The rising fragrance of…popcorn popping in a real popper, instead of a microwave was more than a little exciting. To follow directions of measuring kernels and oil, both from Orville Redenbacher, left me with feelings of anticipation.
It would be special. The kernels popped in a large, visible, and louder way, until I was concerned the popped corn would go way over the top. As the pops slowed down their rhythm, and the popper used more force each time.
It brought back memories of the old-fashioned popper's lower case plugged into a socket, making burning red coils in the bottom, and a higher pan placed directly over it. It was also a reminder of pouring the oil first, and a measure of kernels, then, quickly placing a glass top over it to watch, as the small kernels expanded and expanded, until the top was reached. You could witness the miracle of kernel
transformation.
Instead of the Kingdom of Heaven being like a leaven of bread whose yeast causes it to expand, what if Jesus had known about popcorn that the Native Americans had introduced to the pilgrims? He would have said, “the Kingdom of Heaven is like popcorn in a popcorn popper. It starts small and grows and expands and expands until popcorn is all over the kitchen for everyone to partake.”
And partake we did. Mom had her roast dinner in the oven during the Sunday service where Dad was the main dude of the show, after the dogs had howled, listening to the church bell; one of the dogs was ours.
So Mom was off the hook, after Sunday. Roast beef with a bay leaf I never could understand, nor did I care for it. But the carrots and potatoes were palatable.
What we got as we listened to the tall radio, that presented “Dragnet” and “Our Miss Brooks”, were bowls of popcorn for the evening. Very clever of Mom,to provide an easy way to end the day, and entertaining too!
So the bonafide popcorn popper finally produced the nostalgic Sunday evening meal, complete with radio plays, foreshadowing, “A Prairie Home Companion”.
So when I reached for the first morsel in my wooden bowl, to savor the non-microwaved taste, it tasted like…popcorn.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Nature Animals
Out of breath, pushing through the woods in front of the snarling wolf, I skidded to a stop in front of the cliff, and I noticed that the timber wolf was but a puppet, sitting on the shelf of the state park’s Nature Center. I was immediately drawn to it, but it looked so real and so extraordinarily beautiful, I kept coming back to it, trying it on my hand.
Yet for what story could it possibly be used? It was so large
for a puppet, that even sitting on my porch deck rail, it would be frightening.
A young couple came in, and she exclaimed, “Oh!” as she was drawn to it herself. The clerk behind the desk said they had to keep stocking that one.
My husband tried to distract me with finger puppets; there’s good use for them from time to time. I still love to glide by butterflies for “The Butterfly that Stamped”, and my finger jungle animals for “How the Elephant Got His Trunk”, both Kipling stories.
I had glossed over the porcupine last summer, since I reasoned I had a stuffed porcupine for which I’d looked all over town. But also, it wasn’t a puppet, and I had a Native American story for it already, “The Meeting of the Animals.”
I looked at the finger puppets extensively, as my husband sighed and shifted on his feet; “Have you found one yet?”
A little girl showed me her finger puppets. I could place her age at about 3rd or 4th grade, as I’d just gotten done teaching three grade levels of drama.
I played around with the middle bin of various realistic birds I could not name.
But I kept coming back to the wolf, just as I’d reasoned myself out of the porcupine last summer, checked the price tag, $10 more at least, and the animal was so big!
I fumbled around in the bin for smaller stuffed animals, not puppets, miniature wolves, but not puppets, just as magnificent, but not puppets.
I asked the clerk if they had a slightly smaller wolf than the one on the shelf.
I went back to the gargantuan wolf. Such a beautiful animal, and it looked so real!
No, it would be the porcupine this year. It would fit the Native American story regarding both large and small animals. The porcupine would represent the small ones facing a bear I’d already purchased.
We ended up getting ghost story books, falling leaf earrings, various artifacts, and of course, the puppet. It came to a higher price by far than the originally intended $20 just for the puppet. Oh well. It’s once a year.
Later, at the birth of their first child, my 1st grand daughter, we already had the camera out for baby pictures. So, I showed my son in law, pictures of the porcupine and birds nest, sitting on my porch deck. I told him how the birds worked when you manipulated your fingers in the nest. Though not a puppet lover himself, he was impressed by the natural look of these puppets.
He suggested, “Peter and the Wolf”, a story that depressed me as a child. Still, I just might want to review it, and I might just get to like that story.
So, now, nearly 5 years later,I spotted this little feller,
and bought him
right out.
Won't have to use, "Peter
and the Wolf", either.
There's a chapter in, Little
House on the Prairie,
dealing with A Night of
the Wolves.
That should work.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Kipper/Tiger Balance
My husband and I watch "Kipper, the Dog" with our grandchildren and have learned a lot from Kipper's positive, relaxed attitude.
He has a Scotty dog friend, Tiger, his antithesis, a Type-A personality, who always has the latest gadgets. When Tiger goes "on holiday", he carries excess stuff, and even his picture postcards show his attempts to "have fun" kick back.
When I was "on holiday', in my home town in Wisconsin, it occurred to me that having fun and presenting a gig meant establishing a balance between the two dogs.
I was proud that I'd reduced Tiger a bit on the second trip. The minute I received word they'd like me to return, I asked the Chamber Coordinator if she wanted:
* the same
* something similar, or
* a whole different program.
The second time, I booked my motel right away, backtracked to the proper bus that lined up with the ferry schedule, then booked the ferry. I had learned a hard lesson the year before.
* If you wait, even a week, you have to get a more expensive motel, farther away from the festival.
* In Spring, the ferry has only two travel times,
* So you have to book the charter bus.
After I did all that, I emailed my affirmative, then, fell into a heap. After this, Kipper took over for awhile.
But then, it was time to get up and research more Scandinavian stories, which
I incorporated into the program.
I got new luggage this time, and the puppet/prop case in it had wheels.
That seemed a bit Tiger-like, but the year before, I'd battled traffic and parked cars to deliver a hard little rectangular case to headquarters beforehand.
Grabbing a Folktale book, and Storytelling Magazine, I put the magazines in the new carrying case. On the ferry, I met a lady with a Kindle and discussed its assets and advantages for traveling rather than carrying the above.
However, if I hadn't "happened" to stuff an NSN magazine in my carryon, and it "happened" to be the right one, I wouldn't have had the guidelines available from the Story Biz Handbook, by Diane de Las Casas, to re-read, especially "pacing and flow", for further preparation, care of the throat, (a problem that came from
a dusty motel heater, but was quickly cleared up: I chose no heater the next night.) accepting mistakes, improving, refining, documenting, and most of all, making the audience happy.
The second time around, I knew to park my brother's car at his house before the parade began. The year before, I tried to park the huge monstrosity in a literal sea of cars. No one had treated me as special, saying, "Ah, you're a performer! We'll provide you with a parking space."
Then, I wheeled my little puppet/prop bag the rest of the way. Like Tiger, if I noticed a classmate I knew, I couldn't stop to chat, but a classmate with her daughter and grandchildren appeared at the performance.
The custodians had made sure the microphones were set, and I got through the grotesque "Butterball' story, about a hag with her head tucked underneath her arm,
I'd recently told for a mother-daughter banquet that at an E.L.C.A. Church. To avoid West Michigan "Troll-a-phobia" before presenting, I naively asked if there were Scandinavians among them. The lady minister responded, "Better to ask who's not".
After the Wisconsin presentation of this story, I quickly lightened up the preceding story with and improv I call, "The Troll in the Well".
This year, I added a full costume for a very tiny boy, a white curly wig and a monster costume. At first the little boy was shy and hesitant, but I could tell he enjoyed "grrr...ing" in the well, and chasing the two little girls away.
Everybody knew how Iceland had made the news, with volcanic sky interference, (the BIG NEWS just a SHORT time ago) so I told a tale of an Icelandic hidden person, a Finnish tale of a lobster tailor, which was a new "untested" one, but I had laughed out loud while reading it, so I chose that, and added a lobster mask/puppet. The others included: "Tatterhood" from Norway, "Ten Fairy Servants" from Sweden, and finally, the "House Mouse and the Country Mouse" which I'd learned was a folktale from Norway. I added two mouse-eared and one cat-eared little actor
participants in mini-costumes, with noses and tails.
After a little shopping at the Nordic Nook where I asked questions of a bonafide Swede and bought Swedish artifacts, I met up with my employer, who was wearing her Norwegian Bunad. We stood on a triangular median in the middle of traffic, as we discussed business. Unlike last year, she and I had already arranged that the cd player be left at the school in safe keeping, since my puppet bag no longer had room in it.
The connections on the way home were pretty tight, but I'd arranged with my original cabdriver that he pick me up and get me to the dock. In the nick of time, I stood at the desk as the ticket lady begged the computer to print out my boarding pass. We made apprehensive faces at each other, but I finally joined the end of the line and was off to Michigan!
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Fairy Fun*
Crushing the can, Houdini looked forward in anger at Conan Doyle.
“Arthur,” he grimaced, “is there no end to your gullibility. If you put this in the Strand, people will think you a fool…Fairies…Now, I’ve heard everything!”
“These are harmless little girls,” Doyle responded, “innocent as doves…cousins, who didn’t know each other well at all, before this.”
“Clever little rascals, I'll wager,” replied Houdini, skeptically.
“I’ll be happy to introduce you to Frances and Elsie. Elsie’s brother, Joseph, passed away,” said Doyle, “and her mother was disconsolate.”
“So,” Houdini deliberated, “the mother turned to Spiritualism like you, Spiritualism without evidence. I’ve been searching for my mother’s spirit for years and have met up with nothing but magician frauds.”
“It gives one hope,” Doyle said, and comfort that someone like my late son can communicate.”
“So now, fairies give you hope as well?”
“The unseen world gives one hope.”
“It does not give one hope when every trickster takes advantage of your grief!”
The door creaked open. Two girls, Elsie, 10, and Frances, 16, stood in the doorway just before the threshold. Harry Houdini looked up. His countenance changed at the sight of them. Surely, these two enchantresses were the most charming darlings he’d seen yet. Theirs was not the picture of the table thumping con artists who insisted on darkened rooms with whom he’d dealt, from one disappointing seance after another.
“So,” he responded, “You two have seen fairies?”
“We’ve taken pictures of them, Sir,” Elsie offered.
Houdini put his head in his hands, trying to stifle a laugh.
“Now, Harry,” Doyle interjected, “surely you don’t think these young ladies have any malice.”
“Arthur,” said Houdini, “excuse yourself.”
Doyle graciously left the room.
“Now, girls,” said Houdini, “truly, you’ve captured the imaginations of the English people.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Frances.
“For what purpose?” inquired Houdini.
“No purpose at all,” said Elsie, “We’ve been enjoying the fairies at Cottingley Beck (Stream), and we want to share the fun of it.”
“I see,” said Houdini, “You want to entertain folks…sort of like me.”
“Yes,” said Elsie, “it’s ever so much fun!”
“And I’ve even taken a picture of Elsie with a gnome,” said Frances.
Houdini raised his eyebrow, “A gnome, you say?”
“They live to be 400 years old, so they’re very wise,” said Elsie excitedly.
“Yes, you can find their homes in the moss at the foot of trees.” Frances joined in.
“Well,” said Houdini, shaking his head and smiling, “far be it from me to spoil the fun.”
*(a spontaneous writing based on Wikipedia & Movie, “Fairy Tale, a True Story”.)
“Arthur,” he grimaced, “is there no end to your gullibility. If you put this in the Strand, people will think you a fool…Fairies…Now, I’ve heard everything!”
“These are harmless little girls,” Doyle responded, “innocent as doves…cousins, who didn’t know each other well at all, before this.”
“Clever little rascals, I'll wager,” replied Houdini, skeptically.
“I’ll be happy to introduce you to Frances and Elsie. Elsie’s brother, Joseph, passed away,” said Doyle, “and her mother was disconsolate.”
“So,” Houdini deliberated, “the mother turned to Spiritualism like you, Spiritualism without evidence. I’ve been searching for my mother’s spirit for years and have met up with nothing but magician frauds.”
“It gives one hope,” Doyle said, and comfort that someone like my late son can communicate.”
“So now, fairies give you hope as well?”
“The unseen world gives one hope.”
“It does not give one hope when every trickster takes advantage of your grief!”
The door creaked open. Two girls, Elsie, 10, and Frances, 16, stood in the doorway just before the threshold. Harry Houdini looked up. His countenance changed at the sight of them. Surely, these two enchantresses were the most charming darlings he’d seen yet. Theirs was not the picture of the table thumping con artists who insisted on darkened rooms with whom he’d dealt, from one disappointing seance after another.
