Told You So, Fido

     It happened exactly as I feared.  I took my aging dog for an extended walk this beautiful autumn afternoon, to a place by the river where we hadn't been in a while. I was both sad and glad to see that Garth wasn't attempting to follow his accustomed path down the six foot high bank to the water because I knew he wasn't strong enough to climb the steep path back up.  I thought Garth knew that too.  I was wrong.  After he had enjoyed his drink and swim he got out on the bank, looked at the slope, then went back into the water.  I think he was attempting with all the unsubtle subtlety of a dog to look casual while to tried to figure a way out of this mess.  I'm fine.  Still a little thirsty, but it's all under control.
     So I laid down at the edge of the muddy bank in the clean clothes I had put on that morning and reached down as he made yet another casual circuit into the river.  Garth is now deaf and never was very bright, but even he could not misunderstand that I wanted him to get as high as he could on the bank where I could grab him by the collar and pull him out.  Going to the water's edge myself and pushing him out was a last resort since it was very muddy and it was quite likely that I wouldn't be able to climb the steep bank either.  I had my cell phone with me, but I really didn't want to become one of the amusing law enforcement anecdotes that get published in the paper.
     Realizing his casual cover was blown, Garth finally came close enough to my outstretched hands for me to pull him up the bank.  Fortunately, since he is both deaf and a dog, I got to say the "I told you so" that I so long to say to my loved ones, but usually manage to hold in.  I stopped by the river in the first place so Garth could rest for the return trip.  He is having a hard time adjusting to the limitations of old age; I must do the adapting for him.  There is a lesson in that for me as Reed and I see our parents aging. Once again I have learned an important from a teacher who licks his privates in public.  At least dogs have the good grace never to say "I told you so".

All Dressed Up

     This poem was inspired by a particularly particular home care client, the buzz word now is consumer, which I consider inappropriate, our clients don't eat us, except in this case.  "Roxanne" consumed my time, patience and love of old people.  Fortunately she moved on to "bless" another home care provider.

     All Dressed Up

The first thing I do when I arrive at Roxanne's
is retrieve the appropriate pair of shoes
from the stacks of shoe boxes in her closet,
with the tissue still inside.

Next we go into the bathroom
where I spray and pin her carefully arranged hair.
I fasten her chosen selection of necklaces and bracelets
while she puts on her freshly sanitized earrings.

Then I help her select a jacket
from the two dozen in her coat closet.
It is hard for me to help match
her outfit to her jacket
since I only have four to choose from at home.

She hands me the bag with her curlers and brushes
to take to the beauty shop.
Only her own will do.
All the while she is humming
a light hearted melody
that seems out of place.

Finally ready, I help her into my car.
I am paid to transport her
because the friends who used to
don't come around anymore
and her children seldom call.
She has no idea why.

We drive directly to the beauty shop,
a one chair affair attached to the stylist's home.
The first thing the stylist does is remove the pins
and wash out the hairspray.
No other customers will be coming while Roxanne is there.

All dressed up. . .

Danger Will Robinson!

     Two poems last night, one today, second chapter of a story I wrote years ago.  The writing frenzy is growing worse.  Danger, Will Robinson.  Danger.

                         Taking Turns

I wonder as I watch them coming into Sykes,
our local reincarnation of an old fashioned general store--
the old farmer with the bowed back
perpetually looking at the floor,
the widow who can only walk
with her feet turned out at angles
like flippers. 
When did they decide it was time to be old?
Did they wake up one morning
and say, "Today I will stop trying
to straighten my back
or walk like other people?
From now on I will shuffle my feet
or wear checks and stripes together
or stop fixing my hair"?
Will I do that?
How will I know when it is my turn?

I like them all,
the ladies with pink, penciled on eyebrows
the men wearing belts with suspenders,
both in sweaters on 90 degree days.
But I wonder who will smile indulgently at me
when I come in wearing a pearl necklace
over a sweatshirt?
Will they wonder
like me
when it will be their turn?
 

Starlight Summons

     This poem is the second of three views of the same event about which I wrote "Contemplating Coals". The third poem was the four liner I posted on Facebook titled "Memorable Moment".  I didn't realize until class last night that all three versions had two word, alliterated titles.  I have been doing homiletics too long, apparently I unconsciously alliterate.  That is a little scary, but not as much as sleepwalking naked would be.  Whereas "Contemplating Coals" was rated E for everyone and "Memorable Moment"--fb for Facebook, this version is rated M for mature, not for anything raunchy, I think the best love scenes imply without describing intimacy, but simply because a child wouldn't get the meaning.

Starlight Summons

In a firepit dug by their now-grown son,

alone, because the neighbors couldn't come,

he built a fire for just the two of them.

They sat and stared together at the flames.

The music from her laptop masked the sound

of traffic from the highway into town.

In silent conversation, mind to mind,

they shared the gift of rare, unhurried time.

When all her other senses had been fed

her thoughts strayed from the embers to her bed.

"You tired?" he asked, as she rose up to go.

With twinkling eyes she turned and told him "No".

Her Views

                    Her Views

 

 From her well kept, two story house

with its sedate, suburban views of Denver

and its two car garage,

   housing two, late model sedans,

from nicely appointed rooms

with portraits of her 

newly deceased soul mate,

   with whom she started out with nothing

   sixty four years ago,

and two loving daughters,

   one of whom miraculously survived

   a nearly fatal car wreck,

her two grown grandsons

and her three great grandchildren,

as we prepared

   from her well supplied pantry

   food for the funeral guests

      she explained,

  that she told the minister

  not to mention God too much

  because

        he hadn't been good to her family.

