Beauty of Light and Dark

That summer I fell in love for the first time, with the big weeping willow across the street in the park.  Her arching boughs reached the ground enclosing me behind her leafy emerald skirts.  Hidden within the fortress of her shade, I played with my dolls, had tea parties with Maria, read “My Weekly Reader” books, and sometimes just talked with her.  She always smiled and lovingly responded to me.  She was my mother, my sister; my best friend all rolled into one.  And she made a great swing!  At thirteen, her thick trunk held me as I pressed my back onto her while necking with my first boyfriends.
 
    At fourteen we moved away from Niagara Falls to live at the mouth of the Eighteen-Mile creek on Lake Ontario. That was the summer I really learned to swim.  The water seemed so pristine and clear back then.  Holding my breath as long as I could, I lazily floated, face down, eyes open, to watch the movement of tiny creatures and the dancing reflections of sunlight and shadows glinting on the velvet sand beneath me.
 
    After that, another long period of dark gray sadness oppressed me, except for a few pleasant memories of heavy snowstorms blanketing the world in crystalline.  And a few hormonal stirrings that suddenly made beautiful, the muscles rippling beneath a boy’s shirt. Breathtaking!  My history grew so dark after this that beauty did not seem to exist. Except for the captivating deep warm brown of my first-born baby’s eyes and the tender pink rose petal luminescent quality of my second born. Was she an infant or a flower?

Beauty of Death

Then, most beautiful of all my experiences was death; incredible love inviting me, enticing me to join with it, and I did.  Being absorbed by the light was an indescribably ecstatic experience.  It took a long time after that to appreciate the mundane: life.

Somehow the bone cancer changed all that.  The exquisite torment of pain searing through my body altered my perception, into being more completely....................... I don’t know how to describe it.  There is no walking away from that kind of suffering, unless massive doses of barbiturates are given.

Morphine may be beautiful to others, but not to me.  I made the choice to live with pain instead of being uncontrollably psychotic.  Sometimes the pain became so severe that it carried me out, high above my body, floating in my own endorphin induced euphoria.

Entering the hospital in the dead cold winter, I spent seven months isolated from the world confined to bed, unable to move without someone else doing it for me. Two beautiful things saved my life, back then; one, my little brother brought me out of the brink with a gift of music.  Two, my little sister brought her healing hands to massage me until I was able to stand and walk again.

Returning home that summer, I rediscovered the world in a new way I’d never known before. Every tree, every leaf, every blade of grass, every dewdrop, every glint of sunlight, moonlight, every pebble strewn in the soft powdered dust of every pathway took upon a living presence.  Life had become gloriously majestic, holding incredible fascination for me. I felt as though I had previously led my life, like a Helen Keller and could now miraculously experience things from a new perspective. I was brand new. And the world was vibrantly alive.  Was it the bone cancer, the drugs, the near-death experience?  I didn’t know and I didn’t care.  I‘m sure it was distracting for my family and friends whenever I let out a whoop of appreciation for some wondrous sight, or suddenly pulled the car off the thruway to run into a field of wildflowers or wildly sob while making love.  But, I have mellowed out since then.

The black clouds of depression have returned to haunt me several times.  It has never entirely eclipsed my appreciation of beauty.  But, sometimes, it has quite heavily obscured it.   I have had several brushes with death.  I used to joke it was my companion.  I have died twice more. After the second death, I craved to die again and often had to deal with my suicidal tendencies wanting to be embraced in total beauty forever.  But, this last death experience 3 years ago taught me that the beauty is right here, right now, within me every moment and around me all the time.

Science is More Than We've Been Led to Believe

Photo Friday - Incredible close up… can you guess what it is?

I had wanted one of these for a long time and in this color. A friend of mine, Jimmy, from the MHE group came to visit and saw my collection and so picked this one out for me. it was the right color to complete my collection.  

MHE, by the way, is Multiple Hereditary Exostoses (or Osteochondromas) This is a benign bone tumor condition which sometimes can transform into a malignant cancer called Chondrosarcoma. I have MHE as do other members of my family. Thank Heavens I am the only one that has had the cancer. I hope it stays this way. I have survived more than 40 years since diagnosed.


