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Excerpts
Dedication
This is my first published book. I’ve had a few other things in print before -- some poems here, an article or three or four there. I have drafts of a novel or two or three or ten.
This Brown Paper Bag is in your hands because some friends have encouraged (cajoled? threatened?) me over the years to “Get this published! Share this with others!”
My life is rich for my simple experiences --often in the company of friends and family, or perhaps beside my kittens or watching the orioles; and sometimes simply sitting alone. Always some wondrous element of nature soothes me: branches swaying rustling leaves, the fragrance of flowers or pines or rain-soaked earth, a creature pausing nearby.
Please… Take this Brown Paper Bag and come walk with me: find your story in the worlds, the universe of realities and possibilities I sense and see. Come walk with me: talk with me, listen and feel with me the simple that is extraordinary.
Cristina
Isaia
POEMS
This is Mary
I knew it only in September
that she was an honorary member
of the committee. So that means,
I said to them, that she
will need to be there. With us.
In Florida when we walk and run
our marathon For The Children.
That she will need to be there.
(Oh what I’d give to meet her.)
Saugatuck Moon
Saugatuck Moon
floating high in the sky,
thank you for dropping by!
And for lingering, smiling,
our crescent beguiling,
our silver white lune
just above the high dunes
our man-woman moon
singing soft moonlight tunes.
The Beach at Algonac
One year.
Edges of void rimmed with tears.
Accountable now to only me.
"It's all changed so much, you see…"
to no one, only me.
I'm here.
It's here, the tree.
I see
where she
sat, staring out over sparkles on the river
swaying her leg at the knee
in time with the lapping waves
and the rhythms of her memories.
STORIES
Dancing with Jed Clayman
He was a handsome man. Dark, wavy hair, and brown eyes that smiled often, despite his serious demeanor. She’d first noticed him at the club because he was a fabulous tennis player, and she thought about how much she’d love to hit with him.
By the time they started dating, she’d been through a few club romances--men of very different looks and types. All of them were good tennis players. First Matt, who proposed her for membership, their flings on and off for years since high school and through college. Then Randall, a soft-spoken, gentle spirit, and sexy as hell. Next Hal--a four-year roller coaster ride which led almost to marriage and luckily did not. She’d married someone else, and Jed stepped into her social life after her divorce. While he perhaps was looking for romance, she was not --at least most of the time, then, she was not.
The Desk
By early afternoon, after a good five or six repeats of alternately stripping and drying the desktop, it was ready for sanding. She had done all of the work to that point inside the garage, deeply focused on a task never attempted before, not noticing that it was a warm, clear day and she could take her work outside.
She’d been at it since late morning, after rising with the sun and settling on the chaise beside the boxwood hedge and blooming phlox that rimmed the sunroom. With a coffee and favorite sections of The
New York Times, she’d read for an hour or so, while Pyewacket and Dusty roamed the yard, their collar bells softly tinkling as they explored the flower beds, chewed grass and watched the birds. Her only routine was to savor Sunday morning silence, early enough so that the neighborhood still slept and she and the cats alone had, in the Spring, Summer and Fall, the breeze, the grass, the birds and butterflies and flowers; in the Winter the snow and the fireside. Typically, she finished these mornings with a long run beside the lake, cherishing its moods in synchronicity with the wind, the light, the changing patterns of weather. Today, her five-mile run justified meandering through the rest of the day, so when she returned, just a bit salty from a light sweat in the sixty-degree morning, she’d exchanged her good running shoes for a retired pair, replaced the singlet with an old t-shirt, and headed for the garage and the desk. She hadn’t planned this as her Sunday, working on the desk. But the challenge of something new, and something else not discernible, lured her.
From Skimming Across the Sky
Reunion
It was just after seven fifteen when she closed the sliding glass door to head down to shore. Wearing just a t-shirt, running shorts and sandals, she carried a mug of fresh coffee across the wide expanse of the two-tiered deck, then down a few stairs to the grass with its fourteen cement stepping stones set in the sandy soil many, many years ago, their true shape hidden by the thin, dry grass creeping over their edges so that what appeared was barely able to accommodate a carefully placed foot. The only sound was the distant oo-ooooo-ooo of a mourning dove.
