Jonesy's Gone

the view from our house

In 1944, my family was living on Angra do Heroismo, an island in the Azores. Because of nearby bases, our house was filled with a steady stream of soldiers and Red Cross volunteers. There were four regulars I looked most forward to seeing: Walter, who later became a Presbyterian minister involved in peace activities; Clifford, who gave me my first paper doll and whose standard greeting was, "What's cookin', good lookin'?" Berg, a future jolly entrepreneur; and Jonesy, the violinist who took me through a crash course in classical music. His favorite piece (the poignancy of which continues to bring tears) was "The New World Symphony." He told me the theme was based on a spiritual, "Goin' Home," and taught me to play it with my right hand all on the black keys. I have a "program" my mother saved of my "recital" with Jonesy. Soon after, life changed abruptly. Jonesy was "shipped out." When the news came that Jonesy had "gone home," killed in an undisclosed location, "shipped out" became a terrifying set of words associated with death. His was the beginning of many, many losses for me and the catalyst for the firm resolve in my five year old mind to put an end to war. Lucille writes: "His name is Billy Anderson. Just a kid from a small town trying to start a life." Billy Anderson, 20, was killed in Afghanistan, leaving behind a young wife and 8 month old baby. He was the best friend of Lucille's grandson-in-law who lives in Tennessee. I'm inclined to say to those in sorrow, "Go ahead and have a crying spell. It gets the toxins out." My friend Sherry Boone, on the other hand cautions, "It's o.k. to have a pity party; just don't hold an open house. " Stacy L. Jackson's poem seems exactly right, the perfect grief poem. She thought it might be too sad to be published in the final issue of Sondra's Autumn Leaves but in my opinion, too sad can paradoxically lift one's spirits. It's a way of facing reality. Denial simply delays, a kind of post traumatic stress syndrome. Syndromes fester.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I Cannot Go to Your Grave

by Stacy Campbell

---

my heart feels flush to that flat stone

with your name, your name!

etched so deeply

there is no place for me

to grieve out of view

I don't visit

yet, I talk to you daily

surely that counts

I never thought

I would make it

without you

sick that I do

ashamed that I can

~~~~~~~~~~

The photo above of the World War I driver is courtesy of The American Field Service.

...may the blessings of remembering bring you peaceful times...

Me, You, and Youse Guys

GRAMMARIANS AT LARGE

Stella, left; Della, right

Bobby, a.k.a. Roberto

and

Yours Truly, Moi

"When the moon is in the Seventh House and Jupiter aligns with Mars" is not only a poetical phrase but it has long made me wonder into which house I was born. I suspect it was when the moon was in the House of Grammarians and Venus aligned in its fashion with Earth. I remember being interrupted daily after my dad picked Hilda and me up from St. Pete High. I would tell in a rush about our activities. At some point, inevitably, I would say something such as, "It was a real good lesson!" Hilda would giggle because she knew what would follow,. My dad's comment, "Yes! You are saying it was authentic!" To this day I avert my eyes from Real Simple on the magazine racks knowing that "real" is not the proper form to modify neither simple nor nothin'. Hilda was Greek. All her mother cared about was Hilda catching a husband. Hilda was in training for a glamorous future. She was the only sophomore in high school wearing glittery spike(d) heels. Hilda cheerfully broke every grammar rule in our text. However, she never came to breakfast without her lipstick matching her toenails. In a way I was relieved to live in Grammarians' World. I wasn't allowed lipstick and if I really wanted to impress, all I'd have to do was keep quiet. I had some excellent years during which I was still as stone communicating my thoughts exclusively to Dear Diary with its precious heart lock and key. Recently I read a few of the entries. Hilarious! I was real everything and authentic, too.I had composed memory tricks: "If there is a 2 (to) or a 4(for) or words which could substitute (just, join) then use 'me.' Otherwise, go for "I." When in doubt, resort to Moi." Lest you think (or lest one thinks) I did not admire the Grammarians, I'm posting a lovely poem by my Aunt Stella who belonged to the school of "It's little or bit. The bit part is redundant." However, her poem is not stilted, not tongue-tied. It flows along well and I'm glad to be heir to these quirky out of left field commandments of verb agreement, run-on sentences, comma splices, possessive pronouns, and watch-the-antecedents. Although this made listening to my favorite pop songs difficult, I have to admit there are moments of joy from this education. I heard someone on NPR say, "Different from" and I cheered. Grammarians united! I don't know what happened to Hilda. She was sent to finishing school in Switzerland during our junior year. Boy! Did she miss it. That was some real year! Lucille says that times have changed and dangling participles are acceptable now. I have to wonder why we went through all those hours of choosing the mot juste. I think I know. It's the same reason my dad did math problems for fun. It was an exercise in mindfulness, in observation. It held us accountable in a world increasingly slipshod and ethically questionable. Perhaps the same results (attention to detail) can be achieved by the younger generation with its (no apostrophe) FarmVille and Zoo Paradise. Ever the optimist, Moi.

