Madisonville Memories

Following a recent trip back to visit my father's family in Madisonville, TN, many memories were awakened. We'd spent a lot of time there, he and I. I was reminded of it in Tuesday's writing group.

In writing group, the poem was "Once," by Tara Bray.
I wrote from,
". . . It's a dull world.
Every day, the same roads, the sky,
the dust, the barn caving into itself,
the tin roof twisted and scattered in the yard."


It used to be a dull trip.
Same winding road thru the fields.
Turn at the country store.
Wind the narrow road.
Watch out for the oncoming cars.

I know the road by heart.
Destination the small house,
the barn, the spring where they get their water.
Turn in the driveway.
Don't let the chickens peck you.

Here they all come to greet us.
Aunt Hazel with open arms,
Tall and gaunt Uncle Ern,
Cousins Charles and Gene waiting on the sidewalk.
(The other four boys/men had already moved out.)
Daddy and I walk up the steps.
Oops, gotta find the outhouse pretty soon.

Walk into the house,
see the loaded table,
met by the wonderful aromas of country cooking.
Biscuits and gravy, fried chicken, and fried okra,
green beans, and fried green tomatoes.

"Dinner's ready," she says.
To me it was lunchtime,
but they talk funny here.
"You'uns," and "we'uns," a different dialect.

But what was clear was the love--
Love that filled the house.
Always one or two of the other "boys,"
come by in time for the meal.
Most of them live "down the road a piece."

Daddy's family,
Different lifestyle,
Same love.

Word Prompts

In writing group, the leader gave us a new word every minute. The assignment was to immediately switch to the new word and write, then switch to the next, etc. Some of the participants were able to bring continuity to their new words. I was not, but just changed directions with each.


Bread is the staff of life. Homemade bread is really the staff of life. Anyone who ever lived the hippy lifestyle made their own bread. It was a necessity. Hallie used to call store-bought bread, "muff-muff bread." I loved that term. I thought it said it all in just one term. She had an old woodstove that she used, and her food on that stove was fabulous. We were in our 20's living on Vashon Island.

Bumblebees used to scare me to death. All bees did--especially yellow jackets, wasps, and hornets. We have them around the apartment now, and I'm still afraid of them. What's the difference between all those critters? I used to get Nick to kill them for me, but now I have to do it myself. Gives me the willies to hear them buzz around the window, and the lightbulbs.

Nourish is a word that has a nice connotation. Isn't there a song that starts with "nourish"? Maybe I'm not remembering correctly. Which is the story of my life right now. Word retrieval has gotten worse and worse lately. And the worse it gets, the more upsetting for me. Getting old isn't fun, let me tell you. Back to nourish--food, happiness, love, and health.

Earth Day is on my birthday--April 22. They started it back in the hippy years. I don't know why I keep turning back to that time period. It was a happy time in some ways--very unhappy in others. It was one of the times of political upheaval--generations at odds with each other. Somewhat like now, I guess. I used to think of myself as "earth mother."

Cut is what I used to do with patterns and sewing. I sewed for myself, and for my daughter when she was little. I even made her a Holly Hobby doll and matching pinafores for her and the doll. Later, as I quit sewing so much, I would cut out the patterns, but never get them finished. That was after she grew up though. When we lived in Idaho, I made mother-daughter dresses for us both.

Give is a word I'm running out of ideas for. Give me a break. Give me some hints. Give me liberty, or give me death, said Patrick Henry. Give me some ideas. I'll give you one, if you'll give me one. Nope, I really don't give a rip this time around.
Sorry--no giving today.
Give money
Give love
Give food
Give care
Give a thought.

Memories from Idaho - Written 5/18/10

In writer's group, we worked from paintings. This one the painting of a woman and child, walking together. So it's part truth/part fiction.


As my daughter and I walked down the sidewalk away from the house, I wished again that my husband hadn't taken our only vehicle for his trip out of town. It snowed last night, and the temperature was now dropping quickly. We were barely within walking distance to the school, where she was in kindergarten and I worked in the office. But the colder it got, the harder it would be for us to make it the whole distance. I'd wrapped her up all nice and warm, and bundled myself up as well. But the 1-1/2 miles to the school would be a difficult walk for us both.

By the time we reached the school, we were both just about frozen. I took her to her class, and her teacher helped her out of her coat, scarf, and mittens. She took her in and sat her by the warm stove to thaw.

I went on to my office and unbundled myself, while at the same time turning on the small radio on the shelf next to my desk. The announcer's voice came through: "The time is now 8:05, and the temperature has already dropped to 10 degrees. There is a winter storm warning for today and tomorrow."

"Nuts!" I fretted. "He always picks the worst times to go out of town! He's notorious for leaving us in the worst possible weather. Now, we'll have to get a ride home this afternoon. And maybe I can get some help to keep the pipes from freezing. This always happens when he's gone. How frustrating!"

