Lined up for all to see.

I remember my mother and friends washing all their clothes by hand, in big vats of soapy waters, rinsing everything twice, and hanging their wash out on lines strung between trees, or between houses, or on makeshift bubbles that sat on top of braziers full of hot coals in winter.

Their laundry was the only thing out in public, nakedly swaying in the wind, revealing the richness or poverty of the household by the tears, wears and general condition of the household.  Mother was a careful housekeeper.  She checked the wash for needed repairs both before and after it had been submitted to public scrutiny.  She never left the house without putting her best face on, and she shared very little with nosy neighbors. And she knew them and their ancestors!

Well, those days are all gone, forgotten, as all of us set out our garbage by the curb without a thought of what its says about us, our consumption or lack of same. We now broadcast our inner-most secrets on the biggest line of all, the internet and its myriad of social networks. We leave breadcrumbs all over the place.

We trust people.
We trust their intentions.
We buy and sell, and reveal our medical and financial history to anyone willing to listen.

It feels great to shout out, as we did as children, Look at me, Mom! Watch Me, Dad!
Now, if you get pestered with ads, don't blame the salesman. You asked him/her to pay attention to your needs.

The season of freedom

For the entire baseball season
we met under the bleachers
to drink our freedom,
disposing the empty
Coors bottles by stuffing them in our clothes
surveying the field all the while, to see if anyone
noticed we went missing.

We returned  to
our desks pretending nothing had happened
writing notes in the margins
of books, pining for another
afternoon
of freedom.

We didn't know
we were already free
of our old selves.









.

   
     

Memories

You cut a picture in the mirror:
a stranger,
a self against self
struggling
to remain donna erecta.

What stories will you share
with your grands,
stringing popcorn
on the tree,
brittle
reminders of the
once plump seeds,
now puffed-up
in memory's hot chambers?
.

Better these than
the grey ashes in the fireplace,
spent,
easily disposed,
cold with neglect.

Once, you tell,
you played with your food, with everything,
the taste
and juice
of each
pomegranate seed.
You
let it sit
perfectly
still
on each tooth
until
there was no more life in it, and you
spit it out without regrets.

Now, you don't dare put that seed in your mouth!

The promises we make.

You hunker down in the dark, in your favorite
cradle, for the long night,
forgoing your desk,  the cushioned chair and
the outside world at your fingertips.

The wind and rain threaten to bury you,
reduce everything to dust:
Your house, your car, all possessions.

You try to remember the last storm,
what you did
or didn't do
to prepare for it,
to prepare of all the storms
in your days.


Each bump, each object that batters your roof becomes a promise you make: this will not happen to you again.

Holiday Wishes.

(Yosemite National Park, my son Brian with Butters.)

May you always walk with your favorite companion, surrounded by peace and beauty.
Happy Holidays.

Wild things.

This is what I see when I sit on my deck facing this garden by the lake. It was already fenced when we bought it, and it has remained fenced as I fight my way into colonizing it.
I see wild things  creeping in on all sides. Whatever stands in place, does so because I interfered, not just once. My interference changed the lawn into a couple of vegetable gardens. The paths through and around are liberally ignored by me, but mowed by my Hubby who likes riding his top-gun riding mower once or twice a season.

I have asked him not to. He has his reasons.

Here are mine:

Bees like wild places.
Dead branches allow birds and other critters to hide and nest.
Finding wild arugula  and fennel growing here and there lets me prepare many surprising meals.

I once knew about foraging when Dad brought home mushrooms and asparagus and wild lettuces in the middle of winter when the cupboards were bare and there was no cash or credit to take us to the store.
Here, I'm reminded of all I've been when  I pull a weed, put a seed in the soil, collect something I did not expect.

So many miles before...

I've been negligent for a while now.
Unable to pick up pen and paper and write back.
I'm still panicking when I think about what happened.
Many people took time to visit, leave notes, contribute to Brian's memorial, and I can't find them or know enough to find them in an easy sweep, in a I'm so glad you stopped and cared sweep, that I bury my head and just sob away.

I have miles of words I want to utter, words I want to send you, words I want to acquire to form thoughts and to have thoughts bloom into smiling sentences.

Today, before dawn, I put all of his things away. All but a few pictures.
On Hubby's desk, papers and correspondence with  probate lawyers.
On my desk, papers, and addresses, and notes to myself.
I need to attend to these and to holiday notes as well.

This voyage has many miles ahead.