There were five girls in our family, Lithuanian heritage was strong. The coming of the Christ Child was a time of great expectation. During the five weeks of advent, we made sacrifices of candies and goodies to prepare for this event. Each child tried to outdo the other in being a saint. Mom cleaned the house from stem to stern. All windows sparkled clean, with special curtains and drapes only for Christmas. Each sister had her specific task to do, no shirking allowed.
Preparation of the food for the feast was another endless job. Lithuanian sausage with ground pork and ham was stuffed. Our old country cookie the ‘Kristie” was rolled ,cut twisted ,fried, dusted with four x sugar and packed into cans for the holiday. The grown ups looked forward to the Holiday drink”Vryitos”. It had a real kick to it, somewhat like a potent” hot toddy”.
In our house, no such thing as a Christmas list existed. My father made a child’s table and chairs set, with a china cupboard for dishes as Santa’s gift. With great anticipation we looked forward to walking into the living room Christmas morning, seeing the tree with lights aglow and the little kitchen group waiting for us. We played at having tea parties for hours on end. Little Hershey silver buds were placed in tiny aluminum dishes on the radiators, our heat, in the room. These would melt flat. Then they were placed outside on the windowsill to freeze. How delicious this was at our tea party!
In the spring, when our interest in the dining set and dolls waned, they were put away until the next Christmas. With new curtains and paint job, these were recycled for the current season, with great enthusiasm. Our dolls too, suddenly disappeared and returned with a complete set of new clothes. Mom was quite a seamstress and did skillful work. In addition, each received a big stocking. In the toe was a big tangerine and some nuts and hard candy. This also was relished along with new socks, comb, hairbrush and other necessities. It was fun emptying out to see the contents.
Today ‘s children see the tree weeks before Christmas. In our day, it was a big secret. Dad purchased the tree and put it up in the living room when we were fast asleep. The tree was never seen until the magic moment early in the morning. What a moment to see the tree all spectacular!
It took the breath away.
This was also a time of visiting relatives. During the two weeks of the holidays, visits were made and hugs and kisses distributed, sometimes even money. When old Aunts were not looking the hand wiped the face quickly where generously endowed affection landed.. If silver touched the palm it eased the pain.
In those days holidays was the giving of self . Do we mourn its passing?
Lill Caplins 04
Monday, December 3, 2007
Monday, November 5, 2007
We Agreed to Disagree by Lill Caplins
In love, at the early age of twenty-two
Two stubborn people made vows to be true
For sixty years marriage bliss did survive
With exceptional difficulty love is still alive.
Many problems occurred throughout the day
Had to be careful what to say.
If a phrase escaped such as the weather was fine
A retort came back, ”it’s a miserable time.”
According to him the food was cold never hot
Resulted in returning the entrée to the pot.
She enjoyed reading from A to Z.
His hobby the sports on daily TV
His role was the king of the household
She, the servant did all that was told
Her job, the dutiful wife with cheerful glee
Settled debates before the sun did flee
Six children appeared making hearts sing
Filling the house with excitement and things
Never a moment to worry or despair
Fun took over with laughter everywhere.
If there was struggle and problems
Children brought peace and happiness here.
Their blessing to the house, a miracle to behold
This cement kept the family in a firm hold.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
God's Fireworks submitted by Lill Caplins
God’s fireworks
On a summer July night, after a heavy rain
The evening was pleasant
Soft breezes floated through the air
In the distance, sounds of fireworks echoed
Or was it motor boats racing on the river?
It was too early for the Fourth of July display
Running to the window, I searched the dark heavens
In utter amazement I gazed
The blue vault of space sparkled
With flashes everywhere
Some spaces appeared as falling stars
Others hung close to the earth
Were we being invaded?
Should I look for space ships?
Could I expect little men to rush forth?
In dismay I called my spouse
Together we watched Gods’ exposition
A beautiful wonderment of lightening bugs
Flitting here and there, filling the air!
If they would sing it would have been deafening
Entertainment from the Almighty.
A sign of His glory!
Lill Caplins 06
Thursday, October 4, 2007
For Creative memoirs October 10, 2007:
"For Creative memoirs October 10, 2007:
I’ve already sent you the notice that we will have a special guest, Denis Collins, for the memoir workshop; and I hope you will come and bring friends, and also make his 7 p.m. reading at the Library. At two +- he will talk a bit about how he has transformed his own family memoirs into fiction.
