Las Cien Velas: 100 Candles

My file cabinet at home, an ugly metal 4-drawer unit, contains much recycle-worthy paper and shreddable, outdated documents. Slowly, I've been making my way through the green hanging folders, into the depths of carefully labeled manila folders, down into the stapled bank statements, course syllabi, and graduate essays. The other night I unearthed some musty papers that made the Scientist sneeze when I began sorting through them. It's good to read, remember, and let go.

I discovered some papers worth saving, like the journal of writing from my first graduate school course (Women Writers and Feminist Theory), affirming letters of recommendation from professors, and peer feedback on some short stories that just may become publishable someday when I have time to edit them. Compositions written for Spanish 302, however, are destined for the recycle bin....after I translate them back into English first, giving them new life as blog posts. Here is the first, Las Cien Velas, written in my simple Spanish in 1997, translated today back into English:

Las Cien Velas: One Hundred Candles

In January 1996 I was in Denver, Colorado for a grand party. The invitation called it the Celebration of a Century--my paternal grandmother's one hundredth birthday celebration. Her nieces and nephews invited the whole family--cousins, grandchildren, great grandchildren, aunts and uncles--and all her friends to celebrate the event.

My grandmother, Rose, was a short, formidable woman who had earned enormous respect from many in her family and community. Though strong and independent, she needed help from her family members because she had never learned to drive a car. All her life, other people had driven her to the store, to the homes of her sons, and to her friends' apartments so she could play cards. When she had no one to take her places, Rose stayed home and cooked. She loved to make desserts for her family and friends. On the night of her party, however, she was not permitted to do anything but be the center of attention.

We arrived for the dinner at a grand hotel, Loews Giorgio, on Saturday night. There were many guests whom I did not know, but Rose knew them all. When we entered, we saw her talking with several children. She told stories and shared memories. We greeted her and then found our seats at a round table on the other side of the ballroom. 

Grandma Rose was seated at the center table with my father, her only remaining living son, and with her favorite nephews and their wives. Of all the people in the room, she was the most radiant. She wore an aquamarine dress and was adorned with the articles of jewelry she always wore: diamond earrings and a gold necklace with a small gold charm. She wore only a little makeup to bring color to her lips and cheeks.

After we finished eating dinner, the waiters brought out the birthday cake which was colorfully decorated with 100 tall thin candles. Rose's eyes sparkled in the candlelight. She closed her eyes, made a wish, and then blew out all the candles (with a little help). Afterwards, her oldest nephew, himself 85 years old, stood up to present her with a gift. But first he asked,

"Which would you rather have, Rosie, a kiss from your favorite nephew, or a check for five hundred dollars?"

She did not hesitate, but held our her hand and responded:

"Give me the money."

Even at 100 years old, she still retained her sense of humor and made us all laugh!

Ten months after that trip, I returned to Denver another time, but not for a party. This time, the family gathered for Rose's funeral. There were fewer people at the funeral than had attended her birthday party. She left the world with little fanfare, having already given away most of her possessions and said her goodbyes.

[There is, of course, much more to the Grandma Rose story than I could communicate in my baby-Spanish. Before I forget any more Spanish, I will try to translate the other essays for future blog posts. Little stories are worth remembering and sharing. I hope you enjoy them. ]

...and I am that someone

I haven’t written a blog-post (or “blogged”) for a long time, but that doesn't mean I haven’t been thinking about it. Every few days, a blog-worthy idea occurs to me, but I am either out walking or hiking, or reading a book, or watching a movie, or talking with the Scientist, and the last thing I want to do is come in from the porch swing or the foothills trail to record my random thoughts. I’m not very good at maintaining a “social media” presence, particularly when it involves firing up the computer. I work at my computer almost all of my 9-hour work days—excepting the occasional meeting, class, or assignment in the mechanical assembly lab—so I rarely head for the laptop when I am at home. I created the blog last year while I was unemployed and searching for a creative outlet for my writing, but since that time I have found full-time work and have been exploring other venues for my craft. Still, I have things to say....

