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About Diana

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Witness to History – A Personal Journey

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I know empirically that the days are not getting shorter. Twenty-four hours are still twenty-four hours, no matter what time zone you are in or daylight you are saving. The weeks still contain seven days, although every Friday seems like it happened only two days ago. And don’t get me started on Christmas. I remember when it seemed like decades between Christmas’, hence the old saying, “as slow as Christmas”. Now it seems like just a month or two separates this Christmas from last Christmas and next Christmas. Has the Earth sped up? Or is it something else?

I don’t feel older, but if I look at the date of my birth, it becomes more and more like ancient history. I’m remembering agonizing years of struggle for women’s rights, civil rights and wars that nowadays may get one or two paragraphs in a high school textbook (are there such things as textbooks?).  I remember a time when I could not have a bank account, a credit card, or make a major purchase without my husband’s accompanying signature. My name was Mrs., instead of my given name. If I hadn’t been married, it meant that my father would have had to sign for me. I don’t know what happened to the females who had neither a father nor husband. As late as the 1950s, women could involutarily be committed to mental institutions by fathers or husbands without medical or legal requirements.

For a time in the 1940s, women were a major factor in the workforce because so many men were fighting overseas, and military production was ramped up. After WWII, when the men returned, women lost their jobs. It was more important that a man, who was considered the head of the household, have a job. Women were sent back home to be homemakers to support their men and nurture their children. I remember even into the 1960s, when I worked in offices, I was considered like part of the furnishings or a minion to be ordered about at the behest of any male in the company. I did all the step-and-fetch-it jobs as well as my own as a purchasing agent in one company and a secretary in another. A male colleague could pat my butt or throw an arm around me at will. There was no HR to run to. I learned to negotiate my autonomy with humor and strategy so as not to offend but let men know I was neither property nor servant. It worked.

I remember a time when people of color, then called “coloreds”, not blacks or Hispanics,  were relegated to the back of the bus and entered and exited through the back door only – no questions asked. I remember a time when there were “separate but equal” schools, swimming pools, public washrooms, and water fountains. The signs said “Whites” and “Coloreds,” so there was no question. They lived on their side of town, we lived on ours. The only time we went to their side was for barbecue. Daddy took me with him to get barbecued smoked ribs from a man in colored town. The memory of those ribs lingers on my tongue, and I’ve never since had any as good as they were.

In 1948, the idea that a black man would be President or that a black woman would be Vice President or sit on the Supreme Court was as foreign a thought as man landing on the moon. Yes, there was a time when a moon landing was science FICTION. At that time, there were no black or female CEOs in major corporations in the U.S. The United States was run by white males.

As a small child, racism was just the way things were. I didn’t know any different. One quick story is about a time when my mother and I were going into downtown Wichita. I think I was about three. My mother told this story to me countless times. To her, it represented a time when I publicly humiliated her. Of course, I see it differently. We lived in the small community of Riverside in Wichita. We only had one car that my father used to go to work, so when Mom wanted to go to town, she and I took a short bus ride.  We waited for the bus at the corner of 18th and Burns. When it arrived, Mom helped me up the steps into the bus. She claims that as soon as I got on, I ran toward the back of the bus with my arms open wide yelling, “Grandpa, grandpa.” The back of the bus was for coloreds only. Evidently, an elderly gray-haired black man was sitting back there, whom I found appealing. He had a big smile on his face. He seemed like a grandpa to me. All the bus riders, including the unlucky black man I targeted, held their collective breaths. This was NOT accepted behavior, and I’m sure it caused no end of consternation. Mom grabbed me by the arm and yanked me back up the aisle and out the door as fast as she could. The bus doors were closed, and it continued its route. Heaven only knows what the “grandpa” on the bus thought or what those around him said. I wish I could have been there to witness. The point is, I didn’t see color. I saw a grandpa. I needed to be taught that those people were different – not our kind.

Mom clung to her nebulous racism her entire life. It was how she was raised. She didn’t openly criticize, disparage, or mock people who were not white, but the subtext in her body language was discernible – especially by me, because I was aware of her prejudices. I remember mom as a gracious, kind, but critical woman. She maintained friendships with people from her high school days and later, all of her workplaces. She was a generous friend to all. And yet, under the surface was an inability to accept people of other races as equals. I really blew her mind when, in 1960, I told her my social studies teacher was black, and I thought he was so cute I’d consider marrying a black man – cuteness being the major criteria for marriage at that point in my life.

I wrote a short story about my encounter with a black woman who lived in our neighborhood, yet was totally isolated. It was one of my ah-ha moments. It happened when I was seven and could form an opinion about it. I’ll post that story at a later date. To this day, I don’t know how or why she was in a segregated white neighborhood.

The bottom line is that I lived that dynamic history, including civil and military violence. I was a witness, a participant, as our country moved through huge social changes. Today it seems we are regressing back to some of those old disputes. As a country, we are not perfect, but we have genuinely progressed. I hope progression can continue without more violence and with respect for what has been accomplished.

According to statistics (which I don’t go according to very much), forty years ago, 80% of US citizens were white, and it is expected that by the middle of this century, white citizens will be a minority. I maintain that color will be less and less an issue as the world shrinks and people have children with people from other places, other ethnicities. Someday, we’ll all be the same lovely tan color, and discrimination will no longer be a factor based on color. I’m sure as flawed human beings, we’ll find other ways to discriminate.