Bipolar Nonsense--6/1/10

Words I drew, and tried to use them all: dainty, weather, springs of grass
So just went off on a tangent of nonsense.


What is dainty weather anyway?
Is it light and fluffy, like snowflakes?
Or raindrops sprinkling on the pond?
Interesting concept.

What would be the opposite--heavy, menacing weather?
("Menace" is the word I put back last time. Then I drew it
again today.)
Oh no, that takes us back to the flood weekend.
Let's change the subject.

Sprigs of grass--reminds me of Walt Whitman's
"Leaves of Grass."
Which reminds me of the book I just finished,
"Eden's Outcasts."
About Alcott and Alcott--Louisa May and her father Bronson,
who were contemporaries of Whitman--but poles apart.

I'm skipping from thought to thought today--
So much heaviness has necessitated light, frothy,
inconsequential ponderings.
I'm through.

Pantoum

From writing group, the assignment was to write a "pantoum." It's a poetic form from long ago, in which you repeat specific lines in a specific order. So here's my first attempt. (Turned out to be fun.)

1. I'll be right here,
2. Waiting for you.
3. Don't forget to call,
4. So I won't worry.

5. Waiting for you,
6. Thinking about you,
7. So I won't worry,
8. I'll know you're OK.

9. Thinking about you,
10. Wishing you were here,
11. I'll know you're OK,
12. When I get your call.

13. Wishing you were here,
14. Don't forget to call,
15. When I get your call,
16. I'll be right here.

This Beautiful Place

Carmel Point
by Robinson Jeffers

"The beautiful place defaced with a crop of suburban houses--

" . . . Meanwhile the image of the pristine beauty
Lives in the very grain of the granite, . . . ."

From ""The Selected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers" (1988)
first published in 1954


The most beautiful place we ever lived was the Pacific Northwest.
Driving up the west coast highway--northern California, through Oregon, into Washington,
Destination--Seattle, and a job with Boeing.

The tall evergreens on either side, forming a lush canopy as we passed through,
We'd dropped our friend outside San Bernadino, letting her find her own way to home and job.
We made it through Snoqualmie Pass, then dropping down toward the huge city.

The most beautiful city I'd ever seen,
Cascades on one side, Puget Sound on the other, and Lake Washington running through.
Mercer Island connected by its floating bridge--now to find a place to live.

First home on Mercer Island, an apartment overlooking the water,
the small shopping center and popular nightspot close by,
"The Islander," fun place for my pool-playing husband, and dark beer with our new friends.

Mercer Island was also where the rich people lived,
with their seaplanes and sailboats and big yachts parked on the water beside their homes.
No little fishing boats to be found. What had we moved into?

On a clear day we could see Mt. Rainier in the distance,
Stunning scenery everywhere we looked.
And lush gardens, with the "rhodies" and "azzies" as high as the rooftops.

And no one seemed to think there was anything odd
about all the wealth and blatant consumerism,
Water sports and mountain climbing in summer, ski slopes in the winter.

In the wintertime, the highway through the Cascades had snow higher than the Jeep top,
Poles along the way to guide the snowplows.
Oh yes, don't forget the rain--from September through May--the sound of tires on wet streets.

It was a magical city for us, beautiful beyond belief.
But a chance encounter in the library a few days ago,
the lady told me that it's different now--suffering from urban blight.

I'm glad we saw it then, in its good years, leaving happy memories.
Our first adventure as young marrieds, birthplace of our daughter.
Our first real home together--and perhaps the best of them all.

A Sheep Named Goddess

The prompts--A picture of an English sheep with long curly fleece, covering her eyes, and the word I drew was "goddess." A fun fantasy.


Just call me "Goddess." In the photo, they named me "sheep," but that just doesn't come close to doing me justice. What a mundane boring label; please, surely you can do better than that!

Notice the curly locks? Have you ever seen anything so beautiful? And the little white ears, sticking out, ever so pertly, from the long, flowing fleece. And the stately white muzzle--amazing! I must say, in all modesty, I'm the picture of statuesque beauty.

My mistress has quite a time when fair time comes. She spends hours grooming me, making me ready for the show. I've won lots of ribbons, of course. See all the blues on the wall over there? And some "Best in Show" trophies as well. I'm her top prize winner. No surprise there!

I've presented some children to her line of champions, but none yet that has surpassed my record.

My mistress absolutely adores me, of course. It's good to receive such well deserved appreciation. Even if she does decide to retire me next year, she says I'll have proven myself the best of my breed--champion forever!

My name is "Goddess." Appropriate, don't you agree?

After the Reunion

Since returning from my 50th high school reunion in Oak Ridge, TN, I've been deep into Appalachian culture and books. I corresponded with one of my old classmates, who is located in Berea, KY, the editor of an Appalachian journal. I'm remembering the Appalachian ministries program I participated in while I was at Vanderbilt Divinity School.

