THANKS

                                                          Thanks


   For the grains of paradise in apple pie,
   Golden light on blush green peels,
   Fakey crust in a red box because I am inept,
   The smell of brown sugar and lemon juice,
   Efforts to core and seed but leaving one accidentally
   Knowing it is OK because,
   Thank You, apple seeds are good for us.

   Cinnamon flakes butter
  A deep round receptacle flaunting its fluted edge.
   The pressure within the bird sings,
   For the bubbling goodness is too much to keep inside.

   Thanks for making us wait for the baking, the heat
   That produces a tender product,
   Cool lady-in-waiting, bright-eyed Anticipation,
   Perfumes the kitchen tablecloth while
   We imitate the watching,
   We pine for the goodness of apple pie.

   We find we are more patient now,
   More mature by delay.

   And thanks for the sharp pitch of cheddar
   Also ice cream and friends with whom to share.
   You are good, God.
   Thanks.
 

 

The Mackinac Arch and Lake Huron beyond

                                                             Hello Again III


Of course in life-threatening situations like this one, getting caught on a bike in the rain on the north side of a very civilized island, my very life flashes before my eyes.  I tend to draw parallels in my own life with the rain, washed out road, and struggle to live my life born out out of certain choices I made. The raindrops represent common annoyances, things we all deal with. The bike represents an elevated freedom and the cool feeling of the wind in my hair. The view from the bike is still pretty good in spite of some rain, and I continue on, knowing I will not melt. I may get wet but if I keep pedaling maybe it will pass and I will dry off soon enough.
The distant rumble of thunder over the water reminds me of intuition, that still small voice of warning. It tells me that something big is coming and I need to protect myself. I am allowed to ignore it and I do. I came to get a break and I determined to not give up easily.
The washed out road is a universal metaphor but this is my take. I had taken the partnered path of marriage and it promised all kinds of good things, but it became, over time, too threatening for me to stay. It grew dark. My eyes teared up and there was no one there to wipe them, it was hard to see my way and I felt utterly alone. Not only did I lose something good, I realized It had only been a wish that I had tried very hard to grant myself. What brightness every new day could have brought was only another
 Hello Again,
 Pain ,
 Haven't We Met    Before?      You Seem Familiar...
 day. And I dreaded the new days before they became old, and I acted my way through marriage and was true in motherhood. I had to get out, I had stayed too long. My children had seen too much and my husband was a closed box of secrets that even I was not allowed to open. The thunder reverberated in my ears now and I grew dizzy.Things around me spun. Barely maintaining my balance, with eyes wide open I saw the road off to the left and took it, thinking the troubles of a doomed marriage would soon be behind me. I had not counted on waking up to the realization that the marriage was not real all along.
Immediately I was forced to get off the bike and push it through the sand up the steep side of the hill.

Oh! It's you.
 I had not expected you to come back so soon.
You startled me, Grief-
 Hello again.
I was just cleaning up the mess from your last-
What was that? You brought your brother? A fraternal twin-
Pain? (There is another one of you?)
 How could you do that? I thought we spent enough time together during your last extended stay.
No, you may not come in. I barely had room enough for you! You made a huge mess of my entire house. i am still picking up-
No! I do not want to discuss this.
You and your friend will stay on the porch this time. I find you opportunistic and it hurts to look at your twin.
Are you kidding? The kitchen table lies overturned and you broke the legs of the chair! I have no place to eat!
 You fed yourself my food...and now I am hungry.
 A lamp sits in the sink and cereal is strewn on the counters.
You put my thoughts in the dishwasher and my love in the disposal. What?
Not in the disposal? Well I can't find it-
You rinsed my love and put in the recycling bin? Oh.
At least it is not destroyed...