Ho-hum. The cycle will be unbroken – just under new management and rules. So maybe that is why my days are getting shorter. I’ve seen it all before, and my soul is ready to move on to whatever is next. My mind and body, though, are not ready, so I will continue to observe the revolutionary evolution of our species with curiosity.

Life Under the Oaks Lavender Farm

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Last Friday, I took a little excursion to the Life Under the Oaks Lavender Farm in Oracle with two of my gal-pals who walk with me every Saturday. It is about thirty minutes north of us and a delightful way to spend a morning. The nine-acre mini farm has an Alice-in-Wonderland vibe, a trip to a fairyland.

A tour of the farm along dirt paths through lavender fields takes about thirty minutes. That is, if you are not sidetracked by all the interesting things along the way. The critters: donkeys, goats, sheep, and Thor, the resident dog – all love attention. The barn has artwork throughout, and from the walls and ceiling, big bunches of lavender hang to dry.

The entrance fee is a whopping $5.00. It is impossible to find entertainment at that price these days. It is easy to get caught up in the magic. There are giant oak trees that are over 100 years old. Rows upon rows of lavender are accessorized by whimsical art. We were there just before the “blooming season” that starts in June, so only a few plants were actually in bloom. That did not diminish our enjoyment of the entire farm as it is.

A storybook Cinderella carriage and a carousel horse that could have come out of Mary Poppins prompted several photos. A stack of teapots and a variety of lampshades that hang from trees were a sweet detail. Every few steps along the path, there is something that delights the eye and would tempt a fairy to stay like an artistic pink teacup chandelier. Small enchantments like carrot, strawberry and watermelon-shaped seats invite you to sit and rest on your tour.

  At the end of our wanderings, we had a refreshing pint jar of lavender lemonade and a box of lavender scones to eat as we sat at one of the tables under the trees. You can order a box lunch to eat there if you want a meal.

There is an amphitheater where you can envision sprites and fairies creating entertainments. A small shop that features products from insect repellent to goat milk soap, all scented with lavender, is at the end of the trail. The owners, Carolyn and John, informed us that this venue is used for plays, parties, weddings, and celebrations of all kinds. It is a summons for the imagination. 

They also have a tea shop, Lavender Mansion, in downtown Tucson on North 4th St near 4th Avenue. I’m planning a trip there in the near future.

Check it out at: Life Under The Oaks Lavender Farm Oracle, AZ https://www.lifeundertheoakslavenderfarm.com/

What Have I Been Doing?

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What have I been doing? That is the refrain from many of my blog readers? I’m sorry I was MIA for a while. It wasn’t planned, it just happened. It’s not because I wasn’t writing. I am always writing.

There were many distractions, including my dearly beloved. Spending time with him has been important. He’s learning to play mahjong! That isn’t what took most of our time, but it is a challenge he accepted and has worked hard to master. Oops. Master is NOT a word that goes with mahjong. Understand is a better word. He beat me numerous times, so I think he’s got it now. Maj is a good exercise for cognition. It helps with memory, visual and spatial processing, strategizing, and has been shown to slow the rate of cognitive decline.

Beyond that, he works hard to maintain his body and spirit with exercise – at the gym and at home. Age is a factor, but Parkinson’s magnifies the efforts. His diligence has paid off in slowing some of the devastating effects of PD. I’m his cheerleader and companion in those endeavors.

I took a class at Pima Community College for three months. My beautiful life is circumscribed for the most part by people over sixty. I love my friends and family…and they are all getting older.  I felt that I needed to talk with younger people. College is the place to do that. It was good to be among people who are “becoming” something, not just “have been” something.

It was an eye-opening experience to share ideas with people who are five to six decades younger. We had very few points of reference in common. Their memories are limited to a couple of decades on the planet. They were gracious enough to update me on what is current in the social sphere and the digital world. And I gave them a glimpse of the past beyond what they read in books. My lived experiences after WWII through the 80s in terms of social changes are real in my memory, but to them, merely paragraphs in a book. They think they are in revolutionary times. So much of what we thought we conquered has returned in a different way – a revolving door of change. I had so much fun, I’m going to do it again in the fall, maybe a history class – heck, I lived eighty years of it.

Our grandson’s enthusiasm for competing in cycling has increased – Tour de France stuff. We’ve spent time with him learning about that world and encouraging his interest. Competitive cycling is so much more than riding a bike; the strategy, the stress, the nutrition, the equipment, on and on. Training is an everyday discipline. He has met people from all over the world in his competitions. He has competed and done well as a junior in races in several states now and looks forward to a race in Milwaukee and then three weeks of training in Belgium this summer. He has only been competing for two years and has been on the podium many times. He’ll be a senior in high school next year. That’s a milestone we look forward to witnessing.

I will post more regularly again. Regular and consistent are not words that occur often in my vocabulary or my habits, but I’ll try. I have lots of stories and ideas to share.

