A poem for today, for Myra and Janice

To the Women I Love Who Turn Seventy This Year

You were girls, of course, before you were mothers,
in saddle shoes and crinoline, singing along with the radio.
But motherhood suited you.
Though we're all past thirty now,
you still call us babies: remember braiding our hair,
teaching us the alphabet,
how to eat our vegetables and love one another.
Between you, you've mothered every child in town,
every child you ever met.

1943 must've been
an especially good year
for baby girls.

Yet you have both lost so much:
your parents, your husbands,
your brothers and sisters and friends.
There is much and more to mourn.
And seventy year old bodies complain
more than you expected,
as young strong-armed mothers,
or teen-aged Minnesota girls
dreaming of Minnesota boys.

You both still plant your gardens,
and reap what you sow, richer
in flowers and friendships both.

As you begin your eighth decade, we are so glad
to have this time with you. We will share
your cold beer in the Minnesota summertime,
while you dance with your grandchildren
in these gardens full of love.

Today's poem

My friend Nancy assigned a poem, due on Monday, that needed to start with the line she provided. I love it when Nancy gives assignments, because without them, I tend to not write creatively as much as I ought. I don't have a title yet: forgive me. This is the first draft, fresh from my journal this morning.

I come from a long line
of tree climbers
We skinned-knee girls
of uncombed hair
and laughs too loud.
We taste the sky
and smell of dirt and still water.

We grow up to be teachers, mostly,
our booming voices
bouncing through classrooms
where we teach, as we climbed,
with our whole hearts.

Fifty Shades of Feminism

I admit it. I've read the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. I realize this is not groundbreaking: over 25 million copies have been sold in the US alone (holy crap!). But I blushed when I bought the first book, even though I made sure the check out person was a woman. Perhaps it was because she grinned and said "Hey...I'm reading this too..." (wink wink nudge nudge). She totally winked and nudged. Awkward.

Yesterday there was an article in our local paper on the subject, Well, more on how the subject is having an impact on the area's light bondage and sex-toy businesses. Which is great for those businesses (go economy go) and for those people who needed a nudge to explore new territories in their own lives. Sales of grey ties, for example, are waaay up.

What you've heard is true, largely. The books are all poorly written, though the third is much better than the first. They're repetitive, with simple, sometimes moronic sentence structures. It was all I could do to not write in the margins and suggest better phrasing/word choices/character development, ala grad school. It reads, to me, very much like an undergraduate creative writing essay. If it were to come across my desk from a student, I would encourage her to buy a thesaurus and use more sensory detail, and would probably think it had potential, given a lot of work. Shows what I know, right? 25 million copies later, I'm sure the author finds my criticism bitter indeed.

Apparently, they began as Twilight fan fiction, and though I've not read the series, I can see it, in some ways. Though I would wager the characters are far from recognizable in this form: for one thing (spoiler alert), there are no vampires in this book. In fact, there's not all that much unusual about this book, except for the naughtier bits. But we'll get to those in a minute.

It's a straightforward broken-man-meets-young-woman-who-helps-him-become-whole-again-while learning-who-she-is-in-the-meantime kind of book. Christian, the aforementioned broken fellow, also happens to be gorgeous, thoughtful, intense, and kind of pouty. You know, like most smutty romance leading men. In addition, he's filthy rich (making "$100,000 an hour," he says at one point). One of my theories is that his wealth alone makes these books best sellers, in this day and age: finding a partner, no matter how broken he is, who has more money than god, strikes me as a world-wide fantasy right now. Plus Christian's brokenness manifests itself in heal-able ways, and he is devoted to Anastasia from the moment he meets her.

Which is part of what I don't get. It's billed in the media as "mommy porn" and seems scandalous whenever it's discussed in public, which is why I blushed when I bought the first book. I'm telling you, people, maybe I'm jaded or sexier than most, or perhaps, as one of my friends put it, "Maybe my moral compass is just broken," but it's really not shocking. It's about a completely monogamous couple who fall head over heels in lust, and eventually love, and have sex approximately 6 times a day, on average (I stopped counting. It really does get repetitive). They encounter external troubles along the way, often related to Mr. Pouty Billionaire's wealth and past, which gives us something to read about besides the incessant sex. And they have internal troubles, with Anastasia being a virgin upon their meeting and Mr. Grey being, um, not. They're an adventurous couple, he's got serious problems that he manages through bondage/punishment of his partner (I'm sure the real-life BDSM community is so pleased with this novel's main message: of COURSE he's crazy. why else would he want to spank her?) This behavior is actually contraindicated by research into BDSM behaviors, and to be honest, I think the books could've done a much better job separating Christian's damaging life experience from his sexual preferences. Because instead it ties his kinkiness, as it were, directly to his brokenness, and I don't think that's a healthy point of view for anyone to have. Yes, some people develop fetishes or kinkiness or brokenness in their sexuality because of awful life experiences. And a lot more people might enjoy some fetishy-kinky stuff if they weren't so damn uptight about sex (another kind of awful life experience, really). In this way, Fifty Shades does a disservice.

