her photo caught my eye
an old black and white
that served to mystify
her simplicity.
and all around the wall
amongst strange faces
the elders will recall
hers was familiar.
a youthful air, demure
midst her meager class
less than twelve be sure
small town graduates
and like phrases that rhyme
or those that strain to
her smile tried touching mine
across many years
a sudden thought occurred
at once hopeful dark
as though a ghost had stirred
that she may still live
alone and dressed in lace
a small frail lady
friendly and soft of face
someplace here in town
perhaps the small white cape
on outer main street
clapboards weathered scraped
greying through the seasons
or the dark shuttered place
by the verrill farm
that lilacs have embraced
with purple perfume
and we could meet for tea
to talk of those times
before she knew of me
and my autumn heart
Tag Archives: love
GRACE (c. 1925)
Introduction
Act I: Daily Life
[edit]
The Stage Manager introduces the audience to the small town of Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire, its geography and main buildings and institutions, as well as the people living there, as morning breaks on May 7, 1901. Joe Crowell delivers the paper to Doc Gibbs, Howie Newsome delivers the milk, and the Webb and Gibbs households send their children (Emily and Wally Webb, George and Rebecca Gibbs) off to school on this beautifully simple morning.
So begins Our Town, by Thornton Wilder published in the early 1930’s.
Underneath a glowing full moon, Act I ends with George and Emily gazing out of their respective bedroom windows, enjoying the smell of heliotrope in the “wonderful (or terrible) moonlight,” with the self-discovery that they like each other, very much and the realization that they are both straining to grow up in their own way. Later as Emily and George are now teenagers; Emily reflects on life and her small town :
“Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it every, every minute?
CHRISTMAS 2004~ a year of magical thinking
The last post was last summer. Janis died on March 15th at 1:15 pm These last ten months have been a fake-it-or-make-it time—and still are.
Grief is an amazing, cogent, and challenging state to be in. But, I’m aware that everybody has experienced it in life and as strange as it is, it is that insight that has helped keep me going. It has helped me but it hasn’t cured it. I’ve come to understand another truth that others have discovered: it is now the way the rest of my life will function, with this loss always in the background. Everything, everything, is a reminder. I have connected with friends from my hometown first grade class, some who have breakfast with me once a month for the past 10 years, and reunited friends some who I had not seen for almost 50 years. I’ve done some traveling. Trips to Virginia to visit my daughter and husband. I Spent time in Old Quebec City last summer where Janis and I spent summer vacations for many years, thanks to our our friends, Claire and Suzanne. (This was a major grief breakthrough for me.) I attended with my daughter Stacia and my grandson, Rob. Claire and Suzanne were young counselors at Camp Pesky with me from 1974 – 1984.
I could easily slip into a bah-humbug slump this Christmas. Get drunk. Sit in front of numbing videos on streaming television and go to bed whenever I damn well choose. And get up at noon. But NO! I have magic that keeps snapping me out of it. Grandchildren. Rob, Madeline, Brin, Cam (I’ve learned from my youngest, Cam. 4y.o. granddaughter how to dance to Taylor Swift’s songs.) It’s hysterical, and a hell of a workout. She keeps stopping me when I don’t do it right shows me how and we resume, my antics seem to bother her, she laughs.
One of the things that separates us from amoebas (as far as we know), is emotions. I doubt that they have a frontal cortex-amoebas. But we can understand and respect that being human comes with the acceptance that we are among other creatures that have emotional lives and we should be damn well appreciative of this. I know this raises all kinds of discussions (do snakes have emotions? do houseflies? And why is it so difficult to catch/swat a stupid fly?) do dragons….
But, I digress.
Today is a cold but sunny day. I’m thankful there is no wind. Living on the coast of Maine is a treasure that I’m grateful for everyday. Except for winter. It’s a windy kind of cold coming off the ocean. Janis and I moved to Harpswell after my retirement in 2004. I took a position at Bowdoin College, no, not a professor, I was Supervisor of Security at the College Museum of Art for almost a decade. It was a significant education in the arts. Janis encouraged me to apply. It was another decade in a very different profession. Janis loved being on the coast. She loved lobster. When we were teenagers dating, I took her with me and my parents to Orrs Island, and she had her first taste of seafood. Lobster. clams, corn on the cob. A feast we repeated for a few summers. My aunt and uncle had a summer property on the Island. This turned out to be just a few miles from where we later retired to in Harpswell.
