Friendship

People come and go in your life. Some of them flutter by and leave no brand on your heart. Yet few and only a few write their autograph with charmed feathers from magical birds upon your soul…And oh so suddenly fly away without as much as a fare-thee-well. The ones that shoot straight to my heart are those that live there and occasionally revisit when the weather is just right, or something happens to remind one of singing and discourse, and endless pots of coffee. A leaf blissfully dancing on the wind with the gentle breeze as music will summon a memory of tin whistles and chocolates and prayers on the bathroom door. Birds in flight below the pink evening clouds remind me of her wit and wonder of the universe.
Margie came into my life like a rushing river, eager to run its course. Her pale face and ailing body did not frighten me. We talked about Belgian lace, ballerinas, and fireworks at night. She played guitar. She told me she had cancer. She declared that as long as she could hold her guitar, there would be music, kinship, and laughter.
The virtues and practices of friendship require honesty. The mutual bond that we shared came out of a quest to find my voice. Sometimes I feel that Margie saw the caretaker in me when we met at work. I put on the shoes for the journey by giving her something other than her thinning hair and wasting body to focus on, and helped reveal another path other than the dark road ahead. Along this journey, Margie and I picked up a fellow traveler. His heart was dying and needed new blood. Robbie quickly picked up his pace and began teaching me new chords on the guitar so that I could join in the fun and excitement of getting through “The Drunken Sailor” song almost perfect. “Practice, practice.” they would tell me. Out of respect, and the willingness to learn guitar, I did practice at home. It was never a concern for me if I ever achieved perfection, it was just fun. I wanted to make my friends happy. Those internal challenges that constitute friendship in its purest form are the courage to give something to someone else through kinship, even if it is a joke or a smile. Now with two teachers, one on the art of friendship and the other pleading with me to remember how to make an A minor chord, we began to play and sing and enjoy each other’s company. It was no easy task to keep up with Margie and Robbie when they played songs so easily and I was struggling with that A minor chord, but soon it was just second nature and easy. Friendship is not an easy task. In addition, sometimes it is that mutual togetherness and kinship that is the reward for peering into the window of friendship and each other’s lives.

The Good Old Times

I think that would have scared me to go to a principal’s office to see a guy named Mr. Eastwood, Holiday or some other name that conjures up violence and the imagination of an impressionable child.  It would be like the gunfight at the beginning of Gunsmoke, pistols in the holsters, fingers positioned in order to fire at the person standing feet away with fingers in just the right place, jangling spurs, silence and then POW!  It would all be over.

First and second grade was in Arkansas at a Baptist school, so I had no choice but to go and get my punishment; particularly because my two aunts worked there and my mom was another of the 1st grade teachers (the next year she taught 3rd grade and my brother was in her class). I had Miss White in the first grade. The children in the school were under that impression that she was probably 300 years old and you must not fool with her. We figured she was one of the folks that charged up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt.  She was mean, had a cricket bat in the cloak room and she did not like my mother; I think the reason she didn’t like my mother was because mom was a Nazarene. She didn’t like my dad because of and after my biting offense, and because she told my brother that he would suffer in hell when he died because he was left handed, and dad visited her.  She wasn’t the only teacher that told him that, but she interjected the words “burn for eternity” into her explanation for the reasons my brother should sit on his left hand and write unnaturally with his right.

I took my chance because she messed with my friend Mary, a really poor kid that lived in a shack by the railroad tracks. Mary had Cajun blood in her and as I look back I think there was a phobia about Cajun kids and they weren’t treated well by old people. Her dad was a brakeman on the railroad, like my grandfather. Miss White grabbed Mary by the arm and twisted it slightly. The teacher’s wrist was exposed and so I bit her. She was hurting my friend. We both were sent to the cloak room for a paddling and then we took turns in the principal’s office.  My classmates were treated to my wailing that was so loud that the janitor rushed in thinking some kid was stuck under his desk or was half way out the window or something.   I honestly don’t remember the principle’s name but he was pretty fair according to every child in the school and we liked him. Mary, me and my mom walked home and stopped at the Woolworth’s and got a coke. Then my dad and I took her home in a taxicab.

