Smug Has A Short Lifespan
Oh, I have been amazing lately in Zumba.
My hips almost sway; my shoulders almost don’t look tense; my breasts almost shimmy; my teeth almost unclench. I’m almost there.
So I strutted into class tonight full of almost self-confidence.
And there was someone in my spot. My spot. That place on the floor where I always stand. Another woman was in my spot.
My confidence fell just a bit. But hey, no big deal. I’m mature. I went and stood in a spot behind the little usurper. Somewhat to the left though, because I couldn’t be right behind her, or I wouldn’t be able to see myself in the mirror. I have to see myself. I have a cute outfit.
Only.
Only I wasn’t the only one wearing that cute outfit. This girl – the one standing in MY SPOT – was wearing the exact same thing. A black racerback tank and grey capri leggings. Well, okay. That’s pretty common workout wear. It’s perfectly fine for someone else to wear the same thing.
Only.
Only she wasn’t wearing it the same. Her racerback tank stuck way out in the front. She had boobs. Whereas I have teensy-weensy breasts. She had knockers.
But okay, big breasts aren’t everything. I have an athletic body. (sort of – that’s a nice synonym for flat-chested, right?) And that’s good for dancing.
Her grey leggings were a little different too. She had no hips. I have womanly hips. That’s great for zumba. It’s sexy. And – now that I am an experienced zumba-ist – they almost move.
I warmed up with a few squats. Some marching in place. She warmed up with pirouettes. Yes, she spun around on one foot. More than once. Both directions. I did a few more squats.
We start. I’ve been doing this now for close to two years. I know the steps. This poor child who is just starting out will probably be lost.
Only.
She danced. She had the steps. Like she invented them. And her boobs shimmied, and her non-hips undulated.
I saw the teacher look in our direction. I saw her mouth a word: “wow.”
But I was great too.
I mean, I didn’t throw up or anything.
As The Shoppers Rush Home With Their Treasures
Christmas Shopping Time!
It is probably no surprise to anyone that I am a very good shopper.
I recognized this talent while I was still very young. And I was reminded of it when an old friend from the neighborhood posted a memory on Facebook of a factory outlet store that I did not even remember until that moment. The Durable, it was called. And suddenly, I not only remembered it – I remembered what I bought there. The Durable was famous (to me) for paper dolls and great beach toys.
I do remember Christmas shopping as a little girl. One year I bought candlesticks for my mother with every penny I had. She still has those candlesticks in her living room. They are uniquely ugly. But that’s what happens when they are bought by your kid. You have to display them forever.
I have no kids. If I get an ugly gift I display it one year tops. No matter how much I love the giver. If I do not love the giver, it gets one month. Or I return it, telling the giver that it is so much exactly my taste, I already have one. (If I have ever said this to you — I meant it THAT time.)
Back to shopping.
I remember one Christmas when I had just finished college. I had a good job that paid very poorly, so I took a second job in a store at the mall. Because of my day job, I never got to my seasonal job early enough to shop, and I worked without even a bathroom break until close. I worked all day Christmas Eve, and then ran around the store using my discount, buying anything as fast as I could. Then I raced back to my one-room apartment and speed-wrapped – which is when you make big bulky corners and use lots and lots of tape. And no bows. And flew over to my parents’ house where my presents were unwrapped within the hour. Everyone liked what they got. As my brother used to say (years ago when he was carefree, i.e., single): “Money is no object when you shop on Christmas Eve.”
But that is NOT the way I like to shop. It was certainly okay to make folks happy because I spent a lot of money on them. But I’d rather spend the time – choosing something special. Something that tells the giftee that I really know them and what they like, and want to please them.
So my best Christmas shopping was done when I started early and went out multiple times. First I would go out and see what I could find for everyone. Then I’d look again. And perhaps once more, just to make sure I found the best possible gift. Then I’d go back and make my purchase – given it wasn’t gone by then.
By starting early, I don’t mean August though, like a few of my well-organized friends do. I found that if I shopped TOO early, and finished all my shopping, then certainly I would find something better before Christmas, and would buy that too. Add to that the fact that in December, I FEEL like Christmas shopping. My friends and family certainly don’t mind getting two (or three) gifts from me. I’m generous. But still.
Then of course there is the additional complication that if I buy in August, I can’t remember where I put it by December.
No, by ‘early’ I mean early in December. Maybe in November if I was feeling especially disciplined.
