Monday
On June 9th (or maybe the 10th) My mother died. She had fallen down and broken something. At the hospital they said it was her hip and that trying to fix it would probably kill her. Then they decided it wasn't a broken hip but a fractured pelvis. This was treatable, a minor surgery which she would pull through easily. . . but it must not have been too minor. In recovery her heart just stopped. She died. She was ninety years old . . . almost ninety-one.
Mom was one of the original Rosie the Riveters back in WWII. When I was 6 or so she was still working a punch press at this metal shop across the street from where we lived. She also tended bar. Beer bars. She met Dad in a bar somewhere in San Diego, I think. Pops was in the Navy. They hit it off because they were both big drinkers. I don't remember too many times when Mom and Dad didn't have a beer in their hands.
I remember having the chicken pox when I was little. I was scared bad. and Mom took care of me. Chicken soup! Yeah, lots of chicken soup (for chicken pox) and the miracle elixir for all sick kids in the 1950s, 7-UP! Mom had all kinds of home remedies in her apron. She cured my brother's warts by rubbing them with a dirty dish cloth then burying it in the backyard. It Worked! Next morning my brother woke me up (we slept in the same room, shared the same bed for a long time) to announce that his warts were magically gone.
When I got back from Vietnam, I sat down in front of the TV at my Mom's new apartment to watch the Ali fight. The fight started, Mom came into the room from her kitchen (It seems that most memories of Mom are her in a kitchen), stared at the TV for a second, and then walked over (actually she stomped over) and unceremoniously shut the TV off. "Why'd you do that," I asked. "You can't watch that man in my house." "Why not?" She turned around and stared at me. It looked like she was going to cry. "Because you went to Vietnam and he didn't."
We had this ceremony, the Woods Clan did, ever summer. The Smashing of the Black Cat. Mom bought this ceramic black cat "piggy" bank. All year long we kids would put pennies, dimes and nickels, all the loose change we could dig up and deposit in the cat's coin slot in the back of its head. And when it got close to vacation time, we would gather in the living room (me, Mom, Dad, my sister and brother) and break open the cat with a hammer, count all those pennies (mostly pennies) and nickels and dimes and decide where we could afford to go on summer vacation! Of course, we kids always voted for Disneyland, but we went other places too, like Yosemite, Las Vegas ( not a lot to do for a kid in Las Vegas), the beach . . . Well, I'm not sure there was enough in that damn bank to really take a family of five anywhere. Mom and Dad knew that. They always paid for some really cool vacation someplace. That cat didn't pay for anything. It was just a fun thing to do all year, putting found coins in the cat, like we kids were actually paying for something.
When I heard about the passing of my mother I didn't really react to it. My sister who called to tell me the news was disappointed that I didn't make more of fuss, scream and pound my chest, yell something like, " WHY,WHY, WHYYYYYY?!" I never have reacted to deaths
much. I just sort of shrug my shoulders and thank God it wasn't me. However, that night after I talked to my sister . . . it hit me. I'm sitting in my apartment, in the dark, and I just start to cry. Not big tears, not wailing, no gnashing of teeth . . . just a gentle, soft . . . weeping. I realized that I had lost my mother and most of my immediate family, my father, my brother . . . it was sad. Even though I feel estrange from my family . . . they are still my family. Yeah, I'm sad about it. I miss them I miss them all. I wish we could have been closer before they died. Close like when I was a kid with the chicken pox, or when it was my turn to take my dad's roofing hammer and smash the big black cat open, and share a giggle with my sister and brother as we counted all the coins that fell out.
My Mother’s Day
on the couch drinking beer, watching
the Figure Eight races on TV, nodding
off every now and then. A single snore
from his open mouth would wake
him with a start. He’d take another
sip of beer, wipe his eyes and fall
right back to sleep without even
noticing that car 56 had just been
rammed into oblivion by a Plymouth Fury.
It seems she was always scurrying about
all day long from the kitchen sink to the
refrigerator. Always looking for something
but never finding whatever it was she kept
looking for.
banging around in the kitchen and
mumbling to herself.
the heels of our tennis shoes quietly
dreading school on Monday. We hated
school almost as much as we hated each other.
in the high desert. I never knew exactly
what she was doing up there so far away
from her family, her real family. I never
understood my sister or her moods.
probably the reason why I live alone.
Anyways, it’s Sunday, Mother’s Day. As I write
this poem I wonder what my mother’s doing.
Probably walking to the refrigerator, finally
remembering what it was she was looking for
all those many years ago.
rrw o5-13-12
Saturday, June 21, 2o14
Had a hard time writing on the blog these last few days. And when I finally try to write something, my site seems to have mad some changes so I can't post pictures. I'm writing this just to see if it will at least post my words. Let's see. (after save) Okay! At least I can post my writes. Now, let's see what happens when I try to post a picture. Wish me luck! . . . . . . . . . . . Nope. Can't down load a pic! What the heck. This is very disappointing. I really like the pictures, they influence my writing just by being there. Well, tomorrow I'll try a "new" post and see if I get anywhere. Tonight . . . . just too tired to write. Hell, I've been writing all day on this dang blog ad couldn't save a thing. may have to find a new site to work on.
