You know, as you grow older you see things entirely differently than you did as a youngster. Suddenly, fifty doesn’t seem so old. We don’t feel it. We might look it, but we don’t feel it. . . yet . . . .
In my writing I mentioned my miserable plight in life living in a house without air conditioning, a house that went through a bad time period of renovation. I figured my life wouldn’t get better unless I moved out. My parents simply didn’t see how difficult life was. They thought it was perfectly alright for us to suffer in that house with only an attic fan to cool the place down. As young children we would play outdoors on our dead end street until parents called us to get inside out of the ‘night air’ before we got sick. We dutifully returned to the indoors, had baths and went to bed. What do you think we did when we went to bed??? We put our pillows on the old wooden sash of the open windows and went to sleep as the attic fan pulled that dangerous night air across our faces. No-one got sick. I figured that was a parental fib to get us in the house. Maybe there was an evil force lurking in the exterior air that the magical rusted window screens kept out. I dunno.
As I got older there were other dilemmas that appeared to destroy my life while I was incarcerated in this house with no modern amenities except the flushing toilet. Getting ready for a date was an orchestrated battle. I took a cold shower and washed hair in cold water. I wore as little under the housecoat as I could get away with so I wouldn’t sweat. Having a dad who was a deacon in the Baptist church meant I had to dodge him as much as possible or I would have to get fully dressed. I had the boyfriend timed to arrive at a specific hour. I was not one of those girls who was fashionably late. Late meant being in that house for a minute longer than hair or make-up could stand. I dressed in front of a fan blowing on my face so I wouldn’t melt like the witch in the wizard of oz. Sweat had the same effect on me that water had on Elphaba. Hair was done with lightening speed. I didn’t make that date walk as far as the front door. I was in their air conditioned car so fast I looked like a time warp blur on Star Trek.
That life was based on parental thinking. Here’s a classic example of how being a grandparent makes you think different. After my daughter was born, her father and I decided we needed a get-a-way weekend in August of 1978. It was decided that we would leave our 10-month old baby with the grandparents. A bed was set up in my parent’s room so they could monitor her at night. My sister, who is almost seven years younger than me, was elated that the baby was coming. The day of the trip dawned, and I handed precious cargo off to the excited hands of grandparents who would have total control for three days. I could have predicted that she wouldn’t sleep in the crib. I figured mom would sneak her into their bed and I would have to deal with that when we got home. I did NOT predict what actually happened.
We spent the weekend in Big Bend Park in Texas and couldn’t wait to get home to pick up Tina. Did I mention this was in August? In Texas? In Southeast Texas where the humidity can be 100% and not raining? Where you can fry an egg on the sidewalk? Okay, so you keep that weather report handy. And remember how I grew up sleeping with my pillow in the window so the attic fan would blow the dangerous night air across my face, and it took everything in my power to keep make-up from sliding off my face while dressing for any occasion. We returned from the long drive and arrived at my parent’s house in Bridge City. I figured something must be wrong. The front door was shut. The windows were closed. They didn’t tell me they were going anywhere. I was puzzled.
Since this was still in an era when few people locked front doors, we walked in. I remained curious as to why everything seemed different. My sister, who was still in high school, came bouncing up to me. The situation got stranger. She could barely contain herself and shrieked, “We got central air, we got central air, we got central air.” I looked at my parents. They had this strange, sheepish, guilty look on their faces. I asked, “What brought this on?” My dad stood and shuffled back and forth on his feet like a child about to confess to a crime. “Well, the first night you left Tina she tossed and turned and wasn’t sleeping good in the crib. We picked her up to put her in bed with us in case she was fretting about being away from her own bed and missing you. She was really warm and sweating. We just couldn’t let the baby sleep in a house this hot.”
For 18 years I suffered in that house, and the grandbaby spent one night sweating and my parents immediately shelled out $3,000 on central air!! I can’t wait till Tina has children. My turn is coming! When she starts to say things like, “Now, mom, don’t do this and don’t do that or you’ll spoil the baby.” Here, in writing, is my testament of how grandparents can do just what they want to do and na-na-na-na-boo-boo to you.
I Heard An Angel Fair
Gliding through the rafters
the notes rang pure and fair.
Her voice was as an angel’s
floating on the chapel air.
A sound so sweet and wondrous,
reaching deeply to my soul,
sailing to the firmament
calling seraph’s bells to toll.
Unknown to her my rapture,
she tugged upon my heart,
thus I was her instrument,
baptized in lyric art.
I loved without exception
and cherished every tone,
and held them deep within
as if they were my own.
The room became her harp,
stone her celestial stage,
surely the sound in heaven
when an angel comes of age.
Upon hearing Kristi sing April 29, 2009
the notes rang pure and fair.
Her voice was as an angel’s
floating on the chapel air.
A sound so sweet and wondrous,
reaching deeply to my soul,
sailing to the firmament
calling seraph’s bells to toll.
Unknown to her my rapture,
she tugged upon my heart,
thus I was her instrument,
baptized in lyric art.
I loved without exception
and cherished every tone,
and held them deep within
as if they were my own.
The room became her harp,
stone her celestial stage,
surely the sound in heaven
when an angel comes of age.
Upon hearing Kristi sing April 29, 2009
The Trumpet and Other Bungles
Cheryl the musical monkey
performed on Easter Sunday.
She donned a pale wig
and danced a fair jig.
Twas' luck she didn't sound
like a donkey.
I had a blast Easter Sunday 2009. I played the trumpet for the opening hymn and the postlude, sat on the organ bench for the other hymns and sang in the choir at the last minute request of friend and pastor Rev. Dottie Dumas. I wasn’t ‘timbre pure’ on the instrument, but the congregation didn’t notice or they didn’t care. No-one threw a tomato. As a joke I slipped myself a note in the trumpet case many years ago. It reads, “Dear Stupid, remember that you only open this case once a year and you’re not getting any younger. You’re not 25 anymore, so don’t embarrass yourself and just close the case. We both know you’re not going to practice more than once before you play your annual humiliation performance.”
Fool that I am, I trudge right on and somehow pull it off each year - enough to please little crowds in country churches that only have junior high French horn players with which to compare me. If you have never heard a beginning French-hornist, just read my personal story: I fell in love with the trumpet the first time I heard it played on the filmstrip we saw in fifth grade music class. However, my family couldn’t afford to purchase an instrument, so the band director gave me the option of a school-issued French horn. The old horn, with its ancient wooden case mentioned in one of my earlier blogs, weighed more than I did, but I was happy I was in band and enthusiastically blared my inaugural notes in my bedroom. My parents, not wanting to squelch my fervor for learning, suggested I go to the back yard because it was cooler, there was better ventilation for my breathing, the world was my stage. Ah, you're following where this is going, aren't you? Once in the back yard armed with a rickety music stand, I proceeded to polish the C scale. The neighbors promptly called the county agent to report that someone’s cow was in the throws of death somewhere on the street behind them.
The fact that I know I am not perfect ~
Folks, I know my poetry is not perfect. I know my writing is not perfect. I simply want it to be entertaining, enlightening, a way to get my thoughts out to those who may be interested. I have no grand illusions about myself. I am a worker bee who has many hats and I enjoy wearing them. I consider myself to be darned good at many of my skills and am willing to continue to learn on others. As is evident here, one of those chapeaus is writing, and many others that land on my head spin around in the music world, including singing.
For those of you who do not know it, my singing voice and my speaking voice are two different creatures. My friend, Sue, once told someone I had the voice of Julie Andrews. Well, there went Sue’s credibility as a music critic. I'd only rate it as a better than average voice. But, and here is a big but, much like the Buick parked on my back porch if you get my drift, my speaking voice is something I cringe in horror when I hear it recorded. I marvel at the monster I created when I adopted the Southeast Texas Twang more than 30 years ago.
You know how you can peg a new college student? You listen to their conversation. They use every erudite word they are newly learning. They wax poetic and expound with pleonasms - that’s an almost archaic word for big, flowery, wordy, redundant, descriptive phrases. (i.e. that last sentence.) I was much like those college kids early in life. As I've mentioned before, I had a love affair with words and was an avid reader. Give me expeditious over quick, dilatory over slow and periwinkle over some blue color. In high school, I was in what was titled Premium English classes. By my senior year, I learned that I could be ‘sick’ the day of the question exam and breeze through the make-up exam because the teachers PUNISHED us by making it an essay style test. Yes, I can say it - B.S. was my official degree in high school! I made straight A’s because I could buffalo my way through an essay with bigger words than some of the teachers knew. However, this affection for words became an affliction in my personal life.
I married right out of high school and put college off for a while. My newly acquired family was a household where English was a second language. I was told they felt like I was talking down to them, talking over their heads, etc. I was baffled, because that was not my intent. I was just me being me. In order to make peace with the family I took on the sounds of Southeast Texas and trimmed down my vocabulary. My parents were appalled. What started out as a contrived mannerism became ingrained in my nature as the years passed.
