Memorial Day Memories

I never got Memorial Day off as an adult, until we moved down here. In South Carolina, Memorial Day was often not celebrated because it started out life as a holiday to honor the Union dead.

I realize that some of you will be saying, "Union dead? The Civil War? That war that happened over 100 years ago?"

Oh, yes. For some folks, that war isn't really over. They celebrate Confederate Memorial Day.

And in terms of state and federal holidays, my community college employers were a bit stingy. We didn't get Presidents' Day off either.

So, it was a joy to move down here and to have the day off. But soon, enough, it felt a bit empty.

I've spent all of my life before moving down here living in places that had a military base in the community--sometimes two or three. Memorial Day has a different flavor in places with a military presence.

And part of me will always be a D.C. area girl. It's hard to move around that area without being aware of the sacrifice that past citizens have given so that I can enjoy my good and happy life. Most people are familiar with the Vietnam Memorial or Arlington National Cemetery, but there are so many other places: memorial sites, statues, plaques.

Now I live in a place that feels more like a future U.S., where English isn't the dominant language, where there are more recent arrivals than people with ancestors buried in the soil. Most days, I'm cool with this, and invigorated by it.

Today, I'd like to be at a national monument, listening to one of the service bands perform. Or maybe I'd rather be in a contemplative spot, saying a thank you.

I'll make my Memorial Day observance by reading poetry. Here's a link to one of my favorites, "Facing It," by Yusef Komunyakaa.

I began my day by reading about this modern day quest, a Vietnam vet who's trying to travel to memorial sites in all 50 states. He blogs about it here.

Reading is such a solitary way to celebrate. But I'm not sure I'm up for a parade, with our sudden shift into summer heat and sun intensity. Later, we'll grill out, and I'll focus on how blessed I am to live in a place where I don't have to fear our military, where I'm free to read what I like and cook what I want and say what I want. I'll try not to think about the oil in the Gulf; I'll try not to think about the start of hurricane season tomorrow. I'll try not to think about the implications of a more active than usual hurricane season colliding with a gushing, uncontained oil well in the deep water of the Gulf. I'll try not to think about me, me, me, and instead focus on gratitude for the service and sacrifice of others.

A Word Drenched Saturday

I tend to collect books that end up on the remaindered tables. I buy them not knowing exactly when I'll read them, but having heard about them and unable to pass up a book for a couple of bucks. Sure, I could get them from the library, but some part of me thinks about the time the library won't be available, and so I hoard a bit.

Yesterday, I thought I would kick off this holiday week-end by going to the library, but I discovered that our county library system is completely shut down for almost a week so that they can install a new computer system. When I buy books from the remainder table, I must admit that I'm thinking of a storm or some other natural disaster that might make me glad to have an old-fashioned book, printed on paper. But a library closure qualifies too.

I spent yesterday absorbed by Lionel Shriver's The Post-Birthday World, which I bought in hardback for just a few dollars, but which I've hesitated to take with me when I travel because it is so heavy. It's a fascinating piece of storytelling, with two narratives unspooling in alternating chapters. I'm only halfway through the book, but I suspect that the ending will show that either choice that the protagonist made will land her in the same ending place. I'm enjoying the ride (and I also won't be surprised if I'm in for a shock). I love seeing how an element in one narrative, like an argument over who should have packed what, or a trip out of town, is repeated in the other narrative, but with changes.

It's a fascinating exploration of relationships and how our romantic/marriage relationships relate to our work. It's an interesting depiction of class structures too. And it's set in London, so my Brit Lit English major self loves it. The protagonist is an illustrator so there's a bit of discussion about art and creativity: what feeds us and what destroys us. I imagine Virginia Woolf reading this book and saying, "You see, that's exactly what I was trying to say. A room of one's own! An independent income!"

Yesterday was one of those soul restoring days: a good book, doing some writing of my own, making a few submissions, taking a break or two to shop for wine, a perfect nap. Sure, the house still needs vacuuming. But the house will always need vacuuming. Some days, I just need to lose myself in words, so that I don't forget who I really am. I am not a woman who wastes her talents creating meaningless reports that very few people will read and even fewer people will care about. I am not a woman who is paid very good money to do lots and lots of photocopying to create documentation for said reports. Well, I am that woman, in part, in my day job, the work that I do to bring in the money that pays for the rooms that are my own. But I'm also a different woman, a woman with a rich, inner life, a woman who glimpses magnificent metaphors and takes time to capture them in poems.

