Christmas For Erane Scully

I am filled with Christmas Spirit today. Long time friend and author Erane Scully is dying . She is comfortable as can be in a nursing facility, but, at 93, is frail and failing.(now with Leukemia) Erane has always loved horses. They have been a big part of her life. Actually, at age 13 her Mom took her to Poland in the summer of 1939 to spend the season at her uncles large horse ranch as reward for good school grades. Before they could travel home that week, Germany bombed Poland and the war was on. They could not get out by any method and that is when they were captured and taken to Siberia to a Russian labor camp until the war ended. Erane has written two books on her experience. Knowing this love of horses I called my good friend Diane Wlezien. Diane has miniature horses which are licensed as therapy animals. I prevailed upon her to bring one of the little horses to visit Erane in the Nursing Home. Diane had to regret as the cold, snowy and icy weather made it very difficult to get the horse in and out of trailer- plus she had no grant for this particular facility for her horses. Drat. But just this Wednesday, Diane called me. Weather this weekend was projected sunny and 40° ... and she had called the Nursing Home Administrator and gotten authority to bring the horse. TODAY Saturday- a GOLDEN day, as we visited Erane (having a rare good day) and wheeled her bundled out to meet her little visitor. She was elated and could not stop with the effusive thanks. Both pal Jan Bosman and I were deeply touched. A better Christmas we could not have given our dear friend. This was a very very happy day. BIG thanks to Diane and husband Mike for their gracious efforts to make this Christmas joyful for our dying old friend !

A Visit From St Nicholas

T was the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap;
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be Saint Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and Saint Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Saint Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”





-Clement Clarke Moore

Farewell

I found her in there, along one of those endless spider leg corridors radiating from a central nursing hub.  In her “home” surrounded by vestiges of her life tacked up as photos on her walls, She sat surrounded by a gaggle of chittering octogenarian handmaidens.  It appeared she was having scant endurance of their ministrations. 

Sitting up bare-toed (They have to breathe, you know) she appeared as a frail, tired, ravaged and slumping splat of humanity.  She did not first recognize me in spite of our close history.  But when I spoke my name, she brightened, smiled and exclaimed, “Jerry,... my Jerry!”  While the harpies chortled, “This is Jerry, the boyfriend, oh how nice to met you !”  

They finally found other pressing business and, with a flurry of platitudes, took leave.

Now,  Erane and I freely talked as friends.  She kept nodding off but would awake at my voice, responding she was not tired.  I spoke disbelief of her feint.  She  sighed and related that she is finished; at her desired end.  I sensed this was a mind yearning to wander free, to leave this leukemic body of 93 years behind.  Now her shell was just a constraint, one she felt trapped within.  I asked her directly “ Are you ready to die?”.

“Yes”, she told me in her weak but convicted voice.

"There is no family left, nothing more I want to do, and the loneliness, the ever present loneliness drains me.  I want release.”

She is not in pain and they are kind to her in this place of endings.  Her home is filled with nursing compassion, and friends bring concern... but love has left her life.  

This day was so about saying goodbye.  Erane said to me “I love you, we have had so very many good times.”

I kissed her what we both knew was probably our last time, and I left, tears withheld until out of her sight.

My words tore away from inside me “Dear Erane, I so hope for your Peace. You have been such a special lady to me. ” 

 I drove home from this agonizing day.

The Fires Inside

Each Years snowy accumulations
bring seemingly deeper cold to old bones
Colors fade frozen and steps plod more arduous.

Inside fires still burn bright
stoked strong by friendships that fuel
whatever youth resides.

Smiles can still vent out
from the comfort
provided in warmth. 











Sustenance by love’s bounty inside us.

-Jerry Wendt 2018

Mrs Seduma's Garden

There was just something wrong .  Oh, the house was not one of those stereotypical , spooky old  Gothic Victorians, worn to weathered gray with broken steps and  intimidating iron gates. This was a sedate
large Georgian style mansion of brick.  And the  people living there ? 

Handyman Konstantinos managed to keep up with the landscaping, except for the side rose garden which was so overgrown so as not to really clearly see much of the statuary so prevalent amongst the bushes.  Inside, Mrs Xenakis tended to her mistress Mrs Seduma .  It was just the three of them in that big old home. 