I've told some stories in my blog about my Mom, who grew up in Middle Tennessee, and came from a family of educators. She was a musician, with a degree from a music conservatory in Chattanooga. She had one sister, and they were "city girls."

Now I want to turn my attention back to my Dad, who grew up in East Tennessee, a farm boy, from a large family, a true Appalachian. He only made it through part of high school, and had to quit school and go to work after his father suffered a stroke. My grandfather had remarried after his first wife died, and they had a young daughter. So my dad left high school and went to work to support those of his family who remained at home.

He had a hard life, my father, and ever after fit the Appalachian model. He worked hard, loved his family, and always had a strong value system. Strict as he was, I never had any doubt that he loved me very much. I treasure the years I had with him, brief as they seem now. He's been gone a long time, but there's still a big hole in my life that no one else can fill. The wooden box used in writing group as a prompt looks like the one that he kept on his chest of drawers. It looks a lot like him.

For all their differences, my parents were able to make a good life together. Such differences in education, in culture, in family, in today's society might cause "irreconcilable differences" which now often lead to divorce. But they adjusted to each other and continued to care about each other. In retrospect, it seems to me they had it right after all.

Invisible Work

. . . thought of the invisible work that stitches up the world day and night,
the slow, unglamorous work of healing, . . .

"Invisible Work," by Alison Luterman
from The Largest Possible Life (2001)


Sitting on the sofa, deep in conversation,
and stroking the sleeping dog lying alongside.

Listening to Loreena's voice soaring
as I sink deeper and deeper into sleep.

Watching Ken Burns tell his mammoth stories,
as I work geometric shapes with the needle on the canvas.

Hugs from my grandchildren,
delicious buffet laid out by my son-in-law.

The love of family,
connection with friends.

So many quiet joys
that I too often neglect.

How can I forget the good stuff
that fills my life?

Those small flashes of happiness,
too often ignored,
too many complaints,
not enough thanksgivings.

Life is good.
Remember that.

The Coffee Pot

Ted Kooser said, "The great American poet William Carlos Williams taught us that if a poem can capture a moment in life, and bathe it in the light of the poet's close attention, and make it feel fresh and new, that's enough, that's adequate, that's good." In writing group, I took a moment in my life and tried to pay close attention, to make it feel fresh and new.


As I came into the kitchen that morning,
I was drawn by the wonderful aroma of coffee.
And I heard the gurgle of the old percolator,
In its usual place.

At my house I'd long since switched to a more modern coffeemaker,
Which made pretty good coffee,
But not as good as this.
My dad knew his coffee, and kept it going all through the day.

These were the happy times for me,
Both of us sitting in comfort at the table,
Sometimes speaking, sometimes in silence.
Just enjoying our time together.

My mom was off to her church activities,
But my dad and I moved out onto the porch.
We watched the squirrels chase each other,
And heard the cars drive by on the street.

We could sit together for hours,
Sharing the joy of being together.
Kindred spirits, he and I,
Just sittin' and rockin.'

Later, as I remembered these times,
I realized he may have suffered from depression--
Which I probably inherited from him,
But back then we didn't know about such things.

Back then, we just enjoyed the silence and the solitude,
All reflected in that picture of us together under the tree.
We looked so much alike,
And had the same expression as we gazed at the camera.


We moved far away so easily, Nick and I,
Never understanding the enormity of what we did.
"But what about the family?"
Constantly torn between the two men I loved most in all the world.

I Always Knew, but I Didn't Know

After "Things I Didn't Know I Loved: After Naxim Hikmet,"
by Linda Pastan


I always knew I loved the sound of rain on the roof of the upstairs bedroom
at Beth's cabin.
And snuggling down under the covers and the feel of the soft linen sheets,
so smooth, so cozy.
But I didn't originally like the afternoon sun shining through the skylight
into my eyes.
But now even that is comforting, because her home is such
a home to me.

I always knew I loved the aroma of homemade bread, which my mother
used to bake,
And as I came in from school, I'd know something wonderful
was in store.
But when I was the mom, and baking the bread, it became much more
than simply taste or smell,
It became a symbol of who I was as mother, and my identity
as earth mother.

I've gone through so many stages in my life--from daughter to wife and mother,
and now to grandmom,
And the years as professional, to student, to minister, and now retiree.
And all the work that has gone into that life, and the stress that has
accompanied it,
That I'm still trying to understand who I am.

The question of, "Who will I be when I grow up?" is a
continually moving target.

My Mother's Flowers

My mother was the gardener in the family. She truly loved her flowers. She would have planters full of geraniums, petunias, and zinnias on the porches and bannisters. In our Oak Ridge house, morning glories twined their way up the railings to the utility room entrance. Most of her favorites were annuals, and I thought they were boring. But then, what did I know?

By the kitchen door she always had a little patch of mint, and when she served iced tea, she would go outside and break off a few sprigs and add them to the tea glasses. Those I did like, because they made the tea taste so good. I also liked the large peonies that she grew. And the iris in the back yard. I wanted her to concentrate more on different colors of iris and the spectacular peonies, but she preferred the less exotic flowers.