However, you will also have a chance to read your own memoirs on autumn or aunts or whatever inspires. Here are a few more spurs-to-inspiration I have stumbled over and want to share---
This first one, especially as here in Calvert County we are, in a sense, on a sacred mountain, while beyond our safe slopes, others are hurling each other’s peoples into despair and grief:
Dogen's mountain retreat (One of fifteen verses on)
Joyful in this mountain retreat yet still feeling melancholy,
Studying the Lotus Sutra every day,
Practicing zazen singlemindedly;
What do love and hate matter
When I'm here alone,
Listening to the sound of the rain late in this autumn evening.
from: The Zen Poetry of Dogen: verses from the Mountain of Eternal Peace. Steven Heine, ed.
And read the whole of this essay, whose link is on Poetry Daily:
"... what happens to a passion that, though it fuels art, remains in some essential human sense abstract, never altogether attaching itself to any one person, any one time or token of the perishable earth? Does art, at least in some instances, and for some artists, demand this, that they always feel most intensely the life they've failed to feel? Is it worth it?"
"Milton in Guatemala," from Christian Wiman's
Ambition and Survival: Becoming a Poet (Copper Canyon Press)
And though you must know this by heart, it keeps reverberating in my mind as I see this morning’s Patuxent and sweep away expired crickets:
Ode To Autumn
John Keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies."
I’ve already sent you the notice that we will have a special guest, Denis Collins, for the memoir workshop; and I hope you will come and bring friends, and also make his 7 p.m. reading at the Library. At two +- he will talk a bit about how he has transformed his own family memoirs into fiction.
However, you will also have a chance to read your own memoirs on autumn or aunts or whatever inspires. Here are a few more spurs-to-inspiration I have stumbled over and want to share---
This first one, especially as here in Calvert County we are, in a sense, on a sacred mountain, while beyond our safe slopes, others are hurling each other’s peoples into despair and grief:
Dogen's mountain retreat (One of fifteen verses on)
Joyful in this mountain retreat yet still feeling melancholy,
Studying the Lotus Sutra every day,
Practicing zazen singlemindedly;
What do love and hate matter
When I'm here alone,
Listening to the sound of the rain late in this autumn evening.
from: The Zen Poetry of Dogen: verses from the Mountain of Eternal Peace. Steven Heine, ed.
And read the whole of this essay, whose link is on Poetry Daily:
"... what happens to a passion that, though it fuels art, remains in some essential human sense abstract, never altogether attaching itself to any one person, any one time or token of the perishable earth? Does art, at least in some instances, and for some artists, demand this, that they always feel most intensely the life they've failed to feel? Is it worth it?"
"Milton in Guatemala," from Christian Wiman's
Ambition and Survival: Becoming a Poet (Copper Canyon Press)
And though you must know this by heart, it keeps reverberating in my mind as I see this morning’s Patuxent and sweep away expired crickets:
Ode To Autumn
John Keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies."
So, Admire the Vulture
So, Admire the Vulture
ugly, ungainly at rest
on the side of the road
guarding a stolen meal.
when on obsidian wings
he soars, scans the land,
descends, clears the dead,
what a useful, elegant bird.
Elisavietta Ritchie
[excerpted from a longer poem, “Note to a Younger Self”
published in Blue Unicorn 2003; Canadian Woman Studies 2003]
ugly, ungainly at rest
on the side of the road
guarding a stolen meal.
when on obsidian wings
he soars, scans the land,
descends, clears the dead,
what a useful, elegant bird.
Elisavietta Ritchie
[excerpted from a longer poem, “Note to a Younger Self”
published in Blue Unicorn 2003; Canadian Woman Studies 2003]
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Submission from Lil Caplins--Magnetism of People
Magnetism of people
There are some that possess a strong pull to them.
Conversation starts easily, then flows smoothly.
The magnetic effect glues you to their presence.
It is not anything about their looks or gender
It is something not identifiable that holds you,
Making it almost impossible to leave
What follows is so interesting; every word is absorbed,
You stand in awe waiting for the next sentence.
To me it has occurred many times.
The most common place is the waiting room
All of a sudden, the room is alive with friendliness.
Sometimes, after a simple cheery greeting
Joyful conversation fills the area.
When the magnet leaves, the room remains electrified
On the way home you are engulfed by a warm glow.
Thank God for the stimulating folks!
It takes us out of humdrum existence.
Lill Caplins 06
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Hospital Life submitted by Lill Caplins
Hospital Life
Life in the Hospital goes like this.
To start the day: a little basin to clean all
With the entrance of the Grand Slam Breakfast,
Next the Physical Therapist with the walker,
Slowly, painfully a few steps down the hall.
Followed by the O.T. teaching living skills
Back to the room with a sigh of relief
Into the chair absolutely no beef
Nurse tech, your blood pressure and pulse checks
Medicines arrive, in a sec.
