Girl with toes of poolside blue

lovely little lady

our dear Emma Grace

with endearing charms

and cookie on her face

many grand ideas

too large for likes of we

only outpaced by 

invincibility 

pizzazz by the pound

with mouthful of sass

ambition by the peck 

and yacht-load of class

motto of our girl

with smile open wide

was can't never did

anything till she tried

simpler to say sorry

than ask mom or dad

was personal creed

our adventuress had  

nicknamed Po after 

Red Teletubby

percolating fun 

and some frights gave she

left for minutes at 4

created famous 9-egg cake

recipe requested when

to potluck we did take

Some Po adventures 

ended less fragrantly

nearly gave Anthrax to

friend invited for tea

via her deceased

pet bunny in repose

exhumed decomposing

to show to Anna Rose

(Hers and Anna Rose's mum had their rest interrupted as well, by stench!)

Her misdeeds now live

in family infamy 

alongside siblings with

their own quirky story 

mini merry soul with

toes of poolside blue

painted by her dad

who'd better things to do

round pinky finger 

she'd him wrapped so

what's more important 

than painting nails of Po?

(change the oil, paint upstairs, replace roof shingles...)

blest was I to hold

for sugar cubes of time

a funny wee sprite

who briefly was mine

glad for memories

so quickly she grew

into firmament 

our baby bird flew

A word when dealing

with such a busy maid

snuggle but don't cling

and hide your garden spade.

Night Shift Change in the Glen

Ma Hen snuggles chicks for rest

Mother Bat wakes hers to play

As workers at evening shift change 

Each begins and ends their day

Father Snake glides home

on his silky self-made train

in crumpled suit and tie

caught in the rush hour rain

Stare-eyed feather alarm clock 

Ms Owl hoots the night awake

Little fox sleepily stretches in

his flat above neighbor snake

 a gal who's both driver and bus

is multitasking Mrs. Opossum

with eight little joeys in tow 

now that's one very busy mum! 

Brother bear nods "g'night, ma'am"

heading home with dozy stumble

munching bedtime snack of berries 

gives him such a silly mumble

let's not forget Raccoon with

his handsome bandit mask

washing lunch in the river

is this critter's endless task

Milady skunk emerges for

the woodland cocktail hour

wrapped in her finest furs

like a queen in her bower

the deer family creeps out

to feast at our bird feeder

satiated on the nuts and seeds

retreats to forest of cedar

in the room in the house

overlooking the forest glen

a freshly bathed and PJ's lad

beds down in his own den

his rest arrested by many

inquiries large and small 

about animals he sees and hears

much wondering about them all

"where do fish sleep and when?"

asks the nodding boy of dad

to prolong the nightly ritual

as pop tucks in his weary lad

"We'll speak on the morrow 

of your perplexities, my son"

yawns the nearly sleeping father

"but for tonight, your papa's done!"

And satisfied with promises

he knows his daddy will keep

like the woodland creatures 

the boy snuggles down to sleep

 Amen and good night to all

For my grandson Moses who asks and answers many, many, many, many questions. And to his mother, Mrs. Opossum. 

 

 

A Lenten Story of the Honest Little Boy

Hello readers! A blessed Good Friday, April 3, 2026 to you all. My how the minutes sometimes crawl while the years fly by. Here's a piece I wrote a decade ago (!) about an experience with our oldest son. And while the decade in between hasn't been idle, and we now have 13 grandchildren, I do probably need to sit with the fact that 10 years is a long time. It's not that I'm disappointed by my family, not in the slightest, they are my everything. I'm disappointed that I seem to have done so little if import. Every Christmas when I hear the John Lennon song "so what have you done?" I think "not a damn thing, and thanks for the cattle prod to the conscience, John!" But anyway. This isn't about me or my maudlin regrets. It's a tribute to a small but gestalt act of kindness by my little son. Here's what I wrote. 

It's the Lenten season, 2016 and with all but one child moved out (and the last one a busy senior) I'm feeling a little reminiscent. After homeschooling our children for years, it seems odd not to be wrapped up Lenten activities the children. Here's a story to warm you, on Lenten virtues about my honest little boy. It's true. 

