Feeling Scrappy

I am not a quilter. I am too imprecise at measuring and cutting, not to mention my uneven stitches. My motto on most crafty projects is "close enough." But close enough doesn't work with pieces that need to line up evenly. Years ago I collected a box of fabric scraps intending to create my own quilt, but eventually I faced facts and gave up the idea. Still I continue to admire the work of those who know what they're doing such as my late cousin Evelyn who created several beautiful pieces, one of which covers a small table next to my bed.

I bring this up because at the moment  I am producing a lot of scraps in my writing. I will put a few lines together--some of which I really like and think could be formed into a good poem. I have a real sense of where I want them to go, what I want them to say, but in the process of working on them, I get stuck, so I go on to another piece, and the same thing happens.

Today, for instance, I started working on a poem about my visit to Pompeii in 1999 with my boyfriend at the time. I had started this poem awhile back but abandoned it (another scrap).  I found parallels between a cast of lovers, their passion frozen in time by the volcanic eruption and the two of us stumbling through the ruins, while at the same time our relationship was headed toward finality, albeit less dramatic. Did I want to start with us or the lovers? Did I want to include historical details? Did I want to include the fact that I bought a flimsy hat I thought would protect me from the sun? As you can see, "close enough" does not work for me when I'm writing. I stopped a few times to look up information on the eruption, get a cup of coffee, stare out the window, but eventually I gave up, adding another scrap to the pile.

While I am not a quilter, I don't like to think of myself as a quitter. I believe someday I will get back to all these orphaned scraps and create something from them, but for now I will have to settle for this post of clumsily stitched together frustrations.

Connecticut 191

Traveling south into Connecticut, I enjoy a back road route through the old villages of Hazardville, Scitico, Melrose, and Broad Brook-- hamlets  that were long ago swallowed up into the towns of Enfield and East Windsor. 

Below Route 190, it's mostly farmland--tobacco, corn, apples, squash, blueberries, and tree farms. I enjoy watching the seasons change--the rough furrows of soil being made ready for planting in the spring, and a little later acres of rhododendrons and azaleas flashing bright pink. This time of year the orchards are loaded with apples.

This week in between fields cut back ready for a winter's rest, there was a whole field of sunflowers still standing and staring at their namesake, and a field of perfectly ripe pumpkins I hadn't noticed last week.  Between last week and this, the pumpkins' leaves had dried and withered, exposing this array of round orange fruit. I did not see any farm stand nearby selling pumpkins, so I suspect there are no future jack o' lanterns here. These are the leftovers, left to be eaten by the wildlife.

A little beyond the field of pumpkins is an old tobacco barn that has fallen. I remember its slow leaning, leaning, finally succumbing to gravity with the help of a hurricane.  The old barn, the old villages have past, but today the pumpkins are ripe and ready.

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."