Ending

It is easier than anticipated to let go.
No more impatient cats paws on my face mornings,
serenades with strawberries and Mozart by a cellist boyfriend
or standing in the cold waiting for the train to work on frigid winter mornings.

Memories ebb and flow like crazy
Belly laughs at Annie’s loud fart in Biology class.
“Coming out” to my Mother,
or dinner in the Eiffel Tower.

Faces of my life flash fast
Professor and bodybuilder Frank murdered by a tenant.
Dear Debbie; the love I could never have,
or David, who I loved and lost.

There are so many unwrapped packages-
I never finished that painting for Peggy,
or patched up the tiff with Diana,
and I never visited Machu Pichu.

But there is also no more chemo
no more radiation
no more enduring “ It’ll all be O.K.” by clueless friends
I don’t have to worry about “stuff “ at all anymore.

So many seasons and adventures now packed up away in the ether
a life so full of joy and sadness: true friends and lovers,
grand wines, great food, moving music;
reading , writing and “rithmatic.”

I know I have heard my last clock chimes
I hear no angel’s harps
there is no bright light
my thoughts and feeling all just blissfully fade away.

“Will I dream?,”HAL said.
It is upon me now.
Breathe out one last time,
Until   ..

Sir Edward Elger (1857-1934), English Composer-  was so vain he actually posed for a staged "deathbed"  photo well before his actual death.

 

Just Desserts

 I have fought for some status in life using my body and a great deal of manipulation.  It  involved a lot of living hand to hand and of wresting opportunities into making a better life.  I finally have made a turn onto easy street with my marriage to inventor and marketer of such products as the Slice O Matic,  Reeler Rod Pocket Angler,  No-Smoke Ashtray, and the TV Easy Rotisserie. It was very difficult and vexing to beat off competition to finally snare the old fart as my own, taking over as the fifth Mrs Donald Rompeel - only a year after the untimely demise of the 4th. .

I was rummaging in the kitchen of baronial Rompeel Manor looking through kitchen cannisters. I opened the largest , a flour container that looked  old enough to be handed down from his grandmother. There was no flour, and more importantly, no stash of cash or negiotable notes. Damn!  Well, there was this letter, which I took out and began to read...

“Dear Newest Wife and Gold Digger,

I know you have managed to corral my husband Don, and I know you, by now, have found out he is more adept at spending money than he is inventing things.  I can tell you my years of work trying to contain his lavish spending were to great consternation and little avail.  The endless parade of young vixens turning his lascivious attention from home and hearth were my enduring sadness. However , I rest knowing the children are well provided for with  irrevocable trusts.  ( Note : irrevocable . )  Rompeel Manor is mortgaged to the hilt in  support of Ron’s insatiable quest to surround himself with younger woman in an unsupportable lifestyle.  No doubt you are rifling the house looking for things of value you can sell to get some measure of what you feel is your just reward for landing this whale.  As unsympathetic as I am to your lot, I do offer this note as some consolation  to you.
No doubt you are near exhaustion running around the house looking for the fortune of grandiose jewelry portrayed in the several paintings of me positioned on walls around the manorhouse. The diamond tiara and necklace depicted in my portrait in a Givencey in the parlour, the sapphire and ruby broach and ear rings on me wearing the Chanel in the dining room, and the emerald rope and impressive 20 carat diamond ring shown in the oil of me wearing a Valentino gown hung in the master bedroom.
Rest easy child, these jewels do NOT exist. Never did. I had all the paintings done just for this very occasion , with intent of driving you crazy trying to find where all this glittery loot was stashed.  Now  you can just settle down and take stock on what little you have until Donald finds yet another willing and eager money grubber .
Take solace in the fact there is probably enough left selling the mansion fixtures to get a good divorce attorney.
Karma is a bitch.

all love,
The late 4th Mrs Donald Ropeel ”

-Jerry Wendt 2017

Claire's Scare

The trees had just begun to leaf out . It was dark and dank. I had looked all over our old Wisconsin farmhouse for Aunt Claire.  I  called out, and finally found  her, sitting upstairs by an attic window with an open dust encrusted trunk , and a very bedraggled old book in her lap .  She looked up.


“Whatever are you doing up here dredging around in this old stuff ?,”  I asked.
She showed me the book she had been holding. It was a handwritten journal of sorts.   
Claire said,  “I had this very strange feeling that drew me up here to this old trunk and as I sat near, there was a wierd chill that came over me while the sky outside clouded over. It’s like days of funerals - as if the earth is mourning the passing. Disturbing.- Further,  it was though this old chest was almost compelling me to look inside. So I did.”

