A Thief in the Night

You came like a thief in the night,

Robbing me.

For so long I mocked you,

As you struck others around me.

Thinking I was forgotten.

I will fight you.

Be ready,

Invading my body

Was surely a mistake.

This is a battle that I will win.

(While I was writing this I began to think of those with serious illness. I am a lucky one. My illness will pass relatively quickly without any long term effects. This poem is a tribute to the brave ones that must face life with ongoing health issues.)

My dog Rex...morning comfort while I'm sick.

The Ordinary

We walked everywhere and when we were not able to make the journey on foot, we would hop on public transportation.  Later, when I was older, I rode my bike miles and miles to a friend's house in Saco or a longer distance to Fortune's Rocks near Biddeford Pool.  It took me so long to ride my three speed up and down the hills to the beach that I was not able to stay, but for a quick bare-footed walk on the sand, until I had to turn around and head home before it got dark.

When I visit home, I  feel much like I did during those early journeys on my bike.  It takes so long to get home, I  am never able to linger, explore all the crooks and crannies to recall details of my past life in Biddeford.  Not having lived there in over three decades now, the changes make it hard to remember.  The big historic tree in front of my grandmother's apartment was cut down.  The changes are not all bad, many once empty store fronts have new life now as restaurants have opened and my beloved city is being revitalized as a center for the arts.

When I was little, I would most often walk throughout the city with my grandmother Caroline.  We would visit Butler's where extra attention was given to my grandmother's carefully wrapped in lamb skin feet.  The shoe attendant would take great care in helping my grandmother get the  perfect shoes with the most comfortable fit.  I would walk up and down the sweeping staircase of this small department store slipping my hand down the shiny wooden banister my heels clicking on the large tiles as I landed at the bottom of the stairs.  Once the shoes were purchased, my Grandmother would take me to Woolworth's a door or two down from Butler's for a whirl in the soda fountain stools while I waited for a sundae or a colossal banana split. The price was set in accordance with the small tag found inside the balloon of my choosing that hung like a bunch of bananas above our heads on each stainless steel column that lined the counter area.  The draw of the colorful array of round balloons must have sold a number of banana splits each day, for while my Gram and I sat there we heard the pop of many a balloon the only way to pay for your split.

With a full belly, the walk home seemed long. Sometimes we would stop at a shop near the Thatcher Hotel where they just sold undergarments.  My grandmother would pull a dark green curtain aside while a woman with a short, graying hair and a tape measure dangling from her neck would follow my grandmother.  I would wait patiently until they both emerged.  Everyone would talk in undertones, a parcel was quickly put into a brown paper bag and we would head for home.  After a morning of running errands, my grandmother would arrange her bed for an afternoon nap.  The coverlet folded down at the foot of the bed and then removed so it would not be dirty or wrinkled.  I don't actually recall napping, but we would snuggle in her bed and she would listen to my hours spent with Sister Mary Natalie my first grade teacher at St. Mary's School and she would tell me of the two weeks she spent with my aunt as they traversed this great country with two little kids in the backseat.  It sounds like an adventure, one that my grandmother cherished.

As I age, it is the moments spent  growing up in a bustling little city in southern Maine where running ordinary day to day errands with my grandmother, buying shoes and spinning in a soda fountain chair are what I cherish.  It is the slowing down and the taking time that help to forge the memories.  I went cross country in a big old jet plane, but I don't remember much.  Pardon the cliche:  There's no place like home.

Creating History

There are a few things that change around here as soon as the cold weather arrives-the wood stoves are cranking, I have all I can do to stay up until 9 p.m. and the family gathers for what has become traditional Fall and Winter meals.  Thoughts of Friday night conjure up testing yeasty dough for proofing and using four hands to decorate the pizza pie.  Some weeks the house is filled with hungry teenagers and older Keene children with significant others, while other Fridays are pretty quiet with wedges of left over pizza available for a snack late into the night or for the perfect "take and go" breakfast in the morning.  Food does not last long around here.

My childhood Sundays were filled with mass at St. Mary's Church in Biddeford and then a big family brunch at my home on Dearborn Avenue.  I think that is where I learned to overeat.  This meant that family was gathered around the table eating and chatting until everyone was finished.  The longer I ate english muffins slathered in peanut butter and bacon (after a course of bacon and eggs) the longer I had to listen to family stories.  These tales uniquely bound us together.