Folks did say they were a bit odd and kept to themselves, but they didn’t seem more than, well, weird.  As kids, pals Norman, Joey, and Skeeter remembered going to the secluded old place at the end of Oak lined Provencal Lane in Grosse Pointe Farms every Halloween. 

Housekeeper Mrs Xenakis would greet them , presenting a large bowl of wrapped Bakalava, leading them to a large  parlor where  Lady Basileus Seduma sat veiled in a large wingback  chair, facing the baronial blazing hearth with her back to the entrance.  A large gilded mirror was propped up to the side wall, and it was in this that she, or at least her reflection, engaged the celebrants with a warm greeting before sending them back to their revelry.  It was strange , but old people tend to have strange habits.  The impetus to keep going back was that Mrs Xenakis was blind and never seemed to notice “Trick or Treaters” taking a couple extra of the delicious Baklava.

Mrs Seduma got her groceries through Peapod and evidently did her shopping online as well. Fedex provided  daily deliveries.  Basileus was rarely observed outside.  It was evident Seduma had mobility as she could be seen from outside, walking around inside with little effort for one so old. Her only observed affectation being she never was without wearing a turban (It was conjectured she suffered alopecia),  and it was ascertained by the constant jerky movements of her head that she had palsy or some nervous disorder.

For the most part neighbors just shrugged off an eccentric old Greek lady, left her alone, and went on with their lives.  She was rarely even topic of conversation after so long.

But of those former neighborhood pals, Joey Oerkfitz had matured into a nefarious adult; one that had fallen on hard times.  But he did remember that rich old Greek lady living with a blind housekeeper and a now feeble old handyman .  Thinking this was easy pickings,  the thief came back to Grosse Pointe , choosing Hallow’s eve to plan a home invasion and robbery while the old woman Seduma was occupied with her costumed visitors.

Sneaking thru the darkened rose garden, he jimmied the kitchen French doors, entered,...

And the lights came on !  It was Lady Seduma herself !  She knew what was happening instantly.  She stared at Joey intently with piercing laser eyes, simultaneously unwinding her turban to reveal- a headress of live, writhing snakes.  Joey instantly and  literally froze on the spot.

No one  saw old Konstantinos arduously wrangle a new statue into the Rose garden later that night.  Joey, because of his distrustful nature, had few friends and was never missed or inquired after.

The surprise is that Mrs Seduma,  even with her quirkiness, never caused a soul to deduce that her name was but an anagram for none other than the descendent of one of the three ancient Greek Gorgan sisters...MEDUSA-(Least of all Joey, whose statue stands overgrown by lovely hybrid “Just Joey” roses, gracing the garden of Mrs Seduma in perpetuity)

Postscript

Greek Mythology has it that there were three Gorgon sisters , Euryale, Stheno, and Medusa .

Medusa and her sisters  were originally ravishingly beautiful maidens, especially Medusa; called "the jealous aspiration of many suitors," but Poseidon had raped her in Athena's temple, making her pregnant.  Her sisters stood with her against Athena’s indignation, causing the  enraged Athena to transform all three sisters beautiful hair to serpents , and making their faces so terrible to behold that the mere sight of them would turn onlookers to stone.  She additionally made Medusa mortal and then later sent Perseus to behead her.

So , while Medusa was dead , there remains the possibility that she gave birth before her death , thus giving the world an immortal female child that still carried part of Athena’s curse forever.

There are still conflicting stories as to Medusa among historians to this day but, with the exception of the last paragraph, which is my totally my own conjecture, this version is most popular                                                                   
                                                                                                       - Jerry Wendt 2018

Shuffled Connections

The whistle and whine of winter winds managed to finagle through thick stone walls of the old castle, causing candlelight to flicker upon the Count, seated  in a blood red velvet chair before the massive fireplace.  He had seen the crowd’s tumult earlier in the village below, and knew an uprising had begun.  His careless and frequent excursions had instigated the confrontation now brewing.  From the old distorting windows he saw torches snake their way up mountain path, and soon, soon there would be... a sudden crash and the oaken door yielded , bursting inward,  revealing...

