when we lose our laugh

                           Built like a fox terrier, this man has lost his laugh. He wears shoes intensely tied. He won't admit when he's upset -- he'll just untie his shoe. He'll move aside the catalogs sitting on your desk, pull his pant leg up and set his foot upon the cleared corner.  Now he has something to yank on. How much tighter can he tie? He doesn't seem to realize what he reveals when he ties his shoes. Today, when wanting to make an appointment for next Tuesday, he asked for an employment instead.     

This photo is not mine. I'd like to give credit to the photographer but it came to me without any credits.

in case of a bad day

There are phone numbers I call when I am having a bad day. I count on the call not being answered. I count on that because I want  to listen to the music on the other end while I wait for my call to not be answered. Today my son asked why I had called three times. I need to ask him next time what it is I am listening to. It isn't this song. It's like this only different.

I keep a list in my back pocket of phrases I read in books, phrases straight from my daughter's mouth. She and I ran the pups just the other night. The list fell from my back pocket. We picked it up and I read the list to her. She doesn't remember telling me about how she could watch the world go smash. We talked about another item on the list. I told her I had been thinking of how there could be such a sorrow that no matter how many languages one could say forgive me in, it still might not be enough. She said  - but what if you didn't know how to say forgive me in any language. That could be more worse. In that case, I think, you should call my son's phone number and listen to the song his phone plays. And until I figure out what the name of that song is, try listening to this instead.

insurance against unrowed ducks

I want to say I drive with abandon. I want to say: on orange desert dirt with eight pounds of bees in the back of my sad pickup. This to say -- I'd like to leave home once without insuring first all my ducks are lined up. In a column, in a row -- it doesn't matter. I want to  remember how it feels to drive away without first making sure my life is in order.

To the person who was talking to me while I was Out To Lunch, listening to me talk about My Game Plan and how it includes options for Plan A through Plan D, let me say I know you know lately I've not been able to keep my ducks in a row. You scoffed (aka: snorted) when I spoke (aka: whined or snivelled) about the fear of what might happen if any of my rowed ducks should stray.

During this driving and talking at said lunch time, unbeknownst to me, a vehicle belonging to the company which employs me even when I am to and fro-ing between Jimmy John's and Subway, was hit by an uninsured motorist, two blocks away from my whine.

The motorist whose name is on the flipside of the snapped ticket knew enough to talk my co-buddy into reparking his vehicle in such a way when the police came the scene of the accident had been rearranged. Hence, she, the lady without insurance, received no ticket for turning right on a red.

Hence, I'm not thrilled with her but  hence, I realize I'm contrary when it comes to Want. I want that orange desert dirt to turn into a climb of beauty and the bees in the back to produce honey. I'd like to have insurance when I need it and I'd like to live life as though I don't.

lean rock and cut string

I wasn't thinking of taking photos when we came across these steps. I had been here so many times over the years I didn't think I needed to capture them in another photo.These steps are upriver from where I grew up and lead from a giant springs and the shortest river on this continent to a shady grove of white birch and pine. Their memory is ingrained in me. Maybe I am ingrained in their memory (?) Somewhere inside my infrequent weariness is an eight-year-old girl in red P. F. Flyers who knows the count of these stairs.

Nearby, tourists were debating the climb. They'd make the climb if they knew the resulting view was worth it. Others voiced their dismay at the leaning rockwork on the left. What a shame, they said. If someone would fix that lean, the rockwork would be that much more beautiful. My kids turned and smiled at me. They've heard me talk enough about the value of a climb -- would their mom use the moment to remind them? Instead, I took out my camera phone and snapped this photo.

The seven of us, plus one large dog, climbed back inside our ride. It was beginning to occur to me my focus was changing. Enough talk about process over result, journey over destination. It was time to shift to letting go of what was wrong. Time to enjoy beauty in the flaws. Time to quit thinking:  flaw. 

