On Turning 54

It is my 54th birthday.  I begin crossing the bridge to checking the '55 and over' bracket on most questionnaires.

I remain single, not lonely; the dogs are great company.  My days and nights are mostly quiet, filled with books and music and movies.  I've been awake since 1:30 now, Ricki Lee Jones is on the stereo.

Time was when the occasion of my birthday meant a week of celebrating.  I had my nipple pierced one year.  I was tattooed on my 42nd birthday, a Good Friday.  I drank a lot of Jack Daniels and altered my mind with a variety of chemical experiences.

Tonight I had one Jack Daniels and a dose of AlkaSeltzer Cold Plus.  I nodded off about 10pm.

It has been two years since I last received a birthday card from a grandparent, always with a few dollars tucked in with the wishes.  My parents turned 75 and 74 this month, and I am acutely aware of our finite time together and my 54-year-old heart often swells to bursting with the love I have for my family.

This week, one of my dearest friends came for a brief visit.  We've been friends for almost 30 years and it took only a few minutes for us to fall into old conversations and familiar laughter.  We lamented our physical limitations, remembered the times before our bodies betrayed us and understood how fortunate we were to have led the lives we have.

I once only carried an image of myself at 17, the whole world in front of me.  I still have that image, blurred.  I now have images of myself at 33, the brash poet with his long blonde hair.  More often, I see myself at 42, a wild horse all muscle and force on the dance floor.  I packed a lot of life into the better part of three decades. 

I have no regrets.  I have memories to entertain me forever.  Probably a few more poems.

I know there is still a great deal of living left for me.  I still have dreams.  I understand more keenly how time is no longer my friend, rather the shadow I must try to elude.

The Reading Life

I don't remember a time when I didn't read.  I know there were years before I learned to read.  Even then, I pretended to read.  I once 'read' a Dr. Seuss book to a little neighbor girl, simply repeating 'pee pee pee pee pee pee pee' over and over until she ran to tell our mothers I said a bad word.

Readers were asked recently the book that first ignited their passion to read.  I relished the 'Dick & Jane' readers because the teddy bear was named Tim and I thought it made me famous.  However, the first book I read, a real  story that demonstrated how words could transport you to someplace other than your bedroom was 'Black Beauty'.

I might have been in the 2nd grade and my Grandma Callies gave me a colorful, illustrated edition.  There were beautiful drawings throughout, and pages with lots of words, even paragraphs.  I lived every sentence, terrified of the fire in the stable,  feeling deep sadness over the cruelty Black Beauty endured and relief when she was old and found a nice home.

I was hooked, addicted.

I read 'Black Beauty' countless times.  More books and stories followed.  I discovered libraries and bookstores.  I spent hours in my bedroom reading.  As I got older, my allowance, when it wasn't spent on Hot Wheels or Matchbox cars, was spent on books.

No one is surprised by my personal library.  I have a lot of books.  The last time I moved there were more than 40 boxes of books.  While I believe you can never have too many books, I know that is 'hoarderspeak' and I've learned to cull my collection from time to time.  My 20-plus years as a bookseller taught me shelf space is a valuable commodity, especially when you continue to add to your collection.

I am rarely without a book.  If I go anywhere and there is the off-chance I will be waiting for someone, a doctor or dentist, a friend for lunch, I have a book.  I belong to a local book club.  I have a stack of books to read next to the bed and a list of books I'd like to read; both grow bigger every month.

There are pitfalls to this addiction beyond the dust created by so many books in the house.  Worse, is my inability to put a book down until it is finished, regardless.  This used to be a serious issue for me, but I've gotten better at putting a book aside if it is failing to captivate, chalking it up to 'wrong time, wrong mood' and hoping to try again later.

This doesn't mean I haven't exercised some discretion.  I recently read a dreadful piece of schlock for our book club.  Actually, I skimmed much of it; something I've never done.  Were it not a book club read, I would have tossed this book in the trash before the first 50 pages.  I remember another popular book, the follow-up to a hugely successful book by an author who does not like anyone to edit or proofread his work.  Typos and grammatical errors are like razors to my eyes and I found a half dozen within the first two chapters and closed the book.

I have suffered some insufferably boring books.  Just because it won the Pulitzer does not make it an exciting read.  Or a good read.  As an experienced reader, I know I have to give a novel the minimum of 100 pages to really start moving.  Sometimes this rule works, sometimes it doesn't, but by then I'm committed to the novel and will most likely finish.

I'm reading one of those books right now, nearly giving up after more than 100 pages of sniveling, depressed narrator.  Then the author switched narrators. 

I think I'm going to be glad I stayed with it.

The Women Who Taught (Part 1 in a series)

On January 9, 2015, my high school guidance counselor passed away quietly in her sleep.  She was 74. 

I have been out of high school for 35 years now, but the news of her death, brought about faded memories of her disheveled office: a flurry of papers and college pamphlets on her desk, a sliding stack of brochures atop the filing cabinet, posters taped to the cinder block walls, and the faint smell of cigarette smoke.

I don't know that Karlyn Armstrong provided me much guidance toward a career or college choice; I marched to a different drum.  What Mrs. Armstrong did offer in that tiny office was a place of safety and laughter.  I spent many hours in her company and I remember regaling her with stories of my summer in France when I was 17.  It was clear from comments on social media this week that many of my classmates sought refuge in Mrs. Armstrong's office.

Mrs. Armstrong was not the only woman at Denver High School who would influence my life.

