We All Have a Story. What's Yours, Ducky?

I remember the time I was driving X and his new steady girlfriend, K, home from high school. It had been a long monotonous ride. I got off the main highway to get out of traffic, take a detour on a side road with two lanes. I told the kids, "We're taking the scenic route! Less nerve wracking!"

Suddenly the two lane traffic slowed to a grind. Not just on our side. It seemed the cars on the other side were slowing too. Some would suddenly zoom by with a little squeal of tires. It seemed so odd. I stuck my head out the window to catch a glimpse of what was holding up traffic.

Mother duck...

Her ducklings were located in the drainage ditch on our right. Their goal? The pond to our left across the road.

I quickly swung the car over to the side of the road. A little gasp from K. Was I making her nervous? Maybe she thought I was driving into the water?

I opened the door and got out, my son smiling and rolling his eyes as, K said, "Where ya goin'?

"I'll be right back."

I walked down the center of double yellow lines and stopped equal to the position of the ducks, put my arms out wide and waved them (like flapping wings, now that I think of it.)

There's something about being a mother, myself, seeing another mother and her little ones in danger, that brings out the protectiveness in me.

I began edging my way right and left. The cars slowed to a creep, one zipped pass me. I gave the driver behind him an I-dare-you look. He smiled and threw his hands in the air and remained in place.

Now that all traffic was stopped heard only mother duck encouraging her little ones to follow her between this canyon of metal, asphalt and funny odors. 

I could also hear K in the car... "Your mother is crazy!!!

X said. "You better get used to it."

The cars stopped.

They had no choice with Crazy Lady blocking their way

Momma and babies all made it safely across to the pond.

I have no doubt one of the pond ducklings who hadn't gone on adventure snickered to the newly crossed over, "Your mother is crazy!

It seems that ducks have us people well figured out, as there are other stories similar to mine. There was one in the news about a cab driver. Maybe you have a duck story? It does not have to include teenagers If you have a duck story. Please feel free to share it in a comment. 

Can Flowers Dance?

Just for the beauty of it.....

It's a Wrap!

Forgotten candy in pocket
slightly sticky with age.

The coat?
I haven't worn in months.
 

Car stalled,
highway dark,
waiting for triple A.

Cold.
Hungry.

It nudges.
It worms it's way
into my thoughts.
 

Fingers fondle wrapper,
squishy, but firm.

Oh, what the hell!
Still tastes good.

Elizabeth Munroz

Shenandoah

There are certain voices that, when you hear them, evoke a response deep in your psyche. They cannot be ignored. I had carelessly uploaded a mix of new music to my IPOD, and while taking my walk yesterday, Harry Belafonte  began singing Shenandoah. (Who's Harry Belafonte you may ask?)

Shenandoah plucks my heartstrings, a piece of music about a river valley,  brings up long lost thoughts and emotions for me. It wasn't that I remembered a bad time. No, it brought up a poignant memory. Childhood walked beside me singing her heart out to Shenandoah and Harry Belafonte. Nostalgia breathed it's way up my nose and tickled like dust. What a strange sensation! But, that is what brought the tears and I almost lost it right there on the sidewalk in my own neighborhood.

I stood there a moment to collect myself. My childhood instinct said to run! But, there is no way to run back home. My childhood home no longer exists.

Should I turn it off? Change it to another selection? Or suffer? With the flood of joy enveloping me while my legs melted into jelly, I decided to suffer. After all, there is healing in music. Belafonte's Mr. Bojangles, and Matilda soon gave me a more grounded and upbeat experience. I soon made it home uplifted in spirit.

I have a theory. Sometimes life gives you what you think is more than you can handle. But, try running away from it, and it just follows you. Hide from it and it will find you. What we are supposed to face, will face us off, unless we will ourselves to turn to it, embrace it and heal ourselves in the process.


Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you,
Away, you rolling river
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you
Away, I'm bound away, cross the wide Missouri.

Oh, Shenandoah, I love your daughter,
Away, you rolling river
Oh, Shenandoah, I love your daughter
Away, I'm bound away, cross the wide Missouri.

