Of Birthdays, Mom, and Tuscan Soup

Today is my birthday. Ta da! Another year older. Ta da!

As you may surmise, I am extraordinarily grateful to be celebrating another birthday, as opposed to the only other alternative (of which I'm aware).

I don't know if anyone feels the same, but I always feel a bit "special" on my birthday. The people whom I love make me feel that way, and that causes my child's heart to peek out from behind my adult heart. Were there gifts involved? Oh yes. But they weren't the kind that come wrapped in shiny paper and tied up with fancy bows. They came, instead, in words and actions, and I'm feeling particularly warm and fuzzy as a result.

There is a fragrant, steaming pot of my favorite Tuscan Chicken soup simmering on the stove, courtesy of my husband (and his culinary talent). There is a quart of decadent Friendly's Ice Cream Sandwich ice cream in our freezer (again, courtesy of my husband). There were the phone calls and e-mails from family and friends, all with happy birthday wishes.

Life can be simple and life can be good, and I feel blessed.

Speaking of being blessed, I spoke to my mom today. She called and sang me "Happy Birthday" over the phone, and I thanked her for having me. It's a yearly ritual of which I'll never tire. In fact, I can't imagine a birthday without that little exchange. My mom is an extraordinary woman, and I regret that I'm not more like her. She has an uncanny ability to connect with people. She has a "gift of gab" that I have always envied. (Me? Once I get past "Hi" and "How are you?", I'm about done). She remembers everything about people. She remembers things from MY past that I can't even recall.

She cares about people.

My mom has four children, three girls and one boy. I'm one of the girls. My siblings and I are all either four or five years apart in age. Mom said she did that so each of us would have the chance to be "the baby" for a few years. I happen to believe she couldn't bear not having a little one at home with her, and as soon as one kid was shuttled off to kindergarten, another baby came along.

I'm sure my mom doesn't know this, but there is something she said to me one day (during the course of a casual conversation) that has always stayed with me. Her words were "I loved being a mommy."

Five simple words.

Five simple words that speak volumes.

Five simple words that help me understand that I am the person I am, because of her.

So mom, I thank you...for you having loved....."being my mommy".

Okay, here's a poem.

I couldn't have children, so this is one I wrote about the atrocities we all read about every day in the newspaper. I wrote it a few years ago, and was surprised to learn just recently that it's one of my poems that touched my mom the most.

I guess that's because she "loved being a mommy".

Healer with a Hoover,
Clean up the mess,
Baggie toss in a landfill

Incubator hand jive
Chillin' in glass
For a formula fix

Back alley drop off
Cracker jack prize
in a silver pail

Underwater wrestler
Bubbles and burns
in a porcelain grave

Dream burglar in flannel
Wailing wrecking ball
on a nursery wall

Milk carton M.I.A.
Anatomic ashtray

Junk mail from heaven

Drive-In Movie

It saddens me that there are so few drive-in movie theaters still in existence. When I was growing up, there were at least five within a ten mile radius of our home. Going to the drive-in in the summer was a special treat. My parents would dress me and my brother and sisters in our pajamas, fill brown paper grocery bags with home-popped popcorn (the snack bar at the drive-in was far beyond their budget), load us all into the station wagon, and head to the Drive-In. Back then, they charged by the "car-load", and it would cost $5.00 per car for admission. The Drive-In had a playground, a snack bar, and tinny-sounding metal speakers mounted on poles. The speaker hooked onto the driver's side car window. There were always Disney cartoons and two movies.

The Drive-In was also a staple of the dating scene, involving other, more unmentionable activities.

Here's my poem.

Pajama pygmies swing and slide
Crisp cotton cavorters
Scatter through a clown's grin
Speaker static calls cartoons

Pencil grey etching on an empty page
Dusk curtsies to darkness
Headlights blink a white rhythm
To a crazy car horn crescendo

Tapdance of toes on a dashboard stage
Mosquitoes mambo in
Whispers at windows startle
Fingertips fire popcorn pillows

Lacy steam curtains drape inky glass
Fingers fumble blindly
Trace a salty shoulder
Foreign braille of a breast

Back seat beauties barter
Trade passion for a promise

Paralysis

Since my last post, I've spent quite a bit of time on e-blogger, clicking the "random blog" button, as well as searching for other writing and poetry blogs. What I've found has both astounded and humbled me. There are many incredibly talented writers here in Blogville. In fact, they are so talented that, over the last few days, I've felt paralysis creeping around the edges of my desire to write.

I can't allow that. Instead, I've chosen to imagine that these gifted individuals are all creative writing teachers, English teachers, and/or published novelists. I've chosen to try and silence my self-editor. I've chosen to be inspired by others, rather than intimidated by them.

So give me just a minute as I crawl out from under this blanket of inactivity. Ah, there, that's better....

Poetry

From time to time, I attempt to write poetry. I enjoy it, and should engage in it more frequently, but I lack discipline. Hopefully, the discipline of blogging will force me to tease words from my fingertips...to the keyboard...and onto the blank page before me.

Please excuse the lack of titles. Once I coax a poem out, I'm reluctant to put a "label" on it. I feel that one of the beauties of poetry is that it can be interpreted differently by each reader. Having said that, I would welcome suggestions for titles to these poems. It might help me to see what feelings (if any) these little words evoke. Thanks.

Here are a few about my dad.

Poem One

My father hunts deer
Leaning against oak
In a seat of snow

An icy Winchester
Frozen to fingers
A splash of red plaid

Wintry waiting
For an errant rustling
A chance encounter

At woods edge
The buck emerges
All steam and fur

Startled and wary
Four eyes lock
In an ancient dance

Pungency
Of life, of death
Swirls in frost

A blur of brown
Swallowed by green
Once again

The buck
chose
first


Poem Two

"There he is"
He sees him, whispers,
Motionless

My eyes strain,
Follow his gaze,
To see, as he

A brown blur
In tangled gray vines
This buck

Six pointed,
Solid, silent,
Unseen

But by him

Inspired by a Rhino

We call my dad Rhino. It was a nickname we found under the picture in his high school yearbook. The name fit so well, we couldn't resist using it again.

Rhino is solid, strong, reliable. He is also intelligent, inquisitive, and creative. He is one of the rocks in my life.

He is also the person who inspired me to take these first baby steps into blogging. At the tender age of 71, he just recently began his own blog. In order to comment on his site, I was forced to register as a blog user. With registration came an option to create my own blog. Now here I am. It will be interesting to see where this journey takes us.

Dipping My Toes In

Dipping my toes in. On a Sunday morning. Tentatively testing the ocean of this blogging world.

Don't get me wrong. I always knew the ocean was out there. In fact, I visited often. But I was the kid on the bleach blanket, safe on the sand. Merely an observer. Watching enviously as the other kids ran, screeching and shouting, to the water's edge. No dipping of toes for them. Instead, they dashed mindlessly into the salty spray, arms pinwheeling, hurling their bodies into the waves.

I always wanted to be one of those kids.

So I'm leaving the safety of my bleach blanket and venturing down to the ocean's edge.

But I'm still only dipping my toes in.