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

Berry Patch

 

Behind old closed Bauer Oil Company
lay a field too overgrown for most,
untended by long gone owners,
but treasured by me;
though only in high summer.

Clad in denim and long sleeve flannel,
defying the cruel sun
to avoid stickers and skeeters,
I would venture forth,
entangled within branches of thorns.

Armed with my big plastic bucket, 
unwieldy in the carry,
dragging unstuck from branches
behind me as I trudged
to my intended destiny.

Turning back the lush shadowing foliage were berries,
vast bounty of black raspberries,
clusters each with plump red-black ripeness,
and others white, turning to pink, 

beckoning to return soonest to another ripe crop.

I would meander through with glee,
my secret treasure unknown here right in town.
I’d pick and taste, pick and taste,
fingers purple ,pleasuring mouth with a sour sweetness,
savoring the ambrosia of my forage.

The bucket full, wiping sweated forehead,
I’d trundle home, hoping not to be discovered,
by prying neighbors wanting to know
the what and where of my bounty.
I’d slip inside and shed soaked skin to coolness

After brief respite it was time.
Separating unripened berries and wayward leaves out,
berries measured into bowls and bags, destined for pies and crisps,
others frozen to another day’s enjoyment,
my journey was both satisfying and annual rite of passage.

My “ownsomeness” while privately rewarded
was passed forward ,sharing efforts to thankful friends
and reaping reward for that charity,
while keeping to myself this custodianship.

holding to kindred spirit with my private earth.

For such a small thing
this berry picking lives beyond, 
so that Bauer being long razed,
And the property now new City Hall,
The memory still causes salivation. 

L-1011, Phoenix, and Burgers on the Plane

The Lockheed L1011 Tristar was a milestone aircraft.  It was sleek and looked elegant. It had innovative safety features and automated landing system and advanced avionics.  It was a widebody 3 engine aircraft with a lower level galley and elevators.

Back in the 1950's Lockheed had bet its future of the Electra 4 engine turboprop.  It was a luxurious speedy and powerful aircraft but it was the dawn of the jet age.  Boeing introduced the 707 jet and it captivated the world.  Douglas and its DC-8 and Convair and its Coronado 880 followed in rapid succession leaving the now passe' Lockheed prop plane with no orders.  It was a set back that lasted over 11 years.  

Then,  American Airlines set out specifications for a three engine jet. At that time Law required two engine aircraft to fly only within 30 minutes of an airport, leaving them forbidden for transoceanic travel.  Lockheed saw the opportunity and immediately went to work engineering the Tri-star as it’s financial salvation.  The plane was well on its way to certification when Rolls Royce went insolvent and the engine problems delayed Lockheed.  Meanwhile Douglas realizing they were behind, stepped up development of its three engine DC-10 and the plane went from paper to flight certification in a unheard of ten months.  It had intrinsic design problems that were to plague it.  The freight doors had hinge problems that causes them to ter away causing several notable fatal crashes .The electrical and control cables were in the main cabin floor over the cargo hold and when pressure differences caused the floor to buckle, controls world sever making for a irreversible loss of aircraft control.  Douglas put great effort into solving the problems .  It was, at basic levels,  inferior to the Lockheed aircraft, but Lockheed had two major hindrances. First, American Airlines still opted to buy the much cheaper DC-10 and others feel in line hindering Lockheed sales to TWA, Eastern (who bankrupted shortly after) and Delta Airlines.  Second design weight became an issue with the reality of heavier load weights than anticipated.  The plane was underpowered and slower.  I recall early on, when TWA was operating the 1011's to hot climates like Phoenix and Las Vegas, many times high temps would cause the airline to block off seats to allow for a maximum takeoff weight to enable hi temperature take off.  In the end the loss of sales caused Lockheed to never recover as a commercial aircraft manufacturer and the Tri-star was the last commercial aircraft they would ever build.

In 1977, TWA wanted to promote it’s new “darling” aircraft and so, as one of their largest accounts, our company was invited to a junket to Phoenix.  Also given our business volume, unlike other familiarization trips TWA organized, we were allowed to customize ours as to schedule, hotel, food, etc.  So we had accommodation at the small Royal Palms Hotel on Camelback which was privately owned and was a luxury boutique hotel that was having difficulty competing with the new mega resorts being built in Scottsdale.  But it was unique property with “casitas” as well as standard hotel rooms .  It had a old Southwest vibe with a small golf course attached, gardens, two pools and a nice restaurant with terrazzo called Orangerie.  It sat right on Camelback Road with a  grand view of Camelback Mountain. We had negotiated rates there and it was offered in our Phoenix travel packages, so we were given Royal reception.  The trip featured a jeep tour through the Sonoran desert, dinner at touristy Pinnacle Peaks with a ceiling of cut-off neck ties and a  western shoot-out in the cowboy town shopping area , a fabulous sunset dinner seated in carved out areas on the side of the mountain at The Pointe at Tapatio Cliffs, and shopping at the fabulous Fashion Square Mall (where they had a perfumer "nose" to concoct unique scents .  

