Showing posts with label lake michigan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lake michigan. Show all posts

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


Big Lake Poems: Acorn benediction and Oak Leaf offertory



November fall leaf funerals
grampa in flannel coat and ear-flap cap
me in fur-trimmed jacket and pom-pom hat
big rake and little rake

26 trees in grampa's yard  
oaks with crunchy-crisp fall-down-brown leaves  
and thousands of acorns
kept us and squirrels hunting and gathering

grampa boasting with neighbor  
of how many bags each would offer 
on his autumn harvest pyre
each secretly sure his sacrifice would please most

On cracked cement altar  
leaves piled ceremoniously high  
consumed in flame under watchful eye  
of grampa against shifting winds

leaves to ashes, ashes to dust
pom-pom clad mourner bids farewell
rest in peace, rainbow friends
to nourish next year's soil

but acorns were not burned
acorns explode sending out soul sparks
that singe unwary watchers
their little selves spared, but only for autumn-greedy squirrels

close my eyes and i can smell
oak-leaf incense from ritual burning
hanging heavy-hazy under leaden November clouds 
sharp, sad fire-fall fragrance

summer oak bounty smoldering
on heaps of crimson and ash
tolling Indian summer death knell
somber scent of endings and good-bye
  
  

Big Lake Poems: Pink Pickable Ladyslippers

Pink Pickable Ladyslippers
This one is from The Big Lake Poems anthology. The Lake Michigan dunes flora decorated my growing up and has inspired these poems. This one is about lady slippers, childhood and big life choices.


i wasn't to pick the lady slippers
that much was clear
but they are so pickable and plus i WANT to
i whined to grampa

as we walked to Lake Michigan
through the woods of the backdune
where their precious lady slipper
grew just to taunt me

let them grow he said
if you pick them, no one else can enjoy them
i didn't see that as my problem
there was no one around to see them anyway

Besides he said they are protected
its illegal to pick the lady slipper.
illegal, humph i scuffed my feet and scoffed
(not really seeing that as my problem either)

pick up your feet, you'll ruin your shoes
he smiled over his shoulder 
to where I lagging and still slightly scuffing 
Also if you pick the lady slippers, they can't grow.

he had me there
other people not seeing flowers
did not in the least bother 
a selfish four year old girl

going to jail for picking a flower
did worry me a bit
not about breaking laws
only whether i could bring my toys

but to be responsible for the murder of flower?
now that was troubling
if i should pick her
she would wither and die

her pretty pink blossoms shaped like fairy pointe shoes?
little flowers that never hurt anyone 
whose sole job was to make the forest nice
i decided to leave the lady slipper to her work and announced this to grampa

grampa in his plaid flannel coat
took his less-selfish little girl's hand
in his big printers ink stained one
and we walked home, we two, content in our company

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



Big Lake Poems: Trillium and Pine


I'm creating a volume of poetry that I call 'The Big Lake Anthology' about my life and memories growing up near Lake Michigan, or The Big Lake as we called it. This one 'Trillium and Pine' is centered around a white tri-petaled flower, also known as grandiflorum, native to Michigan's old-growth forests and protected by the DNR. This early spring blossom is welcomed every year with a festival in my home town. Some trillium are red and so my poem reflects those species in metaphor. It also celebrates the short lives of my two infant daughters, deceased at birth, Mary Therese and Isobella Raine Sachteleben.

warm wine glow
tranquility flow
trillium and pine
rhythm and rhyme

good with the bad
happy I've had
time upon thyme
trillium white wine

from flower bower 
then turns the hour
up a steep hill
some remain still

some things to grow
some to let go
rest in the vale
tell of the tale

sad winter time
crusted in tear-salt rime
gall bitter vine
blood red wine

mem'ry is song
singing along
verse and refrain
of lyric-ripe pain

sing to the dark
cling to the mark
libate the night
drink to the light

feel the days go
rain and then snow
fresh summer wine
rosemary and time

the trillium still bloom
in deep new-spring gloom
white as a maid
born in the shade

pine stands true
ever green-blue
withstanding the pain
shining the in the rain

warm autumn wine
golden twilight, thine
now is the time
for reason and rhyme
trillium and pine.


Big Lake Poems: Lily- Laced Walks


Lily-of-the-Valley grew along Grandpa's walk
Tiny white bell-blossoms with breath of heaven scent.
He pruned the yard but let the lilies engulf the path.
Sometimes you had to skirt them and walk on the grass.

Grandma had Lily-of the Valley in her wedding bouquet.
It cost twelve dollars for a dozen in 1935.
It was the Great Depression and that was a fortune
but she wanted them so he got them.

I have an old photo of her at the altar
It's a black and white, painted on the back for color.
they did things like that back then
She's holding the lovely lilies and she is lovelier 

I guess lily-of-the valley are weeds
I didn't know that. He told me so, my husband
They grew in the motor-oil soil of the alley behind his growing up house.
Some even snuck under the chain link fence and his mother would root them out.
 
I grew up with stories of
dollar a piece lilies in bridal bouquets.
I thought everyone felt that way about them. 
these wee white wedding bells

 There are ancient lily-of the-valley
 lining the crumbling walks of our now house
 Planted when the city was just a stop
 on the interurban to Grand Rapids.

Someone talked of digging them up when we moved in
"you won't want them, we feel sure"
I protested, let them grow and he agreed
One woman's weed is another's wedding bower


It's 20 years now.
Grandpa's lily laced walks 
have new people living within them
I dream I'm back there every night

The lily bride and her slender-pale groom
have been in their graves for nearly the same
their lives long and full
but no less painful the passing for the length of sojourn

My groom gathers our lilies in spring
and puts them in a vase 
that my grandmother gave me
how we miss those silly romantics who wasted two weeks pay on weeds



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