that's my story... and I'm sticking to it

A Leap of Faith

2011-10-25T20:26:00.000-07:00

photo by Amy Weston

Her choices are limited, the outcomes dire.

What would you choose?

Exhaustion

2011-10-20T22:08:00.000-07:00

Exhaustion Junkie by Modigliani

she's stuck in a cycle of exhaustion and despair

making it day by day, hour by hour

it can't get better and it could get worse

She's not sure how to change

or even if she wants to

Smoke and Ashes

2011-10-19T21:46:00.000-07:00

art by musafir

leaning forward she waits

for the flames to end

for purpose to reveal it's self

it wasn't always this way

in the beginning it was

a way to survive

and after a time it became

all that was left

Magnificant Obsession

2011-10-18T11:43:00.000-07:00

My obsession with Picasso continues and deepens. I don't know and don't care why. Trying to organize boxes of stuff from the garage, I discover more books, articles, reproductions, etc. from the past. Maybe time will bring some answers. Or not.

The Barefoot Contessa Or How I Found Out Where Babies Come From

2011-10-17T20:58:00.000-07:00

In 1955, I went off to live with my stepmother and half-sister and my dad who attended night school on the GI bill. One night after dropping him off at school, we went to the drive-in to see The Barefoot Contessa. It was a complicated movie involving a dancer who likes to go barefoot then becomes a famous actress and eventually marries an impotent count. He finds out she's been unfaithful when she turns up pregnant so he shoots her. By this time I was pretty confused so I asked Mom why he was so mad at her; she hesitated for a moment then answered, "His pecker was shot off." Oh, I thought, Oh my goodness.

If Only

2011-10-16T18:41:00.000-07:00

If only I had a pink laptop
I'd write the great american novel
If only I could remember to buy lotto tickets
I'd be rich instead of so darn cute
If only I could find my missing computer disks
I'd be speaking spanish or german or both
If only I lived in a yurt
I'd have buckets of money in the bank
If only I'd been born smart
instead of so damn cute
I'd have the world by the tail
If only...

Most of All

2011-09-19T17:26:00.000-07:00

Lichtenstein "Hopeless"

She wants to do it all and do it perfect. She wants to be the one that saves the world and is rewarded with a ticker tape parade down Fifth Avenue. She wants to stay up late and dance all night. She wants love and respect and someone to hold her hand at the movies. But most of all she just wants to quit crying and get on with life.

When She Came Home

2011-09-12T20:21:00.000-07:00

She quit school and dropped out of sight for a couple of years. We thought she might have gone off with some guy cause she was real pretty, with that red hair and those long legs. A real eye-catcher. Course she didn't stay very long with anybody. Soon as they said "marriage" she was out of there. Most folks thought she was afraid of being tied down but I always thought she just had a hunger for new and exciting. She didn't come around to see her mama very often, but when she did, she brought presents.

The One

2011-09-06T15:50:00.000-07:00

The sunbaked rocks soothe her sore muscles. Robert's still climbing, determined to reach the peak before midafternoon so he won't have to descend in darkness. She thinks about taking a nap but isn't comfortable being there alone. Recently a young girl went missing and before that two women were found murdered just outside the park. But in her heart she knows this is not what's really bothering her. The truth: her relationship is on the inevitable slide. Robert will become, like the others, a good friend, but not her real love, her last love, the one that will love her for who she is instead of the person they want her to be.

Faces

2011-09-01T20:34:00.000-07:00

Faces with open mouths peer from walls; teeth bite into the afternoon. Sunlight creeps through the blinds while dust gathers on the tables, the floor, the walls; she waits for something, anything to break the silence in a world that seldom changes.

Migration

2011-08-31T19:32:00.000-07:00

I live on the flight path of migrating geese and I don't understand their migration patterns. Here, at the end of summer, they are headed north, not south. Granted, they seem a bit out of control, veering first left then right, then who knows, calling to each other in some personal duck language. But I feel blessed to share in a small part of their journey and imagine for a moment what it would feel like to just take flight.

Hope

2011-08-30T19:06:00.000-07:00

Washing the breakfast dishes, she stares out the kitchen window, searches the yard for the dog, finds her gnawing on a bone so large it's hard to picture what it might have been attached to. She's a farm dog, loves barking at the horses and digging for gophers in the flower bed when she's not chasing the small grey rabbit that lives under the metal storage shed. Hummingbirds have arrived, the most ever, darting around the feeder, then fleeing quickly back to the safety of the big oak tree. Life is not perfect, but its good. She's thankful and reminds herself to stay hopeful.

A Recent Thrift Store Gem

2011-08-26T10:01:00.000-07:00

Published in 1966, this story captures an era we must never forget. David Champlin is a black man born into poverty in Depression-era New Orleans who makes his way up the ladder of success, only to sacrifice everything to lead his people in the civil rights movement. Sara Kent is the white girl who loves David from the moment she first sees him, and who struggles against his belief that a marriage for them would be wrong in the violent world he has to confront. This book will break your heart but you'll be glad you read it.

Lost

2011-08-23T20:39:00.000-07:00

The man across the aisle doesn't speak, doesn't allow his eyes to make contact with fellow travelers, focuses instead on a small silver chain, threading it through his fingers again and again.

No Limits

2011-08-22T16:20:00.000-07:00

No limits on time, money, compassion, or dreams. It could happen!

This Time

2011-08-18T21:04:00.000-07:00

She touches his face, holds his hand, waits for the answering nod. She lights the fire under the kettle, places cups on the table, tea in the pot. Waiting for the whistle, she feels the silence in the room, the tension, fear, exhaustion. She understands she can't be sure but is also sure she's lost him for good this time.

Inevitable

2011-08-17T23:46:00.000-07:00

She touches his face, searches for signs of sorrow, then holds his hand and waits for the answering nod. She lights the fire under the kettle, places cups on the table, drops tea leaves in the pot, and waits for the whistle. She feels silence in the room: tension, fear, exhaustion; she understands she can't be sure, but is sure, she's lost him for good.

