Tuesday, February 6, 2024

Alone

 Alone

 

The rain sifts down from the gray-feathered skies

and I walk on earth as if through clouds.

On the street, misty strangers pass

without acknowledgment,

intent on unknown destinations, 

wrapped in their waterproof cocoons,

behind umbrella shields, 

heads bent, collars turned, 

shoulders sprinkled with the diamond-dust

of not-quite-rain.

Unremarked, I wander on, 

in trenchcoat and fedora,

myself a solitary shadow,

silently slipping 

across the border of 

reality and dreams.

 

 


 

 

Birds

 

The chatter outside my door 

calls me, and I glance outside: 

dozens of small brown chirpers,

gathered and gossiping

like a choir awaiting 

the tap-tap-tap of a baton:

there, in my tree,

waiting to perform.

My fountain’s warm-up music

tinkles in the background

and the susurration of the leaves

sounds the orchestral prelude.

I stand at the window

waiting to applaud.

 

 

Anticipation: Sandy

 Anticipation: Sandy

 

Ready! Set!

But we're not going, yet.

The 24/7 Cassandras

with all their techno-toys

predict a big one:

the biggest, strongest,

highest, lowest, most destructive,

longest, widest, tallest

monster wind and wave

extravaganza.

An epic storm, a perfect storm,

a storm of the barely-begun

century.

Board up your windows, 

batten the hatches, 

raid the markets

and lock up your daughters!

Stock up on water, find your flashlights,

and where are the batteries?

Gas up your car, and tie down the cat.

Charge and charge again

electronic devices that govern your lives.

Pack your bags; prepare to run.

 

Is this what we've become?

Masters of the universe,

but fearful of the wind? 

There's not enough tree for our ornaments now, and there are boxes of lights and stuffed animals and Santas that will not see the light of day this year. Christmas dinner may not be turkey because there are always leftovers, and we won't have time to consume them. We are leaving for California on the 27th, and Christmas must be put away before we leave. After all, who wants to come home to a Christmas tree in March?

So many of the things that made our house Christmas Central in the past have been curtailed, have not been attempted, have disappeared from the list of December to-dos. No party (which drove me crazy for 25+ years, but now, brings on waves of nostalgia.) No eggnog. No boxes and cans brimming with Christmas cookies. No mountain of presents under the tree. No midnight services, replete with carols and candlelight. No shopping at the mall, or wandering down King Street, on the prowl for stocking gifts. It's just not the same.

The parties are still there--but complicated by the calculus of lengthy drives to unfamiliar locations, and night vision that seems to be getting worse. Sometimes, we just decide that we have longer recovery times than we used to. Shopping has been curtailed by the tempting ease of the internet--and Amazon. Who wouldn't trade the parking, the crowds, the endless lines at counters for midnight ordering and next-day pickup at the UPS store? I miss the baking, but...no one drops in over the holidays anymore, and diabetic proscriptions can only be ignored every so often. They can't withstand that onslaught of cookies.

Some things stay the same. There is always Christmas Eve with my family--though there are missing people who call in to the festivities. There is always an outrageous gift or two in the mix of the present-opening. Santa Dave appears for the little ones, though there are fewer of them than there used to be.






O Christmas Tree

 Now that Thanksgiving is past, it's time to move on to the great American pastime of putting away all the pumpkins and autumn colors, wind up all the things we are thankful for (Biden! Biden! Biden!) and drag out the millions of boxes of Christmas we've had stacked in the attic, garage, under the bed, in the storage space, and in the random desk drawer or dresser or closet, where they hide and breed throughout the year. Somehow we always end up with more than we put away last year. A mystery for the ages.

It will be a lightweight Christmas this year. Four of us, if we are lucky. Kay and Paul and the granddaughters were planning a trip, but, like so many others, decided to stay put and not risk a major cross-country trip. So we 'old folks'--the vulnerable and at risk--are hanging memories on the tree this year. 

