Yawn

Comes a certain time in the afternoon, and I'm done. I may as well unroll my sleeping bag and crawl in, because my mind has pretty much checked out and taken with it any gumption. As you may have guessed, that time has arriven.

Actually, I have just now arisen from a 15-minute lie down which turned into a troubled hour and twenty minutes. Troubled because I kept opening my eyes and saying, "Okay, I'm getting up." Which I did not do for several of those eye openers.

Daytime naps are a rarity for me. A waste of time. As if I never waste time otherwise. Hmph.

Something happens to me if I sleep too long in the afternoon, besides the regular "it's that time and I'm done" thing. It doesn't seem to make me feel rested. Contrario, I feel logey (I don't know how to spell that word which I learned from my mother) and slow. And perhaps I get a little stupid, as the tone of this post seems to indicate.

And besides, I woke with a song in my head, where it remains--stuck. And why this song? "Sioux City Sue." I could put the lyrics here, but I won't.

A note on the day, this day. WINDY. Very, very. Temperature mid 40s. Although we have had some sun.

There you go.

Just Wait, Please

Writing a poem requires lots of thought and some considerable effort. But when you get one right, which happens only occasionally, it is very satisfying. I've had that happen.

I've also had the experience of finishing a poem, then finishing it again some time later, then fussing with it again after years have passed and wondering if it will ever be to my liking.

Sometimes I just want to write a poem. That doesn't mean I'll be able to; it just means I want to, and so I might try at such a time. But usually a poem is the result of something that has come into my mind and sticks there, something I find striking or intriguing, and I work it around and put words to it and see if I can write it the way it seems to be in my brain.

That is the considerable effort part.

The inspiration can be something I see or hear or remember. Or all of those working together.

I don't remember who said that a poem doesn't have to mean (as in mean anything), it only has to be. Whoever said it was a real, published, money-making poet, as I recall.

Which thing I am not.

But I have never quite agreed with the statement. Oh I have written poems that just play with language. But, usually, for me, a poem ought to have meaning. So my poems have meaning, and some even have significance. At least for me.

Now, something else.

If I base a poem on something from my memory, that does not mean I am trying to replicate an event or incident. I may simply use a moment and work it around to get a certain feeling across to readers. Or a picture, or at least a sense of something.

So there.

I do not intend here to address matters like the rhythm of the language or the look of the poem or line length or the ends of lines or the beginnings of lines or rhyme, etc., etc. So I will not address those matters.

All of this is preliminary to my saying there is another Bob. And I wrote a poem based, in part, on an actual incident involving him and me. The incident occurred when I was 11 years old--and so was he--but I wrote the poem in my 40s.

I like the poem. But it is one that I have tinkered with over time. Partially because people who knew a lot told me I couldn't write it the way I did--in second person--so I changed it several times, finally coming back to the way I wrote it in the first place.

One thing I think the poem does is show something innocent, childlike. Another is that it seems to make the whole thing a lot more serious than it really was. I can live with that.

Which are probably things I should not say about it. I mean, the poem can speak for itself.

Which it will do when I write about Bobby.

Bobs, Part 5

Then there was Bob Goon.

He and I were a couple for part of our junior year and all of our senior year in high school and for part of the following summer. He was tall, blonde, good looking, smart, on the track team, and his dad played the spoons, which is irrelevant.

Bob became a very successful attorney. Still lives in Santa Monica.

My three girls met Bob in 2004 at a high school reunion. He came over to us. I introduced him to my daughters, and then he said--and I'm not kidding; ask my girls--"I was almost your dad." And he kissed me on the lips. Was that before or after he said that?

Who was more flabbergasted? Me? Or my daughters?

Of course, it was not true. I never even gave marriage to him A THOUGHT. NEVER!.

And it had nothing to do with the fact that I would have been Mrs. Goon. Although that is something to think about.

It had to do with I didn't love him. I already knew who I was going to marry. I never even let Bob kiss me--in all the time we went together. And he could say a thing like that?

