Things That Don't Change

Woman Reading by a Window, Gari Melchers, c.1905

I still clutch the cuffs of my sweater, one arm 

at a time, the way my mother taught me when
I put my coat on so it wouldn’t scrunch up my
sleeves at my elbows. The mother is gone and
the coat long outgrown, and I miss someone
fussing at me out of love and concern for my
clothing and comfort. I know a woman who
mounted a spring on her screen door so it
would slam shut as it did when she was a child.
The past can’t be reclaimed with hardware,
however, and the screen door might snap at
her fingers, as it must have when she was a child.

So I cling to the age I am—I can be sure of that—
and look around for the things that don’t
change. Today it’s the season’s first robin,
grown fat as a fireplug; new grass; and the slant
of the afternoon sun at the equinox, warmer
than yesterday’s, clearer than memories,
carrying images: baskets of bread by a
window... dark-blue linoleum kitchens... winter
coats worn one last time before hanging them
up in the attic with mothballs... embers not
quite cold now stirred into flame by the
ages-old afternoon sun at the equinox.

They Will Be Like You

They imitate the way you sneeze and tie your shoes and

cut your food, so please, if for no other reason, eat your

peas and brussels sprouts; and when you hold your head

high, when you scan the sky to find your polestar, they look

up there too, not knowing why, not yet. Your steady

temper teaches them serenity; it readies them to make

their way above the petty and the mean and not get

muddled over seeming versus substance, which is why they

trust that everything is as it needs to be in the reality of

here and now. And so you chart your course on higher

ground, not only for their sake, not just to see the sun

come up and gild the valley till it can’t contain the light; it’s

where the road to paradise begins.

The prophet says: You are beyond forgiven. In the morning

comes the splendid grace that lifts you up, scrapes off the

blemishes, and takes away the sting. And isn’t that (you ask

rhetorically) the Gospel, and the promise kept?—All things

are possible; all souls have wings.

***

This poem is available as a limited-edition print for Mothers' Day.Learn more at/www.zgravweb.net/mothersday.html

1950s Kid

Our house 1947-1960

I was looking for something entirely different
when I ran across these photos this morning.
The houses were landmarks in my "Nebraska
Territory," my "Sherwood Forest"... wherever my
adventures led. It was, and is, an ideal
neighborhood in which to be a child, or,
for that matter, an adult raising children....

Hendersons, Boyles, Kraschels, Liens...

SWADDLED ON SATURDAY

The Zimmermans', between the Marshalls' and the school
(the "park" I refer to in the poem)

Friday afternoon in early spring was
everything it ought to be but Saturday, and
better in its way—a long, warm wallowing in
fresh anticipation with activity suspended,
save the effortless, habitual mobility of
youth. I lived in energetic fantasies
adapted from tradition, witches, faeries,
elves, and television—much like those
of every little girl who has the slightest
inclination toward adventure in her DNA.

How pliable the world and I were then,
how agile my imagination, deftly crafting
Saturday scenarios and shaping
panoramic situations on the slenderest,
the most improbable of Friday whims.

In my fringed suede jacket — my long,
brown hair in braids that swished across
my back — I could be Jo March or
Annie Oakley, even Nancy Drew,
by simply wishing to and being fashion-
flexible respecting history. A lengthening
of stride on pleasant residential
sidewalks, in an instant turned to hard-
packed trails across Nebraska Territory,
had me guiding covered wagons westward,
though unhappily my little pony, Daisy, had
been left behind in Council Bluffs,
recuperating from an infestation of the...
um... of the hiccups! Such a mystifying case,
so strange.

The wind changed. Balmy just a tick ago,
the day turned oddly dark, and
cold, quick puffs of what remained of
winter merged into a gale. I loosed my
braided hair and let the wind do what it
would. I knew (the wind did not), no
matter how it tugged and twisted, 
swept and churned, no common,
ordinary gust could whip my hair clean
off my head — a small but gratifying
evidence of strength, to tease the elements
that way and win. And with such cosmic
victories did Fridays end and Saturdays
begin.

There was a wind-dried, wooded place, if
only ten feet wide or so, that circumscribed
the park. Good climbing trees were there,
and shrubs to hide in while you waited for
Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp to ride in
from their day of keeping lawlessness
at bay.

