For the End of the Year

Time away from something lets us see it anew. That's the way it is with me and things I've written and stuck in a drawer or left in an old computer file.

I looked at this poem last week and have worked on it today. Actually, all I did was remove four words, change the line breaks and the look of the stanzas, and add the word "then." We'll see. It's one I began years ago, in the 1990s, when my life included a living husband and children at home. How different everything was then.

As to the poem, I could not be satisfied with it then. I wonder if I'll ever be satisfied. Certainly it's nothing world-shaking, just one of those experiences a person wants to remember and to share, to give others the view of what she saw and felt on that morning walk. I'll likely just leave it at that.

A Morning Encounter

Carol Schiess

Wind whips down

the gullies of this mountain.

Broad, red-brown roads

wrap around it like a scarf

then narrow into rutted paths.

Aspen leaves quake careless,

daisies and lupine jostle with the wind,

a slender stream carries on

polite conversation with rocks

and road as I pass.

This morning bushes move,

then snap with the pull and bite

of a porcupine taking an early breakfast.

Long I watch, wondering if he has not

caught my scent on the wind.

I want us to be alike, the porcupine

and I, some understanding

to pass between us, that today--

and all days--I am kin to the wild.

I move close, as if to touch him.

He sees me, turns away,

waddles up the side of the mountain,

chewing as he goes.

Porcupine, I call. Stay.

He sets his eyes on me

long enough to see what we share

and what we do not.

I hear him break through

bushes and wildflowers

long after we have parted.

A Thought for the New Year and for All Time

I love my family.

For them I wish peace and happiness in this coming year and much love within their own homes.

It's Christmas Morning

It's the middle of the night before Christmas. I'm up. I'll get my chili started and probably my jello salad also, maybe make some bread. Pick up and do some of this and that before I try to go back to sleep.

I spent Christmas Eve with the Darringtons, eating their chili, singing carols--many more than Charlie was prepared to appreciate. His exasperation found expression. "Please stop," or "I don't like that song you're making up." I had said earlier that there were hundreds of Christmas carols a person could sing. He might have been afraid I intended to sing them all, and I'm sure he was anxious to get to the next part of the evening's activities: get into the car and go looking for houses with lots of lights. It was all fun.

It's a little bit lonely here. Of course. It's the middle of the night, for crying out loud. If I were sleeping, I maybe wouldn't know the loneliness. I've put on some music to keep me company. It's the Carpenters singing their Christmas greeting. Karen Carpenter is hanging "a shining star upon the highest bough" just now. She is someone I miss, and I know I'm not the only one.

Now she sings of the Christ child. As we read in Luke last night, and as I looked at Ann, I tried to imagine that very uncomfortable night for Mary long ago in Bethlehem. She gave birth to her son in a place I'm sure she did not plan for. I am thankful for her strength and thankful Ann will have more pleasant circumstances.

Well, Karen Carpenter is singing "Merry Christmas, darling . . . I've just one wish on this Christmas Eve. I wish I were with you." Ann has said it. Christmas is a time for us to be light of heart. Also a time of intense longing. I think we all know both of those emotions each year.

I think of Christmas in Millersville, PA, and Saskatoon, SK, and Henderson, NV, and Merced, CA (that's where Wayne and Kimberli have traveled to with their boys), and hope there is joy and a bit of peace in those celebrations. I'd really like to be in all of those places. I'm also very glad I'll be here tomorrow.

By the way, our Christmas in Boise is somewhat white. That's nice, huh.

I'll get busy in the kitchen now. But first I'll wish every-one-and-all-of you Merry Christmas and send my love with the wishes.

P.S. Chili is for lunch because my kids and their kids are coming at 11 AM and maybe they'll want some of it--if they didn't all have it for Christmas Eve dinner. Ham is for today's Christmas dinner. Ann and Jeremy and Charlie and John will be here for that, in case you care about that kind of stuff.

Sing. It's Good For You

Singing is good for your health. It releases endorphins, prolongs your life. I believe it. I am wondering about our singing at Wayne's funeral. I don't think we would have not thought to do so. Perhaps it helped our hearts then when we were so sad.

And I love the music of Christmas. Don't you?

We used to go caroling on Christmas Eve, then come home and have chili and hot chocolate. We would always sing Far, Far Away On Judea's Plains because we had nine people to make the harmony sound full. And we'd often sing Hark! the Herald Angels Sing. Maybe Jingle Bells, too, and We Wish You A Merry Christmas. And I see that I wrote of this last December. Well, I may mention it next year, too.

At home we sang along with Anita Kerr and Nat King Cole or Bing Crosby. And Christmas In the Stars will always be a favorite for us. What can you get a Wookie for Christmas anyway? He already has a comb. Who has that, by the way, in its entirety? I think Richard. Anyone else?

I will always like to believe our Christmas caroling and other singing was good for all of us, the health of our bodies and minds and souls. May we live long and happy.

I would like to do it again. The caroling with my family.

So . . .

Sometimes people are afraid to say what they think. Because of who they are, what they know, what they should think, how their words affect other people.

Obviously, that sentence is preamble to my saying something. Here it is.

Death stinks. I mean, it really stinks. From here, what I see is that there is no going back on it. Lots of other things you can fix, at least work on. Not death.

When it happens, it's done, and there you are. Left. So, deal with it, as they say, and you do in whatever ways you have. You try this and that. Sometimes this works, sometimes that, sometimes nothing helps you deal with it.

And, obviously, nothing changes it. What you're really working on is you, of course, the new--not the right word for it--and unknown you.

And you are sure people get sick of you feeling sad and sorry.

So . . . Tough.

Oh Christmas Tree

Got my lovely little Grand Fir yesterday and love the smell of it in my house. I asked the guy where I buy my tree each year which tree will smell best/most, Grand Fir or Noble. "Grand Fir," he said. Something about it keeps producing sap even after cut and that's what makes it smell so good and so long.

"My mother always put aspirin in the water, so I do, too," I told him. Oh yes, that is right. He says it makes the tree take in more water and stay fresh a long time.

"I put my tree up the day after Thanksgiving and leave it up till New Year's Day. Throw in seven or eight aspirin when I water it, and it just keeps drinking." He said like a gallon a day. Must be a big tree, I thought.

But, he told me, it can't be the coated kind of aspirin. He just goes over to the Dollar Store and gets a bottle. "Lasts two seasons."

So. My tree is up, lights strung, waiting for ornaments. I quite like it and will do no whining here. I will say, though, that Paul called with plans to come help me get my tree. He'd bring Peter, too, he said. I kind of wish I hadn't beat him to it, because that would have been fun . . . and helpful (I'm not whining). But I appreciate the thought and will take the thought for the deed.

I asked the guy how long he'd been there selling trees. He said, "The place has been here 15 years, started up back when KMart was here." He was there the first year, then gone, but back now for 10 years. And it's his place. I trust him and I like him. Some people you just like, you know.

"Those were the glory days," he said, "when KMart was here." Why? They sold a lot more than they do now. And I remember lots more going on there in those days, lights and elves on a little Ferris Wheel, and louder music, and a bit more jollity. "Artificial trees have taken the business, too," he said. But he thinks maybe it's back on the rise. Well, I hope so.