On June 9th (or maybe the 10th) My mother died. She had fallen down and broken something. At the hospital they said it was her hip and that trying to fix it would probably kill her. Then they decided it wasn't a broken hip but a fractured pelvis. This was treatable, a minor surgery which she would pull through easily. . . but it must not have been too minor. In recovery her heart just stopped. She died. She was ninety years old . . . almost ninety-one.
Mom was one of the original Rosie the Riveters back in WWII. When I was 6 or so she was still working a punch press at this metal shop across the street from where we lived. She also tended bar. Beer bars. She met Dad in a bar somewhere in San Diego, I think. Pops was in the Navy. They hit it off because they were both big drinkers. I don't remember too many times when Mom and Dad didn't have a beer in their hands.
I remember having the chicken pox when I was little. I was scared bad. and Mom took care of me. Chicken soup! Yeah, lots of chicken soup (for chicken pox) and the miracle elixir for all sick kids in the 1950s, 7-UP! Mom had all kinds of home remedies in her apron. She cured my brother's warts by rubbing them with a dirty dish cloth then burying it in the backyard. It Worked! Next morning my brother woke me up (we slept in the same room, shared the same bed for a long time) to announce that his warts were magically gone.
When I got back from Vietnam, I sat down in front of the TV at my Mom's new apartment to watch the Ali fight. The fight started, Mom came into the room from her kitchen (It seems that most memories of Mom are her in a kitchen), stared at the TV for a second, and then walked over (actually she stomped over) and unceremoniously shut the TV off. "Why'd you do that," I asked. "You can't watch that man in my house." "Why not?" She turned around and stared at me. It looked like she was going to cry. "Because you went to Vietnam and he didn't."
We had this ceremony, the Woods Clan did, ever summer. The Smashing of the Black Cat. Mom bought this ceramic black cat "piggy" bank. All year long we kids would put pennies, dimes and nickels, all the loose change we could dig up and deposit in the cat's coin slot in the back of its head. And when it got close to vacation time, we would gather in the living room (me, Mom, Dad, my sister and brother) and break open the cat with a hammer, count all those pennies (mostly pennies) and nickels and dimes and decide where we could afford to go on summer vacation! Of course, we kids always voted for Disneyland, but we went other places too, like Yosemite, Las Vegas ( not a lot to do for a kid in Las Vegas), the beach . . . Well, I'm not sure there was enough in that damn bank to really take a family of five anywhere. Mom and Dad knew that. They always paid for some really cool vacation someplace. That cat didn't pay for anything. It was just a fun thing to do all year, putting found coins in the cat, like we kids were actually paying for something.
When I heard about the passing of my mother I didn't really react to it. My sister who called to tell me the news was disappointed that I didn't make more of fuss, scream and pound my chest, yell something like, " WHY,WHY, WHYYYYYY?!" I never have reacted to deaths
My Mother’s Day
Sundays were always a lazy day
around our house. Dad would lie on the couch drinking beer, watching
the Figure Eight races on TV, nodding
off every now and then. A single snore
from his open mouth would wake
him with a start. He’d take another
sip of beer, wipe his eyes and fall
right back to sleep without even
noticing that car 56 had just been
rammed into oblivion by a Plymouth Fury.
Mom busied herself in the kitchen. Doing what?
I don't know. Motherly
things, I suppose. It seems she was always scurrying about
all day long from the kitchen sink to the
refrigerator. Always looking for something
but never finding whatever it was she kept
looking for.
Me and Brother Dennis would sit on
the back-porch listening to Motherbanging around in the kitchen and
mumbling to herself.
We never talked my brother and me.
We just sat digging into the dirt withthe heels of our tennis shoes quietly
dreading school on Monday. We hated
school almost as much as we hated each other.
And my sister? She moved out long ago
to our Aunt Ella and Uncle Ace's ranch in the high desert. I never knew exactly
what she was doing up there so far away
from her family, her real family. I never
understood my sister or her moods.
Come to think of it, I never understood
any of the women in my life. It’s probably the reason why I live alone.
Anyways, it’s Sunday, Mother’s Day. As I write
this poem I wonder what my mother’s doing.
Probably walking to the refrigerator, finally
remembering what it was she was looking for
all those many years ago.
rrw o5-13-12
Saturday, June 21, 2o14
Had a hard time writing on the blog these last few days. And when I finally try to write something, my site seems to have mad some changes so I can't post pictures. I'm writing this just to see if it will at least post my words. Let's see. (after save) Okay! At least I can post my writes. Now, let's see what happens when I try to post a picture. Wish me luck! . . . . . . . . . . . Nope. Can't down load a pic! What the heck. This is very disappointing. I really like the pictures, they influence my writing just by being there. Well, tomorrow I'll try a "new" post and see if I get anywhere. Tonight . . . . just too tired to write. Hell, I've been writing all day on this dang blog ad couldn't save a thing. may have to find a new site to work on.