Picture Perfect

2011-08-15T17:18:00.000-07:00

Perfectly alright, or not. Perfectly awful and frightening and intense. Her eyes closing, the floor moving beneath her feet, the morning sun through the kitchen window separating day from night. And all she wants to do is go back to bed and sleep a dreamless sleep.

1-2-3-4-5-6

2011-08-13T16:22:00.000-07:00

One way to live is to be part of
two which vanquishes loneliness unless there's
three which is just too many, yet
four is enough to play poker at
five when the sun begins setting and
six will be time for dinner

Holding On

2011-08-09T20:04:00.000-07:00

Suspended in space, above the moon, below the sun, the stars, above the fray, waiting for a sign to move her forward, toward one place, away from another. Holding on, holding her breath, holding her self. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Eye Catching

2011-08-08T16:37:00.000-07:00

"More than five decades ago, a 21-year-old Elvis was caught on film giving a playful French kiss to a lovely--and unidentified--young woman. The photo became iconic; but even the photographer, Alfred Wertheimer, didn't know who the girl was. Her name, if not her image, remained unknown for years." Wendy Geller, Stop the Presses

In the late 50's, while visiting family in Dallas, one of my cousins told me that she was having an affair with Elvis. I didn't really believe her but it was a compelling tale complete with details of a dress he bought her, how she slipped out at night after everyone was asleep to be with him, and how he begged her to marry him. She even had a small handkerchief that she said he gave her. She is not the woman in this story but maybe she could have been, if the stars had been just right.

There's No Place Like Your Own Bed

2011-08-07T19:54:00.000-07:00

Even if the sheets aren't clean and the cat's been sleeping there for three days and it's too damn hot and there's nothing on television that you haven't already seen and there's dirty laundry in the floor and life's just generally a bitch. But it's your bed and you've made it, so just lie in it.

Emptiness

2011-08-05T13:55:00.000-07:00

He goes to the place of his family, to sit in silence and think about their lives, their deaths, what he could have done to make a difference and why he did not. He weeps but he will never taste forgiveness in his tears.

Money, Money, Money

2011-08-02T19:40:00.000-07:00

Not enough money to feed the hungry or heal the sick or educate the children or house the poor or provide clean drinking water or build adequate housing or protect the innocent. But always, always too damn much to end the wars.

Other People's Children

2011-07-30T19:34:00.000-07:00

Her memory is less reliable now but she feels certain she has one of those old manual typewriters somewhere. The kind with the ribbon that had to be threaded just right to keep the ink from getting blotchy. She learned to type in tenth grade. Miss Conklin seemed old then, but of course she wasn't much older than the girls who came to her class, hoping for a chance to work for one of the local doctors or lawyers, at least until they could find a suitable husband. Sometimes Maggie thinks she should have put less time in learning to type and more into finding a kind man to marry, one who wouldn't send his children to bed without their supper or discipline his wife once they left the room. Maybe she could have been a school teacher and spent her life helping other women's children.

Between the Sun and the Moon

2011-07-28T10:17:00.000-07:00

She's caught between, drawn in by the pull of the moon, pushed back by the heat of the sun. It has always been that way. No easy choices, no simple solutions. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

Summer of Love

2011-07-27T10:04:00.000-07:00

She drove a Beetle but always wanted a van. Not just any van but one that would match her inner vision of self. A van big enough to hold all her treasures with room left over for dreams. A van that could take her to far places and new friends, where she could find enough inspiration and energy to make the world a better place and her self a better person. Alas, in the end, she settled, for a big black Chrysler and a 70 hour a week job and children who raised themselves and a sucking feeling of loss.

Stuck

2011-07-26T17:15:00.000-07:00

Stuck in the middle
between who she is
and who she wants to be.
Stuck with those she needs,
those she loves,
but sometimes dislikes.
Stuck with growing old,
growing weak,
haunted by memories,
sometimes false.
Lost love, lost chances,
lost opportunities to be
not perfect, not great,
but whole, complete.
Stuck with myself.

A House Is Not a Home

2011-07-26T11:42:00.000-07:00

Home is love, safety
hot biscuits for breakfast
warm milk at bedtime
a dog who waits each afternoon
for her return from school
a cat who bears litters of kittens
a sunken washtub that catches tadpoles
that become frogs
singing in the cool spring morning

Home is memory
color, smell, sound
block ice that cools the milk
that cools the stomach
on hot summer evenings
bugs that fly around the light
that pushes away the darkness
that hides the path to the unknown

Sweetie

2011-07-25T16:32:00.000-07:00

She never imagined that her elderly neighbor would suggest such a thing. Everyone knew that Sweetie was a real beast, flinging himself around on the sofa, shedding wads of hair on anyone who came near. Nevermind that he loved to bite more than anything, more than eating even. But Mrs. Green's garage was overrun with mice and had asked to borrow him for a day or two.

She'd have to take the litter boxes over as well. And his dry food and the special canned food he liked so much and the comb used to curry out as much as she could of the long black hair before it could skitter under the sofa and attach itself to the coffee table legs. And his toys, at least some of them And his down bed with the robins and butterflies on the cover. And maybe Mrs. Green could move her little tv to the garage so Sweetie could watch Wheel of Fortune. Maybe it could be alright, just for a night or two.

Borrowed Time

2011-07-23T14:27:00.000-07:00

She borrowed the seam ripper from Mrs. Deaton and carefully picked out the offending stitches. It wasn't that hard if you didn't count the embarrassment over doing it wrong, not following the careful instructions given out by Carolyn, the high school student who came each Tuesday to help the girls with their projects. She tried to write it down, all those steps being too much for her head to hold at one time, but couldn't seem to write fast enough to get it all down on paper. So, later, it didn't make as much sense as it did when Mrs. Deaton said it.

