Category Archives: family relationships

Wish List of a Youngest Daughter


Wish List of a Youngest Daughter

Off and on, I’ve been wishing
my dad and I could go fishing.
I guess my sister could go along
so long as she does nothing wrong
like catch a fish bigger than mine
or tease or hum or brag or whine.

Perhaps she’ll sit back in the bed
and not up in the cab instead,
so Dad and I can be alone—
the truck a sort of “private zone.”
He’ll hit the bumps real hard so she
will wish she was in front with me.

Just like I always pray and pray
her friends and she will let me stay
with them, when they come for the night
and play without me, door shut tight.
Marvelous fun had down the hall,
but not with me.  I am too small.

That’s why, when Dad tells me a joke,
I’ll laugh real loud until I choke;
and my sister, sitting there behind
might feel left out, but I don’t mind.
And when we get to where we’re going,
to the stock dam, cattle lowing,

Dad will bait my hook for me
and sister, too, and then we’ll see
who will catch the biggest fish.
I guess it’s obvious that my wish
is that I’ll catch the biggest one,
and sister will go home with none!

The prompt today is “Fishing.”

Jump

When he wasn't ranching or farming or drinking coffee in Mack's Cafe, this is where my father could normally be found.

When he wasn’t ranching or farming or drinking coffee in Mack’s Cafe, this is where my father could normally be found. When he died, the only thing my young nephew wanted of his was these disreputable boots, which my nephew wore until the soles flapped. They are the only pair of work boots I ever remember my father wearing–wrinkled into creases by repeated wettings and dryings and pullings off and on.

Jump

Once the grass had grown waist-high,
some summer nights, my dad and I
accompanied by the shake and rattle
of his old truck, would go watch cattle.
In the twilight, barely light–
but not yet turning into night,
he’d drive the pickup over bumps
of gravel, rocks, and grassy clumps,
over dam grades, then he’d wait
as I opened each new gate,
and stretched the wire to wedge it closed,
as the cattle slowly nosed
nearer to see who we were,
curious and curiouser.

We’d park upon some grassy spot
where a herd of cattle was not,
open the doors to catch a breeze,
and I’d tell stories, and dad would tease
until at last the cattle came,
and dad would tell me each one’s name:
Bessie, Hazel, Hortense, Stella,
Annie, Rama, Bonnie, Bella.
Razzle-dazzle, Jumpin’ Jane.
Each new name grew more inane.
Yet I believed he knew them all,
and as they gathered, they formed a wall
that grew closer every minute
to that pickup with us in it.

Finally, with darkness falling,
and the night birds gently calling,
with cows so near they almost touched
the fender of the truck, Dad clutched
the light knob and then pulled it back
as the cows––the whole bunched pack
jumped back en masse with startled eyes
due to the headlights’ rude surprise.
Then he’d flick them off again,
with a chuckle and devilish grin.
As the cattle edged up once more—
the whole herd, curious to the core—
again, my dad would stage his fun.
Again, they’d jump back, every one.

He might do this three times or four,
then leave the lights on, close his door,
and gun the engine to drive on home
as stars lit up the heavenly dome
that cupped the prairie like a hand,
leaving the cattle to low and stand
empty in the summer nights
to reminisce about those lights—
miraculous to their curious eyes.
Each time a wondrous surprise.

Life was simpler way back then
and magical those evenings when
after his long day’s work was done,
laboring in the dust and sun,
after supper, tired and weary,
muscles sore and eyes gone bleary,
still when I would beg him to
do what we both loved to do,
he’d heave himself from rocking chair,
toss straw hat over thinning hair,
and make off for the pickup truck,
me giving thanks for my night’s luck.
These were the finest times I had––
these foolish nights spent with my dad.

The prompt word today is “jump.”

Family Harvest

Family Harvest

Sanguine, he was charismatic,
while she was choleric and emphatic;
so when their child was born phlegmatic,
the mother found his moods too static
while the father ruled his wife fanatic:
too moody, crabby and dramatic.

Their melancholic second child,
both parents found to be too mild.
Too analytical and quiet,
they put her on a special diet
of jalapenos in her suppers
and other culinary uppers.