This is a close up. Can you guess what it is?

This is the same object, different view,  with a little color change benefit of Photoshop

Now can you guess what it is? 

This is the last hint

 

Revealing is below

?

?

?

?

The close up picture above is of the one in the middle.

The one on the left is actually a vase with pennies in it.

The one on the right is clear with Chinese writing on it saying Good Fortune, Long Life.

It sits on a square crystal. I have others not shown here.

UNKLE - Trouble In Paradise (Variation On A Theme)

Enjoy the Music with your eyes closed

Aftermath of Wild Fires

The more I have looked into the subject of the aftermath of wild fires, the more questions arose. As soon as I learned one answer, a response from another source would conflict with it for other reasons not previously considered.

What are the long-term affects on the ecology of the landscape?
If the insects and fauna have been decimated, will the plants grow too abundantly without wildlife to keep them from overproducing? Will this cause more tree diseases? Exactly what are the effects of the fire, smoke, ash and consequent winter rains upon organisms in the soil? Would it be wiser to replant only native plants? Wouldn't there be adaptable non-native species which would be more fire resistant than some of the chaparral plants that turn into ready kindling every hot dry summer? 

I discussed some of these nagging questions with my son-in-law, Scott. He was a soil specialist for the State and previous owner of one of the first organic landscaping businesses located in the Los Angeles area. He comments that fire has always been considered a natural characteristic component of the California ecosystem. Many plants and animals thrive or perish in its wake as a natural course in the scheme of things. Fires like these occurred long before the country was inhabited by humans. The dry season throughout the summer provides the right kindling. Thunderstorms producing lightning can ignite the kindling long before enough rain can soak the soil. Hence, the natural way of things is wildfires which used to burn themselves out.

In the aftermath of wild fires, the reproductive capabilities of rare plant species and the spread of invasive exotic plants are of particular concern, and it would be wiser, if possible, to replant all native plants. Yet, in the expanses of wild lands, spring plants and flowers are diverse after a fire and provide an abundant source of food which may help to replenish the range and numbers of various species. As caretakers of our lands, we must determine what is the best action to take in order to restore the land to healthy reproductivity.

Scott points out that some native plants naturally hold more moisture and are less likely to encourage fire to spread. Some naturally thrive due to the after-effects of fire such as soil enriched by ash or simply because enough has been burned away that there is now room for new plants to grow. Many non-native plants may have been destroyed,  and it is best not to attempt replacing them. As a previous student of fire science Scott assured me that the fire retardant dropped from airplanes onto the hillsides are not poisonous chemicals, but safe for the land and rich in nitrogen and potassium. Therefore, helpful to increasing verdant re-growth.

Scott also related an experience he had during one of the fires, which, if could be simulated, would make a lot of money for some insecticide company. He told me that the week before the fires, he had been treating one of his neighbor's properties for an infestation of whiteflies with an organic product that takes several applications over a period of weeks. Scott spent a great deal of time observing the fires in his own neighborhood before evacuation. He was struck by the incredible thickness of the smoke which permeated everything. After the fires subsided, he returned to make the follow-up application on the whiteflies, only to discover that they were completely gone, with no further signs of infestation. And there have been no recurrences since then. Scott came to the conclusion that the smoke was the cause of their demise. Now, if only we could bottle that pest cure!! Perhaps we just need to smoke them out!

I have come to the conclusion that it is a more complicated subject than can be answered with simplicity. It is a lot like Philosophy. All answers lead to other questions.

Note: the picture is of one of the large Redwood trees that grow in the vicinity. This one is only a couple hundred years old, yet it is large enough for a man to seem minuscule standing before it.

