Halloween 2012 (An Alphabet Poem)

Ah, what a beautiful afternoon, Halloween, golden light, just

Before sunset, cat sitting in the window (I had to wake her up

'cuz she was napping, missing out on this gorgeous

Day) and the stinky dog (he rolled in deer poop) completely

Enervated, fast asleep. Today we averted a small catastrophe. I

Found Walter on the porch, hunkered down, he couldn't

Get up, I thought something might be broken, but what

Happened was his choke collar was stuck in the slats of the deck.

I can't figure out how that happened.  He was freaked out,

Justifiably. He'd been there a while and was so hot, panting.

"Keep calm," I assured him, stroking his head. I went inside

Looking for John.  I knew he'd be annoyed, but I hoped he

Might have lock cutters, so we could cut the chain. He said

No, he didn't but he'd see what he could do. I went back out and

Petted Walter's head. I said, "John will help you. Just keep

Quiet."  I had horrible visions of him strangling himself. John

Returned with a screwdriver and a hammer. Under the

Stairs, he found the problem, gave one quick bang and

Ta da! Walter sprang up and rushed to the door

Unharmed. Thank God!  I hate it when I have horrible

Visions of bad things happening. Once you think something

Whether it's good or bad, it seems to become part of your memory,

eXactly like it really happened. I can still hear Walter's little

Yelps, see him pinned there, panicky. I wish I were more

Zen, not re-imagining my dog, dead, strangled, on the sunny deck. 

Election Season

Narrator

Joining us now is APR correspondent Niles Overblown. Niles, tell us the latest on the flip-flopping allegations of congressional incumbent candidate Melanie Squatblatt.

Overblown

Thank you, Jeremy. Last week at a congressional town-hall debate Ms. Squatblatt said she was in favor of farm subsidies for family-owned farms. She said that contrary to what the Supreme Court ruled, '"Corporations are not people. Family farmers are people."  She went on to mention her meeting with the Burnedout family of Dungtown who have been growing asparagus for seventy-five years. Let's listen to what Congresswoman Squatblatt said:

Squattblatt

I grew up on a farm in Poor Me County. I remember milking cows, rain or shine. I remember my mother's red hands and my father's stooped back. Back then we were proud of our muddy truck and out of style clothing.

Now family farmers are being thrown under the bus. Federal subsidies keep afloat Monsanto and Con-Agra while families like the Burnedouts struggle to keep Spam on the table. This must change! We must not abandon our asparagus farmers. We must offer a hand to what I like to call The Backbone of America. We must close loopholes for big corporations so that they crumble like drought-stricken fields.   

Overblown

Today a group calling itself Citizens for Candidate Credibility released a video of Ms. Squattblatt, purported to have been recorded at a family dinner in 1965. Let's hear a clip.

Child's voice

Eeeewww!  That's disgusting. I'm not going eat that.

Adult female voice

You are going to sit there until your plate is empty young lady. I don't work sixteen hours a day so you can turn your nose up at my cooking. Right, father?

Adult male voice

Pass the potatoes.

Child's voice

I hate asparagus. It makes my pee stink. I'm not going to eat it. I don't care if you punish me. I refuse to be abused!

Adult female voice

I just hope that when you have children they make you as miserable as you make me.

Overblown

Citizens for Candidates Credibility sites this as an example of Ms. Squattblatt's flip-flopping. After years of denigrating asparagus she is suddenly supportive of the very people who harvest this niche crop. In order to offer fair and balanced reporting, I have her opponent Martin Notsosmart on the line. Are you there Mr. Notsosmart?

Notsosmart

Yes, Niles, I'm here. It's always a pleasure to talk to you.  Let me say that I have always supported small farmers and still do. I also support companies such as those Ms. Squattblattt impugns, because they employ thousands of hard working Americans. We cannot afford, as a people and a nation, to continue to outsource jobs to China and India where workers live in squalid conditions. It's immoral and adds to our trade deficit.  I say, America for America! Asparagus for all!

Overblown

Thank you, sir. Unfortunately Ms. Squattblatt did not return out calls. For APR this is Niles Overblown.

Narrator

We turn now to the issue of immigration . . .

          

Standing In Line

     This week thousands of people stood in line to buy the I Phone 5. Some people even paid to have a person stand in line for them. It's been so long since I stood in a line. I'm trying to remember . . .

          My first recollection of standing in line is when we lined up after recess at Canyon Elementary School. I think I was probably first in line, eager to get back to the classroom which, for me, was far more interesting than the playground.  I hated the sadistic activity of dodge ball and discovered early on that if I stood stock-still and got hit right away, I could spend the rest of the time talking to my friends, or teachers, until it was time to go back in.

