The White Death Has Arrived….

…here in Cincinnati, spawning fears, car wrecks and, generally, the cancellation of life.

The way we deal with snow ( or, rather, don‘t) here led me to write the following poem:

THE WHITE DEATH

“The sky is falling,”
cries Henny Penny,
predicting the White Death
at 5-minute intervals on Channel 5.

A Southern town, settled
one degree North of the Mason-Dixon,
Cincinnati, doesn’t do snow well,
not like Minne-SOH-tans,
or Yoopers, accustomed to
one hundred inches each winter.

Doppler Radar foments panic
a full thirty-six hours
before the first flake is sighted:
grocery stores are laid bare
of bread, milk and toilet paper –
especially toilet paper –
as though the
impending wet blanket
could smother us for a week.

When flakes appear,
crisp arabesques on
my 32-inch HDTV,
schools fall like dominoes
in the crawl at the bottom of the screen.
The town shuts down and we burrow,
like voles in our downy nests
until Henny Penny gives the “all clear.”

Total accumulation: 3 inches.

As for me, I’d rather be in Baltimore today — where a foot or more of snow is predicted. I am intrepid…have 4 wheel drive, will travel (in everything but ice).

I am at work now and the snow is coming down outside my window…I am happy…

Anni

I’m in love..

…with my dog!  I think she is the cutest thing around.  I even ordered a Sophie a Shark costume for Halloween.  She is sooo not ferocious, the shark get up will be ironic perfection!  Now, mind you, I DO realize that dressing Sophie, the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel as a shark does, indeed, qualify me as a weird, little old lady.  I mean, what is next, cooking her meals on the stove? Well, I wouldn’t put it past me, Folks.

It all started about 2 1/2 years ago.  You see, I was facing an empty nest. Our younger child was going off to college, leaving me with no one  at home upon whom I could  shower motherly affection.  Rather impulsively one day, I decided I needed to get a dog. More importantly, it had to be a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.   I discovered the breed in a book and had to have one.  Well, I found the object of my affections in Kentucky….right across the border from Cincinnati, right? WRONG!  I thought Paducah was just around the corner….say maybe 50 miles.  NO, it’s a hop skip and a jump from St. Louis and is 5 hours away.

Of course, I had told Llana, the breeder, I’d be there later that day, never looking at a map!  I needed to get a crate and doggie bed and other accoutrements.  Well, I finally took off at Noon, arrived in Paducah at 5 pm and was on my way back with the Sophster by 6….which still meant I wouldn’t get home until 11 pm.  Phew, long day.

But a very good day, it turns out. Sophie is a love. She and I bonded that day, on the trip back. She stared at me the whole time from in her crate on the shotgun seat.  And I would look over at her and meet her gaze with total adoration.  In fact, she not only bonded with me (I don’t think she’d ever been away from her pack, and I became her Alpha dog), she IMPRINTED on me. Honestly,  she follows me around like a little duck with its mother.  I go upstairs, Sophie goes upstairs.  I go into downstairs to do the laundry, she comes along. She is my constant companion. And when I sleep, she snuggles up against me most of the night.

I revel in this unconditional love like piggy wallows in mud.  Sophie lavishes me with unmitigated admiration.  I am the best “dog mom” I could be in her eyes  — even when things are going to hell in a hand-basket otherwise.  And that is one of the reasons we choose dogs, isn’t it…say, over cats?  We are there to serve cats, but we are adored by our canine companions who fall all over themselves to get to us when we walk back in the door when we have been out.

I’m totally infatuated with this little 16 pound creature who loves me so.  She is my constant companion and keeps the world’s cares at bay.  It’s hard to worry about health care or the war in Afghanistan with a wiggling bundle of love at your feet…wiggling because she is being wagged by a long plume of a tail.

My only regret is that we are separated 8 hours a day while I work. I think we should all be able to take our dogs to work with us!  Of course, that could present a problem, if the dogs didn’t get along, but that is the subject of another essay.

In the meantime, I’ll revel in the smooth relationship I have with Sophie. And I bet we’ll have fun at the Halloween Party at Red Dog dog park, even if Sophie hates her costume!  I’ll post a picture when I have one. In the meantime, here is a picture of Sophie in her birthday suit!

The Object of My Affection

As always, I’ll leave you with a poem

Dogs

Dogs, uncomplicated creatures

So eager to please.

Not cats running hot and cold on feline whims.

Labs, soft mouths ready for duty.