The problem came when my mother and my two aunts showed up.  Southern women have a way of damning someone just by looking at them.  These three women were very proficient in the art of damning someone that hurt their kids.  Miss White had to take a few days off and we liked it.  The teacher was fun and he let us color or sing when we wanted to.

It didn’t get much better in the Second grade.  I had Mrs. Weed.  The way that you could tell that it was a church school was that there were pictures of Jesus everywhere.  I asked my mother why the pictures were not the same like the picture of JFK.  Jesus had blond hair in one picture and that confused me.  My mother told me that the pictures and paintings were the artist’s idea of what Jesus looked like.  I never could figure out why they had Him posted above the mirror in the girl’s bathroom.

Food Fight

My mother owned every kitchen gadget imaginable and cook books that had detailed instructions on how to make tomato roses and fancy canapés with rye toast and squares of cheese.  There were slotted spoons, cutlery of every sort and size, melon ball makers, cherry pitter, egg slicers, apple slicers, cheese shredders, fondue pots, chafing dishes, cleavers, and the ever-important kitchen scissors.  She had roasting pans, baking dishes, cake pans of every shape and size.  She was proud  of her collection of sixteen pie plates, her many cookie jars, canister sets for every season, as well as tablecloths, napkins with rings, and three sets of silverware according to what occasion it was.  When plastic gadgets came into popularity, there were plastic versions of everything she already had.

Most people don’t like fruitcake, but it holds a special place in my heart because it was the one thing that my mom was perfect at.  They were always festive and always brought us Christmas with the scent of cloves and cinnamon with some she baked and rum and wine with others. She had one that baked for 18 hours.  Bacchus would have enjoyed that cake.  She bought wine from the brothers at Mater Delarosa Monastery and in turn offered her wine soaked cakes for their Christmas Celebration.  She was sad when the monastery was destroyed in an earthquake in 1991.   The brothers are still there.

Mom put a Kitchen Aid Mixer (the Cadillac of all mixers) on the lay-away, but lost it because of my tonsillectomy.  I think she wanted to snuff me out for that.  Instead, she paid the balance on another layaway item….an ice cream maker.  I was treated to vanilla ice cream, smashed banana ice cream, chocolate ice cream.  She even tried her hand at making sherbet.  The orange and loquat was the best.  My brothers liked the smashed banana ice cream smothered in chocolate syrup.  I could have done without the berry sherbet; it was barf material.  She made sure there were no seeds in the ice cream to harm my sensitive throat by using a half of a yard of her bolt of cheesecloth.  I was thankful for that.  Mom’s friends must have known her phone number by heart because I am sure that she was the first one they thought of if they needed to borrow corn cob spikes, cocktail forks, sherbet bowls, or a silver tea service for whatever function was coming up.  Mom also had a collection of tablecloths, napkins and rings in the buffet in the entry hall. Mom even had dessert cups and teeny spoons.

Our neighbor was from Greece.  Eleni and her husband had five daughters.  I supposed that five small girls, a husband and herself equated to two teenage boys, a truck driving husband, one daughter, one mother-in-law and herself in Greek cook-ology.  They shared the same humongous cookware.  On occasion, she and her husband would get into shouting matches that usually ended up with tomatoes being hurled at each other.  The first time it happened we were shocked, but since it usually ended up with an embrace and a Clark Gable, Vivian Leigh type of kiss, my brothers and I would line up the lawn chairs and watch.  It was probably good that they shouted at each other in Greek, because I am very sure that there were curse words and name calling going on.

I came home from school one day and sitting on the table was mom’s cut crystal domed plate, reserved for birthday cakes and her 18 hour fruitcake… (yum)…was an interesting looking dessert.  Grandma tried to say it and yelled into the kitchen at Eleni to tell me what it was.  “Baklava, sweetheart…baklava.  Its walnuts and honey…don’t eat too much.  You need only a little taste”.  I looked at it, but I was afraid that I would drop the lid to the cake plate.  Eleni came to my rescue.  Mom shared her fruitcake recipes.  Eleni brought us oranges marinated in olive oil and garnished with mint.  Her five girls were more interested in hamburgers and French Fries; I wanted to taste the figs and goat cheese.  She was the first mom I ever saw that came to our house barefooted.  She wore ankle bracelets and jingling necklaces.  Her clothes were like rainbows that came down from the sky.  She was as free as a bird, I thought.  Eleni had an air about her that smelled of thyme and ancient myrrh .  She replaced walking with gliding and graceful steps.  She often made my grandmother smile.  Eleni had a beautiful speaking voice wrapped up in her accent.  She talked with her hands.  I loved how much attention she paid to my little grandmother.  She would often hold her face gently in her hands and kiss her forehead calling her  “Ya-Ya”.