And then, of course, there was the material she'd picked out for her project, a bright yellow that she thought would look good against the tan she'd have by the end of summer from hoeing cotton beside her step-mom. But no one thought to tell her about cheap yardage and how some would hold a good pressing and some would not, would instead crumple up like a piece of newspaper on a humid day.

There was no money to buy more material and even if there was, surely there was no time. And this was the project that would be graded and put on her final report card. Her step-mom might understand but her daddy was sure to be real unhappy, him not knowing, of course, that sewing just didn't come as easy to her as reading and numbers.

Crazy Quilt

2011-07-18T19:27:00.000-07:00

The treadle sewing machine sat in the middle room during the summer, in the green room during the winter when the quilt frames were lowered. I learned to sew on that machine, my legs barely able to reach the treadle, my right hand resting lightly above the wheel, ready to stop it if my feet got carried away. Once I ran the machine needle through the end of my finger as I tried to guide the cloth under the presser foot. Granddaddy held my shoulders while Grandmother inched the flywheel back until the needle pulled out. Blood spurted as they swabbed my hand with kerosene, (poor people's disinfectant). Within a day or so I was back at the machine, stitching doll clothes and blankets for my cats from left over cloth scraps.

I loved to sew and eventually asked to make my own quilt top. Grandmother helped me cut out squares of newspaper and showed me how to stitch cloth scraps to the paper, folding each new piece back to make hidden seams, then folding that piece over to attach to the next scrap. Within a few days I had enough blocks to begin my quilt. Unfortunately, I overheard my grandmother tell the neighbor I was making a crazy quilt. I was devastated. I took the blocks I’d finished and the one I was working on and put them on a high shelf in the closet. I never touched them again. Years later, I would learn that “crazy quilt” was the name for using random pieces of fabric to create a treasured family heirloom. I've often wondered what happened to those abandoned quilt blocks.

Dear Gertrude

2011-07-16T08:53:00.000-07:00

I am embarking on an undertaking that I'm hopeful to complete: your 925 page "sober, tender-hearted, very searching history of a family's progress" (Marianne Moore). I trust that it will be a fruitful journey.

Your faithful fan, Sandra

Safety Net

2011-07-14T20:16:00.000-07:00

She grew up believing in god and angels and the devil (said to be a fallen angel), and hell fire where you went if you sinned, but not if you were saved and dunked in the water tank back behind where the choir sang on Sunday mornings.

Then one hot summer a handsome preacher came from out of town to save souls and she took herself to the front, crying for forgiveness and asking to be saved. And the visiting preacher took her in his strong arms and dunked her in the water. She felt good and safe, and cold since the water wasn't heated and there wasn't a robe or anything to put over her wet clothes.

And everything was good until a while later when she got to thinking about how she felt when she was with boys and the time she drank whiskey at the park with Priscilla and how she let Billy Brown touch her breast (but she did NOT touch his leg where he wanted her to.)

When the visiting preacher came the next summer, she figured it must not have worked the first time so she went up again to the front and told him she needed to be saved again. He either didn't recognize her or he figured you couldn't get saved too many times, so in she went.

Daily Mail

2011-07-12T19:37:00.000-07:00

Tom strides up to the house each day, slips the envelopes and store ads into the slot, and takes away the letters clipped to the front. Week in, week out his brown muscular calves take him up and down the short streets, bringing pleasure and disappointment to the folks of Bay Village. Many he greets by name. He maintains his own personal mail forwarding system, subverting the six month rule enforced by the post office. Neighbors fret on the couple of weeks each year when Tom's route is taken over young trainees, fillers for the regular carriers.

Comfort Food

2011-07-11T18:41:00.000-07:00

Mashed potatoes, fried chicken, pecan pie. Old men and women, trailed by an occasional grandchild, slide trays along the line at Luby's, fingering the rolls for freshness, eying the meatloaf and swiss steak, settling most often for the daily special: an open face roast beef sandwich smothered with mashed potatoes and gravy for $3.27. Tall glasses of ice tea sweat at the end of the line next to the urn of Farmer Brothers coffee.

Today I am 51 and my father is treating me to dinner. His refusal to wear his teeth limits his choices to what he can gum down so he gets to choose the place. Trudging along, I pass up salad (I can have that anywhere) and hot entrees (too heavy for this hot day).

I move on to the vegetables where I become 12 again, barefoot, brick red from long hours in the field. It is dinner time and the kitchen table is laden with wilted lettuce, fresh black-eyed peas, summer squash swimming in fresh churned butter, and aluminum tumblers filled with ice cold tea. And my favorite, fried okra, each geometic slice coated with a crispy brown cornmeal crust. We eat until all the dishes sit empty, satiated, rewarded for our day's hard labor in the field.

The amazingly auburn lady behind me slides her tray back and forth, pulling me back to the present, and I lift the small serving dishes from the line: black eyed peas, a big wedge of cornbread, and two servings fried okra.

A Bad Idea

2011-07-10T08:32:00.000-07:00

McBride falls 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup. He’s surprised it was so ordinary, had expected more drama, like in the cinema. Shocked crowds gathering, police cars, an ambulance, fire truck. Instead there’s only the homeless man from the alley between the two apartment buildings who comes to see, reaches first for the cheap wristwatch, then checks both pockets for a wallet. There’s not enough there for a bowl of soup. He takes the watch and scurries away. McBride feels guilty. Poor bugger. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. If a man falls from a building and there’s no one there to see, does it make a sound?

San Juan

2011-07-06T21:24:00.000-07:00

The plane landed in San Juan in the late afternoon. A battered yellow taxi van gathered their bags and shuttled them to a downtown hotel. This was their first trip together, a test of friendship. They planned to spend three days in San Juan and a week cruising the Caribbean. Their budget room at the Hotel Excelsior overlooked the postcard perfect bay. They asked Roberto at the front desk for a restaurant recommendation within walking distance. The Cabana was authentic Puerto Rican, especially the fact that they were the only female diners. The small brightly lit room was filled with painted metal tables where dark men sat smoking cigars and cigarillos. Everyone, even the waiter, seemed to keep their distance. They struggled through the Spanish menu choosing foods they couldn't find at home: fried bananas, black beans, chicken in a rich brown sauce. They ate quickly, left a tip, and headed back to the hotel. All they needed now was a place to dance.

