To my Mother: the Weekend Getaway Report

Eleven months ago my folks gave Ed and I a weekend getaway for Christmas. The weekend after Thanksgiving we lined up the babysitting and cashed in.

We headed to Yachats on the coast and paid way more for the bed and breakfast than we normally would.


The view from the room:


After poking around at the rocks on the beach our first evening, we headed into town for dinner. One of the reasons we like Yachats is that they have a great restaurant with organic, healthy food scattered about a menu that includes fried food. Yum.

Breakfast at the B&B was also fantastic, with a bunch of fresh fruit and ramekins of scrambled and baked eggs. Oh, and good coffee is always a winner. We stuffed ourselves and went out for a hike on the St Perpetua trail in the Suislaw National Forest at Cape Perpetua.



We hiked in and out of fog until we made it to the top of the hill (mountain, cape, bluff, promontory?). Then the sun burned through and we could see from where we started the hike.

Can you see the little visitor's center there in the bottom left? It was a good hike. I'd love to say it was great to break out of little kid pace and really hit my own stride, but last summer Wrigley really did better on the Black Butte hike than I did. At least I never complained or asked Ed to tell me a story.

At the top of the trail is a CCC shelter. If I remember what the sign said correctly, 5 men brought all the stones up and built over several winter months. Yikes! The lead guy on the project said it wasn't hard, it just took patience.





Before we left, Wrigley made hugs for us to take with. They went on our hike and to lunch (which was also in Yachats, at a place less organic, but still very yummy).



After lunch we hit the coastal areas of Cape Perpetua. We've been here before with Wrigley (who was a wee toddler, but already discovered that she loved clambering over rocks). The waves here crash against basalt rock and create caves and caves whose roofs fall in and become wild inlets with names like Devils Churn and Spouting Horn. The hiking trail is called Restless Waters.






Two more views of the coastal capes. One from the top,


and one from the bottom


We had dinner in Florence, the next town south of Yachats, at yet another fantastic restaurant, one highly recommended by the B&B hostess. The drive was a bit harrowing, managing the Highway 101 curves in some pretty good fog. We drove past and saw the light of the Heceta Head Lighthouse. We're planning a yurting trip near there in a couple of weeks, so we'll get to explore that with Wrigley (we also decided to go back to Cape Perpetua then to see a Giant Sitka Spruce and Devil's Churn with her. The Sitka is 15 feet in diameter!).

Sunday morning was eggs benedict with smoked salmon, and I read in those adirondack chairs while Ed wrote. Since we were visiting the Oregon Coast and it was winter, Ed and I had planned on being stuck indoors - playing games, working, reading and watching stormy seas. We didn't get much of a chance to do those things this time around. The weather on Sunday was warmer and nicer than it had been on either of our two coast trips this August!

After a slow morning getting going, we headed back to Portland, planning to hike on a trail a few miles inland. After driving 7 miles up a one lane forest road, we discovered that the second forest road we were to take was closed. By the looks of things it had been closed for a while.


The actual trailhead was to start a mile and a half away. We explored a little ways down the one-time road, and then decided we didn't want to spend a mile and a half each way on this pseudo trail.





After half an hour we hopped back in the car and headed the long 7 miles back down the forest road. The hiking book we found this hike in was over ten years old. We've decided to retire it.

At the bottom of the hill and after the forest service road (did I mention that the road was partially paved, but mostly gravel), we started to hear a Funny Noise coming from the wheel well. Can't be good if I'm capitalizing it. We pulled over to the side of the road and examined all around the tires. I hate when my car makes Funny Noises. Especially when there is no Big Stick to explain it. We were hoping to clear away something, but no luck. We drove on and then, luckily after driving fast enough, the Noise stopped. Hooray.

Not so fast....

Another 50 miles along and the Funny Noise became a Big Screeching Scraping Noise that seemed to get worse when I turned the wheel. We had just passed up lunch in itty bitty town number 8 with it's a not-fantastic restaurant, and we were about 15 miles out of the next town which might have two not-fantastic restaurants and a closed on Sunday auto shop.

Really, it has been so long since I had any car trouble, I barely know what to do. Well, we wandered about town (tire squealing all the way) and happened upon an Napa Auto Parts that was open and that had an employee-who-knows-a-guy. The Guy works in his shop 7 days a week even though he isn't open 7 days a week, and surely he'd take a look at our Big Screeching Scraping Noise. Sure enough, the Guy jacked up our front end, took off the tire, banged around a bit and eventually knocked loose a well polished pebble that looked suspiciously like Forest Service road "paving" gravel. All with the assistance of one 4.5 year old helper. We took the pebble home and put into a jar where hopefully it will never have any other troublesome friends.

Whew! Back on the road again we had a decidedly not-fantastic fast food lunch at 3 o'clock, waded through some good heavy traffic (oh that's right, it's Thanksgiving day weekend), and were home finally at 5, 6 hours after leaving the coast.

Back at home we got the report. Wrigley is tired of Mac and Cheese and Marble was not pleased with our having left. She threw up about 5 times and didn't use the litter box at least once. Not a very friendly hostess, to say the least.

Outside and In

Snow Day

In our neck of the woods, this national cold snap meant snow and snow days. It snowed a few inches Sunday, but it hasn't warmed at all to melt the snow, instead it is being packed into ice. Two snow days for Ed so far, and Wednesday promises more snow and rain mix, and then more freezing. We suspect that Winter Break this year will be three weeks. Ed's hoping that the weather will allow at least one more school day this week, because he'd like to go get his laptop charger before the break officially begins. One hour and a half of battery and counting down...

It's a Wonderful Life

Well of course it is...
But here, after weeks of rehearsal and late bedtimes are photos of Wrig's big stage debut. She and Ed were both cast in Oregon City HS's production of It's a Wonderful Life. Ed got to stage punch a student several times a night (5 practice punches and 1 "real"), and Wrigley was responsible for the shows biggest line, (say it with me here) "Every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings). Hallelujah! She was loud enough to be heard in the back.

Lucky#7

Wrigley is not a fan of parties. The apple didn't fall from the tree on this one. The birthday parties for W have been getting smaller and smaller until this year - no party. We took the neighbor kids to lunch at Wrig's favorite chain food restaurant, then hit the road for an apple orchard.


It was a beautiful day (the endless gray soggy days don't hit until late Halloween afternoon), and the kids picked liked mad for all of about 10 minutes and the bags were full. These were huge Jonagold apples. We brought home about 75 pounds and seriously we picked for less than 20 minutes. Afterward we hit the picnic area for cake and presents and some frolicking, before heading home.


It was all low key, but I don't think we could have had a better first day of being 7.

Knock knock? Hello?

Hello. We're still here. Happy Fall to you. We went "camping" in a cabin over the weekend. It feels so great to get out into the woods, yet have a warm, dry place to end the day. It was a beautiful weekend with gorgeous fall light and crisp mornings. One friend asked as we packed up last Friday how it is that I manage to plan these weekends the months in advance that it requires to get a reservation. At the time I didn't know, and I barely felt like going. At the beginning of the week we all felt like we might be coming down with a cold, and I wondered if we should cancel and oh, figuring what we're going to eat and packing it all up... why bother? We could just stay home and do yard work. Now I remember. Each time we head out, I make a point of making a reservation for the next trip soon after we get home.

Let's see. I bet everywhere is all booked up for Thanksgiving; do you think we can get in over Christmas Break? The coast? East of the Cascades? Excuse me while I head off to find an open cabin.