He had one huge Douglas Fir there, like 18 feet tall, with a very big trunk. He said it came with his last shipment of trees and surprised him. He was not entirely pleased by the surprise. He said he'd make me a good deal on it and cut it so the trunk might fit in something. I had to refuse. It would fill my living room, if I could ever get it in there--which would require help from my whole family--and if I could then keep it standing.

I heard him make the same offer to some other folks. It didn't sell while I was there, but I'll drive by today and see if he's sold it yet.

Addendum

I went out at about 5: 20, got my front walk and the sidewalks done and was working on the driveway, trying to hurry before it got dark. Then my neighbors drove by in their white Honda van. They live at the end of the street across from Shirley. Anyway, the car stopped, and the driver said, "Hi."

I said, "Hi."

She said, "My husband is going to come out in a little while and help you if you're tired. So why don't you just stop and relax. He'll come and do it."

I said, "Oh. Well, thank you. I won't say no." But I kept working, because it was getting dark.

But then he came. His name is Jeff. He takes care of Hoki, her driveway, she's 89, and the guy across from her, who is also 89. "You just go in the house and relax. Put your feet up," he told me. "It's my pleasure," he said.

What do you think of that? Doesn't it just fill your heart? It does mine.

Snow Day

Shirley, my neighbor down and across the street, was out shoveling her walks and ways this morning while I was out doing the same job at my house.

"Is it worth it?" she called to me.
"I don't know," I answered, "it's starting to snow."
"I know," she said.
"Well, I hope it's worth it."

We both kept on working until the jobs were done. I don't know what she thought, but I was hoping the few flakes falling then would be the extent of it. We don't often get snow after mid-morning. Or so I think. This is Boise, after all, not Rexburg, not Salt Lake.

I put my shovel in the garage, went inside, changed my clothes, brought my shoes down and set them in front of a chair. I would put them on later, after lunch, and then I would go out on a Christmas errand.

But I am no prognosticator of weather. I say it because my shoes are still in front of the chair, and it is still snowing--four+ hours later. What I shoveled this morning was nothing compared to what has now accumulated. Apparently we do get snow after mid-morning, and apparently we can get it the day long.

So I won't go out. I don't like to drive in this stuff. I cancelled last Monday's eye doctor appointment because we'd had a big snow, and the Ada County Highway District doesn't know my street exists. They never come around to clear it. Like a lot of streets around here. I suppose they were plenty busy last Monday and plenty busy today elsewhere

No I won't be going anywhere, unless I get up my ambition and go out for more shoveling. It's getting deep and will be a challenge for me to manage. Monday I actually called someone and asked for help--and got it. They made quick work of it. Wayne used to make quick work of it. I, on the other hand, am not so quick.

But today I think I must take care of the snow myself. I do not like to ask for help. People have their own lives.

A while ago there was a guy jogging down the middle of the street, his dog on a leash. I thought I'd actually like to do that. Dress for it, snow cap on, shoes that wouldn't slip. Maybe not.

Just now I hear a red-shafted flicker out there and wonder if he is confused by all this white, if the snow is hiding the places he likes to go poking for food.

We have no power over the weather. I have no power over the weather and no desire to defy it by venturing out in my car. So I am here in my house, keeping warm, mopping my kitchen floor, reading, trying not to eat (but, really, that is hard on a day like this), checking the TV for a football game I might be interested in, hoping my children and their children are safe and not on the roads today. Waiting to hear from Ann that Jeremy has come home from work safely.

This is not a complaint.

Alyce's Job

People ask what our daughter Alyce does. Usually I answer that she works in Washington for the Department of Interior. If they want to know more--and sometimes they actually do--I might say, "She works for the Department of Interior, Office of Historical Trust Accounting. They work on the lawsuits the Indian tribes have brought against the federal government, in which they claim mismanagement of funds held in trust. Something like that." I always hope that what I have said is correct.

By the time I have finished the explanation, their eyes may have glazed over or they've left the room. In truth, some say, "How interesting."

But today, Alyce posted a link to a story that would tell something about what she does. I went to the link and read the story, and it actually reports on a huge settlement with more than 300,000 individuals as part of the suit. Can you imagine?

Here's the link:
http://www.doi.gov/news/09 New Releases/12089.html

You can copy that link and go there.

Alyce claims she cannot take all the credit for this settlement, and I have not spoken to her about it today, but I know for sure she has had both of her very capable hands in it.

That's what she does. So, now what will she do? I'll have to ask.

I'll also have to ask if we should give all the credit to the Obama administration, which is pretty much what the news release does. I can't deny them credit, because I just don't know much. But I do know that the department has been working on this for many years, long before Obama. This is not what I want to write about. I'm writing about Alyce.

I hope Alyce will leave a comment.

Another Small Reason to Give Thanks

I have just returned from my weekly WW meeting, that's Weight Watchers, where, to my moderate satisfaction, I showed a .2-pound loss. That's after Thanksgiving, mind you. Moderate satisfaction was all I could feel. Utter joy would have followed a 1-pound loss, but any loss is better than a gain.

These end-of-year weeks are difficult for one who wants to shed weight, you know.

You notice the word "shed," do you? Yes, they tell us at WW that if you lose the weight, you can always find it again. True enough. I once estimated that between my sisters and me, we may have lost 1000 pounds over the years. And pretty much found them again. I do not wish to offend my sisters, but I think it's true.

Tonight I go to a party. There will be lots of food there. Saturday night is our ward party. Same thing. And no doubt there will be other occasions where the focus is eating. It's not a problem, just a challenge. That's me talking, not WW. And I have decided I will eat. It's the holidays, after all.

Here are some little guidelines I'm establishing for myself:

1. Leave space on the plate. No heaps of food.
   
2. If one bite is not to my liking, another bite won't make it taste any better. Don't eat it. Experience has shown me I really need this one. I mean, how many times have I finished a cookie that was not very good? More than a few.
   
3. Maintain sanity, like don't go wild with eating. You'll have another opportunity, you know.
   
4. No second helpings. I think that is possible.
5. Don't let chocolate rule. Not entirely, anyway.
   

It's Thanksgiving Morning

Wayne, Kimberli, Paul, Tasha, Lola, Jeff, Andrew, Michelle, Richard, Sarah, Alyce, Ben, Ann, Jeremy, Sarah, Cory, Anna, Davis, Noah, Logan, Peter, Caroline, Shane, Patrick, Bryan, Clayton, Jacob, Aaron, Nick, Penelope, Axel, Charlie, Johnny, Junormis (who will arrive in February).

My kids and their kids. That's 34 people I love very much and am thankful for on this Thanksgiving Day 2009.

Other people and/or things I'd like to mention:

1. My aunt Allie. I have loved her and looked to her all my life as an example of beauty, class, accomplishment, courage. And she has a glorious voice.
2. My brothers and sisters. I love them, too, and we're all still here. I'm thankful for that.
3. My parents, because they were so good and without equal. Never two others like Wilford and Lola.
   
4. The Macy's parade. I have turned it off again this year because it is now rendered much less a parade than a long boring commercial for the programs on the network that is telecasting it, like NBC or CBS. "Oh look, it's . . . whoever, star of whatever. What a surprise." Yeah, right. I remember watching the Rose Parade every New Year's Day. It seemed pretty simple: turn it on, watch the floats and horses and marching bands and do some ooh and oh and ah-ing. Okay, I'll say it. Those were the days. Not that I wish them back again. No.
   