I recently finished reading a book that was recommended to me by someone at work. By Chip and Dean Heath, it’s called Switch, and is subtitled “How to change things when change is hard.” The premise is surprisingly simple: “For anything to change, someone has to start acting differently.” The book is full of practical ideas backed up by theory and science, but that one simple sentence stands out, for me, as the provocative central argument for personal action, particularly when I add the phrase, “and I am that someone.”

Too often, when I observe a situation that presents as a problem, my brain goes into overdrive, devising solutions that dictate how other people could do things differently. But when I read the Heath’s simple statement, I realized that I am the one who can and must act differently for anything within my realm of influence to change, and if what I want changed is not within reach, then I need either to stop worrying about it, or get a ladder!

The changes I’ve made recently have been primarily personal. For example, despite my aversion to the public gym space, I decided to add a weekly 30-minute gym workout to my exercise regimen (which consists of yoga and walking), and I haven’t missed a week in 4 months. A series of small decisions and actions have made the switch possible. First, I had to decide to meet with a trainer to learn a 30-minute workout routine. Then I had to pack a gym bag and leave it in the car. Then I had to put a calendar/reminder item in Outlook so that I am reminded each week not to schedule anything else on Mondays after work. Then I had to be sure to pack the right kind of lunch and snack so that I have enough energy to go to the gym after working all day. Thirty minutes may not sound like much, but it’s a big deal for me—someone much more comfortable in a yoga or dance studio than among weight machines—and I am reaping the physical and mental health benefits of acting differently.

The Heath brothers also talk about corporate, societal, and systemic changes—not just personal ones—and provide some amazing examples. At every level, however, the same idea holds: someone has to do something differently or nothing will change. 

Meditation for a Friday....

I awoke this morning thinking about meditation. What it is, what it means to practice it, what it means to do it, and how someone who thinks he or she “should” meditate would begin.

Begin now. This morning.

What is meditation? What does it mean to you? How do you practice it?

For me, it is the practice of clearing my mind, slowing my breath, and paying attention to ….. what exactly? To the breath? To thoughts that appear, vie for my attention, and must be let go (of).  5 minutes? Is that enough? 10 min.? An hour.....

I was envisioning a little booklet about meditation for the un- what? Uninitiated? Does meditation require initiation? Or Meditation for the Uninformed. Does meditation require information? Or for the novice? Does that sound too religious? For the…. Person who desires to learn to meditate. But I am not a teacher of meditation…so writing such a piece would not help anyone.

These were my first thoughts. Now I need to stop writing and meditate. 

My Red Book

Today I attended a "Red Book" workshop led by Nina Ross to learn about Jung's concept and to begin to create a "red book" of my own. Jung recorded his dreams, in word and image. He encouraged his patients to "Put it all down, as beautifully as you can."

During the class, I recorded this recurring dream that had first appeared when I was a child.

Not long after falling asleep, safely tucked in with the faint memory of a goodnight kiss, I drift away from this cozy place. My body becomes light, floating above my house, with my neighborhood becoming increasingly distant. The street lights shine blow, like stars in the night sky. Above me, around me, the sky is midnight blue, with a gauzy haze. I am aware of flying, drifting far from home, but I am not afraid. Curious and happy, I float to the coast, watching the phosphorescent foam crash to the shore with each breaking wave. The ocean breeze carries me out to sea where I am buoyed by the salt air and soft marine layer. Wide awake now, more awake than I have ever been, I travel through the night air over a hilly place. Barely able to discern the contours of the soft earth, I hover, lower now, until I descend to the tops of trees, their shiny leaves catching the moonlight and fluttering in the breeze. My white nightgown keeps me warm and cool as I fall through mist, layers of time, and earthy night-blooming scents until I am reunited with my sleeping body, my resting breathing self. I slip back behind closed eyes, lids fluttering. Lips smiling. 

Perhaps some day I will have the skill to paint the dream in Chagall's blue.