Really! Some people!

I just thought of something. That's probably why he kissed me in 2004. Our first kiss.

Bobs I Have Known, Part 4

Robert Fine and George Carroll made an odd pair, but they were friends, almost inseparable. This was sixth grade at Washington School.

Robert was Jewish. George was not. Robert had black woolly hair. George's hair was string staight and brown.

Robert was soft, kind of flabby. George was just skinny. George had one eye that turned in a little. Robert did not. People sometimes made fun of Robert, maybe George, too, but I'm not sure.

Neither was athletic in the least way. In fact, if you get a picture in your mind of an athletic young boy, Robert was the exact opposite of that picture. Feet turned out, arms kind of flailing when he ran. George was small and perhaps not interested in sports. Maybe his eye made him so.

They had a few other things in common. Both were very smart. Both clever. Both easy laughers. Both in Miss Meister's class. Both in love with me. Go figure.

In-class behavior was more or less circumspect, although they sometimes lingered at my desk on the way back from the pencil sharpener. One at a time, of course.

At recess, they may as well have been in my pocket or glued to my side. I mean, they stayed really close.

They liked to chase me. I was not so fond of that. Such a waste of a good recess.

If I played hopscotch or four square or whatever, they were there watching, heads together, talking about me. They actually made up a language so they could talk about me and not risk my knowing what they were saying.

One phrase I heard a lot was "ugga blugga." One of them might say it and then the other might say it louder, then grin or run off. George told me later--I don't know how much later--it meant I love you.

They probably never knew it, but I loved them, too. Just not the same way.

I do not know what became of George. Robert, when last I saw him at our 30-year high school reunion, was Bob Fine, disc jockey for the dance that night and holder of a very good day job: math teacher at Santa Monica College. He wasn't still in love with me, but he was interested.

Oh Yes You Can

And I'm not kidding.

This Christmas you can get the long-hoped-for Chia Obama. At least that's what I'm calling it--long-hoped-for.

Oh yes.

You Can put Obama's head on your desk or display it in some prominent place in your house. You know, to honor him.

Just spread the seeds and watch it (his hair) grow.

Here. Watch the commercial for it at
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fCiTAJi1yRk

Also available at Amazon.com and elsewhere.



Note to my Elfster friends: This is not, I repeat, NOT on my wishlist.

So There!

My brother Bill (Wilford Brimley, you know) was on The Late, Late Show Wednesday night. It's a show I don't watch. Too crude and stupid. But Wednesday I watched.

I missed the first part of his appearance, came in just when Craig Ferguson had asked Wilford what kind of a horse he had.

"A brown one." Off to a good start, I thought. Exactly what I would expect from Bill. Exactly what I would want him to say.

But I found the whole interview awkward; Ferguson appeared tense. That sounds right. Bill can make a person tense with his customary one-word answers and a touch of sarcasm. All in all, though, I liked it.

Bill asked Ferguson's nationality--duh, Bill--and, when he learned it was Scottish, mentioned our grandmother Margaret Kirk. "Scottish for church," said Ferguson. Duh, Craig.

My brother looked okay, not great but okay. Less hair than when I saw him last--like in a TV commercial. But with that great mustache. When Ferguson said he could never grow a mustache like that, Bill said, "It's a gift."

I wonder about rehearsals for an appearance like that. I can't see my brother putting up with a rehearsal. I wondered how they got him to come on the show at all.

At one point--and it felt like Bill was ready to be done with the whole thing--he said to Ferguson, "You're a nice young fellow, and I've enjoyed our conversation." Condescending? Maybe. But I don't think he meant it to be.

At the end, Ferguson said, "We have three options for our guests as we come to the end of their appearance. One is to observe an awkward silence; another is to give you a mouth organ; and the third is . . ."

But I can't remember what the third was, even though Bill, who seemed not to understand the whole concept (I couldn't blame him), asked for a repeat.