Stringer

In the movies I would be scanty,
and slide over to straddle him. But
in reality, dressed in boxers and socks
I scooted until I fit beside him
in our bed rolls laid out by the fire
near the creek we once claimed as ours.

I asked if he were a letter, which he’d be.
A Dear John letter just to feel me
squirm beneath his teasing words,
but then he said M, surprised to feel my body
frown when I wondered how my F could blend
with him. He tipped me on my back to show
how well our letters fit.

I thought about days and how he’d be
a good Wednesday, but he said Tomorrow,
for each surprise and to catch the fish he missed.
Remember, he nudged, how you thread bad days
onto a stringer of yesterdays? Cut the line, he said.

I slid out of my socks and struggled
with his dreaming. He snored while I waited
for the wolf to howl because in the movies
about restarting trust, this is how it happens:
Cue the sound and the credits while the last log settles
into embers and sparks seek starlit skies.
I thought to make one last list: passwords,
past, promise, (prick) and then
I let go and slept.

 
This poem was originally published at Two Review.
 
Disclaimer: I am not nearly as old as the shoes suggest, but don't you think that illustration is all-that?

remembering the bridge

Bridges are a promise to return; bridges help you feel found when you are lost. These are lines I've written in poems during the last year. If I read these lines often enough perhaps they can be true. (?) I'm not sure I believe in bridges yet,  but I know about feeling found.

I am invited and have been urged to attend a wedding in my ex-laws' family. Earlier I had asked my daughter exactly where the wedding would take place: Somewhere between Huntley and Hardin. A 37 mile span of countryside, squared.  My son:  Dad said you'd recognize the spot.

He called me yesterday, my former husband. He was laughing when he said:  Sherry, remember the bridge we parked on when we used to swim the creek?

I do.

This soon-to-be-wed niece wasn't even a twinkle in her mother's eye when the father of my children and I would sneak through the farmers' fields  intent on cooling off. We were new to this area of the state so we spent our weekends exploring every gravel road between what we already knew and what we didn't know. Sometimes all we had to dry off with was a blue oil rag underneath the seat of our old Ford pickup. It was easier to dry out in the sun, in a field of clover and alfalfa where -- apparently -- now stands The Wedding Place.

casino

I did this to us she whispers after we hear the bottom drop
out of another box her husband is carrying from his packed
pickup to the front door of their latest house which I mean
to say is an apartment because it is seventy-two times
smaller than where they used to live. Nowhere in the kitchen
is there room to roll out dough. She is too small
to see out the kitchen window which is too small to show
a view but she knows without looking what lies shattered
on the landing next to the unmowed grass is their Christmas
china which is where Boyd’s kneeling, next to this first box
Judy packed when she got the news, when I step out
with the broom.

Everything is glue-able except for the gravy boat he says
squinting past me, looking through that window where she
can’t stand and look. He finds his cigarettes on the lawn
tractor he used to mow three acres at the house they lost
last week. He lights up but doesn’t exactly breathe, asking
did I know who might want his stuff in the garage that is
too filled with boxes marked with K for his yard tools to fit.
I shake my head; he shakes his and bends to hold the dust
pan. We sweep up bits of china, more shards of casino
glass.

he bet i couldn't use these photos without writing the word g*lf

This is the state of my morning mind. Firing pins and pistons, elbow joints and knee caps are scrambled and disjointed -- tangled up in bed. 

The grey matter doesn't wrap around any concept until the finger bones wrap around this:

800 ml of filtered water later, pistons and whatnotpins have found each other, firing in every chamber.

Elbows and knees are once again aligned. I can leave the house now that my game is on.

(Apologetic Disclaimer: I visited my son at work last night. He caught me taking photos with my phone. I think he might have groaned: what can you write that would make these photos interesting? I said: I dunno, but let me think about it for awhile. He said: I'll give you til High Noon.)