Our neighborhood was blessed with diversity.  We had Mexican moms, Japanese moms, French moms, English moms, Southern Moms, Italian moms, Jewish moms, and the ever present plain old American Mom. We became tuned to smells coming from the greatest bakers and to the spices of each household and chose to make our calls to friend’s houses for a great treat like bagels or biscotti flavored with anise and coffee with cream.

One Christmas the neighborhood moms wanted to have a progressive potluck. They all traipsed from one house to the other biting into whatever they had to eat.  I think it was all of our mom’s secret mission to find out who in the neighborhood had a Kitchen-Aid Mixer, size up the gadget inventory and find out what they didn’t have and what they needed for their collections.

There was not a picky one in the Robinson clan as far as eating, but there were three dishes that we avoided whenever possible.

Breaded tomatoes-Every kid in the world knows that bread, tomatoes and cheese are only meant for meat sandwiches and not gummy baked cheese, cooked canned tomatoes and wet bread.

Succotash–I tried to find this recipe in one of my mother’s cookbooks, but most of them sounded much better than just corn and lima beans. Oh, you could pick out the lima beans but it would still be Succotash.

Poke Salat-Need I say more?

My grandmother started early on Mondays and Thursdays cooking her favorite, but not well liked cabbage and boiled beef.  It made my brother Bill seek places to eat on those nights, and subsequent Tuesdays and Fridays.  I never could figure that out, really.  I once saw him eat popcorn with mustard and down it with grape juice and then follow that with a pile of licorice.  I think he had a genetically given cast iron stomach, per my father.

On Saturdays, mom and grandma would walk to the park and attend the weekly Women’s Club meetings.  They would get together with other mothers in town and discuss business.  I think it was a place where they conjured up ideas to embarrass their daughters, but that was just me.  Someone came up with the idea of a Mother-Daughter Banquet…and fashion show.  I wore my McRae Princess Tartan skirt, and reluctantly put on the white embroidered wool socks that my aunt sent me when they visited Scotland.  Mom, grandma and I made a lovely cake with pastel marshmallow flowers. The women also added one of those vegetable/Jello salads, which was at its height of popularity in the 1960s.

OTHER FOOD FADS

HOMEMADE YOGURT-We had a bumper crop of apricots one year; a very large branch broke and we had apricot in everything.  It was time for mom to get her yogurt maker out of the layaway.  I think that was when she made up her apricot yogurt/ricotta cheese baked chicken breasts that I know by heart.  Later in the year she put a food dehydrator on her list of potential gadgets.

ZUCCHINI-though she tried to makes us like it, all she did was add zucchini to the breaded tomato recipe and we figured it out.  She did use one of her many graters and made zucchini bread that we liked really well.

CHEESE BALLS–recipes in the 60s for cheese balls had no flair. It just looked like a massive ball of pimento cheese with nuts on it.

CANAPES and sculpted animals made from fruit.  I still harken to Curly from the Three Stooges calling them “Can O peas.” and mounting canned peas on a piece of toasted bread.  But canasta parties called for canapés and I had fun cutting out shapes with my mothers massive supply of animal cracker-shaped cookie cutters.  She didn’t like my idea to add fur by using crushed Shredded Wheat cereal, nor did she like my idea of using celery pieces glued on with Cheese Wiz for unicorn horns.  They tasted pretty good though.

STIR FRY–Woks came into popularity and mom had to have one.  I think that was when I started liking broccoli.   Therefore, for the price of a wok, she won that battle.