Happy 4th of July

2011-07-04T12:25:00.000-07:00

Have a safe and sane day!

Flim-Flam Man

2011-07-03T21:58:00.000-07:00

"Ever been bitten by a dog?" She eyed the stranger with his hand on the gate latch. A salesman he looked to be. Cheap suit, shoes run over at the heels, eyes that wouldn't look at you straight on.

"Ella Mae, you know I like dogs, specially big ones." The voice flipped her brain back and back and back until there was a big click.

"Marshall, Marshall Henson. What are you doing round her? We thought you was in jail or dead or living in Los Angeles." She stepped forward and almost touched his sleeve but pulled back at the last moment. What if it wasn't Marshall at all. What if he was some flim-flam man trying to take advantage of an old woman living alone. But then she looked straight on into his eyes, blue as a marble and knew it was him for sure. "Well, don't just stand there for heaven's sakes. Come on in."

"Don't mind if I do, Ella Mae. You wouldn't by any chance have some sweet tea in the refrigerator."

"No I don't but I've got Dr. Pepper or ice water." She turned and headed up the walk. Marshall followed behind.

The old house looked bout the same, except, like everyone and all things, older and in need of a little touch-up. Probably Henry was gone to his maker since most women in these parts outlived their men. Ella Mae looked in pretty good health though that purple pants suit didn't suit her too much. She was a real looker in their day. The first one to be asked to the prom and the last one to leave the dance floor.

(to be continued)

What If

2011-06-27T09:38:00.000-07:00

Clifford sits on the edge of the bed, a dirty blanket drawn around his legs, the legs that no longer serve him. The legs pulled from the wreckage, shattered, along with the windshield, his plans, his dreams, his determination.

It had been an ordinary Saturday. Mowing the backyard, cleaning up the barbecue for Sunday when his brother-in-law and sister would come with their daughters, Teta and Juana. He'd pulled steaks from the freezer and picked green beans from the vines that crawled through his neighbor's fence. He'd made homemade ice cream in honor of their Mama, long gone from cancer.

All that was left was to get cookies from the bakery in town. What if he'd said never mind to the cookies or called his sister to pick them up on their way over. Or just pulled out his mother's old recipe book and tried to make them himself. What if he'd taken the bike instead of the pickup or just turned off the radio instead of leaning over to change the station.

What if when his family came, so full of love and pity, what if instead of finding him in the wheelchair they saw him on the floor, asleep, forever. No more pain. No more what-ifs.

Love Is

2011-06-25T18:36:00.000-07:00

love is exciting, painful, scary

it creeps up, surprises

overwhelms with possibilities

obligations

challenges the heart to trust

to open up

to take chances

love comes in colors

red, like lust, like fire

like caution

blue, like fear, cold hands

loss of words

yellow, like sun and shine

and butter and buttercups

and being safe in someone's arms

love is essence

of memory and hope

and kindness

love hurts and heals

appears by chance

exactly when it's needed

Addiction

2011-06-21T18:43:00.000-07:00

I can quit checking my email, if I want to
I can quit playing scrabble, if I want to
I can quit buying junk at thrift stores, if I want to
I can quit hanging art on my bedroom walls, if I want to
I can quit listening to NPR, if I want to
I can quit caring about politics, if I want to
I can quit . . .
OK, let's get serious. I can, but I won't. And that's that.

True Love

2011-06-19T21:05:00.000-07:00

They met when they were only children, fell in love immediately, and committed to a lifelong relationship. They raised a big family, all birthed by George, of course. Mary would diligently lay her eggs in George's pouch where he would fertilize them, then patiently wait for them to hatch. Life was not easy but satisfying.

On the Edge

2011-06-17T20:25:00.000-07:00

She wants to lean forward, to breathe in the muskiness of salt and fish and seaweed. She imagines taking a step forward, crossing the boundary between freedom and safety.

Log Jam

2011-06-16T16:15:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the thing you want to avoid

becomes the thing you most need.

For Our Sins

2011-06-15T20:46:00.000-07:00

Bless me NBC for I have sinned. I watched public television six days last week. And on the seventh day I went to see an independent film about saving the whales. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa.

The Gatherer

2011-06-10T09:00:00.000-07:00

While she wanted to think she was a born writer, in reality she was a gatherer of people. As a child she’d gather friends on weekends to build circuses or act out plays in her grandparents’ backyard. Later, when she had to go away to the church orphanage, her room was where the other girls would come to do their homework and talk about their secret desires to meet boys. (They only got to see them at the Wednesday night prayer meeting and the Sunday morning worship service so the rest of the week their imaginations would run wild.) When she was old enough to get a job and live on her own, women friends from the coffee shop would come over every Saturday night, bringing bottles of cheap wine and platters of cheese and crackers. And then one day she got up enough courage to go to a workshop on writing and found her true calling: gathering women to write their stories.

Between the Lines

2011-06-09T20:05:00.000-07:00

she looks for clues
knows nothing lasts forever
that when it ends
she will leave
better off than when she arrived

Trains

2011-06-06T15:32:00.000-07:00

Lueders, Texas

Trains, real and imagined, float around in my brain. There's the apocryphal childhood story of a boy who crossed the tracks too late and lost both legs. Or the train that I took with my grandmother to Kansas City to see a doctor who would diagnose her cancer as untreatable. Or the 3:00 AM train that roared past the bedroom window of our small garage apartment in Ft. Worth. Or the train to LA that empties passengers into Union Station with its Dutch Colonial, Moderne, and Mission Revival Style.

