On Enzo Turning Two (Times Seven)

Happy birthday Enzo. This is my ode to you today!

Ruler of the Home

Early morning, 5 a.m.
I cannot sleep
A headache rouses me from bed
My husband rolls over
asks what he can do
I tell him nothing
grab my fuzzy pink robe
and tumble down the stairs.

I open the crate
where the dog has been detained
to keep him from chewing
teenager leftovers
To entice him out, I reach in
scratch his curly white belly fur
Enzo opens one eye, then the next

His coffee colored eyes remind me
I too need caffeine
but first, sleep
I carelessly toss couch pillows to the floor
grab the sheepskin blanket
and sink into the sofa
Enzo comes to me
his tags jingling in the dark
He leaps onto my lap
then settles his nose near mine
as if to chase away the demons
hammering my head.

I touch his fur,
feeling the rush of my blood
settle into a rhythm
in sync with my breath
Somewhere in my mind
I have fallen fast asleep
dreaming of ski slopes
and friends I have not called.

My son once called Enzo “a peacemaker”
Family members reach for him
before they extend a hug to me
and I don’t blame them

His name means home ruler yet
he has not chased away my headache
nor protected me at all odds
but he has created a harmony I never knew

“People Living Near One Another”

A large Cincinnati-based corporation, Western-Southern, wants to relocate a downtown shelter for homeless and recovering women, the Anna Louise Inn, owned by Cincinnati Union Bethel. W-S is willing to pay CUB $3million to move the Inn. Their claim, if they have a rightful one, is the shelter is located in a non-descript part of downtown where W-S would like to form a neighborhood.

There are many definitions of neighborhood. From New Urbanism – one where a community is walkable, and designed to contain a diverse range of jobs and housing. Another few from Merriam Webster – 1: in a neighborly relationship, the quality or state of being neighbors, 2: proximity: a place or region near : vicinity, 3: an approximate amount, extent, or degree 4, a : the people living near one another, b : a section lived in by neighbors and usually having distinguishing characteristics.

Neighborhoods are not created. They are built one sidewalk block at a time. They emerge one shop owner at a time. Neighborhoods are a work in progress and succeed best when the character is maintained, and the people who live, work and play in that area are left to define it.

Western-Southern’s first attempt was to purchase the building outright, of which two offers were been spurned because the owners of the Anna Louise Inn were awarded federal dollars to renovate. CUB simply does not want to move the Inn.

The Anna Louise Inn has long history of serving women in Cincinnati. According to the CUB website, “In the early 1900’s, young women from rural areas were coming to Cincinnati to work and could not find suitable housing. Often the cheapest rooms were in undesirable neighborhoods, or landlords would charge more because women required a sitting room for guests in addition to a bedroom, a separate bathroom, and more security. Recognizing a need for affordable and safe housing for women, the agency turned to the Tafts…who helped provide funding to erect a five-story building to accommodate 120 women in single rooms…. The Inn was filled to occupancy on its first day.

Western-Southern’s latest attempt is to force City Council to turn away federal dollars because the owners are not keeping in line with the original mission. Western-Southern is claiming the renovation of the Anna Louise Inn will also bring men into this facility, which CUB has outright denied.

Women in transition need a home. They need a bed and a safe space to allow for healing from abuse, addiction and caring for their families. They don’t need a bright shiny facility, located away from the heart of downtown where job prospects might be less so and they become isolated from “the rest of us”.

It’s essential for them to be rooted in a neighborhood, this neighborhood, which will support them, where businesspersons and residents can model for them behaviors they too are working on. Women need relationships and diversity, and neighbors who will reach out to show kindness. They need to be where they can find connections to some level of normality. They require “people living near one another” as Merriam-Webster puts it.

All of this is consistent with the concept of a neighborhood, disputing the comments in Western-Southern’s letter, “For a really successful neighborhood to develop, though, you’ve got to have a consistent experience. For that to happen, you can’t have a facility in the heart of it that is completely inconsistent with that experience.”

These women will benefit from the energy of a lively neighborhood where they can enjoy the green space in nearby Lytle Park, watch fireworks when Joey Votto hits a homer or walk the same path as those who are walking to work at Western-Southern. Women will strive more surrounded by others who are striving.

And finally, they will be standing in the place of so many women who came to Cincinnati to work for a better life. They will gain from the century of wisdom accumulated on those grounds.

The Lake Effect

It swoops down from Canada,
this legendary mongoose
with a wingspan that plasters
the downwind side of the Great Lakes.

Descends on ordinary citizens
who just want to punch their card,
get to school, or arrive in time to see
the latest high school basketball phenom
that won’t make it out of there.

The ogre wreaks havoc
on gas stations and grocery stores,
emptying shelves of substance and sustenance.
Funny though, the giant’s presence
is never unforeseen,
always arriving according to
the calendar of Old Man Winter.