“So,” he responded, “You two have seen fairies?”
“We’ve taken pictures of them, Sir,” Elsie offered.
Houdini put his head in his hands, trying to stifle a laugh.
“Now, Harry,” Doyle interjected, “surely you don’t think these young ladies have any malice.”
“Arthur,” said Houdini, “excuse yourself.”
Doyle graciously left the room.
“Now, girls,” said Houdini, “truly, you’ve captured the imaginations of the English people.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Frances.
“For what purpose?” inquired Houdini.
“No purpose at all,” said Elsie, “We’ve been enjoying the fairies at Cottingley Beck (Stream), and we want to share the fun of it.”
“I see,” said Houdini, “You want to entertain folks…sort of like me.”
“Yes,” said Elsie, “it’s ever so much fun!”
“And I’ve even taken a picture of Elsie with a gnome,” said Frances.
Houdini raised his eyebrow, “A gnome, you say?”
“They live to be 400 years old, so they’re very wise,” said Elsie excitedly.
“Yes, you can find their homes in the moss at the foot of trees.” Frances joined in.
“Well,” said Houdini, shaking his head and smiling, “far be it from me to spoil the fun.”
*(a spontaneous writing based on Wikipedia & Movie, “Fairy Tale, a True Story”.)
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Dream Train
On the night train to Madison from Chicago, Heather Lee hopped on just to get away from the small town and school. It was not expensive at all and a welcome escape.
There was State Street, a Bohemian pre-college kid’s paradise. There were dangly earrings, Persian rugs, dashikis, astrological posters, and at that point in time, record albums for the high price of $3.50. This was still a lot for a teenager to fork out. The cool thing was to park herself in a “listening room” to preview it and to hear the best of folk.
Closer to the railroad track, she could pick up thinks like chocolate covered ants and sneezing powder, with which to purposely inflict her sinuses. She did not realize that at some later date, that would be the last sensation she’d want.
The train brought other things throughout her waning high school experience.
There would be a first guitar, ordered from Montgomery Ward for $16.00, still a lot for a teenager working part time and hoping to go to college. The strings were steel and would cause finger calluses like the later and better Spanish guitar would not. But this instrument was precious, because it was the first.
Then, the train brought a canvas on which to do oil paintings. “I’ve got my board!” she screamed with delight, confusing her male friend as to what that meant.
Later, during college years, the train would bring her college friends returning home from Europe, who'd journeyed about on a motorcycle. One friend had accumulated over 25 pounds, because of sporadic eating between starvation times and provision times.
Later, instead of making trips from her small town to Madison, she took the route from Chicago to her hometown.
There, she was trying for theater experience. Both the theater experience and the train ride seemed longer, rougher than expected for a small town/country girl. Even the small college experience she'd agreed to was located in a similar setting under the same church and ethnic umbrella.
She could understand what one of her college friends, who’d traveled Europe, meant by “culture shock”.
This time, her hometown was a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of city life. It was not a place to escape from, but a haven to return to.
The dream had to be revised. Happiness was not someplace else.
So now, the train stops in Chicago. The hometown depot is now a Chamber of Commerce, especially active during the annual festival. She has to take the ferry to bus, or train to bus connection, depending on whether she has to take the short or long route.
It’s harder to get to the place she’d tried to leave, but that place would always be in her heart.
There was State Street, a Bohemian pre-college kid’s paradise. There were dangly earrings, Persian rugs, dashikis, astrological posters, and at that point in time, record albums for the high price of $3.50. This was still a lot for a teenager to fork out. The cool thing was to park herself in a “listening room” to preview it and to hear the best of folk.
Closer to the railroad track, she could pick up thinks like chocolate covered ants and sneezing powder, with which to purposely inflict her sinuses. She did not realize that at some later date, that would be the last sensation she’d want.
The train brought other things throughout her waning high school experience.
There would be a first guitar, ordered from Montgomery Ward for $16.00, still a lot for a teenager working part time and hoping to go to college. The strings were steel and would cause finger calluses like the later and better Spanish guitar would not. But this instrument was precious, because it was the first.
Then, the train brought a canvas on which to do oil paintings. “I’ve got my board!” she screamed with delight, confusing her male friend as to what that meant.
Later, during college years, the train would bring her college friends returning home from Europe, who'd journeyed about on a motorcycle. One friend had accumulated over 25 pounds, because of sporadic eating between starvation times and provision times.
Later, instead of making trips from her small town to Madison, she took the route from Chicago to her hometown.
There, she was trying for theater experience. Both the theater experience and the train ride seemed longer, rougher than expected for a small town/country girl. Even the small college experience she'd agreed to was located in a similar setting under the same church and ethnic umbrella.
She could understand what one of her college friends, who’d traveled Europe, meant by “culture shock”.
This time, her hometown was a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of city life. It was not a place to escape from, but a haven to return to.
The dream had to be revised. Happiness was not someplace else.
So now, the train stops in Chicago. The hometown depot is now a Chamber of Commerce, especially active during the annual festival. She has to take the ferry to bus, or train to bus connection, depending on whether she has to take the short or long route.
It’s harder to get to the place she’d tried to leave, but that place would always be in her heart.
Friday, July 17, 2009
A Light on Her Majesty
As the top, circular steps to the top of the lighthouse became visible in the blinking moonlight, Chelsea headed hesitatingly toward the stairway.
She had heard reports that the place was haunted. Yet, as a reporter for the new Great Lakes Newsletter, her curiosity regarding the lighthouses and ships on the Great Lakes pushed her forward.
It was nearing 11 p.m., and she heard the small ferry. It beeped its tiny horn at length and far away, and announced its entry into the channel.
But, as she began to climb up the steps and reach the top, she heard a deeper, louder blast which did not fit this time period.
She gazed out the top window of the lighthouse. Off in the distance, on the on-and-off visible horizon, was a Great Lakes Ship she’d thought was non-operational, moored in the west end of the harbor.
But there the ship was; there she wasn’t; there she was…not, and there she was again, surrounded by night fog. The ship proceeded forward in majesty: the Queen of the Great Lakes, able to handle high waves, crossed slowly and deliberately toward the shoreline, cut slowly but surely through the choppy waves.
Lights shone through the windows; big band music came from the bar and dance hall, laughter from the dancing pairs. People peered out from the decks; children climbed up the stairs to higher levels to observe the channel and their entry into the channel, lit by small pilot boats and curiosity cabin cruisers that were there to greet and to follow. Families, after resting, spilled out of the berths with their baggage. The women all wore dresses, hair neatly coiffed and sprayed, shoes heeled, while the men wore hats and suits. All encased themselves in coats and jackets to keep out the chilly air of Lake Michigan.
Chelsea gazed from the lighthouse. The noise died down once again.
The ship faded in the fog. Once again, Chelsea heard the deep, loud blast, only this time, from the moored ship behind her. The ship was a shell of its former self, but she announced, “hello” to the little ferry boat entering the port for the first time, from the great ship’s original home in Milwaukee.
The old ship, who’d made many trips from the same Wisconsin Port, handed over the Lake to the smaller, faster ferry boat with its tiny horn, as it made its higher, softer, lengthy be-e-e-p.
As you surrender Your Majesty, Oh Queen, Chelsea thought, we will never forget your many voyages and the memories of those whom you carried across the Lake and Channel to the port in Michigan.
In our hearts, at least, and with gratitude, long lives the Queen.
She had heard reports that the place was haunted. Yet, as a reporter for the new Great Lakes Newsletter, her curiosity regarding the lighthouses and ships on the Great Lakes pushed her forward.
It was nearing 11 p.m., and she heard the small ferry. It beeped its tiny horn at length and far away, and announced its entry into the channel.
But, as she began to climb up the steps and reach the top, she heard a deeper, louder blast which did not fit this time period.
She gazed out the top window of the lighthouse. Off in the distance, on the on-and-off visible horizon, was a Great Lakes Ship she’d thought was non-operational, moored in the west end of the harbor.
But there the ship was; there she wasn’t; there she was…not, and there she was again, surrounded by night fog. The ship proceeded forward in majesty: the Queen of the Great Lakes, able to handle high waves, crossed slowly and deliberately toward the shoreline, cut slowly but surely through the choppy waves.
Lights shone through the windows; big band music came from the bar and dance hall, laughter from the dancing pairs. People peered out from the decks; children climbed up the stairs to higher levels to observe the channel and their entry into the channel, lit by small pilot boats and curiosity cabin cruisers that were there to greet and to follow. Families, after resting, spilled out of the berths with their baggage. The women all wore dresses, hair neatly coiffed and sprayed, shoes heeled, while the men wore hats and suits. All encased themselves in coats and jackets to keep out the chilly air of Lake Michigan.
Chelsea gazed from the lighthouse. The noise died down once again.
The ship faded in the fog. Once again, Chelsea heard the deep, loud blast, only this time, from the moored ship behind her. The ship was a shell of its former self, but she announced, “hello” to the little ferry boat entering the port for the first time, from the great ship’s original home in Milwaukee.
The old ship, who’d made many trips from the same Wisconsin Port, handed over the Lake to the smaller, faster ferry boat with its tiny horn, as it made its higher, softer, lengthy be-e-e-p.
As you surrender Your Majesty, Oh Queen, Chelsea thought, we will never forget your many voyages and the memories of those whom you carried across the Lake and Channel to the port in Michigan.
In our hearts, at least, and with gratitude, long lives the Queen.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Revered Research
I'd heard the author of A Taste of Honey was only 18 years old. Well, I was 14, so there was still a chance for authorship. How is it she could make it as an author, and I wasn't there yet?
My parents had been talked into what had been considered the very best encyclopaedia, The Encyclopaedia Brittanica.
They wanted nothing but the best when it came to educational materials.
The great thing about getting this set was the company was willing to send information about a specialized subject if you requested it.
I wanted to write an historical fiction like Gone With The Wind that I'd read with a flashlight late into the night. I was not thinking about what that could do to my eyesight later, since I was obviously really into it.
So, I wrote in for and about a period of American History that had fascinated me, Salem. The information came in an 8 X 11 inch pamphlet, and I got to work with 2 fictional characters (admittedly, with a strong resemblance to Scarlett and Rhett) planted in the Eastern Seaboard during the early colonial period.
I typed on the manual typewriter at home. The advanced electric typewriter was a school business class thing. I used correct type and white out for corrections. Sometimes, I used onion skin paper, which made erasures easier.
In the age of internet information, these researches seem long awaited, and procedures seem primitive. But I remember making do and even being excited at getting the information. It was information I'll always remember, because I'd incorporated it into my YA novella, and it was knowledge I could never again take for granted.
My parents had been talked into what had been considered the very best encyclopaedia, The Encyclopaedia Brittanica.
They wanted nothing but the best when it came to educational materials.
The great thing about getting this set was the company was willing to send information about a specialized subject if you requested it.
I wanted to write an historical fiction like Gone With The Wind that I'd read with a flashlight late into the night. I was not thinking about what that could do to my eyesight later, since I was obviously really into it.
So, I wrote in for and about a period of American History that had fascinated me, Salem. The information came in an 8 X 11 inch pamphlet, and I got to work with 2 fictional characters (admittedly, with a strong resemblance to Scarlett and Rhett) planted in the Eastern Seaboard during the early colonial period.
I typed on the manual typewriter at home. The advanced electric typewriter was a school business class thing. I used correct type and white out for corrections. Sometimes, I used onion skin paper, which made erasures easier.
In the age of internet information, these researches seem long awaited, and procedures seem primitive. But I remember making do and even being excited at getting the information. It was information I'll always remember, because I'd incorporated it into my YA novella, and it was knowledge I could never again take for granted.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Poetry Presenter
The reflection in the still pond was red gold, like the sunset. Finally, the blizzards were over, and the world had become "puddle wonderful," as the poet* wrote.
Poetry...Where did it begin, and how long had it been since I'd picked some up to read? It had inspired me as a teen every night...to read, then, to write. I studied the different meters in my English class under my favorite teacher from the University next door.
But it really hadn't begun there. It had begun in the northern part of the state in a fifth grade I wasn't very interested in, under a teacher I didn't like particularly. But still, this teacher brought in a speaker from the area, Eugene Field's daughter. She was really old, (or so I thought then) but when she read some of her father's poetry,
It didn't stop there. In sixth grade,
I had a teacher I really liked with a split room, so I buckled down to work. And there was that beautiful, colorful language, ending, "I wash my hands in red gold of pools..."* I was hooked on poetry for life.
