I Just Don't Know

Someone who read my poem last week spoke to me about it. She liked it. That's always good to hear. I told her I like it, too. Then I said, "It's getting harder to be creative."

She said, "That's because you know too much. You've seen too much."

I think my response was something like, "Yeah. Probably so." And she may be right. Stuff gets stacked up in the brain. Hard to sort it out, I guess.

But, actually, I was thinking that the more I know/see, the more creative I ought to be. That's what makes sense to me. Doesn't that make sense to you?

Maybe she was just saying--in code--that I'm too old. Getting old renders a person not so creative. Well, maybe it wasn't in code.

I don't believe this is necessarily true, and we have many "old" creative people as evidence that it isn't. Just give me a minute and I'll think of one.

Anyway, lend me your thoughts, if you're not too old to have some.

A Poem. Yes, another one by me

Winter Walk

More than anything

it was a walk for mulling

pulling into myself to get lost in thought

so far in I could study the curves and kinks

of my own brain

not a collecting walk

not for gathering data or noticing

the shallowness of the river

water lines on rocks

trees felled by beaver teeth

duck families floating easy

in the sunshine—these

are for other times

Of course

one has to look up now and then

check the turn of the path

follow several V’s of honking geese

ascertain that the sky

shows darker blue through trees

squeeze out a hello to oncomers

and is not immune to the bite

of winter air

still

one can take in these elements

without interrupting the private narrative

the silent humming

the rhythm of step step step step

Such was my walk today

quiet cold self-absorbed

until two women stop me on the path

to learn if I have seen him

the naked man across the river

pointing

they describe the workings of his mind

as though it were their own

his age his motivation and posture

as I try to keep

my direction

my progress

my thoughts

but they persist and

Putting on my glasses

I follow their fingers to a spot

where they say he was

but is no longer

they assure me he was there

remind me it’s not normal

and so close to the golf course

I move on

the same route as before

though I am altered

now I must ponder this young naked man I have not seen

is he well

does he have a home

was he there gathering courage

to jump

drown himself in the winter water

now I must worry about him

now I must look out

What's Up With That?

The moon's pull has caused the earth to wobble. This happens every 25,000 years or so, says the guy at the planetarium in Minnesota, the guy who is upsetting folks who follow their horoscopes.

Because things have moved and the stars look like they're in different places and there's a new constellation, which has become the thirteenth sign of the Zodiac.

And so all this has moved other people, or moved their signs, or however one ought to say it. Which means, to me personally, not a heck of a lot. But to some people a heck of a lot. Some people live by that stuff.

Still, it means enough for me to mention it, because at least I know "my sign." Yep. For all my life I've been a Virgo. Yeah, big deal.

Well, now I'm not. I'm a Leo.

Come on. I don't think so.

At least I'm not an Ophiuchus. That's the new sign, the thirteenth. And I'm not kidding.

Three Pieces of "News"

1. Starlings, about 200 of them in my front yard. Not the 500 my neighbor Janice claimed, but lots of birds. She called and told me to go to my front window carefully. I did. Yes, I've seen starlings, but not in those numbers, not in my own front yard.

Never my favorite bird, the starling, but I did like seeing them today just outside my window. And I do like to watch them fly. They look like a thin black cloud, except that clouds do not usually move so swiftly and change directions in an instant as starlings do. I wonder which bird in the group decides their direction and how the decision is communicated with such immediacy. It's a big group, you know.

They left my yard of a sudden, came back a time or two, and then were gone, one bird staying behind. He looked stunned, wandered along the concrete path a while. Pretty soon a group came along and he jumped up and joined them.

2. Richard and his family are coming down this month. It's a birthday present from Sarah to Richard. She told me it was a surprise, but today she said she'd had to tell him because he was planning an elder's quorum social for then. January 20 through 27.

I'm glad. I'll be telling everyone in the family now. I'm almost as excited to see Penelope and Axel as Richard is to have me see them.

Here's what Sarah told me today. She was trying to get them all out the door to go somewhere. Penelope was not cooperating.
"Come on," said Sarah. "We need to go."
"I have to get my bag," said Penelope.
"Why?" asked Sarah.
"Because it has my stuff in it."
"What kind of stuff?"
"Cool stuff. You wouldn't understand."
Penelope's three.

3. I saw George Huff at Winco today. He was pushing his cart straight at me, looking pleased as, you know, Punch. Also looking mighty frail. I said, "George. So they're letting you out all by yourself now?"