Sometimes the colossal fiend
clips off a section of land
sparing Westerners as they cluck about their luck.
The tyrant travels with gusto
through eastern portions of cities
liberating layer upon layer of its wrath,

causing crashes and burned dinners,
reducing visibility into the future,
and forcing shovels from their bins.
Mittens and gloves dried by the heaters
are returned to service for the next round.

Forecasters treat the creature with reverence
praising the virtues of its might
while ordinary people combat it
with snow blowers, scrapers and picks,
digging out their dignity, only to lose it again.

It is hard to be happy here.

When finally weariness shows,
Spring comes
and the same titan
that barreled down on the populace
will gently soothe
their foreheads and tempers.
But sometimes it is too late
for the kindness that comes.

Because the Night Belongs to Us

Because the Night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to us.
Bruce Springsteen, 1977.

Bruce. Musician. Poet. On a recent drive back to my hometown, I listened to an interview with The Boss at the Toronto Film Festival for the screening of The Promise, a documentary about the making of his album Darkness on the Edge of Town. Bruce’s gravely voice took me back (30 years!) to Mrs. Garfield’s English class where Monica Doslak and I used to sit, scribbling about marriage to Cleveland quarterback Brian Sipe on each other’s spiral notebooks, and penning my first real piece of fiction – Netti Spaghetti and the Meatball Kid..

When asked about his success, Bruce termed the feeling “survivor guilt”, because he and his band survived Asbury Park to achieve success. The musicians weren’t trying to be bohemian, or best the beat poets. They didn’t read or write tomes about the Road. They lived in a darkness that was simple and created one where it was safe to explore.

When The Boss sang, “They can’t hurt you now,” on the track Because the Night, I believed him, disappearing inside music emanating from the family’s turntable. I took cover from forces unseen – those that would take away the family shoe business and my father’s livelihood and those of my own teenage angst. I hid from every day which looked good on the outside – national honor society, class vp, varsity volleyball - but days which contained plentiful rumblings underneath, including the malcontent of a middle child.

In my hometown, darkness reigned. We cruised out to Gore Orphanage Road, listening for the screams of children who supposedly burned in a fire years ago. Late night, we drove past parties we weren’t invited to, in order to stalk boys we thought we might date. When dusk descended over the lake at Andy’s beach house, the gloom of the water enveloped my naked body as I skinny dipped to prove that I could be cool – and stupid too.

Tonight I ‘ll be on that hill, Bruce crooned in Darkness on the Edge of Town and I recalled the sledding hill behind the Golden Acres Nursing Home where evening would fall and bodies would tumble on top of each other. Those winter nights we spent listening to Bruce inside a Chevette, a Subaru, a Citation or a yellow Spitfire that only a few rode in, whatever magical bus was not being used by siblings or parents.

Shadows crept up on us at the sandstone quarries where there were no neon lights or glare of video games. Boys would rather fumble with a girl’s bra strap than adeptly maneuver the remote control of an Xbox. After family dinners, we would bolt from the comfort of pot roasts and NYPD Blue to get to that edge and went past it to find Newport cigarettes and stale pot, Old Milwaukee beer and petting sex, fast friendship and even faster betrayal.

There had always been darkness and we liked it that way. We could be someone else, run off, forge a new road divergent from the back streets. The Boss belonged to me, to Monica, and everyone else in that small town from which we came. Even if we never shared our miseries with each other, Bruce Springsteen’s music tapped into our anguish and became our bond.

Bruce represented our sense of place, persuading us to make a home in the darkness of backseats and craters of sandstone quarries. His music, his words, gave us the brashness to seek out our own edge and stand in it, no matter the cost.

A Prayer for the Bengals

Please Dear God –

Let the Bengals win today. For eight years, the headlines in the media have vacillated between – almost and not quite - brilliance and stupidity. Chad Ochocinco now has as many TV shows as he has receptions. And dear Marvin, that poor baby, looks like he hasn’t slept in years. Could you please send him some cucumbers for those bags under his eyes? I hear they work wonders.

Lord, you know my troubles as Cleveland fan. We stay the course, we curse our coach and we show in weather that tends to run on the negative side of the Fahrenheit and wind chill scale. Being a fan of Cleveland has always required a heavy dose of stamina, a bit of faith and Uncle Tony smoking his cigarettes cussing out Art Modell.

But week after week, as I have made Cincinnati my home, the taunts about the Cleveland Browns continue, even as the home team of the Bengals descends into madness, or at least the fans do. I turn the other cheek, as the gospels have counseled me to do.

Please take pity upon the citizens of Hamilton County who have been forced to pay for a stadium in exchange for an NFL team “to be named later”. Since I have helped pay the king’s ransom as well, Lord, help me increase my spending so that Mike Brown has more money to do less with.

Lord, only you know the challenges of living in a city where life stops, along with the traffic on the interstate whenever the Bengals play, because the fans are busy holding their breath, the sports columnists have run out of ways to phrase “another loss” and the Bengal’s receiver is all thumbs because he Tweets too much.

Please God, bring the Bengals a victory, so the rest of us can get on with our life.