Oh, hush, girl, here they come. I shall appear
oblivious—a pert and canny wench, as I adjust
my brim so it just barely skims my eyes. My
stomach churns; my cheeks are burning. Am I
pink and pretty or a ripe tomato near to 
rupturing?

Dang, but it ain't even them. Behold, 
it’s Robin and his Men, and I, Maid
Marian the Vain, again defy the everlasting
wind and tuck my tousled hair into
a prim, aristocratic bun with winsome
tendrils tumbling ‘round my face. Alas,
my primping is for naught. The men ride
off, the wind abates... the sun
peeks out.

I leaned against the Gallaghers’ red maple
tree and watched the play of shade and
shimmer in the variegated canopy and felt
the muffled thrum that was the rhythm of
a Saturday in spring, the quieting of
afternoon in placid neighborhoods. I
heard my mother mixing commerce with
a bit of gossip as the Alamito Dairy man
delivered butter, half-and-half, and cottage
cheese. He muttered something he had
gleaned from Mrs. Hahn about the Beasleys’
sheltie’s puppies being weaned, as I recall.
I listened to the uninflected tune of bees
around a clump of lilacs, heard a small child’s
bleating and her mama's crooning consolation...
cursed a screen door with a wicked spring
obedient to physics snapping like a shot
across the soporific vista. Just as quickly did
serenity return.

The Marshalls lived directly across Chicago Street

My heroes having gone wherever my
imaginary men are drawn to when I'm 
unavailable (not often; I must practice
discipline) for admiration, I gave in to quite 
an unbecoming yawn, and in its wide,
substantial wake a new temptation came
along: Why ought I not lie back upon a sturdy
patch of grass (I knew the perfect one, not
only ample to support me but a haven 
of warm light and dappled shade) where I'd 
be swaddled by the sun, contentedly afloat 
in all the homely sounds and earthy smells 
that filled my private vale — the muffled glee
of little Sherry on her tricycle; her mom's
bright laughter, kind, encouraging—the earthy
scent of sod just laid and the perfume of lilies 
of the valley, too audacious for their dainty 
faces and discreet, half-hidden habitat?

Well contented was I then to call an end
to my adventures for a time and savor
quiet joys: fresh lemonade and oyster crackers,
barely stale; a kiss and hug for Mama; and
a book, or two or even three, for reading
in the back yard and my secret nook
between the privet and the walnut, whose 
broad trunk, from rain and time and children's
choreography, had worn away until it formed
a shallow cave, one made expressly for my
shoulder blades… all of which demonstrates
the wonderful abundance of the ways to make
a century of memories in half a Saturday or
less with time aplenty for a little rest....
--------------------------
Omaha's Dundee neighborhood, represented here, was 
developed around the turn of the 20th century as an 
outlying suburb several miles west of town. It thrives, 
never having declined in spite of narrow streets, one-car 
garages, single bathrooms, and surrounding development. 
White flight didn't affect Dundee as much as feared when
school attendance areas changed to discourage de facto 
segregation. Young families of any race who welcomed 
rather than feared diversity were happy to snap up coveted 
Dundee homes, taking advantage of the temporarily 
depressed housing market in the 1980s, when more skittish 
families (or those unconcerned about integration but 
desirous of newer, sleeker houses rather than Dundee's
quaint old architecture) moved out west. The population
shift created a housing boom in the old farming community 
of Millard, which responded by building fine schools in spite 
of the suddenness of the expansion.

http://annagrammatica.com

The Only Real Thing



I attended Dundee Elementary School with my brother and sister
in the 1950s. Now my great-niece Desi and my great-nephew
Bowen are students there. Built early in the 20th century, 
Dundee was beautifully renovated and restored in the 
1980s. Architects, RDG Planning & Design, Omaha

SAFE PLACES

When I was six years old, I was afraid of

the Cold War, the Communists, nuclear bombs,

and whatever atrocities I could invent out of

semihistorical, quasi-true stories my brother

would whisper in sinister accents, with grisly

asides and horrific embellishments. Probably

he was as frightened as I was. Maybe we had an

unspoken agreement: I was the terrified child,

crying to break any heart not of granite
till Daddy gave in to annoyance or pity, I 
never knew which. In the warm, fragrant

nest of my parents' bed, I slept the sleep

of the innocent. My brother apparently 
got all the comfort he needed
vicariously. Somehow, in some way,
that must have been 
sufficient

for him.