"Oh. Okay. Give me the mouth organ," he said.

So Ferguson plopped down a little box and, as Bill opened it and removed the mouth organ, Ferguson said, "We offer anyone who can actually play the mouth organ a gift of the Gold Mouth Organ."

Meanwhile, Bill put the thing to his mouth and made a few weak sounds. Ugh.

Then, and this is the best part, he launched into Oh Susannah, slick as could be. And perfect.

Ferguson shouted for joy and surprise, jumped up and ran from the stage, and returned carrying something on a red velvet pillow.

The audience was loving Oh Susannah, and so was I. As Bill finished it with a nice ritard, the audience cheered, and Ferguson handed Wilford the Gold Mouth Organ.

"This is for me?"
"It is."
And Bill held it up for all to see.

Was that rehearsed? I wonder. Whatever. I really liked it.

See! He's not just an old actor with a big mustache who now does diabetes commercials. He can also play the harmonica.

Duty

Yesterday I worked at the cannery--4 hours and 15 minutes. And, yes, I watched the clock.

Wouldn't you?

It's hard to stand in one place and turn pears over in the cans that are moving along a belt. Makes your back, legs, feet, shoulders, and mind sore. And if you get an itch somewhere, tough luck.

The pears are supposed to be round side up in the cans. Well, most ended up that way but many did not. Some got past me, and even got past the woman next to me, the end of the line woman.

The two young women on the other side of me were responsible for getting the pears into the cans. I thought that was easier, but it all has to be done fast.

There is no eating allowed on the line. If I thought ahead of time I might be tempted, I was wrong. And I certainly wanted nothing to do with the pear cobbler which was prepared for us workers to eat after our shift.

Here's the best part. It's over and I'm done.

Bobs, Part 3c

It's a mystery to me how junior high school kids could know so much about a boy I didn't know well yet. What I knew is what I have already written, and I believe he and I thought he was my boyfriend. But know stuff they did. And there was talk.

I was never in on the talk, because I did not gather with the talkers. But word would always get to me. Someone would make sure of that.

The talk was that Bob Small already had a girlfriend, Paula Knudsen, who was about a year older than I and who also attended John Adams Junior High. I have to say that news shocked me. He certainly didn't act like he had another girlfriend. Talk also was that Paula Knudsen would "go all the way," however they might know such a thing. I probably had a hard time believing it, because I knew her. But I did begin to look at her more purposefully, trying to see that in her, I suppose.

Soon there was other talk: Because Bob was paying attention to me, because he came after school to meet me, not her, I was somehow to blame. That is, some people might have said he was two-timing Paula, but most, and especially Paula, would hate me for it and accuse me of taking him away from her. A terrible thing, apparently.

But if I took him away from her I had little to do with it. Our meeting was just as I have described it, and I never asked for any attention or affection from him.

Poor me. Innocent. And naive.

I don't know how long it took me to--what--come to my senses? Realize that a 13-year-old Mormon girl has no business keeping steady company with an older, "experienced" boy? Allow the talk and disapproval of others to influence me? Be fearful of that moment by the garage? Maybe all of the above.

Maybe Bob would one day want from me what people said he got from Paula. I'll never know. But I do know that he never even came close to suggesting it.

I also know that it had nothing to do with my mother, because I never mentioned Bob to her, and if she had ever looked out of her kitchen window and seen us holding hands by the garage, she would have been out there in a flash. I think. And my dad? Never would I mention it to him. Actually, I never had personal conversations with either of my parents. That would be another story.

I guess I just decided I wanted nothing to do with the whole thing. So I stopped seeing Bob. I don't know what I told him, but I believe I hurt his feelings. Then he stopped coming to the dances; he stopped walking me home. No use now to talk about what might have been. That's the way it was. Just over.

