Winter Poem(s)

Okay, so I'm working on this poem. Small tweeks here and there, but the real difference is in the endings. As the writer, I see this as simply two ways of looking at something, and both seem legitimate to me. Read on, if you like, and see what you think. (I have also posted the same thing on Lotta Torres but in separate posts.) Carol

Wintering

Carol Schiess

We’ve seen

the last hurried plunge of leaves,

swept off by an impatient wind,

leaves whose ambers, rust reds,

fuchsia pinks have heightened

the sky's bold blue

and held sunlight in the trees.

Color dies

with the passing of the leaves

and nature pushes time

into colder, briefer days.

Trees look older now,

stripped, shamed,

something pitiful revealed

in the collective reaching skyward

of frail limbs.

In winter,

a fearful presence

inhabits the lowering clouds,

waits beneath a hardened earth.

We, in that season,

are left without comfort

knowing, as we do, that

death can come

before spring.

Wintering

Carol Schiess

We’ve seen

the last hurried plunge of leaves,

swept off by an impatient wind.

Leaves whose ambers,

rust reds, fuchsia pinks

have heightened

the sky's bold blue

and held sunlight in the trees.

Color dies

with the passing of the leaves

and nature pushes time

into colder, briefer days.

Trees look older now,

stripped, shamed,

something pitiful revealed

in the collective reaching skyward

of frail limbs.

In winter,

a fearful presence

inhabits the lowering clouds,

waits beneath a hardened earth.

We, in that season,

are left without comfort,

as if, like the trees,

we have forgotten

what we always know—

that spring will come.

Hooray

I have been raking leaves for a few days, front and back. It's not that I can't do it, just that it takes me so very long.

But today Chad called. He brought his son Jordan over and they raked the rest of my backyard leaves. In a few days I got three bags. They filled four today. And it's done.

I'm really really glad they did that for me. Really glad. Good people, those Wards.

At the Dentist's

Kimberly, the hygienist: Any teeth giving you trouble?

me: I don't want to say.

kth: Oh?

me: (Deciding that I don't want to go into it with her), well, this one, down here, has started to hurt a little.

kth: We'll get an xray and let the doc look at it.

me: Um hm.

kth: Is it cold or hot sensitive?

me: Cold, but not hot, and it doesn't hurt all the time.

kth: (After the xray.) Well, I see a little something starting down there. Nothing much. Not too serious, but it could get worse, you know. He'll probably send you to an endodontist. You may need a root canal there, but the good news is you already have a crown, so you wouldn't have to have one of those. They can just drill down through the crown, do the root canal, and then do a filling in the crown.

me: (That's your idea of good news.) Out loud: Um hm.

Kth begins to clean my teeth. And begins with the questions. You know, so I'll feel loved.

kth: So. How's you're daughter that got married?

me: lng.

kth: Now, she was older. Right?

me: nnglng.

kth: How old was she?

me: (Lifting my head so she'll take the spit-sucking tool out of my mouth) She'll be 34 next month.

kth: Oh yeah. Well, I hope everything is fine.

me: lng.

kth: What are you doing for Thanksgiving?

me: glnglngg.

kth: Me, I'm going out to Smoky Mountain, I mean Smokey Davis, and get a smoked turkey. I'm not cooking one.

me: (Gesturing with my fingers) ngl lngng?

kth: Either $3.19 or $3.90 a pound.

me: nmlng!

kth: Yeah, I know. It's pricey, but I don't have room in my oven anyway. Well, I suppose I could cook a breast. No. I'll just get one from Smoky Moun . . . I always get Smokey Davis mixed up with Smoky Mountain Pizza. Anyway, I'll probably get a 10-pounder or so. I told my mom to just come over. No reason for her to cook. There'll only be five of us. Well, one is two and a half, so she doesn't count, so that's only four. And a ham. I'll get a ham. I like ham with my turkey.

me: (Ham and smoked turkey. Hmm.) Out loud: nlngng.

kth: My husband's job is to make the side dishes. He's good at that. My dad. He never did anything. Still doesn't, just always sits around waiting, for every meal. "When do we eat?" That's all he ever would say. Or, "What's to eat?" I say, "Dad, you have legs. And arms. Get yourself something. It's not Mom's job to feed you."

me: (Different generation.) Out loud: gnlg.

kth: Different generation, you know? Could you turn your head this way a little? My husband, if he asks me what's to eat around here I just say, "Find out for yourself," or "Fix whatever you want. Have a samwich or something." He's started complaining that he doesn't like it that I only buy whole wheat bread, and I say, "Well, how would I know that? Say something about it." Close your mouth a little more, Carol.

me: unh.

kth: I love whole wheat bread, but I guess he doesn't. So I buy both now, but he doesn't eat many samwiches, so the white always rots and I have to throw it out, so last time I put half of the white in the freezer and that works better.
He likes to cook, actually, but if I let him cook our dinner we wouldn't eat until 8 or 9 at night, he's so slow at it. Me, I get it on by six. Home by 5:20, dinner on the table by six, just whatever we have in the house.

me: gnlng.