If you are not prepared for my speaking voice, you will read my literary art and be charmed, then you’ll get socked between the eyes with the sounds emitting from my mouth. Not kidding. Pick up the phone and you will hear one of Southeast Texas’ shining examples of an illiterate backwoods yahoo. The words on the page come from my brain but there is a short circuit between brain and voice box. The voice in my head is not the one I hear on the recorder. I can prove how dreadful my voice is by repeating something I overheard at a recent district meeting. The scene: I am in a crowded narthex of a large church directing folks to their destination and informing them about what supplies they needed to take with them. Out of that crowd I heard, “There goes that Cheryl voice. She’s here somewhere.”
Sigh
and
Drat
Fun with Words ~
In one of her emails the other day, friend Gwen wrote the remark that my writing continued to ‘suck her in.’ She noted that suck was her lofty word for the day and said she wished she had my talent. I have to chuckle at her reference to the talent because she is a talented artist and designer for some graphics arts type of company and is building a web site for a business full of links and screens and Html editing. I would be doing good to clamp two leggos together, and, for all I know, Html stands for hot tamales me likey. I fully understood Gwen’s intent and use of the word “suck” but, knowing me, you can guess that my mind did one of those turns to the south.
From the Cheryl Earles Unabridged Unabashed Unashamed Dictionary:
Suckustrated - What one becomes when she is the trapped in the public restroom stall with panties at her knees, left elbow clamped to her side trying to hold dress or coat up away from the toilet seat and one-handedly trying to start the brand new roll of toilet paper in the commercial dispenser just barely within reach.
Sucklets - The 327 useless bits of toilet paper one ends up with after starting the new roll of toilet paper in the public restroom while your panties are at your knees and your left arm is clamped against your body holding the dress/coat up away from the toilet seat.
Yeah, I went there.
Back to the Trumpet and Other Bungles ~
I pull no punches about my personality. I am proud of the fact that I am a Christian believer. I am not a holier than thou type of person. I accept people for who they are and enjoy them. I am not afraid to sing for anyone who will listen. I gladly play my instruments any time I am asked. I have no illusions that I am the best musician on the planet. I just want to serve. While I am intelligent, I take myself at face value. My writing is personal, so the structure won’t always be perfect. I liken myself to be much like the Texas woman who was a delegate at a women’s convention in New York. The Texas gal walked up to a delegate from one of the northern states and said, “Hi. Where yuh frum?” The other woman snootily replied, “I am frahm where we do not end our sen-ten-ces with a pre-po-si-tion.” The Texas gal didn’t bat an eyelash and said, “So, where yuh frum, bitch?”
No matter if you have marvelous writing talent, artistic abilities or you’re just a good and decent person - we all have things to offer each other and the world. I have friends with no formal education, but they are chock full of natural talent. I have associates who have no artistic talent, but they are the best people to be around and would do anything for you if asked. My sister does not hold some high-class career position, but she can decorate your house like an interior design magazine, and she raised two amazing and downright funny daughters. (And, yes, in Texas we raise our children like we raise chickens. Almost changed it to reared, but . . ) My brother is not a scholarly man, but if you are twelve miles out in the Gulf of Mexico in a boat with an engine that has died, give Steve a bobby pin and a piece of bubble gum and he’ll fix it and get you home to safety. My friend, Deb, has more education than I can shake a stick at, but she is as grounded a person as you'll ever find. While she is educating the doctors who will be our future physicians, she maintains an attitude I wish she could rub off on some of those who wear their placement in the world and their education like a cloak of glory as they look down upon the rest of us slugs. Deb and I can go for months, even years, without contact, and it is as if time does not exist when we get together. We have an 'intuneness' about our relationship that negates time factors. My best friend, Sue, is my opposite in personality and style. I’m Suzy Opera and she’s Country and Rock ‘n’ Roll. Sue raised a wonderful son, and she was always there when I needed her. She was practically my daughter’s other mother. One of our shared traits is that we are foodies. We love to try new foods in restaurants and break down the ingredients so we can make the dishes at home. You can easily see that I am surrounded by people delightfully different from me and different from each other, yet they all contribute to the make-up of my life and my personality.
Whether you can do one thing or many things, you should do something before your opportunities in this world pass you by. Throw some prepositions on the ends of your sentences and say ya’ll every now and then. Mix those tenses. Have fun and be comfortable with yourself. Just don’t record my voice and play it back to me.
performed on Easter Sunday.
She donned a pale wig
and danced a fair jig.
Twas' luck she didn't sound
like a donkey.
I had a blast Easter Sunday 2009. I played the trumpet for the opening hymn and the postlude, sat on the organ bench for the other hymns and sang in the choir at the last minute request of friend and pastor Rev. Dottie Dumas. I wasn’t ‘timbre pure’ on the instrument, but the congregation didn’t notice or they didn’t care. No-one threw a tomato. As a joke I slipped myself a note in the trumpet case many years ago. It reads, “Dear Stupid, remember that you only open this case once a year and you’re not getting any younger. You’re not 25 anymore, so don’t embarrass yourself and just close the case. We both know you’re not going to practice more than once before you play your annual humiliation performance.”
Fool that I am, I trudge right on and somehow pull it off each year - enough to please little crowds in country churches that only have junior high French horn players with which to compare me. If you have never heard a beginning French-hornist, just read my personal story: I fell in love with the trumpet the first time I heard it played on the filmstrip we saw in fifth grade music class. However, my family couldn’t afford to purchase an instrument, so the band director gave me the option of a school-issued French horn. The old horn, with its ancient wooden case mentioned in one of my earlier blogs, weighed more than I did, but I was happy I was in band and enthusiastically blared my inaugural notes in my bedroom. My parents, not wanting to squelch my fervor for learning, suggested I go to the back yard because it was cooler, there was better ventilation for my breathing, the world was my stage. Ah, you're following where this is going, aren't you? Once in the back yard armed with a rickety music stand, I proceeded to polish the C scale. The neighbors promptly called the county agent to report that someone’s cow was in the throws of death somewhere on the street behind them.
The fact that I know I am not perfect ~
Folks, I know my poetry is not perfect. I know my writing is not perfect. I simply want it to be entertaining, enlightening, a way to get my thoughts out to those who may be interested. I have no grand illusions about myself. I am a worker bee who has many hats and I enjoy wearing them. I consider myself to be darned good at many of my skills and am willing to continue to learn on others. As is evident here, one of those chapeaus is writing, and many others that land on my head spin around in the music world, including singing.
For those of you who do not know it, my singing voice and my speaking voice are two different creatures. My friend, Sue, once told someone I had the voice of Julie Andrews. Well, there went Sue’s credibility as a music critic. I'd only rate it as a better than average voice. But, and here is a big but, much like the Buick parked on my back porch if you get my drift, my speaking voice is something I cringe in horror when I hear it recorded. I marvel at the monster I created when I adopted the Southeast Texas Twang more than 30 years ago.
You know how you can peg a new college student? You listen to their conversation. They use every erudite word they are newly learning. They wax poetic and expound with pleonasms - that’s an almost archaic word for big, flowery, wordy, redundant, descriptive phrases. (i.e. that last sentence.) I was much like those college kids early in life. As I've mentioned before, I had a love affair with words and was an avid reader. Give me expeditious over quick, dilatory over slow and periwinkle over some blue color. In high school, I was in what was titled Premium English classes. By my senior year, I learned that I could be ‘sick’ the day of the question exam and breeze through the make-up exam because the teachers PUNISHED us by making it an essay style test. Yes, I can say it - B.S. was my official degree in high school! I made straight A’s because I could buffalo my way through an essay with bigger words than some of the teachers knew. However, this affection for words became an affliction in my personal life.
I married right out of high school and put college off for a while. My newly acquired family was a household where English was a second language. I was told they felt like I was talking down to them, talking over their heads, etc. I was baffled, because that was not my intent. I was just me being me. In order to make peace with the family I took on the sounds of Southeast Texas and trimmed down my vocabulary. My parents were appalled. What started out as a contrived mannerism became ingrained in my nature as the years passed.
If you are not prepared for my speaking voice, you will read my literary art and be charmed, then you’ll get socked between the eyes with the sounds emitting from my mouth. Not kidding. Pick up the phone and you will hear one of Southeast Texas’ shining examples of an illiterate backwoods yahoo. The words on the page come from my brain but there is a short circuit between brain and voice box. The voice in my head is not the one I hear on the recorder. I can prove how dreadful my voice is by repeating something I overheard at a recent district meeting. The scene: I am in a crowded narthex of a large church directing folks to their destination and informing them about what supplies they needed to take with them. Out of that crowd I heard, “There goes that Cheryl voice. She’s here somewhere.”
Sigh
and
Drat
Fun with Words ~
In one of her emails the other day, friend Gwen wrote the remark that my writing continued to ‘suck her in.’ She noted that suck was her lofty word for the day and said she wished she had my talent. I have to chuckle at her reference to the talent because she is a talented artist and designer for some graphics arts type of company and is building a web site for a business full of links and screens and Html editing. I would be doing good to clamp two leggos together, and, for all I know, Html stands for hot tamales me likey. I fully understood Gwen’s intent and use of the word “suck” but, knowing me, you can guess that my mind did one of those turns to the south.
