As a pack

We were like tribal nomads
forgetting what society dictated at school
Giving into instincts and urges,
we reveled in our primal roots

We wandered the streets and woods as a pack
with an unspoken, but agreed upon, leader
Until a mother called us back to civilization,
tempting us with a hot meal or comfortable bed

We’d gather on summer mornings
and set off for Mt. Baldy
This was our name for it
Although it was really a butte

We’d pack pocketknives, BB guns, and matches,
stopping at Kienows to trade empties
for Shasta pop and Hostess pies
(A nickel a can; brand names were ten cents)

We’d walk through the relatively new
suburban homes to the trail
And make our way past shady trees
to the clearing on top

We’d celebrate and reenact the battles
of cowboys and Indians or the “big” war
Imitating what we’d seen on TV,
hurling slurs we’d not admit today

Wounds, imagined and real,
were part of the game
Becoming lore for friends
and our yet unimagined children

Occasionally we’d go over the top
down to a creek on the far side
It was someone’s farm, I realize now,
to catch frogs or salamanders

Some we’d maim or kill in ritual fashion
which I’d watch with a fearful pain
No one noticed I was unable
to participate or protest

The surviving creatures came home,
displayed in jars or tanks on dressers and desks
Unfed and neglected in murky water
they would die with little recognition

She found her peace

Sitting by the window, she’d seen it all. Rain, in its near unending forms, could come at any time in Oregon. The annual dusting of snow could produce a bitter blizzard, just once or twice a decade. Without warning, fog was an early morning surprise as it drifted over the ground. Those dismal gray days replicated for weeks on end. But there was an occasional bright sunny summer day too. In the evenings, the moon shined bright as it danced through its phases, creating its own calendar. She knew her place and found her peace in sitting and watching in silence.

Resolution

A call and settlement cancelling the court date, ending the work of lawyers and insurance reps.

After long days of waiting news came from the hospital. She was six, brain damaged.

Her mother wailed as the ambulance left surrounded by sirens, flashing lights and confusion. People ran in panic, a neighbor called for help.

Blood pulsed from her gashed head, pooling in the street. We froze after hearing flesh, bone and steel collide. She was out of sight, I’d choked a prayer, we’d swerved. She’d bolted into the street.

It was dusk, we were driving back to school.

Right over the plate

The baby-faced rookie wipes sweat from his forehead. Looks straight into the eyes of his childhood hero. His mind races, split-seconds before the action.

Last game of the season, my first year in the bigs. Neither team’s going anywhere. He was playing when I was in little league. Never faced him before. Sounds like he’s done after today. Full count. One chance to put him down… or make his day. Why not? Throw him a fat one, let him go out with a dinger.

The ball heads toward home, maybe going seventy-five, right over the plate. He swings high.

“Strike three!”

Afraid of finding out

She said it was my choice. Marriage or college? Said she trusted me to decide.
Right. Just like she said I could date anyone I wanted, or spend the money that grandma left me to visit Disneyland for Christmas with friends. Said she’d never interfere. She didn’t have to; I always knew what she wanted.

I wasn’t like my brother. He did what he pleased and lived with the fall-out. She’d explode, saying, “You don’t really love me.” He’d fake remorse and then charm her into forgiveness.

I never trusted it’d work for me and I’m still afraid of finding out.

I still hate it

After years of alcohol and absence, Dad tried making amends by turning us into fishermen.

He’d wake us early on Saturday. The stream was an hour of erratic mountain road away, guaranteed to make me car sick. We’d park before first light, unload the gear, and hike to “our spot.” If we were lucky, we only had to suffer a chilly drizzle instead of the usual downpour. Dad was quickly lost in the zone. We’d run and laugh, throwing rocks into the silent, inviting creek.

“Knock it off! This is serious business. Shut up, stay put, fish.”

I still hate fishing.

The long walk

Picking strawberries, that’s what you did in the summer at thirteen. Up early to meet the bus, one the schools no longer wanted, with a cranky driver who doubled as field boss.