Lunacy

On my last visit to Seal Beach, California, I walked down Main Street and onto the pier not long after the full moon appeared. Of course the moon rises in the east, but because the California coast is not a straight north-south line, the west-coast ocean became a mirror for the moon's bright light. I wrote this poem when I returned to my little room at the home of a childhood friend.

Large Moon Over Seal Beach

Couples on the pier
strolling, stopping
searching for stars
in each other's eyes.

Tired fishermen
carrying empty buckets
back to the parking lot
poles resting on slack shoulders.

Moon-struck lovers
embracing
oblivious to passers by
cocooned in the sound of the surf.

Lunatic street preacher
wearing a heavy chain
shouting the gospel
reeling in no one.

Children laughing
licking sweet ice cream
beneath the summer night.

Picking up the Pieces

For some, the title of this post may evoke images of something broken, something gone awry, like Humpty Dumpty's cracked and splattered remains that could not be put together again. For me, however, the pieces have always been a source of both challenge and pleasure--and picking them up means that I can rearrange them to create something new. Perhaps that's why I have long been drawn to mosaics and collages, embroidery and poetry--all created from pieces of tile, paper, thread, and words that I can reassemble into humble little works of art. (And making collages means I can use my scissors!)

So, too, my life continues to emerge from the pieces (some fragments and shards, some well-spun threads) into a coherence I could not have predicted, even a few months ago. Here are some of the pieces:

• a new job that employs my skills in writing, editing, teaching....and encourages entrepreneurial endeavors
• workplace projects that engage my "two brains" and satisfy my intellectual curiosity
• a wonderful yoga class once a week, right after work, 5 min. from my office
• every other Friday off to enjoy long weekends with the retired Scientist (and to compose this blog)
• an opportunity to bring poetry into the workplace (stay tuned for that one!)
• continued contact with the Albuquerque poetry community
• a friend who took over my rented office when I no longer needed the space

My years, like my collages, are not puzzles fit together in a predetermined pattern, but the result of piecing together colors, lines, words, images--pulling forth meaning from the disparate elements, letting them speak for themselves in whatever form emerges. Picking up the pieces, and putting them together again.

What would grow?

If My Heart Were Planted....

My heart is like a flower bulb
Dormant, dry, but bold
Waiting to be planted
When the air turns cold.
 
Before the ground has frozen
Beneath winter’s ice and snow
Soil will envelope me
As I’m buried in a row.
 
All winter I will lie
Forgotten but alive—
Warm and safe and growing
In darkness, deep inside.
 
My roots absorb the nutrients
While wrapped in earth’s cocoon,
Feeding on the energy
Inside the Mother’s womb.
 
For months my soul seeks solitude
In quiet meditation
Until I break the soil
With green determination.
 
Tall blades precede my stem
Sensing spring light above
Then this burst of yellow jonquil--
Blooms power, hope, and love.

Her Chimayo Jacket

Her Chimayo Jacket

Thou shalt not covet thy boyfriend’s

mother’s jacket. Oh, but I did.

It hung on cedar in the guest room closet.

I was the guest that Santa Fe summer.

The red wool sleeve said, “touch me.” The

silver buttons boasted, “we’re older than you.”

For some reason, it is okay to covet my mother-in-law’s jacket.

After all, she has already parted with her most prized possession.

She helps me into the styled blanket, smoothing the shoulders.

The heavy Chimayo wool wonders if I can bear its weight.

Two square pockets hide promises and memories.

The red collar turns up tongue-like, whispering secrets.

Her jacket comes home with me, returning along the lines

of its design—Route 66, Albuquerque, Pinon, Flagstaff.

Years later, from the doorway of dementia, she mourns its loss.

My former father-in-law asks, apologetically, for the jacket back.

The familiar red sleeve says, “touch me”; the shiny buttons affirm, “we remember you.”

She wraps herself in the 1940s, once again on that road trip from Kansas to New Mexico.

The Chimayo jacket, returned by her son, now lives in my closet.

