Ahooga

Ahooga

Thomas caught, hand in cookie jar.          

Interrupted, he recoils,

“Crash” goes the jar.

What are you doing ?  Nothing.

 

Ahooga

Sitting across a pub table

Sam’s date gives her most alluring smile

inadvertent “Burp” drawing attention

to the spinach appetizer caught in her teeth.

 

 

Ahooga

Grandpa bends to pick up a croquet ball

pants tearing open his seat

“GrrrrRIP  cracks the air”

to the delight of his watching grandchildren.

 

Ahooga

The gum Blanche was chewing at the funeral

dropped from her quivering lips onto the departed

“Splat, “

sticking right there on her lace collar.

 

Ahooga

Jimmy’s parents bedside at hospital

willing his broken body to mend.

( silence )              

Deaf, he did not hear the horn.

For Judi

So much history over so many years. It all seems to fast forward,  packing every second with images, sounds, and impressions of this lady who was a part of most of my adult life. Of course, I met Judi at Mr Travel .   On her arrival, I was immediately made aware in whispered tones ; “That’s the relative,” a reference she grew loathe to in her years on the job. We were immediate friends.  I was introduced to Judi’s family early on with invites to her basement apartment.  I became acquainted with her daughter Michelle, the light and love of Judi’s entire life, when she was still a very young lady.  Those two were even more inseparable as Judi became a single parent.

 I remember Judi in her mammoth Buick Electra, vinyl roof flapping as she drove on the Outer Drive.  I swear Judy handled that behemoth of an automobile like it was a golf cart. She could squeeze that car into parking spaces no one else would ever consider.  Judi ruled the road like she with did her life. She had unwavering conviction and purpose until the very end.

Judi and I had special gifts we gave each other for years. On our respective birthdays Judi would make me her special banana cake (mine was with nuts- unlike Jeff’s)  with chocolate frosting so rich it was (as Judi would say. )  “to die for;”  and I would make her my crab and cheese- stuffed mushrooms.  One year we went to Greece on a office trip. It was my birthday. Judi carried a banana cake all the way on the plane and through customs to the hotel until later, when we celebrated in a little tavern in the Plaka of Athens with Roditys and banana cake.

At work we would laugh together as Judi,  her  deep voiced “Julie Jones” work persona  forever being mistaken for a man on the phone, as often as mine was for being a woman.  Through all the years working so close, Judi became like a big sister.  And like siblings, we had battles.  Both were so stubborn we sometimes held hissy fits that lasted way too long, but the love was always there to overcome and we’d eventually reach out to one another and cry;  and with tearful reunion, move to our next chapter.

I’ll never forget how Judi looked at daughter Michelle’s wedding. Her blue gown was resplendent and Judi actually glowed. I mean she actually radiated.   It was to become one of the highlights of her life. I found that mentioning this in front of her for years would bring a broad smile, as she relived that wonderful day. Judi had a bond with Michelle stronger than any other mother and daughter I ever saw.

That bond was to be tested later as Michelle suffered a misfortune that she never recovered from.  I saw Judy’s intractable strength as she sat bedside, attending to her daughter. It was a devastating time for her.  I was honored that Judi chose me to eulogize Michelle .  That honor again visits me today.

I want to remember my dear friend as one who marked so many lives with her sharp wit and earthy outlook. Nothing much fazed Judi outwardly.  I want to remember Thanksgiving up at Sid’s Wisconsin home with Judi; and Barbara and Gloria and Samuel… and of course, Sid.   I want to remember a drunken Judi dancing on my feet  at a co-workers wedding. I want to remember Judi schlepping the luggage for 16 people in a station wagon driving from Sacramento’s River raft location to Reno on an agency trip.  I will remember Judi  stopping a drunken me from going off with some Arab family upon arriving in London.

I want to remember Judi, Mona, Ellen and I buying out the entire refreshment cart on a train from Milan to Monte Carlo, and then barricading ourselves in our compartment refusing to share.

