and the day filled with melody
fingers on the keyboard
notes rising in the glint of afternoon
the murmur of conversation
punctuated by laughter and
the protests of a baby awakened
too soon from sleep.
On the Year's End:Considering the Sun in Absence
On the Year's End: Considering the Sun in Absence
The sun has risen and fallen again, and elsewhere
must be rising on this last day of the year,
auspicious with eights and endings which
must be beginnings as the narrative will write
itself with or without adjustments and sidetracks
and lies. The year begins in hope, as it must, and the old
battered: a few photographs in frames, a number of lines
in neat order, piles of papers to file, stacks to purge and re-purge.
Sons taller, homes emptied, tidied and filled again. This
is how the story goes with false starts, with remarkable moments
once sworn to remembrance: but was it a sunrise or sunset?
Or, the way the half moon caught in the net of limbs, the prairie
covered in morning haze, smoke? Or, the owl posturing
as death reborn? There was a hill climbed, and the smell of paint
on a March afternoon, and many spiders removed stiff-legged
from webs, the stove’s redhead glowering and water rushing
into sinks and pans and saucers. Then whiskers,
on a son’s cheek, as he bends now to bid goodnight. And thus,
the sun rises and falls and the year begins anew.
The sun has risen and fallen again, and elsewhere
must be rising on this last day of the year,
auspicious with eights and endings which
must be beginnings as the narrative will write
itself with or without adjustments and sidetracks
and lies. The year begins in hope, as it must, and the old
battered: a few photographs in frames, a number of lines
in neat order, piles of papers to file, stacks to purge and re-purge.
Sons taller, homes emptied, tidied and filled again. This
is how the story goes with false starts, with remarkable moments
once sworn to remembrance: but was it a sunrise or sunset?
Or, the way the half moon caught in the net of limbs, the prairie
covered in morning haze, smoke? Or, the owl posturing
as death reborn? There was a hill climbed, and the smell of paint
on a March afternoon, and many spiders removed stiff-legged
from webs, the stove’s redhead glowering and water rushing
into sinks and pans and saucers. Then whiskers,
on a son’s cheek, as he bends now to bid goodnight. And thus,
the sun rises and falls and the year begins anew.
Peace to You
A little earlier than usual, I'm ready for the season. As a family we've planned a Medieval Feast with fairly authentic food, decorations, a newly designed family crest to celebrate Christmas Eve. Parsley bread is rising, the kitchen is chockful of lamb for stew, fish for roasting, and leeks, mushrooms and other vegetables to dice, saute and steam. There is a fireplace in our rented home, but it's not in working order, so we'll un-authentically bake with our oven and stir pots on our conventional stove. The pater noster is memorized, our characters thought out, the table to be laid with silver salvers and goblets. We have music to listen to, skits to perform, we'll make music, too with flute and recorder. And celebrate the birth of our Lord, in whom we delight.
May you be as blessed, this and every day.
May you be as blessed, this and every day.
Thoughts on Thanksgiving Afternoon
Pioneers had the ability to make the most with what was on hand: a large orange squash, a handful of sugar, cream skimmed from the top of the milk bucket, rendered lard,flour,spice carefully hoarded to bring an autumn treat to the table. But more importantly they remembered to take time from their busy lives to celebrate, one with another, in thanks and praise for another harvest in the root cellar, another year's bounty, for the faces around the table.
May you too, recall the bounty you've been given and remember to give thanks where due. With gratitude, we acknowledge all we have been given and focus on these gifts, life, love, another day to witness the sun's rise and fall, the pattern of shadows and sunlight across the window pane, the beauty of a leaf, the smell of a wood fire burning. Simple things, peaceful things. Take a moment of quiet and feel yourself breathe. A gift, today.
Have a Blessed Thanksgiving!
Poem: How to Hold a Son
How to Hold a Son
by Amy D. Unsworth
For a newborn the bend of your elbow
supports the head, the untrained neck.