Sincerely,

Annette “Little Dawg”

Things to Do - Switch Roles

In the days before cell phones, telephone calls to my parents were a source of frustration due to the interweaving of my father’s silence and my mother’s protestations, “Ette, are you there? You can say something too.” The course of the conversation would devolve to where Mom and Dad would simply forget I was on the other end. If I happened to mention that I was doing something on a Tuesday, Mom would glance down at her calendar and then begin a conversation with my father about a dentist appointment and ask when he would have time to get to the barber for haircut. Three-way calling took on a new meaning.

My mother was not only the primary communicator in the family, but the source of organization too. She would pour over the AAA books, mark the pages of hotels suitable for a family of seven, and familiarize herself with the Triptik. She organized family dinners every night for a troop of seven, and when the troops diminished, she still managed a pot of tomato sauce and meatballs. She remained the primary disciplinarian, but detested that role more than cleaning the toilets.

Except for my mother’s perseverance through a bout of breast cancer and a hip replacement when my father became caregiver, Mom gave meaning to the word caregiver. Only recently, have I come to see my father and her as having switched roles.

No, he is not making meatballs, though he did always help with her cookies and raviolis. He was a willing participant in the kitchen for the Thanksgiving turkey, Wedding Soup, and the clean-up that ensued. Many nights, following parties and celebrations, the kids went to bed while the two of them stood at the sink, drying the dishes that my mother refused to let dry themselves. She never did allow for things to be left to their own devices.

Though I have done my mother a disservice in not acknowledging her as caregiver of the family earlier in my life, I am now tipping my hat to Dad.

Dad has become the primary communicator on the phone. He might say, “Hold on, let me get your mother on the phone.” Mom will ease in the occasional hello, mention something about the weather, “Oh, its cold here today. What’s it doing in Cincinnati?”, and then slip off the phone. This is typical for individuals with Alzheimer’s, as they cannot comprehend the passage of time. What was only two minutes on the phone, might feel like a lifetime to her. Of course, I recall evenings as a teen, when one of my siblings might call and relentlessly discuss the drama of the day. My mother would hold the phone away from her ear, and those of us still at home would chuckle, haltingly, wondering when she might have responded that same way to us.

These days, when Mom vacates the conversation, I imagine Dad, simply shrugging his shoulders, giving a slight chuckle and saying, “Well, Net, what are you gonna do?”

He is now keeper of the calendar, which involves a myriad of doctor and clinical appointments. They see their doctors more than their children, not necessarily by choice. And when I mention this to Mom, “Wow, that seems to occupy all your time these days,” she simply replies, “Oh, no, we’re not at the stage yet.” In the same way, in midst of telling a story where she has forgotten the flow of her words, Mom will mention, “Sometimes, I think I have that disease. What do they call it?” And I tell her, “Mom, you are doing just great.”

My father did not arrive in this role with fanfare and a ticker tape parade, though he would have welcomed the initiation. He came into the role mostly kicking and screaming. Weeks went by before he agreed to a part-time in-home caregiver for Mom, partly denying the reality of their precarious lease on life. Convincing him it was time to switch Mom over to a gerontologist, away from the convenience offered by the family doctor down the street, I watched him grit his teeth. He will occasionally confess to me that he still sees Dr. X, “just for some things”, of which no one can place blame.

When my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer fourteen years ago, I mentioned a girlfriend that had battled the disease was attending a support group, which was still a newer concept. I suggested to Mom, “Have you considered a support group?” To which she promptly responded, “I don’t need a support group, what do I need one of those for?” She did recover, though I often wondered if she needed a place for her fears that none of us could house. But I also know we were her support. And we have performed admirably, but not without some hiccups ever since.

But the other day, my father called and proceeded to share on all sorts of topics that were troubling him. After my puzzled silence, he apologized, saying, “Well, Net, what am I gonna do? Your mother is the only one I have left to talk to anymore and she forgets everything I tell her.” I tried to bite my tongue, and not suggest a support group, but my tongue broke through, “Dad, what about a support group?” And he said, “Yeah, I been thinking about one.”

My father, reluctant to ask for help, silent in so many ways, always letting his actions show his love, was now talking about talking. When sharing with him that I had once been in therapy, he had asked, “Why didn’t you just go to church and confession?”

I don’t know what the Vatican says about support groups and the circles they create to hold everyone together, but they work. The reassuring uplifting compassion passed from one human being to another can only be described as the work of a Higher Power. God uses humans to do His work, so much that God perhaps orchestrated my father’s change of role and change of heart.

My father and I have grown in our relationship. I perceive him more clearly in this new role, as an avid supporter and lover of my mother, and their life. And that, though he always brought home the bacon, he has never loved her or protected her more fiercely than now.

10/15/2010

Missing Home - Scenes from the Lower Ninth

Cinder blocks
stand like prehistoric Stonehenge
holding up
the stale bayou air
as it wafts across the Lower Ninth.

Did the ancients too
undergo tragedy born of man’s desire
to conquer canals
and barren fields?