My husband and I have always lived frugally, by necessity and by choice. We raised four children in a 20-year-old mobile home, on a single income, with one 15-year-old shared car. We practiced minimalism long before there was a word for it or it was cool. So it would have been easy for our children who often did without the luxuries others enjoyed, to grow up selfish, greedy and demanding. They heard the words "we can't afford it" all the time. 

But they are unselfish and generous. In fact, they practiced Lenten generosity to a fault. Here's a Lenten vignette to illustrate just how unselfish and kind my children are. The protagonist is Albert (affectionately named "Albie" the oldest son). He is now almost 26 and was eight when this occurred.  What Albert did wasn't particularly heroic. He didn't save anyone's life or perform a superhuman feat of courage. But what he did is perhaps one of the hardest things for little boy--he was honest at his own expense. 

While at the beach one hot summer day, Grandma and I were cleaning up from the picnic. The children were helping/milling around to give the 15 minute digesting period before heading back into the water. Albie ran up with something in his hand and said "Here Mom, I found this." He casually tossed it on the picnic table and ran off to play. It was a lost wallet. 

Grampa inspected the contents and declared that it only had a few singles in it." Grandma, being made of good Hollander stock, made a more thorough inspection while I nursed the baby. Well, the little boy had found not a "few singles" but $226 in ones, fives and a few tens. The lost wallet was empty of everything but the cash. No identification, papers, nothing. 

I called Albie over to tell him what he had found and so began the family debate over what to do with the loot. His sister and Grandpa were for Albie keeping it. Grandma was for turning it in to the lifeguards (this idea roundly scoffed at by Grampa who declared that they would just pocket it). 

Mom (me), the mystery reader, had decided that the lost wallet was really planted by DEA agents and full of drug money (don't judge, it could have been!). Our hero, honest Albie, had his own ideas. "I'm going to ask Daddy. He'll know what to do." (I get tears in my eyes every time I remember that trusting voice.) (2026 fast forward, yep, still do). 

I said that since Albie had found the money, he could decide what to do with it. Dad, who as at work for the evening, was duly asked when he got home. That wise owl suggested that he and Alb take it to the police department, which they did. The officers in charge were completely delighted with my little boy. They said he was a "great guy" for being so honest and that not many children would turn in $226. (Dad regaled me with stories of how they'd just fawned over him, like in one of those old cop shows from the 40s). 

Albie was issued a claim ticket for the lost wallet and told that in 60 days if no one claimed it, the lost wallet and money were his. Just as the 60 days were nearly up (and sister and little brother busy planning how to spend their sibling's hack) a letter came for Albie in the mail. It was from another boy, the owner of the wallet. He was 10, slightly older had been vacationing in our area and lost his wallet.

He said that it had all his saved up money his paper route, raking leaves and odd jobs. He said his parents said not to bring it all but he did. Because that's what kids do. (Been there, raising my hand, lost that money). The boy said he never expected to see it again and was so grateful that Alb was honest. Albie received a $50 reward. I think Albie has pretty much forgotten that random act of kindness over the years. But I have not. I don't think God has either.

My Giving Big little Boy

I wrote this piece in, I think, 2015, about our first son and I thought it would be appropriate to share for Good Friday. All of our kids, not just the lad in question, are incredibly giving people. And have birthed a baker's dozen more good little humans. Since that writing, he married the girlfriend featured and they have provided us with two wonderful grandkids. I wrote this for a site called Bubblws which seems a lifetime and planetary system away. Anyway, here goes. 

I just called Number One Son (chronological, no favoritism). I had to nag him to confirm if he'll be flying with us to New Orleans to see his sister. He keeps saying he's 99.9 percent sure he can get time off. I said, "Son, 99.9 percent only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, not with mothers booking flights." 

But I digress. I also wanted to know when he would be arriving for Thanksgiving and if he would be bringing his girlfriend. And he broke the news. He's not coming. He's driving to New York to serve Thanksgiving dinner at a homeless shelter/substance abuse center in the South Bronx.  