The Cavalier King Charles, in Widow West’s lap.

.

The setter sensing seizures before they strike,

an Alsacian  negotiating the rubble of 9/11.

And my Corgi who surely cogitates

thoughts deeper than her 6 o’clock meal.

A herder, who counts our family members,

pouting when one has gone astray,

whose sad look betrays her when suitcases appear,

foretelling days of waiting, listless, furtive

for the herd’s reunion.

And with relief upon our return,

she counts us one by one.

The herd united, she naps, content.

Uncomplicated creatures, dogs.

On Any Given Day…

Buckingham Palace

…I’d rather be in London than doing anything else. I daydream of taking the tube (subway) to some favorite destination, like The National Gallery, Buckingham Palace, Harrod’s or Foyle’s Book store.  I admit it, I’m an Anglophile, which is pretty funny because I could not be more genetically un-WASPy.  My ancestors were Russian, German and Polish, for heaven’s sake.  They were wearing babushkas, not kilts or bowler hats, when Queen Victoria reigned over the Empire! So why this fascination with everything British? I don’t know.  Maybe I was British in a previous life.  I just know that I am  drawn to the culture and the place.

Princess Anne

For one thing, I’m enamored of the Royal Family.  I think it started when I was a little girl, because Princess Anne was about my age.And, m give name was Ann, though everyone called me Anni.  My parents even got me a coat that was like the one Princess Anne had at age 6 -  when I was 5 or 6. I have the pictures to prove it (well, pictures of me, not of the princess, but they told me it was the same coat and they got it in London).

When Princess Diana came on the scene, I was fascinated with her.

Princess Diana

The whole Diana/Charles romance was happening when I met MY future husband. So, we were in love at the same time.  I felt a bond with her,  especially her initial shyness at being in the spotlight. Then, she morphed into the “glam” girl and I was just enthralled.  I followed her pregnancies and the births of Princes William and Harry.  I subscribed to People magazine, because it seemed as though she appeared on the cover every other week!  I sadly watched the marriage fall to pieces and awoke to devastation the August morning in 1997 to the news that she has been killed in the car wreck with Dodi Fayed.  Since Diana’s demise, I’ve refocused my royals-watching on her boys, Charles and Camilla and The Queen.  It’s a harmless sport, along with collecting royals memorabilia from a Staffordshire figurine of Queen Victoria to mugs showing Elizabeth II and Princess Margaret as young girls.    Princess Elizabeth Mug

Taking High Tea is a fine tradition and I love everything that goes with it:  scones, tea sandwiches (water cress is my favorite)  and yummy pastries.  There is a fancy hotel here in Cincinnati that offers high tea and I go with relish with girl friends annually around Christmas-time. All in all, though,  I’d rather be at Harrod’s Tea Room. Harrod’s

Harrod's

Of course, my love of Britain is helped along by the fact that, when we go, we are NOT working and we spoil ourselves.  We go to museums (the National Portrait Gallery, Tate, Victoria and Albert, British Museum, etc).  One year we even celebrated our love of the BBC’s Sherlock Holme’s series with Jeremy Brett by going to the Sherlock Holmes museum at 221b Baker Street.  We also go to the theater — so civilized.  We’ve seen Shakespeare and Agatha Christie alike and have never had a bad time.

We have our favorite gourmet store in London, Partridge’s, where one can get smoked salmon and fabulous breads, cheeses, sausages and chocolate.  We usually like to stop in the day we are going to the theater and munch on goodies in our rooms so we can get to the show on time.

Partridge's Gloucester Rd.

The cool, rainy climate does not phase us, and we’ve found the Brits are lovely to Americans.  We don’t take too many taxi’s (expensive, you know), but when we do, the cabbies are just so nice to us. They must make a good living because most of them have been to America…Florida seems a popular destination. Perhaps to get AWAY from the cool, rainy climate we find  charming.

London Taxi

Of course, my favorite genre of novel is the cozy English country-house mystery.  Why, heck, I even like English food, like Devonshire Clotted Cream, Shepherds Pie and Steak and Kidney Pudding.  The breakfasts at our favorite hotel, the Draycott, are yummy.  Croissants, freshly baked, cold meats, cheeses, stewed and fresh fruit, yogurt.  I always eat a good breakfast and then seem to walk it off during the day.  One time, I even took a pedometer along and my “big” day I walked 14,000 steps.  They say everyone should try to walk 10,000 steps each day. Well, I beat that, though, as I recall, we got lost in Hounslow Heath and walked forever trying to find the tube  until my feet were ready to fall off.