The neighborhood’s landscape
is now blemished
by broken sidewalks,
grafitti masking cash machine as art,
and a lone mailbox with contents marked
“return to sender”.

No one is left
to tell the tale
of the wooden table and chair
strewn along Flood Avenue,
knobby leg poking through wildflowers
chair seat matting down nearby weeds

Imagine,
teetering atop the chair
as flood waters rose,
then stepping onto a wobbly table
to reach the ceiling,
crawl out a hole in the roof
and wait

for rescue.

And return
to the skeleton
of a home lifted off its haunches and carried away.

The burial of what died in the Lower Ninth
comes slowly
as seasons overcome the work of man
who long ago created channels
that could not hold back the surge.

A set of steps stays behind
to welcome its ghosts home.

Things to Do - Give Pause

Four index cards sat on my car’s dash, each with their own list. Vacation loomed, and the laundry was piling up while I busied myself with lunches, work, and the exchange of a shirt for a son who didn’t fit into size 15 neck.

I had spent much of the week in the car, or behind a computer. Or writing, I was always writing. Writing a grant, writing about a writing class I teach, writing about writing - which I hated, writing the backstory for a new novel, writing emails, writing Facebook messages for friends who don’t check email, NOT writing about writing, or just plain not writing.

Earlier in the week, I could have accomplished more, but I dragged my husband from the comfortable confines of the family room to Fountain Square where we pulled into the parking garage at the EXACT moment Jay Bruce hit a home run and fireworks were let off, thereby missing THE moment in recent Reds history.

In all of that, I was told a story while on a morning walk with a friend. A young college boy at Rutgers asked his roommate for privacy. The roommate conceded, left the room and somehow turned on the webcam, to watch while the young man had sexual relations with another college boy. The video was then posted by the roommate for all to see. The boy committed suicide by jumping off the George Washington Bridge.

We had been walking amidst the early fog settling heavily across the Little Miami River. The fog thickened and suddenly, my pace slowed. My feet dragged. I felt pulled into the weight of the busyness of our lives. Earlier, I had bought a shirt at JCP and KNEW the quality was poor, but I wanted the task off my list. After one washing, the sleeve hems frayed and there I was, back at the store. Like those college students, I had stopped thinking about the consequences of my actions. Intentionality had been strangled by my busyness.

Fr. Lou Gunzelman wrote of this factor, as it related to the emptiness of church pews, “The people who are not at church on Sunday are not at home … They are sleeping, shopping at the mall, working in their yard, having team practices, jogging, walking, watching football, etc.”

I was one of them, ascribing to the “need to jog” notion instead of working out my spirit. I adhered to the “other activities”, out of town on a college visit with the kids, can’t find a church, or going to celebrate a Reds’ victory, school of thought.

I arrived home, index card lists still full, and sat again at my computer to edit a podcast recording. The young man’s suicide stayed with me, as I listened to a writer speak about sandcastles as a metaphor for life, surrendering to what is, not running. So I stopped - to write this down, knowing my words gave breath to life and redefined must-do lists.

There are many types of misdeeds in our lives. In an effort to be efficient, and make it to vacation day with nary a care, I had committed a few offenses of omission. The crime in that young man’s death was not one of hate or passion. It was BIGGER. It was the crime of unconsciousness. And the only solution is to give pause. For if we don’t stop, who for God’s sake will stop the kids?

Things to Do - Bless the Young Men

When I was in high school, two young men who were older classmen were killed while driving through a railroad crossing. Paul Opheim and Steve Shannon. They had been friends of my brother’s, and, if memory serves, there was the outside chance my brother might have been riding in that same car had it not been for the interest of a young woman.

The heartbreak our high school experienced was unmatched, in that none of our friends had experienced loss before this event. We had grandparents that had died during the course of our years growing up. But somehow, their actual dying was as far removed as a third cousin. Even in my own family, my siblings and I sensed the death of my mother’s first born, as we often marked his birthday and frequented his gravesite. But we did not carry the grief that my mother and father had to bear, only the imagined loss of elder brother.

When Paul and Steve were killed that fateful day, the young men and women of our high school had to learn how to mourn in community. St. Joseph’s church held a Mass, which my brother and parents attended. I still had to go to school. I don’t know why. My girlfriends and I had been close to my brother’s class, such that any one of those boys was considered an older brother(and dating prospect) to us. But we mourned in our own way, drinking beer, sitting at Andy’s Dad’s beach house, wondering how families and friends would move forward from that day on.

Fast forward twenty years. Today, I attended a memorial service for a young man, a senior schoolmate to my freshman. A senior at Moeller, he was struck by a car and killed. He would have been 18 tomorrow, falling short by four days of his 18th birthday.

How many times had parents around the world muttered to themselves, “That kid’ll be lucky if he makes it to his 18th birthday,” when their sons didn’t pick up their room or turn in homework on time, or when they danced to the beat of their hormones and not their brains. Tragically, this young man was simply on a skateboard assuredly doing something he enjoyed.