5. Pumpkin pies. Yes, we know. But this year Alyce has made her first, including the pie crust, and I'm sure it will be good. And Jeremy made pumpkin pie with their very own pumpkin.
   
6. Tomorrow, I'll make one--Libby's pumpkin, of course--and think of Wayne, his pies, and his annual experiment with various spices. Always turned out good and got eaten up.
7. I am healthy, have a good home, have kind generous neighbors, own a car I like to drive, have a few good friends, live in a good ward and enjoy the association there with good people, have freedom to do as I wish--with very few limits--am not wanting.
8. The gospel of Jesus Christ. I'm thankful for it, for him.
   

It has begun

Look, I can't help it, but the 2010 calendars are already starting to stack up. I actually bought one; it's a Marilyn Monroe. I liked her, okay?

I guess I just wasn't thinking. Because . . .

1. When I bought those big chewable vitamin C tablets at GNC, they gave me a calendar, not because I bought vitamin C, of course, just because I bought something;
2. Veterans of Foreign Wars sent me one in the mail this week with US flags on it, thanking me for being a loyal supporter since 2005, can't throw that one away--because of the flags;
   
3. My visiting teacher, Linda, brought me one yesterday--her annual gift--with pictures of flowers from Hawaii (she's Hawaiian), and the one for January is the Lehua, which is also Linda's middle name, better keep that one;
   
4. I'm quite sure I'll get one from the bishop (supplied by Relyea Funeral Home) at tithing settlement, temple pictures and bits of church history and stuff;
   
5. And I've asked Paul and Tasha for one like theirs from last year with pictures of their family through the months, and I want that one.
   

So?

The Pitcher

Before I fell asleep a picture came into my mind. It was Wayne pitching as he did in many fast-pitch softball games.

I don't know what brings such a picture to mind unbidden, but once it has come, I can bring it back again and again, which I did. And I remembered how good he was, how fast. He had three pitches, said my son. That's pretty good in softball.

In Santa Monica, we had a really good team--Wayne, Fred, Sam Wise, Phil Cardon, Don Taylor, Jimmy Cook, LJ, and others--all young and fast and good ball players. They went to regionals, which always sounds really good.

Here in Idaho our ward team was also good, but it wasn't the only good team. Those Middleton guys and the Kuna guys were tough to beat and it was always a real joy to win against them.

Women had teams, too. I played for years, and once in a while pitched. I was a good hitter, but not such a great pitcher. Mostly I played first base.

Slow pitch softball became the official game of the church at some point for men and women. I played it a few times, but I never liked that game to play or to watch, with its no lead-off rules and its extra outfielder. Fast pitch had excitement and, well, fast pitching.

I can still see Wayne out there rocking a little bit before pitching the ball, that fast windmill delivery of his.

Noah Stewart Schiess, His Day

Today is Noah's birthday. He's 10. Noah is a handsome blond boy whose glasses lend a look of scholarly seriousness, not that he is all seriousness. He likes play, no doubt about it, and has lots of friends to play with.

Noah's speech is precise and deliberate, as if he has a sense that he is imparting wisdom, something very important for his listener. Well, I believe that is his sense.

He is a boy who likes to know things. I expect he is almost, if not completely, an expert on World War II tanks and airplanes and other weaponry and munitions. He knows a lot about bugs, too.

His dad is my son Wayne Charles, named for his father Wayne Gordon. As we spoke by telephone the other day, my son said he misses his dad, no surprise there, but not only for himself. He misses him for his three boys. He'd like it if those boys could just sit with Grandpa Schiess and talk a while. We'd all like that.

He had, said my son, a way of finding a unique quality in each of those boys. They don't remember that. But Wayne remembers. A boy like Noah could use a sit down with his Grandpa Schiess. That could be an interesting exchange of wisdoms.

Happy Birthday, Noah.

And . . .

Thank goodness for music.
Thank goodness for people to sing it.
I know my mother would love to hear this little women's choir (it's the choir that's little) we've got going for stake conference. I love hearing it.

Saving Time

Saturday night I set about turning my clocks back and by the time I had finished, the extra hour was gone. I'm sort of joking here.

Maybe Alyce was right. I began to think it a silly thing to have so many clocks. I'm not really a clock watcher. But I seem to be a person who makes strange purchases. Like, at one time, I bought sets of stainless steel flatware. Nowhere near as many as my clocks. Don't ask me why, because I don't really know.

I have to stop myself at Costco so I don't buy more laundry detergent, and I'm pretty sure I have at least a year's supply of dishwasher soap and paper towels and Kleenex and toilet paper. Maybe a year's supply of chocolate chips, too, even though I don't make cookies much any more. And we needn't go into the matter of plastic containers.

And so, as I re-hung the downstairs bathroom clock, I came to see it as simply another supply, a lifetime supply of clocks. Just in case of something.

I wonder, does this fall into the to each his own, there's no accounting for taste categories?

Anyway, I thought it all over, briefly, and realized that I have no current intention of getting rid of any of the clocks. I also realized, again, that I am kind of a strange person.

Then I thought, "It's my house, my clocks, not such a bad thing and no big thing, and, besides, no one cares," so I went to bed. Then I got up and changed all my watches.

One of A Kind

How many times in a lifetime does a person turn 30 on the 30th? Only once, of course. And not everybody can do that. We in the Schiess family, proud to say, have a person who can do it and is doing it this very day.

It's Ann, or--pardon me, Ann--our baby. On this rainy October 30, 2009, our baby is 30. That's my view of it. For her part, she leaves her twenties behind forever. But 30. That makes a person sound solid, serious, stable, more so than twenty-something. Right?

It was not raining the day Ann was born. We could look out the windows of that Caldwell hospital and see sunshine. At least that's how I remember it. I'm not much for omens, but if I were, that would be a good one. Either way, rain or shine, Ann has been sunshine in our lives ever since the moment of her birth.

She was, as my mother would say, a cute little rig. She is still cute but has grown out of being a rig and into being a statuesque and lovely woman. Lovely she just is, and I say 5'9" is statuesque. Certainly Ann is taller than her mother who always wished to be be tall because Wayne was tall. So, obviously, Ann gets her height from her dad.

She gets her wit and wisdom and cleverness from . . . well, I'd say it has two sources:

1. she brought a lot of it with her in her genes
2. life experience has provided her with the rest.
   

Today Ann is still our child, but she is no child. No. Today Ann is a grown-up, in spite of or because of being the baby in the family with six siblings. My recollection is that they all loved her a lot.

But besides that, she's a college graduate; a natural-born teacher; a smart person; really good writer; veteran of some interesting work places and survivor of that one place whose name escapes me with the weird, controlling dr who was her boss; wife and partner of Jeremy; mom of two great boys and of one coming that might be a girl (it could happen, you know); maker of bread and Halloween costumes and jam and many good foods; good friend; former property manager/psychological counselor (and survivor of that); reader and thinker; all-around dependable person.

I love her. I know her dad loves her just the same as he did that day he held her on his shoulder and they both fell asleep. Aren't we glad to have a picture of that?

We have always been proud of her. Always.

