Remembering my Father on his Birthday

Stargazing

My father bought me stars,

a small constellation

splayed across wax paper,

picked from a wooden bin

between clothesline and fuses

at Carpenter and Webber’s Hardware.

One by one

he pasted them

on the ceiling above my bed.

“Leave the shades up today,

then when it’s nighttime,

the stars will come out.”

At 7:30 the Lone Ranger

began his fight for law and order

on the white Crosley

next to my bed,

where I lay safe

beneath my very own galaxy.

A Bit of Purple Hope

A friend told me last night that she saw a crocus popping up. God, I love those beauties. They are so defiant. They will not let this winter, any winter, keep them down.

Right now it's 10 degrees out, and my yard has snow banks three feet high, and it's March 5 already! I can pound my mittened fists and say it's time for spring, but being a true New Englander, I know springtime is a variable concept.

But those crocuses don't care. They shoot up through the snow and give us a glimmer of hope, just enough to get us through another frigid day.

Polylingual

The dog is asking me a question

and I have no answer.

Pablo Neruda

So, Pablo,

your Spanish answers

are as insufficient as

my English ones

to that ever so quiet grrr,

that insistent bark,

that quizzical look

that asks--what?

I do not know.

Not knowing

does not stop me

from answering.

I am, after all,

the superior brain.

I am master,

and he is only

dog--

a dog who hears

and understands all

then responds

with indiscriminate love.

The Gift of Reading

As frequently happens when I’m reading Facebook posts, I clicked on a link and traveled off in a whole new direction. A teacher friend posted a link to Terry Heick’s article “Why Students Hate Reading–And Often Aren’t Very Good At It” on teachthought.com. Heick points out that in our fast-paced Instagram world, students are not encouraged to connect at a deeper level with the people and situations they are reading about. I heartily agree. By emphasizing reading as a decoding process, by breaking it into its parts of main idea and details, students are not able to stop and reflect on how the lives in the story connect to their lives.

His article caused me to reflect on how I came to love reading. How was I, a middle-class white girl raised in a stable two-parent home, able to empathize with Huck Finn's being abused by his drunken father or with Helen Keller's struggle to communicate despite being blind and deaf?  These were not my experiences, yet as I read these stories, I was able to imagine myself in their shoes. Clearly these were well-written stories, but there's more to it.

My love of reading has a lot to do with the people who loved me enough to read to me. Night after night either my mother or father would snuggle up next to me and read from one of my favorite books. There were books of poetry as well as stories. I requested some poems, like Rachel Field's "General Store," so often that I began to recite them on my own. Then there was

Betty MacDonald's Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle's Farm which I inscribed with my name and this succinct review, "This is a very funny book." How could it not be considering it had characters named Fetlock Harroway, Freda Workbasket , and Crystal Mallett, not to mention a cow named Arbutus and a horse named Trotsky (Hmm, a Cold War message here?).

These people who loved me more than anyone else on earth wanted to share reading with me, and by doing so, they showed me how I could connect with mere words on a page. Then when I was in fifth grade I had a wonderful teacher--Mrs. LeBel. She was exceptional for many reasons, but, not the least of them, was that she read to us. For years I've been trying to remember the name of the book about two orphan girls that she read to us a chapter at a time. Today, thanks to Google and Amazon, I have a copy of Nancy and Plum wending its way to me, and, ironically, I discovered it was also written by Betty MacDonald.

Had Mrs. LeBel presented MacDonald's words as tools, or had she asked us to strategize how to understand the story, I am sure that experience would not have stayed with me these 60 years. Instead, we stopped whatever we were doing, and she shared with us not only the story, but her time and her love of reading. What a gift!

Who Rescued Whom

In her book Ancestral Intelligence Vera Schwarcz shares her renditions of some of the "jottings" of Chinese historian and poet Chen Yinke (1890-1969). She describes Yinke as, "a man who never tired or rescuing words." The idea of poet as rescuer appealed to me. Ironically I see it the other way around too. Sometimes I am rescued by a word.

Yesterday I was working on a collection of poems I started two years ago, although some of the poems are older than that. I made a New Year's resolution in 2012 to complete the collection. Then last year, since I hadn't finished it, I re-resolved to do it in 2013. It's not totally finished yet, but at least I have selected the poems that will be the collection.

For me, revision is an unending process. As Paul Valery said, "a poem is never finished, only abandoned." So as I was going over these poems, there was one with a title I didn't like. I like my titles to enhance the poem without giving too much away. This title was flat out exposition. I turned to my old friend Roget and looked up the word "thanks." I was offered twelve choices beginning with "gratitude" and ending with "gramercy." Gramercy? Wasn't that a park in New York? Well, indeed, it is, but it seems there is also an archaic meaning of expressing thanks from the French: grand merci. (Evidently the etymology of the NYC park goes back to a Dutch word meaning "little crooked swamp," but that didn't make any sense for my poem).

