A Boy's Memory of Cars

I once spent a day as my father (James Deane) reminisced about his boyhood memories of automobiles owned by his parents. So, we made a list. Where possible, I have inserted a picture of the named vehicle. This first picture on the left is a family photo. The boy is George Hanes Jr., a cousin. His nickname was Buster. 

Dad lived in Kinzua, Pennsylvania during the years mentioned below, He said the following:

At age five, the first car I remember was my family’s 1919 Model T Touring car. Mother was always the driver because of my Father's amputation. We bought new cars frequently.

At age 6, we had a 1919 Overland, made by Willys."

This next photograph is the Overland. From left to right, are George Hanes Sr. James Deane, his brother Oliver (Buddy), his father Frank and mother Mary. She is pregnant with her next baby, Roger Carl Deane. 

"By the time I was age 7 we had a 1920 Oakland, not to be confused with the Overland. The Oaklands were manufactured in Pontiac, Michigan. The following year we had a 1923 Oakland. After this they became the Pontiac Motor Company.

At age 9  we had our first Studebaker. It was a 1923 “Phaeton” and had pull down isinglass curtains, sort of like window shades, but made of Mica. These were in the ceiling and attached at the door, and helped cut down on the wind or kept the weather out. The following year we had a 1925 Studebaker, “Dictator” sedan. I wish they still made Studebakers. They're one of my favorite cars.

When I was eleven we got 1927 Hupmobile, sedan. It was made by the Hupp Motor Car Company from Detroit. We didn't have to pay a dime for it. There was a contest. Whoever sold the most subscriptions to the Warren Times Mirror would win. My mother knew a lot of people and was very well liked. She also was wrote articles for the newspaper occasionally. She sold the most subscriptions, and won the Hupmobile. Unfortunately, we could only keep the car for three months. There were financial problems and it had to be sold.

At age 12  we had a 1928 Studebaker, “President” sedan. We kept it until it was junk. Maybe that's why I like Studebakers.
We also had a 1927 Ford which was originally Grandpa George Frank Dean's car.

Face the Enemy

Always seeking,
my heart knows not what,
wondering what's coming next
a breath or two,
heartbeats cry out to me,
"get going, get going
keep moving
follow "

Follow where your heart leads.
It will guide,
fog and clouds to move away
let the sunlight through.

Keep on the path.
Keep steadfast,
regardless of the shadows,
regardless of the suffering.
It's only rain
and will stop
when the clouds go away.

Look ahead
not behind.
Go forward.
Face the enemy.
It is your friend.

Go forward.
Let your heartbeats guide you.
Hear them speak
with the rhythm of life
flowing around you.

Allow the seeker within, to be.
Allow the seeker to be fulfilled.

Dangerous Friend

Steroids save my life,
stop the fantasies
of giving up,
prevent me
from the anguish
of pain
return to me
the skill of ambulation.

Steroids are my dangerous friend.
They make my heart pound
like an angry wind at the door,
but I love how well
they make me feel!
I don't want them!
Osteoporosis results, they say.
I don't have enough
cortisol of my own
to do the job.
I don't want them,
but I need them.

They're like a
Jesus healing
at the big tent,
all the folks in wheel chairs
brought up on stage,
then they dance a jig
down the aisles.
Praise the Lord!
Praise the Lord!