I remain friends with Fran Johannson (the former Mrs. Gohlke) through the wonders of social media.  Fran was my 8th grade English teacher and encouraged my love of books.  She and I could sit for hours discussing literature.  I read books beyond my peers and she challenged me to read even more.  We continue our friendship today, both of us older, and I am the one recommending books to her these days.  She lives a full and exciting life of volunteerism and world travel that I hope to emulate.

I can type fast.  I earned the typing award when I was in high school (nothing gay about that).  I took two years of typing and a year of business machines, not because I had a particular interest in it(although mad typing skill are handy), but because Mrs. Clara Hudson taught these courses.  There were quite a few of us who wasted time in Mrs. Hudson's office, eating Doritos and being silly.  Mrs. Hudson had an impish sense of humor (matched by her short stature) and her students adored her.  I still do.  We met for coffee shortly after I moved back to Iowa and spent a few hours recounting our personal grief, sharing our writing life, and managing to laugh about it all.

I took as many English classes as my high school offered and one of those was taught by the bawdy and brassy, Mrs. Kemalyn Scott.  She had a wicked sense of humor and seemed to like rebellion as much as her teenage students.  Should she read this blog, I hope it is no surprise that her sex kitten figure was the subject of much discussion among the male student body, except for this gay boy, who liked her for her striking laugh and sense of style.

And finally, among the women who taught and influenced me, is my freshman-year English teacher, Miss Mary Jo Englehardt.  She was 25 that year, right out of college and she seemed more like one her students than a teacher.  She was sweet and sometimes reserved, and during our freshman year, she taught a segment on poetry.  She introduced poetry through music, Bob Dylan and John Prine and the Beatles (I can not hear 'She's Leaving Home' without remembering Miss Englehardt), printing out the lyrics for us to read along as the album played.

Miss Englehardt challenged her freshman class to write a poem, providing several topics.  I chose the subject of war, and wrote a poem called 'War Is Hell', very daring for a 15 year old kid in rural Iowa in the 1970's to use a swear word in class.  The poem was broad and overwrought; what experience did a kid have with war?  But I wrote it as if I'd seen battle and Miss Englehardt applauded my effort and asked to keep my poem and reading it to her other classes that day. 

That was the day I became a poet. 

I live about 40 minutes away from Mary Jo Englehardt now and another classmate and I have planned to seek her out and pay her a visit. 

I would love to tell her in person how she changed my life.

New Year, New Goals

Today is the Epiphany, or Twelfth Night, the day I take down the Christmas tree and officially end the holiday season and acknowledge the new year.

For 10 years, I've started each new year with a list of goals.  There are big  goals, like dropping weight or travelling, and smaller goals, like cleaning the closets or updating my resume.  Rather than resolve to change a behavior in the new year, a resolution usually forgotten within the first week, setting goals allows me the opportunity to work at several things throughout the year, those more easily achieved goals provide a sense of accomplishment each time one is completed.

Last year, I chose 15 goals and put each one on a post-it note stuck to my bathroom mirror.  I managed to complete 7 of those goals during the year, four others are still in progress, two were abandoned because of financial need and the last two were simply abandoned.

This year, there are 11 goals.

RESTART MY BLOG

There it is and here it is.  My last entry was March 5, 2014.  So I took a year off.  I'm not really sure why, other than writing is hard.  Being interesting is even harder.

READ A POEM A DAY

I read two or three poems every day through various emails I receive, not to mention the number of poetry books I read.  Last summer, I paid $1 for a copy of A Poem A Day and decided I would read these poems, one a day, to start my mornings.  I am six days in, today's poem was appropriately from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night.

BUILD MY SAVINGS ACCOUNT

I'm a poet and writer and I'm terrible with money.  I always have been.  Money burns a hole in my pocket and I have no savings.  Last September, I followed a plan to put money away each week until Christmas, which gave me $171 to spend on presents.  It was an easy enough plan, so I've determined to follow the plan all year, which, if successful, will result in a piggy bank of $1,738.  I put the first $15 away last Friday.  And this leads me to my next goal.

NO MATERIAL PURCHASES FOR SIX MONTHS

One of the harder goals for the year.  I can buy food, pet food, toiletries and laundry needs.  Nothing else.  I nearly broke this goal on January 1 when I picked up some discounted holiday wrapping paper in the grocery store.  I did some preplanning by purchasing socks and new suspenders before the year ended.  My mom will be buying me new shoes for work.

LESS TV MORE READING

This goal was implemented a couple months prior to the new year.  As part of the goal, and an effort to not purchase material goods, I dropped Netflix.  I haven't had cable in nearly four years and I don't miss it.

DECLUTTER MY LIFE

I'm not a hoarder, but I do have a lot of stuff.  I've already started a box of things to send to the thrift store.  I'll be cleaning out closets and dresser drawers and kitchen cabinets throughout the year.

WRITE TWO POEMS A MONTH

I'm not a prolific writer and I have a tendency toward laziness.  Writing is hard, writing something well is even harder. 

MAKE TWO POETRY SUBMISSIONS A MONTH

This is the drudgery of writing, even though most submissions are now done electronically, it still seems like the most tedious task.  I fell off the wagon last year and it's time to put some words back out into the world.

SUBMIT A MANUSCRIPT TO FINISHING LINE PRESS

I've had a goal for several years now of seeing a poetry manuscript published.  I've tried the contest route and only ended up tossing money into the wind.  Last year, I was accepted into an MFA program, a great honor, but financially, it is not a prudent move for a man about to turn 54.  Self-publishing has always been the ugly stepchild of publishing, but those days have passed and many authors have turned to this idea to see their novel or poetry published.  It's my turn.