Naturally, we were pleased and proud. And showed it by yelling at him for not coming home (we're possessive to the point of mania with our kids). And by lecturing him on bed bugs, scabies, body lice and the avoidance of such. When backpacking in NorCal he ignored the advice of his helpful nudist female guide (yeah, there's a story there), didn't use the Technu wipes, got poison oak.  

And seriously, the Bronx? He lives in Detroit smack dab on John R and East Edsel Ford! Could you not find a shelter there to assist at, so you'd have time to zip home to visit? No, you have to go haring off across the country, worry us sick, abandon us, we harangued. Dad pouted-- "Alb doesn't love us. He just wants adventure." To which Alb readily agreed he did. But he wants to give back, not just take this holiday (which of course we understood but were too sulky to admit). 

The mission is St. Anthony's Shelter for Renewal (410 E. 156th). Bronx readers, if you see a handsome green-eyed, redhead with a smile like the morning sun, looking lost, that's him and he probably is (lost). Just direct him to 156th and tell him his mama says be safe and she misses him. And if you had time, could you just follow to make sure he makes it? He's cute but a little air-headed. Thanks.

Dune spells, Cinnamon toasted

cinnamon toasted

cherry jam and ghee

memory's comfort food 

reminisce-story

coffee perfumed homes

warm me to my core

Uncle Bloke and Aunt Ann

with always open door

grama's dining room

only for company

I was not a guest

I was family

'round kitchen table

solved life's mysteries

ate like a king or

better than majesties

at her plenty-scented

refectory dine we

on mushroom pork chops

with onion gravy

je ne sais quoi whiff

with notes of Big Lake

so profoundly real 

little self doth ache

pine spice and hemlock

water with sand sun-bake

takes me right back to

their home on the lake

Sunday was for walks

in woodland with gramp

limber lost we two

in our lake dune tramp 

benevolent flavors 

from my evergreen queen 

peanut butter kisses

berries wintergreen 

found in a dune trough

mystical mist fog

signature oak scents 

of bicycle shaped log

tramping back home with

many a dune tale 

grama on the porch

the dog wags his tail 

braunschweiger toast and

sweet gherkins for tea

coffee for elders

a glass of milk for me

old memories clearer 

than yesterday I see

those two dear people

always wait for  me

In the Bleak Midsummer

in the bleak midsummer

winter still resides

cold descends my soul 

fever chills insides

irony of iron grey

within solar rays

shivering summer

dirty darkened days

sunrise sickens me

sun golden light drains 

to dishwater blonde

muddied by the rains

I ran to the dunes

perchance to find Zen 

but my lake turned away

I am cold again

frigid similes

frozen to the bone

funerary tomb 

in lichen color stone

time scrubbed the name

who in tomb does dwell

has all memory 

been erased as well?

my heart aches for her

it seems such a loss

All that's still living

is grave-crusted moss

I don't part well with

those beloved and passed

eternal rest prayed yet

my heart holds them fast

is that why my lake

calls then denies me 

Am I refusing them 

peaceful eternity? 

I don't mean to keep

them bound up to me

How to release them 

is a mystery

we're told to let go

I think that's fallacy

how can  I release

those with hold on me?

p'raps it goes deeper

this cold in my bone

to dank memory 

of all my alone 

pain like hand smashed

by door slammed on me

peering in a home

with no vacancy 

Theirs the backs turned

by family within 

windows shuttered tight

so I couldn't see in

now I see her smile

lake's arms open wide

but that doesn't melt my

permafrost inside 

is it black all over?

does dark dwell in me?

does this tunnel end?

is there light to see?

I like grey wet days

I do not mind mist

But I'd like to feel

my face by sun-kissed

bleak is for winter

black for a short day

I want the lemon 

yellow sun today

this poem isn't resolved

fresh out of great amen

not sure where it's going

it's just at the end

The guillotine kneeler-- a painfully humorous narrative

This is my noir humorous narrative about my husband and the guillotine kneeler at church. Updated today, to reflect issues heretofore forgotten. 

Note on kneelers: Those of you who are Catholic will know exactly what I mean, having probably had your shins injured on those garage-door heavy fold down kneeling benches on the backs of pews. There are more humane medieval torture implements! And if the lowerer isn't careful (like the main character of this story) they come down with the force of a canal lock gate. You uninitiated should consider yourselves lucky. And wear hockey-grade leg guards and steel-toed boots if you visit. 