One attraction we were intent on was to see the new first Star Wars Movie “A New Hope” which premiered that May.  The hype was tremendous and the crowds unheard of .Given Phoenix heat we decided a midnight showing would be our shot.  So did most everyone else.  The lines stretched around the block.  It was still almost 90 degrees out By the time we neared the front of the line they announced the only few seats available were the first two rows.  We took them.  So late in May 1977 I sat in the front row of a Phoenix theater tired from the busy day watching this fantabulous film looking up at the screen a few yards in front of me.  I left thrilled but with a tremendous neck ache and headache .  But we saw it.

Finally going home , we were hungry and not knowing if the airline was serving full lunch we got shopping bags full of Big Macs and fries from McDonald’s on the way to the airport.  TWA h ad set up our L1011 with the aircraft’s innovative wonderful feature that allowed for first class seats in the center section to swivel , setting up a luncheon seating around tables they could position on floor mountings.  So here we were,  seated around three tables for four, with our McDonald’s food.  After takeoff Cabin attendants serving drinks came to take our food order.  We opted, instead for our McDonald’s, which Cabin staff didn’t mind, as it made their job easier.  Other First cabin passengers smelled the burgers and fries and a couple asked if they could have that.  Given we had these shopping bags of burgers we said sure, so most of that flight that day had a first class meal of McDonald’s burgers.  That story alone made the trip noteworthy.  It was another epic journey

Poolside at The Royal Palms

Pinnacle :eak cowboy town  shops

Pinnacle Peak restaurant with cut off neck ties on ceiling

The Point at Tapatio Cliffs where seating is in areas carved out of the mountainside

Tapatio Cliffs dining outside at sunset

Jeep tour of Sonoran desert

Our wild and crazy group with President Sid far left at the Royal Palms

Poolside at the Royal Palms

Our Homeward bound Lockheed Tri-Star

First class on L-1011 with center swivels that can have a table installed...

Dining tables where the repast in our case was......

Big Mac's and fries for all !

One Night By A Koi Pond

The Koi Ponds at Honolulu Pagoda Hotel

Jim Bailey as Judy Garland

 

1974  Hawaii.  Staying at the lovely "grand  old  lady "The Royal Hawaiian Hotel,  iconic pink palace with a lush gardens all around in defiance to the close quarters from encroaching hi- rise luxury hotels. Staying in the old section that I loved-  louvered windows captured sweet breezes off Waikiki beach outside while double doors enclosed a space you put your shoes in overnight so they could be shined for you and placed back with the paper the following morning.   Out front evenings,  busy Kalakaua Avenue became a center of music and Mai-Tai soaked entertainment . Right across the street from the Royal was The International Market Place, home of "Duke's " nightclub, permanently hosting the "Don Ho Show," he being the local legend, singer of "Tiny Bubbles.” 

But my destination was not in that complex. I stopped at the lei stands out front of the hotel, about to close up for the evening, offering their fragrant Plumeria, White Ginger, Pikake and Orchid lees on clearance. I got five of my favorites for a buck apiece and walked about 5 blocks to Kalaimoku and than a block over to Kuhio. There, in the heart of Waikiki was a block square fenced-in area under an old spreading Banyan Tree containing the largest gay bar in Hawaii- “Huila’s Bar and Lei Stand”   The music had beat ,playing loud enough it could be heard on the street attracting tourists and locals.  Many saw the club was gay and left, but many stayed joining in the sound and light in open air making it a diverse crowd.  I enjoyed it.  It was there a fellow who sized me up and we struck up conversation .  There was a saying back then ; “drop your beads,” that meant you made inference to being gay to another person   so both knew there were “possibilities,” or, at least a kindred spirit.   “Beads fell” but It was soon apparent to me that this was not going to be anything more than a conversation .  The fellow did tell me I needed to get myself over to The Pagoda Hotel where the lounge there was featuring this young entertainer doing a really neat impersonation of Judy Garland. 