Quail for Breakfast

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Mr. Gambel-Quail, we call him Dan, struts along the sidewalk outside my office window. His copper crown and long black tail feathers that barely drag the ground make him look like royalty. His gray suit is carefully trimmed with brown and white wings. Of course, he sports the signature bobbing topknot. His white vest and the reddish-brown circular belt buckle at his belly complete his costume.  He wears a black mask as if going to a masquerade.

Dan and his family have lived in or near our yard for generations. This year, he and his wife, we call Marilyn (not terribly original on our part) had fifteen babies. My husband calls them “eggs on legs”. They begin life so tiny it is hard to believe they can strut and run just like their parents.

Marilyn is dressed more conservatively. Her brown and white ensemble is topped with a simple waving top feather on her head. I cannot figure out how that little body can produce so many offspring in one season. It is fun to watch the pair of adults shepherd their tiny brood across the yard, into the nature preserve, or occasionally across the street; mom in the front and dad follows to make sure all stay in line. Inevitably, there is a stray that he has to corral back into the group.

Sadly, during the time the babies are growing their number decreases rapidly. When we first see fifteen of them, by the end of a couple of weeks only five or six are still toddling after their parents. Predators like snakes, hawks, coyotes, and rodents raid their nest. Within three months, the remaining two or three chicks are fully grown and, on their own.

Early in the morning, I put bird seed on the top of our stone fence pillars. We sit with our coffee on the back patio and watch quails vie with doves, desert wrens and smaller birds for seeds. The quail usually prevail because they are the biggest. Smaller birds move on to other pillars or to the block wall when the quail arrive. Fortunately, we have lots of space to accommodate the hordes.

When the young quail are too small to fly up to the top of the pillars, the adults go up and scratch seeds down to them.  Day by day, we witness the little ones gain in size and skill until they can fly up to the top of the four-foot posts. We enjoy watching flight school practice. Standing in the yard, eyeing the top of the pillar, they observe their parents. Then they take turns flaring their tiny wings and hopping up in an attempt to fly. In only a couple of weeks, one makes it, then another, and soon all get to the top, sharing space on the pillar, like angels on a pinhead. So many of them crowd together on one pillar.

By the end of June, all the babies are grown, and we can’t tell the parents from the kids. When next year rolls around, the cycle begins again, and we are entertained for three months by the Quail Family saga. Occasionally, more than one family shares our yard, but with the Preserve so close, most families find their own territory.

Addiction

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From the dictionary: a strong inclination to do, use, or indulge in something repeatedly.

Hello. My name is Diana, and I am an addict. My addiction is writing.

I don’t in any way mean to diminish the pain and chaos caused by harmful addictions to drugs, alcohol, and other evils in the world. I know too many people who have struggled and some still are struggling with those. However, I realize that I do have a powerful need, like an addiction, to write, to put words together, to rearrange words. Only in the past few years have I shared my scribbling with anyone, not even my family.

I can spend hours writing and rewriting a single paragraph until I feel like it conveys what I want to say. My husband will attest to the fact that when a notion grabs me, I will excuse myself from his company and say, “I’ll be back in a second. I just have to write something down.” Then I will disappear for two or three hours. Time has no relevance when I’m writing. He usually needs to bring me back to earth with a reminder of an appointment, dinnertime, or something real-world that needs attending. I don’t know how long I could disappear into my head without a guide to help me find my way back.

I write even when I don’t have paper and pencil. I take long walks and compose stories that sometimes get written and sometimes disappear into the ether. I write in my dreams. Lucky for me, writing can be done without great expense. Unlike addictions that require copious amounts of ingredients, legal and illegal, writing only requires my own company with a pencil and paper. Of course, a computer and printer are wonderful assets to have, but they are not necessary. In fact, I cannot write poetry on the computer. It requires handwriting. I met a woman who handwrote her entire biography (over sixty years) on lined notebook paper – stacks and stacks of paper. She didn’t have access to a computer, nor did she even know how to type. It didn’t stop her from writing.

When I finally came out of the writing closet, about twenty years ago, I gradually began to honor my desire to write. It was slow go. I have written stories since I was seven, but it was always in secret. I wrote for English class throughout school of course, but not in a specific writing class. I had stacks of notebooks and journals accumulated over decades as my children grew. All were written when no one was around, then stuck in closets or drawers. When we moved from Seattle to Tucson, I threw them out, thinking they were excess baggage. Now I wish to heaven I had them because they were full of wonderful observations of my children as they grew, and the world around us at that time. Memories of those times have faded, occasionally to be resurrected by photos or conversations with my husband or one of the kids..

In Tucson, on a whim, I took a creative writing class and met many wonderful writers. A few of us who lived near each other formed a writing group. It lasted twenty-five years. It was a revelation to me. We took classes together, traveled to conferences, seminars, and retreats in the US and internationally, and learned the craft of writing. We encouraged each other to improve with thoughtful critiques. We all had families, jobs, and friends who required our attention, but we managed to make our writing life fit into those priorities. None of us wrote as professionals. I have never expected my writing to be a source of income. In fact, I wouldn’t want it to be because then it would change and be subject to other people’s requirements and timeframes. It would no longer be mine.

