I’m in a bit of a writing slump, so thank goodness for Audrey Gidman’s Poetry Prompt Calendars! Here is the prompt for 3/11, which was the ninth anniversary of our mom’s death. Today, 3/12, is the 32-year anniversary of our dad’s death.
Write two short, separate, unrelated poems, 4-5 lines each. One describing a body of water you’re standing beside. One about a relative—a parent, a sibling, a child, or another relative (alternately, a person very dear to you—a lover, chosen family etc.) Once complete, stack the poems so the first line of one of the poems is first on the page, then the first line of the second poem is next. Weave them together in this way until you have one poem that contains two poems. You may consider weaving the poems again, so the second begins first. Notice what happens. Adjust as needed. It’s okay if the poem isn’t a success, it’s not about that, but you might be surprised by what “success” looks like.
Here are my two short, separate, unrelated poems:
Here is how the wove together, with a few necessary adjustments:
Linda has this week’s Poetry Friday roundup at TeacherDance.
This NPM, I am writing acrostic poems using words from the Banned Words List at the Pen America Website. You can find my poems each day on Poetrepository, IG stories, and BlueSky.
But today is special. This is a Poetry Sister Challenge Day, and this month we are writing in conversation with a vintage photograph. I chose to have a conversation with my father as a young man, and ponder everything that happened in his life after that moment was captured, up to and including my very own now.
Every single one of the “banned” words on the Pen America list is ridiculous. The whole list is ridiculous. You can’t erase words; you can’t erase history. We ARE our history. We exist. And we will keep talking about all of it. We will keep making art about and with all of it. Here’s mine so far:
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
As I get ready to cook dinner, I chuckle to myself remembering what a struggle it was for mom to come up with meal ideas. We were absolutely no help when she asked what she should cook. The irony is that mom was a foodie. She loved the trips to Denver with her friends to go out to eat and see a show. She was always up for trying new foods, and she instilled the spirit of adventurous eating in my brother and me. We ate lima beans and Brussels sprouts, mangos and fresh coconut, and the best homemade Roquefort salad dressing I’ve ever had. Recipes from my childhood remain in rotation with new favorites: broccoli cheese soup (with bacon), cheesy beans and rice, chicken and wild rice, Lubbers Lounge LuLu, chili bean tostadas, and hamburger cobbler, to name a few. Thanks to mom, I never struggle to know what to cook for dinner.
Mom was a collector. She especially loved miniatures and antique glassware. But she also loved Boyd Bears, Hallmark ornaments, and apparently, scissors. I have her pinking shears and fabric shears, two smaller pairs of sewing scissors, the shears she used to cut hair, several pairs of our childhood scissors, multiple embroidery scissors, various manicure scissors including our baby fingernail scissors, and, naturally, a miniature pair of scissors.
Mom was an avid reader. She and a friend would go to the library sale every year and she’d come home with multiple grocery sacks full of books. She had a clever system for making sure she didn’t accidentally re-buy a book she’d already read. Inside the back cover of the myriad paperback mysteries she read, she’d pencil her initials. Then, when the sacks of library sale books had all been read, they were re-donated to the library. At the library sale, the back cover of each book was checked before the book was added to the sack of purchases.
Mom was an amazing seamstress, a devoted volunteer (Cub Scouts, swim meets, Bible School, reading buddy), and a creative gardener (she grew asparagus and tried her hand at breeding iris).
Most of all, mom was a great mom. She worked selflessly to make sure we had more and better than she did growing up. She died on March 11, 2017, just a few months before her 90th birthday.
Dad died on March 12, 1994. I still wonder if mom held on trying to make it to March 12, as if there were a special portal on that day that would take her straight to dad. She spent the final 23 years of her life without him. He was only 67 when he died and I had just started to get to know him adult-to-adult. As I now approach the age he was when he died (mom was the same age), I have a much greater empathy for her pain and her long years of loneliness.
My primary childhood memory of dad is that he was always working. He was the parts manager of the John Deere implement store and the needs of the local farmers, especially at harvest times, kept him behind the parts counter for long hours. I remember visiting him at work during Girl Scout cookie sales season and how special it was that he took time away from the parts counter to escort me to the “foreign” world of the tractor mechanics to sell my cookies.
When he wasn’t at work, dad was working in the yard. He was proud of the lawn and the trees he managed to grow in the arid high plains. When we wasn’t working in the yard, he was reading the paper, Popular Mechanics, or Smithsonian Magazine. While mom was the actively involved parent, dad was the rock of quiet strength.
There are more memories of each of them, of course. So many more. This slice barely skims the surface. If I could give them a message as I pause on March 11th and 12th, it would be a message of gratitude for my life, and to let them know that they remain an integral part of who I am and who I continue to become.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
I turned 60 last year and I have never been anti-tattoo but I’ve never had an idea for a tattoo that I liked well enough to do it. But with the state of the world as it is and my need to remind myself of my grounding, I got my first little tattoo this week.
Testa Tosta–a name I was called often by my grandfather and my father. For as long as I can remember. Testa Tosta is Calabrese (Italian from Calabria) term for “hard head” but I checked it out and there is some depth to it. Someone who sticks to what they believe, etc. I don’t remember Testa Tosta being in any way a negative word–it was just a statement, about who I was, said with love (and maybe a bit of frustration now and then:-).
So I got a very small tattoo on my arm. It reminds me of a lot–my dad, my grandfather, my Italian immigrant roots, that I can be a person who stands up for things and stays true to them and that stubbornness can be an asset when used right. I need this reminder these days when I miss all of the family members who have died over the decade, when immigrants are being treated horribly, when there is so much to fight for.
A(nother) Year of Reading 