(Non-Apologetic Non-Disclaimer: The photo of my water bottle sitting on my desk was taken just moments before High Noon. I'm liking the looks of it.)

photos i didn't take today

5:47 A. M.
Three roofers on top of the neighbor's house ripping up shingles. Sunrise bleeding into the shade of the silver maple; the slant of a naked roof.


11:53 A. M.
One blonde man standing on the corner of Wicks and Main. No shirt, ninety-two degrees. One sign:  Have you ever been desperate? One hand stretched out from the window of a black suburban.


6:07 P. M.
In the archway of a jeweled banquet room in a local Chinese restaurant, an elderly Chinese man crouches as he applies black paint to an ornate chair. Behind him, a waitress dressed in black with a white apron tied about her waist watches. Two sets of tightly sealed lips.

nature and nuture

I watched this last week and woke up this morning with it still on my mind. Mind? Nothing of this video impacted my mind -- I should say this was still in my heart or spirit. The leopard seal has something to share with us. I hope you take a look.

crossing the center line

Becky was ten when she started coming into our office to spend time with her Mom and to *help* us with our work. We gave her drivers' logs to organize by name and date. The entire time she sat at the old green metal desk with the drawers that screeched when opened, she chattered. Did we think Cinderella or Snow White had the better life? Did we think it was true someday we'd find ice on Saturn's moons? Her mom and I would turn to smile at each other when she wouldn't notice.

Nothing balanced on the days Becky came to work. The financial statements I worked on took longer to complete. I would be deep in debit-credit thought when Becky would murmur  Oh Randy. Allowing her the privacy of a teenaged crush, I kept working with my adding machine - the big monster thrashed and bounced on my desk, chugging out one division problem in 4.5 seconds.  A little bit of time would pass and then she would sigh, Oh Everett. Once I left my desk to look for a pretend rolodex card just so I could watch her -- she was writing notes to her favorite drivers and kissing the heart-shaped paper before stapling them on the drivers' logs. Randy Dear, Please sign the bottom of your log. Love, Becky.

Her mom told me later that Becky was her spark -- her color purple. Life with Becky was unexpected. Like the color purple, one never knew when she would burst into your space. Her two sisters were green and blue- something you encountered every day, but Becky was a surprise. She was the one who ate pickles while playing Horse basketball with the boys across the street. She'd set the pickle on the asphalt driveway when it was her turn to shoot. She'd make her shot and retrieve her pickle. She was the one who could not be contained, the one who could not be kept. On the day I learned I was pregnant with my own daughter, I was driving back to work from the doctor's office listening to the radio. A highway fatality was on the news.

(My dad sent me this photo this morning. I think he wrote it was from the Sun River, but as soon as I saw the purple blooms on the gravelbar, I was reminded of Becky.)

between one and two

These are Nadine's photos. We've known each other since we were six. The way she participates with nature sparks me. One thing leads to another everytime I listen to her speak or read her letters or when she shares her artwork with me.

Halfway across the country from her forest  lives a man who built his own bridge. He lives in an isolated setting, which works for him -- except for when it doesn't. A few years ago he told me about being six years old and how he had wondered what came between one and two. When he asked his first grade teacher, she told him there was nothing between the two numbers. From that point on he set out to prove her wrong.

Like Nadine, he examines life for more layers. One moment there are barren cliffs and the next moment there are cliff swallows- they've been building a nest the entire time we've been preoccupied with . . .what, exactly?

Between My Back Porch and Sheffield’s Pond

On our daily walk, we find a snow goose egg
that wasn’t there before.

Wings beat the sunset on still water,

beaks tear at grass. Antelope settle

beneath the Russian Olives.

I teach my daughter about the sandpiper,

how it leads us from its nest. She shows me

how to fill pockets with pebbles from the shore,
right before she falls in. One moment

she is sinking; in the next, she can swim.

A pelican blends his brown body into the cut

bank dirt nearby, both he and my son

never blinked, never doubted

she would survive. If you let all your air out,

my son tells me, and then dive to the bottom

of the pond you can stay there, spread eagle,
without floating to the top. He has my
hazel eyes. I wish mine had his sparkle
as he tells me all it takes is knowing
you can surface when you want.

