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.