Happy Birthday, Ann.

It's Out There

Saw Ron and Mary Ames yesterday. Such a sighting is very rare. Rarer than that sounds.

She said to me, in kind of a whisper, "I heard that you had remarried."

Was I stunned by this report? Take a wild guess.

I said, out loud, "No. And I didn't die either."

She said, "I didn't hear that you had died, just that you had gotten married."

I was too stupid or stupefied to ask the questions I now need answered, and who knows when I'll see her again. By that time, she will have forgotten yesterday's conversation.

The questions:

1. Who told you this?
2. Whom did I marry? This one would be the important one.
   

Notes

This is what I wrote after one year:

Widowhood does not suit me. What am I supposed to do, to be like? I always knew that as I aged, people would lose sight of me. And I always knew that if I appeared ordinary—nothing remarkable—when people saw me with Wayne, I would be, somehow, more acceptable, better looking, legitimized. If I resented it, I banked on it too. Now, I am really aging, and he is gone. I cannot put my arm through his or walk along side of him or look across any room and see what he’s up to. He’s gone and I am the widow Schiess. I do not believe widows count for much in our society.

Beyond that, I miss him. No, it was not a perfect marriage, if such a thing exists. But that is not the point. What is the point? I’m not sure, but I say this: we were part of each other. Now he is not here, waking or sleeping, though something of him is in every room of the house. I don’t mean only the physical bits and pieces that indicate he lived here; I mean the sense of him, the feel of him. It’s in the air here. It moves through the walls and if I ever have the sense that it touches me I am one happy woman—for a few moments.

Lonely. No one here to grumble at or smile with. No one to rub my feet or ask me if that is something new I’m wearing and tell me how nice it looks, how nice I look. No one to prepare food for, do laundry for, consult with on this or that, look to for answers and safety and that kind of comfort I knew when he was here.

Now, six years and 10 months after Wayne's death, I suppose I am used to being alone. It is the prominent fact of my life, after all. But I still do not feel quite right as a widow. Not the part in life I would ever choose. How does one play it well?

I Think It's Finished

I have posted this poem on Carol's Corner also. Been working on it. Like it better now.

The River

Carol Schiess

A voice calls across the river,

but the water disconnects,

carries the words away.

The early morning sun spreads

light through shore trees but

cannot discover the ducks,

their passage swift on the water’s surface.

I mark the river’s speed, its darkness,

water lines from other years,

wonder what it has passed by,

what might lie at its bottom.

At the river’s edge, chicory grew

thick in August, waving its blue flowers

as I passed, but it’s late September now.

A few weeks more,

the blue will be gone from my walks,

like some people from my life,

like their faces, their stories of long love

or unexpected death.

I look at the water to find one staying spot,

but the river cannot hold;

its appointment is to move, to run,

tell a new story moment by moment.

I turn towards home, a familiar path,

but I may stop for rest at the log bench,

climb a neighbor’s worm fence,

or take another way.

Eating Out, Part 2

When our kids were young we often ate at the Midway Lunch. We liked to order a group meal, enough for all of us. It came with salad, pork and seeds, fried rice, sweet and sour pork, and chow mein. And, honestly, I don't remember ever having to send something back. I do remember that a couple of our children would order hamburgers and fries, not yet having developed a taste for Chinese food. As I recall, that was Richard and occasionally his brother Wayne. Am I right?

But that is the place where we learned at least two things. 1)"You likey fly lice?" and that was one of the very few things we did understand when the nice Chinese lady spoke to us. And 2) To love pork and seeds with hot mustard.

On that other part of eating out, I was not with Wayne when I found two small rocks in my refried beans about the size of half a bean each at Cancún, a Boise Mexican restaurant, not to be confused with the resort city in actual Mexico. I didn't see the rocks, but I found them. That's right. With my teeth. Kind of spoiled the meal for me because who knew what I might find in my enchilada? So I didn't eat, just sat politely and watched my friend finish her meal. No rocks in her beans. As I recall, she ate a lot.

I was with Wayne when he had bits of glass--you think I'm lying but I'm not--in his Mexican food at a restaurant that has since changed its name from Melissa's to La Tapatía, and I think I know why, but they're not fooling me. We wondered how much of the glass he had eaten before the nasty crunch made him stop eating. The nasty crunch also made him take a close and serious look at his plate of food, and, yes, he could see small pieces of glass. You know, that kind of thing makes a person a bit suspicious about what's really going on in Melissa's kitchen.

Melissa's was close to our home--how nice--and had been highly recommended by Joyce Doughty. That's Chef Joyce Doughty. Hmph! I told her about the glass. Okay, so it wasn't her fault, but I felt like it was.

We left Melissa's. Didn't go back. Even after the name change. We were smart about that one.

No Title

Okay, so maybe you don't know this, but I still sometimes say stuff like, "Oh Wayne." Or maybe even, "Oh Wayne. Where are you?"

Out loud.

This is one of those details people--people like me, that is, widows like me--usually don't share with others, believing that others don't really want to know it because they wouldn't know what to do with it if they knew it.

Sometimes it's hard for me to know it, hard for me to hear my own voice say such words at these times. Hard because I don't like the sound of my voice at such a moment, hard because I receive no reply. But they are not planned occasions. Neither are the places of their occurrence planned. It could be in my room or at church or in the car or wherever. It's all quite random, you know.

Somewhere, he is alive. That's what I think.

Sometimes I Work On a Poem

The River

Carol Schiess

A voice calls across the river,

but the water disconnects,

carries the words away.

The early morning sun

spreads light through shore trees

but cannot discover the ducks,

their passage swift on the water’s surface.

I mark the river’s speed,

its darkness,

water lines from other years,

wonder what it has passed by,

what might lie at its bottom.

At the river’s edge,

chicory grew thick in August,

waving its blue flowers as I passed,

but it's late September now.

A few weeks more, the blue

will be gone from my walks,

like some people from my life,

like their faces, conversations,

their stories of long love or

unexpected death.

I look at the water to find one staying spot,

but the river cannot hold;

its appointment is to move, to run,

tell a new story moment by moment.

I turn towards home, a familiar path,

but I may stop for rest at the log bench,

climb a neighbor’s worm fence,

or take another way.

As of Today, It's Working

Wayne and I built this house, as in I searched for months for the right plans. The house had to be big but not huge, so that the children still at home--Richard, Alyce, Ann--could live here and other family members could come back and have a place to stay. So that my mother's grand piano would have a place, too.

When I found the plan we both liked, we looked for a builder, found Bill Gehrke--which, as I see it, was a satisfactory find but nothing more--watched the house go up, made a few changes--which is code for "spent more money"--and moved in March 31, 1991.

All of which means that all original equipment, like the heating and cooling system, is nearly 19 years old.

Today Chris came from A-1 Heating and Cooling to do the semi-annual service on same. All is working, and he'll see me in March. Oh good.

But . . .

One thing concerns him and, therefore, me. "The age. Most furnaces last 16 years," he says.

So I'm already three years into the "free gift" period, I say to myself. Good, just keep on going. In another 19 years I'll be dead, if not before.

Not that I think it should last another 19 years. And not that the system has not had its troubles over the first 19 years: several times replacing the igniter switch, a new blower motor, a humidifier we had installed into the system, and for a few years it sounded like it worked but never did. And so on.