My very best shopping was done in my late thirties. I had 1) disposable income, and 2) no husband. Being single at Christmas time is not always very joyous. But there are advantages. I didn’t have someone buying me those special and pricey things that my husband buys me now – and he is a fantastic gift-giver by the way. At least as far as ‘money is no object’ goes. His taste is sometimes questionable (as he – even more than me – refuses to acknowledge that I am over 60) but he’s a big spender and believes in the virtue of quantity. But the upside of not having someone buying me all kinds of shit when I was in my thirties was that I felt perfectly justified in buying all kinds of shit for myself.
My method of shopping was “one for them, one for me, one for them, one for me, one for them, two for…” I got EVERYTHING I wanted for Christmas. It was all perfect – and just my size too!
I can’t do that anymore. For one thing, I can’t indulge myself when my husband is doing that for me.
And also, despite the fact that I am an excellent shopper, I am no longer an excellent driver. Oh I can stay in my lane. And sometimes I can back up. But how I hate to make a left-hand turn. Or park.
Thank God for the internet. I just finished ALL my shopping. Right from my lap. And I can even employ my technique of shopping multiple times to ensure I have the perfect gift. Yes, it is a real pleasure to perform what they call in my industry – “abandoning the cart.” I chose multiple gifts for everyone. I just didn’t BUY multiple gifts for everyone. Imaginary shopping is very entertaining. I encourage you to try it.
And guess what! It is also easy to throw a thing or two for yourself into the cart. Because you can forget it’s there when you are finally ready to hit ‘CHECKOUT.’ And it may be just the thing you need to put you over the minimum for free shipping.
Uh-oh. I guess I forgot to delete that from my cart.
DNA
It’s my mother’s birthday.
She’s 90.
I can hardly believe it. To me, she’s still my glamorous mom, and I’m her little girl, trying to follow in her footsteps.
When someone says, “Oh no, I’m becoming my mother!” – I laugh. But really there’s not much I would like better than to become my mother.
And I am well on my way.
The whole family took her out to dinner, and the first thing she said to me in the restaurant was, “Does my hair look okay?”
Yup, the acorn doesn’t fall too far from the tree.
And she told me a story recently that I had never heard before.
When she was sixteen she got her first job. She worked in a department store, in Accessories, selling purses and gloves, and such. Can you imagine needing a salesgirl for gloves? But remember, this was 1940. Ladies didn’t leave the house without gloves.
My mother was the child of Polish immigrants. They had very little money. They lived in a cold-water apartment with a toilet down the hall. My grandmother made all my mother’s clothes. My grandmother was talented at the sewing machine, but I am sure my mother craved stylish store-bought clothes. This was Mom’s opportunity to buy great clothes at a discount.
We have a lot in common. But of course when I worked in a clothing store, I had to quit. There were so many nice things, I owed them money at the end of the work week. I just couldn’t afford to work there.
So Mom was excited by and proud of her very first job. And a few weeks into it, the weather turned very cold. On a windy day with a driving freezing rain, her boss told my mother to stand by the door and sell umbrellas.
And she put on her coat (and her gloves) and went home.
Like mother, like daughter, I thought.
But that reminded me: My mother was a daughter too.
I asked, “Was your mother furious that you quit your job?”
“No,” My mother said. “She wan’t mad! She just laughed!”
YES! My DNA goes WAY BACK!
I’m so proud.
Happy Birthday, Mom!
Fragrant
I don’t really have a bucket list. Although I have written about NOT having one.
But of course, there are things that have been floating around in my brain that I know I’d like to do someday. And also of course, I’d like to do them before I die, since I think it would be hard to do some of them after I die. Although perhaps getting my novel published might be easier when I’m dead.
I’d like to see the Grand Canyon. My husband has been there. He knows I’d like to go too because I might have mentioned it a few (hundred) times. He has no objections to going again. But he’d like to drive out there. From Connecticut. In a camper. A camper is NOT on my list of things I’d like to experience. Maybe he could drive out and meet me. I’ll be staying at a bed-and-breakfast.
And I’d like to see “Carmen” and “Madame Butterfly.” My husband accompanied me to the opera once – to see “Tosca.” And he liked it. If I remember correctly, he said, “I’m really glad I got to experience that. I don’t care to experience it again.” So any future opera excursions will have to be with a girlfriend. It’s for the best.
