Just a wave upon the sand?

What do you do when someone you didn't know, but yet you did, dies?

One of my four current favorite authors, in whose books I've dwelt in for hours and days on end, passed.

I was following his blog and saw he was ill. The C word. Plus early pre-vax Covid. I waited for new books. Like e selfish child who expects papa to play on his deathbed. 

I guess you can't write much when you are sick.

Then I got ill and busy with other series. Like a friend you lose track of (Forget) while making new. 

Then I found the last book I'd been too cheap to buy, at the library. And I checked his blog and he was dead. 

He was funny. He cared about pandemics and comics and London. and people who suffered in pandemics. Kept us posted on Covid in London. 

I feel that somehow, his detectives Bryant & May (not the matches which I guess were a brand in England) should honor their creators passing. 

Like Holmes and Poirot, Alleyn.and Wimsey, Arthur Bryant and John May must have a life beyond their writers. 

I wish I could have sent a tribute to the funeral. Or told his husband I was sorry. And thank you for it all. 

For the underground rivers and Carnaby Street and Mr. Punch and old St Pancras and the Peculiar Crimes Unit, which should have existed, thanks. 

Someday I will get to London. And most of the quirky bits, and much of the important will have come from Bryant and May and Meera and Janice and Raymond and Crippen and Fowler. 

Eternal rest, Christopher Fowler (1953-2023, in the 69 club with Bowie and Rickman and Petty)

Campfire songs and lightning bugs or fireflies

 (part two on my ode to the humble, yet gestalt campfire)

Busy, buzzy, ringy-dinging

shouting, scolding, swearing, slinging

Bashing, dashing, banging, crashing

Rushing feet and teeth gnashing 

What a weird, wild wacky

wonky, work-a-day world: 

the horror show called grownup

Where everyone races but no one wins

Mr. Grinch was framed

It wasn't Christmas he minded 

But the NOISE NOISE NOISE

Assaulting ears and peace of mind 

Come away from the roar

the gardinkers and Tom-tookers

the hustle and hassle

the tussle and worry-hurry

Come to the big lake

on a Michigan summer night

hear soft smooth soul fixing sounds

of earth and wind and fire

Campfire kindling trackle, crackles

Birch wood sizzle-hissle whistles

Swallows singing swan songs

Wakey bats echolocating bugs

sensual sklush of lake-surf surge

Sklish-swish, moan-groan wind

Nearing thunder crumble crunching

Misty, moisty crickle-trickle rain 

And we by the campfire sit

Loathe to go in and end the night

Companionably conversing 

on nothing and everything

Where the most stressful 

topic for evening discussion

is whether they are called

lightning bugs or fireflies

Of campfires and marshmallows on a Michigan summer night

Michigan midsummer's eve

Of campfires and pine smoke

And flimsy folding chairs 

Dad rescued from a junk pile

Roasting marshmallow on branches

because mom is too cheap 

to spring for sticks or metal forks

Spiky, unsanitary and single use

But good for mass toasting

and beating of brothers 

and launching fiery sticky projectiles

for no particular reason

Wielding flaming marshmallow torches

Like maniacal villagers raising hue and cry

scaring shrieking little siblings

and getting scolded for waste

On toasting styles, to plunge or not to plunge?

coveting Grama's patient golden perfection

but usually too lazy to slow roast

incinerating in one fell swoop

Burning fingers and tongue

on ash-dropped incendiaries

Never knowing which is best

Blackened crunchy shell or gooey white innards

On recipes, S'mores sometimes

just marshmallows mostly

mom is also too cheap for

whole dollar Hershey bars

Stubborn marshmallow prints on hands

resist scrub, remain till Sunday morning

Surreptitiously sucking fingers in church, 

Reveling in campfire Saturday night 

Epilogue:

The poet lacks the lexicon

to convey just how magnificent 

the universe of memories made 

on a Michigan campfire night

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

Postcards from the Plague

I was going to make this into a Facebook post but then I thought, "hell, why waste it on them??" So I will share it there later (laugh, ironically). I'm thinking today about how un-funny I am. I'm pragmatic, helpful, exhortative (preachy?), occasionally erudite, often verbose, but not funny and rarely genuine.

