2010-05-02 To Do List – Laugh with my Husband



We woke this morning to rain, lots of it. I considered the runners from the local Flying Pig Marathon. How would they cope? In my mind, I ran down a mental list of items I would want with me in the rain, should I have been one of those unfortunate flying pigs to persevere through the finish line. Luckily for myself and my family, I was not. My husband and I showered and dressed for church, ensured the teenagers were up and not snarling at our request for them to attend church this morning, gave Enzo several opportunities to go outside and perform admirably in the rain, to which each occasion, he rose then solemnly sulked away.

At mass, the congregation was celebrating First Communion, one of four classes that would celebrate that sacrament over the next two weekends. We met up with Mark’s parents, sat in our usual pew, Davis taking to his usual commitment of “going to use the restroom” as a means for distraction or procrastination towards actually sitting down for more than an hour.

Church was not overly crowded, as per typical on a sunny Sunday morning in Spring. Most had heard through the grapevine about the sacraments being celebrated. Coupled together with the torrents of water spilling out of gutters, the reasons were aplenty to stay in bed. But this morning, I had organized a sendoff for Mark, attended by our children and his parents, prior to his medical mission trip to Haiti. I had postponed this effort, mainly to postpone thinking about it, but the day had arrived when we had to all fully accept the reality of his decision to care for those who needed him more than we did for the week.

Fr. Anthony gave the homily to the second, and some third graders. He spoke about learning, and how coming to church represented the classroom of spirituality, and humility and love for God. And of course, the gospel shared was the one story that spoke volumes about any trip one might undertake to a ravaged country to which one has no ties, but only obligations, “Love One Another.”

I found myself through most of the mass holding on to Mark’s hand more so than usual. We laughed when I deduced that the music of late was not up to par for our Sunday Mass the Musical that we said we would one day bring to Broadway. The tempo had been slowed, perhaps a request by the newer pastor. The music still was uplifting, but nothing that would raise the roof or cause audiences to jump up from their seats and start singing.

When the service ended, the family headed home and Mark’s parents joined for a short order brunch. I had not really prepared any foods in advance, as I had done so for our Easter Brunch, no French Toast casserole, or Phyllo Pie. A few sausages in the oven. I could hardly ask Mark to stand in the rain, and cook over the grill, despite having done so for Thanksgiving and Christmas. A few slices of bread. Davis made the Pillsbury Cinnamon rolls, much to our delight, as we watched him struggle to open the rolled container, figure how to work the timer on the oven, and determine when the rolls were done.

During brunch, the conversation focused much on Shannon’s graduation and our disappointment that the ceremony would be held in the gym at her school, and not at the Oasis, as it had for Cheryl. There were rumors of families already securing reservations, when in fact, no word or letter had been sent to the parents with instructions to do so. A few zealous parents anxious to see their children off were nervous about not getting seats. These were probably the same that filled out their children’s college apps, helped with their homework, and made some calls to find them a summer job. Don’t get me wrong. We are as ready for Shannon to go, as she is to leave us. But I doubt one is ever really ready to admit their child has graduated into from the school of academics, into the school of life.

“Shannon, not to cut short this discussion, I said, “but since this was put together for your dad, I have a little exercise for us all today. I have a card I am sending around the table. I want to ask each of you to write down a one word prayer. One word that you want Mark to carry with you, that he can keep as a handy reference while doing his work.”

This was going to prove a problem for Mark’s Mom is who loves to chat and write in equal parts. It was agreed by all that I had the unfair advantage of knowing about the exercise in advance and therefore I knew what word I would write down. “Yep, when I thought of this exercise this morning, I knew what word I wanted to write, right away.” So, I quickly jotted that word down, and the card was passed to the others. In mere minutes, we had completed the task. Then, I asked each member to speak their word, and share a little of the sentiment behind the word.

Papa’s word was “proud.” How proud he felt that Mark had chosen this path and was following a call for help. Kaitlyn’s word was “remember”, to remember us all here, and that Mark would remember this experience for the rest of his life. Davis passed until he could clearly articulate the feelings behind his word. Shannon went next. “Changed” was the word she chose, because the Haitian people will be changed by Mark helping them, even just one person. And that Mark will be changed by this experience. Davis called for the chance to speak and used his word “hope” because Mark will be giving the Haitian people hope to believe in. Nana went next. The only word a mother could possibly write down. “Love” - because I love you and you have always shown so much love for others.”

Finally, my turn. “Openness”. Because Mark was open to making the decision to do this, because he will need to be open culturally, medically, in so many ways, when treating his patients, and because his openness will be a gift to others, to invite them into his circle of caring.

Of course, tears were shed. Then, I asked Mark, “What would your one word be?” And he barely squeaked out his prayer, “Starfish” We all looked at him quizzically, but Shannon knew right away what he meant. Since Mark was clearly choked up, Shannon went on to tell the story of a little boy who would go out after the storms, and throw the stranded starfish back into ocean. One day, a stranger stopped him on the beach and asked him, “Son, there are so many starfish out here, you will never get the job done. Do you think that’s going to make a difference?” The little boy didn’t respond, but instead, picked up another starfish, threw it into the water, and said, “Ït did to that one.”

As I write this now, I have just finished reading the orientation document for Mark so I don’t appear too ignorant when he starts speaking in acronyms. Kaitlyn is at work, Shannon with her boyfriend. Cher has yet to weigh in via text messaging with her “word” for Mark’s prayer card. Nana and Papa are probably making dinner, watching the evening news. And Mark is in the basement, playing Xbox with Davis. They are playing the FIFA soccer game and laughing hard at Davis who always loses at this game because he gets carded. A smile comes across my face when I hear Mark chuckle again. How lucky the Haitians will be to encounter Mark - smiling blue eyes and the vastness of his love.

2010-03-31  No Day for Writer's?

First my husband Mark arrived home with paperweight. The next year, he returned with a crystal bowl for nuts. And this year, he proudly presented not one, but two gifts, a to-go coffee cup and a single serving thermos (Who drinks a single serving of coffee?). They were gifts from the hospital for Doctor’s Day. And they had been graciously accepted by my husband, an anesthesiologist.

So I posed the question, “If they can have Doctor’s Day, why is there no Writer’s Day?” And there’s not. There is National Writing Week. National Novel Writing Month, National Letter Writing Week (mothers may enjoy this). There is National Poetry Month. We have poet laureates. We have National Writing contests, local writing competition. Some have even created a March Madness poetry contest, which is pure genius if you ask me.

There is even a National Day on Writing, October 20, which in 2009, fell between National Boss Week and United Nations Day. On that day, I went to yoga at 9 a.m., came home and wrote some poetry. I recorded a podcast interview with a writer and then returned home to cook dinner. But I know I did NOT celebrate National Day on Writing, only because it sounded like a federal holiday, a national day of mourning when I should fly my flag at half-staff. And, it’s a day on writing, where one can explore topics on writing. The designation does not imply that one should be a writer not implore one to write. The declaration simply recognizes that people write, which can be accomplished by viewing hieroglyphics as well.

Still, there is no Writer’s Day.