ATTEND AWP IN MINNEAPOLIS

I have wanted to attend this conference for several years and it will be held in Minneapolis, April 8 - 11, 2015.  It's a 4-hour drive to Minneapolis and I have a dear friend who lives there and I can bunk at their house and save on hotel costs.  I have about a month before the deadline for preregistration and will weigh this against my goal of not spending on material things.

PARTICIPATE IN NATIONAL NOVEL WRITING MONTH

The last goal for 2015 and one I've participated in for the past four years, writing a poem a day for 30 days.  It added 120 poems to my personal manuscript; a lot of bad poems, a few good poems, maybe one or two really good poems.  This last year was the most difficult.  I was uninspired and struggled to complete the poems.  I think I'm burned out on this effort.  I'm considering writing prose this coming November (I did this the very first year I participated).

The Pleasure Principle

William Carlos Williams said, 'If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.'

Last Sunday, during the Oscar broadcast, the talented Idina Menzel performed the Oscar-winning song, 'Let It Go'.  She appeared nervous and her voice screeched, making the performance almost unbearable.  The following night, she sang here with Jimmy Fallon accompanied by children's musical instruments and she soared; smiling and laughing through the song, clearly enjoying herself.

If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem. Or a song. Or a painting.

I don't believe in bleeding as an artist.  It's messy and makes the keyboard stick.  When I sit down to write a poem it is usually caused by a spark; a turn of phrase, a word, or the way the light hit the side of a building. I approach a poem like a crossword puzzle; a game to be bested by finding the right words, line breaks and images to bring the poem to life for the reader.

Mostly, I have a little fun with language.

I'm not particularly prolific as a poet. I try to write a poem weekly (right there, that sounds like a chore), though lately I haven't been inspired by much. It is easier to let go of the guilt of not writing when you write for pleasure.

Don't be fooled by that last statement. I consider myself a serious poet. I submit work regularly and I've had many poems published. I revise and edit. I put together manuscripts for competitions. Last week, I applied for an MFA program (there, I said it).  I just think you should experience joy when you write.

If it's so much labor, so much pain and head-banging to get a poem onto paper, then why not just dig ditches?

Winter, You Now Suck

There.  I've said it.  Despite all my poetic expressions of love for winter, for white snow, for clear night skies, and refreshingly cold air, I am begging for a divorce from winter.

Our 10-day forecast here in Iowa predicts continued cold through March 6, with daytime temperatures never getting above 20, and most nights going below zero.  One of those coming nights is expected to be -23!  That's the real temperature, none of that candyass windchill stuff.

I never thought I'd beg for mud season.

 It has been a hard winter, and now it's setting in to be a long and bitterly cold one.

Iowa got real cold sometime before Thanksgiving.  I know this because I wrote a poem about a frozen dead pig on the side of the road.  Around the same time, we received our first measurable snowfall and we haven't seen the ground since, or the dead pig.   Most areas have received more than 50 inches of snow so far.  It is piled in rugged white mountains along country roads and in parking lots in town.

I don't mind the snow so much, but this bone-rattling cold is taking a toll on everyone.  In town, the ground is frozen solid more than two feet down. Nearly 200 homes and businesses have frozen sewer lines and water pipes.  The diner is slower than a typical February.  The check-out girls at the local Fareway talk about how quiet the store is these days.  The cold is all we can talk about; it's our devil.

We try to convince ourselves that spring is 'just around the corner', something we say at the beginning of every February, because we know the end of February starts the Great Thaw, and the ground becomes a saturated sponge of mud and slush, unleashing our first dreams of spring blossoms.

We know spring is near, but no one is buying it.

It Could Have Been Verse

I've been on hiatus the past two weeks; the first week was a scheduling adjustment, waking up at 3am most mornings.  It was a busy week that included a catering job which led to the second week of down time.

I'd fended off a cold for most of January.  The catering job required a lot of loading and unloading from my vehicle to the venue and back again in near zero temperatures, and the morning after, I awoke with a minor ear infection, which blossomed into a severe sinus infection and both ears infected.  A wracking cough developed, and it felt as though my head were being held underwater.

I missed a couple days of work, too sick and too miserable to do much more than wish I were better.

And that is what this post is all about.

Rita Mae Brown once advised writers to live healthy, that it required stamina and physical well-being to sit at the keyboard or confront the blank sheet of paper.  She said a writer should never write when drunk or under the influence of any drug; it might seem to lead to creative thought, but your thoughts are not clear.

I can say the same for illness.  Despite the down time spent lying on the sofa or in bed, time I might have otherwise used to write, or even read, I felt so miserable that all creative thought was banished, replaced by an endless prayer for relief.

Even with prescribed antibiotics and the slow return to normal, my creative mind is sluggish, clogged with the virus.

Here I am though, writing away the cobwebs, the sludge of a cold and feeling better each day.  There are notes for a poem, more ideas for future blog posts and the other night, I was able to sit down and do some editing on the poems written in November.

I might have experienced some guilt for missing a couple weeks of writing, but I have let that go with the realization that when you are ill, or dealing with a new stress (like waking up at 3am every day), it's okay to put your creativity aside.  If you see poetry everywhere around you, if you imagine whole stories in the atomic split of a second, if you find wonder in words, you will return to your creative self when you're ready.

Try The Sestina, It's Delicious!

I had the privilege, when I lived in Florida, to participate in several workshops with the poet, Peter Meinke.  Peter is an expert on poetic forms and during one of his workshops he suggested, after a critique of my poem, that I might enjoy writing a sestina.