The one type of exotic variety she did enjoy raising was the collection of her African violets--on the shelves in the windows. All kinds and all colors. Beautiful all through the year.

I wish I'd inherited her touch with flowers, but I killed just about every plant or flower I ever touched. No green thumb for me!

My mother--with her music and her flowers--will always live in my memory.

Who Am I?

After recently attending my 50-year high school reunion, I find myself again considering my own identity. Who am I, and where have I come from? In writing group today, the word drawn was "aware," and the item was a red clayish stone


I am newly aware of who I am, and where I come from--Appalachia. The red stone makes me think of Appalachia. I've lived in several parts of the country during my lifetime. I grew up in Oak Ridge, TN (Appalachia), attended two years of college in Southwest Virginia (still Appalachia). Over the years I lived for three years in Seattle (Pacific Northwest), five years in Knoxville (East Tennessee again), two years in Idaho (Palouse wheatfields), and two months in Tucson, AZ (desert Southwest). The rest of my time has been in Nashville. I've lived through the end of World War II, Korean War, Viet Nam War and its protests, Civil Rights years, Desert Storm years, right up to the present times of turmoil and political bickering. (I no longer watch television, but get my current events from the newspaper. TV news makes my stomach hurt.)

Through my life I've been a student, a secretary, an administrator, a graduate student, a minister, and a retiree/part-time library tech. I've been a wife, mother, grandmother, and now a single woman on my own. I've taken piano lessons, art class, weaving class, been a stitcher and am now trying to write. I'm sure there have been other interests that I'm forgetting.

I just got back from my 50-year high school reunion in Oak Ridge, and now am plunged back into Appalachian literature and folk culture. Another time of transition begins. Who do I want to be this time around? We'll see. A "hippie hillbilly" sounds pretty good.

Some of us have more history than others. At our core, we don't really change, but how we view ourselves does. (Thanks, Ellen.)

The Music Teacher

The child brought the apple to her music teacher at the last lesson before summer vacation. And she also gave her teacher a card that said, "You're special." The music teacher was my mother, and this was her last year teaching private piano lessons.

My mother was a very talented musician, and one of the best private piano teachers in Oak Ridge. She taught lessons all during my school years.

As I grew up, of course, I also took lessons from her. Until, that is, I got to high school, when our power struggles and personality conflicts peaked (teenage rebellion, you know), and we both agreed it would be better for me to switch to another teacher. One of her friends kindly agreed to "take me on." It turned out to be a much better arrangement. Mrs. Maxwell was a very sweet, gentle lady, as well as a good teacher. These lessons were much less stressful for both teacher and pupil.

My mother taught only advanced students, but she suggested that I might enjoy teaching some of the beginners who had called for her. I did that, and made a little extra money that way. I even taught my father the basics of notes, and reading the scales. (I'm sure he was just humoring me, as his lessons didn't last very long. But he was a good sport about it all.)

When it came time for me to go away to college, I decided I'd had enough, and refused to take piano while I was there. I knew I'd never get even close to my mother's ability, so much to my later regret, I stopped entirely. It's one of those examples of making decisions as you grow up, and then having to live with them. In later years, I'd sometimes try to pick it back up, but never stuck with it for long.

The music community in Oak Ridge was a very important part of my life as I was growing up. I feel fortunate to have had such a talented mother. I only wish I had appreciated her more at the time.

Waiting for Better Thoughts

As many of my friends know, this has been a difficult spring for me. In writing group, I've tried to deal with some of the emotional stuff. This entry reflects it.


From
"You Reading This, Be Ready,"
by William Stafford

"Starting here, what do you want to remember?"
. . . . .
"Are you waiting for time to show you some better thoughts?"


Yes, I'm waiting for better thoughts.
I'm waiting for a better place to be.

What do I want to remember?
Not this--not where I am right now!

It seems that every day is dark now.
And I try to dig out of the darkness.

I open the door, and Toby and I go out.
But before we make the circle, the tears come.

And so we come back home.
Come in and close the door.

I know it will get better--it always has.
It's spring, not winter, and the sun shines.

It's not dark and gloomy outside--
Just inside.

The effect of the flood was devastating.
But it didn't impact me or mine.

Waiting for the "new glimpse" the poet mentions.
But I can't find it.

I withdraw into my cave.
Because I can't stand to impact others right now.

Every Monday, I think, "Maybe today.
Maybe this week will be better."

And as I go through the week, I still carry the hope,
"Maybe next week."

Looking for You

After "Looking for You,"
by William Stafford.

"Looking for you through the gray rain."


In writing group, we used Stafford's poem as the basis for our own memories of a special house where we had lived. The house I wrote about was from 1967, the farmhouse Nick and I rented on Vashon Island, WN.