In 1994, while enjoying Easter dinner at my in-law’s house, the family had this notion to go around the table and ask for new news and old news. I was still new to this family and would not marry into the family until September of 1994. Anything I had to say would be not only new, but possibly unimportant. My super smart brother-in-law, who would eventually earn his PhD in Mathematics, turned up the heat on the competition and announced, “Well, they discovered a new prime number today.” And certainly, the largest known prime number was discovered on the Cray research supercomputer. I would print the number, but don’t want to waste digital ink. Besides, prime numbers having been getting good press since the number two zero was invented.

I was again reminded of how science supersedes art, when I heard that the large Hadron Collider - the world's largest science experiment—shattered records in March, 2010, by successfully colliding particle beams at a combined energy of 7 tera electric volts (TeV). This marked a milestone in the collider's progress, and ushered in the beginning of up to two years of intensive investigations. The headlines of an Irish newspaper read, “Think making two bullets collide is difficult? Then try doing it at the subatomic level.” I wonder if the columnist had ever tried to write a ghazal or a cinquain, or a work of fiction or memoir. Even super colliders get more affection than writers.

Some states and writing groups have attempted to formalize a Writer’s Day within their own organizations. But I don’t want anything formal. No research grants or tera electric volts, though I could use the resulting energy to ramp up my level some mornings. I really just want a day when the phone does not ring, when the Internet is down, so I am not prone to surfing, when my husband is not quoting me from his Kindle, when someone feeds the dog or realizes it is OUR dog that is barking and the noise is grating on MY nerves.

I want a day when I receive a crystal bowl that I can use for my post-it notes full of ideas, or a stainless steel thermos bigger than the one my husband brought home because writers operate best under the influence of more caffeine than a doctor should consume.

2010-03-27 To Do List – Open the Cage

Thursday morning came the realization that I have finally achieved “I am my parents” status, when Davis asked, “Is that what you are wearing to chaperone my (Christian fellowship) group this morning?” I had on a bright pink sweat top, with a clean, unwrinkled pair of black, not too tight, stretch pants, purposely selecting those pants aware that I would be in a room with 13,14 and 15 year olds boys in just an hour or so.

Davis, unlike his father, was not one known for fashion. We had lampooned his choices in our annual Christmas letter, stating that he was now working on Project Runway. The temperature was hovering around 40 degrees Thursday and he was wearing gym shorts and his orange school sweatshirt, which he had worn everyday this Spring, because its his “track” gear.

We managed to buy our donuts and make it to the church on time. I watched hungry teenaged boys walk in, eyes clamped shut, mouths wide open, ferociously consume 4.5 dozen donuts, in a fifteen minute timeframe.

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind
and floats downstream till the current ends
and dips his wing in the orange suns rays and dares to claim the sky.

They came for the treats and stayed for the fellowship and the understanding that they are loved by God, and the other boys in this room. A local father ran this group, meeting every other Thursday morning. He prepares an agenda, which includes a review from the past week’s meeting, highlights about Bible stories relevant for these boys (Sampson, Moses) and throws in some trivia about the NCAA, March Madness and the Masters.

The boys are asked to keep prayer journals, and use them to write their intentions, their questions. Even if they are never voiced, their words have a place that is secure from society.

That morning, prayer intentions included a young boy battling cancer, a school teacher recovering from cancer treatments, sports injuries, the lacrosse team, and another young man, a high schooler, in the same school system, who had committed suicide two days prior. Davis had informed us of this incident the night before, at dinner, where we promptly, but briefly, discussed the topic.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
can seldom see through his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

At the time, I asked if counselors spoke at Davis’s middle school, separate from Scott’s (not his real name) high school. Davis said, “No, there wasn't much talk about it, other than from students.” Even at his fellowship meeting, before the impact of this event on the boys would dawn on them, they seemed content to speak of it  and move on.

I too moved on with my day, feeding the neighbor’s dog while they were in Florida. I finished the last of the laundry, and decided the blankets in the flophouse part of the basement needed cleansing, which thankfully, I did. I found a pair of girl’s underwear (clean) and a men’s adult sized long sleeve jersey shirt. One cannot ponder these items too long for fear of where it might let your mind lead. I assumed the underwear came from a sleepover, and the men’s shirt was left behind during a recent party our kids had with their Mission Trip friends.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own.

I drove to meet my sister for lunch, with a stop at Ursuline to drop off paperwork to Shannon so she could order our couch through her Crate and Barrel discount. As I left, I was halted temporarily by the notion that I had selected the wrong color – Mocha instead of Sable. Quickly I ran through the printout of the paperwork in my mind and breathed a sigh of relief.

My cell phone rang as I drove the down the highway. I thought it would be my sister calling to tell me she would be late. That phone call would come, but it was my father, who always calls with a dire tone, asking if I could participate in a conference call with him and his lawyer sometime in April. “Dad, I don’t have my calendar with me, but I am sure, I can do it. I’ll call you after lunch.”

“Oh, my mom, interjected, “You are having lunch with your sister? That is so nice. Your father never wants to go out for lunch. We have all these restaurant cards that we never use.” Sure, I wanted to be in the middle of THAT conversation. I switched gears to talk about the weather. My mother always felt better when I told her the weather was as equally dismal here in Cincinnati as it was in Cleveland.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.


I have amazing and talented sisters. This one had been valedictorian and started several businesses during her working life. She was in the process of “becoming unstuck from a bad story” and “creating her new story” which has been my buzz line these days, thanks to Donald Miller, “A Million Miles in a Thousand Years”, and Jim Loehr, “The Power of Story.” Having been a writer now for 13 years (I use Davis’ age as a benchmark, since my first poem I wrote was about becoming his mother), and despite having penned my memoir and several anthologies of poems, and facilitating writing workshops, I never equated the word “story” with the word “life.” But today, I kept driving the point home with my sister. Either she finally heard me or was sick of me!

After lunch, rain continued to pound on the roof of my car, but I drove out to Benken’s for my annual pansy purchase. I spent an hour in the greenhouse, mixing and matching colors and sizes to achieve the look I wanted for my outdoor pots. I stayed a little long, because breathing in the oxygen created by those plants was certainly the closest thing to heaven here on earth.

I completed my rounds with a stop at Petmart for pizzles and Nyla bones for Enzo only to receive a text from Davis that Track was cancelled and he would be home shortly. I texted him back, “I will be home at the same time.” Then he responded “There is a video on Youtube about Scott. Can I watch it?”

Clunk. That was an imaginary sound. I did not really smash into another car at that moment, but it was my fears slamming into my insight. I did not know what was on that video. But if I didn’t allow Davis the space to open up about this, to grieve whatever loss he may be feeling, I would slam the door on an opportunity for him to grow in wisdom and compassion.

“Yes, but wait for me,” I typed back.

I arrived home first, let the dog out and welcomed Davis home with my presence. He could not drop his backpack fast enough, which is not usual, and ran to my office breathlessly waiting for me. “Davis, why don’t you search for the video and I will be right there?” In seconds, he called out, “I found it.”