*e.e. cummings *authors unknown
Poetry...Where did it begin, and how long had it been since I'd picked some up to read? It had inspired me as a teen every night...to read, then, to write. I studied the different meters in my English class under my favorite teacher from the University next door.
But it really hadn't begun there. It had begun in the northern part of the state in a fifth grade I wasn't very interested in, under a teacher I didn't like particularly. But still, this teacher brought in a speaker from the area, Eugene Field's daughter. She was really old, (or so I thought then) but when she read some of her father's poetry,
"Little Boy Blue"in a melodic, poetic delivery,
"Winken,Blinken,and Nod"and what each one of those names meant; I was captivated.
It didn't stop there. In sixth grade,
"Old Quinn Querebus, he loved his garden so...He wouldn't eat his growing things, he only let them grow."*
I had a teacher I really liked with a split room, so I buckled down to work. And there was that beautiful, colorful language, ending, "I wash my hands in red gold of pools..."* I was hooked on poetry for life.
*e.e. cummings *authors unknown
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Life Cycle
Straining against the wind to reach the top of the dune, the winter was beginning to set in. They had gone on countless hikes there. Each time, she had gazed across the great lake longingly, but this time, even more so. The wind’s sharp knives cut a dagger through her heart.
She identified with the Selkie woman, who’d shed her skin to live on land, but could never shed the feeling of displacement.
Across the lake was her other home. This other home was probably no better than the life created here. In fact, in some ways, parts of that other home were more backward, yet coexisting with parts that were more forward looking, much like here.
Her eyes scanned the gray skies, soon to turn to dusk. What she saw was a little disconcerting. Gray, round heads looking as thought they were doing breaststrokes toward her.
Then, she began to wonder and to remember. The gray heads took off their headgear by pulling them up over their faces and backward, revealing long tresses with garlands of multicolored flowery seaweed.
She sat on the rock in a forward-gazing yoga-like pose.
“Darlene!” one of them called out, “you’ve been gone too long. It was Muriel’s turn several years ago!”
Then, she heard many voices cry out, “Darlene, Darlene, Darlene!”
She cupped her ears with her hands and squinted her eyes shut. These were no Selkies; these were Mermaids…Mermen,too, but then, there was no such thing as either one.
However, she began to remember. She felt a strange tug at her feet; her feet were melded together. She couldn’t move them one at a time. She was crippled, no longer able to walk, stride, and above all, hike on those long summer excursions.
One blond and powerful maid came forward to visit her, sitting on the rocks.
“Darlene, you’re not being very fair, you know. Everybody gets to take his or her turn. Muriel’s been waiting a long time. By now, you’re probably so adjusted to land, you’ve forgotten us and your old ways, singing in our churches, eating our food, painting flowers from the bottom of the sea, farming the ocean floor.”
Tears streamed down Darlene’s face: Of Course, of course, but she thought those memories were on the land across the lake, the large cities and small towns reflecting varied motherlands and customs.
“Come on, now, Darlene,” said the blond one “You’ve got to leave all you’ve built up here, all the relationships, and go home.”
“You mean, to die?”
“Only to a place you’d agreed you’d never stay. Die to that, perhaps.”
The mermaids and mermen surrounded her on the rocks.
Muriel called out, “Did you have a good time, Darlene?”
She thought, “Oh, I wouldn’t have traded my life here for all the world, but some of those times were very, very hard.”
“Well, no matter what happens there, I still want to go,” Muriel insisted, “I have the next chance, and I’m going to take it!”
The blond one whom she’d recognized from her life before, Angela, tugged at her, and she automatically, with the skill of her flipper, dived in, meeting up with and surrounded by many she’d known and loved before.
She thought she heard something like a baby’s cry; it was just Muriel, breaking her flipper encasement becoming…human.
“See you, Muriel,” they cried out, “have a wonderful adventure! Just don’t forget us and your real home.”
Muriel blinked and looked at her new bright setting with wonder. She looked as though the Mer-people were no longer in her line of vision.
Already, she was beginning to forget.
She identified with the Selkie woman, who’d shed her skin to live on land, but could never shed the feeling of displacement.
Across the lake was her other home. This other home was probably no better than the life created here. In fact, in some ways, parts of that other home were more backward, yet coexisting with parts that were more forward looking, much like here.
Her eyes scanned the gray skies, soon to turn to dusk. What she saw was a little disconcerting. Gray, round heads looking as thought they were doing breaststrokes toward her.
Then, she began to wonder and to remember. The gray heads took off their headgear by pulling them up over their faces and backward, revealing long tresses with garlands of multicolored flowery seaweed.
She sat on the rock in a forward-gazing yoga-like pose.
“Darlene!” one of them called out, “you’ve been gone too long. It was Muriel’s turn several years ago!”
Then, she heard many voices cry out, “Darlene, Darlene, Darlene!”
She cupped her ears with her hands and squinted her eyes shut. These were no Selkies; these were Mermaids…Mermen,too, but then, there was no such thing as either one.
However, she began to remember. She felt a strange tug at her feet; her feet were melded together. She couldn’t move them one at a time. She was crippled, no longer able to walk, stride, and above all, hike on those long summer excursions.
One blond and powerful maid came forward to visit her, sitting on the rocks.
“Darlene, you’re not being very fair, you know. Everybody gets to take his or her turn. Muriel’s been waiting a long time. By now, you’re probably so adjusted to land, you’ve forgotten us and your old ways, singing in our churches, eating our food, painting flowers from the bottom of the sea, farming the ocean floor.”
Tears streamed down Darlene’s face: Of Course, of course, but she thought those memories were on the land across the lake, the large cities and small towns reflecting varied motherlands and customs.
“Come on, now, Darlene,” said the blond one “You’ve got to leave all you’ve built up here, all the relationships, and go home.”
“You mean, to die?”
“Only to a place you’d agreed you’d never stay. Die to that, perhaps.”
The mermaids and mermen surrounded her on the rocks.
Muriel called out, “Did you have a good time, Darlene?”
She thought, “Oh, I wouldn’t have traded my life here for all the world, but some of those times were very, very hard.”
“Well, no matter what happens there, I still want to go,” Muriel insisted, “I have the next chance, and I’m going to take it!”
The blond one whom she’d recognized from her life before, Angela, tugged at her, and she automatically, with the skill of her flipper, dived in, meeting up with and surrounded by many she’d known and loved before.
She thought she heard something like a baby’s cry; it was just Muriel, breaking her flipper encasement becoming…human.
“See you, Muriel,” they cried out, “have a wonderful adventure! Just don’t forget us and your real home.”
Muriel blinked and looked at her new bright setting with wonder. She looked as though the Mer-people were no longer in her line of vision.
Already, she was beginning to forget.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
What’s in a Name? Or the Goddess Power of Naming
The baby’s cry startled me, as I knew it was my own child, and the color of blue turned to pink quickly.
I had remembered from my childhood, a 45 r.p.m. children’s record, which began, “Let us imagine that it’s a bright summers’ day, and you’re out walking near the banks of a lovely little stream.” (The actor’s distinguished voice was Claude Raines.) “Maybe you’re headed for the old swimming hole,” (an obvious reference to boys) or maybe you’re just out, gathering flowers, so that you can bind them into a bright yellow garland that you can wear in your hair.” (an obvious reference to girls).
“It’s a girl, my husband said, “You were right.”
As the narration from childhood went on, the actor said, “Well, that’s easy to imagine now, isn’t it? But now listen; do you hear that? It’s a baby, and it’s crying, yes, a baby, all alone, hidden in some rushes in the riverbank. What’s it doing there?”
There had been no overuse of sonograms then, except in what were deemed dire emergencies. So, the only way I could have known was through intuition, a trait encouraged in my upbringing. I had closed my eyes and meditated to hear what Mom called, “that still, small voice” telling me, “You are pregnant,” and I “saw” a little blonde-haired girl with a chignon on the top of her head, backstage in a theatre, neat the curtain…just waiting…
“Oh well, never mind,” continued the actor, “That would never happen to you, I’m sure. But the Bible tells us that it did happen.”
I got the book for baby names, paying minimal attention to boys’ names, like maybe, James Eric.
The 45 r.p.m. record with a picture of “Moses and the Bulrushes” and “Noah and the Ark” began to play what I know now as beautiful oboe music set to an Egyptian tune. The actor went on to describe how an Egyptian Princess discovered a boy baby in a basket and how she knew by its blanket, it was Hebrew baby, how she said to her mistress, “ What difference does it make whether it’s a Hebrew or an Egyptian? It’s a baby, and it needs a mother.”
But my full concentrated effort was finding a girl’s name. I’d read and seen How Green Was My Valley and wanted the name, Bronwen, but to stick a kid with a name like that?
Since I was working at the town newspaper at that time, I was working with pictures and captions and saw the name, Robin Deutch. Little did that lady know, whomever she was, that she would influence my choice. That’s it! Robin Bronwen. I had a natural tendency toward poetry.
I kept repeating it, even to my husband. He kind of resisted, “You know that name? It sounds like of like a bird.”
But I was determined, as I repeated it. “Robin Bronwen, Robin Bronwen.”
And when she was born, and I told people what her name was, in full, they’d stop. They’d ask questions like, “Is that a family name?”
As the record progressed, the kind you had to put in a special small cylinder, to make it flip down one disc at a time, the actor told how the princess decided to call the child’s name, “Moses, because she drew him out of the water.”
What Goddess-like power we females have! There’s always some kind of intuitive reason we have to actually name a child. We seem to have taken over where Adam left off, naming all the animals, but being nonplussed as to who would be his companion. So God brought him this female, kind of looked a little bit like him (with some exceptions), and she said that, for the most part, she’ll take over the naming job from here.
My sister-in-law, Ruth Ann was the first to ask, once it was official, “What are you going to name it?” I was stunned that I would already have to go to work to figure that one out. She, herself had named her first born, Missy, after a comic strip girl and her second daughter, Minda, was insulted that she was named after a lady her mother didn’t like, but she liked her name.
All the way down the line, she selected one Norwegian name and one Greek name for each child.
I read somewhere in metaphysical literature that the child picks his or her parents and tries to influence his or her name.
My daughter accepted that first name, but wasn’t so sure about the second one. But when one of her male friends linked it to, How Green Was My Valley, without my informing him about that being an earlier influence, she seemed to accept it more.
The 45 r.p.m. record continued to tell how Moses rose to eventually free his own people, once he discovered he was Hebrew, from the slavery of the Pharaoh. For the pharaoh had the Hebrews building castles, pyramids, and palaces for long, strenuous hours.
Well, that little bird, my daughter, has a chance at freedom as never before in history, at least, in this country. She’s already way more motherly than I ever was, with her degree in early childhood, a lot of Montessori and Nanny work. But part of her writes and speaks creatively like me and also pursues more scientific (i.e. medical-dental) education toward which my husband leans.
Obama would be the modern-day Hebrew, and Hillary, the freed woman. (When I said years back that I identified with Hillary, my husband said, “I knew Hillary well; she’s a friend of mine…and you’re no Hillary Clinton.” Now, I’m kind of glad I don’t identify that much anymore. He was right.)
So Moses named by his Egyptian mother, went on to free his people.
When we women name our children, for example, Martin Luther King jr., after the first historical figure of the Reformation, who knows what effect that will have on the child and consequently, history?
When we took that little baby to the well baby clinic the first time, and they called out her full name, hearing that, in itself, seemed…magical.
I had remembered from my childhood, a 45 r.p.m. children’s record, which began, “Let us imagine that it’s a bright summers’ day, and you’re out walking near the banks of a lovely little stream.” (The actor’s distinguished voice was Claude Raines.) “Maybe you’re headed for the old swimming hole,” (an obvious reference to boys) or maybe you’re just out, gathering flowers, so that you can bind them into a bright yellow garland that you can wear in your hair.” (an obvious reference to girls).
“It’s a girl, my husband said, “You were right.”
As the narration from childhood went on, the actor said, “Well, that’s easy to imagine now, isn’t it? But now listen; do you hear that? It’s a baby, and it’s crying, yes, a baby, all alone, hidden in some rushes in the riverbank. What’s it doing there?”