I don't dance jigs
nor go to tent preachers.
I've got the best healing doctor.
With a needle in my spine
filled with steroids,
I can ambulate
down the hallway
without my walking stick,
get in the car and drive
Next weekend I will
assemble the sun shade canopy!
Praise the Lord!
Praise the Lord!

~~~~~~
Note: Picture is from the Turbo Squid website.

Purpose

We are born for wonder,

for joy,

for hope,

for love,

to marvel at the mystery of existence,

to be ravished by the beauty of the world,

to seek truth and meaning,

to acquire wisdom,

and by our treatment of others

to brighten the corner where we are."

~Dean Koontz

Definition

What is a poem?
I still don’t know.
In some ways,
I don’t care.
For me, it can be a phrasing of words
touching something inside
making me breathe a little deeper.
It can be anything,
an overheard snatch
of conversation,
a child’s ditty,
badly translated Japanese haiku,
formal verse
a sigh
a conglomeration
of unrelated words,
that suddenly make sense,
a baby's hiccup
raindrops sparkling on branches
after the storm
kitty's kaleidoscope eyes
snowflakes on my cheek
freshly made bed
fragrance of Jasmine, Geranium, Lavender
aroma of coffee,
even though I don't drink it
and, of course,
the taste of chocolate

It’s all poetry to me

Her Garden was Her Delight

Do you remember how your grandmother gardened? What about her grandmother before her? Or was gardening in her generation considered “un-ladylike”?
This book contains essays featuring two English women and 18 American women gardeners beginning about 1600, most of them famous.

The not so famous were obscure enough that historical records do not contain their names. Yet their gardens made enough of a mark on times gone by, that they have come down the generations to be included in this fascinating book. 

Some of the prominent women featured are Jane Colden, Alice Eastwood, and Anna Page-King with her legendary garden at Retreat Plantation, St. Simons Island, Georgia. Interestingly, few accounts were available on Theodosia Burr-Shepherd's story which was largely taken from an unpublished biography by her daughter.

Included is a wonderful account of Maria Martin, her relationship with John J. Audubon and her little known contribution to the paintings of birds, animals and plants of his well known book. In honor of her, Audubon named a woodpecker, Picus Martini, or Maria's Woodpecker.


Though this book is out of print, I found my copy at the public library. You can get your copy by going to the world catalog.

If you are into collecting books, or keeping those you read, checking with Amazon reveals seven used copies available beginning at the price of $14.05

Any gardener fascinated by history will enjoy this book.
HER GARDEN WAS HER DELIGHT
Famous Women Gardeners
by Buckner Hollingsworth
published in New York: by Macmillan, 1962

Further information, here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Photographs are of my neighbor and friend in her lovely garden.

Cemetary

Today, I drove into parking lot at my doctor's office which overlooks the cemetary. I've always thought it odd his office should be located there where patients can have the visual reminder. I felt just a tinge of irony until I saw several people walking the paths wearing Ipods or just talking with one another, a guy on a bike.

The juxtaposition of the very much living with the very far gone away threw me back in time... sitting in the car with friends driving through to the end where the pond was, throwing stones and munching on treats.

Still, even the boys wanted to make sure we got back to the car and out of there before the sun went down. No one made jokes or poked fun at one another for feeling squeamish, it was just an unspoken understanding that it was time to leave.

Across the Room

Many times 

I've looked across 

the crowd

you were there,

eyes anticipating,
smiling.
I want to be held

supported by you,
caressed, kissed, 

and cherished by you.

But we are not free.

Some part of me 

wants to fall in love

madly, romantically smitten,

you are in my mind

with that quirky grin.
Your eyes light up

when you talk to me

I want you to take me in your arms.

the intensity of our warmth 

illuminates the room.

everyone nearby basks in it

without knowing the source.

I play with my fantasy

never tell you what's on my mind.
Reality doesn't hurt so much,

knowing we can't be together.
I'm happy for now, 

walking with you

on garden pathways, 

arm in arm

in my thoughts.

And so I pretend 

you love me as we sit 

holding hands 

across a table

in a dimly lit restaurant,

candlelight dancing in our hearts.
Like the couple on the dance floor,

music guides our movements

and my body responds to yours...
It's not like we really know each other.
Having talked occasionally, 

