Old Friends

Yesterday Riley went to the Dog Shop

where they brushed his hair for half an hour.

This morning he wanders the still green yard,

as if he carries a frost of snow on his back.

When climbing into the car, he needs a lift

where he used to leap right up to the seat.

Yesterday Jean called to say that Peter had died.

Peter and Riley enjoyed each other.

Peter would feed him bits of cheese.
This is the last one, then one more.

Neither Riley nor I complained.
This morning I am fed by this memory.

My Un-Bucket List

I see the signs: the blossoms on the hydrangea are turning pink, the days are getting shorter, I'm dragging out my sweatshirts. Summer's over, fall is upon us. The seasons are passing more and more quickly. Some people, considering this, create a bucket list. Not the sort our friend Homer created, but a list of things they want to do before they kick the proverbial bucket.

I don't have such a list, although there are some things I would put on one: visit Mont St. Michel, publish my latest collection of poetry, meet the man of my dreams. (hope springs eternal).

But as I consider that every day I have 86,400 fewer seconds  than I did the day before, I've decided it’s more important to cross some things off my list, and thereby clear away space and time for the important stuff. To wit, I present my Un-bucket List: Things that I have decided I never have to do:

• read Ulysses
• eat raw oysters
• dust the top of the refrigerator
• write the great American novel, or any novel for that matter
• learn the difference between a sine and a cosine
• run a marathon
• climb anything higher than the step ladder
• learn how to fold fitted sheets
• learn to play the violin
• travel to a pole—North or South (sorry,  Santa)
• swim with sharks
• invite the Queen to tea
• alphabetize my books
• run for elected office
• cheer for the Yankees

 If forced by circumstances or embarrassment, I may do any of the following:

• drive in NYC
• watch another Eugene O’Neill play (I know, I know, it’s great art, but it puts me to sleep)
• roll out a pie crust
• run, except to catch a runaway dog

OK, I've cleared away a bit of time. Now I think I'll take a nap--that's always on my list of things to do.

Patsy and JC

As I looked out the window this morning I saw a large black and white cat coming out of my garage. I recognized it as Jessie's Cat. Jessie lived across the street until she died eight years ago. Jessie is gone, but JC is still here, surviving on the kindness of neighbors.

I was reminded of my cat, Patsy (seen here on a Halloween many years ago). Patsy (short for Patrick) was a gift on my seventh birthday, which I described as "the happiest day of my life," and I'm sure being all grown up at the end of first grade, I was sure of that.

He was a wonderful and affectionate pet, often purring and rubbing up against my leg. He would even bring me "presents." Not infrequently he would arrive at the door with a dead chipmunk in his teeth, very proud of his quarry. The only time I remember his being unpleasant was when we had to take him anywhere in the car. He would claw at his cage and growl until finally released. Fortunately that didn't happen often.

Although I am generally allergic to cats, for some reason Patsy never bothered me. Maybe it was because he was outside most of the time. The dander didn't get confined to the house. He liked being outside, liked his independence, probably because it allowed him to hunt for choice morsels. For the most part, we let him do his thing, but there were a couple of times when we thought we'd lost him.

One particularly bad winter we let him out for what we thought was a quick pee, but when we went to let him back in, he wasn't there, and he wasn't there that night, or the next day, or the next day. Just when we were sure Old Man Winter had done his worst, Patsy came meandering down the driveway looking well-fed and happy.

I suspect it was good neighbors who sheltered him, just like JC now. I'm not sure how old Jessie's Cat is or how much longer he will survive. Wikipedia tells me that the oldest known cat was Creme Puff who lived to be just over 38 years old, (168 in human years). It's doubtful that JC will live that long, but certain that he survives now because of the kindness of neighbors.

All of us, whether we're left alone or wander off and get lost, need the help and support of good neighbors. Fortunately there are still lots of good neighbors out there.

Thank you, Mr. Levine

Over the years my parents went to many parent-teacher conferences, after which they would report back to me what the teachers had said about me and my performance. Of all those comments, I remember only one.

I was generally a good and well-behaved student, so there were never any serious problems. Back then grades were either "S" for satisfactory or "N" for needs improvement. (Today's grade/test/number obsessed educators would do well to reconsider this system, but I'll save that rant for another day). My report cards were consistent. Beside every category, except one, was an "S." My one "N" was for penmanship, which remains an area in need of improvement.

Maybe my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Levine, was thinking about my penmanship when he told my parents, "Some people find it easy to be neat. Jane has to work at it." Alas, 'tis true. Over the years as I've struggled to keep my house, my car, my desk, or my life in order, Mr. Levine's words have come back to me over and over again. It's not that I don't try to keep things neat and orderly, it's just that, well, it's a lot of work, and while I'm straightening out the book case, I find  a book I'd forgotten about, and intended to read, and before you know it, the cleaning project is abandoned, and I've put my feet up on the book case, and I'm reading that novel I bought years ago.

So, part of the problem is that I'm easily distracted, and when it's something I'd rather do than create order, I do that, and, truth be told, there are LOTS of things I'd rather do than  create order. But it's not just that. I truly believe there is a gene that makes some people naturally neat. I suspect Mr. Levine had one of those.

Take, for instance, my friend Agatha (not her real name). She is naturally neat. Her house is always in perfect order, her clothes always clean and freshly ironed (I think I remember where my iron is, but maybe not), and her desk is always free from clutter. Now all that may be due to the fact that she works at this, which she does, but here's my argument for the genetic difference. She even sleeps neatly. Yes, sound asleep, no longer conscious of her neatening compulsion, um, I mean habit, she is neat.

