Falling Down the Hill

 

We moved a lot.

Over many blurry years while growing up,

I didn’t really think much about the world passing around me.

Only the merest of plans would float through my thoughts.

Little was permanent. We just followed the moving truck.

 

Along the way, a low-grade shame slowly crept into me,

like a fever of 99.4. I felt a little off from not having enough of something,

but not quite sure exactly what that something was.

Maybe it was not getting that other half stick of gum from mother,

or the skipped lunches replaced by a coke and a packet of peanuts. 

Sometimes I still dream about whole sticks of gum, hamburgers, or a real Schwinn bike.

My friends, thunder and lightning storms,

did manage to follow me to each new house. I still love them so.

They, like the moves and cardboard boxes, were the constants in my life.

Sequential memories seemed to start for me in Houston.

We finally ate hamburgers the day we moved in.

They were served on waxy paper set on moving box tables, and it felt special.

Then Kennedy was shot, Kindergarten, smallpox and sugar-cubed polio vaccines all happened, and I even decided to call myself Alan for a while in first grade.

No one else was named Greg. It felt safer.

 

Dad found an old, discarded cheese barrel one day. It became a table

in each new living room after that. Once the furniture was in place, I would crawl

over to it and sniff the round hole in its side.

Always checking if it still reeked of its original occupant.

I got a belt with a buckle and then went to my first rodeo.

That Christmas, Santa brought me a used Wards bike that had belonged to a neighbor girl.

Never was quite sure how that worked out.

 

After Houston came L.A, then second grade back to TX, then third in LA.

Caddo Parish was home till Thanksgiving of sixth grade,

then it was off to Dallas.

 

In each new school I was introduced as

the new kid from somewhere else, standing in front of a room

full of eyes and faces that I didn’t know.

From one handhold to the next. Some safer than others.

Some friendlier, some not.

Roll the dice.

 

Towns faded in the rearview mirror. Around four I waved

goodbye to my first dog that we left in Wyoming.

On to the next sunrise ahead.

During sixth grade, and seven states

later, my next dog Charlie got hit by a car while we walked one afternoon.

 

That constant move from town to town set a rhythm in my head.

I heard it in the background.

I felt it in my stomach.

It was my soundtrack.

Playing over and over. Time to go.

 

As a younger version of me, the art of imagining, of planning or projecting

forward more than three steps down the path, was thrown out,

all from lack of use.

 

There were always new faces but not the real joy of knowing any of their secrets

or that hidden place that folks born there knew about, nor my place

in any one’s history very long.

I was just passing through.

A couple of thousand suns set, and I seldom wept for any of them.

 

That implanted, learned impatience lived in me for so long, demanding me

to hurry up, on to some vague Eden elsewhere over the horizon.

But it never told me where that was. Impatience still hangs around.

So many new address', classrooms, introductions,

moving boxes, Welcome Wagons, and expendable new names to learn

at the next new house. It was the thrill of anticipation more than

anything that seemed to get me through, that got me to buy in and move on.

 

Birthdays brought me weariness and settling for whatever

my arms could gather instead

of what could be.

My head had told me my plans didn’t change where I was going.

Just take what is there. Settle. The final option.

I forgot the taste of what I had wanted

and kept licking the same old thing, That thing left in my head.

Living and eating what was in my hands,

not my hopes or what I wanted from the menu.  

 

Till it was tasteless,

colorless, threadbare.

Suite 256

 

Oncology.

The referral had been to see a blood specialist. She said,” blood.” The sign

plainly     reads     Oncology. The door, that belongs to the sign, leads in to

a waiting room, half full of sallow faces. A dozen

un-asked for words now crowd their way into our heads to wait with us.

As we enter, the receptionist speaks on the phone with

a funeral home in full earshot of all. Everyone hears

the details she blandly discusses. We sit down

as her words sink in. We hadn’t thought past the word, anemia.

 

Lots of coughs,

some wear masks but not many.

It’s the lottery. We all will be returning for new. The weight

is so real and so enormous, breathing is hard.

It’s agreed: tricked is how we feel. Misled or un-led. Oncology was

not the word used by the doctor. Perhaps

in kindness, to not cause worry, stress or simply panic.

 

I can now see

two presenters at an awards show on TV. They seem to be fondling the envelope

while bantering a bit to stretch the time. Finally, one of them slides their finger

into the sealed flap

and withdraws the card from inside and begins to read the determination for

all to hear. The camera cuts away and the announcers reveal

there is nothing until next time. See

you next month.

