Other People's Children

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.