The architecture in England is also a sight to behold….from the townhouses of London with their charming porticos to Romanesque country churches, to majestic palaces that house some of the Nobles to this day.

London Townhouse

Alas, London is one of the most expensive cities in the world and one cannot justify a trip very often.    So, instead I read my British mysteries, buy English and Scottish teas (which I drink from my Harrod’s mugs) and watch re-runs of Monty Python and Fawlty Towers on TV.  Then, I save my pennies up for a trip to the the land where I left my heart among the heather, White Cliffs of Dover and the little villages with thatched roofs.

Yes, on any given day I’d rather be in London.  Someday, I’ll get back.  Someday soon, I hope.

So, I’ll leave you with a poem about Gatwick Airport, London.

GATWICK AIRPORT, LONDON

Mercury supervises from his perch:

Passengers bound for exotic destinations,

Malaga, Dubai, Beijing, Prague.

Nervous flyers belt down a few at 9 a.m.

An 87 year old pensioner mourns

the loss of her shampoo and lemonade

at the heartless security check.

The loudspeaker calls Colin Firth

to meet his wife at the gate.

Businessmen pay no mind,

poring over spreadsheets,

as women crane their necks.

Couples on holiday glom onto

tins of tea and plastic shopping bags

at Harrod’s Duty Free.

“Heavies” lumber down the runway,

by magic, become light as baby’s breath.

Oops…a Correction

I must be honest and tell you all, I didn’t read very accurately. My Honorable Mention poems will not be published…just my name will be published, as a winner. Bummer, huh???!!! Any way, thanks for your congratulations and for being in my corner….next time I’ll see that I WIN so I get published.

Why Publish?

There is only one reason in my mind to publish one’s writing…to touch someone else’s heart — to make a difference.  If a poem isn’t read, does it really exist?  Was Emily Dickinson really a poet before her poetry was discovered after she was gone? After all, only a few of her poems were read by others during her lifetime.

Okay,  so it’s rather extreme to avow that a writer isn’t really writer unless she publishes.  There are many closet writers, who write only in journals and never intend to share their writing.  I know some women who have specific arrangements for who is to burn their journals upon their demise!  Yes, these people are writers, too.

But like so many artists, many writers do want to share, to make a difference out there in the broader world.  Publishing is a hard business. Traditional publishing is a shrinking.industry, as books become a smaller share of the media “pie”…but fortunately, the traditional way isn’t the only way to “publish” — and I use the word loosely.

I would submit to you that any way in which someone shares her writing is a form of publishing.  In your blog? Sure!  At a reading? Yes! Self-publishing? Not a problem!  Even sharing with one’s best friend counts. I would say “get it out there any way you can!”   The new definition of publishing is simpy sharing.

Today, I came home from my day job as a Market Research Manager to a fun surprise.  I do have a faint memory of entering the Writer’s Digest Annual Poetry Contest about 6 or 8 months ago.  It cost me about $5 per poem and I entered at least 5, though I do not recall which ones. I filled out the entry forms on line and remember hitting the “send” button. Then I promptly forgot about the whole thing.  Well, I came home at 5:30 tonight to find that I had been awarded Honorable Mention for 2 poems: Unfinished, which is published below in my first blog entry and another, called Psychedelic Retrospective, which is published immediately below.

We writers have to take our encouragement where we can get it and the Writer’s Digest letter will go a long way toward motivating me to write some more. Just one more way I’ve been published, in addition to self-publishing a book of my poetry, including my poetry in this forum and sharing in my Women Writing for (a) Change writing circles.

So, raise a toast to my placing in the contest and be encouraged that, too, you have many ways to publish your work. Write and enjoy the writing process.  And share your work, to touch as many people as you can.

Now, here is my poem:

Psychedelic Retrospective

Flowers in our hair,

change-the-world visions,

Haight-Ashbury highs.

We’ve all come down,

donning pinstripes

in lieu of dirty jeans,

tie dye and leather wrist bands.

As we monitor our 401K’s,

the admin buildings

are safe from radicals

and weatherunderground

is a “dot com” predicting

storms of an altogether

different nature.

Today, new condo, new appliances.

A vast showroom

with Vikings and Sub-Zeros,

refrigerated drawers,

winekeepers and a red enamel

stove the price of tuition

at community college.

Burnished stainless steel

blurs reflections on all sides.