Oh, Shenandoah, I'm bound to leave you,
Away, you rolling river
Oh, Shenandoah, I'm bound to leave you
Away, I'm bound away, cross the wide Missouri.

Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you,
Away, you rolling river
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you
Away, I'm bound away, cross the wide Missouri.

On the Book Shelf

If I were a book, I'd be sitting pretty on the bookstore shelf. As people walked by, I'd wish they would stop long enough to get a glimpse of me. Out of all the other books competing for attention, once they see my intriguing title, they'll pull me off the shelf and judge me by my cover. It's a  fine cover, dazzling the eye and enchanting the mind. As they flip through my pages, I would feel all warm and fluttery. Take me! Buy me!

I would gasp in delight if I were taken home and placed in a prominent location. Yes, over there. Right on top of that stack of books by the bed. I'll be waiting in anticipation to be read.

If I were a book, I wouldn't want to be too heavy. I'd like to be lightweight. I'd be like one of those books the reader can't put down and continues reading while walking from bedroom to kitchen in the morning. I'd get to smell coffee while being propped up against the toaster with a sunbeam enhancing my font.

As a book, if I am a good one, a fast read, one of those books you can't put down, and read all night fighting off sleep, if I am one of those books, then, my life will be over soon, unless I am passed on to another delighted reader. Oh, how wonderful to be held in someone's hands, to have the reader's full attention, to make them laugh, to make them cry, think and ponder, just because I exist!

When the very last page is read and my cover is closed once and for all, I know the excitement of my life will be finished. I suspect I will end up on the third shelf on the right side, next to "The Life of Cleopatra". She might snub her nose at me. But, on the other side "The Zen of Nothingness" might be interesting if I can find the Roshi. I think, without an engaged reader, I would simply fall asleep from boredom, collect dust, perhaps go into a trance never to awaken, and pass into the beyond where all good books go.

I'd like to believe that books reincarnate. When I'm asleep on the shelf never to be touched again, I'd like to imagine I've been published and entered a book store once again, all shiny, with another great title, enticing cover, and pages inviting an eager reader to pick me up and take me home. Perhaps this time around I'll a fascinating historical novel.

Reading at the Bribery

Though I read to my daughter when she was a little girl, once she was in school and knew how to read on her own, I began a systematic method of bribery to get her to spend more time reading.

She was a social butterfly and liked to play with friends or watch TV more than read. I knew there must be a way to get her to explore the joy of books without forcing a resentful child to sit through bedtime with mother reading another boring story. Or so, that was my thought process at the time.

The bribery system worked so much better for both of us. No longer would she have a shortage of cash to expend on her heart's desires, and no longer would I worry that she'd never develop a love of reading.

I bought many books from thrift shops and yard sales. Investing in my child's future reading pleasure was worth it. The easy reads, the ones with the delightful pictures, I wrote "10 cents" on the inside of the cover. If she read the book, I gave her ten cents. The not-so-easy reads, with less pictures were 25 cents. Books without pictures, still within her reading level were 50 cents. And books beyond her reading level had a bribe price of one dollar.

Now, you may think this is a perfect system for my child to get money for doing nothing. But, as a part of our pact, my daughter gave me a synopsis of the story or book she read. In the beginning this habit was developed and not too long after, I realized it wasn't necessary. She did not have to prove to me that she had read any book she said I owed her money for.

One night I awoke to realize a light was on in her room and wondered why. I got up and discovered my little girl sound asleep, book still open in her hands reading the story in her dreams.

Once all the books with the bribe prices on them were gone, my plan succeeded. She became a voracious reader. It was no longer necessary to bribe my child to read. After all, she was choosing her own books. And now, decades later she gives me books and makes recommendations as to what I might find interesting. Now, if only I could get her to give me money for reading them!

Good Day! Sunshine?

Awakening into today

Does today have a label?
A designation selecting it out from any other day?

How does today,
This day,
Differ from any other?

Obviously not the same
Yet, it seems like just another piece of hell
Infusing itself into existence.

