Equanimity

Equanimity is tricky.
It can fool most everyone.
You wear it like a costume.
Evenness of temperament,
Sunglasses and a pleasant smile,
Makeup and a nod,
A slapdash shot at manners . . .
If only you don’t forget.
From the outside looking in,
It resembles courage
To those who only glance
As they pass by.
“Isn’t she brave?”
But all the while, inside,
Secretly, you’re boiling,
Yet, you are freezing still.
And you make certain
That no one hears
Your midnight scream.
It looms larger than loneliness,
And deeper than the fear of dying.
Your constant companion:
Hidden, swallowed grief.

Pearls of Wisdom

This poetry thing is not working today.
I’m trying much too hard,
And agonizing over adjectives.
My metaphors are dusty,
My alliteration rusty.
I can’t seem to invoke the Bard.
Every word is like a grain of sand.
Pearls of Wisdom should be grand.
Oysters are “seeded” they say,
And will force a perfect pearl.
The Muse must be sleeping today.
At the very least, she’s missed.
After such a rude intrusion,
The poor oysters must be pissed.

Imagine - In my Best Dorothy Parker Voice

Imagine, if you can, or will
Facebook . . .in an earlier time.
Would Papa Hemingway
Have announced his daily mood?
“I am........ morose.”
And would his circle of friends
Have included Gertrude Stein?
Could Scott Fitzgerald have written
his quintessential questioning novels, while
Checking his cell for messages from Zelda?
Would Emily have been more or less prolific
With a laptop and Internet access?
Would Poe have posted daily,
Or just lurked online
And drank his absinthe?
Well then, maybe . . .
I’ll have another glass
Of the Merlot.
And think about it for a while.

Where I'm From

I am from backyard swing sets, from Ivory soap that floats, Breck shampoo, and stories that end with happily ever after.
I am from tumbleweed snowmen, roly-poly bugs, horny toads, and freshly mowed grass.
I’m from roller skates, playing jacks, hula-hoops, and Barbie dolls. I had my very own John Deere pedal tractor and my big girl, fat-tire Schwinn.
I am from the Beatles and the Monkeys on 45s spinning on a record player, orange juice can hair rollers, trading disks to go steady, going to the picture show on Friday night, and meeting boys at the skate rink on Saturday mornings.
I am from bright yellow daffodils that bloom on Daddy’s birthday, colorrama purple and orange desert sunsets; the Llano Estacado, the yucca, prickly-pears, cottonwoods, and mesquite bushes.
I'm from black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day, "big girls don’t cry" and “until your better’s best”; from Voncile, and AJ, and Ida.
I am from “clamming up”, and “not counting your chickens before they’re hatched”, and “hit the deck, you’re burning daylight”.
I’m from Blue Birds, Camp Fire Girls, Rainbow, MYF, Sunday school, and Student Council.
I’m from Camp Skyline in the Guadalupe Mountains and Camp Mystic on the Guadalupe River, swimming lessons every summer, and those damn piano lessons every week.
I am from “slow and steady wins the race”, and “nice girls don’t…”.
I am from Methodists backbenchers, and rebel Campbellites, going to Church in your Sunday best, after dancing in the kitchen on Saturday night.
I’m from Bobbie Brooks pant suits, Villager sweater sets, penny loafers, and Keds with a hole in the toe. And cutoffs that lasted for years and years.
I am from Carlsbad, from Texas, Tennessee, and North Carolina, from England and Ireland; from fried chicken, pot roast, collard greens, cornbread, and pecan pie.
I’m from “turn out the light when you leave the room”, “don’t comb your hair in the kitchen”, and “the work isn’t finished until the cleanup’s done.”
I am from snow-cones at the ballpark, giant pickles at the movies, wax lips and pixie sticks walking home from school. I’m from swimming in the Pecos, at the flood gates, and Diving Rock. I’m from partying at the Cottonwoods, or the sand dunes, and running the quarter on the Hobbs highway.
I’m from Daddy, a roofing contractor who invested in the bogus uranium mine, and Mother, who bought her own ladies ready-to-wear business without asking Daddy and made it a success. They didn’t always agree, but they stayed married for 59 years. And they loved each other and me. I will never forget who I am, or where I’m from.

Carlsbad Treasure

This 1990 photo is my dad and another member of the coffee clatch codgers at the North Y Drive-in on the bend where Canal Street turns into Pierce right next to the Fire Station here in Carlsbad. Daddy was 77 when this photo was taken. The problems of the world have been solved in this diner - more than once. Sometimes more than once a day. The coffee and the ambiance are about the same today. Good coffee, good conversation, good people. good service. Not much has changed in the last 30 years.

My dad drank coffee at the North Y twice a day for the last 20 years of his life. He passed away in 2002 and I took some money down so he could stand for the coffee for a couple of days. He would have liked that. This place gave him a social life after my Mom passed on. The stories told here are the true heart of a small town, and more accurate than the local paper.

I mentioned Blue Highways by William Least Heat Moon in an earlier post. Least Heat Moon rates local eateries in his "blue highway" travels as one, two, three, or four calendar diners. The North Y is a three calendar diner. Homemade pies, breakfast anytime you want it, cooked to order, the best cheeseburger in town and if what you want is not on the menu, just ask. When the regulars pull up in the drive way - the cook starts their order. Almost no one needs a menu. Most of the coffee drinkers have their own cup. They take turns tricking each other into paying. There is even a second generation, or third - and a seating hieracrchy. If I came in to visit with Daddy, I got a seat at the table. If I come in with my kids - I get a booth.