There had been no overuse of sonograms then, except in what were deemed dire emergencies. So, the only way I could have known was through intuition, a trait encouraged in my upbringing. I had closed my eyes and meditated to hear what Mom called, “that still, small voice” telling me, “You are pregnant,” and I “saw” a little blonde-haired girl with a chignon on the top of her head, backstage in a theatre, neat the curtain…just waiting…
“Oh well, never mind,” continued the actor, “That would never happen to you, I’m sure. But the Bible tells us that it did happen.”
I got the book for baby names, paying minimal attention to boys’ names, like maybe, James Eric.
The 45 r.p.m. record with a picture of “Moses and the Bulrushes” and “Noah and the Ark” began to play what I know now as beautiful oboe music set to an Egyptian tune. The actor went on to describe how an Egyptian Princess discovered a boy baby in a basket and how she knew by its blanket, it was Hebrew baby, how she said to her mistress, “ What difference does it make whether it’s a Hebrew or an Egyptian? It’s a baby, and it needs a mother.”
But my full concentrated effort was finding a girl’s name. I’d read and seen How Green Was My Valley and wanted the name, Bronwen, but to stick a kid with a name like that?
Since I was working at the town newspaper at that time, I was working with pictures and captions and saw the name, Robin Deutch. Little did that lady know, whomever she was, that she would influence my choice. That’s it! Robin Bronwen. I had a natural tendency toward poetry.
I kept repeating it, even to my husband. He kind of resisted, “You know that name? It sounds like of like a bird.”
But I was determined, as I repeated it. “Robin Bronwen, Robin Bronwen.”
And when she was born, and I told people what her name was, in full, they’d stop. They’d ask questions like, “Is that a family name?”
As the record progressed, the kind you had to put in a special small cylinder, to make it flip down one disc at a time, the actor told how the princess decided to call the child’s name, “Moses, because she drew him out of the water.”
What Goddess-like power we females have! There’s always some kind of intuitive reason we have to actually name a child. We seem to have taken over where Adam left off, naming all the animals, but being nonplussed as to who would be his companion. So God brought him this female, kind of looked a little bit like him (with some exceptions), and she said that, for the most part, she’ll take over the naming job from here.
My sister-in-law, Ruth Ann was the first to ask, once it was official, “What are you going to name it?” I was stunned that I would already have to go to work to figure that one out. She, herself had named her first born, Missy, after a comic strip girl and her second daughter, Minda, was insulted that she was named after a lady her mother didn’t like, but she liked her name.
All the way down the line, she selected one Norwegian name and one Greek name for each child.
I read somewhere in metaphysical literature that the child picks his or her parents and tries to influence his or her name.
My daughter accepted that first name, but wasn’t so sure about the second one. But when one of her male friends linked it to, How Green Was My Valley, without my informing him about that being an earlier influence, she seemed to accept it more.
The 45 r.p.m. record continued to tell how Moses rose to eventually free his own people, once he discovered he was Hebrew, from the slavery of the Pharaoh. For the pharaoh had the Hebrews building castles, pyramids, and palaces for long, strenuous hours.
Well, that little bird, my daughter, has a chance at freedom as never before in history, at least, in this country. She’s already way more motherly than I ever was, with her degree in early childhood, a lot of Montessori and Nanny work. But part of her writes and speaks creatively like me and also pursues more scientific (i.e. medical-dental) education toward which my husband leans.
Obama would be the modern-day Hebrew, and Hillary, the freed woman. (When I said years back that I identified with Hillary, my husband said, “I knew Hillary well; she’s a friend of mine…and you’re no Hillary Clinton.” Now, I’m kind of glad I don’t identify that much anymore. He was right.)
So Moses named by his Egyptian mother, went on to free his people.
When we women name our children, for example, Martin Luther King jr., after the first historical figure of the Reformation, who knows what effect that will have on the child and consequently, history?
When we took that little baby to the well baby clinic the first time, and they called out her full name, hearing that, in itself, seemed…magical.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
The Stewards
In the still quiet of the evening near the creek, I could hear the frogs conversing with one another. It was a peaceful discourse. I crossed the wooden plank bridge, trying not to make hollow footstep sounds, but I heard the soft whine of an approaching mosquito. As it touched down on my arm and caused a modestly painful pinprick, I swatted it, worrying for just an instant about West Nile.
The frogs’ conversation grew a little louder; more frogs joined in a chorus: “gump-gump, gump-gump, gump-gump…” The din grew.
I looked toward the top of the hill. I saw a searchlight appear from the park, then, another search light from the hilltop behind me. My heartbeat matched the pond frogs, “bum-bum, bum-bum, bum-bum!” I could feel it in my chest, nearly attempting to break through the interior rib cage.
Before I could determine whether the lights were friend or foe, “Whoop-whoop, Whoop-whoop!” Two Frisbees came from opposite directions, grazing first my shoulder, and second, my head. I heard one of them clatter and bang, and the sound of disturbed chains.
“Who's got it?” yelled the light from the park. The other light pointed toward the Frisbee golf basket. “I guess it’s yours.” I’d forgotten just where my locale was and was caught in Frisbee golf crossfire. I nervously crept down on my hands and knees, tearing the knee section of my jeans, to avoid being sighted.
So, I hid in a barrel near the pond, near the sign that referred to the creek pollution cleanup and its website. One figure bounded down from the lakeside area. I was alarmed when the other’s searchlight illuminated his form. His skin was sallow. His eyes were very large.
I had remembered standing at the top of the lakeside hill, spotting a supposed meteor shower, as it was later reported, of red, yellow, and green lights, exclaiming, “What on earth is that?!!” I had dismissed even wondering later, as I reached the hill’s base and communed with the frogs.
Now, the horror at what it might have been hit me…hard! Whoever was playing Frisbee that evening was not of the earth. The thought made my hand quiver. I began to breath heavily. I’d heard stories of abductions and how the public never believed the victims.
The conversation continued, “I see not much progress has been made here yet. We’ll keep checking from time to time. They’ve got another pollution cleanup meeting coming up.”
“Not of the earth, but concerned about it,” I thought quietly to myself. I couldn’t allow myself to be heard. Looking toward the park side, I saw two similar figures climb up the hill together, arm in arm. A sulfur odor began to choke me; I held back the noise.
Then, a humongous metallic arc emerged at the top of the hill. A staircase unfolded. The two figures ascended. The arc rumbled and took off. I felt the heat nearly burn my skin. I saw the colors, red, yellow, green. No meteor shower, she…
The frogs’ conversation grew a little louder; more frogs joined in a chorus: “gump-gump, gump-gump, gump-gump…” The din grew.
I looked toward the top of the hill. I saw a searchlight appear from the park, then, another search light from the hilltop behind me. My heartbeat matched the pond frogs, “bum-bum, bum-bum, bum-bum!” I could feel it in my chest, nearly attempting to break through the interior rib cage.
Before I could determine whether the lights were friend or foe, “Whoop-whoop, Whoop-whoop!” Two Frisbees came from opposite directions, grazing first my shoulder, and second, my head. I heard one of them clatter and bang, and the sound of disturbed chains.
“Who's got it?” yelled the light from the park. The other light pointed toward the Frisbee golf basket. “I guess it’s yours.” I’d forgotten just where my locale was and was caught in Frisbee golf crossfire. I nervously crept down on my hands and knees, tearing the knee section of my jeans, to avoid being sighted.
So, I hid in a barrel near the pond, near the sign that referred to the creek pollution cleanup and its website. One figure bounded down from the lakeside area. I was alarmed when the other’s searchlight illuminated his form. His skin was sallow. His eyes were very large.
I had remembered standing at the top of the lakeside hill, spotting a supposed meteor shower, as it was later reported, of red, yellow, and green lights, exclaiming, “What on earth is that?!!” I had dismissed even wondering later, as I reached the hill’s base and communed with the frogs.
Now, the horror at what it might have been hit me…hard! Whoever was playing Frisbee that evening was not of the earth. The thought made my hand quiver. I began to breath heavily. I’d heard stories of abductions and how the public never believed the victims.
The conversation continued, “I see not much progress has been made here yet. We’ll keep checking from time to time. They’ve got another pollution cleanup meeting coming up.”
“Not of the earth, but concerned about it,” I thought quietly to myself. I couldn’t allow myself to be heard. Looking toward the park side, I saw two similar figures climb up the hill together, arm in arm. A sulfur odor began to choke me; I held back the noise.
Then, a humongous metallic arc emerged at the top of the hill. A staircase unfolded. The two figures ascended. The arc rumbled and took off. I felt the heat nearly burn my skin. I saw the colors, red, yellow, green. No meteor shower, she…
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Messages from Mom
After reading The After Life Connection by Dr. Jane Greer,(www.drjanegreer.com ), I began noting and writing down senses and possible suggestions that Mom and others are still around.
My daughter speculated that Mom sort of "tricked" her nurse by sending her to get a glass of water, because Mom "saw something"; Was it Dad? My aunt, her oldest sister? When the nurse came back, Mom was gone. That's just the kind of thing Mom would do, too. The message from Mom was that it's easy to make one's transition, sort of like the "Twilight Zone" episode with Robert Redford and the old lady; it's just a change of cosmic address.
I also am aware that Mom has guided my daughter out of her first marriage into her present one.
A jewelry box containing her Swedish Hospital pin and her amethyst have tipped over at significant times. Two songs, "Somewhere Out There" and "Fur Elise" (as well as "Carmen") used to play at important times also. The first one played right after her transition, (I couldn't hold back the tears), and at other crucial occasions. The second one was usually heard in churches, but also the bookstore, the arts school, and other places as well. When I had questions about health, whether I or my husband should take or do something, or not, I often "ran into" her Swedish Hospital cup as a kind of signal. One time, the box containing her Swedish Hospital pin and amethyst fell over with a "crash!"
There was one outstanding occasion I was literally crying out to her in my car on my way home about a work situation that was a real concern. Even though I didn't have a dire need for gas, I chose to pull into the neighborhood gas station and met up with a colleague who had worked at that place and who told me the longer hours he'd worked, the less he got paid. So I went home to type up my resignation with great confidence, and eventually, in two weeks, I released myself from the situation. I told her best friend about this "communication", because my concerns were so dramatically and quickly answered.
Mom has also helped me deal with a church problem that is finally resolving itself, even though it wasn't my original denomination. (Regarding my present preferred spiritual approach, she indicated that she had formerly been "seeing in a mirror, dimly".) She'd had a problem in her church during her lifetime that she was actively involved in solving. One time, after reading about humor's good effects, I "stumbled upon" her picture and took it as a signal to "lighten up" once this church situation is over.
Since Mom was Swedish Lutheran, I've been directed to a Santa Lucia statue at another Swedish Lady's house; She reminds me of her, and the lady even spoke a "Malapropism" in the way my mother did. Later, I picked up a December angel who looked like a Santa Lucia, gave it to my daughter on her marriage day.
She's guided me to select a story to tell, by indicating with her birthdate, and it was a success. Also, very near her birthdate, I was given my first opportunity to present a talk at a chapel.
During her birth month, a well-known prayer line volunteered to pray for me without my asking. It "happened" that that was the month of my colonoscopy, which is a crucial issue for my family members, because our dad died of rectal cancer. "Nothing to worry about" was music to my ears, because I'm my dad's age when he died of it, so I nearly leaped off my gurney with joy. Shortly after that, when I had a new excitement about the rest of the time I have here, I had an interview for an artist-in-residence type program for the schools and enthusiastically got all my materials together for it.
She's played "Fur Elise" when the phone line was on hold for the bookstore. At the time, I was trying to order a favorite used book on playwriting, and in a metaphorical way, she encouraged me to open it and read it, now that I have it. I'd better get on that, too.
My daughter speculated that Mom sort of "tricked" her nurse by sending her to get a glass of water, because Mom "saw something"; Was it Dad? My aunt, her oldest sister? When the nurse came back, Mom was gone. That's just the kind of thing Mom would do, too. The message from Mom was that it's easy to make one's transition, sort of like the "Twilight Zone" episode with Robert Redford and the old lady; it's just a change of cosmic address.
I also am aware that Mom has guided my daughter out of her first marriage into her present one.
A jewelry box containing her Swedish Hospital pin and her amethyst have tipped over at significant times. Two songs, "Somewhere Out There" and "Fur Elise" (as well as "Carmen") used to play at important times also. The first one played right after her transition, (I couldn't hold back the tears), and at other crucial occasions. The second one was usually heard in churches, but also the bookstore, the arts school, and other places as well. When I had questions about health, whether I or my husband should take or do something, or not, I often "ran into" her Swedish Hospital cup as a kind of signal. One time, the box containing her Swedish Hospital pin and amethyst fell over with a "crash!"
