Sunday, December 22, 2019

Aunt Willow Goes Green: A Hanukkah Tale (revisited)



I wrote this bit of Family FICTION a few years ago and I've shared it on this blog, around Hanukkah time, before. Now I'm sharing it again, and I do hope it makes you smile. Love and latkes to all!


The family is becoming increasingly concerned about Aunt Willow, my mother's oldest sister, the one who has adopted an environmental stance more radical than you might expect from a woman who, until recently, proclaimed as her personal motto: "More More More!"
   
But now it's "less less less" and she is vigorously pruning — her closets, her cupboards — which is all well and good, but for some reason the concept of anonymous re-giving holds no appeal for Willow. She has turned her back on the Salvation Army Thrift Store, as well as numerous consignment shops in her neighborhood, and has chosen to recycle her old garbage in the direction of her relatives, whether we like it or not. And we don't like it.
   
It began last year when she sent everyone a tuna can for Hanukkah. The cans were empty — either a plus or a minus, depending on your opinion of tuna fish — and haphazardly adorned. Some were lined with cotton balls, some with felt; some with what appeared to be bits of old socks. You either got a tuna can with used gift-wrapping paper taped around the outside, or one that was entirely undisguised and looked exactly like what it was: albacore or chunk light, packed in water or in oil. Nothing was left to the imagination.
   
Aunt Willow enclosed notes, written on the back of used envelopes, instructing us that the tuna cans could now be used to store our tchochkes and what-nots. But in typical Willow fashion she admonished us. "Why do you continue to accumulate tchotchkes?" she demanded, in her large loopy handwriting. "Down with tchotchkes! Go Green!" she added.
   
We all disposed of the tuna cans immediately. I know this because we have a cousins list-serve and some of us (naming no names) did not actually recycle the cans, but tossed them directly in the trash. (I know, I know: shame on me.) And since none of us are inclined to accumulate tchochkes and what-nots in the first place, Aunt Willow's Hanukkah gift was appreciated by not a single soul.
   
For my birthday last spring, Willow sent me a paperback copy of Crime and Punishment. It was the very copy she'd read in college, copiously annotated, margin notes on nearly every page. It came as no surprise to discover that Aunt Willow had an opinion about everything. "Raskolnikov!" she scribbled on page two, "get a new hat already! Where are your brains?"
   
I consulted with my cousin Lilian. She received a book for her birthday as well, a tattered volume of Hamlet. "Zee, it was horrifying," she told me. "The things our aunt wrote, nobody should have to read that. There were curses in 4 different languages, including Danish. She's totally ruined Shakespeare for me."
   
Over the course of a year the entire family has been subjected to similar assaults, as Willow ruthlessly clears her bookshelves. Cousin Harry, who's always been a little twitchy, is worried that the Peter Pan she foisted off on him could land him on the "dangerous persons" list with the FBI. He buried the book in his backyard, which is something Harry could do because he lives in Tenafly; anyone else would have thrown it down the incinerator chute in their apartment building and been done with it. Now his sister, Rosalie, who is even twitchier than Harry, is afraid some dog will dig up the book and Harry will be hauled off and never seen again. His fingerprints are all over that Peter Pan.
   
My own father became apoplectic when he saw Willow's margin notes in her old copy of Portnoy's Complaint.

"Why didn't he stop reading it?" I asked my mother. "Oh you know how it is," she said, "it was just like watching that Jerry Springer show, you can't stop yourself. He had to read to the very end, even though he hated every second of it."

I'm worried about what this Hanukkah will bring. Mom's already warned me that Aunt Willow's been going through the letters she received, and saved, over the decades, reading each one over and over again. We suspect she will now return them to those senders who are still alive.

Who wants to be reminded of what you wrote to your aunt from summer camp in 1961? "Made three laniards today. Went swimming. Stepped on a worm."

And knowing Aunt Willow, she won't merely return our letters to us, she'll persecute us. "What do you mean, 'stepped on a worm?' What kind of maniac murderer are you? You're no niece of mine, Zee Zahava, you're a regular Raskolnikov."

I've never dreaded a holiday as much as I'm dreading this one.
   
Perhaps I should strike first. I could always send Aunt Willow an empty tube of toothpaste: "For storing your long skinny tchochkes and what-nots," I'd tell her.

But I won't. Why start a war you know you can't win?

Tuesday, November 26, 2019

A Thanksgiving Letter



Thanksgiving Day, 9 a.m.

Dear Ava,
   
I’ve been up since six, bet you were too, and I wish I could have come over but Daddy says it’s slutty the way I run over to your house all the time and I told him it’s not slutty when it’s two girls but he said he’s speaking metaphorically and anyway this is Thanksgiving (like I didn’t know that) and it’s meant for families to be with families, which is just plain stupid, but anyway that’s why I’m writing to you and not talking to you in person and as soon as I can get out the front door without being caught I’ll run this over and put it in your mailbox. I hope you look there. Try to read my mind this second: M-A-I-L  B-O-X.
   