And the system has never heated or cooled the upstairs very well. Except for the girls' bathroom. So I've never been thrilled with it.

Still . . .

"Everything looks okay," he repeats, "but I wouldn't put much money into it if something goes wrong."

Oh great. "What I want you to tell me," I say, "is that nothing is going to go wrong." I'm funny sometimes. Really, that is a funny thing to say.

Chris doesn't get it. He begins to explain to me that such is not the way of things; he can't guarantee, and so on, as if I had no experience with life and things as they are. White hair speaking stupidity rather than wisdom. It's the world we live in.

I don't say, "Duh." I do say, "I know A-1 sells and installs, but I'm guessing someone else might be cheaper."

Then we have the conversation about that. Well, mostly I listen. Brand, quality of installation, etc. He goes on about these things and tells me he likes Lennox and Carrier.

"And mine? Is it a Trane?"

"No, it's a Day and Night, which is made by Carrier. Not their top model, but okay."

"Ah, yes" I say, remembering, "not my choice. The builder's. Saving money there." I hide my irritation. "And what about Trane?" I ask, but I don't know why, because I don't really care about Trane.

"A good brand, but harder to service."

I ask about Jeff Cox, the guy who sends me letters every month with offers on new furnaces. "Well, I hear he hires job by job," which may or may not be true. "We have installers that have been with A-1 for years." Chris is trying to sell me, in his quiet lispy way of speaking.

I sign the receipt. He gets in his van and drives away.

Okay fine. Just something else for me to think about--as if I hadn't already thought and thought and thought about it, like every time the thing comes on or fails to.

Something else to save money for, as in about $2000. But hey.

Something else to wish I could ask Wayne about, as in talk it over with him, but I can't, as we all know.

Meanwhile, winter approaches. I'll watch with fingers crossed, wearing my full-of-holes white sweater Paul brought me from Korea some time in the 1980s, and I'll hope Chris and I have the same conversation next March and again in September.

The Use of Time

Yesterday. Labor Day. I spent it watching tennis, the U.S. Open.

It's hard to do something like that without feeling guilty, especially since I have been reading and remembering about my pioneer ancestors and their very hard times--tramping through mud up to their knees day after day that first Spring in Iowa and Nebraska--and their many sacrifices--giving up their homes, loved ones dying on the way.

This post has suddenly become extremely serious.

So, believe me, I did feel guilty, but I managed to get through it. I do hope I never have to look back, like at the judgment bar, and wish I had not done it. I wonder if I'll have to explain it to anyone there.

I was about to write that this is not something Wayne would ever do, but that is true only if we're talking about tennis. Football or basketball he would, even golf. Somehow, that makes me feel better.

The Only Good Snake . . .

In the gutter at the end of my driveway lies a dead snake. I know it's dead. I just went out to check, to be sure it was not going to revive and head back into my garage, which is where I first encountered it when I stepped out the back door. I thought I was going out to check the mail. Change of plans.

I don't know if snakes have ears--I've heard that debated--but this one either heard me or in some other way sensed my presence. It slithered under my car, out of sight, out of reach of the broom I had picked up to sweep it into the street.

After many stoops and squats and bends without finding it, I wondered if it had jumped up into underworkings of my car, perish the thought, but finally found where it had curled up, right about in the middle underneath. I reached in and took a big sweep at it, managing to move it out from under the car. This was a small snake, but like the last one I had to deal with, it raised up to strike at me. I don't like that.

I stepped around behind it and swept again. Again it moved toward me, but two more sweeps put it into the gutter, where I beat it to death. (How does that sound?) At least I hoped that's what I did.

And why did I kill it? Duh. Because it's a snake. Because it was headed for my back door. Because I do not want snakes in my house.

This is a true story, as they say.

All in a Saturday's chores? Maybe. But I hate this true story, hate beating snakes to death, hate that I have to do this stuff. I suppose I should be glad I am able to do it. And, yes, this is about Wayne, bug-, spider-, snake- and other nasty creatures-dispatcher.

And other benefits. Those were the days.

Say Say What?

I hereby take back my apology. The new season of Survivor will be in Samoa. Not in Carno.

So I am free again to engage in mild ridicule. She said, "the devil incarno."

Say What?

You know how this family loves a good word faux pas. Here is today's. Sorry Ann. (I already told her, woke her from a nap to tell her. I said I'm sorry.)

I was watching something about Ted Kennedy, who died Tuesday night, and I must say I did not know what a great man he was. But that is not the story.

Here's the story. A commercial came on for CBS's new season of The Survivor, and the announcer said something like, "This season may have the worst villain in Survivor history." Something like that. Then they showed one participant talking about another participant, and she said, "He just might be the devil incarno."

Yes, I'm quite sure that's what she said, even though CBS has tried to edit the commercial so that the o is not audible. It's the devil incarno.

A Cookie

I've been out in the kitchen, dipping those Ginger Thins in milk. That's not my kind of thing to do, but it was Wayne's, and I know he would dip these cookies. I am quite sure he would like them; they are exactly in the middle between his two favorite kinds of cookies: no taste cookies and ginger snaps. And they are the kind of cookie you can just keep eating, if you're not careful.

I have just eaten too many. I didn't count and probably should have. Thank goodness I have had sense enough to stop. Wayne didn't always have such good sense. He would just keep eating cookies until all were gone, or maybe all but one or two, which to me seemed a rotten thing to do. Leave one cookie. Well, not rotten, just a bit of a cheat. He might, and sometimes did, speak of having eaten too many cookies, and once in while you could detect a slight sense of shame. Slight, though.

Our son Richard dipped his double stuff Oreos, which he asked me to bring him "from the States" because the ones they have there in Saskatoon are just not right.

Richard may have thought of his dad as he dipped his cookies, but more than once he wished out loud for his dad to be there last weekend, so that he, Wayne, could take Richard and Sarah's baby boy in his arms and give him a good looking over. That would have been a good thing. Penelope, now nearly two, never had a few minutes on her Grandpa Wayne's knee either, and she could use it, too. Just because.

And so could John and Charlie and Clayton and Peter and Caroline.

Almost everything can make me think of him, you know. That's just the way of it.

What's Happening in Canada

Here he is. It's Axel. Penelope calls him Ackel.

His full name: Axel Brimley Schiess, and I quite like it. The name Axel is Scandinavian. It just so happens that Danish blood flows in our veins, coming from my mother's side of the family. Richard's friend, Axel, says the name means Peacemaker. Something more to like, and I do. Brimley is my maiden name, so I'm gratified by that as well.

Axel is a sweet boy, quiet and mellow so far. Well behaved, perfect, in fact, for his naming and blessing. Richard and Sarah invited friends, family, and ward members to come Saturday night. The blessing ordinarily takes place at church, but because I would be there Saturday and not Sunday, they performed it in their home.

I say thank you for such thoughtfulness, and thank you for a good visit.

I have more pictures, of course, but this one will do for now.

The Perhaps Real

Lying on my bed, not quite asleep, I saw Wayne kneeling by the bedside. I said his name out loud as I opened my eyes and looked to see him. He wasn't there, of course.

The brain tells us things very quickly. Mine told me, as I opened my eyes, that he wasn't really there but that I should look because he might be. It told me this moment, this vision, was significant and that if I would keep my eyes closed, perhaps he would say something to me.