BEANS, BEANS…dah da dah dah…bean salad, baked beans, lentils, great northern beans, pinto beans, chili beans, (though we didn’t mind the chili), lima beans (not in succotash), four, three and two bean salads with Italian dressing….black beans, spotted beans, black eyed peas (still a bean).  Refried beans…GarBanzo beans…

Beans were cheaper than meat, and since my grandmother only made her boiled beef and cabbage to last the week, mom often had a pot of beans on the stove knowing that we would prefer that, or she would make one of her secret meatloaves with shredded vegetables while grandma sat crocheting in the living room.

Barbeques-Dad didn’t like to barbeque but my uncle Charlie did.  He tried to trick us once telling us that the frog legs he was barbequing was chicken.  Having just dissected a frog in science class, I was not buying it.  THAT leg was not a chicken leg.

My dad made two things really well.  Cornbread and pancakes.  On most Sundays, he would sit at the breakfast table and read the Pasadena Star, telling a story about some army buddy of his, usually ending with the guy farting or burping his ABC’s, or a fight breaking out.   Dad, being a bystander and witness to the brawl and sometimes a participant.  But in the middle of the story, he would throw up his hands and say “How about pancakes!”  After about the tenth to the power of 100 times, we would say, “yeah!”  We really did like dad’s pancakes; he kept his sourdough in the fridge, nursed it and made sure it was ready for Sunday.  I think it was his hobby.

The cornbread war between mom and dad must have been started before we were born.  Everyone knew dad had won that battle many years ago, but mom would retaliate and make the cornbread during the day.  Once we came home and mom had dumped his batter in the sink and turned on the garbage disposal.  Dinner that night was sans cornbread and you could almost hear the doves of peace cooing outside while being eaten by the eagles.

My grandmother had two more dishes that we avoided.  Turnip greens were meant to be cut off the turnips and thrown away.  If she were kind, she would throw the turnips away too.   Lima beans and corn, better known as succotash is not meant for human consumption.  I tried to find the recipe in one of my grandmother’s cookbooks, but since it only had two main ingredients, it was probably never written down anywhere; it was just one of those things that passed from one generation to the next without regard just to fool children in to eating it.  “It’s only corn and lima beans”.  One could pick out the lima beans, but it would still be called succotash…”

With the advent of the deep fryer, we went through a blissful time of homemade donuts, French fries and onion rings.  As I went sliding into the kitchen one afternoon, my mother was deep-frying something that smelled good.  “Go ahead, taste it.” She said. I reached over and grabbed one. My kid “it’s really good for you” defense zoomed in, and, only for a brief moment, my silent alarm sounded.    It was salty and sweet . It was pretty good…until I asked what it was.  “EGGPLANT”.  I think I must have revved up my kid engine and screeched out of the kitchen faster than Mario Andretti.    Hiding vegetables in otherwise tasty dishes seemed to be mom’s next tactic.  She blissfully hid carrots, broccoli and other vegetables in some of our favorite, kid-tested delicacies, such as macaroni and cheese, tuna casserole and spaghetti sauce.  Once, I saw her grating beets and then throwing them into the usual Monday night meatloaf mixture.  I gasped and ran to tell my brothers what she was doing.  Bill was quickly on the phone to his friend Greg, but he hung up the phone and with a sad voice said, ” Beef tongue and brussel sprouts.”  We all bowed and shook our heads in sorrow for poor Greg. He must have been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

The day before payday, dinners were the best, and they were always the same.  Chili Dogs, coleslaw and potato chips.  We never had to worry about whether or not we could eat outside.  It was mostly fair-weather.  We had the most beautiful patio in the back of the yard.  It was always dark in there with its wisteria-covered roof, but with its poker table style light, we could stay out there all night.    The table was in the middle and in all four corners were fans.  On hot summer nights, it was refreshing to sit out there and eat salad or fruit.  We bypassed the cottage cheese.

