the mellowing of the wine

bitter is the taste

 

 One was

Mellowed and aged to perfection

The perfect combination of vine and sun

The perfection of taste and value

the other was

Picked to soon

Before it was ripe and ready to age

The taste was bitter not sweet

They were

Mixed to be as one

Only to turn sour

Before

real love
could mellow
and  grow
and age in the sun

 love grows and mellows and is sweet

they met when young
both aging on the vine

their love shy and innocent

they married and lived as one
they grew and ripened as one

their love hot and complete

they raised their children
and mellowed with age

their love warm and quiet

they grew old as one
creating an aroma of love

their love knowing and silent

old lovers they were
the perfect cohesion of man and wife

their love in their souls

they are one and have learned  to know

real love

Joyce and Lucy Betty McCallister 3/27/10

It was a rainy day and Joyce had many things to accomplish, yet was dreading donning herself with rain gear and heading out the door. She would much rather have stayed put with a hot cup of tea and watch the raindrops out her window. Why rain is a natural weather format and one of God's perfect inventions, yet to Joyce running around in it was awkward and frightening. One would think she would be more accepting of this climate having lived in Oregon for several years. But today was Lucy’s day and that brought a smile to Joyce as she headed out the door. That was something to look forward to.

Her agenda was visiting in home patients with a variety of maladies. She loved her work and trained long and hard to be a physical therapist. She had a healing and caring nature about her since her youth. "Someday, when I grow up", she would tell her mom, "I am going to take care of sick people, they need me." Her mom would smile and say, "that would be wonderful Joyce, I know you would be good at that." So Joyce fulfilled the dream of her youth and for 10 years traveled the highways and byways of her Portland town bringing her kind and gentle spirit to those experiences pain and suffering.

The roads were slick and the windshield wipers were clamoring a mile a minute as she traveled to her first appointment, 82 year old Lucy Burns. Joyce had become so very fond of Lucy and received as much pleasure from their visits as Lucy did. She knew it was dangerous to develop such attachments as she had already experienced the loss of several patients, yet could not help herself. Lucy was special and stole Joyce’s heart from the get go. She was a pleasant lady with a warm character. No complaining, though her life had narrowed in on her. Joyce came to help Lucy use her body muscles that were stiff and achy and needed some tender prodding. She would take a hold of Lucy’s hand and together they would stroll the paths around the garden of Lucy’s townhouse complex, and oh how Lucy loved it. Today there would be no outdoor strolling, which was a little disappointing to both, but instead they would turn the radio on and move to the musical beat as best they could. Back and forth they would sway as laughter took a hold of them. Forty years difference in age did not even enter either’s mind. Joyce did not want to leave when their time was up, and after enjoying that extra cup of tea she longed for earlier in the day along with some good old chatter, but she had another client waiting, not one as pleasant as Lucy, yet one who needed Joyce’s tender caring manner. She bid Lucy farewell with a compassionate hug, opened her umbrella and headed out into the rain, cautious not to slip as she bolted towards her car. She loved Lucy, that is all there was to it. No need denying it, what is, is. Joyce was a big girl, yet she still needed a mother figure, having lost her own at a young age. Lucy filled the void in her heart for a Mom. She envisioned her own mother being the same beautiful lady that Lucy was. After all, visiting Lucy twice a week for seven years created a bond which the two women clung to. They talked about so many things and Joyce learned a great deal from Lucy’s wisdom.

Back in the car, Joyce drove through the raindrops and teardrops to her next patient and was glad to arrive so as not to pine for Lucy any longer and dread the day that she would not open her door and say "welcome dear friend."

That step - Stan

"The learning sword cut my throat and all that it taught me I cannot say".
                                                                           gsbatty

The step is always there.  It is right in front of me. I cannot miss seeing it.  It all but slaps me in the face as I stumble by or around it.  But I never confront it.  I am always able to sidle by it.  I sidle by with the complete fear that it will reach out and snare me.  I am always afraid that it will grab me and toss me into some dark, damp, dirty, smelly dungeon until I take that step and vomit the truth from the bowels of my loins.