Reclamation

 

Be brave. Be careful. Be hopeful.  Go outside and yell, “I am back!” Yell it one more time. Feel it.

In honor of what masks have done for us all, burn a mask; then burn one more. Give thanks. Take another and tie it around a tree that you will see every day. Remember masks are evidence that people are putting others first. Find a reason to ask your neighbor for a cup of sugar. Make something to share with a friend or two.


Imagine yourself at a party. You can see the faces as you walk around and pass by different guests. Imagine them as everyone you have missed. Then invite a friend over for coffee. Sit in chairs or on the steps or on the grass in the sun.

Walk out your front door and keep walking. Listen to nothing other than birds and your breathing. Turn off your thoughts. Don’t just nod at people. Make a point to start greeting people you pass from this day forward. Start with a small hello will. Even through a mask, words still work. Ask them how they are, and care about their answers.

 Enroll your dog in a doggie daycare class once a week. They need to relearn things too, not just left to rely on old sniffed note cards left on the grass or trees. Those afternoons while your dog is out for class, take off and go have a drink at a small tavern or coffee shop. Bend the rules. Sit on a stool at the bar and talk to the person serving you with real talk. Tell them your name and learn theirs.

Who have you missed? Call each and every single person on your list and check in on them, maybe invite them out for a walk. Talk. Catch up. Share your experience. Find out what you do not know. Smile and feel happy. Replace news with music. Fill your space with music. Fill your life back up.

Become a regular at a local farmers market. Buy flowers for your table and while you are at it, plant something and care for it. Include this nurture and appreciation in your new routine. Take long soaking hot baths on occasion. The shower can wait. Make the weekend last a bit longer. Prepare a room in your place where electronics are not allowed. Make an appointment to go there often. No Media Monday’s. Phone- free Fridays. You get to choose.

Step out on your porch or find a park, or a bench somewhere, and drag a book that’s been sleeping over on the shelf along for the ride. See the sun, feel the rain, enjoy what is now. It will take persistent effort to break down the wall that has been growing between us.  Keep at it.

 

Be a beacon. Wash your hands. Trust each other. Don’t believe the hype, you’ve already won. Now help someone else to win. 

Work or Life

Work is not all it is reputed to be.

Mostly it’s time away from living

with periods of accomplishment and pride

in exchange for paying bills mixed.

there’s security and the means for needs

all the while diverting me from richer time

with people and the ooh’s and ahh’s of the world.

A itchy shirt made from a big sack of money, stress,
rental cars, keyboards, cell phones, email, clocks and
airplanes all filled with more work and time staring through a small hole.

Take all that all, shaken with determination until in proper proportions,
spiced with gifted vacation days that we feed ourselves sparingly.

Sprinkled like it was salt. Like some was great and made life taste good                                         but too much might spoil the balance.

Go ahead, pour it down my throat till I am just grateful enough
to not throw up my resume.

But then could I take a big shot at living please?

Them

The rusted detritus of 163 different lives bleeds out

down the hills of Sullivan's Gulch, down to the train tracks,

ending in random slides of waste beside the rails. Down.

They’re barely alive. Skin-living under clouds and boxes, tarps

and weary sway-backed tents. Surrounded by legions of dismembered

bikes and long-orphaned wheels. Nothing left but their stuff.

Their wet everything: sleeping bags and shoes and orange needle caps,

empty cans, dead TV’s. Yesterday’s scrawled cardboard pleas

wilted floppy by the rain become today’s rug for muddy paths.

 

Sallowed and soured nylon caves with no welcome or a mat

Enslaved grocery carts spilling their treasures encircle

the refuse and the refused. Childless indentured strollers await.

Rain and more rain slides down blue-ish tarped camps guarded by brambles,

the dead and alive razor-wire that stands the lonely

tangled watch at night. Sipping blood from any careless slip.

 

The anarchy of their spiraled lives scares us;

they blame us, despise us, but take our crumbs, our shun, our change and wait.

Bodies, people, someone's girl or dad or uncle, sit numb and stand paused.

We say we try. We meet, we study, we throw coins and food and socks and scorn.

Cities and states and our nation gnash their teeth, say they try, and yet the years click on by

and all the    “we’s”      just     can’t     seem   to   pull   the right answer out of the hat.

 

We, the world so thankful to avoid the vague accusatory stares. We

there, in our cars, nearing the corner. What if the roulette wheel says,

“Hey you,” in the front row in the stop-light queue, kneel down, you’re next?