My children are big story tellers.  Recently, Jerry and I learned over Sunday waffles (homemade by the way) that Gabrielle was the scape goat for many escapades instigated by her older brother Alex and twin sister Elizabeth. No wonder Gabrielle was always in trouble, I ponder as I toss a few fresh strawberry slices on my blueberry waffle.   Of course, no one else was there on this particular Sunday to deny or to support this point of view, but nonetheless the stories flow freely among the Keenes and their significant others or friends who choose to join us.    

While writing about my childhood and family through the years, I realize that what has been most important to me has been the constancy of traditions and routine.  Over the past week, we have jostled between summer like temperatures in the mid-60's or have endured the frigid task of scraping frost off the car windshield when the thermometer read 23 degrees.  This is our season of gathering and telling tall tales over some mighty good homemade food which is part of our family history. I am ready.

In Sickness and In Health.....

                                                -Rex's bland diet

Each night our double bed is overflowing with life inhaling, exhaling stretching and snoring.  I slip under the layers of sheet, blanket and comforter and I start to yank, fighting for cover and more than a postage sized space to lay prone.  It is quite a process to investigate the real estate claimed by canine and feline.  Cats on the pillows,  all curled with nose touching tail.  Others stretch wherever there is space. stepping over dog, whose ears twitch in recognition and certainly not in irritation.  We are a family where there is room for all.

Hunched, I sat on the side of the bed last night.  My hand covering my eyes, elbow on knee, I was worried about my sick pup.  Rex had not moved all night.  Like checking a newborns breath, my hand rested gently on his aching side and I watched my hand move with each breath.  Shallow, quick breaths.  He recognized my presence his eyes opened glassy and sick.  His tail between his legs.  He lay motionless.  Pitiful.

I lay on my side, moving my body like a contortionist to fit in the tiny space that was left on the bed.  I kissed my boy, nestling my nose into his neck and was soothed by long gentle strokes along satiny fur.  Whispering of my love and  I spoke of fishing at camp, runs at the Stone Barn and long trips in the car.  My armed craned over his body, I closed my eyes and prayed.

The Return

Your return
Makes
The old
Wounds
New,
Fresh.
I run,
But
Cannot
Hide,
I am meant
To
Love
You.
It hurts.

Behind the Brick Facade

Ignorance is bliss. I know nothing about engineering or architecture, yet I can't help myself from collecting photos of buildings, mostly brick buildings. Brick buildings of my youth include the bank with smooth rounded veined marble pillars.  Somehow my cheek would find a way to access the coolness of the rock.  The ceilings high making the building hollow and echo.

Perhaps my affinity for brick, aged buildings comes from after church Sunday visits to Auntie and Gene's in Portland.  There was always lots of food.  Not the meat and potatoes that graced my table at home, but fresh produce from the farmer's market and pickled vegetables. I developed my sense of culinary adventure behind that brick facade.   Often we would bake short cakes to go with fresh strawberries or blueberries. I would walk down to the tiny store around the corner with my big sister to get a carton of cream that would be whipped into sweet peaks of delight.  Auntie's was the first place I had a taste of loose tea, mostly milk and spoonfuls of sugar.    Family stories, secrets between adults in French and food.  Auntie's was a place of constancy and love.

Loving Through Images

Thumbing through stacks of photos while visiting my childhood home recently, reminded me just how important it is to preserve and treasure family history through images.  I found images of my father as a pudgy five year old in knickers with a pageboy haircut. In another photo my mother at about the same age, smiles in the direction of the camera the blue of her eyes lost in the black and white processing.  There were decks of newer photos too.  My mother was the photographer,  that is when she remembered the camera. She captured mostly holidays or special occasions.  The composition of all her her photos were problematic, the subjects rested on the bottom eighth of the photo showing the tops of heads, while most of the square print was wall and ceiling.  Standing in the middle of my old bedroom, holding the image of Auntie and Gene with their smiles running off the edge of the photo made me smile. Suddenly, I recalled that despite protests (my mother painstakingly took forever to snap a "bad" photo) she continued to be the family photographer.  When I was old enough, I  wrangled the camera from her. From then on I was absent from family photos.