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

From the kitchen, I took a deep breath and dragged my feet and heart into my office. He clicked “play.” The video was approximately four minutes in length and had been posted a few days prior. I will paraphrase his plea:

Scott was a junior, hoping to pursue teaching and photography, but now, he says, he was finding it hard to be interested in anything. He had been to counseling, took medication, but nothing seemed to keep him from this darkness. He went to sleep in class during the day, and stayed up all night. He could not understand what was happening. He used to be a good kid in school, made the honor roll, was a good kid at home. Now, he feared his girlfriend leaving him, he felt isolated from any friends, and felt that he was in cage he could not get out of.

Scott concluded with a cry for help. “If there is anyone out there that can help me, let me know what you have done to get through this”.


Scott presented all of this with a sense of practicality. His life was a problem he was trying to solve. I wept throughout the entire video. Davis sat stone silent until he could no longer keep his tears at bay. We remained in quiet for a few minutes after the video concluded. He did not have the words for this moment, so I began:

“Davis, it sounds like everyone was really trying to help him. We know so little about mental illness, except that there is a change in brain chemistry that alters that person’s perception enough to keep them in a cage.”

“I know because I’ve been there during some challenging times in my life, taking the medication, then gone off because I think I am better, sliding back into my lonely self.”

“But sometimes, a person gets so far down inside of himself, they cannot find the way out. And there is very little we can do to help them at that point.”

“Its so sad Mom.” I understood this to mean that he is a lover of life. Davis will go to school, enjoy track practice, sign up for classes at his new high school, eat a plateful of tacos, go to baseball practice, take out the garbage, and then come home and sigh, “Finally some me time,” and then we all laugh!

He cried a little while longer that afternoon then promptly announced he had to take care of the neighbor’s dog and walked out of the house.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

I understand about cages, and how one can feel imprisoned, despite all the air that enters and exits between the bars, despite all the good intentions, therapy, friends and prayers. At times, I have been locked in my own pen. I have visited with others who are fenced in because of the law or their choices. Even our homes or diseases for which we are diagnosed become cages if we let them.

I pray God grants Scott the freedom from his cage that he so desperately deserves. And may we be reminded that healing begins in our own lives when leave the cage door open or hold it open for someone else.

* “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” by Maya Angelou.


* The video has been removed due to its content which may or may not be good. What Scott said has a lot of relevance and could someday be used as an educational and emotional tool for others. While I deplore the use of social media for some to “showcase” their work, I cannot ignore the fact that for the next child, a posting such as Scott’s, just might save his or her life..

2010-03-22 Middle Child

Red rocks band together, forming cup-like around me.
I do not worry about what I am keeping at bay –

the coyotes, the scorpions, who I was in Ohio,
steel grey clouds in my distant sight.

But instead, I think of what is keeping warm
the muscle that is my heart.
In this sauna of sagebrush and stones,
I am rediscovering my core and it is everywhere –

in the spiral petroglyph, while its loose end gives birth
to a fossilized human, its origin is etched stone.

And in the medicine wheel,
which steered many an ancient people.
I stand in its center and think,
“cob of corn, chewed apple core, elongated spine.”

Even the basalt boulders rise up like an altar
from beneath the sandstone seams in Cathedral Rock.

All my life, the middle was a birth order defect.

But here,
I am one and whole.

Stay rooted, I tell myself.

2010-03-22 To Do List – Save a Child

A friend read one of my recent blog posts and suggested I continue writing on a similar theme. The theme of the first post was the creation of my to-do list for the day, and comparing that with the list of someone else, chosen randomly from my subconscious for their to do items impact on my psyche. So today, I begin again.

To do list for yesterday. Yesterday was Sunday, and yet it began at 2 .am. Our Saturday evening with our friends Jenny and Dan turned into Sunday morning, which happens quite often when Jenny is involved. The night also included a late round of euchre in which Jenny and I were partners, with my husband Mark and Dan as our opponents. We “possummed” them in the first round (this is akin to “skunking” but includes total anniliation). They in turn, skunked us (only “skunking” because we scored). We concluded with one last tiebreaker, though by now, my focus was on faces of the two dogs who desperately wanted to sleep, but could not bring themselves to do so, in the face of an opportunity to lap up whatever we might spill in the wee hours. Of course, pretzel crumbs and wine were not quite up to par for their tastes, as might be steak and eggs, but they persevered and their sad looks caused me to lose focus, and lose the final round.

Sunday began with an unusual waking by the Abby, a very large golden doodle we were dog-sitting for my in-laws. Our puppy Enzo sleeps in a crate, outside of our room, because I am a light sleeper and this was one concession that I won. Abby was still new to our household, and we wanted her contained so we knew her whereabouts. She slept in our room, until about 7 a.m. (which translates to 5 hours of restless, wine-induced tossing and turning).

From there the day’s race was on, including baking a French toast casserole with blueberries before our hungry bunch would rise and decimate the cereal aisle in our pantry instead.

Our breakfast conversation turned to the topic of Haiti. A local reporter had returned from that country and written a articles that kept my Mark entranced. Mark was heading to Haiti next month. When had he first told me about the opportunity that existed for doctors through his Notre Dame alumni connection, I simply said, “You have to go.” I never looked at our schedule, nor did I consider being widowed (again) if events turned sour in Haiti while he was there. He simply “had to go”.

Then, Mark received a lengthy e-mail with explanations about where he would stay, how he and his companions would travel and what vaccinations would be necessary prior to departure. Also discussed were malaria and other diseases for which there were no vaccinations. Swine flu wasn’t scary when one compared that to traveling in mosquito-infested countries with rains that wash away potential sprouts of corn or wheat.

I was still hungover, tired, dehydrated, and could take in neither what Mark Carnette had experienced and cataloged, nor could I absorb all that Mark would witness in the upcoming month.

I left the article about Haiti on the kitchen table, showered, attended a Mother-Daughter fashion show and drove out to Frontgate Outlet Store to purchase an outdoor lantern that matched one I purchased yesterday, when I was not convinced I needed two. But, the lanterns had been on sale, I reasoned. I even negotiated with the manager to include another set of pre-burnt pillar candles to match the ones paid for the day before.

We watched the XU basketball game in earnest, biting our nails until the very end. My daughter’s boyfriend thought the team had it in the bag when they went up by 6 or 7 with a few minutes left to go. But I needed to see things through to the conclusion. And sure enough, the game ended, but without our viewing (thanks Time Warner, CBS, NCAA, and Dick Vitale, or the obscure technician in the control booth). XU did secure the win. We all felt a sense of relief, until Thursday when they would play again.

During the game, we had seen snippets for the news magazine show 60 Minutes, which would follow the broadcast of the games. Mark, Shannon, Davis and I stayed glued to the couch when 60 Minutes began. Katie Couric interviewed White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel. He too carried a hand-written to do list, beginning with 3 minutes with President Obama, and ending the day with what Rahm called their “wrap up”. The end of their day was significantly different than mine or the rest of us. But his to-do list was no less impressive, and he probably did not complete his list with a hangover.

Then, a segment about Haiti began playing, and we sank into silence. To be honest, the camera footage was the first I had seen, other than pictures in the newspapers. I am not one for denial, but for the past two months have battled my own demons and could not take on those of the world. Devastation did not begin to describe the scenes which were shown and the apt title the Lost Children of Haiti scared me. Scott Pelley traveled to Haiti for 6 weeks. He first spoke with Moise Vaval, pastor of a local church who also worked for an orphanage. His eight year old boy, Jean Marc, had gone missing in the earthquake. What began as a father’s quest to find his child became an incessant drive to locate and match missing children with their parents. His restlessness drove him to support others in need until his son’s backpack was unearthed ten weeks later, and his small boy body removed from the rubble beneath the school.

