September Swim
The sand was unusually warm under
our feet, for a late September
afternoon, as we raced to the water
in Manhattan Beach. Jack won, of
course. There were a few people
on the beach beside the lifeguard,
but it was almost deserted.
Everyone was going home.
I was in college. Jack was my uncle
but he was only three years older.
I didn’t call him uncle unless I
wanted to make him feel a lot older.
We body-surfed and dove under
waves for a while, then Jack said
the surf was too rough and we
should go in. I was having too much
and just laughed and swam
further out – he swam for shore.
Since I didn't’t swim in the ocean
often, I tired more quickly than
I expected. The sea turned mean on
me. Jack watched as I bobbed up
and down. I tried to swim for shore
but a new wave crashed over my head
before I had spit the water out from
the one before. I spent more time
buried under waves than I did trying
to spit out the water and get a
fresh breath of air.
I was exhausted and hadn’t made
any headway toward shore. ‘When I did
get a breath of air, I yelled and
waved frantically for help –
Jack waved back. He couldn’t hear me.
My whole life didn’t pass before
my eyes, but I knew I was faced with death.
I couldn’t last much longer.
I waved and waved. The both Jack
and the lifeguard waved back.
Too tired to swim, I used what little
strength I had trying to keep my head
above water. Finally, Jack jumped
in the surf and swam out.
As he got close to me, he yelled,
“Turn over and lay on your back!”
Then he quickly put his hand under
my chin and began swimming for shore
with me in tow.
The lifeguard came out with a metal
pontoon but the water was only waist
deep. I couldn’t hold it; I had no
strength left in my arms and legs.
I couldn’t even walk. They half-carried,
half-dragged me up to dry sand.
I lay on the beach for a long while
glad to be alive.
Memories
We made popcorn, everyone got a soda
and we snuggled up next to each other
on the couch and around the floor
in the small living room of my apartment.
I ran the projector while we watched
old 8mm movies of birthdays, Easters,
picnics, Christmases and other family
doings of years gone by.
We hadn’t seen them for a long time.
It was one of those rare occasions
when we were all together: my four kids,
my parents and I. The ones the kids’
dad, my X, took were mostly of people’s
feet, and he’d moved the camera so fast
it made you dizzy to watch. It was so
weird that it was funny.
The one we all liked most, though,
was taken in the backyard of our house
on Onyx Street. The kids were four, six
and eight. They and their dad all walked
and ran around acting like nuts while I
took the pictures. The he pushed them
on the swing set and they went down the
slide. Sometimes, I set the camera
on slow motion or fast motion.
While we watched, they all looked like
Charlie Chaplin moving around with short
jerky, fast motions or inched along like
the 1,000 year-old man. I ran the
projector in reverse – we had a good laugh.
Wayne said he remembered that time
but we all kidded him because he was
only one at the time. He blushed.
Back in those days, there had been good
times and a lot of bad times. Just then
we were remembering the good times.
“Let’s see more,” Julie said. She was
twenty-one, yet, it seemed only yesterday
that they had been running around that
backyard.
angela’s scare
Angela came down the hallway
rubbing sleep from her eyes.
She was a pretty
blond seven year-old,
he round cheeks and puppy-dog eyes
gave her a “pouting” look.
Someone said, “What’s that
black thing on your sock?”
She looked down
not yet fully awake.
She started screaming,
“A spider, a spider!”
while she jumped around
like an Indian on a war path.
Then, crying
she reached down
and pulled that black thing
off her and threw it down.
We all came running to see
what monster she’d vanquished.
It was a tangle of black thread.
a sandwich for santa
It was Christmas Eve.
Debbie kneeled on a wooden chair
at the kitchen table.
She was making a peanut butter
and jelly sandwich for
the soon to be coming Santa,
her forehead wrinkled in intense
concentration. The house smelled
of pine, and the sugar cookies
I’d finished just an hour before.
This was her fourth Christmas.
She stuck the knife
into the peanut butter
bringing out a big glob.
She gave the Wonder Bread a swipe
of it but – as if drawn my some
irresistible urge she couldn’t
control – the rest went
into her mouth. The knife, again,
went into the peanut butter.
This time she licked hers off
first. What was left went
on the bread. It took a while.
The jelly was the same.
Some on the bread, some in the mouth.
When she finished, she put the two
slices together,
licked her fingers.
Then she patted it and said,
“It’s real good, Mom.”
At midnight, I looked at
it sitting on the hearth.
I didn’t want a slobbered over
sandwich, so I put I into the
garbage disposal, turned it on
and sent it to the Pacific.