I saw him, saw how he looked, what he was wearing. That's from the brain, isn't it?

And I had time. Time enough to reflect on why he would be wearing a plaid shirt, why he would be kneeling. All this in the time it took to open my eyes. I wish I had kept them closed a while longer.

Saying his name was immediate and seemed not to have been directed by my brain, although, no doubt, it was.

A strange, startling moment, and, of course, it seemed real.

It's Just a Lawn, Carol

Sam Nelson mowed my lawn yesterday for $20. I thought it was going to be $15, but it's only money. Worth $20, I'm sure.

I have a guy who comes weekly for $25. He works for Renn, whose company is ATD Lawncare. The care part is missing, though, and I told as much to Sam. "The guy who comes now doesn't care about my lawn. It's just mow and go," I said, "and I want my lawn to look good.

So Sam did the job and I liked his work as well as anyone's. Now I have to make the decision. Do I keep Renn, who is in the lawn business, or hire Sam, who is about 16 and may or may not keep doing lawns?

If I hire Sam, then I have to tell Renn, and he's a former student, which somehow means something or should. I hate chores like that, becauseI feel bad, and I maybe will say too much. Certainly I want to help Renn in his business. But I've never been fully satisfied by the work his guys do. This is business, after all, not friendship, not nostalgia over "good times" in Mrs Schiess's English class. Right?

Sounds like I've made the decision. Wrong.

It has been hot this week. That seems right, it is July. This post was prompted by the quick vision in my head of Wayne out there mowing, straw hat, long-sleeved shirt, even in the hottest heat of summer. That would be good to see again, for real. And then I wouldn't have to make this decision.

Brand New

That's our grandson, born June 18 to Sarah and Richard in Saskatoon.

Name: Axel Brimley Schiess. Now there's a great name, people.

Tonight I will begin the task of finding when and in what way I can go up there to set my eyes on him. Pictures are nice but not quite adequate, you know, and I'll need to hold him a while, get to know him, sing him an old lullaby.

Paul and Toos

I had a chat with Toos this week as we gathered in her son's home. It's been two months since Paul died. I asked how she's doing and was not surprised at her answer. The first thing she said was not actually a word, just a sound, something close to a moan, though briefer, and her face made the meaning absolutely clear. The next thing, in her Dutch accent, "It's two months, and it's harder now than it was at first."

Not that her family has neglected her, not that her friends have sneaked away. They haven't. Not that she has no happy memories. She has. Not that she can't ever laugh or smile. She can. Just that he's gone.

She said, "I think we should have two tries at it."

I'm not sure how that would work, but I know what she really means. She means, "Paul was sick. I knew he would die, and I thought I would be fine, but this is harder than I thought it would be. I've had enough of it. Paul needs to come home now."

I believe people expect this thing to get easier with the passage of time. But it can take a long time before that begins to happen, like years, and still, you think about him every day. Still you look for him in the house. Still you cry at random moments. The way Toos said she does.

Wayne, Did You Hear This?

I don’t write about all my grandchildren. I think I should, but I don’t. So I probably haven’t written anything about Aaron until now. And it’s not that Aaron has had nothing to brag about before now. I mean, they all have plenty to brag about, because they’re all smart and good looking. How could they not be?

Aaron, Andrew and Michelle’s second of three sons. Younger brother of Jacob the genius. Older brother of Nick the handsome. Aaron is 11, a wiry little blond kid, kind of quiet, and cute as anything. This year he took second in the spelling bee, for one thing to brag about, and I have the picture to prove it. And he plays basketball on the school team and trombone in the school band.

But Sunday night in my kitchen Aaron did something remarkable, something that had/has all of his grown-up relatives—parents, grandmother, aunts, uncles—marveling. And, I must add, envious to forest green. Here it is.

His dad said, “Mom [that’s me], sing a note. Any note.”

“Okay,” I said, and then obliged by singing a note I thought to be E, maybe F.

Andrew said, “Aaron, what note is that?”

“Hmmm,” Aaron thought a second, and only a second, “E-flat.”

Andrew went into the living room and played an E-flat on the piano. Spot on, as they say.

The group response was a loud and heart-felt Wow!

Then, just to be sure this was no one-time happy accident, someone played a random note on the piano. Lola and I said, “C. Middle C.”

“No,” said Aaron. “B.” B it was.

Loud praise and wonder from the assembled group.

Then Andrew said, “Aaron, could you sing an A-flat?”

Aaron, “I could.” And he sang a note.

You already know. Spot on again.

So how come? We all want to know how come he can do that (and we can’t), because in this family perfect pitch, and that’s what it is, is a very big huge deal.

Andrew told me today, “I asked him how he does it, because I want to know.”

I said, “He doesn’t know how.”

Andrew, “That’s what he told me. He doesn’t know how, he just knows.”

The Widow, Mother of the Bride.

Home from PA last night, midnight. A long and fairly miserable flight. But here I am and fine.

Thursday night, when I arrived at Philadelphia airport, I took the Thrifty car rental shuttle, got my car, and drove to Millersville that night, in the dark, in a rented car the likes of which I'll never rent again--PT Cruiser. The drive was nearly two hours, quite complicated, challenging, but I had wonderful directions from Alyce and Ben, which I pulled over to read from time to time. I said complicated didn't I? I said dark, too, didn't I?

I stayed in Ben's Hampton Inn, the one he's general manager of, as his guest. A good room, a dandy bed, and I felt comfortable in that place. Ben, my son-in-law, he's pretty much a good guy, and so said everyone I met at the PA reception Friday night.

Sacrament meeting Sunday with Alyce, and then I took the return drive to PHL. All went well until I tried to find the Thrifty car rental place--it's not at the airport--which cost me a good bit of frustration and little little bit of fear (white knuckle driving) because I followed the Thrifty help person's directions and found myself on that enormous bridge which leads into downtown Philly. (I absolutely hate driving on those huge bridges.) She had told me to turn left where I should have turned right. That's for starters. This small adventure also cost me an extra half hour. Good I left early.

A few miles from the Susquehanna River, Millersville is in Lancaster County, PA, home of the Amish, of beautiful rolling farmland and big expanses of sky, home of trees and a lush green look. Home of old houses built flush on the street. Home of new houses, like A&B's. I like it there, in Lancaster County, home of Ben and Alyce. Now that I have seen where they live I can picture it. That helps me. Doesn't mean I won't miss Alyce, though.

Ben drove us around Saturday night and showed me where he grew up and where he went to school, showed me the railroad museum, showed me downtown Lancaster, including the Lancaster County prison, which is smack in the middle of downtown.

Their marriage, something I have great hopes for, a good happy life together. They are now a new family. Two very good people who will figure out how to be married. I think it takes figuring.

I think of them today because they both have a day off, and I wonder how they'll spend it, if they'll go someplace or open gifts or put together the last two drawers of that furniture piece.

And I thought of them today as I went to the cemetery--of their beginning and of endings, too, which is what cemeteries seem to mean.