These are the things that wove the tapestry of our rich history together. We were integral to the Mr Travel family .  I was granted an inside view in the many invitations to Holidays. Bar and Bat Mitzvah’s,  Yom Kippur’s ,and weddings.  Judi was my guide to Jewish customs . She was unique.  If you were a friend to Judi, you were a friend for life.  Friends like Meryl , Flo, and  Mona were her treasures.  They , and an expanded circle, along with family, were the purpose and reason for Judi’s life.  And a full life she has led. 

Months ago in one of our regular conversations, Judi , on a particularly dark day, mentioned to me she wanted to go be with Michelle. I became angry, telling her that was selfish.  I said, “Judi, you always  have that option, but who do you think you are to leave all of us who are not ready to be without you? How could you do that to us?” 

Now, Judi was a master of Jewish guilt, but she recognized the truth in that. I think that was the only time she ever shrunk from my words and agreed to my logic .  I know because the fight she put up in the next six months was stalwart, with the conviction of and strength of a heathy Judi.  She was wasting inside with all that was thrown at her , but  from outside, she presented as strong. Judi was so proud of that quality.  In those many honest and serious talks we had toward the end, Judi only wept twice, even then only briefly.  In our last conversation Judi and I talked of what plans she could make for Hospice.  She still had options. But she told me she was very tired.  I knew she was grasping for respite.

That resolute woman .That woman of substance. A friend in my heart forever that I now envision being reunited with her greatest love; her daughter Michelle.  There is much they have to talk about .

Today,  I will think of all those years Judi Cogan has been in my life- an integral part of my time on this planet.  Now that she has left us, I will exhale relief knowing that she has been released, leaving us to remember her as someone very special .

My tears are temporary , Judi, but your memory is forever.

 

Disconnect

Gum on my sole, Gum on my sole, Gum on my soul

But those chickens don’t stop  trying to ride my bicycle,

their claws grasping at too-wide pedals.

 

Marie sits by herself in her corner.

She sees everything

but allows for nothing to go on behind her.

 

That tree next to the big window,

the one with arms trying to grab birds as they fly by,

I think is full of purple worms .

 

Sometimes smoky things are up by the ceiling.

They float and whisper and observe evil things.

Eating cake with frosting on birthdays helps.

 

People cry at the silliest things

just because I wanted to see how far

your chair would push down the hall.

 

My daughter is coming today,

Something’s are for sure, I think

I don’t know why they keep me here.

 

Damn gum on my sole.

 

-Jerry Wendt 2015

Boosters

 

Under a tree-lined canopy dappling sun upon the boulevard below 

a sleek polished limousine glides to the curb like a docking ocean liner

with only the sound of crackling leaves under tires scuffing against the curb.

It stops; I lean forward as a shaded rear window slides down venting a
rush of cool scented air upon my face.
I  strain to look inside and am started to see
Me, looking back at myself with the expression “I told you so.”
Imagination.

 

I look at my unscratched lotto ticket.

I see freedom from worry in paying my heating bill
I see friends children with college tuitions assured,
a book fund for my community library,
and immunizations for 1000  African children.
All this on a tiny scrap of printed paper
just waiting to enrich so many.
Hope.

 

I notice a woman pushing her toddler along

In a stroller past jungles and savannahs and forests
separated by gulley’s and fencing at City Zoo,
her child gurgling and jumping as they pass the animals.
At the camel enclosure they witness loud exuberant coupling.
With a gasp, Mother accelerates the stroller into warp speed
toward a more sedate tableau not requiring awkward answers.
Humor.

 

These are not the filigree on the gates

to the landscapes of my days.
They are the boost up to see over the walls
into the lush gardens that lie there,
inviting  me to smell, to admire, to dig in the dirt;
giving nourishment and care to it
reminding me I have but to just open the gate  and walk in.
Imagination, hope, and humor.

 -Jerry Wendt 2015

Palm Sunday

I will never forget that green sky: eerie, and so foreboding, yet so calm and quiet.  There were no bird sounds.  Just that sky. It is indelibly embedded in my memory. Next, from a distance came a muted roar.  Not like a rushing wind. There was no deluge of rain.  There were no sirens- they had not been established yet then. No warning. People had been out to church services earlier in the day and now were back at home   It was about three in the afternoon Palm Sunday April 11, 1965 in Crystal Lake, Illinois.