Its red and black, gray and white symmetry still speaks to me.

Full Circle in a New Outfit

Almost nine months ago, I said good-bye to my coworkers and voluntarily left the world of proprietary (i.e. for-profit) education, a world I had inhabited for only 15 months before deciding not to pursue full-fledged citizenship on planet ATI. Never before had I opted to resign from a job without having a next step, but the threats to my psyche from remaining in that environment were far worse than facing the daunting possibility of finding gainful employment during a recession.

I decided then to allow myself some time to recover, to reflect, and as my aunt says, to reinvent. Instead of immediately applying for jobs, I tried on other possibilities: Entrepreneur, Consultant, Editor, Writer, Lazy Bones, Long Distance Walker, Blogger, Poet.... It was like the sabbatical year that we lived in student family housing at Fuller Seminary, and I discovered that the large laundry room nearest to our apartment doubled as a "clothing exchange." If something had shrunk in the dryer and didn't fit anymore, just leave it on the table for someone who is slightly smaller. Or if your kids outgrew their school clothes halfway through the year, display them on the table and some other poor-grad-student mother (from Nigeria or England, Arizona or India) will snatch them up for her children. It was the same way with men's and women's clothes--tired of that thrift-store shirt? It will be gone by noon. Check back next week, ladies, and you'll find a dress, just your size, to replace the one you've recently decided is the wrong color, or pattern, or style. My wardrobe underwent substantial change that year, at no cost! What fun to try things on, wear them once or twice, and then trade them in for a better fit (or a daring experiment, like a red knit mini-skirt).

After publishing a book, walking 60 miles, making multiple trips to California to visit family, and concluding that the yoga-business-idea did not fit, I determined that January 2013 would be a good time to start looking for bona fide employment, in earnest. Armed with an updated LinkedIn profile and subscriptions to several good job-search sites, I once again entered "the job market," an arena I'd done battle in a few times.

In brief, here's how it has played out:

• January 15: Apply for Senior Technical Writer/Editor job.
• February 13: Panel Interview
• March 6: HR/pre-employment briefing, but nothing official yet.
• March 22: Official offer and approval for hire.
• April 3: Drug test and medical screening
• April 15: Day One!

(Meanwhile, I also applied in earnest for 2 other positions, and had 2 in-person interviews, and 2 nice-to-meet-you-but-you're-not-a-fit phone calls. I have also given 3 poetry readings/book-signings, tutored for the Albuquerque GED organization, taken a sestina-writing class, traveled to CA and LA*, and done some freelance editing.... the Lazy Bones outfit didn't fit, either.)

In a weird way, this brings me full circle to the same place my father worked in the 1950s when he and my mother were first married...the place that launched his career and enabled him to support a young family.

And so today I am grateful, for the time and space between the last job and this one, for the life the Scientist and I have made together, and for a new adventure. Happy April.

*Note to those west-coasters who think that LA means only Los Angeles, thereby making my statement redundant, review your USPS state abbreviations (or look for New Orleans on a map).

Love Note: A Sestina

Love Note

It’s impossible

not to stop

mid-breath

when you notice

the three deer

in your yard.

Your back yard

offers possible

shelter. The deer

stop

awhile to notice

with alert breath

then settle, breathing

into the quiet yard.

You notice

a fourth, possibly,

a fifth, shadowed, stopping

in this place for deer.

They appear, these deer

listening, sniffing, breathing

bodies stopping

in the yard

to rest, possibly

or to take note.

Like a love note

these magical deer

make life possible.

Breathe,

measure out yards

of love without stopping.

Why stop

to note

this yard

full of deer

whose breath

seems impossible?

The small yard welcomes those who stop

here in possibility, noticing

the deer alive in love’s breath.

© Andrea M. Penner

Scroll down for more blog posts and poems....