Which is easy to do: every ornament has a story or a place or a circumstance that sets it apart. I need a couple more years decorating the tree with granddaughters to tell them all. We have ornaments from places we've visited (a Pinocchio from Italy, a reindeer fur elf from Russia, a pewter heart-with-a-horse from Germany). We have mementos of places we've lived (our star was from Tijuana when we celebrated in San Diego), family events (there's that Raggedy Ann from LaJolla the year Kay was born). 

The fact that there is no tinsel is a testament to our cats over the years, one of whom actually ate tinsel and walked around with it--undigested-- trailing from his butt afterwards...Instead of that gross tinsel experience, we have tin icicles (from Chadd's Ford in Pennsylvania) and chandelier prisms from a little consignment shop in Springfield, where the proprietor asked what in the world I was going to use them for... There's the tunafish can Santa being kissed by Mrs. Santa: my creation for our first Christmas tree. Regrettably, the cookie ornaments from that tree--camels, trees, our first cat-- have crumbled throughout our history--but I can still remember sharing the backseat of JC's Ford Torino with that immense tree that protruded from windows in all directions on our way home. 

And then, there are all the additions over the years from friends and neighbors and relatives: the brass ornaments from the Rogersville Presbyterian Church that were given out--engraved with names and the year--to all children of the church, and were picked up religiously by JC's mother for our girls. There are historic Alexandria and White House, and Mt. Vernon ornaments, and relics of my ceramics phase, where I painted not only an entire Nativity set, but Santa ornaments for each of the girls, where the old gentleman was inscribing their names in his book, followed by gold stars. And even if there was no precipitating event, there are the ornaments chosen by Kay and Sarah over the years on shopping trips to various malls and Hallmark stores and Christmas shops. I am still surprised at how many places and occasions I remember as we trim the tree. 

Robert the Bruce is there, in honor of the Scottish sojourn of Kay and family. There's Queen Elizabeth, who commemorates our tenure as Folger Shakespeare Library docents. We have kindergarten ornaments (the mouse in the matchbox) and a clothespin soldier presented to me by Jason, one of my high school students, never to be forgotten. There are ornaments painted by my mom--the scallop-shell angel--and Washington memorabilia from that phase of our lives. When was the last time you saw the Lincoln Memorial on a tree?

I have favorites, of course: the fragile antique glass ornaments from my godmother's tree, the few from our tree as I grew up, including a replica of the tacky 1950's era turquoise (really?!) plastic-and-glitter spinner ornament whose metal blade spun when hung above a warm Christmas light. We have a courthouse from JC's case in Illinois, a plastic Max--my favorite character from How the Grinch Stole Christmas. The angel at the top was a gift from my dear friend, Sharon Gaddis; there are innumerable Santas--and a mesquite-wood star, acquired at Kay and Paul's wedding venue. Alexandria is represented by yearly ornaments, as is the White House. When I remembered to buy one. There's even a glass pickle, a gift from Sandy Austin who died far too soon. I have cats, and snowmen, and s'mores, a few sturdy cookie ornaments from 1973--is the camel still there? and Murphy, a freehand cat cookie?--a felt frog from Chicago's Watertower Place, picked up at a weekend Christmas party sponsored by Seyfarth, Shaw, and a Wedgwood angel that Kay and Sarah bought one year on an outing with their babysitter. 

Noah's Ark? It's there. Along with a bear in a tricorn hat, just because he was so cute. And of course, George Washington. And a professor, aiming his pointer at a map. And now we've added ornaments from our granddaughters.  And we still laugh over the tin ornaments from Tijuana, especially the shepherd whose crook looks incredibly like a hockey stick.

Our decorations have dwindled over the years, largely due to our recent exodus to California immediately after the holiday. Everything we put up has to be packed away before we depart, unless we want to be greeted in March with the detritus of the holidays. However, even with the tree finished, there are boxes remaining: stuffed animals who hang about the stairway railing with big red bows on their necks, waiting for Santa; a china cupboard full of silver and crystal, sporting red and silver Christmas balls to look a little more festive; all my sugars and creamers lined up on the mantel with sprigs of pine and holly, Christmas linens on the table, and greens wherever I can fit them.