          When the Alex Trebek version of Jeopardy debuted in 1984 I drove to Burbank to try out. I'd watched the Art Fleming version in elementary school and was happy it had returned. My officemates at the Sand and Sea Club encouraged me to try out.

          I remember standing in a long line of potential contestants, along an outside wall of a sound stage, in the blazing sun. I wore my black spaghetti-strap sundress and a pale peach rayon cover-up. Eventually we were herded inside to sit at long tables facing the Jeopardy set. First we watched a video of Alex welcoming us. Then we took a written test.

          While the scores of the written test were tallied we watched a rerun of the show. Then names were called and the herd diminished. Those of us left were congratulated and told how to conduct ourselves for the next round.

          Three at a time we were called up. We were given the sort of bell one rings at a hotel reception desk. I haven't seen one of those bells in years and wonder if they're still made.  Before us, behind a long table, the Jeopardy staff stood with stacks of flash cards representing topics.  

          I remember being flustered, when I rang in too late, And when I rang in first, I didn't know the answer to a baseball question.  One of the Jeopardy staff gave me a dirty look, as if to say, "Calm down, lady!"

          It was a humiliating experience and yet I still watch Jeopardy nearly every day, believing that it will keep me from getting Alzheimer's.

          Since then, I really can't remember standing in a line, except, of course for the short lines at the market where I enjoy seeing what people buy.  There have been times that I like the look of the person in front, or in back, of me and I'll strike up a conversation. There are other times that I'm awed by what people buy. I'm always happy that I didn't inadvertently get someone else's purchases.

          Although, one day I did accidently get a bag that wasn't mine. It had three Lean Cuisine vegetarian entrees in it.  I called the market and told the person who answered. She said I could bring them back if I didn't want them, but they'd just be thrown away. So I kept them, and enjoyed them, and felt bad for the person (I'm sure it was a woman) who got home to discover she'd left a bag of groceries behind.

AN ENCOUNTER WITH OUR NEIGHBOR

          In September 2010, when we moved to Kerrville from California, we rented a little "patio" house in River Hill, from a sharp-as-a-tack octogenarian who owns many Kerrville properties, and even has a road named after him.

          Last month we moved to a larger house with a yard. We miss many of our neighbors – our walks, dinners, John sharing his home-grown tomatoes –but we're glad to have more space and privacy.

          A few months ago, during the primary election, I saw that a sign had been stuck in our next-door neighbor's lawn. I knew Dottie was in Colorado so I decided to call her and ask if she'd given permission for someone to put the sign there. I told my husband, John, what I was doing.

          When I spoke to Dottie she said that her neighbor on the other side of her, Sue, had probably put it there and it was no big deal.

          I went outside and found John talking to Hilton, our neighbor across the street. John had the election sign in his hand.

          "It's okay," I said, "I called Dottie."

          "Did she tell you she doesn't like your dog peeing on her bushes?" Hilton snapped.   

          "No," I said, surprised.

          "And he pees on mine too!" he said.

          John retreated.

          "And Parks (he used the last name of the widower at the end of the street) lets his dogs pee all over my plants, too," he said, showing me his manicured little shrubs.  I couldn't see what he was talking about.

          "I’m sorry," I said. "I'll try to keep Walter off your plants. The only time he might do this is when we're waiting to cross the street and there's traffic coming and he can't wait."

          "And you're not supposed to run a business out of your garage!" he fired. "I don't think they should allow rentals in this neighborhood!"  

          His fury shocked me. He knew when we moved in that John has a home office and that I too work mainly from home. As a hobby, John designs stereo speakers and likes to have the garage door open, weather permitting, because the garage has no windows.  No one ever complained. In fact the elderly widow on the other side of us once told him how much she enjoyed seeing him work with wood, because it reminded her of her departed husband.       

          Plus, I'd had lunch several times with Hilton's wife, and two other neighbors. We'd all attended a party down the street. We exchanged Christmas cards. I'd collected his mail and newspapers when he and his wife were out of town. Once, hearing John hadn't been feeling well, he'd even brought over some delicious leftover soup he'd made.

          Feeling attacked, I countered, "Well, you know what bothers me?" I asked feeling my temper rise.

          "What?" he said.

          "That cowbell," I said, pointing up at a giant wind chime hanging from one of his beautiful trees. "When I want to sit outside and enjoy the afternoon it clangs, clangs, clangs!"

          "My wife put it there," he said sheepishly. "Maybe I can move it around to the back," he suggested.

          "That would be a good compromise," I said, and went home.