From the Cheryl Earles Unabridged Unabashed Unashamed Dictionary:
Suckustrated - What one becomes when she is the trapped in the public restroom stall with panties at her knees, left elbow clamped to her side trying to hold dress or coat up away from the toilet seat and one-handedly trying to start the brand new roll of toilet paper in the commercial dispenser just barely within reach.
Sucklets - The 327 useless bits of toilet paper one ends up with after starting the new roll of toilet paper in the public restroom while your panties are at your knees and your left arm is clamped against your body holding the dress/coat up away from the toilet seat.
Yeah, I went there.
Back to the Trumpet and Other Bungles ~
I pull no punches about my personality. I am proud of the fact that I am a Christian believer. I am not a holier than thou type of person. I accept people for who they are and enjoy them. I am not afraid to sing for anyone who will listen. I gladly play my instruments any time I am asked. I have no illusions that I am the best musician on the planet. I just want to serve. While I am intelligent, I take myself at face value. My writing is personal, so the structure won’t always be perfect. I liken myself to be much like the Texas woman who was a delegate at a women’s convention in New York. The Texas gal walked up to a delegate from one of the northern states and said, “Hi. Where yuh frum?” The other woman snootily replied, “I am frahm where we do not end our sen-ten-ces with a pre-po-si-tion.” The Texas gal didn’t bat an eyelash and said, “So, where yuh frum, bitch?”
No matter if you have marvelous writing talent, artistic abilities or you’re just a good and decent person - we all have things to offer each other and the world. I have friends with no formal education, but they are chock full of natural talent. I have associates who have no artistic talent, but they are the best people to be around and would do anything for you if asked. My sister does not hold some high-class career position, but she can decorate your house like an interior design magazine, and she raised two amazing and downright funny daughters. (And, yes, in Texas we raise our children like we raise chickens. Almost changed it to reared, but . . ) My brother is not a scholarly man, but if you are twelve miles out in the Gulf of Mexico in a boat with an engine that has died, give Steve a bobby pin and a piece of bubble gum and he’ll fix it and get you home to safety. My friend, Deb, has more education than I can shake a stick at, but she is as grounded a person as you'll ever find. While she is educating the doctors who will be our future physicians, she maintains an attitude I wish she could rub off on some of those who wear their placement in the world and their education like a cloak of glory as they look down upon the rest of us slugs. Deb and I can go for months, even years, without contact, and it is as if time does not exist when we get together. We have an 'intuneness' about our relationship that negates time factors. My best friend, Sue, is my opposite in personality and style. I’m Suzy Opera and she’s Country and Rock ‘n’ Roll. Sue raised a wonderful son, and she was always there when I needed her. She was practically my daughter’s other mother. One of our shared traits is that we are foodies. We love to try new foods in restaurants and break down the ingredients so we can make the dishes at home. You can easily see that I am surrounded by people delightfully different from me and different from each other, yet they all contribute to the make-up of my life and my personality.
Whether you can do one thing or many things, you should do something before your opportunities in this world pass you by. Throw some prepositions on the ends of your sentences and say ya’ll every now and then. Mix those tenses. Have fun and be comfortable with yourself. Just don’t record my voice and play it back to me.
The Man Behind the Bar
It felt like my own private bar. It was a tiny pub located inside one of the local hotels. I could sit and listen to quiet jazz without fear of being disturbed by other customers who entered the door. It was the room where I discovered myself during that decade in my life, and it was tended by Al, who became my friend over the ten years I haunted the place.
Tuesday evenings I would take pencil and pad and sit at my favorite table - one of the few with a light over it - and compose poetry. Some works would be inspired by my trips to New England from 1997 - 1999 while enjoying a time of new-found love and adventure. Other pieces came from everyday life, and then there were those that poured out of my heart when that new-found love was dashed on the stones of time and distance.
We had a code, Al and I. Al would keep watch. If I was approached by some well meaning gentleman who thought I needed to be rescued from the plight of boredom, or who thought the other chair at my table needed to be filled by the masculine ability to provide me happiness, pleasure or any other misguided notion popping into the minds of men, I would tap my glass on the table. Al would soon be at my side with the information that I was needed at the front desk. I would pick up my purse and politely excuse myself for enough time that the errant suitor would find other entertainment. While the act may have shortened my stay for the evening, it did not occur often enough to dampen my habit. Regulars knew the drill, or Al clued them in when newcomers added the pub to their routine.
Al was one of those gentlemen who wore the pleated tux shirt with stud buttons and bow tie every night. He took pride in his skill as a listener and a mixer. He often commented on how so few of the youngsters behind other bars really didn’t have the “art” in them. Sloshing together liquids for the popular drinks of the day was the norm, and the gift of knowing a customer really well enough to nail their taste to perfection was a total loss on youth laying claim to the title of Bar Tender.
When I wrote Al’s piece I was pleased he liked it well enough to post it on the wall of the bar. For those noticing it, he made it a point to tell them it was written in that very room at the table under the light to the right. One evening the hotel manager noticed it and asked if it was okay to send a copy to the home office. In a day and age where there are few places women can be alone and feel safe, especially in the nightclub industry, the manager wanted to let the corporate suits know what kind of establishment their hotel could boast of. I said yes to the request and later learned it had been published in the company magazine for its employees. The corporate office wrote to me, informing me how much they appreciated the piece. They had never had a customer submit anything other than the stock courtesy letter.
But I didn’t’ write it for my own recognition. I wrote it for my friend who listened to me whether I was giddy with inspiration or down on the waves of approaching fifty years old. Other friends have input, sympathy, can share like circumstances. Not Al. He merely listened. It took many years before I learned about his personal life, his marriage to only one woman, his bout with cancer and heart problems. I learned to listen from Al. I learned to observe people from Al. I attended the school of marble and mirror and saw myself through the eyes of someone else and not the eyes of the woman in the glass staring back at me.
When Al’s heart stopped, my heart stopped beating for a moment also. Gone was an era that cannot be recreated. Gone was the dapper little man with the silver hair and the twinkle in his eye. Gone was my friend from a time period in my life that was like no other.
When I walked out of that room, the news of his death draped heavily upon me like a mantle of sorrow. The door shut behind me slowly and quietly as if closing the cover of an old, familiar book for the final time. I have never gone back, for that dimly lit space with music playing soft and low in the background will not feel the same without Al. Al was its spirit. Anyone following his footsteps would merely be a slosher of liquids into the glasses of future hands - hands that will never have the opportunity to experience the kinship that comes from knowing a real bar tender, a real ‘tender’ of souls.
Tuesday evenings I would take pencil and pad and sit at my favorite table - one of the few with a light over it - and compose poetry. Some works would be inspired by my trips to New England from 1997 - 1999 while enjoying a time of new-found love and adventure. Other pieces came from everyday life, and then there were those that poured out of my heart when that new-found love was dashed on the stones of time and distance.
We had a code, Al and I. Al would keep watch. If I was approached by some well meaning gentleman who thought I needed to be rescued from the plight of boredom, or who thought the other chair at my table needed to be filled by the masculine ability to provide me happiness, pleasure or any other misguided notion popping into the minds of men, I would tap my glass on the table. Al would soon be at my side with the information that I was needed at the front desk. I would pick up my purse and politely excuse myself for enough time that the errant suitor would find other entertainment. While the act may have shortened my stay for the evening, it did not occur often enough to dampen my habit. Regulars knew the drill, or Al clued them in when newcomers added the pub to their routine.
Al was one of those gentlemen who wore the pleated tux shirt with stud buttons and bow tie every night. He took pride in his skill as a listener and a mixer. He often commented on how so few of the youngsters behind other bars really didn’t have the “art” in them. Sloshing together liquids for the popular drinks of the day was the norm, and the gift of knowing a customer really well enough to nail their taste to perfection was a total loss on youth laying claim to the title of Bar Tender.
When I wrote Al’s piece I was pleased he liked it well enough to post it on the wall of the bar. For those noticing it, he made it a point to tell them it was written in that very room at the table under the light to the right. One evening the hotel manager noticed it and asked if it was okay to send a copy to the home office. In a day and age where there are few places women can be alone and feel safe, especially in the nightclub industry, the manager wanted to let the corporate suits know what kind of establishment their hotel could boast of. I said yes to the request and later learned it had been published in the company magazine for its employees. The corporate office wrote to me, informing me how much they appreciated the piece. They had never had a customer submit anything other than the stock courtesy letter.
But I didn’t’ write it for my own recognition. I wrote it for my friend who listened to me whether I was giddy with inspiration or down on the waves of approaching fifty years old. Other friends have input, sympathy, can share like circumstances. Not Al. He merely listened. It took many years before I learned about his personal life, his marriage to only one woman, his bout with cancer and heart problems. I learned to listen from Al. I learned to observe people from Al. I attended the school of marble and mirror and saw myself through the eyes of someone else and not the eyes of the woman in the glass staring back at me.