Note the bunched face, the pulse
visible at the crown. Prop your arms
with a pillow. Don’t sleep.
At two pretend to be a zebra,
prance on all fours. Become
accustomed to carpets, grass.
Rediscover your knees, sitting
cross-legged. Laughing, he’ll
collapse into your arms. Hurry.
The five year old will bring tulips,
stemless. Or a ladybug. Find a bowl,
a stool, a magnifying glass.
Stand behind, peer at the dusting
of pollen. Hold the glass steady
to see spots and wings. Inhale.
At nine, tousle hair.
Carry the backpack, tuck in
an extra chocolate. In front
of friends, smile. Read about
dragons or mummies. Sneak
your arm around, let it settle.
Pull him close.
In the teens, persist.
Wrestle, slap backs. Knock first.
Attend ballgames and cheer.
Say it’s for your own sake.
Recall the ache in your arms,
the throb of his heart.
Let him leave. Learn to sleep.
From:
Not What I Expected: The Road from Womanhood to Motherhood
by Amy D. Unsworth
For a newborn the bend of your elbow
supports the head, the untrained neck.
Note the bunched face, the pulse
visible at the crown. Prop your arms
with a pillow. Don’t sleep.
At two pretend to be a zebra,
prance on all fours. Become
accustomed to carpets, grass.
Rediscover your knees, sitting
cross-legged. Laughing, he’ll
collapse into your arms. Hurry.
The five year old will bring tulips,
stemless. Or a ladybug. Find a bowl,
a stool, a magnifying glass.
Stand behind, peer at the dusting
of pollen. Hold the glass steady
to see spots and wings. Inhale.
At nine, tousle hair.
Carry the backpack, tuck in
an extra chocolate. In front
of friends, smile. Read about
dragons or mummies. Sneak
your arm around, let it settle.
Pull him close.
In the teens, persist.
Wrestle, slap backs. Knock first.
Attend ballgames and cheer.
Say it’s for your own sake.
Recall the ache in your arms,
the throb of his heart.
Let him leave. Learn to sleep.
From:
Not What I Expected: The Road from Womanhood to Motherhood
And then there is this, too!
Editing work, completed.
Thanks to Donna Potts for the opportunity!
Donna L. Potts and Amy D. Unsworth, eds.
Region, Nature, Frontiers: Proceedings from the 11th International Region and Nation Literature Association Conference.
Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars, 2008.
ISBN 9781847184597.
Thanks to Donna Potts for the opportunity!
Thoughtful Gifts, Long Remembered.
Looking back over my childhood a few gifts truly changed how I envision life: a pair of Appalachian clothespin dolls and a book of Willa Cather's short stories from my aunt, and a theatre experience planned by my grandmother. Other holidays came and went, in a blur of Christmas trees, the angel-hair drench tree of my grandfather's house, the children's tree downstairs at an aunt and uncle's home, the white tree displayed in the front window, the year my brother and sister and I decorated a real spruce tree with toys and while my parents were away only for it to crash down in the middle of the night. Now, I think of gifts for others and remember, too.
Something about the plain, tiny-featured dolls that evokes my childhood, beyond that particular year Christmas. I recall autumn weekends at Spring Mill, gathering sticks for a fire to roast marshmallows, the visits to the pioneer village, the cold water from the spring trickling by mossy banks. The pioneer apothecary shop with jars full of herbs and remedies, the bonnet-topped ladies in long dresses strolling in and out with their baskets, the stonewalled garden with the vegetables laid out in neat rectangles. The tidy utility of rooms meant for living, cooking, around a stone fireplace. The smell of woodsmoke on a clear night always made me imagine that pioneer life, those wooden cabins, and the damp chill of morning seeping in through the chinks as the fire burns low. Making do. My aunt had lived in such a cabin, north in Canada, to me a land of mystery and bears. The clothespin dolls now stand guard over my collection of antique books; they still make me smile.