I do not like to go to the cemetery. I've written that before. But today I wanted to go. The grave is still there, but today a lovely little bouquet brightened the place. White and orange carnations flanked the one red carnation. Mums, orchids, daisies, and this and that in colors of purple and white and yellow filled out the bouquet. No one in my family put it there. I am curious, a bit perplexed that I cannot know who did put it there, but I am not dismayed. It is a sweet touch and speaks someone's love for Wayne. I like that.

Wayne is not a war veteran--it's Memorial Day--but many of us visit our deceased loved ones on this day anyway. Usually when I go to the cemetery I'm the only one in the whole place. Not today, and today I watched the people. They stand or kneel or sit on the lawn. Some cry, some talk, some sit a while in silence. Some, I'm guessing, don't know exactly what to do. Some come alone, like me. Others come in groups and hold hands. All look down on what covers the person they wish they could see again. That last part I'm sure of.

May 18 + 1

It's the wee hours of the morning, and I'm up. It's hot, hard to sleep, and my dreams have troubled me. I went to bed hoping to dream of Wayne. Seems a desirable thing on his birthday. I can't have him here; at least I can dream about him. But no. Just stuff that makes no sense to me about people not close to me.

Can't a person dream what she wants? Apparently not.

The frogs sing their loud croaking song every night. And I mean loud--I wonder how big they are. They stopped singing for a while but have started up again. Perhaps my falling asleep to their croaks determined the theme of my dreaming. But I think refried beans were part of my dream, and I can't figure out what they have to do with frogs or anything else that was on my mind. See what I mean? Makes no sense.

I had to go down and wake Lola because the light was on inside her car and all the doors locked. Didn't want the battery to die. She has come up and seen to it, and the car still starts.

Perhaps that is all I need to record. Need being the questionable word.

A Few Words On My Husband's Birthday

Wouldn't it be nice if a person could say just the right words on such an occasion? I have come to believe no such words exist, but I want to say something, so here are my few words.

He would be 70. I dislike writing it in the conditional tense, but there we are.

He was a man who liked to be home, which was sometimes frustrating for a woman who liked to go places, but mostly it was a good thing.

That guy who put up the "chicken manure as cure for chapped lips and so on" website stole the idea from Wayne. I mean, really, because Wayne said it decades ago.

He could be a clown or an intelligent contributor to conversation. He could entertain a room with jokes and physical antics, but he could also hold forth on many subjects because he read a lot.

He knew sports statistics, including high school sports.

He sought my approval. That's nice.

He was not a natural born hugger.

He was a natural born cornball, quipster, and word manipulator. I like that about him. Here's a story to the point.

Once, many years ago, when we were in the check-out line at the Caldwell Albertsons, we saw a small display of books for parents to read to their children. The featured book was about how children come into existence, and its title was, You Were Once A Dot. Wayne said, "Yes, but Anwar Sadat right now."

Top that.

Quieting Down

Things are. Only a few bills remain. All the flowers are gone from the house, vases in the dishwasher. This and that. Richard and Penelope had an event-free trip home, where a happy Sarah was reading a book to the Peanut as Richard made his telephone report at 11:15 PM. Lola and Clayton have their belongings in the downstairs room, which will be their home, so to speak, for the rest of May.

Thank goodness Ann has done a brief chronicle of the A + B wedding, and with pictures. I seem to be spent.

Time will tell, as they say, whether or not I ever have something to say again. The birthday of my husband approaches, yes, as it does every year about now. But I don't want to slide into something sorry and sad about that. I'll work on happy.

In a couple of weeks I'll be off to Pennsylvania for the A + B reception there. Or perhaps, given the venue, I should put B + A.

Today's post . . .

features two of my grandsons.

Davis, age 11, has built a computer, using parts purchased with money he saved for the purpose. He told me it is the best computer in their house now, and I believe him. He told me several other things about it, but I did not have enough knowledge to understand him.
Last time I visited down there in Texas, he was making movies on the computer and quite frustrated by its limitations. So he has built his own and is saving money so he can buy an operating system. I'd like to help him.

Charlie, age 3 1/2. Two things:
1. Last week, on a day that happened to be lovely, one the likes of which we hadn't seen much, I said, "It's a beautiful day." Charlie said, "Isn't it though, Grandma."

2. I have an old violin in my basement. It's not a bad instrument, but it has been neglected and suffers from a missing string and a worn out bow. However, Charlie loves it, and when he comes over always asks if he can play the violin. It's too large for him, but someone usually helps him. So yesterday his mother told me Charlie is saving his money for, "Guess what." I said a violin. She said, "No. Tell her, Charlie." He said, "A cello."

April's Face

My calendar shows my son Paul and his daughter Caroline, cheek to cheek. May they ever be so.

She is pink, blue-eyed, and strawberry blond. She looks sweet, healthy, innocent, full of trust in her dad.

He is tan, could use a shave, and has those brown eyes I have loved since his birth. He looks proud and happy. Maybe a little worry there, too. But why not? She's his little girl.

These are two faces I love and from now on will always be April to me.

Blessings of Technology

Last night, a birthday party for Tasha, Michelle, and Patrick. Good food and good people. Can't want for better.

The conversation went, inevitably, I suppose, to Facebook. Ann, Jeremy, Andrew, Tasha, Paul, Patrick, Michelle spoke freely. All complaining, grumbling, thinking one of them should design a new--what?--site or something with a wider range of options. And while I can't quote or give precise attribution, and while I don't know all the apparatus and jargon of Facebook--not having my face on that book--I will try to report. I think the conversation needs reporting.

Andrew, Paul, all, in fact, wish there were options to express disapproval or rejection or even hatred, not of the people but of what they say. (You can't say your exact response, in other words.)

Things that should be replies get into status. (I think I got that right.)

Patrick has let loose of 30+ friends, with great relief, but is afraid some will come back and attach themselves to him again or want to know why he doesn't want them as friends anymore.

I guess the "friends" issue is the big one, as in, "Who is this and why should I be friends with this person?" Or "Why did I say yes in the first place?" (I think.)

After several minutes I said, "So Facebook is a prison." They all said, "Yes," and this with enthusiasm. But they're all back on it today, no doubt.

Can't Pretend

My daughter Ann is reading a memoir by a widow. The book is about life after death, her life after his death.

That's all I know, except that I asked Ann if the book was good. I can't replicate the vocal nuances here on the blog, but her "yes" was modified by her voice down to an "okay." She said she didn't want to oversell the book.

Then, out of curiosity, I asked her this question: If you had to describe life after your dad's death in one word, what word would that be? Her answer: Lame.

I said I'd been thinking: Crappy.

So there it is. And all you who think I should not say stuff like that and that I should "move on," which I am doing as I understand "move on" to mean, and who think that if I'm not happy then it is my fault . . . I'm sorry. That's just the way it is. I can't pretend he didn't die, and it's just there--his death--in, over, and through all my life now.

It's not that I try to think about it, about him. No. I don't have to try. It's not that I'm never happy. I am.

It is that I miss him and wish he were here. It is that I watch married couples and envy them. It is that I am lonely without him. And it is that people in my situation have to be allowed to speak and write their real feelings. Not the feelings that others will be comfortable with. The real ones.

Re: Last Friday's posting

For a long time during my adult years I thought loquat was not real. I had not seen one since my childhood. Perhaps I dreamed it. I might mention it to someone who thought I meant kumquat. I didn't mean kumquat. It is not the same fruit at all. Most people have never heard of a loquat.

