Category Archives: Death

Dr. Judy

(To enlarge photos and read the captions, it is necessary to click on the first photo.)

Her name was Judy Grimm. She was a “little sister” assigned to me by Chimes—a junior women’s honorary at the University of Wyoming. The year was 1967 and that summer, we started up a correspondence that consisted mainly of her asking questions and my answering them.  She was a freshman coming from Colorado to Wyoming  and her main fear was that she wouldn’t be able to wear cut-offs to class.

She was a relaxed sort of girl.  We were different in many ways, but alike in others.  She pledged my sorority. We were both English majors. We shared a first name and since we also shared a best friend, we were to weave in and out of each other’s lives for the next 49 years. She was a funny tomboyish girl with a devilish grin. We spent a lot of the two years we were in the house together forsaking our early afternoon classes to play bridge with the hashers after lunch. She had an infectious sense of humor and when she married one of the BMOC’s and became Judy Hill, it was to be just one of the surprises her life had in store for us.

After earning an undergraduate degree in English, she discovered that her true talent was in science and she went on to become a dental surgeon. When she divorced her BMOC and joined the military to see the world, I went with our mutual best friend Patty to give her a send-off in New Orleans, and when she was sent to Germany and Patty went to teach nearby, I went to visit them there and we traveled to Paris and Spain together as well.

Years later, after she moved back to the states and I moved to Mexico, she came to visit me in Mexico several times. When I went to Denver, I stayed at her house and when she sold her house and downsized, I visited her in her new high rise luxury apartment overlooking the park.  We were making plans to see each other in Denver at a mini-college reunion when I go through enroute to a family reunion in Cheyenne this June/July.

But a phone call early this morning changed those plans, for it was Patty telling me that Judy had died the night before in a London hotel room.  Due back in the states a few days ago, she had phoned to say she was cancelling her flight reservations to check into a hotel and get over a bout of the flu.  She had said earlier that her month in England had been the best of many vacations she had taken in her life. And so in the end, she seemingly died the way we all would probably like to die—doing what she liked best.  She was scheduled for back surgery in a few weeks, and if it had to happen, I am so happy she died in a London hotel room instead of a Denver operating theater.

R.I.P. Dr. Grimmer.  We didn’t write much and although we didn’t always see life the same, we did continue to see each other over the nearly 50 years since we first met. You always did enjoy traveling, whether it was with company or alone, buddy.  I hope your last trip continues to be as enjoyable as your penultimate one was.

I’ve since written THIS about Grimmer.

Ironically, the Daily Prompt today was “buddy.”  https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/buddy/

Abandoned

Shack+Pump3.jpgPhoto Credit: D. Hammock

Abandoned 

Grass sways by the abandoned house
I cower inside––a trembling mouse
exposed to the bright flash of day
when all else has gone away.

First my father, then my mum
go away and never come
again to shelter, feed or love.
Life is a winging mourning dove

that makes us and then flies away,
making green grass into hay,
the flush of life and then decay,
a harsh light turning shadows gray.

Life swells  like paint–a curling blister.
It peels away my older sister,
then also takes my younger brother
and never comes to bring another.

A shadow passes over me.
A sparrowhawk. I dare not flee,
for life is mainly perilous.
It makes us just to feed on us.

Outside I see the preening cat.
It waits for me––patient and fat
in tall grass by the abandoned house
wherein I hide–a trembling mouse.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/abandoned/

What Consumed You: NaPoWriMo 2016, April 16


What Consumed You

Hot wax for your wild boar sculpture
that you melted in my favorite sauté pan.
The metallic smell of your sweat.
Fine redwood shavings
caught in the curly hairs of your muscled arms.

“What is your favorite part of his body?”
a friend once asked––
a strange question.
It was your forearms.
You were a beautiful man.

“Nice legs,” a woman leaving a restaurant in St. Paul
once remarked to you, as we were entering.
“Bernice,” her husband expostulated.
“Well, they are,” she answered.
They were a bicyclist’s legs,
my second favorite part.

When they came to take you,
“What a waste––” I thought,
“that body consigned to flame––”
but appropriate to an artist
who had fired glass and clay and bronze
to join in the kiln all the beauty he had created from it.

When potter friends
asked for a cup of your ashes
for the glaze for your funereal urn,
that is how,
finally, you became
the art you lived for.

 IMG_5376The idea was to make ten of these seed-shaped urns to divide my husband Bob’s ashes into–one for each of Bob’s eight kids, his sister and me. A larger pea pod shaped tray was to enclose them all, but it blew into a hundred pieces in the kiln of our friends Dan and Laurie, who were making it.  I guess it was an appropriate metaphor, for Bob was the one who brought us all together and he was now gone.  Somehow, I wound up with eleven urns, so after Bob’s kids and sister came to Mexico to collect their ashes to distribute wherever they wished and we deposited the ashes designated to me in Lake Chapala, I wound up with one empty urn and one filled partially with the remains of Bob’s ashes.  I always thought the empty one was for me, but when I knocked over the one with Bob’s ashes in it a few years ago, we gathered him up so he now resides in my urn and I am unattached in the after life, at least for now.  The little urn in the foreground is all that is physically left of Bob.  In the background is a bronze nude that is one of hundreds of sculptures, art lamps and vases that he seeded the world with before he left it. R.I.P. Bob. Much of you remains in this world.

