Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Carole and I meet in the field
between our two houses
to fly kites
and pick wild strawberries.
The sun is warm.
Everywhere we look there are
daisies, asters, buttercups,
Tiny blue grapes grow in the hedgerows.
The trees are vast, leafy castles
a thousand shades of green, yellow,
Tall grasses are adorned with
grasshoppers, ladybugs, butterflies.
Birds dip and fly.
The ground, too, is alive with
Our kites fly high as we lie
on our stomachs
eating wild strawberries,
listening to locusts sing,
the hum of breezes passing through
grass and trees.
Blue sky goes on forever.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Lime Jello Surprise
One packet of lime jello (follow directions on box)
two tablespoons Miracle Whip
one cup Spam cubes
Several large leaves of lettuce
5 or 6 celery sticks (with leaves left on)
5 or 6 carrot sticks
Make a bowl of lime jello. When it is partially hardened, blend in two tablespoons of Miracle Whip and one cup of spam cubes. Let chill for several hours. Serve on a bed of lettuce. Top with celery (complete with leaves) and carrot sticks, inserted upright in the jello so as to create a 'forest effect.' Great for a children's birthday party!
Mr. and Mrs. Maynard Crouch returned to Prunewhip last Wednesday, after a ten-day tour of the Holy Land. They will present slides of their trip at 7 p.m. Saturday evening in the basement of the First Baptist Church. Maynard and Gladys also brought back a jar of water from the Sea of Gallilee, which will be on display. All are invited. Welcome back, Maynard and Gladys!
Friday, April 3, 2009
PEOPLE have been THINKING too long that
ART is a PRIVILEGE of the MUSEUMS & the
RICH. ART IS NOT BUSINESS !
it does not belong to banks & fancy investors
ART IS FOOD. You can’t EAT it BUT it FEEDS
you. ART has to be CHEAP & available to
EVERYBODY. It needs to be EVERYWHERE
Because it is the INSIDE of the
ART SOOTHES PAIN !
Art wakes up sleepers !
ART FIGHTS AGAINST WAR AND STUPIDITY !
ART SINGS HALLELUJAH !
Art is for kitchens !
ART IS LIKE GOOD BREAD !
Art is like green trees!
Art is like white clouds in blue sky !
ART IS CHEAP !
-Bread and Puppet, Glover, Vermont, 1984
When I was a kid I totally accepted being cold six months out of every year because I didn’t realize there was any alternative. I grew up in a brick house built before the Civil War. It had no central heating. There were many such houses in Vermont in those days. Each house had a designated ‘warm room’ where you could go down a layer or two (we routinely wore coats, wool hats, mufflers and mittens as indoor apparel) and lounge about having a cup of cocoa and listening to the radio. Being in any other room of the house meant working nonstop - sweeping and scrubbing with the dogged fervor of a chain gang at rifle point. To stop working was to freeze.
Vermont kids were expected to be tough. We never had a snow day except once when snow reached the sills of second-story windows. If the school furnace broke down, we sat at our little desks, suited up, trying to operate a pencil while wearing mittens. You could see your breath in the air. The boys in the back row - the class thugs - would bring two fingers up to their mouths and breathe out, so it would look like they were smoking.
The moment a Vermonter finds out about being warm is kind of like the moment Adam and Eve shared the apple. The gates of paradise swing shut and you find yourself in Florida. There are worse fates.
from backs of pickup trucks
on country roads.
Hand-lettered signs for miles say
HOT BOILED POEMS
Big Time Florida Saturday Night
The Korean store on the corner
sells gold hoop earrings,
barbecue sauce, ice cream,
six-packs of cold beer
sweating silver rivers of promise.
Cain and Abel cruise Magnolia Street
short red dresses,
high-heeled golden slippers
dance across moon-shadowed
neon pavement waving tickets saved
since the Garden of Eden.
Mother Eve’s Dance Hall opens.
Duenna Live Oak fastens moonbeams
to her shawl,
hangs shaggy veils of spanish moss
across her gnarled eyes
not to see the scandalous carrying on,
hands clasped to warm ripe bottoms,
nibbling cinnamon ear lobes.
car radios clawing gardenia-scented air
Big time Florida Saturday night.
Pleasant Street Neighborhood
Hot purple music,
Bubba & Laverne’s Grocerette
Old woman growing petunias
in a washtub next door
wears a headrag,
her hidden treasure,
her crown of glory...
