Unanswered Prayers

Unanswered Prayers

A pictureque faded red barn,

sun-stained and time faded,

 reposes amongst shady verdant poplars

with natty squawking chickens

running beneath,

chased by a ginger-haired boy

In riveted scuffed denim overalls,

in a cloud-studded breezy scene

encompassing a white clapboard

farm house festooned inside with

gingham on windows

that overlook vistas of tall corn tassels

with fat crows

roosting in field boundary bushes

to no notice of lazy cows

grazing in adjacent pastures.

All parts of a pastoral picture

on an old farm bureau calendar

tacked up on a grimy gray wall

inside a linoleum floor kitchen

part of a shack next to the coal fields

in rural Pennsylvania

where a work worn woman

in raggedy flowered chenille robe

irons her one “good” dress

which she will wear to her

only social outing at Church Sunday

where, amongst her too loud

“Hosannas’,” she will pray for a day

when that farm would be real.

                                                                                                       -Jerry Wendt 2016

Of Consequence

Flags flew full staff today. 
Here was no cortege,
nor muffled cannon barrage.
Flowers were omitted,
and no one wept,
for it was a box elder bug
that passed from this realm
in my bathroom
where it sought warmth on my floor.
A flailing of legs,
turning round and round in futility.
slowed to a halt.
A death-held carcass remained in front of me .
But this passing caused me pause,
as bigger part of a grand plan.
 Because I bore witness
and wrote this eulogy,
a commentary of  transition,
this hapless creature
that was not the less of myself,
and belonged as much as I ,
will realize profound legacy:

a life of notable consequence
within these lines.      

                                                                                                                Jerry Wendt 2016

Enigma

Enigma

( Finding God in a 1956 Buick)

Moist cool grass cradles me lying face up in shaded lawn spot on a hot summer day when a muted rumble, not a vibration as with oncoming train, rouses me from lazy contemplation of my mind’s formed personifications in puffy clouds above me. I sit upright.

 Here comes a looming large shiny black chariot, too grand to be called a car, dripping in chrome and presence, as it eases under boulevard canopy of dappled light to curbside in front of me, with just a muffled protest of white sidewall tires voicing a scuff against curb, gliding to placid halt.

Then silence. No movement.

Curious, I stand, and walk slowly toward this ominous arrival.  I see my reflection in opaque windows that prevent me from looking inside, even as I press very close.

Then, a whine, as glass recedes downward, releasing cool, conditioned air smelling of French lavender and freshly washed sheets from inside, into my flaring nostrils.  I am excited. What has this conveyance brought here?  A learned judge?  A celebrity?   A lost soul?  Curiosity leaps unbridled in my heart as I lean yet closer. 

Only one sits on the commodious leather rear seat, facing away.  I fully feel the coolness now. It is like viewing a sanctuary inside there. Calm and shaded and mysterious.

“May I help You?”  I implore, anxious to see what character has arrived in this magnificent sedan.

No response. No turn toward me.

I shudder. Goosebumps. What lies in store?  What does this being want of me? What is his purpose? I feel strange, but calmer now, as if a peace has shrouded me.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, this richly dressed, almost formally enrobed figure turns, and the face slides from veiled shadows into my view.

I am transfixed, startled, astounded. And scared shitless.

I am looking at myself. It is my own countenance gazing back at me. It is I.   How can this be? 

Before I can rebound and formulate a question, there comes a smile from the “car me”

“No thank you, I am just looking,” comes in voice, or maybe a thought, or perhaps from intuition.

 I cannot discern if actual words were formed.  But I can feel the presence.  Whatever the format, the delivery came with a sense of omnipotence, of reassurance, of all-feeling, all-seeing.

Frozen, I watch the window rise with a soft whir and then a solid thud as it closes, again shutting me outside, alone, to ponder it all, as the car pulls from the curb to continue down the boulevard.

Shapes and light slide me back to the now. I am lying on the grass, looking up again at clouds.  Did I nod off? Was there ever a car?

Or did I gaze ever so briefly into God’s eyes?      

                                                                              - Jerry Wendt 2016

6 levels of Photoshop to portray this graphic of "God in a '56 Buick"

Lake Geneva memoir

In my early forties I used to really try to get off work in time for an earlier train to allow for a drive up to Lake Geneva for dinner with a small group of friends.  We generally would meet at either the venerable Shore Club on the Lake for fish fry or Fazio’s downtown where a former mob captain held court in a elaborate rococo Italian steak and pasta house. Dinner usually involved catching up on gossip or a discussion of what we would do later.

If we were at Shore Club one of the options involved going across the building to the lounge where a lesbian ( back then a masculine appearing lesbian was tagged a “bull dyke” or a “butch lezzie,” terms that are politically incorrect now, but then were always  used , even by lesbians themselves, with affection) presided at a piano bar. This lady had a extensive and bawdy repertoire masterful in double entendre that grew a substantial gay crowd. Her last performance every night would end with “God Save The Queens(s)” which caused a boisterous uproar amongst our group but was clueless to the straights in the audience.