The poem was 'Velvet Boy', published in The New Delta Review (Summer 2006, Vol.23, #2).  I wrote narrative poems in free verse (unrhymed verse without a metrical pattern), but I liked challenges and often imposed restrictions on a poem, whether it was the length of lines, the repetition of a word, or in the case of 'Velvet Boy', a different mention of fabric in each verse.

VELVET BOY

When he is face down in a pillow
Velvet Boy wonders if love tastes like linen.
Sometimes he grips the bedsheet
pretends it's a magic carpet and he is Aladdin
flying above the boulevard and the cars
and the freaks and bloated johns.

Tonight's trick is drunk and white
as chenille in moonlight, and Velvet Boy,
his face pushed into the pillow,
feels each grunt and thrust and wishes
whiskey didn't smell like dreams;
wishes dreams didn't sound like johns.

Later the john snores in cottony breaths,
a pillow hugged to his chin.
Velvet Boy lifts a fifty from his wallet
to fill in the cracks where fantasy can't.
Through the motel lobby, he runs
like a shadow hiding from light.

On the boulevard, traffic runs slow.
A Cadillac pulls up to the curb
and a john waves a hundred out the window.
Velvet Boy slips him a smile like satin.
He knows this life will swallow him whole,
a pillow pressed over his face.

Meinke encourages poets to explore forms: the sestina, the pantoum, the villanelle, and sonnet, among others.  'Without knowing these forms, how will you know what your poem wants to be?'

Since his workshop, I've been an ardent admirer of poetic forms, namely the sestina and the pantoum.  I've met with some success in both forms.  I labored over a villanelle for the better part of three weeks once, and though I like the form, I sure as hell don't want to write it.

I recently discovered the 'golden shovel' poem, an acrostic form, you can read one example here.  Another poet friend sent me her attempt using a Dorothy Parker poem and it was thrilling to read.  "You have always told me to try forms and now I understand why," she told me.

There is something liberating in restriction.  Yes, I said that.  Like the sestina, a 'golden shovel' poem has the last word of each line already determined and the poet is cornered, forced to write his or her way out; almost like writing the poem backwards.  Using these forms, the poet must reach further for words, walk around them and see them from different angles, manipulate them and bend them.  The joy is finding a new phrase, a brazen image, or a clever twist in a definition.  There is poetic ecstasy found in punishing line breaks and enjambments, both tools are necessary in the 'golden shovel' and the sestina.

I have heard many poets (and it's painful to hear) that they 'only write free verse because it's easier', and they have no interest in studying or trying out other forms.  First, I have never considered free verse easy.  Poets, whether formalists or free verse, labor over words, syllables, rhythm, line breaks.  I remind poets that poetry is also a visual art form, sometimes the way the poem looks on the page can influence the way it is read.  Chances are, if you think writing free verse is easy, your poetry probably sucks.

I'm no expert on poetic forms, but I am a fierce advocate of the poet's obligation to know them.

Live Exceptionally

Earlier this week, following a quote by Beat poet, Gregory Corso, a post in which I commented on his death from prostate cancer, a friend wanted to know how he lived.  I replied, 'he was a poet.  He lived exceptionally.'

I doubt Corso lived the high life, poets are generally not well-paid, or even paid at all, so I wasn't referring to his exceptional lifestyle.  Nor did I mean to imply his history with the Beat Generation, although that is something exceptional (and for this poet, a bit enviable).

What I meant by 'living exceptionally' is the gift of having a poet's sensibilities.  Poets look at everything, and they see it through a prism of language and detail.  The poet sees the whole universe in a mote of dust.  The poet grasps an entire lifetime in the dash on a tombstone.  The poet feels an entire symphony in a dying note struck on a piano.

That is living exceptionally.

It snowed most of the day here in the Big Woods, but this afternoon it has all but stopped, save for the tiniest glints of crystal still swirling in the air, visible only because a half-hearted sun is shining through the gray clouds.

That is living exceptionally.

My dog, Joey, is curled next to me on the sofa as I write, blissfully dreaming his dog dreams and every few seconds his front paws twitch and his brow furrows as if he's digging for imagined rabbits.  To play witness to his dreaming...that is living exceptionally.

Later tonight, I'll pour a finger of good Kentucky bourbon, turn off all the lights and stare into the reflected brightness of a waning full moon on the new snow.  I can thing of nothing more exceptional to do this evening.

This week, as I rummaged my brain for a poem to write, another friend complained about the winter squalls moving through the area.  There were some untamed images running around in my head, but until I read the word 'squall', I'd been unable to put them into a poem.

After writing the poem, I thanked her for giving me the word 'squall' and she replied upon reading the first few lines that perhaps she had been too harsh in her opinion of the weather.

'It is the poet's privilege to experience the world differently,' I replied, thankful to be living exceptionally.

Poet Alone

I stand at a crossroads; to live alone, or welcome someone into my life again.

In April, it will be three years since Jeff died.  The intense grief is gone, a memory now.  In 21 years together, he rarely bought me a gift.  It may sound callous to some, but I learned his death was his greatest gift to me.  He gave me the freedom to write.

I hadn't written much in the ten years before his death and less than 48 hours after he died, I wrote a poem.  Then another, and another.  Poems of grief.   That November, I wrote 30 poems.  In the two years since moving to Iowa, I've written over 100 poems.

I can't recall the author, maybe Doris Lessing, who believed a writer needs to live alone.  Even if she didn't say it, I think there are many poets and writers who believe this.  I think I'm a believer too.