More

ples tak z#kene

The previously mentioned foot squasher up for grabs. Hey, we don't put up with that kind of abuse of our kid.

In Lieu of a Poem ...

Wrigley dropped a zucchini today and squashed her foot.

(Read that over and over until you think its funny.)

Poem of the Week

August 19, 2008

I carry an unfinished poem in my pocket,
an unsigned agreement with the universe:
She promises to continue producing wonders,
and I promise to pay attention.

Two More Bag Nights - Three Stories From Camping

3:15:15

Every once in a while - okay, about four times a week - I'll catch a glimpse of the clock and declare, "Hey, it's the coolest time of the day!" For me, that happens to be 12:17. Other folks like 11:11, or 12:34. Some people might not even have a coolest time of the day. I know it sounds weird, but it's true.

On Thursday, the first night of the last camping trip of summer vacation (sigh), while poking amongst the rocks along the Clackamas River, I found an abandoned watch. I have no use for a broken watch (I have little use for a functioning watch, actually), so I let Wrig know about the availability of treasure. She picked it up, checked it out, and announced that it worked. Turns out she was right, so we spent the rest of the weekend administering state mandated homeschooling tests about reading watches. In the middle of one hike, she said the time was 3:15. As we looked at the watch together, the second hand swept past. She was delighted to see all three hands lined up. 3:15:15. Certainly not the coolest time of day, but pretty cool nonetheless.

1:15

Before Friday, the longest conversation I'd ever had with a naked man probably clocked in at around 90 seconds while changing out of my swimsuit at Mt. Scott. Well, as they like to say in Olympic parlance, I smashed that record this weekend. On Friday at Bagby Hot Springs, we easily spent an hour or an hour and fifteen minutes (both can be and are accurate, according to Christie) sharing a hot tub with a very friendly, very unclothed man from Damascus.

For those who don't know (translation: our parents), Bagby is a natural hot spring. Some friendly folks working for a nonprofit built two bath houses with a variety of public and private bathing options, all clothing optional. I'd heard about Bagby before but we'd never gone because a) I thought it was too far, which it wasn't; b) I thought it was expensive, but it turned out to be free; and c) it's (ew!) clothing optional, which turned out to be only mildly ew.

The place is really amazing. The lodges are all built from rough cut wood, worn smooth over time. The group tub looks exactly like you'd expect a hot tub to look, but the individual tubs are made from hollowed out trees, like old canoes. They (yes, the ubiquitous they) have engineered a nifty system that uses gravity, flumes, wooden wedges, and cork stoppers to keep the hot water flowing to 10 different tubs.

The water comes in at a toasty 136 degrees, so you have to add plenty of cool water. Wrig overheated much more quickly than the three adults in the tub, so she regularly hopped out of the tub and dumped a bucket of 50 degree river water over her head. She loved it and we stayed warm. Everybody wins!

S'morevolution

A few years back, my buddy and chef extraordinaire Jeff went all Cooks Illustrated and experimented with variations on the s'more. He tried adding peanut butter, I recall, and maybe pretzel sticks or a few other things. In the end, his verdict was in favor of the traditional s'more. However, he didn't blog about it, and if hasn't been blogged about it hasn't actually happened, so I will be using Re:Wrigley to update our faithful readership about great leaps in s'morevolution.

Our most faithful readers will recall that, last summer, Wrigley thought it might be tasty to cram a square of chocolate into the marshmallow and roast them together, thereby saving time and increasing gooeyness. While this technique requires no small amount of skill, the results were quite excellent.

So what could be next?

Recently, Wrigley was introduced to the candy called Hot Tamales. She's not a big fan of spicy food so I didn't think she'd like them, but the power of the High Fructose Corn Syrup cannot be questioned. She thought they were yummy (her eyes pretty much lit up when she tried her first one) and thought they might be even yummier if she crammed one of them into a marshmallow and roasted it. I thought the results of that experiment were pretty meh, but Wrig was a big fan.

And next?

On Friday at lunch, I was cramming some potato chips into my sandwich and I said to myself, "Hey, Self, you love sweet and salty, don't you? Why not put some potato chips on your s'more tonight?" There's only one possible response to such a question: why not? Unfortunately, the chips we brought this trip turned out to be pretty bland, so the verdict is still out on the potato chip s'more.

And what's next?

Coming this October to a campfire near me, sweet and spicy and salty join together as one when I try a s'more with a salt and pepper potato chip. Commence salivating now!

Dig Me!

The blogosphere, we all know, is really just a place to brag (perhaps we should call it the bragosphere). Sometimes we brag about our kids, sometimes we brag about our artisitc/photographic/poetic prowess, and sometimes we brag about how cool our vacations are; even those political pundits are just bragging about how much smarter they are than our elected officials.

So how about some major bragging on my part? Yesterday, I:

1) Sewed a button onto a pair of shorts.
2) Using Christie's spiffy sewing machine.
3) All by myself.
4) Without crying.
5) Without screaming (much).
6) And without stabbing myself.

I now officially consider myself the coolest guy in the blogosphere.

Poem of the Week

The Grace of Awkward Birds
August 17, 2008

long legged
knock kneed,
neck like a lazy snake

short winged
web toed
beak like a sharpened spike

mismatched
mottled bones
wings like crooked knives

and yet

and yet

airborne
at ease
in flight, a gliding rite

I Thought the '50s Were a Time of Innocence

C: (reading from Spiderweb For Two, by Elizabeth Enright, published in 1951) "He came down at 9:15, hungry as a wolf, and indulged in a waffle orgy."
W: What's an orgy?
C: Um ... sort of a wild, uncontrollable party.
W: Oh.


Ed's thoughts:
1) How did kids know which words you least want to define?
2) Wouldn't a waffle orgy be an exceptionally sticky experience?
3) I can't wait to get home and blog about this.

Poem of the Week

The Stones on Indian Beach
August 6, 2008

rocks congregate
jut beyond reach
of the tide,
defiant.
even the slimmest
skipping stone
insists on its
own solidity.

beneath my
restless feet,
they click their
stony code,
ancient language,
patient language,
alien and
unfathomable.

only the hush
of the surf
speaks to me:
you, too,
will turn to sand,
She sings,
you, too,
will return to sea.

14 Ways My Life Would Be Different If I Didn't Marry Christie

1. I wouldn't be married to Christie. Duh.
2. I wouldn't have Wrigley. I might have some other, lesser kid, who doesn't know her mortar from her pestle.
3. I wouldn't own a house. Buying a house was a terrifying experience. Making the decision to even decide to buy a house was awful. I don't know Christie talked me into it.
4. My yard (at the house where I had been a renter for years) would be all grass. I'd water it every day and mow it every weekend. I'd invest heavily in fertilizer, weed 'n' feed, and round up.
5. I wouldn't have a vegetable garden.
6. I wouldn't even eat vegetables. I wouldn't look twice at vegetables. (It's funny, if Christie hadn't married me, she wouldn't eat vegetables either. I don't know two people who didn't like vegetables got together a became a couple of people who love fresh veggies, but sometimes two negatives do make a positive.)
7. I wouldn't own a CSA. I wouldn't know what a CSA is.
8. McDonald's and Coca-Cola would be a regular part of my diet.
9. I would still wear black jeans. I would look very, very cool.
10. I woudn't tuck in my shirt at work.
11. I probably wouldn't have moved to Portland. After graduation, I probably would have hung around Davis for a while. Then I would have retreated someplace "safe" - maybe even Stockton?!?!? - instead of rolling the dice and moving to a strange city where I didn't know a single soul.
12. I would never have hung two bird feeders outside my living room window; I never would have fallen in love with birds.
13. I would still hate and fear camping.
14. I would watch 72 hours of tv a day. I'd have cable, satellite, AND directtv just to be safe.
15. (Because I've never been good at counting) My terrible sense of humor would have languished for 14 years without an endless supply of appreciative moans, groans, and the occasional, inexplicable chuckle.

