The Tao of Grama: a belated eulogy

My grandmother had more common sense than anyone I've ever known or will ever know. Pragmatis in extremis, you might say. And was she proud of it. As well she should be. I'm only just beginning to realize how much she has influenced me and how positive was that influence. 

It didn't always seem so. She used to say "I speak my mind" To a lot of people that translated to judgemental, unfeeling, harsh, critical. She's been referred to as an old bat or similar appellative beginning with b. Folks would say, "oh Marilisa, your grandpa's so wonderful, nice, giving, caring and your grandma... (cricket cricket as they hunted for words). 

She acknowledged all that with a laugh and a shrug. I think she actually liked her mouthy, badass reputation. She never defended herself or why she said what she said and she never backed down. And she never willingly hurt anyone.

She didn't candy-coat, was never fake-sweet but also not self-righteous, smug nor hypocritical. She never shot her mouth off just to hear herself talk. And she had precious little time for those who did. She was never gratuitously cruel. Just matter of fact. And I have learned over the years that she was usually right. 

We used to butt heads regularly. She, the "dyed in the wool" (her words) "trust no one" Republican and me the liberal, "feel sorry for everyone" Democrat. But we loved the heck out of each other. I like to think she even respected me. I know I sure as hell did her. It just took me awhile to realize how much. 

Being polar opposites, you would think that I would be the first to fault grandma when she criticized this or that. And sometimes I did if I thought she was being unfair. But the funny thing is she rarely ever was. As I look back I cannot recall a single bigoted, prejudiced or even generalized statement. She simply spoke what she observed and she usually said what everyone else was thinking but didn't have the balls to say.

Grandpa used to chide her for lack of tolerance. I don't think it was intolerance so much as impenetrable practicality. She just didn't suffer foolish behavior gladly. Where Grandpa and I would give second, third, 26th (too many) chances, she would say "leopards don't change their spots." And invariably she would be right. 

When she predicted that so and so would repeat the same error, he usually did. When she said my little brother would never stay the night at their house, because he always cried to go home once he got there, the family behaved as if she was the bad guy. Ultimately, he never did stay the night and fussed until Grampa took him home... every time. He saw a way to drive a rift between the adults and being a kid he seized on it. But God forbid Gram call him out or suggest maybe they NOT cater to him. 

So what we saw as nihilistic negativity, I now see was just realism. She did not set herself up for disappointment and did not want me to either. Actually, I now realize,  it sets the other person up for failure, expecting them to do things they are uncapable of or unwilling to do. And it gives them weird, unhealthy power over others  (see, Grandma, I finally get it).

Funnily enough, her pragmatism is hailed by 12-step groups as being very mentally healthy. Grandpa's and my rabid optimism and waiting for spot change, not so much. It's called acceptance of what is and St Francis is thumbs-upping you, Grandma

It's not that people can't change and she'd be the first to admit this. It's that they aren't going to simply by you clicking your heels together and waiting to go back to Kansas. Actually you have nothing to do with them changing. You can't be living your life around the hope that they will.

I'll even go so far as to say (listen up, Grandma you're going to love this) that you really shouldn't worry or care if people change. Blessed are they who expect nothing for they shall not be disappointed. Spending too much time obsessively trying to control it, is self-defeating and not good for you or the other person. Doing things to produce a desired result in others is kind of passive aggressive and sick.  Better to let go and live your life as is best for you. Can Grama get an amen? 

So Grandma you've been gone 15 years. And virtually no one remembers you. You didn't do anything of note. But in a way you did everything for me. You inspired me to stand for things so I wouldn't fall for anything. You empowered me to trust my instincts and have faith that I could do things I needed and wanted to do. 

Maybe time has gilded my memory. You probably weren't as perfect as I remember. You did upset me so sometimes.  But then I upset me a lot more and I'm KNOW I upset you.  But you definitely weren't the Gorgon you pretended to be either.

You weren't given to raving praise but you were honestly proud of my meager achievements and did not hesitate to show it. I remember when I gave the valediction at the Honor society banquet, how you came running over to place a gold necklace around my neck. Right in front of everybody like you wanted to make a big splash of me. That felt really good. 