Brand names seduce me

GE, LG, Kitchen Aid,

Asko, Bosch, Frigidaire.

I read yesterday that $2.29

will feed a hungry family

in cyclone ravaged Bangladesh.

Happiness is a Warm Puppy

Yes, it’s true, I am in love with my dogs, both of them.

Erin is noble, valiant and stalwart. She is a 13 year old Pembroke Welsh Corgi and the poem at the end of this blog is written for her.   A few years ago, she started slowing down a bit…lagging behind on walks, having trouble getting up stairs.  My wonderful vet suggested a new miracle drug, Adequan.  A super dooper glucosamine/chondroitin mixture.   I now give Erin injections twice a week for hip dysplasia, arthritis in dogs.  Happily, these shots have breathed new life into an old dog. She once again bounces on her way to going outside and easily negotiates the stairs for bed-time.  Today, I even found her frisking about in the basement — skittering madly after some invsisible prey.

But, mostly, the pleasure in her life comes from herding her little sister…Sophie…the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. It is pandemonium when I let them out.  Quite simply, Erin views it as her job to KEEP SOPHIE INSIDE THE HOUSE.  She herds her mercilessly when it is time to go O-U-T.   This causes some issues for us humans, as we are interested in letting both dogs out to do their business.  Quietly, if possible.  Never mind that she fails abysmally every time…Soph always makes it past Erin, fast little thing that she is.  But Erin valiantly tries every time.

Sophie is fast when evading Erin, but, happily, she has a placid personality.  In short, she is 16 pounds of love.  While Corgis are workers, bred to herd cattle by nipping at their ankles, Cavaliers were bred as lap dogs. Yup, their sole purpose was to sit and be loved while warming the laps of noblewomen in drafty castles in Britain.  Sophie fulfills her destiny brilliantly.  She adores being loved upon.

Fortunately, though though she looks delicate and is a lap warmer, Sophie is also a real dog.  The hunter in her comes out on long walks in Northern Michigan, where she bounds into the woods and runs 3 miles for our every one.  Hunting instincts also come out in an activity we call “gnatting.”  Sophie is fascinated by dust motes and tiny bugs (fruit flies in season) that are visible in beams of late-afternoon light coming into our living room.  She will sit for 10 minutes watching, waiting…then pounce on her prey.  Sophie, the huntress!

But Sophie is perhaps most useful as an accessory for sleeping.  She snuggles up me, curled up in a little ball and sleeps too, bathing me in that unconditional doggie love that is rare among humans.  There is nothing more wonderful than napping with her nestled up against me.

All of which reminds me that Charlie Brown was right…Happiness IS a warm puppy.

As usual:  I’ll leave you with a poem.

The Herder

Zigzagging along the horizon,

after wooly clumps, dense prey,

herding where the Master ordains,

soft wind whispers  through flowing fur;

the gift of freedom overtakes her,

bounding across acres, doing her job.

Often, she talks as she works, barking

orders at those under her command,

until every sheep is brought in line.

The day is filled with black hooves

and lanolin scented coats, white in the

distance, but dirty with farm mud from

her vantage point down below

and ever so slightly to the side.

Though a cup of kibble keeps her fed,

it is the nightly chew stick she anticipates –

part of the comforting routine she

prods us for if we manage to forget.

Bilingual, she speaks English as well as

Border Collie. Words like sit, stay, outside.

Dreaming in front of the tawny fire

in the blustery night, wind whistling

around the corners of the white frame

farmhouse, now and then she runs

in her sleep, legs twitching

on the green tartan dog bed,

“Scout” embroidered in navy,

claiming it as her own.

Slumber is interrupted by

reveries of cornering a stray,

drawing it back to its kind

bleating in visceral recognition.

Job done, she rests, gathering herself

for the work of the morrow.

Knitting as Meditation

Meditation is good for the body and the soul…there is only one problem. My ADHD brain can’t “sit still” long enough to meditate, which causes me to feel oddly guilty.  I feel that I should be able to meditate…that it is a moral failing that I somehow cannot.

Or, at least, that is the way I used to feel — before I discovered the joys of knitting.  I took up knitting 3 or 4 years ago when my middle aged eyes began having trouble focusing on needlepoint.  I started with the simple “Knit Stitch” because I was intimidated by anything more complex.  All that “knit one, purl one” scared me to death.  And patterns, well patterns really frightened me.