There would be a time,
I knew, as I listened to the whirr
of the blades, that the sandwich
would not be there,
that she would know more,
and wouldn’t care,
sad to say.
cement steps
Mom excused herself from the game
to go upstairs to my room and change
into something more comfortable.
Dad had a partially done crossword
puzzle nearby that he picked up and
we began working on it while we waited.
They were visiting me for a week
from northern California.
It’s been a busy day. Dad and I
were totally relaxed at the kitchen
table. Suddenly, there was a lot
of loud thumping and banging coming
down the cement steps in the living room.
Caught off guard, Dad and I looked at
each other and simultaneously thought
the same thing – Mom had fallen
down the stairs.
We couldn’t get up fast enough.
Dad yelled, “Nancy!” We flew from
the table toward the base of the stairs.
Mom had just reached the bottom step
when we got there, still on her feet.
Dad was pale and almost in tears he’d
been so frightened. My heart was
pounding. She was perfectly fine with
a pixie grin on her sixty-five year-old
face.
“I’ve been hearing your roommate bounding
freely down the stairs, so I just wanted
to see what it felt like. That’s all,”
she said. We all started back to the
kitchen. “Whose turn is it?” she asked.
Dad and I swallowed our hearts. I wanted
to strangle her.
a menu, sir?
Good evening, sir. Welcome to M.C.’s.
My name is Juliet and
I will be your waitress this evening.
Do you know what you’d like or
do you want a menu?
I’d like a piece of pecan pie, please.
I’m sorry sir. We’re all out
of pecan pie. What would be
your next choice?
I don’t have a next choice, dear.
I drove fifteen miles to get a
piece of pie – pecan pie.
I’m sorry, sir. We just sold the
last piece a few minutes ago.
There must be a piece somewhere.
Go check, please.
I’m sorry, sir. I know without
a doubt – there is no more pecan pie.
We have many other kinds.
Do you want a menu?
Look, honey. I just want a piece of
pecan pie, that’s all!
She turned around and walked away.
Once on the other side of the room
she made a full circle of it, then
she walked back to the table.
Good evening, sir. Welcome to M.C.’s.
My name is Juliet and
I will be your waitress this evening.
If you came in for pie, we have many
different kids except “pecan.” We’re
all out of pecan pie.
Banana Cream with coffee.
Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.
hiking with my son
Wayne and I left my folks below
and hiked up a steep, rocky path
to the top of a mountain. It was
on the far-side of a valley high
up in Yosemite. Wayne had been
in Yosemite all summer working.
We had gone to visit him for a
few days. We’d packed a lunch
and were out hiking for the day.
He was a tall, lanky nineteen year-old.
He climbed easily up the mountain
ahead of me. His long blond hair
blew across his chiseled face
as he stopped once in a while
to wait for me to catch up.
When we got to the top and looked back,
we couldn’t see my folks sitting
on a broad, flat rock by a stream
far below. Even the stream
was too far away to be seen.
We were just above timberline.
Some of the mountain peaks in the
distance were covered with glaciers.
Others were just massive, treeless rocks.
The air was crisp. The powder blue sky
above us was streaked with long,
narrow white ribbons.
Wayne pointed up to a glacier-tipped
peak behind us and said, “See that
mountain over there? I hiked over
the top from the back-side, then down
across a valley to that mountain way
over there to the east.”
I scanned the path made by his finger;
then looked from the upper end of the
valley below us to as far south as I
could see. I thought about his dream
of someday hiking down the Sierras
from Oregon to the Mexican border
with only Bisquick, foil, and a means
to fish and catch small game
in his backpack.
My admiration of him increased
a lot that day.
I envied him, too.
the plumber
Dad told my brother, Steve,
to turn around so he couldn’t
see what he was going to do.
While Steve’s back was turned,
Dad took a large painting
off the wall and replaced it
with another. He straightened it,
then stepped back to make
sure it was level.
Steve fidgeted a little in
anticipation, brushing off his
pants with wide sweeps of his hand.
Dad was equally anxious, wondering
what Steve’s reaction would be.
“Okay, Steve, you can turn
around now,” Dad said.
Steve turned slowly around.
Dad pointed toward the picture
and said, “Happy Birthday! I
painted it especially for you.”
Steve fixed his eyes on the large
oil painting with its soft gray
background and pale yellow vase
filled with a beautiful arrangement
of yellow-orange daisies.
It was beautiful.
He was caught by surprise.
He gazed silently for a long minute.
His voice cracked as he said, “Dad,
you mean you actually painted
that by yourself?”
“Yeah, I did. Well, it actually
done with a palette knife.
What do you think?”
Dad looked tenuous.
Steve’s eyes filled with tears.
