She is basic and sturdy like the doors of an old farm house Painted over a hundred times through the years Solid white now, even the old brass door knobs that were otherwise black from age and endless twisted turning
She is a plank of a woman Not beautiful or ornate More so wide and reliable and solid as a tree, rooted to this house and its memories
She is still strong and useful Just not so forceful or intentional It’s not as important anymore To emphasize and make points Slamming about, setting things in order
She is no longer quite as significant But functions well all the same creating quiet or welcoming company Just not with the authority enjoyed in the past Maybe a little creaking now too
If you visit, you may keep her closed she will still protect and warm the room where you sleep If you prefer an open encounter instead she will draw you into the flow of other rooms like an interesting conversation
She will open and close as you desire With a current of kindness and hospitality a wooden but purposeful soul Nothing more really
The children of the Church
enter the sanctuary with their teacher
Like lambs and a shepherd
delivering assurance to the congregation
That salvation includes them too
This part of the service is mostly filler Getting the adults through the first 20 minutes A bridge to something meatier (hopefully) to feed their wandering minds and satisfy their want want wanting, in a righteous direction
One in the flock walks nervously
as she follows the group to the front of the church
Maybe she is shy, or uncomfortable in this setting
Her eyes are big and brown, oversized pools,
that observe with concern the presumptions
of those around her, they are weighty and dreadful
She sits with her classmates on the floor, before the alter With her hands clenched under her chin And elbows balanced on her knees, she rocks a little because it’s calming and repetitive, like some parts of this ritual
It’s time for the lesson
the Bible kids fidget with eager-to-please
Hands in the air answers, ready
to burst from their much-loved mouths
And the question is asked:
“What is God like”?
The teacher inquires with emphasis
that echoes through the church pews
Like he is presenting a litter of well-trained puppies
Who can easily explain this and so much more, already
“God is good” says one
“God loves us” said another
“He made everything” and
“He wants us to share” said two more
Enjoying the clamor of the confident and generally compliant
children
He seeks more input, they are on a roll
Looking over the heads of the answer-givers
His eyes meet hers, they are like magnets
“What is God like? There, you in the back”
She lifts her head from her stiff little hands And speaks just loud enough for anyone paying attention, as though she is both petrified and sorry about the truth of the matter, “He is omniscient”, she says “He knows our thoughts and what’s in our hearts”
“Oh my” the teacher tugs at his own collar, not expecting this
from a child
“Why yes, yes He is, God is omniscient”
the congregation giggles uncomfortably
it’s a big word for a little girl
With that the lesson is over and the children march back through the narrow aisles returning to the antiseptic children’s wing where they are contained like chirping birds in a cage with few windows, but safely until church is over
So what is God like anyway? Good and rich and inside the minds and hearts of mankind, all at the same time It’s a fleeting notion to this group, not so important Assurance has been granted and accepted for now Salvation is in this routine, somewhere
Small homes with over sized tv sets
that blare through front windows
From slanted porches life flows onto the narrow street
Bicycles, toys, planters burst with bright blooms
Air conditioners drip onto gravel driveways
One is nearly clipped by a “work truck”
that carries a ladder and tool boxes stacked high
Dogs and cats bark and scramble
After a dare and a double dare concludes
The cats prevail, always
No one has pedigree here
Some urge others toward keeping things nice
They mow little lawns and sweep the dirt hard
From cracked sidewalks and stoops
Others, broken by love stolen
Or sickness, or a series of bumps
On the economic road
Resist
They sleep in the heat moving from couch to lawn chair
Outside to catch a smoke and wonder
Too exhausted to go any further than this
Their stuff is piled high all over
I can’t discern the trash from the treasure
Butterflies are everywhere today
Fluttering between flowers and fences
The clearing and re-cluttering
Of this old-time palette keeps me busy
As this community becomes my own
I don’t recall ever being along for the ride with one of my children, although in some sense I’ve probably been along for the ride, all along. I only understood my role as a mother in terms of providing, fixing, directing, doing, or finding immediate answers, etc. This summer I had the unanticipated realization that my role isn’t any of that now, regardless of what I understand. So here is where I noticed the transition.
Relieved.
Trying to get out the door I am wound up like a top, clutching details and boxes of Ana’s stuff in a nervous stranglehold. My job is to make sure we have everything we need, that’s what I do, and the pressure is on. Although I am only half put-together on a really good day, in some sense I believe I am responsible to make all this happen. My mission: get Ana moved into an apartment in Colorado Springs and delivered for her first day of work by next Wednesday, on time. But Colorado is over 1,700 miles and two time-zones away, and honestly, I can’t handle this much change. But like everything – here we go.
