I still care about a lot of things.
And she's right about my legs.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Monday, September 10, 2012
At choir practice
We sat together in the alto section. She pointed to the music, measure 30.
"That's 30," she said.
"Yes," I said, "I see it. A three and a zero."
Suddenly we weren't talking about music.
She: Thirty. After that everything goes down, down, down.
Me: Oh. And how old are you?
She: Thirty.
Me: (Thinking that thirty is not the point in life after which everything goes down, down, down.) Oh, yes. I see. But really, it's not so old.
She: I hope I live to be your age, when you just don't care about anything anymore.
Me: (More than a little taken aback.) Oh, you can see that by looking at me? (Thinking I looked pretty good, thank you, and knowing I had taken a bath that morning.)
She: It's just that I was shocked when I heard how old you are because you still have really good-looking legs.
Me: (Half under my breath) That's not all.
Thank goodness we had to sing again, and this strange conversation was ended.
Obviously, I have reflected on the conversation a time or two. And I do not know what it means.
Like, what does she mean by "when you don't care about anything anymore"?
Why does she think her life is nearly over at age 30 and on the down, down, down path?
Does she not know that she has 40 years before she's my age and can do SO MUCH in 40 years? Forty years!
And why and how often is she looking at my legs?
"That's 30," she said.
"Yes," I said, "I see it. A three and a zero."
Suddenly we weren't talking about music.
She: Thirty. After that everything goes down, down, down.
Me: Oh. And how old are you?
She: Thirty.
Me: (Thinking that thirty is not the point in life after which everything goes down, down, down.) Oh, yes. I see. But really, it's not so old.
She: I hope I live to be your age, when you just don't care about anything anymore.
Me: (More than a little taken aback.) Oh, you can see that by looking at me? (Thinking I looked pretty good, thank you, and knowing I had taken a bath that morning.)
She: It's just that I was shocked when I heard how old you are because you still have really good-looking legs.
Me: (Half under my breath) That's not all.
Thank goodness we had to sing again, and this strange conversation was ended.
Obviously, I have reflected on the conversation a time or two. And I do not know what it means.
Like, what does she mean by "when you don't care about anything anymore"?
Why does she think her life is nearly over at age 30 and on the down, down, down path?
Does she not know that she has 40 years before she's my age and can do SO MUCH in 40 years? Forty years!
And why and how often is she looking at my legs?
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
But the war is over . . .
Last night I ate dinner with Rena and Toos. Rena is 72, from Germany. Toos is 81, from Holland. After dinner the conversation centered on their lives in those countries during WWII. Both were children but their memories are vivid.
Toos's family had to leave their home--with all its furnishings--because the Germans wanted it. I do not know where her family went. They, the family, were always hungry. They would drink lots of water every night to fill their stomachs, trying to fool their bodies into believing they weren't hungry. She once tried to steal a potato for her family--one potato--from a German supply truck and was kicked by a German soldier.
Rena was five years old in early 1945, and Toos said, "But the war was over then."
"Not for us," Rena said. She lived with her family in eastern Germany, frightened to tears by stories she heard from the adults about what the Russians would do to them when they got there. She was nearly inconsolable. Her family knew they had to get out. They loaded all they could into a small horse-drawn cart and began their walk to the west. It took six weeks, through snow, ice, mud, and deep privation. They slept in whatever shelter they could find--barns, shacks, houses of kind people--finding what food they could.
They had very little food, little clean water on the way. And they had lice, a great humiliation for them. (They were staying in the house of some kind person on the way on that occasion.) Rena said, "We washed our hair in kerosene. Can you imagine?"
I do not know where they finally arrived, but I know it was more than ten miles from the hospital where they took Rena's mother, who had cancer and who died nine months after they reached freedom. Rena was six. Her oldest sister became her mother.
They were instructed to destroy the Nazi flag, but Rena's sister used it--bright red--to make a dress for Rena, who had no clothes. She was frightened all the time because of that dress.
I was also alive during that war, my fifth birthday was on Victory in Japan Day, September 2, 1945. My aunt Allie brought the newspaper to our house in West Los Angeles and she, my mother, and I sat in our little kitchen nook. I listened as they talked happily about the end of the war.
Food and gasoline were rationed. I saw the ration books. I heard the navy guns practicing in Long Beach harbor. But I do not remember ever going without anything I needed. Never going to bed hungry, never wanting to sleep long in the day so I wouldn't feel my hunger.
I am glad to know those two women, glad for their lives and their strength. They said last night that people have said they couldn't possibly go through what they--Rena and Toos--went through and endure and be okay, but "you do it," they both said, "because you have to."
Toos's family had to leave their home--with all its furnishings--because the Germans wanted it. I do not know where her family went. They, the family, were always hungry. They would drink lots of water every night to fill their stomachs, trying to fool their bodies into believing they weren't hungry. She once tried to steal a potato for her family--one potato--from a German supply truck and was kicked by a German soldier.
Rena was five years old in early 1945, and Toos said, "But the war was over then."
"Not for us," Rena said. She lived with her family in eastern Germany, frightened to tears by stories she heard from the adults about what the Russians would do to them when they got there. She was nearly inconsolable. Her family knew they had to get out. They loaded all they could into a small horse-drawn cart and began their walk to the west. It took six weeks, through snow, ice, mud, and deep privation. They slept in whatever shelter they could find--barns, shacks, houses of kind people--finding what food they could.
They had very little food, little clean water on the way. And they had lice, a great humiliation for them. (They were staying in the house of some kind person on the way on that occasion.) Rena said, "We washed our hair in kerosene. Can you imagine?"