Sharecropper Jonas returning home from his dusty baking day in the tobacco fields.  A tortuous summer with a dearth of rain on the Midwestern plains had all but parched the broad leaves.  Without moisture, there would be no crop.   Jonas’ wife May was engaged in best effort stretching a meager pot roast, adding  potatoes and cabbage  to appease the groaning stomachs of her family.  Children Merle and Thaddeus sat at the old table balancing homework and play, with the boy writing on small chalkboard, or little Merle, dressing her clothespin doll family in worn bits of gingham and calico.  Jonas heralded his basso greeting as his kids jumped to hug him, almost knocking him over.  This was his life, and, as tough as it was, May and adoring children made his spotlight of happiness here in the Oklahoma dust bowl.  He thought of his future course,...

If only they could repair the solar shields, his ship could slow to necessary velocity allowing slingshot around the sun heading to Jupiter’s outermost moon of Eros , their destination where mysterious signals were emanating from. But now, Captain Hartwell knew his first priority was to awaken several crew from  hybersleep to help get the navigation computer back online, bringing back control  necessary for them to complete their mission.  He set the resuscitation module calibrations on their pods, and went to check on the organic crop bay to set a faster cycle to produce enough food for the now larger crew’s long journey ahead.  Hartwell  floated through several air locks to the bay  and took a cursory look through its viewport  into the agri-chamber .  Amongst the lush foliage he was astonished to see...

A gilded coach pulled by four resplendent unicorns, attended to by 4 bewigged coachmen.  “ I knew it,” Lord Timothy said, “I was sure my Princess would find me . My memory is returning from that fall from my steed Cairnwoven onto my head. It’s all coming back .  She surely remembered my childhood home here in the woods and has come looking for me here.  Oh, thanks be to woodland fairies for showing her the way back to my heart.  I just still have a nagging , aching head and can’t remember when ..”

Blackness suddenly shrouded Timothy as light dwindled .  He felt a  a shake on his shoulders as his Princess tried rousing him. …

A circle of light shown upon him in the darkness as Agnes, the librarian was in front of him shining a flashlight,

 “Timmy, you must have fallen asleep back here all alone between the stacks, and I didn’t see you until now, doing my final walk around.  If you have decided which of these books piled in front of you you’d like to take home, I’ll still take time to check you out, but, otherwise, it’s time for you to be on your way home as the Library is closed now.  I’m sure happy I did a thorough check or you would have been locked in here all night, I’m afraid.  “

With that, a sheepish Tim loped out the library door into the night, still a bit forlorn he had collapsed right in front of his beloved Princess.


-Jerry Wendt 2018

Indivisible

Independence Day Ruminations of an Old Man 

In childhood I was stirred by the parade, seeing the proud faces of old soldiers, hearing the brass and drums of marching bands, and seeing so many flags wave.
There was awe in sitting in the grass with the rest of my hometown watching the impressive pyrotechnic “battle in the woods,” and I was genuinely stirred in seeing the entirety of the “union’ in all lighting a match ora candle together  long before it caught on with phones at concerts.  All this among hamburgers,  Jello salad and a hot summers day. Yes, patriotism became ingrained as pride integral to my being.

Yesterday , an old man, I sat before my television watching the spectacles from New York and Boston, while I heard outside bomb bursts  from the local display at Lions Park down my road.  I am still impressed by the orchestration of popular patriotic songs.  I can still marvel at the “Oooh-Ahhh: aerial displays, now orchestrated to music.  My heart can almost burst right along with the cannon at the end of Overture of1812.  I still feel so much a part of this Union.

But this year, as the long admired Rita Moreno read from the Lazarus poem, “The New Colossus,”  as inscribed upon a plaque on the Statue of Liberty, a gift to us from France, the cameras televised pans of the assembled crowds, and it was in this moment all came flooding upon me. Here, along the Charles River, were faces of families, of couples, of young adults, of children and of new babies.  There were diverse ethnicities .  Indians, Slavs, Blacks, Asians.  There were gay couples holding one another, families huddled with bundled babies, adolescent girls in silly costumes, teens mugging for the camera, lovers, seniors.  Such diversity.  Together, listening to these words-

“The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Emma Lazarus
November 2, 1883

All while hearing and seeing this,  I was suddenly saddened by the intrusions
of the past year.  A Wall separating us from our long ally Mexico.  Travel embargos for Middle East citizens. Trade penalties with long time allies.  Denial of refuge for those seeking asylum.  Separation of children from parents.  These and SO MANY other things.