When Al’s heart stopped, my heart stopped beating for a moment also. Gone was an era that cannot be recreated. Gone was the dapper little man with the silver hair and the twinkle in his eye. Gone was my friend from a time period in my life that was like no other.
When I walked out of that room, the news of his death draped heavily upon me like a mantle of sorrow. The door shut behind me slowly and quietly as if closing the cover of an old, familiar book for the final time. I have never gone back, for that dimly lit space with music playing soft and low in the background will not feel the same without Al. Al was its spirit. Anyone following his footsteps would merely be a slosher of liquids into the glasses of future hands - hands that will never have the opportunity to experience the kinship that comes from knowing a real bar tender, a real ‘tender’ of souls.
Al
Al's work is under construction. I am removing the modified work and. in the future, I will be posting the original piece I wrote.
The Atlantic Shore
Not far from tranquility
Lies rock and crag and shale,
Waters blue and green;
From such danger beauty hails.
Summer 1999
Lies rock and crag and shale,
Waters blue and green;
From such danger beauty hails.
Summer 1999
An Old Friend
Slightly rumpled, slightly grizzled,
endearing with that boyish grin,
a delightful diamond in the rough
stirred the captive heart within.
Arms that stretched to offer comfort,
a chuckle that warmed the soul,
a chance meeting on a Monday
made the broken one feel whole.
Two searching lives intermingled
from another time, a different place,
each drew solace from the other
and found their ease in sweet embrace.
Spring 2000
endearing with that boyish grin,
a delightful diamond in the rough
stirred the captive heart within.
Arms that stretched to offer comfort,
a chuckle that warmed the soul,
a chance meeting on a Monday
made the broken one feel whole.
Two searching lives intermingled
from another time, a different place,
each drew solace from the other
and found their ease in sweet embrace.
Spring 2000
To the woman I did not know
Along the quiet river
He strolls amidst the past.
The memories, fresh and lovely,
Hold his heart within their grasp.
Humble stock and simple ways,
Her spirit lingers and remains
Constant, e’re, in this man’s life
And touched another soul the same.
To the woman I did not know:
Your warmth fell over me
To comfort him in sorrow.
I longed to know you just as he.
Spring 2000
He strolls amidst the past.
The memories, fresh and lovely,
Hold his heart within their grasp.
Humble stock and simple ways,
Her spirit lingers and remains
Constant, e’re, in this man’s life
And touched another soul the same.
To the woman I did not know:
Your warmth fell over me
To comfort him in sorrow.
I longed to know you just as he.
Spring 2000
The Daughter
The words came.
Some lovely.
Some stilted.
Some crisp, others mundane.
The scholars said, “Write what you know.
Forget about the need for rhyme.”
Yet, the words came.
Some lovely,
Some stilted;
all searching for their place on the paper.
They said, “Write what you know.”
I know of astounding beauty,
so willowy and graceful.
Who’d have thought this child of mine
to such womanhood would grow?
And still the words came.
They said, “Write what you know!”
I am a mother.
I know everything and I know nothing
and it is my duty to pass knowledge on
to she who is so perfectly bathed in humility
that she is wiser and more powerful
than I had ever hoped to be.
I write what I know.
She is my daughter
and I
am unworthy
of her goodness.
Summer 2000
Some lovely.
Some stilted.
Some crisp, others mundane.
The scholars said, “Write what you know.
Forget about the need for rhyme.”
Yet, the words came.
Some lovely,
Some stilted;
all searching for their place on the paper.
They said, “Write what you know.”
I know of astounding beauty,
so willowy and graceful.
Who’d have thought this child of mine
to such womanhood would grow?
And still the words came.
They said, “Write what you know!”
I am a mother.
I know everything and I know nothing
and it is my duty to pass knowledge on
to she who is so perfectly bathed in humility
that she is wiser and more powerful
than I had ever hoped to be.
I write what I know.
She is my daughter
and I
am unworthy
of her goodness.
Summer 2000
Home
Her tea kettle whistles,
calling me to come home
to her bright fires.
The scent of cinnamon,
her perfume.
Feel the crisp linens,
cold in winter till
her body warms them.
The smell of her hair,
my desire.
Winter winds blow, calling
Come, it is cozy.
Come, it is soothing.
Come, it is home.
Her shadow by hearth-light
flickers in the panes,
swaying to a silent melody.
The grace of her body,
my music.
Simple pleasures made
all the more wondrous
by the curve of her cheek.
The sound of her voice,
my comfort.
Summer rains whisper
Come, it is cozy.
Come, it is soothing.
Come, it is home.
Entering the doorway
of love known by few,
her trust enfolds me.
The depth of her eyes,
my passion.
If the wind brings you whispers
of a love such as this,
seize upon the moment.
Answer the wind.
Answer the rain calling,
Come, it is cozy.
Come, it is soothing.
Come, it is home.
Spring 2000
calling me to come home
to her bright fires.
The scent of cinnamon,
her perfume.
Feel the crisp linens,
cold in winter till
her body warms them.
The smell of her hair,
my desire.
Winter winds blow, calling
Come, it is cozy.
Come, it is soothing.
Come, it is home.
Her shadow by hearth-light
flickers in the panes,
swaying to a silent melody.
The grace of her body,
my music.
Simple pleasures made
all the more wondrous
by the curve of her cheek.
The sound of her voice,
my comfort.
Summer rains whisper
Come, it is cozy.
Come, it is soothing.
Come, it is home.
Entering the doorway
of love known by few,
her trust enfolds me.
The depth of her eyes,
my passion.
If the wind brings you whispers
of a love such as this,
seize upon the moment.
Answer the wind.
Answer the rain calling,
Come, it is cozy.
Come, it is soothing.
Come, it is home.
Spring 2000
The Breath of Winter
I feel the breath of winter
through the evening air,
ever so slightly hinting
of days soon crisp and fair.
Zephyrs sweep scudding clouds,
whipping waves in their haste.
They soar across the moonlit skies
in desperate, maddening chase.
With ghostlike chilling tendrils
winter reaches out to tease.
A taste of frost hangs in the air
and laces through each breeze.
Racing through the cloak of night
impish winds swathe the land
ringing bells of tinkling ice
with playful, elfin hands.
Quaint folk at quiet rest
Snug in layered down.
Such peace reigns o’re the sight
of a winter covered town.
Rising to a golden dawn,
I gaze on first-light’s sheen.
Winter came late last night
and left a wondrous scene.
Sunbeams prism through the glass
of branches gleaming crystal.
Daylight pours diamond white
on valleys cold and fragile.
Flooded by the morning light
twining vines wake and shiver.
Snowflakes fall like lazy stars
floating on the breath of winter.
Winter 1999
through the evening air,
ever so slightly hinting
of days soon crisp and fair.
Zephyrs sweep scudding clouds,
whipping waves in their haste.
They soar across the moonlit skies
in desperate, maddening chase.
With ghostlike chilling tendrils
winter reaches out to tease.
A taste of frost hangs in the air
and laces through each breeze.
Racing through the cloak of night
impish winds swathe the land
ringing bells of tinkling ice
with playful, elfin hands.
Quaint folk at quiet rest
Snug in layered down.
Such peace reigns o’re the sight
of a winter covered town.
Rising to a golden dawn,
I gaze on first-light’s sheen.
Winter came late last night
and left a wondrous scene.
Sunbeams prism through the glass
of branches gleaming crystal.
Daylight pours diamond white
on valleys cold and fragile.
Flooded by the morning light
twining vines wake and shiver.
Snowflakes fall like lazy stars
floating on the breath of winter.
Winter 1999
Autumn
The hush awakens my soul so fair
As I tarry in this place.
Autumn winds brush through my hair.
Its beauty lingers on my face.
Green transforms in blazing glory.
Stunning vistas bathed in golden hues
Unfold Nature’s dazzling story;
Wonders, indeed, to ponder and muse.
Faint sounds of winged harbingers
Still haunt the airy breezes.
Once filled with Spring’s carolers,
Now of Winter’s cold it teases.
Fascinating, vibrant tones
Of browns and reds and bronzes;
The wind through shedding forest drones
And gently sways the amber sconces.
Bathed in aching loveliness,
The foliage captivates my thoughts.
Fairies dance come time for darkness
And sail on moonbeams in the lofts.
They waltz with starry friends
To the music of the lone dove’s coo.
See them twirling on the winds?
I dream to dance here too.
Autumn 1999
As I tarry in this place.
Autumn winds brush through my hair.
Its beauty lingers on my face.
Green transforms in blazing glory.
Stunning vistas bathed in golden hues
Unfold Nature’s dazzling story;
Wonders, indeed, to ponder and muse.
Faint sounds of winged harbingers
Still haunt the airy breezes.
Once filled with Spring’s carolers,
Now of Winter’s cold it teases.
Fascinating, vibrant tones
Of browns and reds and bronzes;
The wind through shedding forest drones
And gently sways the amber sconces.
Bathed in aching loveliness,
The foliage captivates my thoughts.
Fairies dance come time for darkness
And sail on moonbeams in the lofts.
