Cryptic Advice

“Remember, Jimmy,

NEVER marry a catholic!”

The joy of a Mother always

ready with cryptic advice.

“Great, Mom.” I keep the rest

of my words in my head.

As if I care about marriage. And, let’s be

honest I have no idea what a catholic is.

But I was ten, maybe eleven, and curious.

So, next trip to Fred’s I wander the aisles.

Produce, dairy, cereal and bread.

Honest. I tried, really hard.

No luck, wasted effort. I was

unable to find a “catholic.”

Try as I might I couldn’t figure out

what color they were.

Continue my way home

Heading north out of Oak Harbor

traffic is squeezing from four lanes to two.

I give way to a logging truck.

Could have pushed and

beat him through the funnel.

But, true to self, I let him go.

Chunky, dark bark surrounds

damp, shiny rings of timber,

glowing with the orange of a perfect setting sun.

I have no clue what grows on Whidbey.

Maybe it came on the ferry from the peninsula.

Seems I should know my trees.

There’s the story of the day the Grandfather I never knew

didn’t come home from working in the woods,

resulting in seventy-five plus years of my Mother

floundering as a rootless soul.

I remember the family buzz

when Uncle Earl, his hard hat catching a glint of sun,

had his picture in National Geographic, The National Geographic,

reaching deep into the wedge of an imposing redwood.

And then that tale of Grandpa S. developing

the process that made Presto-Logs.

He did the work, company got the credit

and the money. Not sure they still make Presto-Logs.

After a few miles the truck

edges to the shoulder.

I pass, make momentary eye contact,

acknowledge the kindness, and continue my way home.

requiem for (too) many

born on the wrong side of town

to the wrong parents

went to the wrong schools, when we went,

took the wrong classes, rarely paid attention,

and never did the dumbass work

hung out with the wrong crowd

people said the Army’d shape us up, nice try,

getting kicked out was easier than getting in

married a few times, cut and ran,

quit bothering with the details

had some shitty jobs, thankfully we

were usually fired before we decided to quit

lost years to bad habits and so-called friends,

only kind of either we ever had

found Jesus, a bunch of times,

some for conscience, others for convenience

had kids we never knew, who were smart enough,

to not waste time getting to know us

stayed out of jail, some of the time

left no property, no money

maybe memories 

we must all leave memories

maybe a few good ones

with someone, somewhere...

Make a difference?

mom went to Seattle

they said it was because

the hospital in Bellingham

isn't big enough

and now i'm supposed to sit 

in a too small desk and listen to

a teacher talk and talk and talk

about manifest destiny,

or habitats and ecosystems

or, worse yet,

variables, equations and functions

as if i believe

any of this stuff will make 
a difference in my life

For World Poetry Day 2016

Thankfully our love outlasts our cars

Got the ’62 Bug about the time we started

Dating. Used graduation money and some

savings, $400 total. Two years, trips

over the mountains to see you and a rebuilt

engine later I bought the ’68 Opal Kadet,

powder blue. Carried us away on our

wedding day. Not a bad car, unless you

wanted heat. First new car was the ’75 Civic.

Made us feel so grown up. We traded it for a

Honda wagon, four doors and hopes to need

the extra space for kids. Soon added the Datsun

pick-up for daily commutes, me north, you east.

Basically a headache. Next the silver Accord,

the fastback. You kindly gave into my dream that

became a nightmare, worse than the

Datsun. Kyle was about 6 months when it broke

down in Everett on our way home from your

Grandfather’s Memorial service. Bob was with

us. I think of it every time I drive by the

restaurant, now a casino, that we went to to

find a phone. Michael arrived and so did

the Ford (Why a Ford?) Escort. Four-door

hatchback, Fawn was the official color. More

like blah. Next came the Colt Vista, seven

seats, but not a mini-van. My ego could not handle

a mini-van. Unnumbered trips up and down I-5 for

family visits and vacations with the boys. Got a

used Honda for a second car. This led to learning

emerald black is not black. Became Kyle’s car

and eventually died somewhere in Oregon. Bought

the Rav in ’97. That brutal year that included my

Dad dying of lung cancer. When the Colt ceased

operation, somewhere between home and Mt. Baker,

I got the ‘95 Tacoma. Traded the Rav for a

Highlander, ’08. 0% interest loan with room for

camping gear and grandkids. On an unseasonably

hot day, before a June wedding, Kyle helped me

pick out the Mazda 3 (0%, again). Velocity Red,

6 speed, quick and agile. Seemingly the perfect car

as we, yet again, entered an era of unexpected life

shifts and possibilities.

Read more here: http://www.bellinghamherald.com/news/local/article59897131.html#storylink=cpy