laughing together

I wish that you 

think of me, too:

and fantasize.
I may not live up to your dreams 

nor you to mine.
The sound of your voice 

triggers an energy that excites me,
Then I remember the dream, 

so sensual, so alive!

Were you dreaming it too?
Oh, but it was good!

© Elizabeth Munroz
1989

Bad Blood

Covering the seed of my memories,
she is buried at the bottom of my heart,
where the blood has turned brown like dark rich humus;
the baby girl I gave away.
I have watered the soil with my tears of regret
all these eons, as she has grown.

She is big enough now.
I cannot keep her buried anymore,
my thoughts of her possess me.
she is breaking through,
fresh and new, like a newborn
my memory of her stares at me.
I hold her in my arms, softly cooing.

But the years have passed, 
reality faces me.
a full-grown woman stands before me.
she challenges me,

Why did you give me away?"

"Why didn't you want me?"

"Wasn't I good enough for you?"

"Why did you keep the others born to you?"

She spits out her bitterness.
"I have spent all my life feeling like a bad seed!

There are no tears to quench her now,
only anger jetting forth from her body
hitting me in waves.
She's got a lot of ammunition
I shrink from the power of it.
unable to reach out, hold her, comfort her.
My hopes dashed that we might be friends.

Now, I am buried at the bottom of her rage,
weighted down, held back, unable to explain.
She walks away and leaves me for dead,
buried at the bottom of her heart.

But the time will come when I shall emerge
from the dark rich humus of old blood covering me.
I will bloom into her thoughts,
and she shall seek me out, the mother she didn't want,
and she'll be surprised that I am young no longer
but, old and gray and haggard.

Addle-brained, I shall blankly stare at her,
the discarded mother in the nursing home.
Who are you? I'll say.
I don't know you!
What do you want?
Go away!

We will have spent our lives estranged

Dreaming the Dead

My best friend Patrick
came to visit me
the night
mumps had taken him away.
I didn't understand the dream
until Billy
announced it on the playground
other kids calling him a liar
but I knew

Then Lee,
still in his drunken stupor
two weeks after he careened
into the house at the end of Coomer Rd.
his football helmet rolling across the floor
winter never leaving that corner
every time I passed by

Professor Harvenstein
who I didn't even know
hanging upside down
on the fence
of the 405 freeway
shaking me awake
"tell Arthur, tell Jaime
it's in the bowl"
I timidly told the Chair
the message seemed so urgent
He apologized later for his anger
learning it was true

Grandpa Frank
three thousand miles away
came night after night
said nothing
we sat on the couch watching
birds outside the window
him adjusting the strap on his
prosthetic leg
I would have thought
he wouldn't need it anymore

Auntie Ione
in broad daylight
tore the cross off the mirror
and threw it in the street
I laughed so hard
I cried
She said she would give a sign

Linda
my best friend in the whole world
surprised me
walking arm in arm with Elvis
in his white suit
happier than I'd ever seen her
now that he was more than
a poster on her wall

Dad, in that red flannel shirt
from the 1970's
walking down the hall
of the nursing home
where Mom grieved
He smiled, young again
hugging me
all those engineering instruments
sticking out his pocket
as always
I only saw him that one time

Until the weeks after Mom died.
Grandpa and Dad
stood in the doorway of her room
Me, confused
"She hasn't figured out yet
she's free to go"

and those ancestors
only learning who they were
through the Tioga County
Historical Museum
their pictures hanging on the wall

But, My Darling Keli
the one who owned
the rhythm of my heart
taking with her
a piece of my soul
never

Child Writing

I've written all my life in some form or another, not realizing there was something I could "do" with my writing for quite some time. It wasn't until my daughter, in her teen years. let me know she was intimidated by my writing skills that I wondered why she had such feelings, a perfect A student, who wrote very well and was literally a genius.

From that time I began to share my writing with friends, and went back to college taking courses getting a few A's myself. The rewards encouraged me to continue writing, mostly memoir and family history with a scattering of poetry and children's stories. Some have been tossed, and some are filed away in boxes in a closet.

Only recently have I stepped out of the mold of my self imposed writing, and started to make efforts to submit my work. I'm receiving tutelage from two local Santa Cruz authors. I don't feel serious with them yet, only the sense that rubbing elbows might bring me some luck. University of Santa Cruz has an opportunity where Seniors (read: old people like me) can attend classes under their Lifelong Learners program. So, that's another big step I'm taking. Hopefully, I will get into the class of our local Poet Laureate and get more elbow rubbing.