Do you like this paper? It’s not really purple. I know it looks purple but it’s called mauve and no I didn’t spell it wrong, my grandma sent it with a note telling me the color because she’s always trying to improve my mind, so get used to this mauve, you’ll be seeing a lot of it, who else would I write to?
   
She also sent me a book, "A Child’s Garden of Verses," she is so two centuries ago, but I don’t want to be mad at her because the reason she’s sending me this stuff instead of waiting until Hanukkah is she thinks she might be dead by then which is really sad. But on the other hand it’s not sad because there’s nothing wrong with her, she just gets seasonal dread she calls it, but if she’s still alive on New Year’s Day then I’m really going to be mad at her for being so negative about life.
   
There was a lot of activity in the kitchen this morning, Dad and his new live-in girlfriend playing around with the turkey, giggle, giggle, giggle. I stayed up in my room because watching them make out over a naked animal would turn my stomach, but now they’ve gone back to bed and it’s quiet as the grave though any second I expect to hear her panting and oh-my-god-ing and I'm sure this is not good for me, mental health-wise, but Dad, being a psychologist, would probably say “Facts of life, Dorrie, get used to it.”
   
So I'm just wondering about something: “quiet as the grave,” what do you think? Is it quiet in the grave? I doubt it. Gross. Hold on a sec, I’m going to change the channel in my mind. Okay, I’m back.
   
My ex-step-mother and her two gnomes will be here at one. Is this the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard of? My father is like one of those men with a harem, he gets his ex and his current to come and fuss over him with their cranberry sauces and we’re all supposed to act like it’s normal. He says “We make the rules, not society” but by "we" he means "he" because if I made the rules I’d be at your house right now and we’d have mac-and-cheese from the microwave and we'd play with the Ouija board until our finger tips fell off.
   
One of the things I’d really like to know is how a woman who is old enough to drive still can’t figure out the meaning of the word vegetarian. When Dad’s live-in realizes I’m not going to eat a single ounce of that 300 pound turkey there’s going to be World War 4 in the dining room. My ex-step-mother might even start crying. She’ll be sad because now that she’s a guest in the house she won’t get to call me names and throw fits. But you never know, anything can happen, I’m sort of hoping for a food fight with the two gnomes, for old time’s sake.



So now it is so much later, how did this happen?
   
You might have noticed I still haven’t managed to get this letter into your mailbox, hope you haven’t been waiting there, that is if you read my mind in the first place. Did you?
   
There’s something of a scene going on downstairs, I’ll tell you every single detail when I see you tomorrow, but for now just try to picture this: After the so-called feast my ex-step-mother stood up and recited a poem she wrote especially for the occasion. I thought she would have outgrown that sensitive phase of hers, but apparently not. It was a very long poem, seemed like 3 hours, and I didn’t understand all of it, but I think it was supposed to be erotic, and it kind of upset the live-in who might be living out soon. Hallelujah.
   
This is the last letter you’ll get from me on this mauve paper. You remember Jeffrey, one of my former step-gnomes, well he was hanging out in my room — don’t ask me how he got through the barricade — and it turns out mauve is his favorite color, which was something of a shocker but not in a totally bad way, so he’s taking the whole box of stationery off my hands except for one sheet which I’ll use to write a thank you note to my grandmother. I couldn’t get him to take "A Child’s Garden of Verses," though. What did I expect? It’s only Thanksgiving. They don’t promise you miracles on Thanksgiving.

Look for me early in the morning, I’ll be right there on your doorstep. You'll know it's me because in spite of everything that happened today I still look the same. On the outside.

Love, Dorrie


NOTE: I suppose it is something of a tradition for me to post this story around Thanksgiving every year. So here it is again. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Wednesday, November 13, 2019

Thinking about special gifts to give to your loved ones this year?



Perhaps you are already thinking about the special gifts you would like to give to the special people in your life, when this year comes to an end (and a whole new decade arrives!)

I have an idea:

Why not write something? That would be a VERY SPECIAL gift, no doubt about it!

When I was a child my mother always said that a handmade present was the very best kind. And I agree.

“Handmade” can be a poem, story, memoir piece, letter, reflection, etc. that you write with your own hand! (And of course it can be printed out afterwards.)

I can help you generate ideas about the kind of writing you would like to do, and I can guide you through the process of getting started. If you already have something in mind I can assist you in fine-tuning the details.

You might decide that you want to write one piece, to print out and give to many people. Or different pieces, each one tailor-made for the recipient.

I envision one session, of 60 - 90 minutes, as being sufficient to make your plans come together and to allow you to leave with a clear idea of what your VERY SPECIAL GIFT will look like.

The fee for a session is $75.

If this idea appeals to you, please be in touch with me and we will set up a time to meet…and get started!


You can call: 607-273-4675 or send an e-mail: zee@twcny.rr.com

Thursday, October 3, 2019

Rain is Not

NOTE: On this rainy day in October, 2019 I'm reprinting a long list from 2011

This list was started on Wednesday afternoon, December 7, 2011, in the periodicals room at the New York Public Library, 5th Avenue at 42nd Street. I finished it on Saturday morning, December 10, at Emma's Writing Center in Ithaca, New York. My inspiration was Lynne Tillman's poem, "Flowers," which was part of the Library's exhibit "Celebrating 100 Years."