With a nod of the head, a soft doze you go.
Again a tray is set smack at your nose.
You scan the tray, exclaim with a shout,
“Too much to eat, with out a doubt’.
As the Physician breezes in and out.
With a humph and a ha!
Nice long nap in the easy chair
Snoring away without a care.
Awaken in time for the evening news
Phone calls arrive to chase the blues.
Dinner comes in a sudden surprise
Care and love graciously poured
Wait! Food is here, as before
Eat the food, so there is no uproar
A little of this, a little bit of that
Appetite isn’t one to make one fat.
With the help of the nurse, back to bed, a sigh of relief
Lill Caplins 07
Monday, September 24, 2007
relevant poem by Edwin Markham
SING A WHILE LONGER
Has the bright sun set,
Has the gale grown stronger?
Still we’ll not grieve yet:
We will sing a while longer!
Has our youth been met
By Time the wronger?
Let us not grieve yet,
Let us sing a while longer!
Is the world beset,
Do the sorrows throng her?
Let us not grieve yet:
Let us sing a while longer!
-- Edwin Markham
Has the bright sun set,
Has the gale grown stronger?
Still we’ll not grieve yet:
We will sing a while longer!
Has our youth been met
By Time the wronger?
Let us not grieve yet,
Let us sing a while longer!
Is the world beset,
Do the sorrows throng her?
Let us not grieve yet:
Let us sing a while longer!
-- Edwin Markham
Monday, September 17, 2007
Submission from Lil Caplins--Day of trick and treats is here
Day of trick and treats is here
Become another identity here
No one knows this cavalier
Fun descending from another sphere
Knock on doors don’t speak a word
Or the spell will be broken forever more
Ring the doorbell, spread wide the bag
See what treasures you will snag
Some houses have a spooky look!
Some do it strictly by the book.
Everywhere skeletons and ghost abound
Behind the trees, cans and lamppost found.
Up and down the streets we go
Avoiding cars and dogs you know
Cold and tired at home check the loot
Into our tummies the treasures are put.
Submission from Lil Caplins--Halloween
Halloween
Halloween has always been one of our favorite times of year. We went to great lengths to decorate the house and make it fun for the trick and treaters. Children came to strut in their outfits and were loaded down with goodies.
Yearly our neighborhood group got together for fun. This time we decided that eight of us would go as hill-billies. Appropriate clothes of the times and area was collected. The women blackened some front teeth; hair braided into pigtails with clodhopper shoes on their feet and gingham clothes. Our men folk were dressed in worn overalls, some barefooted with straw hats.
Our spokesman with noise and commotion proceeded to clear a table of all decorations such as centerpieces etc. Then the men with mountain exclamations declared a “still “ needed to be positioned in the center of the table. Fake fire was ignited under a copper kettle filled with dry ice making steam to come out of coils in the still. It was down right impressive! Then dancing music began. The hall was alive with Clopping and stomping of feet. The dancers twirled and swirled with laughter. Later, in the evening, instruction came forth to parade around the hall for the judging. One of our country boys threw a rubber chicken in the air, another shot it down. Here again a truly mountain scene took over.
Halloween has always been one of our favorite times of year. We went to great lengths to decorate the house and make it fun for the trick and treaters. Children came to strut in their outfits and were loaded down with goodies.
Yearly our neighborhood group got together for fun. This time we decided that eight of us would go as hill-billies. Appropriate clothes of the times and area was collected. The women blackened some front teeth; hair braided into pigtails with clodhopper shoes on their feet and gingham clothes. Our men folk were dressed in worn overalls, some barefooted with straw hats.
Our spokesman with noise and commotion proceeded to clear a table of all decorations such as centerpieces etc. Then the men with mountain exclamations declared a “still “ needed to be positioned in the center of the table. Fake fire was ignited under a copper kettle filled with dry ice making steam to come out of coils in the still. It was down right impressive! Then dancing music began. The hall was alive with Clopping and stomping of feet. The dancers twirled and swirled with laughter. Later, in the evening, instruction came forth to parade around the hall for the judging. One of our country boys threw a rubber chicken in the air, another shot it down. Here again a truly mountain scene took over.
Lill Caplins 11-06
Submission from Lil Caplins-Summer Fun
Summer Fun
In the early morning dark
Before the sun awakens the sky.
Adventure begins to unfold
Father takes his daughters crabbing.
To the boatyard we go
And hop into a rented rowboat,
The bushel basket between us.
Our chore is tying smelly chicken necks
With leaded weights to string
The line is cast overboard
We wait for the tug of prey
A crab! A crab Excitement breaks the silence
Slowly we bring the line to surface,
A greedy crab appears devouring bait.