Another option was Christopher’s.   Chris Brown and his Mom owned a large opulent home near downtown Lake Geneva.  Indulgent Mom allowed Chris to turn part into a gay watering hole.  He only could get a beer license meaning beer was all that could be sold. So Chris served Miller High Life, “The Champagne of bottled beer” as it was called.  And he did it in a very attractive setting.  His former parlor he transformed into a period French salon with velvet settees, potted Areca Palms, and a parquet floor he installed himself, as a replica of the one at Versailles Palace . Outside there was an expansive deck bar with tables and beautiful plantings under old maples surrounded by a trellised fence. It was every so elegant and a sure magnet for the community gay population especially since he installed Kyle, a “find” from one of his eastern seaboard excursions.  Kyle got a bed to share, a Jaguar, and the duties of bartender every weekend. He was very personable and very good looking, making the evenings there fun to watch as Kyle got hit on and Chris fumed and fussed over his infidelities.  A guaranteed “
hoot” we used to say.

Another of our regular choices was the Abbey Resort on the lake.  It attained popularity as a high-line tryst hotel for wealthy Chicagoans and the Lake Geneva yachters clan. But they had one waterside bar where one of our own played piano. Unlike the boisterous Shore Club lounge, The Abbey bar was quiet and romantic. If we wanted a “wind-down” evening, we went there.  In the Abbey the gift shop was owned and run by a friend, Roger Morbeck.  Roger would often come over to join us after he closed his store. 

On evening Roger brought along a friend, a fellow heir to one of the many Chicago potentates of commerce having summer mansions on the lake. Families like Wrigley of chewing gum fame or Swift of meat packing fortune renown.  His name forgotten, I do remember he was a personable fellow. He had a launch on the lake and invited us to his home for  a nightcap.  His parents were away in Germany on some business so he was left stateside in this humungous home. 

Off the pier into the home what stood out to me was a baronial great room with two stone fireplaces and a vaulted beamed ceiling. But more so, in this cavernous space there was a herd of about twenty sheep, so realistic, I was taken aback.  I thought they were a whimsical slant in so traditional a place. I later found they were limited edition 1986 Francois-Xavier Lalanne-designed model sheep. One of these sheep made in the early 80’s sold recently at Sotheby’s for $341,000 and a herd of ten auctioned out at Christies’s for $7.5 million dollars.  I never knew I was looking at such a frivolous fortune.

This is just an appetizer of the adventures in Lake Geneva.

Next up. Dana Montana, her downtown restaurant, the  notorius Sugar shack and her hunky gay son.

Then, the escapades of Robert Quinn, ex fire commissioner of Chicago, and a man with a penchant for S & M and bondage coupled with elegant dinner parties at his Wisconsin getaway. Notably an account of my  attendance one of his famous “yacht races” in the swimming pool

Oh , and I can't forget the saga of Delavan pal Dewey Long who sued and won his suit to work at Milwaukee's Ambrosia Candy Factory as the first male employee on the line. The story there is about the famous , or , rather,infamous, person who was the second male hired there. That is a chilling story, but you'll just have to wait.

Hero

A legend in his service,                 

He has vanquished untold enemies
to fall flaming from the firmament.

He knows not fear,

trusts in his steady hand on the trigger,
and spews trails of Hellfire across the blue.

He never swerves away,

from straight-on stalwart races
toward oncoming, strafing doom.

He is ever valiant in his quest to uphold

honor, freedom, and liberty,
from all oppressors in life.

He will forge justice from his blazing wings

and, after a rousing day of relentless battle,
a grateful nation will reward the returning hero

with milk and cookies before bed.

-Jerry Wendt 2016

Diversion

Scents of bleach                                                                 

carried by breezes,

from bed sheets

flouncing on clotheslines

propped above

a young boy,

mesmerized by an ant

crawling through a jungle

of new mown grass.

Connections to

his growing world,

interrupted

by Mom,

calling for a stop

to this dawdle.

“There’s work

to be done,

and the mower won’t

work by itself.”

- Jerry Wendt 2016

Supermarket Surprise

Supermarket Surprise

Salad course with cold asparagus and isoelectric dressing. sliced roasted almonds and cheese twists

I was hosting a dinner party with a few good friends, and, with working long hours in the City with a lengthy commute,  I didn’t have much time to prepare.  I had managed to get the entrée, “Julia’s” Beef Stew, done and sitting in a Dutch Oven in the fridge, which was good as Stew needs a rest for flavors to infuse. But here it was, Saturday, the day of the occasion and I still needed to get a few produce items for the salad and the dinner wines.

I went to the Grocer’s early in the morning and had my selected wines, 3 bottles each of a white and a red, in my cart, and was in the produce section for some Romaine when a well dressed matron approached me.  This was not a lady seeking direction to the Dijon as I could see she was frowning.  She looked me in the eyes and said, “Decent folk don’t drink this early in the morning, don’t you know that?” 

I was so caught off guard I was not up to a witty reply.  I flummoxed, “ I’m buying wine for dinner  guests this evening.”

She “Harrumphed” me, retorting, “  No, you’re not, you’re a drunk !”

I was aghast, but “madam”  simply turned and carted away with a passing aside,

“And you are obviously not in control in other areas, like your eating habits, as well.”

I stood there, Inert, for a good five minutes, trying to shake this slight off, but it stayed with me all day.  There was simply no reckoning as to the motivation or lack of censure of this woman.  I have endured my share of insult in life but none ever startled me as much as this impromptu harangue by a stranger.

The dinner party was elegant and went well, but a large topic of conversation was what I now call my “Supermarket Surprise.”   I tell you that ‘bitch’ had no throttle at all.

-Jerry Wendt