The reporter then profiled Jean Robert Cadet – a Restevec – a former child slave. My husband and I had met Jean Cadet at a local fundraiser. Following the earthquake, he had visited Davis’ school, which raised $17, 000 for Jean Cadet to build schools in Haiti. He is a Cincinnatian, who has created his own foundation to save the children of Haiti from the fate he experienced as a child. Child slavery in Haiti is not uncommon nor is it illegal, so Jean Cadet uses his weight as a teacher to encourage families to give up ownership of children that do not belong to them.

Scott Pelley asked him about slavery. “The earthquake created child slavery?” “No, it created the opportunity for more children in slavery,” says Jean Cadet. “But Jean Cadet, if there are 175,000 child slaves, how do you think going door to door can help save any of them?”

Jean Cadet looked almost incredulous, as if to say, if you knew my story, you wouldn’t ask. Of course the reporter knew his story, but Scott wanted to draw it out of him for others, back home, sitting on a green leather pit group in front of a large screen TV, still nursing a hangover and yelling about the dog barking and no one letting him out.

“Someone made a big difference in my life, someone believed in me.” When Jean Cadet’s owner-family came to the U.S., they threw him out onto the streets. A teacher of Jean Cadet’s spent months with him, got him in the welfare system and help improve his education. He went into the military, became a teacher and returns often to Haiti to pry children from the grasp of slavery.

I looked beside me, Shannon to my right, her connection to Haiti through her French club activities, and Davis to my right. Both were children who had lost parents to a physical disease and not a societal one. Somehow they were easier to save than the little children on TV. Scott Pelley held a young boy in his arms, and cuddled with him, in the same vein that I recall Davis snuggling with my mother, so much that she called Davis her “little snuggler.” She would undergo breast cancer surgery after she held that baby for the first time.

I thought about what Jean Cadet said, “Saving one is worth it.” And while he is right, he is also mistaken. Children save us - from becoming inhuman.

When my writing is complete today, the last item will include reading Mark Curnette’s newpaper article or the e-mail on the logistics of Mark’s trip. I had put off learning more, which is unlike me, because I didn’t want to face the danger Mark may be in. But there was a part of me, some human part that knew, while he was administering anesthesia to a young child who may need amputation or surgery, he is the only person that I would want in the room rescuing any child with compassion and his care - and some child would save him too.

To Do List:
1. Testify

It is 9 a.m. I sit at my desk, a ray of light traveling towards the doorway of my office, slowly creeping over towards and warming the sleeping pup at my feet. I look down at my “To do” list for the day: Call for hair appointment, complete update to master family calendar from son’s track schedule, pickup son at 4:15, ask daughter if she is attending driving class tonight so I know what time to have dinner ready. Since it is Monday, the list includes writing. So I do.

I keep imagining what it would be like to look down at my list and see “Testify in daughter’s murder trial,” as Lisa Siders-Kenney is doing so right now, on behalf of her murdered daughter, Esme.

I don’t know Lisa. I only know of her through the women at WWfaC. I bought a pendant from an artist friend of hers, a chiastolite stone, as part of a fundraiser for a scholarship in Esme’s name. Also known as the "cross stone" because of a natural cross pattern in the stone.

It is described as thus: “Chiastolite is a stone of balance, stability and harmony, as traditionally indicated by the cross. It can help with physical, mental, intellectual and emotional stability, enhancing problem solving and adapting to change. It can enhance spiritual awareness and inspiration, as well as astral travel and practical creativity.

Chiastolite is used for healing rheumatism, blood disorders, veins, blood circulation, balance of blood pressure (high or low), and lactation. It has a specific use in balancing all base chakra energies.”

When I researched which stone I wanted to buy, I knew this one instantly. Not from previous hands on experience, but heart experience. At the time, I was in need of healing, and a gentle reminder that I could always return to God, when the time came, with a whole heart, and a body that felt broken, or at least broken down. The astral travel is my favorite part of the above description. Astral Travel - or in layman’s terms – out of body experiences, seems a key in healing. If we can remove our selves (two words) from our bodies, and see how wrapped up we are in our body experiences and not the experiences of self, we would be further along in our healing, and certainly evolutionary emotional intelligence.

I pray that Esme experienced astral travel to escape the heinous acts that were done to her body. That the killer would sit with her body afterward, watching it burn, horrifies me in a way that I cannot articulate.

I wore that pendant everyday for a while, even promised myself I would wear it every day of the trial of Esme’s murderer, but I failed in the those efforts this morning as a barking dog usually throw my mind off track. I do not even have it on now, but am simply holding her mother in my care, in my writing hands and hoping that is enough.

My list also involved investigating vortices, in particular in Sedona, purported to also have healing energies, but this too reminds me of Lisa, Esme, her family caught up in a not so harmonic convergence of events – go for a run, encounter a man, offer him the wrong name, watch man turn into monster, remove self from body, become a force for change.

I am multi-taking now, trying to follow any news development that hinges on the words of this heart-sunken mother, for she must have pushed her emotions so far down, so as not to fall apart during her time of testimony.

She begins by telling about the day of Esme’s murder. She had been removing dust from their recent remodel. “Drywall dust is dangerous, you know,” she states. She is being asked to describe Esme for the jury. She says, “She just turned 13, just precious, so innocent and so sweet.”

Esme had asked her mom to go along on a run. “We usually went together as a family,” says Lisa. “across the street to the reservoir. Its where she learned to ride a bike. It was like our backyard.”

Some of Esme’s last words were about a cousin, “If Franny calls, tell her I’ll be right back.”

When the police arrived after Lisa’s suspected disappearance of Esme, they kept using the word teenager. "They just had a different picture in their mind,” Lisa confessed, obviously still frustrated that the police did not understand the true essence of Esme.

The police envisioned a picture different from the actual one shown by the prosecutor in the final minutes of Lisa’s testimony. I don’t know which picture it was. I hope it was not of her body wearing only socks and shoes. Lisa tearfully and proudly responded to the lawyer's question, “That’s my baby, Esme Louise Kenney.”

When I look back on this day, I want to remember what it was like to be a witness to Lisa Kenney testifying – tears and fears about my own children, wincing at the prospect of a chaplain at my door, the horrors that Esme endured in her final hours. There is no reconciling Esme’s fate with the outcome of the trial with the exception of a mother bearing witness to the life of her “baby.” - 2010-03-08

2010-03-01 Thin Blue Line


The Winter Olympics closed, the torch passed.
It is March, and snow turns to slush, unlike Charlie Brown’s January snow
that Lucy declares is best.

Time now for swimming.
I dip my toe in the chilly water of the lap pool, and begin to think Summer and the athletes, winter and summer, who train long hours.

I once hoped to be an Olympic champ - super-sized hopes for a peanut-sized person.
I would jump over hurdles or glide down the slalom, and all the world would stare.