Fire Breaks and Ankle Break

I recall as a little girl, my father driving the car through forested Allegheny Mountains  on old, out-of-the-way firebreak roads. My mother questioned the wisdom of taking such mountaintop detours but I know she enjoyed the adventure as much as the rest of us. Crisscrossing the ridges, we crept along the brink overseeing vast valleys until the tracks grew too narrow to pass. Both fascinated and terrified, I clung to the edge of the open window and gazed down the steep inclines through the lush green treetops. Oak leaf mold, pine needles, moist soil and a thousand varieties of plants tantalized my nose as the gaping canyons threatened to swallow the car. Daddy knew those firebreak roads like the back of his hand. He had worked clearing them for payment of fifty cents a day (plus room and board at the camps) as a member of the CCC's (Civil Conservation Corps) in the post-depression era. He explained how summer dryness, human carelessness, or the whims of Mother Nature made the firebreak roads necessary. Not too long ago, I wondered if there were sufficient firebreaks being created today. Unfortunately, one of the biggest forest fires we had this summer was on acres and acres of land that had not been cleared in over sixty years.

As an adult, while living in the tree populated hills of Aptos in 1981, I recall one hot, dry evening a neighbor's very large, faulty propane tank exploded, shooting flames fifty feet to the tops of the Eucalyptus grove. Instantly, I grabbed my 2 year old son out of bed, ran to the edge of a six foot fence, lifted him over, and gently dropped him upright. Thank heavens he was wearing his red foot ‘jamas. Then, I vaulted over as the increasing roar of the flames urged me to fly. Anyone who knows me, is aware I do not have the physique of an athlete. I landed hard, and broke my ankle but the adrenaline kept me from realizing it until the next day, when I discovered I couldn’t walk.

Running while the flames screamed through the trees, I carried my son through the neighboring pasture, and down to the highway. I sat beside the road as the fire department arrived to put out the fire before the hillside became engulfed. That hair-raising event is stamped indelibly on my mind.

The next day we surveyed the burned trees, and I thought how sad that they were gone. Foolish me. What did I know? They were not as destroyed as they appeared. And now, years later, the average person would not recognize these trees as having survived. They have grown back strong as before. Research has shown that no matter how singed the trees, as long as the root system, and trunk are reasonably uninjured, they are likely to recover healthy again, in time.


This summer, south of me, what began as a "Controlled Burn" combined with the thick, desiccated undergrowth, high temperatures, and brisk winds quickly consumed acreage becoming a wildfire which engulfed and incinerated acres of trees, coastal scrub, and grasses. No longer a “controlled burn” this transformed much of the terrain that lasted several days. From the beginning, with expert assistance the fire was contained before it spread too far.

At the same time, Southern California's wildly unmanageable firestorms were not as easily controlled. I watched the news, distractedly wondering if all life in the Los Angeles Basin would be incinerated. Literally, full neighborhoods disappeared. Folks have suffered, most all have survived and are rebuilding their homes.

But, still I’m wondering, what plants, insects, birds,  and other wildlife were destroyed in the process? How well will the ecosystem recover? I once read a science fiction book entitled Earth Abides by George Rippy Stewart which extolled the virtues of Mother Nature's ability to survive, and thrive long after the human race had annihilated itself. (Some people survived too) In opposition to those who are proponents of the "we will take her with us" group, I am rooting for Mom.

Winter Gardening by the Fire

 Winter Gardening may seem an oxymoron. But I consider it to be just as pleasurable as handling the summer soil. After pruning trees, planting bulbs, and cleaning up yard debris, essentially putting my garden to bed for the winter, I do my winter gardening while I delve through landscaping books and seed catalogs. I examine my memories, contemplate last year's results, and anticipate next year's plans. I realize the mistakes, and dream of new possibilities. Winter gardening is a lot like having good dreams. This year is strikingly different because of the wildfires we‘ve had this year. My family members, living in Southern California were threatened by the fires right down to evacuating. Fortunately none lost homes. I had ash on car, windows and plants. I could look in any direction and see large billows of smoke, like storm clouds angrily climbing the nearby mountains. I had to increase my asthma medicine four-fold and keep myself locked in the house, or leave town.

 So in the winter, snuggled warmly on my chaise, listening to the cacophony of rain pouncing on the roof and crickly flames safely dancing in the fire place, I envision the spring garden, and ponder. Will the effects of the fires cause permanent damage to local landscapes? I remember the air clogged with smoke. If it made my own breathing difficult, what was the effect upon the green environment? Did the ash that fell like snow carpeting the earth, seep strange chemicals into the soil of my gardens making it too acid or alkaline? Or poison?

