Play in Peace

I have an aunt hot in pursuit
of my DARdom.

I have a cousin who fluffs up
her hair for pictures while
you look flat and brunette
to the side.

I have a sister with whom
nothing's wrong except
a wedge a lake depth long.

My mother is good, and she
would frown to see the word
"ass" written down.

And then there's my gentle
brother who drove our dead
man to town.

Which leaves my father.
Who got whom?
I hope you and the final buck
have your word and, like in a
Disney film, take turns
poking and laughing and tumbling
in the grass, sister, brother, mother,
savior, lion, lamb, blood, water,
silhouetting as a marker:
enemies may become best friends
if one ushers & follows.



TWW
2/18/16



Writer's notes:  I know this is a strange poem, but I'm not to a point where I can write a more conventional one about the passing of my father. So, I write this darkly humorous one, but also one that has sadness and hope. The sadness is that my loved family member is gone; the hope is that Dad is happy-full in heaven. Dad would like this kind of humor, especially about my mother, and the fact that he and a buck could be eternally entwined. I can see his dimples and eye-glinting now to pick up on this strand of strange humor joy. Thanks, Dad, for getting it, and I hope you and your new friend are enjoying your time together with Jesus. :)
** DAR -- Daughters of the American Revolution

Still Life '77

A regular morning here

But there cows heaved,

bacon sizzled.

A Zane Gray western splayed the floor.

The Today Show thump-tinkled the air.

The backdoor slammed; the barnboots thumped.

Heavy steps circled the skillet -- time to get up.

Small woman, big man, uncertain girls and boy

Rounding the silent table, nameless shames, sounds.

We grabbed homework, trumpet cases, track shoes,

Jumped off the porch, intercepted Bus number 3

Horse-stumbling-hard up the blacktop hill.

A driver, silent farm kids, bus-pus smells.

We were driven off to dump in town,

struggle with science, be tormented

By loves, learn how differently others live,

Expand our views, or contract the flu.

Behind we left the small woman, big man,

Lots of dogs, bones in the yard, cow moos, house

creaking, bacon sizzling, sounds of shoes 

leaving and still-living 1977.

TWW

Into the depths courtesy of Earl Scruggs

A banjo rolling; the sounds of crickets; the women chattering; the children screaming and laughing; the banjo rolling; the guitar G runs; the mandolin chortling; the fiddle tying it up; the tenor reaching the full moon; the banjo rolling.

My dad played Earl Scruggs style; he would sit and play over and over the above album; he would listen to the licks; he would work them and work them. Then during the afore-described music parties, he'd roll his banjo like Earl. We kids would be in someone's yard playing Red Rover or Chicken or lay-in-the-ditch-and-jump-up-when-a-car-comes-by-and-wave-and-scream. The women would be talking about us in the living room, our problems and stages. The men would be beating their tapping feet on the kitchen, instruments and ears poised, smiling, smiling, singing, singing, diving into the root depths, plunging, swimming, swimming.

It would get late. The moon would be high. We kids would have eaten all the cookies allowed; we would have played all the games imaginable; we would have started drifting indoors, hoping our fathers would notice, hanging on the edges of their circle. But, they would remained sitting with fingers flying and smiles smiling, and Earl Scruggs licks zipping. Finally, a guitar player would slow it down and begin to wail, "You spurned the love, I gave you darlin'. A love you once was proud to own . . . ." A midnight desire made public, crying confession; our feet would sink into a chair or a carpet space; our eyes would fight and suffer as our Dad would not notice us. He was overboard now in slowed down songs, the sadness of lost love, stabbed love, love of blue eyes now with someone new.

Finally, once we were fully slumped, the sound of chairs scraping, instrument cases being clicked shut, heavy footsteps caused us to break sleep's beginning stage, and we would sleepily go to him with all the men teasing us without our shy care: "Can we go home now, Dad?"

Time for the long hilly, curvy ride home.

But, on the way, in our ears, in our lives forever more, the banjo rolled in sound grooves, in the ancestral depths of plaintive and frolicking standards, in our blood, in associations, in love.

Good night, Earl Scruggs. Play one for us in the kitchen of the Angel Band. Thanks for the full moon and the bluegrass memories.

Precarious courses and loving eyes

In this faraway small shot stands two of my most precious worldy accomplishments. They stand precariously, especially the boy who is just learning to snowboard from his sister who stands victoriously as she has learned the skill and now flies down mountains. I am sitting on a coat by a conveyor belt which carries little ones up the gentle learning slope. I am older and sickly (from a bad cold) and take the role of watcher, cheer-er.

This morning, I went through a scrapbook I made for my daughter, covering birth through high school. How could I ever doubt our relationship, my intense efforts to make up for gaps, to funnel love, to direct in good directions? It floods every page. I do not have much more than the usual parent in the way of regrets, rather I was an exceptional parent. Yes, the high school years were brutal. I look at her pictures with friends she found, with boys, and I feel again the loss of who I wanted her to be.  Yet she is her own person always -- independent in one way, vulnerable in others, and beautiful. I worry, like a normal good parent will do, but I really have done my best even in some difficult circumstances. I'm always there encouraging, cheering, and redirecting even through precarious courses.