My friend in Michigan built a bridge

across a backyard creek that he can jump.

He admits in midnight mail,the older

we get, the harder it is to leap.

Poem was previously published in Tonopah Review.  I am hoping Nadine will stop by and tell us her story of how she happened across these eggs.

don't look directly at the shadow

A day after Robb arrived for her annual visit, they piled into Dad's pickup -- Mom in the middle with my dad driving and Robb to my mother's right. In the back, no doubt, was Roadey, my mother's one-hundred-pound dog and a cooler with water and juices, carrot and celery sticks. Maybe even some of my mother's cupcakes. Road trips without Mom's food in a cooler haven't happened yet.

Robb has made the annual Trip Back To Montana for at last fifty years. She is my mother's best friend. By now, this threesome must have driven every back road and seen all there is to see Out Here. For those of you who have been reading this blog for a few months, you may have noticed how many times my dad's landscape photos have shown up in here. He never tires of our vast landscape nor of  taking photos of the same plateaus, buttes, rock formations and faint wagon trails he visits on these drives.

This trip, however, Robb asked my dad to stop in the middle of the gravel road. Take a picture of the praying hands she suggested in her back-easternly way. At first Dad couldn't see what she was referring to-on account of the shadows along the ridge. Then he realized because of the shadows, the praying hands were possible to be seen.

At 12:51 A. M. this morning my BlackBerry buzzed on my nightstand. I rolled over in bed, knowing I had a new message from my dad (he doesn't sleep at night). He had sent me the above photo and a quick note about what he'd learned. When we let shadows do what they do best, we see what they suggest.

What I like best about good poetry are the shadows between the words. Often the poem that vibrates inside me is the one which only suggests what might be revealed. I live for the gradual realization we experience when we let shadows work their tricks on us.

a mile high a mile deep

This is neither the Original nor the Belmont nor the Orphan Girl. It might be the Anselmo, but I am fairly sure it is not the Bell Diamond. My father calls them head frames, but my brother (the photographer) calls them gallus frames the way I do. Some in Butte, Montana called them orphan and widow makers because these frames were used to lower the miners down into the precious metal mines. A mile high and a mile deep is the claim to fame. All of them make for their own sort of ghost town. Mining for copper stopped in Butte some time ago. Butte's open pit is now a Superfund site, but that is another story.

The Bell Diamond was lit a couple years ago in memory of the O'Keefe family and their ancestors, the Hickeys, who founded and named what was to become the world's largest open-pit copper mine at one time. Our great-great ancestors deep into the gold and silver rush didn't see a future in copper so the mine was sold to Marcus Daly for a tidy 1800's sum.

I think about Michael Hickey. Back in his day he couldn't have imagined what his discovery of this mine would become. What, today, do we undervalue? What can we not imagine? What in my own day am I overlooking?

Here's a leap.

My brother, whose photos are in this post, met my kids (what do you call adult children?) and me in our hometown last weekend to eat a meal together at our parents' house. He came because I asked. What I hadn't realized when I asked was Butte (his home) was deep into its most celebrated weekend, The National Folkfest. And my brother and his family were deep into that three day celebration as well.

Mike and his wife drove three hundred (300) (Three Hundred) (three zero zero) miles round trip just to sit down for a two-ish hour meal with us. We cooked, we dined and everyone traded stories. We dropped food on the floor; we ate our dessert first. We played a cheating game of spoons around a big kitchen table. And then he packed up and headed back to Butte. 

