?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Some Poems

I have been writing poems for forty years, mostly unpublished, although once in a while one breaks through.  None of the ones below ever did.

Parenting

If we lived close, it might have seemed more gradual

that I became, unsought, the Mother to my Mother.

As it occurred, the moment stands most clear and well-defined.

Like birth. A bond that forms forever.

Unseen but felt, our places changed that visit

and she became my child in our hello embrace.

Master Chef

With the sweetest words, refined and sifted,

You create a souffle of my heart.

Then add a smile, which makes

me rise with warmth both inside and out.

But wait.

I’m ready to emerge, when your knifing comment

comes to prick my bubbly mood.

I am half baked by praises such as yours.

Time

What I always wanted came quietly,

unexpectedly, sooner than planned.

I found it one evening, while walking and thinking,

squeezed between dinner and children’s homework

and tonight’s dishes and tomorrow’s lunches.

I wanted more time.

Not time for more dinners or children or homework.

Not for more meetings and projects to plan.

But time for myself.

Not made from leftovers or smidgens or midnights

when everything’s done.

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Poetic License

This blog is about reminiscing. And it’s due to the meeting of my book club this morning where we discussed various poems, their overt meanings, their covert meanings, and their unintelligible meanings.  It was food for thought.

For me, the bottom line is that poetry lends itself to individual interpretation.  Unless you know the poet who wrote the lines and have interviewed him or her regarding the work, then the poem is more about you and what you see in it.

But this isn’t really what my blog is about either.  It’s about reminiscing.  The day’s events reminded me of other situations I’ve been in where people questioned what something meant.

It is 1967: I am a sixth grade teacher in Monroe, Michigan, trying to break the mold of the sixth grade experience. It is before the trend of teaching for test results. My class decides to put on a play, the first ever at this particular school. We work hard, and invite the other grades to attend a performance in the auditorium.  Then the principal corners one of my students in the hallway and remarks that “Your play won’t be any good.”

The child returns to my class in disbelief.  “Mrs. XXX says we’re not good.” The excitement in the classroom deflates.

“Wait,” I say. “When this is over, if Mrs. XXX  says you’re good, I don’t expect you to believe her.  I expect you to believe me. If I tell you it was good, then that’s what you must hear. And, if she says it’s not good, but I tell you it was wonderful, who are you to believe?”

I guess it boils down to poetry after all. We must believe in our own interpretations.  If we did, we’d enjoy poetry and life more.

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Old Doctor, New Doctor

My family physician decided to close his practice about three months ago, leaving me and his other patients in search of health care elsewhere.

Let the record show that I loved my former doctor.  In the thirteen years we were together he listened, truly listened, to me.  When we had a disagreement of opinion on how to proceed, we resorted to empirical evidence.  I argued that it was my body, and I knew it better than anyone else.  He claimed authority with medical knowledge.  So we’d come to a mutual understanding of how to solve a particular problem.  It was a marked difference in approach from the Chicago doctor before him.

I understand his reasons for closing as explained in a letter: mounting costs, smaller reimbursements, increased paperwork, longer wait period for payment. I would probably have done the same thing.

However, it does create a problem for any former patients who are Medicare-age.  Not a lot of physicians accept new Medicare patients because of the increased frustration regarding the problems listed above.

Fortunately, my husband goes to a different family practitioner.  So I called his office to see if he would accept a spouse on Medicare as a courtesy and learned that, yes, he would. Today I had my first appointment with him.

I waited over an hour to be seen. My former doctor never was late. I began to build that chip on my shoulder as the minutes passed.  My former doctor would never have had to deal with that. I wasn’t sure this would work.

To be fair, when the doctor finally came into the examining room he apologize profusely for being so late.  “Three nightmare appointments, back to back,” he said.  I would have accepted this but for the fact that my husband says he always runs late.

I’m not a particularly docile patient; I challenge, I question, I want logic to back up what the doctor says. In fact, I suspect some physicians hate to see my name on their daily appointment sheet.

Regardless, at the end of our forty minutes together I was impressed.  This doctor asked salient questions, accepted my requests and observations, and looked me in the eye regularly. He also made some recommendations about various medications I’m taking, and he had the data to back up his opinion.  I left feeling pretty good about the situation. And I plan to return.  But I do intend to work on his promptness for appointments.

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Bed Mates

The man I sleep with (That would be Earl.) and I have different sleeping habits. I would like to believe this doesn’t impact the time we spend in bed, but secretly I know it impacts mine.