~~~~~~

"When I am gone

I hope that over me

Some kindly soul will plant

A willow tree.

Not as a monument

For men to see

But as a friend

To keep me company."

--Stella Halit

~~~~~~

...may the blessings of antiquated distant homework assignments bring you pleasure this day...

"There is No Frigate Like a Book"

May 18th. My mother's birthday. She would have been 105 this year. She was a reader, quick and comprehending which accounts for my reading habits. The Memory Keeper's Daughter, A Girl of the Limberlost, Charley's Aunt, Brother Cadfael's Penance, The Wisdom of Father Dowling, Sister Angelica, The Pilot's Wife, Cry, the Beloved Country, Cousin Bette, Uncle Vanya, I Remember Mama, The Admiral's Niece: Or, a Tale of Nova Scotia. All favorites. Do you see the pattern? It's as though I like hatching a family on my bookshelf. A few years ago I was thinking of writing a memoir I was going to call An American Child in a Foreign Field. I'm glad I didn't. Oh, I could keep the title and try again but the content would be different as my perspective has changed. As I mentioned last week, Mrs. Chamberlain believed she could hop out of her body to Japan every night. Cheryl's blog was about how she is a gypsy at heart and although she has traveled widely, she feels the strongest pull is that of obligations at home. I have begun to see my poems as a form of time/gypsy travel. How lucky I am to be able to still be the "wand'ring minstrel" simply by scratching a few lines with my pen! I remember one of the first poems I had published in a small press publication, the editor commented on what a lovely trip it was. Since this was back in the days of druggie Haight hippies and my poem entry was from California, I suspect he thought it was an LSD trip. Being a lifelong teetotaler with hot water as my drink of choice, this amused me. It's true, though. On examining my poems, I realize they are trips. In fact, in this one I wrote early last year, I even use the phrase time-traveler. So--I, too, am a gypsy at heart with the pull of obligations familial as my "home."

MXXXV

My dream was release from the bondage of age.
In lavender fields where blind children play,

a delicate ladder appeared;
a spiral it was, spinning towards me.
Suddenly I was thrown--
higher, farther than the ancient stars

Telemachus once charted
while waiting for Odysseus.
Leaping, twirling, through a palette
of colors formerly unknown,
I was caught by Love's bright messenger.
Drops of holy water formed a crystal tiara.
Out of my hand grew peach scented roses
and in my hair a thousand notes of a new song
accompanied the aerialist's shape-shifting--
tossing, reaching, falling, dying.
The night expanded like a time-traveler's journal
which on the final page had these words:
"Return."

...may the blessings of whatever manner you choose to venture forth be with you these sunny days...

Arigato, Mrs. Meyer

My knowledge of Japan is limited to Madama Butterfly (the opera), M. Butterfly (the movie with Jeremy Irons), The Mikado (in a category of its own), peace cranes, anime, and Mrs. Chamberlain. Mrs. Chamberlain was an elderly neighbor in Manhattan Beach, California. She had moved from rural Georgia with her husband just before WWII. When he was killed in Italy, she decided to stay in her small cottage and at that time became obsessed with Edgar Cayce, the "Sleeping Prophet." She enjoyed talking theory and explained that we gravitate to places or have a yen to go somewhere because we are remembering a past life. Her place was Japan. She "went" there every night and warned if I came over any time and found her asleep, or maybe even dead, I was not to disturb her as she would be out of her body and in Japan. I said I had a yen for the British Isles and Scandinavia but I didn't think reincarnation was the motivator. I thought it was on account of growing up in tropical paradises while longing for weather