They waltz with starry friends
To the music of the lone dove’s coo.
See them twirling on the winds?
I dream to dance here too.
Autumn 1999
The Gateway to My Garden
The gateway to my garden
is the gateway to my soul.
I dwell in it for solace.
Its comfort makes me whole.
Hues of green and gold,
a haven of rustling grass,
winds sighing in my heart
sweep away a painful past.
The gateway to my garden
is the gateway to my spirit.
It brings me love and laughter,
rhyme and verse and lyric.
Oh, restless spirit within me,
walk beside me in this place.
Drink of its tranquil goodness.
Bask in its warm embrace.
The gateway to my garden
is the gateway to my heart.
Only here am I sheltered.
From all anguish I depart.
I have hidden here and wept
tears of agony and pain.
I’ve rested upon its earth;
danced in its soft rain.
The gateway to my garden
is the gateway to my mind.
Here I walk with everything
wondrous, good and kind.
These lanes provide shelter.
These isles bring me peace.
I take pleasure in the arbor.
I caress its every leaf.
The gateway to my garden
is the gateway to my soul.
I dwell in it for solace.
Its comfort makes me whole.
Spring 1999
is the gateway to my soul.
I dwell in it for solace.
Its comfort makes me whole.
Hues of green and gold,
a haven of rustling grass,
winds sighing in my heart
sweep away a painful past.
The gateway to my garden
is the gateway to my spirit.
It brings me love and laughter,
rhyme and verse and lyric.
Oh, restless spirit within me,
walk beside me in this place.
Drink of its tranquil goodness.
Bask in its warm embrace.
The gateway to my garden
is the gateway to my heart.
Only here am I sheltered.
From all anguish I depart.
I have hidden here and wept
tears of agony and pain.
I’ve rested upon its earth;
danced in its soft rain.
The gateway to my garden
is the gateway to my mind.
Here I walk with everything
wondrous, good and kind.
These lanes provide shelter.
These isles bring me peace.
I take pleasure in the arbor.
I caress its every leaf.
The gateway to my garden
is the gateway to my soul.
I dwell in it for solace.
Its comfort makes me whole.
Spring 1999
After the Winter Thaw
Gone the bleak days of winter.
I stand in wonder and awe
As sunlight dares to shimmer
After the winter thaw.
Frozen blankets of white
Melt away to reveal
A haven of delight;
A place to pray and kneel.
I pause among leaves of green
Where once was pristine snow.
Today the sunlight streams
And spreads its golden glow.
Flitting through the branches
The robin warbles and sings.
The heart fairly dances
As he stirs the trembling strings.
Lush, verdant, serene,
I hear its sweet call.
Glorious, beautiful spring,
After the winter thaw.
Spring 1999
I stand in wonder and awe
As sunlight dares to shimmer
After the winter thaw.
Frozen blankets of white
Melt away to reveal
A haven of delight;
A place to pray and kneel.
I pause among leaves of green
Where once was pristine snow.
Today the sunlight streams
And spreads its golden glow.
Flitting through the branches
The robin warbles and sings.
The heart fairly dances
As he stirs the trembling strings.
Lush, verdant, serene,
I hear its sweet call.
Glorious, beautiful spring,
After the winter thaw.
Spring 1999
The Dawning of a Wordsmith
Music is my passion, and poetry is an essential element of music. The pulse of verse; the turn of phrase describing scenery, climate, scent, emotion; the blend of texture through structure - all culminate to create a canvas of sensation that can calm or assault the senses. I inherited the love of music and history from my father and my artistic abilities from my mother. I had a love affair with words from the day I discovered the word Periwinkle - I deemed it the most precious crayon in the box and wouldn’t color with it for fear of destroying its pristine appearance. I cherished every lofty word I came across and used them to create a world that was far, far away from my mundane, everyday life in the small town of Bridge City, Texas.
Bridge City was aptly named. You had to literally cross a bridge to get in or out. The only patch of land connecting it to the rest of the world was a swamp. It gave me the feeling of being isolated from the real world. Our community was small enough that I could walk from neighborhood to neighborhood to visit my friends.
Growing up I considered my plight to be a miserable one. Visions of dancing in the woods with fairies twirled around in my head to mask the reality of walking home in the heat after junior high marching band practice, all the while dragging a French horn that weighed more than I did. I dreamed of living in ancient castles or Victorian mansions, wearing long gowns and riding in carriages instead of an old car without air conditioning. I did not recognize the wealth of experiences I was gaining, nor did I appreciate the riches of love that surrounded me. Instead, I took it for naught and did not comprehend how life was molding my destiny until I was old enough to step back and see the whole tapestry after it was completed. When I was young all I saw was the one-color town, but I knew in my heart of hearts that there was much more than my minute world, because books filled with words told me so. They opened my mind to the wondrous varieties in life and were my transport from a small town girl to a woman of the world.
And who wants a world where all the colors in the box are the same? Where would music and the arts be without the offerings of heritages other than mine? What would life be like if we were all identical in race, creed and gender? Blah, I tell you! Life would be blah! I want a world filled with a mix of skins and thoughts. I want a world that celebrates the uniqueness of individuals. I want a world that rejoices together and supports one another no matter who we choose to love, so long as we do, indeed, love. Oh, and I want lofty words, lots and lots of lofty words, which I will continue to collect until I no longer have breath to utter them, or fingers to weave them together upon the page for others to enjoy.
Bridge City was aptly named. You had to literally cross a bridge to get in or out. The only patch of land connecting it to the rest of the world was a swamp. It gave me the feeling of being isolated from the real world. Our community was small enough that I could walk from neighborhood to neighborhood to visit my friends.
Growing up I considered my plight to be a miserable one. Visions of dancing in the woods with fairies twirled around in my head to mask the reality of walking home in the heat after junior high marching band practice, all the while dragging a French horn that weighed more than I did. I dreamed of living in ancient castles or Victorian mansions, wearing long gowns and riding in carriages instead of an old car without air conditioning. I did not recognize the wealth of experiences I was gaining, nor did I appreciate the riches of love that surrounded me. Instead, I took it for naught and did not comprehend how life was molding my destiny until I was old enough to step back and see the whole tapestry after it was completed. When I was young all I saw was the one-color town, but I knew in my heart of hearts that there was much more than my minute world, because books filled with words told me so. They opened my mind to the wondrous varieties in life and were my transport from a small town girl to a woman of the world.
And who wants a world where all the colors in the box are the same? Where would music and the arts be without the offerings of heritages other than mine? What would life be like if we were all identical in race, creed and gender? Blah, I tell you! Life would be blah! I want a world filled with a mix of skins and thoughts. I want a world that celebrates the uniqueness of individuals. I want a world that rejoices together and supports one another no matter who we choose to love, so long as we do, indeed, love. Oh, and I want lofty words, lots and lots of lofty words, which I will continue to collect until I no longer have breath to utter them, or fingers to weave them together upon the page for others to enjoy.
My Wild and Crazy Gal
It was the evening of December 26, 1995, and my daughter, Tina, was at her post checking groceries at the supermarket where she worked. It was cold and quiet. The manager on duty was casually going about his business making sure everything was in place. Gondolas of canned goods were meticulously stacked. Fruit was loaded into bins with orderly precision just waiting for some small child to reach up and pluck one apple out of the center of the bottom row to create an apple avalanche. Little racks of wood were stacked outside the door for those wishing to purchase firewood - as if anyone in Nederland, Texas really needed a fire to stay warm. (I can practically count the number of times it went below freezing for any stretch of time on one hand.) It was expected to be an uneventful evening now that the holiday was past. In the process of surveying items around the store, the manager glanced out the glass doors and observed a man walking in the direction of the public trash receptacle and the firewood stacks. He threw what appeared to be a wad of brown paper down near the woodpiles. The manager, in disgust, said, “And there’s a trash can right there…..why couldn’t he throw his trash in there?” At that moment, the little ball of paper hit the ground and unfolded and appeared to roll back toward the man. The man kicked at the little wad and shoved it back. “That’s a puppy!” Tina exclaimed and the manager charged for the door to confront the man who was already running away with the pup desperately trying to follow. The manager picked the little creature up in time to rescue her from parking lot traffic and brought her into the store.
Well, you can imagine by now that all the checkers and stock boys were gathering. The girls were sniffling and “poor sweet baby” was the choice phrase tearfully being murmured. They brought out a cardboard box that would keep the little dog safe and contained until they could decide what to do with her. Yeah, you guessed it. My daughter told her boss to call me - Mother Theresa of the Animal Kingdom, also known as the Cat Lady of 6th Avenue. I arrived at the store to pick up my newest child - a puppy obviously too young to have been taken from her mother. Since she appeared to be a Shepherd mix we dubbed her Gretchen.