The book of Cather stories too, brings to mind the pioneer days and the juxtaposition with urban society. The heartbreak and pride of working the land, the apparent ease of city life, and the squalor and hardship which was too often the true experience of the immigrant, the pioneer, the fool-hardy soul who hoped for more than the earth or the city was willing to give. Just south of where I grew up, there is a historical marker for Pigeon's Roost, where settlers were massacred men, women and children all. I grew up with a sense of being connected to this history, to the sense of adventure and possibility inherent in moving on and trying a new life elsewhere.
The practical side of me knew that pioneer life was hell on women, the old graveyards are full of babies, and women who died bearing them, the tin-types show women worn to a nubbin, aged beyond their years with sickly children peering out from behind their skirts. In Kansas and elsewhere on the prairie , they made lives out of the dirt, living in sod houses, trying to break the hills before the flint in the hills broke their will to try. It was cold in Kansas last year after the ice-storm, without electricity, in a modern home equipped with a fireplace--bone cold. Imagine an entire winter, with no light, little heat, tucked like a mole in the side of the hill. Imagine the damp, the heat escaping each time someone passes in or out, the impossibility of clean. The practical side understands why Paul, of "Paul's Case" made the fateful decision to run to the city, to the lights, the theatre, the warmth and abundance.
Tickets to the theatre,too, were a good gift: the lights and the wonder. The memories of dressing up, of occasion. That particular Christmas I was four, with a red long dress trimmed in white lace holding my grandmother's hand, following along, mesmerized by the width and the breadth of theatre, by the people gathered there to wait in the dark, for the storybook brought to life on the stage. There, then, anything was possible.
Something about the plain, tiny-featured dolls that evokes my childhood, beyond that particular year Christmas. I recall autumn weekends at Spring Mill, gathering sticks for a fire to roast marshmallows, the visits to the pioneer village, the cold water from the spring trickling by mossy banks. The pioneer apothecary shop with jars full of herbs and remedies, the bonnet-topped ladies in long dresses strolling in and out with their baskets, the stonewalled garden with the vegetables laid out in neat rectangles. The tidy utility of rooms meant for living, cooking, around a stone fireplace. The smell of woodsmoke on a clear night always made me imagine that pioneer life, those wooden cabins, and the damp chill of morning seeping in through the chinks as the fire burns low. Making do. My aunt had lived in such a cabin, north in Canada, to me a land of mystery and bears. The clothespin dolls now stand guard over my collection of antique books; they still make me smile.
The book of Cather stories too, brings to mind the pioneer days and the juxtaposition with urban society. The heartbreak and pride of working the land, the apparent ease of city life, and the squalor and hardship which was too often the true experience of the immigrant, the pioneer, the fool-hardy soul who hoped for more than the earth or the city was willing to give. Just south of where I grew up, there is a historical marker for Pigeon's Roost, where settlers were massacred men, women and children all. I grew up with a sense of being connected to this history, to the sense of adventure and possibility inherent in moving on and trying a new life elsewhere.
The practical side of me knew that pioneer life was hell on women, the old graveyards are full of babies, and women who died bearing them, the tin-types show women worn to a nubbin, aged beyond their years with sickly children peering out from behind their skirts. In Kansas and elsewhere on the prairie , they made lives out of the dirt, living in sod houses, trying to break the hills before the flint in the hills broke their will to try. It was cold in Kansas last year after the ice-storm, without electricity, in a modern home equipped with a fireplace--bone cold. Imagine an entire winter, with no light, little heat, tucked like a mole in the side of the hill. Imagine the damp, the heat escaping each time someone passes in or out, the impossibility of clean. The practical side understands why Paul, of "Paul's Case" made the fateful decision to run to the city, to the lights, the theatre, the warmth and abundance.
Tickets to the theatre,too, were a good gift: the lights and the wonder. The memories of dressing up, of occasion. That particular Christmas I was four, with a red long dress trimmed in white lace holding my grandmother's hand, following along, mesmerized by the width and the breadth of theatre, by the people gathered there to wait in the dark, for the storybook brought to life on the stage. There, then, anything was possible.
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