In the scrapbook, I see myself as a young mother, not knowing, not knowing, all that it would take, all that it would give. Lord, have mercy on a young parent. Flood our world with your loving guidance and rest to grant us all. Thank you for my ability to see my two children grow in maturity, with familial love, and with Your grace throughout all of our lives. Amen.

Going forth

We loaded up her treasures: a big male cardboard poster to keep her company at night; bags of fashion; photo albums of various states; her wicker bed frame, dresser, and night stand; her basket of cosmetics; Oatmeal, her small bear from her birth; her needed technology. We piled them into the truck, and she got behind her wheel, and we all pulled out of our cul-de-sac into the next world. She's gone. Her room is vast and spotless now.

I can imagine her apartment, her first day of school tomorrow, her ventures into college-kid budgeting, her disorientation of being in a different town when all she knows is 3.5 hours away. She called tonight, with a practical question, but her voice wavered some, and we talked for a while. She called me! Is this what wise women friends projected about the future? That there's a definite period of mother/daughter reconnection and need?

My husband just walked by and asked about her, sympathizing about her lonely and difficult plight, plopped in the middle of new. He's done so much for her, a godsend stepfather, 16 years ago, one who cares to be involved (unlike her real father), one who follows through and gives even during the difficult times. I love him for his loving and strong character.

But, back to my daughter, she's gone. It's quiet and empty here. However, I'm cheering for her to go forth and conquer. I know she'll make it.

"One bunch of grapes," repeated my uncle. Smack went the paddle. "One bunch of grapes," said my uncle. Smack went the paddle. Mrs. Coble meant to win, but my Dad reported cheerfully his little brother held strong and had the final say, after the final futile smack. They ran out the schoolhouse door, making the other kids smile and yearn or tskk: those boys!

We were treated to more stories this weekend at the propped up feet of my reclining, grinning father. He's a natural storyteller, but he says he won't write a western this winter like I want him to. He'd rather have the immediate stage and laugh from all of us. This weekend, he told one story twice, which made me look at my mother and comment upon this fact, which becomes a hereditary trademark at around age 90 and the mind is an endless spin cycle. My grandmother lives in the nursing home in such a tight circle of memories, frets, pleasures, fears. She has the staff call, every once in a while, when they can't calm her down, her son, my dad, and she tells him that her niece, really her daughter, is lost, and she can't find her, and she's at a restaurant called "Autumn Oaks", and her car won't start. Dad reassures her that this niece is spending the night with them, and she is relieved, and her mind turns to the next groove (when she saw decorative crepe paper hanging on the walls of the nursing home, she turned and said to the attendant, "Well, why are my bras hanging out here!"). She's lived here for about four turning years.

But, for now, we enjoy Dad's stories, even twice told, because he always manages to say one new kicker, one funny line that has us grinning and dimpling up at his propped up feet and bright eyes.

The calico stepmother simply wants to clean that spot she sees on the side of the young'un's head. Yet that always gets her into a wrestle and a thump. It's difficult being a Mom at times, we think in my household.

No Rock

Nothing against the gorgeous state of Arkansas and the fine people there, but hallelujiah!, we are not moving to Little Rock. I'm embracing the trail here as I run it, the friends over coffee, the church parking lot, the cheery cardinal that swoops now by my window, the perennials that are peeking up from my soil. I can remain a "Show-Me" girl, and I am mighty pleased, and did I mention hugging all that Missouri offers, every flyin', flowin', rooted, spittin', twangin', show-offin' thing? (even Branson and Republicans!). One big bunch of love goin' on here for the best state and people in the country! Don't you agree??

:)

Little Twirler Grandma

My mother was nervous and dropped her baton at least three times during the Saturday night family talent show. It was the talking part, she kept saying afterwards, that had her nerves all in a bundle and fingers all a-fumble. But, she kept twirling and dropping while Dad kept repeating "Go Tell it On the Mountain" on his guitar. We all watched and ahhhed during the waist twirl or the half catch. She ended in true majorette form with her knee up and her baton crooked. Her earlier words had rendered us even more sentimental as she shyly spoke about how she treasured us, all of us. We cheered wildly afterwards. I have it on tape, but I think it's too sacred for YouTube.

:)

Hope you all had a Merry Christmas!!

Christmas Eve ... as we drove back from church, through windows, I saw many families gathered around their dining room tables. Are they capturing a mood? Are they savoring the Savior? Are they anticipating the gifts? Are they happy and content?

My family was moody the entire night about one thing or another. This is the reality of love where you bumble along with each other and you put up with wayward emotions over a broken ornament, or something hidden inside, or a little brother who sometimes hits you. When we returned home, we sat in the living room and went around one by one and named two things that we appreciate about each other. Then, we said our Christmas prayer for God to help keep our family unified and focused on faith. Then, presents! Cody loves the present part. I do too!

We played Uno, and then retired to our separate rooms; me to softly pluck on the guitar, inspired by a musician at church; my husband to his numbers; my son to his games and bed; and my daughter to her new pajama pants (which she had to show me). This Christmas seems subdued; are we happy and content? Can we be happy and content with what we have? This is my utmost prayer and hope for the coming year.

Merry Christmas!