Doesn’t begin.
Doesn’t end.
Just another day.

Foggy, cold, empty, gray
Like my pain,
Medicated and Polluted
with poison smog-thoughts

Cyanide tetrachloride images
Twist their bizarre sneering faces.
Racing in fast-forward,
Everchanging clouds of human misery.

Compassionless, tortured souls
Caught there,    
continually escaping

By channeling themselves
Into dimensions
Beyond the realms of time.

Only to reappear again
More grotesque
And pathetically devoid
Of being worth salvaging.

The cat, in heat, yeowls,
and growls again.

Does she see them, too?

Elizabeth Munroz 
March 1991
Photos by E.M.

Terminal Healing

When we come into this world we act out as freely as we want to. As time goes by, we get messages from others that to freely express ourselves is not okay.

Whoever said one must be a "good" (insert name of disease here) patient? What the hell is that anyways? If we be "good" does that mean we get to stay on this planet longer?

I know that there is a LOT of rhetoric about not "being negative" and  "keeping a positive attitude" will help one to have good health and survival. Oh and don't forget organic vegan lifestyle. If you didn't eat it before how is it going to take over and heal you? If you ate it before then why did you get sick? Maybe you like that style of food. But, wouldn't a hot fudge sundae be nice?

If is true that not thinking positive, having a negative attitude, not eating certain food, then I would have been gone a long time ago, because I was a very "bad" cancer patient. My inner child was pissed off. I went against the rules every chance I got, kicking and screaming and swearing at nurses (well, some of them deserved it) and telling people out loud that I had the forbidden "C" word and I was going to die.

Whoa! But those doctors were wrong. Maybe I was close to dying (had two Near Death Experiences), but no one can predict your future, really. Not even a doctor.

I was obsessed and talked about the "D" word to whoever I could get to listen. Most would get out of it, but some were cornered and I probably scared them to death. Those were times when the C word or D word were not discussed. 

I wrote out my will, I don't know how many times. Well, that is, every time I had a recurrence. I really didn't have much to leave, some books, some artwork, some poems, some favorite things. I wrote it out with pencil and paper from a 3 ring notebook; one time leaving my art to my sis, next time to my brother. There was something cathartic in it for me.

Realizing I didn't want a "funeral", just a "wake", a party maybe, where people would play all my favorite music, (wrote that in the will, too) and I went around making people feel uncomfortable when I told them, "Don't buy flowers for me after I am dead, Give them to me now, so I can appreciate them." What a bad girl I was. I can laugh at it now, but I was pretty indignant back then. Why put hundreds, maybe thousands of flowers on a casket that is put into the ground the day they are arranged? It seemed so selfish to me. Love me now, not when I'm dead!

So, when we come into this world and we are cute little babies, we can get pissed off and scream our heads off and let everybody know just how unhappy we are. And we get away with it. We know what we want and when we want it, like, I want that milk, NOW! and yummy that is real good!! and then we are happy for a while, and  then later we are miserable again, or sleepy, or giggly, or sad.... yet free to express whatever we feel. And people love you and care for you and for your feelings.

All I am saying is, I hope you will give yourself the right to feel however you want to feel and don't let anyone else pass judgement on you, and most of all, don't pass judgement on yourself for not being a "good" patient. Be whoever you are!

If it is true that your time on this planet is coming to a close, then why not do what you want? Well, maybe, not use that bludgeon you were thinking of. But, maybe take a stick and beat up the sofa. Listen to the music you want, eat popsicles and pizza or cereal for dinner and pudding for breakfast, wear all mis-matched clothes or draw tattoos on your arm or get out your old Barbies and dress Ken in Drag or your old legos and build castles. And, yes, protect yourself from those who are still stuck in their old ways, if you need to. You have no obligation to keep them in your life. It's your life after all, whatever is left of it, even if it goes long term. Clear out all the things that do not matter to you. It's very freeing to let go.