I was brought up to make my bed every day and to make it almost in military style.  You know, where you could bounce a quarter off the top layer. My Mother was a nurse in the days before contour sheets, and she taught me the rudiments of triangular corners. Bouncing quarters was not a problem.

I’m not sure if Earl’s mother taught him anything along these lines.  Maybe she even made his bed.  I only know that today Earl thinks nothing of crawling into a bed that hasn’t been made for two days, while I cringe at the thought.  Triangular corners still haunt me.

I’m willing to take on the assignment of Bed Maker par excellence, but there are other issues.

I like my covers tightly tucked in; Earl doesn’t.

I sleep quietly, rolling over occasionally without mussing anything. Earl the Dervish thrashes around and rolls the covers with him.

I pretty much stay in one spot; Earl wouldn’t dream of such a thing.  Which is why I sometimes cling to the edge of the bed and ponder the distance from it to the floor.

I like quiet; Earl enjoys the sound of the ceiling fan.

I fall asleep quickly; You-know-who does not. Unless he’s taking an afternoon nap in his recliner.

If ever there were two unsuited bed mates, it seems to be us.  Except that we have one important thing in common that overshadows all other issues and could be a dealbreaker.

Neither of us snores.

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Country Music Awards

For some reason I recorded last year’s November County Music Awards .  I don’t recall if I ever watched the show, but tonight – for lack of something more educational to do – I decided to view it.

Let it be known that I love country music.  Or rather, I love what used to be country music.  Watching the 2012 version of the awards, however, made me wonder if my love is now misplaced.  There were no lonely acoustic guitars, no songs about Mom and apple pie, no ballads that told a tale.

Rather there was wailing, unrhymed verses, and loud background music.  Eric Church, a singer I’d never heard of but who won a significant award, was hardly understandable.Carrie Underwood, who always thanks American Idol for her starmanship, looked like a cross-over artist at best and a miserable representative of country music at worst.  Brad Paisley soldiered on as best he could.

I haven’t listened to country music as much lately, and perhaps the answer to “Why?” lies in the broadcast I just watched.  It’s no longer distinguishable from other genres. It’s no longer “Country.” Who knew this would happen when electricity came to guitars?

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Plain Is Vanishing

Recently I whined about the loss of ice cream in quarts and small animal cracker boxes. Today I’m grinching about the loss of vanilla yogurt and plain hamburgers. Great filet mignon too.

Let’s take it point by point . . .

I went to the local yogurt shop recently, the one where they give you a large cup and direct you to a bank of fourteen different yogurts so you can choose, mix, match, and fill your cup to your heart’s desire.  Then the cup is weighed because the cost is by the measured ounce.

I searched the fourteen yogurt spigots from left to right and from right to left.  There were some wonderfully concocted flavors, but no vanilla.  So I asked an employee where the vanilla was. She replied, “We don’t have vanilla this week; the closest thing is white chocolate.”

Excuse me, but white chocolate isn’t anything like vanilla.  I know, because I took the employee’s recommendation.  I put chocolate sauce on top and then added Snickers® bits before checking out.  Paid for my treat and then dug into the creamy yogurt.  It didn’t satisfy my craving for vanilla at all.

Hamburgers . . . it is impossible to purchase a plain one.  At the very least there is lettuce, tomato, and onion.  Then there’s cheese, bacon, avocado, mushrooms, and – the newest addition – over-easy eggs. Ketchup and mustard usually show up too.

The thing is when I order a hamburger I want to taste the meat. Hopefully it’s really good meat, but all those accountrements make me suspicious that it isn’t.  I understand restaurants are probably trying to cater to different peoples’ taste buds; but my taste buds prefer plain.  Good quality, just plain.

The same thing is happening to other types of beef.  While I don’t eat filet mignon very often, I still hold it to the same criteria as its lower class cousin, the burger.  The meat must be tender and of the best quality. I’m okay with some of its natural juices arriving with the entree, but please leave the a la Oscar, the au poivre, the Bearnaise, and the side of lobster tail in the kitchen.

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Grey Day

We’re a week away from the official start of autumn, but already I feel it in my bones. Today exacerbated that feeling with its continually falling rain and dreary skies.  We need the rain; rather, farmers and flowers need it.  I don’t.  But I accept it for those whose lives (flowers) and livelihoods (farmers) depend on it.