                                                         Hello Again Part II


About two miles out, I felt a drop of rain on my cheek. I looked up. Funny. In between the white fluffy clouds the sky was still blue. It probably amounted to nothing. No need to worry. I kept powering silently around the island. Another fat drop on my sunglasses. Was that a rumble of thunder? Naw, the clouds looked innocent enough and I still saw blue.
Mackinac Island is a little over eight miles in circumference and I had pedaled three. Another drop on my arm. I enjoyed the cliffs and the whitecaps on the water. I thought the rain will pass. I am a Northwest girl and have rain in my veins and this certainly is not enough to deter me. My good mood and determination remained. I was not even close to turning around and pedaling the shortest distance back to town. Not me, no sir. Another mile. Another rumble. More rain. Really? It pelted sideways off the north waters of the island now, and I wished for automatic sunglasses wipers. My back pack sat in the big basket slung between the two handlebars and was dry no more.
I saw a rustic road sign off to the left. Scott Shore Road it announced.  Maybe I could cut across the island and eliminate some travel time while at the same time get shelter from the trees over the road. I made a snap decision and veered off to the left. Brilliant, I thought, and I left the water and well-traveled pavement behind.
It turns out that this was not a brilliant idea.
Immediately the road exhibited signs of a washout from previous rains. My tires could not purchase traction on the sandy gravel. The road became more of a steeply inclined path to the point that I had to get off and push the bike uphill. No problem, I thought, undeterred. This path will improve. I made the decision and I am sticking with it, good or bad. The road widened at the top of the hill and I hopped back on my bike. This is more like it. As I began to round a corner in the woods I noticed that the road was becoming muddier. Pedaling onward it became rapidly apparent that the road had turned into a miniature muddy brown lake and I had no recourse but to grit my teeth, hang on, and pedal straight through. It felt much like driving on black ice in Michigan in January.

                                                         
                                         
                                                             HELLO AGAIN


There is a special place in Michigan for those who want to experience something unique for our time. Detroit, aptly dubbed The Motor City, rightly earned the name as the birthplace of the automobile. The fascinating trip down memory lane that is the Woodward Dream Cruise, the glitzy, well-heeled Auto Show, and the countless people who toil long hours in the auto manufacturing industry, help keep alive a city hot hot hot with car fever.
Sometimes a summer getaway from the traffic of the city and going to beautiful northern Michigan fuels a sense of adventure and gives pause for reflection, introspection, and by the end of the stay, a fresh perspective on life. The creative and hard-working business owners of Northern Michigan present to the traveler a wide variety of summertime activities that surprisingly have little to do with the automobile. Leave the car in the parking lot and enjoy canoeing, fishing, biking, cherry turnover tasting, swimming, camping, kayaking, cherry pie buying, lighthouse exploring, shipwreck diving, roadside stand fresh-cherry-out-of-hand eating, wine tasting, morel mushroom soup savoring, bicycling, Mackinac Bridge crossing, and- last but not least- the bliss of partaking in the warm, beefy, vegetabley goodness that is the Michigan miners' pasty. This is by no means an all inclusive list but it is a good start, and doesn't even touch upon winter's activities!
I worked all summer and at the same time dealt with some family tensions and sorely needed a quick getaway, and I decided spur-of-the-moment to book a hotel and head north to Mackinac Island  where the strict rules of locomotion allow only for foot traffic, horses, and bikes. Ah, peace, I am coming!

On Mackinac Island I rented a sturdy, thick-boned, experienced bike that possessed the preferred-by- middle-aged-women-almost-everywhere padded seat which I literally found in the end, to not be nearly as comfortable as my forward facing sporty, streamlined, ready- for- action seat that waited for me atop my stylish powder blue bike in the garage at home. I hope it is not mad at me for that. Note to self: get a bike rack for car!
 A feeling of peace floated around my head, a feeling synonymous with the creamy fresh fudgy perfume that melted in between the buildings and out screened shop doors into the streets. I made my way through the traffic jamming draft horses pulling carts of soft fudge eaters and bicycles through the main drag of town. Yes,this is a Dream Cruise of a different sort, I thought, as I alternately braked and pedaled following draft horses' behinds (they have the right of way) in stops and starts into my quiet journey around the perimeter of the island. My bike gained speed whilst the clean blue sky and puffy clouds passed contentedly above the ever changing chop of Lake Huron waters. The town diminished behind me, the road emptied before me and the air became muted then silent.