We went home and started a feeding routine of mashed canned dog food and milk, which she would only take from the tip of my finger. We made the trip to the vet the next week and he recognized her. She was one of a litter that had been dumped at various places around our small town. He knew the mother dog and admonished us that, if we were going to keep her, we needed to be aware of her lineage because undesirable behavior may arise in the future. Her dame was a fine German Shepherd owned by a farmer who lived near the Neches River. Coyotes abound in the wooded areas of our region, and the farmer made the mistake of letting his prize Shepherd go outside to spend time in the yard. He heard a commotion and went running to check out the scene, only to discover that a coyote was leaping back over the chain link fence to return to the cover of the woods. The farmer waited until she showed signs of pregnancy before he took her to our local vet. They determined that it was best to let the dog carry the litter because aborting could damage her for further breeding. After the litter was born, instead of taking the puppies to the vet, the farmer chose the evening after Christmas to discard them around town. Had he not been so heartless, Gretchen would not have entered our lives.
The vet also advised us that our new-found friend would likely have a life span of only eight or so years. Wild animals have a shorter life span than domesticated animals, so the hybrid breeding would lessen our expectations. We accepted everything he said and deemed it the proper thing to do to give her a good home as long as we could.
As with most dogs, Gretchen grew fast. It wasn’t long before she was playfully running behind Tina nipping at her housecoat belt as it dangled when she walked down the hallway. They were inseparable. Gretchen was a good dog for the most part, except when it came to teething. Even with plenty of chew toys, she was avidly teething on anything and everything.
I arrived home from work one evening to discover an absolute fiasco. My antique Duncan Phyfe dining chairs were destroyed. The center fan-shaped back splats were missing out of some. One of the captains’ chairs had a whole arm missing and the other had one arm torn off. Several of the side chairs’ heart-shaped back frames were punctured as if a monstrous steel punch had nabbed them. I wondered how on earth such a small dog could do so much damage. I failed to notice that there was very little wood remaining on the floor. She had actually eaten, literally eaten, the furniture. I could hear myself telling future guests, “My dog ate my furniture.” Tina’s homework for the next few years was doomed.
My voice opened with a shrill, “GGGrrreeetttccchhheeennn.” The dog wheeled and headed for another room. I trapped her in a corner, brandishing one of my precious chairs in the air. Instead of beating the dog, I beat the chair and screamed, “Bad dog, bad, bad, bad.” over and over until I was sure she got the message. For weeks I shook a chair at Gretchen every time she entered the room. Gretchen’s reaction was to back far away with fear in her eyes as if to say, “What chairs? I didn’t eat any chairs today.” This went on for months until I was certain the antiques were safe.
As she got older, her parentage really started to show. Her eyes were shaped slightly different - rounder with exotic black eye liner all the way around. Her paws had the protruding center toes of her sire. She didn’t bark, but had a strange howl and a yip when she exercised her voice. Her nose was shorter than a Shepherd’s nose and her eyes were all coyote. But her behavior was very domesticated and she took her charge of belonging to Tina seriously. Or, should I say, Tina really belonged to Gretchen?
There was one thing Gretchen never outgrew. She loved people. Anyone. Everyone. She greeted every person who entered our home with extreme delight and a yellow puddle. If you entered and said, “Hello, Gretchen.” she peed. If a guest walked in and put their hand on her head for a friendly pat, Gretchen peed. If Tina’s boyfriend came in the door and said, “Stupid Dog.” she peed. You get the picture. We kept bundles of dog towels beside the door and welcomed every visitor with the phrase, “Don’t pet the brown dog. Don’t even look at the brown dog. Don’t let the brown dog know you even know she’s there or she’ll …..drat….. you shouldn’t have spoken to the brown dog. Now she’s peed again.” The routine of entering the back door and walking blindly past the dog was something with which we all became very familiar. Once folks were established in the house, she would get over the excitement of people coming and going and the fear of a puddle on their shoes would diminish. Until, that is, the next unknowing soul came to the door and didn’t learn the Ignore the Brown Dog Rules in time to avoid the inevitable. (I said we had Brown Dog Rules because we also had a black lab/chow mix in the picture, but she loved to splash in the water, not leave water at your feet.)
Oh, but, Gretchen wasn’t finished eating things yet. Years had passed and Tina was in her senior year of college. She was going to school day and night trying to finish after changing her major. I was working two and three jobs. We were rarely home except to let Gretchen out for a few trips between our schedules. Gretchen fretted over her Tina being gone so much. The dog started to chew again, so we closed bedroom doors. Not liking the fact that she was locked out of her beloved child’s bedroom, Gretchen fixed it so she could peer into the room. She ate the door. I am not kidding. She must have spent the whole day clawing at the wood and the carpet to gain a small enough hole to lock her teeth onto. From there she ripped and ate and chomped and clawed until she made a semi-circular hole at the bottom of the door at floor level so she could lay flat and shove her whole head in to see the room. That is not a small hole we are talking about. Think German Shepherd sized head here . . .
I arrived home and stood in the hallway at the door to Tina’s room and stared in disbelief. I didn’t even raise my voice. I knew what had transpired and why. Gretchen’s instinct and need to be with Tina were so great that she was in despair from being forced away from her mistress whose schedule kept her gone day and night. I didn’t have the heart to even be angry. I just said, “I’ll buy a new door when you pass on to that great big patch of grass in the sky.” Just guess the look on everyone’s faces now as they walk through our home. “My dog ate my house.” was now added to my speech to incoming company. I was probably labeled crazy, but I didn’t care. Gretchen was part of the family. When your old Aunt Grace goes nuts and makes a new dress out of the curtains you don’t put her away in a nursing home or put her out into the street. I didn’t listen to people when they said, “That dog’s nuts. You should do something about her.” Wait, I did do something. I loved her.
I came to appreciate Gretchen’s instincts for protecting Tina even more after I moved away to another city, albeit those instincts often proved to be destructive to the building and fatal for fragile furniture. When I made the move to Baytown Tina remained in the house in Nederland. She wanted to finished college, graduate and remain in that area. She was already engaged to be married, so the best answer was to let them live in the house after they married until they got established as a couple and could afford a home of their own. Her fiancée had a band and the band rehearsed in the house for years before I moved, so leaving Tina with four big strapping guys to stand watch gave me a peace of mind over the decision to leave my little chicken behind. Besides, there was still Gretchen on duty, and yes, all the boys in the band knew the Ignore the Brown Dog Rules. Every one of them had the ignominious chore of mopping up Gretchen’s excited little liquid offerings at least once in their career as musicians in my home. Some of the boys were dumber than others and got to experience it more than once.
With the band rehearsing in our house, it was obvious that all the equipment would be housed there. We were fairly certain it was safe because the guys were in and out at all hours and barking dogs were a good deterrent if one was needed. However, Gretchen went one better than barking on the night someone must have come snooping on the property.
Tina and the drummer’s wife went off to run an errand one evening. When they returned home there was a snarling wild dog in the driveway. The drummer’s wife exclaimed, “Oh, my. There’s a wild wolf in your yard ready to attack us.” Upon closer inspection Tina realized it was her own beloved pet whose hackles were raised almost 6 inches high as the dog fiendishly paced up and down the drive. Tina cautiously rolled her window down, wondering if this was the day the vet had warned us about - the day the wild in Gretchen would come out and she would turn on us. It turned out to be not so. The moment Tina called her name, Gretchen calmed down and came right to her. About that time the fat black dog of the house came limping around the corner. Since she was bleeding Tina was afraid the black dog had been injured on the street. Curious as to how or why the dogs got out, Tina nabbed the escapees by the collars and brought them back into the house. As soon as the guys in the band returned Tina grilled each one trying to discover which of them let the dogs out. No one owned up to the release. It wasn’t until Tina walked into her bedroom and saw the curtains blowing in the window. Gretchen immediately went to the window and started her crazy behavior again. Tina moved the fabric and discovered a missing pane of glass in the eighteen-pane bay window. This put everyone to thinking someone tried to break into the house in an attempt to steal equipment, but this was not the case. No glass was found inside. All the glass was broken from the inside out - all the shards were on the ground outside as if the blows came from the inside. The only logical deduction we could make was that someone did come onto the property. Gretchen must have become aware of a presence that didn’t seem to behave as it should and the dog took action. I don’t know how hard that dog had to work at it, or if all it took was one running leap, but she smashed through an 18”x18” pane of glass. Gretchen forced her large body through the opening and sailed out into the yard to confront the intruder. Following on her heels was the fat, black dog. I can just see number two dog hauling herself out the window - one of those cartoon images comes to mind where the fat lady pulls through something and layers of her erupt out slowly through the opening before falling with a splat on the ground. That would also explain the injured paws on the black dog as she must have struggled to get up in the glass scattered on the ground. At the end of the evening all was safe and we didn’t think we needed to worry about anything like that happening again. I mean, would you be stupid enough to come back to a house where the family coyote came after you? I didn’t think so.
