Looking Out From the Bell Tower at Ghirardelli Square

Through morning fog
White sails of a lone boat
Play peek-a-boo
San Francisco Harbor

Assignment: Write a poem to reflect some elements of sound...rhyme, assonance, alliteration, onomatopoeia, etc.

The harbor shimmers,
Painted with impressionist brush.
White sails of a solitary boat
Play me a game of hide and seek
Through a fog that half-hides, too
Alcatraz and its lighthouse from view.

Alcatraz in its day
Had another name -- The Rock.
No man ever escaped, they say.
Although thirty-six tried and died,
Drowned in the shark-infested
Currents of the bay.

To my right I see,
In the waters of the sea,
A three-masted sailing ship of old
Moored within the confines
Of old Hyde Street Pier.
A tangle of other vessels, too, are there.

Standing in the Tower room
Now at noon precisely timed,
I hear a whir r and look up to see
Fourteen heavy, cast bronze bells,
Their fourteen heavy hammers primed
To clang the midday knell.

Covering my ears to muffle the deafening din,
I am done with gazing over sea and scape,
And vow to leave to another day
Further sights of The City by the Bay
That grew from shantytown of tents
To the bustling beauty it is today.

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

Assignment: Examine of picture of you taken in your childhood.

When was it?

What were you doing?

Landscape?

My parents, in those Depression Years before I went to school, had concerns other than snapping pictures of me and my younger sister.  Only one snapshot of me as a toddler remains in my possession.  I have no idea who snapped it; probably one of my cousins, whose family shared a duplex with my family. 

The photo is black-and-white, of course, possibly taken with a box-camera.  In it, I am probably no more than three years old, standing alone in the middle of a field of weeds and flowers, holding one flower (daisy?, dandelion?) in my right hand.  Many scraggly-branched trees form a border far behind me.  I think the site is the upper part of the large back yard of the duplex we lived in.  

As in the Parry Studios photograph, my demeanor in this photo is pensive, too, but perhaps more somber -- actually, even rather belligerent.  Maybe I didn't like to have my likeness taken, or maybe the novelty of having my picture snapped was foreign and puzzeling to me.  In the shot, I display  a big head of very thick dark hair, cut short, with Buster Brown bangs across my forehead.  I am dressed in a white, short-sleeved, short-pants, one-piece play outfit.  Only my two baby-chubby thighs and knees show above the flowers and weeds.

When my husband first found this photo among our jumbled collection, he put it in a lime green frame he had bought purposely for it.  Around the border of the frame is printed "Mary, Mary quite contrary".   He thought the frame a most appropriate find.  It sits on the melodian in our far room, and our four offspring love it, especially the inscription on the frame.

Manifest Destiny

The man kept the bird, not out of affection, but because he believed the two of them were linked in destiny, and he vowed with sacred compulsion to keep it, the bird, until death ― either its, or his. 

It had been on one fateful afternoon while he was shopping for oils and brushes in the five-and-ten, that the bird's riotously bright plumage had lured him into the pet and pet supplies section.  With a recklessness dictated by something undefined in him, he bought it with four precious twenty-dollar bills and sixty-nine precious cents, county and state sales taxes included.  As if that were not in itself an extravagance beyond his means, he emptied his pockets and purchased a cage on a stand for it also. 

He took the bird home then and every day coaxed it to sing, confident that a bird of such beauty was surely destined to sing with a heavenly, soul-quaking voice.  But every day the bird merely sat in his cage in the corner of the room, and ate the seed the man provided, and produced only noisy, chattery sounds in its throat.  The man eventually gave up coaxing, but never gave up hope, for he knew in his heart of hearts that someday the bird would sing for him.  He knew the bird had not been created for ornament alone, any more than he himself had been created just to live, eat, drink, and die.  They each had a purpose, he and the bird.  Such was his religion. For the bird not to sing more beautifully than could be imagined, and for he himself not to create on canvas a masterpiece such as the world had never before known, would be, he believed, the most mortal of sins, worthy of everlasting damnation. 

A few times over the many years, he brimmed full with ideas, and, laboring feverishly all day and far into the night, he seemed on the brink of achievement.  But each time resulted in a failure that left him heavy with worthlessness and despair.

He had no steady employment, but would take odd  jobs when his supply of money became exhausted.  When he had saved enough, he would retire again and devote himself to his art.  So it went – in endless cycle . And the bird looked on, and consumed

its seed and water, and dirtied its cage, and did not sing.  And the man replenished the seed and water, and cleaned the cage, and painted one uninspired, unspirited canvas after another. 

Then one gray February day, with a stomach that rumbled with hunger, and with a larder as empty as the wallet in his worn jeans, the man looked over at the bird in its cage, saw it plumped and fat on its perch, and imagined it sneared at him.  

"So what are YOU looking at, you ingrate?" he shouted, throwing his pallet at the cage, causing it to rock on its stand enough to set the perch inside it and bird plumped there to sway.  The bird cocked its shiny eye and let out a screech that pierced the man's ears and his very soul, and at last he knew his bird would never sing.  In the same moment he knew that he himself did not have, nor had he ever had, a masterpiece in him to present to the world.  