I have a friend that takes self-portraits almost daily.  I stare her image. How does she do that? I couldn't. I thought. She holds all that she has become until that moment in the image. All the joys, the lessons and the pain.  I realize for the most part, I remain absent from photographs.  Although said to be photogenic, I do not like to like to have my photo taken.  Hyper-critical, whenever I am forced to be in front of a lens I hide behind the torso of another and peek. Just little bits of me show.

What would happen if I began the practice of a self portrait a day?  Would I come to discover the light within and learn to accept myself as I am?  Does how I look really have much to do with all the "inside" work?  I could learn to love.

One day my daughters may discover the series of self-portraits and hold them tightly and view them as gifts to be treasured.

Running on the Edge

Always running on the edge of time each morning, I glanced at the clock in the car. "'Enough time  for a photo?" I wondered.  Today, I slowed the car to a halt yanked on the emergency break, quickly pulled  the cell out of my pocket and captured the sunrise photo that had momentarily caught my breath.   A short distance down the road passing Northeast creek, I contemplated another stop.  Engaging with the natural world as I careened along asphalt roads and cars comprised mostly of plastic, makes for a series of difficult decisions during my fifteen minute commute particularly in the morning when I am bound by the clock.   Does time contribute to the order of the world?

Mothering Big

A decade ago, I made one of those death bed promises that I don't regret, "I'll take care of him, don't worry Ma,"I reassured as I referred to my brother choking back tears.   My mother had always taken care of all of us.  Despite the miles that separated as I grew into adulthood, I knew that she was only a phone call away.  She was there during my most troubled years as a young wife with young children and two full time jobs.  I worked day and night with little sleep or rest.  During periods of great joy mother was there to celebrate births, little dimpled hands wrapping around her gnarled fingers as she rocked and cooed.  She had a great capacity for love. She was always there for me.

For nearly thirty-two years I have mothered.  When life is care-free it is easy to remain filled with love, hope and great joy.  It is during those times when you fear that you will fall to your knees collapsing under the weight of stress, anxiety, frustration and anger that living in the shadow of the most perfect mother becomes challenging.  

It is not fair to compare myself with my mother really.  We live in a different time. Parenting feels a bit more challenging than when I was a kid.  I rode my bike everywhere, the phone was connected to the wall and I could not go far in having a private conversation.  Life today seems more complex and tenuous.  Is that only because I am an adult and a responsible one?  Mothering is a complex job.  Certainly not for the faint of heart.

After my work is done on this earth, it is my fervent hope that  my children will look after one another.  It is in the act of mothering that our children begin to make connections for how they can move about the world nurturing in big ways.

 

Imaginings

My mother's arms stroked figure eights in the salty sea.  I never saw her swim conventionally, but she would sit with her legs extended facing the shore as though reclining in an easy chair. I was always fascinated with the fact that the salt content in the Atlantic intensified buoyancy and made it easy to float and dog paddle despite the swells rhythmic and sometimes unpredictable.  Unlike a lake with the placid quiet waters, the Atlantic was always teaming with energy.  Unlike my mother, I liked to gaze out onto the line of blue smudge and imagine swimming to a far off island or building a raft with drift wood pieces lashed together by seaweed.

My great grandfather, his brother, his son and his grandson (my uncle) were all lobstermen.  With a house for three generations at the mouth of the Saco River where the ocean and muddy waters met, my ancestors woke in darkness and spent their day surrounded by shades of blue and green hauling lobsters into big crates to bring to market.

Bobbing in the water, I shaded my eyes against the glare of the sun as it danced off the surface, I swear I could see my grandfather the lobster boat's engine softly purring, muscles tightening from the strain of the lifting the trap, his face thickly lined from the weather.  If only it were true.

(I spent most of my childhood on the beach at Camp Ellis where my family's homestead stood.  I met my grandfather when I was a newborn.  He died the day I was to come home from the hospital.  Growing up with stories of Grampy helped me to develop love for a man I never knew.)

One Day Fearless

Fear was my father's constant companion and its' dark shadow casts a chilling message that I hear to this day, "Be careful you might get hurt," or "Get off that ladder, you'll fall."  I take few risks physically and I think of myself as a klutz.  As a mother, I did not want my children to lug this message-a heavy burden with them into adulthood. Watching my children carry a confidence and an understanding of their physical strength and capabilities helps me to keep my mouth shut, most of the time.

