Anger and Andy

     The poetry class I am taking is continuing ed., meaning nongraded. Therefore, though the instructor is free to give assignments, I am also free to ignore them.  But I gave myself an assignment. Since nearly all of my poems have come out of my own experience, my goal was to write a fiction poem. I found it interesting and challenging.  Two verses into this poem about an unopened package, I realized I had no idea what was in the package. Modern poetry is often abstract, but it still seemed like a good idea for the author to know what was coming next.  This is what came next:

          Anger and Andy

All through the years he had wondered
what was in the package
but he had never opened it,
partly out of spite,
partly fear
that the pain of her leaving
would come back to him.
It was better to stay angry.
Anger had kept him company
these nine years
constant as a friend
or, at least, a drinking buddy.
They had done a lot of that together--
Anger and Andy.

But  the package tormented him, sitting there
in all its brown smugness, looking down
on him the way she had.
There was no more money
for liquor tonight,
not even beer.
So Anger did Andy one last favor
before he left for the night
to keep company with some other drunk.
Together they torn open the package,
the mocking memory of his marriage,
tore it to pieces.

A picture fell to the ground
his son, in a broken frame,
the mangled memory of his murder.
Torn to pieces
when he went through the windshield
as the car nosed into the ground
because his drunken father
was angry for having to do the favor
of picking his son up that night
when his wife normally did.
He'd had only beer,
no hard liquor.
He thought he was sober enough
to look after his only child.
Tormented he remembered

looking down at the small brown coffin
a package forever unopened.
Nine years she had stayed away;
his wife would never come back to him.
She left behind only the package--
and Anger
Anger and Andy.

Never for Donny

     I'm not sure why I usually don't publish a poem on this blog until after I have had it critiqued in my poetry class.  Everything else I write is off the cuff, and I don't even wear cuffs.  But we didn't have poetry class this week because a visiting author was holding a book reading.  I am proud to say our poetry class was well represented, which was a good thing, since few others attended.  Because of this event, the two poems I wrote during my muse mugging last week have been hiding in my nightstand while I have been stumped for subjects to blog about.   So today I will publish one that, with or without a critique, pleases me. A person who knows me well enough to read this blog will understand who this is about.

            Never for Donny

She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do
she was a big sister, not a mother,
she had no grown up wisdom to share.
So she let him rest his head on her shoulder while he cried.
She wished she could tell him
everything would be alright
but she couldn't,
she couldn't make everything alright.

He couldn't hold it in all the time--
the way he got treated  because he was different.
He had been born different.
She could make the neighborhood kids
and her own friends
treat him like a normal person--
not call him RE tard,
but she couldn't control what happened in school.
So she just let him cry
big, sloppy tears on her shoulder
and tried not to get upset about the snot on her shirt.
She could clean that up later.

The tears would dry.
She and Donny would start teasing and fighting again.
Everything would go back to normal
except for Donny--
never for Donny.

Bio Hazard

     My assignment for my third and final Freelance Writing class this week is to write a bio.  One needs to be two to three paragraphs the other, two to three sentences.  You would think this to be a fairly easy assignment, there is no one I know better than me, but I am struggling as if it was quantum physics.  The first hurdle is in identifying myself as a writer; this statement would not hold up in court.  Until now being a writer has been my own private hope and delusion; committing that to paper is intimidating.  The other hurdle is that I want to make it funny and I'm pretty sure that isn't appropriate.  When Will was in high school he frequently received the following comments on his assignments from his kind English teacher, Mrs. Wilson,  "Very good Will, but this was actually not supposed to be humorous".  Apparently I have the same problem and if I seriously want to be published, I should write a serious bio since they are presented as if coming from the editor.  My Facebook philosophy is "If I can't say something funny, don't say anything at all".  That is usually my blog philosophy also, come to think of it, that is my life philosophy.
     With neither humor nor writing credentials my 55 year bio fits in one sentence.  "Connie Lamb is a writer (wannabe) who lives in Kalispell, Montana with her husband."  By Wednesday night I need to get a life.  I have serious problems being serious.

Strange or Passing Through?