It is in how a community mourns that we understand how a community lives. Hundreds of young men of Moeller dressed in shirt and tie, seniors in suit coat, streamed into the auditorium, prayed and sang. When the priest invited the students to pray the “Our Father”, not one hesitated to grab the other’s hand to hold in prayer.

In that moment, I felt my own gratitude – that my son had elected to come here to school, in a setting where grief was as welcome as Friday Night Football and that I too could mourn in community for the families in this tragedy, feeling again the loss from my high school years, and the ones that have been strung together since.

While the boys will rise to the challenge of this tragedy, this is perhaps their first experience with grief so close at hand. Though the students are often nicknamed “Men of Moeller”, many wore ties that touched below the belt and shirts with sleeve cuffs turned up a few times. Their youthful faces and pants that sagged in the leg were a reminder that they will learn to grieve here long before they grow. It is in this that they will need our prayers.

For Josh. 09/13/2010

To Teddy Bear, With Deep Affection

This morning, our writing circle at the Alois Alzheimer Center wrote to the theme of teddy bears, reflecting on bears they had while growing up, or stuffed animals belonging to their children. We created a group poem from their written and spoken words.


Teddy Bear, With Deep Affection

My children always had bears.
If you had children,
you had to have teddy bears.
He was given to me at Christmas,
with button eyes and soft paws.

He was a good friend.
Bobby.
My brothers would toss him in a tub,
my mother would dry him out.

I never had a teddy bear,
I was always doing adult things.

A tan teddy bear sat in a chair
by my bed at night
so he could watch over me.

He was a small bear,
I don’t remember his name.
I like the Big Bear,
he looks soft and squeezable.
I had a brown teddy
that I took to bed with me.

He reminds me of
the Mickey Mouse Show on TV.
We didn’t have a teddy bear,
we had a French poodle instead.
Winnie the Pooh
makes me think of warm weather.

Just Teddy.
Plain, medium-sized,
showing signs of wear and tear
from just plain loving.


Group Poem – September 9, 2010
Found Voices Writing Circle
Alois Alzheimer Center

Baby Steps for the Eighty Something Crowd

Last month, my eighty-two year-old mother had abdominal surgery. The operation was a result of three days of tests and an abdomen swollen to the size of a basketball.

Following surgery, she was released to a skilled nursing facility, where she could continue to recuperate, with others keeping a watchful eye. She promptly refused admittance and begged (or told) my father to take her home. He did so without hesitation.

But this left my parents in a predicament. Mother has dementia. She and Dad have lived in the same home for 30 years, until now without help. They are without clear medical oversight. Their grown children are working jobs and balancing families, some far away. Surely they had conversations about their long term health needs, enough to fill out the Health Care Power of Attorney forms and Advanced Directives. Yet none of these pertained to where they would make their home, once their home was no longer suitable for their needs.

A subset of siblings began to make phone calls, pleading with my father, who in the stubbornness associated with his generation, refused to bring in a caregiver, on the basis of money, not wanting someone else in their house, and pride. On those points, I was unable to get him to move an inch.

For two weeks conversations went back and forth between siblings and father. He would play the role of martyr to one, and play a different role to the next. I would hang up the phone wondering if I had just spoken to Jeckyll or Hyde.

I can’t pretend to know what was in his head, his heart. I did however have the background of caring for my first husband through his cancer battle, and knowing the end result was one I still regret. I gave him more care than I did love. Maybe this point is more important to women. Perhaps my father feels it is his duty to give Mom more care and that the love came in the form of the testimony to their nearly 50 years of marriage.

But when I was at home during mom’s operation, I found food spoiled, towels unwashed, left stiff. I found baggies from store-bought cold cuts being reused, as if there were no such thing as salmonella. And I found Mom needing company and a hair wash.

My mother was always one for appearance. She too was of her generation, taking pride in what she owned and in her appearance. Before we even drove to the hospital for her surgery, she stopped to put on lipstick. Throughout her stay, she was always inquiring as to the location of her comb, regardless of when her hair had last been washed or set.

Several weeks following the surgery, my father caved. I clearly stated Mom is not getting what she needs, and he is not in a position to give it to her, because her needs are beyond what any one person can offer. This same man who had uttered, “I should have taken your mother on more vacations,” hesitated. So I finished with, “Well, Mom won't be going on too many vacations, but she can retain some dignity.” And her clean home and hair.

He relented long enough for Tamara to come into their home. He and I have not conversed in depth about the situation. It is too early. I don’t want to open the door for him to walk out on this deal.

But I did speak with Mom one morning, when Dad had departed for a meeting. Their caregiver, Tammy, had answered the phone then passed it on to Mom. She was laughing in the background as she came to the phone. I said, “Hi Mom. What are you up to?” And she replied, “Oh, well. I have a friend here and we are going to sit outside. It’s so beautiful today.” I could almost see her smile.

We didn’t speak long. I wanted Mom to hold fast to that feeling of friendship and freedom. I hung up and cried a little, called my younger sister, relayed the story, then cried a little more.