I edge by that step like I am on the side of a cliff with my back hugging the stone wall and my arms flailing out along the stone grasping for some place to grab on to .  I am in fear of being sucked off.  My arms are grabbing for a safety ring or a miracle lanyard to keep the giant empty space below me from sucking me over and down.  My hands grasp for a stone to keep me from being sucked down to spin like a vortex of constant confusion until I am able to face and expel the demons within me.

This time I win again or maybe it is this time I lose again.  I slip by the deep black hole that is trying to suck me in.  I am able to present a body that looks under control.

I dread the day the door opens and the vortex sucks me in before I can slip by.  I dread that day. I dread that day.  I do not want to take that first step.  I do not want to really know myself.

I will avoid the door and climb out the window. 

Why?.............Because I always have. 



I thank Poet David Whyte for the inspiration for this work.  My thoughts began as I listened to his poem "Start Close In"..."take the step you do not want to take....start with a small step you can call your own".

David, I am still trying to find that first step.  Maybe with your inspiration I can find myself. 


I would also like to thank my friend Jim Haddad.  Jim is the best writer and poet in our writing class.  His "sword of knowledge" from today's reading inspired the opening poem of this post.

The ripening - Stan

I met Stan at a meeting for divorced fathers. We were all lost and looking for answers in our lives. We were a small group of men whose wives had left them for another man. We met once a week to tell each other our stories. It was an informal group. It was started by two friends. One of them knew another guy with the same problem and he was invited and so on until our group had reached 10. It was a healing group. It was important for each guy to learn that he was not alone. It was important for each man to learn that he was not a failure. It was important for each man to learn his feelings and sorrows were shared by others.

Stan used to joke about growing ripe. He would say, “Did you know that people are supposed to ripen as they grow older,” “They are supposed to get smarter with age.” “Isn’t that a joke?” “Don’t you think ripen is really a stupid word.”

At one meeting Stan said, “One never knows whether they are getting riper with wisdom or whether they have turned the corner and are past the ripe stage and they are beginning to get a little over ripe and are getting rotten.”

I don’t know why but the word seemed to have a special meaning to Stan. He could not let it go of it. Stan and I became friends. We would stop for coffee and talk after the meeting. His conversation would always get back to his ripening. After a while it got a little old and even a little weird.

I remember that he could not separate the connotation of the word, the meaning of the word and the actual correct usage of the word. Once he said, “As we get older we have to ripen at least a little bit. But getting riper or older also means that some of the facilities we are given to function with begin to falter. The mind gets a little forgetful. The ears lose the ability to hear. The eyes begin to dim a little and finally the olfactory senses do not function as well as they should.”

The next week he had some more thoughts to offer on ripening. This time he didn’t say it particularly anyone. He just started talking, “I am alive. I have lived and since I have lived I have to believe that I have ripened. The question is in what way have I ripened?”

I said, “What the hell are you talking about”? He just kept rambling on, “I have heard it said that we all go over fool’s hill and when we have gone over the top is when we start to ripen with knowledge. As we zoom down the other side of the hill we get smarter and smarter. At least that is the way it is supposed to work. Sometimes I wonder if all I ever got was a fool’s cap at the top and a speeding ticket on the way to the bottom.”

I said, “Will you knock it off”? “No”, Stan continued. “Listen to this” “We all ripen a little with each experience we encounter. Our failed marriages are an example. Can’t you feel yourself ripening?” “I can”,

Stan said. “I can feel my body ripening. But it is not ripening with wisdom, it is ripening with hate.”

“Stan”, I said. “Do you need to see a shrink?” “Are you going to do something stupid?”

Stan was silent for a long time but finally he said, “No, I’m OK but I think it is important to know what and why you are feeling something.” “It is important to analyze your feelings and understand them.” “It is important to me to ripen properly and not go rotten from the inside out.” “It was important for me to get that out into the open.” “Talking about my hatred has softened that hatred. I want to thank you for putting up with my ranting and babbling”

Stan got up to leave and said, “I am going to be all right. I understand that I have ripened a little. I understand that I have ripened with knowledge and that I will not be consumed by hatred”. “See you next week”, he smiled and walked out the door.

