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.