          What I didn't tell him was that the floodlight he has over his garage (in spite of there being a street lamp right across the street from him) shined directly in our windows.  I hung heavy curtains in the bedroom and put a Japanese screen inside our front door so the light would not shine in our eyes when we watched TV.

          I called Dottie again and told her I was sorry my dog had peed on her bushes and would try to prevent it in the future.

          "Oh, is he peeing on my bushes?" she asked.

          "That's what Hilton said," I told her. 

          A few days after our encounter, when I went outside one evening, I was startled by a blaring radio.  Hilton had installed a motion detector that lit up and blasted loud radio when it was activated. But I was nowhere near his house.  This contraption stayed up for several weeks until eventually he removed it.

          But he never did move that wind chime.

          Now he's called a meeting with the board of the homeowners' association and our ex-landlord. He intends to accuse our ex-landlord of renting to "bad tenants." John will go to the meeting. 

          The day we moved in to that little house in River Hill, I remember the first thing Hilton told us: that the previous tenants were terrible. "They parked their cars all over the street!" he said.

          How glad we are to get away from this busy-body who, when he leaves his corner house, drives slowly down the cul-du-sac to see what's going on. A retired superintendent, I can imagine him lording over school boards. I just wish he'd find some other way to express his need to bully.  

          By the way, in n addition to trying to get the homeowner's board to not allow our ex-landlord to rent his house, that miserable little man is trying to get speed bumps installed on Riverhill Boulevard, even though there are already stop signs on almost every corner.

ONE OF THOSE DAYS

          Sunday was a great day – church, lunch, poetry, music, food, friends, great discussions, a beautiful sunset, and football on TV. Then why did I feel so lousy Monday?

          The day started out okay. I woke up as always before dawn and luxuriated in bed until light seeped through the blinds.  It was cool enough to wear the long green sweater Jane gave me, when I took the dog out. I greeted the herd of deer that are now getting used to us and enjoyed our twenty-minute walk around the neighborhood.

          But after breakfast something happened. All my energy left me. My brain felt dull as putty. So I drank coffee. But this just gave me a headache. So I took an Aleve. I forced myself to strip the bed and used all my strength to pull the clean lower sheet over the mattress.

          If John didn't work at home I might have crawled back into bed but I could hear him on the phone, then going in and out of the house so I slouched into my office and plopped into my chair. The hours ticked away.

          At four I drank another cup of coffee hoping it would clear my head for a 5:30 meeting at the Nature Center. I grabbed my folder and headed out. With ten minutes to spare I decided to run into CVS for milk. I could leave it in their fridge during our meeting and not have to stop on the way home.

          When I got to the check out I could not find my debit card. I had some change but no cash.  I took everything out of my purse. No card. I moved aside so the checker could help the customer behind me. Not finding my card I apologized and went to my meeting.

          I sat down at the table, took off my sunglasses and reached into my purse. My eyeglass case was gone. Did I leave it at home? 

          I tried to concentrate on what the chairman was saying but my mind kept going back to the missing debit card. Where had I had it last? Oh, it must be in the pocket of my jeans.  I'd checked the bank balance earlier in the day and found no suspicious debits. Yes, it must be at home, with my glasses.

          When I got home I checked my closet. I went through the pockets of the jeans I wore on Saturday when I went to HEB.

          "I bet it's in the car," John said.  This just made me mad.

          "I always put it in the same place. I would not have left it in the car!" I snapped.  I poured a glass of wine.  I drank half in one gulp.

          John went out and started searching the car. I looked on the shelf where I leave my glasses. The case wasn't there. I went into the bedroom, which was dark because I had on my sunglasses.  I turned on all the lights. No glasses.

          Then it dawned on me, I probably left them at CVS when I took everything out of my purse.  I called and yes, my glasses were there. 

          The sun was setting. Too dark to drive in sunglasses, plus I'd just drunk half a glass of wine.  I went outside and found John vacuuming the car with a disapproving look on his face. I wanted to rip the plug out of the socket and silence his favorite monster tool but instead I yelled over it, "My glasses are at CVS!"

          But where was the debit card? Think, Mary Lee. You went to HEB on Saturday to pick up John's prescription and got tangled in the sea of families clogging the aisles. It took forty-five minutes to do what would usually take fifteen.  I remember saying to the checker as I left, "Remind me never to shop on Saturday afternoon again!"  She just smiled and nodded.

          I called HEB.  My debit card was in the lost-and-found.  I went outside to tell John.  He waved from the car and backed out of the driveway.

          I went inside and swallowed the rest of the wine.  I sat on the couch and turned on the TV.  What was pink looked orange and faces looked sunburned.