Happy anniversary, love!

Poem of the Week

An Embarrassment of Riches
July 31, 2008

I carry a walletful of sunshine.
My piggy-bank is stuffed to
overflowing with laughter.

Synonyms and homonyms,
metaphors and puns,
spill from my pockets
like gemstones.

My lips, stained with
the juices of fresh fruit,
smile easily and often.

If I were a better man,
I’d pray. I’d offer thanks
and beg forgiveness.

As I am,
I can only blush
in anticipation of tomorrow.

A Poem a Day? Not So Much

Days in July: 31
Poems Written: 8
Posted: 3

The year so far:
Days: 213
Poems: 115
Poems I like: 67.5

I Bet You Didn't Know ...

... that Wrigley is a published author in the invisible book world. It's true! She began reading to me from the first book of her three-part series about Spiteful Agate, Unhopeful Diamond, and Resourceful Opal. Yes, that's Spiteful Agate, Unhopeful Diamond, and Resourceful Opal.

Agate, Diamond, and Opal are three sisters - Agate's the oldest and Opal is the youngest. They are orphans (of course) and they are constantly encountering problems. Agate complains, Diamond sighs, and Opal (did I mention she's the youngest?) draws upon her many resources to solve the problem. At the end of the third book (spoiler alert!), we discover that Agate (did I mention she's Spiteful?) is causing all the problems because she's the oldest and she thinks she should be in charge all the time, but the others won't let her.

AND ...

I bet you didn't know that Wrigley's birthstone is Opal.
And Christie's birthstone is Diamond.
And my birthstone is turquoise, but Wrigley thought Agate sounded better.

If anybody knows anything about child psychology or dream interpretation or symbolism and would like to help us figure out what, exactly, Wrigley is trying to tell the invisible publishing world with these thinly veiled autobiographical fictions, please feel free to leave a comment.

A Poetry Lesson from Wrig

At dinner tonight, completely out of the blue, Wrig hits me with this: "When the sun wants to shine, the clouds are its biggest enemies. When the sun wants to rest, the clouds are its best friends."

"That almost sounds like a poem," I tell her.

She says, "I can make it into a poem." And then she says (you must imagine this in a very light, breathy, poetic voice):

The clouds shall be
the sun's greatest enemy
as it shall wish to shine.

And as the sun shall wish to rest,
the clouds shall be
its greatest friend.

When I asked her what made the second version more poetic, she said "It just sounds more professional and old fashioned."

In the future, I shall pledge to use the word "shall" more often in my own poetry.

Poem of the Week

How the Field Guide Got it Wrong
July 19, 2008

The field guide says they have
cinnamon colored bark and,
if you have a limited knowledge
of the spice drawer, I agree.
But the book does not mention
how the morning light washes
them in shades of honey,
or how the fading sun sets
them black as coffee grounds
against a rose petal sky.
Yes, cinnamon is sweet,
but on some afternoons the
bark of the Ponderosa is
sweetened with brown sugar,
and in the evening they
are dusted with bitter saffron.

The field guide says the bark
resembles a jigsaw puzzle,
and I can easily see the hand
carefully assembling each tree,
but this metaphor, too, feels
incomplete. Some element is
missing – something elemental.
Those are veins I see, not cracks,
feeding a beating heart. Those
are scales I see, not puzzle pieces –
the scales of an ancient creature,
primordial, who left the seas
to stand tall here, in these hills,
embracing sky and sunshine
and the possibilities of
cinnamon sweetened light.

Poem of a couple weeks ago

We've been so busy this month being out and about and such, I never got around to posting this one:

A Pledge of Allegiance
July 7, 2008

With sparklers in her eyes
and her chin on her knees,
she tells me

Democracy
just doesn’t
mean that
much to me.

And I wonder what
could be more important:
horses with flowing
manes or injured hooves,
stray cats in search of
a safe place to purr,
the fate of fairies
with broken wings,
or the twin dangers of
thunder and lightning.

I lazily scratch an itch,
lightly unsettled on this
slightly cloudy holiday.
Maybe
she says,
when I’m older
she says,
it will matter more.

Poem of the Week

I Take My Father Camping
July 16, 2008

I take my father camping with me
in small ways:
eyes open wide, set on the horizon,
an eager lean into a long curve of road,
easy delight at another click of the odometer.

I take my father camping with me
in small ways:
a prominent chin in need of a shave,
a knee that complains about a steep downhill,
a back that slopes like a gentle hillside.

I take my father camping with me
in small ways:
bitter complaints about weak coffee,
an easy grin and a sweet tooth,
a sense of humor, drier than tinder.

I take my father with me always,
in small ways.

Picture, If You Will

We spent three nights camping on the banks of the Metolius River. Picture, if you will, a raging river, all white water and roaring, crashing over rocks and ripping over rapids.

The Metolius looks nothing like that.

The Metolius, at least our little section of it, is a lazy little stream, wide and shallow, and toe numbing cold. Instead of rocks and rapids, its filled with marshy islands and flowers that have managed to root themselves in driftwood logs. The Lewis River, at our last camping spot, roars and rages; the Metolius whispers.

One of the attractions of the spot is that it’s about a quarter of a mile from the headwaters of the river. The Metolius is not a spring fed river – it just pops right out of the ground. We tried to walk along the shore to the headwaters, but we encountered private property that was so private the owner built a fence across the river. Wrig was pretty upset that someone could own the forest. We tried to explain that we own property, too, and we wouldn’t be terribly happy about someone coming into our backyard to sleep or eat our veggies, but I’m not sure she was convinced.

So we had to drive the quarter mile to the headwaters.

Picture, if you will, high desert Oregon, east of the Cascades. Sagebrush and boulders. Dust. Neither tree nor shrub nor critter for miles around. Perhaps, for those of you who know it, something a little like Jamison Square. And out of this rock springs a spring. Behold! The Head of the Metolius River.

Well, the Head of the Metolius River looks nothing like that.

I’m not quite sure how to capture the headwaters. Verdant comes to mind. An explosion of bright green in the midst of a patchwork of sage and beige. But explosion is such a violent word and this was such a peaceful place. The air was moist and cool. The only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the whisper of butterfly wings. As we sat and listened to the silence, I could feel the hillside giving life to the river, and the river bringing life to the hillside.

The Head of the Metolius was nothing like I imagined it would be; instead, it was much, much better.

Three More Bag Nights

Here comes this first in a series of posts about our recent camping trip on the Metolius River. I'm at a conference in Bend as I type, and my internet access is spotty, but I'll do my best to get some info up.

Sing a Song of Pit Toilets

On our last camping trip, Wrigley developed an (ir)rational fear of pit toilets. At first, she displayed disdain. And yes, she’s right, they smell bad. Then distaste. And, yes again, she’s right, they’re gross. Finally, her fear blossomed into outright dismay. Under intense third degree interrogation, she revealed the fact that she’s worried that she will fall into the pit. And, yes again, if you’ve ever made the mistake of accidentally looking into the pit toilet, that would be a disgusting thing to have happen to you.