"Looking for you through the gray rain," the house on Vashon Island is the one I remember most fondly. It's the house we lived in when our daughter was born. The place where I was a young wife and mother.

It's the house where I read "Lord of the Rings" late at night while I waited for Nick to get home on the last ferry from Boeing's evening shift. And sometimes missed it when he got off late.

It's the house where Hallie and Alan, our hippie friends, lived down the road. And Hallie taught me to cook on an old woodstove. And Alan got arrested for public drunkenness, and I went with Hallie to bail him out.

It was the house where we had people drop in and stay a while--to my dismay, sometimes for months.

It was the house on Vashon Island, accessible only by ferry.

The house we lived in when I slipped on wet grass, as I was walking our Alaskan malamute, Shami. And had to hobble across the road to get a neighbor to take me to the doctor's office, because I couldn't use the clutch in our Jeep. Turns out my ankle was broken, and on my first visit to the obstetrician a few weeks later I was wearing a cast. The first weigh-in had to wait.

It's the house we lived in when I had to take my driver's license test in the Jeep, when I was 8 months pregnant. And the examiner said, "Pretend there's another car back there and parallel park between it and this car in front. " And so I did. And he passed me--maybe partly because he wouldn't be back on the island again before the baby was due.

The house with no shower, and when I washed my waist-length hair, I had to do it leaning over the bathtub--very pregnant. (Remember, these were the hippie years.)

Where I drove myself to the ferry in the Jeep, to go to Swedish Hospital in Seattle to have our baby. The last ferry for 2 hours at that time of day. If I'd missed it, she would have been delivered by a ferry attendant. (Yes, they knew how to deliver babies.) Where my worst fear had been that the baby would come in the middle of the night, and they would have to call out the emergency ferry from Bainbridge Island. Nick met the ferry on the Seattle side, and drove me to the hospital. She was born soon afterward.

It was the house where I locked the baby in the clunker car that I kept just to drive on the island. And panicked and broke the big window by the driver's seat to get her out.

It was the house where we could hear the scream of peacocks from the farm behind us.

And Shami brought home a dead peacock, and laid it at my feet. So proud.

And later got into the babysitter's father's sheep pen, and killed a sheep. We had to move Shami off the island ASAP. We were lucky he didn't shoot her.

The house was a farmhouse on 5 acres. We had fruit trees, and made a big vegetable garden. I made curtains, and baked bread, picked apples and made apple butter.

It was the rental farmhouse where I have wonderful memories--of happy laughing times. One of the best years of my life.


Nick, this is for you.

Appalachian family

In many ways, we were a typical Appalachian family. My father's "good job" was in Oak Ridge, as it grew into The Atomic City. But he was from the country, and his family lived in the country, or small towns, a little distance from us. So about once a month, when he had the weekend off, we traveled to see them. This was when I was very young--before the interstate system. Primarily we would drive from Oak Ridge to Sweetwater, where my dad's brother lived. We wound through the countryside, passing farms, hills and valleys, going through small towns on our way. We went through Lenoir City, then passed over a big bridge (or so it seemed to me), just before we got to Loudon, and then we were almost to Sweetwater.

My mother and I would play "cow poker" to help pass the time. If you have somehow missed out on this experience, cow poker was a game of counting cows along the way. I would count cows on one side, and my mother would count them on the other side. The only catch was if we passed a cemetery, our number was wiped out and we had to start over. After all those trips, I knew where the cemeteries were, of course, so I picked the opposite side to count my cows. (My mother also knew, but she allowed me to have this advantage. Did I mention that I was an only child?)

I was never a patient traveler, being a very young child. And one of our first trips to Sweetwater, as we went over the Loudon bridge, I plaintively asked, "Are we almost to Hotwater yet?" My dad really laughed at that one, and it became a family story, greatly amusing my parents.

Eventually I got to know the route very well. And I could always see when we were almost there, because we'd come up over a hill, and in the distance I could see the towers of TMI (Tennessee Military Institute) surrounded by trees. TMI was on the highway going into Sweetwater.

Now the interstate has replaced that old route, and I have not gone on the old highway in many years. But I still remember the old landmarks--the turkey farm, the Loudon bridge, and TMI towers giving me the good news, "We're almost there."

The waves come

Writing from "On the Oregon Coast," by Robert Bly



"The waves come . . .
all this fury . . .
and the ducks don't help.
Settling down in furry water, shaking
Themselves, and then forgetting it within a minute."


How do they do that?
The ducks shake themselves and then forget it.
How do they do that?
The dog shakes himself and then moves on.
When I am swamped by a looming wave,
I also try to become small, in order to withstand it.
But rather, I am flattened, and lie, gasping for breath.

I roll away, and then try to get to my feet,
But I don't shake myself and forget it.
Instead, I hang onto it,
and revisit it again and again,
relive it, and re-experience the hurt, and the pain,
over and over and over.

