What I learned at 46....

Cassatt-in-training

“Awww…are you trying to kill me?!” I asked my mom, after realizing she’d parked the car on the farthest end of an Idaho Rodeway Inn parking lot.

Turns out it was the closest spot, by the time she pulled in the night before, after visiting my brother and sister-in-law. So I had to drag my arthritic self all the way to the other end of the building.

But it wasn’t until I got to the car, aching back and all, that it occurred to me she’d inadvertently given me another writing-prompt.

“Oh yeah!!”

“Yeah! Do it!”

“Awww…c’mon!!”

“I think there must be a big football game going on up there,” she said, glancing up at an open third floor window on the very end. “Doesn’t sound like his team is winning.”

I turned my head a bit to listen as I unlocked the car. It’s not uncommon for people to rent rooms for study-group cram sessions, a quiet place for writers to work, or even to have football parties.

However, my ears picked up on something Mom had missed—the lack of others raising their voices over blown calls, the sound of sports announcers play-by-play…or even the T.V. noise of a football game.

But still, there were shouts.

“Ohhh…yeahhhh!”

I held in my snicker-n-snerking—whatever it’s referred to these days—until we were in the car. 

“It wasn’t a football game,” I responded, as we pulled away from the lot. I started laughing. 

Hoo-boy! What an added memory that is to spending an afternoon with a houseful of extended family, by way of my niece’s 10^th birthday. 

Boisterous relatives, laughter, shy-but-pleased smiles from the birthday-girl over gifts, grilled hot dogs, a trampoline, and six, four-legged animals was reason enough to unload my cellphone’s memory-card the night before of all the pictures I’d already taken. My nieces are a gas to be around, and I wanted proof of it all. 

The youngest is quite the ham. (She’s even made a crack about ham that was so clever, it ended up in one of my manuscripts) 

The eldest, the apple-of-her-artist-father's-eye, seems to morph into a writer whenever Auntie’s in town. No, no…I don’t dare try to steer her away from her interest in drawing. Quite the contrary! I gifted her a sketch pad and color pencils. Also…she’s way better at art than I was at her age.

But I also added a journal of sorts; a composition notebook that’s always found in the school supplies aisle of any store. And I insisted that she only write in it if she wanted to, about any old thing she wanted. 

Still, an auntie can hope. (Especially when she asked me a couple of years ago if she could be a writer, like me. Joy!)


In the meantime, I’ve secured a couple of volunteer positions that will, hopefully, encourage employment at a later time. Recycling is good for the planet. And with the added bonus that I get to work with tools—taking things apart—I get to feel productive once again! (But, ooooh…what I wouldn’t give for one of those positions to involve my love for writing!)

Ah, well, who am I to be choosy? It’s getting this hermit out of the house. And no better time than summer. This season will also be spent resembling Hoke Coburn…without the added utterances of, “Yes’m Miz Daisy.” 

What the cookies am I goin’ on about? Well, I have one relative that’s showing signs of needing companionable-assistance, and, a ‘sweet lil’ ol’ church lady’ that needs my “hep gettin’ ta th’ stow...,” as it were. Of course, as I love to drive, acting as a chauffeur won’t be an issue. 

Anywoo, I’m cautiously-optimistic about the rest of this year. My voc-rehab consultant says I’m taking steps in the right direction. Maybe if I’m really lucky, I’ll get to hear the pitter-patter of little adopted feet this time next year.

I just won’t be “renting a room at the Rodeway anytime soon.”

Mah

For my Mah, the proud Granny-nanny,

Grandbabies are better than any litany.

But I’ll try to find the words that work best,

That one would find in a Mother’s Day text. 

Cuz Mah doesn’t want flowers, chocolates, or money

On this day that weather-guy promised would be sunny.

She’d rather have warm rays, and kick-back with a brew,

Oh, and later, we’ll shell out for ribs—specifically barbeque.

She’s been a mom of three for most of her life,

Triple the headache for a nurse and housewife.