Rain is not curious, romantic, mischievous, insolent. Rain is not a locked door. Rain is not worried, twitchy, literate, bossy, funny. Rain is not a good correspondent. Rain is not tiresome, egotistical, hungry, itchy, bored. Rain is not a cheerleader. Rain is not abusive, late, cheeky, polite, intolerant. Rain is not a gift giver. Rain is not impatient, neat, over caffeinated, artsy fartsy, giggly. Rain is not a picky eater. Rain is not frugal, discouraged, cramped, whistling, whispering. Rain is not running away from home. Rain is not doodling, dreaming, reliable, paranoid, grumpy. Rain is not a fan of garden gnomes. Rain is not blameless, dishonest, indiscreet, thirsty, forgiving. Rain is not a Scrabble player. Rain is not chocolatey, smarmy, chatty, vague, particular. Rain is not holding on by a thread. Rain is not surprised, near-sighted, calm, confused, lost. Rain is not taking violin lessons. Rain is not ambidextrous, rich, embroidering, zany, accessorizing. Rain is not concerned with moral ambiguity. Rain is not sloppy, arrogant, wasteful, alphabetical, licorice. Rain is not ignoring library overdue notices. Rain is not gossipy, absent-minded, tap dancing, accident prone, rude. Rain is not blowing out the candles. Rain is not well-coiffed, clumsy, sneaky, childish, fidgety. Rain is not able to count backwards by seven. Rain is not nosey, anonymous, self-conscious, coughing, warmongering. Rain is not the next Fred Astaire (or Ginger Rogers, either). Rain is not shy, cuddly, old fashioned, tantrumy, irrelevant. Rain is not a role model. Rain is not sleepy, entertaining, disappointing, clingy, stubborn. Rain is not living in the past. Rain is not superstitious, proud, pushy, verbose, jumpy. Rain is not a team player. Rain is not grammatical, political, phony, laced up, vain. Rain is not saving up to buy anything. Rain is not solitary, cluttered, forever, melodramatic, docile. Rain is not afraid to mix plaids and polka dots. Rain is not photogenic, permissive, trendy, embarrassed, confiding. Rain is not listening to a word you say. Rain is not lonely, social climbing, dieting, regretful, spiteful. Rain is not good at meeting deadlines. Rain is not vacuuming, preaching, cheating, pregnant, butterscotch. Rain is not looking to start a revolution. Rain is not fantasizing, plotting, star gazing, anticipating, sentimental. Rain is not searching for the final piece of the jig-saw puzzle. Rain is not cranky, nervous, mealy-mouthed, broken, knotted. Rain is not refusing to ask for directions. Rain is not dithering, queasy, undernourished, victorious, distracted. Rain is not teetering around in high-heeled shoes. Rain is not introspective, brassy, lazy, plastic, married. Rain is not a rock star. Rain is not mathematical, grieving, bruised, constipated, matchy-matchy. Rain is not a bargain hunter. Rain is not innocent, moody, telepathic, bleeding, breathless. Rain is not trying to make a good impression. Rain is not religious, crafty, shedding, fashionable, careful. Rain is not a floozy. Rain is not athletic, multi-lingual, stoical, rebellious. Rain is not tall or short. Rain is not lipsticky, squinty, observant, secretive, studious. Rain is not hiding from anything. Rain is not waffly, conforming, attentive, paisley, gnarled. Rain is not a good luck charm. Rain is not envious, reactionary, fickle, complaining, higgledy-piggledy. Rain is not a distant cousin. Rain is not timid, quarrelsome, allergic, young, apologetic. Rain is not the one who walks off in a huff. Rain is not polyester, tomorrow, finger paint, quotable, Xeroxed. Rain is not always losing a mitten. Rain is not inappropriate, hypnotized, zaftig, stalking, undressed. Rain is not a gargoyle. Rain is not diplomatic, gambling, pierced, disappearing, calligraphy. Rain is not trying to make a good impression. Rain is not masquerading, punctuated, poetic, grateful, over. Rain is not another way of saying something else.

Monday, September 30, 2019

How To Knit a Pair of Socks

This is a re-posting from August, 2011


Assume you know everything you need to know. Don’t bother getting a pattern. Don’t think about the correlation between needle size and yarn ply.  Don’t ask anyone for advice. Especially don’t ask your mother, who is an expert knitter.

Go to a discount store and buy a skein of the cheapest yarn you can find. Don’t even know if you’ve chosen wool or some sort of acrylic. Don’t think about the meaning of the word “blend.”

Assume one skein will yield one pair of socks. Choose the color lime green. Base your choice on the fact that you don’t especially like the color lime green. Consider the reality that all your favorite socks, in your most beloved colors, mysteriously vanish in the laundry. Resolve that these lime green socks will be with you for the rest of your life.

Cast on.

Immediately realize you don’t know what those two words mean. You understand them individually: cast — the people in a play; on — on the bus, on time, on your mark. You could go on.

