Authority: What was Dad Thinking?

My father, an authority on most things, got the education thing wrong when we moved to Guam. After speaking to other authorities on the subject, he decided the Catholic school curriculum was more advanced, therefore better than the public schools. He enrolled my older sister and me in Catholic school. We failed miserably. My science teacher, a nun from Korea, talked so fast that spit ejected from her mouth, and her scribbles on the board were confusing and useless to me.  

It wasn’t only our grades that suffered, our behavior took a bad spin too. Seemed everywhere we turned we were breaking some rule or another, skirt lengths, bubble gum, make-up, the wrong kind of scarf or headband, and once my sister had a note sent home; holding hands with her boyfriend in the hallways. I saw a lot worse things going on in the hallways, but I think those nuns had it in for us, the Jewish sisters.

Jewish girls in a Catholic school. What was Dad thinking?

With each infraction of the code there was a fine, a dollar for chewing gum, or for skirts rolled up. The note home for the boyfriend was probably the last straw. After a few short months my Dad had had enough. Between the lousy grades and the fines he yanked us out of there and plopped us in public school where we behaved like angels or no one seemed to notice us.  

Public school had a few challenges of its own. We picked up the nasty habit of cigarette smoking so we could fit in, but we steered clear of anything dangerous like getting involved in the fights between rival gangs of Guamanians and Filipinos. Once, when a girl in the bathroom demanded a cigarette and I didn’t have one she threatened to beat me up. Luckily the bell rang. I always carried extra cigarettes after that.

With improved grades and no fines, Dad was happy and could go back to being the authority figure I loved and respected.  

(This post is a sample of a book project, stories and poems, about growing up in Guam.)

photo by stjohnschool
 

In Hiding

I feel like I've been in hiding. It's been a while since my last post. Actually, I've been writing and reluctant to share my ideas. I suppose this is normal for a writer, but bad for blogging. I am putting together a book of poetry about growing up and living on the island of Guam. The poems I am writing now are mostly personal. I want to keep them that way until I am sure they are exactly what I want.

At times, I have wanted to share a poem from this collection, but I am reluctant because several seem to be in a state of transition. Some poems are more solid than others. Some I think need further introspection.

I get ideas in the middle of the night when I can't sleep, or perhaps the ideas are waking me up. "Wake up girl, get out of bed and write this stuff down before you forget!"

My process: scribble an idea, write a paragraph or two, choose phrases, play with the words, polish, polish, polish. How much polish? That's my problem. My writer's workshop has been helping me with this part. Some poems I bring to them and ask, "Is this done yet? Do you get what I'm saying?"

Good thing, I am not hiding from them. They seem to understand this crazy business.

Hidden cat photo by Grahford 

Celebrating National Poetry Month

After reading a blog post by Laura McHale Holland, I decided to follow her lead and post a poem to celebrate National Poetry Month. She wrote a poem beginning with this writing prompt: "The Day Is..." She offered the prompt to her readers and asked them to leave comments and poems. This recycled poem seems to fit well with that prompt. It also fits this gorgeous, golden, and warm spring day. Check out Laura's lovely poem too. Laura McHale Holland

 

Spring Patio



The Day Is

Golden warm

before the season remembers its pattern

bright laughter sprinkles like freckles

between our words

The drifting drawn lifting tone

of saxophone settles like satin

against our ears

Crowds and cars like colored marbles

spill before us

In unison

golden warm mingle

circle leaves, long hair, skirts

Suspend the season

  

 

Turn a Corner

Dave and Barb March 20, 1982

Turn a corner. That's how quick your life can change. It happened to us 31 years ago.
Happy Anniversary Dave!

 

 

Turn a Corner

I turn a corner

his kitchen full of

laughing friends

Dark-lashed

merry blue eyes

welcome me

the unexpected guest



“I’m here

to see Laura…

your roommate”

awkwardness

explained

his smile

disarming

Laura appears

“Ready to go?”

“You can stay,”

he says

Laura shrugs

I’m not here

to see him

or am I?

 

Treadmill Surprise

A writing prompt: The last time I was surprised it nearly....

 

The last time someone surprised me was when husband, Dave, and I went to buy a used treadmill from a lady in Sebastopol. The adventure nearly landed me in the emergency room. Maureen wanted $250.00 for her treadmill saying it was rarely used.     

I was anxious to try the machine so I climbed on and Maureen started it up. She showed Dave and me a few of the controls, speed, distance, and incline levels. As Maureen and Dave talked I kept up the pace, but after a few moments the tread seemed to jump up a notch. I asked if we could slow the pace a bit.  

