Oddments

In search of story


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November 26.19

The road to here

from distant there

is mapped as

greasy thoroughfare.

‘Mid stain and splotch,

old gizzard drip,

evolution in

encrypted scrip.

Notes to self

in mishmashed order

chase themselves

around the border,

not merely scrap,

timepiece instead,

the years piled up

like cubes of bread.

From my neatnik Mom

through freeform me

the family stuffing

legacy,

preserved in splat

of butter, sage,

for, I hope,

another age.

 

There was nothing like it: the smell on Thanksgiving morning. No, not coffee and bacon. Onion and celery and butter! Smells to float on. Dad would go to Mass and some years I went with him, but usually I stayed home to help. OK, so it should be “help.” I was very good at putting things away just before they were needed, and I was very good at reminding my mother how I disliked pumpkin pie. What a model child I was!

I hope your Thanksgiving memories are good ones, dear reader, and that, amid the bleakness of our times, we can give thanks for the things and people we know to be true and good.

I thank all of you who have stopped by my blog and left an encouraging word or like. Writing is ever on the edge of not-writing, and your kindnesses have kept me going many times.

A very happy Thanksgiving to you, dear reader!

If there is travel, may you and yours come and go in safety.

 


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November 20.19

Make a list!

What good advice!

If I were Santa,

I’d check it twice.

But I’m me,

with list syndrome:

 I write it out,

then leave it at home.

 

I did it again the other day, dear reader; I left the list at home. It’s not my fault! I have a syndrome! But here’s the truly trying thing: I remembered ONE THING from my list, and I was so proud of myself. Light brown sugar! And surely you know what came next. Yes, they were out of it.


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November 11.19

In loft of branch,

salute

to drummed stepping,

ghosts now.

In iron root,

duty,

grief-sealed

in the clay.

In fallen leaves,

acorns.

In shade of history,

children.

 

 

The grand oak tree on the old parade grounds,

Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indianapolis, IN.

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg, CAPT, MC, USN (Ret).

I wish you a thoughtful Veterans’ Day, dear reader.

 

 


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October 29.19

Age, some say,

is just a number,

inconvenient,

contrived encumber.

I shake my head

and must dissent;

age is real,

the past is spent.

In shingles curled,

in chimneys blackened,

in wood wind-sanded,

in facia slackened,

time’s signature

is boldly written,

and we are similarly

smitten.

Our mortar to dust,

our boards to splinter,

through many a summer

and many a winter,

we too show

the outward signs

of life’s erosions,

droops, declines.

But as parts unjoin,

fade and slip

arises still

proud workmanship.

And so with us

of youth bereft:

who we are

is what is left.

 

With thanks to photographer Mary Jo Bassett

and Conner Prairie Living History Museum, Fishers, IN.