There was one outstanding occasion I was literally crying out to her in my car on my way home about a work situation that was a real concern. Even though I didn't have a dire need for gas, I chose to pull into the neighborhood gas station and met up with a colleague who had worked at that place and who told me the longer hours he'd worked, the less he got paid. So I went home to type up my resignation with great confidence, and eventually, in two weeks, I released myself from the situation. I told her best friend about this "communication", because my concerns were so dramatically and quickly answered.
Mom has also helped me deal with a church problem that is finally resolving itself, even though it wasn't my original denomination. (Regarding my present preferred spiritual approach, she indicated that she had formerly been "seeing in a mirror, dimly".) She'd had a problem in her church during her lifetime that she was actively involved in solving. One time, after reading about humor's good effects, I "stumbled upon" her picture and took it as a signal to "lighten up" once this church situation is over.
Since Mom was Swedish Lutheran, I've been directed to a Santa Lucia statue at another Swedish Lady's house; She reminds me of her, and the lady even spoke a "Malapropism" in the way my mother did. Later, I picked up a December angel who looked like a Santa Lucia, gave it to my daughter on her marriage day.
She's guided me to select a story to tell, by indicating with her birthdate, and it was a success. Also, very near her birthdate, I was given my first opportunity to present a talk at a chapel.
During her birth month, a well-known prayer line volunteered to pray for me without my asking. It "happened" that that was the month of my colonoscopy, which is a crucial issue for my family members, because our dad died of rectal cancer. "Nothing to worry about" was music to my ears, because I'm my dad's age when he died of it, so I nearly leaped off my gurney with joy. Shortly after that, when I had a new excitement about the rest of the time I have here, I had an interview for an artist-in-residence type program for the schools and enthusiastically got all my materials together for it.
She's played "Fur Elise" when the phone line was on hold for the bookstore. At the time, I was trying to order a favorite used book on playwriting, and in a metaphorical way, she encouraged me to open it and read it, now that I have it. I'd better get on that, too.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Memoirs of Mom
Everybody in my family knows the story of how my mom and my uncle (her brother in law) got roped into a social situation where they were expected to play a card game. Since both of them were "clueless", my mom urged him to be a good sport and start playing. My uncle had a broad smile and a sense of humor himself, so he went along with it. Pretty soon, they were the center of attention as they put cards in their shirts and behind their ears. People stared in amazement and asked what on earth they were playing. And my mom said, as if they should know, "Well, we're playing Japalapa".
She urged me also to learn all the rules and strategies of another game, as we sat outside during my college homecoming; she told me to "broaden my horizons." So I said to her, "Okay, then, tell me, what's going on out there?" She chirped back, "Well,that's easy; we're watching a football game!"
My mother took my brother and girlfriend driving. When she went round and round in circles in the parking lot, his girlfriend, laughingly and nervously, asked what she was doing. Her reply was, "Oh, just driving around."
Since she was a minister's wife, Mom volunteered to be camp nurse at Bible Camp, I witnessed her painting a girl camper's inner throat. As the poor camper gagged loudly, my mother "hawhaw"ed just as loudly, like she was getting a real kick out of torturing the poor girl.
My three brothers did some very creative clay work, building forts, marching soldiers, boats, and the like, and Mom came in to look. She inquired, "What's That?" while concurrently taking her thumb, "Splat!" to one of the clay pieces and flattening it.
When my two oldest brothers arrived after hitch hiking from the University of Wisconsin, all three got Mom laughing uncontrollably, as she held her sides and turned crimson: They also laughed imitatively, with an exagerrated, "Nuck, Nuck, Nuck!" while holding their sides and egging her on and on.
Since my mother was my schoolmate's supervisor at a large church nursing home, my friend was a little afraid of Mom. As my companion was rinsing out infirmary patients' diapers and putting them through the ringer, she was getting water all over the floor. Mom only stopped to observe, looked serious for awhile, then held her sides and laughed uproariously. My friend said she never was afraid of her beyond that time, relieved that she discovered her sense of humor.
In that same nursing home, a new director took over and took a shine to my mom, so whenever they were out of sight, for example, in the stairwell, he hugged her, "Hello". She really didn't know what to do about this, but when he introduced her to a V.I.P. he was trying to impress, she leaned over the director at his desk, gave him a "passionate" bear hug, and kissed him. Then, she turned and "explained" to the guest, "We always greet each other this way." She never had a problem with his overtures again.
A male cousin said about Mom that she was "pretty and entertaining". For example, Mom entertained my husband's friend in Colorado, who had my late brother's personality type and traits. She confessed she "saw" her youngest son all over again in him. She told him a story about how she got me under control when I was small by telling me a story of a mouse, who wanted cheese; he ate and ate and ate until he had a stomach ache. Then the mouse said, "Squeak,Squeak, Squeak," so that's why she'd made a pattern of "Squeaker the Mouse" for me. She went on and on relentlessly and animatedly repeating, "Squeak, Squeak, Squeak..." in a high "mouse" voice. My husband and his buddy laughed interminably; his friend looked and acted like my brother as he held his sides, quietly laughing, interspersing his quiet chuckling with guffaws and hoots. They were laughing so hard, they both had to leave; then, they went to a nearby cemetery and laid on the ground. His pal said, "I can't take it," and both laughed until their sides hurt. The next morning, his friend said, "Anita, you have a fine mother!"
At the family farm, when they made home movies, Mom said she thought the movies were stupid, because people didn't do anything but stand there and wave. So she and my middle brother decided to weave through the crowd of relatives. When they asked what they were doing, she said, "Oh, just milling around."
On the same farm, my oldest aunt played a game with my, then, two-and-a-half year old daughter. With auntie's meek child-sensitive voice, she tenderly touched her little forehead with a gentle little knock, saying, "Knock on the door," and with a soft turn of her nose, said, "Open the latch.." As my little girl's mouth opened, she said, demonstrating with two forefingers, "Walk in," then, pulled my daughter's chin tenderly, lifted it up and down, said, "How do you do?"
My older girl cousin thought that was sweet, but then went to her other aunt, my mother, and demonstrated on her, how my mother would do it: "KNOCK ON THE DOOR!" BAM! BAM! "OPEN THE LATCH!" TWIST! TWIST! "HOW DO YOU DO?!!"PULL! PULL! Mom agreed laughingly, and they both roared.
She often changed names and words. For example, she called Carl Anderson, "Bub" Carlson. And she explained that scientists said plants really grow when you talk to them, because you're breathing "carbohydrates" on them.
When we were both ten years old, my cousin got her head dunked under water while Mom shampooed her long hair, and sang "There's a joy, joy, joy, joy...down in my heart...Where!? Down in my heart...Where!? Down in my heart..."
I think her joy and laughter came from a deep reservoir of faith that she, interestingly enough, took very seriously.
There were many stories of Mom. A female cousin, on the Swedish side, told how you couldn't write down the things she said and did and get the same experience, because of her actions and inflections. Then, she demonstrated that when a very tall man entered the room, Mom (her aunt) strode up to him, raised her arm, threw her head back, and proclaimed, "You're sooo...." (deepening her voice) "TA...LL!"
Despite this disadvantage, I simply write it out as best I can, since there's no one in the world who could be Mom but Mom.
She urged me also to learn all the rules and strategies of another game, as we sat outside during my college homecoming; she told me to "broaden my horizons." So I said to her, "Okay, then, tell me, what's going on out there?" She chirped back, "Well,that's easy; we're watching a football game!"
My mother took my brother and girlfriend driving. When she went round and round in circles in the parking lot, his girlfriend, laughingly and nervously, asked what she was doing. Her reply was, "Oh, just driving around."
Since she was a minister's wife, Mom volunteered to be camp nurse at Bible Camp, I witnessed her painting a girl camper's inner throat. As the poor camper gagged loudly, my mother "hawhaw"ed just as loudly, like she was getting a real kick out of torturing the poor girl.
My three brothers did some very creative clay work, building forts, marching soldiers, boats, and the like, and Mom came in to look. She inquired, "What's That?" while concurrently taking her thumb, "Splat!" to one of the clay pieces and flattening it.
When my two oldest brothers arrived after hitch hiking from the University of Wisconsin, all three got Mom laughing uncontrollably, as she held her sides and turned crimson: They also laughed imitatively, with an exagerrated, "Nuck, Nuck, Nuck!" while holding their sides and egging her on and on.
Since my mother was my schoolmate's supervisor at a large church nursing home, my friend was a little afraid of Mom. As my companion was rinsing out infirmary patients' diapers and putting them through the ringer, she was getting water all over the floor. Mom only stopped to observe, looked serious for awhile, then held her sides and laughed uproariously. My friend said she never was afraid of her beyond that time, relieved that she discovered her sense of humor.
In that same nursing home, a new director took over and took a shine to my mom, so whenever they were out of sight, for example, in the stairwell, he hugged her, "Hello". She really didn't know what to do about this, but when he introduced her to a V.I.P. he was trying to impress, she leaned over the director at his desk, gave him a "passionate" bear hug, and kissed him. Then, she turned and "explained" to the guest, "We always greet each other this way." She never had a problem with his overtures again.
A male cousin said about Mom that she was "pretty and entertaining". For example, Mom entertained my husband's friend in Colorado, who had my late brother's personality type and traits. She confessed she "saw" her youngest son all over again in him. She told him a story about how she got me under control when I was small by telling me a story of a mouse, who wanted cheese; he ate and ate and ate until he had a stomach ache. Then the mouse said, "Squeak,Squeak, Squeak," so that's why she'd made a pattern of "Squeaker the Mouse" for me. She went on and on relentlessly and animatedly repeating, "Squeak, Squeak, Squeak..." in a high "mouse" voice. My husband and his buddy laughed interminably; his friend looked and acted like my brother as he held his sides, quietly laughing, interspersing his quiet chuckling with guffaws and hoots. They were laughing so hard, they both had to leave; then, they went to a nearby cemetery and laid on the ground. His pal said, "I can't take it," and both laughed until their sides hurt. The next morning, his friend said, "Anita, you have a fine mother!"
At the family farm, when they made home movies, Mom said she thought the movies were stupid, because people didn't do anything but stand there and wave. So she and my middle brother decided to weave through the crowd of relatives. When they asked what they were doing, she said, "Oh, just milling around."
On the same farm, my oldest aunt played a game with my, then, two-and-a-half year old daughter. With auntie's meek child-sensitive voice, she tenderly touched her little forehead with a gentle little knock, saying, "Knock on the door," and with a soft turn of her nose, said, "Open the latch.." As my little girl's mouth opened, she said, demonstrating with two forefingers, "Walk in," then, pulled my daughter's chin tenderly, lifted it up and down, said, "How do you do?"
My older girl cousin thought that was sweet, but then went to her other aunt, my mother, and demonstrated on her, how my mother would do it: "KNOCK ON THE DOOR!" BAM! BAM! "OPEN THE LATCH!" TWIST! TWIST! "HOW DO YOU DO?!!"PULL! PULL! Mom agreed laughingly, and they both roared.
She often changed names and words. For example, she called Carl Anderson, "Bub" Carlson. And she explained that scientists said plants really grow when you talk to them, because you're breathing "carbohydrates" on them.
When we were both ten years old, my cousin got her head dunked under water while Mom shampooed her long hair, and sang "There's a joy, joy, joy, joy...down in my heart...Where!? Down in my heart...Where!? Down in my heart..."
I think her joy and laughter came from a deep reservoir of faith that she, interestingly enough, took very seriously.
There were many stories of Mom. A female cousin, on the Swedish side, told how you couldn't write down the things she said and did and get the same experience, because of her actions and inflections. Then, she demonstrated that when a very tall man entered the room, Mom (her aunt) strode up to him, raised her arm, threw her head back, and proclaimed, "You're sooo...." (deepening her voice) "TA...LL!"
Despite this disadvantage, I simply write it out as best I can, since there's no one in the world who could be Mom but Mom.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
40th Anniversary of 2 Soldiers
There were no guarantees,
When I sat on my mother’s lap,
As we rode to Stony Lake;
Her hands fidgeted
For reasons I could not understand.
Dad drove down roads of love,
Big…grandiose…powerful,
I couldn’t have much more,
But there were no guarantees.
Three older brothers,
Who found creative ways
To exclude me,
And one wonderful, fluffy,
Big English setter.
It seemed as though the scenario
Would always be there.
And when we camped,
I watched my parents talk upside down
In the camper
As my brothers tented elsewhere.
