Goblins and Ghosties and Hallow to You

I don't get into the politics of Halloween. Yes, I know the origins of Jack o'Lanterns and the sinister side of witchcraft but my pumpkins are allowed dentures during the day and my witches carry buckets of silvery stars to cast as blessing spells, or brooms to sweep away bad dreams.

I only draw happy. AT OUR HOUSE-1979

They come by close sets of five or six,

never too many at once.

It can be counted upon that

there will be a rock star,

a hula dancer, a clown,

an ever-young princess.

In the past, it has often rained here

on this special night.

Generally, though, the weather

joins the masquerade:

fog patches tease and enhance,

swirl and lie low.

The cries of, "Trick or treat!"

echo down the dark back alleys,

echo down to the boundary road.

My little ones grow;

their imaginations flourish.

They refine their old favorites:

the Straw Man and the Wicked Witch.

I send them off with goodbyes of,

"Happy haunting!"

and listen for the echoes

down the streets,

the clear crisp replies,

"Trick or treat!"

magically, ever-fair,

down the lanes, down the years.

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....may the blessings of feathery masks and bumpy gourds be yours...

Ticking Along

1974. I met Julia Miller in a Southern California writing class at a place called Everywoman's Village. It was in the forefront of the women's movement. I was not and that's probably why I liked Julia. I took three buses from Manhattan Beach to the San Fernando Valley wending my way once a week, reading War and Peace. I wore a blue flowered hat to shade my freckles. The bus driver on the last part of the trek nicknamed me Little Blue Riding Hood. Julia was a backup singer on the Mac Davis show and had a quality of beauty I didn't see in most of the feminists who were continually ragging me to get "fulfilled." Julia had an old-fashioned modesty. She was beautiful in so many ways. We became friends quickly and corresponded for several years after the class was done. Her father wrote music scores for movies but I don't remember now which ones. One summer, she sent two clocks manufactured by her husband. She told me to pick one and send the other back as she didn't know which I would prefer. One clock was simply a round mirror with the numbers 1 2 3 and then the word, "etc." The other was a square framed in wood, very solid looking which reminded me of a carpenter's holiday with the same number pattern and the word, "etc." I immediately named the round mirror Donna and the square, Daniel. I name everything. I noticed that Donna ran slower than Daniel. I wrote to Julia and said I was having a difficult time deciding but at the moment Donna was across the room from Daniel and seemed to be trying to catch up to him, like Evangeline and Gabriel in the tragic Longfellow poem. Julia replied that I could adjust Donna's pace on the back of the clock but she suspected I wouldn't. She said, "Keep them both! I can't bear to separate Donna and Daniel!!" Everywhere I have moved since, the two clocks have been across the room from each other. I haven't been able to give them away because I, too, can't bear to separate them. They are a symbol of faithfulness and longing, of endurance and dedication. Plucky clocks. I know Julia would be pleased that they accompanied me in my travels and many, many people have heard their story. I'm certain that thirty years after the gift, Julia is still the delightful old-fashioned songstress she was on the day I met her. When I set the clocks to "fall back," I'll be sure to set Donna a little behind Daniel and thank Julia all over again for these stalwart companions.
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...may the blessings of very special gifts be yours....

The King of Postcards

My first memory of my older brother is of his standing in the corner facing the wall. What a fascinating hobby!--because it did seem to be a hobby. I'm told that when I learned to walk, I was often seen attempting to squeeze in to stand next to him. I kept trying to figure out what he saw there. Later, I discovered this was a punishment for drawing on the walls. I was profoundly intrigued by the fact that he didn't appear to learn his lesson. He still hasn't! as you can see on his voidvisions blog. Ultimately, I was the great beneficiary to having stood by him: postcards. I have circa 200 postcards in my collection. I found one without a drawing but the lettering of the 3 word message and address were the best of letter drawing, of course; the stamps, the tops in art. Another gift was that my brother became my advocate at times during which I stubbornly refused to listen to others. My mother would say to him, "Reason with her!" This worked for I knew He Who Stands in the Corner also was He Who Knows His Sister's Heart.

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...May the blessings of kinship find you and welcome you home...

Older Than Columbus

My dad was born on the day before Columbus Day so the running joke in the family was that he was older than Columbus. Year after year, "The Daddy," an Irish term, was delighted to know how old and sage he was. After he passed away in 1985, I wrote an annual memorial poem. In this one I have included a quote in respect to his mother who was of Apache descent.

IN LOVING MEMORY

"Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow;

I am the diamond glint on snow."

--Chief Seattle

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Was that you I just heard in the veery's call?

"Patchy frost,"he predicted.

"Circle Columbus Day!"

I listen for you these evenings

near this veery's thicket.

Giddily, he is busy in the piney grove

reminding me of your clattering newsroom,

something politic is always

hot off the presses.

His co-workers gather their copy

the length of the woods and back before

Pegasus touches light, square hooves

to the trail of the night sky.

Do you ever tire of their amazement?

Did you? I remember your joy

at a sketch from the Far Flung Correspondent,

the urgency of your passionate editorials,

and your last words:

"You never know when you're going to

learn something new."

I go into the woods in the twilight chill

to catch the latest,

to return the call.

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...may the blessings of remembering the ancient ways be yours...

Cabin Fever

I have adored cabins ever since as a youngster, I cut out a photo from a magazine of a rustic cabin in the Adirondacks with snowshoes hung on the porch. Adirondacks! Such a beautiful word! and snow was something seen only on the distant peak of Mt. Huila. In 1984, a trip through the High County of North Carolina led to a For Rent sign: "FOR RENT: cabin." There was an arrow pointing up a gravel road with the impressive name of Highway 1111. A small wooden bridge was like a border guard, only the appreciative allowed. I knew when I saw it that this place had a story. It turned out to be perfect for me. The owner said it had once been a post office in Tennessee and some folks dismantled it to bring over the mountains to Vilas, North Carolina, home to Frasier fir tree farms. However, it had been a two storey structure and the Some Folks hadn't brought a blueprint. Consequently, it was now a one storey. When I walked in I could feel the energy of pioneer letters, lovelorn letters, happy news letters, and sympathy cards. I knew "snowed in" was a real possibility. There was a 3x5 growing space which you can see from the photo was good enough for me. During the winter, my tabletop pines and hemlocks could be seen by visitors passing far below on the main road, 105. People coming to ski, to attend madrigal dinners, Appalachian alums of various fields, would have the greeting of the cabin to welcome them. Letters have been such a big part of my life. First there were Uncle Henry's and Aunt Stella's. Then letters put on the Friday mailboat from Liberia; college campus notes with no stamps required; ultimately, the same day delivery @earthlink.net. Here is Uncle Henry, my dad's little brother, quoting a poem of my Aunt Stella's, my mom's big sister shortly before he passed away.

ROME

The streets sink drowned in shadows

Night claims all

Save one sun-drenched spot

One weathered wall.

Where last the sunlight gleams

Like burnished gold

In simple lines the passer-by

Is told,

The young English poet, John Keats

Died here,

And nothing more is written

Save the year.

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The first poem I wrote at the cabin was enclosed in a letter, "Chance of Snow." To me, cabin fever does not mean stir crazy from staying in too long but instead, the delirium at the opportunity to nest with stationery and pen, paints and, these days, restickable glue stick.

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...may the blessings of autumn pumpkins and nostalgia trips be yours...