But they are lovely, quick little reads, and for women who've never thought to ask for something different, I imagine they could be quite eye-opening. Some critics have argued that it's a sign of anti-feminism, that such a series could sell so very many copies, when the main point of the story is that Christian sweeps Anastasia off her feet and takes care of her, and she allows it to happen, as though she's a piece of furniture. But those critics haven't read the books, and so I dismiss them. Anastasia is actually very independent, and refuses to let Christian dominate her (heh heh) in the way in which he is accustomed. It's the major cause of tension between them, and the fact that she doesn't back down makes her, in my reading, a very strong feminist indeed. Some critics suggest that the very pressure feminism puts on women to seek equality is what makes Anastasia such an attractive heroine: she does not have to worry about finances, or of making decisions in the bedroom. For much of the series, she doesn't even have to buy her own clothing. Women who constantly have to take care of everything may find the idea of being completely taken care of more than just a little appealing. I disagree with these critics because, by my reading of her character, that oppressive care-giving is part of what turns her off of Christian. In several important ways, she is stronger and smarter than Christian, and it saves her life, literally and figuratively. She saves her own self.

Whew. I said all that to say this: if you're even remotely interested, go ahead and read the books. That is, if you're into stories of true love between beautiful straight people who also happen to have all kinds of very mildly kinky sex.  I mean, I read all three of them: I liked them a lot, and I found myself thinking about the characters when I wasn't reading them. But the book does not really tell a new story, nor does it tell an old story especially well. It just adds much, much, much more sex to the average romance novel. So, really, what's not to like?

Hardly working...

I'm working on a major post, people. I really am. I even set this evening as my personal deadline. But I'm struggling with it, because, well, I'm out of practice, and when you're the boss of yourself and you miss a deadline, it's not like you can get fired from being yourself. I try to do things like insist I can't have ice cream until the post is done, but then I just sit and stare at the computer and think "ice cream. ice cream. ice cream." and then I go get a bowl, and halfway through I remember I wasn't supposed to have any until the post I haven't started yet was completed. And I can't just let it melt, because that would be wasteful. 

And by "major post" I don't mean to make you feel like I have any big news, because I don't. It's a book review of the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. There. Now I've told you, so you won't get all hot and bothered wondering what I'll write.

Or perhaps now you'll get more hot and bothered. I can't be responsible for what makes y'all hot and bothered. 

I just said "hot and bothered" three times in a row. How fun.

For productive procrastination, I vacuumed the TV room, did five loads of laundry, and bathed the girl. And it's not even suppertime yet. 

Meanwhile, enjoy this self-portraits, as I am trying to create a photo of myself for my profile picture here that isn't too lame. Since no one takes pictures of me but me, These are as good as they get. So far. Please offer your suggestions. Should I wear my hair down? Lose the orange shirt? (I mean change shirts, not go topless. This is a family blog). Or are you happy to look at one of these for the next six months?

 Teachery. With my Johnson nose extra-prominent (I love my family features, I do. It's just that this photo over-emphasizes it for me. And I also look like I'm about to burst into tears).

Or this one, wherein I played with the color balance to give the illusion of liver failure and intensely blotchy skin. Here I think I'm more angry than tearful, though. 

As always, I welcome your comments, positive or not, and your ads for Viagra. Now leave me be. I have a book review to write.

Jalopy, Jennifer, Janitrix

Oh, J, you silly letter. So many names, so few other words....

Jalopy: One of several words I don't know how to pronounce very well. I've long been better at book learnin' than speaking, and though I read a lot of Archie comics, and Jughead and the gang were always driving around in a jalopy, I never learned how to pronounce it. Artisan/artesian are two others, as is epitome. Seriously, epitome? How'm I supposed to to know that's four syllables?

Jennifer: I never minded being named Jennifer, really, though it was the #1 girls name in America for ever in the 1970s. In college (and I may have already told you this story, and if so, I'm sorry), there was a popular drinking game on campus called Jennifer. In Morris, we only had one phone per dorm floor (oh! the humanity! my students are certain they would've died in such a circumstance), so the game was to call any floor and ask for Jennifer. If she answered, you got to drink. If they said "Which one?" you got to drink twice. Spooner top had 4 Jennifers, so we were a very popular floor, phone-wise.

Janitrix: the female version of janitor. Did you even know there was a female version?  It turns out there are lots of fun words like that: aviatrix, proprietrix, legislatrix. Any noun that ends in -tor, really, can be made feminine by -trix.  If I ever have to apply for a new job (heaven forbid), I think I may just have to write Instructrix on my résumé. Or Educatrix. I never knew teaching could sound so sexy!