Spend the day bent over the rows. The weather jumped between blazing sun or pouring rain.

This day the rain came in buckets.

“Can we go home? Please? This is crazy.”

“Keep working.”

We’d show him who’s in charge. “We quit!”

“Okay, start walking.”

Five hours later, we’d covered an unknown distance, drenched and exhausted, only a mile from home the bus passed us. The driver laughed, waved, honked.

I looked like her

They said I looked like Grandma, red hair and all. Named me after her, Sarah Joy. I don’t remember her. There’s a baby picture of me on her lap. She died of cancer later that year. Stories made her out to be perfect.

I rushed home after school and straight to my room. Dropped on my bed as tears overwhelmed me. Momma knocked and opened the door.

“What’s the matter, honey?”

Words gurgled through my crying, “Oh, Momma, I’m pregnant.”

“Don’t worry about that, dear. How do you think I got here?”
Sixteen and pregnant. Turns out it’s a family tradition.

Guess we’ll find out

At twelve I was smoking. Same age my dad said he started. By thirteen I was drinking. Just like Mom. At fourteen, I’d shifted from petty shoplifting to jacking a car. Had my fifteenth birthday while working at the state farm for boys. Sixteenth too. Back home when I turned seventeen. Mom would look at me and cry. Dad yelled about anything. School was a waste of time. Friends shifted. Can’t say why. Turned eighteen, dropped out, left home, stayed with friends. Did some stuff. The judge says I’m an adult now, I’m old enough for prison. Guess we’ll find out.

Christine Said “No!”

she said “no!”
emphatically
actually there was
an explicative before the “no!”
I will not repeat it
for it belies her image,
at least the one
most want to ascribe to her

we should know better
for even though, as usual,
she was wearing
the cute, trendy outfit,
and that hair,
redder than an Irish Setter
dazzling in the noon-day sun,
whispers of a simmering
fire in her soul

she said, “no!”
to another mechanical device,
a battery powered miracle of modern technology
to (hopefully) improve
her current malady,
which is little more than a continuation
of all the past maladies,
which are only one way
to tell the story of her life

the expletive was deserved
and I think we all agree
that she can say “no!”
any way she wants
that she has had enough
that she has earned the right
to stomp and swear and
shake her fist at things unseen

and we join her in wanting it
to stop, to get better
we pray, we wait, we hope
and we wonder,
frustrated, confused, angry,
but we join her in refusing to give up
for we cannot accept
the alternative

You’re wasting my time

The crowd chattered for blood, mine. I thought they were my friends. I thought wrong. My thoughts pushed me forward into his rushing fist. I staggered, dizzy. I couldn’t quit. I rounded a right, praying to connect.

He grabbed my arm in mid-swing and laughed, “Pathetic. You’re wasting my time.” The adolescent giant had me by eight inches and fifty pounds.

It was a magic moment. His laugh dripped of arrogance. The crowd turned. A rare breath of humanity appeared in teenage boys. They started cheering for me, not him.

Stunned, he looked at the crowd, then bolted into the darkness.

How times have changed

One drizzly morning, she sailed for the farthest tip of South America. He left the West Coast for Japan a few weeks later. They left knowing that they wouldn’t see each other for five years. No rendezvous in Hawaii, just because. No plane trips home for a sibling’s wedding or grandparent’s funeral. No phones or Internet. Letters would take weeks on the journey across the sea. That was all they had. That and memories and commitment. They’d write, send and, wait. Letters would cross; their stories lost sequence. Tenacious hearts endured. Five years later, they returned home and married. They’d promised.

