Past Life

Childhood memories -
scattered and disparate
pieces of life.
Goldilocks and pet rocks…
Charles DeGaulle in a box.
Unrelated parcels
in a memory warehouse
with no windows or doors,...
just the random extractions
through Freudian dreams,
or Jungian shadows.

We hide the boxes
we want to forget:
The beating, cheating
always repeating horrors of our youth.
They’re locked away
in the Do Not Enter zone
Everyone is looking for a key, but it’s gone –
Tossed into the night,
never to be found.

The Children's Table

I recently saw a picture from the Library of Congress that reminded me of visits to my grandmother's house in Foxwells, Virginia. 

Whenever the family would get together, we would gather around the kitchen table - that should be tables - for dinner.  We'd slide every available table into the kitchen/dining room/living room of that old Victorian house and share a meal that was as fresh as you could get - vegetables from my grandfather's garden, plus fish, oysters, or crabs caught that morning from the Chesapeake Bay by my uncles, my Dad, and my grandfather. 

If there were too many people, which meant more than 18 adults, the kids would be sent to the children's table to eat.  My Mom's family was very close, so we'd see cousins from all 4 of her siblings families.  If it was just family, we could have 12 adults plus 11 kids. There were always extras because friends and extended family would tag along.  It was chaotic and wonderful.  Everybody pitched in to cook, clean fish, peel potatoes, shell peas.  Clean up was always done by the wives, and the men would go out to do something in the yard or clean up the fishing tackle from the morning's catch.  It was a good life. 

Those days are long gone, and the house has been sold.  But somewhere, that tradition is being carried on by another generation, another family, who will leave lasting impressions of love and warmth for the next generation.  We should never underestimate the power of family and simple pleasures.

Prayer of Peace...June 26, 2013

The elders have come to share the Cheyenne prayer of peace with the people of the Little Bighorn.  As they sit down and prepare the pipe, a light mist starts to fall on the ridge.   Leather ties sealing the bag become slick with raindrops; it takes a long time to open the bag and retrieve the ceremonial pipe.  The bowl must be filled with the special tobacco, blended by hand then soaked in a broth to stave off the dry throat that comes with too many ceremonies.

Each sacred leader has his own pipe and his own bag.  The leader of this group has made one with sky blue beads and the Marine Corps emblem.  It reflects his heritage as a Cheyenne and a warrior – serving two nations, and one.  Softly they chant the prayer and speak the words to the heavens – this ceremony started by Austin Two Moons.  It continues with this 4^th generation of prayer warriors.

Minnows

Little things can evoke such vibrant memories. 

One morning, I had to empty the ice bin into the sink.  As the cubes melted, they reminded me of minnows... the small, silvery ones that we used to catch on the Chesapeake Bay when I was little. 

We used to take stale bread down to my grandfather's dock and put it into a wire minnow net - basically 2 pieces of large bore screening sewn together.  There we would slowly let the net into the water, watching the minnows swim up to the bread.  When there were about 25 fish inside, we would pull up the net and watch the minows wiggle and jump around in the net.   We did this time after time until we had enough minnows for Dad and Pappap to fish with.

All of those years ago - I never thought once about what happened to the minnows, or the fact that they were going to be bait.  It was just part of the life cycle of a fishing community.  You fish, you eat.  There was no catch and release back then... we needed all of the food we could get to  feed the large family that gathered at my granmother's table. Homemade veggies, pull-cakes, and the freshest fish you could ever hope for.  Life was good.

Recession

I saw an old woman
With white helmet hair and skinny polyester slacks
Get out of a Buick at the local pawn shop
She looked pinched or sad or somehow helpless.

Across town, hundreds of cars were parked at the mall

Recession?  Ain’t no recession
Not as long as I got credit cards.

I can buy a puffy jacket and skinny jeans
Tease my hair up in some sort of helmet shape
Paint my face
To show that sort of
pinched or sad or somehow helpless look…

You know, like those models on TV.