He shook his head as he laughed a
tickled laugh. “I can’t believe a
plumber painted a picture like that.
It’s beautiful, just beautiful.”
He took a few steps forward and
hugged Dad. Then he continued
to stare at the painting.
We all stood there, silently gazing
at the picture paying our homage
to a plumber turned artist
at sixty-five.
It wasn’t just lumps of tinted oil
paint wiped on a cloth with a
palate knife we were looking at,
but a kind of transparent window
through which we were seeing
Dad truly for the first time.
Steve broke the silence,
“I still can’t believe a
plumber painted that picture.”
moving on
It was moving day. Juliet, and
Wayne, my youngest child and only
son, came to help. The three girls
had been out for a while – two in
college and one married. Juliet was
the youngest of the girls. Wayne
had moved out several months earlier
to live with his dad not too far away.
The move went fast and without a
wrinkle. I picked the truck up at
nine in the morning and returned it
by three with a lunch break in the
middle. I moved just a mile away.
We’d lived in that house twenty-two
years. None of the kids knew anything
else besides that house and that
neighborhood. I’d watched the
house being built.
It was roomy, yet short a needed bedroom
or two for many years. It needed painting
and fixing up. The house needed a new
this and a new that, but it was ours,
my kids and mine. And, as each one grew
up and moved away, it was like they could
always come back to their roots. I can
see how special having a place like that
is. It was a link to the past. A kind
of womb to return to.
While I took the rented truck back,
Juliet and Wayne stayed behind to do
some final cleaning and to toss what
remained into the rented dumpster.
They told me later that walking around
inside that empty house, as it came time
to leave it for the last time brought
back to them a collage of memories.
They went from room to room, sitting
in the middle of each, recalling many
of the things that had happened in each
one. Getting choked up, crying – but
lingering as if to fix the images of their
childhood memories in their minds,
forever.
Then, they locked the front door behind
them for the last time. Before leaving,
they climbed into the huge Chinese elm
tree we’d planted as a sapling so many
years before. They each found a branch
and sat there for a while trying to
remember as much of their childhood
afternoons playing in that tree as they
could. They finally had to drive away.
Me, as I look at an old snapshot I found
in a cluttered drawer, I’m fondly
remembering that house. It’s been five
years now. It was a place of stability
and a refuge in an otherwise tough
world. For the last twelve years it had
been only me and the kids. There were
a lot of hard times and things I wish
I would have done differently associated
with that house, but the kids aren’t
kids anymore; they’re responsible adults
pursuing their life’s dreams. I like
my kids. That house was a good place
to raise them in. Yet, I’m glad for
today. I’ve been looking forward,
mostly, since the day I moved.
bernardo of LA-309
Bernardo was sitting
placidly on a bus-stop bench
when I drove by this morning.
He’s in his sixties
but he has the innocence
of a ten year-old.
I waved as I passed by.
He grinned back with
a half-dreamy stare.
Back in 1975
he’d had a motorcycle accident.
They said he was dead.
He was going 80mph
without a helmet
when it happened.
He didn’t die though.
A young doctor put
his head back together.
Bernardo’s in my Spanish class.
For someone who’s supposed
to be dead, he’s not doing too bad.
I wonder what he was like
before the accident.
Maybe we all need our heads
torn apart and put back
together again . . .
gentle power
Winter
Capriciously in command.
Everyday forcing its own
way upon my life.
Me, its subdued subject,
unwillingly.
Its wind
howling, blowing its
choice of debris across
my path; jostling me
as I walk city streets.
The brisk air chafing
my face.
Its raging sea
rolling shoreward, breaking
through man’s best defenses.
I go to see, captivated by
the raw power. Daring it not
to carry me away.
In the mountains,
snow falls in cozy softness;
Winter hiding in quietness.
A lone squirrel darts about
searching for a meal, leaving
behind footprints.
It too, subject.
Yet, Winter must yield
after all its puffery
as Spring comes like a blade
of grass forcing its way
through concrete. The gentle
handmaiden of freedom.
Spring.
good Seed
lately
ive been eating
lunch outdoors
if
im lucky
sparrows come begging food
at first
i gave them
pieces of my sandwich
but
i thought
maybe that was bad for them
so
i bought
3# of birdseed
now
i toss them
food fit for Birds
curiously
i throw the seed
but they don’t come so often
today
i noticed
strange plants growing there
it makes one think
contentment
i
think
a
very
special
thing
is
never
feeling
alone
even
when
you’re
by
yourself
someday
I hope
to have the words
someday
to say all I feel.
Perhaps
everything I will
have to say
will
have been said
better.
But
no matter
they’ll be
my words.