After the cleaning, "the doc" comes in.

doc: How are you, Carol?

me: Fine.

kth: Carol complains of some pain in #19. I took a picture.

Doc takes a look at the picture, then at the tooth. He pokes around it with one of those sharp things, of course.

doc: Well, I see it's a tooth that's had a lot of work done on it.

me: Which one hasn't?

doc: Nothing much showing here yet. You can wait, you know, but you wouldn't want to wait too long. You know.

me: Um hm. I know.

doc: Could be the nerve is just dying. That happens as we . . .

And there, he stops, says not another word. Which, I suppose, he believes is polite, considerate, and will avoid the issue of my age--which he obviously thinks I'm sensitive about, but I'm not, except sometimes, like when people think I'm 80 or so.

me: Yes, it's an old nerve.

doc:

I stand. We all thank each other. I leave. My teeth feel clean. I like that part.

Just a note . . .

My yards are covered with leaves, notwithstanding the 27 bags of same stacked out front. Nobody's fault. Merely a fact.

Can't Be Helped

Tonight's snow fell straight down for a while, now there's a slight angle to it. Quiet snow. It now covers the leaves in my two yards. I've been saving them, the leaves, for tomorrow, when a crew from my ward is to come for the annual raking and bagging festival, Rake-up Boise. Libby called a couple of days ago to see if they can use my rakes. She was hoping for no snow. Oh well.

Snow complicates things, not the white of it as much as the moisture. We shall see how much remains in the morning, see how heavy the leaves, how well the volunteer rakers do.

Update at 9:30 AM:
They came, they raked, they conquered. I have 27 bags of leaves lining my sidewalk. Thanks for it.

And This Day

When I was a child, November 11 was known as Armistice Day. It was a commemoration of the signing of the armistice at the end of WWI. Now it is Veterans Day, made so in 1954, to honor all who have served this country in war.

My dad's brother, my Uncle Clyde, served in the Navy during World War II. I know little of that service, except for the stories he told about ship life, particularly their dealings with sea gulls. He said they found the gulls to be very annoying and would try tricks on them.

Like this one: secure two hot dogs to a long piece of string, one at each end, then throw it high into the air and watch what happens when two sea gulls grab hold. I liked the story, liked the picture I got in my mind, knew my dad would never do such a thing, but Uncle Clyde was nothing like my dad.

I know that his service during the war involved more than birds, and I would like to say thank you to him for it. I did not thank him while he lived.

My brother, Bill, served in the Marine Corps during the early 1950s, but not in Korea. I know he was stationed on Adak, one of the islands of the Aleutians, the part of Alaska that curves far out into the water between the Bering Sea and the North Pacific Ocean. I know that part of his duty there was to stand watch on top of a building on the base, and once, while performing that duty, he was blown off the building by the wind. In the fall, he broke his ankle. I don't know if that's a reason to honor him, but why not? He did his service honorably.

This Day

Please to remember, the 5th of November
The Gunpowder Treason and plot ;
I know of no reason why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.

This is Guy Fawkes Day. Guy Fawkes, with other Catholic conspirators, plotted to burn the houses of Parliament and bring down England. November 5, 1605, is the day the plot was discovered and brought to failure. The day has no significance for Americans, only for those who are part of the UK.

But I remember the poem because it appears early in Growing Up, the first volume of Russell Baker's autobiography.

The book opens with Baker's visit to his mother who, at age 80, has fallen and whose mind, after that, travels freely through the past but never seems to hit upon the present.

During the visit she does not know Russell, claiming Russell is only "this big," gesturing that he would be a small boy.

A doctor comes by to see her and begins quizzing her. (I guess that's what doctors do.)

"What day is this?" "Do you know where you are?" And so on. She fails the quiz "catastrophically," says Baker, until the doctor asks her birthday. "November 5, 1897." The doctor is amazed and asks how she knows this. "Because I was born on Guy Fawkes Day." Then she recites the poem Russell had heard many times in his growing up years.

Just a bit of trivia for you. I guess it's trivia. But the book is far from trivial. One of my favorites.

Witch Laugh and A Couple of Miscellaneous Word Things

The woman with the witch laugh still lives here, but this Halloween she did not laugh as she greeted trick-or-treaters. It takes some effort, you know.

A few people who called that night, expecting to be greeted with the customary witch laugh, expressed disappointment. So she laughed for them. It's a wicked, gleeful, cackle, you know.

One caller was Richard, who wanted Penelope to hear the witch laugh. Okay, easy enough, happy to do it.

One caller was Alyce, who now outdoes her mother in the witch laugh area. I say good to that. But here's the kicker. Alyce's husband Ben outdoes them both. High-pitched, effortless. It tickles the bones to hear it. Go figure.

Then, of all things, while they were on the phone they insisted that the witch do her turkey gobble. She tried to get out of it because that one really does take effort, but they were relentless. So she did it, and I must say it was great.

The word things

1. In an email I received yesterday: tricker treaters
2. TV, a football game color commentator describing an outstanding punt return or something like, said, ". . . boy, he put an explanation point on that!"