We grab a net
It is a signal to be sharp, dip swiftly
To capture the elusive treasure,
Plop him into the basket.
Don’t miss the mark
If aim is bad, fun begins.
When snapping claws declare freedom
Bare feet and fingers beware!
Sun beats down
Determination fills the air.
Happily the sunburned, weary band
Declares success,
Journey home –a prize catch in hand
A brimming, bushel basket of squirming crabs.
Lil Caplins`05
WASHINGTON WRITERS' PUBLISHING HOUSE AND CALVERT LIBRARY, PRINCE FREDERICK, OCTOBER 10
2006 FICTION WINNER
NORA’S ARMY by Denis Collins
Denis Collins will be reading from NORA’S ARMY at Calvert Library, Prince Frederick, at 7 pm, Wednesday October 10, 2007. He may also discuss his jurorship at the recent "Scooter" Libby Trial in Washington’s District Courthouse.
Books will be available for purchase at $15 and for signing
In the spring of 1932 during the worst of the Great Depression, a young Irish woman chases a thief across the Atlantic. She arrives in Washington DC at the same time as the Bonus Army, 35,000 veterans of WWI who have marched on the Capital to press for early payment of their war service bonus.
With little money and nowhere else to live, Nora O’Sullivan moves into the Bonus camp beside the Anacostia River. She participates in the hardscrabble life of the camp, seeks to retrieve a silver cup with peculiar etchings, and falls in love with two 19 year olds – fledgling journalist Eric Sevareid, and Communist organizer Randolph Walker, who lived as a white until the age of 13 when his father discovered Walker’s biological father was black and disowned him.
Early Washington, still surrounded by wilderness, is already a racially and culturally diverse town with blacks, American and Hindu Indians, also speakeasy habitués, opportunists and exotic characters. Fictional characters play out their roles among historical figures By August General Douglas MacArthur disobeys his president and uses tanks and cavalry to drive the Bonus army from the camp, Nora celebrates her 18th birthday, and must choose between Sevareid and Walker.
Denis Collins is a writer and teacher living in Washington DC. He was a journalist with the Washington Post, Miami Herald and San Jose Mercury News. His non-fiction book Spying: The Secret History of History was published last year. His writing has appeared in Smithsonian, FYI Forbes, Men’s Journal and other publications in the US and New Zealand. A graduate of Fordham University, Collins also studied at Trinity College, Dublin, and Talladega College, Alabama. Nora’s Army is his first novel. He teaches creative writing to inner-city children in Washington. Recently he was “the” juror on the Scooter Libby trial.
ISBN 0-931846-82-X 312 pages
Publication Date: December, 2006 Review/advance copies available October 2006
WWPH, a nonprofit cooperative press, published some of the area's best-known poets before adding fiction. Laura Brylawski-Miller painted several covers. Pulitzer Prize winner Henry Taylor notes that “Washington Writers’ Publishing House...is among the most successful recent literary experiments in the country.”
Please send tear sheets to: WWPH, Box 15271, Washington, DC 20003.
To schedule readings, contact: Jean Nordhaus at (202) 543-1905, fax: (202)-543-2519
To contact the author directly: 202 333-6359 DEECER@aol.com
Paperback: 0-931846-82-X
Please make checks or money orders payable to WWPH and send with order form care of: Piotr Gwiazda, WWPH, 1101 St. Paul Street, Apt. 1402. Baltimore, MD 21202; gwiazda@umbc.edu
Number of copies @ $14.95 (paperback) ______ = Total $________
Shipping and Handling (see postage rate chart) = Postage $________
TOTAL ENCLOSED $________
Postage Rate Chart
North America: $2.00 for each book
All Others:
Surface: $5.00 for the first book; $2.00 for each additional book
Airmail: $12.00 for the first book; $5.00 for each additional book
Please be sure we have your mailing address.
Name (please print) ________________________________________________
Address _________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________
City/State __________________________________ Zip Code _____________
Country _________________________________________________________
Telephone _____________________________ Fax ______________________
2006 FICTION WINNER
NORA’S ARMY by Denis Collins
Denis Collins will be reading from NORA’S ARMY at Calvert Library, Prince Frederick, at 7 pm, Wednesday October 10, 2007. He may also discuss his jurorship at the recent "Scooter" Libby Trial in Washington’s District Courthouse.
Books will be available for purchase at $15 and for signing
In the spring of 1932 during the worst of the Great Depression, a young Irish woman chases a thief across the Atlantic. She arrives in Washington DC at the same time as the Bonus Army, 35,000 veterans of WWI who have marched on the Capital to press for early payment of their war service bonus.