The next evening I taxied over to the Pagoda Hotel, an out-of-the way hotel near the Ala Moana Shopping Center in Central Honolulu.  The hotel main attraction was a series of lush Koi ponds, and a popular cabaret.  A young, early in career Jim Bailey (about 35 then) was in a 5 week stint at the hotel along with opening act, Kip Addotta, who was  beginning his own career in stand up comedy ( He was 30 then, like me)   Cover was only $20 with a 2 drink minimum.  It was a surprisingly nice place.  

Addotta did about 30 minutes in a staccato Shecky Green manner .  He wasn’t that comfortable with himself at that time, though he soon was opening for major talent in Las Vegas.  I wanted time to reflect on his stories but he paced so rapidly he was already into another before my laugh welled up .   It was pleasant, but over my second gin and tonic,  I was hoping that Hula’s encounter hadn’t led me astray.  I didn’t know at that time, but Bailey had already been introduced to the country with an appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show in 1970  He did have following already.  He had been opening for major talent in Las Vegas, and by now had started becoming the opening act at The Flamingo and Thunderbird.  His fame wasn’t yet such that this room was packed , but it was well attended with a youthful upscale crowd.

The live combo struck up “The Man That Got Away” and curtains parted to reveal “Judy Garland,”  A startling ,absolutely spot on ,“JUDY GARLAND,” radiant and smart in a short hip topper; red green and blue sequined jacket over black pencil skirt, smoke stockings,  and patent pumps.  That voice !   Blew me away.  It was, to me, watching Judy Garland live.  I cannot adequately tell you how lost in that show I was.  As the Garland songbook wafted on, I was mesmerized.  At a bit over an hour, there was a finale . I cannot recall the song, but I do recall her return for an encore of “Over the Rainbow.” Wow.  Sustained standing ovation.  House lights up.  I sat down.  I did NOT want that to be over and just leave .  I walked around outside smoking by the Koi Ponds, before having the doorman hail a cab back to Waikiki.  Drained,  but so happy to have had  this experience

The next day I called the Pagoda at 11 when the box office started accepting reservations.  I wanted to; no, I was GOING to go again.  But I was crushed as I found Bailey alternated nights doing Garland with other shows doing Barbra Streisand and Phyllis Diller on altercating nights.  He would not reprise Garland until three days later. My flight home was in two .  I would not see him again.

Jim Bailey went on to become a major star, first , as opening act for the likes of Diana Ross, and Dean Martin and then as his own headliner at Vegas hotels like Caesars Palace, The Desert Inn, The Sands, Harrah's, and The Dunes.  He became  A European sensation at the London Palladium and played Carnegie Hall 9 times in his career.  Bailey became friends with the people he impersonated; Diller and Streisand.  He entertained the Queen and was acclaimed iconic entertainer of this time by the L.A. Times.  As late as 2009, he honored the 40th anniversary of Garland’s death with a performance, ( He had been a personal friend of hers until her death in 1969) and he continued doing AIDS benefits throughout all  his remaining  life.

Jim Bailey died in California at 77, On May 30th  2015 of a heart attack brought on by pneumonia.  He wanted to be remembered not as a female impersonator but as an “illusionist,” because he sang all  songs in his own voice emulating the style of his illusions.  Many who knew him would relate that when Bailey was in his illusion, even backstage he WAS his illusioned person.  You were not addressing Jim Bailey but you were talking and being with Judy Garland, or Peggy Lee, or Phyllis Diller, or Barbra Streisnad , or later, even Bette Davis.   He even affected their personalities off stage. 

As I sit here on the 5th anniversary of his death listening to Jim sing ”The Man That Got Away” in 1970 , I find comfort and consolation that, because of a serenditpitous encounter in a Honolulu gay bar in 1974, I fell into a night that would become a highlight in my life .  This up-close enchanting evening was spent with a contemporary in midst of path to enchant the world with his astounding illusion of another icon, the great Judy Garland.  

That night I was not only seeing the early development of this man’s talent, But I feel that I was also seeing Judy Garland live and in person. 

Thank-you Jim Bailey, you enriched my life.  I so remember.

Finding Black in a White World

Good Golly, Miss Molly, Little Richard done left the building !