I never saw Stan again. I guess he did not need us anymore.

Second Sunday Bridge - Glory

SECOND SUNDAY BRIDGE Several years ago, a group of Emerald Isle bridge-playing women numbering eight (8) joined together in what is probably known as a “clique” by those who are not included. We ladies knew how to play bridge and thought it was a grand idea to have dinner and play bridge on the Second Sunday of each month in the evening. Bridge players did gather in the official card room on Monday and Wednesday mornings and on Friday afternoons. In an effort to enhance our bridge playing skills, we thought we would play every Second Sunday and would alphabetically rotate so each of us was a hostess only once every eight months. Sounds simple…. until one of us has a trip to somewhere which covers the Second Sunday and then we change the bridge date to accommodate the lucky traveler or if that doesn’t work, the hostess needs to get a substitute or needs to notify all of the group of the change of date. Sometimes the substitute lady wonders why she is never asked to join this elite group but only when the hostess is desperate to fill the second table. Then we appear more like a clique. A simple meal is all we established initially and then one hostess decided that fancy appetizers would be kinda special while we enjoy a glass of bubbly. And then the appetizer part of the Second Sunday Bridge becomes almost required. Appetizers do prompt pleasant talk time and catching up with each other while the hostess does last minute meal preparations. When we are the hostess, we ponder on who likes fish or does everyone eat beef or pork and did I serve chicken when it was my turn last. Now it is a given that each of our kitchens are exactly alike at Emerald Isle and that is to say not conducive to preparing with ease a full meal, appetizers, wine and dessert. Therefore, we must plan to have counter space for the big platter and the required number of bowls for salad or vegetable. We need to plan the timing of when to turn on the oven and how long the vegetable will require for cooking and so on. We must remember to put the little metal or plastic rings that are individual in character but definitely a set of 8 stem markers for the wine glasses. Do I need to buy two bottles of white wine or is it two bottles of red wine to cover the evening? If the same group plays, we kinda remember their choice of bubbly but if there is a substitute, maybe two bottles of white or red wine won’t be quite enough. Speaking of wine, one or two of the women thought a hostess gift of a bottle of wine would make the evening more special. Not everyone of the eight initiated that practice and it gets to be rather difficult to remember if the lady who is hostessing tonight’s Second Sunday Bridge is the same one who brought a bottle of wine as a hostess gift when you had your turn. Maybe we should mark our calendar when we are such a recipient of a hostess gift because at our age, clear memory does not serve us well anymore. If your turn at Second Sunday Bridge just happens to be in a month with a holiday such as February or December, of course, you must be fully decorated for the special month and then you ponder on whether one red and one green tablecloth is appropriate with contrasting colored napkins or should both tables be the same. Because December is the “traditional gift giving month”, would a small token gift at each place be appropriate or be considered going over the top. Each of us fuss with small centerpieces of flowers or candles to make the bridge tables look inviting. I well remember when I cut roses from the gardens in the complex and now I buy color-coordinated flowers in the market. About a year ago, several of the Second Sunday Bridge women joined Weight Watchers and now all they would talk about is their allowed points for the day and whether they used their extra bonus points or saved them for this special evening. The other women just want to enjoy a special meal including a high calorie dessert without listening to the Weight Watchers point system. Dinner has to take no more than an hour or so so that we have enough time to play enough bridge to fill the 8 rounds of bridge on the tally. We eight never got into prizes for top winner, thank goodness, or that would involve finding the appropriate prize. Maybe we could just have the hostess give money prizes of $2 for first and $1 for second high. I dare not suggest that although what is my incentive for really bidding appropriately and striving to be a better bridge player and a winner if there is no prize because the scores are totaled at the end of the evening. Those who seem to be the best of the best tend to look a tad smug when they are high all the time. Maybe the rest of us should talk a lot less and concentrate more on our bridge skills. This silly story was prompted by the fact that we are meeting on the 5th Sunday of January because two of the ladies were out of town on the Second Sunday. The Second Sunday Bridge in February will almost be back–to-back with 5th Sunday of January. The eight of us are really good friends and do enjoy each other’s company even to the point where we each dress up sort of special for the Second Sunday Bridge night and have a great time playing bridge. GLORY J. HUCKO JANUARY 31, 2010