~

DAY TWO

(For Susan)

It’s easier to start here

Day one was a blur of
Anger and depression
You screamed at the dishes
And cursed the grass
Just for growing.
It was exhausting.
 
On day two, reality sets in.
The house echoes with
Every loving word ever spoken-
With the last fight you had
The silence pounds at you
You get a headache
(the hangover doesn’t help}
You cry yourself to sleep again.
 
Day three, time for work
You can’t face it, so you go back to bed
with the latest designer drug and an extra blanket
This could be your life
Avoidance, pain, regret
It would be so easy – no responsibility

Maybe if he sees how sad
How pathetic
How lonely you are,
He’ll come back.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

~

Italian romance

Several years ago, I traveled to Italy - an artistic pilgrimage of sorts, to see Pisa, gaze at the mosaics of Ravenna and walk the streets of Florence.  As an art historian (in my other life) I  had always heard about Italian art and culture, so I felt obliged to go.  I even read all of the literature I could get my hands on - including travelogues by Frances Mayes, Henry James, etc.  

  

When I got there, what I discovered was something quite different from what I expected.  Certainly the "obligatory" art work was beautiful - but it was by no means representative of the collection at large.  I found extraordinary mosaics and sculptures and tapestries and architecture that were essentially ignored because they had no "name " attached to their provenance...and I found thousands of tourists clamoring to see all of the great and leaving the rest of the museums virtually unseen.  It was rather sad - that so much artistic angst and passion would go unnoticed.  I think my favorite was the statue of St. John in a palace museum near the river - the only one opened on a Monday. This casting of John was frail and entreating; not the robust neo-Hellenic or Renaissance representation of the saint as we tend to see him. 

I crossed the Ponte Vecchio, which still sports the 14th century merchant shops built after an enormous flood in 1333.  The entire bridge is covered with jewelry shops - ranging from the divine to the outlandish.  On the middle of the bridge there is a bunch of metal locks - hanging rather like grapes from the vine - each of them with the name of some couple who has visited and bridge and has "bound" their love together by attaching their lock to the cluster.  It is sweet and innocent and rather hopeful in a city which can sometimes seem a little jaded.  The best time to visit is early morning - without the tourists - or late at night, when the river mists over and the skies turn that lovely lavender and orange mix.   It was my favorite surprise in Florence, and there were many... 

 

Ravenna was beautiful.  A small town, loaded with history (prior capital of the Roman Empire rates some status I guess) and blessed with talent beyond anything I expected.  Whole churches were encrusted with azures and golds - the most illusory was the transfiguration of Christ at Sant Apollinaire de Classe - lots of imagery that I doubt the simple people of the 6th century would have understood.  I was also fascinated by the sheer effrontery of the mosaics of the emperor and empress in San Vitale - Justinian and Theodora - as they are depicted with popes and saints in the altar of the church.  It says a great deal about the separation of church and state for the period.  Most people just thought they were interesting, but did not consider the implications. 

My Italian journey made me want to return to college for my PhD in Art History so that I could teach my own art history curriculum:  "Art History for non-conformists" or Art History for the politically challenged."  Maybe in a few years you will see me as the guest lecturer at the National Gallery leading non-sheep through the halls and listening to them spout opinions about little known Renaissance artists. 

One final note about the place I stayed in Pisa - Santa Croce di Fossabanda ( an old convent )  - I stayed in one of the novices rooms - very Spartan, overlooking a courtyard.  It was just what the doctor ordered.  Quiet, charming, close to the river, and utterly disarming.  There was even an old and venerable rabbit who watched over the place - one which would perhaps have caught the eye of Albrecht Durer in his search for the perfect rabbit to draw.  Of course, all I could think of was Monty Python...."It's just a bunny...but it had HUGE teeth...."  The mind can produce the most perverse turn to even the most idyllic of moments.

The trip to Italy was challenging, enlightening, and a bit tiring.  I think it warrants a second visit - maybe a stay of two weeks or so - to soak up the culture and really understand why Tuscany is what it is.  Then perhaps I may never want to leave - between the sun and the passion for life which Italians seem to embrace, it would be intoxicating.....