The pool is cold, steam fogs the windows. I cannot see out. No one can see in.
All three lanes are empty. The surface is still, the only noise is the buzz of the heater
and the jets of the spa nearby.

I lower my towel and slide in, wakened from my morning state.
I turn somersaults at laps’ end, and shoot through the water to begin the next leg.
The painted blue line below me remains visible so I do not go left or right of center.

My body’s shadow in the water becomes magnetized, pulled towards the line
in the moment Olympians live for – to become transparent, constant, fluid.

Many laps later, I toss my tired limbs onto the pools’ edge.
The surface ripples to the rhythm of a stroke I am no longer executing.

The body has left the pool, the spirit remains.

I am resurrecting this one, after making my own fudge....

The Urge to Savor

I learned from my mother
how to make creamy chocolate fudge
that would keep
her children coming back,
a knowledge that did not come
from any recipe

but her habit of sending each of us
this box of chocolate
on Valentine’s Day
wherever we made our homes.

I learned from her how
to cut the squares
so that they were in number
divisible by five,.
each portion then
carefully cuddled
by plastic wrap and paper.

She with my father
carefully labeled
and packaged five boxes,
entrusted this treasure
to the local postmaster
who sent them off
to faraway colleges and states.

I learned that
for the gift to take hold,
we must share it –
with roommates, neighbors, spouses, kids –
but that it was still my gift to share.

Mother accepted praise
for this wondrous treat
and never let on
it was anything less than pleasure
though her arthritic hands
and crippling hip
might have said otherwise.

The stoop sat empty
this Valentine’s Day,
left me craving
her mind and her fudge.




Annette Januzzi Wick
In dedication to the miles that the Fudge has traveled.
2/18/2008

I am From poem, written with the Alois Alzheimer Group, Found Voices.
Annette J. Wick
1-14-2010


I am from shoe stores
musky cardboard boxes cradling women's heels.
From a father who spent nights
calmed by the whir of the adding machine.
Lilac bushes – one white, one violet
at the back corners
of the house on Ridgeland Dr.

I am from apple trees and stealing Mr. Wittes’ apples.
From sledding hills and Harold, the tractor driver,
who mowed the grass at the sanitarium.
I am from passion and temper, gerbils and rabbits,
but never a puppy or kitten.

I am from parties for every birthday, communion and confirmation,
and from my father pulling at the covers
on Sunday morning, calling us to church.

I am from beefsteak tomatoes, hanging like Christmas ornaments,
in the garden, and thick tomato sauce always on the stove.
From 26 different kinds of Italian cookies – some with no names at all.

I am from families dispirited and hearts that have healed.
From Mother leading us in nighttime childhood prayers,
“Dear God, please watch over us,”
and the family motto, “To go where there is need.”

An Honor Roll
12/20/2009

Mom is in the hospital this Christmas. A lack of eating, depression, dementia, or a bad combination of meds. No one is certain at this point. In consideration of the years she spent toiling over her Christmas cookies, here is an honor roll…of sorts. For those who were never the beneficiary of her fine tastes, well, I am truly sorry. You missed out.

1. Biscotti
2. Pizelles
3. Twists – Paul’s favs
4. Corn Flake Wreaths
5. Pecan Cups
6. Nut rolls
7. Nuthorns – B’s favorites
8. Chocolate Chip cookies
9. M and M cookies
10. Peanut Butter cookies with Kisses on top
11. Sour Cream Drops
12. Italian balls
13. Fudge
14. Bowties
15. Sugar Cookie Cutouts
16. Gingerbread Men
17. Italian knots
18. Chocolate Crinkles
19. Totos – my favs
20. Rosettes
21. Buckeyes
22. Pinwheels
23. Cookie Press cookies
24. Church windows
25. Thumbprint cookies
26. Candy Cane cookies

How I Learned to Take a Nap

12/8/2009
AJW

The household hums in its daily chores:
heat the home, pump the water, let in the light.
A loud thumping comes from below
in the basement laundry -
zippers on hoodies thwack against the side of the dryer,
bass accompaniment to an unknown rock song.

Grey has settled between the cottonwood trees
blurring lines between leftover leaves and bark.
Even the grass, while still green, casts a hue
as if to hush and not wake up Spring, not yet, not for a longtime.

The puppy has completed his tasks too:
Dart outside, bark at the half-bitten moon,
relieve his body of impurities from the night before.
Chew Morning Glory seed pods hanging by threads off the trellis.
Lick at pant legs of boys before they climb onto the bus.

Sniff at the base of the trees along sidewalks,
hope for the scent of a new friend or long lost one.
Alert the neighbors across the street
their fake deer is eating up their patch of Vinca vines,
while next door the white wooden deer are kissing.

Dart back in for his daily dose of banana bites
and puppy rubs to strengthen his response
to the long winter about to commence.

Finally, he settles in where love and words flow.
His eye lids flutter slightly
at the sound of the pitter patter on the keyboard
before he slips into slumber.

This is the moment they sing about:
“Sleep in heavenly peace.”

Januzzi Beach
12/1/2009
Annette J. Wick


She was always a sun worshipper,
her soft brown Italian skin like fine leather,
deepening only a shade.
Eternally bathingly beautiful,
she was at once shy and knowing.
Her caramel skin, perfectly aged at any birthday,
would not wrinkle under the weight of growing old.

Her folding lounge chair still sits at the ready
inside the garage.
If she cannot be located in the kitchen,
the back patio is where she sits and pay homage
to the golden rays rippling through arthritic limbs.
She finds peace amongst the truckers
who drive on the interstate hundreds of yards from her door.
They honk their horns at the distant sight of her -
causing such raucous
it is like wild geese flocking overhead.

When the North wind is too harsh,
she totes the chair around front,
sets it in the alcove of the mudroom doorway.
She is surrounded by the warmth of the brick
and her husband’s trademark geraniums,
their arrival so frequent
the flowers are as perennial as her appearance in the sun

A memory, Christmas afternoon: On another back patio,
she is reveling in sunlight once again.
Her white nylon scarf shields her from wind.
In her fire engine red fleece she is dressed
in camouflage to blend with the season.
She sits beneath bows hung from the outdoor mantle,
their angled ends flapping like wings,
and smiles for the camera.
Hail to her, filled with sun and grace.

Hunter and Flower
11/1/2009 AJW


It’s sometimes said that the full moon
stays up all night
and sleeps all day
like a werewolf.

The full moon of November nights
will do just that
rise at sunset
set at sunrise

climbing to its highest sky point.
At near midnight
the frosted screen
of light will shine

through the burnt leaves left hanging still.
The Hunter will
take out his bow
after crops die.

Down in the southern hemisphere
the Flower Moon
coaxes roses
into plumpness.

The November full moon rises
just like May’s sun
its lunacy
wreaking havoc

on the sleeping patterns of all
who believe in
foolish myths that
moons rule our lives.

Carmen 10-23-2009, Ohio St. vs. Minnesota 38-7.

Remember this moment, I say to myself, as I look over at his
brown eyes sparkling against the backdrop of driving rain
and red plastic ponchos.