What about the landscape of the wild lands? Without roots to hold the soil, erosion results, which equals mudslides or uncontrolled flooding when it rains. Most of the winter here the weather is rainy. What about the fire retardants released from airplanes to smother the fires? What kind of toxic soup is brewing in the rushing rivulets flushing mud down to the shores? I want to tell myself, it can't be that bad, at least not here. Southern California had it worse I tell myself. Why am I brooding?

In Memory of My Friend, Linda Duran Watkins 1949 - 1982

My best friend,  Linda Watkins, would have celebrated her 60th birthday this month. I believe on the 24th. But, she died of cancer close to her birthday in 1982 about the age 33. When we first met in 1974, I had just moved into a small house in El Monte, California. We hit it off right away. She was my neighbor. She had a darling little baby girl, named Andrea, who must be in her thirties now. Linda’s mother Millie/Tillie called on the phone every day, and asked, “how’s my baby?”. She didn’t mean Linda. She meant Andrea. It was funny at first, but then one day Linda, feeling a little possessive, responded with, “She’s not YOUR baby, she’s mine! I am your baby, and I am doing fine!”  The reason I refer to Mrs. Duran as Millie/Tillie is because her name was Mildred and went by Millie at one time in her life. But, before Linda introduced us, she insisted that I call her Tillie. I never learned why.

Linda was approximately my height, 5‘ 2“. When we first met, we were the same weight, but from that point on she lost weight and I gained. Sometimes it was the other way around, a running joke with us. Still both of us were more plump than we thought we should be.

I look back and see we wasted a lot of time worrying about our figures.  She was of Mexican-American ancestry, though if anyone ever asked if she was Mexican, she firmly replied, “I’m American!”  With the Watkins last name, and no accent, no one dared to ask further.

Linda had sparkling brown eyes that showed her inner attitude that life was fun. She had naturally tan skin, but every summer we laid out under the sun to get more tan. I always ended up with sunburn. Her complexion was clear and perfectly arched eyebrows. She had a lovely face with what most women would envy. She had what my mother called, “beauty marks”.  Linda called them moles. But, they were not moles in my opinion. They were flat. They were beauty marks. Linda had naturally curly thick black hair. She always made an effort with her appearance. Where I would toss on a pair of jeans and t-shirt. She might do the same, but she accessorized. She took the time and trouble to put on her makeup and wear nice shoes. She carried herself better than I do. I’m somewhat of a slouch. Even when she was casual, she still appeared neat and fashionable.

Linda had a very great sense of humor. She always found something funny to joke about, even at the most serious times. (Bob and her arguing, then switching to laughing.. "Butter, bitter, butter")

She had a cheerful disposition and never allowed herself to be depressed or miserable for any length of time. Though, through the years, I understood, she just didn’t show it much. Linda was also a very strong minded individual, and never let anyone push her around. She had a very firm belief system and some of her values were immovable.

If ever too opposites attracted it was my friend, Linda, and I

I have never had such a good close friend since then.

Rowdy and Ruckus

Today is my sister's birthday. She is my only sister, and I wouldn't trade her in for anything in the world. Here's a little story about when we were much younger and not even looking ahead to realize we could be this ancient. Though, I bet my sis can still belt them out!

Rowdy and Ruckus

My sister and I were hanging around by ourselves. This was when the family lived in the house at Ft. Niagara beach.  It was a sunny Saturday, and we were under strict instructions to get that room cleaned up once and for all, or else! Or else, what? Probably nothing, really. Just more annoyed Mom. Oh, how we put her out sometimes. But we knew we needed to get the job done. It would have been a drudge, had anyone stayed home with us to look over our shoulder, but thankfully, we had been deserted by the rest of the family. With the dust roiling up in the air as we as we shoveled our piles of junk into the middle of the floor, we threw open the windows and doors so we could breathe.