So a quick run down on how pew traffic is supposed to work. Individual or Group A enters pew, the kneeler is lowered for pre-mass prayers. The ideal plan of attack is that on a designated leader's count the group en masse lowers the kneeler after first doing a perimeter check for any feet blocking its descent.  This should be accomplished by signals, whispered consultations and consensus. Should be. But often isn't. 

If/when group/individual B, C, D, etc. enters pew, group A (B, C) sits back, raises kneeler and allows them to pass. Then, kneelers come down, and back to obeisances. Why you may wonder, don't ya'll wait till everyone is seated to do your prayers? That's far too sensible, why would you even ask such a thing??

Additionally, you may wonder, why doesn't everyone just move over? Which also makes prefect sense unless you understand another weird thing about Catholics. We guard the outer seats as if they were the Hope Diamond. I have seen people literally hug the upright pew end, while skewing their legs over to one side to make room, in this bizarre snake-like slither.  As if it is a pier and they are afraid they will be swept away.  

Sometimes, in clinging for dear life to the pew end, they forget to coordinate their leg action. One leg slides while the other remains fixed ending up legs lasciviously splayed wide as if in salacious invitation. The result can be pretty alarming to contemplate. I'll just let that mental image stew in your brain.

Then juxtapose being essentially propositioned at church, with the open challenge glare, that just dares you to ask the pew Klingon to scootch over. Trips to the confessional have been required after encounters such as these. And don't even get me started on confessional queue violations. I have had to confess confession line related sins! 

And then there's the awkwardness of praying as it were, down the neck of the person seated in front of you, who has either A) gotten there earlier and said his prayers or B) (tsk tsk) doesn't say his prayers. I realized as I was counting his freckles and judging that he really needed to shave his ears, that this is far too close proximity for two strangers to be. And that I was not comfortable being near enough bite him if I wished. I didn't, just saying. And yes, shame on me being distracted on Easter. But c'mon admit, you've felt the cringe too. 

So you finally get everyone in their seats, prayers said, and mass begins. But the struggle is not over. Not by a long chalk.  Because one thing to remember, these kneelers are not just used before mass. Oh no, that's another thing that would be too simple and too safe. There are several times throughout the service in which those limb-smashers descend on unwary legs. And this is where the blood sports begin. Because there are like four kneelers to a pew and there's not just one Gruppenführer to contend with but several.  

And after last Palm Sunday, I have decided that my husband will not be that Gruppenführer. To start, he's not as careful as our feet and shins could wish. It's more like he pulls out into traffic and THEN look for cars. And hubby dearest was in rare form last Sunday. So mass was all discombobulated anyway, beginning with a procession outside, carrying our palms into the church. Which necessitated the raising and lowering of the kneeler as people were finding their seats again after the procession dispersal. 

Because did my husband wait until all were seated to start praying? No he did not. I think it's a personal challenge for him to see how many times he (we) can raise and lower the kneeler. I burned 200 calories before mass alone. 

Then enter a guy who was clearly as ADHD as my husband. First, he sat on my palm so I could not use it for the blessing. I had to share my husband's and instead of just letting me hold it too, hubs painstakingly separated it in half, slicing his finger in the process. And we haven't even gotten to the entrance antiphon. 

Then, neither pew-mate nor husband were paying attention at that ubiquitous kneeler lowering. Husband just guillotined it down with a whoosh-chop-thunk and I (the only one paying attention) had to kind of surreptitiously kick/push the man's foot out of the way to prevent crushing. This happened five times. The third with MY foot getting clobbered. 

Mass finally ended and my neighbor escaped unscathed no thanks to himself or my husband. But it wasn't over. I was temporarily put off guard by a friend's greeting and husband came in with a blindside bench descent at the Eternal Rest prayers. I don't know what the poor clueless bloke (or any of us!) had done to merit tarsal amputation.  Somehow our would-be hatchet man missed again but he definitely had an axe to grind and feet would roll. 

And most ironic of all, was husband's beatific face in prayer after nearly dismembering us multiple times.