I was living with my Mother is a duplex on Oriole trail, a block west of Route 14 between McHenry and Pomeroy Avenues.   The increasing roar just like the storied train sound became intensely louder and louder, very fast.  Things in my mind move slowly now, but actually this was happening very rapidly.

The noise became deafening.  Air sucked out from heating ducts on our floors spewing dust and carbon into our rooms.  I looked outside to see a massive wall of swirling torrent. All angry clouds and debris swirling , here and there sparks flashing from electrical lines going down.  It loomed closer, filling my whole field of vision.  We had no basement, so Mom and I  huddled in our bathroom in the bathtub.  Horrible noise and wind shook our house.

And then it was over. Just like that.  Quiet.

A soft rain fell.  I went outside to see.  I heard sirens of police or fire engines and they were very close. I walked a short distance to Route 14.  Just two blocks down I could see wreckage and debris on the road. There was no traffic so I walked along on the highway. A scant two blocks away the horror of what had been the Standard gas station was a mangled and twisted metal heap.  On the road I saw a Pontiac Tempest, The woman driver still gripping her steering wheel while her car was sitting on top of another, intact, as though plopped there some gentle hand.  Neisner’s Department store in the Plaza across the street was practically gone. No roof and an open front.  I was shocked to see people, neighbors, looting lampshades while children ran amongst live downed  electrical wires.  The whole Colby subdivision was gone- just obliterated. Not even trees were left.  My best friend David Knaack’s home had been right there.  It was gone too.  David’s father Louis lay dead under a fallen wall. 

I remember there was a truck sitting in the open foundation of where David Arnold’s home used to be.  All people could do was look to see if there were people trapped in the unending vista of wreckage. Police and fire workers came quickly . I was asked to leave the area.  So I walked back home, numbed by what had just transpired.

The next day I saw the Salvation Army bringing blankets , coffee, and donuts.  The high school was designated a shelter, but not a single person had to sleep there as the community came forward to offer spare rooms to those in need.  It was reported years later that the tornado had cut a swath all the way to Island Lake and was F-4 strength on the Fujita scale, categorized with 250 mph winds and “devastating damage”

That it was.

Our home just suffered a coating of furnace dust requiring a cleaning of all furniture on the ground floor of the soot that had been sucked up by the storm’s negative pressure.. Our community rebuilt and life returned to normal.  Years later, as I rode the train to Chicago, I could still see storm debris in the fields east of the city, remnants of that horrific day. People’s lives were lain out there, sown  as testimony to the scale of loss from that Palm Sunday tornado in Crystal Lake.

-Jerry Wendt 2015

What was left of Neisner's Department store



Colby's subdivision



The Arnold home aftermath.

 

 

1957 DeSoto

1957 Desoto

 

I was a stunner upon debut.  Part of a post war surge in engineering and design, I was heralded as “Forward looking”  I cut a stylish figure with my high tail and bright colorful two tone exterior. I was equally at home parked in front of a New York Hotel or a Midwestern grade school drop off.  I appreciated seeing people turn heads as I passed by. “This new guy in town” had swagger.  I would proclaim my presence sounding my resonant twin exhausts with the throaty growl of my muscular engine.  Girls wanted to be with guys wielding me around the drive-in parking lots.  I was an object of desire. Named “Fireflight,” I was “top of the pack.”  Now I’m top of the heap.

I don’t know what happened. Things changed in the last 50 years.  How I got here sitting in this weedy field alongside a forgotten road is a mystery to me.   My body is decrepit. Worn away and ridden with blights, my exterior hardly even conveys my purpose any longer.  When I am able to turn over, it is only with a solitary belch of noxious emissions, and then silence. I no longer allow anyone to see it anyway.   I am unable to see in the night . My eyes are cloudy, my energy long ago trickled away.  My tires are either flat or bald – no longer roadworthy.  If I could muster some “get up and go”  it would be with a crescendo of rattles, squeaks and rumbles. I would still turn heads, but now for different reason. The worst is not only has my warranty expired but they no longer even make parts for me. 

One day a restored Cordoba drove by my field and I think I heard a trumpet sound.  I could just imagine Ricardo Montalban tapping the horn in a salute to me as he sat ensconced in that luxurious Corinthian Leather.  But visits like that are few and far between. Now, mostly only birds stop by and ,while I don’t understand them, I am sure they are commenting on my amazing swivel seats, push-button Torqueflight transmission and commanding appearance. I’m sure they remember me. Well, I can hope they do.