Baby steps, I had repeatedly told my father, as Mom progressed from the ER through surgery, ICU and finally home. Baby steps, I kept telling him, in regards to Mom’s recovery and in-home care.

Baby steps, I remind myself again.

8/24/2010

Blessing of the Lake

May the fish frolic in places unsuspecting,
their pools casting ripples beyond the no wake zone.

While you watch, may your loyal ally rest upon your lap
and a light breeze lift your spirit
off the dock, separating from the body which aches.

May a red ball of fire suddenly announce its presence
on the horizon, its reflection in the lake
growing longer as it rises, pushing the day’s clock to begin.

When its light is splintered by trees, may you still know warmth
as you sit on the dock toes dipped in water
creating ripples to meet those of the fish.

And may the blue herons nudge you from this trance,
the long flaps of their sails
soaring over the morning’s grace.

8/14/2010

Praying the Rosary While Sleeping

A machine drones on, squeezing
and releasing to keep her legs from clotting
She whispers, lips moving at rocket speed
She cannot be singing, not that fast
She is speaking, not aloud, but to her Maker
in an appeal.

Her hands curl around the finger probe
toying with imaginary beads
Parched lips struggle
to separate on the “Hail”
purse together for “Mary”
then finally form “full of grace”

She blesses the fruit of thy womb Jesus
while her own womb bears a new incision
“Holy Mary Mother of God” she murmurs
moving beads through bandaged hands

She clenches the rosary lifts it up
the beads speak back
a dialogue between hands and heart

Her eyes open, roll back into her head
looking inward for salvation
from this cruelty imposed upon her
She contemplates the Mysteries
joyful, luminous, sorrowful and glorious
in rhythm with the IV drip.

7/25/2010

Things to Do - Be a Stepmom

As I churned the marshmallows in the large stainless steel pot, readying them for Rice Krispie treats, my phone rang twice. One stepdaughter was asking to go out to a party following Ultimate Frisbee practice. The second stepdaughter was going out as well. For now, they had the same destination, but different curfews.

As I hung up from the first, who I encouraged to go despite the early curfew, telling her she needed the practice to drive, her last words were “I love you,” streaming forth from the speaker though I had already set down the phone and hit “end” to stir so the marshmallows wouldn’t burn.

A similar situation occurred with the second. As I was hanging up, trying to keep the Rice Krispies from popping, an “I love you” was quickly muttered.

I was pleasantly surprised at how both conversations ended, but instantly my mood turned sour when I thought about Kyron Horman, the missing Oregon boy. More so, I thought about his stepmother who had been in the headlines of every Google News column and People magazine caption.

Stepmothers get a bad rap, and I tire of it easily. The girls have done things on occasion that I am certain their mother would have found abhorrent, and certainly would have disciplined them in a harsher manner than I did. The “evil stepmother” term has probably been tossed around behind my back, but I take comfort - and humor - in that.

And the fact remains, I am still here. I wash their laundry. I am at the other end of the phone when they call to tell me good news. I drive them to colleges and orientation, encourage them to shop for new clothes, which they don’t often do (who are these girls, right?). I am not perfect, nor do I have the patience for their nonstop speeches when I am ready for bed at 10 p.m. But I am still here.

A good friend told me one of her acquaintances in Arizona referred to her stepchildren as “bonus” children, and she their “bonus” mother. In our case, I tell folks, we are a blended family, but the girls are all mine. By this I mean, I treat them as if I birthed them. Sometimes there are discrepancies in my tone with my son vs. them, but there is also room to point out how different it is in raising girls and boys.

If Kyrons’ stepmom is responsible, shame on her. She will get what she deserves and most likely not be a part of any family that some one would trust her with. Mostly, shame on Disney, the Brothers Grimm, and the other fantastical media breathlessly waiting to type out, “The child’s stepmom…” They should work harder to find a better ending, I know I did.

7/5/2010

Top Ten Reasons to NOT Play Golf

1. I don’t have the right hair cut for it. Really. I have this disjointed thing goin’ on that everyone loves, but its not right for visors or ponytails.

2. I get poison ivy whenever I am near the woods and I go there often with my drives.

3. I have a novel in waiting. My characters live in early 1900’s, they just wouldn’t understand. They don’t make a move without me.

4. My sister looks better than I do in the chic golf clothes that she sells.

5. My son can outplay me, though I outweigh him.

6. My husbands swears a lot when he is on the course, and I like to retain my view of him as calm and humble.

7. I am opposed to drinking and driving (a ball or a cart) at the same time.

8. One never has enough balls….

9. Number 18 at O’Bannon finishes at the clubhouse, with a veranda full of people in view, just waiting for my errant shot. I would hate to get sued….

10. Really. Novel. Still. Waiting.

Things to Do - Celebrate a 50th Birthday

Yesterday came and went so fast, I hardly had time to adjust to the knowledge that I had been dreading the day. My first husband, Devin, would have turned 50. So long as Davis has been able to walk and golf, we have played golf in honor of his dad’s birthday, sometimes not so successfully (of course, only speaking for myself).