When my group co-authored our book about our writing experiences, it was my assignment to build a blog for marketing purposes. It took months, but I did get a blog started. I was surprised that I liked the feedback from a wider group of readers. Until then, I wrote only for my own pleasure and to a small audience. The blog brought in readers with different voices, different opinions. I loved it. After a few months contributing to that blog, I found writing on a schedule and marketing to a specific audience to be confining. I wanted to include all my writing, fiction, non-fiction, and wild observations in my communications, so I started my own blog, which is sporadic and definitely does not follow a specific line of topics or thought. I value the people who follow me and especially those who choose to comment. It began to feel like I was writing to friends, but a much larger group of friends than before. One woman’s comment that I treasure said, and I paraphrase for brevity, “I love to sit with my morning coffee and your blog post to start my day.” Now, when I write, I have a softly undefined picture of her sitting in her kitchen or out on her patio (depending on the weather), reading and sipping her coffee, and it makes me smile.

Stories and characters swirl in my head day and night. Some wake me at 2:00am demanding to be put on paper. There are two elderly gentlemen in Paris who come to me often. They were in love with the same woman for many years. I wrote a bit of their story, and they want me to expand on it. There is a very wealthy lady who sees fairies in her garden and wants more time on the page. A man who committed murder and may have gotten away with it asks for time to tell his story, his motive, more completely. The little girl with a pet dragon would like me to follow her family through a complete day. The family may be a bit eccentric…but maybe not. I wrote about a sorceress who enchanted an entire town with her magic. She has more to tell me. A young woman wants to find her father, whom she assumed died in a foreign country, but enigmatic clues have made her unsure of his whereabouts. There is a ghost involved. She asks me to spend some time following her lead. On and on, these characters in my head ask for page time.

I have some professional writer friends – you know, people who make a living writing books, magazine articles, and such. Most of them say they don’t like to go back to read what they have already published. I can totally understand that. To me, a piece of writing is always unfinished, even after I’ve put it out in public. If I go back to read it, I find new ways of saying something or a more appropriate word to fit a sentence. It is torture. I have, on occasion, gone back to my blog and rewritten a post – not entirely, but rearranged words, clarified a point or made a new observation on the topic. One of my writer friends, who has written several books, told me not to do that. If I want to expand on something I’ve written, I should rewrite it entirely as a new essay or story. He said to think of each post as a painter does a painting. Once it is finished, it is finished – leave it alone, no touch-ups, hang it on the wall, and enjoy it. Thank you, Wes. I think he is right. Each time I write something, it is composed at that particular time with what I know or imagine then. It is complete. I can amend, expand, and revise the concept/story, but then it is a different story unto itself. I have a myriad of unfinished stories and essays sitting in files in my desk or on the computer. Like half-dressed friends, I don’t want them to be seen in public. They would be embarrassed. So, they languish behind a filmy shoji screen in my mind until I find the right clothes to complete their outfits.

Thank you for reading my confession. I don’t expect the addiction to go away, but it is nice to be able to talk about it.

Happy Birthday RBG

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It is Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s 93rd birthday. The Ides of March, 2026. In honor of one of the most iconic women in American history, I want to pass along some of her wisdom. She claims it came from her mother-in-law and pertained to the marital relationship. She broadened the sagacious advice to use during her life as a prestigious and honored member of the highest court in the United States.

I paraphrase here: “In every relationship in life, it helps to be a little deaf. This is not meant to be demeaning, belittling, or dismissive of the other person. It is a self-affirming way to achieve meaningful dialogue. Choose to be a little deaf towards thoughtless or unkind remarks. The type of remarks that are not backed by thought, but are rather reactive, emotional, and lacking reason or fact. Comments that do not serve the higher purpose of advancing an argument but rather attack the person and are derogatory or unkind in nature should fall on deaf ears. Reacting in anger will not advance your ability to persuade. Don’t raise your voice. Improve your argument. If the argument is sound and backed with logic, it should not have to be screamed. Its integrity should stand on its own.”

As it pertains to marriage, it is important to confront disrespectful, thoughtless words and behavior. No one should be a doormat to a partner’s demeaning, thoughtless words or actions. Sometimes the intention is to knock you off-balance, to make you give way. Don’t give anyone control over you. Even in the most loving relationship, emotion can overcome reason. As a long-term strategy, it is important to stay clear of an emotional, reactive response to make a counterpoint in a reasoned way and get to the heart of the matter that can be resolved without invective. Step away to clear your mind, then address the issue. Frame your response with the concept of strengthening your relationship. Speak with honesty, not hostility. Turn tensions to understanding. One way to do this is to write it down. Clarity comes with looking at your own words rather than trying to capture them in a swirling thought process.

As RBG would say, “get it right and keep it tight.”

While I may not agree with all of RBG’s views on the law and the Constitution, I do respect her thoughtful reasoning for her positions.

Poetry – What I Learned from Our Son

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How the deep bond between a man and a boy, grandfather and grandson taught me about poetry.

Walter, my father-in-law suffered for five long years from Alzheimer’s disease.  His dependency over that time became the elephant in our midst. He lurched from anger, to sadness to confusion and back to anger at his cognitive losses.  During ever decreasing lucid moments, he would smile in fleeting  recognition even though he forgot our names only to plunge again into no mans land where we couldn’t reach him.  Day in and day out, he spent in front of the television even though he couldn’t understand what was going on.  He dozed and nibbled snacks.  He wouldn’t eat a full meal and forgot how to use a fork, so ate with his fingers.  He became a dependant baby animal and lost touch with everything that made him human.   Lost in the maze of a home in which he lived for over 20 years, his tortuous days and nights were filled with endless hours of not knowing who shared his world.  At times he wept because he was frightened by his image who he called the man in the mirror.