What set me on this enjoyment of writing started many years ago when my sixth grade teacher asked me to help her with the school annual literary magazine. It was a conglomeration of poems, stories and artwork submitted by third to sixth grade students. It was a big production. We were very proud of it.

Mrs Rae taught me how to type up the stencils in preparations for the mimeograph machine which, thank heavens, she wouldn't let me use. I was a terrible typist, probably ten words a minute, and made many mistakes. She patiently showed me how to fill them in with correction fluid. I hated doing this, and eventually she let me off the hook.

Having been exposed to the other children's submissions, I decided I could write as well as anyone else and produced what I considered an epic poem. It used up a whole page, and Mrs Rae was full of praise. I wish I still had it, or at least a copy of the 70th Street School Banner with my poem in it. I wrote completely in rhyme an experience based upon "What I Did Last Summer".  I had an infestation of bees set up housekeeping in my bedroom. I don't remember anything I wrote except how I managed to fancifully describe myself as sitting like a Buddha in order to be still until the bees moved on and I could get away. 

Rain, Tree, Wind

Rain arrives
with gifts for tree.
Clear moist spheres
embrace branches,
cling to buds,
then fall away
with farewell kisses.

Rain loves tree.
Tree loves rain,
drinks moisture
deep into roots,
satiated.
Rain is spent

Rain has two lovers,
tree and wind.
Discovery hastens jealousy.
Anxious branches sway,
whip the ground, and each other.
Musical instruments clang,
a cacophony of chimes gone sour.

Wind, rain,
grow silent,
disappear.

Birds flutter,
land upon small injuries
their feet mending,
stimulating, massaging.
Tree offers hidden water
held in crevices.

Birds dance, chatter,
offer solace,
healing songs.
Birds love tree.
Tree loves birds.

MESSY BOOKSHELF READING HABITS

One of my friends, a Philosopher/Physicist and author of String Theory for Dummies, Andrew Jones, made a statement at the turn of the year that surprised me. He kept track of all the books he read in 2009. Fifty books.

Does that surprise you? It surprised me. That's a book a week with a two week respite. Andrew did this while researching, writing and publishing his book as well as keeping up several blogs.

Andrew got me thinking. How many books did I read in 2009? I never kept track. I am what I consider a heavy reader. Or perhaps I would be more of a heavy reader if I didn't watch the occasional television program or spend so much time on the computer.

When one enters my home, the first view of the room is the opposite wall. I have no furniture located there, except for my bookshelf adorned with a triangular aquarium, which I've decorated with a lovely china musical lady, some smooth stones scattered on the bottom and a living plant. The books on the shelves below distracted from the harmony of the view, I thought after viewing Brian's bookshelf. So, for the sake of aesthetics, I arranged the shelf with all white books. What a difference!

Now, one might say, "How ridiculous!" How ridiculous, indeed! What happens to the Library of Congress method, Dewey Decimal System? How can one find a certain title or author if not organized properly? I truly have to face reality. In my home, on my bookshelves such forms of organization have gone the wayside for a long time. Why? Two reasons. One is that when I am in the midst of reading a book and I am interrupted I have a tendency to set it on the nearest shelf to find it later. Since I read more than one book at a time, this already sets things apart. I don't always remember what books I was reading and nothing is more frustrating for me to forget the title I was reading and poke through my shelves trying to remind myself. Admittedly this is a fault of my failing memory, or is it just that I'm busy with so many things, I can't keep my mind focus (and organized)!

The second reason is, I already do not use the normal system for setting books upon shelves because of differences in size. If I arrange them by author for example. One book might be thin and short, and the book that fits next to it might be large and thick. The little books get lost on the shelves and I forget they exist. Another memory issue problem. Darn it! So, I generally have organized my books by size.