This is my poem for today’s prompt.  To see it and/or participate, go here: http://www.napowrimo.net/day-sixteen-3/

 

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/disaster/

NaPoWriMo 2016, Day 9

Today, we were challenged  to write a poem that includes a line that we are afraid to write. This is mine:

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Temporal

I am going to die.
That thing in me that talks to me
as well as the part who talks back
will be lost to posterity.
How sad that they have no names.

http://www.napowrimo.net/day-9/

Triple Tricky

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Triple Tricky

Who knows what each new day will bring?
Three dogs wiggling outside my door–
my feeding them, them wanting more.

The world reaches out for me and more.
Those worlds imagination  brings
come whining louder at my door.

Now and always at time’s door
I offer words and ask for more
than what, I know, the years will bring.

Agape once more, that final door brings me at last to face my fears.
I bring myself to cross its sill, still hoping there will be some more.

The WordPress prompt is “Tricky” and and NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a tritina–a poetic form that involves three three-line stanzas and a final concluding line. Three “end words” are used to conclude the lines of each stanza, in a set pattern of ABC, CAB, BCA, and all three end words appear together in the final line. I cheated and used two concluding lines instead of one. This poem meets both prompts. Tricky.
http://www.napowrimo.net/day-seven-3/
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/tricky/

September is the Cruelest Month–NaPoWriMo 2016, Day 4

 

 

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Riding in luxury on a sofa in the back of Denis’s pickup, seeing the beautiful Klamath country in style. We were driven directly under a rainbow that day, so it was on either side of us as we passed!      photo by Georgia Moriarty

September is the Cruelest Month

One cruel month is January, murdering December––
failed resolutions of last year we’re now forced to remember.

February rivals it for those with lovers missing––
conjuring up memories of  valentines and kissing.

March may come in cruelly–a lion or a ram,
but it is not the cruelest month. It goes out like a lamb.

April is the the month of rain and flowering and rhyme.
It cannot be the cruelest month. It is the most sublime.

May is not a cruel month, nor June, most surely not.
July and August are most kind––luxurious and hot.

September is the month for me that is the cruelest.
September is the month where I received my biggest test

in learning how to live alone after so many years,
conquering the loss of you. Battling my fears.

September was the month you left because you had to go––
away from planned adventures down a road you didn’t know.

Setting off alone–something you rarely did in life,
where you preferred to travel with a lover or a wife.

October found me no man’s wife, November found me gone
to take the road that we had planned. I would not be death’s pawn.

Then that December–– crueler than any month I’ll own.
That was the month I had the time to finally feel alone.

 

The prompt today was to write about “The cruelest month.”
http://www.napowrimo.net/day-four-4/

Inevitable

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Inevitable

I can’t stop it.
Neither can you.
Each person
Visits death anew.
It can’t be changed.
To die’s a given.
After life,
By death we’re driven.
Live your life while you are able.
Eat freely from life’s laden table.

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/inevitable/

After Fifteen Years

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After 15 Years

Your memory                                                   cuts so sharply
through my dream’s beginning that I wake,
gasping like a fish on the sand
left by some fisherman
too intent upon his next catch
to end it cleanly.

In its tight skin,
I gasp for air,
rise as it cannot rise
and like you cannot rise
out to that night sea air
which is the only coolness
in a month of burned days.

My memory, curving round,
pulls in the memory of you
like gills seeking to understand
the waterless air.

Landed by some bigger fisherman
whose bait you couldn’t resist,
“Oh,” you said, just “Oh,”
before you took the hook,
slipping from my grasp
as I held on, held on,
let go.

Sweep (On the Death of David Bowie)

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Sweep

(On the Death of David Bowie)

Our world is clearing out around us,
swept by the broom of whatever moves things on.
Like dead leaves curling in their separate corners,
we miss the sweep this time,
but in our mind’s back edge
we imagine our ends—painful or quick,
alone or crowded with the vestiges of our life:
people, things, a cat curled over our feet to warm what can’t be warmed.
That broom leaning there against the corner has plans for us.
There is a world wanting to be filled up again
that needs clearing.

 

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/teen-age-idol/

Not Much Choice!

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                                                            Not Much Choice!

The prompt today is  Finite Creatures: At what age did you realize you were not immortal? How did you react to that discovery?

I wrote “I’ll Have to Go” to this exact prompt last November.  To see that poem, go HERE.