All this, and there were
No guarantees.
I had a grandmother
Who told me I missed
the best part of the potato
by not eating the skin,
And I showed her my “writing.”
She said, “That’s nice,” and
Tossed it into the wastebasket.
It was then I knew
There were no guarantees
That anyone would like my “writing”.
I made the loops, the dots, and crosses.
I thought my writing was just as real
As anyone’s who knew how.
We had a girl in kindergarten,
Who had tap shoes and tap-danced;
So I told everyone I could dance, too,
Because I’d tested my natural rhythm.
But there were no guarantees,
Because the children laughed,
And the teacher laughed,
(I never liked her.)
When I danced…
There were no guarantees
That anyone would like my “dancing”.
I thought my rhythms, my moves,
The sound of my feet,
And above all, the sheer joy
I felt while dancing
Were just as real as anyone
Who knew how.
When Dad got sick and felt
He couldn’t preach anymore,
Though he did better on
His way down from the pulpit
Than ever before,
There were no guarantees
He’d even have a job.
When he got frantic, my mom
Said, “Be not anxious.”
Her prayers lead him to the job.
I’m her age now, but
There was no guarantee for her.
She landed in the hospital
And nearly died….
And Dad got frantic again
When I came home too late
(I hadn’t wanted to –
I’d kept telling my friend
I had to go.)
And told me how Mom
Almost didn’t make it,
No guarantees I’d keep my mother.
Visited her in the hospital
--No glasses on – I thought,
“She’s kind of pretty,”
The first I’d ever noticed.
Which made my oldest brother
Come home from the seminary for good,
Because there were no guarantees
He’d become the minister
My parents expected him to be,
Nor that he’ d (nor my other brothers) agree.
Even the big English setter
Had a heart attack
At my friends’ farm,
And there was no guarantee
I’d get to keep her.
Even Dad was upset,
As she died in my mother’s arms
In the basement.
Mom grew from that,
Learned animals had souls,
And Lucky was in “Dog Heaven,”
No matter what Mom was taught before.
And when my youngest brother
Got assigned to Viet Nam,
I was told I cried, but I couldn’t remember;
There was no guarantee
He’d come back,
…And he didn’t. *
And when my father grieved,
There was no guarantee
He’d be able, with poor health,
To stand the grief,
…And he didn’t.
And finally, Mom, who’d flirted earlier with death
Got older and older and weaker;
There was no guarantee
Thirty years later,
I could keep her.
Now, the three of us are left
And our families, we have born.
And we know
No guarantees for any of us.
We disagree and banter,
But we know we’d better
Treasure one another,
Because we’re going
Where there is a guarantee
We’ll be together
In the Spirit World;
And like vaporous clouds, raining,
Perhaps returning
To the earth plane
Every once in awhile…
Forever…
*taken from a quote from Kubler-Ross and Buscaglia,
a girl writing a letter about Viet Nam: "If I had only..."
When I sat on my mother’s lap,
As we rode to Stony Lake;
Her hands fidgeted
For reasons I could not understand.
Dad drove down roads of love,
Big…grandiose…powerful,
I couldn’t have much more,
But there were no guarantees.
Three older brothers,
Who found creative ways
To exclude me,
And one wonderful, fluffy,
Big English setter.
It seemed as though the scenario
Would always be there.
And when we camped,
I watched my parents talk upside down
In the camper
As my brothers tented elsewhere.
All this, and there were
No guarantees.
I had a grandmother
Who told me I missed
the best part of the potato
by not eating the skin,
And I showed her my “writing.”
She said, “That’s nice,” and
Tossed it into the wastebasket.
It was then I knew
There were no guarantees
That anyone would like my “writing”.
I made the loops, the dots, and crosses.
I thought my writing was just as real
As anyone’s who knew how.
We had a girl in kindergarten,
Who had tap shoes and tap-danced;
So I told everyone I could dance, too,
Because I’d tested my natural rhythm.
But there were no guarantees,
Because the children laughed,
And the teacher laughed,
(I never liked her.)
When I danced…
There were no guarantees
That anyone would like my “dancing”.
I thought my rhythms, my moves,
The sound of my feet,
And above all, the sheer joy
I felt while dancing
Were just as real as anyone
Who knew how.
When Dad got sick and felt
He couldn’t preach anymore,
Though he did better on
His way down from the pulpit
Than ever before,
There were no guarantees
He’d even have a job.
When he got frantic, my mom
Said, “Be not anxious.”
Her prayers lead him to the job.
I’m her age now, but
There was no guarantee for her.
She landed in the hospital
And nearly died….
And Dad got frantic again
When I came home too late
(I hadn’t wanted to –
I’d kept telling my friend
I had to go.)
And told me how Mom
Almost didn’t make it,
No guarantees I’d keep my mother.
Visited her in the hospital
--No glasses on – I thought,
“She’s kind of pretty,”
The first I’d ever noticed.
Which made my oldest brother
Come home from the seminary for good,
Because there were no guarantees
He’d become the minister
My parents expected him to be,
Nor that he’ d (nor my other brothers) agree.
Even the big English setter
Had a heart attack
At my friends’ farm,
And there was no guarantee
I’d get to keep her.
Even Dad was upset,
As she died in my mother’s arms
In the basement.
Mom grew from that,
Learned animals had souls,
And Lucky was in “Dog Heaven,”
No matter what Mom was taught before.
And when my youngest brother
Got assigned to Viet Nam,
I was told I cried, but I couldn’t remember;
There was no guarantee
He’d come back,
…And he didn’t. *
And when my father grieved,
There was no guarantee
He’d be able, with poor health,
To stand the grief,
…And he didn’t.
And finally, Mom, who’d flirted earlier with death
Got older and older and weaker;
There was no guarantee
Thirty years later,
I could keep her.
Now, the three of us are left
And our families, we have born.
And we know
No guarantees for any of us.
We disagree and banter,
But we know we’d better
Treasure one another,
Because we’re going
Where there is a guarantee
We’ll be together
In the Spirit World;
And like vaporous clouds, raining,
Perhaps returning
To the earth plane
Every once in awhile…
Forever…
*taken from a quote from Kubler-Ross and Buscaglia,
a girl writing a letter about Viet Nam: "If I had only..."
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Spirits of the Night
The shrill cry from deep in the woods alerted Sergeant Buckley to veer north in his navy blue ’98 Chevy squad car.
He had been following this case for some time now, probably a number of days. The parents were constantly calling, never letting him alone. With this much time gone, he didn’t have much hope. But they persisted, nevertheless, to keep on the trail for their eleven-year-old son, DeMarcus.
Demarcus was last seen in a WalMart at 10:25 on a Tuesday morning. His friends had separated from him, never to see him turn up at the arranged time and place in the store. They reported this to the parents and authorities.
“Maybe just a timber wolf from up north thought the sergeant, returning to the present, “Hope it’s not a banshee,” he mused. But then, he became more serious after he failed to see the humor in his own joke.
He watched the northern road begin to turn into gravel, and then, a two track. Cross street horizontal signs disappeared and became tall poles with street names going a vertical direction. Good thing he knew about how lake cabin folks posted their signs, he thought; Otherwise, he wouldn’t even know where he was if he checked a map. A certain apprehension overcame him, and he began to perspire and to hyperventilate. The sky was beginning to turn dusk. He didn’t feel he was in friendly territory, but was he, as a police officer, ever able to claim such security?
It was getting darker. He saw a campfire, or at least, it looked like a campfire. Then, the hair stood up on his neck. Were these spirits he saw? He had to talk himself back into rationality. These weren’t ghosts, but people dressed up in sheets, pointed sheets.
His heart began to race, wishing he’d brought his partner with him. This was pure foolishness; he scolded himself, to travel this route without a partner.
But then, he saw a smaller figure running down the side of the road, with most of his own dark skin revealed, just a pair of shorts and white socks and sneakers.
Buckley pulled the squad car up to the boy very slowly and quietly. He pushed the window button, “What are you doing, son?”
The boy panted. “They’re after me, but I took a run for it. I lost ‘em, at least, for right now!”
“Get in!” Buckley commanded sternly, as his own dark hand released and opened the passenger door. The boy bolted forward into the car seat.
“How did you get to this place anyway?” inquired the officer, the sweat beading up more on his brow.
“These white guys duct taped my mouth and made off with me,” he paused, “but what about you? It doesn’t seem any great place for you either.”
Sergeant Buckley speeded up and made a shrieking u-turn, his heart racing, because of the sudden noise. All of a sudden, behind him, he saw the “ghosts” carrying their torches. He stepped on the accelerator.
“What’s your name, son?” he inquired as the torches in the rear view mirror began to shrink to the size of birthday candles, the two track turned to gravel, and then as he breathed a sigh of relief, the road turned to smooth pavement.
The boy breathed heavily, almost unbelieving at what appeared to be his good fortune, “DeMarcus, Sir.”
He had been following this case for some time now, probably a number of days. The parents were constantly calling, never letting him alone. With this much time gone, he didn’t have much hope. But they persisted, nevertheless, to keep on the trail for their eleven-year-old son, DeMarcus.
Demarcus was last seen in a WalMart at 10:25 on a Tuesday morning. His friends had separated from him, never to see him turn up at the arranged time and place in the store. They reported this to the parents and authorities.
“Maybe just a timber wolf from up north thought the sergeant, returning to the present, “Hope it’s not a banshee,” he mused. But then, he became more serious after he failed to see the humor in his own joke.
He watched the northern road begin to turn into gravel, and then, a two track. Cross street horizontal signs disappeared and became tall poles with street names going a vertical direction. Good thing he knew about how lake cabin folks posted their signs, he thought; Otherwise, he wouldn’t even know where he was if he checked a map. A certain apprehension overcame him, and he began to perspire and to hyperventilate. The sky was beginning to turn dusk. He didn’t feel he was in friendly territory, but was he, as a police officer, ever able to claim such security?
It was getting darker. He saw a campfire, or at least, it looked like a campfire. Then, the hair stood up on his neck. Were these spirits he saw? He had to talk himself back into rationality. These weren’t ghosts, but people dressed up in sheets, pointed sheets.
His heart began to race, wishing he’d brought his partner with him. This was pure foolishness; he scolded himself, to travel this route without a partner.
But then, he saw a smaller figure running down the side of the road, with most of his own dark skin revealed, just a pair of shorts and white socks and sneakers.
Buckley pulled the squad car up to the boy very slowly and quietly. He pushed the window button, “What are you doing, son?”
The boy panted. “They’re after me, but I took a run for it. I lost ‘em, at least, for right now!”
“Get in!” Buckley commanded sternly, as his own dark hand released and opened the passenger door. The boy bolted forward into the car seat.
“How did you get to this place anyway?” inquired the officer, the sweat beading up more on his brow.
“These white guys duct taped my mouth and made off with me,” he paused, “but what about you? It doesn’t seem any great place for you either.”
Sergeant Buckley speeded up and made a shrieking u-turn, his heart racing, because of the sudden noise. All of a sudden, behind him, he saw the “ghosts” carrying their torches. He stepped on the accelerator.
“What’s your name, son?” he inquired as the torches in the rear view mirror began to shrink to the size of birthday candles, the two track turned to gravel, and then as he breathed a sigh of relief, the road turned to smooth pavement.
The boy breathed heavily, almost unbelieving at what appeared to be his good fortune, “DeMarcus, Sir.”
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Time Warp
The swirl of grey smoke alerted me to the chimney of a cabin in the forest glen.
“Medieval,” I thought to myself, as indeed it was.
For out of the cabin came a swarthy, heavy peasant-like man, “What brings ye here?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not sure. I seem to have passed through a time warp.”
“Time warp?” he responded, looking puzzled, yet observing my attire as something rather unusual.
“Yes, what year is it here?”
“Year?” he replied with another incredulous look, “I’d think ye’d at least know that, even if ye didn’t know the day and the o’clock.”
“Hrumph!” I said, a bit put off by his rudeness.
“All right, fine feller, the year is 1521, and the church is in a mess. The peasants are revolting.”
“I agree,” I said, eyeing his untidy appearance, “They certainly are.”
He didn’t seem to understand my humor. If he had, he might have been at least a little insulted.
“Ye’d better not be that scalawag monk, Luther, y’know the one who made off with a nun. I’ve got not time for either of them trouble makers and I won’t let ye hide in my chambers, if y’are.”
“I hardly think an English gentleman could be mistaken for a German priest.”
“Then, what business have ye here. You one of them Church of England fellows?”