Sit and ponder what you need to do in order to “cast on” in a manner appropriate for knitting. Remember all the times you’ve heard people use that phrase. Think of your mother. Stop thinking of your mother. Think, instead, about your friend Julie Pinkus.

Picture her in the dorm room you shared 43 years ago. See her surrounded by balls of yarn. See her hands manipulating knitting needles. Hear the click click click of the needles. Force your mind to see exactly what it was she was doing with her hands and the yarn and the needles.

Realize you cannot force your mind to do anything.

Feel despair. Really feel it. Wallow in despair and discouragement, and also in disgust. Wallow a little bit more. Just a little bit. Remind yourself not to overdo it; you don’t want to step on the down escalator and wake up in the pit of depression. Not because of knitting. Not because of the lime green wool (or non-wool, as the case may be) that is sitting in your lap. Not because of the two knitting needles that, with a bit of creativity, you could easily put to some good use.
   
Think about the many things you could do with these needles. While you are thinking, transform the skein of yarn into a ball and throw it on the floor. Call to your cat. Observe her delight as she pounces on the yarn and rolls it from one end of the room to the next.
   
Take the knitting needles and plunge them into the soil of that huge plant you don’t remember the name of — that plant in your living room that’s been listing to the left for six months. Prop the leaning stems against the knitting needles.
   
Go to the kitchen and get a piece of string from the junk drawer. Tie the plant stems and the knitting needles together. Realize this would have been a good use for some of the lime green yarn, but tell yourself it’s too late now, the yarn is covered with cat spit and you’d rather not handle it too closely.
   
Think about what a good day it’s been. Your cat is happy, your plant is happy, your mother is happy — because she doesn't know what you've been up to. (If she did know, she'd wonder where she went wrong with you.)








Wednesday, September 25, 2019

Stay Open at the Top (dedicated to Jackie Mott Brown)

This is a revised version of a post from years ago
 

A while ago I attended my first art class since junior high school days

"Look with new eyes,” the teacher urged
"Colors don’t have to make sense"
"Don't be afraid to be tacky" 

"When you think you’re finished, it’s just the beginning" 
“Stay open at the top”
 

Scattered across the table were tubes of acrylic paints —
bold reds and pretty pinks
lime green and forest green
a yellow so lemony it made my teeth hurt
orange and eggplant
sixteen shades of blue

I freaked out

Then I pulled myself together and
painted a bright red spiral in the middle of my canvas

It looked like a squiggly piece of pasta

A few minutes later I
painted a few yellow circles
next to the red pasta

I painted lots and lots of circles —
the full moon
over and over and over
   
The woman sitting next to me looked over at my canvas
“What beautiful suns,” she said
And I said “thank you”

I felt like the little prince in the book by Antoine de Saint-Exupery
when he draws an elephant being digested
by a boa constrictor and the well-meaning
relatives mistake it for a drawing of a hat
   
But I didn’t correct my sister-painter
because she had used the word beautiful

She didn't say “you stink at this”
and for that I was grateful
even though my moons
would now be suns forever more


Tuesday, September 24, 2019

I Hold Nothing Back

This is a piece I wrote many many years ago . . . .

Sometimes when it’s really late at night and I’m lying in bed and I can’t sleep, I worry. I just let myself go. I hold nothing back. I worry about my life and everybody else’s life, including people I don’t even know, and after I’ve worked myself up with all this worrying I realize I am totally 100% awake and then I worry about how I’ll ever fall asleep and I worry about what will happen to me if I don’t fall asleep and soon my head hurts from so much worry and I realize I have to force myself to think about something else and sometimes all I can come up with are more worries which, naturally, doesn’t help, but other times I wise up and hit upon something useful.

Which is what happened just last night.
   
My head was throbbing from all my worries but I turned on the lamp and reached for my pencil and notebook and started to make a list of everything I could think of that would describe a person who had more worries than I did, a really peculiar, verging-on-unsavory type of person, and this is what I came up with:
       
Cannot pronounce the letter P
Feels faint at the sight of a strand of spaghetti
Was once engaged to a man named Pinky Carbunkle (had to call him Inky)
Has worn only purple underwear since the age of 12           
Won a blue ribbon 3 years in a row for her beet marmalade
Knows absolutely nothing about anything
Writes the “Misery” column for the local newspaper
Stores her diary in the flour bin for safe keeping
Had 6 brothers who all died under mysterious circumstances
Steals catalogs out of her neighbors’ mailboxes
Carves unidentifiable profiles out of olive pits 

Then I was so tired I shut the light and went to sleep and this morning I felt refreshed and rejuvenated —creative, even — and only mildly troubled by the memory of a dream about getting a ticket for sitting in a car that wasn’t moving and trying to reason with the police officer who said “Is that so, little lady, is that so?”