 I have history here. Back when Black musicians could only sell to White record buyers by putting their music inside album covers with white folks pictures on them, Little Richard was out there, being big and being Black.  During the 1950's, in my suburban Illinois town, Black music and Black musicians were unheard of ; that is, all except with my friend Lorraine. Lorraine Berk was shunned and ostracized . But she was feared and respected because "Frenchy," as she was known as in our crowd, wore leather , had her hair greased back into a pony tail and smoked. She gave all appearances as tough .Then , gals and guys like here were called "hoods,"   As in hoodlum.

 Frenchy and I were friends . At first reluctantly, because I was nerdy and in with the drama (actor) crowd at school and Lorraine was a rocker chick through and through.  But our Mom's were long time pals , so Frenchy and I were thrown together to go to the movies when our Mom's visited.  We became friends as we realized we were both common to rejection. I learned Lorraine was just a kid like me, trying to find our way. She had a big heart and she took to me in a protective way.  Others would not mess with me, cause Frenchy carried a blade and she could use it.  So we were pals . To this day I can point out a certain row and seat in the old Lake Theater  (now a legit live venue called Raue Center for the Performing Arts) where "Frenchy" is carved into the side arm still existing some 60 some years later.  Anyway Lorraine was musically w-a-y ahead of the times.

One summer day Her Mom came to My house to visit Mom, and brought Lorraine along.   We had a large portable backyard swimming pool , but Frenchy did NOT affect a swim suit, so instead she suggested we listen to 45's she had brought with in a case.  I had a small plug in portable player so we sat on the back porch to play records.  It was there I learned about and became enthralled with  Black Music. I will never forget that day. Lorraine put on a song called "Personality" by Lloyd Price. Oh, Sweet Jesus, it was sooo cool.  Next, Lorraine puts on Fats Domino. "Whole Lot of Loving.”  This music I had no idea existed. Mainstream was all White.

 And then, it was "Tutti Fruitti,"  and I was gone and hooked forever.  I can't recall after that, when I saw Little Richard actually perform on TV, but when I saw him my attraction took the quantam leap.  "This guy is Queer," I knew in my heart of hearts. Oh, the magazines and even Richard himself all gave his denials, but that eyeliner, those flamboyant costumes, and that demeanor, connected to what I knew about myself , but also didn't admit either until a long after. But that summer day  with Frenchy started a new path and Black Music became a part of my history.   To hear of his death (by cancer at 87)  saddens me, as he really was a "wake-up" in my life.  Frenchy, Black music and Little Richard are part of my-  yes I do call it that- my soul.

Richard Wayne Penniman (December 5, 1932 – May 9, 2020), R.I.P, Little Richard

Trying Times

A very trying two days are over. Starting Wednesday my 2 part prep was a difficult 15 hours, but Thursday at 6:00 am promptly, my companion Bert was at my door and off to hospital.  Reception said we were early (my orders had given the time but the wait was only 20 minutes and then into the day surgery room to gown up and get connected to all the monitors and I.V. )  Told my Gastro had a in-patient short procedure that he was doing first so a wait of about 30 minutes ensued.  Then rolled into surgery.  My last words to the anesthesiologist in his pre op visit was “Don’t do a “Joan Rivers” on me ( Propofol  was the anesthesia for both her and I)

Little did I know.  They had me on the table;, bolstered with all monitors up and running. Those wonderful heated blankets are Heaven in a cold O.R.  Next I know, I’m groggy (this was my 12th colonoscopy and never had that before.  I didn’t remember , but Bert tells me there was a lot of concern and a kerfuffle flurry of activity in my recovery room as a group of staff had difficulty reviving me.  I wasn’t responding . But as I faded back in , outside of the expected flatulence, I had a painful stomach pressure, dizziness, a headache, and loss of bladder control.

An X-ray panel was called for, ,so I was wheeled down for a series of pictures, then back to my room to await results.  While there , an older Phillapina nurse appeared and felt my belly, saying  “Gas” I was surprised as I had experienced that, and the pain was still there,  but thankful for her concern.   While she was not on my designated team she saw all the activity and looked in.  Seems experience trumps education because when the pictures came back and were read, the diagnosis was “trapped gas bubbles .” That wise Phillipina nurse had suggested sitting on the commode but everyone attending vetoed that as they didn’t want a fall risk with the dizziness.