No matter how sad, how extreme the calamity,

however scary the story might be, I was

safe with my mom and dad,

safe at the neighbors’,

safe in the chapel, and

flower-gardening-made-easy.com

safe at my school, where

forsythias, lilacs, and quince bloomed in spring.

The air-raid drills didn’t frighten me, only I

felt pretty silly when having to crouch
like a frog on the floor, with instructions
to lock hands on the back of the neck.
Even in first grade we knew that the stuff they called

nuclear fallout was more of a threat than our

six-year-old hands could deflect. Whatever—

I never imagined such desperate tragedy; one
that could walk in our classroom one day; one so
despicable, dangerous, angry and sick; one
inconceivable... and blow us away.

I thought I knew fear but I didn’t know this: The most

frightening things tunneled into my mind with the
monsters and witches and gremlins that rattled the blinds,
creaked the floors, and ate six-year-old girls for a snack
late at night, when the wrath of hell, multiplied ten million
times, wouldn't wake Mom and Dad. 

But then I, for a moment’s peace, never had need to
destroy everything that is childhood, breathing, heart-
beating invaders--the enemy--something that lives
in the mind--something I might be if my heart had
been savaged and left to bleed, wither, and die. To
imagine a vast, damaged, infertile land of aloneness,
despair, and insanity—I've never dared try. But
now, God, I want to see without being diseased
mind and body... how? How can it be that he
scorned his own flesh and he sought the abyss, and
he punished the agent by which he was made, and if
he had known how to he would have killed you?

Teach me to pray for this man and his family. Did they

know him, his grief and his anguish? His pain? Did they see 
the dark as his illness revealed it to him? When did his world 
start to dim, then go sunless and cold, empty and still?

Then show me two dozen children with guardian angels
as Heaven's door opens, as each is embraced. Please,
may the mothers and fathers, the sisters and brothers and 
aunties and all of them witness it too.

In your grace keep us safe, keep us loving and
certain of love and believing in what is the only real thing 
and the only truth, even today, when we can't comprehend
what we see:

Love is him

Love is them
Love is me
Love is you
Love is everything

One of the Astonishments

Aurora Borealis (wallpaperswide.com)

BARENAKED LOVE

Have you ever been just skipping, skipping down a dusty path

beside a river that is very busy making merry water-drops, and there

you are, without a loftier intention than to feel your blood pump

faster through your toes, but even THAT you wouldn’t know to

speak about because you hadn’t got as far as making a decision to

intend a single thing, that’s just the kind of disengaged and free and

sans souci you were just then, for nothing pulled at you except

perhaps the need to breathe, which once you get the hang of it is

seldom terribly demanding.... Well.

In retrospect, you see that

without meaning to you’d found the perfect way to BE that day, for it

was warm enough to go without a jacket, clear enough for

cheerfulness, and quiet—there were noises, only mossy plopping

sounds from water-drops at play, just that, without the bother of

intending something waterish or damp-related, such as plotting

nasty weather—for example, sleet or floods or twenty feet of snow.

The water-drops in fact were (like you) having effortless amusement,

finding all enchanting that might wander into their awareness,

nothing judging, satisfaction popping in and out (and now that it’s a

memory a few months old, obscurely you’re reminded of how Miles

Davis played the trumpet, just as ready as the audience to be

surprised at what the instrument produced with his assistance, in the

way of pitch and timbre and intensity).

ASTONISHMENT

Aurora Borealis from Space--NASA

Oh lordy. Do you know what happened then? It’s something that

would NEVER have if you had planned it; such phenomena cannot

be MEANT because you’re not aware that they exist. It’s one of THE

ASTONISHMENTS, and only afterward can you identify or give a

name to it, because when you are in the midst of it your brain is

incapacitated by your rapture and your reverence and you suspect it

might be sacrilege to sully it with labels made of ordinary consonants

and common vowels, and the skritch your voice delivers trying to

articulate it verges on profanity. But as a poet, what have you to do

except find language for what’s holy, beautiful, astounding, and

resistant to description? So before you name it (if you say it now,

your hearers’ minds will close around an image formed in haste and

inerasable), you tell them what it looked like:

A parade of all the colors in a mother’s heart when first she sees her

newborn baby — only brighter, warmer, with such opulent

abundance in its light it couldn’t keep itself contained...