I still need a wreath for the door, but the Farmers' Market is usually good for that. And my BIG Santas--the ones that I bought year by year--one each--to stand on tables around the house. One would think that I could distribute some of these things to other family households, but they aren't having any. Perhaps we have scared them off with our yearly moaning that we just don't have enough storage space. But who could throw away Claire's handprint on an ornament from 2011? What brand of heartlessness could consign a single brass ornament to the trash? Or the chandelier prisms that have provided the sparkle on our tree (since our cat ownership precluded tinsel!)?

It is just a tree--even a fake tree nowadays. But it's more. In a way, it's our life, our memories hanging there. I may be the only one left who remembers them all, but every year, I tell the stories to any one who will listen.








Six Dozen Years Plus Three

 

SIX Dozen Years PLUS THREE

 

 

If I could pack the years in dozens,

safe in a cardboard box like eggs,

instead of blowing out candles,

I would open a carton of years:

the first dozen for the basics--

cracking shells, making messes,

and being coddled.

Humpty-Dumpty years.

 

I’d scramble the next dozen

with education and its ingredients:

testing the spice of life,

tasting and savoring it all,

finally on my own,

but sometimes missing

that snug cardboard nest—

worried I might break.

 

The third dozen years

are all in one basket:

deviled by home and family and

being in charge of everything,

whether I wanted to be or not.

wanting occasionally to crawl

back into a carton, a basket, a nest:

anywhere I could sleep…

 

I open the fourth dozen

with hesitant, careful hand..

new identities—not just mom,

or chauffeur or cook—

cautious rediscovery of who I am,

a panoply of Easter egg

resurrections, there for the taking,

in all their rainbow colors.

 

Five could be the magic number:

 the rounded years, with all rough edges gone.

Smooth sailing, or

at least it should be.

A couple dozen short of a lifetime,

deliberately paced,

taking in the show,

marveling at the speed of transit.

 

 

 Dozens of precious fragile years…

sweet and flavorful, as filled with zest

as birthday cakes and picnics,

as Christmas mornings and Saturday breakfasts…

cracked and messy, scrambled, beaten,

whipped to froth or brought to souffle-heights,

six dozen (plus three) irreplaceable years,

 and the 7th yet to come.

 

 

--Mary McElveen--

 


 

 

  

The Accident

 The Accident

 

They replaced the sign today at the intersection.

The fire hydrant will take longer,

though not as long as it will take

to change her customary routes—

to the grocery store, the cleaners,

the doctor, the dentist,

to everywhere she goes—

in order to avoid that place.

Her car inevitably backs out of the driveway,

inevitably turns to the left,

to the inevitable turn at the corner

where she can go no longer,

where she would see the place where

the axis of her world changed.

 

She would see it happen again,

again the late-to-work speed of the oncoming car,

the desperate swerve, 

(her little boy)

the toppled car, the scream,

and the horribly silent moment

before the sirens.

 

In the morning, she walks the block

And touches the cold metal signpost

Instead of his warm cheek.

Chosen People

 Chosen People

 

I think I know how God felt

about His people in the desert:

“What’s WRONG with them?”

They had a heritage

that they chose not to uphold. 

They had promises from God—so MUCH—

but it was not enough.

They turned away, and so

He drowned them in a flood.

He sent them to Egypt as captive labor.

He rescued them and fed them

in the desert—

And they built a golden calf to spite Him.

 

What’s wrong with us?

We were the light of the world—

Hope burning bright in the harbor:

the golden door, promising

work and reward and peace and safety.

It’s not enough

that we have so much—

we need to hoard it for ourselves,

to close the door, to be “great again.”

 

Let me tell you a secret.

We can’t be great while others starve.

We can’t be great while others drown

In pursuit of freedom.

We can’t be great while others suffer.

The religion of “me” and “mine”

must give way to “ours”

if we are ever to have peace,

if we are ever to be safe.