As for the dreary skies, they not only annoy but also depress me. We have so many more grey days to look forward to in the coming months, because that’s what it’s like around here come the end of the year.  I’m already gritting my teeth at the prospect. Which is why their early arrival makes me mad.

Can’t we enjoy sunshine even with later sunrises and earlier sunsets?  Do shortened days have to mean less sunshine? It seems they do.

So what am I doing on this hibernating kind of day? I’m baking apples, although I just realized there is no ice cream to spread on their soft, hot sweetness. I’m playing piano, although it’s gloomy in the piano room because there are windows in three sides that look out on the grey sky. I’m also reading the Sunday papers, which are becoming thinner and thinner with each passing season. And I’m trying not to curmudge.

I think I haven’t succeeded in the curmudging arena. In fact, this entire blog seems to be a curmudge.  Which probably makes me a first class curmudgeon.

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Worth Commemorating

Much of the news today commemorates the horrific deeds of twelve years ago on 9/11. This is as it should be. We remember Pearl Harbor long after the fact; the same with D-Day and Kennedy’s assassination. We should remember 9/11 too.

I heard several commentators today say that their children, who were infants on 9/11, don’t understand our attachment to this unofficial day of mourning. At the same time, we’ve had other horrific deeds since then, and children born shortly after 9/11 must surely be aware of the massacre at Newtown.  Perhaps it resonates with them (due to their ages) as much as 9/11/01 or 11/22/63 is inscribed in older generations’ memory banks.

It’s an evolving thing.  I was born the day after D-Day but have no personal recollection of the drama.  Yet, it’s been ingrained in me that this was a significant event even though I wasn’t there. I was eighteen when Kennedy was assassinated and remember it clearly, while my children learned of it through history lessons.

So I think the commentators are wrong. Their children might not seem to understand our attachment to a given historical event, but as time passes I’m sure they will participate in remembering.  What might be more special to commemorate would be a day when no more horrific events occur.

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Syria

The vote on whether to approve military action (or not) against Syria is a moving target.  The last I heard it was scheduled for “some time this week,” although previous dates were more specific. Maybe the President and Congress hope it will all go away.  It won’t.

I heard today that more than sixty-five percent of the American people are against going to war.  I don’t know where that number came from, but judging from conversations I’ve had with friends I believe it’s true.  The public is not behind this effort.  Maybe those of us who live outside the Washington beltway have learned our lessons. War is not friendly to children and other living things; only profiteers thrive.

For me, it doesn’t matter when the vote is taken, because all this jockeying hasn’t change my mind.  War against Syria is a bad idea, no matter whether the government has used chemical warfare or not.  I thought so early on; I still think so.  In fact, I’ve contacted my two Senators and the Representative in whose district I reside.  I hope I’ve made it clear.

If any one of them votes to go to war against Syria, I shall respond by voting for any of their opponents. In primaries; in general elections. One hundred percent of the time.

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The Perfect Summer

The casual end of summer – as opposed to the official calendar end on September 21 – occurred yesterday.  Not only was it a glorious finale, it was also a spectacular summer from beginning to end in our part of the country.

Earl and I have long commented that summer in Michigan is special; yet, most years found us roaming elsewhere.  We’ve gone to Canada, Alaska, Yellowstone, upstate New York., some of these places more than once.   Each was special, but we always returned wondering what we’d missed in our home state.

This summer we stayed put.  And here’s what we didn’t miss.

Fresh corn, picked in the morning, that I purchased at more than one local roadway fruitstand. We devoured it the same day.  Currently I have half a dozen ears I plan to blanch and freeze for winter.

Piggott’s tomatoes, the best in the county.  I’d heard about them for ages, but actually got to eat them this year. The largest, reddest geraniums I’ve ever planted. And the yellowest, fullest black eyed Susans. The Berrien County Youth Fair in August.  The upcoming Allegan County Fair this coming weekend. Sitting on our patio watching the sun go down. Sleeping with the windows open instead of with the drone of the air conditioner.

Fourth of July at friends’ home on the bluff where we saw fireworks explode over Lake Michigan without having to deal with the hassle of thousands of spectators crammed onto the beach.

Various small trips around the state to learn more about the place where we live.  We visited the Rouge Plan in Dearborn, Greenfield Village, Bronner’s Christmas Shop in Frankenmuth, Charlevoix, Beaver Island, and Petoskey, where Earl bought a Petoskey stone as a souvenir.

But most of all, what I’ll remember is the feeling of contentment.  If this were to be my last summer on earth, it couldn’t have been more perfect.

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