Walt, always an active man, was still well built and muscular into his late-60’s.  He initiated arm wrestling contests with his sons and grandsons and nearly always won.  In his youth he mined copper in the rough and tumble town of Butte, Montana.  He was proud of where he came from and what he achieved not only by his physical hardiness but also his strength of mind and character.  He built a two story home for his family from the ground up in Butte.  He built the family’s summer cabin at Georgetown Lake.  He was carpenter, plumber and electrician all in one.  As a true Finn, Walt felt it was necessary to add a sauna to every house they lived in as he moved his family from Butte to Anchorage to Seattle searching for a better life.  With less than a high school education he pulled himself up out of the mines and into the business community.  He always laughed when he said he went to the best university life had to offer, the school of hard knocks.  By the age of 35 he was a city councilman and owned a grocery store uptown in Butte.  He and his wife, Pearl, raised and college educated three children and delighted in their seven grandchildren.

            The effects of his illness devastated our family.  His physical death came three years later than the death of his soul.  Walt, the man we loved, disappeared long before he was buried.  The disease not only looted his mind, it took his spirit and left behind an infantile creature with dull eyes.  Physically he withered to barely 100 pounds.  Pearl, his wife of over 50 years, insisted on keeping him home to take care of him herself.  The last few months of feeding, bathing, changing diapers and being on constant call wore through even her relentless patience.  Her dejected face revealed the pain of watching her husband, lover, and companion grow ever more distant and helpless under her care.  Family members took turns spending three or four hours at a time with him to give her a break.  During those times he cried or snarled and mumbled incoherently because it took longer and longer to remember words to make phrases.  When he finally put a few words together he demanded, “Where did mommy go?” 

            When he was hospitalized after a slight heart attack, we took turns staying with him at the hospital because the strange surroundings terrified him. He wouldn’t stay in bed unless he was occupied or distracted by someone.  I took photograph albums and showed him pictures of his life in Butte, the only past he could recall.  Occasionally a glimmer of recollection came, and he would struggle to name a name or describe a place.  Since nurses couldn’t spend all their time with him my husband, Ken, stayed in his room all night every night because he awakened so often.

            When Walt died, Casey, our son, was 18, a freshman at Washington State University, and a typical teen.  Being both gregarious and shy, a charming, contradictory combination, made him popular with his peers.  Casey’s best friend in 7th grade was still his best friend twenty years later, even though they chose different colleges and paths in life.  He has a whole raft of friends who used our home and refrigerator as their own.  In self-defense, I learned to dress immediately upon arising when Casey was home because often I stumbled over sleeping bodies when I went downstairs to let the dog out.  I got caught a couple of times in my nighty by strangers who said Casey told them they could crash on our couch or family room floor after a late night or disagreement with parents.  Casey spent hours on the phone.  I believe he was the social secretary for his group since nothing was planned without his direct contact with each and every friend.  When he was away from home, the telephone was his only means of communication with us, most commonly, a request for money.  I was never totally positive that he even learned how to write.

Casey’s room resembled Nagasaki after the bomb.  Momentos from rock concerts and Japan were strewn among dirty clothes, heaps of clean clothes lay scattered on the floor among school papers, matchbox cars, and stuffed animals.  His walls were a collage of rock posters, sports souvenirs, photos of friends, and lists of the current top 100 rock tunes.  The built-in desk, which went the length of one wall, had an assortment of unusual beer bottles, more stuffed animals and games lying on it and no room for studying, which was generally done in front of the TV in the kitchen.  From his door to his stereo to his waterbed, there was a small, barely visible path amongst the rubble.

            Casey had a reverence for ear-splitting heavy metal music along with an appreciation of such classics as the Beach Boys and the Beatles.  He taught himself to play the piano, then learned guitar, which he refined daily in his room, hooked to his amplifier with his headphones so we couldn’t hear it.

            In his 15th year, Casey grew from five feet to six feet and added an inch each year for the next two years.  His weight never caught up.  He was unbelievably thin at eighteen, weighing only one hundred twenty-five pounds.  His shadow scrambled to stay visible when he turned sideways.  He liked his hair long, but his brown locks curled so that, even when grown well below his shoulders, they kinked up tightly at the base of his neck, natural dreads.  He wore a diamond stud in his ear, a personal affectation which gave his conservative father apoplexy.  They negotiated.  Casey didn’t wear his earring in his father’s presence.  That changed over time as Ken learned to accept Casey’s personal sense of style.

            Casey’s main passion, other than a current girlfriend, was and still is the University of Washington Husky football.  Actually, I believe Husky football has, on occasion, come first.  He played football and loved it at a younger age, but had the good sense to quit when his teammates got beefy while he stayed reedy.  He is probably the only kid to sit in the enemy student section at Washington State University during the Apple Cup rivalry game, cheering for his beloved Huskys to beat WSU …and live to tell about it.