Take care of that little baby you once were who expressed yourself so freely. And in the meantime grab up all the love you can get for that which is inside you feeling empty, and let it fill your heart until it is overflowing. You will be very surprised as the overflow floods those around you, and whether or not you healed of the disease which might kill you, your heart will be healed with the fullness of love as it grows like a jungle garden. Your love and others intertwined in the leaves healing each other.

RAINBUGS, a Poem

Raindrops running down the windowpane

hurrying through pathways

to the thirsty earth.

Green lushness awaiting to grow.

Little grubs

and crawly things

swim to save their insignificant lives.

Who is to say the angels don’t guard them?

When the raindrops stop,

it’s time to breathe and relax again,

and to rebuild burroughs

washed away.


Poem and photos by Elizabeth Munroz

Run Away Toilet

Toilets don't run away from home, though perhaps they wish they could.

If I were a toilet, I certainly would want to be clean. I would face my career with pride.

But, when I got old, my pride would turn into embarrassment and shame. I'm no longer useful. In fact I am a drain on the planet. My invention was to keep the planet clean and safe from pollution. But now, look at all those new fangled toilets on the market, the ones with the water saving ability.

I'm now considered a water hogger, a waster of a precious resource. Soon, I will be replaced. The city where I live has a program, a free low flow toilet for every resident. All they have to do is ask and someone will come out to the house and remove me, and others like me.

Where will we go? Can they chop us up into new material and turn us into park benches? I doubt it. Will we end up in the toilet grieve yard? I understand the name for that is "the dump"! How is that any better for the environment than leaving me where I am?

Oh, I know I have my faults. I didn't flush properly last night. I mean I took care of my complete responsibilities. But, I do have that one leaky part, that if anyone would take the trouble to repair, wouldn't leak anymore.

So, last night I leaked for a good (bad) 12 hours before I was discovered. It's not like I do this on purpose. It' not my fault! If they cannot repair me, the least they can do is hang around until I'm finished refilling the bowl. Then, they would notice the leak. I certainly make enough noise when I leak. At least they could hear it if standing in the bathroom with me. It's their fault for not hanging around and checking up on me, and wiggling my handle to stop the leak!

My time is coming to an end soon. I wish there were some way to prevent it. I wish there would be a new life waiting for me after this. But, like old grandma use to say, "If wishes were fishes, we'd all live in the sea!"

After that long leak of last night, it was the last straw, and now the city has been called. The workers will come in with their brand new low flow toilet and replace me. I will be taken away, I know not where.

A Piddling Amount of Water.

Do you look forward to receiving your utility bills? This month I definitely wanted to see them. So, when my city utility bill arrived I was ecstatic. There it was! I had cut my water consumption in half!!!

Month of December I used 2992 gallons

Month of January I used 1496 gallons

A savings of $11.38

If I do the same for 12 months it will equal $136.56. But, I hope to keep decreasing my water usage further. If I continue to find more reasonable ways to conserve water, I will save more. And maybe, just maybe, make a drop in the bucket of my environmental footprint.

What got me on this track?

Last fall the pipes beneath my cement floor began leaking. Why in the world anyone would put plumbing underneath a cement floor is beyond me!

When walking barefoot, I noticed one part of the kitchen floor was hot compared to other parts. It took a while for anyone to believe me, until the water was seeping up through the edges between the tiles. I didn't know how long the seepage of water had been occurring. It had been at least a month or more that I had been aware of the extra hot floor. It was hot because it was the pipe connected to the hot water heater.

That month my water bill showed I'd used 673,200 gallons!!! That's 450 times the amount of water I used this month. What a waste of water! What a dip into my budget!

It is not only the repair of the leaking pipe that helped cut my water bill. Because of what happened I became very aware of how wasteful I had been regarding water, so I began washing dishes and clothing differently, which I will write about further.

Return to Roots

Swaying in the breeze, the willow cried.
Wind wanting to comfort her,
could not.

Of all the people on the earth,
she loved that child the most.
The one who sat beneath her daily
her back leaning against the bark.

Willow's roots embracing her
like a babe in arms.
Willow's branches swayed,
touching her hair as she played
happily, with her dolls
and now she was going away,
far, far, away to another place.