Still, she grew up to be a judge,
while their eldest remained hard to budge.
Too relaxed to find employment,
he lacked the necessary deployment––
preferring to stay safe at home,
as lifeless as a garden gnome.

With dad the life of every party
and mother volatile and arty,
their family life slowly eroded.
Then one day, simply exploded.
Each unique personality
split off to be what they could be.

Thus would sage Hippocrates
class this familial demise
as differences in temperament.
Each following his special bent,
once fallen from the family tree,
did best when allowed to roll free.

 

Four temperaments is a proto-psychological theory that suggests that there are four fundamental personality types, sanguine (optimistic and social), choleric (short-tempered or irritable), melancholic (analytical and quiet), and phlegmatic (relaxed and peaceful).––Wikipedia

The prompt today was Dramatic.

Scrub Daddy Scores (Scours?) a Family

This is Marilyn, my sister’s across-the-street neighbor.  We went to college together but didn’t know each other then.  A while ago she started reading my blog and she says her heart was especially tugged by the Scrub Daddy Saga, which with this blog is stretching to 4 posts—I think the most I’ve devoted to any topic.  To read the opening episodes, you can go HERE, (Don’t forget to read the the best part––the comments of a representative of the Scrub Daddy corporation who somehow becomes aware of my posting and enters into the rhyme fest,) then HERE, then HERE.

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Marilyn arrived one day with a package that included a number of the Scrub family whom I had never met before.  They came complete with the note below: “Here is what happens when Scrub Daddy and Scrub Mommy get together.  Va-Va-Voom!!  Scrub Mommy was there dressed all in pink as well as a new Lemon Fresh Scrub Daddy, a new rectangular Scrub Sonny and–the cutest of the lot–Scrub Baby, meant to clean computer screens.  I isolated one of the baby twins who now resides on my computer lid between scrubbings, but I do take him frequently to visit as I work in the kitchen.  He can’t go swimming like the rest of his family, so he remains computer-locked, but a good deal of visiting gets done telepathically as they enjoy seeing each other once again.  The old Scrub Daddy relays tales of his adventures during his three month overland journey through Mexico and teaches them necessary words such as cocina, limpiar, agua and seco.

IMG_1325Scrubfamily portrait by jdb.

Locked and unlocked

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Locks

Locked up in my bedchamber. More than I can bear.
The beauty of my countenance, the shimmer of my hair
do me no good for no prince charming comes to find me here.
I will go unmarried––for my whole life, I fear.

My father thinks he honors me. I am his special treasure.
He worries not about my fate.  He thinks not of my pleasure.
I am but one more lovely thing he keeps for his collection––
admired for my golden locks, my flawless pale complexion.

I care not for beauty.  I care not for my tresses.
I do not treasure jewels or slippers or my ornate dresses.
A husband and a family are all that I desire.
A simple life’s the sort of life that I most admire.

From my window I look out upon the broad King’s Highway.
All roads must converge here––every path and byway.
And so I see them passing: beggars, countrymen and princes.
Vendors selling mangos, apples, oranges and quinces.

My eye is caught by sunlight flashing from his sword
as he stoops to have a sip from a vendor’s gourd.
He pays her with a small coin and thanks her most politely,
then mounts his horse with one sure leap–graceful, sure and spritely

I see him passing often and his face is full of laughter,
calling out and gesturing to companions, fore and after.
One day I wave my scarf at him as he goes passing by
and every day thereafter, I know I’ve won his eye.

At first he bows politely–a gesture I don’t miss.
and after a few weeks of this, one day he blows a kiss.
I reach out and grab it and press it to my face.
He rears his horse and races off at a faster pace.

The next day he doesn’t come, although I wait and wait.
But finally, I see him turning towards my father’s gate.
In distress, I call out that  he must not tarry here.
My father’s wrath must not be stirred.  It is what I most fear.

He does not see me gesturing. He hears not my distress.
I rue the day I waved at him, although I must confess
I also thrilled to think that he had come in search of me.
I fantasized that he would be the one to set me free.

But my prince never entered, though he tarried long and late.
Until the full moon rose above, he waited at the gate.
Although it had not opened by the time the next sun rose,
the young man sat astride his horse with hoarfrost on his clothes.