With little money and nowhere else to live, Nora O’Sullivan moves into the Bonus camp beside the Anacostia River. She participates in the hardscrabble life of the camp, seeks to retrieve a silver cup with peculiar etchings, and falls in love with two 19 year olds – fledgling journalist Eric Sevareid, and Communist organizer Randolph Walker, who lived as a white until the age of 13 when his father discovered Walker’s biological father was black and disowned him.
Early Washington, still surrounded by wilderness, is already a racially and culturally diverse town with blacks, American and Hindu Indians, also speakeasy habitués, opportunists and exotic characters. Fictional characters play out their roles among historical figures By August General Douglas MacArthur disobeys his president and uses tanks and cavalry to drive the Bonus army from the camp, Nora celebrates her 18th birthday, and must choose between Sevareid and Walker.
Denis Collins is a writer and teacher living in Washington DC. He was a journalist with the Washington Post, Miami Herald and San Jose Mercury News. His non-fiction book Spying: The Secret History of History was published last year. His writing has appeared in Smithsonian, FYI Forbes, Men’s Journal and other publications in the US and New Zealand. A graduate of Fordham University, Collins also studied at Trinity College, Dublin, and Talladega College, Alabama. Nora’s Army is his first novel. He teaches creative writing to inner-city children in Washington. Recently he was “the” juror on the Scooter Libby trial.
ISBN 0-931846-82-X 312 pages
Publication Date: December, 2006 Review/advance copies available October 2006
WWPH, a nonprofit cooperative press, published some of the area's best-known poets before adding fiction. Laura Brylawski-Miller painted several covers. Pulitzer Prize winner Henry Taylor notes that “Washington Writers’ Publishing House...is among the most successful recent literary experiments in the country.”
Please send tear sheets to: WWPH, Box 15271, Washington, DC 20003.
To schedule readings, contact: Jean Nordhaus at (202) 543-1905, fax: (202)-543-2519
To contact the author directly: 202 333-6359 DEECER@aol.com
Paperback: 0-931846-82-X
Please make checks or money orders payable to WWPH and send with order form care of: Piotr Gwiazda, WWPH, 1101 St. Paul Street, Apt. 1402. Baltimore, MD 21202; gwiazda@umbc.edu
Number of copies @ $14.95 (paperback) ______ = Total $________
Shipping and Handling (see postage rate chart) = Postage $________
TOTAL ENCLOSED $________
Postage Rate Chart
North America: $2.00 for each book
All Others:
Surface: $5.00 for the first book; $2.00 for each additional book
Airmail: $12.00 for the first book; $5.00 for each additional book
Please be sure we have your mailing address.
Name (please print) ________________________________________________
Address _________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________
City/State __________________________________ Zip Code _____________
Country _________________________________________________________
Telephone _____________________________ Fax ______________________
"Spurs-for-Inspiration" Oct 10, 2007
Creative Memoirs Wednesday, September 12, 2-4 p.m., Calvert Library
I’m unsure exactly how we left it last time, but one theme we did consider was on memorable aunts in our lives. So here are some pieces to inspire, or reaffirm. But another theme we considered was Ghosts We Have Known—and in some cases we have a memoir that would fit both. Respond in prose or poetry.
Ann B. Knox
Aunt From the Country
The wedding was perfect: heirloom
dress, the groom somber with joy.
Later, an aunt from the country grew
bawdy and danced with a waiter until
the band packed up. She’d driven home
singing to herself, recalling music,
her body’s sway, young men leaping,
lofting a blue garter. His hand
had been hard, sweaty, and he’d
held her eyes even as young girls
twisted around them. She remembered
ceremony and the falling away of ceremony,
how, without gloves, she’d felt flesh
and for a moment hunger hollowed
her belly like the suck before
a wave that drains mudflats,
exposing a hull slick with weed,
a shimmer of fish flailing the surface.
On the porch the next day she smelled
dry rot she’d not noticed before,
like a barn abandoned or hay
too long unturned. With a J-bar
she pulled the weathered plank,
it lifted with a cry carrying
rosettes of puncture wounds.
She stood, arms crossed hugging
herself. The plank gleamed, wind
sharpened carrying the smell of salt.
It was a fine wedding, good to dance,
good the waiter’s small curved smile.
From The Dark Edge, Pudding House Publications,
copyright 2004 by Ann B. Knox.
==
Nikki Giovanni
My grandmother made me think I was the best thing since sliced bread. I had to do book reports for her. My grandmother made me think I was smart, and then I had an aunt who also made me feel smart. What would we do without our aunts and grandmothers?