Of Missals and Missives and E-mail

Last week I got an e-mail which promised that the e-mail would be "the last missal" on the subject. Obviously (to me at least), the writer meant "missive." A missal is a prayer book, and so far, I've seen very few e-mails that utilize the language of prayer. They may inspire prayer (usually of the "help me, deliver me from this" variety), but I wouldn't use them as a prayer book.

I've spent some time thinking about e-mails and missals and missives and missiles. I've had poems swirling around, but have only been partially successful in capturing them. One of them wanted to be a pantoum, and I thought about how the pantoum form, with it's swirling, looped repetitiveness, might be the logical form to describe what happens in meetings in my institution.

Yesterday, during a particularly long meeting which seemed largely to consist of people talking about subjects they'd already covered in e-mails, I tried to write a pantoum. I found it impossible.

When I was in high school, creative writing was my solace activity. I could write in any setting, and I didn't care who was sitting beside me, and I wasn't distracted by whichever boring person was droning on and on. Yesterday, I just couldn't concentrate on the pantoum I was trying to write.

I'm paid good money to sit in meetings, so I probably shouldn't complain. I'm younger than the folks in charge, so I have different ideas about how to run things. Some day, I might be in charge, and a younger generation might shake their heads at the activities I think are important, but they see as inefficient.

I shall try to adopt a spirit of gratitude for all the poems that wouldn't have come to me, had I not experienced this life of an administrator.

The Curiousity of Children--and Grown-Ups?

This morning, as I hauled the trash around to the curb, I noticed a boy walking down the street. He had a backpack on his back, so I assume that he was on his way to school. But he was in no hurry. He stopped to pick up something; I assumed it was money or some other kind of treasure.

It was a stick. He trotted up to the flower boxes that are near my neighbor's porch (he's not their kid, mind you). He peered in. He walked over to the side yard, which has a shrine like area, with a small wall, and a statue of the Virgin Mary with outstretched hands, and a flower box. He stared at the statue. He looked at the wall. He looked behind the wall.

I wanted to stay to watch him exploring the world, but I also didn't want to intrude. I didn't want him to feel like I was accusing him of anything. He was approximately eight years old, and if his intent was vandalism, he was not going about it very efficiently. I did worry about a small kid getting into trouble with antsy property owners, but most of my neighbors have already gone to work, and I thought he'd be O.K.

I felt a sense of wistfulness and longing for my own long-ago childhood, where we'd explore drainage ditches and vacant fields and construction sites. In my grown-up life, I don't spend much time exploring the natural world, or any world, truth be told. I think that may be one reason why I feel this urge to move. Moving to a new place triggers my explorer's nature: what's that tree, what's the history of this place, where are the museums?

When we moved to the South Florida area, we had a summer where we didn't have to work very much. We went everywhere. We felt some trepidation about going into Miami, because it wasn't very far away from its criminal high point (now most of those high crime areas have been transformed into high end strip malls; they don't feel threatening at all, well not in the criminal sense). At one intersection, a car pulled up, and the windows rolled down. I felt a bit of tension. Were we about to be shot?

A young woman stuck her head out of the window and said, "Welcome to Miami, sir!" Imagine that said with a heavy accent, Cuban or Central American. We smiled and waved as the car pulled away.

I don't have those kind of magical encounters as much these days. I'm in an office 40 hours a week, which cuts down on my exploring time. Still, I try to remember to pay attention. Yesterday, as I exited a stairwell, I looked up into the deepest blue sky, a sky intercut by the view of the top of the glass building and palm fronds. I felt my rib cage open up, and I stood there for a few minutes, watching some fluffy clouds float by.

My friend in England has been embarked on an experiment. Every day, she goes to the same spot to observe it. I think it's in a nearby park, but she has a park-like yard, so she wouldn't have to go far to have a similar experience. Each day, she spends at least 5 minutes watching this spot. I think she also records what she finds.

I think of the teen-age daughter of a friend. This daughter plans to be a naturalist of some kind when she grows up. Their house backs up to a small lake, and one summer, she went out every day with her notebook to make notes on the ducks and the plants she found. Again, I felt that sense of envy as I watched her paddle the kayak out on her daily round.

Today is Rachel Carson's birthday, and I give her much credit for preserving our natural world through her writing and her warnings of what our chemical consumption is doing to our world and ourselves. Today, even as oil continues to wash ashore and we wait anxiously to see if BP can do anything to stop it, today, in honor of Rachel Carson, we should observe our little postage stamp of earth and appreciate it anew.