Ever wonder why willows weep?
Ever wonder why girls cry?

Poem and photograph by Elizabeth Munroz

Poem - Yellow

I am YELLOW
like the feathers of a Canary.

YELLOW flies high
to the sky
and soars on the dancing winds,
landing in the branches
of sweet smelling trees.

YELLOW sings a song
of joy so beautiful,
you cry with the pleasure of it.

I am YELLOW
so happy to open my heart,
and let my YELLOW sunbeams
warm the earth with love.

I am YELLOW,
shiny and golden,
sparkly and shimmery,
lemony and tangy,
juicy, luscious YELLOW.

Poem and Digital Art by Elizabeth Munroz

Valentine Gift Turnaround

My mother worked in the Jenss store at Pine Plaza in the lingerie department. She had special training how to measure for brassieres, corsets and girdles.

It was complicated back then.

One Valentine's week, a man came in and bought a beautiful black negligee for his wife. Mom thought that was so romantic. A week later, the woman returned it, saying she wanted the money instead. The store was obliged to accept her return.

I recall how angry Mom was about the return. She felt sorry for the man who cared so much as to embarrass himself by showing up there to ask for help to buy it. Seldom would a man be seen in this private section of the store in those days. She thought the woman was ungrateful and selfish.

Luckily for her that Mom (or Dad?) was able to purchase it for a very reduced amount. She had it for many years. The last time I saw it was about 1983. I think.

It wasn't some sleazy thing. It was more like what you would see Doris Day wearing in a movie. what comes to mind is "Pillow Talk" with Rock Hudson.

A respectable but pretty lacy nightgown underneath and a peignoir over it. It completely went from neck to wrist and floor. I don't think it was made of silk, but some other silky material. Chiffon, maybe. It had a zillion thin pleats. Parts of it had black lace that was backed by another kind of silky fabric to keep the lady wearing it looking demure, but alluring.

I don't think they make such beautiful things like that anymore. Probably because women like me, being practical and wanting to stay warm, would rather wear sweats to bed.

Oh, I know there are still romantics out there with a penchant for Victoria's Secret and maybe something a lot more racy. But I would be surprised if they would find the class and quality this peignor set had.

I found this pic on the internet, but this is way more revealing than the one Mom had. You will notice that under the nightgown part is another layer of fabric to keep you from actually seeing the body. Perhaps a man had to use his imagination rather than leaving nothing to imagination as it is today.

It's Mom's Birthday

Today is my mother's birthday. She would have been 89. She led a good life, a hard life. She had such a lovely name, Genevieve.

Her early memories were of living in the lumber camps, where Papa's work was still necessary, a blacksmith when it was a dying art. Her mother worked as cook and washerwoman for the lumber company. Their home, less a home than we can imagine, with a shed-porch where she and her brother slept and woke up to snow on the bed, because of the open slats holding up the roof.

She didn't think it was a hard life then. She just thought that was the way life was.

In a way, she worked for the lumber camp herself, setting the long tables with plates and eating utensils. Putting syrup, molasses, salt and home made jams in the center for the pancakes while her mother cooked up the big pans of bacon and eggs fried in their grease.

Once the lumbering dried out, no more trees to cut, you see. They went to live in the house of a relative who took them in. Papa tried to run his smithy there on that Crooked Creeak Road out "in the sticks", as she called it. Papa died when she was nine, at the beginning of the fall of the stock market and the Depression. It made no difference in their lives. They were already poor.

So she could find work as a housekeeper, mother sent her off to live with her older, married sister.

A year later she was brought home to live with Mother and her new Step-Dad.  Suddenly, the poverty was not so oppressive as her mother continued to work in a diner as a cook. Her pies the prize of the county.

Those are just some facts about my Mom's childhood, shared for no particular reason except today is my mother's birthday and these things have come to mind.

The first photo is my mother as an infant with her mother and aunt, and work horse.

Second photo was taken the year Papa died.

The third photo was taken when Genevieve was 14, when times were better.