To Note:  Women’s club meetings on Saturday afternoons were the recipe gathering and exchange meetings for the month.  I am positive that at least 45 minutes were spent going over gadget inventory lists, new product information and the latest owner of a Kitchen Aid Mixer proudly proclaiming her last lay away payment.   This get together with other moms from other neighborhoods within the city of Sierra Madre brought together a very valuable recipe book that was hawked at church meetings, PTA meetings, and even traveled out of the city by way of Christmas gifts and the U.S. Postal Service.  My mother sent one to every female in our family.  Someone suggested a mother-daughter luncheon, with each pair bringing a dish…and we, the daughters of said members were required to attend and serve, and GOD ALMIGHTY, participate in a fashion show.  It was a month of terror for my friends and me. I was tagged to wear my Scottish “McRae, Princess Own” kilt, embroidered knee length white socks from my aunt, and a white blouse with too many ruffles.  I had worn the kilt one other time in public, and it was a positive experience.  My bluebird troop had tea with the Queen Mum and Princess Margaret.  I embarrassed my troop leader by saying “Howdy” to the queen mum instead of “Welcome to Sierra Madre, your Majesty”.  She smiled at me, I shook her hand, and she invited me to sit next to her.  I was hoping that the kilt no longer fit me, but it did.   Mom had decided early that she and I would be making an ice cream cake with sugared strawberries via her newest version of Family Circle. It was a hit.   I shake my head today remembering her stacks and stacks of Women’s Day and Family Circle magazines on the back porch, in her closet, in the piano bench, the china cabinet and we actually found some in the attic.

My mom’s mother made a list of all the fruit trees on our property.  I found it in a cookbook a few months ago.  She crossed out kumquat several times, as she really did not know how to spell it.  We had three plum trees, an apricot tree, six lemon trees, one orange tree, one tree that seemed a mixture of lemon and orange, a kumquat bush, a black walnut tree, and two loquat bushes.  In addition her hamburger recipe is written on the back cover of her Nazarene hymnal that rests in my bookshelf today.

My brother Rob went off to join the navy, Bill and I spent most of the day in one of the plum trees.  Dad tried to coax us down with a visit to Shakey’s Pizza, but we were not really in the mood for pizza or zesty sing-alongs.  Rob wouldn’t be there.  My dad got out the beach stuff and pitched the umbrella in our side yard, laid out the towels and the chairs for mom and grandma and he barbequed burgers, though he really didn’t like to barbeque, it was his way of making us feel better.  The smell got to us.  Bill’s eyes were red with crying, and I am sure mine were too.  We sat and watched the sun go down telling Rob stories and finally my dad said, “It’s hard for the little ones to see the bigger ones go.”  He told us about his own brothers leaving home.  My dad had the most engaging smile.   “Seven weeks…boot camp is seven weeks.  We will go to San Diego and see your brother.”  He passed Bill a peeled orange and one to me.  That was the sweetest orange I ever tasted.

My mother never told us about the starving children in China.  She never really forced us to eat; she just hid things in food we liked.  She had two stories concerning food that she loved to tell, both concerning me.  Her mother-in-law gave me my first eat alone, by yourself or starve meal.  Scrambled eggs.  I can imagine my short grandmother with her Rambo bandoliers and sniper rifle holding my mother back while I rubbed them in my curly blond hair and dropping some on them on the floor, throwing them on the wall, and occasionally getting some in my mouth.   The other story was my four-year-old idea to make pancakes for dad and mom and deliver them to their bedroom.  A pancake recipe does not contain mustard, ketchup or beans from K-ration cans, nor tomatoes.  I learned this.

Mom continued her quest for just the right time to purchase a Kitchen Aid Mixer.  She had several substandard versions, but in her heart, she was never satisfied with them.  I often wondered what it would have been like had she actually paid off one of her many layaway Kitchen Aid mixers.  My brothers and I thought she did really well without one.  She made donuts and cakes and every kind of cookie that you can think of and they were mostly gone by the morning.  This seems pretty successful to me.

My mother is now gone and in my kitchen sits her white Kitchen Aid mixer with the attachment to grind meat into sausage and the attachment to shred vegetables.  I really like meatloaf.  It reminds me of my mother.

Bob and Mamye

I find myself missing my parents this week. Soon I will participate in a commencement ceremony that is just that, a ceremony. Yes, I have done very well and will continue on with graduate studies, but I really wanted my parents to be there and share my achievement. My father told me all of my life that I could do anything I put my mind to. I remember his words ” Whatever you do, do it with heart baby girl”. He never faltered in saying “that’s great” when I would bring home my report cards with an A or a B on it. My mother taught me how to write letters and soon I turned those letters into words. I learned how to make a sentence with those words with my mother’s patience intact.