Hula, Hendrum, haiku

(Still managing to keep up with the A to Z blogging challenge. Much love to all my commenters, who make this conversation seem so much less one-sided!)

Hula: I've never been to Hawaii, or actually seen hula performed live. But I like the sound of the word, and how it invokes the very motion it describes. The Hawaiian language sounds tropical and lovely to me, too, even "mele kalikimaka." Tenessa and I (and Dan and Shaun) threw a Hawaiian themed party, once, in which we draped our whole apartment in various Hawaiian fabrics, played catchy ukulele music, and allowed Shaun to wear a coconut bra. It was a mostly beautiful thing. I still have approximately 17 yards of Hawaiian fabric to utilize for other projects. Suggestions are welcome.

Hendrum: My hometown, a little blip on the map of the Red River Valley. Hendrum is so much a part of who I am, crafted so much of my childhood, and provided so much to me while I was growing up, that I barely know where to begin. Both of my parents were born in this town of just over 300, in homes right across the street from one another. My maternal grandfather ran Johnson's Fairway, a small, three-aisle grocery store, for over 40 years there; my paternal great-grandfathers helped build the city, moving large buildings across the river with 16 horses, and building shelters at the city park and houses within the city limits. As V gets older, I find myself longing, in some ways, for her to have more of the childhood I had: freedom to roam from yard to yard, knowing all our neighbors, to hear the churchbells and know that it is supper time. There are deep constraints, too, in a town this small with roots so deep: when over half the town remembers her great-grandparents, people she never knew, sometimes a sort of stagnation can set in. In her kindergarten classroom, she has people of all colors, all backgrounds, from Christian to Muslim to Atheist. In Hendrum, diversity amounts to people whose names don't end with "-son." Bake a pie, eat a pie, I guess.

Haiku:
Little poem, precise
simmering words exploding
from my heart to yours.

Blogging from A to Z: A

My friend Nancy suggested I check out a blog challenge for April, the A to Z April Challenge. I'm already a day behind, but that seems about right.  Brace yourself for both A and B posts today! I have no plan, I don't have anything pre-written, so here's hoping your expectations are as low as my preparation. If not, blame Nancy.
A. Big A little a, what begins with A? Aunt Annie's Alligator, A, A, A.

Alabama. I had a client once who was obsessed with Alabama (not the state). (that sentence makes it sound like I had a much more exotic job than simply working with the developmentally challenged). He loved the band, and whenever he heard the first few notes of "Roll On," he would clap and yell "AlaBAMa!" It was very entertaining, most of the time. I tried to get him hooked on the Oak Ridge Boys, but it's just not as fun to yell Oak Ridge Boys!

Aaay: I had a crush on Fonzie when I was little. Fonzie and Hawkeye Pierce. I had a dream once that I was hanging out with Fonzie, and it was all cool until I started to cry on his leather jacket, and then he wouldn't talk to me anymore. It was a pretty traumatic dream for a 6 year old. No wonder I have abandonment issues. Thanks a lot, Fonzie.

Aloysius: I don't talk to my neighbors very often, beyond the ones on each side of us. But several years ago a new family moved in behind us, and we met once over the back fence, while we were both doing spring raking. Her name, I think, was Vi. I still can't remember his name, but I think he said "I'm Aloysius, but you can call me Sylvester." I may have been drunk, now that I think of it, though why would I rake when I'm drunk? I don't understand any of this story.

For Kari Jane

I first met Kari in the summer of 1991, on a visit to Morris. Her laugh was infectious, and when I learned we'd be floormates, I knew we'd soon be friends. She was the kind of friend that I would've lived with, the kind of friend I could call out of the blue after two months and it would feel as if we'd never been apart. I can still hear her bubbling laugh.

Sixteen years ago, Kari was in a terrible car accident. She survived for nearly a month on life support, and at first we all hoped...but while her face and bones healed, it became clear in that month that her brain would not. She died January 9, 1995.

She would've been 38 today. I miss her so.

I wrote this poem for her in 1997.

ELEGY
   for Kari Jane, 16 March 1973 to 9 January 1995

I am with you in the windy light
when the voice of our last tear is silenced
with nothing to remember
nothing to remember us by.
             --Mark Vinz, "Elegy: from a North Country Journal"

You braced for the impact.
It crushed both your wrists
and left knee, snapped both ankles.
Thrown against the windshield,
your body yielded,
let the bones around your left eye
shatter in eighteen places.
The glass tore your cheek through
to your teeth inside.
Your corn silk hair
soaked up blood
until the rescue squad wrapped your head
in a towel to hold the skin in place.

Six months after the funeral
I woke up, sobbing, dreaming
of your body, frozen, embalmed.
Three weeks before the accident,
you taught me how to roll down hills.
I held your hand and promised
to always love you,
swore I would be godmother to your children,
would room with you in the nursing home.

Instead I was your pallbearer,
not your bridesmaid,
thankful they let me escort you to your grave.