I turned away before she could catch me staring. I don't think she even knew I had been there.
Flo, my butcher in church. My polyester angel with an onion ring halo. You probably think I'm a twit
for coming in here every Wednesday from 3:30 to 4:30 with this laptop computer and these humongous studio headphones.
Ordering only coffee and vegetable soup, never in the mood for conversation because this is My Hour of Freedom.
I should ask you about who you are and where you've been, inquire about your hopes and dreams.
I should try to befriend you. I should reach out but I don't. I leave a five dollar tip instead.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
JuneThe air drips with expectancy that whole last week of school, electricity zooming down the halls.
Never any real work the final day and a half, not even from the teachers who haven't cracked a smile all year. Time
for desk clean-out. I rip out all the unused pages from my notebooks for writing stories all summer. Trash those
pencil nubs and forgotten marker caps. So, that's where the missing chocolate chip cookie from the Valentines
party went! Help the teacher strip the classroom walls back to nothingness. Watch the big boys hefting armloads
of textbooks downstairs to the storage room across from the furnace. Erasers, chalk and staplers back into locked cabinets.
Chamois into a bucket of water to scrub the board as it hasn't been scrubbed since last June. Pospicle parties.
Open all the windows and invite the last of the lilacs in. Fresh-cut grass welcome too. Giggling girls. Bouncing boys. Final report cards with that wonderful
ink smell I can never get enough of. Over two months of perpetual Saturday stretching before us! Chilly ocean
to dive into. Beach balls and flip-flops to buy. Ball teams to choose. Tents to pitch. Hayfields
to run in. Trees to climb. Ice cream. Picnics. Fishing poles. Sunshine. School's out,
Alice Cooper. School's out Completely!!!
Monday, June 12, 2006
PumpI've always liked that Joni Mitchell line from her Sisotowbell Lane song, "Noah is fixing the pump in the rain."
Always taken it to mean Joni with her father and mother on the 'Ark' of their familial existence
before she sailed across the prairie grasses for New York City. "Eating muffin buns and berries by the
steamy kitchen window... our tongues turn blue." Song To A Seagull, her debut album. What a high pure voice, another "angel with hell-scorched wings." She painted the album artwork
herself of course. On the front - swirls of flowers, jewels and birds tumbling down the fountain of her
long blonde hair. And in the background, seagulls poised above a clipper ship. She "came to the city and
lived like old Crusoe on an island of noise in a cobblestone sea. The beaches were concrete and the stars paid
a light bill... " (The stars paid a light bill!) Ahh, The Village in 1968, was it really as
great as some like to remember? Bohemia out of reach, out of cry for me. Kerrville Folk Festival, 2006
- now there's Utopia. Hippie Heaven for twenty days a year. Incense and
tee-pees, dreadlocks and peasant skirts. Men in skirts sometimes too. Bras optional. Peace
and Love in buffalo sandals pattering across the hot dust. Cloth diapers in plastic Wal-Mart bags and organic
munchies in Tupperware containers.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Tent7:00 a.m. I think. Maybe 7:30. Flutter of nylon walls as the breeze pirouettes.
Tent zippers clinking. Squeak of a clothesline. Whipporwills. Someone snoring in the tent to
our right. Far-off voices laughing. Beautiful singing this early, harmonies wavering on the wind.
Snoring from the tent to our left. Various birds' twitterings. A car motor somewhere. Distant dogs
barking. A rooster! Kelly's breathing. Cigarette smoke sneaking in through the mesh. More
voices starting to add to the friendly din. Breeze turning to gusts, nylon flailing and flapping, lanyard
toggles battering metal poles. Cigarette smoke flushed out. Sun's rays beginning to ease through
the tent's thin skin. Rooster again! Guitar strumming. Mandolin joining. Whiffs of coffee.
Hmmn, is that bacon? More creaking. Smoker coughing. Whipporwills getting rowdier. My pen scratching
on this page. Good morning Kerrville!
Friday, June 9, 2006
TinThe periodic table of elements offered the only hint of color in the gloom of room 318 where
Ratchett's voice tortured the life out of every afternoon. Hour after endless hour of equations on moles and grams yet I can't recall the atomic weight of a single element. All I've retained is what most people
probably did; Pb is heavy, Au shiny and precious, He lightest, Ne glows and Sn sounds nice when it's fashioned
into a roof and raindrops pelt down on it. Periodic table, why is it called periodic? Because kids
only periodically paid atention to it? Thank God for Renny Rousell, he was the only saving grace in Chemistry 111.