with some backbone. Currently, I am reading a book by Carolyn Meyer, A Voice from Japan--An Outsider Looks In, which covers a month she spent researching. I have been very surprised by most of the facts. I had no idea. For instance: children must pack a different colored napkin in their lunches. Monday, pink; Tuesday, blue; Wednesday, green. Perhaps times have changed as this was written in 1988 but I have a feeling even so, youngsters will, when approaching middle age, instinctively look for blue on Tuesdays. Carolyn must have been reincarnated all over the place since she has written about Russia, Egypt, France, Alaska, India, and the Rio Grande. As fascinated as I am to be learning about Fukuoke and Utsunomiya, I am really eager to proceed to the next book on my list of hers, A Voice from Northern Ireland--Growing Up in a Troubled Land. I am looking forward to mystery story fogs and tall rain boots. It won't be as long as Kristin Lavransdatter but then, nothing is. I'll let others discuss past life regressions and whether I might have been a dairy maid in Thomas Hardy country or a spiritual singing slave at Monticello. I belong to the "One Life to Live" crowd, gorging on tales from far off lands and future times, enjoying the serendipitous gifts along the way. Personally, I think if I were anybody, I must have been a tree dweller, stitching together some aspen leaves to fashion a volume of poetry, marking the days with pine twigs in order to meet Tuesday deadlines, and leaping down to make angels in the snow.

...may the blessings of cultural differences engage and enhance your days...

"When Green Buds They Were Swelling"

<-----Up, up, up to the light.

The word, "May" had a lot of significance in my family. It housed three birthdays--grandmother, mother, daughter. There was Cinco de Mayo on which day there would be the playing of the Mexican birthday song, "Las Mananitas." There was the Maypole with its extravagant ribbons, the next best thing to flowers. There was my mother singing tunelessly, "'Twas in the merry month of May when green buds they were swelling" which brought tears to my eyes because of the sad tale of Barb'ry Allen. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EFHTJ08U_Fg It occurs to me this would have been one of the songs Jenny Lind would have had in her repertoire as it dates back to the early 18th Century. And there was May Frank, the prairie journalism teacher who convinced her students--my dad being one of them, and Aunt Stella on the other side of the A's and U's (aunts and uncles)-- that eye exercises would prevent blindness. May married a younger man named Joe Rhoades. I'm not sure if he went blind or what the motivation was but they started two important projects: a center for the blind and a community garden. I met them in New York City when I was eight so I'm guessing that somewhere close by are descendants of their zucchini. I wrote a poem about the month of May,"Oh where was I when April passed that tousled child of spring?" Unfortunately, the rest didn't measure up to the first line. No reprint here! Speaking of writing, the book The Meaning of Anxiety comes to mind. It was written by Rollo May who spent three years in a sanatorium for tuberculosis patients. He whiled away his time wisely mostly reading Kierkegaard, a huge influence. There was the game, "Mother, may I?" played in a different era definitely. Does anybody say, "May I?' anymore? There was my blue bottle collection. The catalyst was finding a two inch blue bottle replica of the Cape May Lighthouse. And "may"be my favorite of All Things May is "May it be an evening star shines upon you" from the Fellowship of the Ring, the beginning of the grand Lord of the Rings adventure. Lastly,let us not forget to cap things off with the blob blessings prefaced by three dots and, "may."

...may the month of tiny wildflowers peeking bring you blessings of beauty...