Oh sure, I mean what I say. But I write mostly to educate and improve (Yeouch, that sounds sententious). I never want to censure or lecture. But even instructing, isn't it presumptuous to think that, at any time, one can sanctimoniously instruct another? During the Covid pandemic, it's ludicrous. Have you noticed that I think too much? (Matchbox 20 nod)

I was reading a post (Yes, on Facebook, don't judge) that was truly hilarious, and real, and genuine and genuinely funny. The author penned from the gut the "real" of quarantine. She spoke of boredom and motherhood (synonymous) and Legos. Is it all capitalized? LEGO? And are they from Sweden or England, I've read conflicting stories. Because I research these things, thank you for asking. Someone has to. You're welcome.

Same FB friend also spoke of the mind-bending ennui of watching other people play Minecraft on Youtube (that was fucking hilarious in many ways.) I didn't quite get why you would watch someone play Minecraft...I believe the petite bebe (little kid) invited? Evidently it's a quarantine thing. Like jigsaw puzzles and dried bean hoarding. And 'peakin 'a which (speaking of which, to quote/paraphrase my youngest son when he was 4, for the uninitiated) DOES anyone eat dried beans, ever?

I was given some from a food pantry distribution in which no one wanted them. They have been preciously guarded (ignored) in my spare room for months. Now they are the Holy Grail? Was some missive sent down from on high...thou shalt procure for thyself the dried legumes, and then having done so, thou shalt, storest them in thy barns until moth and mold doth corrupt. If YOU'RE not seeing Monty Python in that, well, I'm sorry for you.

And why is yeast sold out? YEAST, I ask you?? I'm a Shipt shopper  (for my sins)  I can speak ex cathedra on people's buying habits. NOBODY, not no WAY, NOT no how ,buys yeast in good times. So, Quo Vadis?? Where are you goin' with ALL that yeast, pilgrim? Is everyone one suddenly Suzie Homemaker makin bread for some journey you can go on during quarantine anyhow? My dark mind doubts. And so does my skeptic bestie Rose. She believes that after coronavirus, there will be shit tons of flour, oil, YEAST, rice, DRIED BEANS,  still on folks. shelves, gathering dust. And I agree. We are not THAT desperate yet.

Back to Minecraft. I wouldn't watch anyone play anything. Quarantine be damned. But my husband has long been a student of the University of Youtube (his words) (I like parenthesis, can you tell?) (Shut up). He has been watching truck repair videos. I cannot expound further because the terms might as well be the ancient tongue of Ireland.

Whilst I lack Goidelic (Irish), I know a crap video when I hear one. There's one guy who has a speech impediment and still curtheths (curses, SORRY). He manages to impart some helpful truck lore. There are others who  are not as helpful. A father and heir (presumptive) from nether American regions who swear and place alcoholic beverages on fenders of cars and allow small ones to roam about unattended. It boggles.

So I can't speak Minecraft or Ford Ranger cadre, but I talk fluent travelog . Cuz THAT IS where I was supposed to be in March. Oberammergau 2020 or Italy or Greece. Making a pilgrimage. How funny would it have been ((not very, I'm told) to be trapped in the Eternal City? Or along the Cinque Terra? I still would have loved to go. Husband assures me it's better stateside. So back to my original bitch. Which I know none of that was in aid of. Why am I not funny? (You weren't paying attention?? 10 points off!!)

Because I don't just let it out. I feel the need to pontificate. The post which spurred this was real. And funny. (Was it copied? I'm that hag who wonders). All she did was share her quarantine log (Captain's log). It should have said Star date thus and such.  Any true Trekkian would have known. And yet, here I sit trying to outwit. I'm such a poser, failure, sycophant. I don't share anything new. I just respond to others. Yegads, woman, have another glass of wine.

I think I could be funny. If I would just let go the need to, I don't know, be essential. That's what it's all about. So here I go on my own (Whitesnake). Just talk? God, is this done? God, how I envy the libertine! Where do I go from here? (You were expecting a satisfying conclusion? More fool you. )

Parenthood.. is it all really worth it?