These days I try to stop by about once a month. You can go in and eat and not worry about eating alone. Ocena, the owner, will come out of the kitchen and sit with you for a few if you are alone. She is in her eighties now. I think the North Y Drive-in is an endangered state treasure. It will be a shame when all the local diners turn into Golden Arches. This little corner of the world will be less bright when places like this disappear. I hope it doesn't happen for a long time.

Sonnet to Sean

You were my sun, my son, my light, and love;
As golden as the summer’s brightest day.
And striking as a shooting star above,
Forever changed the night you blazed away.
Grief turned the light to darkness when you died.
I swallowed grief and made it part of me;
I fed it fear and locked it deep inside.
Grief grew until I almost ceased to be.

Time turned the days to weeks, and months to years.
And yet with time, the deepest grief will wane;
The darkness fades to dawn that quiets fears
And light seeps gently in to ease my pain.
Now with the shining stars that grace the night,
You’ll be my star, my son, my love, and light.

The Bottom - Addiction

No mother purposely intends to court grief,
To raise her precious little child
To be a junkie, druggie, liar and thief.
Honest truth, the two I raised went wild.
The sweet cub-scouts, the little league players,
The bike riding little fishermen,
The Sunday School and summer camp boys
Who later found themselves in the grip of addiction,
Somehow, somewhere, something went wrong.
My grand plans were headed for perdition.
Neither was neglected, abused or rejected,
I always did my very, by the Dr. Spock book, best
To ultimately provide, the basics and
Moreover, finer things – maybe in excess.
Quality time, educational trips, and all the other
Accoutrements the experts claimed
Would insure their life’s success;
Acceptance to college, and maybe fame.
But addiction is the greedy monster
That is hiding silently under the bed,
And lurking behind the closet door
Savage and hungry and waiting to be fed.
My precious sons – the monster ate,
And, for a short while, all that I was holding,
Was a mother’s misery, wine, and hate.

The Bench

On a concrete bench beside a lake
A mother sits in grief’s heartbreak.
Words carved in granite at her feet.
She pays no mind to summer’s heat.
She pauses here in autumn’s chill
Alone she sits in winter’s still.
Alone she sits in quiet peace,
Glad for the honking of the geese
Intruding on her reverie,
Bringing back sweet memory
Of young hands tossing crumbs to ground,
As ducks and geese would crowd around.
The boy is gone; the man has passed.
The bench beside the lake will last.

Too Much Stuff

In a city I recently visited there are 3500 - 5000 square foot houses spaced ten foot apart, no yard. Rows and Rows of these huge new houses. I have traveled to the city to see other peoples' stuff. What in heaven's name is wrong with those people? What are they thinking? Why would anyone want to live like that?

Three car garages and cars parked outside are common, too much stuff in the garages. All the houses are new and maybe not just alike, but very similar. The people in the houses have lots of stuff. They probably have a TV in every room, stereos, game players, computers, and more stuff. Like as not, it takes both parents working to pay the mortgage.

I just do not see the point. This is a juvenile attitude -- my toys (stuff) are better than your toys (stuff). Or even worse - the guy who dies with the most stuff wins. Yeah, but he is still dead. And someone else has to deal with the stuff left behind.

Maybe this is just overreaction to moving into my parents' house. I had to move my stuff on top of their stuff, and now I have way too much stuff. And if I had a bigger house, I would have more room for more stuff. I can see why people do not want to move; it is just too much trouble. And the more stuff you have, the more trouble it is. And worse yet -- my stuff, it is good stuff, the kind of stuff you can't really throw away.

My parents had been married 59 years when my mother passed away. In that time they had acquired lots of stuff. My mother liked to entertain and in the 50s and 60s that meant china and crystal. Entertaining meant sterling silver trays and flatware - fancy stuff. She had (I have) stemmed glasses, and sherbert glasses, linen napkins and tablecloths - delicate stuff. There are crystal toothpick holders, silver place cards, mint dishes, butter dishes, salt cellars, and I could go on and on. There are 12 silver goblets (shiney stuff) used exactly once -- on their 25th anniversary. Mother had crystal flower vases in all sizes, tiny individual silver salt and pepper shakers, and a, for Pete's Sake, silver candelabra. Who was coming over, Liberace? What do I do with all this stuff?

Kauai - the Garden Island.

Just back from a week in the most amazingly beautiful place I have ever visited. Kauai, Hawaii - I didn't get a bad meal in the 7 days I was there. I met many locals, women who are doing what they need to do to create their own Paradise. I met 3 artists, a jewelery artist, a massage therapist, and my friend who owns a health food store here. I LOVE YOU DEBBIE! Saying that it is heaven is maybe just a tad of over praising. I swam in the Pacific, walked on the beach, ate, drank, and enjoyed myself to the max. Friend of mine from Carlsbad was working there, and she was the ultimate guide, "What do I do here?". "Calm down, Shelby, you are on Island time." Remember how we call NM - the land of manana? Island time is not manana - it is "hang loose" we'll get to it. And for all you die hard NM taco snobs - fish tacos are great - to die for. Muy bueno! Verdad!