back roads & blue higways – Page 2

Ivy. The last will be first

The last of the litter
an uncertain future confirmed
more with each sibling removed
by an eager adopter, pet lovers.
Not her this time
or the next or the next
what should happen? When is it her turn?
she shakes when I take her and her sister
covered in fleas, that weave
through her fur and puppy pink skin
an itchy reality for this little runt
Her sister crawls on my lap in the car
and I comfort her.
Ivy sits shivering, brave but worried, confused
she whimpers for attention that I don’t yet offer
trying to drive, but knowing
her future is secure, she wasn’t left behind
I couldn’t do that
Her sister, intended for another mother
as a gift, needed my assurance first
Ivy, the unchosen
would have my affection at last
and always thereafter
a reward for us both
Grace, an gift undeserved but hoped for

Writing

Her Robe

I wouldn’t say I get overly attached to “things”. But I notice that some “things” have been around for a long time and I like knowing they are still there. My robe is (was?) one of them. I haven’t tossed it yet because it is such a part of my routine, but I will because it is an absolute rag at this point. Still, it is oddly not that easy. As I contemplate letting this go, I determined to write some things down about it. As I looked at what I wrote, I noticed that this is really a metaphor about my faith… both the robe and what I wrote. I hope you enjoy or maybe relate a little to an attachment that seems nonsensical. My faith isn’t nonsensical, but sometimes it feels worn out.

Her Robe

Her robe, now ragged
dates back
to when mauve was a
color people wore
on purpose

Her robe
was a present
one she noticed
as thoughtful and sturdy
a long-term item
graciously accepted

Her robe
wrapped her body
whether thick or thin
without judgement or preference
serving in pink,
a noble purpose

Her robe
with no concern ever
for appearance, an apology
or its outdated hue
only trapping the warmth
between itself and her skin

Her robe
a steadfast eyewitness
to every word written
of the take-all-the-timers
the beat-up-brokens
and the some-day summits
she wants to see

Her robe
bruised and beloved
stoic and secure
as she loves and cries
sits and thinks
and sometimes makes
another plan

Her robe
faithful in her,
or in something
to provide simple warmth
and gracious acceptance
what her aging body
needs most

Her robe
worn so thin
needs replaced
but how?

BRBH someday posts / Uncategorized

Relieved

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…

BRBH someday posts

Baba & Gusty, or yeshimudia – Jesus Mary & Joseph

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 1^st, 2^nd or 3^rd 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.

a kind hearted woman lives here

BRBH someday posts / Uncategorized

Hobo Signs

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…

Writing

Finding Connection

I recently drove 2,500 miles pulling a tiny cabin on wheels from Washington to Ohio crossing Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota, Iowa, Illinois and Indiana. I am compelled to name all of those states because it was a long, long drive as you can imagine. Due to the weight of the tiny cabin we could only drive 50mph the whole way! It is a beautiful country (I have now seen every square inch of it), and at least there was no hurrying! The piece below describes the night that the truck broke down. I was pretty terrified. If I learned anything it is that I am too independent and I need people; connections are really important. This is creative non-fiction if I have to call it something. I tried to do something called “ultra talk” which is a kind of story or poetry that wraps a couple stories together at one time. I didn’t nail it or anything, but I hope you like it. And if you can or would, let me know who you would call or who you would remember in your heart when you need assurance? Please enjoy!

Connected:

Our pickup truck broke down one night in Wyoming about 50 miles from the nearest place with people or lights. Our movement forward was swallowed, suddenly and wholly, by the complete darkness and the howling wind. The truck’s draining headlights offered very little relief as I pulled crookedly off the road. I had about 10 feet of dim vision before me, where the dark blended with the nothing. I could not tell if I was sitting next to a mountain or an open field, that’s how dark it was. I began to panic.

I quickly turned off the radio thinking that might help. The static-filled sound of Pat Benatar losing a piece of her heart only amplified my anxiety. I needed to think, or worry, or take action and that required immediate silence. The sound of her voice was replaced by the wind though, which reminded me of my position at this point: I am small, powerless and insignificant. I had to fight against all of this to get out of the truck. A squall pushed me sideways as I tried to join my friend who was already looking under the hood. Continue reading…

BRBH someday posts

the spring river

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…

Writing

difficult words

dictionary of difficult words

I found a book called the Dictionary of Difficult Words in my friend’s truck, there is such a book. I didn’t open it. I know what a lot of them are already. Committed, cheated, rejected, obligated, shame, guilt, repent….reciprocal (good Lord). These words have to be in there. Committed for example. Does this mean determined to stick with your decision? Or does it mean sentenced to a mental hospital, imprisoned? And if you commit to a thing that becomes hellish and you go crazy, like if you are in a bad friendship or marriage, does it mean both things? There are so many difficult words to be honest. But I’d really like to see the Dictionary of Wonderful Words instead. I can guess a bunch of those too. Familiar, enough, curious, launch, exhale, subtle and supple, quiet, content, conscious…all wonderful. It would be good to have both books – they should sell them in a set.

Do you have a difficult or wonderful word to add? Please let me know.

BRBH someday posts

Why back roads?

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…