Worse for wear, I know life is at a close for me. But I can still be a shelter for a new generation of field mice making my rear seat their castle.  I can still think about those wonder years when my rakish figure was all the rage, and I still can dream about the young boy leafing through a “Vintage Cars”  book thinking, “That 1957 DeSoto was really something.”  Even after the last of those that actually possessed my kind are gone, I will live on as an icon to a time of change, when there were automobiles and they made getting from here to there an adventure in style and grace.  I am proud to have been a 1957 DeSoto Fireflite. They don’t make em like me anymore.  Just think of me now and then. I’d like that.

 

-Jerry Wendt 2015

 

National Treasures - The Honor that shouldn't be but deserves to

The Honor That Shouldn’t Be , But Deserves To

Japan has long had a program recognizing contribution to the arts at national level. They call it “Ningen Kokuhō” or “National Living Treasures of Japan.”

I thought about this in context  of focusing on individuals  I consider doing  amazing works  right here in the U.S. gay population.  Such artists as poet Richard Blanco ; who read for Obama’ second inauguration;  Tony Kushner whose milestone play (and later HBO miniseries) “Angels in America”  encapsulated gay culture of the 80’s; Annie Liebovitz, whose photography has shown consistent growth and genius across the land; or Ellsworth Kelly, the painter at the vanguard of “Hard Edge  painting,”  still growing and working at 93.

These, and many more could aptly be considered “National Treasures” by our country and so honored in some sort of organized recognition . Not as in the Kennedy Center Awards, which are limited to the performing arts,  but in all artistic endeavors of this land in a more general sense,  giving credence to the levels to which these people have risen. They deserve the acknowledgement  and award we so  freely give to athletics.

My thinking wandered to the question, “Why ‘Gay’ National Treasures? Gay is just a part of their lives and their art. Wouldn’t I be asking to perpetuate a division, a separation, from the population as a whole by putting them into a yet another minority?”  But then I considered that gay people do have a real separation. They have been made to suffer indignity and degradation in society by nature of their sexuality alone. We have been separated without choice from general population.

This last week, reading an article by a learned professor, addressing the recent Indiana law of religious freedom, and its application in the denial of service to gays justified by  religious belief convictions of a baker . This educated man, sympathetically defending the issue as another discrimination, nevertheless used the term “lifestyle”  in reference to the LGBT community.  This points out the perpetuation of even subtle separation still existing in our nation.  “Gay” is not a “lifestyle”  It is part of human “being”  It is inborn. Yes, a subculture “style” exists, but it does so mostly because of alienation from the rest of the community at large.  There is even a term “closeted” pertaining to gays who do not live as part of a gay subculture.  They are able to hide their sexuality .  That is a discussion for another time, but it points out fact that many gay people for whatever reason do not live a “gay lifestyle.” 

From that, I extrapolated the thought that perhaps “Gay” is a valid appendation to “National Treasure,”  because gay artists have had to overcome especially egregious oppression to follow their art only because of their sexual being.  They have endured bullying, assault, derision, and even religious persecution in their lives,  making it that much harder to rise above and become a “Treasure”  in their artistry.  That needs to be recognized.  Of course,  there is also just cause for a “Black National Treasure,“   “Women’s National Treasure.” and other parts  under the “National Treasure”  designation.  It shouldn’t be that way. 

The “National Treasure” should stand alone as a recognition of  attained excellance in a chosen art field irrespective of color, creed, education, or any other social category.  Someday we might reach that point, but, for now, in spite of it still noting separation,  “LGBT National Treasures”  has reason to stand , as long as the grouping of gays is perpetuated under “undesirable minority .”  We need to be shown as individuals of excellence. We are fully capable of attaining the epitome of artisic level,  and we need to show that to the Nation as a matter of undiluted  and indisputable fact and pride.

Thus ,there is good reason to embrace the idea of starting a program of  “Living National LGBT Treasures” until the time comes when artists can be judged solely on their art without concern to whom they sleep with.

-        Jerry Wendt 2015