Seeing is Believing Tricube – Kentucky, Winter 1967
All my life
I heard the
Kentucky
icicles
were tall as
human men
and today
I believe
it was true
Snow in Port Royal, Kentucky – Winter, 1967
Yellow Jacket Sweatshirt
Yellow Jacket Sweatshirt, 1969
Uncle Robert
Georgia Tech Engineering Grad
gave me my first Georgia Tech
Yellow Jacket sweatshirt
and my first gerbil, Brownie
in a cage with a wheel
which lasted longer than the sweatshirt
I still haven’t outgrown small critters
Winnie the Pooh and the Hundred Acre Wood
My mom’s mother worked in downtown Waycross, Georgia in the Sears and Roebuck Catalog Department. She took sales orders over the phone, and if my mother didn’t make the clothes I was wearing on her machine, it was practically guaranteed to have a Winnie the Pooh in the waist tag or on the left front chest. We got 20% off on everything – – at least, my grandmother did and so by default my mother did. When I think back on my childhood, this was my standard weekday garb. Shorts or knit slacks and a Winnie the Pooh shirt. The world had not yet thought of Velcro and light-up shoes, and honestly I think I am happy about that. At least I learned to tie my shoes early. Red Keds for the win! These were the days when dressing was so much easier – – this piece, that piece, shoes, and all the better if it actually matched. Oh, if we could just return to those days and clothes could fit as well as they used to. And if only the 100 Acre Wood were still a place as real as it once was.
L-R: Kitty (my grandmother’s good friend), me, Earl (my grandfather), Eunice (grandmother), and my mother, Miriam
What Remains
Hundred Acre Wood
remains only in the hearts
of children who knew
June 27: Tomato Sandwich Maker
Our air conditioner has been out for two weeks now, and one problem has upturned another and another and another, it seems, all while temporary window units attempt to keep us cool. It started with a flash of light in the light circuits, the kind we knew this limping-along a/c could not come back from. It had sure enough succumbed to the surge, and its innards were fried when they hauled it away.
The condensation caused the ducts to leak, and the house needs what they call an encapsulation ~ but a complete drying out must occur before that can happen. All of this in the brutal heat of near-July in rural Georgia.
We’d taken up residence in our driveway in the RV before the window units arrived so we could sleep cool, at least. And that turned up a problem with a tire – – the kind where you have low air and have to have the valve replaced. So off to Todd I went shortly before lunch, and arrived back home aired up and hungry.
The fellows under the house needed an adjustable wrench and a pair of pliers, and I dug those out before making myself a tomato sandwich. Then it hit me: those guys may be hungry. I stepped outside, offering food and drinks.
“I have a fresh tomato sandwich, watermelon, and ripe peaches from the orchard two miles down the road if anyone’s interested.” One of them just wanted a Coke Zero, but I refused to let him go on living without at least a peach to go with it.
The other told me his buddy’d been telling him how good a tomato sandwich is, and he took me up on it – to try it for the first time. “Bread, mayonnaise, fresh tomato slices, and salt and pepper. Will that be okay?” I wanted to check to be sure.
After one bite, before his peach and his Coke Zero, he said, “I’m hooked.” I understood. Not much in the summer beats a tomato sandwich, especially if you use Arnold Multigrain Sandwich Thins.
Upon finishing my own, I reached for Poetry is Not a Luxury: Poems for all Seasons, a collection I’m reading through the year with each passing season. The Love Cook by Ron Padgett inspired my poem for today, and I used the last line as my own.