Parables

Here we go again
Sun’s high, baking my back
Perfect day for fishing the lake
We could cookout, maybe take a nap

But, no, as usual, people find us
They want to hear his stories
Come on, at best he’s got twenty
And they all end about the same

How many times will I have to watch it?
He spins some convoluted tale
About selfish, greedy, conniving people
With a twist ending of justice (I call it injustice)

They nod their heads, but haven’t got a clue
I don’t either and I’m with him every day
Doesn’t matter, they always ask for more
He’s bolstered by their energy

I learned a long time ago to fake understanding
Otherwise he says that “Eyes and Ears” bit again
I don’t want to look stupid
So I let the others do the talking

I’ve learned to listen to my friends
And offer my agreement when
A reasonable consensus forms
It’s safe to go with the crowd

He’s determined to reach
The “holy” city by Passover
Great…more people…more stories
Guess I’ll follow along

Momma kept staring (part V of V)

V

“We’ll go see her soon. In a couple of days.” Aunt Heather was strong and her words convincing. We finally walked inside the house and I noticed Jack sitting at the entrance to the kitchen, not moving or not speaking. I guess he’d been there all along.

The three of us sat at the table for dinner that evening. Jack, my aunt, and me. Dad didn’t come home that night, or any other night. Aunt Heather tried to explain, but it didn’t make much sense to us.

The days drifted into weeks and we didn’t see Momma. Aunt Heather kept saying, “She’s not quite ready yet.”

One night at dinner, Aunt Heather told us we were going to her house. She had things she needed to do at her place; she had a job and they needed her back, and Momma wasn’t getting better anytime soon.

My mind raced. She was talking about moving, not just visiting. Leaving my home, my friends, my school, and my parents. Well, leaving Momma, at least; by then, we had figured out that Daddy had left us all. I loved Aunt Heather, but this was home and I needed to be here. I’d never lived anywhere else and I had never thought of leaving.

I begged, pleaded, and bargained. I told Aunt Heather she could move into our house. She could have our room. We’d sleep in Mom and Dad’s bed. We’d be good, work hard. Her friends would come and visit. She could find a job here. She listened, even cried along with me at times. Held me a lot. Nothing worked. By the weekend, we were packed and gone.

Momma kept staring (part IV of V)

IV

A few weeks later, I came home for dinner to an ambulance in the driveway. I feared Momma might be dead, and for a split-second, I wanted to run. I didn’t know where I’d go; I was just afraid to find out what was happening inside. But the door was open and I could see people in the living room—they looked like firemen—at the couch, talking to Momma. I started to walk toward the door, but Aunt Heather saw me and quickly gathered me on the porch, so I couldn’t hear or see what was happening inside.

“Your momma’s sick,” she explained again. “She needs more help than I can give. She’s going to the hospital.”

“What’s wrong? Does she need an operation?” Momma had told me that people went to hospitals for surgery and to die.

“It’s not like that. She doesn’t need an operation. It’s like I told you with the soldiers.” I could see she was struggling to find words to help me. She finally put her right hand to her chest. “It’s her heart. She’s sad. But not a regular sad. This is a sad that won’t go away. It’s so big she can’t feel anything else. There are doctors that can try to help her at the hospital.”

The ambulance drivers had moved my mom to a stretcher, and they were coming our way. Her eyes were beyond the stare. Her eyes were almost totally empty. I could tell she didn’t see me. I didn’t know if I should say something, or try to touch her. She was out the door before I could decide.

The ambulance doors slammed and they quickly drove off.

Momma kept staring (part III of V)

III

One day after school, my great-aunt Heather was at the house. My mom lying on the couch; she was awake, but she didn’t notice me. Aunt Heather put her index finger to her mouth, nodded for me to be quiet and follow her into the kitchen.

“Your momma’s sick. She needs our help. I’m gonna stay here for a while.” She did her best to comfort me; if anyone ever could, it was her.

Life got better and worse at the same time. Aunt Heather helped us get up and ready for school, she cooked great meals, and she watched TV with us. She’d tell amazing stories about when she was a nurse in the war; in Korea, not the “The Big One.” It had been a few years before I was born and my dad was there too, but they never saw each other. She said she helped soldiers in the hospital, the ones who hadn’t been wounded, “not by bullets, at least,” she added. Jack asked why soldiers were in the hospital if they hadn’t been shot.