I chuckled that he would mistake for anyone religious.
“So why are ye laughing?”
“No, rest your fears. I’m simply an Englishman who’s lost his way. I seem to have transported beyond four hundred years. It must have happened when I was shaving this morning. I thought the mirror looked a little blurry and…”
“Ye mean yer looking glass? Ye must be rich. There’s a clue for ye, getting’ back, I mean.”
“No, I don’t think I’d be considered rich, just middle class. And even the poorest have mirrors.”
“Sounds like a place I’d rather be meself.”
I heard a lady’s voice in the house.
“Who’s that, Eldridge?”
“Just a feller lost his way.”
“Ye leavin’ him out there? It’s not even polite, ye know.”
Then, I heard some childish giggles, and two curly-headed girls peeked out on each side of the homeowner. They each work white-laced bonnets, one dark haired, the other younger, blonde. They looked to be around 8 and 6 respectively. They had the appearance of smiles and curiosity.
“Are you the pope?” said the dark haired one.
This sent me into excruciating laughter, again, that I should be tagged with religion of any sort.
“Why’s that so funny?” My host paused, looking suspicious, “Don’t yer believe in God?”
“Most assuredly,” I replied, “but I practice religion only privately.”
“That’s just an excuse for no religion a‘tall.”
“Well,” said the lady’s voice, “If you want to show him good Christian kindness, at least, let him in “
The rogue opened the door, with his girls giggling on each side, to the most beautiful, though ragged looking, woman I’d ever had the good fortune to see.
She placed her soft, lily-white hand in mine.
“Very pleased to meet you gentleman,” she said, “Name’s Jenny.”
“I stammered, “P-p-pleased to meet you too, Madam”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to supper making. You’re welcomed to attend.”
The man gazed at me uncomfortably. I’d been unable to conceal my awe, regarding his wife.
“Oh no, I can’t impose,” I said, partly out of deference to the hulkish chap.
“Have some tea, then, and a biscuit.”
“Thank you.”
I felt the warmth of the tea brew near my lips and its unmistakable fine tea aroma, took a bite out of the scone and sat back in my chair, breathing deeply.
I opened my eyes. The family and the scene were gone. I blinked twice again, fell asleep once more in my chair, in my own room.
Upon opening my eyes again, there they were, all four of them.
“Are ye all right, man?” said the peasant, attentively.
I was rather nervously bolting upright, “Why yes, I must be going on,” I excused myself.
As I left the cabin and waved to the family, I walked toward the King’s Brook.
I looked in its reflection and watched it ripple.
“There’s a reason why I traveled here.”
I thought of the new “stringer” who bore a remarkably uncanny resemblance to the wife, and who’d applied yesterday at my newspaper. She fancied herself a freelance writer, preferred the Faith and Family Section, human-interest articles, she said. I’d told her I’d call her, and shrugged her off, just a pretty face, I thought.
The ripples became waves as I looked in the mirror at my own reflection.
“Miss Wilkes?” I asked after hearing the pleasing voice of the lady on her cell.
“Yes?”
“I’m the editor, Mr. Fairchild, from the Times.”
“Really?” she responded excitedly.
“My intuition tells me you’d be a ‘natural’ for this kind or work. You have an assignment at First Presbyterian tomorrow at 7 in the evening, a community interfaith dialogue of sorts, as a matter of fact.”
“I’ll do everything I can to prove myself a good reporter, sir.”
“I’m sure you will,” I concluded the conversation and hung up the phone.
“She won’t have to prove a thing,” I thought, confidently.
“Medieval,” I thought to myself, as indeed it was.
For out of the cabin came a swarthy, heavy peasant-like man, “What brings ye here?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not sure. I seem to have passed through a time warp.”
“Time warp?” he responded, looking puzzled, yet observing my attire as something rather unusual.
“Yes, what year is it here?”
“Year?” he replied with another incredulous look, “I’d think ye’d at least know that, even if ye didn’t know the day and the o’clock.”
“Hrumph!” I said, a bit put off by his rudeness.
“All right, fine feller, the year is 1521, and the church is in a mess. The peasants are revolting.”
“I agree,” I said, eyeing his untidy appearance, “They certainly are.”
He didn’t seem to understand my humor. If he had, he might have been at least a little insulted.
“Ye’d better not be that scalawag monk, Luther, y’know the one who made off with a nun. I’ve got not time for either of them trouble makers and I won’t let ye hide in my chambers, if y’are.”
“I hardly think an English gentleman could be mistaken for a German priest.”
“Then, what business have ye here. You one of them Church of England fellows?”
I chuckled that he would mistake for anyone religious.
“So why are ye laughing?”
“No, rest your fears. I’m simply an Englishman who’s lost his way. I seem to have transported beyond four hundred years. It must have happened when I was shaving this morning. I thought the mirror looked a little blurry and…”
“Ye mean yer looking glass? Ye must be rich. There’s a clue for ye, getting’ back, I mean.”
“No, I don’t think I’d be considered rich, just middle class. And even the poorest have mirrors.”
“Sounds like a place I’d rather be meself.”
I heard a lady’s voice in the house.
“Who’s that, Eldridge?”
“Just a feller lost his way.”
“Ye leavin’ him out there? It’s not even polite, ye know.”
Then, I heard some childish giggles, and two curly-headed girls peeked out on each side of the homeowner. They each work white-laced bonnets, one dark haired, the other younger, blonde. They looked to be around 8 and 6 respectively. They had the appearance of smiles and curiosity.
“Are you the pope?” said the dark haired one.
This sent me into excruciating laughter, again, that I should be tagged with religion of any sort.
“Why’s that so funny?” My host paused, looking suspicious, “Don’t yer believe in God?”
“Most assuredly,” I replied, “but I practice religion only privately.”
“That’s just an excuse for no religion a‘tall.”
“Well,” said the lady’s voice, “If you want to show him good Christian kindness, at least, let him in “
The rogue opened the door, with his girls giggling on each side, to the most beautiful, though ragged looking, woman I’d ever had the good fortune to see.
She placed her soft, lily-white hand in mine.
“Very pleased to meet you gentleman,” she said, “Name’s Jenny.”
“I stammered, “P-p-pleased to meet you too, Madam”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to supper making. You’re welcomed to attend.”
The man gazed at me uncomfortably. I’d been unable to conceal my awe, regarding his wife.
“Oh no, I can’t impose,” I said, partly out of deference to the hulkish chap.
“Have some tea, then, and a biscuit.”
“Thank you.”
I felt the warmth of the tea brew near my lips and its unmistakable fine tea aroma, took a bite out of the scone and sat back in my chair, breathing deeply.
I opened my eyes. The family and the scene were gone. I blinked twice again, fell asleep once more in my chair, in my own room.
Upon opening my eyes again, there they were, all four of them.
“Are ye all right, man?” said the peasant, attentively.
I was rather nervously bolting upright, “Why yes, I must be going on,” I excused myself.
As I left the cabin and waved to the family, I walked toward the King’s Brook.
I looked in its reflection and watched it ripple.
“There’s a reason why I traveled here.”
I thought of the new “stringer” who bore a remarkably uncanny resemblance to the wife, and who’d applied yesterday at my newspaper. She fancied herself a freelance writer, preferred the Faith and Family Section, human-interest articles, she said. I’d told her I’d call her, and shrugged her off, just a pretty face, I thought.
The ripples became waves as I looked in the mirror at my own reflection.
“Miss Wilkes?” I asked after hearing the pleasing voice of the lady on her cell.
“Yes?”
“I’m the editor, Mr. Fairchild, from the Times.”
“Really?” she responded excitedly.
“My intuition tells me you’d be a ‘natural’ for this kind or work. You have an assignment at First Presbyterian tomorrow at 7 in the evening, a community interfaith dialogue of sorts, as a matter of fact.”
“I’ll do everything I can to prove myself a good reporter, sir.”
“I’m sure you will,” I concluded the conversation and hung up the phone.
“She won’t have to prove a thing,” I thought, confidently.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Our Rainbow Globe from a Distance
From the peak we saw Mt. Fuji in the distance, wreathed with clouds. The terrain was breathtakingly beautiful.
Wooden bridges arched over streams with fresh goldfish underneath, swimming contentedly, freed from their winter aquarium confinement.
The people on the wooden bridges stopped to pat the heads of the fish lovingly as the cool water streamed through their fingers. We marveled at their harmony with nature. They didn’t fight against it or fight with the rest of society about downsizing them out of jobs in polluting factories.
In fact, we didn’t even know these people very well, except in reference to a dvd from Joseph Campbell’s Power of Myth. The other cultures expressed astonishment at our man vs. nature outlook.
In the video, there was even a lady doing a dance with a cobra, taking a chance every once in awhile, to kiss the cobra on the nose before it took its opportunity to bite her. Jo Campbell thought the serpent had been unfairly demoted in our culture.
Of course, other cultures aren’t always so much better than ours. The story was told that one lady from the East at an American party saw a black Labrador dog, making its way through the crowd. After seeing the canine, she responded, “Oh, Christmas Dinner.”
Monkeys have been beheaded on the sidewalk, roasted over fires, and served to the public. One of us, who was an American Sailor at the time, respectfully declined with a “No thanks.” At one time, he even witnessed people eating monkey’s brains when the relative beasts were still alive. It was considered a delicacy.
Still, we have a certain fascination with other cultures, such as the Icelanders, who honor the abodes of elves and won’t do road construction if it’s determined that the "hidden people" don’t want you to build there. The elves cause the visible people a lot of hardship if they do. So, they hire experts to determine if it’s okay to build there.
Referring to Iceland as a very strange culture, because they’ve had eyewitnesses to the hidden people, was quickly countered with, “No, ours is the strange culture with a financial priority on war as opposed to Scandinavian cultures, which have enough money for citizens to have health insurance.” Iceland is one of the remaining cultures where both Christian and Pagan cultures are pretty much equal.
There’s a whole world out there, with Mt. Fuji in the distance: Samisen player and chanter accompany life-like puppets on the stage run by black-clad, considered therefore, invisible, puppeteers. Thornton Wilder, in writing the play, “Our Town”, borrowed from the Chinese. Also, some of our ways of theatrically improvising in a scenery-free environment and using imaginary props probably grew from this influence, too.
It would be nice if we could all get to know one another, swap ideas, and borrow the best of all cultures from one another.
Wooden bridges arched over streams with fresh goldfish underneath, swimming contentedly, freed from their winter aquarium confinement.
The people on the wooden bridges stopped to pat the heads of the fish lovingly as the cool water streamed through their fingers. We marveled at their harmony with nature. They didn’t fight against it or fight with the rest of society about downsizing them out of jobs in polluting factories.
In fact, we didn’t even know these people very well, except in reference to a dvd from Joseph Campbell’s Power of Myth. The other cultures expressed astonishment at our man vs. nature outlook.
In the video, there was even a lady doing a dance with a cobra, taking a chance every once in awhile, to kiss the cobra on the nose before it took its opportunity to bite her. Jo Campbell thought the serpent had been unfairly demoted in our culture.
Of course, other cultures aren’t always so much better than ours. The story was told that one lady from the East at an American party saw a black Labrador dog, making its way through the crowd. After seeing the canine, she responded, “Oh, Christmas Dinner.”
Monkeys have been beheaded on the sidewalk, roasted over fires, and served to the public. One of us, who was an American Sailor at the time, respectfully declined with a “No thanks.” At one time, he even witnessed people eating monkey’s brains when the relative beasts were still alive. It was considered a delicacy.
Still, we have a certain fascination with other cultures, such as the Icelanders, who honor the abodes of elves and won’t do road construction if it’s determined that the "hidden people" don’t want you to build there. The elves cause the visible people a lot of hardship if they do. So, they hire experts to determine if it’s okay to build there.
Referring to Iceland as a very strange culture, because they’ve had eyewitnesses to the hidden people, was quickly countered with, “No, ours is the strange culture with a financial priority on war as opposed to Scandinavian cultures, which have enough money for citizens to have health insurance.” Iceland is one of the remaining cultures where both Christian and Pagan cultures are pretty much equal.
There’s a whole world out there, with Mt. Fuji in the distance: Samisen player and chanter accompany life-like puppets on the stage run by black-clad, considered therefore, invisible, puppeteers. Thornton Wilder, in writing the play, “Our Town”, borrowed from the Chinese. Also, some of our ways of theatrically improvising in a scenery-free environment and using imaginary props probably grew from this influence, too.
It would be nice if we could all get to know one another, swap ideas, and borrow the best of all cultures from one another.