Stoned out of his gourd on something or other, he' d make crazy faces over at me as Ratchett tapped some jibberish on
the board in her perfect printing. Same skinny Renny back in elementary school used to scream and
throw up before, during and after every shot, (in the days when vaccinations were still given at school.) Once
when he puked all over our boots lined up neatly under our snowsuits on hooks, the janitor first
sopped up as much of it as he could with that weird-smelling stuff used for spills. I probably coudn't smell
a bag of that sawdust today (if they even still make it,) without wanting to hurl. I've only run into
Renny once or twice since high school, our life paths having led us thousands of miles apart, but I think of him
sometimes. Brain-Fry Renny, if you ever read this, thanks for getting me through class that year. And even
though you gave Laura the biggest valentine in Grade Six, I still love ya.
Thursday, June 8, 2006
SunlightWe will probably give no thought to the path of the sun's journey across our windowsills today.
Searchlight in constant slow motion, tracing its fingers across the nicks in the paint. Stabbing
at dust motes. Making love to the chloroplasts in the wandering jews. What was that book from French Lit.
class? 'Jalousie!' By Proust I think, but I could be wrong. Camus? Hugo? Obviously
not Moliere - not even in the same league. 'Jalousie,' didn't the whole novel center around how the sun slanted
in through the jalousie-style shutters at different times of the day? His wife was a cheating wench
as I recall and he too weak to do anything about the affair she was having with his best friend. Wasn't she
always brushing her long hair, or something? Yes, I'll have to read it again, cop out and try it in English this time. And
who wrote 'L'Etranger'? That was Camus, wasn't it? Images from it have stuck with me for twenty
years, the protagonist who was on trial for killing an Arab felt on trial for the death of his aged mother too. Morocco
I think. He could always tell his mother was knitting, from the movement of her elbows as he viewed her
from behind. He ate his bread and cheese alone. I wonder if Doctor Pugh who opened my eyes to
the worlds of French literature is still around, he'd be in his eighties now. God, I'll never forget that day he
arrived late for class and visibly agitated - the day of the frat-house annual Lady Godiva parade, but that's a whole
other story. I'll have to look him up on the Net after I post this. Look up 'L'Etranger' too.
Wednesday, June 7, 2006
DreamWake and it's ruined. Sleep on and it's already gone without you knowing it even existed.
I used to dream whole songs then forget them upon waking which devasted me until I realized a couple of years ago
I'm a wellspring of song. Once I dreamed I was John Malkovich. Did I dream last night? I must have.
See how illusive and fleeting? Jim swears soon we'll be able to plug our brains into a DVD player and out will tumble
all our technicolor masterpieces but I remain unconvinced because I just can't accept that technology could
read my mind's movies, sounds too God-like to me. Sometimes, though not so much in recent years, I dream I'm being
chased by someone or something through my parents' house. Invariably I escape via an upstairs window; sometimes
from my old west-facing bedroom where the lilacs still grow but usually it's the up-over-the-kitchen room my brothers
shared. From their bedroom I fling open the sliding window, plunge to the clothesline and grasp the pulley
which catapults me to safe ground. Often the unseen entity keeps chasing me and I panic for a hiding
spot in the woods or continue my flight along the shore, past each house I've passed ten thousand times in reality.
As fast as my dream legs can go, the evil is still right behind me, breathing hard as it's about to wrench
my neck with its bony talons any second. What could I possibly be running from in this dream?
Tuesday, June 6, 2006
Waiting RoomWho's idea was it to paint the saddest shade of dirty white on these walls, anyway? Institition
Grey with the corners dripping dried teardrops the fluorescent bulbs have cried. I need some pink, yellow
or blue, even an animal print or mural of pastoral France. I need color. I need things to be normal.
I need the happy me. I resist the urge to bolt for the parking lot to join the man who
just pulled a cigarette from his pack and sprang out the door. I don't smoke but maybe I should
start. I can't stand these walls. I can't stand this stupid canned music. I can't stand the buzzing
of these lights or the rasping breath from the old woman three seats over. I'm not supposed to be here.
I am young. I am vibrant. I do not have a tumor. I cannot have a tumor, it's a mistake. But I stay
put on the vinyl seat of my chair. If I'm not here when I'm called, when I return the
nurse will look annoyed and address me like the number I already am to her. I should be lost in writing or
reading or taking pleasure in observing the movements and auras of the strangers around me. But not today, not in this
waiting room. Today I will hear the details of my cancer. "The doctor's fifty-seventh cancer," wrote
Leonard Cohen. Or was it his eighty-seventh cancer? I don't remember for sure but I think
it ended in a seven.
Monday, June 5, 2006
PumpkinsGrandmother's tall form slipped beyond the rose trellis towards the poplars and vanished
into the mist. As I spied on her from the hammock I could feel no trace of breeze on my cheeks yet
the poplar leaves were still managing to gossip. I could smell wet earth and hints of early autumn.