Boxcar Dreams of Riding the Rails

Last night we watched a bit of Riding the Rails, a PBS show, part of the American Experience series (learn more here). In the 1930's, more than 250,000 children and teens were living on the road in America, many of them hopping on trains and riding across the country. I remember learning about this aspect of the Great Depression somewhere along the way, but I tended to see it as a grand adventure. Last night's show reminded us of the dangers and the lack of comfort.

And the hunger. I forget how many people were so very, very hungry in the 1930's. I remember reading a fact about World War II that talked about how many recruits had to wait to be shipped off to war so that they could be nourished and so that their diseases of malnutrition could be treated.

I share a birthday with Woody Guthrie, so I've always been fascinated with his life, the way we all know some of his songs (sing along: "This Land is Your Land"; you know the words, even if you don't know all the verses). Woody Guthrie rode the rails as a very young man, and it was a habit he returned to throughout his life.

When I read that biographical nugget, I didn't realize he had so much company, both in terms of young people (more than 250,000; what did that landscape look like?) and the older people who were on the move, looking for work. I also didn't realize how many of those children had been turned out of their houses, their parents pushing them out to fend for themselves in hopes that the younger children could be saved. How would that feel?

From a very young age, I felt the pull of the open road. I used to tell my parents that I wanted to be a trucker when I grew up (yes, I was a child of varied interests; I was going to be a Broadway star, a trucker, an Indian brave, a writer, a settler--my imagination was not constrained by gender or time period or wage requirements).

I still feel that pull occasionally. One summer, I went to a marvelous exhibit on Woody Guthrie at the National Museum of American History, one of the wonderful Smithsonian museums in Washington, D.C. I got to see original manuscripts and pictures. It took my breath away, moved me to tears (yes, I'm emotional that way), and influenced my poetry for years to come.

Here's a poem that comes from that period. It remains unpublished, and I've largely stopped sending it out. I still like it, but I've written other poems that I like better. It still speaks to me on some level, that familial responsibility, that longing for freedom. When I wrote it, my mother-in-law had a lot of needs (and I added some fictional children for good measure). If I rewrote it today, I'd probably come at it from a different angle, something job related. Perhaps I'll play with this poem today. You play too. We could all write railroad poems and see what we came up with.

Boxcar Dreams


How did Woody Guthrie decide to leave
his children and women? What mad hope
made him leave?
Did guilt keep him awake at night?
Did he cry himself to sleep as he longed
for his left-behind loved ones?

I don’t dream of boxcars, but I price RVs
in my spare time. When family members call
with black holes of needs that suck
away time and space, I dream
of prairies and wide vistas,
western light and trees that touch the sky.

I buy maps but keep this evidence of my infidelity hidden.
As I drive the children to cheerleading practice, Cub
Scouts, soccer, violin lessons, I chart possible escape
routes. When my mother-in-law fills
the air with her inescapable chatter, I make mental
lists of all the supplies I’d need to stock in my camper.
I fall asleep, wondering how many miles
would erase their grasp.

Would great art come out of my mash dash
for freedom? Would I write songs that schoolchildren
will still sing a hundred years later?
Would I even make it to the state line
before the leash of responsibility pulled me home?

Lost and Found

I'm a bit bleary-eyed this morning because I stayed up late to watch the very last episode of Lost in real time. Yes, I could have watched it on Hulu, the way I've been doing all season. But some part of me wanted to see it last night, as the rest of the most of the world watched it.

Part of my motivation came from my suspicion that there will never again be a TV show like this one, and therefore, this might be the last time I would ever care enough about a TV show to stay up late, knowing I'd feel bleary-eyed the next day.

Part of my motivation is my fondness for final shows. I remember watching the very last episode of Mash and weeping, the same way I wept last night. So often, television shows limp away and die out of sight. It's a comfort to have a last show.

Strange to think how the world has changed since I wept over Mash. If I wanted to see that show, I was at the mercy of the networks. Now, for most shows, I can watch them online from a variety of outlets, or I can wait for the DVD collection.

But the change that I notice most is the absolute dearth of television shows that are worth the effort to watch anymore. I'm still a die-hard Simpsons fan. Occasionally I still watch House, but I don't like it as much as I once did. I was a Drama Club geek, so I love Glee, although I still can't tell if it's a giant spoof or if I'm supposed to take it seriously (a bit of both, I suspect). I like The Office and 30 Rock.

So, I watched Lost and wept. Last night's story lines had the kind of story lines that appealed to me: long lost lovers brought back together after long, faithful waits; the triumph of community; sacrifice for the greater good, which brings redemption. But as I write I'm wondering if I'm interpreting any of it correctly.