Friday, January 18, 2008
A Home Full of Friends
The bright blue jay poked its beak at the little nuthatches on the small birdfeeder, as the jay flew about in frenzied fashion. He was not quite reaching a position on the circular perch, but he continued flapping his wings, relentlessly stabbing at the three small birds.
One of the birds became intimidated and flew off, but the other two hung together, forming an alliance. One of the small birds had a crust of bread in its beak,which the jay succeeded in piercing out of it. So the crust fell to the porch, and the blue jay pursued it.
The Ottawa grandmother sat looking out her front window, not surprised at the jay's selfish conquest. She knew her birds. She knew the small ones brought her luck and home protection. But she eyed the jay with suspicion and judgment.
"Someone must be gossiping about me," she thought,"Otherwise, this thief would not be on my doorstep."
She looked up sorrowfully at the two little birds, "Ah, but it does not matter. These little ones offer me a circle of protection."
She watched the jay fly off with its stolen treasure.
"Good riddance," she said aloud, but then, she looked up at the small ones, who also looked back at her. "What ancestors are you?" she asked them.
She remembered when she'd been sick with a deep cough for quite some time, and that a flickerbird, among others, stopped to gaze into her bedroom window when she was finally on the mend. They all kept looking, earlier, with concern, and later, with compassion. They had a sense of triumph, expressing the victorious feeling of a doctor after a successful surgery.
Her calico cat jumped on the window sill to watch "cat t.v." for awhile. The grandmother put down some fine tuna, for she had a bond with both birds and this feline. If she fed it tuna, it would be less "tempted".
After scarfing down the tuna, the cat stopped watching its special performance and leaped onto her lap. He began to purr sleepily in its comfortable human bed.
The black and white fluffy dog came...tip...tip...tipping in from the kitchen, not to be outdone. She put her wet snout on the grandmother's lap with a whimper, its soft, brown eyes looking up at her, as she sat, her tail down on the carpet.
Two middle school children passed by. The grandmother heard them talking.
"Who lives there?"
"Oh, and old Indian woman. She lives alone. She's very strange."
"Why is she strange?"
"People get that way when they live alone, you know, no one to talk to."
The dog bounded to the front window and howled.
"That's okay, Cleo. School children don't know any better. I have many friends. They don't know I'm far from alone."
"Their idle talk has no power," she thought, and smiled peacefully.
One of the birds became intimidated and flew off, but the other two hung together, forming an alliance. One of the small birds had a crust of bread in its beak,which the jay succeeded in piercing out of it. So the crust fell to the porch, and the blue jay pursued it.
The Ottawa grandmother sat looking out her front window, not surprised at the jay's selfish conquest. She knew her birds. She knew the small ones brought her luck and home protection. But she eyed the jay with suspicion and judgment.
"Someone must be gossiping about me," she thought,"Otherwise, this thief would not be on my doorstep."
She looked up sorrowfully at the two little birds, "Ah, but it does not matter. These little ones offer me a circle of protection."
She watched the jay fly off with its stolen treasure.
"Good riddance," she said aloud, but then, she looked up at the small ones, who also looked back at her. "What ancestors are you?" she asked them.
She remembered when she'd been sick with a deep cough for quite some time, and that a flickerbird, among others, stopped to gaze into her bedroom window when she was finally on the mend. They all kept looking, earlier, with concern, and later, with compassion. They had a sense of triumph, expressing the victorious feeling of a doctor after a successful surgery.
Her calico cat jumped on the window sill to watch "cat t.v." for awhile. The grandmother put down some fine tuna, for she had a bond with both birds and this feline. If she fed it tuna, it would be less "tempted".
After scarfing down the tuna, the cat stopped watching its special performance and leaped onto her lap. He began to purr sleepily in its comfortable human bed.
The black and white fluffy dog came...tip...tip...tipping in from the kitchen, not to be outdone. She put her wet snout on the grandmother's lap with a whimper, its soft, brown eyes looking up at her, as she sat, her tail down on the carpet.
Two middle school children passed by. The grandmother heard them talking.
"Who lives there?"
"Oh, and old Indian woman. She lives alone. She's very strange."
"Why is she strange?"
"People get that way when they live alone, you know, no one to talk to."
The dog bounded to the front window and howled.
"That's okay, Cleo. School children don't know any better. I have many friends. They don't know I'm far from alone."
"Their idle talk has no power," she thought, and smiled peacefully.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Happy Christmas Flying or Off the Track
Since the weather has become snowy and blowy once again this holiday, travelers can relate to the following:
I remember Christmas in my hometown, how I could feel a cold coming on, but I didn't admit it to my husband. I said I was fine. I packed up my daughter to make the plane trip. That was the time the plane, or rather, the pilot decided never to land.
I was looking to land in Madison, near our town in southern Wisconsin, but it was at that point, the pilot made an announcement that he would have to move on to LaCrosse, since the runway was too slippery. Upon arrival at the LaCrosse Airport, the pilot announced that conditions for landing were, again, too slippery; next stop was Minneapolis!
My little daughter was resourceful; I had asked a guy name, Pete, what to do and started following him around. So being the nice fellow he was, my daughter began placing him in a position of "guide". We must not lose track of Pete. He would help us. He would lead us. He would make all things right.
Now, when you're a mom with a little girl, and you've planned on landing in southern Wisconsin only to land in northern Minnesota, you feel something short of desperate.
You get your brother on the pay phone, because cell phones had not yet been invented. A stranger has seen your tears and promised to put you up for the night, even though you've declined, because now, you're wiser than a single age twenty-two embarking on Chicago.
But brother advises you to hold back your tears for the sake of affecting your child and making her apprehensive. He assures you that the reason the pilots chose not to land is that they're smart.
Moments are lost in memory, but somehow, we got back to our original destination My mom shouted out, smiling, "Look at her", meaning my daughter, toddling along.
I embraced a sister-in-law. Later, her son and my daughter played "Tricky Track" and cheered each time the train fell off the track, which is not the object of the game.
The snow was high. Relatives were glad to see me, especially the advising brother, with a lot fuller, darker beard and head of hair than he has now.
The head cold did not get any better. In fact; it got worse. But I kept plugging along just so I could see my people and bring our kids together in the farm and cheese state in which we were all raised. Okay, I wouldn't be surprised if Garrison Keillor's Lake Woebegone was actually our town.
It was worth it, so when my daughter replayed the series of events for my husband on a little pink, plastic car upon her return home,(which became a plane and her, a pilot, in her imagination) she said, "On our way to Grandma's house, no; we're not going to land there. We're going to land in LaCrosse; no, we're not going to land there either. We're going to...Minneapolis!"
These are the kinds of things we love to store in our memories.
I remember Christmas in my hometown, how I could feel a cold coming on, but I didn't admit it to my husband. I said I was fine. I packed up my daughter to make the plane trip. That was the time the plane, or rather, the pilot decided never to land.
I was looking to land in Madison, near our town in southern Wisconsin, but it was at that point, the pilot made an announcement that he would have to move on to LaCrosse, since the runway was too slippery. Upon arrival at the LaCrosse Airport, the pilot announced that conditions for landing were, again, too slippery; next stop was Minneapolis!
My little daughter was resourceful; I had asked a guy name, Pete, what to do and started following him around. So being the nice fellow he was, my daughter began placing him in a position of "guide". We must not lose track of Pete. He would help us. He would lead us. He would make all things right.
Now, when you're a mom with a little girl, and you've planned on landing in southern Wisconsin only to land in northern Minnesota, you feel something short of desperate.
You get your brother on the pay phone, because cell phones had not yet been invented. A stranger has seen your tears and promised to put you up for the night, even though you've declined, because now, you're wiser than a single age twenty-two embarking on Chicago.
But brother advises you to hold back your tears for the sake of affecting your child and making her apprehensive. He assures you that the reason the pilots chose not to land is that they're smart.
Moments are lost in memory, but somehow, we got back to our original destination My mom shouted out, smiling, "Look at her", meaning my daughter, toddling along.
I embraced a sister-in-law. Later, her son and my daughter played "Tricky Track" and cheered each time the train fell off the track, which is not the object of the game.
The snow was high. Relatives were glad to see me, especially the advising brother, with a lot fuller, darker beard and head of hair than he has now.
The head cold did not get any better. In fact; it got worse. But I kept plugging along just so I could see my people and bring our kids together in the farm and cheese state in which we were all raised. Okay, I wouldn't be surprised if Garrison Keillor's Lake Woebegone was actually our town.
It was worth it, so when my daughter replayed the series of events for my husband on a little pink, plastic car upon her return home,(which became a plane and her, a pilot, in her imagination) she said, "On our way to Grandma's house, no; we're not going to land there. We're going to land in LaCrosse; no, we're not going to land there either. We're going to...Minneapolis!"
These are the kinds of things we love to store in our memories.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
The North Pole Dimension
In the stillness of the dark theatre, there was one street lamp like the lamp in the cold winter snow of Narnia*.
In fact, as she began to let her imagination run wild, she noticed the stage becoming colder, and as she looked up at the catwalk, she saw it melt and looked up to see a sky of stars and clouds combined. A cloud moved over the three-quarter moon, concealed it for awhile, then once again, revealed its mystical beauty against the darkness where the stars appeared to pin up the sky.
Little flakes of snow began to fall, downy, softly, sending shivers throughout her body, lacing the stage like Ivory Detergent Flakes.
An ice rink revealed itself, and penguins waddled past her. She thought that was a little peculiar, but took it in stride.
An iceberg came out from stage left of her, and two polar bears began lumbering toward her, three cubs behind them, making her feel downright uncomfortable.
The weather report had been bleak for the midwest, scary, they told everyone. "Stay inside," they cautioned.
But she was inside. She couldn't help it if the outside came to her.
She shivered, drew her ski jacket around her, put on her ear muffs, her hood, and her mittens.
It was Groundhog's Day. The Puxatawny Phil Groundhog came out of yet another snow hill, introduced stage right; he poked out his nose, covered with snow, and looked around.
"He doesn't see his shadow," she cried, "What a relief!"
The groundhog scampered over to her on the set and scurried back into his hole.
The actors came from both wings of the stage and cheered, "We are done with this scene. We can go outside now!"
She thought the actors were a bunch of weirdos.
"What do you call this? This is outside."
"Oh," admonished the director, "That's just your imagination. You get too into your role. Don't do that or you'll go bonkers."
Having broken the spell, she was back on the bare stage under the lamp, wearing nothing but her sweater and light clothes; everybody laughed.
"Ah, you laugh now, but someday, my imagination will come in handy."
Huffily,they all walked off, leaving her on the bare stage, under a lamp in the dark theatre...except for the company of a few understanding penguins.
*C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia.
In fact, as she began to let her imagination run wild, she noticed the stage becoming colder, and as she looked up at the catwalk, she saw it melt and looked up to see a sky of stars and clouds combined. A cloud moved over the three-quarter moon, concealed it for awhile, then once again, revealed its mystical beauty against the darkness where the stars appeared to pin up the sky.
Little flakes of snow began to fall, downy, softly, sending shivers throughout her body, lacing the stage like Ivory Detergent Flakes.
An ice rink revealed itself, and penguins waddled past her. She thought that was a little peculiar, but took it in stride.
An iceberg came out from stage left of her, and two polar bears began lumbering toward her, three cubs behind them, making her feel downright uncomfortable.
The weather report had been bleak for the midwest, scary, they told everyone. "Stay inside," they cautioned.
But she was inside. She couldn't help it if the outside came to her.
She shivered, drew her ski jacket around her, put on her ear muffs, her hood, and her mittens.
It was Groundhog's Day. The Puxatawny Phil Groundhog came out of yet another snow hill, introduced stage right; he poked out his nose, covered with snow, and looked around.
"He doesn't see his shadow," she cried, "What a relief!"
The groundhog scampered over to her on the set and scurried back into his hole.
The actors came from both wings of the stage and cheered, "We are done with this scene. We can go outside now!"
She thought the actors were a bunch of weirdos.
"What do you call this? This is outside."
"Oh," admonished the director, "That's just your imagination. You get too into your role. Don't do that or you'll go bonkers."
Having broken the spell, she was back on the bare stage under the lamp, wearing nothing but her sweater and light clothes; everybody laughed.
"Ah, you laugh now, but someday, my imagination will come in handy."
Huffily,they all walked off, leaving her on the bare stage, under a lamp in the dark theatre...except for the company of a few understanding penguins.
*C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia.
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