“And...,” I interjected

“ And ,” Claire went on, “so I rummaged inside and found this old journal.  handwritten by your great, great grandmother , Gerta.  The page I turned to began an account, passed down to her by generations long before, telling of an event occurring in 1628 in our ancestral settlement of Würzburg , Germany. 

It was a very turbulent time.  There was much religious contention then and the period was rife with dark tales of evil spirits , witches, and warlocks.  Indeed, the town was in the midst of regular trials of persons accused of witchery and Satanism.  In her journal ,Gerta writes of a story told to her by her grandmother. It was about a 19 year old girl in Würzburg,  Gobel Babelin, who was considered the prettiest girl in the whole town. Gobel was our blood  relative .

Gerta doesn’t give much background as to why the girl was considered a witch but my guess is that the town wenches were jealous of her beauty and found the accusations of witchery a convenient excuse to deride her. For whatever reasons, charges were taken seriously, and Gobel was tried as being a witch and sentenced to be burned at the stake. “

 I was chilled.

Claire got a very serious expression on her face and went on, “ But this is where the story gets really interesting. Gerta wrote that it was passed down down by family  present that day, that, when the fires engulfed Dear Gobel , bound on the pyre,  a placid smile was observed on her and , then, in a grand burst , flames sparked into a kaleidoscope of colors and sparkle. They subsided,  revealing she had vanished into the tumult that instant, leaving nothing behind . There was the silence of awe from the onlookers who were frightened by this strange event.  Babelin was gone, bones and all,  but the event was powerful enough that memory carried it forward.”

“Wow,”  I was really taken by this dramatic story.  But the real catcher for me is that, as  Claire ceased her telling and closed the old journal, I saw incandscent colored sparks jump ever so briefly from her fingertips.  She smiled at me.  I know there was a legacy here, and it was Gobel Babelin that had left it.


-Jerry Wendt 2017

Gobel Babelin is mentioned by name in Jesuit Priest Friedrich Spee’s 1631 book Caudio Criminalis, detailing accounts of the famous Würzburg witch trials and executions occuring in 1626-1629. He mentions her as being noted as “The prettiest girl in town,”
-Wikipedia

Lost Transition

Lost Transition

A stealthy summer segue comes upon us.
Maples launch whirlygigs twirling down
into crispy leaf mounds
that delight shrieking kids
jumping at parasol milkweed seeds floating by.

Patio furniture yearns to come inside for the coming times
along with migrating field mice
seeking warmth from now summer silent furnaces.
There is assurance in knowing we have
an envelope of comfort waiting to shelter us.

Now, amid pumpkins, bonfires, and apple cider doughnuts,
we celebrate  change with our harvest of bounty,
a transition stolen from folks in Texas, Florida and Puerto Rico,
who find their reality of change despair
strewn around them as flotsam, flattened trees, and besotted loss.

A seasonal shift with hope berift

.

-Jerry Wendt 2017

The Fabulous Lillian LaDeaux

All feathered and laced
quite strategically placed
as every girl knew
it was all in the view
for such was the trade of our fabulous Lillian LaDeaux 

Those boys far from home
knew Lillian’s aplomb
as she strutted her stuff
baring barely enough
truly studied finesse of Lillian Ladeaux

With her generous buxom
they wanted to reach out and pluck some
as LaDeaux bumped and ground
to the joint’s raucous sound
She loved the attention, our Lillian LaDeaux  

With a smile on her painted face
She charmed the whole place
And sent them into ecstasy
with frenzied intensity
all part of the charm of Lillian Ladeaux

They’d stand at the bar
four deep for our star
for the briefest glimpse
they fawned like limp wimps
it was all in apt admiration of Lillian Ladeaux

Dear La Deaux was a power on stage
but it wasn’t primarily her wage
for Lillian always left them below wanting more
but not on the second floor
Where there was barter for the “all” of Lillian Ladeaux

Alas, ladies of certain age
have trouble on stage
in flaunting their stuff
trying to give them enough
It was the end of her run,  Dear Lillian Ladeaux

That day poor Lillian was forced out
no more audience left to shout
But you can still go meet her
She’s now "Lil," the local Walmart Greeter
So that is the end of the fabulous Lillian Ladeaux

-Jerry Wendt 2017

Summers at the Lake

The lake bottom was squishy mud
with water plants that wound around your feet,
and sometimes fishes nibbled on toes.