One day, I do remember playing football with the neighborhood boys.  We hadn't begun to play yet, when two brothers started hurling insults about my weight.  I think I was about eight years old, in that chubby state that I never seemed to grow out of for long.  They always seemed to be picking on me and reminded me how inferior I was to them, since I was a girl and a fat one at that.  My backyard afforded just a big enough flat surface at the bottom of a slight slope of grass to play football.  I remember the heckling and frustration I felt as a result.  Normally, we played touch football, but we had collectively decided that we would allow tackling.  Determined and fearless, I  had a plan to tackle hard.  The youngest brother who really was a bit of a wimpish bully was carrying the ball.  My focus was to wrap my arms around his legs and trip him up.  That will send him and his brother a message to not mess with me, I thought.   The next thing I knew we both hit the ground with a thud, my nose taking the brunt of the impact.  In like motion and timing, we quickly got to our feet,  leaning forward while cupping our hands to catch the stream of red.  He ran home wailing.  I quietly stepped inside my house as I glanced out the window both teams had quickly dispersed and the back yard was empty.

Telling my father about the tackle, he applied a dry compress under my upper lip to stop the bleeding. I was prone on the couch my head propped up by pillows.  My father was patiently explaining what he was doing and why.  I was mesmerized.

"This is how they do it in the locker room," he shared, his voice seemed to be filled with pride.   That day, I felt a special connection with my father.  During those hours, he cared for me we never spoke of fear because we had it all under control. We were both fearless.

The Last of Coziness (For a Bit)

I am buoyed by family, friends and my sweet dog Rex.  We spent quality time together this weekend doing all things important: praying, walking, eating, swimming and laughing.  As the rain was pelting the roof of the camper, I lay in bed with Rex this morning undeniably cozy.  You know those mornings when you really do not want to get out of bed and spoil the coziness of the moment? It was one of those mornings.  The tempo of our mornings will change from the easy rhythm of summer to the comforting structure of school and fall schedules.  Onto a fight for the bathroom each morning, decisions about wardrobe and the excitement of starting a new year of learning and discovery.  Bring it on.

Maiden Voyage

There is a certain allure to camping in your neighborhood.  Responsibilities at home prevented a trip away so we opted to stay nearby and play campers.  This weekend was the maiden voyage of our vintage Shasta camper that Jerry rescued from the strangling arms of a hunter who bore holes through the roof to accommodate a wood stove.  It was in bad shape. The weekend was a success with family and friends dropping in to visit.  The camp site brimmed with laughter, peaceful moments and good food.  I feel blessed.

Thrilled

It is difficult to express how thrilled I am to have a piece of my writing featured in BOOMERCAFE which is an online magazine for Baby Boomers.  It was upon the gentle coaxing from my friend Phyllis Edgerly Ring, a fellow writer that I submitted 'Yellow Flowers Blooming' a remembrance of my mother.  I had never heard of Boomercafe and have since decided to subscribe to the free publication which offers an array of topics of special interest to Baby Boomers.  (Yes, I am THAT old.)  Well, I hope you read this piece if you haven't already.  Remember feedback is most helpful, if you find the time to comment.  A big, big thank you to all my faithful readers.

http://www.boomercafe.com/2013/08/26/the-passing-of-a-parent-is-one-of-those-life-events-many-boomers-share/

Gifts

Gifts

As all the hens approach adulthood, their personalities have changed.  This transition coincides with my recent weeklong departure. Could it be that they just missed me and are happy to see me or is this truly some expected hormonal personality re-ordering due to egg production?  I have personal experience with hormonal fluctuations and it isn’t pretty, so I prefer the initial explanation: my hens love me and just plain missed me. 