 Now , I asked to get up and go to the restroom and try her recommendation.  Within ten minutes of sitting, I had a series of expulsions...and no more pain.  My Dr called in that the X-rays showed the gas, ( The fancy diagnosos is Splenic flexure syndrome.  They also showed I had over a liter of fluid in my bladder, which was why I had involuntary voiding.  So, with that, I dressed and was escorted to the front door, where Bert took me home (Bless her soul for sitting with me that extended time. )

Today all is getting back to normal, except a aching back -and that with me is normal as I have a bad back anyway, and I know when you are under,  the O.R. moving a person from table to room gurney is like flopping a netted tuna into a bin.  Not gentle.  Bottom line, two small polyps that Dr Joseph says, while weawait a biopsy, look entirely benign.  My takeo n this all: I have decided that this will be tha last colonoscopy I ever have.  I stand on my record on 12 .

That’s my final answer

Jerry Wendt 1/31/2020

Contemplations on My Small Pot

Up for a glass of cold water in the night,
my attention was snared by a little pot
sitting with a bizarre funny little pink alien
ensconced upon its lid,
on my kitchen window sill,
where it has held forth,
unnoticed and disregarded
for the 11 years I have been in this house.

Curious that it reposes in conspicuous sight,
looked at, yet unseen, every day.
I take the  jar and pink guardian
down and sit, reacquainting with my treasure.
The bottom of the wood vessel is inscribed
“Cabo San Lucas, Mexico.  1996,’
and below in flourished letters,
“Carrillo,” the craftsman.

Carved from wood of the Copal tree,
I remember it once wafted forth delightful  aromas
when the lid was removed.
Those smells have  departed now,
along with my waning attention.
But I have renewed my interest
in the polished porcelein-like finish
carvers so value, working this wood.

Bands of subtle faded colors
of blue and green and brown stains
highlight carved folk flowers and leaves,
along with geometric Mayan borders.
A small turned wooden grasp sits atop the lid.
My pot was likely purchased in a gift shop or departure
airport kiosk, brought home, and gifted to me,
a memento of a journey or,  of friendship.

My pot’s companion, a stifled flibbertigibbet,  eye-candy alien,
sat staunch on the lid for as long as I remember.
I cannot recall when and why the two were melded together,
but they now are joined as an old married couple,
unknown as to the why in  junction of the two, and what meaning was sought.
This moment’s new ponderance has awakened thoughts
that maybe my life’s grand puzzle is represented in little pieces like this pot-
important totems that have faded from significance. 

They physically remain, even as we look through them,
just as we do clouds, bookshelves, photographs, and junk drawers.
Now and again they rejoin us as reminders,
“Hey, I’m still here, remember me.”
They tell us our story is not just today’s focused coping,
but precious threads that join us to ourselves, to our friends and to life.
When we depart this realm, along with our memories,
our pots will remain as vexing vessels, artifacts of us.

In this case, my little pink alien sentry
is but a chuckle in the foible and vanity of it all.
This little thing is large part in me,
while sitting on my windowsill, unnoticed consciously,
but still a comfort, bonding me to my life,
and reminding me that all “meanings”
are but joking matters,
reminders that life is not to be taken so seriously.

My attention span broken,
I rise from the table to get furniture polish and  rag
to polish up and renew Carrillo’s pot.
I smile in recollection that nubbin remnants of old “doobies” once filled this pot.
Now, I figure after all these years of being a “It”
my funny alien deserves the dignity of a name,
so, with that, I put my newly burnished pot and a scrubbed up “Ralph”

back in their place upon my kitchen windowsill.

-Jerry Wendt 2020

Early November, Kraft paper, and Hobby Lobby

I had to purchase some brown Kraft Paper and Elmer’s glue, so what better place for a one-stop shop for these than Hobby Lobby; grandiose oasis for crafty ladies- a siren call for females akin to Cabela’s Bass Pro Shops allure for the male segment of the species.

To no surprise, withstanding the sheer volume, I report that Hobby Lobby is in full Christmas mode, with the WalMart/ Target warehouse size space given over to the greatest moneymaker of the enrire year. Entering and seeing the ostentatious splendor on display, I was tempted to take one of the electric scooters and wheel around. pretending I was on a Disneyland ride. There is a grandeur of toilet brush wreaths and trees that would denude Norway completely if they were real evergreens. You want prelit or plain snow dusted ? bubble lit, changing color LED, or pedestrian Silvestri style lights ?. Table top, 4 feet or cathedral height ?. Aisles to negotiate as though in a forest glen. Heady with all the choices, I segue into Ornament Wonderland. Here, there, are more balls than you would find on Fire Island during July 4th high tea. It even strikes me that given the number of Hobby Lobbies in the US (800), it is astounding how even the entire population of China in those plastic factories are able to get all this done in only a year. You just know eventually they will just overrun us and take over the planet. Amongst the hanging orbs, elves, crystal snowflakes and Santas, there are glitzy garlands, holly garlands, poinsettia garlands, Edelweiss garlands, tinsel garlands and even one wayward pumpkins squash garland that seemingly got left behind. Between the low hangers and the bedecked strands, I feel as though I should start jiving in this 80's disco land.