Every day after school, I’d still come home to find Momma on the couch. She didn’t say much and it was scary to watch her stare without seeing.

Momma kept staring (part II of V)

II

After school, Mom might still be in bed; sometimes, she sat in the front room, looking out the big window. Looking, but not seeing. Eyes squinted; she’d ask me for a hug and then go back to her staring. Sometimes in the afternoon, a variety show played on the TV, but no one watched it.

After school, I was back out the door and off to find friends, hopefully without my brother tagging along, as soon as I could. When I came in for dinner, she was still in the living room, or maybe already in bed.

Dinner would be a mix of whatever we wanted, as long as we could find it and fix it ourselves. We thought the cooking was fun. Didn’t pay much attention to the cleaning up.

We’d watch TV until the late news came on. Most days, Jack fell asleep next to me. I’d half wake him and guide him to our room. I’d roll him into his bed and climb up to the top bunk. He kept sleeping, but it took a long time for me to fall asleep. I’d wait, listening to hear if Dad came home.

He often did, but really late. And most mornings, he was gone by the time I woke up. Mom said he had two jobs because he loved us so much. A day job, like other kids’ dads, and a night job to help for extra things. He had to work Saturdays, too.

Sunday was the day, if any, that I’d see him. We could watch cartoons all morning, if we didn’t fight over which ones. When he finally got up, he’d read the paper while taking a hot bath. I knew when he’d gotten to the funnies when the laughing started. If he was in a good mood, he’d play with us for a while in the afternoon and make something fancy for dinner. He’d put records on the stereo and turn up the volume while he drank beer and cooked. Mom was all smiles at having her family together. She was still in her bathrobe on the couch.

Momma kept staring (part I of V)

I

Most days, Mom would be in bed when we left for school. Or, at least, when we tried to leave for school.

In the morning, I’d listen to the sound of my favorite cartoons from the living room as I made toast and hot chocolate. I’d smell the steam, then dip the corner of the bread into the hot cup. I’d watch the butter float away, expanding to the edges. I guess it looked like an oil spill, but I loved it. After I’d brush my teeth, I’d rush toward the door, hoping to make it before she could call, “Boys, come back here! I wanna see you before you go!”

My brother Jack and I would grudgingly walk down the long hall to her room. Dust played in the sun beams that peeked through cracks between the drapes. Cigarette butts in the ash tray reminded me that Dad had been there recently, although we had not seen him for days.

We had to sit on her bed as she prepped us for the coming day. I’d fidget, afraid of missing the bus. Afraid of not being with my friends. Afraid of being responsible for my brother. Afraid of missing the bell and being late for class. Afraid of explaining my tardiness to the teacher again, with the whole class listening. I hated being late.

Before we could go, we’d all hold hands and pray, finishing with hugs and a kiss. I’d bolt for the door, jump off the porch and race across the yard, looking around the corner to see if the other kids were still waiting for the bus. My brother would call after for me to slow down. No kids in sight meant that the bus had come and gone. We’d start walking.

Sister Said She’d Help

I was the new teacher. School was a mile from the interstate, but the community was easily fifty years behind the times.

Recess duty and I’m talking with a veteran teacher. We watch two boys playing basketball. One was in seventh grade the other in eighth. They moved in tandem, switching from offence to defense with the turn of the ball. Score is kept but matters little.

She lowers her voice, “They think they’re cousins. But they’re not. They’re brothers. Born too close and their mom couldn’t handle it. Sister said she’d help and raise the little one. Never told ‘em.”

My soul stirs

My soul stirs
What will another sunrise bring?

My soul stirs
Memories, hope, and expectation
I forestall anticipation to prevent disappointment.

My soul stirs
Anxious yet willing
Aware but uncertain
I will wait while shadows linger once again.

My soul stirs
Words may emerge
An answer is unlikely
Silence, is that the response?
Absence, its own confirmation.