            Casey’s second love was Japan, which he visited twice as a teen.  It was the focus of his degree program in International Studies.  Another of his diversions was magic.  His blue eyes gleamed when he mastered yet another illusion to baffle his poor mom.  All in all, Casey was a standard model for his generation, delightful and contrary.

            Fishing with Walt was a highlight of Casey’s youth.  He looked forward to annual trips to Westport with his dad and grandpa.  Casey enjoyed Walt’s company and would sometimes get off his school bus at an earlier stop to visit his grandparents.  Grandma fed him cookies, and then he’d go outside to help Grandpa in the yard or in his workshop.  We lived only 10 blocks away, and his grandpa would give him a ride the rest of the way home after their visit.

            During most of Walt’s final year, Casey was away at college.  We kept him informed of Grandpa’s condition.  The bond between Casey and his grandfather was long ago established in the mystical way that small boys and old men see themselves in each other.  When Walt’s health began to wane, their connection was apparent in the way Casey watched out for grandpa when we took him somewhere.   Before we were aware of his incipient illness, Walt and Pearl traveled to a Rose Bowl Game in Pasadena with us.   After the Rose Parade, we walked toward the stadium for the game.  In the mass of people at an intersection, Walt was somehow separated from us.  He stood in the middle of the intersection, confused about which way to go.   The traffic began to move and honk but he couldn’t find a direction.  We were several yards ahead along the sidewalk when we realized he wasn’t beside us and focused on the commotion behind.   Casey, then 12 years old, immediately ran to his side and didn’t let go of him for the rest of the day.  Walt laughed it off, but it was the first real indication that his problem was more than mere forgetfulness.  Casey appointed himself Grandpa’s guardian and protector for the remainder of that trip. 

As Walt’s condition worsened, Casey was less and less comfortable being around him for very long.  He refused to visit his grandparents.  When Casey’s presence was required for family celebrations he glued himself to the TV and wouldn’t get involved when we had to help Walt eat or go the bathroom.  The changes disturbed him.  It was obvious he didn’t want to see his grandfather in that helpless condition.

            What we didn’t know was that while away at school, Casey wrote poetry and sent it to his grandfather.  We were shown the letters after Walt’s death.  To say we were surprised is an understatement.  Casey, who never wrote so much as a postcard to us.  Casey’s phone bills were a testament to his inability to put pen to paper.  Casey was always so caught up in sports and social activities that we couldn’t imagine his spending enough quiet reflective time or sitting still long enough to put poetic phrases together.  But there was the proof.  One rhymed and clever composition was sent to wish his grandparents a happy Halloween. It was an “over-the-river-and-through-the-woods” kind of poem about ghosts, goblins, and grandparents.

            When we called with the news of Walt’s death, Casey made immediate arrangements to leave school.  He took an overnight bus for 15 hours to get home.  Pearl asked Casey to write a poem for the minister to read as part of the eulogy.  Casey readily agreed.   We were surprised because Casey didn’t like being put on the spot to perform, not even his music that he practiced day and night.

The day before the funeral, while everyone dithered about making arrangements and finding accommodations for visiting relatives, Casey slept.  He slept on the couch.  He slept on the floor.  He slept anywhere there was a level surface.  I begged him over and over to get busy writing his poem.  He told me not to worry, it would be ready for the funeral.

            The next morning, again I asked him if he had written his poem.  He said no with a “don’t bug me” look and returned to his room, where he strummed his guitar and listened to AC/DC blasting on his stereo.  I knew that he was going to disappoint his grandmother and add another sadness to the day, but the more I harassed him the more firmly he resisted.  Finally, about an hour before we planned to leave for church, Casey came into the kitchen.  As I prepared food for the reception to follow the funeral, Casey slumped his 6′ 2″ frame into a chair at the kitchen table.  He tore a scrap from an envelope and started writing in his tiny cramped printing.  When he finished he handed me two scraps of paper.  On them was the poem.  It was beautiful.  He hadn’t labored over the words or created draft after draft.  He slept and dreamed and played music and let the poem form in his heart.  When it was ready, it flowed onto the paper complete and perfect. The poem recalled Walt’s strength, hard work, and devotion to his family.  Casey urged us to be inspired by the kind of man his grandpa was.    He acknowledged that grandpa was quick to see the good things in him and bloated his head with praise.  He urged us to never forget what Walt tried to teach each of his grandkids – to try to be their best.  He recalled a float in the 1982 Rose Parade with an old man and boy on it fishing.  The float said “Gramps and Me”.  When it passed by he and Walt looked at each other and smiled.  He asked us all “to take some care and say a prayer and remember what’s been said”.

            At the funeral, Casey chose to read the poem to his grandfather himself instead of giving it to the minister.  All eyes welled with tears as he recited the love and respect that he felt for Grandpa.  It was a simple poem, not rooted in rules of cadence and meter but brimming with a spirit and eloquence from deep within his human soul.  In those moments, as Casey stood at the pulpit of the church, our son changed forever in my eyes.  He grew from a lively, loving boy to a thoughtful man with the ability and willingness to share his deepest feelings in his own words.  It was then, from our son, that I learned what poetry really was, not as I learned in school, but the unknowable stuff of Muses and spirit.