Even the hot dog vendors stay beneath the steel girder overhang.
With each touchdown, the army troop
resolutely marches into the end zone and
executes the number of push-ups that match points on the board.
Oh how they must be wishing for this game to end.
No more so than I, as water trickles from eye,
not sure if from rain, runny nose or tears
for a time that will never be like this again

He is schooling me, on nuances of a game
I once taught him.
“See how they line up, in a spread.
They didn’t used to, until they got the new QB,
but that’s what all the teams are doing now.”
Next they line up in wildcat formation
shooting the ball from between the legs of the center
out to the running back, the o-line is unbalanced.
But then I think all of football is so,
as we sit high above the teams and band – the best damn one in the land -
while the wind blows at a temperature less than freezing
and rain forms droplets on my not so environmentally-friendly Styrofoam cup
filled with cider half-heated, half-spiced, half-drunk.

The hot dogs are long,
but the quarters of this game even more so.
Finally, at clock’s end we stand for tradition -
Carmen Ohio.
I have learned the words by now,
the crowd has sung the song so many times today,
that I have forgotten
I did not go to school here.
I only have vague memories of a sister and brother

at another game from another time…

“Summer's heat and Winter's cold,
The season pass, the years will roll;”

Remember this moment, I say to him, reaching out my arm
to cradle the young man that was once my boy
as the chorus of sodden fans warbles,
“Time and change will surely show
How firm they friendship…”

I let go of him, throw my arms up high,
He raises his arms too
and together, with the faithful fans,
we spell out the word that has been our bond today –
“O” “hi” “o”

Passegiatta in Washington Park

by Annette Januzzi Wick

(This article was written in response to a prompt, “Being Awake to Change” and recorded for WWfaC - The Podcast Edition)

In The Teachings of Rome[1], Jay Walljasper writes of architecture students learning about community building through the study of Roman piazzas. “Piazzas put us in the present moment,” says William McDonough, a theology professor. Why then, not see Washington Park in Cincinnati as a piazza? If any public space needed a present moment, Washington Park is it.

In the 1800’s, Cincinnati hosted expositions in Washington Park providing information on new machines being produced. By the late 1880’s, Washington Park was considered for the Romanesque Cincinnati Art Museum heralded as the Art Palace of the West, but because of one powerful donor, the museum was situated in Eden Park instead. Imagine had that museum been built along Washington Park, we would have had a palazzo on a piazza.

I have strolled through Rome’s Piazza Navona with my Italian-American parents and licked up the last drop of Tartufo dessert in that square with my kids. We have had the pleasure of stumbling upon a Greek band on that piazza and had the misfortune of witnessing a homeless man, sitting astride a fountain statue wearing only a diaper. Each square we roamed took on its own personality and led one astray to some other unexplored part of the city.

William H. Whyte, the urban sociologist, wrote, “The street is the river of life in the city.” Cincinnati developers and city officials have focused on the actual Ohio River banks. But the real flow of life comes from streets that lead to an experience, similar to the Italian tradition of passeggiata, a gentle stroll through a main street of an old town. The phrase is reminiscent of the word “passenger”, as in passengers being carried along in an experience.

Italians dress up for passeggiata. Older folks sit along the route, nursing a beer or a glass of wine, and gossip; la passeggiata is where new romances blossom and new shoes rule.

Consider what a passeggiata would feel like around Washington Park. In Illustrated Cincinnati, an 1875 book, the author writes, “Over-the-Rhine is where a visitor would go if "he is bent on pleasure and a holiday… The visitor leaves behind him at almost a single step the rigidity of the American, enters at once into the borders of people …far more closely wedded to music and the dance, to the song, and life in the bright, open air."

Never is that experience more evident than within modernized Gothic Music Hall, first built as a choral hall, anchoring Washington Park. During the times of the expositions, the “back” of Music Hall sat up against the canal, which used floating gondolas to transport patrons. Inside Music hall, a large dome houses a painting by Arthur Thomas, The Allegory of the Arts, with figures representing Music, Science, History and Literature.

In 2010, the city and park will boast a new School for Creative and Performing Arts and offer residents a chance to revisit the use of Washington Park. Students should be encouraged not to rush home but rather to stroll, perhaps buy a gelato at Enzo’s across the street. While Music Hall represents the original Allegory of the Arts, the SCPA is a repository for youthful energy, a new metaphor for arts and community.

The Project for Public Spaces writes on their website, “Small steps to enliven streets, parks, and other public spaces are the building blocks of a thriving city.” Upon closer inspection, one would find these blocks in The Schickel Design Company at the north end. Martha Schickel manages the company rooted in her grandfather and father’s work of designing stained glass and creating architectural designs. Martha’s commitment to architecture and community were shown recently in her relocation to Over the Rhine, into a 19th century building which she redesigned and renovated.

Down the street is a three-story historic building, housing Azzi & Wolf, a luthier of well-crafted string instruments. Andy Wolf is the elder who was raised in OTR and as early as the 1990s was spending seed money to rehab properties in the area. Jules Azzi, the younger, is Lebanese, was schooled in France and had once established himself in New York.

Like the “city of 100 churches” in Lucca, Italy, OTR boasts numerous churches as well. I can feel the pulsating rhythms from the original pipe organ in First English Lutheran. From the end of Race Street, I hear the bells of Phillipus Kirche which long served the German population. Both worship spaces carry enough history to stand as pillars for a piazza.

Tender Mercies, a provider of housing for the homeless who are mentally ill, renovated a nearby 1870’s hotel. Its upgrades include green concepts as rain water retention and tankless water heaters. And while no one should promote homelessness, a parks employee explains in the Emeralds in the Crown documentary that, “In the 1900s, Washington Park was opened over night during the summer for residents of the tenements to sleep outdoors.” Parks were and will be a place to breathe fresh air.

The most recent proposal for the Washington Park upgrade shows a lawn larger than a football field facing Music Hall. Brick pavers will mark corners and pedestrian crossings. Game tables and benches will be conveniently situated. A concessions building will be housed along the east side which could showcase the city’s beer making and wine-producing history. There is even a promenade from which to begin a passeggiata.

In Teachings, Architecture Professor David Maynik tells his students, “Look for the connections that are not apparent at first.” When we look into Washington Park, we view the present in crime stats, homeless residents and closed swimming pools. From its outer rim, I also see the building blocks from the past – Gothic architecture, sleeping outdoors, and First Lutheran’s original organ. I observe real work in Tender Mercies, Martha Schickel, and Azzi & Wolf.

And I see a future filled with industrious young people who parade their SCPA portfolio or DAAP designs through the square while old men play chess and watch them stroll by. I see people sitting with a glass of Christian Moerlein beer or Burnett Ridge wine beneath strings of light hung from tress, or slowing down because they have found a place to breathe, a present moment.




[1] The Teachings of Rome, Jay Walljasper, Notre Dame Magazine, October, 2009.

Closing Down Summer

The water shimmers in early morning.
Fog slides away into coves, gloves coming off fingers,
Exposing nearby fishermen huddling in their brawny bass boats.
Blue gills hunker down
into the dark recesses of cat tail stems and roots,
bobbing around black walnuts
that plunk into the water to the tune of nature’s beat.

When we close the lid on summer,
floating the green tarp, then the gray, over the boat,
the lake is brimming with memories –
of a kayak under a full moon
with each stroke of a paddle,
a quick glance over the shoulder –
is that a chainsaw
or the buzz of cicadas leftover from last year?