I’d like to meet a movie star. Not just “How do you do?” as I said to Helen Hayes back in the 70s. I’d like to sit down and have a conversation with someone super famous – the kind of person that everyone else just turns around and stares at. I don’t want it to be an idiot though, so it has to be someone SMART and famous. So that probably really limits my choices. I’m leaning towards Steve Martin for some reason. I think he would be fun to talk to. I wouldn’t object to Ralph Fiennes. I have no idea if he is smart but I’d make an exception in this case.
One other thing I’d like is to have a perfume designed just for me. It would suit me so perfectly that it would make people smile when they walked by me. And I’d feel serene all the time. You could make a left hand turn from the right hand lane directly in front of me and I wouldn’t even mind. I could read sentences with “your welcome” and “back in its’ own place” and “I win, you loose” and my head wouldn’t even explode.
A few evenings ago my husband and I were driving through town, and I was enjoying the Christmas decorations in all the yards. I don’t like big bouncy blow-up things – and they always seem to be half-deflated and vaguely reminiscent of used condoms. But I like lights, especially little white lights. I’m confused though by the proliferation of lighted deer. They are kind of pretty, but I’m not sure what they signify. I mentioned this to my husband, and he said he thought they were reindeer. Which makes more sense, but to me they look more like Bambi than Blitzen. And I remarked that it would seem more Christmas-y if they were camels.
And I started to think about camels. And I realized something.
“You know what I would really like?” I said to Hubby.
To go to the Grand Canyon?” he guessed.
“Yeah, that too. But I would really like to ride a camel.”
“Is this some long-standing desire you’ve had since you were a little girl?” he asked.
“No. It just popped into my head. But now I really want to do it. I want to ride a camel.”
“They spit,” he said.
“Not at me.”
I smell too good.
I No Longer Wish To Decide
All my adult life, I have been a decision-maker.
When I was a little girl, my hand was always raised in class. In fact, I was usually jumping out of my seat in my enthusiasm for answering a question. Any question: Where is Mexico? When was the French Revolution? What time is lunch? Having two older and very smart sisters – it was not always easy to get my voice heard. But I was a determined little shit.
Some folks think that kids become obnoxious know-it-alls when they get too much attention and praise for any tiny accomplishment. And that is certainly one way. When kids constantly hear how wonderful and amazing they are because they can eat and walk and poop, it’s no surprise when their tone-deaf little selves expect to be the next American Idol.
But I know that there’s another path to Obnoxious Know-it-All. The path of insecure but competitive little sister. That’s the path I took. You may think it’s a road less traveled, but believe me, a lot of bad bosses executive decision-makers have arrived via that route.
How I wanted to go first in a game. To win one once in a while. To watch the TV show I wanted. To pick out the Christmas tree. To have a teacher say “Wow – You got all the brains in the family.”
When I was sixteen my parents moved and I switched to the high school on the other side of town. No one knew my sisters. (Except for one teacher, who had taught my oldest brilliant sister. And often remarked that I was nothing like her. Oh well.) I was me. I was in no one’s shadow. But to my astonishment, my light didn’t pop out dazzlingly from under its bushel. It turned out that I still was an average skinny high school wallflower.
And college wallflower. Although during class discussions I still about jumped out of my chair waiving my hand – anxious to have the professor notice me. And then I went back to the dorm and studied some more.
But then… but then! I got a job! And I was good at it. Who knew that a debit and a credit would make sense to an artistic, sensitive little English-major hippie? And once in a while the boss said, “What do you think?” To ME! Well, ‘What I Think’ had been bustin’ to jump out and take over. I could tell people what to do and how to do it. And I sure did.
I’m not mean. I try very hard to respect people. I’m tactful (mostly). I forgive mistakes. I look for the best in people. My parents – (and my two big sisters as well) – were examples of genuine kindness that helped me more than all my education and hand-raising to be a decent boss.
But I DO like to be in charge. I DO like to decide what to do. I DO like my suggestions to become The Rule.
At work. And at home. I’m The Boss. I like power. I like having my way.
Or rather, I DID.
I don’t want it any more. I don’t want to be the boss. I don’t want any more responsibility. I no longer wish to decide.
Last week my twenty-year-old cat went into a serious decline. We could see that he was suffering. My husband said, “What do you think?” The very words I used to relish.
And I said, “I think it’s time to help the poor old guy into his next life.”
And I no longer wish to decide.
Merlin
I Take It All Back
Yes, I take it all back. Every complaint about living with my husband, that is.
Because I was just reminded of another roommate I had long, long time ago. My first college roommate.
Let’s call her Blanche. (I thought about calling her Repulsa, but let’s stick with Blanche.)
And what brought Blanche back to mind after all these years?
