to: maybe i think too much

was just thinking that "maybe i think too much" and came across your blog. loved it. but indeed it is true that so much thinking brings about negative thoughts. can you ever really start thinking about one thing--idea, person, place--and only see blue skies? just finished reading an amazing jeffery deaver short story entitled "triangle," that literally knocked my socks off. one thought from the narrator of the story-- lately he'd been thinking a lot of things and not saying them . . . (perhaps you've been hooked on the story?)

other poets, writers on the phrase or idea of too much thinking?

thanks for a fun blog, sir, and have a wonderful day.

not in THIS lifetime

it's a pretty fair life, but when a small bump gets you off track, just remember--there's a chance that in reincarnation you'll have just what you're aching for.

or not. quite the joke isn't it?

make the most of where you are and what you have.

belief

fine line between belief and disbelief

how can there be a god when

loved ones die

catastrophic events occur every day

the list of "when" goes on and on.

the multitude of conflicts in any recognized religion

is beyond belief.

wars begat religion

and religions begat religion

hmm. MAGO in Sedona.

a religion? a resort? wtf?

when a favorite aunt was diagnosed with cancer,

she was young. so was i.

she believed that god was good and was looking

out for her. she died in three months.

ditto my father--the short period of illness

full of pain and misery.

didn't hear him beg for god's mercy

or proclaim a "better place."

but in the throes of agony

(catchy phrase, isn't it?)

i find myself begging for mercy,

god's mercy.

that child didn't deserve to die

or suffer

PLEASE do not let this happen

or that happen.

I don't want it to make me strong

or strengthen my faith or lack thereof

just make the bad go away

the end, again and again, amen

five months.

or perhaps five decades.

what a long, strange trip it's been.

I

certainly

did

not

expect

the remorse i've seen.

oh my gosh. i would crawl. every long

dark mile, all the way home.

home?

we are nothing

if not dramatic

Writing on Demand is Never Easy

Writing on demand is not easy. Have you tried it?

Five hundred words a day or more is the requirement. All well and good when:
You have something to say
There are no interruptions
The phone is unplugged
Someone fed the dogs
There are no solicitors on your block
There is plenty of coffee
It is a gloomy day (although a little rain always is distracting to me here in Arizona)
You already finished reading the great book you started a couple days earlier
You are locked in your writing space
Your mind is hell-bent to complete the task at hand

Uh, how many words so far today, anyway?

Hmm, now do I just sit and ponder (x that out, use think), or start putting words on paper, hoping that some sense will come of it all? Back in the day, when I encouraged a class of students to “write,” I suggested they put down whatever came to mind, just to help them get started. But it doesn’t seem to be working for me.

I could discuss in some detail the disappointment that a friend passing through town won’t stay at my house, for fear of “displeasuring” me with his nocturnal habits. He says that at his age, he needs his thrice-nightly visit to the can, and a light on or off periodically during the night to read or reassess life, and/or a midnight or 2 a.m. smoke or two, or perhaps a shot of tequila. He’s afraid he’ll disturb the pooches as he slides through the door to the patio to indulge.

My arguments include the fact that his “suite” (always sound better than when you say “guest room”—I don’t have guests, only friends) is on the other side of the house. There is a separate bath. My dogs are old and don’t hear anything, so he wouldn’t disturb them. MY husband and I are fitful sleepers and potty-goers, too, but we have our own bath. Plus, we don’t hear so good either . . .

And I don’t want to plan things. If he’s here, we’ll just do them.

Ah. Well. We’ll see.

I believe there is a bit of “displeasuring” himself in all this, too. Twice a week I take care of (although better words than “take care of” might be adore or honor or idolize, as I can’t seem to get enough of my two grandsons) my boys. My is without children of his own, and has had his share of proverbial nieces and nephews, and perhaps can’t appreciate my maternal instincts.