Of mornings made new by a puppy
first learning to boat, then float
finally to paddle, a stroke backed into, after losing his footing on the dock.
Of meanderings in the marital bed quietly taking a back seat
to canines, canoes and cornhole.

Of learning to drive a boat – again.
“Idle” moves the boat forward –
has someone reported this to Webster’s?
And in “neutral” the boat slithers across the water,
drifting into buoys and sludge.
Of cuss words when ropes are caught in the motor
and kudos when a skier cuts a swath through the wake,
drops the rope, then slowly slides away.

Of fireworks bursting above the walnut trees.
Then after, while silently watching these side by side with my brother,
boats putter past the dock, lit up green and red like Christmas.
Of Left-Right-Center, a game for all ages.
Mother removes her chips from each pile instead of giving them up
determined to win though she has forgotten the game.

Finally, when smoke off the fireworks fades, the sky fills with stars,
a Lite Brite board after the holes have been poked.
Each star is reflected upon the crest of the silent waves,
each light point becomes a memory
when we look back in the mirror
of our summer and see ourselves -
Young, old, tan, rested, aching from hauling wood and furniture
and kayaking through coves, catching the same stinky fish twice,
suspended in the water by jackets, buoyed by life.

The next morning, the ladder is lifted from the lake,
jelly-like eggs still cling to the rungs
waiting to be hatched in order to be caught.
The last campfire is resurrected,
sturdy cherry logs stubbornly will not burn away.
Brief flames consume stale marshmallows
that slipped off sticks the night before.
Then, in the smoldering,
a distant memory drifts across the ghost in the graveyard field –
summer taking its last breath.

09-2009

2009-09-02 Pear-related Questions

As Leigh and I walked on the Loveland Bike trail, we were discussing why it was we remembered certain trips more vividly than others. As if the details were engraved on our hearts. I explained that I thought I could recall my Italy trips with precision because it was a soul connection I made there, vs. a trip to Phoenix, or even California.

In the midst of this explanation, I inserted, “Mark is painting a large pot for our patio with a scene from the Amalfi Coast in Italy.”

“Wait, Mark is an artist?” She asked, confused. “Like he didn’t just go to Lowe’s and buy paint? You mean, he is really painting a picture on the pot?”

“Oh yeah,” I exclaimed. “I should have shown you his work when you came to my house the other day. Half our walls are filled with his paintings. As a matter of fact, long before I met Mark, my neighbor Michelle remarked to me that the perfect man for me was someone who equally liked sports and arts. And, well, she was right!”

“OK, so I am learning something new today about Mark.”

“Well, the funniest story about our first breakfast involves his art. I wrote about it…”

“Wait, don’t tell me!” Leigh liked to be surprised, “Send me the writing.”

I went home and searched through all my Word files and could only come up with two instances in which I wrote about my meetup with Mark, neither of them did justice to the event. So, I rewrote history.

It was a November day. Mark and I were meeting at Skip’s bagels for breakfast before Mark headed into work. He was on first call that day, which breakfast really meant an early lunch prior to an 18 hour shift. Though I can recall what he wore for our first lunch, I cannot recall what he wore that day. Neither can I recall what I ate, or what we discussed. Talk about not remembering!

As we made our way to the parking lot, he mentioned something about taking art classes. Greg Storer owned a studio and held classes in what was called the Powder Factory, one of the old ammunitions plants in the Kings Mill area. Mark would occasionally attend, as art was calling him to respond to his wife’s recent passing from lung cancer.

I asked him, “Do you have any work on you?”

As clouds were gathering, he confidently showed me the way to his car, where he pulled out a charcoal drawing of a still life. I detected a full shape of an roundish object set atop a table, with a lamp in the background and a pen by the side, but it really wasn’t clear to me what that shape stood for.

I had an artistic eye. I had plenty of photographs of a sunset on the Oregon Coast to prove it. But perhaps what I lacked was imagination or the ability to improvise upon a scene that did not make sense to me. What else would sit beside a table lamp, other than books or games? I went through a litany of objects that graced my own end table tops around the house and came up empty.

So, I decided to just ask.

“Is that a pear?” I said, pointing to the unknown object.

I know Mark was hurt. I could see it in his eyes, bright blue without any reflection off the sky. But, in seconds, we broke into simultaneous smiles proceeded by guttural laughter.

Four years later, he and I were married.

The topic of my being Mark’s muse, or not, arose again, this past week, when Mark was painting the pot. He was quick with his brush strokes, and as a writer, I understand that inspiration hit and you went for it. But inspiration still required editing and I felt the same about art. Someone had to ask the pear question.

When Mark called me outside, I surveyed his work, quickly and decisively noting the cerulean blue sky and blue water, with rows of homes in the middle, could use a little pop. The sky and water appeared flat, as if there were no movement. I had been on that water, I had floated beneath that sky, and it certainly was not motionless.

Mark rolled his eyes. He knew I was been right and in the end, he created a better product. But I doubt he would ever refer to me as his muse, and would prefer that I be rendered mute instead!

Hold You

Here I am at 7 a.m., holding the dog’s tattered blue leash,

hoping he will unload last night’s business in the same spot

before the neighbor’s goldens see the puppy out early

and begin their chorus of discordant barks.

I am holding the calendar for this year and next,

one full of commitments I am loathe to make for fear I am missing

my big chance at life outside the paved sidewalks of my home.

Here again, while my mother’s memory slowly erodes,

I am holding the memory of her canning tomatoes late summer

while she would curse my father for having planted so many.

Here, I am holding my breath for a 737 to depart,

first on Sunday for my son’s trip to Florida, and again on Friday,

during thunderstorms, while his plane attempts to land.

With my loving spouse,

we hold each other every morning

before the day is washed away in the tidal wave of work.

Even my purse is not averse to this task, taking on

recipes torn from waiting room magazines,

maps of Chicago, and the last swath of Tahini pink lipstick.

And while sometimes I tire from this, I go on holding,

as if by some miracle, the state of the world or health of my family

depends on the flavor of chewing gum at the bottom of my bag.

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.

Testing blog updates from my

Testing blog updates from my mobile.

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.

Check out these new blogs from Cincinnati Women

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.

Here is what I know on this snow day – 1/27/2009

1. Stanley’s Driving School is closed and their classes are cancelled. With two teenage drivers in the family, I believe Stanley to be a wise man,

2. The Open Door Food Pantry is closed - they should change their name.

3. At 5:27, my husband looked out the window and said, there’s really not that much snow out there. At 5:28, the school called to cancel classes for the day. At 6:30, the newspaperman had made it through the street and the plow had not. At 7:00, I began shoveling five inches of snow.

4. On the local TV station website, the number of cancellations were closing in on 500. I may need to adjust that figure later, when the Get Fit with Frannie class shows up scrolling across my screen. However I did just notice that Curves in Kentucky is closed and that will directly impact their state’s fitness goals.

5. Following the webcam mounted on the TV truck of the Fox News Channel is making me car sick, like I am on a roller coaster called “The Cut in the Hill”.