There is much about today I suppose I undervalue. Probably, I move through some days misfocused. Perhaps it is this way for you as well?  I don't know when I will see Mike again -- we live hours apart and are, you know, such busy people. Ever since we hugged goodbye I've been thinking about shifting my focus, lining my valuable ducks in a row so as to better appreciate what is here and now.

tapping into wisdom: meet cheryl snell

Let me introduce you to Cheryl Snell. The above is a portrait of Cheryl, as her sister Janet sees her. Cool, huh. I became interested in Cheryl's work by way of her poetry. After she hooked me with her poetry, I became aware of her book, Shiva's Arms. The wait for the book to come out was worth it.  Direct from its own website:

When Alice marries Ramesh, she is plunged into a battle of wills with her mother-in-law. Namesake of a god, Amma reigns over Alice's household until a family secret is revealed that costs the old woman everything. Now it is up to Alice to heal the rift, as Shiva’s Arms evolves into an exploration on cultural identity, the power of reconciliation, and the meaning of home.

Interesting, isn't it! Cheryl will be stopping by today to comment and will provide us with a link to her facebook site where we will learn more about Cheryl and her novel, but for those of you without a facebook connection, here is a little more about the book and Cheryl:

Q: This book draws from some personal experience. How do you negotiate with those in your real life when portions of them appear in your work?


A: Deny, deny, deny. Everyone knows an Amma, an Alice, a Ram. Maybe they recognize themselves out of a guilty conscience! Seriously though, if a person thinks they see a bit of themselves floating around my pages, I tell them about the nature of fiction.

My book went through so many changes, the details I drew from life were more often objects than people or actual events. But it is funny when people go from “you’d better not talk about that!” to “let me tell you exactly the way that happened,” isn’t it?

Q: I was especially drawn into the story because of the mixed cultures. I had been married to a man from Germany and my Irishness at times didn’t blend with his culture. I admire the way you’ve addressed these issues in the book and yet allowed each character to maintain their own identity. What were your resources when it came time to draw upon such wisdom?

A: I drew on my life experience for that. My husband and I were in our early thirties when we met, and had no interest in merging or changing one another to conform to family expectations. We felt too old and set in our ways! Of course, my characters needed more conflict and I had to complicate their lives. It was from my perch as an observer that I was able to witness the way other families coped with culture clash, divided loyalties, and the momentous act of immigration. The tug between family and self interest, belonging and perceived rootlessness, has been a real eye opener for me.

Q: As a child I read books which helped guide me in the Lessons in Life. I also read as an escape from reality, so I was drawn to stories from faraway places, books with adventure and exploration. Your book addresses all of this for me. What are you drawn to when you read and what are you reading now?

A: My tastes are fickle and promiscuous. Eclectic, maybe. I trust the opinion of my body when I read. Does the hair on the back of my neck stand up? Do I get goose bumps? Does the top of my head want to blow off? I like literary fiction and contemporary poetry. I want to learn how other people think about situations I will never experience.


On my nightstand right now are Bellow’s Humboldt’s Gift, Roth’s Dying Animal, and a particularly luminous poetry collection entitled Making Good Use of August.

 (edited in to display a big surprised grin by yours truly! )


Q:Shifting focus, as a writer, how do you balance the time you spend writing with the rest of your life? Do you at times feel slightly removed from what is going on in your day when you have a story in your head you are trying to write down?

A:Removed and cranky! I feel that way while I’m physically creating a piece, too, even if it’s going well. I’m in a race with my energy level to finish.


When I was younger, I thought I needed ideal circumstances - a long chunk of uninterrupted time, a sufficient accompaniment of coffee, the right chair, soft or bright enough light - to get any real writing done. Now I’m not so fussy. I read once that Joyce Carol Oates writes in her head while she’s doing housework. I can dig it.

Q:What do you do when you suffer from writer’s block?

A: Switch genres, and if that doesn’t work, learn something foreign.

Q: I know you are a poet (and I admire your poetry!)- what nutures you more? Writing poetry or prose? How do the two blend together when you write?

A: Poetry is my first love. I came to it very un-romantically, though. I started to write it in earnest after I suffered back-to-back neurological incidents, way back when. Brain surgery left me with aphasia and the practice of choosing the exact word helped with that. Good medicine!


The poetry flows into the fiction. It’s in the image and sound, the rhythm of the sentences, the silences between them.