He opened the window and tossed the bird, cage and all, into the snow below.  Then, after slashing to tatters the canvas on which he had been working, the man threw himself, fully clothed, across his bed, and reaching down, pulled the blanket over his head. 

I shall lie here, he thought, and hold my breath until I suffocate and die.  But no sooner did the oxygen under the blanket grow thin, than he uncovered his face and took in great gulps of air.  Whereupon he brought himself to his feet, sighed, donned his thin coat, went out into the snow, retrieved the bird, cage and all, and resumed the cycle of  life —  his and the bird's.  

All of which, of course, gives validity to the adage that birds of a feather certainly do, by nature, flock together, and, further, that no matter how ferverently one believes he can, it is irrefutably impossible to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.  A third adage, a  most encouraging one, is hereby proven as well ― that hope springs eternal in the human breast.  

And for that we give thanks.

Two Haiku For A Winter's Night

Night winter winds swirl 

      with ghostly voices cry

canting tales of fright

A phantom cloud shrouds the moon

    staining black the hill

      in stealth is gone

 

Cryin' the Blues

Assignment:  Try writing a chant

Cry, baby, cry

Stick a finger in your eye

Life's a bitch and then you die.

And then you die

So go ahead, baby,

Cry.

Cry, baby, cry

Tell your mother it wasn't I

Life's a bitch and then you die

And then you die

So go ahead, baby

Cry.

C'est la vie, or so they say

Life's a bloody bitch that way

Then you die, sweet baby, you die

So cry me a big river, baby

Cry, cry, cry

A Word Or Two

Some folk speak Greek, German and such
Others prefer Russian or Dutch.
While in a land far across the seas
People speak to one another in Chinese.
And in beautiful Sri Lanka, if you please,
The language of choice is Sinhalese.

But I'll stick to English if you don't mind,
For I find it tends to define my thoughts nicely,
almost precisely.
Yet I often wonder why
While the singular of dice is ever die,
Mice in the singular is never my.

Picnic In The Park

Sunlight filters through the humid air that defines summer in Pittsburgh, and shimmers in waves before us as my husband Al and I walk the quarter-mile from our house to Squaw Valley Park.   We are on our way to the O'Hara Township picnic for employees and for residents who donate services.  Al is on the Zoning Board, so we get an invitation each year.

            As we come to the end of sidewalk on Fox Chapel Road, we step onto the shaded path that skirts the back approach to the park, and follow it alongside Squaw Valley Creek.  When the softball field on the left and the fountained pond far to the right come into view, we cut across the grass to reach Shelter Number One.  That's where the picnic is always held.

“They must have hired a less expensive caterer this year,”Al says.

“Why?” I ask.

“The steam table and big grill the usual caterer brings with him aren't here.  The grill that is here is no bigger than the one we have in our back yard.” 

Looking over the small group of people within the shelter, I see that the turn-out is meager compared to other years, and I mention this to Al.  “Maybe people are still away on vacation,” he says.  

Just as I am about to comment to him that I don't see too many familiar faces, a woman waves and says, “Hi, Mary.  It is Mary, isn't it?  We met at Hemphill's Christmas Party.” 

“Oh yes!” I say,  “How are you?”  I don't remember her name. 

Al sees a former patient of his, and they talk together for several minutes.  Al doesn't introduce me, so I  just stand there, and then the man gives me a lukewarm smile and moves on.  

We head for the food table and help ourselves to paper plate, napkin, and plastic tableware.  Someone says, “Hello, Doc.”  Al says hello back, and again I stand around while they talk about ailments and other times.

A man with a box of cookies in hand comes over.  “Here, you two, take a couple of these and put them on your plate before they're all gone,” he says.  “The wife didn't have time to make anything, so we picked these up at Oakmont Bakery.  Go ahead, have some.”  

I reach for a chocolate thumb-print and place it on my empty plate.  “Thank you,” I say, “but

was everyone supposed to bring something?  We weren't, were we?”

“Sure, everyone was,” he says, “but that's okay if you forgot.  There's plenty.” 

             Still  I insist, “We never had to bring anything other years,”

“Yeah, we always do,” he says.  “But, hey! don't worry about it.  There's always stuff left over, you know that!”

“Well, okay,” I say, and decide to let it go, although I know he's mistaken.

The sound and smell of hamburgers and hot dogs sizzling on the grill beckon now, so we take leave of the cookie man.  

Standing between grill and food table  is a woman, about seventy or so. She smiles and says, “Hi!  We have hamburgers and we have hot dogs.  Which will it be?” 

“No chicken this year?” Al asks.

She's still smiling.  “No, no chicken,” she says

“No chicken, eh?  Oh well.  Is there beer?” 

The woman laughs as if that's funny. “Of course not!” she says. 

“How about pop?”

“Well, no.  No pop.  But there's your choice of lemonade or iced tea or fruit punch in those pitchers at the end of the buffet.” 