A far-off plane droned on its arc towards the wild Atlantic and I wondered who was on board; lucky students off
to the Sorbonne, middle-age couples heading to whirl-wind tours of Greece and Italy, maybe a wealthy financier about
to buy a castle for his mistress. I was seventeen and longing to be across the ocean too, longing to
be anywhere else. A crow's sudden shriek jerked me back to the moment. He was warning Grandmother
not to tempt the gloom but she pressed bravely on, her green dress fading to grey to
white then nothing as the fog folded its cool arms around her. Even after she disappeared down the lane
I could still picture her walking erect and slowly in the wide straw hat and long gardening gloves, her half-smile
greeting the morning, blue eyes sharp yet gentle. I could almost hear the soft squish of her old brown shoes on
the wet grass and the water sloshing back and forth in her thremos as she shuffled to her pumpkin patch.
Saturday, June 3, 2006
ChiffonAunt Lina in her sleeveless cotton sundress beating egg whites with the hand mixer
she bought at the church bazaar. Upper arms quivering with effort, water in the flower vase shaking.
Hank Snow on the pink Emmerson radio. Lemon chiffon, airy as cotton candy. More air than cake, really.
Remember her boiled icing? Oh My God, how I loved that fluffy stuff. Aunt Lina, perpetual cigarette
dangling from her bottom lip, bits of ashes flavoring all her stews and gravies. Tiny kitchen tiled in yellowish
linoleum, worn bare around all the chair legs and in front of the stove where she stood year after year worrying
her creations into being. Lemon chiffon cake with boiled icing after roast beef, carrots, peas, gravy and white
bread. Margarine from a plastic tub. I like to think that at this very moment in heaven Aunt
Lina's being waited on hand and foot and dancing through her palace in the blue satin gown she once
admired in the window of Stedman's. Maybe she's strolling the streets of gold with Jesus but more likely she's serving
the angels biscuits and molasses cookies she just made. Or humming Amazing Grace and teaching the little
ones how to roll pie crust evenly without stretching it.
Friday, June 2, 2006
Ballpoint PenThere are ordinary pens and then there is The Pilot Precise V, which comes in a rainbow of colors in medium or fine-tip. (Sold at a retail store near you.) It
does not so much write as glide across the page in a silken line on any surface, be
it fine linen-laid cotton, crisp parchment, or nubby home-made paper. The ink dries fast
and is virtually indelible. The V reminds me vaguely of one of those gold-plated contraptions given for
graduations but with neither the inflated cost nor the mess of wayward ink splotches. Sometimes when
I feel stressed I reach into my purse and caress the V like prayer beads and am instantly reassured everything is going
to be okay. It feels slick-shiny-cool like marble in my hand with the
comforting heft of a sterling dinner fork. It's not a $.29 Bic but at $1.99
it's an amazing value, the price of a Kia Rio for the pleasure and performance of a Mercedes SL. It even comes with a metal clip making it so handy
to slip into pockets, t-shirt neck holes and notebook spiral rings. On the rare occasion I am
forced to write with an inferior implement, my breathing becomes shallow and labored, my heart races and a thin line
of sweat blankets my brow. All day long thereafter I feel a little lost and invariably toss and turn that
night dreaming of sharks or bears chasing me. The next day I am still unsettled and prone to bumping into
walls and dropping dinner plates onto our Mexican saltillo.
Thursday, June 1, 2006
PotatoesSo, yesterday while groping around the pantry for apple sauce for Kelly's lunchbox, I unearthed
a long-forgotten paper bag of sweet potatoes from the back of the bottom shelf. Yes, potentially very gross, I
know. But guess what - not only have they not in the least rotted but they have grown vibrant
roots! I swear. Pale tubes shooting straight up from the eyes like 6" stalagmites. They have
sprouted healthy-looking purple leaves too. Since Thanksgiving, there in the dark among the soymilks, Far East rice and
cheesy-poofs a biological alarm clock has obviously been silently ticking. And one day it must've started
blaring "Wake up, wake up, Eyes! Get up and sprout, chop-chop!" There must be a botanical microchip
implanted deep in the DNA of these yams - an electronic Farmer's Almanac or Godly GPS, if you will. This fascinates
me, (obviously.) I thought only mushrooms and spore molds grew in the dark. I mean, a frog knows when
to come out of the mud in spring or a bear from his cave due to changes in temperature and available sunlight. Spring bulbs
sprout with the sun's enticement after winter or a "forced" winter in the fridge, but these glorious little sweet potatoes have
been attending to their business right under the nose of our lives for all these months, in total darkness with
absolutely zero prompting from anything other than what God programmed them with. Freaking genious!
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