One of my biggest struggles as a professional Dad is dealing with irrational fears. Part of me understands and acknowledges that Wrig’s fears are real and valid. She has a tiny bottom and the hole in the seat seems awfully big. I, for one, can’t imagine anything much worse that tumbling head over heels into a deep dark pit of … well, you get the point. I understand why she feels the way she does, it’s just an incredible hassle dealing with her emotions. A very large part of me wants to scream “Get over it!” A much smaller, more reasonable, and persistent part of me wants to help her overcome of fear. That rational part of me has learned that I can’t make Wrigley learn anything until she’s ready.

Her pit toilet anxiety cast a pall over our first day of camping. On Tuesday night, Christie and I were talking about canceling our next trip. Neither of us could fathom dealing with Wrig’s apprehension (and the accompanying whining) for another two days.

So.

Christie came up with the brilliant idea of using song to distract the child from the terror of the pit toilets. For two days straight, we have been singing a variety of songs with the same theme: I hate pit toilets.

All of this has been a very lengthy preamble with which I would like to introduce my favorite four lines of song from the camping trip. Feel free to invent your own melody. My melody changes every time I try to sing it.

Pit toilets … are the pits.
There’s no clean place to sit!
I’m at the end of my wits
with Pit. Toi. Lits!

(And if that was the best, can you imagine the worst?)

Poem of the Week

For the first time this year, I have gone seven consecutive days without composing a single poem. Phooey. Better luck next week.

RIP, Glinty the Fish, April 2008 - July 6, 2008

Glinty was a silver hued goldfish. He lived alone in a bowl that used to hold Marble's cat food. He loved Wrigley and would always swim to the top of the water whenever you fed him or even just lifted the cat-protective cloth from the top of his bowl. Glinty had no spouse or children, and is survived by one horrifically grief-stricken six year-old.

How Was Your Weekend?

Our recent camping trip, by the numbers:

Days out -
Ed: 5
C & W: 4

Rivers: 4
The Clackamas, the Lewis River, the Wind River, Paradise Creek

Waterfalls: 5
Upper Lewis, Middle Lewis, and (you guessed it!) Lower Lewis, Falls Creeks Falls, and an anonymous fall in the middle of Falls Creek


Skeeter Bites -
Ed: 37
C & W: 2 each
Ratio of Sweetness of Ed to C or W - 18.5:1
Ratio of Sweetness of Ed to C and W - 9.25:1
Number of pages in New Yorker article about itching that Ed read: 7
Number of times Ed scratched while reading: 19

Thunderstorms: 1
Thunderstorms with rain worth mentioning: 0
Lightning flashes: 3

Visits to creepy country store straight from the set of Deliverance to buy ice: 2
Banjo players at above mentioned store: 0

Days until our next camping trip: too many!

The June Review

Number of days: 30
Poems Written: 12
Poems Posted: 4
Poems I like: 5

The Year So Far (as of June 30):
Days: 182
Poems: 107
Poems I like: 65.5

I'm sick to death of my brain right now. I wonder if the number of "Poems I Like" will go up or down at the end of the year when I reread them all.

Poem of the Week

Five days late, no less!

William Stafford’s Carcass
June 28, 2008

William Stafford’s carcass lies in a grave of fern,
just ten feet off the Lewis River Trail,
its hindquarters crushed, hipbones missing,
but the ribcage rises full and round
as a pregnant moon. Six strong neckbones
twisted in a savage angle lead to
a broken skull, a speechless jaw.
Months ago, this spot stank of
indecision and regret, but now
the carrion are well fed, the bugs busied,
and the hide slowly returns to earth.

I wish Stafford were here with me
to see that there are no wrong turns,
no accidents, and eventually all roads
lead to this quiet rest in the hills.
I’d wake him and let him know, but
I’m sure he’s already figured it out for himself.

Poem of the Week

On time, no less!

Stasis
June 22, 2008

In the woods of Ancient Greece,
any person foolish enough to
sit beside a stream waiting for a poem
to drift by on the lazy current
would surely be turned into some
nimble, exotic plant, perfumed with
fruit, poisonous to the touch.

Those Greeks, poets included,
demanded men of action,
adventure, courage and wit.
Odysseus did not wait for Ithaka
to sail to him, after all, and no
glory came to Achilles for watching
Patroklus wage war in borrowed armor.
Those heroes feast to this day
in the long grasses of the Elysian Fields
honored for deeds of doing, not waiting.

But as I sit here, nibbling my pencil
to a nub, the taste of cedar on my tongue,
I think that neither the gloom of Hades
nor the flowers of the Elysian Fields
can match the reward of an eternity
spent on the banks of a sleepy river,
enchanting, fragrant, and deadly.

Poem of the Week

Evening

June 15, 2008

At the very moment

the heat of day

melted into

the cool of evening,

the family's conversation

turned to magic.

From Our Budding Linguist-ette

Quoth the Wrig: Let's go play in our fortress! ... You know, it's called a "fortress" 'coz we're all girls ... if we were boys, it'd be called a "fort."

Poem of the Week

forgetful
june 3, 2008

when my fingers forget the taste of your skin
when my hands can no longer grasp a pen,
when the wind forgets the shape of your name,
let diamonds crumble to dust.

when my ears forget the color of your voice,
when memory no longer holds you close,
when the rose escapes her comfortable vase,
let the stars darken to dust.

when my eyes forget the heat of our love,
when my tired feet will no longer strive,
when tides forget the call of the shore,
let dust return to dust.

The Rarely Merry Month of May

May in Review:
Days: 31
Poems: 7
Poems Posted: 2
Poems I Like: 2

Well, at least the math is easy ...

The Year So Far:
Days: 152
Poems Written: 95
Poems I Like: 60.5

Poem of the Week, Slightly Delayed

Storytellers
(after Brian Doyle)
May 29, 2008

Every scar tells a story –
of falling down
and rising up,
of hands that push
and those that lift.

Yes, every scar tells a story –
of the knife that divides
and faith that cleaves,
of the fragility of bone
and the strength of spirit.

Let me caress your scars,
trace them with tender fingertips,
bless them with timid lips,
and I will love you –

not with sympathy
for the wounds
you’ve suffered
but admiration
for the wounds
you’ve survived.

Because Alice Insisted

No, it's not a poem.

But it's a sign of life, at least.

Hello! I'm still here.

Frankly, I grow bored of my brain at times. I haven't done anything slightly interesting in my classroom during the entire month of May. I wrote my first poem in twenty days last night. It was horrific. Even my darling, wonderful daughter fails to be worthy of a blog post.

So.

I'm still here. I'm writing horrible poetry again. And I'll post something Sunday night.

Consider yourself warned.

Poem of the Week

A Day Without Poetry
May 2, 2008

The sun stumbled over the horizon.
It did not arc gracefully like a swan,
it slouched into the sky like a sullen teenager.

Early morning breezes ruffled the flowers,
but their perfume sparked no synapses.
Birds’ songs were singularly unmusical.

When people spoke, they said exactly
what they meant. They left not an inch
for doubt, for miscommunication. For flirting.

Lovers did not hold hands on the
day without poetry. Sweet nothings
dried on the tongue, unwhispered.

And that night, the constellations spun no
stories in the sky. The stars sat stiffly against
a black backdrop like nothing more than stars.

If You Came Here Looking for a Poem ...

... come back Sunday. Sorry. ;)

April in Review:
Days: 30
Poems Written: 31 (?!?!)
Poems So Bad I Had to Write an Extra One as an Apology: 1
Poems Posted: 31
Poems I Like: 20 (but I'll never say which ones)

And for the Year:
Days: 121
Poems: 88
Poems I Like: 58.5

Whew!