6. The Christ hospital, the one hospital that “stands about all the rest”, is canceling their afternoon outpatient clinic appointments. Their tai chi class is cancelled as well. If you have ever waited in the outpatient of a hospital, you know you can’t have one without the other.

7. The Clermont Recovery Center and the Office of Comprehensive Counseling are closed. They work to offer support for alcohol and drug abuse. I hope they’re open tomorrow, I’ll need it to recover from being at home with the kids today. Do you know how hard it is to get kids motivated to go shovel the driveway so that you can drive them to go sledding on a day when the buses couldn’t get moving and somehow you are supposed to.

8. The winter storm advisory has forced organizers to cancel a class on weather spotting where students are taught to observe and identify different types of clouds, dust whirls, rain shafts and tornado related conditions. Apparently, it does not apply to snow storms which is too bad because they would have hands on experience today!

9. My friend Carol is venturing out to feed the birds and calling that an accomplishment.

10. I laughed at yesterday’s headlines, “Expect Big Crowds in the Milk Aisle Before Nightfall” - words that created panic at the grocery store. Now, not laughing as that last jug of milk in the extra frig is past due. Perhaps a little sugar will help.

Diary of a Woods

1-15-2009

Here’s she comes. I can spot her a mile away, pulling her pink hat atop her fancy do, walking out of the house. The keypad for the garage door opener is not working again – she checks to be sure the key is still under the ceramic pot which once grew fiber optic grass hair.

She hurries past the neighbor’s homes, but I can still see her across the backstreets which she must trudge, out onto the main road, careful to avoid attention or falling into the sewer ruts.

Last week, she was here with her husband. They walk here occasionally though there is still a sign posted No hunting, fishing, shooting. Trespassers will be prosecuted. The sign hangs more as a reminder that once she did not walk here and merely as a suggestion for her days now.

But since the Fall, when the township took ownership of the land, she did too. She has been here, following its progress from overgrown brush to path of stones to paving. She wishes the paths will not be entirely paved and we do too. We that soar above are protection enough for even the weakest of souls, people do not need paths, they just need encouragement to create their own.

She feels she must still sneak in here, but she should not fear. We want her here to document the fall of a landowner and the rise of the woods, if only for her. Today, she stumbles in, fearful that the trucks across the street are on to her. Perhaps she should quit wearing that neon pink ski coat which she cherishes for its warmth.

She is agitated, for no reason. The wind chill is at zero and the snow is softly falling, like gratitude, for finally the sky is releasing its pent up moisture from the clouds and rewarding us with something to cover the paths, so one can make new paths from here. Trucks across the street are idling noisily creating a white noise with which the snow cannot compete.

The deer have already been by, so has the dog from the neighbor’s home. The dog once chased away by her husband, who now insists on carrying a stick when they steal away into these our woods.

She is now past the barricade, which had been moved aside weeks ago. Again, she was grateful that the little signs forgave her for her trespasses, even if the law would not. She busies herself thinking of these sins, looking down at deer hoofs, rabbit prints and is jostled back to the interior by sound of branch cracking. She looks up in time to see an incredible winged creature. She calls this stranger Mystery. This is twice now the creature has appeared to her, she only glimpses it from the back, as the bird flies away. Is it the owl she hears in the morning when at the bus stop. Is it the falcon that made its appearance one day in the tree of the Foxes – the neighbor’s real name?

She shudders and snaps her fingers in a darn like fashion, the trucks idling is still like a roar in her ears, she wanted the quiet, but even her clothes –bundled like ralphie’s brother in a Christmas story – preclude her from enjoying the peace – what will it take one wonders.

Swish, swish from her ski pants overrides the red cardinal’s call until she is directly upon it. She stops, to find it in the collage of brush and leaves and logs, modge-podged together by the fallen snow. The bird is startled, stops its tweaking and twitching and flies off in the direction of another object moving away from her – the white-tailed deer. Had she not stopped to hear the bird, she never would have seen the deer. Such lessons she is learning today, for it feels like she is pushing through life now, not really enjoying it, hardly breathing. One wonders if that is why she is here.

She is coming upon the creek. Unable to wait til Spring, when the rains rush down this ravine here and the swish of water overrides all that is on her mind today. It is the ski trip, the prepartoin for, and the unwillingness to be away right now, right when her life fells on the verge.

But perhaps everyone with the state of affairs in the world, the Israel- Palestinian wars, the historicu inauguration, the economy, everyone is on the verge - suffering from an unknown grief. And she always came to the woods to grieve what was lost and find what was left – the black walnuts. Oh she hopes there are not hoarders that will come by and pick these up – that they will be left to sustain that for whom reaches them first.

Her first step at the creek is on ice, not as it was last Sunday, when she and the He were there. In a playful act, she stepped first, balancing on log with barely a branch to support it. Her foot slipped off and into the water, that day the weather stood in the 20s, but with her wool socks, she persevered through three more miles. Today hope is written on her face that she can cross without breaking through the ice. Alas, she is surprised that she must weigh more than she thought, for the ice breaks through, but alas she is also surprised that her boots stand in 3 inches of water without taking on an ounce.

Safely across, a set of man’s footprints appear and soon join in with tire tracks from a truck. Her pulse quickens despite the plummeting temperature outside. This is just what she always imagined, being found here, alone with no protection other than her phone. She quickly reaches inside her pocket to ensure its presence.

Luckily, the tracks stop near a path entrance from another neighborhood. Workers trespass here more than she can imagine, though they are the ones allowed, according to the law. She sees the orange twp cone in the middle of the sticks of trees. She notes the ancient water heater, set aside from possilbly the meade owners, how historical can their home be if the well behind no longer works and at least one water heater has been tossed aside. Plenty of intruders have come and gone before her.

She reaches the stream again, crossing it from the other leg of the “U” in the path. She can still hear the diggers – she says that word in her mind, yes, diggers, that is what the little boy always called them. He would spot a construction truck driving down their street and say, “wow, would you look at that big digger mommy.” And mommy would exclaim with delight.

As her neighbor, we recall those days of looking over our shoulders, when the construction was finishing off on her street. The trucks roared, interrupted our peace, came in two by two, like the animals in noah’s ark. And on one bright and sunny day, she and the boy had a picnic outside, on their driveway, so he could exclaim, would you look at those big diggers. This is what she is thinking now. How those days have slipped past. And how sad and lonely she must be without that child at her side, always at her side, in the woods, across the creek, in the backyard and she at his side at bedtime.

Maybe she has been running away from his growing up. Keeping him small with her hugs. Maybe his grandparents frustrate her in not spending more time with him, because she sees such goodness in this child, who comes home from school and says, everything was great, but doesn’t have a reason why, why would you not want to spend time with him. He is not special, but perhaps she sees more than most see in their children. Because they have had to look each other in the eye, in the same she will someday come face to face with this mysterious creature in our woods and they will meet, and then he will fly away.

The rest of the walk, she tramples grass not yet grown, nor able to, to avoid the gaze of anyone who still might be out there, creating parking spaces and restrooms. And while this appears to meet the original covenant with the owners and township that this land would always be used for park space, now there will be a flower show and a log cabin placed here that does not belong. So much out of place in this family of things, that her neck goes limp, head falls down in recognition that she may soon have to share these woods.