Storms of Life - Stan

Accept the day, do not panic

STORMS BEHIND – STORMS AHEAD

This is a 3rd edited version after discussing the use of quotations and proper dialogue writing with Amy

One never knows when life will reach up and slap you in the face or go even lower and kick you right square in the groin  One day you’re cruising along in high gear and everything is beautiful. The morning coffee tastes great and breakfast is lying warm and wonderful in the bottom of your stomach.

But life never waits for you to finish your coffee and the breakfast to settle. The phone rings and you answer with a song in your voice. The voice on the other end of the phone is not so warm and wonderful. "Mr. Beatty?" the voice questions.  "Yes," I reply. "This is Mr. Johnson from Savanna High School. Would it be possible for you and your wife to come in for a conference about Ben?"  he asks.

The coffee turns bitter and the breakfast begins to churn. "Sure," I reply. "What’s the problem?"  "We believe Ben is using drugs" is his reply.

The shock hits. The denial begins. The coffee goes cold. The breakfast rumbles. I mumble, "when would you like us to be there?" The answer is fast and simple. Mr. Johnson is courteous and replies, “The sooner the better”. 

Ben is in school and my wife, Nancy, has just left for work. I call Nancy’s work and leave a message to meet me at the school.

My mind is spinning. My son is using drugs? I don’t believe it. How could that be? I meet Nancy in Mr. Johnson office. The meeting is short. Mr. Johnson informs us that Ben has not been seen using drugs. It’s his attitude. It is the way he sasses teachers. He has all the signs. They cannot test him but believe we should. "How do you do that?" we ask.

Ben denies the accusations. "Not me dad," he says with conviction. "Well maybe," I reply. "But it won’t hurt to have you tested." "Just to make sure," I add.

We made an appointment for 5:00. On the way for the test Ben is silent. About half way there he has a small confession. "Dad," he says, in a small voice. "I have smoked some weed." There’s a moment of silence and then I ask, "how much and when?" "Only a joint at Jimmy’s house two weeks ago." he whispers. "OK," I reply. "We’ll see what the test says."

 Nancy is silent. Ben is my son. Nancy is there to help and support but she wants me to take care of this problem. Any punishment coming from her will not have the same affect that it would if it came from me. I agree. I have to be the primary one to deal with this one.

The hospital is very efficient and the results from the test confirm the drug use but it is worse than Ben wants to admit. He is smoking more than one joint in a two week period. "It is not easy to tell the usage but it was steady," the technician said. "Also, there are signs of other drugs," he adds.  "I will need  more time to analyze the tests."

"OK," I say.  "What do we do now?"  The technician suggests “Tough Love”.

"Well dad," Ben asks on the way home. "What are you going to do?" I had no idea. What do you do with a sixteen year old son that is using drugs?

My mind went to a back to a punishment I received for a minor infraction when I was in the Air Force. Waiting to find out what form of punishment was worse than the punishment. I decided to let him stew.

That evening Ben and I had a long discussion about drugs and drug use.  I explained the trouble that they caused and that  I loved him and could not allow the drugs to continue.  We discussed a form of punishment and course of action

We decided he would be on Dad arrest. I kept him out of school for two weeks and basically tied to my pant leg. He went where I went. I talked to his teachers and got homework for him to keep up in school.

We went to “Tough Love” and started a program. He attended sessions Tuesday and Thursday nights and Saturdays. Nancy and I went one night a week on Wednesday with other troubled parents. He was tested once a week for drug use. He was on house and school arrest for 6 months. I took him to school and I picked him up.