As Useful
April 30, 2008

I like to think of myself as useful.
I can cook a meal, wash a dish –
even swing a hammer if I have to.
I’m a good friend, a good listener,
an adequate scrabble partner,
and I’ll play (off) rhythm guitar
if you’ll play lead.

But for the past seven days
I have been greeted every morning
by a slowly blooming azalea,
shyly uncurling her petals,
coyly dressing green limbs in pink.
For another seven days, she will
dance like a sunset and then fade.
Yes, she neither works nor spins,
and I’ll do even less. I will be a
witness, nothing more.

Every morning for the last seven days,
and every morning for the next seven,
I will be reminded that, useful though
I may be, I am certainly not essential.

Gravity

In Science class they talk about gravity
as if it were a constant, as if life weighed
the same at a wedding as it does at a
funeral. They’ve even invented a
formula to prove they’re right.

Let them crunch numbers all they like,
everybody knows a quarter pound of beef
weighs more when you’re hungry,
and when the world feels gray, eating
ice cream takes off the weight. Feet,
of course, are heavier walking on sidewalks
than strolling in sand. And a heart in love,
we know, is lighter than a heart forlorn.

Trust me. I’m a poet.
I’ve got the formula to prove it.

Gifts

• One poem from a man who loves me
• A new display of my photographs which I never make the time to print or display
• A lock of hair "for you to remember me by when I move out" in a treasure box decorated in primo six-year-old style (move out? can I come with?) (oh, and please stop cutting your hair. She says she enjoys the feel of the scissors cutting hair. I must admit, I agree with her.)
• A collection of poetry from a budding poet (this was in the works evenings for over a month)

• and... a late afternoon delivery on a somewhat sunny day of a decaf iced Americano. Ahhhh.

I couldn't ask for more. Ed tells me that he has plans for a purchased gift but the first time he went to the store, he didn't make it in time for its limited hours and when he did make it, they didn't have whatever it was.

It doesn't matter though. These are exactly the gifts I needed.

A Blessing

Lord,
let my life be filled
with wonderful things,
like the magical
arrival of a goldfish
into a housecat’s home.

And Lord,
let me live with the
patience of my cat,
who can watch her pet
fish for hours on end –
eager, hungry, and amazed.

Happy Birthday, Boo'ful!

ways to say i love you
january 26, 2008

words, i suppose, would do
in poetry or song,
or in red sharpie on a bathroom stall

or flowers, perhaps, might work
hearty bulbs or fragile orchids,
maybe fiery roses, carefully shorn of thorns

some people speak in gesture
three quick squeezes or a pat on the bum,
a long, slow kiss, lazy as a summer afternoon

but the best way to say i love you
yes, the best way to say i love you,
is with tiramisu,

unasked for and unsuspected,
on a not quite icy january night.

Will You Be Mine?

as each event in my day presents itself,
i ask it: will you be my poem?

brave sun struggling through a film of gray haze,
is there a metaphor in you?

the impending doom of a hot, dry throat, help me
find your allusion. biblical or literary will do.

my wife and child, my daily habits and routines,
will you be symbolic for just one more day?

and as each event in my day presents itself,
it tells me no. and no. and no.

sometimes, the only way to write your poem
is to just shut up and live it.

Spring Cleaning

Yard sales bloom
like dandelions:
ubiquitous, invasive,
yet somehow
charming.
Neighbors litter
their lawns
with clothes that
don’t quite fit,
furniture that’s
functional though
slightly chipped,
impulse buys
that can’t be returned.
By Sunday afternoon,
their pockets
are full and
their basements purged.

If only it were
so easy to rid
ourselves of
other blunders:
here, have these
values I’ve
outgrown,
these words I
can’t take back,
these dreams,
slightly tarnished
but still good.

All yours, for just
pennies on the dollar.

Wounded

The white gauze bandage
on the back of her hand
looks … medicinal.
Hospital issued. Available
by prescription only.

When she sees me stare,
she hides it – fiercely,
not shyly. Her wound
is private property,
not to be photographed,
pitied, or admired.

Tonight when I watch
her sleep, her fist
will be curled softly
beside her head,
and the white gauze
will shimmer in dim light.
I will brush the hair
from her forehead,
kiss her gently
on the cheek,

and worry that she will
one day know how
much that bandage hurts.

Words Without Opposites

Take bloom, for example.
Yes, flowers shrivel and curl,
and leaves brown and fall,
but the necessity of death
doesn’t necessarily undo
the accident of birth.
To wither does not
wipe away the memory
of opening slowly and
suddenly.

Rain, too, is
without a mirror image.
Though each raindrop
reflects a desert and each
rainbow shatters sunlight
into streaks of color,
I do not hear the words
hot and dry in the
echo of rainfall.

And let us not
forget language,
for your touch speaks
without words,
each gesture writes
love songs and hymns.
Silence, too, can
sing the praises
of all those other
words without opposites.

Obscure

The doe waits
at the cusp of
the forest,
where dry grass
meets bare branch,
where sun slips
into shadow.

She watches us,
thoughtful and
patient. Perhaps
she is soothed
by the hum
of idling motor,
perhaps curious.
Who knows what
does might wonder?

With two light steps
she disappears
into the darkness
of forest, where
her trunk blends
with the trunks
of pine, her long
limbs mingle
with limbs of trees.
I can see where
she might be, but
not where she is.

In this moment,
I appreciate the art
of camouflage,
the ability to
elude danger
by crafting the
illusion of stillness,
to protect yourself
by lingering,
thoughtful and
patient, obscured
by words that cross
each other like
twisting branches
in the darkness
of forest.

Milestone

There are the biggies: first smile, first words, first steps. That first year, every week we could run down a list of New Cool Things our baby was capable of. That second year is still full of first excitement, and in the third year parents witness an emerging imagination. By the fourth year, things slow down but you still shoot glances at your spouse that say, "Dang, how did we end up with such a Brilliant kid?" Good golly, by the fifth and sixth years everything is old hat and you and your kid are downright jaded. In the seventh year, we've got the first lost tooth to look for. We've been waiting a while for that one. In fact, Wrigley is starting to get a little worried that "everyone" except her has lost a tooth. This is not about Wrigley's first lost tooth. We're still waiting on that one.

This post is about one of many unspeakable firsts. The ones you hope won't happen but must anyhow. Today's first was a big fat bicycle accident. Lucky me, I got to see the whole thing happen.

Pretty simple - big hill, wet asphalt path. She always likes to go down the hills fast, but I can see her riding her brakes some. She likes to be in control. This time she was going really fast. Left behind at the top of the hill, I whispered some choice words under my breath about how fast she was going.

It is hard to let your kid take risks. It is hard to see her climb every tree she comes across when parents around you are whispering stories back and forth about the kid who fell - 10 feet, 20 feet, 50 feet - from a tree last summer in our park. He's still not as good as new. But take risks she must, and they must be real risks, not ones I have safely padded and insured and sanitized. So I stand back, wince, hold my breath and whisper under my breath all behind her back. She cannot know I think she might get hurt.

At the bottom of the hill she slows some. The brakes work, but she isn't stopping as quickly as usual. She gets impatient and puts her feet down. The front wheel wobbles. She corrects, then tumbles over and splat, on the sidewalk.