Well, a dear friend of mine told me today that he was having a small set-back in his recovery from hemorrhoid surgery.
And I simultaneously thought: “Yuck” and “What a pain in the ass” – and that just led me right to Blanche.
When I first arrived at UConn, I was so excited – a campus, a dorm, a roommate – how cool was that? (especially after a year of night classes, and then commuting to the local little branch of the university) I arrived a day early, and had dinner that night with the other early-birds in my dorm. When I mentioned to them that my roommate Blanche had not yet arrived, one of the girls gave me a look that was full of pity. Then she caught herself, and said that Blanche was her roommate the previous semester. She said that they didn’t especially get along, but that Blanche was a nice girl. Nice try.
But I was determined to find the best of Blanche. We would be great roomies!
And then I met her.
Blanche hated all the dorm food. It was so beneath her. She never ate such garbage at home. She told me this while munching on her favorite snack – PixyStix. Straws filled with flavored sugar. She ate them daily. By the dozen. While reading romance novels.
Now I have nothing against romance novels. But Blanche read romance novels while I studied. I was a serious student. I studied from 7 to 11 every night. Blanche read novels. At at eleven, when I turned off my light and went to bed, she took out her books to finally study. 11:00 PM to 1:00 AM. Slurping on the sugar straws.
When she wasn’t having her alternate snack.
I’ve never been that crazy about chewing gum. But I found that sometimes it helped keep me awake when I was reading my medieval history text. You may think that I am about to complain that Blanche snapped her gum. Nope. Blanche thought gum was a waste of money. “I don’t know why you would bother to buy gum,” she said. “When I feel like chewing on something, I just chew on a Kleenex.” (yes, you read that right.)
And she was messy. Those Pixystix were everywhere. (I’m not sure what happened to the chewed Kleenex – perhaps she swallowed it. Or stuck it to the bedpost for the next night.) We had so much sugar on the floor, I warned her that we would have roaches if she didn’t cut it out. And she admitted that her boyfriend would not sleep over because her bed was always full of crumbs. Did that make her feel humiliated? Apparently not.
Blanche came from a family that was once rich and successful. They made some terrible investments, and were now getting by through sponging off wealthy friends (and moving often). Blanche’s tuition was paid for by Blanche’s politically-connected godmother – who was the recipient of a tearful plea, with the school’s past-due notice attached.
So they had fallen on hard times. Who am I to judge? I tried to empathize. But it was just a teensy-bit ironic that Blanche was ashamed of her boyfriend’s mother. “She works in a factory,” Blanche complained. I politely suggested that perhaps it was admirable for a single mom to work so hard in a factory so that her son could go to college. There was no shame in parents who were moochers, no shame in a bed too gross for her boyfriend – no, there was shame because his mother punched a clock.
Have I grossed you out enough? Wait, there’s more.
Blanche’s bathroom habits were the talk of the dorm. No one wanted to be at the next sink while she pretended to brush her teeth. And she saw no reason to actually bring a bathrobe when she took a shower. So we saw way more of her than we wanted. But we didn’t really see that much of her in an actual toilet stall. Blanche told me, “Bowel movements are disgusting. That’s why I only go once a week.”
I did actually feel bad for Blanche one night. She had an important party to attend. She had a velvet dress in her trunk in the storage area of the basement, but when she went to retrieve it, she found that her trunk had been vandalized – and the contents scattered all over the floor. Her velvet dress was very dirty. By this time, I had practically drawn a line on the floor so she wouldn’t come anywhere near me or my things. But I couldn’t help sympathizing with her poor dress. “Do you want me to see if I can help you clean it up?” I asked. “Maybe we can steam it in the shower.” But she refused my help. “I already took care of it,” Blanche said. “I sucked on the worst of the stains until they came out.”
That’s when I asked for a new roommate for the next semester.
And that’s why living with an eccentric husband is really an easy delight.
And do you know what I disliked most about Blanche?
Her boyfriend was really cute!
A Helping Hand
Ah, Husbands.
Their contributions to blogging are never-ending.
Just yesterday, I wrote so sincerely about the sweet decency of the man. (“My Husband Secures His Spot In Heaven”) Yes, he is heaven-bound. He is a saint.
An annoying saint.
Yesterday, I also said I would be back to laughing at his eccentricities today. And I figured that I would pull up one of my old posts – and there were so many to choose from. (“Let Me Hint Louder” “Cutting The Cheese” “I Solve Life’s Neurological Mystery” – I can go on and on.)