Bobs, Part 3b

Editorial note: Because my children do not know me and likely cannot see me as anything/anyone other than their mother, these next parts may be difficult for them to read. Of course, they do not have to read them. It is difficult enough for me to write, although it is all quite innocent, just not motherly. But, hey, I was 13.

Bob Small gave me, or got from me, my first kiss. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon. We sat on the retaining wall and talked. He was holding my hands, telling me something. I wasn't listening. The way he held my hands was sending something electric and quite shocking into me. I could feel whatever it was move in my blood, but I couldn't move. I certainly could not look at him.

"Your hands look like a little boy's hands," he said.
I stared down at my hands. "They are, " I said, without knowing what I had said until he responded.
"They are?" It wasn't exactly a question, because he knew they weren't, but it startled me awake.
"Oh no. They're not." And I tried to laugh. Then I looked up, and I know now that he could see what was happening inside me. He said he wanted to kiss me.

I was terrified, but I did not say no. I think I didn't say anything. We stepped into the garage, away from my mother's kitchen window, and kissed. It was quick.

And here's the truth. I didn't know how. I don't remember if he laughed. He probably didn't, but he could have.

Bobs, Part 3a

When I think of Bob Small I think of my lavender dress with the wide belt at the waist. He liked it, so did I, so did other people. Good color for me, and so on and so forth.

We met at a Saturday night dance at church. I was 13. I know, I know. But times were different then.

The night Bob came to the dance was the first time I had ever seen him, but I knew right off he was not the church dance type. The smell of cigarette smoke said so, too.

But there he was, and it was like he came looking for someone. He said he came looking for me. But I couldn't be sure of that. I'm never sure of things like that.

The fact is he headed straight for me, and throughout the whole dance he acted like I was the one person he had been looking for for a long time. Other boys asked me to dance, but when they would walk me back to the side of the hall, Bob would come over to where I was. If I went into the restroom, which is where I heard other girls talking about him, when I came out he would be waiting for me.

Bob Small was older, 18 or 19. He combed his blond hair straight back into a duck tail, turned the collar of his shirt up, and wore khaki pants, pegged. These things made a statement, and I could see a certain knowledge in his pale blue eyes. The talk about him said he was experienced, which always meant with girls, and he had been in jail.

Dangerous.

After that dance, Bob would meet me after school every day. Or, if he couldn't meet me, his friend would meet me and tell me Bob would be there tomorrow or whenever it might be. I took this behavior to be a sure sign of experience, to let the girl know. Other boys might show up or might not and never say a word about.

Normally a boy Bob's age would have a car, but it was apparently part of his probation that he could not drive. No car. That was good, safe. It meant we walked to my house, a couple of miles from school. On those long slow walks we talked, got acquainted. When we reached my house we would lean again the retaining wall near the garage and talk more.

What I learned about Bob during those times was, jail or not, he was nice, he was gentle. He did not seem criminal in any way, though I hardly know what I expected.

Bob was always polite to me and interested in what I had to say. That was clearly different. Other boys, those my age, might be polite or they might ignore you, and you never knew which to expect. Other boys liked you to listen to them. I got to be very good at that.

But Bob would ask me about myself and listen and respond and chuckle when I spoke. How could I not like him?

But then . . .

Here's one other thing she said: My own grandchildren are afraid of me.

I said something about how sorry I was to hear it.

Then she said: I mean the grown up ones, not the little ones.

And we both laughed.

She still has a sense of humor.

No Denying Now

"People say I'm different." That's the first thing she said.

My turn to speak. I can't see her face--we're on the phone. But I know her face, and I also know what she would like to hear from me, that she is not different.

I couldn't say it. Instead I said, "I'm different, too. We're all different. You can't get older without changing." Well, that is true, and it seemed to be good enough. She agreed with it. Maybe it was comfort enough, too.

The truth?

She is different. More different than just that growing older different. Now, all conversations are about her, how this all began, how she's doing, that people are afraid of her, the medication, etc. Same ground covered again. If I bring up a topic, we move through it quickly, but then we're back. I do not blame her for that. No one is to blame for that. And I do not mind talking about her, except that . . . it's different.