Still awfully close to the top of the hill I start quickly down until the voice in my head tells me to run. It also lets me know that the good sticks of kindling I've been collecting (we go camping again in two and a half weeks) are of no use, and I toss them to the side. Poor Wrig, I don't gt there first. First on the scene is a transient waiting for the bus who smells like two week old alcohol. He is very kind, helping her untangle and trying to comfort her, but she is not interested. When I arrive she falls again, this time into my lap.

It takes several minutes to assess the damage, since she is sobbing and we have to go through several body parts with newly ground in dirt and grit on bare skin and sweatshirt. After several minutes I realize nothing is broken or bleeding too badly. Her hand is chewed up a bit, she has a sprinkling of road rash in her face and her eyebrow has swelled up to the size of a chocolate malt ball in addition to run-of-the-mill knee and shin scrapes.

Back at home she won't let me take any pictures. We use copious amounts of band aids to cover each speck of evidence. We settle on the couch with hot chocolate and a book.

The good news is we still have first trip to the emergency room to look forward to.

My Father's Shirts

My father is forever fixed
in my mind as a man twice
my height, with his gin card
up his sleeve and can of
turtle wax in his hand.
I never thought of my dad
as a giant, but he always
felt large – even now,
when I can look him in
the eye when we hug
goodbye; even now,
when his hair is thinning
and his blood pressure
is high; even now,
when I close my eyes
I look up to him.

So it comes as a surprise
that I have been wearing
his shirts to work for the
last three days. The collars
are crisp in a way that mine
never are, and the pockets
are filled with crossword
puzzle answers, but I
manage to fill out the
chest all right and
the sleeves seem to be
just the right length.
The shirts fit fine,
but I still feel so small.

How is it possible
that I have grown
into his shirts
without growing
into a man?

Icarus Again

(A Nonettenon Poem)

It’s all downhill from here, and I’m not
talking about skiing either.
I’m not talking about how
you soar like an eagle
or feel free as the
wind or all that
other junk
poets
like
to
blather
about. I’m
talking about
letting go, total
freefall, panic in your
belly and fire in your eyes:
the moment when you’re about to
quit but decide to sprout wings instead.

Photography Lessons

You could, of course, take a portrait:
everyone on the cabin porch,
stiff and uncomfortable, smiles forced.
If the angle’s wide enough, you’ll
capture the backdrop: trees about
to bloom, jay bird waiting for crumbs.

Or you could try a landscape:
flat wall of flat gray clouds.
When you show it to your friends,
be sure to describe the obscured
valley – hills rolling into forever,
snow capped and serene.

When night falls, open your
aperture wide as the hillside
and capture the moon as she rises.
Leave the shutter open all night
as the clouds swallow up the
moon and release her.

If you’re a minimalist, shoot
for the tiny details: snow piled
three inches high on the picnic
table, flapjacks stacked even
higher. Be sure to capture
the glint of sun against ice.

But if you must capture the
trip with a single frame: take
a picture of a sleeping bag.
Focus on the small lump at the
foot, which just might be the
curled figure of a hibernating child.

Watching the Snow Fall at Night

I tried to calculate the calculus
of each individual snowflake,
to discover the magical
mathematical formula that
determines the meandering
path from cloud to earth.

I figure
that x equals
the length of the sky
times
the depth of your eyes
times
the width of our horizon,
divided by
infinity.



LL "Stubb" Stewart State Park

Such Shyness

Such shyness
is really a shade
of selfishness.

To either mask
your gifts in
false modesty
or hide your
frailty from
friends in fear

is to keep
the best of
yourself
away from us.

To My Daughter's Boyfriend, Ten Years From Now

I promise not to come between you;
I’ll build no walls, intercept no phone calls.
I’ll not play Capulet to your Romeo.

But in return, you must promise me this:

You must remember walking through the woods,
eyes sharp, looking for deer, for stones, for treasure.
You must remember how fragile the world felt,

each step cracking a twig, each sound sharp
and dangerous. You were still that day, gentle.
You must be that gentle with my daughter.

And you must remember the joy of playing
football in the living room, the crash of shoulder
into furniture and floor. You must remember

the humbling roar of a million imaginary fans,
the electric thrill of breaking Mom’s rules.
You must give that joy to my daughter.

And remember the good luck stone you carried
in your pocket until you outgrew good luck.
You told everyone it was quartz, even though

you knew it was a diamond. You held it to the sun
once and saw a shooting star. You must carry
my daughter just that closely to your heart.

If you want to love my daughter, young man,
you must remember how to be a boy.

haiku for icarus

let me lay seven-
teen syllables on your arms
like falcon’s feathers

let me teach you to
capture the light of flight in
the weight of your bones

let me plug your ears
with verse; let me sing of
heroes who disobeyed:

fear not the sun, whose
thin, dry fire can never melt
the glory of hope

Looking Up

i’ve been scrounging
for a decent idea all day,
looking in the corners
of forlorn drawers,
under the mugs on
the upper cupboard shelves.

i’ve rooted through
cluttered closets
without success
and troubled the
monsters under
the bed. bad idea.

nothing but lint
in my pockets,
nothing but gum
on the soles
of my shoes,
scuffing the
sidewalk
as i search
for a
decent
idea.

A Wrigley Recipe, NOT in Verse

For the cake:
1 C. flour
1 C. milk
1/2 C. (?!?!?) sugar
2 eggs
Lemon icing
Jelly bellies.

Put in oven at 350 degrees. Check after one medium length picture book. Check again after lunch. Ice liberally. Decorate with jelly belly landscape (one flower, one pond, two very small apple trees, sky with clouds, and sun). Serve to one dubious father, who will probably ask for seconds.

It's a little dense, but better than you might imagine. I would not, however, recommend you try it yourselves. It's best when served by a six year old.

Roof Rack Symphony

When the salesdude said
the cheaper rack might whistle,
he did not say we would
be followed by songbirds
everywhere we went.

And when he said
the rack might whistle,
he did not tell us we would
be followed by the gleeful
howls of ghosts from
highway to home.

And when he said
the rack might whistle,
we did not stop to think
about the song of hope
we carry in a roof rack
filled with camping gear.

dear diary

if i kept a diary,
i’d invent
a new lie
every day.

i’d write
about snowflakes
when i meant
to describe
cherry blossoms,
or cherry blossoms
when i’d really
seen the wings
of moths take flight,
your heart in tow.

i’d write
about the scratch
of metal on metal
instead of the
hummingbird’s buzz,
or i’d talk about
a hummingbird
when i meant
to talk about love.

if i kept a diary,
i’d invent
a new lie
every day,

because not
even a diary
wants to hear
the true story
of a spring morning
trying to pretend
it’s summer.

On the House Across the Street

I noticed a patch of
blue lattice today,
three coats of paint ago,
that someone somehow skipped
when blue became white
and then again when
white turned black.

I have been brushed
with a shade of
sentimentality all day,
wondering about
neighbors long gone,
colors long faded,
and little details
I may have missed,
left open like wounds
for strangers to see.

to not be 97

should the fates desire
to spin me six more decades,
is it a sin to say no thanks?

should peter bar the gates
for another sixty years,
what is the price of
sneaking in the back door?

do not mistake me:
i neither hunger for
an early shroud,
nor seek to
shuffle off this
clumsy coil,

but
i lack the patience
lack the strength,
lack the will

to be frail.

i know the
seven deadlies,
i have studied,
i have learned,
but i do not know
what crime it is
to be too weak
to be weak.

so should the fates desire
to spin me six more decades,
is it a sin to say no thanks?

a good night poem

i have become increasingly
distracted by the way
your hair colors the lamplight golden,
your eyes drink dickens like nectar,
and your sighs sing the stars to sleep.

