Cole

Blogs seem so inconsequential in the real world, when young boys, doing as we would wish them to do, like play ball, or roll around in the dirt, get hurt in the process.

My neighbor Cole, a little boy who was like a second son to me, and a brother to my son, Davis, was hit a week ago in the head with a ball. Doing what he loved to do - Play ball. Cole grew up in my backyard, making his way through a path we carved out when he was four and my son two. We had no idea that years later, they would walk home from the bus on that path, that others would use it to check in on me, that the deer would trample through, that it would hold so many memories.

Though many tributes are already surfacing for Cole, I can think of nothing better than to share a piece of writing in my blogsphere from the night of vigil for Cole...

To Cole

A Prayer for My Backyard Boy

You are the little boy who made nose and hand prints
on your mother’s back door,
reporting the status of our dinner - hot, cold, pasta or pork -
while through our sliding door, my son reported on yours.

You are the reason we cut a swath through cottonwood trees,
the prickly holly bushes and native vibernum,
so that you two could run freely to our home and back.

You are the freckles and smile that greeted my little boy,
mornings on the path, evenings for slip and slide,
and a few water balloon launchers and snowballs at our back door.
You stomped through the creek, picked up turtles
and loved the life that God placed in your care.

You took the hand of my little boy as a younger version of you –
though you already had two -
and loved him when he needed a place to belong.

Together, you ate pizzelles, cookies whose name you could never say,
made mud pies and built forts with branch clippings and duck tape
that caused us to curse,
though today, we would resurrect every last inch.

And now we await your movement again,
You speak but only in the actions of a simple peace sign,
a thumbs up, agitation through the night.

Though you are the one we pray for,
it is us that needs the prayers.
So tonight, we pray

while the bullfrogs bellow out into the late spring night,
and ambient light wafts over the fields,
dissolving into the glare of the news van spots.

And somewhere in the distance, neighborhoods away
where they have not yet heard of your tragedy,
children shriek and dogs bark, as it should be.
And we sing, Heal me Jesus, but this is not singing,
we are praying with our souls.

We cry because we forget
God does not weep for those whom he has chosen
to teach us lessons that surpass our grasp.

You are still that little boy who steers his bike
through the backyard, over the cedar bark path,
to your dinner table or ours -
where a plate of pizzelles awaits your return home.

AJW

5-21-2009

Selling Ourselves

Look busy Father and Uncle would crow
to employees
toiling in the shadows
of 26^th and Broadway
beneath the banner of Januzzi’s Shoes.

Together they paced the aisles
before Father returned
to the back office space
to pore over “the books.”

We would be dispatched to our stations -
Brother to the store room to unpack
the cartons delivered by the man in brown.
It would have been like Christmas,
if Brother had been me,
caressing each style
before pricing and stocking.

Sister would slowly wind her way
towards the counter
to stand stoic
beside the rigid cash register queen
who scolded her when wrinkled ones and fives
were turned opposite of tens and twenties.

Grandpa, founder and mender,
would retire to his repair stand
where the musk of newly-shaped leather
mingled with the scent of cobbler’s glue.

Customer names were recorded on cards
kept in a metal cabinet.
Filing the recently pulled or
pulling the filed always fell to me.
I would make it a game
see how fast I could order the stack
or search for the cards
of boys with whom I was madly in love,
later to be stung by their betrayal
of wearing of new loafers
bought elsewhere.

Tension lingered in the air
on the days of sales
causing the aisles of shoes to quake -
the children’s section leaning into men’s boots,
rows of nursing whites
holding back women’s heels,
and ice skates teetering on the top
shelves above my head.

Retail was never easy
even before big box stores
swallowed up ideas and families.

But the business had been blessed
by the presence of the mill, the hospital,
and those who needed orthopedic shoes.
As if the store was a ministry itself -
serving and fitting -
and that purpose fed the family,
not the money collected
and carefully counted at day’s end.

Yet customers were never completely content
with the price, style or fit.
Ladies prattled
and squirmed in green vinyl chairs
squeezing bones into shoes too small,
waiting for us to admire their toes
in the slanted mirrors.
We could never lie to them,
we could never tell the truth.

We only knew that the odor of unwashed feet
would cause us
to seek out Grandpa’s shoe glue
or steal away to the store room,
relieved for a moment
from the duty and pride
of selling the shoes, the business, our selves.

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Annette J. Wick

awick@cinci.rr.com

What’s in a Name?

My mother was careful about the names she chose for her children,
never wanting to bestow one that others might
abbreviate, mutilate or annihilate altogether.

“Annette Marie”, my mother called,
when I ran afoul of normal.
“Peanut”, my father endowed me with,
despite Mom’s pleas for no pet names.
I was tinier than my siblings at that same age,
or perhaps it was the time gap, when I remained the youngest
for over three years.

Then came “Shorty”, because I never grew.
Followed by “Red”,
as in crimson, my face flushed with
embarrassment in seventh grade Spanish class or algebra.

When my older sister and brother were nicknamed “Shoes” and “Big Shoes”
after my father’s shoe store, I became “Little Shoes.”
And Jeff Thomas took to calling me “Slippers.”
So I had visions of my pink fuzzy ones at home,
that always accumulated dirt, though I wore them inside only.
Jacuzzi replaced my real last name of Januzzi
Followed by “Shoesies from Januzzi’s”
which really had nothing to do with me
only the jingle on the local AM station.

Soon, after creating a superhero story in Mrs. Garfield’s ninth grade,
I did it to myself. I sealed my own fate by penning a story about“Netti Spaghetti and the Meatball Kid.”
Thankfully, only the “Netti” and “Spaghetti” parts lived on.