I Am

2011-06-03T18:43:00.000-07:00

I am wise and loving

I wonder if the world will become kinder

I hear ravens outside the window

I see yellow jonquils and purple iris

I want to make children fall in love with words

I pretend to not care

I feel sad when I say goodbye

I touch my granddaughter’s hand

I worry about the future

I cry when I remember my father

I know that I’m old

I say “Try everything once”

I dream of a small house full of red and yellow

I try to be patient

I hope to live forever

Addiction

2011-06-01T08:08:00.000-07:00

addiction comes in many forms

some more problematic than others

I could be doctoring my morning coffee with bourbon

or scrubbing the bathtub 10 times a day

I could be driving myself to bankruptcy

on the Shopping Network

or adopting stray cats and dogs

in contrast, checking email or facebook every hour

is not so bad

Some Mornings

2011-05-31T22:50:00.000-07:00

Take your breath away.

Moving On

2011-05-30T19:09:00.000-07:00

Jake left quickly, grabbing his hat, a jerrycan of gasoline, and a handful of matches. He didn't have a plan, just an idea of what needed to go away. The house, the barn, the pickup truck that didn't run anyway. Let the tax man have anything else that was left. There wasn't any insurance so there wouldn't be much of a investigation. If the old man was still alive, he'd be real proud.

The Bargain

2011-05-28T20:23:00.000-07:00

She's drawn to red

like blood, like roses, like chili peppers

She's hungry

for love, for understanding

for the space to see

who she was, who she might become

She dreams deeply, most nights

hoping to avoid the chill of nightmares

the fever of fear

When she awakes and the sun is out

she feels guilty

afraid she is not living up

to the bargain she made

with the devil or an angel

she's never sure which

The bargain she made

to trade control for security

to trade freedom for family

to compromise, compromise, compromise

Hey Alabama

2011-05-27T17:20:00.000-07:00

Where'd you learn to dance?

In some down home honky-tonk

between the thighs of some sweet young thing?

What you hidin' behind that beard Alabama?

Lookin' like a storefront lawyer

lookin' for an easy mark.

You kiss real good for a tall man.

Soft and clean

not like some cracker.

More Choices Please!

2011-05-27T13:56:00.000-07:00

Chelsea

2011-05-24T17:10:00.000-07:00

Leaning against the wall in front of the hotel, they linger for hours, watching the late-comers, the one-night stands, couples in the city for the weekend. A prostitute across the street walks back and forth. They wonder which one is her john and which one is her pimp. They cling ever so softly to this fragile moment, afraid to disturb the delicate balance. She looks into his pale unlined face and wants this night to last forever. When the dark is almost gone, she leans to touch his cheek, takes his hand and leads him up to the room, to the waiting bed. They lie quietly, fully clothed. She holds him carefully, their mouths touch. Afraid to disturb the delicate balance, they kiss with eyes closed, without longing, for all she ever wanted is already there. Brackish light fills the room, they drift in dreamless sleep. And when he’s gone and the day is like a trance, she feels older but no wiser.

Thank Goodness

2011-05-05T18:58:00.000-07:00

For sunset, else I'd never quit cleaning the garage!

Always

2011-05-04T14:42:00.000-07:00

Always watching over her shoulder, waiting for the next crisis, the knock at the door, the ambulance screaming through the neighborhood. Always waiting for the long lost mother to drop by, the phone call from the sheriff, the pound to arrest her dog and lock him up for life. Always hoping she can outlive it all, find peace (if not salvation), and meet her end unafraid.

Grandmother

2011-05-03T15:46:00.000-07:00

Anna, tall, sturdy, brown from years in the sun,

guardian of my hopes and dreams,

turning the soil her life's work,

the promise in the seeds and twigs her religion.

Child of her child, I'd follow in her steps

from morning to day's end, when,

her voice coarse with age and cigarettes,

yet soft with hope,

she'd take me in her arms and sing.

Beside a Grave

2011-05-02T09:01:00.000-07:00

marked by a square of wood and tin

she kneels to brush away the dust

looks out over miles of flowers grown wild

sees across the years to her own grave

May Day Play Day

2011-05-01T10:13:00.000-07:00

Artwork by Maureen Shockey

But no play for me. Not yet. I'm spending my day retrieving artwork that has been boxed and stored for 5 years. Some is damaged (leaky storage unit), none beyond repair. All bring back memories from the past: places I've lived, jobs I've had, friends and lovers, good times and bad. Not a bad way to celebrate Beltane.

It Was the Best of Times. . .

2011-04-30T16:43:00.000-07:00

Ace was afraid of smart women. He wanted a simple minded girl who would follow him anywhere, have babies, and cook large pots of noodles with chicken while he plowed mythical fields and dreamed of wheelbarrows of dollars streaming to the bank. Instead he got Delilah, a wrong-headed teenager with strong legs and a chip on her shoulder and a hunger for settling in.

The babies came: pop, pop, pop. Then he got a taste in his mouth to wander, looking for gold streets, a better life. They hit the road with everything they owned piled in the back of a 57 Chevy station wagon. The good times were short, the bad times stretched for years.

Minimum wage jobs and loveless kisses pushed them so far apart that Delilah packed up and left, leaving the kids behind and ripping the dream right out of Ace’s heart. Transplanted to an efficiency apartment with a hide-a-bed and a radio from the Salvation Army, she set about to find the real thing.

Big Women

2011-04-29T16:45:00.000-07:00

I've always loved big women. Women like my grandmother, with large hips, heavy breasts. Warm, loving women I can trust to keep my secrets. Women who know how to offer comfort without imposing solutions. Women who understand my stories without having to hear all the details, who know that no matter how difficult the process, it's the journey that matters. Women that helped me become my own mother, able to heal myself. Thank you.