She loves to read, consuming book-after-book,

And doesn’t stop…til she decides to cook.

She’s at the age of retirement, but I think she’d get bored,

And, anyway, her co-workers make her feel adored.

She loves to watch T.V. shows with cops and scientists,

Her favorite has F.B.I., and some quirky anthropologists.

She’s had some back issues lately, and spends time at home,

But it’s not so bad with a flat-screen, and oxycodone.

However, she’s itching for the day she can go for a walk,

Just her and her Sony playlist, where she doesn’t have to talk.

Cuz solitude is her thing, and so is rock-n-roll,

But it can be a bitch, when she has to stop and scroll.

She understands me when I get on my soap-box and rail,

But also tells me to hold on, when she checks her voicemail.

She’s a Baby Boomer; born the week Animal Farm hit the U.K.,

What a significant moment, for remembering your birthday.

The raunchy part of this poem, is I hooked her on Fifty Shades of Grey,

But I’d rather not entertain that she’d get into THAT sort of horseplay! 

When she’s not ‘in a mood,’ she’s an easy-going mom,

Though I wouldn’t go so far as to say, “She’s da bomb.”

She still shares her chocolate-stash, even though it’s sugar-free,

And never guilts me about grandchildren, cuz she knows I’m a childfree.

I really have no complaints about her, as a mom, a confidante, or friend,

Even when I know she was groomed to be a Baptist clucking hen.

As a minister’s wife, she was held to a standard by righteous appraisers,

Meanwhile…well…shucks! Everyone knows P.K.’s are hell-raisers!!

And there was a time when her stubbornness made me furious,

But now I’m at that stage where I can’t help but be curious.

About my bloodline that involves so many ancestral turns,

It’s telling to know I’m related to poet Robert Burns.

So while she’s walking this Earth, I’d better find out all I need.

Not just about, "Where’s your will, life insurance policy, and the Deed?"

I mean about the stuff that you can’t know from an album or picture frames,

Unlike Vito Corleone—no, Andolini!—our ancestor deliberately changed names.

Cuz I know she has stories she has yet to tell me about,

And me-n-my bros. will believe we have the clout,

That each of us know Mom better than the other,

But we’ll definitely agree, she was NEVER a ‘Smother’! 

The Poetry of Coffee

(Disclaimer: Let me state, this is NOT my poem. It is penned by an interesting writer, Carole Holliday. It was a Google random-find, and attached to the picture below. I merely retyped the exact text in this entry so that it could be readable and enjoyed for its creativity and humor)

CAFFEINE NATION
by Carole Holliday

There is a cult of coffee

I do not understand:

It cannot bail you out of jail

Or even hold your hand.

There are those who belong to it

And love it quite a lot.

They do not care if coffee’s cold

Or if their coffee’s hot.

They love it like one loves a child

I don’t exaggerate

And those who do not share this love

They do not tolerate.

This brown and bitter water

Has them tightly in its thrall

And if their coffee were a god

they’d say I surrender all! 
A day can’t pass without its sip
a glug
a swish
a swallow
Without their coffee in a cup
They feel so lost and hollow.
They ache they moan they twitch they growl

And in their moods most foul

As if an addict hooked on drugs

And lost in depths of sorrow!

And not a judgment do I make

On coffee drinkers here 
For all who walk upon the earth
Obsess on things so queer.
Some are chocolate
Some are booze 
And some are comic books 
So drinkers of a cup of Joe.
They’ll get no dirty looks
And lovers of their java breaks
I promise not to scoff.

Least not before their morning taste.

And then all bets are off! 

Observations of a six y/o's birthday

     She giggled with a first-grader’s pride at wearing the prized red-and-white striped Dr. Suess hat. Her aunt jokingly pulled it down over her face to cover her eyes. More giggles.