The most important thing that I did was in that first two weeks. We spent hours together talking and getting to know how each of us felt. I did not threaten him. I talked to him. We discussed what the program was going to be. He agreed to the program. I did not have to drag him kicking and screaming to “Tough Love”

Did I succeed? Did he turn into an “angel”? I think I succeeded in stopping the drug activity. He did not turn into an angel but he did graduate from high school. He chose to join the Marines. He is now living in West Virginia and has two daughters. I am proud of him.

Last month life groin slapped me again. My coffee was great and the sweet role was lying warm and wonderful in the bottom of my stomach. The phone rang. It was my daughter. "Dad," she sobbed.  "We have found out that Brittany is using drugs."

Brittany is my sixteen year old granddaughter.

The coffee turns bitter and the breakfast begins to churn. The shock hits. The denial begins. The coffee goes cold. The sweet roll rumbles. I mumble, "what are you going to do?"

They have not asked me for any advice. I just listen. They have put her in some kind of 90 day facility. I think it is a mistake. My daughter is divorced and remarried. She is going to school to become a nurse. She does not seem to have time for Brittany.

Brittany’s father is remarried with a two year old daughter. He does not seem to have time for Brittany.

The only people that have time for Brittany are a 90 day rehab facility.

Will she bond and find love and caring from a 90 day rehab facility? 

I doubt it.

yah sure - Stan

A re-written and edited prompt that I wrote in the 20 minute timed exercise in class on March 9, 2010


Dialogue

Why does it always happen to me?

It happens to all of us but I kept asking myself, “why does it happen to me?”

I was fuming. The CHP dude was walking towards the back of my car. I was upset and my mind was going a thousand miles a minute. I thought I know dam well they are after me. They have to be after me. I know they are following me. It cannot be by mere chance that I keep getting caught. What are the odds of getting stopped 6 times in this month alone? He was still coming, grinning like a Cheshire cat. His grin was even wider and toothier than the last jerk that stopped me.

Good evening Sir. Yea, sure I thought. Maybe it’s good for you but it dam well isn’t good for me.

I’m sorry sir, he said but you were going a little over the speed limit. Yea, yea my mind fumed. I bet you’re sorry. If I believed that I would order the Brooklyn Bridge shipped to California from New York.

You were doing seventy five in a seventy zone. My mind was spinning but now my mouth was working overtime. Seventy five in a seventy, I spit out? You have to be kidding. You’re radar isn’t that accurate.

Well sir, he replied, I am sorry you do not believe me but the radar is accurate. You can plead your case to the judge. Dam, my mouth said, now you’re sorry again. You can dam well be assured I’ll tell it to the judge. In fact I’m going to scream it right into his fat ruddy cheeks. I know that fat jerk. You had better believe I’ll tell him. Give me the dam ticket and I’ll get the hell out of here.

No sir, he replied, my partner is checking your record. You will have to wait. My mouth wouldn’t stay shut. Checking, I yelled? Checking for what? Checking my record? You can’t be serious. What if I decide to leave?

Sir, I am going to ask to get out of your car, he said. You are under arrest. You’re arresting me? What for? You and what army? Are you going to draw that gun? Yeah, you’re a big man with the gun, I said. Get rid of that gun and I’ll whip your ass,

Sir, turn around and place your hands behind your back, he ordered. My mouth had to keep moving. Turn around, I said? Hand Cuffs? Now you’re really joking. You’re arresting me for doing seventy five in a seventy? A dam murderer would get more respect that you’re giving me.

Sir, get in the back of the patrol car, he said. Now I was just babbling. I can’t sit in the back with my hands cuffed behind me. That’s tough I heard him say. Tough, I screamed; wait until I see my lawyer. I’ll get your skinny ass fired.

As I was being drive to the police station, my mind was saying, “Why does it always happen to me?

S. Beatty/March 2010

Beth and Cecil - Stan

ONE B.M.B.