Both Maureen and Dave didn’t hear me. Was I imagining things? No. The speed was up from 2 to 3 m/p/h. “Guys, how do you stop this thing?” 

Maureen turned to me, but didn’t seem to register my question. What was wrong with her? I trotted along. I don’t like trotting. “Hey! Hey!” The colored buttons on the control panel blurred. Was this a carnival ride? The whirling teacups or the flying swings? I was afraid to let go of the handles long enough to push any of the buttons. All of my focus was on my feet. Run feet run.   

“Let go, and I’ll catch you,” Dave yelled, but at that point I didn’t trust him. My legs gave out and I fell flying backwards banging my knees and elbows on my way. Dave grabbed me and helped me to my feet.      

Maureen finally snapped to attention and pulled a key to stop the machine. She asked if I was okay. “NO. I’M NOT! Why didn’t you stop the treadmill?”

“Brain fart,” she said.

Brain fart?? Because I got hurt, Maureen must have felt guilty.  We were able to talk her down in price another $50.00. We bought my treadmill for $200.00.

When was the last time you were surprised?

Mia's Melody

This post is in response to a writer's prompt from our worskshop: She or he finally arrived only to discover .....

Mia finally arrived at the bookstore only to discover the poetry reading was over. Presenters had been scheduled between the hours of 2 and 4 p.m. She glanced at her watch. It was 3:30, but Mia’s car had broken down. It was too late to call anyone for a ride, so she had decided to walk the three miles. Better late than never.

Mia set up her display glad the podium, microphone, and chairs were still in place. While customers browsed the store she set out books, business cards, and flyers. Mia was prepared to perform. She had practiced her poems over and over, and so she began.

“Good afternoon, everyone, I hope you are enjoying your day of shopping. I am sorry I am a late reader, but I have a treat for you. I am going to read from my collection of poems.”

As Mia’s voice flowed out into the room listeners shifted toward it and took seats as close to her as they could manage so they could hear every melodic syllable. Mia’s voice captivated everyone in the store and because it was a warm day the doors were left open. Little rivulets of Mia’s musical sound floated out the door where a crowd had gathered, and they too entered the shop. Seats filled quickly.

When Mia finished reading the audience clapped loudly. People stood. Comments flew, “Magical! Profound! Joyous!”

“Thank-you, thank-you!” Mia was delighted.  It was not a common occurrence to have a standing ovation at a poetry reading. Alex, the store manager, told her she was welcome back any time and to bring more books. They were flying off the shelf.

Mia awoke to the loud ringing of the phone. “Mia, where are you!  It’s me, Patsy! We are all here at Copperfield’s! Get down here! You are late!”


Amber, Patsy, Barb Moehring, Barb Toboni (Mia)
 

What I've Lost and Found: Health

These past few weeks I’ve had a bad cold and cough. I’ve lost my good health. I’ve been too sick to carry on the ordinary tasks of everyday life. Just a trip to the grocery store has been a major challenge. I carry cough drops and tissues; wrap myself in extra layers, scarves and sweaters. I rush home to laze on the couch in front of the TV. Forget my normal routines, forget writing. I feel unproductive, uninspired, zapped, pooped, petered out, and dull.

What I’ve found is a new appreciation for preventative measures. No longer do I think it is silly to sing happy birthday to me while I wash my hands or take the time to look for the wipes at grocery stores to clean my shopping cart handles. I don’t mind standing in line for my flu shot, eating an apple a day to scare the doctor away, exercising, or taking my vitamins.  

I’ve learned that health affects physical, mental, and spiritual wellbeing and have started to explore new ways to stay well, new diets, organic fruits and vegetables, vitamin supplements, meditation, alternative medicines, herbs and acupuncture.  

I still ring my doctor when needed and will gratefully take pills to get better, but my best advice? Rely on traditional comforts. Chicken soup is my favorite remedy.

"TO YOUR HEALTH!"

The chicken soup worked. I'm feeling much better now. What is your favorite cold remedy?  

The Nut Lady

A few years ago, most of my holiday shopping was canceled due to an accident involving my left foot and the backdoor step. The diagnosis: a fracture. It was s Saturday. Wrapped in a temporary splint, I was sent home from the hospital on crutches to wait six days for my doctor's appointment. There would be no Christmas shopping.

            My sister joked, "You have options. You can do a lot of damage online."

            That wasn't my option. I loved to hunt for the perfect gift. The crisp pine-spiced air, bejeweled shop windows, and the kindness of strangers lifted my spirits.

