Sharing two poems I wrote in a recent poetry circle facilitated by Ali Grimshaw https://flashlightbatteries.blog/. I continued to be amazed at the beautiful connections made across many miles over computer screens. ❤️
At Seven
It is difficult To remember The me who Once was seven Do you find The same To be true? Oh, there are Glimpses Flashes of Childhood Aided by Photographs The reciting Of stories at Family gatherings I believe at seven Happy outweighed sad And freedom came When swinging To the sky Then bravely Jumping out It is difficult To remember The me who Once was seven But I am grateful For her spirit Continuing To reside in me Even when I’m afraid To jump out Of the swing
Tiny Boxes
Hours spent Together Make me want To remember Not just the present But every visit past- Each block of time Long or short Places another box Inside my heart Tiny boxes Full of surprises To open when Days are long Mind-wandering Tiny boxes Fighting battles Threatening To take away Focus, purpose, joy Tiny boxes Filled with Memories Of loving and Being loved
How far is too far? To travel For one Conversation Over a meal Or a cup of coffee For one hug Combining Both greeting And goodbye Considering time As the crucial Measurement These may Seem minor Unimportant Except for years Of living That reveal In certain times With certain Loved ones That one conversation Over a meal Or a cup of coffee That one hug Combining Both greeting And goodbye May hold the key To a treasure trove Of memories Enough to Last a lifetime Face to face Heart to heart No thought Given to Time Distance Or the drive There and back
I like macaroni and cheese. In high school, that and baking a cake were the extent of my cooking. My mom even entered a recipe on my behalf for a church cookbook one year. Not a cake. Oh no, it was the instructions from the back of the Kraft macaroni and cheese box.
My kids also like mac-n-cheese. It was a staple in our house. Of course, I always tried to pair it with broccoli or green beans. Balanced meals, you know.
Some stories need to be remembered. Told over and over. Handed down from one generation to the next. And not just the ones considered to be pleasant. Also, the challenging ones. Those are the ones that show resilience, teaching valuable lessons.
This is one of those stories. And, of course, it involves macaroni and cheese.
My parents have always been hard workers. But like many others, hard work did not always keep hard times at bay. Some years were more difficult than others. And when I was little, money was tight.
My dad was a carpenter and was working on a house about an hour away from our home. One day, mom and I went along for the ride. Well, sort of. You see, he had not yet gotten paid for his work.
Macaroni and cheese…they had one box left. So, we went with him, taking the box along with us. While dad was working, mom cooked the mac-n-cheese on the job site in an electric popcorn popper. That way, all three of us would have something to eat for lunch.
That same day, the woman that owned the property retrieved a frozen chicken from her kitchen. And though my dad was a little uncertain about that chicken, it went home with us that afternoon, along with his paycheck. It was available that day after work.
Perhaps some would think of this as a sad story. Not me. I see the resilience of two people, able to keep going, making the best out of a difficult situation.
Anytime we talk about this time in our lives, Mom always reassures me. “No matter how hard things got, we always made sure you did not go without. You always had what you needed.” Without a doubt. ❤️
Truth is, not only did we survive as a family, but we also thrived! And though my cooking skills have improved a little, I still like macaroni and cheese.
I cried at the sight Of you frail Unaware of My presence- Chose to remember Different images On that day- Tall and lanky Uncanny ability To sit comfortably On your haunches Elbows perched On knees Backside inches From the ground- My college senior Piano recital Me in my black dress You in your blue Cotton shirt and pants Both beaming- Five years later Christmastime My newborn son Sleeping in your arms- After you were gone I saw your reflection As my son sat On his haunches Elbows perched On knees Backside inches From the ground- Pictures of you Held dear, Grandpa
Workshirt
The morning Is dark blue The kind of blue That almost Looks black But once The sun rises Turns to cerulean- As the day Progresses The sky shifts Until night washes Over the work Of the day Bringing rest To the Earth- And rest to you Handsome you Strong you Wearing your Favorite blue shirt Faded with time As the dirt And sweat From a lifetime Of hard work Was washed away
I wrote the first poem specifically about my Grandpa Crow. He was a sweet man. Hardworking and loved to fish. The second could describe many different people from my growing up years. Maybe you can relate. 😊❤️
I stood At the foot Of a grave Shaded by Lovely birch On a rolling Green slope Overseen by A church Painted white Filled with History on Both sides Of glass panes- I stood At the foot Of a grave Cradling remains Of those gone From this earth Centuries ago Memories Carved In marble Beloved Daughter, wife, mother Honored Son, husband, father I stood At the grave Of a poet My heart touched By remembrances Of persons I have never met
Enjoying Art and Nature Exploring Lessons Offered By history- Our own Others- Reminiscing Our combined Years of living In only seven Of these Precious Allotments Of time Each holding The same Number Of hours Each passing Too quickly
Greetings from Massachusetts! My first visit to this beautiful state. Even though the weather was cloudy and rainy upon arrival, I quickly noticed the many shades of green. No matter where I looked, a different type of tree. Some familiar, others not.