Just let me show him!

of course i drink

Of course I drink. Kowtowing to everyone is all that it takes to remind me that after 6 p.m., it is time for my nightly shot or two of bourbon. I rarely talk serious matter to anyone in my circle of acquaintances [don’t they all have serious issues of their own and don’t want to be bothered , or perhaps they pretend to listen, nodding at the appropriate times], so it is only in the unwinding process of the day that I can reflect on life and all its complexities.

Don’t get me wrong. I do not ever drink—really, ever—when I have responsibilities. You know what they are, the family and friends who matter more than the drink.

Last night my routine was different; actually, it often is, as I reach this way and that for new adventures. We went out for Mexican food, so I had a margarita. Then we went to the theatre, and afterwards I had a glass of red wine.

Should I worry? My mom used to say that one thing my brothers and I had in common was the fact that we liked a drink. None of us, to my knowledge, has ever been falling-down drunk.

Wait. There was that time when I totally blanked out, and maybe the fire department came and put out the fire. I was in the backyard, commiserating with myself about the unfairness of life (there truly were extenuating circumstances, believe me), when I torched an old dirty area rug. It smoked and smoldered before breaking out in house-high flames.

So maybe the fire department came, or maybe not, I don’t remember. I never got a ticket for endangering the community, and my neighbors have never brought it up. Maybe it was a dream, a nightmare. Or to quote a line from an Uncle Tupelo song, "all my daydreams, disasters"?

I can say, however, that since that day I have never lost consciousness, or had a total blackout.

Perhaps Louise Erdrich (author extraordinaire) to the rescue again? “Crown of Thorns,” 1981, really knocked my socks off. Try reading it if you’ve ever thought you might have a little problem. The intensity of these words slammed in my face.

A mind is a terrible thing to lose

I am ashamed to admit that I thought twice before answering the phone. It was my dear aunt, who doesn’t remember a lick of who’s who and what’s what, and yet we try to communicate.

Tonight she called, “I had quite a time finding your number,” she said. I know. Before my mom, her sister, died, they called each other nearly daily across a span of 1500 miles, and usually wound up re-writing each other’s phone numbers. “I just want to be sure I can find it when I need to call you again.”

She doesn't know who she called, who she is talking to, but I play along. "It's very nice here in Phoenix. The boys are fine, and the grandchildren are growing so fast."

Her husband died of a heart attack 30 years ago, and her only child a couple of decades ago. Her two grandchildren are around, as is her wonderful son-in-law, but that doesn’t mean much today, because her facilities just aren’t up to snuff. It is so painful for me.

She played such an important role in my life. She had grace and elegance, and showered her kin with love and goodies. She grew up poor, but worked oh so hard to overcome. She headed the Headstart Program in Minnesota, and was recognized in the finest circles in town.

When I was a new bride, poor, she took me and the groom to the finest spots and showed us how it was to be regal. She loved my children, and sent them glorious gifts from her travels abroad.

Today, she is still lovely. At 90, her beauty and poise are there. But her mind is fragmented. I ache.

And I know she’s still in there, and she’s trying to get out and remind us how special she was, and why we shouldn’t forget her, and that’s why I’m ashamed of myself.

For I too shall go this path, as will you, and you, and you . . .

They went to war in 64

The boys went to war in 64. Some of them didn’t come back. This is the story of one of them. I’ll call him Tom.

I was in high school then, and Friday nights usually meant going to the air force base dance. There, the local giggly girls, many who had been friends for ages, met the boys from all around the country who had met their new best friends only days ago.

Or at least that’s what they said, or thought. In reality, most of these boys-on-the cusp-of-manhood, were escaping dreary small town futures, and were infectiously full of hope. At least at the beginning. At least before they flew over the pond . . .

Well. This story is about one of them, a darling youngster who never ceased to make me smile. Even now, more than 40 years later, I look at old letters and smile.

There were a lot of GIs to choose from, and there were plenty of us Non-Mormon girls in the Land of Zion. My family moved to Utah (where dad hired on as a civilian on the base, making decent regular wages) when I was four, because my dad just wasn’t cut out to be a farmer in Wisconsin. Wages were decent and regular, but dad wasn’t much cut out to work for someone else, always being his own man, but that’s another story.