I do not know where they finally arrived, but I know it was more than ten miles from the hospital where they took Rena's mother, who had cancer and who died nine months after they reached freedom. Rena was six. Her oldest sister became her mother.
They were instructed to destroy the Nazi flag, but Rena's sister used it--bright red--to make a dress for Rena, who had no clothes. She was frightened all the time because of that dress.
I was also alive during that war, my fifth birthday was on Victory in Japan Day, September 2, 1945. My aunt Allie brought the newspaper to our house in West Los Angeles and she, my mother, and I sat in our little kitchen nook. I listened as they talked happily about the end of the war.
Food and gasoline were rationed. I saw the ration books. I heard the navy guns practicing in Long Beach harbor. But I do not remember ever going without anything I needed. Never going to bed hungry, never wanting to sleep long in the day so I wouldn't feel my hunger.
I am glad to know those two women, glad for their lives and their strength. They said last night that people have said they couldn't possibly go through what they--Rena and Toos--went through and endure and be okay, but "you do it," they both said, "because you have to."
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Decision
I like birthdays, always have. I mean, I like having my birthday. It makes me happy.
But I believe I'll stop associating a number with it.
But I believe I'll stop associating a number with it.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Update, I guess
Last Saturday I spoke with my friend by telephone. Here is her progress, if that is the right word.
She still complains about people at church treating her like "the village idiot."
Parts of our conversation seemed nearly normal, like she is who she used to be, or as I knew her.
Other parts, no.
She told me again that it's like a jigsaw puzzle that never comes together. It being her life now, I think.
She still wants to go on a mission but says, simply as a matter of fact, her husband tells her she is the reason they can't go. "What if you forget who you are?" he says.
She no longer drives.
She said she has not driven their new car. New car? I asked. Yes.
I said I'd have to come over and see it.
"That would be wonderful," she said.
"How about next week?"
"Well, that week wouldn't be good. Our grandson is getting married, and we'll be back and forth between here and Twin Falls."
That response sounded like she's doing fine. As she says, she has her good days.
She still complains about people at church treating her like "the village idiot."
Parts of our conversation seemed nearly normal, like she is who she used to be, or as I knew her.
Other parts, no.
She told me again that it's like a jigsaw puzzle that never comes together. It being her life now, I think.
She still wants to go on a mission but says, simply as a matter of fact, her husband tells her she is the reason they can't go. "What if you forget who you are?" he says.
She no longer drives.
She said she has not driven their new car. New car? I asked. Yes.
I said I'd have to come over and see it.
"That would be wonderful," she said.
"How about next week?"
"Well, that week wouldn't be good. Our grandson is getting married, and we'll be back and forth between here and Twin Falls."
That response sounded like she's doing fine. As she says, she has her good days.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
I'm working on it
Many years ago, twenty-some, Ellen Bryant Voigt (a poet) told me I should be writing every day. Just shut the door--to keep the kids out--and write. I knew it was true, because inspiration comes then, when you're working. I didn't do it. Couldn't.
But now and then I have to write a poem--or try to--just so I'll know my head still works. Inspiration? Hmm. That's another subject.
Here's what I'm working on now. I haven't found the right title yet. So on and so forth.
From My Window
That squirrel,
playing around the trunk
of my neighbor's lopsided tree,
jumps up on the trunk and runs down,
turns flips, stops to flick his tail,
circles the tree again,
then repeats the whole dance.
It is like a dance
whose music invites abandon--
he looks wild,
that squirrel, and joyful.
What I see
is his singleness.
He is alone (or is it, she is alone?).
And I try to draw some lesson,
as I often do.
I have seen squirrels by twos
perform those acrobatic flips,
chase each other between
the ash and the dawn redwood
in my own yard,
run up and down each tree,
around and around the trunks,
stopping now and then to hold
a pose for one another,
then start up again
to repeat every step
or chase back and forth
across my roof.
The birds hold their peace
while the squirrels play:
the sparrows, robins, even the mourning doves
who every day whine out their grief.
What are they mourning? I wonder.
Perhaps the birds watch
from the nearby sycamore or honey locust,
drawing their own lessons.
The trees I know,
what they will do and when,
like the sycamore--it will hold its leaves
until late, late autumn--
or the dawn redwood
which, in spite of its name,
is not evergreen.
And I know the birds.
Robins, quails, even flickers, visit my lawns;
sparrows and finches have long
borrowed corners of my house for nest building,
with my blessing.
I don't much like squirrels,
but I have watched them,
noted their wildness with some small envy,
and, after twenty years,
thought I knew them. But
this one squirrel is a puzzle,
acting out his happy dance alone.
I do not know what it means to me,
perhaps nothing at all,
but something about it
is not right, and I
cannot believe that squirrel
is not longing for something,
someone.
Friday, July 27, 2012
What does this mean? That I can't cook anymore?
If people keep giving a person zucchinis, she pretty much has to make zucchini bread eventually. Which I did today.
And I thought to put it in two smallish pans for baking, but didn't. So now, it may never be done in the middle, and now I can't give parts of it to friends who have been so generous with me.
Because after baking it an hour and ten minutes and cooling it for another ten, when I tried to turn the bread out of the pan, the whole top and center plopped out--or slid--undone.
It's back in the oven, but it's a mess.
And I thought to put it in two smallish pans for baking, but didn't. So now, it may never be done in the middle, and now I can't give parts of it to friends who have been so generous with me.
Because after baking it an hour and ten minutes and cooling it for another ten, when I tried to turn the bread out of the pan, the whole top and center plopped out--or slid--undone.
It's back in the oven, but it's a mess.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