Nikki Giovanni, quoted in USA Today
==
Donald Shomettee –Aunt Katy
Mary Catherine, oldest of 14 children whom she helped to raise, was born in Texas. Her father was a cowboy, a railroad telegrapher, and a general neer-do-well who was kicked out of the state as a scab. Her mother was the lastborn of a German immigrant who arrived aboard the E. F. Gabin, one teacher among 500 farmers. He founded a German school and town. They ended up in Washington DC.
A stunning tall blonde, in World War One she volunteered as a nurse in a Kentucky hospital. She tended Frederick Gooch, who had joined the British Expeditionary Force as an aerial photographer. Shot down over Ypes, suffering from mustard gas, he landed in her care.
They fell in love, married, headed west in 1918, an era when to drive across the country was rare, and panned gold in the Sierra Mountains. A beautiful woman in a man’s world, she washed for the men in the camp— stress for Freddy. He had been emasculated by shrapnel in the war, so they never had children, but Aunt Katy would raise my brother, just as our grandmother raised me when our mother became paralyzed.
Running out of money, they drove farther west to Hollywood. Freddy worked in the infant film industry, she worked as a cigarette girl, and both got bit parts. She wore a Theda Bera outfit, semi-nude with serpents circling her breasts--before censorship in the cinema.
They returned to Washington before World War Two, and all the brothers joined the service.
Under the name Mary Gooch, Aunt Katy started to write short stories and articles for an uncle who was a publisher in Texas. She struck gold with a series of soft-cover books selling for 25 cents, now $100 on eBay. She transformed her siblings into fiction. Heavy on the sex for that day, she wrote her bad books rapidly and they were published rapidly. Returning to Hollywood in the 1950s to try to sell film scripts—in vain--she ghosted for the TV star of Gunsmoke, James Arness.
They returned east, Uncle Freddy died of lung cancer, and Aunt Katy became self-sufficient through both fiction and painting. A true American primitive, she gave me my first sketchpad, got me into painting and writing, and was the only relative who seemed to care for me. Herself a colorist unafraid of a palette, on her death bed at 95 she was upset because she was being taken away just when she had started drawing in pencil and ink. She remained gorgeous to her dying day.
Donald Shomette, copyright 2007, from a family history in progress.
==
Vlassios Tigkarakis – Aunt Kati
Thia Ekaterini, or Kati, was my most important aunt, my father’s sister. Her brother, then 30, asked her to arrange an evening with a certain classmate of hers. Kati, a cheerful teacher who loved to play with children, introduced her beautiful olive-skinned classmate with almond eyes. And that is how my father met my mother.
Aunt Kati’s mother dominated: self-made, independent, with strong ideas for the post-war years in Greece. One of the few women to find her own job, she taught at the prestigious Athenian school, then decided to take her two children away from their father and raise them on her own—something unthinkable. So when Kati fell pregnant by a handsome young man named Thanassis (the word athanasia means immortality), her mother was adamant that they should marry. This led to a happy wedding and an unhappy marriage. Their son Constantinos would later become the only thing bringing them together occasionally, and he came to believe that he must.
One sultry night, 21 July 1990, Constantinos and six other 16-year-old friends were walking to one of their country houses from a local dance club 60 kilometers from Athens. A speeding car lost control and plowed through the boys. Constantinos was among those killed. Both Kati and Thanassis were devastated, Thanassis even more so because his son had become his reason for existence—so much so that in the subsequent trial, when the driver of that car requested that he be merely fined, Thanasissis pulled out a gun in the courtroom, killed both the driver’s lawyers, severely wound the driver and several judges, then turned the gun on himself. So Aunt Kati was devastated to have lost the two most significant men in her life.
She finally got back on her feet, married Vangelis, but always wore a gold heart with the painting of Constantinos….
Copyright 2007 by Vlassios Tigkarakis, from a memoir in progress
==
Elisavietta Ritchie
Thanksgiving With Great Aunt Eugenya
Her mostly blind eyes could still see
bright colors, and my salad gleamed:
red peppers, yellow squashes, green beans.
She lifted the silver serving spoon
over the gold-rimmed plate,
inspected it closely, recalled
a bullet she had extracted
from the gangrenous leg
of a soldier in a hospital tent.
The doctor killed, she learned
to amputate on the battlefield.
Not quite dinner conversation but
she was a nurse, World War One.
Well-born young ladies signed up,
no eligible men left in Petersburg.
No man in my house, and because
I was unsure where to begin,
Great Aunt Eugenya carved the turkey.
Her fingers were skilled in the Braille
of bones, and understood flesh.
The glistening skin stayed intact.
Hungry for history and science,
my daughter and I asked questions.