Edited and revised

In the year 1938 A.D. (after Christ’s death) or one B.M.B. (one year before my birth) a young family struggled to survive in a Cedar City, Utah. Cedar City is a small town in southern Utah about 75 miles north of the Utah-Arizona border. The year 1938 was on the back end of the great American depression and 3 years before the beginning of World War II. The young struggling family was special to me because it was my family. It was really my future family because in 1938 I had not been born yet. I was born in May of 1939. Before I was born there were five in the family, the father Cecil, the mother Beth, and three children, Kaye age 7, Richard age 3 and Mary age 2. My mother had another girl that was still born sometime between Kaye and Richard.

I may not have been able to choose this family but I believe that my being the final son and child of Beth and Cecil was not by pure chance.  I believe they chose me.

 I realize that my physical form is a combination of genes from both my parents but what about my mental form.

Is my mental form a combination of my parents or is that something that was formed in some other world before I was born?  Or, is it a combination of the physical genes creating a mind and body that could be taught and molded by the love and guidence of two good parents?

I believe is is the latter and I believe that I asked my parents to choose me so that I could be the final child that they would raise and mold.  I believe my parents chose me because I ask them to.  I knew they were people of sound mind and body that could and would raise me with love and guidence.

My conversation with my parents must have gone something like this:

 “Cecil, choose me as your next son. You are only going to have one more child and I want to be that child. I want you Cecil to teach me hard work and honesty. I want you Cecil to teach me how to relate to my sons and daughters. Cecil I know you work hard but I think you could learn to be closer to your children. It that is not available to me I will take what you teach and try to expand my abilities. Cecil, I know you are not perfect but I do not want a perfect person for a father. I want a father that is human and will give me a good home to grow in. I think, Cecil that you are that person. Cecil, if you choose me as your next son I will do all that I can to make you proud of me.

Beth I ask you to also choose me as your final child. I want a mother that will teach me empathy and love of others. Beth I want a mother that has no ill will and prejudice towards others. Beth, with your love of all that you meet, you are that mother. Beth I want a home with a loving mother that will love and protect her children and yet let them grow and expand in their own lives.

Beth and Cecil select me and I will be a son to make to proud.
Please let me be your final child.

S. Beatty/March 2010

Starving Artist - Amy

A perfect day. Rain. A fire in the fireplace. Seventeen bean soup simmering on the stove. A new play in the works. Time to write it. In my flannel nightgown. Why have I denied myself this indulgence for so long? I love being holed up. Not having to go anywhere. Full absorption. Immersion into the creative process. Deeper. Deeper I go. Emerging only when absolutely necessary. To stir the soup. At fifty-one I am finally giving myself permission to be about my art. Not that I haven't been engaged in the creative process for all of my adult years. I have. But it has been about someone else's art. My job was to make my student's dreams come true. My job was to interpret and produce plays that someone else had written. My job was to critique other playwright's ideas on paper and give them voice on stage in developmental readings. At last, it's my turn. And I'm dead serious about it. I don't remember ever being this hungry. These last few years have been like an artistic fast. I've been bound to work other than my art. Devoid of creative fulfillment. I have been like fruit withering on a vine. Clinging too long to the branch. Over ripened. The season for picking seemingly long past. It is only in my memoir workshop with some writers well into their eighties that I find genuine satisfaction. Not just because of the writing that comes out of it, but because I realize when I am with them, that withering is a choice. A choice they have not made. Ripened to perfection, they feed my creative soul and inspire me. Hungry, I devour theatre like a starving refugee. I can't seem to get enough of it. But my focus now is on how the story of the play or musical is being told. I am putting myself through an intentional tutorial on dramatic story telling. For so many years I've functioned as a director. Analyzing plays backwards and forwards. Striving for clarity. Moment to moment interpretation of the playwright's intent. I am now thinking like a playwright. But all the years of directing and analyzing plays is working in me as I attempt to write my own. It feels like the most natural thing in the world. I stand on fertile ground. There is a choice. The season for picking has come. No, I say, my pen, like sword warding off a dangerous dragon. No. I will not wither.