So I began knitting prayer shawls for a ministry at church. These suited me to a tee. I learned to cast on 57 stitches. Then, by golly, all I had to do was “knit, knit, knit” practically forever and at the end, when it was as tall as I was, it was done!  Yup, 5 feet a a smidgeon of the garter stitch and I had a prayer shawl. Using the classic prayer shawl yarn, Lion Brand Homespun, which is “nubbly,” gave the piece some interest and behold, I had something that would comfort someone ailing or going through a rough time.

In time, I noticed a couple of things. First, I got really, really good at doing the garter stitch.  I could practically do it in my sleep.  My stitches became quite even. I loosened my grip on the needles and my stitches were no longer so tight.  I got creative and added a border for interest by knitting 2 yarns together at the beginning and the end. I’d knit in a skein of eyelash yarn at the beginning, until the eyelash was all gone. Then, when the shawl was as tall as my nose, I was ready to add the second skein of eyelash yarn.  It was a foolproof, if rather odd, way of “measuring” my work.
Then, I also began to notice how relaxed I was when knitting.  Knitting calmed my brain, which tends to have ideas ricochet off off the inside of my skull at a rapid rate.  This act of knitting actually caused me to be able to concentrate better than when I was not knitting.  In fact, the knitting was rather meditative.  So, knitting has become a zen-like activity for me.

And after 3 years of doing nothing but prayer shawls, a funny thing happened. I decided to learn how to purl. It was awkward at first, but I got the hang of it.  Then, I got brave and tried a rudimentary pattern…one that involved only the knit stitich and something called “yarn overs,” where you wrap the yarn around the needle without knitting to create a lacy effect (it’s magic, but a yarn over does create a hole)…

Well, now I’m addicted. I have future knitting projects mapped out for the next 6 months, with yarns already purchased (because, I’ve discovered, yarn stores are very dangerous places for a knitter!).

I knit everywhere. On long trips in the car (when I am not driving, of course), on planes (yes, the TSA does allow metal knitting needles on airplanes) and when I’m watching tv.  I haven’t gotten up my nerve to knit in meetings, but I’d sure LIKE to!  I think I would pay better — not worse — attention.

Along with knitting has come the accoutrements of the hobby.  There exist all kinds of fun gadgets that help knitters out.  My favorite is the “all in one” thingie, which contains a row counter, a measuring tape, a yarn cutter and a crochet hook for picking up dropped stitches. There is even a little compartment which holds stitch markers and needle stoppers, to prevent the work from falling off the needle.

I recently invested in a set of Addi clicks needles.  Addi turbos are metal and they knit smoothly and fast.  They are the best needles I’ve found, but can be pricey. Well, I fell in love with the kit of 7 needle sizes and 3 lengths of cord which allow you to mix and match to make different needle combos.  Big savings vs. buying them individually.

So, I’m happy to say that my 12 hour trip back from California tomorrow will be a knitting interlude, rather than a boring, interminable voyage.  It’s almost worth getting up at 4 a.m. for. But not quite.

I’ll end by leaving you with a knitting poem…and I’ll upload some pictuers of what I’m knitting to future blogs.

Knitting

Click, clack:

unsteady needles together

break Saturday morning silence

Steam rises off the lake:

a cold front come through

with summer’s rain, rhetorical

from the great tweeded plains.

Click, clack:

trying to keep time

with the rhythm of the tiger maple

grandfather clock ticking

against the living room wall.

Knit one, purl one:

fingers woo nubbly yarn

over and under,

a shawl,

for a Honduran woman

I shall never meet.

She has nothing

but three clay pots,

a dirt floor, love

for her four hungry children,

.

Each of ten thousand stitches

anticipates its job,

offering warmth

on a chilly night

in Central America.

It is a Prayer Shawl.

and I pray,

my hands working

the wool with

wobbly fingers.

Click, Clack:

Thank God,

I pray better than I knit.

Hugs to you all, and thanks for reading me!

Anni

Do you remember 1969?

It seems that there are fewer and fewer of us who do.  Maybe some don’t remember because they were too stoned to retain anything, but mostly, I think it’s because so many people are too damned young to remember. They weren’t even born! Grown up people, I mean.  Why men and women who could be my kids are teaching, doctoring,  and lawyering.  And not a one of them remembers 1969.