WKBW, our favorite radio station blared on full volume. We had to shout over it to hear one another. Aretha Franklin belted out: R-E-S-P-E-C-T!  FIND OUT WHAT IT MEANS TO ME! as we accompanied her at the top of our lungs. There was something a little evil in our glee, knowing we must be bugging the heck out of our neighbors. Once the radio began replaying the re-plays of the re-plays, we shut it off and kept on singing as we separated the dirty clothes from the clean ones, carefully refolding the one’s Mom had just piled on our beds a few days before. Funny, how everything always landed on the floor, with everything else. Well, we couldn’t help it we were teenage girls, or rather, my sister was the teenage girl. I was the newly divorced mother of two, who wished she were a teenager again. Being with my sister automatically made me a teenager in my heart. She was full of energy and enthusiasm that I had thought deserted me, until I was around her.

We got a good rendition of “Amen” going, while traipsing around, clapping our hands and swinging our bodies as though we were in a hot revival meeting. (I had never been to one before, but now, I know that is what we were doing). Sorting out all the papers and trash was the easiest part. Anything that looked like schoolwork got trashed by wadding it up and giving a quick overhand heave-ho into the wastebasket. It didn’t take long to have it overflowing. We both would have been great on a girl’s basketball team!

In the midst of our enthusiasm, we got carried away by the Four Tops, as we hauled the dirty clothes into the laundry room to wash. No longer isolated to our room, we decided to surprise Mom and clean up the whole house. So, we began cleaning the kitchen and bathroom. Then, singing louder over the vacuum with Diana Ross and The Supremes, we cleaned and straightened up the living room. Our voices getting hoarse, we changed to the Polish radio station that Mom’s friend, Annie listened to. The rollicking polka music of the sixties OOM-PAH-PAHed as we grabbed each other and polkaed around the house until we grew dizzy, tripped over furniture and landed on the floor, laughing; still completely aware of how rowdy we were being and how it must be really annoying the hell out of old Mrs. Steffan next door.

What would she put into her spy report this week?

RESPECT
Aretha Franklin




AMEN
Sidney Poiter



Polka Dancing

Photo Friday: Thanksgiving (photo that shows what it means to you)

I had a very difficult time coming up with a photo representing what Thanksgiving means to me. I've spent days asking myself the question. I know what it used to mean to me, and I have written about that in the past two days.

The other day I watched a program giving the history of Thanksgiving.... very very different than what schoolchildren are taught it is meant to be, and I presume not many adults know the real story behind it, either.

I like the idea of people gathering together to share their gratitude for the abundance in their lives. But, I also don't like the idea much that it should be held just one day a year. Perhaps life just passes us by so quickly that the moment arrives and leaves before we can say, thank you for that, friend.

I'm so full of gratitude that I am even alive that every breath is a blessing, and everything after that is like, WOW! including the bad stuff. For without the bad stuff, how easily we would forget to enjoy the ordinary. It's not like I go around life smiling from ear to ear. My mind knows this stuff the way I know how to spell my name. But, do I go around "feeling" my name as something to appreciate all the time? No. So even though I know how lucky I am, I am still much like anyone else when it comes to having feelings that are not always filled with thankfulness and joy.

I thought and thought about what does Thanksgiving mean to me. I wondered what picture I might have to represent it. Nothing would come to mind. I examined why. I rolled it around in my head. Thanksgiving means nothing to me at the moment. But why?  All the things it meant to me in the past, no longer apply.

And then, it dawned on me. This has been a very painful year. People I love have died.

Am I thankful they are dead? NO!
Am I filled with gratitude that they've gone on to heaven? NO!
Because they are not here with me.
No, I'm not glad they've gone on to heaven.
GOD! GIVE THEM BACK!

I ain't got no gratitude.

I can feel my Sunday school teacher waggling her finger at me right now, "Shame, shame for talking to God like that."

Yes, I am grateful they are no longer suffering. But, I am not thankful that it was only this one way that stopped their suffering.

Okay, so this isn't a cheerful posting. A thoughtful one maybe. A truthful one because these are my exact feelings.

But, definitely a hopeful one.