A Poem for Romy, Somewhere in the Sky

I wish you wings
made of piano notes,
soaring chords
to keep you afloat,
and clouds made
of major keys.

I wish you bird’s eyes –
keen, keening,
quick, quickening –
seeking out the
laughter rolling
in the landscapes’s hills.

I wish you soft landings
on sharp talons,
a fierce perch
on a strong branch,
a feathered nest
in fine weather.

the best ways to waste time

always involve something to chew on –
a pen cap, a thumbnail, a stray plastic toy.
they call it ruminating.

and the best ways to waste time
take no effort, no planning.
we stumble into them gracefully,
accidentally, like tripping over
river rock and landing in a nap.

weather, naturally, is never a factor.
i can dither and dawdle on an
icy december morning as easily
as an august afternoon laced with sun.
what really matters is the way
the pen slips into my fingers.

company, too, is surprisingly secondary.
yes, nothing fills an hour like
a good friend and idle chatter,
but let’s sing amen for an hour unfilled.

because the best ways to waste time
require nothing more than a deadline,
something urgent, a tight voice warning
i told you so.

after all, how you’ll never know that
water is sweet until the rivers run dry.

Not a Poem

This is not a poem about my alarm clock.
I will not personify its beady red eyes
or its malignant glare.
I will not employ onomatopoeia
to capture its vicious screech
that metaphorically shatters
my sleep, deep as a glassy lake.
I will not resort to such cheap parlor tricks.

No, I will not.

Instead, I offer you the
moment before
the alarm clock rings:
darkness thick as bear’s fur,
a gentle cave of silence,
an avalanche of blanket,
and the possibility
that this dream might last forever.

In Praise of Failure

Let us sing now of human failure,
of the men who strapped wings
to their backs and thought they could fly,
of the women burned at the stake.
Let us sing of the crumpled rough drafts –
the religious tomes, the law books,
the epic poems and the sonnets.

Let us sing of trying to jump too high,
to reach too far, to woo where
wooing’s unwarranted.
Let us sing in praise of the round pegs
in square holes, of all mismatched shapes
and misbegotten sizes. Let us praise
those who have failed geometry as
gladly as those who invented it.

Let us sing now of those who tempt
the impossible, who let us take
from their mistakes, who,
by failing to fly, teach us to fly.

Oh Look! An Actual Post!

As you might have guessed, today was Opening Day for Powell Little League, and the very first day of Wrigley's baseball career. She's had quite a three week stretch of squealing with glee. First, it was "Oooooooh, I can't wait until EEEEEEEEaster!" Then, it was "Ooooooooh, I can't wait until Arizoooooooona!" Until today, it's been "Ooooooooooh, I can't wait until my first baseball gaaaaaaaame!" (Tonight at bedtime, she was counting down the days until "potato piiiiiiiiza!" Quite a comedown.)


Amazingly, none of these three squeal-worthy events were letdowns. She had a ball hunting for eggs. We had a fantastic time in Arizona. And she wore this big goofy grin all day - from the drizzly parade at the crack of dawn through her debut at second base (or first outfield - in t-ball, it's kind of hard to tell). She hit the ball all three times at bat, got the ball in the air once, remembered to run most of the time, fielded a sharply hit ground ball cleanly, and got her pants muddy. What more could a kid ask for? Cheetos? Oh, yeah - she scored some cheetos, too.

Opening Day

Opening Day is always gray in Oregon,
and no matter how many colors of the rainbow
are captured by the t-ballers tee shirts,
they can’t chase away the drizzle.

Because Opening Day is always gray in Oregon,
the kids don’t know the difference.
They can’t imagine baseball under the sun,
cannot fathom the purpose of eye black.

So their sunbeam smiles blaze brightly
as the raindrops roll off their caps.
They shake off the gloom, dig in, play ball,
and root, root, root for the home team.

Because
the color of hope
is always gray
in Oregon.

Ouch!

Inspiration struck,
suddenly and with questionable intent,
leaving me with little more
than a bruise the color of ink
and this small poem.

6:58 am

It’s an indecent hour to be anywhere but bed,
but if I must be somewhere, might as well be
the intersection of 27^th and Hawthorne,
where the street crests and the southeast side
begins its slide into the river, where the
sunrise washes red brick with pink,
and every window winks with golden eyes.

The Curriculum Knights

Sing ho for the Curriculum Knights!
Elevating fiction to the state of literature,
Lifting up those who would be dumbed down,
Sing ho! Sing ho! Sing ho!
Sing ho for the Curriculum knights!

Sing ho for the Age of Chivalry!
Opening the doors of education (and classrooms),
Helping their classmates over puddles of muddy prose,
Defending ladies and lords alike from the
Singularly offensive use of the pronoun “their,”
Sing ho! Sing ho! Sing ho!
Sing ho for the Curriculum knights!

Sing ho for the Age of Bravery!
Wherever the Dragons breathe the Fires of Ignorance,
Torching tomes, toppling ivory towers, and
Boiling the Fountains of Knowledge into waterish vapor,
The Curriculum Knights will battle.

Sing ho for the Curriculum Knights!
Spelunking within the deep dark caves of despair,
Hacking and slashing at the thick hides of dimwitted dragons,
One wielding the Axe of Questions and the other
One wielding her lance a lot.
Sing ho for the Age of Bravery!

And when the battle is done,
The Beastly Beasts vanquished and shunned,
The Curriculum Knights will pillage the dragon’s hoard gladly,
Gladly dispersing the priceless treasures: ruby rich words,
shimmering similes, and golden coined phrases.
Sing ho for the Age of Victory!

Sing ho! Sing ho! Sing ho!
Sing ho for the Curriculum knights!

April 2, 2008

I Pity da Fools!

So. Now there's NaPoWriMo. As if Nanowrimo wasn't bad enough, "they" are challenging me to write a poem a day. Never mind the fact that I've already challenged myself to do the same thing. For the month of April ONLY, I will publish a poem a day. Maybe.

April’s Fools
April 1, 2008

Sometimes they are the lovers,
murmuring vows over
crystal stemmed goblets,
brimming with wine as
white as whispers,
white as lilies,
white as lies.

Sometimes they are politicians,
counting votes and
counting on voters,
kissing babies and
babying constituents,
promising changes we don’t believe
and believing they will change us.

Sometimes they are the fans,
bundled in the bleachers
as snow falls,
rooting for victories
that win nothing,
cheering for the cheaters
who cheat the heroes.

And sometimes we are the poets,
penning pantoums or
dabbling in doggerel,
scribbling sonnets
or imagining elegies,
weaving words into walls
which shield us from our folly.

March in Review

Days in March: 31
Poems Written: 21 (my best month yet!)
Poems I like: 16.5
Poems Posted: 6 of mine, 1 of Wrig's

Year in Review:
Days: 91
Poems: 57
Good poems: 38.5

A Day Late

Bonus trivia: this is post#300 on Re: Wrigley!

Even though I wrote this poem before I left, it pretty much captures how I felt when I returned.

The Woodpecker’s Landing
March 24, 2008

Full speed, all flutter
and red feathers,
face first towards
the telephone pole
and inevitable
catastrophe:
a crash, a collision,
a congregation of
beak and bark
that benefits neither
bird nor beam.

But then.

Unavoidable disaster
avoided.
Certain doom
dodged.
The expected accident
unexpectedly averted.