I don't think I said thank you as much as I should have. I hope and think you know that I loved you and love you still. I am proud to have been one of the few people who really knew you. Miss you. 😘 Marilisa

Sandlot Sundials

Sunday at the grama grampa house

Was not complete without a walk

To the beach via Whitey's Wood

And a sandlot sundial

What is a sandlot sundial?

It is a not so fancy timekeeping piece

That we made with two sticks

To mark our time in the woods

Grandpa and I would walk to the Big Lake

(Lake Michigan) every week

In summer we would swim 

in Winter just walk

Grandma never joined us

When I invited her she said didn't swim

I said she could just walk. 

Grandpa said "your grandmother doesn't walk."

Then they laughed together

A big shared joke 

That I never got but it was nice to hear them laugh

And she never minded us going

We would cut through the neighbors' yard

To the vacant lot before the big hill

Before the back dune before the dune stairs

Before our beach trek to Mona Lake channel

Grampa would draw a circle in the sand

put a stick in the middle

And another on the edge of the circle 

Where the center stick's shadow fell

When we came back from the lake

We would check the sand sundial

To see how much the shadow had moved

The shadows matched the clock's big hand

And then we would know if we were late

And if Grandma would be mad

She was never mad just petting fat poodle Pierre

Who had gotten sick of walking and gone home

But she would always complain 

How we'd been gone forever 

And how even the dog had given up

(just to keep us on our toes i think)

I would explain about the sundial

And how we really weren't late

And she would humph in her Grama way

And tell me to go wash my feet

Then she would make us sandwiches

Because it was Sunday

And they were Dutch reformed

And did not work on Sundays

And then we would sit on the porch

Or by the basement fire in winter

And I would chatter myself to sleep

Dreaming of sand and sundials and such

Big Lake Anthology Poem: Sunday at the grampa-grama house

(memories, in verse, from my inner 5-year-old about life at the Grama-Grampa House on the Big Lake (Lake Michigan). Part of my Big Lake Anthology)








Sunday at the grampa-grama house
was boring because Grama and grampa were dutch reformed

they had a dominie instead of a minister
like i had at church

the Dominie, they said,
said they couldn't do anything on Sunday

Grama couldn't cook on Sunday
which was nice for grama

she made Grampa and me
a sandwich for dinner

we couldn't watch tv
which was sad for me

because the only tv i had
was at the grama-grampa house

i wondered why the Dominie
let us watch tv all week but not on sunday

mommy and daddy didn't have a dominie
but they never watched tv

we couldn't watch grampas home movies
on sunday either

on nights that were not sunday
he set up the super 8 movie projector

and showed old movies of us
on the side of the refrigerator

while we ate ice cream
it was fun even if there was no sound

the dog pierre always knew
when we were having ice cream
 
he came home from wherever he was
just in time to have a scoop for himself

i liked ice cream but wished
grama and grampa picked better flavors

spumoni and peppermint stick and butter pecan
are not as good as chocolate marshmallow

the dominie said we could play aggravation
on the porch on summer nights after my bath

and have a fire in the fireplace
downstairs in winter

which were probably better than tv
and just as good as home movies

or walks to the beach
and much better than going to church

Waterlily Rose Maiden

Waterlily Rose Maiden
Verse one from my sonnet to our infant daughter, Mary Therese Sachteleben who passed into the arms of Jesus on Jan. 5, 2001.

her eyes, green-gray still waters, do not cry
not mirror nor window of soul-dark spaces,
guardians hold prisoner, secrets shy
in soft tranquil deep and twilight traces

  her skin, like dogwood blossoms translucent
  rose petal fair and water-lily pale
  heaven-bound as nimbus, storm-cloud spent

  fresh as a lamb, nested quiet in vale
  no tears descend this tender, pallid cheek
  no sorrow escapes this unworldly maid

  no companion shares nor solace does seek
  perfect in slumber, unmoving and staid
  Silent in her grave, somber and death-cold
  Never feels pain, nor mother-arms enfold.