My aunt described fighting, famine…
After the Revolution
the Bolsheviks put her to work
in a prison camp. As a nurse
she could sign out the sick
to hospital: there they’d get better
rations, a chance to escape.
Finally she too fled, to Estonia,
Germany. Another war…
Then the Red Army advanced…
She reached England, America.
Through years as a nurse
she kept her tin army cup.
Born in a safer land and time,
I carry the burden of not
suffering war first-hand.
Best I can do is hear out, absorb
others’ lives, try to nurture them.
My daughter became a doctor,
also learned war firsthand--
Cyprus, Korea, Somalia --
C-rations on Thanksgiving.
Meanwhile, we don’t recite grace but
in silence thank God for turkey,
colorful vegetables, this interim peace.
[published in The Ledge, 2000 and in Awaiting Permission to Land, Cherry Grove Series, copyright 2006 Elisavietta Ritchie]
I’m unsure exactly how we left it last time, but one theme we did consider was on memorable aunts in our lives. So here are some pieces to inspire, or reaffirm. But another theme we considered was Ghosts We Have Known—and in some cases we have a memoir that would fit both. Respond in prose or poetry.
Ann B. Knox
Aunt From the Country
The wedding was perfect: heirloom
dress, the groom somber with joy.
Later, an aunt from the country grew
bawdy and danced with a waiter until
the band packed up. She’d driven home
singing to herself, recalling music,
her body’s sway, young men leaping,
lofting a blue garter. His hand
had been hard, sweaty, and he’d
held her eyes even as young girls
twisted around them. She remembered
ceremony and the falling away of ceremony,
how, without gloves, she’d felt flesh
and for a moment hunger hollowed
her belly like the suck before
a wave that drains mudflats,
exposing a hull slick with weed,
a shimmer of fish flailing the surface.
On the porch the next day she smelled
dry rot she’d not noticed before,
like a barn abandoned or hay
too long unturned. With a J-bar
she pulled the weathered plank,
it lifted with a cry carrying
rosettes of puncture wounds.
She stood, arms crossed hugging
herself. The plank gleamed, wind
sharpened carrying the smell of salt.
It was a fine wedding, good to dance,
good the waiter’s small curved smile.
From The Dark Edge, Pudding House Publications,
copyright 2004 by Ann B. Knox.
==
Nikki Giovanni
My grandmother made me think I was the best thing since sliced bread. I had to do book reports for her. My grandmother made me think I was smart, and then I had an aunt who also made me feel smart. What would we do without our aunts and grandmothers?
Nikki Giovanni, quoted in USA Today
==
Donald Shomettee –Aunt Katy
Mary Catherine, oldest of 14 children whom she helped to raise, was born in Texas. Her father was a cowboy, a railroad telegrapher, and a general neer-do-well who was kicked out of the state as a scab. Her mother was the lastborn of a German immigrant who arrived aboard the E. F. Gabin, one teacher among 500 farmers. He founded a German school and town. They ended up in Washington DC.
A stunning tall blonde, in World War One she volunteered as a nurse in a Kentucky hospital. She tended Frederick Gooch, who had joined the British Expeditionary Force as an aerial photographer. Shot down over Ypes, suffering from mustard gas, he landed in her care.
They fell in love, married, headed west in 1918, an era when to drive across the country was rare, and panned gold in the Sierra Mountains. A beautiful woman in a man’s world, she washed for the men in the camp— stress for Freddy. He had been emasculated by shrapnel in the war, so they never had children, but Aunt Katy would raise my brother, just as our grandmother raised me when our mother became paralyzed.
Running out of money, they drove farther west to Hollywood. Freddy worked in the infant film industry, she worked as a cigarette girl, and both got bit parts. She wore a Theda Bera outfit, semi-nude with serpents circling her breasts--before censorship in the cinema.
They returned to Washington before World War Two, and all the brothers joined the service.
Under the name Mary Gooch, Aunt Katy started to write short stories and articles for an uncle who was a publisher in Texas. She struck gold with a series of soft-cover books selling for 25 cents, now $100 on eBay. She transformed her siblings into fiction. Heavy on the sex for that day, she wrote her bad books rapidly and they were published rapidly. Returning to Hollywood in the 1950s to try to sell film scripts—in vain--she ghosted for the TV star of Gunsmoke, James Arness.
They returned east, Uncle Freddy died of lung cancer, and Aunt Katy became self-sufficient through both fiction and painting. A true American primitive, she gave me my first sketchpad, got me into painting and writing, and was the only relative who seemed to care for me. Herself a colorist unafraid of a palette, on her death bed at 95 she was upset because she was being taken away just when she had started drawing in pencil and ink. She remained gorgeous to her dying day.