‘Twas then that I began my moan and tears sprang from my eyes.
I tore my clothes, scratched at my face.  I’d ruin my father’s prize!
My serving maids, sorely distressed, tried to stay my hand,
while my genteel companion sat with startled eyes and fanned!

When one maid put down the apple she’d begun to pare,
I grabbed the knife and severed one long lock of hair.
Lock after lock, I parted with this prison I had grown.
I’d see if father still wanted a daughter newly mown.

Then outside my chamber, I heard a deafening grate.
I flew back to the window. They were opening the gate!
At the same time, I heard a knock and my door opened wide.
I knew it was my father in the passageway outside.

I feared his consternation, his anger and his wrath,
and yet I chose to put myself squarely in his path.
In one hand I held half my locks, in the other were locks more.
All my other shorn-off glory, around me on the floor.

“I am not your possession,” I tell my father then.
I am no pretty pet that you can lock up in a pen.
You can have my beauty––” (Here I handed him my locks.)
“but you cannot seal me up in your private box.”

My father raised his hand, and I feared that he would strike me––
angered that he’d never again have a treasure like me––
but instead he circled his arm around my shoulder
and said, “This day, I have acquired a daughter who is bolder!

It was never me who kept you sealed  up in this tower.
You always had it within you to unlock your own power.
You must know this unlocking is both metaphor and literal.
The freedom that you’ve won today, both actual and clitoral.”

And that is how this princess, once set upon a shelf,
learned that the price of freedom is to win it for one’s self.
By cutting off my own locks, I opened up the gate.
My reward––the clever prince wise enough to wait!

Helen Meikle sent along this song which she said had a similar theme to my poem.  Can’t believe I’ve never heard it before…but I agree.  Listen to it HERE

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

http://www.napowrimo.net/day-twenty-one/

Legacy

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Legacy

The thoughts and looks and talents of others of my kind
are written on my body and written on my mind.
My genetic family, departed from this earth,
exists in my coloring, expression, voice and girth.

I’m glad I got mom’s optimism and her rhyming wit,
but her success with pastry? I have none of it.
I cannot bake a cherry pie. Light pastry is a riddle.
The few cakes that I  ever baked were soggy in the middle.

Why couldn’t I inherit my mother’s slender legs
instead of my Dutch aunties’ solid ample pegs?
For women on my dad’s side were noted for their girth
as well as for the many years they spent upon this earth.

Thin skin that picks up bruises from each ungentle touch?
I’ve inherited it all–thank you very much!
My mother’s taste for chocolate, my uncle’s taste for gin––
both sides of my family I carry safe within.

My grandmother’s hands that always needed to be busy,
my Aunt Stella’s tendency to wind up in a tizzy.
“Blahsy blah!” she would exclaim, and flop her arms and walk
in tight little circles. I couldn’t help but gawk.

But sometimes I find myself getting flustered, too,
my mind stomping in circles as I figure what to do.
My upper arms look more like hers, my stomach like my mother’s,
although I’d rather have Aunt Betty’s if I had my druthers.

I could go on for stanzas, listing each thing that I’d rather,
but my recital has already turned into mere blather.
So I’ll just say a thank you to those who came before.
For in spite of all your ills, I have you at my core.

Somehow the parts you left in me, although they aren’t all pretty,
are very rarely mean or dumb or dense or dull or petty.
You left me curiosity that fills out all my days––
as well as that  Dutch work ethic that doesn’t let me laze.

Dad and Mom, I thank you both for your good sense of humor
and for your facility at blending fact and rumor
into stories that you then simply had to tell.
And thank you for instilling the need to tell them well.

Slight exaggerations are expected, I have learned––
one vital ingredient of stories finely turned.
And though each story must be told starting at its top,
the secret lies in simply––knowing when to stop.


If you haven’t had enough, HERE is another piece I wrote to a similar prompt.

 

 

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

 

WordPress Weekly Photo Prompt: Harmony

Harmony

(Cliick on first photo to enlarge, then arrows to proceed through photos.)

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/photo-challenges/harmony/