                                                                     JOURNEY

 My eldest brother, whom we called Doonie on Second Street a long time ago, loves to take an impromptu trip now and then. This week he decided to take a little drive north to Detroit. He hit the road in Georgia and landed fifteen hours later on Mom's doorstep and asked what's cookin', Mom? Mother, the Matriarch of the family, was beyond pleased to see Doonie but he prefers that she call him by his real name now because he hates his childhood nickname. He does not feel it did him justice, and truly it didn't. He was way cooler than that. However, this is Mom, and he allows her the privilege of calling him Doonie once in a while, out of respect for her, even though he is father to three very adult children and  himself a grandfather.
 When he comes he plans not only to see Mom, but makes a point to see the other members of the family as well. Because of our complicated family dynamic, and the fact that it perpetuated itself well past childhood and into adulthood, when it came to my brothers' relating to me, the little girl inside  vacillatde between hope and insecurity. Will he want to see me? Maybe he won't have time. Please let him have the time. The adult me knows better than to think in such an immature manner, to lack confidence. I have come too far for that.


 The children in Port Angeles practice earthquake drills at school by hiding under their desks. The very present threat of aftershocks and possibility tsunamis require the discussion and careful planning of viable escape routes. Similar events of the relational kind occur within the family unit as well, especially when a family member suffers from mental illness. Sometimes, as in this instance, an escape route is difficult to find.

 On Second Street Mother survived a natural disaster of her own: the unsteady earthquake of her marriage to Father. Among many things, he was afflicted with bipolar disorder. Often he sat in his chair, and stared vacantly out the window to the old green shack across the street. He sat there to brood about how his dad treated his mother among other things, and thus began a lengthy depression which caused his withdrawal from life and family. He sat there for days and got up only to eat, feed the monkey, and take bathroom breaks. His trance-like state rendered him completely unavailable, and Mom knew that no amount of pleading could move him out of that chair. As his mood deteriorated, anger for the injuries others had inflicted on him as a child and young adult, stacked up inside him brick upon brick. He pulled so far backward into the shell that he became unreachable, unresponsive. Then the sea of bitterness behind the wall drew back much like a tidal wave, and Mother heard the rattled pebbles shake their warning.  Still she waited. The hateful words would come like an ocean, and when they did,  she mistakenly believed there was no safe place to which she could run. She had four children to protect and could have gotten us out of there, but instead, she chose stoicism over heroism and stayed. He withdrew into himself, then released the tsunami of anger. It was heaped upon the Mother's structurally flimsy scaffold of what she believed to be heroism, and he rose up from the chair and charged her with words of meanness much like an unpredictable bull thrusts his sharp horns into the soft spot of his tormentor. She submitted because she believed in submission. She believed a good wife who bore up under these things demonstrated strength and virtue. Because her instinct to protect and defend her children was overruled by her feelings of being true to a false husband, she insisted there was no way for us to escape the insanity.
Following wave after wave of tirades, Mom tried to figure out what she could do to improve herself, and we kids repaired ourselves as much as we could at night by each rocking in our beds for hours to self soothe our way to sleep. However, in spite of our efforts, and the night time rocking did help, the repeated damage left water lines that marked our hearts. We could only do so much ourselves.
 Though our hearts were marked forever, his illness could never darken our spirits. As a result, our fractured family unit clung to fragile threads and found that, like too much water heaped into a cup that refuses to overflow, the constant surface tension at our house strangely held us together in a rough vessel of unease.
 The thin surface tension of a too-full cup still remains, it still feels so real, for all of us. But, as adults, it has become a vessel in which to reflect. Now it takes on a new role: it is a pool of memories, a place of lost innocence, yes, but also something we should use to grow up into someone better, far better than what we inherited.
 And yes, its contents feed an underground garden of wildly unbelievable stories. For the 40 years endured with a manic depressive husband and father, at least there is that.
 Every year he enjoyed keeping a garden out back of the house. There, he successfully grew green beans, snap peas, potato mounds, and luscious red strawberries. He made it clear, however, that the strawberries were off limits to us kids for the simple reason that Father intended them for others outside the family. We asked " Why?" He carefully tended and fertilized the red orbs of sweetness for the sake of the big banana slugs that hung out around the periphery. He was a strawberry serf, of sorts, and those slimy things the sole proprietors! They moved in at the peak of ripeness and the dark of night, slurped holes in every strawberry, then left the slimy trail of treachery behind. In the morning the strawberries, every one, were destroyed, along with our hopes of tasting their goodness. As this pushed us into a frustrated place, it gave Father a perverse pleasure.
 We all weathered his wild storms and tried to understand him for a long time.
Broken as we are, our family try still to comprehend him, and ask that infernal "Why?" and it is not without some bitterness. Some things hurt forever.  Life rarely turns out the way we need it to.
 In spite of the whys, we want love from him still and long to love him back, but the truth remains that, even though he died alone four years ago, his heart never was here and we were not his to love.