            The holidays are merry days at our house. We are a mixed faith household, Jewish and Catholic, spiritual rather than religious, with two apathetic sons. Our family believes in rituals like lighting a menorah and decorating a Christmas tree. We fry latkes and bake Christmas cookies. I believe the holidays are both a time to absorb joy (mostly through food) and to reflect joy, give goodies to others. And, I know this to be true, the kind renderings of the heart add to my happiness. 

            David, my husband, is a computer doctor. This allows him the opportunity to visit many homes. His clients are generous during the holidays. We've received bottles of wine, boxes of chocolates, and that season, two pounds of shelled walnuts came home along with a repair job. 

            Could I let them go to waste? In past years, when the walnut supply from neighboring trees was cheap and aplenty we found a great recipe for candied nuts. We gifted them to everyone for the holidays. Now it looked as though we were back in business with a new source. Couldn't I gift the nuts again? My foot was my first concern.

            David suggested, "Sit on a stool and stir. What's so hard about that?" 

            Now my David isn't mean-spirited. He just likes candy, and these nuts are small bits of bliss. They crunch in the mouth in the most satisfying way. One is tricked into thinking that nut candy is healthy. Whole handfuls can disappear in seconds.

            That year the first day of Hanukkah was three days before Christmas. In preparation, I stirred batch after batch of nuts. It was insanity with my injury, but I stopped often to prop up my foot. On the eve of Hanukkah we lit candles and said a blessing. For dinner we fried latkes and ate them with applesauce.

The night of Christmas Eve we drank eggnog with the neighbors, and later examined our supply of gift candy. Seven lucky recipients of nuts were on my list. Some of the batches, I split in two, because they were for a household of one. This solution might have confused my math, because while counting my inventory I found eight gift-wrapped packages.     

            Impossible.

            I checked the list again. Was someone forgotten? Should we rip open the last package and eat them? No. Better to have too much than not enough, whispered my mother in my ear. I put the little package with its paper bow aside. 

            Eight o'clock, Christmas Eve, there was a knock at the door. Our friends, a couple from across town, came by to pick up a laptop. It was a present that my husband had ordered for their son. They surprised us with fudge and Christmas cookies, and not just a small amount, three varieties of fudge and four types of cookies.   

            For this magnitude of giving, I felt obligated to take action. The card I sent them didn't seem enough. I hugged them and thanked them, but that didn't seem enough. Then I saw the dandy little package set aside. No note attached. Perfect.

            A miracle! 

            Number eight, my last batch of walnut candy! A miracle on Christmas Eve! Like the miracle birth of the baby Jesus! Like the miracle of light lasting eight days for the menorah!

            Was I nuts? 

            Yes.  And now I am known as the nut lady. 

Poetry as Art

Our Napa County Poet Laureate, Leonore Wilson, is working on a great project with Arts Council of Napa Valley to create broadsides (framed poetry). I am honored to have one of my poems (read below) included in the show! According to Leonore, the broadsides will be touring businesses around Napa. Hope you have a chance to see my poem displayed and can read it along with others in person now appearing at Alexis Bakery and Cafe, 1517 Third St., Napa, CA.

When We Go to Lunch

We shall all wear hats

And long floral skirts in the garden
We’ll sip lavender tea and sparkling wine
And agree to surrender our burdens 

When we go to lunch we shall trust that our hats

Hold most of our secrets within
We’ll eat all our words from silver spoons
And tighten silk bows at our chins

All of our hats shall have a wide brim

To protect the aging of skin
All of our hats shall shadow raised brows   
From the gossip we revel in

When we go to lunch we shall try other hats

Stylish or garish or sweet
When we go to lunch we shall dare all our hats
To flee when we sit down to eat

Barbara with her broadside.

Traffic Jamming

We call them the Wheeler family

Follow their trailer full of wheeled possessions

Toy trucks, bikes, coolers, and tubs

Back into town

 

Usually we whiz right by here

Now we can see everything

Including the wings on a lady bug

A joke, but it’s true

 

Hot pink poppies

In the golden brush

Signs: Step in

Taste our Zin

DINER, Biscuits and Gravy

CLOSED

 

A rusty garden

Of metal sculptures

A real garden

Trucks, tractors stand

In their oxidized frames

Of another generation

 

At the Vineyard Hotel

Swimming pool

Nobody swims

And the little magnolia tree

Blooms big and white

At it’s center

 

Up ahead

White Suburban

Leaves big gap in line

The nerve

Of some people

 

Cherry stands

Make us hunger for dinner

The Boon Fly Café

Has the best sign

OPEN