The day came in spurts of driving, drop offs, and errands. The girls were off on their mission trip and even Davis was not home for long until he reentered the house after a basketball game and said, “Welp, I just need to get changed and we can go!”

I sat in a kitchen chair, dumbfounded, having been living in the world of my fictional character, trying to develop a life for her mother who had gone missing and her father who had stayed. Of course, this was just the opposite of what Davis had experienced ten years ago. A father passing, a mother who stayed.

As I dug my nose out of the History of Cincinnati Opera book, Davis came back downstairs, carrying an envelope full of memories. His grandparents had been cleaning out drawers and passed along a stack of newspaper clippings and pictures from his father’s childhood and young adult years. A few snapshots made me wince, as I recognized a young self with BIG hair seated next to a young man, a smooth tan face, eyes engaged on his subject. Davis was quick to note he might never be as tall as his father, but I was quicker on the draw. "Yes, but you have his smile."

I’m sure it was difficult for Davis to read what an accomplished golfer his father had been. But Devin grew up on golf courses, had a father who was a golf coach, so he was already ahead of the curve that Davis is driving on now.

And here I sat with Davis, wondering. Have I made the right decisions for him? How will he serve others? Will he find his passion, or does he already possess it within?

The heat took my breath away and thus I took my time on the golf course, also savoring each minute with Davis. I had to admit, perhaps we were not there to honor his father’s birthday, so much as give me an excuse to be with Davis. He would soon be in high school. Months after Davis was born, a lunar eclipsed occurred. I wrote, “As hands travel around the clock, with you I have traveled the world. I have tasted more than I ever dreamed possible.” Yes, these were the gifts that kept on giving. Time with Davis, time to understand how to let go.

We began arguing about whether or not he was taking his time on his putts, which were a little off that day. He was using his Dad’s putter that had been regripped, “I’m still getting used to the new grip.” My claim was, “You need patience.” But really, no soon to be 14 yr old had ever developed patience without trying their parents. He turned to me jokingly and said with a smile, “Dad wouldn’t want us to be arguing on his birthday.” And I replied with a smirk, “We’re not arguing, your dad would have told you the same thing.”

Later, on the 14th or 15th hole, he made a shot from behind the trees that was quite spectacular. When he came out from the trees to find me, his smile was wider than any I can recall in recent memory. That is what his dad would have wanted on his birthday.
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To Do List - Climb a Tree

I amazed at how long it takes the seeds in my life germinate. They are unlike the lettuce seeds sowed only weeks ago and now I can enjoy the fruits of my limited labor. But the seeds that are cause for growth of others around me, or even myself.

Several years ago, I undertook the effort to become a certified facilitator in the ways of Women Writing for (a) Change. Though I had long been a published author, a writer in the WWFC groups, a board member of the foundation and a podcast facilitator, I had yet to commit myself to a life of writing. They were seeds scattered, hoping a plant or flower might grow. Hope triumphed over intention, and intuition reigned over planning or action.

Early last year in 2009, I found myself walking through a newly wooded path carved out near my home. I was listening to a podcast in which a well known author Don DeLillo and Alan Dienstag had teamed up to produce a writing workshop for individual in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.

My mother lives in northern Ohio and I live in Cincinnati. At the time, she too had begun the descent into dementia, with family well aware of the potential outcome in years to come. At that moment, in those woods, with snow softening my heart, something inside of me melted as if to water a seed newly planted. I knew I may not frequently be in a place to offer my gifts to Mom but resolved to share them with others in a similar position.

With vigor, I created a lengthy proposal to create a writing circle that could potentially be administered and supported by the Alzheimer’s Association, in the same way they support an art program called Creative Memories. While researching, I found the Arizona Alzheimer’s Poetry Project and studied their findings. I misspelled Alzheimer’s each time I typed the word and cursed Alois Alzheimer, the neuropathologist who first described the condition back in 1906, on the surface because of his name, but deep down inside, for the disease itself.

Through the Internet, I came across the name of a former writing sister who had been a board member of the association. I made contact with her, asked for her input, and put my proposal to the association in the mail.

By now, it was summer. Six months had passed. Lifetimes had come and gone for Alzheimers individuals. Present day events were escaping their memory as fast as I could type.

Four weeks following my submission, I called the director. She seemed rushed, though took my call. I briefly explained who I was and asked was there interest in this program. She sucked in her breath, and brusquely told me they had plenty of programs they were already offering and had no interest in mine at the time.

I hung up the phone and sunk into my chair. Plenty of programs, but how many were designed to recover lost voices? As would happen, I was an avid newspaper reader, and because of Mom’s condition, had noticed the ads about the award winning Alois Center near Winton Woods. I knew nothing of the center, had not visited, yet I placed a call to the number indicated regarding activities for the residents and shared my thoughts. I no sooner heard back than was sitting with the Director Jennifer Delassandro and Activities Director Marvin Knoblach about the creation of this circle.