It's not that I've written volumes of fantastic poetry, there are probably only a handful worthy of publication.  The thing is, living alone, I've been able to write poems whenever I felt like it.  I can turn off the television, play classical music, stare mindfully into the night sky, and imagine lines of poetry.  There's no one here to ask what I'm doing, and the dogs are content to nap beside me while I write (Joey's doing that right now).

On the other hand, I'll be 53 in March.  I'm definitely not dead and still find men attractive.  Though I relish my quiet and solitude out here in the Big Woods, I have sacrificed any chance of meeting someone (Iowa recognizes gay marriage, but that doesn't mean we're hanging out on street corners in small towns).

I could go to a gay bar, but that's a good 45 minute drive, and I'm not exactly into the bar scene.  I  joined an online dating site, but it's proved an empty pond and a waste of money.

All this has kept me up nights thinking about what the rest of my life is going to be like.  Perhaps I'm fretting too much and should just let things play out, however that plays.

The season of waiting

Winter has taken aim and humbled those of us living in the Midwest and the Northeast.

It was 15 below the other night, with a windchill of -40.  Tonight, temperatures will begin a steady decline and Monday's high temperature is expected to be -15.  The high.  MINUS FIFTEEN DEGREES!  In some areas of northern Iowa (that would be here in the Big Woods) the windchill factor may reach -60 degrees.  We are being warned that frostbite can occur within 5-10 minutes in these temperatures.

During the winter, I drive a 1996 Blazer with 4-wheel drive.  It's a workhorse, but it's cold-blooded.  Even parked in the garage, I keep a battery charger plugged into it.  It is no guarantee of it starting up.  I'm not so certain it will start when the temperature turns arctic on Monday.

The poet, Linda Pastan, calls this 'the season of waiting'.

We've entered the very depths of winter.  Bone-chilling, perilous cold, the threat of snow and ice and treacherous roads.  Weather fit for neither man nor beast.  My two dogs, Jack and Joey, waste little time doing their business these days.

We wait out these severe weather alerts, crawl under the covers at night, fall into a sleep that will be quickly forgotten when we venture out to our vehicles, and pray the engine turns over and we let it idle for 10 minutes to warm up.

I have a big pot of chili simmering in the slow-cooker today, thick and hearty with black beans, kidney beans, lentils, onion and green pepper, tomatoes, and soy burger.  Nothing will taste as good tonight when the winds pick up and the arctic comes to Iowa.  It is worth the wait.

There is little to do in this waiting season.  I read books and write poems.  I putter around the house, organize my closets, sift through dresser drawers, bake loaves of bread and try new recipes.

We settle into our 'long winter's sleep', pray we remain safe in our warm homes.  We dare not think of spring yet because we know February can be the cruelest month of the season.

So we wait it out, imagine winter is a survival test and we must steel ourselves against all attacks.  We will be under siege for the next few days, hunkered down and paying respect to nature's ferocity.

While we wait, we practice patience.

What a Difference a Goal Makes

Several years ago, I read an interview with a former governor of New Mexico.  He was a Republican, with very liberal social views (and admitted to using drugs in his youth).  He was not a party favorite.

He also spoke about his annual resolutions, although he preferred to make them goals to be worked on throughout the year.  He believed resolutions, decisions to change a behavior on January 1, were recipes for failure, usually by January 2 (although I quit smoking at midnight December 31 more than 24 years ago).

Instead, he drafted a set of goals for the coming year.  Some were more challenging than others.  Some were for personal improvement.  Some he might start working on at the beginning of the New Year, others would not be done or attempted until later.  He included easily achieved goals on his list, feeling little victories were important to keep the momentum.

Since 1998, I have made a yearly goals list.  I used to keep it to 10 goals, framing and keeping them on my desk and on the bathroom counter as constant reminders through the year.

Two years ago, I switched to post-it notes on the bathroom mirror, each removed when the goal is met.  I can tell you I have never completed a list, but I usually pluck off more than 70%.

I have 14 goals ready for the coming year, and I'm certain to add a few more before the crystal ball drops in Times Square.

Here's a sampling of goals for 2014:

1. Build my saving account.
2. Write one poem a week.
3. Restart my McDougall eating plan and plant-based diet.
4. Visit the Delaware County Historical Society.
5. Enter 4 manuscript competitions.
6. Advance my bread making skills.
7. Buy a laptop.

Some goals are worked on throughout the year, like building my savings or healthier eating.  A visit to the historical society museum can't be done until summer when it reopens.  I make bread all the time and want to experiment with other ingredients.  Nothing is overly lofty, but each one of these goals are things I should be doing or want to do.

Some will require planning, the creation of a ritual, like writing a poem each week.  Buying a laptop might be largely dependent on how well I build my savings.

What goals would I read on your bathroom mirror?

'Tell me something wondrous.'

'Tell me something wondrous, something to remind me of the spirit of Christmas.'  This was the request today from one of my dearest friends.

Christmas is less than four days away; our pace has slowed.  The office parties are over.  The shopping is mostly complete.  Meals are planned and in the staging process.  The kids are out of school and folks are traveling to be with friends and family.

On the banks of the Maquoketa River, the winter solstice dawned with a glassine coat of ice on the bare tree limbs; everything a shade of white and gray, beautiful.  I passed a farm, surprised by the brilliant yellow of a full corn crib.

The first day of winter and we await a snow storm.  In town, there was the expected scurry of shoppers on the last Saturday before Christmas, but there was more bustling as they prepared for several inches of snow and the guarantee of a white Christmas.  It was the talk of every shopkeeper, every customer, and no one seemed too bothered by it.