I was troubled by this, since I think I have a good memory and was sure I had seen and eaten loquats. Yellow, delicious, large brown seed inside.

But have you ever seen one or even heard of such a thing? Does the market where you shop have them? My guess is, No.

So I looked it up.

Loquat: 1 a small evergreen tree (Eriobotrya japonica) of the rose family, native to China and Japan 2 the small yellow, edible, plumlike fruit of this tree.

I feel much better now.

What I Remember

I've read that photographs define memory, that is, they limit it so that the photograph becomes the memory. I don't know if I believe that, but today I want to write some memories I have no photographs for.

The miles of oil wells we would see as we drove south from Santa Monica down through Long Beach. We went down the coast--and I don't know how often--to Oceanside where my dad owned a five-acre farm.

The miles of orange groves on such drives. Orange County named so for a reason.

The big black 1939 Studebaker we rode in the time we had a small wreck. My dad ran the Studebaker into the back of a stopped car--at a red light, I think. My sister Lucile bumped her lip pretty hard and for weeks, or so it seemed to me, walked around with a wet washcloth held to her lip. We came back from Oceanside in a different car, maybe the gray 1940 Nash.

The ocean up and down that California coast. I could watch it forever. My dad and mom loved the ocean, too.

Hyperion's tower sticking into the sky from atop a cliff overlooking Playa del Rey--the Beach of the King. Hyperion was a sewage treatment plant. I'm pretty sure the treated sewage went straight into the water we swam in. Duh, Carol. That's why the plant was right there above the ocean. I didn't like the idea of that.

The tower might have been mistaken for a light house because it could be seen for many miles. Named for its size, I'm guessing, because I can't think the look or function of the place resembled its namesake from Greek mythology.

The round concrete fire pits on the beach at Playa del Rey; beach parties at night with fire in a pit for warmth and for roasting hot dogs and marshmallows; the ocean warmer than the night air; the stitched gash on my brother Sterling's forehead--he hit his head on a fire pit during a nighttime beach football game. I wasn't there.

This when I was maybe nine or ten. He came home from the hospital and slept a long time. My mother told me to be especially quiet upstairs, not to disturb him. I was tip-toeing down the stairs when he woke, and he walked down behind me like a mindless zombie. To scare me. It worked. I was frightened by the whole thing anyway, wondering if hitting his head hard might have given him amnesia--I'd heard about that on radio dramas and mysteries--or if time in a hospital or stitches or whatever might change him.

My excitement whenever I got to go to the beach, day or night. The hope, as a teenager, that I had chosen the "right" beach. Some were better than others, though I wasn't sure why. Maybe the waves, maybe the people who went there.

Of course, the beach was always more fun with a boy, especially if it was Wayne. No photo for that. I still feel it.

So there. A few words from my memory. I've also read that writing your memories limits them. They become no more than the words you've cast them into.

That I don't believe.

A Day Like This

Wayne and I lived about three full blocks away from each other. That put us in different elementary schools--his John Muir, mine Washington.

His school was on a busy corner: Ocean Park and Lincoln Boulevards. The big blue Santa Monica bus came down the hill on Ocean Park boulevard many times every day. Wayne told me of seeing their teacher get hit by a bus one day. It was a fatal accident for her and frightened those children who saw it. They had been taught not to cross in the middle of the block. The teacher knew, too.

Thank goodness I saw no such accidents at my school, although the other bus company had a route along 4th Street. Washington School was on Ashland Avenue and 4th Street. Busy enough but safer, apparently.

I know Wayne walked to school, and so did I. I could go either of two ways--out my front door, down the two dozen steps, and straight on Ashland for two blocks, or out my back door and up the hill to Raymond, then left, make the jog at 5th where Raymond picked up again and walk the long block to the school. Raymond ended at my school. This was the back way and slightly longer, but there was a loquat tree in a yard along that way. I had a few loquats on those walks, sometimes picked up from the ground, occasionally right off the tree. That's called stealing, but they were very good.

That we went to different elementary schools was fine. We sort of knew each other at church in those days, but it wasn't until high school that we became friends.

I think of this now because today is the first day of Spring, 2009, here in Boise, and the weather has been pleasant, so that a person could walk to a friend's house.

Wayne walked to my house many times during our high school years. He would knock on the back screen door and come in through the kitchen. He might find my dad there or my mother or Lucile or even me. We might just stay in the kitchen and talk. I would sit on the counter while he leaned against it. Or we might sit in the den or out on the porch swing. We rarely took walks, don't know why. Weather was not a factor then as it is here. We grew up in Santa Monica, and it was generally pleasant, sometimes fog in the early morning coming in from the ocean and soon burning off in the sunshine.

When I had enough courage, I could walk to his house. Up to Raymond, right to Highland, left to where Hill Street cut into Highland, then right down the hill to his house. Such a visit took courage, because I was a long time becoming sure of Wayne's feelings for me. Not all my fault. Not all his. Just part of the story.

Today is Saturday

We ran errands today, Ann, Charlie, Johnny, and I. Specifically, we went to Michael's to pick up the picture they were framing for Ann and Jeremy. It wasn't ready, which we learned after spending about an hour there.

When it got to be about 1 o'clock, we decided lunch should be now and told Charlie we would go to a restaurant. He knew right now what he wanted: fries and ketchup. No surprise there.
But we're not going to that kind of restaurant, we explained.

"What kind of a restaurant are we going to?" he asked.
"Costa Vida," we answered.
"I don't want to go there. I want to go to a different restaurant. I like a different restaurant. A different restaurant is my favorite."
I said, "I'm sorry, but Costa Vida is where we are going today. You can get a cheese tortilla there."
"I don't want a cheese tortilla. I want fries and ketchup. McDonalds is my favorite restaurant. Let's go to McDonalds. Please."

Johnny slept.

"There is no McDonalds near where we're going," I said to Ann.
Ann said, "Charlie, Grandma and I don't like McDonalds. We're going to a tortilla restaurant." And that made Charlie cry. I thought it might. It's true, though.
Charlie said, sobbing, that he wanted to go to McDonalds, and, crying harder now, "I want you to like McDonalds, Mama."

Ann said, "You need to calm down, Charlie."
"Okay," he said, trying hard to stop crying. But he was upset, close to panic. I remember that feeling. You're a little kid, and it looks like you're not going to get what you want, and you have no power. It's panicky.

Ann and I are grown-ups. We have the power in this situation. At least today we do. And we are not heartless. "We'll see what we can do, Charlie. We'll see if we can find a place to get you some fries."
"Okay," still crying.
"Charlie," Ann said, "You need to calm down."
"I did calm down, Mama, but the tears are still coming." (And who couldn't love that?)

We told Charlie we would get him some fries and ketchup.
"And a soda? I want fries and ketchup and a drink." He was still crying a little, but not pushing things, just telling what he wanted. We could get him a drink at Costa Vida and told him so.

Ann wondered if we were caving in and maybe should hold a firm line. I said, "No. We're going to lunch for a treat, and it should be a treat for all of us."

She found a hamburger place, we went to the drive through, got his fries and ketchup, and took them to Costa Vida, where he got his soda and where, it turns out, he did want a cheese tortilla after all. He was happy, and so were we.