Monday, August 19, 2019

pink-icing cupcakes

pink is the color of cupcake icing
neither strawberry-flavored
nor raspberry
something in the almost-cherry family
but not quite cherry

pink is the color of cupcake icing
that doesn't taste like anything real

my mother never bought
pink-icing cupcakes
and she never made them herself

that would require
a working relationship with an oven

(and an oven
that worked)

but in any case
she wouldn't buy
pink-icing cupcakes
for my birthday
or my sister's birthday

because she had an aversion
to the color pink

it wasn't a pre-feminist thing
it’s just that she had certain likes
and certain dislikes

and she disliked colorful colors

my mother liked brown
any shade of brown —
taupe    sand    sienna    bark
chestnut    tan    almond    camel
coffee

if it was brown
my mother approved

so we would have had chocolate-icing cupcakes
if we were having cupcakes

but we never had cupcakes

we had cheesecake ….

…. from the deli

Tuesday, July 9, 2019

rowing our boats

sunday morning,
my sister and I
sit on the bedroom floor
and row

we miss summer camp
but it is
only October

our room is cold
but still
we put on our bathing suits

we use wooden rulers for oars
and sing “Michael Row Your Boat Ashore”

my sister asks me to braid her hair
and I do
even though it is pixie-short

she asks if we will have
roasted marshmallows
at the cookout that night

i assure her we will

everything is possible
before our parents wake up

two young girls
rowing our boats
on the lake of dreams

 


Note: This is a revised version of a piece written many years ago

Monday, July 8, 2019

blueberry picking at high noon



the radio said expect a breeze
but there isn't one
and only my baseball cap
for a slice of shade

i'm wearing a pale gray silk blouse
so silly
but at least it is lightweight

i pick from one bush and then another
not wanting any one spot
to grow too bare
always moving
slow
but moving

bees buzz nearby
dragonflies mate
then whizz away

it's important to be careful
and not separate families

these 3 berries look like sisters
i pick them all
so no one feels rejected
or lonely

here: a mom, a pop, 6 little babies —
plop, plop, plop, plop, plop, plop, plop, plop
into the bucket they go

filling it up to the brim
taking time
there is lots of time to take

and on the table
next to the cash box
a pitcher of lemonade
cold and sweet
and only 50 cents

on the way home
eating berries
my fingers don’t turn blue 
my tongue doesn't turn blue
not even my teeth turn blue

a perfect afternoon

and there were no bears 











 Note: this is a revised version of a piece written many years ago







Thursday, June 20, 2019

Most Plucky

I've shared this before (and in more than one version) but for some reason I want to share it again, today. It is semi-true and semi-not-true. 


On the long bus ride taking a few dozen soon-to-be-campers from the Bronx to the Berkshires, I accidentally sit on my eyeglasses and they break in half. I don’t tell anyone. I just dig my sunglasses out of my backpack and put them on. I keep them on, day and night, all summer long. 


I have a wonderful time at camp. Everyone is so nice to me. The girls in my cabin take turns being my best best friend. They fight over who will get to sit next to me in the dining hall or around the camp fire. When I say I don’t want to play volleyball or softball or dodge ball nobody thinks anything of it; they ask “Would you like me to sit with you and we could just talk?” 

When I trip over small rocks or fall into gopher holes no one laughs. I have two boyfriends who swear their undying love to me. Everyone laughs at my jokes. No one tells me to shut up when I sing “Michael Row Your Boat Ashore” out of tune. Every morning my counselor asks if she can braid my hair — she asks like it would be a favor to her, so I say yes. 

On the last night of camp there’s a big Awards Ceremony. Fancy-script certificates are given out for Most Athletic, Most Musical, Most Hot Dogs Eaten, Most Letters Written Home. I don’t expect to get anything. It’s enough to have had such a wonderful summer with so many good friends. But then I hear my name being called and I stand up, adjust my sunglasses so they won’t slip down my smiling cheeks, and walk to the front of the dining hall to receive my award. 

Everyone stands up and claps for me, all the campers and the counselors, too. The camp director hands me a certificate and makes a little speech. He says they’ve never had a camper like me before: so brave and inspiring, so lacking in self-pity. He says I’m the Most Plucky girl he’s ever met. 

And that’s when I realize that everybody thinks I’m blind.

Tuesday, June 18, 2019

small poems, written since January 2019

new year
same obsessions
the amaryllis blooms

stone lion
broken paw . . . .
weeks since i passed this way

snow falls
i remind myself
nothing is expected of me

i had a thought
but then
i forgot it

sometimes i think
the mirror
laughs at me

wondering…
what is the difference between
me and a cloud

listen
under the snow
a flower is being born

long ago
i was here
this tree was also here

now we are older
we laugh more
we laugh everyday

in the dream
i cook with seeds
flowers bloom inside me

today
the windows are open
easy to touch the clouds

early morning walk
birds birds birds
that is all … that is everything

four months
since i walked this path
i hardly recognize myself

early morning walk
a herd of busses stand
tail to trunk

waiting//waiting//waiting//being

descendants of ancient rocks
we turn our weary faces
toward the sun

left at the curb
my neighbor’s red silk dancing shoes ….
bits and bits of snow

passing the old-old house
hollyhocks
just a memory

tree stump — forgive me
i can’t remember
when you were a tree

dry fields
muddy fields
always the cows

lighting incense
an offering to the
midnight moon

who would i be
if my grandfather
had played the fiddle?

