Kevin's Rainy Spring Day

 

It’s a rainy April day.

Kevin nags to go outside,

but Mom knows this means extra work

mopping wet muddy floors,

making a hot lunch to warm cold bones,

and a dryer load of wet Kevin.

But Kevin wails on

and, in spite of diversion

with TV cartoons,

and that fishing show he likes;

whining insistence wins,

and Kevin gets his way.

Flannels under the yellow slicker,

warm socks, and rubber boots,

with admonition to not “go crazy,” 

splashing in mud puddles,

Kevin is sent out, warned to heed

“Kevin, it’s time to come in.”  

Quickly, Kevin’s world just opens up

like nearby tulips just straining to bloom.

The rain makes ping ping ping on his rubberized jacket,

and Kevin immediately “goes crazy,”

 jumping in the first big enticing mud puddle.

Ah, yes;  freedom !

His smile grows when he sees Kimberly Caseman

just down the street, all resplendent in flowery pink rain poncho,

her blond ringlets under a hoodie, in turn under a Dora hat.

She struggles with her umbrella trying to hold on

as she does “double Dutch” to swings

of rope twirled urgently by Cece and Ellie .

Kevin’s vision narrows to Kim’s coquettish smile

as she sees Kevin and gets caught in twisting rope.

Kevin sees his opportunity and immediately

makes grand splashes in a particularly inviting puddle,

drawing the girls all into a conga line of puddle splashing,

to many girly giggles, and secret satisfaction by a posturing Kevin.

But Kim and Cece and Ellie quickly

lose interest in this boyish diversion,

and leave to stroll down and watch 

through the rivulet drawn-upon beauty shop window,

as salon women inside go through harried rigors of fashion,

being washed, pulled, wrapped, and combed.

Kevin has lost his audience,

and puddles have lost their fascination.

That rain is really getting cold,

so Kevin goes in, 

knowing Mom has hot soup

and dry clothes.

With promise of more rainy days,

for now, inside, with his fishing show; 

just looking outside the rain spotted window,

and with maybe a nap under the warm sofa throw,

are all just cool enough for Kevin,

spending the rest of this rainy spring day. 

Pondering Taycheedah

Black and white uniform

birch sentries stand 

along view denying fog

shrouding an older GMC, 

odious grayward rumbling,

trundling, along chassis pelting 

gravel road, sounding cadence to 

a timeless sad blue tide inside. 

Soon through a strong iron gate,

disgorging more tidal denial to

the dark cerulean ocean inside

Taycheedah Correctional.

Only processing serves welcome

as cold fishy eyes consider bleak future.

There are no clocks,

only regimen to ponder

isolation constrains

for some a reckless 

wanton adolescence,

netted by some usury lover,

Or swimming to selfish greed,

perhaps yet even moral disregard .

All this bland flotsam floating 

unnoticed by our world

still cries out to color

an unlistening world:

You cannot imprison 

hope.                                                - Jerry Wendt 2021

Taycheedah is a Federal Prison for women in Wisconsin

    

 To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Having my Covid first vaccination , I noticed a sore shoulder; expected and similar to the annual flu shot.  But, I also noticed a feeling of fatigue; Being tired.  So at 5:30, I turned in.  The usual senior restroom visits punctuated my sleep until 12:02am .  ( I remember looking at the bathroom clock) In a drowsy completion of my business, I went back to bed and fell back asleep very quickly.  And this is where my story starts.

I was in a car with office associates giving me a offered lift to the train station,  but got diverted in conversation, and went about two miles out of the way, whereupon driver Tommy let me out to walk back, while they continued home.  It was country highway and on one side there were large modern homes, but on this other side it was long stretch of abandoned old homesteads all about a century old.  Already late, and in no hurry, I took interest in these venerable old estates , wondering what life in them had be like.  I walked up a particularly appealing one and found a basement built-out old door open.  I stepped inside.

It was all old timbers and hewn joists. and smelled in mustiness of neglect and aged wood, but it was mostly clean , except for dust.  Most of the rooms were bare excepting small bits of left behind bits and pieces. Nothing of interest.  “One more door and I leave,” I said, entering a corner room .

This room was all shelves , with paper folders sandwiched together on them like in the old days; doctor’s patient files.  I took one down and it was bills, statements , and letters filed from some long ago industrial firm.  Many had cursory, almost calligraphic, writings,  so I knew them to be very old.  Many were deteriorating and dog eared.  I saw dates back to the 1800's.

No interest here, so I delved into another shelf in a different stack. Wow, I was astounded .  Opening a folder I found sheets of paper.  Deteriorating, wrinkled; torn and dog-eared  All with watercolor depictions, along with hand written poetry on the pages; stunning, delicate paintings with delightful, inspiring words.  I was smitten.  I leafed through many and then into a similar neighboring file, I found many were inscribed with the name Robert Casey.  The man had such talent.  Further browsing found dates.  Mostly 1905 and years around that one.  I spent what had to be a long, long time leafing through regaled at these priceless treasures.

They had better to deserve by being in the public domain.  To have others enjoy them.  Guilty only for a scant moment, I took one stuffed folder and made my exit.

I woke up.  It was 3:30 in the morning, an unheard of length of time for me to slumber through.  The dream endured in my memory, although I have no recollection of anyone named Robert Casey,, a similar road and old houses, or ever seeing a folder of poems and watercolors.  This had to have been constructed from a shuffling of mind in the subconscious.  I took time to make brief notes of my journey , writing them down on an envelope, knowing if I did not right then and there, by morning it would all have flown away. 

So was this a result of some Covid vaccination affect?  A random confluence of some forgotten memories?  I do not know , nor do I have reason to delve further.  The trip was so real and so wonderful, and this writing will serve as my memory jog of the vast strangeness of the human mind, and of our extant creative ability.  Yes, it was all in color.  And , geez, the beauty of those watercolors.... 

-Jerry Wendt 2021

The scribbled jot down