Prior to my trip, the girls paid no particular attention to my presence, except when I gave them food.  Just before I vacationed, they were introduced to a daily serving of old bread and oats rather then their simple ration of cracked corn, laying mash and veggie scraps.  As an additional treat we drilled a hole in a cabbage and suspended it on a clothesline rope, so they could peck away at it.  I read that it relieves boredom. Upon my return, my voice signals them to congregate close to the gate and cluck loudly making entry impossible.  I carefully time my entrance, slowly opening the door, squeezing through an opening not wide enough for passage over the dirt threshold.  Eventually, I risk their escape and push through a wider berth.   Walking through the yard, I am surrounded by squawking chickens quickly closing in on me, no longer soothed solely by my sweet talk.  They cannot possibly be hungry, but then again, I begin to argue with myself, they are growing and maturing chickens. Maybe they eat like our teenagers.  So I proceed to get more grain or bread to suffice. This does not change their behavior.  They continue in their crazy, obsessive ways.  As I am standing motionless, observing their nesting instinct hoping to observe the actual laying or dropping of an egg, I feel a tap on my turquoise ring.  While my arm was by my side, a hen hopped up and pecked the interesting blue stone with the gold colored veins.  “That’s not food.” I respond in alarm.  You can’t possibly be hungry, but then again I begin to argue with myself, this egg laying business is hard work.  My girls have me just where they want me to be, in the center of their yard tossing bread, corn, oats and hanging crispy tight heads of organic cabbage.  Well trained am I, but I must thank someone for the three fresh eggs I got today.

Goodbye, For Now

                                                                         Photo taken by Sean Mokler

"I think too much and feel too much," I related to a friend today as we sat  on the East Promenade beach.  Hours earlier, I had said goodbye to my niece.  Frankly, I hate goodbyes.  I attended Erin's birth.  Having taken hundreds of photos of the newborn and showing them off to family and friends after she was born, it is no wonder that people did not confuse me as her mother.  We have always been close. I love being an auntie.  She is all grown up, married to a great guy and living in a beautiful house with two sweet pups.  We are both teachers, but our common passions go beyond education.  We love art, writing, walking, playing games and we have an intense love for the same people.  A major problem is we live seven hours away, so we hardly ever see each other.  Our annual visit is the chance to continue to make memories and remember how very lucky we are to be family. Goodbye for now, until next year Erin.

Dancing With My Brother

We play the dance,

My brother and me,

Clumsily,

He links elbows with independence,

While I watch,

Wanting to help,

Offering.

He stumbles

Through

The asphalt parking lot

Then silently,

He reaches

For my hand,

The hand

He refused

Moments

Ago,

And he never

Lets go.

Morning Walk

Compass Harbor Path

Stairs Descending George B. Dorr's Estate-The Father of Acadia

Sitting on the stoop of the Chinese Restaurant,

My daughter waits, reading.

It’s early.

We’ve made plans to walk.

Leafy ferns, still green,

Line the wide path

Toward ruins of a past life,

On the crumbling patio

I stand, pause and imagine

A grand life, hours filled with fancy cocktails,

Sipped by ladies donning feathered hats,

Tipped just so on their heads,

Their gentlemen near.

Or

The man of the house,

A recluse

Enchanted by the changing tides,

Wearing a path to the sea.

Descending the granite steps,

The path ahead

Mottled with

Light forced through the forest canopy,

We are guided toward the sea.

Never do we consider that we may not return,

The salt air courses through our veins as we ponder

The past and the present,

We return,

For we are enchanted by the changing tides.

The path to the sea is worn and has been traveled

By many.

10 Ways Life Has Changed (Really in no particular order)

10.  There are not only bones in fish, but bones in our bed.

09.  Even though the kids have grown, our laps are always occupied.

08.  Strangers stop and ask for a photo with him.

07.  Kisses are given liberally and sloppily, everyday-several times a day.

06.  Co-existence among species is bliss.

05.  “Chick-magnet” takes on a whole new meaning.

04.  Consideration is given to wearing black clothing with newly applied white

        accents before going out in public.

03.  Sleeping in a double bed means curling one’s body into a tight postage

        stamp-sized space to accommodate, as well as sharing a pillow.

02.  Packing now is similar to packing for a baby when we travel.

01.  Each day is filled with undying devotion, contentment and gratitude.

Tangled Thinking

          My husband making conversation on the way home from work mentioned, "Elizabeth said that there was going to be a kissing booth at the Pet Fair for the SPCA." I laughed, not really imagining who in their right mind would volunteer to be kissed by every stranger that walked passed the booth and furthermore in this day and age wondering if this was such a good idea.  "I think Elizabeth mentioned it because she thought that Rex gives good kisses!" he added. He started to add all of his doggy friends to the list of good kissers, "There's Baxter...oh and Charlie, that cute little Charlie..." Sometimes, my mind is in a tangle. I thought chuckling aloud.  And just so you know, Rex loves everyone, including strangers and he is a darn good kisser.