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.