I just had a thought. Her husband is in the room as we speak. Perhaps if we could go to lunch, just the two of us, she could relax a little. I think that's part of it; she sounds not quite herself. Oh, right. That is what we're talking about here, isn't it.

But also I think on those in-person visits, when he has left to run an errand or whatever, she has been more relaxed in our conversation. I think.

I wish I knew more.

Bobs, Part 2

It might have been third grade or second, we went on a field trip over to Bobby Clark's house to see his dad's motorcycle. His dad, also Bobby Clark, was a motorcycle policeman.

It was actually a very exciting thing for us, at least for me. Who didn't love a field trip? And there was something very special about knowing someone whose dad was a policeman. A motorcycle policeman, better yet. But, I mean, we were 7 or 8 years old.

Bobby and I were friends from kindergarten on. We graduated together and see each other at high school reunions. That's not very often, you know. Still friends, though.

Time was he liked me, as in "liked" me. And some people used to say things like we should go together, whatever that meant back then. You know, a friend of his would come up to me and say, "Bob likes you." Okay. I'm sure I thought it was nice. Was I supposed to do something? Sure, I liked him, but . . . And all this was before junior high even.

Some time in high school Bob Clark and Edna Cobb became a couple, which is what they are to this very minute.

Bob was athletic, smart, good looking, polite, honest. Know what I mean? A very good boy.

It's not as if we have kept in touch over the 50 years since high school, but when we see each other we know each other.

And I like him, not as in "like."

Bobs I Have Known, Part 1

There was Bob Carroll, and he "liked" me in junior high. Problem: I didn't like him. Still, I was polite, and in ninth grade went out with him. Where we went I don't know. School dance probably. Some adult must have driven us to wherever it was.

The part I remember happened when we came home and sat on my front porch to talk. He did the talking. "Alyce," he said (Alyce is my first name and the name I was known by all through public school). So are you still with me?

Here is what Bob Carroll said to me.

"Alyce, you're not the best looking girl I've ever known, but there's something about you."

What is that? A compliment? A criticism? Was I supposed to be grateful? Besides, he wasn't handsome, you know. Had he taken a look at himself? No mirrors in his house?

No, I did not kiss him goodnight. Wouldn't have if he'd said I was gorgeous.

I think it wasn't long after that that I told him I couldn't go out with him any more. I said nothing of his looks.

This was in the 1950s, so such a thing on my part took some courage. At least for me it did. After all, if I wasn't so good looking, was any other boy going to find the "something about me" attractive?

I shouldn't have worried.

Twinktella

Love Wiki-How, don't you. Here's today's

Love Nutella and Twinkies? How to Make a Nutella-Stuffed Twinkie

Go ahead. Try it. I don't even need to know how it turns out.

Speaking of Arms

Part 1
Years ago--before Ann was married--I shared a poem with her. Written by a student, I think (Ann might remember the circumstances better than I do), it contained an image that did not work for me. A love poem, no doubt, since it spoke of "the long arms of your eyes."

That's the image. Maybe I'm too literal--see part 2--but never could that image work for me.

I talked to Ann about it. We chuckled. She decided to write a poem using that line, and I don't remember if I challenged her to do it or if she just took it on. Here's what she wrote.

The long arms of your eyes thrust
themselves at me, and I just
melt into a pool of clear
mirrority, like your eyes, dear,
whose superiority surpasses
my wildest dreams, trespasses
into my heart of hearts
and leaps across my meadows, darts
through corridors of melodious woe
that follow me wheree'er I go.
Like your eyes.

She calls it a bad poem, and it is. But it's a really good bad poem.

Part 2
Speaking of arms.
It's a poem by a fellow graduate assistant--also years ago. She wrote about a sleepy student, but her image didn't work for me. (I've used these same words to describe both poems. They are code, of course, for what I really thought.)