Oh, I forgot, there is a third reason. I have more books than I do shelf room, so they are not always in upright position. One can put more books on a shelf if one sets them in a stack sideways. I wish I had more bookshelves. In fact I wish my walls were covered with bookshelves. Like the library in Hearst Castle. I fell in love with that room the moment I saw it. I also wondered if Mr. Randolf William Hearst had ever read all those books. I would be surprised if he did. But, if Andrew Jones can read fifty books in one year, perhaps....

Back to the bookshelf with the triangular terrarium. I put all white books on those shelves. It draws the visitors eyes directly to it the moment they walk in the door. The terrarium is much more noticeable, too. I believe it is pleasing to see. After all, it is the most organized bookshelf in the house. I think it makes a nice impression and the mixed up order of the rest of my living room, whatever it may be on the day a visitor arrives, is not so obvious. I do get a lot of comments. "Oh, I didn't know you had a terrarium. How pretty that is." Then the second look goes automatically to the rest of my book collection.

Occasionally a visitor will go directly to my bookshelves to take a look at my collection. Start reading the titles, make comments on them. However, my son (pictured above, reading) came to visit the other day. With his eyes roving my shelves, he suddenly informed me that I had several of his books. They were loaners I was supposed to return to him. Some I had read. Some I had not. I should have kept them together, so I would have finished them all, and returned them in a timely manner. But, there he was pulling books from my shelves. He was not being rude. No. there were a few he had promised to others and a few he wanted to read again. A few he left on my shelves with the promise I would read and return soon. Darn! Why didn't I pull them off the shelves and set them aside? Because I have no place special to put them. I need more bookshelves, and less decorative items about the house!

Thinking about Andrew's fifty books again and a discussion I had with my book group leader, Abbie, who keeps track of every book she ever read and provides a little review for each one in the hopes of providing her granddaughter a great list to choose from when she is of an age to become interested in books, I decided to go through my shelves and familiarized myself with what is sitting there. They have been begging me for a long time to individually acknowledge them. I have felt them nudging me every time I walk by. Or was that my own subconscious pull telling me to put down that vacuum or dusting rag and read a book!

Last night I went through the bookshelf in my back bedroom, what I call my spare room. I also call it the kitty room, as that is where they are gathered together when I have to close them in. It is also my black cat's favorite resting space. Surprisingly they respect my bookshelves. I am not sure how long I sat there on my little stool writing down the titles and authors, but I do know that my back grew cold and when I stood up, my legs were stiff. But, it was nice to discover some of the titles I have read, and the satisfaction of remembering the stories and facts locked inside. It was also nice to recognize the titles I had bought for various reasons and remember why I had found them intriguing. This encourages me to carry a few more off to bed!

Nightgown - poem

Doesn't matter which one it is.
If only we could wear them all the time.
Kids wear their pajama bottoms everywhere.
Why not we?

Oh, not a flimsy thing,
not from some sexy catalog.
I'm talking red plaid flannel
pink flower jersey, winter fleece.

 

I wear them all the time
at home, in comfort.
Just don't come visit unexpectedly,
for I am clad in nightgown.

It saves on washing clothes.
Did you know?
It saves electricity.
It keeps my footprint green.

It's my best comfort,
my best friend,
my nightgown,
my lazybones, nightgown.

Late Birthday

My father would have been 95 years old on Sunday.
I thought about it for a moment, then blocked my mind.
"Don't go there," I told myself, "it will hurt."
Daddy's gone.

He's been gone five years now.
He was sure he would live to 120
So sure...
We were all convinced
if anyone could do it, Dad could.
He had faith.
Dad could do anything he put his mind to.
He broke his hip and claimed never having pain,

Just a little bit he said. No need for pain pills, 

Then passed out when the nurse
helped him to stand.

I was there.
He didn't even grit his teeth.

But, life has a way of twisting up our plans,
dashing our dreams, changing our outlook.
Life has a way of doing things
differently than we expected.
Expectations lead to disappointment.
The best made plans of mice and men...
and all that.

Today I was diagnosed with Osteoporosis.
Dad had it.
He grew shorter and shorter,
until I was taller than he.
Now, I'm told
all I need is an IV
every three months
and that will take care of it.

If only Dad had known.