I was remembering ’69 today because of an interview on NPR with Terri Gross and Roseanne Cash.  Cash has a recording of 500 Miles on her new cd.  Of course, I was reminded of the Peter, Paul and Mary version, of which I was very fond that year.  Mary Travers died last week — the passing of another icon of the sixties. Tributes were paid to her and they showed footage from concerts back then.  I remember you, Mary. I remember.

1969 was quite an important year, you know.  Politically, Nixon became president (oh dear!) with not much foreshadowing of the Watergate debacle that would bring him down. Of course, his running mate was that upstanding gentleman from Maryland, Spiro Agnew, who was forced to resign later because of a financial scandal.  Golda Meir became the first woman Prime Minister of a major country, Israel.  She looked a lot like my grandmother. In fact, they could have been twins.

Of greater note to my generation, which “dropped out, tuned in and turned on”  around then, Led Zeppelin released their first album. And the Beatles, alas, played their last concert together. Who knew their whirlwind “taking” of the world would last only about 5 years.  Those same doctors and lawyers, some of them, think Paul McCartney was famous for being in a band called “Wings.”

Of course, one of the big reasons for our unrest back then was the Viet Nam war, which spawned demonstrations and the public burning of draft cards and our flag…to say nothing of a few arguments between fathers and son.

Perhaps some of the most amazing things about 1969, though, are the things that were NOT happening.  Meals were slow cooked…microwaves hadn”t been invented. And we “waited” for phone calls (especially from the opposite gender), because phones existed only at home, in businesses and in phone booths — not in our purses or hanging from our belts.  Music was not very portable, unless you had a transistor radio in your pocket and books were definitely printed on paper, essentially the same way Gutenburg did it in the 15th century,  rather than read on Kindles or heard on cd’s.

As for me, I was about to embark on some of the major adventures of my coming of age.  If you can believe it, I was introduced to Janis Joplin at Christmas of that year by my fifty-one year old father, who thought he was being very cool buying me her album, Cheap Thrills.  This was pretty funny, because I was quite a “goody two shoes,” who wore a girls’ school uniform 5 days a week and didn’t drink. Yes, I sneaked smokes occasionally, but everyone did back then.  I was still a year or so away from buying a pack of cigarettes. No, Janis was quite the eye-opener! I was actually quite shocked.

During that fateful year, I was also introduced to a legendary Cincinnati “institution” — the Ludlow Garage.  Our version of the Fillmore West, it hosted a few famous acts like the Allman Brothers and Santana.  One late summer night, I went out with friends, never exactly saying where it was that I was  going.  In fact, I don’t think I even knew where we were going!  What I do remember is absolutely rocking out to Grand Funk Railroad…and praying that my parents never found out where I was. I don’t think they ever did, until I told them when we were reminiscing about the sixties years later.

If you were alive and cognizant of much of anything in July of 1969, you remember Neil Armstrong walking on the moon on 7/20. I remember it because I was on a TWA 707, flying from Rome to New York, when the pilot came on to announce that history had been made.  I also remember that my BFF (who is still my BFF 40 years later) was straightening her hair with Curl Free.  I wasn’t there, of course…but she told me all about it.  It’s kind of funny, really, what makes an impression. I have no idea what I, myself, was wearing or any details of that flight, except the pilot’s voice and the cheering plane full of Americans united by joy over our having beaten the Russians to the punch, just as JFK had promised about 8 years before. But I remember that she straightened her hair. Probably because I was envious.

And then there was the way I ended 1969 — on a  Caribbean cruise. There was the cool, good looking guy from Puerto Rico and the sort of scary dudes who worked as stevedores  on the ship and turned out to be purveyors of cannabis.  I think we’d just docked in Cartagena.  That’s Cartagena, Columbia, by the way.  You could have gotten high just breathing the ambient air…not that I’m saying I did.

Well, if you were alive in 1969, you probably identify with some of this, though the specifics may, of course, be different.  It is easy to be nostalgic about that time. I was really very innocent, with most of my life and challenges well ahead of me. And we were innocent even in the midst of our turning societal norms, mores and traditions — just as the youth of previous generations had done. In fact, just as youth of every generation does!

As usual, I’ll end with a poem.  Entitled, of course:

1969

Morrison, Hendrix and Joplin

mainlined rock and roll,

and white powder, as a

cyclone raged inside me,

a face in the crowd.

Airplanes and zeppelins

echoed inside my head.

Psychedelic Don Quixote

rocked my doorway,

magic rainbows tilting

at the silvery moon.

There but for the grace of God,

a stairway to heaven.

So much to write about….so little time!

