Today's Poem

HELL TO PAY

There's hell to pay in heaven today

A council has been called

Someone's ass is on the line

The Creator is appalled

He stands before our multitude

With anger in His eyes

It's rare we see this attitude

From one so mellow and wise

"Who decided to take these lives

Small children and their teachers?

Some were only as young as five

With complexions fresh as peaches."

Silence hangs like a London fog

We've all become so meek

I look around, we're shy as dogs

No one wants to speak

"Tell me!" God shouts and pounds his fist

"I need to understand."

Slowly I start to raise my wrist

And then I raise my hand.

"It was I," I say, and rise from my chair

I'm pierced by looks of derision,

Mouths drop open the angels stare.

"It was I who made the decision.

"I'm tired of bodies mangled by war

Battered and bruised and starved

I'm tired of AIDS victims covered in sores

And people mangled in cars

"I'm tired of junkies and teenage ODs

And old farts, long in the tooth

I'm tired of smelling the stench of disease

I wanted the sweet scent of youth."

After I speak I sit back down

My chest is heavy and tight

"Ach," says God, "you stupid clown.

Go, get out of my sight."

My shame is heavy as I leave

And no one follows after

But in the distance I perceive

The music of children's laughter.

Sidewalks

         Over the course of sixty-three years, I've lived in a lot of places. I've loved something  about each of them. The canyon where I grew up had lots of trees, a creek, and was close to the beach.  Coarsegold, where I lived for twenty years, had magnificent views of the high Sierras, the San Joaquin Valley and the Coastal Range.

          In the fall of 2010, when I had to say goodbye to the beautiful house my husband John and I built ten years before, I knew nothing would ever replace it. We'd chosen the design, the site, how to situate it to take in the best views, yet not compromise the mountain. 

          I had several months to take "goodbye walks" through my manzanita grove. I still think about those beautiful smooth-barked trees. In the spring they are covered in clusters of pale-pink, bell-shaped flowers that turn into sweet, apple-flavored berries in the fall.  Raccoons, coyotes, my dog and I loved to eat those "little apples" which is what manzanita means.

          Because we were moving to a town, I knew I would miss the rabbits that came out at dusk and the coveys of quail that skittered across the road. I had been living a rural life for twenty years. Our mailbox was two miles from our house. The closest market was seven miles away. I drove between fifteen and thirty-five miles to teach in after-school programs.  I knew there would be benefits to living in town, but I wasn't sure how I'd adjust to "civilization" after having complete privacy for so many years.     

          Then, one day it dawned on me. "I want to live where there are sidewalks," I told John. 

          I didn't mean the noisy strips of concrete that line Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica. (Although, when I lived in my condo in the late '80s, I did most of my shopping on foot, coughing when a bus spewed disgusting fumes.) I meant a quaint, old-fashioned sort of town, with a town square, and shops in buildings that had been around for more than a hundred years.

          Last Saturday night, after dinner at the Branding Iron at the Y.O. Ranch resort – a restaurant reminiscent of the 1960s with a high-ceilinged, muffled dining room, white tablecloths, and heavy silverware – I asked John if we could drive by the courthouse. Earlier in the evening there had been a parade that culminated with a holiday lighting ceremony.  I wasn't sure what to expect.    

          He found a place to park a block away and told me he was going to use the restroom at Azul, where he goes to listen to music at least once a week. I said I'd meet him back at the car and set off toward the courthouse.

          I could see a small crowd and hear an announcer talking on a stage lighted red and green. I hurried as he called out, "Are we ready to see some lights?"  And began to countdown, "Ten . . . nine. . . eight. . ."

          Just as I stepped onto the grass, lights came on: red, green and white strands wrapped around trees, Frosty the Snowman,  Santa and his reindeer, candy canes, wreaths and over on one corner, a wooden manger scene.  The crowd "oohed" and clapped. 

          "Let's go see Santa!" a teenage girl called to her friend and the two of them, dressed in shorts, darted past me.

          I meandered through a multiracial crowd: young parents with toddlers, elderly couples with canes, middle-aged men and women, boys and girls clutching red-and-green light sticks.  On stage, a female County-Western singer, accompanied by a guy strumming a guitar, began to sing.

           I headed back toward the car but walked past it, looking in shop windows.  I passed the historic Schreiner house, now a museum. In Azul, I found John talking to the bartender.

          "This is Doug," John said, and Doug and I shook hands.

          As we left the bar, walking up the basement steps to the sidewalk, I felt a huge affection for my new hometown. 

          Kerrville is the perfect place for me.  It may not have spectacular views of mountains or the ocean. I don't run into movie stars in the supermarket, like I do when I'm back in Pacific Palisades.  (But I have had breakfast with Kinky Friedman.) It's simply a friendly, unpretentious place to live, with parks and a river, wide-street neighborhoods where herds of whitetail deer greet me each morning. We have shopping malls, tons of churches, theaters, and cafes. And yes, well-maintained sidewalks in the charming, revitalized, historic section of town.  

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.