           
                                                                   PICK ME


 The man who used to be my husband and I raised our family in a beautiful suburb north of Detroit, Michigan. We have access to abundant natural resources here, especially the magnificent Great Lakes. Detroit gets a bad rap and deservedly so, but the city is beautifully situated on the Detroit River and has much to offer so we visit the city often. The buildings comprise a prized collection of art deco, neogothic and guilded age architecture. Cultural institutions such as the Michigan Opera Theatre, Orchestra Hall, the stunning Detroit Public Library, the Art Museum, and Old St. Mary's, in the heart of Greektown, are breathtaking. Nearby, the Lions' and Tigers' stadiums stand as proud bastions for thousands of loyal fans.
 While professional musicians in Detroit do fairly well financially, amateurs make a pretty decent living playing trombones in the streets. On the way into the main entrance to Tiger Stadium today, three black drummers played on three white overturned five gallon buckets. They played those buckets with mezmerizing effect, and their creativity and rhythmic energy filled the streets.
 What a day!
Amid the music and tiger-striped faces we made our way past the peanut sellers and into the stadium. A fresh breeze ushered the blue sky and puffy clouds into the space above the field and invited them to stay a while. We could hear the National Anthem, Motown-style making its way to our seats. The day before the game, my beautiful daughter received four tickets from a very nice coworker, and this made it possible for her, my handsome son, and the lovely woman with whom he is in a committed relationship, to attend.
We had all been apart for a while, and it felt good to be united  in a common cause: Tigers against the Chicago White Sox. Go Tigers!
 I would like to make that coworker The Cinnamon Rolls of Gratitude.
The Tigers won three-two at the bottom of the twelfth inning. My guy Prince Fielder was not at his best, but I have managed to forgive him and he and I can talk about that later. I have convinced myself that I know a thing or two about baseball wisdom. Surely Prince Fielder would like to hear about it.

I grew up in Port Angeles,Washington, a town of about 17,000. I attended Washington Elementary School on First and Vine Streets. In the summer, the Second Street kids banded together to play baseball on the empty lot across from the school. As long as it did not rain, those games went on for hours.
 First though, the leaders had to chose their teams. We lined up in front of each self-appointed captain who took turns picking kids one by one. There, it seemed to me, our value as human beings decreased exponentially as the diminishing line of players stood awkwardly in front of the two captains. At last, two leftover kids, hands in pockets, stared at the ground and rocked back and forth on their feet. Please pick me, please pick me, each one thought. Surely being the next-to-the-last-chosen person was infinitely more bearable than the Leftover Kid and not being chosen at all.
 Though I never was the last one chosen for baseball in that empty lot on Second Street, the fear that I would be, stayed with me. I felt sorry for the last- picked one.