Donald Shomette, copyright 2007, from a family history in progress.
==
Vlassios Tigkarakis – Aunt Kati
Thia Ekaterini, or Kati, was my most important aunt, my father’s sister. Her brother, then 30, asked her to arrange an evening with a certain classmate of hers. Kati, a cheerful teacher who loved to play with children, introduced her beautiful olive-skinned classmate with almond eyes. And that is how my father met my mother.
Aunt Kati’s mother dominated: self-made, independent, with strong ideas for the post-war years in Greece. One of the few women to find her own job, she taught at the prestigious Athenian school, then decided to take her two children away from their father and raise them on her own—something unthinkable. So when Kati fell pregnant by a handsome young man named Thanassis (the word athanasia means immortality), her mother was adamant that they should marry. This led to a happy wedding and an unhappy marriage. Their son Constantinos would later become the only thing bringing them together occasionally, and he came to believe that he must.
One sultry night, 21 July 1990, Constantinos and six other 16-year-old friends were walking to one of their country houses from a local dance club 60 kilometers from Athens. A speeding car lost control and plowed through the boys. Constantinos was among those killed. Both Kati and Thanassis were devastated, Thanassis even more so because his son had become his reason for existence—so much so that in the subsequent trial, when the driver of that car requested that he be merely fined, Thanasissis pulled out a gun in the courtroom, killed both the driver’s lawyers, severely wound the driver and several judges, then turned the gun on himself. So Aunt Kati was devastated to have lost the two most significant men in her life.
She finally got back on her feet, married Vangelis, but always wore a gold heart with the painting of Constantinos….
Copyright 2007 by Vlassios Tigkarakis, from a memoir in progress
==
Elisavietta Ritchie
Thanksgiving With Great Aunt Eugenya
Her mostly blind eyes could still see
bright colors, and my salad gleamed:
red peppers, yellow squashes, green beans.
She lifted the silver serving spoon
over the gold-rimmed plate,
inspected it closely, recalled
a bullet she had extracted
from the gangrenous leg
of a soldier in a hospital tent.
The doctor killed, she learned
to amputate on the battlefield.
Not quite dinner conversation but
she was a nurse, World War One.
Well-born young ladies signed up,
no eligible men left in Petersburg.
No man in my house, and because
I was unsure where to begin,
Great Aunt Eugenya carved the turkey.
Her fingers were skilled in the Braille
of bones, and understood flesh.
The glistening skin stayed intact.
Hungry for history and science,
my daughter and I asked questions.
My aunt described fighting, famine…
After the Revolution
the Bolsheviks put her to work
in a prison camp. As a nurse
she could sign out the sick
to hospital: there they’d get better
rations, a chance to escape.
Finally she too fled, to Estonia,
Germany. Another war…
Then the Red Army advanced…
She reached England, America.
Through years as a nurse
she kept her tin army cup.
Born in a safer land and time,
I carry the burden of not
suffering war first-hand.
Best I can do is hear out, absorb
others’ lives, try to nurture them.
My daughter became a doctor,
also learned war firsthand--
Cyprus, Korea, Somalia --
C-rations on Thanksgiving.
Meanwhile, we don’t recite grace but
in silence thank God for turkey,
colorful vegetables, this interim peace.
[published in The Ledge, 2000 and in Awaiting Permission to Land, Cherry Grove Series, copyright 2006 Elisavietta Ritchie]
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Technology...
I have been tasked to write up a blog post about technology that interests me this week. A blog for each of our writing groups seems like good technology! But honestly, I am very interested in all the new high tech gaming that goes on in the world and look forward to further study of it...
What I really look forward to, is the time when virtual reality becomes the ONLY reality so that we are able to have a 60 hour day should we desire it. I am assuming that by that point, they will have discovered a way to delete our bodies' need for sleep. I can hardly wait!
Would this be the equivalent of a high tech fountain of youth? At the very least, one would be able to live more extensively in the time they are given. What would that mean for our Creative Memoirs?
What I really look forward to, is the time when virtual reality becomes the ONLY reality so that we are able to have a 60 hour day should we desire it. I am assuming that by that point, they will have discovered a way to delete our bodies' need for sleep. I can hardly wait!
Would this be the equivalent of a high tech fountain of youth? At the very least, one would be able to live more extensively in the time they are given. What would that mean for our Creative Memoirs?
Welcome!
Hooray! Calvert Library has been hosting Reinventing a Life: Workshop in Creative Memoirs for several years. We now have a place to post all those wonderful essays and poems that our writers have created...right here on this blog! Details to follow!
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