Describing her sleepy student she said something about "your pillow arms." I thought she asked too much of me, of any reader. What came immediately to my mind was a picture of Popeye and his arms. Now those were pillow arms.

I can't remember her name, but I remember this: We both entered a poetry contest at Boise State University. She won with the pillow arms poem. (Should I mention other factors? Maybe, but I won't.)

My poem placed 2nd. It's called Physics Lesson.

Slipping in the back door,
I see mother silent, unmoving
against father's shouting,
his voice of rushing waters,
the voice of God, calling her names.
I hide upstairs in my books,
waiting for quiet,
not wanting to see father's face,
his thin mouth, his one dark eyebrow.

After he goes out
I start down the stairs.
Mother does not move at first
then quickly ties her apron,
plunges her hands into suds water,
hums the same three-note tune
as always.

When he comes home in the night
I hear sounds,
like the sounds of unoiled machinery,
push under the crack
of their bedroom door,
and move across the hall
to my room. Is this
why she stays? Or
is some force working here?
I hold my hands over my ears
and read.

Of course, I thought mine the better poem. Of course.

I would think that.

Hooray!

New carpet in family room, writing room, stairs, hall, and upstairs bathroom.

Carpet layers were four brothers and a cousin, all from Mexico. We spoke a little Spanish. They did good work. You should see the stairs. That was the hard part.

Andrew, Paul, Peter came tonight and moved the furniture and other stuff--and I do mean stuff--back. If you've been in my house, you know how much "furniture" I have in these places. Imagine all that in my living room.

Yes, I did thank them.

And, obviously, I now have use of my computer again. Three days without it showed me my dependence upon it.

Is that a good thing?

But it's about the carpet. I want everyone to come and see it. But not to step on it.

The Old Neighborhood

I grew up in Santa Monica. On Ashland Avenue, 609. My friend Joe still lives on Ashland, 520. Same house he grew up in.

He sends out reports now and then. Keeps up with house renovations, changes in demographics, and trick-or-treat numbers. He sent this year's number: 15. Down two from last year.

Here is another part of this year's report.

"Back in the 50's, the enrollment at Washington Elementary school was over 400 students. [Joe and I went to Washington Elementary School from kindergarten through 6th grade. That would have been from 1945 through 1951.] Now the school, and its bridge-linked "East Campus", [sic] is closed, along with the John Muir School Elementary school at Lincoln and Ocean Park Boulevards. The remaining elementary school-aged population has been consolidated into new and smaller buildings on the site of the old army base at 5th Street and OP Boulevard. The "new" bridge over 4th Street to the "East Campus" is gone, and that facility's 6-classrooms have been leased out to a private children's school."

I don't know what private children are, but I know what Joe means.

And I love getting his reports.

Here is my reply:
"Joe,
Thank you for the report.
I was thinking of Washington School just this week and our Halloween costume parades and subsequent carnivals. Good times.

"My husband Wayne went to John Muir. He told of a terrible incident there. The kids watched, Wayne included, as their 1st grade teacher ran across Ocean Park Blvd--as they had been told not to do--and was hit by a big blue bus coming down the hill. She was killed. Not something you would easily forget."

Solemn note to end on. Nevertheless . . .

A Kinder, Cheaper Kindle

If you're me--and you're not. (Okay, I know it should be if you're I, but I can't do it.)

So. If you're me, you bought a Kindle, but you don't use it as much as you think you should because after paying nearly $200 for it you hate paying more than $1.99 for a Kindle book and really believe all Kindle editions should be free.

But they're not.

If you're me, you figure if you're going to pay $13.99, or even $7.99, for a book you ought to get a book for the money. An actual book with real pages and page numbers and a cover and maybe even an illustration, although illustrations would just be gravy. It's the book. Yes, it's about the book.

My very recent email tells me that Amazon.com has sent me a list of 100 Kindle books under $3.99.

Okay. I'll look through the list. But that's still $4.00.