The Needle Pointed Corkscrew

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In my youth, I had a friend, my best friend

We shared secrets no one else could know

With no warning, she betrayed me

Like a needle-pointed corkscrew, she ripped my heart

I couldn’t take a breath without sharp agony

But somewhere in my hollowness

I still love her

Years later, I had a friend, so close and reliable

We shared secrets no one else could know

I became the needle-pointed corkscrew in his heart

He had to turn away, banish me from his life

I knew his pain, I regret my betrayal

I know that beyond his sorrow

He still loves me.

A Letter to My Mom

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I just read an epistolary novel called The Correspondent by Virginia Evans. It reminded me of other novels of that genre that I read: 84 Charing Cross Road, Frankenstein, and The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, among them. Letter writing is a long-neglected art of communication. I decided to write a letter to my mother. She died in 2004 and although I was with her almost daily for the last four years of her life, there are still memories to share and things left unsaid.

Dear Mom,

I love you, and I miss you. It’s been over two decades since you left, and I haven’t heard from you, not even a little tweak or shadow.

I remember going to the movie Under the Tuscan Sun about two months after you died. In the movie, Diane Lane walked through an old Italian house when a pigeon flew over and pooped on her head. It made me laugh because I was reminded of the time we were walking across St. Peter’s Square in Vatican City, and a pigeon flew over you and plopped its poop on your forehead. In both instances, everyone around said, “Don’t be upset. That’s a good omen.” I wanted to leave the theater to call you to tell you about it and make sure you saw the movie too. Then I remembered you died. I think that was when I really grasped that you were gone, and I couldn’t share that memory with you again. It hurt. Grief takes so many forms as it comes and goes long after death.

Mother dear, I regret that we had so many years of misunderstandings as I was growing up. I didn’t get you, and you didn’t get me. Fortunately for both of us, Daddy was there to referee. The two of you had different theories on child-rearing. Yours was to set standards and rules and make sure I didn’t deviate from them. Dad’s was to let me make mistakes, take responsibility, learn, and move on. He believed “I’m sorry” was better than “Mother, may I”. I learned from both of you, but of course, gravitated to Daddy’s way of thinking.

It wasn’t until we went to Europe together, I in my thirties and you, at age sixty, that we really talked and got to know each other as adults. I admit I dreaded going alone with you. I thought we’d fight the whole time. You wanted to make reservations in advance for accommodations in every place we stopped, and I wanted to play it by ear and see what turned up. No strings. We compromised; you made reservations in half the cities, and in the remainder, I was responsible for finding our hotel, hostel, or B&B when we arrived. Your choices were lovely hotels; mine were eclectic B&Bs and one very questionable hotel. I apologize once again for the bedbugs. I love being lost in a foreign place, talking with strangers, and finding my way around. You wanted everything planned out to the minute. You started packing a month before we left, with each item of clothing wrapped in its own tissue paper cocoon, and I threw things in a small suitcase the night before. We survived three weeks together and became friends.

As a child and teen, I was always pulling your chain, exploring the outer limits of the rules, as you tried hard to draw me back into line. I’m grateful we had twenty years to make it better, and I know we were great friends when you died. You left an indelible impression on my children. I’m glad they were adults by the time you died. They all have great memories of you. You are a wonderful grandmother.

Much love and gratitude, Diana

Why Did You Marry Me?

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That day had been the perfect spring Sunday for Ethan and Rhonda Hedgerton. Jonathan, their son, and Evie, his wife, had come for the afternoon with the twins. They made it a point to get together one Sunday every month to catch up on family events and activities. Jon and Evie lived about an hour away. On warmer days, they were at Ethan and Rhonda’s so the kids could swim in the pool. During cooler months, they met at Jonathan and Evie’s. Holidays were always at Evie’s and included her parents…she insisted.

The boys played in the pool as the adults watched from the patio with drinks. Ethan had Guinness, room temp, Evie had iced tea, Jonathan and Rhonda had G&Ts.  Later, Ethan barbequed steaks for the grownups and hamburgers for the eight-year-old boys. Rhonda served a medley of oven-roasted veggies and, for dessert, special cream cheese-filled chocolate cupcakes that always made the boys squeal with delight. After the kids left, Ethan and Rhonda cleaned up the kitchen and patio. They settled in for the evening.

Ethan sat in his leather recliner with the footrest up and his stocking feet dangling over the end. He was reading the Times sports section. Other sections were scattered on the floor by his chair. Rhonda sat on the couch across from him, her bare feet tucked under her dress, and the cat curled up in the crook of her knees. She was reading the sixth novel in a series of Gilded Age Mysteries by her favorite mystery author, Rosemary Simpson. She found herself reading the same page over and over. Finally, she plunked down the book without putting her bookmark in it. Rhonda scratched Simone’s silky caramel head, eliciting a rumbling purr.

“Ethan…,” she paused to see if he was listening.

“Huh?” He answered from behind the paper.

“Why did you marry me?”

“I donknow.”

“Really, Ethan. Why did you ask me to marry you?”

“What’s going on?” Ethan lowered the paper a bit to look over the top at Rhonda.

“I want to know why you asked me to marry you.”

“It just slipped out.”