Tom was from a big Wisconsin college town, so the first time I took him home to meet my folks, my dad was mightily impressed ‘cause that boy could talk both farming (from his grandparents’ experience) and big city talk, like traffic and taxis and bars and restaurants and big football games.

Although Tom’s dad was a college professor, that wasn’t what he wanted when he got home from the war. He would decide later . . .

And I’ll tell the rest of the story, or some of it, later.

Freda, the beginning

Freda intro 5-8-09

This is how I imagine the last day of her life went . . .

Having just read “A Jury of Her Peers,” a short story by Susan Glaspell, I felt compelled to share the story of my great aunt. Although I have documentation regarding the events of her life, there is not enough to really know the whole story, and therefore I have studied other pieces of both literature and news that define and describe the story I will divulge.

What is it that matters most to women? Love, money, sex?

Like “A Jury of Her Peers”
(http://www.learner.org/interactives/literature/story/fulltext.html­) and “Lamb to the Slaughter” (Roald Dahl), women’s destiny has been hard to define.

One of my earliest exposures to women’s literature was a short story by Rona Jaffe called “Rima the Bird Girl.” I can never get it far enough distant from me; I too become Rima.

Freda was nearly 40 when she married. She had been a lovely free-spirited young woman, sharing laughter and frivolity with her sisters in Fresno, California. But of course, all good things must end, and she married.

He was about her age, a young immigrant from Denmark. Here’s the kicker. It was a marriage made not of love but of necessity. He needed help on his farm. And she was strong. (Because this is a true story, and there may be other people who know this story, I will not use his name, and instead refer to him as “the husband.”)

I said she was lovely and spirited. That was surely true. But she was also large, nearly six-foot tall and big-boned. He was lean and six inches shorter. When I saw their wedding pictures, I was reminded of Mother Norway. I just went searching for the image I had in mind, and it can’t be found, so perhaps I imagined it: a large woman towering over a small man.

Regardless, I, being the keeper of all things, a position handed down from my mother (both the oldest remaining, becoming the matriarchs), came into possession of many old letters and pictures and small things (old jewelry and chipped plates, etc.).

As time allowed, I sifted through the boxes and made a few piles_ this from my dad’s side of the family, this was my mom’s.

If you are wondering why I chose (actually, I was compelled to do so) to write about Freda, it was because her story so moved and depressed me. And we did share bloodlines; perhaps I had some of the same proclivities?

I first devoured my paternal grandpa’s journals and notes and letters, tucked into cigar boxes. (I can’t write a sentence about him without my eyes clouding with lovely memories, without thinking of other things to write about him: the wonderful stories he told, how he emigrated to the United States as a young man, how he lost part of his hip in a threshing accident, how he loved to help make lefsa, and how his grandchildren adored him in so many ways).

In a journal entry dated May 1924, he had written, Freda died in a mysterious accident.” That was all. No more. Nada. I did know that Freda was his youngest sister and was born in California, after Grandpa’s folks moved there, and bore three more children.

The search was on. What next I found valuable and oh so sad were the newspaper clippings . . .

January 3, 2010

and happy new year to you. we went to the fiesta bowl parade with the grandboys yesterday and then took them home with us for a few hours. derek and nicole picked them up after we all had dinner. a very nice day!

christmas is down and it looks empty around here! hope your days were fun-packed, too.

our friends stayed at the tubac golf resort (have done so for 20 years. food was superb. shelby's bistro had great salads and pizza. we had italian out at melio's (not sure that that's the right name, but it's by the post office on the frontage road).

the mission at tumacacori. wonderful.

check out the old "secret garden" bed and breakfast. not open now (i dont't think), but intriguing. love all the old buildings and st. ann's. didn't do much shopping--not much there, and yeah, dennis was with me!

birding is supposed to be great but didn't check it out. all in all, a lovely time. stops at border patrol spots tick me off, but that's another story.

our brains fill up with non-essential info; hence the inability to recall importants memories of the near past. or perhaps it is merely a way for us to live in the moment . . .