Maybe I think that by doing that,
I can change the outcome.
Maybe if I remember and relive,
it will end differently.
If it matters to me, how can I shake it off and walk away?
I want a different ending.
I want a more satisfactory ending.

On the other hand . . .

The emotional fury, finally faced and acknowledged.
No longer stuffed down and denied.
Maybe not healthier,
but definitely more honest.

"It is what it is."
I feel what I feel.
I am who I am.
So be it.

Diving Around

Writing group worked with "Diving into the Wreck," by Adrienne Rich (from Diving into the Wreck: Poems 1971-1972)


"I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail."
(From Adrienne Rich's "Diving into the Wreck")


I need to write, what I have discovered. words as purposes, words as maps. I need to re-examine the wreck; I need to re-examine the damaged structure. And glean, one by one, the treasures that have survived. And there are treasures that have survived.

Rereading the journals from all those years ago. Hearing again my words, my mantra, going again and again through the same experience. I ask myself, "Didn't I learn anything? How could I keep going around and around in circles?" It was like a deadly whirlpool--I rushed in, then was caught in the dizzy swirling, down to the bottom and back up again. I pulled myself out, crawled up on the beach, coughing and choking. Lay there until I finally got my breath back. Then, instead of walking away from the water, thankful to escape the madness, I turned around and went right back into the water, into yet another whirlpool. And the experience repeated itself. Again and again.

Counselor Mary Elizabeth was the Coast Guard boat, who picked me up and brought me to land. And warned me not to go back into the water. Eventually, reluctantly, I heard her voice and what she had said, over and over again. And eventually, I walked up the beach and away from the water, found a new place to be, totally different and protected from the beach.

Twenty-five years later, I returned to the beach--fortunately very briefly. And then I went home.

The treasures that prevail still need to be identified and claimed.

Water

The prompt at writing group was a plastic bottle of water, that you buy at the store.
The word I drew was "comfort." But it went unused. There was no comfort here.


"Water water everywhere, and not a drop to drink."

Water in a bottle--soon all we'll have to drink, I'm afraid.
The grocery shelves will soon be empty of water, I'm afraid.
Images of water on television--much too much water.

Unforgettable images.
The Cumberland creeps up--Riverfront Park steps, First Avenue, Second Avenue, and still it rises.
LP Field--a bowl of dirty water--no Titans playing today.
Ghost dance artwork--standing surrounded by water.

Look up at the downtown Nashville skyline,
then look down to street level,
at the lake surrounding the buildings where I used to work.

Antioch, Nolensville, Bellevue, Clarksville,
Nashville itself--overwhelmed by water.

Life-saving water--one water treatment plant inundated,
the other barely holding on.

Life-taking water--20 deaths, older couple swept away in their car,
young men swept away when their innertubes broke apart,
children allowed to play in contaminated flood water.
What are those parents thinking of?

Images one after another, after another!
The best and the worst.

I'm safe. My family is safe.
But I'm overwhelmed. My heart is breaking.
And we seem to exist in a vacuum.
Local news media come through spectacularly.
The national media give it hardly a mention.
Facebook is the lifeline out, but we spend a great deal of time explaining what happened.
Who knew?

Surreal
Bizarre
Terrible!

The weekend from hell.

You Were

"You Were," after
"Litany," by Billy Collins

You were the earth mother, the bread baker, the weaver.
You were the gardener, the farm wife, the maker of curtains.

You were not the perfect wife, the keeper of tranquility, the rock.
You tried, but you failed.

You tried to be Ruth, with your "whither thou goest I will go,"
but that got old after a while.

You tried to let him follow his elusive dream, but eventually it turned into,
"If you go for your Ph.D., you go alone."

You were the Little House wife and mother, but also the thesis typist and editor.
You were the seamstress, of mother/daughter dotted swiss dresses,
the dollmaker, and Pooh and Eyore too.

You were not the committed daughter,
and you have never forgiven yourself.

You were the starter of projects, but not always the finisher.
You were the music lover, and reader, and lover of beautiful things.

Eventually you were even the minister, but never the preacher.
And you only had so much strength in you, and so had to give it up,
in order to survive.

Now you are the writer of memories,
But with your heart too much on your sleeve.

You never were very good with boundaries,
And so you write, and then have to go back and unwrite.

You are a very good grandmom, one of the three.
And loved, much loved, by those to whom you have been given.

You will be the world's oldest hippie.
Happy and content to complete the circle.

Addendum

And the song I used to sing with my grandchildren is in my head,

"The wheels of the bus go round and round,"

And the more things change,
the more they stay the same.

My Life

"Somewhere
a black bear
has just risen from sleep
and is staring


down the mountain.
. . . . .


Whatever else

my life is
with its poems
and its music
and its cities,


it is also this dazzling darkness
coming
down the mountain,
breathing and tasting;
. . . . ."