President Trump : you are shredding the fabric of our country,  gradually stealing away our “union.”   No one gave you or voted you this power.  It cannot be given away or taken, because “Union” resides in the whole of us , all these immigrants who forged this grand land intent on “Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness”  It is not within your powers to drain us, to dismantle our “whole”  You must be throttled. Stopped.

You are shamed as a thief and rapist of our country, our union.  You are racist and fail to represent the common good, your charged duty. I will stand to do what I can to confront you, to resist you and to call you out for the egotistical scoundrel you are.

Our country must remain Indivisible.

Indivisible, Mr Trump, Indivisible. These are dire times

-Jerry Wendt 2018

Forest

-jerry Wendt 2018

Titans have fallen here, and died,
unmourned in solitude.
Indeed, is there even God here where
light of Heaven never falls upon congregation,
and few tread the thick rich loamy layers of death ?

There abides here rich bounty of life,
it scurries, crawls, burrows and slithers,
while above, feathers flutter forth
when outside world sends
currents of wind to sway sentinels.

Sustenance is plentiful, 
shared shelter and strife.
Overall, this vaulted nave
serves cathedral to eternal mother
and maternal forbearance.

This is a place of cycles,
eternal bliss and blight.
It endures and provides.
Surely there is Holiness
abiding in this shadowed temple

Waiting

I knew when the time would be right.  My brothers and sister had been nagging at me for awhile, jostling me, nudging me forward and chattering my head off .  But I wasn’t quite ready. Change is hard to indulge.  Especially when things have been so good as is- just lying in the soft warm lap pf luxury, with not a care in the world, being fed and quenched with no concern.  This aura of well-being was difficult to challenge.

But I knew it was near an end.  The season was changing.  Things were getting warmer.  The big maple was greening and lush sweetness was in the air. More to point was a yearning within me; inner urges to spread my wings and fly alone, seeking my own world of adventure beyond this nest.  I wanted to make my own way, feel my own rewarding efforts to carry me up and forward to new discoveries.  I was becoming bored and impatient.

My brothers and sister had already found their independence.  They had found  their own way, leaving me now the sole one remaining at home.  My physical nature had also changed giving me substance and color.  I had muscle, stamina and resolve.  However it was easier to just stay comfortably safe and sound without all the sibling prodding and verbal urging compelling me to make the move.

But I knew it was necessary.  Mom had given me impetus by leaving me alone more and more, moving forward with her own life.  I also wasn’t getting meals as often.  This was all part of her counsel that it was time for me to leave the nest. I felt I could not fulfill my own destiny without making earnest effort.  To really try and, once and for all, steel myself with enough nerve to make a positive move.

I was alone at home. As a spring breeze urged me forward,  I moved to the edge.  I knew this was my time.  I had been conditioning myself for this moment .  I had confidence.  Bravery was within me, finally.  I readied myself, moved forward.  My wait was over.  This was the time and moment of decision

I leaped into my future, new wings urgent and strong with purposeful movement.
I faltered.  Oh NO- please give me strength.  I was in spiral.  A bit upward, then a fluttering descent. My first valiant effort ended in disgrace plopped into a pile of leaves heaped on the ground.  I was O.K., but my pride was wounded.  Well, I would rest a few minutes, gather my resolve and try again.  All wasn’t lost, just a bit longer of a wait.

But creeping stealthily forward was another who had been  waiting.  A gray tabby was cautiously excited.  For days she had come below and looked up anxiously for the brood to come to her.  They were too high up to make the effort to climb to.  Besides, there were plenty of mice and moles right at paws reach right below in her earthly domain.  So she had bided her time.  Tabby had returned daily to see the robins leave their nest , wings urgently flapping... and then the lift, up up and away.  Darn.   Each one another frustration and waste of time. 

But today, today, there was opportunity.  Her patience and stalking had proved rewarding.  She crept forward . She pounced.
The newly minted robin saw her danger, It was instinctive.  She made mighty effort, lifting a bit, And again,  And again.  But exhausted, she seemed tethered to the ground. And then, her time was past.  It was a short life, ended too soon . Tabby cat had found a delicious reward.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of leaves  stirred up by beating wings as eagle talons swooped down and grasped in death grip , changing predator into prey .  As the mighty bird arced upward above the canopy with the catch of the day, we are left with an empty nest and our thoughts;

“All things come to he who waits,”
and, then again,
“He who hesitates is lost.”   
But, perhaps, most apt,
“Destiny waits for no man” (or beast)