     The grown-ups prepped the rented picnic-area, whilst the previous party-group dismantled their jumping 'Spider-man' castle. Red-and-white streamers are wrapped around posts, and an enormous ‘Cat-In-The-Hat’ cake sits on one end of a table---‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’ over by those no taller than a yard-stick. This party, celebrating a vibrant child, is enjoyed by those of various ages; grandparents, cousins, uncles, aunts, toddlers, and those who can barely crawl.

     The barbeque's charcoal briquettes morph from black, to ashen-gray, before flames lick at hamburgers, and hot-dogs; the aunt has counted more than one alpha-male who has been happy to man the coals. Father and son toss a Nerf pigskin around while wives, mothers, and grandmothers gather in cliques to cluck. A rainbow of bright and festive gift bags, stretching across half of a picnic table, leaves the promise to the birthday-girl that a veritable loot of presents are in the immediate future. She is far more patient than her aunt had been in her sixth year of life.

     The wind carries a warm and fragrant spring air, as the adults hussle to tape down plastic tablecloths with a balloon-pattern. Cries of both delight and whiney frustration carries on the breeze from the play-area, as a welcome lull in the party-preparations leaves the adults to converse and connect, whilst feeding toddlers Goldfish crackers, and filling styro-foam plates with snack-food; something to tide them over as the alpha-males lean over the barbeque, offering their expertise as to how burgers should look inside; light-pink? No pink? Thin layer of pink?

     The birthday-girl continues to giggle with someone sharing her height and interest in crayons, chips, and salsa. A grandfather hovers, holding a bemused smile as he plays a game of ‘Dr. Suess tic-tac-toe’, while a teenaged uncle feigns interest. But it’s soon time to throw around the Nerf again. The alpha-males are now backing off the enflamed coals, as hotdogs sear and engorge from the heat.

     At one point, the star of the party is perturbed over the teasing, teenaged uncle, and expresses her displeasure quite verbally, followed with a pout. She is the focus of this day; her father and mother tell me that she was lovingly welcomed on May 16th, 2004. “She was born at 4:44 a.m. Maybe we should’ve woken her up at that hour, just to tell her ‘Happy Birthday’,” my brother teases.

    Yeah, right.

    She can demand pretty much anything, this one day of the year. And it’s easy to see the joy in her eyes from something as simple as twirling in circles to make her new pink party-dress flare out. Any new six-year-old can carry off the fashion whilst sporting a ‘Cat-In-The-Hat’ hat. Unlike her nameless aunt.

     “Play nice, ya big bully,” Grandpa says to the teen uncle in jest, as the birthday-girl expresses her displeasure once more at his ease-to-tease with the Nerf. The barbequing alpha-male invites a park-janitor passing by to a seared and juicy hot-dog, receiving a surprised smile of thanks and a quick chat. “Stay away from the Jim Beam steak sauce,” someone jokes, “You don’t want to eat and drive.”

     The haze of full bellies is felt by the party-goers, and the half-lings are guided by doting grandparents to the play-area once again. More shrieks of playful delight can be heard across the park.

     The afternoon fades into pre-twilight, and the warm spring breeze cools with the guidance of overcast clouds that want to scare with droplets of rain. The crickets hidden in the nearby brush keep to their natural tune, seemingly amused at the chorus of off-key humans, singing a song of celebration to the pink-party-dressed star.

     The teen-uncle begins to look bored, and is likely in want of texting; preferably with someone of his generation. But soon he is pulled into a game in which the prize just might be a bigger slice of birthday cake, before his alpha-male authority tosses the Nerf about once more.

     The play-area now seems abandoned, despite the row of dusty cars sitting in the parking lot. The birthday-girl begins to calmly open the gifts that she feels are her due on this day. “Lots of clothes,” she says with a patronizing smile, having now retired the red-and-white striped chapeau; as the day ends, it’s no longer ‘fashionable’. Or, as she may one day say on her sixteenth birthday, “That was so five minutes ago.”

     But, today she is six. Her reality in the now is the family gathered about to celebrate her birth; this first girl-child, this first grand-daughter, this first niece. Her reality tomorrow will be school.

     She’ll be the one on the playground, with the red-and-white striped hat.