I look over to where she is pointing and notice some foods are in pretty little flowered casseroles.  Nice change from the usual tinfoil disposables most caterers use, I think, but not very practical.    

“And be sure to help yourself to corn-on-the-cob.” the woman continues.  “It's good and sweet this year.  So, now then, what will it be, hamburger or hot dog?”

Al says “hamburger”, and I say “hot dog”.  We collect the other food we want, and a drink each, and then, seeing no one to sit with, choose two places at the end of the farthest table. Al sits down and is quiet for a minute, then looks around, then immediately starts eating at great speed.

“Whoa!” I whisper.  “Slow down!  You're actually shoveling the food into your mouth!  What's your problem?”

“Shh!  Just hurry up and eat!” he whispers back.  “Hurry and eat up what's on your plate.  We have to get out of here!  It finally dawned on me – we're at the wrong picnic!”

“We're what?”

“At the wrong picnic!  Look down there.”  He points to beyond the tennis courts, where smoke rises from a very large grill, and where a great many people have gathered around Shelter Number Two..  

            “That's where we're supposed to be,” he says..  “Keep eating!”

“Oh!  This is awful!” I say.  “We  have to apologize and then leave right away!” 

“Are you crazy?” he says.  “And waste all this good food?  We'll finish eating, and then leave.”

            “But, Al!  We can't just eat their food and not explain!”

“Listen, Mary!  Just keep your mouth shut, and eat!”

“I will not keep my mouth shut,” I say.  “Besides, I've lost my appetite.  I'm getting up right now and apologizing!” 

“Who will you apologize to?  You going to stand up and make a general announcement?  Like,   Attention ladies and gentlemen!  I'd like to apologize!”   Forget it!  Just keep eating!”

I push my chair back, but before I can get up, a woman from another table comes and sits across from us..  

She smiles at me.  “Hello!” she says.  “Where do I know you from?”

Oh how tactfully she puts it, I think. Where does she know me from indeed!  I'll bet they've all been buzzing, “Who are those two?  And they didn't  even bring anything!”  

           “I'm afraid I have to apologize,” I say.  “You see, my husband and I thought this was the O'Hara Township picnic, and we never realized our mistake until we had already piled our plates with food.”

            I give her a second or two to digest it all, intending no pun, and then I go on to say, “You have no idea how stupid I feel, or how embarrassed I am.  Please forgive us.”

            At first, all the woman says is “Oh,” but before I can wonder what to do next, she says, “My dear,  please don't be embarrassed.  Why, that kind of mistake is the most natural thing in the world.  In fact, you know what?  One time, I was at a funeral home, and when I looked in the open coffin and saw the corpse, I said, 'Who in the world is that?'   Wrong funeral home, of course.  So you see, dear, these things do happen”

            Not for a minute do I believe her funeral home story, but I'm so overwhelmed with gratitude that I want to hug her on the spot.  Instead, I ask, “Which group is it that's having this picnic?”

“The English Lutheran Church in Sharpsburg.” she says.. “We're a small congregation.  We've known each other, most of us, all our lives.  Every summer we enjoy an afternoon picnic together, but this is the first time we decided to rent a shelter here to hold it in.”

“I know that church,” I say, “and I love it!  It's a registered historic landmark, isn't it?  I passed it often on my morning walks when I used to go all the way to Sharpsburg and back.  I don't walk quite that far anymore, but I have always admired your church and wished I could tour the inside.” 

“My dear!” she says, and I know she's pleased, because she reaches across the table and places her hand on mine.  “We would be so happy to show you around!  Do come by some time.  Our Sunday services are at eleven.”

            Feeling better, my appetite returned, I decide I just might take her up on her offer some day.  So the two of us exchange names, and I apologize again and tell her it's a lovely picnic, and how delicious all the food is.  She tells me that's because everyone brings something, and it's almost an unspoken contest each year to see who brings the best.  And all the while we are chit-chatting,  Al is quietly clearing away his plate and mine.  He throws them into a nearby trash can, tells the nice lady to have a nice day, and leaves.  To me, over his shoulder, he says, “See you down at the other shelter, Mary.  No hurry, Honey.  Take your time.”  (So now it's okay for me to take my time?)

  When I finally join the township group, I see that Al, seated at table with a plateful of 

barbecued chicken and a can of beer in front of him, is holding court, telling our story.  Everyone seated

around him is laughing. 

“So!” one of them says as I slip into the seat Al has saved for me, “Are you coming to check 

out our food now, Mary?  Didn't you read the invitation?  It has right on it in black and white, that the 

picnic this year is in Shelter Number Two.”

“Really!” I say, and give him the sweetest smile I know how to smile.  “Obviously, Al and I 

missed that tiny detail.”

There follows more teasing, and Al and I do our share in rebuttal.  How good it is to be with them all, and in the place at last where we're invited to be.

Much later, as we get up to leave, from one of the back tables, I hear, “Hey, Kinsels!  What's 

your rush?  The party's still young.”

“We have to hurry home and get the car,” I say.  “We want to ride around Sharpsburg and see if there's another picnic we can crash.”