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 ...”