abandoned shed
splintering ….
daisies here and there

wooden bowl
stained purple
last summer’s berries

waiting in line so long
the bread gets moldy
(bakery dream)

going down Linn Street
remembering my sister long ago
in her pink suede hot-pants

walking under magnolias i am lighter

my neighbor’s yard
a Buddha statue ….
i stop grumbling

sharing the room
with a big black fly
this won’t end well

walking a path
around the rug
an inward journey

last night
the moon and me
later  …. just the moon

early morning walk
determined not to find haiku ….
i don’t

zooming around the room
a great big fly
i hesitate to yawn widely

early morning walk
irises irises irises
no heron

my room
designed to fit inside a 

haiku

the stillness of
5:30 a.m.
just me and my heartbeat

peonies pushing past the post



under my new wide-brimmed hat
walking farther
faster


almost-summer walk
a pair of ice skates abandoned
by the creek

little detours around each puddle

my  tiny haiku notebook
still swollen with
tuesday's rain 

black bear in the road
turns out to be 
an overturned trash can 

a new car
in my neighbor's driveway . . . .
i'm just curious 

--

early morning walk
the air heavy with just-about-to-rain

a neighbor has planted a water fountain in her front yard
gurgle gurgle

another overturned plastic cup
the ants go in the ants go out


-- 

just before sleep ...
"my dear" she says
inside my head ...
and i sleep all night
wrapped in her laugh 

how cleverly
we avoid one another
the squirrels and i 


it was a ho-hum walk
until you arrived
! cardinal ! 


late August morning
a cool breeze
the scent of loss

old friend
i didn't recognize you
until i saw your earrings 

pretending
i don’t mind . . . .
rainy day

Monday, May 6, 2019

Everything is Opening

a hot Sunday
late May, 1972
my roommate has just gotten married
that very morning
in the woods
wearing cut-off jeans
and a tie-dyed tank top
strands of bells
tied around her ankles
her new husband
shaved his head
for the occasion
i wore my best flannel nightgown
and a pair of knee-high brown suede boots
i was the most dressed-up one there

no minister
no rabbi
a de-frocked priest said a few words
we don’t know if it was legal
we don’t care

later, back in ithaca
we gather in a neighbor’s garden
the dogs have just woken up
confused, curious
and the chickens seem anxious
but we are not the sort of people
who eat our friends’ pets

we are people
who play tambourines and banjos
and sing out of tune
loudly
and one of us
(i won’t name a name)
goes up onto the back porch
to scratch a small poem
into the wooden floor

then it is night
we sing louder
louder
we make a fire
drink cheap wine
laugh and dance

the future waits for us
opening opening opening
everything is opening




NOTE: 

I wrote this on Sunday, May 5, after reading THE DOGS WOKE ME UP, by Marty Cain (borrowing some words from sections 1, 2, and 3)

Friday, May 3, 2019

Thirty Wind Chimes


Utica Street in downtown Ithaca is one of my favorite places to walk. It's not terribly long (though it is longer than its near neighbor, Short Street) and it smells good, especially in spring and summer — the scent of flowers mingling with cooking smells. It's a quiet street, except for the sound of house construction and re-construction, which takes place in every season.

Yesterday I decided to put more focus into my walk, so I counted the number of wind chimes I saw on the porches.

Thirty.

That includes 4 bells that wouldn't chime on their own but might make a lovely sound if they were helped along by something stronger than a breeze.

For about half a block I was stuck at the number 13 and had to keep repeating "13, 13, 13, 13" inside my head so I wouldn't lose my place.

Then I came to a house with 3 wind chimes and after that I was on a roll.

Sometimes it was hard to distinguish a wind chime from a mobile, or a cleverly-disguised bird feeder. I was squinting up at a porch when a woman across the street said "Doesn't that remind you of the house on Irving Place?"

But it turned out she wasn't talking to me, she was talking to the man a few paces behind her. And she wasn't even referring to the house I was looking at.

Of course this made me wonder about Irving Place. Which I don't know at all. I do know a few men named Irving, though, so I thought about them for a while. There was my Uncle Irving, Mom’s older brother who died before I was born. And my parents' close friend, Irv Friedman. And a fella I knew in my early twenties, a truly wild man, he was also an Irving.

Perhaps I would have been named Irving, if I had been a boy.

By now the woman and man from across the street were far ahead of me, and the mystery of Irving Place remains, forever, unsolved.

I could have counted white butterflies instead of wind chimes. Or anything else: broken bicycles, hanging fuchsia plants, abandoned ladders, fire-hydrants covered over with weeds and wildflowers. 

But yesterday it was all about the wind chimes. It was such a still day. Not one of them made a sound.