Popsicle Purple

 Popsicle purple

 drips sticky ink on new dress

 yahoo for summer

Dogwood Rhapsody: A Toast for Midsummer's Eve Fairy Teas and Other Woodland Frolics

Dogwood Rhapsody
A Whimsical Toast for Midsummer's Eve Fairy Teas and Other Woodland Frolics. Gentle little dogwood, princess of the woods, I love thee. I humbly submit this poem to your beauty and for use in all woodland fairy gatherings.

slender fairy dogwood

gracious waving frond

woodland princess presides

ore' reflections in the pond

regal, royal dogwood

dainty maiden girl

arrayed in emerald splendor

bejewel'd with opal and pearl

cheeky little dogwood 

hides midst stately birch

like a saucy little child

annoying her elders in church

gracious regent dogwood  

smiles upon the forest floor

scattered bracken and fern

worship and adore

waxy-pink dogwood blossoms'

scroll-rolled petal tip

offers milky fresh bouquet

for butterflies to sip

enchanted dogwood blossoms 

for dryads, nymphs and sprites

tiny china cups and saucers

for midsummer tea party nights

~marilisa

Big Lake Poems: The Good Ship Marguerite Louise

The Tale of the Good Ship Marguerite Louise
A tale of two ships on Lake Michigan on a cold November Night. For my father D. Jack who knows all there is to know about the ships of Lake Michigan and who likes a good story.

stranglehold cold wind and rain

mute dull foghorn moan

rising banshee storm shriek

drowns alarm's warning groan

feeble fading lighthouse beam

struggles, fails and strains

in fog clogged unlit night

and driving, blinding rains

freighter D. Jack out on the lake

as November gales begin

headed for the haven

unaware of the danger within

no beaming light across the water

nothing seen in darkning drear

no moon marked rocks to alert

around us sail and not too near

nothing heard in dead cold fog

of steady, sounding alarum gong

muted bell tolls a death knell

of disaster 'fore ere long

searchlight flickering fizzling out

tempest waters dead ahead

no saving beam on empty sky

close the book and mourn the dead

blame the deadening pea-soup fog 

blame the storm that tossed night

blame the winter for coming too soon

blame the waning of the light

sing the song of blinding dark

mourn the D. Jack's ending doom

lament the brave ship dashed and torn

finis, death, in the drowning room

But pause a moment this tale's end

hold a bit the death bell knell

consider a mystery, too low for heaven

but just as much too high for hell

old ship Marguerite Louise sits in ruin

safe within dark deadly walls

invisible beneath the foggy shroud

silent under deafening squalls

then occurred the thing so odd

something in the very waves

woke Marguerite Louise from her slumber

to save those men from watery graves

Warn them, Marguerite and make them hear

bang your moorings, jangle your chains

Raise a ruckus above the storm

Drown out those roaring killer rains

She answered the call, the D. Jack was saved

she was heard on down the coast

and clear across lake Michigan

so the old ones loved to boast 

Now she sits still rusting and silent

but what possessed the old ship night

shades of sinners or visions of saints

dark demons or heaven's saving light?

Sailors lost are nevertheless gone

however varied be the clime

Do some come back to warn others

just in the nick of time?

The Grama-Grampa House Smell: Fresh-wind Lake-green Pine-time

Fresh-Wind Lake-Green Pine-Time
More from the Big Lake Poems anthology. I wish that I could make you smell the way my grandparents' house near Lake Michigan smelled. Or that I could smell it again. Maybe this poem will help.

The grama-grampa house

was not on Lake Michigan

but you could smell the big lake 

in their house

as the crow flies grampa and I could walk

to the big lake and we did

at least once a week every week

of my life since birth give or take

except when we moved to Alaska

or during my years in college

until I moved away

but i came back and walked with him

he took my kids for walks to the beach

our oldest three that is

he wasn't getting around too well

when the youngest came

the lake inhabited the grama-grampa house 

in scents of sand and wind

wood and rain

and an indefinable fragrance signature of Lake Michigan alone

I smelt it first and best

coming upstairs third step from the top

of the cool yellow speckle- tile basement

where I was sent to fetch canned cherries

from the cedar wood pantry

that grampa built for grandma

for a dessert called

Cherries in the Snow.

we saved some things

from the grama grampa house

in a box sealed tight

to preserve the wind-fresh lake-green pine-time smell

for awhile if you sniffed soul-deep

there was a whiff of it

wind-fresh lake-green pine time

but now its all gone

i can evoke scent-memory a little

with feel-think smell- remembering

i can conjure up the grama-grampa house

but only a little and its fading fast