Trying an exit, I find I am in “software,” an entire block of pillows , table runners, placemats, tree skirts, swags, dish cloths and framed petit-point “Bless the House” hangings. How many pillows embroidered “Noel” or “On Dasher,” and even “I saw Daddy kissing Santa Klaus” can one possible casually place in any room?

I’m on my way to the rear of the store to find my glue, but first I must brave candles, room spray odorizers, and diffusing sticks. Gratefully “Pumpkin Spice” has made a stealthy exit but now we are clouded and inundated by “Christmas Tree, “Grandma’s Kitchen”, Holly Berry, cranberry and blue berry, and “Winter Wonderland” (which even in my long time on this earth, I could not begin to tell you what comprises this smell.)  Los Angeles in its haziest smog isn't as intimidatingly oppressive as this.

One thing that stood glaringly out in my tour is that “Baby Jesus” has left the building, or is away at boarding school or something. Maybe all those Austrian wood carvers went on to college and become Investment bankers now. I dunno. But there is nary a creche to be found. Nor a plastic camel to complete the manger scene. Blessed Mary has risen and gone to Miami for a respite from all the hoopla. The only Angels I saw are couture dressed in ermine and velvet as tree toppers with celestially lit halos (that can be remotely controlled to change colors upon demand or automatically) 

It is sad to see that Christmas has left Christmas. The pageant is all about money now. That simple, meaningful religious tradition has become a spectacle of spending. You never had to be Christian to enjoy the spirit of the Holiday, but now a grandiose gluttony of symbols that have no real meaning have obfuscated any relevance. I remember the beauty of candle light at midnight Christmas eve service in church, congregation raised in vocal celebration of the birth of Jesus. Or, bundled up in the car driving around the neighborhood looking as much as at  starry winter skies as the lit trees in front windows . I fondly recall the old skate shack with a string of Noma lights someone put up, and hot chocolate brought by a generous family. Bundling up and going out to sing carols and being invited in often to enjoy a Christmas cookie and some egg nog.

Sadly, I head into the mundane “crafts” section . No bustle of shoppers back here. The Kraft paper is relegated to a corner under the plethora of bins of gaudy gift wrap. I grab a plain brown roll. On sale. Legs tired and distraught in my realizations, I ask a harried employee where the glue is located. She directs me to an entire aisle. Even “Elmer’s” has become an industry. School glue, “repositioning paste,” glue stick, and even a adhesive that goes on purple and turns clear, I guess so you know where your glue is going? More choices I don't need.

I'm on overload. It isn’t just Christmas . It’s everything. I remember when there was the “General Store,” a place that had a little of everything. My  childhood 50's version was called “The five and dime.” Then the trend went to specialty stores- a toy store, a drug store, a fabric store. Everything was "boutique." And then we came back- only with a vengeance. The general store returned- only now it’s a “mega store,” a “super store.”  All are gigantic  sprawling edifices that these tired old legs have a hard time finding something in , and, no longer anyone around to ask where it might reside.
 

Times have changed . To me, I don’t think for the good. Getting my glue and Kraft paper came at with hefty price- a jolt of reality about consumption hitting smack into old traditions. 

I feel empty.- I have completely lost my thoughts on Thanksgiving. It's only just early November for Christ's sake.

"For Christ's sake,"          Exactly. 

-Jerry Wendt 

Josephine

Before the ultrasound
we cleared the junk room
and made it a nursery, Jed and I.
White beadboard wainscoting,
soft seafoam green walls
festooned with framed Mary Cassat baby painting prints.
Two double hung windows with blackout shades
draped over with green, dotted Swiss pullbacks.

The white spindle crib was fitted with a green skirt
matching the flannel sheets, a yellow teddy sentry
next to a white country style changing station,
and a seagreen velvet swivel rocker/glider
with a crochet coverlet I made
dawdling away time, trying to make it go faster
thinking about all I would do
spending time with my expected blessing.

At 20 weeks ultrasound defined welcome joy
to my upcoming  daughter
who was yet “baby Holcomb,”
because lasting traditions feared  bad luck
naming a baby before birth:
but in deepest secretly, she was “Josephine,”
after a sister in my beloved “Little Women,”
a reckless wild Tomboy, and smart as Hell.