I have only to wrap a few gifts between now and Christmas.  I'm halfway through listening to my Christmas music collection.  Afternoons are filled with Bing Crosby, Elvis, Bette Midler, the Pink Martinis, Dixie, jazz and folk Christmas carols.  I save 'O Holy Night' and Mahalia Jackson's 'Silent Night' for Christmas Eve; the moment I feel the true spirit of Christmas and as close to God as I can get.

I will think of all my friends, scattered the world over, it seems.  I will think of Jeff and remember our Christmases together.  I will remember my friend, Christopher, who passed away this year, and those glorious, fun, strawberry-filled Christmas Eves we spent in the warmth of our closest friends.

The older I get, the more astounded I am by the passage of time; by things I have collected and the memories attached to them.  I am mystified by the blessings I've been given.  I have been softened by  heartaches.

The perfectly not-so-perfect path our lives seem to take.

Those first snowflakes tonight, the vallens (an old word for snowfall), will arrive quietly, muffling an already silent river valley.  I will stand at the window, in the glow of my Christmas tree, and breathe deeply.  And wonder.

Merry Christmas.

Ugly Christmas Sweater Season

True confession: I am a connoisseur of the ugly Christmas sweater and I was one before it became a trendy, party-worthy collectible.

It's time to set some standards.  First, an ugly Christmas sweater is not a craft project.

Last Saturday, a friend and I attended an Ugly Christmas Sweater contest in Cedar Rapids.  His sweater was a delightful diorama of skiing snowmen, and his accompanying too-small ski jumpsuit, ski goggles and dancing hat made his assemble a thing of joy.

I wore a previous contest winner, one I call 'Patriotic Angels'.  It is a splendid flurry of flying angels carrying flags as they hover over a horizon of Christmas trees and bedazzled homes. 

There were 17 entries, and neither of us made the first cut.


I won't go into the politics at play in the judging, but half of those chosen in the first round were sweaters hung with ornaments and candy canes, sweaters that smelled like glue guns, with cleverly placed stockings at the crotch, or garland wrapped seductively about a twerking waif.  The winning sweater was a knock-off sold at a local hipster/college clothing store.  There were three others just like it in the crowd.

I own 16 Christmas sweaters.  Thirteen were found in thrift stores for less than five dollars (the others, including 'Patriotic Angels'. were purchased at a consignment shop).  My sweaters are originals, sold on HSN or QVC with designer labels like Quacker Factory, Take Two Studios and Holiday Elements.  They were marketed as stunning, festive garments to women of a certain demographic, women who carry faux gold lame handbags.  Women with lots of cats.

Like velvet paintings, or anything kitschy, these Christmas sweaters, when observed collectively, are art.

Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the humor in the craft-project sweater.  I have a friend in Raleigh who has designed some truly amazing ugly sweaters, so customized, you'd think it was store-bought.

I have hosted two ugly sweater parties.  I encouraged my Borders coworkers to wear them.  We held friendly competitions, and I  crafted trophies to be given in different categories: best craft-project sweater (The Crapplique Award), best original sweater (The Jean Bice Award, the legendary Quacker Factory designer), and Best in Show.

Standards, people.  Standards.

I'm going to two more contests next week, not necessarily to enter, but to view the sweaters.  I'm sure there will be plenty of craft projects on parade and I'll be woozy from sniffing glue.

To find those Christmas sweaters that once delighted a third grade class, or wowed the congregation at Lutheran Holiday Bake Sale, you have to begin your search in August.  Waiting until the week before the party or contest is for amateurs.

Reclaiming Cookies & Christmas

The temperature this morning is a brisk -1, an arctic front has pushed its way down into much of the midwest and points south.  The dogs did not waste time doing their morning business.  No one is wasting time outdoors.

We're a week into December and the hustle of the Christmas holiday seems to be at maximum grind.  There remain decorations to be put up, my Christmas cards will be done this week.  I've done little, if any shopping, and fortunately my list isn't a big one, and I'll wipe it clean in one or two visits to local stores.

I'm hosting a small party this year, my first since Jeff died, so there will be cleaning to do, menu-planning, a toilet to be scrubbed.

Then there is baking.  Jeff and I used to bake a busload of his grandmother's sugar cookies each year and frost them in lurid colors.  We took them to parties and gave them to co-workers.  I don't know that the cookies tasted all that great (I think they did and he and I ate enough of them through the season), but honestly, it was the frosting.

The first year we made cookies, we agreed frosting was key.  We remembered frosting cookies as kids and being admonished for using too much icing. We were adults now and decided it was our house, our cookies, and by God, there would be lots of frosting.

Our cookies provided the most intense sugar rush, the frosting thick, decadent.  We used as much coloring as needed to get deep, rich colors.  Sometimes, we added sprinkles or those little silver pellets that look like BB gun ammo.

I made a small batch of cookies last year with my sister, at Dad's request.  He wanted sugar cookies like his mother made and fortunately, I had her cookie cookbook and we did our best to recreate those cookies for him.

Today, I'm baking with three women.  Each of us is to bring a cookie and candy recipe.  I've loaded two large boxes with bowls, mixers, ingredients.  I'm taking fun Christmas music.  And wine.

I found a sugar cookie recipe (after Jeff died, I couldn't take seeing his handwriting and threw out his grandmother's recipe) and made the dough last night.  I'm not sure of the results and it doesn't matter.  If they fail, I will continue to search for the best recipe.

Christmas was a big deal for Jeff and I.  His grandmother's cookies were part of that.  This is my third holiday without him.  The first year, I just wanted to get through it.  Last year, I determined to reclaim the season and make my own traditions (with a mix our old ones) and I started with a small tree and a few of our collected ornaments.