Tomato Sandwich
come out from under the house
take off those gloves
wash your hands
let me fix you a sandwich
with mayonnaise, salt, and pepper
and tomatoes so tender
so ready to be devoured
they whimper
at the slice of the knife
come out of the darkness
into the light of the
summery taste of sunshine
radiating from each seed
I’ve made this sandwich just
for you, you hungry thing
June 26: Family Photos ~ We Knew It Nonet
Before The World Came to Town
the St. Simons Island that we know
isn’t the touristy mecca
everyone else thinks they know
we knew its infancy
my brother and I
(before the world
came to town) ~
at its
best
June 25: Breakfast in London, 1984
In the spring of 1984, Dad took our family of four to London for a weeklong vacation. Those were the best breakfasts – broiled tomatoes, toast, bacon, and eggs. We stayed at Bed and Breakfasts where we had to share a bathroom with other families on our same floor. These are the family photos that make me want to push a button and make it real again – – to be able to sit and chat with Mom. Time stands still for no one, though, and now it’s just my brother and I who are here to have those talks.
And I am so blessed that we frequently do.
At the Eaton House B&B Tricube
one snapshot
frozen time
breakfasting
three of us
Mom, Ken, me
in London
buttered toast
orange juice
hot coffee
Homeless in Portland: Outside the Zone
I was in Portland, Oregon at the first annual Stafford Challenge Poetry Conference, and I’m not sure how one can feel exhilarated and exhausted at the same time, but I did. The days of writing held such magic here in the Pacific Northwest. From Powell’s City of Books to Lewis and Clark College to the Willamette River and the 30th floor of the Portland City Grill, I’ve breathed the air of artists everywhere.
This is a city of literature, visual art, music and dance. Have you ever been immersed in a city so filled with the unexpected?
But one humanitarian challenge is the homeless population here. All these years I’ve walked past, minded my business, tried not to look. But something has tugged at my heartstrings on this trip, and I’m rethinking my stance. Something must change.
Outside the Zone in Portland, Oregon
oh my ~ he was there/ on the street / outside Powell’s City of Books in Portland /this young man/
locking his white-blue eyes with mine/ pleading / Excuse me, Ma’am? / as I walked past/
outside the zone/a few blocks later it smacked my heart wide open/ this is someone’s child/ a mother’s baby boy/ and I? I have neglected this soul / a disco ball of fragmented pieces/ reflection’ll do that/
refracting in pieces that scatter and haunt my being as I walk on/ ripped apart / outside the zone/ wanting even now to return to hear his story/ a sermon of life there on the street/ giving more than he requests/ listen: he has a story/ we all have a story/
this poem knows regret can do a 180/ change a line like an edit/ a tide of change/ one small act of knowing someone/ asking their story/ seeing, listening, validating humanity/ on a concrete city sidewalk/ where someone needs a human outside the zone/ to enter the zone and see them, hear them, understand them
Chapel Allium
After six days of travel to Portland, Oregon for a poetry conference at Lewis and Clark College with Stafford Challenge members, I am back home in Georgia and attempting to transition back to my regular time zone. I made myself get up at 5:45 this morning for coffee and yogurt and a snuggle with my schnoodles. I stepped outside to check the world, and the birdsong assures me the harmony on the farm is still in tune here in the quiet hush of the rural countryside.
It’s my first day home being off contract for summer before I officially retire in August, and I have two goals: write/post, and get myself back in the zone. I might push it and do a load of laundry just to have clean socks. Memories are swimming in my head, full of the love and exhaustion of travel – the best kind of tired that tells you you made the most of it all and came home changed in a way that only travel and friends can change you. How truly Steinbeck the journey, the best kind that leaves you stumbling around with a cup of strong coffee trying to recover from one trip while simultaneously and secretly plotting the next.
But whatever the day holds, my heart and mind will carry all the fresh air and green trees and memories of the Pacific Northwest. I’ll read poems and remember my time there, holding it all close with a foot on both sides of the country today.
Be
there’s a bench beyond the allium
nestled beneath a tree
beside the cobbled sidewalk
come sit and be with me!
June Open Write Day 3: Souvenirs
Today’s host of the third and final day of the June Open Write at http://www.ethicalela.com is Leilya Pitre of Louisiana. She inspires us to write poems about the souvenirs we bring home from trips. You can read her full prompt here, along with the poems of others and the feedback given. I have written mine today as I await a flight home from Portland, Oregon to rural Georgia, fresh on the heels of a delightful writer’s conference trip with my friend Glenda Funk of Idaho. I’ve used the style of Ada Limon’s Instructions On Not Giving Up.