At 28 weeks my pediatrician crushed me,
finding a congenital heart defect in my Love,
calling it hypoplastic left heart syndrome,
but all I heard was “serious defect,”
and taking a scribbled note
containing the phone number of Dr Bill Scott,
a neonatologist that would be needed
immediately upon birth.

I tranced my way through 2 baby showers:
one from family, one from gal pals.
Without the comfort of wine,
I cried over every baby blanket
bunting, mobile, stuffed fuzzy, or diaper bag. 
The cake tasted of acrid cardboard
and indulgent smiles and hugsjust made me more despondent.

Dear Jed held me whimpering at night,
uncharacteristically indulgent,
soothing me with his strong but gentle hands,
confidently telling me
“It’s going to be all right,”
making sure I was hydrating,
getting healthy food,
and dragging me out in the sunshine.

Then came the day -
Contractions feeding fear,
surrounded by mint green masked apparitions imploring,
“Push, Push, Push,-breathe, breathe, breathe.”
Jed was there. But ashen.
I was not at all a “prayer”
but that day I was fervent in my plea,
“Please, Please, Please.” 

Josephine became.  She was real.  She was mine.
With profound Joy I cried copiously in relief.
It didn’t last long.
Dr. Scott said “urgency.”
“Jo” stayed in Natal intensive care.
Jed was constant companion, taking me home,
but I never felt more alone
and desperately disconsolate.

Two surgeries.
I can’t remember how fast things went by
until today... tears exhausted,
I kneel amongst flowers with no smell,
and people with no faces.
‘That’ nursery only nurturing spiders now.
My dearest daughter Josephine,
held by a cold cradle of mahogany and brass.

-Jerry Wendt 2019

Three Spinsters in the Old House Atop the Hill

We live in a old house on a hill with one tree,     
just Gerda, Hortensia, and Me.
Our ancient  helper helps us sorta clean and scrub,
but Otto is a dim slow kind of schlub,
so out of our windows it’s very hard to see

The old gals in that big house on the hill above the village
have been there longer than anyone remembers.
They keep to themselves and never get any mail.
Children, of course, call it “haunted,” but there never have been any reports of irregularity , so  interest in them has long been forgotten.

We can view the whole town standing behind that tree.
We share looks in the glasses, Gerda, Hortensia and Me.
The many juicy things in our view,
if you only knew,
fills us with immeasurable glee.

Few have seen the three ladies, but those have reported the women are there when they think dusk is occluding seeing them behind their tree, spying down on the town.  Goodness knows why , as they could just as easily come down in that old automobile.  Gus at the Texaco garage says that car is a Hispano Suiza , a brand that was last made in 1930 .  It likely can no longer run, sitting outside forever in all sorts of weather, but there it sits; derelict and unused all the years we can remember.

They wonder why they never see
us shop for nary a pea,
nor venture out very far
for a drive in our ancient old car.
We’re just secretive as secret can be

The Ladies handyman Otto is seen in town very rarely, but when he does come down the hill to make purchases like canning jars , candles, and stuff, he is pleasant enough and returns greetings, but isn’t at all conversational and pretty much keeps to his task .


With no worry our door is left open; There is no key.
Because curious take one gander inside and flee-
There’s a library covered with spiders ; it’s very dusty-
Three chairs and a candle , all smelling quite musty.
But we’re happy here in our home; all agree.

Here and again some of the more rambunctious kids venture up the hill to  gander at the house despite  warnings against disturbing the old women.  Years ago Chandler McInerany and Scooter Landover went up and brazenly found the ladies’ front door unlocked.  Peeking in, they found it looked like no one lived there.  Big open room with a lot of old books stacked to the ceiling on shelves covered in dust.   Three overstuffed chairs sat before a fireplace.  I should interject that no one has ever seen smoke coming from the chimney.  Anyway, Scooter stepped on a stoop board that creaked , scaring the Hell out of the boys, who ran lickety split back down the hill, curiosity quenched forever.

We ladies admit we’re not the best at cleaning our rugs,
besides dust, we think they are infested with bugs.
We always amble about scratching at our unders,
that while walking can lead to bumping blunders,
but we never bleed from our tugs.

There is concern for their health.  No doctor ,dentist nor even the clinic has ever had a visit from any of the three.  At their advanced age, things must go wrong, but they seem to endure.  Curiously,  our town has long history of anemia.  County health worker Madeleine says  anemia can be hereditary, but that doesn’t account such a large portion being afflicted.  The state had their people in taking tests.  We all wrote down what we ate and drank along with lifelong medical histories .  They only found anemia has been around for generations and seems to center exclusively around our village. We worry the old gals could be afflicted.