There were ferns under the shady oaks.
If you walked through them you got ticks,
and Mom yelled at you cause she had to stop and remove them 

Mostly dinner was cooked outside.
the kids had to set up the grill.
which never met with Dad’s approval

The cottage was tiny,
There was no heat,
and morning  dew settled wet into blankets

There was an outside shower,
the water was numbing cold,
and shivers were the everydays’ greeting

We kids ran wild all day,
Baseball, Hide-n-seek, statues,
and you’d think all would be tuckered by dusk

Nightfall brought conclave in Coleman lantern reflections
playing games like Clue, and Hearts, and Monopoly
and sharing scarey stories with burnt s’mores

Bedtime was early
cause daybreak came earlier
and it took two tries to roust us out of bed

Cicadas and lightening bugs ruled the night
mosquitoes plagued finding sleep
and it took a stinky spray to allow slumber

Even with all this rigamarole
bad recollections seem to have slipped away from me
and I remember summers at the Lake as the best times ever.

                                                         -Jerry Wendt 2017

Margo and Tilly

Margo and Tilly

Large as a two year old
they sat upon the
hob nail beige chenille bedspread
two home-sewn Raggedy Ann style dolls

Only there was no Andy,
just two similar girls,
Margot and Matilda,
“Margo and Tilly” 

They wore black yarn pigtails
and gingham pinafores.
I could play with them
but they had to stay on the bed.

Many times I would crawl up,
a silly seven year old,
and cuddle and fall asleep
with Margo- my favorite.

It was disclosed many years later
asking Mom why she was so sad
every October,
and she finally told me.

Before me there were twins;
girls- I was told were perfect beauties,
but they were premature
and lived only two weeks.

Mom was deeply grieved
but a couple years later went forward
and birthed me
probably why I was so cherished a gift

So I am sure to this day
that those big rag dolls on her bed
were her remembrances of my sisters
Margo and Tilly  

  -Jerry Wendt 2017

Life Lines

Ice Cream Innocence

 I told Tyler
 “When the ice cream truck makes music
 it means they are out of ice cream.”

 Guilt overcame me
 So I called him to the kitchen table
 and told him that wasn’t truth.

 My son asked,
 “Why did you do that to me Dad?”
 I said it would introduce distrust
 to prepare him to cope in the real world.

 But this was my bigger lie,
 It really tore the fabric of his innocence,
 the very essence of the beauty
 we so love in our children.

-Jerry Wendt 2017

Winner

“Now our eagerly anticipated award - best actress in a leading role. The nominees are:
Miss Dahlia Doris (Dee Dee) Monastro in “Maize,”  an Iowa woman  entangled in a suspenseful espionage mission. 
Constance Cummings in “Hearts Voyage,” a sweeping historical saga set in the California gold rush.
Sylvia Barclay in “Desert Passage,” family drama of  life in the bleak  Sahara.   And...
MaryAnn Salisbury in “The Marquesa of Lucca,” an aristocrat defeating blight in Italian olive orchards ,
And the winner is...
Sylvia Barclay !

 Barclay (In Voce Udibile) : out loud

“I am thrilled to be honored by the Academy and  my peers, in recognizing this work .  This is a formidable group of talented actresses I am among today.  I  hope I  give my very best to my fans aspiring to quality entertainment .  You have shown me accolades ,and tonight I come to my epitome of acknowledgement. I am ever indebted.  I must mention my  very talented director, Daniel Bertoli , my Producer Stan Latrobe, for his vision to see the project through , my indispensable assistant Karen Behning for attending to my every need, and special shout out to costume designer Karen Harding who was inspired in dressing me for this film.  This was a team  ; one I am  very proud to be part of. I could not have accomplished it without you. Consider me blessed for the opportunity in making a film that has captured the hearts of so many. My humble Thanks.