---


lazy afternoon
even the wind chimes
are napping

Thursday, May 2, 2019

The Small Brown Bag



he was the button man
Mr Horowitz
his store was on Tremont Avenue
he was a small man
his shop was small too
even the buttons were small

it didn’t smell good in there
but what made it so stinky?
not the buttons
buttons don’t smell
maybe it was the sardines

Mr Horowitz ate a sardine sandwich
on pumpernickel
in his store
every day for lunch

this is how I know:
Mr Horowitz was Shulamith’s grandpa
Shulamith Horowitz
call me Susan she begged
all her friends in Miss Malone’s class
so we did

but I thought Shulamith was a pretty name
and sometimes I’d say it inside my head
just so I could hear
if I was listening —
Shooooo laa mith

Shulamith Susan Horowitz was not small
she was tall
she was taller than her grandpa
she didn’t call him Mr Horowitz
she called him Grandpa Tiny

I didn’t call my grandpa Mr Kaplan
(of course not!)
I called him Grandpa Joe

Shulamith Susan Horowitz had red hair
it was curly and it was long
she said she hated her hair
she tried to straighten it by wrapping it
in big fat pink plastic curlers
she said it hurt her to sleep in the curlers
her head felt like it was on fire
but it was worth it, she said —
that’s how much she hated her hair

her grandfather
Mr Horowitz
didn’t have any hair
he had a mustache but he didn’t have
any hair on his head
Shulamith Susan Horowitz did not call him
Grandpa Baldy
and that’s a good thing

my mother was named Eva
she was never ever ever called Eva by anyone in the world
except by her father, my Grandpa Joe
everyone else called her Eve
I don’t know why my mother hated to be called Eva
but she did —
I called her mommy

my mother was a good knitter
she made little hats for my sister and me
she made us mittens and sweaters
she made us vests

once she made me a sweater out of mohair wool
it was light blue
fluffy and oh-so-soft to touch
but this is something that I don’t understand
the mohair sweater was soft to touch
but it was itchy to wear

I wore it anyway because it was so pretty
and my mother made it for me
and sometimes you have to suffer to be beautiful
my mother used to say that
a lot
I hated it when she said that

my mother had to go see Mr Horowitz in his button store
she needed to buy buttons 

to sew onto a new sweater she made
it was a Saturday morning and
she took me with her
she didn’t say it was stinky in the store
maybe she couldn’t smell the sardines

she was very smiley to Mr Horowitz
and he was very smiley to her
he let her look around at all the buttons on her own
he didn’t think he had to keep showing her stuff
my mother didn’t like it when men in stores
kept showing her stuff
like they knew what she wanted but she didn’t know
my mother would ignore the men
when they did that
she would act like she didn’t even hear them

sometimes my mother was a queen
and I was happy to be her little princess
but I didn’t want anyone to call me that
it is terrible to be called a little princess
Mr Horowitz did not call me that

but on that Saturday he handed over a small brown bag
filled with all the buttons my mother had just bought
he stood up on his toes and reached
all the way over the wooden counter
and he handed my mother the bag

I want to hold it I said
and my mother handed me the bag
and Mr Horowitz said to me
you are Little Miss Holdjit
why did he have to say that?
I didn’t like it

my mother laughed
but I did not laugh
I didn’t see what was so funny

we left the stinky button store
I held the bag of buttons
I felt bad

I told my mother
I am not Little Miss Holdjit
my mother said she knew that I wasn’t
but you laughed I said
I was just being polite
I am never going to laugh just to be polite I said
and I meant it

my mother said
let’s get a slice at Sal’s
so that is what we did
we walked to the end of the block and on the corner
there was Sal’s Pizza

we didn’t even have to go inside
we stood at the window and Sal was there
like he always was
so my mother held up two fingers
and in a minute we each had a slice

and then we walked home
I was still holding the small brown bag

Tuesday, April 30, 2019

Such a Tender Face




my grandmother is sitting on the couch
in the last living room of her life
my mother sits beside her
and there I am
only inches away
in a very soft chair
the old chair that used to be grandpa’s
where my grandmother never sits
and neither does my mother
but I don’t mind
the chair doesn’t scare me
not the way grandpa did

the three of us are watching tv
though I suspect my mother isn’t
paying close attention
she might be planning what she’ll cook for dinner
or thinking about shoes

and grandma is paying even less attention
she has a library book open in her lap
War and Peace  . . . again
she’s read it many times before
in two different languages
so she only looks up in the direction of the tv
from time to time

she can do two things at once
so can I
I learned this from her

but on this day I am doing only one thing
I am watching the television and nothing else
it is a dumb show
where people embarrass themselves in front of an audience

it’s not the Jerry Springer show
grandma would never stand for that
she considers him a buffoon
she would call him a putz but she doesn’t use that word
my mother would call him a putz but she doesn’t
actually know who Jerry Springer is

maybe we are watching the Maury Povich show
we don’t like Maury too much (he’s no Phil Donohue
but after all, who is?)
still, if Maury’s show comes on no one will jump up
and change the channel

there is no remote control in grandma’s apartment
if the tv came with one she probably threw it away

so there we are in the living room
the tv is on
and the next guest is brought out onto the stage
he is a man who cannot walk unassisted
a young man, probably in his 20s
and he weighs more than 600 pounds