Once in a Blue Moon

2011-04-28T10:41:00.000-07:00

she finds herself

lurking in the shadows

moving between who she is

and who they want her to be

Hats

2011-04-27T20:38:00.000-07:00

I used to love hats and wore them to mass in the first blush of Catholic conversion. On Easter Sunday I showed up in my new maternity dress with matching beige cloche only to see it’s twin perched on the head of an elderly woman sitting to my right. After mass, I went straight home and threw it in the trash.

We were newlyweds, married first by a Baptist preacher in the home of Ms. Hamm, the church pianist. Later we took our vows before the Virgin Mary, John in his dress blues and me swathed in baby blue polished cotton, trying to hide my huge belly. I felt pious as I laid the cluster of white daisies at Mary’s feet. Later I wished I had kept them for a souvenir.

Later still it didn’t matter anymore. A second baby, a disorganized move to California. A shabby apartment two miles from my in-laws, transplants from Brooklyn who talked too loud and too much. We quit going to mass, quit talking to each other, quit planning for the future. Within six months it was all over and I never, ever wore hats again.

Backbone

2011-04-26T11:08:00.000-07:00

The women in her life had backbone, stood up for themselves and others. They marched for gender equity, the right to choose their own partners, control of their reproduction, the right to receive a fair wage. They wrote letters, staged demonstrations, and refused to settle for less than full equity. Sometimes they went to jail. And sometimes they grew tired, hoped for the younger generation to take the lead. But they never, never, never gave up.

Too Many Balls in the Air

2011-04-25T20:06:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I just feel like letting everything drop. But I don't. And I'm glad for that.

Love

2011-04-23T18:12:00.000-07:00

she once loved a gentle, hardworking man
and when she left him, she felt free

then she loved a violent man
when he was gone she was filled with compassion

next she fell for a pretty man
and was infused with style

her new love for a strong man didn't last
but it left her healthy and strong

for a short while she loved a younger man
and when he was gone she embraced age

and at last she loved an older man,
a gentle and strong, handsome and loving man
and she felt blessed

For John

2011-04-21T18:38:00.000-07:00

Backward, turn backward,

O Time in your flight,

Make me a child again just for tonight!

Elizabeth (Akers) Allen 1832-1911

How's That Organizing Thing Going For Ya?

2011-04-20T17:49:00.000-07:00

Sometimes a picture really is worth a thousand words!

Why I Sometimes Miss School

2011-04-20T09:21:00.000-07:00

The kids. Especially the ones that live away from town, who have mothers and fathers that care about their education, that want their sons and daughters to have what they never did. The bling-thing? Well, too much tv but it inspires their creativity so I give them a pass on this.

Potatoes

2011-04-19T11:00:00.000-07:00

Fried, boiled, mashed, baked with butter and sour cream. Sautéed with onions, cubed in potato salad. Potatoes in the stew pot, soaking up the juices from the beef chunks and fresh home grown tomatoes. Potatoes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner

Potatoes as a weapon chunked at the boys who try to catch the barn cat hiding in the haystack with her new kittens.

Potatoes that turn to vodka, vodka that turns to Bloody Marys, Bloody Marys that turn to romance, romance that turns to marriage. Marriage that turns to babies, babies that turn to grownups, grownups that turn to old men and women, sitting at the table, eating mashed potatoes.

Relieving the Pressure

2011-04-18T08:49:00.000-07:00

Over the past 4 and a half years I've spent over $13,000 on storage. $13,000! This month, I'm finally moving everything out of the last storage unit and into the garage. It's not ideal. But it's a step toward someday having a normal life: my own house, my own furniture, my stuff out of boxes. Before I'm too old to remember where it came from, why I'm keeping it in the first place. And I can finally quit paying that monthly storage bill.

James at 13

2011-04-15T12:01:00.000-07:00

Her heart is full of grief.

Her heart is broken.

The pain runs out the bottom.

Love flows in the top

runs out the bottom.

They let her dress him.

She touches his face, his body

checks to see

if he was taking care

of himself.

He’s not skinny.

She feels better.

She kisses his feet.

Like the day he was born.

My youngest son died on this day, in 1997. His brother lit a candle for him this morning. It is easier now, but not by much. Loss of a child is surely a mother's greatest sorrow. He left four children behind, none of which are in our lives today. I grieve for us all.

Looking Up

2011-04-14T09:15:00.000-07:00

I miss my old friend Ric Masten. He died a four years ago after a long, brave battle with prostate cancer. His legacy remains, for many, many people, strengthened by the poems and drawings he left behind. One of his favorite sayings: Look up! One of the things I miss most was his ability and willingness to call me on my "stuff." RIP, dear Ric.

Just Another Unknown Soldier

2011-04-13T09:49:00.000-07:00

Unknown, but only to those

who pass without knowledge.

To those who loved him, who waited for him,

To those who hold him in their heart

he is eternally known and loved.

Another Ending

2011-04-12T12:14:00.000-07:00

They slept until noon
woke several times to touch
then slipped back
behind the curtain of exhaustion
that blotted out memory.

She almost didn't come back this time
It could not, would not
last much longer
this wordless liaison
with a stranger
she could never really know.

Together they watch
the sun drop beneath the horizon
the green flash symbolic
of how they had begun
how they would end.

It's a Hard Day's Night

2011-04-11T16:31:00.000-07:00

He pretends to be a wild beast,

but when it's naptime, he just a big ole cuddler.

Good Morning Miss Handley

2011-04-09T19:43:00.000-07:00

The desk clerk had greeted her with a big smile when she went to turn in the key this morning. For a moment she was confused and then relieved when the desk phone rang and he turned away. She dropped her room key on the desk and slipped out the door.

Her brother-in-law had loaned her his '47 Dodge, the one that had been sitting on his lot for weeks so she felt safe in driving it. If Bernard had reported her disappearance to the police, they'd be looking for her on the Greyhound bus or the train.