Gretchen lived well beyond her expected eight years. She lived to be thirteen and was a favorite at the vet’s office when she went for a visit. Her exotic eyes with the black eye liner and her funky toes were always a source of discussion. We could entertain the whole waiting room if we could get her to howl or yip. She had a beautiful coat and a tail which curled up over her back when happy or hung straight down stiff when on guard. As she got older her tail lost all its hair and went bald. So, like the proud lady she was, she tucked it up under her belly so no one could see that it was less than the glorious, fluffy banner it used to be. She remained the lead dog in the house no matter how many fosters I brought in. Over the years Gretchen spent countless hours watching while Tina danced around her, practicing ballet and jazz. She saw her Tina graduate from high school and college, then supervised as I fit Tina in the wedding gown I toiled over. Gretchen even tolerated being booted to the floor when the husband entered the picture to share Tina’s bed. Although she did show her disdain of that circumstance by refusing to sleep on the padded bed they placed in a corner of their bedroom. Gretchen took one look at the soft flannel bedding, put her nose in the air, placed her back squarely to it and settled herself on the floor exactly four inches away from it. She took that position every night for the years that followed.
At just over thirteen years old, cancer took hold of Gretchen. When she departed in March of 2009 she left her stamp upon everyone’s heart. I held her in my arms as I said goodbye in the vet’s office. I told her I loved her as she drifted quietly away, and I promised her I would write an ode to my wild and crazy gal.
So goes the ode . . .
One of such refinement
was meant to be loved for long.
Your memories still bind us
Though from our midst you’re gone.
Your antics now well noted
A story to pass to our heirs,
And rest assured in heaven
There are no antique chairs.
Well, you can imagine by now that all the checkers and stock boys were gathering. The girls were sniffling and “poor sweet baby” was the choice phrase tearfully being murmured. They brought out a cardboard box that would keep the little dog safe and contained until they could decide what to do with her. Yeah, you guessed it. My daughter told her boss to call me - Mother Theresa of the Animal Kingdom, also known as the Cat Lady of 6th Avenue. I arrived at the store to pick up my newest child - a puppy obviously too young to have been taken from her mother. Since she appeared to be a Shepherd mix we dubbed her Gretchen.
We went home and started a feeding routine of mashed canned dog food and milk, which she would only take from the tip of my finger. We made the trip to the vet the next week and he recognized her. She was one of a litter that had been dumped at various places around our small town. He knew the mother dog and admonished us that, if we were going to keep her, we needed to be aware of her lineage because undesirable behavior may arise in the future. Her dame was a fine German Shepherd owned by a farmer who lived near the Neches River. Coyotes abound in the wooded areas of our region, and the farmer made the mistake of letting his prize Shepherd go outside to spend time in the yard. He heard a commotion and went running to check out the scene, only to discover that a coyote was leaping back over the chain link fence to return to the cover of the woods. The farmer waited until she showed signs of pregnancy before he took her to our local vet. They determined that it was best to let the dog carry the litter because aborting could damage her for further breeding. After the litter was born, instead of taking the puppies to the vet, the farmer chose the evening after Christmas to discard them around town. Had he not been so heartless, Gretchen would not have entered our lives.
The vet also advised us that our new-found friend would likely have a life span of only eight or so years. Wild animals have a shorter life span than domesticated animals, so the hybrid breeding would lessen our expectations. We accepted everything he said and deemed it the proper thing to do to give her a good home as long as we could.
As with most dogs, Gretchen grew fast. It wasn’t long before she was playfully running behind Tina nipping at her housecoat belt as it dangled when she walked down the hallway. They were inseparable. Gretchen was a good dog for the most part, except when it came to teething. Even with plenty of chew toys, she was avidly teething on anything and everything.
I arrived home from work one evening to discover an absolute fiasco. My antique Duncan Phyfe dining chairs were destroyed. The center fan-shaped back splats were missing out of some. One of the captains’ chairs had a whole arm missing and the other had one arm torn off. Several of the side chairs’ heart-shaped back frames were punctured as if a monstrous steel punch had nabbed them. I wondered how on earth such a small dog could do so much damage. I failed to notice that there was very little wood remaining on the floor. She had actually eaten, literally eaten, the furniture. I could hear myself telling future guests, “My dog ate my furniture.” Tina’s homework for the next few years was doomed.
My voice opened with a shrill, “GGGrrreeetttccchhheeennn.” The dog wheeled and headed for another room. I trapped her in a corner, brandishing one of my precious chairs in the air. Instead of beating the dog, I beat the chair and screamed, “Bad dog, bad, bad, bad.” over and over until I was sure she got the message. For weeks I shook a chair at Gretchen every time she entered the room. Gretchen’s reaction was to back far away with fear in her eyes as if to say, “What chairs? I didn’t eat any chairs today.” This went on for months until I was certain the antiques were safe.
As she got older, her parentage really started to show. Her eyes were shaped slightly different - rounder with exotic black eye liner all the way around. Her paws had the protruding center toes of her sire. She didn’t bark, but had a strange howl and a yip when she exercised her voice. Her nose was shorter than a Shepherd’s nose and her eyes were all coyote. But her behavior was very domesticated and she took her charge of belonging to Tina seriously. Or, should I say, Tina really belonged to Gretchen?
There was one thing Gretchen never outgrew. She loved people. Anyone. Everyone. She greeted every person who entered our home with extreme delight and a yellow puddle. If you entered and said, “Hello, Gretchen.” she peed. If a guest walked in and put their hand on her head for a friendly pat, Gretchen peed. If Tina’s boyfriend came in the door and said, “Stupid Dog.” she peed. You get the picture. We kept bundles of dog towels beside the door and welcomed every visitor with the phrase, “Don’t pet the brown dog. Don’t even look at the brown dog. Don’t let the brown dog know you even know she’s there or she’ll …..drat….. you shouldn’t have spoken to the brown dog. Now she’s peed again.” The routine of entering the back door and walking blindly past the dog was something with which we all became very familiar. Once folks were established in the house, she would get over the excitement of people coming and going and the fear of a puddle on their shoes would diminish. Until, that is, the next unknowing soul came to the door and didn’t learn the Ignore the Brown Dog Rules in time to avoid the inevitable. (I said we had Brown Dog Rules because we also had a black lab/chow mix in the picture, but she loved to splash in the water, not leave water at your feet.)
Oh, but, Gretchen wasn’t finished eating things yet. Years had passed and Tina was in her senior year of college. She was going to school day and night trying to finish after changing her major. I was working two and three jobs. We were rarely home except to let Gretchen out for a few trips between our schedules. Gretchen fretted over her Tina being gone so much. The dog started to chew again, so we closed bedroom doors. Not liking the fact that she was locked out of her beloved child’s bedroom, Gretchen fixed it so she could peer into the room. She ate the door. I am not kidding. She must have spent the whole day clawing at the wood and the carpet to gain a small enough hole to lock her teeth onto. From there she ripped and ate and chomped and clawed until she made a semi-circular hole at the bottom of the door at floor level so she could lay flat and shove her whole head in to see the room. That is not a small hole we are talking about. Think German Shepherd sized head here . . .
I arrived home and stood in the hallway at the door to Tina’s room and stared in disbelief. I didn’t even raise my voice. I knew what had transpired and why. Gretchen’s instinct and need to be with Tina were so great that she was in despair from being forced away from her mistress whose schedule kept her gone day and night. I didn’t have the heart to even be angry. I just said, “I’ll buy a new door when you pass on to that great big patch of grass in the sky.” Just guess the look on everyone’s faces now as they walk through our home. “My dog ate my house.” was now added to my speech to incoming company. I was probably labeled crazy, but I didn’t care. Gretchen was part of the family. When your old Aunt Grace goes nuts and makes a new dress out of the curtains you don’t put her away in a nursing home or put her out into the street. I didn’t listen to people when they said, “That dog’s nuts. You should do something about her.” Wait, I did do something. I loved her.
I came to appreciate Gretchen’s instincts for protecting Tina even more after I moved away to another city, albeit those instincts often proved to be destructive to the building and fatal for fragile furniture. When I made the move to Baytown Tina remained in the house in Nederland. She wanted to finished college, graduate and remain in that area. She was already engaged to be married, so the best answer was to let them live in the house after they married until they got established as a couple and could afford a home of their own. Her fiancée had a band and the band rehearsed in the house for years before I moved, so leaving Tina with four big strapping guys to stand watch gave me a peace of mind over the decision to leave my little chicken behind. Besides, there was still Gretchen on duty, and yes, all the boys in the band knew the Ignore the Brown Dog Rules. Every one of them had the ignominious chore of mopping up Gretchen’s excited little liquid offerings at least once in their career as musicians in my home. Some of the boys were dumber than others and got to experience it more than once.
With the band rehearsing in our house, it was obvious that all the equipment would be housed there. We were fairly certain it was safe because the guys were in and out at all hours and barking dogs were a good deterrent if one was needed. However, Gretchen went one better than barking on the night someone must have come snooping on the property.