Having survived those barrages of nonsense,
I answer to Mom, “Hello, Beautiful”, and a friend who
puts the emphasis on the first syllable and calls me “Ann – ette.”
But I no longer answer to Netti,

unless Aunt Lynne berates me for not writing
or Uncle Dennis calls.
To my father, I am now ‘Net Marie, as in “Yeah, ‘Net Marie, what’s going on?”
And my mother, she too shortened my name,
and says, when answering the phone,
“Oh hi, ‘Net. I was just going to call.”

Becoming Italian

You cannot just “be” Italian
even if you are born into la famiglia.
You start by teething on buttery pizzelles,
ingesting a bit of anisette
to soothe your tummy.

You begin to eat dittalini,
“small fingers” of pasta
drenched in sauce
from tomatoes drenched in the summer sun.
You pick them up with chubby hands
and imagine all Italians eating with gusto.

You savor the rind from a chunk of Grana Padano -
nutty, tangy cheese with a wretched stench
that drives your friends away
and all the better, there is more for you.

Your lover thinks of your body
as the Italian countryside
his fingers rolling through the richness
of rivers, valleys, vines.
And when you explode with emotions, it must be
because you cannot sit idle
while the world calls you dego, wop.
You are padre, amico, madre, que bella italiana.

To be Italian, you must feel the bows rocking
on the Madonna or Lafayette
as the ships cross the Atlantic,
inhale the smoke of hot iron
or the steam off the rising dough,
put in years of hard work
in the garden and kitchen,
like the Etruscans who fended off
those from foreign lands,
to keep pure the race of olive-skinned.

You slurp calamari with the same delight
that ‘mericanos slurp spaghetti
and know that someday
your two eye brows will become one,
not from hair,
but from the creases on your temple
where your determination
has met the world head on.

AJW

2/9/2009, rev. 2-19-2009

Journey of a Flower

What is this, the danger of growth?

The daffodil succumbs to that risk late summer,

falling below the musty mulch,

no longer in rhythm

with the events taking place above.

Waits through the wintry mix

for the warmth of the March sun

to begin poking its arms

through the shards of birchwood.

Then slowly,

rolls it golden saffron head around

neck stiffening slightly

in an effort to awaken.

Begins to lift up its chin and unfurl its face,

outstretch it arms.

The pendulum of progress

forces the full bloom of the flower.

Oh how dangerous

to be made noticeable for the singular act

of living, breathing, growing

out of the shadows of the dwarf cherry tree

or pink spirea bush with its fairy dust blooms,

each time discovering new strength

should the frost come to strip away

its sunny disposition

or feet tread upon it.

Its bulbs still multiply beneath,

Its soul still spreading the good word.

That is the nature of the daffodil,

it refuses to stay stagnant, below the ground forever.

Rilke once said, ‘Live everything.’

And the daffodil risks rising before the calendar says its time.

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All Points Bulletin:

Missing: One young son, his brain and his hat. Last seen all intact Monday, getting off school bus profusely preaching the gospel of the weatherman and his teachers at school. Went to bed with pajamas on, but turned inside and backwards. Last heard flushing his toilet at midnight. Who wakes at midnight to flush their toilet unless they really have to pee? Only kids who want a snow day. Was found in bed in the morning, at 5:30 after being informed school was closed, was noted to be high-fiving his stuffed animal that he still sleeps with, though he probably doesn’t want anyone to know publicly, so if you can keep that out of the media, that would be appreciated.

Disappeared only hours later into the new fallen snow, having did his share of shoveling, retrieval of the sleds and then headed for parts unknown. Was believed to have had lunch at the neighbor’s house, as hot chocolate still formed a ring around a few mugs left in neighbor’s dishwasher and a squished marshmallow on the floor. Was last seen with brown moustache - from chocolate has not hit puberty yet. Was witnessed to have been flying and then colliding mid-air with other such young boys, after having built a ramp out of the corn hole game and sledding down a hill and across ramp. Was heard to have hurt himself and quite possibly left his favorite Oregon hat somewhere in the dregs of the snow plow’s path. Arrived later for dinner, to cook for parents, only watched his sisters do most of it while he turned on the TV and checked the computer simultaneously for any indication of snow falls that would increase chances of not returning for a second day. Was rewarded for this effort with second snow day.

Was called in an emergency relief effort to the neighbor boys house for a sleepover in an effort to offer relief to said boy’s mom who had been the host of her four boys and another round of four boys through the day’s white death. Returned home at 10 next morning with said boy in two, to retrieve more outdoor wear, as other outdoor wear not suitable for an entire day outside. Warning, it is not known when missing boy last had a shower. It is unknown as to whether or not he was wearing clean underwear despite his mother’s protest to the contrary.

Busied himself with his duties of shoveling with sisters then building igloo in case of need of emergency shelter for the homeless in the area or for his friends, it is unclear what his motives were at this point. Stayed in that same spot all day, with exception of retuning inside for lunch of peanut and jelly and said moustache now contained purple jelly and chocolate. Again, stayed out all day, returned for dinner, movie and another cancelled day off school. Felt need to be rescued from his family by calling in another of said friend, only said friend had to stay home so said friends father came to pick up missing boy, take to their home, where missing boy was said to have remained until 2 pm the following day. Missing boy answered neighbors phone three times when his mother called that number, only to turn down a chance to return home. Mother then appeared frightened that he had turned to runaway status or had forgotten everything he knows, including where he lives. Mother left him at neighbor’s house regardless.

Missing boy’s school cancelled for a fourth day. Boy’s mother now OK with his runaway status. If found, please return his hat and his brain, which by now should have grown considerably smaller. Do not, I repeat, return missing boy’s underwear, or boy himself without a shower.