My father was an A student until he was pulled out of school with my grandfather’s death. A fourteen year old boy suddenly became the main supporter of his mother in 1945. Yes, his sisters all had jobs and contributed to the household, but he felt it was his duty to take care of his mother. His two brothers were married and had families of their own to take care of. Four years later, my dad met my mother. They married after a three month courtship. Both of them knew who they wanted to share their lives with. He was suddenly put into the position of taking care of a wife. Two years later he had a son, then another son and finally there was me. I was born premature. After 29 days in the hospital, the nuns felt that I should go home. One of them put an extra wash rag in my diaper (double wash clothes) so that would weigh 5 pounds. I was home. My mother told me that dad was afraid he would crush me if he picked me up or held me for too long. He often described me as “big enough to fit into a shoebox”. My mother handled me like a 4 pound sack of flour. Dad told this to me just that way.

I often think of the path my father could have taken had he not been yanked out of school. I imagine that his lifelong passion with history would have played a great role in his life…and in my life and my siblings. He always set out to find out the truth about something. Along the way he had a great knack of telling a story. My father never met a person that he could not converse with for at least 45 minutes without repeating his stories. I also observed that the person that he was telling the story to was paying attention to his words. Dad did choose the best career for himself. My dad was an adventurer. He loved driving from place to place and soaking in the sites and the sounds of whatever city he was sent to. He was a master truck driver. I rode with him in his 18-wheeler only one time. I remember thinking how strong his arm looked as he shifted the gears. Would he have liked a career in anything other than truck driving? I really don’t think that he would have been as happy teaching history as he was driving to Denver or Portland, Maine. The lecturing would have been a hoot for him though.

My dad was somewhat jealous of his brother that could paint and his sisters that played the piano. He never thought that he had an artistic bone in his body. He thought that driving a truck was nothing more than a job. But all of his children were fascinated by his artful driving. Sometimes we would pile into the old car and leave early to go pick him up from work just to watch the graceful turns and the way he made that truck seem as light as a graceful bird landing in a pool of shimmering water. He had beautiful penmanship. I often told him that he should pen some documents. He was a naturally gifted calligrapher.

My mother quit school because she really didn’t like school. She loved being a waitress. She worked at a very nice restaurant when she met my dad. During the WW II, my mother was a “Doughnut Dolly”. She greeted soldiers traveling on the trains with a smile, a doughnut and a cup of coffee. Little did she know that she would instill in me the meaning of service. She knew community better than anyone else that I knew of. My mother was passionate about giving to those that needed something, even if it was just a decent pot to cook in. The stories that were most important to her were those of the kindnesses to each other. She, along with other women that didn’t have much, felt it was the most graceful thing to pack up a box of clothes, washing soap, tin cans, towels, and freshly baked cookies and deliver it to a needy person in the neighborhood in the dead of night. Mamye’s group of ladies were stealth, but often involved my older brother being the deliverer of the packages. I often thought that my mother’s world revolved around the kitchen, as she was often there baking cookies or pies or whatever she felt that someone wanted. She was sneaky asking us about the things we liked to eat. Often, if I mentioned that I would love to have something like a particular type of cookie or ice cream, it would magically appear in the kitchen over the week. My oldest brother once made the statement at the dinner table that he had never seen a square fish and asked why the fish patty on his plate was not shaped like one. My mother walked over to the dinner table with a knife and picked up my brother’s plate, turned her back and carved a perfect representation of a fish with fins. We were all silent the rest of the night.

Secretly, my mother loved to draw things. She could vision a shimmering pond and she could draw it. Her color sense was fascinating. When I was a child, I watched her use crayons in one of my coloring books, but she was also shading the pictures with the instinctual ability of a great artist. Art was not her passion, she was just good at it. My mother’s passion was raising children. My mother’s passion was music. My mother’s music was the sound of happy children. Mom cared for children, lots of children. I was the spare diaper changer for the multitude of babies that she took care of throughout the years. Toddler potty training came in handy when I got my first job taking care of a little boy after I graduated high school. When I took the job of taking care of my aunt, I realized that it really wasn’t all that scary to take care of people. I made caring for people my passion. It was a natural ability that I got from my mother. My mother could understand gibberish from babies and would go get whatever they wanted and would be able to satisfy the request. I could never understand how she did it, but she was always right.