Another set of wood stairs, these weathered to a dark grey. Easy half-steps down, one, two, three, twelve, sixteen, to the leveling ground and past the fire pit to the dock. Head down to follow the easy descent safely. She seemed always to silently count her paces, perhaps reminiscent of a “One-Two-Three Jump!” into another lake’s cold water. Or perhaps simply the habit of a runner, who delighted in her mind roaming present, future, past yet always knowing how many steps she'd taken, the paces clicking off beneath her thoughts like the tick tock of a clock in the corner of a room. These times, at this lake, counting eased her gently into what were always, at this lake, for her, good days.
LETTERS
College Crew
I promised… I would give myself little gifts of time: to reflect, remember, play at things that in their doing would recall people and events that have shaped my life these fifty years.
I think about my friends… and a warm comfort embraces me. So very much of the lush and colorful garden of my life has been --is-- the beauty of people who have stepped into my days to share themselves with me. And you, my College Crew, each and together, are among those I hold so dear.
I feel the wisdom, hear the smiles, touch sparkling eyes and breathe deeply the joy of you, of us. Hours of listening. Holding silences. Questions? Answers. Guesses. Opinions. Always love. Always caring. Always, always, always acceptance. And hands open to cradle gently a wounded spirit.
What marvelous memories of wild days…!
Deliverance
It’s Uncle Johnny’s note quizzing my May letter that prompts me to write, not a compelling desire to share my rafting
adventure. The former was phonetic fun; the latter’s created turmoil in my psyche and soul.
The rafting trip. How to begin…
I returned a week ago and now strive to remember the river, the desert, the air and the sky. The wildlife. The achievement of a strenuous eight days’ rowing and running rapids and hiking and camping. I thrived along these paths of my journey and welcome the thrill and play and peace another river trip will bring. But the guide…
Her Yellow Coat
The morning of surgery was cloudy, drizzly. Luca had stayed the night, sipping champagne with me by candlelight well before the midnight curfew. Hell, if this was to be my last moment on the planet, might as well go out with candlelight and bubbly! Our first visitor at 6 a.m. was Mom, who walked in wearing her sunshine yellow raincoat with sequined umbrella pin.
“Good morning, Sweetie!” Smiling broadly, as though it were just another day...with all the delight she could muster to hide her terrible anxiety of two children in surgery, one with a less-than-even chance at survival. Her last words to me before they took me from my room to Pre-Op, embracing me with her hands gently enfolding my head, “You have come to The Edge, and You Will Fly! I love you!”
Next day I reminded her of her greeting. “Mom, you've never called me ‘Sweetie’ before.”
With a questioning but mild frown, she replied, “I know. I save that for Beckett (and of course before him, Dickens)--my beautiful
Goldens.”
“Gee, Mom, I feel honored. I've arrived, in good company with the dogs!”
“I know. Surprised me, too.”
Each day she wore the starfish pin I’d given her along with letter of inspirations. Each day she pinned Dad’s angel next to her starfish. She consistently focused on her children as she visited us in our separate rooms. With me, she told funny stories. Conveyed love tentatively but graciously, with soft tones and gentle touches. Reflected joy through dancing eyes that have seen too many tragedies in her lifetime. Intuited all my needs without me having to express them: I didn't have to ask her to leave, or tell her I couldn't talk (was in horrendous pain when awake, or exhausted from the pain needing sleep); didn't have to press for myself. She just “knew.”
RECIPES
Orange Chiffon Cake
It ain’t easy, but it’s fantastic lovin’ from the oven!
Buy the Book!!!
Butterscotch Brownies
(For Rawger)
1/4 cup melted butter
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup flour
1 egg
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt*
1/2 tsp vanilla
1/2 cup walnuts
»
Mix together in order given above
» Bake 20-25 minutes in pre-heated 350* oven (And of course you have the cooking pan!)
» Cut while warmmmmmmmmmmmm
NOTE: Although it says 1/2 tsp salt, Mom was cutting that back because she felt they tasted too salty. And you know how much she loved salt!
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