 Don't judge this poem by it's title--it's a work in progress. Also, don't expect this to be poetry in the iambic pentameter sense. It's more stream of consciousness, or more accurately conscience. I want to talk about parenthood.

It starts, not when you hatch that lifeform but when you first start thinking about doing so. And let me tell you right now that whatever you heard, read, were told or thought it will be different than anything you thought you were prepared for. I almost think it would be better to go in completely ignorant because then at least there are no preconceived (pun, lol) notions.

So this little critter starts to grow and very quickly you begin to realize that this is pressure like you have never had. You might, if you're normal, wonder "oh what have I done?' Because you did it alright. You can say that the divine being or God or whatever you call Him or Her blessed you and created life, but you did the leg work to make it happen.

Yet regardless of who's to blame, you very quickly feel an  insane, intense attachment to this being, that borders on self-destructive. You worry about every breath you take. You guilt yourself for things beyond your control. You are sure that the one sip of alcohol or secondhand smoke you accidentally breathed is going to cause permanent, crippling disability, even though you know that crack-addicted babies survive to become brain surgeons and perfect pregnancies sometimes end in death.

And then when lil 'un is born the terrors are compounded. You know you're going to screw it all up. So let me just reassure you right now...you are. Parenthood is a series of missed boats, baseball games and opportunities. Our hearts split at the seams with love,  yet we say and do the stupidest things. We misunderstand and get it wrong more often than not.

Now if any of you haven't gone the the bathroom to slit your wrists, hang on, there's a caveat. You aren't supposed to do it right. Parenting is essentially shooting from the hip, in the dark, drunk, with one broke leg. You couldn't hit that target for all the Dr. Spock on the shelf. And please, run, screaming, away from anyone who proclaims to HAVE gotten it right.

So we're still in a pretty depressing place. But here's where God/your higher power comes in. When that beautiful cake called life goes crashing to the floor, guess what? The divine baker can magically fix it. He doesn't just frost over...he makes it better than it was. He takes your humble efforts and bippity-boppity-boos them into wonderfulness. It's a gestalt thing....the whole really is greater than the sum of our poor pathetic parts. And boy does He owe us, tricking us into this parenting thing!

And let's talk about those 8-lb meatloaves and their part this mess. The minute the red, lumpy thing pops out (by agonizing, Herculean effort on mom's part) she takes up all the oxygen in the room and the space in your heart (home, bed, car...) You are no longer a person with a name and a life. You're that little so-and-so's dad.

You absolutely adore them with every cell in your body. You hover, you wake up imagining they are crying and you check for breathing at least 20 times a night. Even when they do sleep you can't fretting and worrying. And here's another magical part. She feels the same way. She can't stand to be separated from you. You must be no more than nanoinches from her. She worships you.

Oh, and while we're on that subject, permit me a mini-rant. When the parenting Nazis tell you she's spoiled, too clingy, you should let her cry it out, tell them to go bugger themselves. So many wonderful parents let these fools scare them into thinking they can't trust themselves or their children. I mean seriously, who are you going to listen to? Some bitter know nothing, know-it-all or someone who just recently dwelt int the arms of the angels, huh? That Dr Ferber should be boiled in his own Enfamil.

Oh, and if you've done your part, they will continue to be needy of you as they grow. AS THEY SHOULD BE. The reason you feel such soul-deep responsibility and craving affection for them is that you are their lifeline. Mama and Papa are the only thing between child and unspeakable horror. I'm sorry to sound so drastic but it pretty much is. The child has not the capability to survive alone.

But, and this is a biggee, it's a short time of needing you and suddenly, they can make it on their own. Hear me when I say, that the terrible twos, troublesome tweens, terrifying teens, these too shall pass and all too quickly. That is a threat, not a promise. For all the intensity with which they need you, it's over (here's where a lot of that aforementioned missing out occurs). Just when you think you can't take one more minute of this kid, they've flown and you miss them with shocking almost suicidal pain. That's how it's supposed to be too.

I'm going to have to pause this for a bit. But I'll continue soon. I recognize that a lot of what I'm saying, the Prophet Kahlil Gibran has said so much better but I would like to amplify some of his thoughts. And I think that you will, find as I have, comfort  in them.