He didn't know she could drive, that Mildred had been taking her out to the old Smith place a couple of mornings each week to give her driving lessons. Turning the key on was the easy part. But she had a hard time getting her left foot and her right foot to work together.

The first few times they went out they had laughed so hard as the sedan lurched down the dirt road that they'd had to go make water behind the row of cedars.

On the Road Again

2011-04-08T18:27:00.000-07:00

Traveling is the ruin of all happiness. There’s no looking at a building after you’ve seen Italy.” Fanny Burney

I simultaneously hold two opposing views about travel: I want to never leave home and I want to sell everything I own and hit the road.

At home I would finally clean the garage, get rid of all those boxes of useless envelopes, stacks of books that no one wants to read. I’d read all the history books on my shelves, starting with the history of the Vietnam war, moving on to all the small press poetry books that drifted into my bookcase, and ending with the complete works of Shakespeare. I’d get to know my neighbors better and start a local writing group. I’d walk at least a mile a day and spend more quality time with my cat.

On the other hand I fantasize about getting rid of everything I own, replace it all with a 23-window VW van and hit the highway, with no itinerary and no cell phone. I’d visit old friends and make new ones. Some places I’d stay for a while and sometimes I’d drive for days, pulling off the side of the road to sleep.

Taking the Long View

2011-04-07T18:17:00.000-07:00

I've been living in one room for a long, long time. Over the years (yes, years), I've filled it with detritus that would make others cringe but which keeps me sane. And that, in that long view, is what matters.

A Story in Three Voices

2011-04-04T09:36:00.000-07:00

Note: On Sunday I went with my son John and his daughter Isabelle for a hike and picnic at Pacheco State Park. As a family activity, we took turns writing about our experience. We hope you enjoy our story as much as we enjoyed our outing.

The first thing we saw on this trip was lots of flowers and one kind was a poppy. The poppy is the California State Flower. There were many large birds flying over the meadow. One was a red-tailed hawk. The hawk disappeared behind a tree branch, we think to a secret nesting area.

When we started hiking we thought we saw some cows but it turned out it was just some tree stumps. So we kept hiking where we saw different kinds of flowers. We didn't find the trail we were looking for; so instead, we sat down on a trail marker and enjoyed the natural beauty.With the sun on our backs and a cool breeze on our faces we enjoyed some of our delicious fruit and cold water. Then, with our hearts full of love for what we shared today, we packed our bags and said good-bye to Pacheco State Park, until we meet again.

The First Signs

2011-04-02T20:32:00.000-07:00

Our Allen's Hummingbird returned this weekend, visiting the feeder outside the kitchen window. It's amazing how much joy this tiny harbinger of spring can bring. Our hopes are that his mate is nesting somewhere nearby and that we'll have babies soon.

April 1st

2011-04-01T10:37:00.000-07:00

He capers,

he dances,

he has eyes of youth,

he writes verses,

he smells April and May.

William Shakespeare

"The Merry Wives of Windsor"

Celebrating the Legacy of Cesar Chavez

2011-03-31T09:47:00.000-07:00

Chris Ballin with her beloved father

I met Chris at TRW in Redondo Beach in the early 70s. It was a life changing experience. Through our friendship I learned about political activism first hand. I also learned about having fun (dancing our asses off, monthly spaghetti parties, and weekend trips to Baja). She had two daughters, I had two sons. We both had multiple marriages and divorces. We both came from working class families and knew firsthand the importance of hard work and challenging authority. When I met Chris, she had already made a commitment to support Cesar Chavez and the United Farm Workers boycott of grapes, wine, and lettuce. And Coors beer never touched her lips. It was an exhilarating time. Chris is no longer with us in this dimension, but she will remain in my heart forever.

White Cranes

2011-03-28T20:22:00.000-07:00

Our frosty-white wings
not to be tainted by mud,
Delighting in ponds,
long can we stand there;

Excerpt from Poem II, by Liu Yu-hsi, ca. 826

First Step

2011-03-26T22:29:00.000-07:00

Maureen thumbs through the spring catalog of extension classes. Her supervisor has recommended the certificate program in business. Less tedious than a degree, one night a week for four years, she can learn the basics of bookkeeping, how to work well with others, even a little accounting. Having the certificate might lead to a promotion, a little more money. The company will even pay for her books.

Her attention drifts to travel agent classes. She imagines sitting in a sun-filled office, surrounded by bright posters of Hawaii, the South Sea Islands, arranging trips for excited couples. At least once or twice a year she herself will go off on practically free trips, stay in luxury hotels, board elegant cruise ships that dock each Thursday in Long Beach harbor.

She’ll have new luggage, of course, filled with just the right clothes for each destination. And hats, large brimmed ones, a straw sunhat with one perfect yellow daisy attached to the band. There will be parties, friendships made and renewed. And maybe even one special friend, a quiet shy man who is also looking for someone to share walks along sandy beaches and piña coladas under shaggy palapas.

Flipping back to the business certificate program, Maureen circles the date and location of the first class and begins to fill out the registration form.

Beauty and Power

2011-03-24T19:11:00.000-07:00

A picture is worth a thousand words.

Love in the Trees

2011-03-24T17:26:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I snapped this photo of a pair of hawks, mating in the top of an old tree in our pasture. Hopefully we'll get a chance to see their offspring when they are old enough to leave the nest.

Life with Picasso

2011-03-21T17:36:00.000-07:00

"I met Pablo Picasso in May 1943, during the German Occupation of France. I was twenty-one and I felt already that painting was my whole life." Francoise Gilot

Thus begins my latest discovery as an "accidental reader." I collect books from all sorts of places: friends, thrift stores, and even an occasional bookstore. But my greatest joy comes from the serendipity of connecting with a story somewhat by chance.

I've loved Picasso as long as I can remember, and certainly with great passion after seeing the massive retrospective of his work in NYC in the 80s.

