From the Drain Pipe at Wilburton

I have known her,
How many years now, I have to count....
from 11 to 56,
she knows just about my whole life

She sat in the drain pipe, wearing her favorite dress, cotton plaid, knee sox and sturdy shoes.
There, I found her, me wandering alone
the new kid,
dressed in some Sears outfit from a smaller town south,
where farm kids lived.
Me looking dorky but still longing for a friend.

I asked her something... "What is it like in there, why are you sitting in the pipe? "
She answered, "it is the best place to be on this damn playground..."
Me, fresh from Catholic School to this public one
"You aren't supposed to swear.."
Like she cared..
She told me, " Oh,
everyone here does it, soon you will too."
She was absolutely right.

We wandered through our adolescence, crossing paths
in our various survival endeavors
 like going to a big city black school - "reverse bussing'
Her courage impressed me, while
my timidity brought me back to
that snobby High School in our
"premium suburban bedroom community"

All that happened soon was never part of my dreams.
She was always there, 2 blocks away.
We could walk the forested hill and talk.
She went to Europe and wrote me long letters.
I wondered why I was not in Europe,
what courage, even to live with the Irish during
The violence of the 70's

I have boxes of our letters from all those years
They chronicle what we loved, how we lived, what we never learned to understand.

She still writes me letters, by hand.
It is in this later part of life we have our parents health issues
Our sons, we both had boys who brought our mother hearts 
to full passion

This story is not over, this friendship
The years keep piling up
And the drain pipe image keeps returning
How I had the sense to ask her a question,
how she desired to answer the awkward new kid
and there
there we began on a rainy September playground
the sawdust cool and wet
Us not wanting to return to the classroom
each for different reasons

Later, we
began to write poetry
and laugh.
This story is not over, wait.
I will tell you more -and if you want
you can find someone sitting quietly away from the noisy world
of girly girls and pretense.
Ask a question, look vulnerable
It  may be a friendship thread you can pick up
and weave into your life forever,
in the way which will keep you alive.

February Questions

From a teaching article:
"Questions open the mind. Statements close it."

Some people, like my late husband Jim, were given the message that asking a question is a sign of weakness, of not knowing. Ah, how much none of us really know. How valuable is the person who knows how to ask, and does not feel the less for doing so?

My question: What do our traditional holidays tell us about our ancestors?

February is the in-between month of winter. It is the month of my birthday and my Dad's as well. It is the month where the weather will suddenly become warm and spring-like, and then retreat just as quickly into winterness. It is the month of sunrises and sunsets against the bare branches of oak trees, the mistletoe bundles arranged like little balls of fur about the stark branches. It is the month when my scented violets bloom in small purple profusions as a harbinger to spring, the scent hovering  enchanting and nebulous.
It is the month of Valentines Day... red hearts and lace, chocolate and flowers, placed there in the grayness as a reprieve until those colorful Easter eggs take the stage.
I'm certain that our ancestors had reasons to devise holidays in increments thoughout the year. How clever they were, and how grateful I am.

When I go into classrooms now I see all kinds of red hearts and flowers. Hearts represent life and love. I believe so strongly in both those concepts. What a miracle our own heart is, the way it works, all by itself.
Happy Winter then, happy heart day, happy life and breath, happy birthday to all of us in Aquarius or Pisces... water and fish... life.