I Was the Big Sister

      I found this poem in the back of my scrapbook. I wrote it for my sister Robyn's bridal shower in 1996. I'm surprised to have forgotten it because it was meaningful and personal to me, and still is. Robyn and Dale celebrated their 24th anniversary May 25th, so this is a good time to post it.

                                         I Was the Big Sister

                         

                          I was the big sister, so I watched over you

                                when you were small,

                                and knees got scraped

                                and toys got broken.

                        I was the big sister, so I invited you to church

                             where your heart was opened

                             and you met a Savior

                             to watch over you.

                        I was the big sister, so I grieved for you

                             when the hurts were bigger

                             and your heart was bruised

                             and I couldn’t be with you.

                        I was the big sister, so I prayed for you

                             when you were grown

                             and making bad choices

                             that scarred your spirit.

                        I was the big sister, so I rejoiced with you

                             when you returned to the Lord

                             and He gave you His gift—

                             Dale, to watch over you.

                        I was the big sister, so I watched over you

                             and I always will.

Unmask and Vent

     I have tried not to weigh in publicly about wearing masks to protect from Covid because I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings and my opinion is only slightly better informed than the news nannies telling us to wear them. Fortunately, this blog has so few followers it is practically private, so I can unmask and vent here. When the Covid crisis began, non-certified masks were considered ineffective to stop the spread, but they wanted to save the good ones for front line professionals--as they should. Nothing in the intervening weeks has changed that opinion. In fact, scientific testing shows that the cloth masks are, at most, 30% effective against large particles and less than 1% against small particles. And even that is dependent on daily washing, how well they fit, and how carefully they are removed after wearing. If a mask is breathable enough not to feel like you are choking on your own exhaust, it is not protecting you.
     A Facebook friend who shared a funny post about Covid being intelligent enough to know which store aisles it could go down, got shamed for ignoring "science". The problem is, medical recommendations are not science. If they were, there would never be a need for a second opinion or for the recommendation reversals that have happened many times in my 63 years. Remember:  coconut oil, coffee, high doses of Vit E, hormone replacement therapy, infant sleeping positions. Medical recommendations are made and accepted, but it takes years for science to catch up. Ten years after doctors recommended high doses of vitamin E for seniors, science discovered that dosage was harmful. But since the science was less vocal than the medical recommendation, people are still taking it. For years my doctors were disappointed that I didn't drink coffee because they were blaming everything from headaches to hangnails on it at the time. Now they recommend two to three cups a day for optimal health. Which is good because I drink coffee now.
     Medical wisdom and science are socially distanced--they are nodding acquaintances, but are not hand in glove. Perhaps, after a few years, we will have data that shows cloth masks actually worked better than we thought, but I am relying on logic. The current sales pitch is to wear masks to protect other people from your germs, but stay home because masks don't protect you from other people's germs. Oookay! But even if the masks were 50% effective and 50% magic, it would not explain why some people wear them driving alone in their own car, or forgoing fresh air for recycling their own exhaust when they are outside 100 feet from the nearest human.
     I don't believe Covid is a hoax, because a hoax requires some measure of organization and Covid response has been a world wide knee jerk reaction. Obviously, it is a real disease and a small percentage of people die from it. On the other side of the mask mystery, I don't believe that our immune systems will forget what to do if we limit exposure for a few weeks. God designed us better than that. Many people are choosing to come out of the cloth closet now, and science will someday unmask the rest. There are better ways to show solidarity than suffocation. Thanks for letting me vent. It feels like a breath of fresh air.

The Kind of Man You Are

   Here is another poem I wrote for my brother Roddy while he was still in high school.

The Kind of Man Your Are

My brother, when we two go out together,

I sometimes watch the people watching you.

I know it’s not for anything you do.

They watch you for the kind of boy you are.

So when you come home crying after school,

And tell me of some pranks the kids have done

I know that they were only having fun.

They tease you for the kind of boy you are.

Although your temper’s always been too quick,

I’ve fought you many times with my own hand,

You still, in calmer moments, understand

I love you for the kind of boy you are.

I know at times life’s pressures get your down.

You’re tired of attending endless school

While every stranger plays you for a fool.

You’ll face it, that’s the kind of man you are.

11/17/76

Born Soldier

     Now I'll move on from poems about my son to the brother I love like a son, Roddy.     

     Born Soldier     (To Roddy, born handicapped)

Born soldier,

Your lonely, lifetime fight

To be no less a man

Has made you more,

And strong.

My brother,

My friends, your enemies, think

You do not understand

That they can’t bear to let you be—

A man.

Roddy,

I cannot join you in the battle,

Nor end the war,

But, helpless, hear

The guns.

1978

Another "Will"ful Poem

                      To Will                                                                                         

On hands and knees you now explore

  the deepest canyon of the floor,

and relish every dried up crumb

   scavenged in the dining room,

and pull yourself to breathless height-

   twenty five inches, now upright.

A scientist with work to do

   not one thing that comes into view

escapes without exhaustive testing

  including poking, plucking, sucking,

dropping, stopping, shredding and beheading,

  tasting, chasing, folding and unrolling.

No time for colic, workaholic,

  never still a minute

no project in the house without you in it.

  You hear the tiny “tink” of candy wrapping,

but cannons couldn’t wake you when you’re napping.

You fill the empty rooms around

  with energetic baby sound,

and furnish any empty space

  with smiles too big for just one face,

and leave me chuckling hours after

  at your bubbling baby laughter.

1985

To My Son

       It occurred to me recently that years ago I typed all of my poems from grade school on into our first computer, which crashed long ago with all hands on board. Although I still have a scrapbook of originals, hand written or typed on our long deceased manual typewriter, I realized I should probably put them here and in my documents where I can back them up. Since I have babies on the brain, thanks to my granddaughter being born this week, the first poem I will post is one I wrote about my first son, Will.

   

 To My Son

You tug at my breast

with gentle insistence

in this first exchange of

love and warmth,

still so new that I hesitate

as I call you son.

You tug at my hair

with unexpected strength

and deadly accuracy,

 making me wonder if

your spastic, baby movements

are merely a clever ruse.

You tug at my leg

with a grip of iron

and powerful determination,

a tyrant on wobbling legs.

You tug at my hand

in utter amazement

at my reticence to see

the new worlds you have discovered

the beautiful rocks,

the tasty flowers.

You tug at my heart,

too grown up now for hugging,

only in play do we touch much.

In a young man’s ways

 you give your love,

yet still I feel the insistent tug.


1985