The peanut man on his three-wheel bike,
head misshapen like a sideways goober,
in a rusty basket...
Crack addicts wandering dazed circles
before the God by Faith Mission,
worn out from a night of
Smell of ribs from Mom’s Kitchen...
Men in three-piece suits whispering
in front of Dorsey’s Funeral Parlor,
here where the dead roam with the homeboys
through spanish moss and live oak streets
while an old man boils shrimp in a barrel
under the sweet Southern sun.
Friday, March 27, 2009
"There is a lesbian living on this hall, and we feel that everyone has a right to know. We are going to the bathroom in pairs and carrying sharpened pencils."
"What's a lesbian?" I asked.
She haltingly explained. My inner reaction was a great big "WOH!" I thought I had read everything there was to know about sex, and now this! She left and I sat there thinking about it.
Finally I walked down the hall (no sharpened pencil), and knocked on her door. There was a whole group in there discussing the dire peril we were now facing.
"If a guy were living on the hall we wouldn't automatically assume he was going to attack us, would we?" I asked.
Everyone agreed. He would be another student - someone's brother, someone's boyfriend - and probably harmless.
"I don't know anything about lesbians. I didn't know there was any such thing until just now. Is attacking people part of being a lesbian?" I asked.
There was a silence. Finally, someone said, "I don't know."
Another silence. Then a brave piping voice said, "Well, let's find out."
We walked down the hall together - courage in numbers - and knocked on Marilyn's door.
"It's not locked, come on in." Marilyn was a big farm girl from the Oklahoma panhandle. Her bed was piled high with pink and purple pillows and she was reclining amongst them looking like
a butch version of Elizabeth Taylor in "Cleopatra." We formed a line at the far end of the room.
After an awkward silence Marilyn seemed to be enjoying, one of us quavered, "Is it true you are a l...l...l..."
Finally tired of the preliminaries, Marilyn said, "Yes, I'm a lesbian."
Long silence. Broken by another tiny quavering voice, "Does this mean...you are attracted.....to us....?"
Marilyn laughed, and she laughed, and she laughed - big rolling Ha HA HAs that must have vibrated through the entire building. When she could catch her breath she said, "I have a girlfriend who's a total knockout. None of you little chicken legs would stand a chance."
Although this was not exactly a compliment, it somehow just didn't sound mean, the way she said it. Within moments we were all perched around her bed asking a zillion questions about what it meant to be a lesbian and about sex in general, a topic that Marilyn seemed to know much more about than any of us.
We talked for hours. Marilyn's room became a gathering place on our floor. She taught us how to read Tarot cards and took us on a field trip to a gay bar. She showed us how to deliver a solid left hook to drunken, groping frat boys. The sex education she disseminated was accurate and highly practical.
I lost track of Marilyn after college, and I'm sorry for that. At points in your life you're fortunate enough to meet someone who opens vast new horizons. At the time I didn't realize how much courage she had, as a gay teenager in 1963. Thank you, Marilyn, wherever you are.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Worst of all, well - I wrote a poem about this:
Old Man Paddock - 1953
Old Man Paddock was a vegetarian and he wrote poetry.
Twice a year he’d get drunk and terrorize the neighborhood,
going from house to house roaring rhymed couplets about
God, Jesus, and beauties of nature.
We’d all lock our doors, pull down the curtains and
huddle inside waiting for it to be over.
It was the next best thing to funerals,
where everyone cried and there was lots of
fried chicken and potato salad.
No-one was surprised when the Paddock’s youngest child, Millie, got pregnant at age 16. But here was the shame of it - every once in awhile a young lady of Prunewhip found herself with child out of wedlock. There was a procedure for this. Her parents would take her out of school, early on, because she had to go to Ohio and take care of her ailing grandmother. Then they would spirit her off to the Florence Crittendon Home of Redeeming Love in Burlington. She would stay there until the baby was born, give it up for adoption, and return to life in Prunewhip. These trips fooled no one, but they served to preserve the veil of propriety shrouding all activities that could not be done in the middle of the street in broad daylight. Millie Paddock, however, decided to spend her entire pregnancy at home and keep the baby. Furthermore, her slack-jawed, trifling parents supported her in this decision. They weren’t even ashamed. They sashayed around town going to the store and the post office and the June strawberry festival like they didn’t have a care in the world. This was so scandalous, people walked across the street if they saw Millie Paddock coming in the opposite direction.