Though I was blunt about wanting funding, and my proposal would prove to be out of sync somewhat with what the residents were capably of, the center offered me the opportunity to launch this program, with the understanding that they would be my only client in the memory care field. This was a difficult decision to agree to, as it was also stipulated that there would be no monies available in the immediate future, but perhaps there would be access to funding in the long run.

Because this seed germinated deep in my heart, from a place only a higher power could have reached to plant, I agreed to let it grow within me. Luckily, a close friend of mine, Leigh agreed as well.

Over a set of four weeks, and then another four weeks, we threw out all my original poems and ideas. but one. It was the beginning class. “I am from,” the poem begins. We asked the residents to use this line as a jumping off point for their own writing. And when we did, we found residents “from a river town in Kentucky” and found others that wrote about where they were from, but soon tore up the paper in an effort to destroy the memories.

We captured each agenda and lessons learned, of which there were many. Focus on the rhythms of poetry as much as the words. Keep it simple. Facilitators should not be writers. Help them remember. Involve the use of multiple senses to evoke. The basic tenets of any teaching were all present. And yet something was lying underneath.

Though we were there to talk about poetry and writing and their lives, we also existed in a one hour vacuum that allowed for the residents to be present in moment, together in community. They would laugh at each other’s jokes. Hold hands. Pass the stone to check-in, which was one day a baseball instead. Smell rawhide. Eat birthday cake. Hold up a shell to their ears to listen for the ocean. Run their fingers through sand in a box. Croon all the words to “What a Wonderful World.”

Eat a hot dog while singing "Take me out to the ballgame," even if they “hated Sundays because my mother and dad always watched the ballgames on TV”, or while they recounted the memory of their “father working at the post office, and occasionally taking me to the game,” or even chastised “those who drink too much beer at a ballgame.”

For our “Jazz” theme, each participant was given a musical instrument, culled from our possession of preschool items, outdated in both our households. Each resident took up their instrument, in a call to arms, and shook rattles and bells to the tune of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Though some were not mobile, we encouraged those who could to rise up and march. Some looked at us with a blank stare, but two bold women jumped out of their seats, with urgency of someone who heard “Fire,” and began to clap their hands and shake their tambourine.

My mother would have been singing Louis and Ella, and for certain, she would have danced with the other bold women. One might think I could have facilitated this one on one with her, but I have found that it is the energy of the group which fosters the courage to grow, to dance.

The center maintains files with the resident’s writings. When the staff meets with the family of a participant, the writing is shared. Families are seeing loved ones in new ways, separate from their disease.. Someone who regrets “not buying that house on Cape Cod, when it was selling for pennies.” Someone who will write down simple words, “Elba, Italy with my wife,” as a special time spent at the ocean. And those simple words speak volumes for one who can’t.

What was lying underneath the participants and their writing was the seed that had been planted in me. We had now planted those seeds within them. Most residents don’t recall what day of the week that we arrive with more bags than a family of four on vacation. But they have a sense that they don’t want to miss it. “Make sure they remember to come get me when you are here,” one woman tells us each time. And hugs are always exchanged, both ways.

With gratefulness we were rewarded by the staff who provided us with support, inspiration, gifts cards to the Cheesecake Factory, and journals for our own words. And even more satisfying, a phone call came later in our last week, from the Executive Director, interested in meeting with us, to find funding so the residents could continue this method of self-expression.

There are tomato seeds that push through the earth to become food and seeds that grow into bursting dahlias for my vases. But some seeds take root farther below the soil. Seeds that become trees for shade on a simmering August afternoon, for leaning against while killing time, and those that perennially produce fruit and nuts. Best of all, some seeds become trees that are meant for climbing.

Knowing What is Coming 

2010-05-09 A somewhat fictional take on Mom’s dementia

One day, they remember Holden
from Catcher in the Rye - and can recall
Tony Bennett all brown-eyed singing
Close Your Eyes while their hips swayed

Soon they begin to ask to go home
while they are sitting comfortably in the wooden chair
where they rocked their babies and yours
They forget the name of your children and or their husband
They walk out of doors cleverly concealed
behind rock band posters from the 70’s
you thought they might recognize
because they hated kids listening to that music
and they would yell turn that damn thing off
but they find the door because they are on a mission

following fences or power lines
to reconnect with their chatty maid of honor
whose voice was silenced by sickness
or to find their child who will only exist
in a cemetery plot where babies are buried

or drawn to the lake
where you went together and watched the sun go down
They licked around the edges
of your banana ice cream cone
telling you don’t let it drip all over the car
while you watched the sandstone fountain
spray runny reds yellows then greens and blues

and only now, can they catch sight of rainbow’s end
which no one could see during those summer nights
when the ball of fire set late o’er the waves
From the front seat they would recite
red skies at night, sailors delight,
red skies at dawn, sailors be warned
And you took delight because you knew that rhyme by heart.

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.