"Spring"

by Mary Oliver

My life includes writing, and music, and cities; does it also include the bear--descending the mountain, breathing and tasting? Have I so lost touch with wildlife and country and nature? I used to live on the edge of the woods, and my friends would play in the woods. But not me--Daddy wanted to protect me. So I stayed protected.

I lived with music, and books, and town life. And that was an advantage, because I went to good schools, and was exposed to music and literature, because of my mother's background. And growing up in Oak Ridge provided "the good life," and loving family and friends. I had minimal exposure to "life in the country," though that was my father's background.


And when Nick and I moved to Seattle, we went to Puget Sound, and beautiful scenery, mountains, trees, and camped some (but not much). And when he spent summers on San Juan Island directing the archaeological field school, I took our daughter to visit (for a short time), but then went home--back to civilization, and work, and "real life."


I was always removed from any kind of wilderness, always protected. Always kept myself protected. I would have been very afraid of this big, black, wild bear. Mary Oliver's question--how to love this world--would never have occurred to me. I've always kept life--and people--and nature--at arm's length. Don't get too close; I might get hurt. The bear might turn on me, and bite me. Stay protected. Stay safe.


But then don't complain because real life has passed me by.

Letter to Bear

Prompt this morning at writing group was a teddy bear. The most wonderful, large, fuzzy, sweet bear--just the perfect size for holding and hugging. The word I drew was letter. So here is "Letter to Bear."


Dear Bear,

You're a wonderful bear--all fuzzy, plump, and cuddly. Just the right size. If you were my bear, I'd carry you around with me, and enjoy your softness. I understand why children love you so much, Bear, because you feel so good and comforting. I'd sit with you in my arms, while I watch TV or play on the computer. You'd give me comfort when I feel lonely, and I could talk to you and tell you why I was sad.

Toby is good company also, Bear. And I can talk to him and he seems to understand me. He sits beside me on the sofa in front of the TV, and I pet him and love on him. And he lies behind me in his bed in the office when I'm on the computer. But I can't sleep with him any more, Bear, like I could with you.

And Bear, you wouldn't wake me up too early in the morning. And I'd never have to take you out for potty breaks.

Love, Mom

St. Mary's Retreat, March 29, 2010

Writing from a prompt.
"To me the meanest flower that grows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
from "Ode: Intimations of Immortality and
Recollections of Early Childhood"


It started out as a memoir blurb, about the huge change in my life (entering the ministry), which began as a chance comment from a friend (going back to school in midlife). But as I wrote, I became more and more bogged down, and finally decided to write it more as a poem than a memoir. Maybe sometime I'll go back to the memoir, but for now, here's the shorter version.


Something Big from Something Small

Something small and inconsequential
Can grow to a changed life.

"I'm going back to school," she said.
I kept remembering.

Just divorced, life in turmoil,
How could I do that?

But the accounting firm didn't feel right any more.
The man with integrity had retired,
And now "bottom line" was all.

Divorce changed everything,
Counseling for the depression,
Back to church after 20 years.

In the new church,
Gifts & Talents workshop
One with Another singles group
New friends, new activities,
Brochure on a grad program--Can I do it?

Divinity school,
Application--yes
Financial help--yes
Ordination candidate--yes

"What does all this stuff mean?"
New ideas and terminology
"Exegesis"
"Feminist theology"
"Patriarchy"
"Hermeneutics of suspicion"
What a vocabulary!

"I don't think I can do this!"
"You'll be a wonderful minister," she said.
"Remember this later," she said,
"so they'll be able to understand you.
Church is very different from Divinity School."

Naming My Daughter

"Naming My Daughter," after Patricia Fargnoli

The one almost born on the ferry
The one who was really late, and then came really fast
Born while her dad ran out for a hamburger
Only child of an only child
Karin named for no one
Jeaninne named for mom's best friend
One who knew the names of all her medicines at a young age
She who made monthly trips to the ER
Story lover and early reader
"Pobody's Nerfect" softball team player
Token archaeology kid
Flute player and flag dancer
Merit award recipient
Affordable housing advocate
Passionate standard bearer for inclusivity
Calligrapher and costumer
Loving daughter, wife and mother
House fixer
Problem solver
Much loved by husband and children

Where did she come from, this daughter? What magic
came together to produce such a joy?
Better than a combination of the genes who made her
Pride of her mother's heart

The School Bus

From writing class, a photograph of two small children--a girl and a boy. The word I drew was "bus." This is a slightly fictionalized version of an actual experience.

I put them on the school bus--my two babies. Their first day of school. Actually, they're my two grandchildren, and they're not babies any more. But they'll always be my babies, at least to me.

They're going to a good school, and I know they'll do well. But when my daughter asked me to put them on the bus that first day, my heart froze.

"But they're not old enough to ride the bus! What if something happens to them?"

"Now, Mom, we're in a good neighborhood, and they're going to a good school. Their friends ride the same bus. They'll be fine. Don't worry so much."