I have gotten weepy this week thinking about my parents and how they willingly gave their hearts and passions to me and my brothers. They encouraged all of us to follow our dreams. They did the best they could.

Thank you Bob and Mamye

pjacobscp.jpg

“The most essen…

“The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof, shit detector. This is the writer’s radar and all great writers have had it.” Ernest Hemingway

Joseph…my Muse

Practices

People come and go in your life. Some of them flutter by and leave no brand on your heart. Yet few and only a few write their autograph with charmed feathers from magical birds upon your soul…And oh so suddenly fly away without as much as a fare-thee-well. The ones that shoot straight to my heart are those that live there and occasionally revisit when the weather is just right, or something happens to remind one of singing and discourse, and endless pots of coffee. A leaf blissfully dancing on the wind with the gentle breeze as music will summon a memory of tin whistles and chocolates and prayers on the bathroom door. Birds in flight below the pink evening clouds remind me of her wit and wonder of the universe.

Margie came into my life like a rushing river, eager to run its course. Her pale face and ailing body did not frighten me. We talked about Belgian lace, ballerinas, and fireworks at night. She played guitar. She told me she had cancer. She declared that as long as she could hold her guitar, there would be music, kinship, and laughter.

The virtues and practices of friendship require honesty. The mutual bond that we shared came out of a quest to find my voice. Sometimes I feel that Margie saw the caretaker in me when we met at work. I put on the shoes for the journey by giving her something other than her thinning hair and wasting body to focus on, and helped reveal another path other than the dark road ahead. Along this journey, Margie and I picked up a fellow traveler. His heart was dying and needed new blood. Robbie quickly picked up his pace and began teaching me new chords on the guitar so that I could join in the fun and excitement of getting through “The Drunken Sailor” song almost perfect. “Practice, practice.” they would tell me. Out of respect, and the willingness to learn guitar, I did practice at home. It was never a concern for me if I ever achieved perfection, it was just fun. I wanted to make my friends happy. Those internal challenges that constitute friendship in its purest form are the courage to give something to someone else through kinship, even if it is a joke or a smile. Now with two teachers, one on the art of friendship and the other pleading with me to remember how to make an A minor chord, we began to play and sing and enjoy each other’s company. It was no easy task to keep up with Margie and Robbie when they played songs so easily and I was struggling with that A minor chord, but soon it was just second nature and easy. Friendship is not an easy task. In addition, sometimes it is that mutual togetherness and kinship that is the reward for peering into the window of friendship and each other’s lives.

Song of the Candle

Stan Rogers is one of my favorite singers and I thought I would share this song. Lovely Song…

Hawk Roosting

Ted Hughes-Hawk Roosting

The hawk is the first person narrator of the poem.  He (for the sake of simplification) is simply an arrogant bird that believes that all that he prevails upon is his for the taking.  He feels that he is the center of the universe.  He sits in his “top of the wood, my eyes closed.  Inaction, no falsifying dreams for this buzzard.  Between my hooked head and hooked feet;

Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.”

The hawk does not have the advantage of dreams.  Even in rest his mind is buzzing with perfection.

All that nature has to offer is to his advantage.  “The convenience of the high trees.

To note: the “k” sound is repeated several times at the beginning of the poem “hooked”, “kills”, “kill” “locked” and bark that creates the severity of nature and the perceived power of the hawk. The hawk is rigid upon his perch way above the prey.  His feet are “locked upon the rough bark”

He is profoundly proud of himself and the master of his domain.  Unlike the lowly prey below his hooked feet.  He feels his magnanimous mastery of the Creation (creation is capitalized to denote God’s dominion over creatures…even the upstart hawk?

He feels the power of his high status even as he says

“And the earth’s face upwards for my inspection.”

He is in command now that he has been created.

I have to admit this guy is really full of himself.  He has mastered flight and controls who and what he kills, just as a creative master would.   “I kill where I please because it is all mine.”   He knows he has the absolute power to rip the heads off of his prey.  He knows that he commands the air and has the mighty power to keep it that way.

Kennedy X. J., Dana Gioia “Backpack Literature, An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama, and Writing” 4^th Edition.  Pearson. University of Southern California. pp 402-403.  2012. Print