This year, I'm busting loose.  I bought another tree and most of our ornaments are now on display.  Decorations have branched out around the house, including a fat, stuffed Santa Claus from Montgomery Ward Jeff bought the year before he met me.  It is the first time Santa has been on display in more than five years.

Last night, I drove into Manchester to do my grocery shopping for today's baking and I took some time to look at all the houses lit up, including a co-worker who takes the season to heart.  Her yard and home was joyous and I practically cheered her spirit of fun.

Now, let it snow.

Thirty days: 30 paintings, 30 poems

In November 2011, six months after Jeff died and still consumed with grief, I decided to pour that energy into a 30-day exercise of writing a poem each day.

The poet, David Lehman, wrote a poem every day for a year and collected some of those poems in his book, The Daily Mirror.  In the introduction, he noted how it was 'hit or miss', some poems falling flat and some days were complete misses. I'd read those poems a few years ago and found the concept intriguing.

I'm not a prolific poet, I tend to wait for inspiration; the sudden poetic phrase or line.  It doesn't happen often. By that November, I'd written a dozen  poems about Jeff, his death, my grief, increasing my poetic batting average and  I figured there might be another 30 poems wallowing inside me.

It took a couple of nights to realize I would not be receiving divine inspiration every day.  I don't know that I ever did.  I learned to find inspiration; facing the blank page and grabbing an idea out of the air.

I met that first challenge completing 30 poems in 30 days.  Two poems were almost really good.  Another four had potential.  Ten others worth salvaging and the rest would be filed away.  Not a bad effort for a poet.

The following November, I took the challenge again.  I had moved to my native Iowa and it was my first winter in nearly 30 years.  I was enamored of the quiet, the bitter cold, the life and death of seasons, and many of those poems are inspired by Iowa's beautiful but unforgiving winter landscape.

As a seasoned poem-a-day poet, I knew what to expect.  I didn't fret nights when I had nothing.  I would open my notebook, rummage around in my head and start writing.  I had about the same results as the previous year.

I'd written 60 poems in two years (not counting any written the other months) and of those 60 poems, four have been published.  I'm a poet, not a mathematician, but it seems like a good average.

One of those published poems, 'In A Hopper Painting', became the inspiration for this year's November ekphrastic exercise in poetic masochism.  I love the regional realistm of Edward Hopper and in his six decades as an artist, he left an extensive body of work.  I would write 30 poems, each inspired by his paintings.

It has been the most difficult of the challenges.  I read essays on his works.  I spent hours thumbing through books of his collected works.  I read his weighty biography.  I discovered  little-known works; works not typical of Hopper.  His paintings offered an unfinished narrative, a poetic leap. I avoided more linear interpretations and sought out an emotional landing.  Some paintings veered toward a more personal experience.

'Nighthawks' is not my favorite Hopper painting, but as the month closes, I realize it is the most fitting finish to this exercise.

Tonight, in the quiet dark, I'll sit down, open my notebook, stare at the lonely creatures gathered at the counter and imagine how it all will end.

Shivering is just another part of Iowa

It's unseasonably cold in the Big Woods with afternoon temps never getting above 18 degrees and it's expected the thermometer will dip to zero tonight.

Shivering is truly another facet of Iowa.  So is starkness.  I'm grateful to have a poet's sensibilities which allow me to look at the frozen ponds, the oak and walnut trees wind-stripped and now in deep prayer as they wait for spring.

I drive past fields harvested to brittle, broken stalks where farmers let their cattle forage for bits of seed corn and silage.

I counted three bald eagles circling the nearly iced-over Maquoketa River today, hoping to snag a fish come up from the deeper waters.  On the fence posts, hawks watch the ditches for the quiet movement of a vole or rabbit among the burst cattails and milkweed.

As a poet, all my senses ride shotgun; the wind howling down the river valley, the dusty smell of old barn board, the frigid blast of bitter cold when I take the dogs out at four a.m., the crisp chill of the well water from the tap, the sudden glimpse of a snowy owl vigilant in a tree on my way home from work today.

The dark arrives early these days, and it does seem like my day is shorter, that time has run out and I'll have to begin another day in mere hours.  But here in the Big Woods, it means the stars come out sooner, and against the clear, cold black sky, shine so brightly they steal my breath.

Let winter come.  I will find new words for it.

Popcorn Elitist

It is a blustery, misted day here in northeast Iowa, with rain and thunderstorms anticipated for the afternoon.  I woke up with one thought for my day: I'm going to make popcorn and watch 'The Hours'.

There are a handful of movies I watch over and over; 'The Hours' is one of those, but it requires a rainy, moody atmosphere to make my experience truly complete.  And it needs to happen in autumn.

But this is about popcorn.

I love popcorn.  I love making popcorn.  My freezer is never without popping corn.  I have eaten popcorn for a meal.  I do not need a movie as an excuse to make popcorn.  Microwave popcorn is the devil; it costs more, it's tasteless, and it's toxic and probably contains beaver anal glands.

I'm a traditionalist.  Popcorn should involve a stovetop, a pan of oil, and a vigilant popper.  And white popcorn, not yellow.  White popping corn has smaller kernels; use yellow popcorn only if your threading it for a Christmas garland.  Better yet, try black popping corn; the kernels are smaller, they don't get stuck in your teeth, and the flavor is an incredibly nutty, wild taste.

We all like salted popcorn, and most like buttered popcorn,. I actually don't care for butter on my popcorn.  Years ago, I started trying different seasonings on my popcorn; taco meat seasoning, a little shredded cheddar or sprinkle it with Hidden Valley ranch dressing mix.  One of my favorite popcorn blends is sea salt, pepper and shredded Parmesan cheese.