Tina and the drummer’s wife went off to run an errand one evening. When they returned home there was a snarling wild dog in the driveway. The drummer’s wife exclaimed, “Oh, my. There’s a wild wolf in your yard ready to attack us.” Upon closer inspection Tina realized it was her own beloved pet whose hackles were raised almost 6 inches high as the dog fiendishly paced up and down the drive. Tina cautiously rolled her window down, wondering if this was the day the vet had warned us about - the day the wild in Gretchen would come out and she would turn on us. It turned out to be not so. The moment Tina called her name, Gretchen calmed down and came right to her. About that time the fat black dog of the house came limping around the corner. Since she was bleeding Tina was afraid the black dog had been injured on the street. Curious as to how or why the dogs got out, Tina nabbed the escapees by the collars and brought them back into the house. As soon as the guys in the band returned Tina grilled each one trying to discover which of them let the dogs out. No one owned up to the release. It wasn’t until Tina walked into her bedroom and saw the curtains blowing in the window. Gretchen immediately went to the window and started her crazy behavior again. Tina moved the fabric and discovered a missing pane of glass in the eighteen-pane bay window. This put everyone to thinking someone tried to break into the house in an attempt to steal equipment, but this was not the case. No glass was found inside. All the glass was broken from the inside out - all the shards were on the ground outside as if the blows came from the inside. The only logical deduction we could make was that someone did come onto the property. Gretchen must have become aware of a presence that didn’t seem to behave as it should and the dog took action. I don’t know how hard that dog had to work at it, or if all it took was one running leap, but she smashed through an 18”x18” pane of glass. Gretchen forced her large body through the opening and sailed out into the yard to confront the intruder. Following on her heels was the fat, black dog. I can just see number two dog hauling herself out the window - one of those cartoon images comes to mind where the fat lady pulls through something and layers of her erupt out slowly through the opening before falling with a splat on the ground. That would also explain the injured paws on the black dog as she must have struggled to get up in the glass scattered on the ground. At the end of the evening all was safe and we didn’t think we needed to worry about anything like that happening again. I mean, would you be stupid enough to come back to a house where the family coyote came after you? I didn’t think so.
Gretchen lived well beyond her expected eight years. She lived to be thirteen and was a favorite at the vet’s office when she went for a visit. Her exotic eyes with the black eye liner and her funky toes were always a source of discussion. We could entertain the whole waiting room if we could get her to howl or yip. She had a beautiful coat and a tail which curled up over her back when happy or hung straight down stiff when on guard. As she got older her tail lost all its hair and went bald. So, like the proud lady she was, she tucked it up under her belly so no one could see that it was less than the glorious, fluffy banner it used to be. She remained the lead dog in the house no matter how many fosters I brought in. Over the years Gretchen spent countless hours watching while Tina danced around her, practicing ballet and jazz. She saw her Tina graduate from high school and college, then supervised as I fit Tina in the wedding gown I toiled over. Gretchen even tolerated being booted to the floor when the husband entered the picture to share Tina’s bed. Although she did show her disdain of that circumstance by refusing to sleep on the padded bed they placed in a corner of their bedroom. Gretchen took one look at the soft flannel bedding, put her nose in the air, placed her back squarely to it and settled herself on the floor exactly four inches away from it. She took that position every night for the years that followed.
At just over thirteen years old, cancer took hold of Gretchen. When she departed in March of 2009 she left her stamp upon everyone’s heart. I held her in my arms as I said goodbye in the vet’s office. I told her I loved her as she drifted quietly away, and I promised her I would write an ode to my wild and crazy gal.
So goes the ode . . .
One of such refinement
was meant to be loved for long.
Your memories still bind us
Though from our midst you’re gone.
Your antics now well noted
A story to pass to our heirs,
And rest assured in heaven
There are no antique chairs.
I Brushed Against A Soul One Eve
I wandered through the wilderness
lo, for many years.
I trudged through tribulations
and brambles dripped with tears.
I brushed against a soul one eve,
one my heart so yearned to hold,
yet I remained within my shadows
dark with grief and bitter cold.
The meeting haunted me
and came to me in dreams
keeping just beyond my grasp,
floating among the leaves.
I felt it looming in the mists,
and feigning wisdom with silence,I hid.
Still my chains yearned to fall away
as if in answer to its bid.
NOTE: STILL UNDER RECONSTRUCTION AT THIS POINT
Wrapped in sorrow, my pen lay idle nigh a score.
Encased away, I feared its words to flow nevermore.
Suddenly, the quill swept across the page,
and from my trembling hands
poured words of such poignant beauty
my heart ached and wept for more.
Behold, I’ve placed my love with breath abate
into the hands of one who knows not
that they could end my lone estate. . .
My fellow being,
my kindred spirit,
my soul mate.
Spring 1999
lo, for many years.
I trudged through tribulations
and brambles dripped with tears.
I brushed against a soul one eve,
one my heart so yearned to hold,
yet I remained within my shadows
dark with grief and bitter cold.
The meeting haunted me
and came to me in dreams
keeping just beyond my grasp,
floating among the leaves.
I felt it looming in the mists,
and feigning wisdom with silence,I hid.
Still my chains yearned to fall away
as if in answer to its bid.
NOTE: STILL UNDER RECONSTRUCTION AT THIS POINT
Wrapped in sorrow, my pen lay idle nigh a score.
Encased away, I feared its words to flow nevermore.
Suddenly, the quill swept across the page,
and from my trembling hands
poured words of such poignant beauty
my heart ached and wept for more.
Behold, I’ve placed my love with breath abate
into the hands of one who knows not
that they could end my lone estate. . .
My fellow being,
my kindred spirit,
my soul mate.
Spring 1999
Introduction to The Battleship
I inherited the love of music and history from my father and my artistic abilities from my mother. My two worlds became one as I stood under the masts of the battleship USS Constitution docked in Boston Harbor. Instead of submitting a lovely, more feminine work to the publishers, I felt compelled to share the powerful image of history inspired by this undefeated beauty. The piece titled "The Battleship" is published in The Best Poems and Poets of 2003 by the International Poetry Society. It is the first work in the book.
The Battleship
Her masts, regal and stately, soar above the seas.
Her bow plunges undaunted toward her prey.
Her rage flares and her presence commands veneration.
She is the instrument of battle defending freedom and honor.
Smoke billows from painted gunwales;
thunderous cannon her imposing voice.
Her eyes flash - salt air is torn by licking flames.
She is the instrument of battle singing her song of death.
Decks shudder. Men sweat as they serve her,
feeding the chambers with powder and wad,
their backs bending and breaking in the rituals of war.
She is the instrument of battle impervious to peril.
Ripped asunder by her ceaseless bombardment,
the gates of hell are thrown open by her salvo.
Pulsing with furious activity, a hive of fear and trepidation,
She is the instrument of battle unrelenting in her attack.
All quake in her presence as she looms through the night.
Bristling with torrid anger she bears down with fury.
Thrashing through the waves, she howls with vengeance.
She is the instrument of battle holding mortals in contempt.
One man dares be her master, pledging constance unto death.
He musters courage to be her equal as he strides upon her planks.
His passion blazes unbridled. He is consumed by her.
She is the instrument of battle. She is magnificent.
Summer 1999
Her bow plunges undaunted toward her prey.
Her rage flares and her presence commands veneration.
She is the instrument of battle defending freedom and honor.
Smoke billows from painted gunwales;
thunderous cannon her imposing voice.
Her eyes flash - salt air is torn by licking flames.
She is the instrument of battle singing her song of death.
Decks shudder. Men sweat as they serve her,
feeding the chambers with powder and wad,
their backs bending and breaking in the rituals of war.
She is the instrument of battle impervious to peril.
Ripped asunder by her ceaseless bombardment,
the gates of hell are thrown open by her salvo.
Pulsing with furious activity, a hive of fear and trepidation,
She is the instrument of battle unrelenting in her attack.
All quake in her presence as she looms through the night.
Bristling with torrid anger she bears down with fury.
Thrashing through the waves, she howls with vengeance.
She is the instrument of battle holding mortals in contempt.
One man dares be her master, pledging constance unto death.
He musters courage to be her equal as he strides upon her planks.
His passion blazes unbridled. He is consumed by her.
She is the instrument of battle. She is magnificent.
Summer 1999
The Cackler
A quiet bar,
voices murmuring lowly, intimately;
only the piano's sweet refrains
drifted on the air.
I heard her cackle.
Sagging breasts past their prime,
exposed in a dress for one much younger,
outdated and out of season,
certainly just to the left of good taste.
The ends of her hair frazzled and scorched,
as if she styled it with a burning match,
making her even more pitifully common.
Her date was enthralled with her beauty,
oblivious to the cackle that irked the rest of us.
Alas, she held court as would I if that age again,
exposing my self-considered beauty to anyone
under the influence who would find it fascinating.
And I would likely cackle.
April 2009
voices murmuring lowly, intimately;
only the piano's sweet refrains
drifted on the air.
I heard her cackle.
Sagging breasts past their prime,
exposed in a dress for one much younger,
outdated and out of season,
certainly just to the left of good taste.
The ends of her hair frazzled and scorched,
as if she styled it with a burning match,
making her even more pitifully common.
Her date was enthralled with her beauty,
oblivious to the cackle that irked the rest of us.
Alas, she held court as would I if that age again,
exposing my self-considered beauty to anyone
under the influence who would find it fascinating.
And I would likely cackle.
April 2009
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