     As I was coming home from jiggling my curves at Curves today I saw a box turtle crossing Woodland Avenue.  Apparently it was misled by the name, Woodland Ave. is not actually in the woods, it is one of the main roads across town.  The speed limit is only 25 mph but I am guessing that exceeds turtle speed by quite a stretch.  So I pulled over in the Jehovah's Witness parking lot (God will understand) and retrieved the turtle.  It hissed when I picked it up, meaning this turtle was a female.  I learned years ago that female turtles hiss, males grunt (much like their human counterparts).  Regretfully I didn't learn this fact until after the demise of my pet turtle whom I had inaptly named Sam.  I carried the unnamed female across the street to the grass on the other side where she could walk quite a ways before encountering a road, and it was all downhill.  Even a turtle should make better time walking downhill.  For all I know she turned around and headed right back into the road, but rescuing the turtle was still the right thing to do.
     I mention this not just to show how kind I am, or even to tie in this great title I thought of days ago, but to segue into earlier blog entries about our spare sons, the homeless boys who lived with us over a two year period.  Many questioned the wisdom of letting virtual strangers share our home (when I put it like that it does sound a little crazy), letting them have access to our possessions and hearts.  And I admit I wondered at times what good it would do when there are so many more wanderers out there and when they had already been so badly damaged, but I comfort myself with knowing I shared God's word with all of them.  What God does from there is His business.  Rescuing them was the right thing to do. 
    Most of the people we encounter in life are strangers, many are downright strange and all of us are only passing through, maybe the good we do for those who cross our paths doesn't change their lives, but it is still the right thing to do.  It changes us.

10 Things I Will Never Hear My Husband Say

 1.  I think we should talk.
 2.  No, I don't like your haircut.
 3.  Yes, that does make you look fat.
 4.  This isn't how mom made it.
 5.  Give me your honest opinion.   (He never needs to ask.)
 6.  Why can't you be more like your sister?
 7.  Don't take things so seriously.
 8.  Try a bite of what I ordered.
 9.  That was really clever.
10.  You were right.  I was wrong.

10 Things I Will Never Say to My Husband

1.   You look good in that suit.   (Because he will not be wearing one.)
2.   Thanks for sharing your feelings.
3.   You planned this just for me!
4.   What's that cologne you have on?
5.   Where did you buy that nice (insert clothing item)? (He relies on a personal shopper--me.)
6    Why don't you see what's on the other channels?
7.   Wow! You cleaned out your car/truck.  (He has to make room for even one passenger, no matter how many seats in the vehicle.)
8.   You've held that baby long enough.
9.   What's for dinner?
10.  Did you have a good time at the wedding?

Thorny

     The apostle Paul said God gave him a thorn in the flesh to keep him humble.  Nothing God has given me thus far in my life has made me humble, but the method God seems to use most often on my long journey to humility is humiliation. Either I do something incredibly stupid or thoughtless or I forget to do something even a stupid or thoughtless person would think of.  Despite regular occurrences of the aforementioned incidents, my humble pie is taking a long time to bake. I do however have a thorn in the flesh or, in my case, a barb in the brain--migraine headaches.  Harmonizing the existence of pain with the goodness of God is a puzzle for far greater minds than mine.  All I know is that the same pain which our Enemy would use to distract and discourage us is what God uses to focus and grow us.
     I have come up with five things I have learned from my seasons of pain, alliterated because that is just more fun.  Pain teaches me to:
     Pay attention:  When I am looking to God for answers, I am more likely to be listening.
     Prioritize:  If I only have a certain amount of productive time, I need to spend it well.  I am amazed to discover  the world does not come to an end when Competent Connie isn't up to running it.
     Pathos:  I can not only empathize with other migraineurs (headache professionals) but with anyone suffering.
     Perception:  Sometimes I need to push through the pain, sometimes I need to rest.  Knowing which method is called for requires the usually overlooked skill of listening to my body. 
     Patience:  I hate learning patience. None of the things that teach us patience are pleasant: helplessness, waiting etc.  I heard a woman tell how she used to pray for patience, six children later she recognized the pattern and stopped.  Patience is a bummer but it comes in handy, mostly to the people who live with us.
     I have also found that between my dislocating kneecap in childhood, three natural births and migraines I have developed a really high pain tolerance and that comes in handy as well, but it doesn't start with a "P" and I was not attempting to make an exhaustive list because of the idea of exhaust.  Being exhausted gives me a migraine.  I can buy thornless raspberry plants or roses, but I prefer my life the way God has given it--thorns and all.