"Gilot's recall of Picasso's discussions about art, details of private visits to friends such as Matisse, Braque, and Giacometti, and her intimate understanding of his temperament make this work unique." Daily Telegraph

(Get the hardcover as one Amazon reviewer warned of really bad editing of the the paperback.)

A Picture Is Worth...

2011-03-16T09:58:00.000-07:00

A Thousand Words

Thanks to my niece April and her son James

who are having a great time on vacation.

Float 5

2011-03-15T21:04:00.000-07:00

Empty slips separate a dozen fishing boats. Marzy, Yaquina, Nyoda, Morning Tide. Names as unique as their owners, as their owner’s dreams. A blue skiff without rigging, motor, or decking. Lifeless, awaiting rebirth. A green and white double-masted schooner, the Chaser, sports a FOR SALE sign on the front of the cabin.

Twenty feet away on a thin rib of low tide mud a man tunnels down in search of small crabs, bait for hungry Coho, grouper. An official looking letter is tacked to the post at the head of the ramp leading down to float #5. A series of violations—all for improper (illegal?) storage of crab pots on the float. They threaten a fine of $225 with a now past due date for compliance.

The ramp is empty except for mooring ropes and a couple of bright green garden hoses. What makes this otherwise dull stage so appealing? The possibility of dreams fulfilled, the catch that at last pays off the mortgage, the danger. The knowledge that on some grey morning a boat will go out and not return.

Or the independence. Being in charge of your own fate with only yourself to rail against when the nets break or come up empty or the crew doesn’t return.

Starduster, Trinity, Lady Luck. The names say it all.

Pot Luck

2011-03-14T10:11:00.000-07:00

Her collection of pots are like her collection of friends, some tall and angular and excitable, others round and full, offering stability. Her favorites are the ones that came unexpectedly—the small misshapen bowl plucked from a garage sale for fifty cents, a beginner’s pot with thick walls and an unglazed bottom that she uses as a mortar for blending spices and dried herbs.

She remembers the guy at the furniture store who sold her the Kokopelli for a couple of dollars. She wonders how it got to his store in the first place, there among overstuffed sofas, Queen Anne chairs, delicately flowered china plates, the Chippendale dining set with twelve chairs. The pot was as out of place as the barrel-chested cigar smoker who owned the store.

Most precious is the lathed redwood burl, a gift from the maker. A renaissance man with a love of knowledge, he fashioned a life for himself in much the same way that he created the wooden bowls and fine cabinetry that provide his livelihood.

The Native American wedding vase, chipped from its topple during the Loma Prieta earthquake, is a relic from an old love that grew toward friendship and away from romance. She wonders if she should gift he and his new wife with the pot, but decides against it. The past is often better left there—in the past.

Rebirth

2011-03-10T10:32:00.000-08:00

she sits in the waning light

waiting for a sign

Iris and Donald

2011-03-08T12:06:00.000-08:00

Iris and Donald were last seen at Lorene’s Packing Shed celebrating their 45th anniversary with tri-tip dinners and chocolate cake for dessert. Their waitress noticed they didn’t seem to be having too good a time. Don kept putting on and taking off his teal sport coat while Iris kept checking the thermostat on the wall behind their booth to see if it was set too low.

Lorene didn’t like it too warm cause she said it made the customers want to get done and get back to their own living rooms instead of stopping for an after dinner drink in the bar. She wasn’t too interested in the couples anyway. It was the singles who were likely to hang out on the tall barstools after dinner on the chance that someone interesting might drop by.

“You didn’t have to wear it,” Iris murmured every time Donald removed the jacket, followed by “It looks so nice” when he put it back on. She knew it was a risk, taking his old blue serge suit to the Goodwill and replacing it with a stylish sport coat and slacks. She was just tired of him looking like something out of a ‘50s Sears catalog. He used to be more daring, to care more about how he looked. She sometimes wished he still worked so that maybe the possibility of an office affair would make him pay more attention to his looks.

It’s the roses

2011-03-08T11:28:00.000-08:00

blooming their hearts out that keeps me awake at night

Gone, Not Forgotten

2011-03-03T20:40:00.001-08:00

For years I’ve wondered about Joanne. The last time I saw her was in Denver. She seemed happy, settled, but there was something about her, almost wistfulness, especially when she talked about her children. She did seem worried about their father, concerned that he might suddenly reappear, demanding his parental rights. We talked late into the night about the choices we’d made, how growing up in West Texas hadn’t prepared either of us for the city life, how we might have made different choices if we could do it over.

That was the last I ever saw or heard of her. And then later there was that strange 4:00 am call from her parents, asking if I had heard from Joanne or knew where she might be. I was too groggy to get their phone number and couldn’t find them later. I called the last phone number I had for Joanne but it was disconnected. I sent a card and it was returned, addressee unknown.

Dishes

2011-02-25T16:52:00.000-08:00

Clearing the dishes from the table, Mary stacks them neatly to the left of the sink, large plates on the bottom, bread plates next, saucers on top. Cups stack in pairs to the left, handles turned to the right. She draws a dishpan of hot water, adds a squirt of Ivory liquid to the sink, a second one to the faded dishrag.

Following the decades old instructions of Mrs. Douthit, her seventh grade home economics teacher, she washes glasses first, turning each under the hot rinse water to remove all the suds. Then she stacks them on the side of the drain board, tilted off the edge to break the water seal that would leave streaks on the otherwise crystal clear surfaces.

Next she gently lowers the china into the dishpan, turns on the tap to add enough hot water to submerge the stack, and leaves them to soak while she sponges off the table. Returning to the sink, she gently caresses each dish, scooping the dishwater with the same care she once used to bathe her sons. Placed in the dish rack, they create a temporary sculpture of asymmetrical beauty.

Silverware and pots and pans lack the elegance of the china and crystal. She sometimes thinks to leave them to soak, but never does. When everything is dried and put away, she hangs her yellow apron on the hook by the refrigerator, pulls the Betty Crocker cookbook from the shelf, and begins preparations for the evening meal.