Poetry Class

    Only an idiot would curse themselves, but I did so by enrolling in a poetry class.  Now I am thinking in poetry.  After finally recovering from my thyroid inspired fit of poetry, I have enjoyed several years of being able, but not compelled, to write poetry.  Since I can write the words but no longer remember the "rules" of poetry, I enrolled in a continuing ed. (aka non graded) poetry class at our community college.  At the first class I learned than this is not a technical class teaching form, meter and whatever else I have forgotten about poetry; it is a performance class in which we create, read and critique poetry.  I wasn't worried about creating poetry, I have a nursery full of my homely brain children at home, but there was no warning label that taking this class could cause unwanted thoughts of "poetryside".  It is not so much the sensation of being inspired, it is more like being mugged by my muse, robbed of time and brain cells that could be much better spent on useful things, like where I parked the car at the mall. Ever since my thyroid's revenge I have felt like I am going along, minding my own business when out of nowhere thoughts invade my brain and demand to be written down.  Prose is time consuming, poetry painfully slow.
     And now this blog, my reliable refuge when the writing rant comes over me, will be infected with poems as well.  An innocent, but self inflicted injury.  No longer just coping tools to purge personal pain, this poetic world view will probably inspire insipid verse and I will blog them all--the good, the bad and the ugly, encouraged by my classmates kind critiques.  So I will do what my class did not:
     Warning:  This blog may lead to unwanted thoughts of poetry.  Read it and weep!

Contemplating Coals

Contemplating Coals

Sunflower silhouettes against a starry sky

the petals perish, yet the stalks reach high.

Spouses snuggle around the fireside warmth,

their bodies aging, yet their love glows still.

You and I silent, in the garden, contemplating coals,

embers now, where once the flames gave light,

will warm our way into the deepening night.

Immaculate Perception

     I haven't done an exhaustive study on this (I won't do an exhaustive study on anything unless I'm getting paid for it, mainly because of the word exhaust) but I have noticed that people with immaculate homes are annoyed by things that don't bother the rest of us.  Their houses are spotless because they not only spot the spots, but their existence bothers them enough to do something about it.  I, however, may notice and even disapprove of  the presence of, for instance, cobwebs in my home but I generally don't notice them unless I am sitting down and it's hard to remedy the situation and remain sitting down.  I subscribe to Chuck Swindoll's philosophy--Don't sweat the small stuff, followed by, it's all small stuff.
     I would like to think that the trade off for having a less than immaculate home is that I don't come unglued when my husband tracks in the freshly mown lawn or puts greasy car parts on my kitchen counter because being particular about housecleaning and particular about everything else seems to be a package deal.  Fussiness appears to be a trait that cannot be confined to only one aspect of life.  In the early years of our marriage when we were living in small apartments I dusted the inside of the china cabinet and degreased the jars in the spice rack on a monthly basis, but when our first child was 8 months old I had an epiphany.  One morning as I was setting our daughter on our clean living room carpet that was nonetheless covered with a baby blanket and the two toys I selected for her to play with, I realized that pursuing a controlled, orderly life meant she would have a miserable childhood.  She would soon be crawling off that blanket and picking more than two toys at a time and I could make both our lives miserable or I could lighten up and enjoy the chaos.  I chose to lighten up.  For me the road less traveled by was a dirt road and it has made all the difference.
     I decided the world would not end if I let the kids spin the swivel chair in circles (why else would they make them that way?).  When we bought our current house I was delighted to see it had single walls by the fireplace and kitchen that would be fun for children to run around.  Sofa cushions are ideally suited for building forts.  Dog hair is nontoxic.  I select carpeting and furniture based mostly on its dirt hiding potential.  I will never be awarded the Good Housekeeping seal, but I have been rewarded by hearing from visitors that my home is welcoming and comfortable.  Immaculately clean is too close to sterile for my comfort.  If God made the planet out of dirt and man out of dust who are we to disapprove of it? 

Touchy Subject

     This is the second time I am opening my blog with the disclaimer that this is not going to be as raunchy as it sounds (not a good sign), but the truth is I have always been a disappointment to my husband in bed.  Stay with me, it gets better.  I can't have anything touching me when I fall asleep or I have nightmares.  My husband happens to fall in the category of anything.  As far as I know I have always been this way.  When I was a little girl, I carefully took all my stuffed animals out of my bed before I could go to sleep.  This is a great disappointment to my husband, who finds me both irresistible and untouchable at the same time.  Once I am deeply asleep he is welcome to touch me but, of course, I cannot tell him that and he tell can't tell by looking what stage of sleep I am in.  I asked a counselor about it once, he told me he doesn't put much stock in the significance of dreams but he thought it was probably significant.  Maybe my older brother tried to smother me in my sleep when I was too little to remember.  I know there were plenty of times I wanted to smother him.
     For whatever reason I am cursed with something like the Midas touch except it only happens when I am falling asleep, someone else has to touch me, and I don't get anything shiny out of it.  I guess it's more like the Minus touch.  Untouchable makes a great movie title or television series but it's kind of pain in real life, especially the bed part of real life.  Snuggle will remain my fabric softener and not my sleeping condition.  I'm having a hard time finishing this blog.  Guess it doesn't want to be wrapped up either.