OR...

A Child's Garden of Verses

The sum of all the energy, the vastness of it spread like playing cards,

expended from the time a small child thinks he wants to plant a seed

until the flowers bloom and then the boy goes out with scissors

(carried safely, as his papa taught him), clips a couple dozen stems

and wraps them in wet newsprint, takes them to the back-porch door

and opens it but (clumsy with anticipation) lets the rusted spring,

which shouldn’t even work it’s that old, yank the wooden door back

shut (which, making such a satisfying clattering he laughs and hopes

it didn’t wake the baby)—all that energy so far, is everybody keeping

up? PLUS don’t forget the boost it got when all the planning and the

effort and the waiting and anticipation culminated in the

presentation of the mix of reds and pinks and greens and purples in

their many shapes—some daisylike, some curly-petaled, some like

velvet-covered nests and others tiny yellow buttons—to his mother,

as he watched her face so as to know if she were just pretending to be

pleased, but from the deep pool of the heart came happy tears, which

if somehow one could collect and bottle them would cure ill will

throughout the world... so add the energy from Mother’s

overflowing of emotion, and the child’s, to all the rest... that’s what I

saw that skipping-by-the-river afternoon, those colors and that

energy erupting from I couldn‘t tell you where but I will say the

name I dared to give to it: barenaked love.... authentic love,

undecorated, unadorned, unsaid... a true and honest love that is

enough no matter what it does or doesn’t do... a show, aurora

borealis–obvious, of love that makes you realize that what on

Monday you believed you knew of love is like a snowflake landing

on your mitten and you say about it, “This is snow,” and then you go

to bed, and when you wake, voila, it’s Tuesday’s blizzard. Oh.

Carl Larsson, Flowers on the Windowsill

AH, LIBERTY

That splendid energy is what you saw and wondered if perhaps it

might have ruined you for anything more subtle, ordinary,

commonplace, but that is not the case; in fact, do you know what?

Behind that spear or flash or momentary drenching, when the love

seemed all there was, you knew at once the drab and plain were

necessary for the brilliance to appear, like clear skies at a festival

when the balloons go up. How else could it have been precisely what

it ought to be, and permanently etched in consciousness... have set

aright what threatened peace, and steadied everything except what

absolutely HAD (though not without a sting) to be released?

Mrs. Piggle Wiggle

Now understand, it sticks there in your memory, and the effect is not

to make the unremarkable less prepossessing than it started out.

Because, you see, there’s love on every street in every town, you just

don’t often notice it when colorlessly gowned and not barenaked. In

galoshes and a raincoat, love blends pleasantly, as Mrs. Piggle

Wiggle might if she were one of dozens on a bus, though if you paid

attention you’d see liveliness and magic snapping in the bright eyes.

What love does is fill you up with inspiration so you want to add a

splash of it to anything that isn’t dancing, shimmering, or spiced...

not discontented with the way things are, you simply have too much

by far to hold, and it is frisky, eager to be in the throng, and bold; it

strains and scrambles to be free, like twenty or a hundred frogs

you’ve got in pockets, cuffs, tucked in your shirt, beneath your hat,

stuck to your brow, and never have you wanted a companion more

than now.

LOVE LAUGHS OUT LOUD

So what you do is skip a little farther on the river path until, oh,

marvelous and happy day! There’s Christopher! You ask him, did he

see it too, barenaked love? He did, and he is awfully glad you named

it just exactly that, for he’s a bit more reticent than you. And then you

take his hand, and pretty soon you’re skipping, tripping over frogs

but keeping perfect time, the two of you, and laughing ’til you fear

you’ll (pee your pants), of which the thought brings on another tidal

wave of laughter—which, you are delighted to discover, is a rocket

launcher, flinging you into the fairyland you thought was strictly

fictional, where laughter is not only mandatory but beyond a doubt

the sweetest, most appealing, bright and blissful, silly, spilling-over

lovely, make-you-crazy thing to do for fun with someone who, like

you, has seen barenaked love appear out of the blue completely

unexpectedly that very serendipitous, amazing afternoon.