That's what I've loved about the show. It gives me a lot to think about, and you can't say that about much television. I don't often wake up in the morning puzzling over the plot developments of 30 Rock or The Office. I'll follow those writers wherever they want to go, but I don't feel very invested in one outcome or another.

I'm amazed to think about the changes in my life that occurred as I watched the show. The episode where Boone dies was one that I caught at the end after I came home from the hospital room where my mother-in-law was very close to dying (which she did, shortly after that episode). I think of the horrible hurricane season of 2005, with no hot water for showers, week after week, those survivors on the island, as I waited for power to be restored. I think of the various depictions of leadership, so interesting to me, as I've watched various power plays at work.

These days, I sit down to watch television and promptly fall asleep; most shows just aren't compelling enough to stay awake for. I can't imagine another show like Lost, so well written, so beautiful to watch, so intricate and intelligent, any time soon.

Two Days with Sandra Beasley

It's been a wonderful two days. On Thursday, a friend and I headed to the Rubell Family Collection to hear Shannon O'Neill and Sandra Beasley speak. Then, on Friday, it was back to Miami to Books and Books with some friends. Sandra Beasley gave a great poetry reading. I look forward to diving more deeply into her latest book; the poems she's read from them over the last two days have whetted my appetite.

On Thursday night, Sandra Beasley gave a more extemporaneous speech, full of nuggets and tips and inspiration. I didn't ask some of the questions I really wanted to ask, because they were about money, and I was raised that you don't ask people about their funding (I agree with feminist theory that explores the danger of never comparing paychecks, but that early, familial training dies hard). She said she's affording health insurance via COBRA--well that will only last so long.

Of course, I remember being young and fairly careless about being uninsured, so the idea of walking out on a job with benefits when one is in one's late 20's isn't as interesting to me as the tales of people at mid-life who do the same. I don't so much need health insurance now, thank goodness. But I know that something dreadful becomes more likely to happen as I age. And my spouse is not exactly into preventative life style choices.

But I digress. I also wanted to ask her about the details of her advance for her memoir and how it compared to her salary as a magazine editor. I assume that it wasn't too much of a difference, since I tend to think that magazine editors are underpaid. I wanted her to go into the details, because the crowd on Thursday night skewed young and naive (at least, from their questions), and I think it would have been useful for them to know that most writers don't get Steven King level advances.

However, Beasley did have plenty of good advice. She talked about diversifying and told us that in our first genre, we often find our topics. For example, she did a poetic sequence in her first book of poems about her life-threatening allergies; now she's writing a memoir that mines the same territory. She gave an example of a fiction writer who uses the setting for the novel (say a small town in Maine) as the focus of a travel article.

I immediately started thinking of some of my themes and how I might rework them. Nuclear imagery--hmmm. Life at the end of the Cold War--hmmm. Weird theology--hmm. Of course, I've been writing poetry because I don't have the time and undivided attention to write longer pieces. My poems and my short stories used to inform each other. The smart thing would be to rewrite things into articles, which I also tried to do sporadically.

Sandra Beasley also offered comfort for those of us who find ourselves spending too much time on our e-mail composition. She says that she found a lot of source material in her e-mails, and that she has often been referring to e-mails as she's written the new memoir.

She also offered us tales that remind us that no one is leading a charmed life. She talked about her publisher's delay, which meant she didn't have books for her New York reading for her first book. She talked about how she didn't even earn enough money to pay her tolls as she drove back down to D.C. She reminded us that for every great leap forward, there will be setbacks. And even in the setbacks, there might be hope. Even as she was driving that night, a publisher was sending word of an acceptance of her manuscript.

Similarly, on the day that she got to work to find that the ceiling above her desk had literally fallen on top of her workspace, she got news that her memoir had been accepted. She looked at all of her months of magazine work reduced to an irredeemably soggy mess, and she gave her notice. She took the job because she could be around books, but she never had time to write them. She said that unread books are unkept promises.

She's had many months of talking to people about the risks that she took in giving up her job. She said, "There's no such thing as a wise risk. There's only the chances that you take on yourself."

Throughout the two days I've heard her speak, she's always come back to the rejections that she's had along with the success. That comforted me. I tend to think that everyone is leading an easy life of immediate acceptance, and it's only me who sends out manuscript after manuscript. But that's really all of us, a lesson that I don't think most of the audience on Thursday night really understands. But they will. The trick, which I hope they also learn early, is to not give up, to keep your envelopes stamped, your manuscripts ready.