I am thankful that my son-in-law was accidentally diagnosed with Thyroid Cancer.
I am thankful that it is one of the "easy" kinds of Thyroid Cancer. The kind that has the very highest survival rate. Where have I heard that before? Okay, I'm not all that thankful. I'm thankful with an underlying uneasiness.
I am thankful for my daughter's knowledge and education which caused her to withdraw her husband from the scheduled surgical procedure to be done at their local well-meaning doctor and hospital.
I am thankful that she has the chutzpah to contact City of Hope, a prestigious cancer hospital, of finagle an appointment right away for her husband. He was scheduled to have his thyroid removed yesterday.

This year my daughter will not have thanksgiving
My grandkids will not have thanksgiving.
My great grandkids will not have thanksgiving.
Who would cook the turkey? Not me, I'm a seven hour drive from where they live and even if I got there, I wouldn't have the ability to put together a splendid meal. And who would eat it, anyways? Not my son-in-law, not my daughter, not my five grandkids. Of the four great grandkids, perhaps two are young enough that they would be able to enjoy it. Scott's mother is going to be by his side, along with his brothers and step-mother. They wont be cooking, nor eating much but a sandwich or whatever they can grab it at the hospital.

Thanksgiving has been put on hold this year. I think we will all be holding our collective breath until next year when he has recovered from surgery and had his radioactive iodine isotope treatments.

Still I am thankful that my daughter has such a wonderful man for a husband, that my grandkids have a great daddy and my great grandkids have a wonderful grandpa!

Mom Cooks

I look through several old photographs of my mother. All dressed up and wearing a fancy apron, she is cooking . The small, apartment size, electric stove tucked away in the corner of the narrow kitchen is nearly inaccessible for her use. Whoever designed that kitchen put it in as an afterthought. This was the “modern” post-war house. The left rear burner was a deep cooker. A tall aluminum pot fit down into a well, and once the lid was on, it would lie flush. Today’s equivalent, I suppose, would be the crock pot.

In the photo, my mother is kneeling down and sliding a perfectly roasted turkey out of the oven. I remember the Thanksgiving turkey’s of my childhood. The closer they weighed to thirty pounds, the more delicious they were! My mother’s ability to maneuver anything in or out of that narrow kitchen was nothing short of a miracle, and she frequently pulled off these miracles on a regular basis; not just for the six of us, but while entertaining guests, too.

Being raised in Pennsylvania farm country, my mother had learned a lot of her culinary talents from her mother, Orilla, who once worked, cooking for 50 hungry lumberjacks in the Lumber Camps around the Pennsylvania, New York border. Later, in the town of Port Allegany, Orilla worked in a diner and was famous throughout Porter county for her Homemade Custard Pie. In researching my mother’s family tree, I have only found Connecticut Yankees. It is a mystery that my grandmother mostly cooked in Pennsylvania Dutch style (really German). But, I recently learned from a cousin that Orilla was directly descended from the original Dutch settlers of New Amsterdam. Could it be that their cooking style was the same?

My mother could bake any kind of pie, mincemeat and chocolate cream being my favorite. I remember one time when we spent a whole year tending to a grape arbor in the side yard. When the grapes were ripe, we carefully plucked them and took them into the kitchen where my mother spent the rest of the day making grape pie. It was the most delicious pie I ever had in my life. I don’t recall her ever making it again, and I have never seen it offered anywhere else, either. It certainly was a lot of work to grow those grapes!

My mother’s biscuits were never matched by anyone, except maybe, by my Cousin Eva Mae, who was so thin, you would never think she ate any of what she cooked. Gravy: my mother made the best giblet gravy. It took nearly as long to make it as the turkey took to cook. The gravy pan sat simmering on the stove all day, tantalizing our taste buds. Spice cake with peanut butter icing: I have never been able to duplicate it, and long ago gave up trying. She also made chocolate cake with Marshmallow Icing. Yummy!

She knew how to make a big country breakfast, too. It is probably too rich for today’s tastes, but when a whole passle of relatives spent the night, my mother made bacon basted fried eggs that were curly crispy around the edges and the yolk cooked to order. She could roast any kind of meat, do up any kind of potatoes, even Scalloped or Au Gratin. Some other favorites I remember are recipes I seldom cook: Goulash, Pigs in Blankets, Yankee Pot Roast, Boston Baked Beans (cooked in the oven overnight). The list goes on!