But I don’t have to re-blog an old post.
He’s even quicker than I thought he would be.
Because last night I made a very nice anniversary dinner – well, okay, I warmed up very nice Thanksgiving leftovers. I had turkey and stuffing in gravy, and some butternut squash and cornbread pudding. And he loved it. He was very appreciative.
Now he doesn’t exactly say, “Can I help with the dishes?” No – he always phrases it, “You don’t need me to dry anything, do you?”
And I said, “No, I’m okay – I just have the skillet, and everything else can go in the dishwasher.” But then I turned around and saw that I had the big heavy casserole dish from the squash. It wouldn’t fit on the drainboard, with the skillet there. So I hollered (in a very sweet way) to Hubby in the den, “I can use your help after all – to dry the casserole dish.”
“No problem,” he said.
And he ran to the kitchen (well, he almost ran), and he grabbed a clean dishtowel and took care of that heavy slippery dish for me.
Happy Anniversary.
My Husband Secures His Spot In Heaven
Today is my wedding anniversary.
Twenty-two years ago – (to the disbelief of my family who had given up all hope) – and to my own surprise as well – I walked down the aisle of a pretty church and married a sweet crazy person. And I am still surprised (and happy and thankful and even relieved) today that we got married and that it has worked out this well.
I have a multitude of posts that poke fun at my husband’s eccentricities. I tell myself that it is never mean-spirited – it’s just a loving sort of teasing.
And it is extremely therapeutic.
(For me.)
I’ll post one of my funny-husband posts tomorrow. But for today, here’s a poem I wrote several years ago in honor of my husband’s decency.
**
My Husband Secures His Spot In Heaven
I am greedy for warmth.
Born in February, born cold.
Cold hands cold feet
Cold heart, according to an old flame
I thought I had loved well.
Tom makes heat.
It seeps into my side of the bed
Comfort to my bones.
I am the moon poaching the light from his sun.
The phone rings.
Jeff’s wife, two doors down.
He’s fallen again
In the transfer from wheelchair to bed.
Tom dresses in the dark.
It’s a quiet street. In the summer he has gone over in his underwear.
But tonight it’s freezing.
He puts on the clothes he has dropped by the rocker
Not so long before.
They might still be warm.
He carries his shoes as if I were asleep.
As if he believes the pretense.
Tom is squeamish.
More than most. Just words make him swoon
Should someone say surgery
Or syringe or
Sclerosis.
Jeff has bedsores and diapers.
Tom can’t look.
He picks Jeff up, carries him to bed
Tries not to look.
Thanks, says Jeff, also not looking.
No sweat, says Tom, although he is.
The sheets are fickle.
It takes only minutes to forget him.
They grow cold.
I hear Tom’s steps on the porch.
I hear the water running.
He washes. He coughs. He washes more.
He gets back in his side of the bed.
He shivers.
Born cold
I have no warmth to spare for him.
Poor bastard, he says.
I agree.
No Thanks
This Thanksgiving, I am not only thankful for all the wonderful things I have – I’m thankful for all the things I don’t want.
I have always been the type of girl who wants everything she sees.
I consider this an asset.
If I like everything, then it means I am really easy to please, right? Just think of how easy it is to buy me a gift, when I like a pretty notebook just as much as diamond earrings. (Okay, that may not be the best example.)
Of course, as easy as it is to buy me a present, it is dangerous for me to go shopping for myself. It is all so beautiful, I want it all. In every color.
When I got my first professional job, I also took a part-time job in a clothing store, so that I could buy some nice new clothes for my “real” job. Not only did I love all the stuff I normally love – I’d help a customer and she’d try on something I wouldn’t have considered – and I would see how cute that was too. And so I bought all my own taste in clothes and everybody else’s as well. The day I quit, I told my manager I just couldn’t afford to work there anymore.
And now that you can shop without ever leaving your house, well…now I want stuff that I have never even seen. And I can love stuff from all over the world. My desire is endless.
Almost.
Because now that I am sort of mature…I have actually found a few things that I don’t want.
BOTOX.
I am as interested in staying young as the next person – (okay, quite a bit more than the next person). But my idea of young is not exactly the History Room at Madam Tussaud’s Wax Museum. Nicole Kidman is a very beautiful woman, but I think she might be just as beautiful if her forehead …um… moved.
PERMANENT MAKEUP.