Souvenirs from Portland, Oregon
more than the t-shirts and canvas bags
more than the keychains and shot glasses
more than that obnoxious prayer request card
cussing to God about the souls
of His other children
in the pew back compartment
someone intentionally forgot
to put in the offering plate
that I claimed as a bookmark
so I can pray the same sort
of prayer for Sam, Gavin, Kellen and all of us sinful humans
(yes, all of us !*(^ing %*m#@$$es)
more than the signed books of other writers
more than the leather shopping treasures,
it’s the photographs that really get to me
that keep the memories alive
stances of trees, slants of slate rooftops,
smiles of strangers and those we love
(yes, all of us !*(^ing %*m#@$$es)
standing beneath waterfalls
in the bend of the rainbow
God’s promise of hope for all His children
cloaked in the prayer shawl of His grace and mercy
(yes, all of us !*(^ing %*m#@$$es)
yes, I’ll take them. I’ll take them all.
Photography Tips While Traveling
It’s America’s birthday year, and like thousands of families across the country during its Bicentennial, my family went to Washington, D.C. in July to visit our local congressman. At that time, we lived on St. Simons Island, Georgia. We loaded up our station wagon with two of our grandparents and went to visit Congressman Ronald Bryan “Bo” Ginn, our 1st Congressional District representative who served from 1973-1983, and who was instrumental in forming the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center (FLETC) in Brunswick. He was a strong advocate for coastal Georgia, and it was an iconic year to take that trip to our nation’s capital.
There we were, in his office: my dad’s parents Georgia Lee and W.F. Haynes, Sr.; my dad, Felix Haynes (W.F. Haynes, Jr.); my brother Ken, me, Bo Ginn in the striped tie, and my mother, Miriam Haynes. My grandmother had her usual look of hidden amusement as if she’d witnessed something funny the rest of us hadn’t seen and holding her pocketbook like she always did, giving the impression she was always ready to get in the car and go back home. My grandfather was always smiling, too, probably believing that there was a lot to smile about in the world; he was 58 in this photo, and I turn 60 this month – – so perhaps the smile is rooted in the joy of being alive and kicking. Now Dad, I’m not sure why he picked that shirt; he was a Southern Baptist minister, but his collar makes him appear more Catholic, as if he’s about to lead a mass in a Congressional cathedral. My mother and Bo look like they know what’s going on and would be competent to handle any world news situation that might arise at any time. My brother and I, sharing the honors of sitting in the decision chair, look as if we’ve been jumping on the bed in the hotel room and had a few arm wrestling matches on the way to this moment in time; we were ten and five. In the days of film photography, this might have been the best the photographer could do. But I can see the same stance tendencies my grandmother had already forming in me, with those folded arms and gaze set to the left.
There is much to learn about taking photos from this trip, as I look back. Expressions and stance matter, and the photographer should feel free to make a few suggestions to help.
Even novice photographers (likely my grandfather, who I know was legally blind in one eye, but still….) can also take an extra moment to be sure things will turn out as intended. Take this photo below, for example. Maybe take a minute and make sure there are no thumbs or unwanted derrieres in the photo, for starters. Even though it’s clear the photographer was attempting to follow the famous rule of thirds in the photo, it might have been thoughtful to crop some of those steps. Likewise, it would have gone a long way to take a moment and yell at my brother. He was on the steps of the Nation’s Capital, for Lord’s sake, and I was the only one – a mere ten year old – trying to make him behave. And I hate mentioning this, but just asking me to put my hand down might have been a good idea that apparently went unsuggested. It brings to mind the sheer reality of how movies like National Lampoon’s Vacation and the things that make us look back and laugh are all sitting right there in all our own family photographs.
National Emergency First Responder
It remains
unclear
to me how
my mother
is still
smiling
at this point
in the trip.
I think
she was
mostly
more geared
for handling
national emergencies
than the at-home kind.
Common Threads 