We did not notice she was in decline. In hindsight I see a lot of evidence that we missed. That I missed. I have deep regret for that. I do find some solace in knowing that we were together for over 60+ years; in later years with frequent visits, for hours, after she was placed in care, and I held her hand the day she died speaking into her ear? “I love you.”
Filed under Alzheimer's, Uncategorized, Writing
REDBIRD
Moving us through a mist
a foam
looking over at you
How did you do this
smile gentle beauty of youth
twice
sunny warmth a look
stay keep us here
keep us here
now
awake
on a branch silence
red bird alone
watches from a distance
a safe distance
red against wet green
a drizzle soft quiet
cool summer morning
blink
alone.
rwc 2024
Face Book ~ Maine Novels by Robert Chapman
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Face Book ~ Maine Novels
by Robert Chapman
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THE SOUND OF LETTERS
The doors that look out in my backyard are what I believe they call French doors. Don’t know why. The point is they are full-size, double doors that are all glass. This morning it is a bright July day, the lawns are greenish but dry, and the trees are a deep, lush green. Summer in Maine. The sun warms the morning air, it will be another hot one, the slightest breeze barely makes it any cooler. Harpswell Bay is a brief walk from here down a sylvan road. There are some tangled woods, some birch, balsam, and other firs that cover my view. But this morning the gulls fly over and their calls make it clear that the Bay is nearby. My six-year-old granddaughter and her dog flash past my doors, so of course, I open the doors and greet them. I’m a sucker for a grandchild and her dog.
I confess here that I never got to 312.2 (Part Two), and in attempting to edit 312.2 (Part One) I accidentally deleted it. So…after an agonizing attempt to fix the problem I decided to just eliminate it and start with a blog draft that I had on hold. It’s more current. Now that you are completely confused I suggest you forget that whole confession. Not important. Not that any of this is important, but you know what I mean.
Brinley is my six-year-old granddaughter. She has privileged access to my apartment and I welcome her visits. One of the things she likes to do is read. She also likes to climb; do cartwheels; jump on my bed (I have to be alert to catch her now and then); dance; have pillow fights; do yoga, (cracks me up); tease for snacks, jump from the sofa to the chairs, and more recently play checkers, (she plays well, but squirms after a few minutes). She informed me that she wants to learn chess. I suggested we learn checkers first. She’s also impatient.
We have conversations. She likes to ask questions. Lately, she has shown an interest in the universe. Lots of questions about that! I suggest she play her piano, she asks about how high is the sky, I suggest she play her piano (her mom’s a pianist and teacher, and Brin is following in her mom’s footsteps) I cave in, and attempt to answer her questions. Next time she broaches the topic I’m going to teach her how to use Google. The problem is she isn’t ready to read at that level so I’m going to be reading it to her. Perhaps I’ll learn about the universe in the process. My point here is first, how much I love this child’s inquiring mind and also how she brightens my days.
Recently, during one of her reflective moments (moments: it doesn’t last longer than that), she was reflecting on her reading and asked me about a word. I don’t recall the word, but she was curious (oh yes, she’s curious) about how the letters make up a word. This was a topic as a writer, that I thought I could elaborate on and take the discussion as a lead-in to a talk about reading. She likes books and is eager to read. So…we, or I, started to sound out some words, she was genuinely engaged (this only encouraged me more on the topic). Somewhere around a discussion about the verb to be, (kidding) I looked over at her eyes (glassed over by now) and asked her if I was keeping her up. (Old grandpa is corny). She said, almost politely, “Nope. But I just wanted to know about the sounds that letters make.”
I love writing and I love reading. But It occurred to me that she knew exactly what she needed and it was a moment I will not forget. Speaking is about the sound that letters make. Reading is what letters sound like in our head. I need to keep that feeling I had at that moment. I’ve not been writing much lately.
Writing is the sound that letters make. A lesson. A simple truth from a six-year-old’s session with grandpa.
stay
I JUST WANT THIS TO BE SIMPLE
I ONLY NEED TO SAY
I NEVER WANT TO LOSE YOU
JUST WANT FOR YOU TO STAY
I MISS YOU IN EACH MORNING
I THINK OF YOU EACH NIGHT
IF EVER YOU FORGET ME
WELL THAT WOULD BE ALRIGHT
I WILL STILL REMEMBER YOU
AND MISS YOU EVERYDAY
YOU SAID THAT YOU WOULD WORRY
BUT I WILL BE OKAY
AS I ROAM THRU THE NEXT LIFE
I CAN’T BE SURE JUST WHEN
BUT I FOUND YOU ONCE BEFORE
I’LL FIND YOU ONCE AGAIN.
rwc 12/11/16
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