So now I have  poem titled "Gramercy." I was excited about finding this word and putting it back in circulation, and, at the same time, grateful to Roget for rescuing me from a dull title. Gramercy to Monsieur Roget.

I haven't decided what my New Year's resolution for 2014 will be, but I still have a few days left.

My Churches

On Christmas Eve after the presents are opened, the dishes loaded into the dishwasher, and the guests have left for home, I will sit for just a minute and look at the tree. Then I will bundle myself up and travel down the road to the candlelight service at church. This is always a highlight of my holiday. The beautiful music, the warm candlelight, and the familiar story of wanderers finding crude shelter where their baby will be born amid the animals all remind me once again of what this season is about.

When I speak here of church, I am speaking of the church I attend nearly every Sunday—Trinity United Methodist Church in Springfield, MA. The stone cathedral structure next to Forest Park is quite recognizable to anyone in the Springfield area. It is a beautiful building, but when I refer to the church, I am really talking about the people there. Everyone from the toddler playing peek-a-boo from two pews up to the man from AA who comes in silently, then leaves. Trinity is a warm and welcoming place.

This is why it pains me so when I hear about the other church—that larger church we are a part of—The United Methodist Church. That church has been in the news lately and not for being warm and welcoming—quite the opposite. That church has tried and convicted one of its clergy for violating church law—a law that forbids clergy from marrying couples of the same sex. In effect, that church has punished one of its members for showing love and compassion.

I struggle with being a member of these two churches, and I know I’m not alone. Can I go along worshiping and working in the church that ministers to everyone while, at the same time, being a part of that other church that excludes, judges, and condemns? I don’t know.

A couple of Christmases ago as I entered Trinity for the candlelight service, I saw one very bright star alone in the sky right over the church. I thought, of course, of the Magi who were guided by the star. This Christmas I will pray for that light to fall on both of my churches.

My Church

This is my church - doors open to the noise of the city

This is not my church - doors safely closed

This is my church - hands stretched across barriers

This is not my church - hands rigidly folded

This is my church - a harmony of diverse voices

This is not my church - a monotone of narrow doctrine

This is my church - hearts warmed by love

This is not my church - love limited by decree

My church -

not the closed inn doors

but the welcoming stable.

Tongue-tied

I am taking a Spanish class. It is not my first. I took two years of Spanish in college, but didn't get a lot out of it. This short class is designed to help those of us going on a mission trip to Nicaragua become somewhat conversant. I was pleasantly surprised at what was still residing deep down in the gray matter, and discovered again how my French (3 years of high school French) keeps intruding on my Spanish.

I wish I had continued my French in college, but I didn't feel prepared. The teachers I had for my first two years of French were excellent. First there was Miss Accorsi at Forest Park Junior High.  Remember Miss Grundy from the Archie comics? Replace the frown with a patient smile, color the dress gray, and that's Miss Accorsi. She may have looked like something out of a comic book, but she was the real thing. For the first six weeks of class we had no books, but learned to converse extensively about les crayons et les cahiers before we opened nos livres and began to learn about the difference between passe’ compose' and l'imparfait.

At Technical High School  Miss Roy made French fun as we heard

about her trips to Paris, sang songs, and learned about Edith Piaf. I even, and I find this hard to believe myself, wrote a sonnet in French in her class. Sadly all I remember about French 3 was that Miss Murray had short bleached blond hair, on top of which she had a huge bow, making her look like an overgrown kewpie doll—the extreme opposite of Miss Accorsi. So when I had to pick a language in college, I picked Spanish.

 

I wish I had continued with my French so that I came to know it really well, or else had started out with Spanish in the first place. As a result of knowing a little French and even less Spanish, I am envious of those who speak more than one language well. And what really annoys me are people who see their monolingualism as a badge of honor, insisting the rest of the world speak English. At the school where I taught, we had students from many different countries who spoke numerous languages. Many of them spoke several languages, yet others were critical because their English wasn't perfect.

Put aside the fact that being able to converse in more than one language is an advantage over frowning and waiting for an English translation. English is not an easy language to learn, and I say that as an English teacher and someone who loves the language. First there is the spelling. Why in the world should cough be spelled c-o-u-g-h when off is spelled o-f-f? Then there are those crazy words that are their own antonyms like left. It can mean that someone is gone, or what remains. And when the cops on TV dust for fingerprints, how is that not the same as what they're doing on the Pledge commercial? Adding dust or taking it away?

Being a lover of the language, I enjoy reading dictionaries, seeing the roots of words. Knowing the word's story, knowing, for instance, that the word sinister comes the Latin meaning left--oh, yes, there's yet another left--this one meaning the opposite or right-- which has several other meanings. Oh, it's all a wonderful mess of a language. From the little I know of other languages, I suspect they are not as complicated, which is why I admire those who really can speak more than one. Now back to los libros.

Buenas di’as, mis amigos!