 

It’s time for you to hold the sign and fade from sight.

No Sense

 

I did not see or really think much about the world

passing around me for many years. Only the simplest of plans in my thoughts

My head felt some things pass through like fear or lust, maybe some shame 

in my pocket from not enough, from one handhold to the next.

Impatience hung around the longest; hurry was always leading me to somewhere.

Admiration and wonder escaped from me, along with friends and the joy of stories. A thousand sunsets died and I never waited and wept for them. I was on the lookout for sunrise.

After so many new address's, I grew complacent and settled for in-arms-reach instead of further than the moment.

I forgot the taste of new and kept licking the same old "now", 

till threadbare. 

Granny’s Fairies

We cousins readied for bedtime on Granny's sleepin' porch.
Six mouths haphazardly brushed, repeated glasses of water as whined for,
most of us here overnight for the first time.
The Dr. Pepper snoozed in the fridge not ten steps away.

She attended us so well, her hair braided up in a bun,
with a crossed left eye that never really look at you squarely
and an old tobacco bag pinned to her brassiere that
held the funds for our Army-Navy store desires.

There was cotton clipped to each of the window screens
to warn the birds away, so she claimed,
and she had fed hobos lunch on the outside table long ago,
taking care of all that came her way from the tracks behind the pastures.

Mounded deep with mismatched pillows and
flour-sack quilts sewn by years of hands and thread,

the old swayback beds waited folded back, nice and neat,
then were loaded up with two or three cousins each.

The old rock salt crystals that grew in the bowl

atop the heater sparkled with table-lamp light.
The swamp cooler blew slow, stale, sweet air trying to let go of summer heat.
It was the cool of the darkening evening and as the sun slipped from the sky,
she drew us to the windows that faced the back yard.

"There, she exclaimed, do you see 'em coming?"
We pressed our faces to the glass, peering out into the falling deep dark.
"I call 'em to protect you all on my sleepin' porch. Here come my fairies!"

The scattered twinkling of tiny lights came towards us,

up from the horse pasture, even appearing higher-up in the trees.
You could just make out the advancing line of fairies, spreading out
across the yard, each signaling their allegiance to us all
for the long heavy night.

Those conjured fireflies delivered that which could not be denied.

We believed and slept deep and safe in the sleep of quiet invincibility.
Soon it would be tomorrow, and time again for swings

and tomatoes and salt and watermelon

and maybe even a sneaked small taste of Dr. Pepper if you dared.

 Old Version:

We cousins readied for bedtime on Granny's sleepin' porch.
Six mouths haphazardly brushed, repeated glasses of water as whined for,
most of us here overnight for the first time.
Dr. Pepper snoozed in the fridge not 10 steps away.

She attended us so well, her hair braided up in a bun,
with a crossed left eye that never really look at you squarely
and an old tobacco bag pinned in her brassiere that
held the funds for our Army-Navy store desires.

There was cotton clipped to the window screens
to warn the birds away , so she claimed,
and she fed hobos lunch on the outside table long ago,
taking care of all that came her way from the tracks behind the pastures.

Old swayback beds were dressed and folder back
Then loaded with two or three cousins each
Mounded deep with mismatched pillows
Flour sack quilts sewn by families of hands and thread.

The old rock salt crystal that grew in the bowl atop the heater sparkled with table lamp light-
the swamp cooler blew slow, stale, sweet air trying to let go of the summer heat
It was the cool of darkening evening and the sun slipped from the sky
And she drew us to the windows that faced the backyard.

"There! Do you see 'em coming?" She exclaimed,
as we pressed our faces to the glass -peering out into the falling deep dark.
"I call 'em to come protect you all that rest on my sleepin' porch. Here come my fairies !"

The scattered twinkling of little tiny lights came towards us
up from the horse pasture, even appearing higher up in to the trees
You could just make out the advancing line of fairies spreading out
Across the yard, each plead hugging allegiance to us all
for the long heavy night.

Even now I recall that night as the first time I witnessed true magic. It was as close as We all ever got I suppose. True and magical wonderment springing from my granny's conjuring old ways of love.

Those conjured fireflies delivered that which could not be denied - we believed and slept deep in the sleep of invincibility and barely even whispered.
Soon it would be tomorrow, and time again for tomatoes and salt and watermelon and a sneaked taste of Dr Pepper if you dared.