It’s about 6:30 a.m., the coffee is on and the doggerels, Sophie (Cavalier King Charles Spaniel) and Erin (Pembroke Welsh Corgi) are fed and draped on the furniture enjoying a post-prandial bliss that we humans only seem to enjoy on over-eating holidays, like Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Sophie and Erin are on a new, dry kibble.  It’s Royal Canin, Digestive/Low-Fat and it costs a bloody fortune, as dry doggie food goes.  But they are worth it.  Erin is on it because of tummy upsets…on higher fat content food, she would have episodes of emitting great purple clouds which were, er, unpleasant to the nose.  And she’d not feel well, either. Her amylase levels were high, said the vet, indicating she needed a drastic reduction in the fat content of her food.   She’s never been able to handle fat…delicate little flower that she is…in fact, the only time we EVER gave her a meat bone, after one Easter dinner of scrumptious spring lamb, she got pancreatitis and was hospitalized for 3 days.  We visited her and she looked so sweetly pathetic with her IV in her stubby, short leg!

But, I digress.  Sophie is on the food because Erin is (it’s just easier that way).  I took them both in to the vet the other day and lo and behold, Erin has lost 5 of her 27 pounds!  Thats about 20% of her body weight.

I got to thinking…maybe I should try this doggie food diet.  Of course, if some one fed ME twice a day with half a cup of food, whether I needed it or not, I’d probably lose some weight too…which got me to thinking that this constant availability of people food is really not good for us. Fridges at our beck and call; cupboards with tempting treats.  Our foraging ancestors were not obese and they ate a meal every other day — or something like that. There is an idea in there…somewhere…I know it.

And that’s not the only advantage dogs have over us.  Erin, who is 13.5 and aging well, has “arthur-itis” — she was getting pretty creaky. Lagged behind us on walks. Had trouble getting up stairs, which were never easy, anyway,  with her short little legs.  Well, the vet has me giving her shots of this super-duper glucosamine-chondroitn mixture that is the fountain of youth!  She is bounding like a pup again.  I saw her running for the first time in years, the other day!  I asked the vet and, no, there is NOT anything like this for humans. I say, life isn’t fair.

Now, I want to say a special thank you to those of you who commented on Post Numero Uno.  I appreciate your feedback — and your coming back for more.  I’m thinking that I’ll post a poem each blog post.  I am pretty prolific and gosh, I could go for years without even writing a new one…though I do write frequently.

Some people have asked about my writing process. It is pretty whimsical.  I write when I get an idea.  Sometimes this does happen when I sit down to write, but more often a phrase just wanders into my head and I think…that would be good in a poem. Other times the title comes to me first and the poem just follows. Sometimes, I get so focused that the poems seem to write themselves while I am in a sort of trance. I don’t know where the words come from…obviously somewhere in my right brain.  It is such a right brain process.  And, voila, a poem is born.

I have an idea for a novel…a murder mystery, but I don’t know whether I have the patience to focus on a whole book for a long period of time. Like the nine months of birthing a baby.  Poems are much more satisfying, I think. Done in under a couple of hours for a first draft.  Sometimes it just takes minutes to create one.  Then, of course, comes the editing, but that is fun in its own way, too.

So, to close this blog, let’s have a poem about writing!

AT THE TABERNACLE OF WRITING

My desk is an altar to the Goddess

of Writing, who blesses me

when I have been a good girl.

On it are gathered a brimming chalice

and plate, gleaming, ready

for my work: number 2 hb pencils,

chaste pads of paper, pages bearing

the imprint of their Maker: Staples,

resting beside my trusty Apple Macintosh.

Draped over a chair, the alb and stole of my vocation:

Levi 515 jeans, a white turtleneck, buttery soft

from ample washings, the incense of Tide and Downy.

I wake promptly at six, smack the alarm,

shake the sleep from my brain,

pad down the hall for morning ablutions,

I want to sit down to a feast of bran muffins

and Kenyan AA coffee from Zingerman’s,

but perhaps I should fast before the ritual.

Still unclean, I scrub my thoughts with prayer,

intercessions for others and myself,

that a worthy stanza might stumble my way today.

Poised at the tabernacle of writing,

I reach for the Ark of the Covenant

and, ready, begin to receive a poem.

Hope you liked the poem….send e-cards and letters to let me know what you thought of it!