Q: I’ve been following your blog tour for some weeks and noticed you’ve been waiting to be asked: What is your true subject?

A: In all my work, the past is present, and the future is, too. Outside or within the mortal there is always the immortal. That conflation is my true subject.

Q: Anything else you’d like to share at this time?

A: I’d like to thank you for your time and generosity and kindness.

coming soon

When I first heard of this book, I stood in cyberline to order a copy. While Cheryl tidied up the finishing touches, I began to follow her poetry and her sister's (Janet Snell) artwork. I knew this novel would help me understand some of the inter-cultural dynamics in my own (now gone) inter-cultural marriage. Anytime I can harvest wisdom and grace from another's words, I am all for it.

On Monday, Cheryl will be stopping by Too Much August, to visit with me. A copy of her book will be given away to one of the lucky commenters on that day's post. Stop by and harvest some wisdom with me. I know you'll be touched by Cheryl's words.

mrs. weldon

Did we want to come out and help my sister bring the sheep in? They cross the creek every morning, but at night they must come back to pastures closer to the farm buildings to keep them safer from the coyotes. 

Yes yes yes, we want to bring the sheep in. We were hoping for some of those whatchacallit sheep hooks but instead my sister loads us up with camera and hoes. Hoes? Yes, she says, there are snakes out here.

We stand near the creek bank. See the bridge Rex built? We will bring the sheep across it even though they balk at water and startle on the bridge. Mary (as in Mary Had A Little Lamb) talks to us about bringing the sheep in. Low voices and no sudden moves. Think of the sheep, she says, as having a bubble just as we humans do. Breaching the bubble is bad, but suggestive nudging is good. The sheep will move away from you to protect their space. The trick is to move them towards the bridge and not away from the bridge.

I'm thinking of the last time we were here we played Montana Motor Boat in the creek, so I miss what Mary said about how sheep don't stampede. Or did she say they did? I want to ask -- in fact I almost raise my hand to catch her attention when I notice a section of fencing. Camera in hand, I'm off to capture this moment where sage brush claims the wire just as the barbed wire claims the sage.

Somewhere in the distance the flock is talking -- some bells binging and some bells bonging and lambs baa-ing for their mamas. Had I stayed beside my sister, I might have learned better sheep lingo, but  I am distracted. Hello, who, I want to ask, who lives here?

I should put the camera away --the sheep have begun to move. Magic is at hand. My daughter turns to smile at me -- have I noticed Mrs. Weldon yet?, she asks.

Mrs. Weldon?

Yes, Mom - listen. Do you hear the high bell? The one that tinkles the loudest? That's the ewe wearing our bell.

Stepping closer isn't possible --Mrs. Dontmesswithme is bringing up the rear. Bbbut we can stand and shhhh -- tip our heads and  listen.

.

inside looking out

The view inside the cabin, before chinking. The camera could not capture how it felt to be here. Words? I'm still working on the words. We spent time with other writers -- trading tips, offering edits, exchanging experiences. One thing we all agreed on was that as writers, we observe. And when we observe, we take one step away from whatever is going on. Over time, a sense of distancing and a touch of isolation sets in. We are inside -- looking out.

I didn't take many photos of this place because I didn't want to observe, didn't want that thin membrane between me and everything else. I put the camera away, put the pen down, turned the writer down.

desk-legs and open space

I'm back, but still trying to get my desk-legs back. And when I say legs, I don't mean that. I mean to say that Out Here, there are no lines. We get accustomed to not having to share space with anyone. If there is a line at the movies, we turn around and go home. A line can consist of five people. Five people can be three too many.

I was gone for something like six days and in that time there were zero lines and infinite open space. Except at the rodeo (and that is different because rodeos involve powerful horses and men in leather chaps.) Now, I am getting ahead of myself -- the stories and photos will soon show up here, but for now I thought I'd just clock in and clock back out with promises of more in just a little bit.

Save my seat for me, okay?