So I did as she asked. They left the house with their bookbags and their lunchboxes, wearing their new school clothes and their new school shoes. They ran out to the bus stop in front of the house. The school bus pulled up and stopped, and I heard that distinctive sound of the bus door opening. I waved to them, and they waved back. They climbed aboard and found their seats.

As the bus drove away, I wiped away a tear. They're growing up too fast, I thought. When did this happen? They're not babies any more.

Back Again

After quite a long absence (2 months), I return to the blog. It's been a long cold winter, and I just couldn't get my writing motivation going. In writing group we missed all of February, because of so many snow days. Now the sun has returned, and spring seems close at hand. (I hope!) So after group today, I promised myself I would get back to the blog, and try to do regular additions to it. And here I am, using the leash that was on the table as a prompt, and drawing the word "change," to use or not, as I saw fit.


TRIBUTE TO TOBY

The leash makes me think of my Toby, of course. He has his leash similar to this one, which we use every time he goes out for his potty break, or any other time. We live in an apartment complex, and the basic rule for pets here is "keep your dog on a leash at all times, and clean up after your pet."

Toby has brought an important change to my life. I've had dogs and cats before, when I had my own house, but when I sold my last house and moved back to Nashville, I decided to move into an apartment. The first apartment I had didn't allow pets of any kind, and I was still working full-time, and had no time for a dog anyway. But when I retired, and moved to another complex, I chose one which allowed pets. Thank goodness for that!

Toby is my pet, my companion, my friend. I can't imagine my life without him. I talk to him, I used to sleep with him, and he provides love and companionship in my mostly solitary lifestyle.

Everyone in the apartment complex knows Toby. He loves attention from people of all ages and sizes. When we go to the rental office, he goes from desk to desk getting talked to and petted. The mail lady gives him treats, and the maintenance men play with him.

The long winter is almost over, and it's about time to spend more time outside visiting with the neighbors. We've had a hard time this winter, and we're both glad it's almost over.

What a delightful companion he's been to me. A wonderful change he brought to my life.

On starting a new year

From writing class:

. . . it will be hard to let go
of what i said to myself
about myself
when i was sixteen and
twentysix and thirtysix . . .

From "i am running into a new year," by Lucille Clifton


It is hard to let go of what I said to myself about myself, pretty much my whole life. I try and I try to overcome those old messages. "I'm not creative. I can't draw. Plain ole Dottie. There's nothing special about me." And on and on and on.

So in the years since retirement, I've tried very hard to make changes in that negative self-image. I took art class and actually enjoyed drawing and painting and working with color. I've started the writing group and love the fellowship and support we give each other. And writing feels good, too. I've always enjoyed creating textiles of all kinds, and that hasn't changed. And SoulCollage has brought out something very special in me.

But it seems that whenever I begin "running into a new year," or into a new place, I trip over something and fall flat, like that sidewalk outside my apartment, or I run smack into a wall, like the insurance cancellation that I found out about yesterday. Just when things are going well, I hit the wall or the ground hard, and then I slowly start to pick myself up. I go into my rooms and shut the door, and try to recover. I get the physical injuries taken care of, and then the mental and emotional wounds must be tended as well. I retreat into my "cave" with my Toby, and try to recover my physical, emotional, and financial health. And I try to recover my self-confidence as best I can.

I know I'll get through this "fall," just as I recovered from the one in November, just as I've recovered from the ones all through my whole life. However, it is frustrating to be "running into a new year," figuratively speaking, and find myself with the wind knocked out of me again, so suddenly and unexpectedly. My hope is that, although the slips and falls will continue to come on occasion, they won't drop me back into the "slough of despond" where I used to live. I may continue to berate myself for mistakes of judgment and carelessness, but I have experienced so much joy from my creative discoveries and self-knowledge, that hopefully the good will far outweigh the bad. What's the line in the song? "Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again." Only I don't have to go all the way back to the beginning and start all over again--just pick myself up where I am and continue on my way--to new life and new discoveries.

The alarm clock

Toby stands by the bed and shakes himself, jingling his tags. I open one eye and look at the clock. As expected, it's 4:00 a.m. If it's earlier than that, I can tell him, "Too early, Tobe. Go back to bed." Sometimes this works, especially when it's before 3:30. But if it's after 4:00, and I'm not moving, he goes into Step 2 of his routine. With frequent bumps of his front feet on the side of the bed, I can hear him breathing, and sometimes he starts his own special quiet whining. Ignoring him doesn't work at all, because he's very determined--and persistent. "Time to get up, Mom. I gotta go out."

With such early morning hours, my times of waking up in the middle of the night have almost disappeared. That's one advantage, anyway, a change from the past years of having to get up, go to the computer, and play computer games to put myself back to sleep. Thanks to Toby, sleep is no longer a problem in my life. Of course, with such a schedule, naps are essential--frequently right after breakfast. Occasionally two a day. I have become "the nap-taker."

He's a very reliable alarm clock, my Toby.