This all feels a little like giving birth. I am nervous and excited and scared-to-death all at the same time, and sweating. Here you are world: a shiny new baby girl, healthy, educated and in my mind, innocent …please handle with care. Ana takes one final sweep through her room to make sure she has everything. I ask her if she wants to take something from the house to remind her of home. She grabs one of my “painted pony” figurines which is perfect, something sure to remind her of me, her mother. We have to leave now, ready or not. My heart is racing, or breaking, I can’t tell which. Continue reading…
Two elderly Czech’s (from Czechoslovakia) occupied the two homes right next to mine on Martha Avenue where I grew up. Baba and Aunt Gusty as I called them, were actually my friend Lisa Jo’s grandmother and great- aunt. These sisters, Baba and Gusty, were inseparable and they were pure Eastern Europe as I knew it. And although I’ve never been there, I think I know a bit about the culture from these women and others like them who were everywhere in my upbringing. My neighborhood was largely Slovak or German and all of us kids were either 1st, 2nd or 3rd generation Americans. Our grandparents often lived with us (mine did) so the “old country” was evident in all we saw. The term used to describe our somewhat mixed race was “hunky” which came from another term “mill-hunky”. We were the class of people whose men worked in the steel mills…most were from Eastern Europe somewhere. While this word is not what I would consider a racial slur using today’s lexicon, it wasn’t a compliment either. Hunky folk were not well educated and they worked for very little money. They hustled but the stereo-type doesn’t really include those who accumulated much. They were honest but perhaps naïve. Loveable maybe, definitely not pretentious but generally not accomplished either. Unless of course it is an accomplishment to have left war-torn Europe with nothing but hope as a guide away from (and a weapon against) cruel circumstances. They accomplished that. Hunky women as I recall, were indeed very strong and most families were run by such matriarchs.
I haven’t posted in some time and it really has bothered me. It’s like wanting to cook because I feel good when I do, but I’m too busy so I don’t and then I’m dissatisfied with my diet. Similarly, communicating makes me feel good, and purposeful. And I have been writing, just not stuff I want to put out here. It seems my desire for the “simply stated”, which I am more comfortable sharing, has been held under water by the “holy shit” jumble of hurrying-up and the chaos I create for myself in the last part of every year. I hate to blame the holidays but they really don’t help. And as hard as I try not to over schedule or set my expectations too high, I do both. There is something in me that gets swept away and I lose sight of any semblance of peace or serenity I may have gathered through the summer, unfortunately. Oh well, I am back. And I want to re-enter this blog with an interesting thing that I discovered in the past few weeks: hobo signs. I have some computer generated examples attached here, and I hope you enjoy them.
I like these signs and I knew nothing about them before I received one as a gift. Briefly (I swear), I received this gift in the mail a couple weeks ago. It was from my friend’s mom who I consider my friend also. I am not sure why it’s important that she is my friend’s mom and is now my friend too, but it is and I like her very much. She notices things that I notice, and we have a lot in common. Weird things like she lives across the country but when I visited her I noticed we have planted the same flowers in our yards, just by coincidence … but back to the gift. I actually think she meant to send it a year ago because she mentioned that she had the perfect gift for me then, but it just came in the mail now. I understand that completely, it’s another similarity I can appreciate. Anyway, I love the gift because it has me thinking about simple forms of communication and our basic instinct to look after each other. The gift was a wooden plaque that has a primitive picture of a cat and it says “a kind-hearted woman lives here”. I am not certain it describes me, but when I opened it I thought, well that’s nice…odd, but very sweet. When I mentioned that I had received it she told me that the cat was one of many symbols that hobo’s used in the 19th century to help each other. I had no idea they did that, so I did some research and I haven’t stopped thinking about it. Continue reading…
This post is a simple reflection of my experience over the past several years. Its been major change after major change after major change. Some of them I chose or caused and some of them happen to all of us. The fact is that life is difficult and painful sometimes, but it’s meaningful. I will save this on my writing page too. I’m still trying to decide what should be a “post” versus a “page” on this blog site. Please enjoy, although it doesn’t seem terribly cheery, it’s not meant to be sad or anything.
the spring river
I used to be so deliberate and focused, really a go getter. I was creative and forceful at home and in the world; motivated by love, purpose and money. I was dedicated to my family and what they needed and what only seemed right, to me. I had an air of confidence: “we are going in this direction”, meaning right now too. And I could push a whole team over the goal line…a one-woman offensive line, really. Continue reading…
I am 50 something, and as long as I can remember I have been behind schedule and generally in a hurry. It feels like I’ve needed highways and beltways and byways and on-ramps and seri and gps to stay even close on my “list” of what needs to happen today. And God forbid if there is road construction, or an accident or an emergency interruption from a friend or relative. So during this life-long rush around, I have often thought about “someday”. That time in the future when I will surely exist in my own idea about what would be really nice, what I always wanted to do or where I wanted to be or who I wanted to be with or near.
My personal thoughts on “someday” as of right now include only a slower pace and perhaps a better view from time to time. So that’s why back roads. Continue reading…