Thanksgiving Memories

Thanksgiving Memories

I remember back when I was young what Thanksgiving was like at home, all the family gathered together. Everyone sat around the table, mismatched chairs and all. Relatives came from miles, sometimes driving through snowy weather. Beginning, days before, Mom prepared the meal. Mom was a really great cook! She made a huge turkey for us with sage dressing and all the trimmings. The house filled with the smell of turkey, roasting in the oven with frequent bastings. Giblet gravy simmered on the back of the stove a whole day, a huge pot of potatoes boiled up and mashed by hand, sweet potatoes with brown sugar and butter baked in. Fancier folks called them "candied yams". Then there were fresh light-as-a-feather biscuits, pickles, olives and relish dishes, celery sticks and deviled eggs, corn and peas, and cranberry sauce cut in slices from the can. I never could figure out how it was called a sauce with it being so solid, like that.

Each year it seemed to be a contest to get a bigger turkey than the year before. I remember that one of the turkeys was so large, Mom had to thaw it out in the bathtub!


After the turkey is cooked, and eaten down to the last shred of meat the family ritual included carefully removing the wish bone which was saved, tucked up above a door, I always thought for good luck where it dried. Later, my  brother and I pulled it apart to make a wish on. There's a certain art to breaking a wishbone in half. only one side will get the wish. "The wishbone, known in anatomy as the furcula, is a fused clavicle bone found in birds which is shaped like the letter Y." according to wikipedia.





Mom worked hard preparing thanksgiving dinner often without any help. Back in those days, it was pretty much considered "woman's work", and I was not much a kitchen helpful daughter. I much more wanted to run and play. (Sorry, Mom.) If cousin Eva Mae was there, she helped Mom if she and Don arrived early enough. Cousin Velva did not. The smell of fresh baked pies wafting through the house smelled like heaven.

The table was overloaded with food, plate pressed up to plate. More food sat in the kitchen waiting to be asked for. “Can I have seconds?” was never refused. Pies cooled out on the front porch, that is, until one of our cats walked through one.

Mincemeat was my favorite. Nobody eats that anymore. I couldn't even find it lately at the grocery store, or the restaurant that specializes in pie desserts! I shall miss it! And Mom’s great cooking. They don't make thanksgivings like that anymore!

Bunny Dreams

Does the caged white rabbit dream?

With his pink eyes closed
and REM sleep overtaking him,

Does he travel to distant lands
where, in a past life,
he rambled freely, the green meadow?

In his two-by-four wired cubicle
he cuddles himself with nothing
and waits.
Will the rain ever stop?

Or, was the sunlight only a dream?
He dozes.

The big woman arrives,
places fresh greens through the slot.

Dandelion
Radish
Plantain

all torn from the earth, screaming,
rinsed of their soil
by a spray nozzle hose,
to be fed, alive, to the voracious rodent.

Sleeping bunny,
wriggling nose, sensitive to the pungeant herbs
awakens.

Bunny thoughtfully chews
his breakfast of weeds,
lop-eared gaze intent and distant,
remembering the dreams.

Elizabeth Munroz
Friday, May 25, 1990

Eternal Change

Inner pain, outer pain,

it all exists for the benefit of change,

Thoughts are only shells of ideas,

hopes are soft feather-down 

from angel's wings.

and rain is the tears

from every heart ever bled.

Death embraces all things
in one final ecstatic love.

Fear gives rise 
to the quest for answers,

and truth sheds light 
throughout the shadows of shame.

Laughing dolphins have more intellect

than stars shining from the darkness.

Yet darkness holds the key to deepest joy.

Whispering trees haunt the living forests
while fallen leaves dance on rock faces 
just to tease the sky.

And little children without legs 

are forced to watch their fathers murder.

Hearts break for all the wrong reasons.

Nothing can be grasped with closed fingers.

Swirling coldness dries up the ground before putting it to sleep.

Remember... Eternity is just a breath away.