Still, this is really about the pan.  A popcorn pan is a dedicated pan, used for no other cooking (my popcorn bowl is nearly as sacred).  I've had two popcorn pans in my adult life, both purchased at thrift stores.

My current pan has been used for more than 20 years.  It is a superb popcorn pan; deeper than the average pan (it was the bottom of a double-boiler, the lid salvaged from another pan). It's light-weight with a long handle, perfect for standing over the pan and shaking it for better popcorn.  My  popcorn pan remains on the stovetop, just as might leave a teakettle standing, ready for use.  The outside is blackened from dripped oil (I don't wash it often, only wiping the inside with a paper towel before I use it) and the bottom has warped from the heat so it tilts precariously on the burner.  If I take the lid off, the pan tips over when empty.  I know it is time to let it go.


Last weekend, I stopped at one of my favorite thrift stores in the little town of Hopkinton, or Hoptown as the natives call it.  It's a mission store and if you're visiting, I'm sure to drag you to Hoptown for the experience of a Saturday morning in the Not-So-Tiny House Mission Store.  In housewares I spied a likely replacement for my old popcorn pan.  It was the right size, not as deep as the old one.  The lid was ill-fitting, but that's okay on a popcorn pan.  Best of all, it was one dollar.  In the sorting room of the thrift store, I know there is a stove and I asked if I could test out the pan.  I stood at the stove, felt the pan's weight in my hand, skated it over the burner, rotated the handle as if I were dumping popped corn.  I happily shelled out a dollar.

I'm not quite ready to let go of my faithful popcorn pan; it's like saying goodbye to your first car.  I popped innumerable bowls of popcorn for Jeff and I during our 21 years together.  I've made my gourmet-flavored popcorn for friends to savor while we watched a movie.  My dog, Joey, loves popcorn and knows the sounds of the pan being readied and he waits patiently at the stove for me to finish, then he sits at my feet in the living room and I toss kernels to him and he catches them in midair.

For now, I'll work with my warped and charred old pan, and hope it's replacement serves as admirably.

Don't Just Survive.

 Claim your space.  Draw a circle of light around it.  Push back against the dark.  

Don't just survive. Celebrate. ~ Charles Frazier

This week, a high school classmate died suddenly of a stroke.

Tom was 52, exactly 11 days older than me.  Statistically, his death should not be a big surprise.  One out of every 234 people will die between the ages of 45-54 and one in 97 of us will die between the ages of 55-64. 

We graduated in 1979 from Denver High School, in Denver, Iowa.  There were 97 of us and our class was nicknamed 'The Biggest and The Best'.  To date, we remain the largest graduating class from Denver High. 

We're a close-knit class; anybody who went to school in a small town understands this.  It's not that you remained tight with your classmates, but you know everyone of them by name even 35 years later.

Thanks to Facebook, many of us have reconnected and remain in contact.

Tom and I had been friends in high school; we both lived on the blacktop outside of town and I would er bike to his house on Saturdays to hang out.  We'd spoken briefly at our 20-year reunion; a warm exchange, a quick sharing of our lives after graduation, and that was it until news of his death this week.

Nothing makes one consider your own mortality more than the unexpected death of a peer.  I do not feel as though I am just surviving this life, although at times, it is just that, surviving.  It's what we do.   

But we shouldn't forget to wonder.  To consider even a gray and bruised sky beautiful.  To stop and listen to the wind grab the last oak leaves.  To stop for art and music and dance and poetry.  To drowse in the late afternoon sun.  To love our family and friends.  And for heaven's sake, laugh.  And often.

Godspeed, Tom.  The Class of '79 is just a little smaller now.

Roadkill Poetry

Each morning, before sunrise, I drive the nine miles into Manchester for work.  These are country roads, and I meet few other cars at 5:30.  It is not other drivers I'm concerned about these days; it is the sudden appearance of deer.

Though I see deer all year in the Big Woods, they are more visible in late fall when the fields have been harvested, fields full of dropped seed corn.  The deer also make their way into the our yards for the grass now that other tender eats have suffered a freeze.


I see a lot of deer.  Last January, I counted 20 head in the field outside my front windows, and for much of the month, they would cross that field heading up or down river.  One afternoon, just after our first snowfall, I took the dogs out for a walk and four deer cut across the driveway, not 20 feet from us.  Two days ago, I had my closest call while driving to work.  I saw the deer dart out of the ditch ahead of me and had just enough time to hit the brakes before the second deer bolted out, missing my car by just a couple feet.

I see plenty of roadkill all year in my drive to and from work.  Raccoons, opossums, farm cats, hawks, Canadian geese.  A large red-tail fox was hit earlier in September and I can still see the traces of red fur on the side of the road.

Roadkill is just another part of living in the Big Woods, and though I hate seeing a fox, or hawk, or barn cat (and please don't let me see someone's dog), but the sight of a struck deer is particularly unsettling.

Deer are large, with a weight between 110-300 pounds.  Hitting one with your car at 55mph will not only kill the deer, but damage your vehicle.  This time of year, I encounter one or two dead deer on my route to Manchester every week.  I hate seeing these beautiful creatures splayed along the roadside; there is always a twinge of sadness.

Last November, a doe was struck in an area I often see them crossing.  On one side of the road is woodland, the other side is a large cornfield.  Her positioning in death was oddly elegant, especially in the cold, autumn sun.  I could not let her beauty, even in death, go without words.