Coming changes...

Really, I would like to refine my style of writing since re-reading several older posts have left me with the sensation of a ping pong ball explosion. Lord, I am scattered and often ambiguous. Obscure. Eccentric. But, I am lovable; sort of like your Aunt Millie after a shot of Seagram's mixed with a little soda.

So, the solution is to write in short bits, in between assignments for college. Much has happened and frankly, writing is a favored catharsis for exposing myself to well, myself. Tomorrow is December first, near to the end of 2009 which contained more loss than the last ten years altogether. Yet the year itself was successful regarding new experiences and changes.

Tonight we are to have snow, the first with staying power. Flakes and tiny particles have flung themselves earthward but nothing with any serious intent; swirls in the wind, then gone. It feels chill, you can tell in this brick building when cold arrives and of course there is the smell of snow in the air. I don't know what creates it, but snow has a smell and that smell is so enjoyable that it induces people to drink urns of hot chocolate and bundle up in thick socks and mittens. Soups and chili appear, big-handed men tear loaves of bread for dipping in filled bowls, the laughter is deeper, the blankets are alive like in a fable and hug us.

We aren't quite there yet, but the forecast says close, it is close. Listen for winds, feel the building shudder, there will be ice on the sidewalks, and happy people looking forward to stay-at-home nights given us by Old Man Winter. Stay well.

Nancy Ann

Never knew who her biological mother was and that bothered her, this possible other family that might want the return of their blonde, blue-eyed Irish daughter. She knew her birth name was McMahon, that her mother was fifteen years old and second generation Irish, and that her father was a toy maker. No further information could be gotten from the records the day we went to Our Lady of Victory orphanage, even though it was there in black and white Courier font. the woman who searched for the birth date given said with a direct look at Nancy, "Sometimes our parents are right..." when told that her adoptive family said her name had possibly been McMahon. That seeming bit of information gave her a window to look in, an opening to imagine a family with brothers, sisters, and a heritage of Irish belonging here in Buffalo, New York. We searched, I searched microfilms of old newspapers in college and the central library downtown with no luck in finding a girl born under the name of McMahon in 1952, November ninth.

She once was beautiful to the point of disbelief. She taught me how to put on make-up, hitch hike, and walk with a swing. Her adopted family was not what anyone would hope for, and it wasn't until adulthood that she developed a loving relationship with her father. I am not going to disturb memories of her mother, who may or may not have known how to love her new child throughout her life. This question of lost love, unattainable love, just out of reach if only I can be good love drove Nancy to search for pieces that she tried to glue together into one human being, herself.

She was found by a housekeeper in the bathroom of the house she rented. I don't have the particulars yet, but two hours ago spoke to a voice on the line telling me she had passed away. I am in shock and feel odd that no tears have come. The day was spent at SUNY Fredonia for a problem-solving session related to my graduate courses and conversation in the car surrounded events we had experienced with ghosts. After reaching my car and driving back home through West Seneca, I wondered why I wasn't spooked by the talk, usually that sort of thing stays with me and sends tingles up and down my spine. Instead, there was a warm closeness around me, as if I were folded in wings, a blanket, loving arms. I thought it was my Grandma or Mom, there to keep me safe and protected. Now I know it was my girl Nancy, stopping in to tell me she loved me still. I love you too and will grieve, but now I am still in shock at this circumstance of events and the death that was expected to be soon, but not so. Thank you for letting me know that you are well and safe and in the care of the angels. I love you so, from Susan.

Suffering journalism

Time falls into silent crevasses without an eek, and before you know, the year is going into winter. Again you can see through branches after leaves are pushed to the ground; buildings and stop signs appear which once were hidden by green; a new landscape, a revelation of grey amid bone-bare branches. November is a brown month, even before the gravy pools in the mound of mashed potatoes that you shaped to hold a cup of the good stuff. Oh, gravy!

Too soon to look back to debrief the goings-on of the first eleven months, or should it be done with foresight so that the remaining month is planned out to the max? I consider myself lucky to be overloaded with the demands of this world, for it means I am alive and engaged with others. Sure, I'm the monastic sort with preferences leaning towards a porch and a shotgun, but to exist without interaction or risk isn't of worth to me.

This year me and my little cat family lost our Martian, whose remains are boxed and sitting on a dresser. What happens when I die? By law, they are not allowed to be put with me...my vet said to have their ashes sewn into pockets of my dress when buried. My lord, if they dropped me, such a foof of dust would arise from all of my cremated pets hidden in the seams. I will think of something. Martian's absence is still obvious.

And this. My friend Barbara also died recently on an early Saturday morning. She wanted to live, but faced the inevitable too soon from cancer. She was dignified, full of fun, beautiful in face, mind, and spirit. Her love continues. Pshaw, she would say.

Looking forward, what else can one do?

Thoughts on an agate bead necklace....

My grandma Ida, whom I loved madly, grew roses that blossomed in crashes of color and scent, their heavy heads nodding under the weight of the petals. Huge, round, cabbage roses they were, perfumed of attar that drove bees mad as well. When the big flowers relaxed and let go of their petals, I would gather them in the folds of my dress and take them in to spread on a towel so they would dry. Their heady scent would hold, and ply within the drawers of my dresser throughout seasons of snow. My grandma, I would think of my grandma when opening, searching through a drawer for a hankie or winter layers.
Here are the petals, almost alive. Deep rose colors, magenta scarves, the dry pink rouge she wore on her cheeks, it is here. The whorls of ruby magenta blending to white are spread before me, and fifty years of life have fallen away. I am seven, in my grandma's garden, and know a love so desperately deep that years later, when fingering a necklace made of rose agate and pearls like dew, her flowers, her voice, the sound of her skirts rustling speaks to me and I cry with longing and love. It is perfect, this piece.