Consider the following: Several years ago we were vacationing at a friend's cottage on the Cape. We shared a room with twin beds. At bed time Agatha folded back the covers on the bed she had made with neat hospital corners, slipped herself into the bed, leaving nary a crease in the bed clothes, lay on her back, and pulled the covers up to her neck and fell asleep.

On the other side of the room, I climbed into my bed, which I had made as well as genetically possible, turned over on my stomach and fell asleep. In the morning I woke up in a cocoon of sheets and blankets created by my activity during the night. Maybe I was having butterfly dreams, but before I could get out of bed, I had to unwrap myself, ending up with all the covers on the floor.

Finally disentangled, I stood up and looked over at Agatha's bed where she lay flat on her back, covers neatly folded under her chin, exactly as she had looked eight hours earlier. I was amazed; I never knew it was possible to sleep without moving. It was then that I concluded that Mr. Levine was probably right. Some people like Agatha were just naturally neat, and clearly I was not. 

What a relief! Now I can go back and finish reading that book.

Writing Wisdom from Billy Collins

These are some gems I gathered 

while in Billy Collins' workshop at

 the Southampton Writers' Conference.

• "You have to tell a little lie--that you love poetry more than yourself."
•  "Daydreaming is our [the poets'] job."
•  "Allow distractions, don't shoo them away. They may be knocking on the door of your poem."
•  "Your poem ends when the reader stops reading."
• "It's a kind of compensatory love we're seeking, and it's a kind of neurosis."
•  "Poetry is the displacement of silence."
•  "Your voice has an external source. It lies on the library shelf. You find your voice by reading other poets."
•  "Literary influence is actually jealousy."
•  "Writers are people who have been moved to writing by reading."
•  "Prose is like water. It fits any shape it's poured into. Poetry is like sculpture."
• "The pen is an instrument of discovery."

Remembering Carrie

In my continuing effort to clean out the basement, I came across a box I have looked through before. In  it are papers from my paternal grandmother, Carrie Julia Rose Roberts Schneeloch. There are her two wedding certificates, deeds to their homes, and letters, lots and lots of letters. Evidently Carrie was a saver, and I am very grateful for that, although now I have to decide what to do with the treasures she has left.

Carrie was born in the Merrick section of West Springfield in 1881, the youngest of five children. She admitted to being spoiled by them, but she would have her share of heartache. On the first day of the new century, at nineteen years old, she married the handsome Joseph Roberts seen here. I can only imagine the joy they shared as they looked forward to a future together. Sadly Joseph died just four months later of a ruptured appendix. Not long after that she lost her beloved sister Charlotte "Lottie."

Two years later she married my grandfather, George Emil Schneeloch, and in 1911 gave birth to my father, George Robert Schneeloch, who was to be their only child. When I was born in 1945, I was their only grandchild, My brother Bill was born in 1954, after both our grandparents had died.

I remember both my grandparents fondly. I remember their reading to me out of a big story book, my grandmother's vanilla pudding, the smell of lifebuoy soap in their bathroom, my grandfather's garden. I also remember the smell of my grandfather's White Owl cigars. That I don't miss.

Of course, I remember them as "old." Here they are at our house on Thanksgiving of 1950, just a few months before my grandmother died. I am, to say the least, a bit unnerved when I realize that my grandmother was 69 here, the age I am now.

The letters (don't want to linger too long on that age thing) are interesting from a number of standpoints. First of all, they are in excellent condition for being over 110 years old, although some are hard to read, having been written in pencil. Many are in the original envelopes. Several of the many letters written to Carrie from her mother, Henrietta Spencer Rose, are addressed simply Mrs. George Schneeloch, c/o Kibbe Brothers, Springfield, Massachusetts. Kibbe Candy Company was where my grandfather worked.

More to come....

My Butterfly Quilt

My quilt is not a show quilt, not like those that resemble a painting, where every thin strip of fabric is a brush stroke shading into the next color. It's not one with an intricate pattern with names like Dresden plate or prairie star or cathedral window. Simple green and pink butterflies are appliqued on off-white cotton. The stitching is not perfect, the original colors have faded, the edges are worn, and the very thin lining is leaking out.

Yet I love it because  my mother made it for me. I don't remember her making it. It seems it was always there in my room. I imagine it was in my crib before I graduated to the old spool bed that had been my father's, and which, years later, I am still sleeping in. I do remember being wrapped up in it as she or my father read to me at bedtime, cuddling with it and my cat Patsy on the old red sofa, and dragging it with me from room to room. So when it was finally consigned to the cedar chest, it had been worn thin with love.

I wonder now about my mother's decision to make this quilt. I know she and my father were overjoyed when I was born, not just as any parent would be, but because two years earlier she had carried a baby to full term only to lose her--the older sister Carolyn whom I would never know. Was she making this quilt while awaiting my arrival? Was it an activity to keep her from worrying about another tiny coffin? Or did she make it after I arrived sewing these tiny butterflies in a spirit of celebration.

Whenever she made it, I am glad she chose butterflies for the theme. I have always loved butterflies--their magnificent colors, their emerging from the cocoon, the story of their migration--all of that. Or maybe it is memories of being surrounded by them in the arms of my mother.