He said, "This is the first time. Don't tell Carolyn." That's his daughter, who has been right by his side since he became ill last summer. I think she's out of town. I won't tell her, but I did tell him to be careful. As if that would help anything.

I actually thought he should not have ventured out. It's colder than normal just now--in the low 20s--and he has next to no meat on his bones to keep him warm. I don't know the last time he drove. And I hate to say this part, but he is old.

I understand the urge, though, the need he feels to get in his own car and drive it to where he wants to go. Winco was his place of choice, although I figure it's not likely he had to have groceries. Not if I know Carolyn.

It's not the place that matters but the going, the doing. It proves he's still independent. Still his own man. More power to him.

I Take Down the Tree . . .

It is done. Or undone, as the case is. And I am the one who undone it. Because, hey, who else is there? Or here?

Let me just say. No easy task.

I seek no pity, only your attention for a moment while I tell you the hardest part was sawing the top couple of feet off the tree. I went out to the garage, got the saw, and said to myself, "This is going to take a while," since the saw is old and dull. Did I say dull? Double it. It did take a long time, and I hurt my hands, and I'm still sick, and so on and so forth.

But I done it. Yes, I know, did it.

The Santas and snowmen and angels and snow globes are out of sight. And the nativity is boxed up, the one my friend Joyce made for me in 1979.

I remember . . . it was Christmas Eve and we were at Grandpa & Grandma Schiess's house when they lived on Larch in Caldwell. There was a knock on the door, and I went and opened it to Joyce holding a big box. It was for me, she said. She wouldn't come in, Christmas Eve after all. I think I may have cried as I opened it and unwrapped each figure, so carefully smoothed and rubbed with brown stain. You don't get the picture, I'm sure, unless you have seen them. I was a bit stunned by it. Such a gift.

I made a cloth to set the figures on. I would display it on my cedar chest when we lived at 722. Here I most often set it out on the piano. It is beautiful. Of course, I put it out every year.

I have gone off on this tangent for two reasons:

1. As I put it away today, wrapping each piece so carefully, I realized for the first time--that's 31 years ago she made it for me--for the very first time that she must have loved me a lot.
   
2. Her life is changing and I do not know how joyful the changes are.

Summary of the morning's activities:
All things Christmas that adorned my house are put away. Except the mistletoe, but I'll stand on a stool and get it down. The poinsettia, which I'll keep until I kill it somehow. The wreath, which I always leave up for a few months, just in case the finches come back.

We like to get our houses in order, put away the festive things.

But this year especially I hope we do not put away the love we have felt for one another and for our Savior.

That's what I hope

After-Christmas Bullets

Random.

• Alyce and Ben, whose flight to Philadelphia was cancelled Sunday, got to go Monday. They are home.
  

• Paul and Tasha, whose Sunday flight to NYC was cancelled, went Monday--to Atlanta. Tuesday, I assume, to Puerto Rico. Yes, Peter and Caroline too.
  

• One of my daughters-in-law said she found a recipe for spaghetti tacos, made them, and they were good. Okay. So, really, what do I know? Still . . .
  

• Rain for two days straight. I had begun to wonder if we would ever have relief. We have it today . . . in the form of snow. Oh joy.

• Sick. Fever. Ache all over. That's me. Might be the flu. But yesterday was the worst day. This morning I actually cleaned three toilets, all mine. So I look to tomorrow. Then maybe I'll feel like untrimming my house.

• I absolutely loved Christmas this year.
  

• I wonder, truly, if we'll all be together some time. Tasha is trying to stir interest in having a Schiess family get-together next summer. I'm for it.
  

Addendum to Left Over

Addenda, maybe, because I actually have two things.

1. Today's Wiki How To is How to Make Spaghetti Tacos. Just what I want, tortillas with noodles inside. Would have to have a terrific marinara sauce, don't you think? And meatballs. Still, I can't want any. Wiki doesn't call them leftovers, but I do, and I just have to say that my friend's spaghetti sandwiches predate this idea.
   
2. Ann tells of a family she knows who, every Sunday, open the fridge, take everything left over from the week, put it together in a pot, cook it up, add ketchup and barbecue sauce, and eat it for Sunday dinner.

Come on, I said, that can't be true. Ann says it is.

Stranger things have happened, I guess. Just ask Superman.