“You mean you had no thought? No intention? I could have said no, and things would have just gone on?”

“Ronnie, what do you want from me. It was forty years ago. I don’t remember what I was thinking.”

“You hadn’t agonized over popping the question?”

“I don’t remember. It seemed to be the right thing, the right time, I guess. What brought this on?” His paper was crumpled in his lap.

“Today, when the kids were here, Jon mentioned he and Evie were going to Hawaii for their tenth anniversary, taking the kids with. You said, ‘Hey boy, you just might get stuck for forty years like me’.”

“So?”

“Well, I saw a look pass between Evie and Jon. I felt like you had thrown cold water in my face. Stuck, you said, stuck.”

“Oh, get over it, Ronnie.” A peevish tone entered his voice.

“I can’t get OVER it. I want to know why you married me?”

“Look, I’m here, aren’t I. No visible chains. You’re making something out of nothing.”

“It’s not nothing if Jon and Evie noticed it. You must have had some thought about us being us.”

“I told you, I don’t remember.”

“That’s not good enough.”

With a sigh, Ethan responded, “I married you because of your soft brown eyes. I liked the idea of having sex with you, morning, noon, and night, without worrying about your roommate coming home.”

“That’s it…sex?”

“Pretty much.” Ethan paused. “Okay then, Miss Third Degree, why did you say yes? Why did you marry me?”

“Because I thought you loved me. I thought we had the same idea about family and our future.”

“I don’t recall ever talking about a future OR a family. I wasn’t really keen on the idea of kids back then.”

“So, we didn’t have the same goals?”

“Goals are something I do to advance my career, not live with my wife.”

“You go your way, I go mine. You work all week. You play golf every weekend and poker once a week. You go out with your college friends for dinner. We don’t do anything as a couple.” Ronda was getting visibly upset.

“I relax with my buddies, put work stuff out of my mind. I enjoy golf. It’s my excuse for exercise. I knew Skip and Tim before I met you. Skip is a bachelor, so there’s no couple to go with. The last time I invited Tim and Kim over for dinner, you told me you didn’t like her. After all these years, you said she was boring, opinionated, and talked too much. I don’t connect with your friends’ husbands. We don’t have anything in common. When I go out with Tim, Kim joins us sometimes, even Skip, and it is easy. Kim’s a kick and blends right in with the guys. For a couple of hours, we all have a good time.”

“You mean you go with them, and I’m not invited?”

“You’re invited, but I tell them you have mahjong that night or are babysitting the twins or something because you made it clear how much you disliked being around Kim. I think they get the picture. If you want to join us and listen to old college reminiscences, you can anytime.”

“We’re living here together for no reason. We’re like roommates.”

“Roommates with privileges,” Ethan quipped.

“Not so much anymore. You barely touch me. Our lovemaking is perfunctory. Like you just want sex but no commitment.”

“I barely touch you because after you started menopause, you said your skin hurt. You flinched every time I tried to hold you. You said you felt sweaty all the time.  Over the years, I got used to keeping my distance. I felt like I was invading hostile territory. I don’t want to impose on you. I feel left out when I see you hug your girlfriends, even the guys in your book club, and our grandkids.”

Rhonda opened her mouth to respond, but shrugged her shoulders sadly.

“Hey, I haven’t noticed you being lonesome. You have your mahjong group, your tennis friends, your book club, and you go to dinner with your girlfriends for birthdays and such,” Ethan said.

“We used to go to concerts, plays, and movies, sometimes just us, but lots of times with friends. We used to go dancing and listen to live music around town. Now we just sit here and watch TV. You’re going to retire next year, and we’ll be stuck here looking at each other, wondering why. Why are we together? We have nothing in common except Jonathan and his family. Marj and Colin are planning a cruise the first year he retires, but you don’t like to travel. Bev and Spike are getting a divorce after thirty-six years together. What are we going to be doing?”

“There’s that word stuck again. I get seasick. I don’t like to travel because I like the food I eat here, the bed I sleep in here, and having everything I like, just where I like it…including you. I don’t want to worry about foreign money, foreign language, foreign food, and people I don’t know and don’t want to know.”

“Travel doesn’t have to be foreign. We could travel in the US. There’s a Denny’s or Applebee’s everywhere.”

“But you know how hard it is for me to sleep in a strange bed. My back aches if the mattress isn’t firm enough.  I get cramps. My stomach gets upset easily with weird food.”

Rhonda shook her head and looked down at Simone, tears threatened to breach the edges of her eyes.

Ethan got up and walked over to Rhonda. Taking her hands in his, he pulled her to her feet, dumping Simone onto the floor.  He put his arms around her carefully, then feeling no resistance, tightened his hug; his chin nestled on the top of her head.

“I’m winding up my last project at work. Next year, when I retire, we will plan things together again, maybe even a car trip. I’ve been so busy I didn’t realize we weren’t.”

He bent a little to whisper in her ear. “As far as stuck, I’ll borrow from Elvis, ‘I’m stuck on you’ and that’s a good thing. I married you because I thought you were sexy, and you laugh at my lame jokes. Your laugh, that starts deep inside you, fills the room and warms my heart.”

Rhonda hugged back, her head against his chest.

Neither said, I love you.