Blessings to all,
Anni

P.S. I tried to upload a pix of me, so you could visualize who is writing…but it did not show up on the blog. I’m all thumbs when learning new technology with no one to show me how to do it.  I’ll keep trying. I want to show you Erin and Sophie, too….hang in with me, while I learn.

Hello, World!

First of all…let me know if you like what you read…or if you don’t…hell — just let me know that someone is out there, reading!

Now, an introduction.

I am a 50-something writer (mostly a poet). I am also a wife and mother of two young adults, an avid knitter, a devoted doggie-mom, a yo yo dieter and, oh yeah, a market researcher in my day job.

I should really take these one at a time.

Poet: I’ve been writing poetry since 2001, when I retired from a Corporate job (a great day in the life, let me tell you!). I’ll publish my poetry here, so if you like this poem, come back and read more. This is the title poem from my book, published in 2007 and available at Amazon. The collection is called Unfinished…as is the poem.

Unfinished

Melancholy descends like a mother-in-law
arriving unannounced,
peeking through all your cupboards,
in all your most private corners,
until you throw your hands up in disgust,
leave your bagel on the plate
unfinished,
crawl beneath the covers to hide
from the obvious transparency
of all your flaws.

The painting sits,
only pinks and mauves daubed on the canvas,
as you forget
where you put the keys to your life.
One stanza of a poem moans with loneliness,
a one-sleeved sweater sits,
knitting needles akimbo.
The linen closet’s contents strewn
in the hallway attest to the fog,
descended
as you were matching striped pillowcases to sheets,
watermelon washcloths to their cousins the bath towels.

All the while, she lurks, reading your mail,
commandeering your haunts,
until there is just a tiny slice of you left,
peeping through the keyhole,
watching instead of living.

Then one day, fed up, you decide to throw her out,
summon the courage to tell her it is time.
You make the plane reservations yourself,

and when she is finally gone,
you batten down the hatches,
watching the midnight lift,
sunshine melt through the house,
buttery and rich,
alighting on that morning’s bagel.

Unfinished
on its blue willow plate.

You sit alone and begin to eat again.

Wife and Mother: If you are still with me, after that, I am a wife and mother. The former for 27 years…my wonderful husband is funny and handsome and very handy around the house. More on him in another episode.

My two kids are a son 23 and a daughter 20. More about my son in another blog. My daughter is learning classical drawing and painting in Florence, Italy, taking a 4 year course. Her work is amazing…I hope to post some of it from time to time. I know, I know…I’m doing the proud mama thing. But I AM a proud Mama! And she really IS good.

My son is amazingly creative too…a writer. Check out his blog at Diabeetus Moustache on this site. He has one semester of college left.

Knitting: This is a relatively recent addition to my life. Though I am now tackling a pair of socks! I’m learning new stitches and patterns all the time and I’m getting a bit addicted. I take knitting everywhere with me. I would take it to work if I thought I could get away with it (…not so much…).

Woof-Woof: And now, for the piece de resistance…my dear doggies. I have a 13.5 year old corgi, Erin. She is now on special shots for her arthur-itis and they have turned her into a young pup again. I keep asking why they don’t have these injections for humans!

And then there is my beloved Sophie, who is our Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. She is 2 and is my empty next baby. It was “adopt a baby” or “get a puppy” when our younger child left home. We got the puppy — a wise move. Lot’s less effort than a child and tons of unconditional love. We snuggle. She bonded with me right away and follows me everywhere around the house.
She was bred to be a lap dog, which means she lives to love. I could have done worse, I’d say!

Oh, I almost forgot about the dieting. I often “forget” about the dieting…which is why I Yo-Yo. I’m a perpetual Weight Watcher…who loves ice cream (not so good) and green beans (good…but not together!).

Well, that’s an introduction to me.

BFF: The only person I haven’t mentioned who is a part of my everyday life is my BFF. We are joined at the hip, and have been friends for 44 years! We can definitely blackmail each other…and have pictures of the “awkward” years to prove it! You’ll here some BFF tales here, too.

Market Research: Yes, in my day job, I’m a focus group moderator…meaning I wrest people’s opinions of products and services from them for money. They get paid. They share their thoughts. We all go away happy…including, I hope, the client who pays me to do this. All in all, it’s a great job. I get to talk to nice (for the most part) people and I get to write reports on what they said…not bad for someone who likes to write.

SO — do come back for laughter, the occasions tear or whine, an occasional knitting pattern and, I hope, what you will think is thought provoking poetry. I plan to add pix of the Dear Doggies at some point, too.

TTFN,

Anni