The woodpecker
pauses in midair,
hovers like a
wistful whisper
between lovers,
and effortlessly
embraces his home.

Addendum For Those Not So Easily Moved

Spots has her very own boarding pass.

Sigh, oh sigh.

Things That Melt Your Heart

Grammers and Gramps took Wrig to Build-a-Bear today. She selected a cheetah (or maybe it's a leopard. If you know the difference, feel free to straighten me out). Without realizing it, Wrig managed to select a) the mot expensive "carcass" and b) the carcass that came with a $1 donation to the World Wildlife Fund.

That, however, is not what might melt your heart.

Wrig pretty much fell instantly madly in love with Spots. When we stopped at LensCrafters, Wrig plopped herself down on the floor and cradled Spots in her lap. I thought she was going to hike up her dress and nurse the beast. Spots gave Wrig a bear hug - actually, a leopard hug - for the rest of the afternoon.

That, however, is not what might melt your heart.

And then - warning: potential heart melting event ahead - as we got into the car after our trip, Wrig sat Spots into a seat and strapped her into a seatbelt. Yes, she secured her brand new stuffed animal with a seat belt. My, oh my.

Bonus heart melting event: While I am typing, Wrig is sitting on the kitchen counter, dressing Spots in her purple prom dress and ruby red shoes. She is narrating to herself, as she often does. The only two phrases that I've clearly understood are "Ugh, I think I've put this all on backwards!" and "... especially when she's a poor orphan." Oh, sigh.

Hold Your Breath

A post in praise of dangerous women:

Yesterday, after Wrig had exhausted me in the pool, she found a friend named Lena, from Chicago. Lena was a little bit older than Wrig, a little bit taller, and - though not much - a little bit better at swimming. Lena and Wrig grabbed a noodle each and began paddling about the pool. Lena was very excited to be over four! feet! tall! and able to stand on her tiptoes way! out! here! She kept luring Wrig further and further into the pool, into deeper and deeper water.

I relaxed on a lawn chair, holding my breath.

It takes an enormous amount of concentration to watch your daughter and her brand-new-novice-swimmer friend fend for themselves in four and five foot water. Every ounce of energy I had was spent cementing my kiester to the chair. Every other ounce of energy was spent suppressing the urge to shout "Wrigley, get back here!" or "Wrigley, be careful!"

You know what? Wrigley knows to be careful without me shouting at her. I watched her balance herself this way and that, trying new tricks and reacting to the flow of energy and water. Whenever she felt unsure, she paddled back to safer ground, readjusted herself, and tackled the deep end again.

My kid has good sense. It's terrifying - um, I mean fun - watching her use it.

We're Not in Kansas Anymore, Toto

I'm struggling with a difficulty I don't often encounter while blogging in Oregon: sun glare. I can pretty much take my laptop anywhere in the city of Portland and not have any problems reading my computer screen.

As it happens, I am sitting on my parents back deck, in the shade of a mesquite (I think), being serenaded by unfamiliar birds. There are quail here, and mourning doves, and three other calls that belong to much shier birds: one of them honks, one whistles, one sings opera. I hope they'll introduce themselves before Wrig and I head home.

It's been an eventful morning already. Wrig saw a bunny across the street and a quail righto ut the window. Right after breakfast, we made a beeline for the swimming pool. Wrig splashed and frolicked and made friends. Wrig very generously offered to share her rockets with a three or four year old boy. It always surprises me that it surprises my parents when Wrig is generous. Our society expects the worst from children, and why not? Have you seen tv? Poor behavior is all we model for them. It's a shame we're not sending Wrig to school to pick up some "social skills."

Oops. Accidental mini-rant. Sorry 'bout that.

I was able to swim today (a whopping 20 laps) for the first time in 10 months (thanks Kaiser PT!). I'm curious to see how my knee reacts. I hope it doesn't get cranky.

Despite the accidental rant, I'm feeling very mellow and content right now (if not a wee bit lonely). The temperature is in the low 80s, the breeze is tickling my leg hair, and I could very happily be an Arizonan.

For about five days.

Poem of the Week

This has been the longest week in the history of longest weeks. EVERY DAY this week I have said to myself, "At least tomorrow is Friday ..." I was wrong about that for a very long time.

About 15 years ago, on Monday, Christie received a letter from the OSPA informing her that one of her students scored an honorable mention in their student contest. The next day I received a letter at work informing me that one my students also took an honorable mention. I've been nagging my kids for going on ten years to enter that stupid contest and, lo and behold, one of them finally did. I honestly can't say whether I'm more proud of Wrig or of my student. (When I told that to my student, he said, "Better stick with the family, Mr. Kline. Better stick with the family." Smart kid.)

So this poem was written last Sunday, during and shortly after Wrig's magnificent performance. It is not - directly, anyway - about Christie, though you might like to think it is. Perhaps one of our lurkers might recognize herself. Perhaps not.

Anyway, I'm kind of tired of posting poems about parenting but, honestly, it's all I've got. If you're dying for a poem about nature or springtime or something, let me know.

The Look
March 16, 2008

After ninety minutes of watching other people’s children
mumble and stutter, stumble and mutter, her daughter
finally takes the stage. And as the set pieces
shuffle and rumble, the look creeps across her face:

Features sharpen, eyes narrow, lips purse –
a look painted partly with fear, mostly with hope.
She leans forward in her wobbly chair, ready to leap
to the rescue should her daughter fall, should she fail.

She is not alone in this crowded audience. No one
says it out loud, but we cling to the belief that if we
love our children enough, if we watch them as intently
as we intend, our looks alone should shield them from harm.

So we all wear this look to protect ourselves when
our children attempt their most dangerous feats
of derring-do: barreling breathlessly down the block
on two wheels, leaping into clear, cold water,

or, worst of all, falling in love.

Ed is always forgetting stuff

Ed forgot to tell you that Wrigley (and her teacher, yours truly) was also invited to an awards ceremony where she would have the opportunity to read her poem to the audience. Oh, and the awards ceremony would end with dessert. This detail amuses me because it is a detail that was mentioned only in Wrigley's letter and not in mine. We can't go to the ceremony, as it is scheduled the same weekend as our annual Mother's Day cabin camping trip, but if I were six and I had that to look forward to, the dessert part would stick in my head.

If we were able to go, we wouldn't have had to worry about the public poetry "reading" performance. Wrigley had her debut in that arena this past weekend. Her drama class had its semester performance on Sunday. Last Thursday, Wrigley was taken with Daffodowndilly, a spring celebration poem by AA Milne. She decided she would ask Samantha, her drama teacher, if she could perform it. She did just that, and Samantha agreed that Wrigley could open the performance by reciting the poem and making the announcement about turning off your cell phone.

Gack, just before time, I was all atwitter.


You see, the drama class performance is really all about cute small kids bounding about the stage with the drama teacher right there on stage as part of the play acting as narrator and line prompter to keep the storyline rolling along.


There can be no mistakes because no matter how badly they forget, move to the wrong place, get silly, distracted, speak softly or even pee (poor girl) on stage, Samantha is right there keeping it going and in the audience are all parents who are all also parents of 5-10 year olds who are also doing the same things.

So here it is time for Wrig's big solo debut and I've got butterflies. If Wrigley did too, I couldn't tell. She spoke clearly and projected. She didn't forget a thing, though, afterward she mentioned that she got one of the words wrong. I also now know the poem by heart, and I didn't notice.


It was quite an event. Then the next day, she finds out about the Oregon State Poetry Society award. She's feeling pretty good about her talents right now.