Barclay (Espresso Internamente): internally

 “Honored; Yeah: especially grabbing ‘Oscar’ away from that conceited bitch Connie, who has so much pancake on , all she needs is some syrup to be a complete meal.
 Or that dolt  ‘MISS Dee Dee’  who can’t hold on to a man thru a weekend affair.  That ‘flower’ has been ‘pollinated’ so many times during her filming they call her “Revolving Doris.” Look at Monastro out there right now- she’s ogling Johnny Weissmuller . I bet she’d just LOVE to wipe her hands on Tarzan’s loincloth; the slut.
Praise be, they finally overlooked Salisbury, telling the tabloids how she was slaving away -Yeah?- in yet another ‘horror show’  filming on a air-conditioned sound stage, when I am sweating my ass off on location in the African desert; where I can’t beg, borrow, or steal enough ice for one lousy gin-n-tonic.  Jesus, kill me if I EVER agree to a location film again.  Oh,  those biting flies.  That stupid schmuck kid sent to get stinking ointment from town- didn’t work worth shit- so the ninny stood off camera fanning flies away with a feather duster - limp wristed little fairy !

I care less about all these lackeys. ‘Producer Schlamoosher’- I’m the talent engine bringing in the box office bucks, not those old Jewish monied prep school rejects.  

Those friggin costumes?; HAH, that frump Karen would have wrapped me up to the neck  in safari drag . Doesn’t she know my tits are my ticket to big audiences? Screw her,  I scissored all my wardrobe to show more cleavage.  I’m must be nuts for still schlepping in this rat race.  This little statue better bring  lots more money and damned better picture deals- closer to home and  dear little Carlos, my Puerto Rican pool boy.  Now where can I get a drink in this dump?”

Margie

Margie

Margie had a great big heart.

a first generation American born Swede,

She grew up in a large family on a rural farm.

Life was frugal and hard, but she was a happy child.

Margie thought she’d end up a farmer’s wife, but she managed to get herself an education, graduating from High School in town.

Then a city boy named Paul stole her heart and together they started a family , having twins.

But the girls died shortly after a premature birth.

So they tried again and successfully had a son.

Two years later their big plans came to abrupt end when Paul’s heart gave out,

leaving  Margie a widow with no support.

She and her young son moved in with Lillian and Harry, a kindly couple

and  Margie went to work.

Unskilled , Margie got what work she could, operating a punch press in a factory making card table chairs.

Young, lonely, and in need of support she gravitated to a new relationship, marrying again.

Husband Dick and she had another son, but it turned out Dick loved his car far more than Margie .That marriage failed and Margie again was back to operating a factory piece-work job, this time making sewing machine parts .

Margie now had two children to provide for herself as Dick was also a deadbeat.

She put her oldest son through college working in that factory stretching the budget so

far in support of that son’s education that she and younger son John lived on beans for a year.

John went astray doing drugs in Vietnam. He received a Navy discharge.

He broke Margie’s heart, but she still supported him working and doing without herself.

Finally, he “found Jesus” and moved east.

Margie reached retirement . The factory honored her 30 some years service with a cake and a pin.

Margie moved in with her older son .

She had long dreamed of being able to go to Hawaii.

It was her fervent heart’s desire, but knew she could not afford it. 

So, Margie found joy in belonging to “Women of the Moose,” social organization.

Her heart swelled with pride in being elected the “Senior Regent,” head of that group.

Margie thought it her greatest honor.

Still, anytime she would hear of a friend’s vacation to Hawaii, Margie’s heart would ache.

So her eldest son sent her there on a long vacation.

It was all she talked about for the next two years.

Then, Margie was struck with multiple strokes.

Paralyzed on one side with no speech Margie spent her days in a nursing home.

She tried to hang on , but her big heart was so weak it couldn’t sustain even her thin   body.

Margie died only a year after the strokes,

but she left fulfilled in having made her dream trip to Hawaii.

In honor of My Mother, Marguerite Wendt Rakow (Margie) 1912-1984

MY "WENCH"

We rhapsodize over leaves,                                             

create odes to sunsets,

but give wrenches less notice

than even rocks.

Wrenches comes in sizes and shapes and colors,

just like people,

but no one give prejudices to a wrench

or talks about their longevity

or competence

or beauty

or usefulness.

Wrenches don’t wither and change with the season.

They don’t tire of us.

They are always faithfully there

when they are needed

Wrenches share similarity to the challenged girl

who never gets asked to dance,

unless she is the last resort

necessary to help with

an upcoming school math test.

Today, I took my own “Channel Lock,”

polished her with gun oil,

gently wiped her,

and sat for a moment

pondering her repose

upon a yellow rag of a towel.

I placed her gently back into

my tool bag with her other friends,

and looked out my window

at the beautiful fall leaves outside.

-Jerry Wendt 2017