My mind was clearing. Did this mean I'm an alcoholic?  Or was my body finally finished processing the MSG from my Sunday Chinese lunch?  Or did I contact West Nile Virus from the mosquito bites I recently got when I naively thought I could enjoy early evening on our deck?

          John returned with my glasses and a half-gallon of milk. I thanked him, glad I have someone to come to my aid when my brain or my body fails me.

          

ALL MOVED IN

          Finally we're almost settled in: family portraits and beloved works of art cover the walls, The Joy of Cooking,  which I took from my mother's kitchen when I left home forty-four years ago, is crammed on a shelf with other cookbooks I never read. The dog and cats adjusted immediately, didn't skip a meal or lose any sleep. But I don't feel like I'm home.

          There's a melancholic feeling in this low-ceilinged house. Each room has a single window. In my office the fierce, late-summer sun is amplified by the front yard's white rocks. White light, like a slab of ice, intrudes into one side of the room but does not make it into the dark corner where I sit.

          The weight of what I left behind is heavier than my beaded Indian tapestry which I probably should have hung on the other wall where light would have bounced off its tiny mirrors.  Where it is the deep colors blend into a muddy dullness and nothing sparkles.

          The weight of what I left behind calls for burial, mourning, remembrance. My teaching, which sprang to life eighteen months ago, has trickled out and died. Oh how I loved those Thursday mornings when I packed my satchel with a new lesson and headed out to hear what the students had written that week. Sitting at the front of the class I felt like I was on a ship, sailing into each writer's story, carried along on their memories and emotions.  Afterwards I felt  full of gratitude that an idea I presented created stories and poems that brought tears to our eyes, made us sigh, made us wonder.

          In that tiny office on Rogers Circle I completed my memoir. I relived the first twenty years of my life, revisited photographs, did research on the internet, re-read my calendars, called and questioned friends.  I brought back to life my father, family friends, my first husband, my first true love, my first psychedelic friend.

          In the Rogers Circle house I wrote the monthly profile for the Kerrville Business Magazine.  In the ninety-minute interviews, each person opened up   about their heartaches and triumphs. I remember when the octogenarian jeweler described how the army recruitment office was packed, a line around the block, the day after Pearl Harbor was bombed. He and his college friends were told to go home, the army could not process so many men. I had to ask the old man for a Kleenex, I was so moved visualizing the passion of those young men.

          In the time I lived at Rogers Circle I found Unity Church.  During that first meditation tears streamed down my cheeks because I knew I had found my spiritual home.  

          In our two years at that house my recently widowed mother went through a series of "helpers", doctors, psychiatrists. She had hallucinations, gave thousands of dollars away. Eleven months ago she broke her hip, spent a month in rehab, moved into a posh assisted living facility, and suffered a series of strokes, bladder infections, cuts and bruises. She spent a month crying every day until hospice took over and put her on Zoloft.

          At Rogers Circle I knew who I was, a writer and teacher with an elderly mother; new to Texas, every day seemed full of possibility. Now I feel like I don't know who I am. Of course I know I'm a wife and daughter, sister and aunt, mother to my pets, friend to good friends far away. But who am I to myself?

          I squint out the window at the enormous prickly pear, magnificently malevolent in the blazing sun. Proud, invincible, it seems to know who it is.  Here inside I look at cherished objects from my past and wonder what heartache, what happiness, will fill this house and make it become home.

Apropos

My hands hurt from packing. Next Monday movers will take another "small" load to the new house. This week they took eight bookcases and boxed books which I've started to unpack at the new place.

A week from tomorrow will be the "big move." After that we have a week to come back and clean, and take whatever else is left.

Sometimes I wish I was more like my friend Pat who recently sold almost everything she owns before she moves to Florida. Or like my friend Karen whose immaculate, uncluttered house makes me feel calm.

Today, packing my oak filing cabinet I found a folder whose label had fallen off. Inside: "Poems 1990," a neat, three-page, hand-written list and the originals. I got a kick out of the first one which speaks to me almost twenty-three years later.

NEW YEAR'S DAY

The first day of the year

the first day of the new decade

the first time I feel good

since I got back from Reno.

I dream about Liza

who looks like Divyananda

ruddy and spiritual like

a wild northern animal

genuinely heartened

by snow.

Today in Venice, with everything

the color of sand

including a dubious vagrant

in worn-out clothes

everything is ornamental

with the look of something

soon to be thrown away.

I want permanence.

I'd like to stir my tea

with this same spoon

fifty years from now.

I want something that lasts.

And since it isn't you

I'll find it in possessions

small enough to be carried

wherever I go.

I still have that spoon, and possessions too heavy to carry alone. Plus a dog, two cats and a husband. The life I always wanted. I know of course nothing is permanent.  Which makes me love them all the more.