two burly men, dressed in black
stand on either side of him and prop him up

another man, even more burly, stands behind and pushes
the 600 pound man forward

audience members gasp
so loudly that my mother looks over at the tv
grandma puts her finger in War and Peace to hold her place
and looks up
I am already staring at the screen

the 600 pound man sits down on a special chair
that’s been brought out onto the stage just for him
a chair the size of 2 or 3 regular chairs

my mother, thinking to protect her mother
tells me to get up and change the channel

grandma says shaaa, Evela

my mother has forgotten that her mother
does not need to be protected
from the sight of human suffering

the 600 pound man begins to talk
he has a gentle high-pitched voice
he sounds like a woman
my mother asks is that a woman?
shaaa, Evela, my grandmother says again

by now she has closed War and Peace
she is giving her full attention to the 600 pound man
she is leaning forward a bit
coming closer, an inch or two, to the man
we are watching on the screen

then she says
he has such a tender face
he has a beautiful nose

this is, perhaps, the 100th time that I recognize my grandmother as my
Buddhist teacher


Monday, April 29, 2019

Who Can Tell?



i’m in the kitchen with grandma
she is braiding the challah
i never stop chattering

there is so much to tell her —

about my teacher who wears
the same dress
every day
and always looks sad

and the boy in my class
who tattled on me
when i blew bubbles
with a straw
into my milk container

and the new girl in school named Rhonda

“grandma have you ever heard a name like that?
i don’t like that name
and I don’t like that girl”

“mamala,” grandma says
“don’t say you don’t like that girl
you don’t know her yet
who can tell?
you might end up being good friends”

“no we won’t
she’s very bossy
she told me I wasn’t coloring right
but i know how to color”

“yes darling
you color pretty”
grandma says
in her soft voice
that sounds like she’s singing

“maybe” grandma says
“maybe she just wanted
to talk to you
but she couldn’t think of something
nice to say
maybe she wants to be your friend”

“maybe
but i don’t think so”

“try to think so
it will make you happier if you
think so”

i didn’t know it then
60 years ago
on that Friday afternoon
in the kitchen on Elsemere Place

but my grandma Yetta
was my first
Buddhist teacher

Monday, March 4, 2019

Perfectly Content

I posted this here last week. Then I was asked to take it down, by a poet who thought that the last two lines of the original piece were too similar to words she had written in a published poem. (Those lines included mention of a year and my age.) So I did remove my post. But now that I think about it, I’m putting it back up, without the last two lines. Because this is my memory, slightly fictionalized, and I like it. So here it is… again. 

I wrote this in one of the weekly writing circles that I offer; our theme that week was Kitchens. 

SEE ALSO:
http://lostpaper.blogspot.com/2019/02/kitchen-stories-short-shorts-on-theme.html



Many years ago I lived in London, in a bed-sitter not far from Hampstead Heath. It was a small room with a narrow bed, an over-stuffed chair, and a large clothes cabinet that tilted slightly to the left. There was a bathroom down the hall, and I had access to the back garden, but there was no kitchen — just an electric kettle for boiling water. I drank a lot of tea. I was a Bronx girl doing my best to appear English. Most evenings, on my way home from my job as a library assistant, I’d stop and buy a small bunch of anemones from a woman who called me “Love.” Then I’d pick up a spinach tart for supper, or some bread and cheese. As often as possible I’d eat out with friends, in one cheap restaurant or another. Sometimes a kind co-worker invited me to her flat for a home-cooked meal. I never asked anyone to visit me in my room. Except once. A friend was visiting from the States, spending a week in a posh West End hotel. We went together to museums and parks, saw a play, heard a concert. It seemed only right that I would have her over for a meal. I boiled water in the kettle and made us tea. I picked up Cornish pasties from the local pub. For dessert I made a little concoction with plain yogurt, a handful of cashews, and a few currants. My friend was polite. “Lovely, lovely,” she said, “everything is so lovely.” She was also trying to be English. Later, after she returned to America, she sent me a blue aerogram. “Get the hell out of that room,” she wrote. “Find someplace with a kitchen. Grow up already.” I crumpled the thin blue paper and tossed it in the waste basket. I was perfectly content in my bed-sitter. I didn’t want to cook, anyway. What did I need with a kitchen?

Thursday, January 31, 2019

Sound/No Sound: small poems

    
reaching for the alarm clock
shutting off
the dream

shattered
my favorite mug
the voices inside my head

red nail polish
her hands 
so loud

untangling a wave
from the ocean
your deepest sigh

listen
our laughter in this old photograph
my sister and me

all in one bowl
shells from different oceans
sing the same song

i knew you'd arrive today
in my dream
the call of a bamboo flute

waking from a dream
i cry out for my sister
the crow also cries

a stranger's sneeze
floats downriver
enters our canoe

how loud
the phone
not ringing

midnight loneliness
drip drip drip drip drip
icicles

dusty and untuned
your piano
such a melancholy day

striking the brass bell
so many yesterdays
begin this way

saturday night
party time
slow dancing to Mozart adagios

once i knew the lyrics
to dozens of songs . . .
now i chant
om shanti om shanti om shanti
om