Daffodils make my heart sing each and every spring since I saw my first one — I would have been about 15. I hadn’t lived in places that had daffodils. It was love at first sight. I planted a hundred daffodil bulbs about 32 years ago. They multiplied and multiplied. I think it accurate to say that I have thousands now.
I ran across e.e. cummings’ poem some years after that. It too was love at first sight.
in time of daffodils(who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why, remember how
in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)
in time of roses(who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if, remember yes
in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek(forgetting find)
and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me, remember me
Dropping out of college and moving to Wisconsin to follow my family seemed like a splendid plan. I was attending university in West Virginia and floundering—oh if I’d only majored in English as my secret heart wanted, but no. I chose pre-med. I wasn’t just floundering; I was lost and drowning.
I grew up in California, Hawaii, and the southern part of the east coast. When I was 14, we moved to West Virginia, where there was regular snow and winter. I liked it. It was such a change to have 4-seasons.
My dad began his second career and transferred to Milwaukee. I had been a military brat, and home had never been a place–it was a group of people. My floundering became frantic when my folks left.
I moved.
I didn’t understand about Wisconsin winters. I thought winter was winter–a sort of uniform experience.
Oh my.
I moved in October. There was already snow on the ground. Deep snow. Cold snow. It was the winter of 78-79. Some of you may remember the gawdawful spectacle that Ma Nature put on. Snow to the rafters, subzero, blizzard after blizzard.
The Revolt
My hands cramp, fingers arching backward.
Arthritis. Two Advil daily.
My lower back aches, stooping my spine.
My arches continue their path to flat.
It feels like betrayal this revolt.
I was supple and graceful once upon a time.
First a disco queen and then a yoga diva.
This revolt surprises me.
The me that was me that will always
be me is still there.
But aging and menopause have not been kind to me.
I tell the young’uns not to get old ---
there’s no future in it.
My arm wattles jiggle when I do goddess pose.
Oh, how I wanted something to jiggle when I was 13.
Unnaturally thin for most of my life,
I longed for hips and breasts.
I had neither until the hot flashes were spent.
This extra weight is foreign to me.
There doesn’t seem to be a map for this territory.
I am frequently besmirched by the
indignities of old age.
The beginnings of incontinence,
dull dry brittle hair,
my oily skin suddenly flaky and wrinkled.
But the acne has persisted.
I buy moisturizer and acne remedies.
I’ve quit wearing eyeliner.
The crepe underneath my eyes
prevents a straight line.
My beloved shoes languish in the closet.
My balance precarious --
four-inch heels may be my past.
This menopause cleavage astounds me.
Oh, how I had longed for breasts and
now am plagued by underwire.
This revolt aggravates me.
My visage in the mirror a shock.
Who is that woman?
I feel weighed down by this body in revolt,
but I practice yoga and I continue to dance.
My spirit intact.
The me that was me that will always be me
is still there.
In revolt against the revolt.
Step One: Using the lid of the turkey roasting pan that you lusted after for years and you finally inherited from your dad – the lid that is never used in turkey roasting because the pan never was tall enough to hold a 20lb turkey with it on — pour the two bags of the seasoned bread cubes you bought at the Kroger — Pepperidge Farm Sage & Onion, because you can’t find Brownberry Ovens any longer.
Step Two: Chop up two huge onions into cubes roughly the same size as the bread cubes. Use the knife you got as a wedding present for your failed marriage and the cutting board you inherited from your dead lover.
Step Three: Using the knife, sweep the chopped onion into the roasting pan lid on top of the bread cubes.
Step Four: Still using the knife and the cutting board, chop two bunches of celery into slices roughly a quarter in thick. If the stalks are wide, cut them in half vertically first.
Step Five: Using the knife yet again, sweep the celery from your dead lover’s cutting board to the lid of your dad’s turkey roasting pan.
Step Six: Using the wooden spoon like the old one your great-grandmother gave you years and years ago for your abruptly ended engagement six weeks before the wedding, stir the onion, celery, and bread cubes together.
Step Seven: Eat a handful of bread cubes, raw onion, and celery, remembering how you used to sneak it when your dad wasn’t looking. Not that he would of cared.
Step Eight: Using the wooden spoon and your fingers, stuff as much of the bread cube mixture as you can into the cavity of the turkey. Remember the time you forgot to remove the giblets and neck before stuffing into the turkey. Laugh.
Step Nine: Put the heavily buttered, salted, peppered, and stuffed turkey into the oven. Don’t forget to preheat the oven.
Step Ten: Fish around for the large glass baking dish from who-knows-where..
Step Eleven: Pour the remaining bread cube mixture into the glass baking dish. Wonder what happened to the blue and white Corningware one your dad used.
Step Twelve: Dot with butter (real) and moisten with giblet/neck broth you have simmering on the stove with a bay leaf. Laugh again about the year you didn’t take them out of the turkey before stuffing.
Step Thirteen: Cover the dish with tin foil and set aside until the turkey is done. (Sneak a handful of moistened bread cube mixture first.)
Step Fourteen: Gather the dirty utensils – the knife, the cutting board, the wooden spoon. Remember your wedding and the photograph of you pretending to stab your new husband with the cake knife.
Step Fifteen: Remember your dad asking, “Punkin, is this what you want?” just before he walked you down the aisle.
Step Sixteen: Stare out the window and wipe the tears.
W. Va. Fur and Root 