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.