Otherwise known as tattoos. I love makeup. I wear it every single day. But I don’t want my eyeliner inked in permanently. For God’s sake, Styles CHANGE. How silly would I look now if I had my Twiggy lashes tattooed under my eyes in 1968? Yes, I have to put on my makeup every single day. But you have to be pretty lazy to think it’s too much trouble to draw a little line on your eyelids in the morning.
A STAR NAMED AFTER ME.
I can’t tell one star from another – even the famous ones. But you can now buy one of the insignificant stars and have it named after you or a loved one. I may be naive – but even I don’t exactly believe that those star-registry websites sell you a star, and don’t sell the same star to a boatload rocketshipload of other fools who wouldn’t know the difference.
– Yes, see that star over there – that little dot next to all the other little dots – well that one is named Nancy.
– Ja, siehe diesen Stern dort – die kleine Punkt neben all den anderen kleinen Punkte – gut, das mann mit dem Namen Heidi.
– Si, ver esa estrella alla – que pequeno punto al lado de todos los otros pequenos puntos – asi que uno se llama Consuelo.
PET CLOTHING.
I love all my little kitties. And if I had a dog, I would love my doggie too. I don’t have a dog only because I came to my senses just before I walked out of the Agway with Bob, the no-tail little rescue mongrel that was blackmailing me with those big sad eyes. But as much as I baby all my cats, I don’t dress them up. They don’t have Halloween costumes or Santa suits. Shit, they don’t even have store-bought toys. I tend to wad up a piece of paper and say, “Here’s a ball!”
DISHWASHER MAGNETS.
I have a friend who has a magnet on her dishwasher. It has a little arrow that points to “Clean” or “Dirty.” I admit that my husband calls me at work to ask “Are the dishes in the dishwasher clean?” So yes, those phone calls might be prevented. Instead he would call to ask “Is the arrow pointing to ‘Clean’ right?”
A TWESUME.
Yes, the wave of the future is tweeting your resume. I had a hard enough time getting my resume to two pages. Future resumes (and hiring decisions) will be based on 140 characters. Good thing I am close to retirement age.
Life-Changing
(I promise I will be silly again in a few days, but I’m somber today.)
One night over dinner, about thirty years ago, my father was feeling philosophical. He started talking about events that happen in your life that change you. Not just for a while, or in some superficial way – but change who you are.
He told me about how his sister’s husband had died suddenly of a heart attack – which I remembered had happened when I was about nine. That would have made my father still in his thirties. He said he was the one who had to tell my uncle’s mother that her son was dead. He said it was the most difficult thing he had ever done, and that it changed him forever.
I asked him what he thought were the three most life-changing events in his life.
Dad thought about it for a minute and said, “World War II, marrying your mother, and having you kids.”
Not a bad answer.
Interesting though that here was a man who fought in a war when he was just a kid, and earned two purple hearts, and I’m sure saw some horrific things – but telling an old woman her son was dead was harder.
And Dad asked me what my three most significant events were.
Now I was only in my early thirties – still not married, still struggling to find a career. I hadn’t really experienced that much of life.
But I didn’t have to consider it for long. I knew what events had changed me.
“The Vietnam War, The Beatles, and Kennedy’s Assassination.”
My father scoffed a bit at my mention of The Beatles.
But I defended my choices.
Those events – including the phenomenon that was The Beatles – transformed the way I looked at the world. The Beatles changed our culture – they made it possible young people to question the status quo. And I did. Vietnam made me question what adults were telling me. I understood for the first time that important people can be wrong. People with power lie.
And the first change of all was Kennedy’s assassination. I adored Kennedy. His death was the most shocking event I had ever experienced. And I experienced it in my home. His death was personal. Evil was in my living room. I saw Oswald murdered. I was twelve.
It has been fifty years. Those days in November are as clear to me as when I was that little girl – stunned and bewildered in front of the TV. The person that I am – the one who always needs to know WHY – was formed on November 22, 1963.
I wrote a poem recently for my other blog, With Resistance. And today, it seems appropriate to share it with you.
**
KENNEDY WHEN I WAS TWELVE
The old Sylvania
Had three channels
Though one was ghosted
It didn’t matter those few cold days
They were the same
Stricken citizens
Anguished newsmen
Speaking softly over repeated images
I stood more than sat
Before the grainy pictures
My hands to my mouth
When the accused was murdered
In my own living room
I decided it didn’t happen
Threw out the papers
Burned the scrapbook
On Main Street that summer
I stopped before the record store
Where in the window
The President’s photo
Framed in black
Gathered dust
This is too long I thought
For my dream
And so he died for me
In June
And not November
notquiteold 