We must relate that the sun never rises on us three
During daylight we are snug in our basement you see
for your blood is our life,
and constant supply keeps us from strife
‘cause, we’re vampires: Gerda, Hortensia and Me

-Jerry Wendt 2019

Fani's Word

Fani skipped, no, almost bounded from school after her 4th grade class at Franklin School .  That day Miss Kaplan had assigned each student a unique word that they were to write on construction paper to  embellish &  glitterize into a work of art.  Stephanie took special care and pride at how carefully she had made her special word into a splendor all her own.  And now, just in departing class, her teacher instructed all to bring that art back to school the next day along with their own story that would put life into their word in front of the whole class.  WOW!  She could not wait to find something really, like different, something that all her classmates would find interesting enough to smile at and give Fani praise.

What to choose?  So many things, but this thing had to ring like the fire alarm.  Jar them out of their seats in awe.  She just knew she had to come up with something that would make her stand proud.  

Steppin up the crumbling stairs of their tenement, Fani buzzed herself into the vestibule and looked down.  Oh yes, she tickled herself thinking-  Mr Pappadopoulas, (their Super), and  “his” floor.  For months starting in summer, ‘Mr P’ was on his knees in that entryway matching up individual tiles to create the mosiac floor the original building had when it was constructed in the 20's.  It was a very intricate and colorful installation originally, but years of footfall, mud, rain and snow , not to overlook occasional spillage, garbage, and even dog pee had worn away, and dislodged the small ceramic tiles until  a rubber weather mat over it had to be lain so people wouldn’t trip.  That mat was so nasty grimy, she thought.   Fani would from time to time flip the mat up to see Mr P’s progress in setting each tile into the original pattern. Soon, she hoped, it would be unveiled .  This would make for a fitting story to use “her” word on.  But, no, That telling belonged to Mr Pappadopoulos as it was his story.  She couldn’t  appropriate her word on somebody else’s idea.  She wanted the story to be her own,

Later as Mom served the family greasy fried chicken and collard greens (which Fani didn’t particulary care for, but her Mom, being of Southern heritage, was want to savor, so it was on the table often and endured) Fani picked at her food.  She was deeply into her thoughts about tomorrow.  ‘What, pray tell’ was my story to be?’  She caught her Mother remarking on Fani’s cousin ‘Swannie” ( Her real name was Samantha but for some reason everybody had nicknamed her Swannie and it stuck) , birthing her new baby April Dawn.  Swannie had been in labor for over 26 hours and they finally had to induce, and out popped a large 9  ounce baby girl .  Everybody said she was so big cause her mama was ‘diaperbetic,’ whatever that was, but the fact remained that April Dawn came out looking like a two year old.  Again, this incidence was good basis for story that Fani could use , but  fireworks didn’t go off in Fani’s mind.  It just wasn’t grand enough to waste her precious word on.

After dish wash (Fani dried) she continued pondering just what her narrative would be tomorrow.  Indeed, she went to bed berift at not having any ideas to her satisfaction.

Morning dawned no better.  Actually worse, because now the pressure was on, and Stephanie was starting to panic.  She had too much at stake in this assignment.  She could not let Miss Kaplan down.  She could not endure a middling “Oh that was nice, Fani” as her acknowledgment.  And most, important, she simply would not allow herself to fall short in her own eyes.  Simply unacceptable.  Period.
Fani set off for school dejected as no story had formulated.  Dejected as she stepped down the front steps, her gaze landed in front and below her .  She focused.  “OH GEEZ,” positively exploded from her. 

 “This is IT” I’ve got it.  Perfect.”  

She finally, FINALLY, had her story!

Now, having so much trouble holding herself in  she was so ready to spew, Fani finally found it was her time in front of the class.  She held up her bright and elaborate glittered, stickered, and glitzed word picture and began,

“This morning  I walked out of my house and looked down, and there ,at the bottom of the stairs just barely sticking forth from the grimy snow and crumbling stone, sprouting up from between cracks in the concrete was a single brave  little flower that had two tiny green leaves and a purple bloom.  I had to stop and admire this  little thing for the way it had beat all odds, forcing itself upward in this unlikely location.” 

( Fani beamed at all the smiles she saw looking back at her) She continued,
“I just have to tell you all, it was really ...”