At this point my Aunt Cynthia kicked in. She was a rebel, also, in her own way. She smoked cigarettes and never went to church. Nor did she make excuses for not going to church. She never claimed that she had a bad back and sitting in the hard wooden pews gave her blinding pain. She never said that she worshiped God as He is manifested in the grandeur of the natural world. She just stayed home smoking and sewing. She was the town seamstress. Her sewing skills were legendary. She could see a fancy dress hanging in the window of Drysdale’s Department Store in Bennington, go home, cut a pattern out of old newspapers, and make an exact replica of the dress. She could make three-piece suits that fit like a glove, and wedding dresses fit for royalty.
Cynthia was also the magic maker of doll clothes. She saved her scraps and turned them into incredible doll clothes complete with pockets, with little handkerchiefs sticking out of them, with a flower embroidered on the handkerchief. She could make felt hats and red rubber boots for dolls. All year she made these doll clothes and on Christmas eve she’d sneak around town leaving packets of them on little girls’ front doors. She hated thank yous.
Aunt Cynthia also hated gossip. If anyone tried to gossip in her presence she’d cut them off in mid-sentence, saying that none of us were any better than we should be. She did not like what was going on with Millie Paddock. A month or two into the situation she announced to one and all that she was making a layette for Millie Paddock’s baby. Then she went to work on it. I don’t think the Prince of Wales had a better layette than Millie’s baby. She lined a basket with satin and covered the edges with a lace ruffle embroidered with yellow rambler roses. She made a tiny mattress and pillow covered with fine cotton sheets and a pillow case edged with lace. She filled the layette with sacks and shirts and diapers and shawls and all manner of finery such as no one had ever seen before. As the months wore on, people took to stopping by Cynthia’s house just to see the latest addition to this fabulous layette.
When the layette was done she made another general announcement (you only had to announce something to one person in Prunewhip and everyone would know within an hour), as to the day and time when she would deliver this layette to the Paddock household. Sure enough, a small crowd gathered to watch her grand promenade up the Paddock’s front walk, across their creaky porch and through the front door, carrying the magnificent layette.
My Aunt Cynthia enjoyed a great deal of respect in Prunewhip, despite her peculiarities. You could not continue shunning someone Cynthia singled out for such a gift. Millie had a boy, whom she named Ernie. They took their places in the life of the town with no more disapproval than that reserved for any other member of the Paddock clan.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy;
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much
seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
As we walked away from her grave, I looked up and saw an amoeba-shape made out of pure light floating so low in the sky it was well below the tree line. My mind immediately summoned up an image of Ruth Ketcham, an old lady who lived in Prunewhip when I was a little girl. I hadn't actually known her, and had forgotten her very existence for the past 20 years, so it was a surprise to see her so clearly now. She had had a long pointy chin that stuck out from her face like a shelf.
Two days later we went back to the cemetery. My husband wanted to make some rubbings of gravestones dating from the 1700s. I wandered over to my grandmother's grave. To my bewilderment, all the water had drained out of the big glass, which was now crazed into an intricate fissured web I had never seen except in a glass of water that was left outside one bitterly cold winter night. I could imagine nothing that would cause a glass to break in such a way, on this peaceful June weekend. I felt bereft. Was my grandmother still so angry, after all these years, that she pulled off a supernatural act of rejection? If Ruth Ketcham, who had been a tired old Baptist, was drifting through the air as pure light, anything was possible.
That was years ago. Now I think my grandmother was reassuring me about the after life, her and Ruth Ketcham.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Children were frequently reminded that God was watching us 24 hours a day, 365 days a year,
and one extra day on leap years. God was watching me when I sat on the toilet reading a Nancy Drew book, picking my nose, and wiping the boogers off underneath the sink. Clearly my relationship with God was ruined. He might be extending love and guidance to other little children, undoubtedly He was, but not to me, or to Dickie Shaw who tried to talk girls into playing doctor with him. Dickie Shaw and I would be in Hell together.
Fortunately there were other chinks in the wall, some involving grownups. Crimes and misdemeanors committed by denizens of Bennington College didn’t count. Those people came from some other planet, and only served as a spectator sport. One professor got drunk on a summer night and sat on his roof playing a guitar and singing "I Wonder Who’s Kissing Her Now" over and over again. The lucky few who actually witnessed this event told the story over and over again, an almost unrestrained joy shining through their disapproving faces.