This morning the sun is shining, and the sky is a perfect blue! I am excited to explore with my Aunt Martha and Uncle James. Such a treat! 💚
View from their lovely backyard in Lee, Massachusetts.
Chanel No. 5-Reblog from September, 2019
I don’t wear a lot of perfume. I’ve had a couple of favorites as an adult, but allergy sensitivities often keep me from enjoying them. Currently, I own one bottle of Chanel No. 5.
I’m not sure how long I’ve had this particular bottle. During our recent unpacking, it caught my eye. I could not remember the last time it was open. The design is so classic and pretty, I decided to leave it out.
One morning last week while getting ready for school, that bottle of Chanel caught my eye again. This time, I opened it and placed a small drop on my finger, then dabbed it on my neck and wrists. “It might be nice to wear a little perfume again,” I thought.
As the familiar scent filled the air, a flood of memories filled my mind.
When I was a little girl, visits to my Aunt Martha and Uncle James’s house were a treat. They, along with their children-Jim, Angela, and Brad-moved several times. I remember trips to Fayetteville, Memphis, and Louisiana. Typically, it was a week-long visit during summer vacation.
Some memories are as clear as a photograph. Dressing my cousin, Angela, up in her Raggedy Ann doll clothes. Riding the bus with my cousin, Jimmy, from Little Rock to Memphis and spilling an entire big bag of M&Ms. Kick boxing with Uncle James. Rolling a piano from room to room so I could play while Martha and James painted their house.
So, why did this sweet smell cause such reminiscing? Because Aunt Martha always had a bottle of Chanel No. 5. And when I visited, she would let me wear some of her perfume. Just a tiny drop on my finger, then dabbed on my neck and wrists. Such a treat for a little girl.
I continue to be amazed by the beautiful complexity of the heart and mind. The simple scent of perfume has the power to transport me back in time. It leads me to precious childhood memories. And it reminds me that the love I experienced then has only grown over the years.
I still live far away from Aunt Martha and Uncle James. I look forward to our visits, no matter how far apart. And I am thankful for time spent with them as a child.
Who would have thought a bottle of Chanel No. 5 could make such an impression on one little girl? 😉
Five days Waiting As doctors Prepared To repair To replace Pieces of Your heart Restoring Strength to The rhythm Of your days Five days Worth Waiting
I snapped the first photo on Dad’s first day in the hospital. Due to COVID regulations, visitations were limited and only one of us at a time, so I was thankful for these moments. The second was on the day he was released to go home after open-heart surgery. Happy Father’s Day, Dad! I love you! ❤️
My husband likes to tell people I was raised in a commune. I was not. I suppose, however, that a simple description could be misinterpreted. Let’s see.
Picture a two-lane country highway winding through small towns. Between two of those towns, turn onto a narrow paved road with thick trees lining both sides. Drive about a quarter of a mile until you see a clearing. My house was the first on the left.
Here is the unusual part. My grandparents’ house was in the center. And at any time over the last fifty-plus years, between four and six of their nine children lived nearby. Not a typical neighborhood with straight streets and cull de sacs. More like a valley. When standing in the middle, you could see almost everyone’s home.
Of course, we were free to come and go as we pleased. 😉 And though I left at the wise-old age of seventeen, there is no other place I would have wished to grow up.
Growing up there meant family. It meant security. And no, it was not a peaceful utopia. There were disagreements. But none that could not be solved over a cup of coffee or a few days of staying home.
My mom also grew up there, though, during her childhood, there were more forests for exploring. And with nine children, they needed the space to roam. The original house was small, with only two bedrooms and an outhouse.
I have heard stories of sleeping sideways on the bed, lots of giggling and being scared to go outside at night. Mom remembers as a small child when men came to dig a hole for their first electricity pole.
As you can imagine, they were hard workers. Whether planting in the field or washing clothes on a scrub board, there were always chores to be done. But there was also always fun to be had.
Some days, her dad would come home with a pocket full of penny candy. Enough for everyone. On Fridays, they would have chili dogs and ice cream. Can you imagine dividing a carton of ice cream for nine children? They would open the entire carton and cut it into equal squares.
My mom is now in her seventies. Four of the siblings (including my mom and dad), some grandkids, and great-grandkids live in the clearing today. Only one of her siblings, her oldest sister, Pearl, is no longer living.
Mom recently shared some thoughts that touched me. She described being overcome with emotion thinking of how hard her mom worked to make sure the kids had fun times. She was so young herself; it could not have been easy. Mom said the older she gets, the greater her appreciation for her mom grows. I think I am beginning to understand…
Piano Girl 