But the really interesting deviations arose amongst the townspeople themselves. Only a few were spectacular - such as Mrs. Whitaker’s petrified cat turds, or Mr. Cushman’s descent into madness - these were the Hope Diamonds of local gossip. The lesser gems - the fact that Kaki Peterson’s husband drank, and that Melanie Woodworth spent last summer at the Florence Crittendon Home of Redeeming Love in Burlington, and was not visiting her aunt in Minnesota, as her parents proclaimed. - these were the bits of information which kept people going from day to day.
Some people were outcasts no matter what they did, such as Clover Sweet, the garbage collector who was half Negro and lived alone in a small house in the woods. People praised Clover for doing an excellent job of collecting garbage and always being very polite. He was the most invisible man in town after his garbage route was finished. In all the years I lived in Prunewhip, I can never recall meeting Clover at the grocery store or the post office. Perhaps he had Rural Free Delivery, and drove out of town for groceries and hardware, to some cosmopolitan town such as Albany, 45 minutes away, where other Negros were known to live. It was my personal opinion that Clover was burdened as much by his name as by his ethnic parentage. Normal people had names like Arthur Whitman or Jimmy Beavis. Any guy named Clover Sweet would have been doomed to extinction no matter what. In later years it has occurred to me that Clover may have been a great yogi whose sadhana was to live in the woods in Vermont and collect the garbage of the unilluminated, thus bestowing his blessings upon us and assisting our eventual delivery from Vermont and the 1950s.
Monday, March 9, 2009
where the TV station
had a program for kids,
Freddy Freihoffer’s Breadtime tales,
one guy with an easel who drew
Freddy and his friends,
while Mom, if there was a mom,
fixed meatloaf, stringbeans, baked potatoes,
a little scoop of orange sherbet for dessert.
When we ran out to the side yard of
stars and fireflies,
drinking in the night like mossy wine,
we never knew we would end as
pictures in a family album,
lined up against Mr. Balmer’s fence in our
jerseys, overalls, and little clodhopper shoes.
Sunday and there she is in front of the new Buick
in a pink dress with a white peter pan collar,
a straw hat with a round humped top, a short brim,
pink ribbon tied under her chin,
same color as the dress,
holding the little pink plastic purse
feminists poets will one day immortalize,
wearing white ankle socks and
patent leather shoes,
safe at this moment,
from overly friendly uncles with whiskey breath,
face stubble like razors against her skin,
from the silent rage of her father,
the too bright smile of her aproned mother.
Wears a black straw hat
festooned with plaster cherries,
above a grim face which seems
in retrospect to know
she is being recorded wrongfully,
not the true story.
This blue serge, corseted woman
made love, gave birth to children,
her skin gleaming with sweat,
it’s only later she had to
stand in front of the house
wearing a silly hat.
and lemon oil.
polished wooden floors,
clusters of grapes
along the walls.
There were no random objects
dropped behind the couch,
jammed into the back of a drawer.
Each thing was known, counted,
laid away in its rightful place.
Although some were mysterious -
a breast pump?
My dead grandfather's
two unsmoked cigars.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
What if our struggles turn out to be enough
in the end,
long after we’re over winning and losing?
What if the money lasts,
the music, the food, the love?
What if we find ourselves in Bardos of
peace and justice,
when we’re old and hopeless possibilities
off to one side
like leaves of lettuce and slices of tomato?
"I hate a song that makes you think that you are not any good. I hate a song that makes you
think that you are just born to lose. Bound to lose. No good to nobody. No good for nothing.
Because you are too old or too young or too fat or too slim too ugly or too this or too that. Songs
that run you down or poke fun at you on account of your bad luck or hard traveling. I am out to
fight those songs to my very last breath of air and my last drop of blood. I am out to sing songs
that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked
you for a dozen loops, no matter what color, what size you are, how you are built, I am out to
sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work. And the songs that I sing
are made up for the most part by all sorts of folks just about like you. I could hire out to the
other side, the big money side, and get several dollars every week just to quit singing my own
kind of songs and to sing the kind that knock you down still farther and the ones that poke fun at
\you even more and the ones that make you think you've not any sense at all. But I decided a
long time ago that I'd starve to death before I'd sing any such songs as that. The radio waves
and your movies and your jukeboxes and your songbooks are already loaded down and running
over with such no good songs as that anyhow."
- Woody Guthrie.