Staying Safe in New Orleans

I spent last week visiting my son in New Orleans. We had a great time together--good conversations in many venues, from the First Cup Cafe to the Boulangerie Restaurant, from Jimmy John's Subs to Buffa's Bar. Every time I visit NOLA (this was my 5th, since Katrina/The Flood of 2005), I am impressed by the creativity, the vibrancy, and the pluckiness of the residents. I love the food, the music, the art; the array of eateries and "drinkeries" (my new word for bars and cafes), used bookstores, vintage clothing shops; the charter schools, non-profit organizations, and community gathering spaces.

On Monday, March 4, however, the under-side of New Orleans rose to the surface at the edge of the Broadmoor neighborhood where my son works. Avram stepped outside into the back courtyard to take a phone call; at 2:22 p.m., he heard several gunshots fired, very close by (Google Maps indicates less than a tenth of a mile away). He came inside, told us all, and said he expected to hear the sirens any moment.

Fairly soon we pieced together the barest outline of events with a brief online police report and eyewitness testimony from Will Bradshaw, president of Green Coast Enterprises, who had been on the scene moments after the shooting that left a young man dead on the sidewalk. (Longer, more recent police report here.)

Less than an hour later, my son and his colleagues (who work for a community development corporation) received this email from Will, their landlord and a partner in their development work in Broadmoor. I was so impressed by Will's immediate, empathic, and practical response, that I asked him if I could share his message with y'all. Permission granted:

As you all know at this point, yesterday just after 2 pm, 21-year old Kendall Williams was shot and killed in front of Kajun Express Seafood. We are deeply saddened by this event, all too similar to too many other events that take place throughout our city with shocking and numbing regularity. But this is not regular, and it has to stop.

Already, we have been in touch directly with Councilmember [LaToya] Cantrell and the Mayor's senior staff to aggressively address issues of crime and safety at our corner. 
Working with other area business owners, we have formed the South Broad Business Coalition, and we continue to address safety as a top priority within this group. We encourage you to participate in the next SBBC meeting, the third Thursday of this month at 730 am in the Rhodes pavilion.

But most of all, we thank you for the commitment we have all made to change through our work and with our presence here at Washington and Broad. Every day, through our individual and collective work, we are forging a new path for our city and its people. That is what inspired us to invest here, and it is the thing that gives us hope in the face of self-inflicted tragedy. We will come back tomorrow and fight for better schools, better buildings, better neighborhoods, a better justice system, better lunches for our kids, better healthcare, and so much more. That hope is the light that propels us forward in the darkest of times. Thank you for bearing your piece of that light.

I am currently working on a poem about the murder. I did not know Kendall Williams, but I do know he was a son and a brother, and his untimely death is the source of much grief and sadness for his family, and his community. I also know that led by Will Bradshaw of Green Coast, NOLA City Councilwoman LaToya Cantrell, Broadmoor Development Corporation Executive Director, Santiago Burgos, and Broadmoor Improvement Association President Kelli Wright, the area near Washington and Broad will change for the better, and soon.
Stay Safe.

Two Brains

Last summer, the Scientist’s daughter and granddaughter (Miss S., age 5) were visiting from California. I was in charge of entertaining Miss S. one afternoon at the house. We climbed backyard boulders, searched for “crystals” (flecks of decomposed granite), and collected acorns and other bits of “food” for her innumerable toy figures. I even found a small scrap of plywood that looked like a nice slice of layer-cake, quite suitable for a mountain lion tea party. At one point, we came inside the house where Miss S. discovered a 10" piece of driftwood with a hole in it, just the size for one of her little stuffed animal friends. “Can you make a car out of this, please?” came the request (and expectation).

The smooth ocean-worn souvenir did have certain automobile-like qualities—a long body, a place to sit, and attractive curves. It was my job to add the standard features. I began by locating round items for wheels, starting with lids from water bottles or gallon milk jugs. But I couldn’t figure out how to attach them, to each other or to the car. Then I found four cork bottle stoppers with black, hard plastic tops. I got out my sewing box and found two large needles, for axles. Inserting the end of each needle into a cork stopper, I created a set of front wheels, and a set of back wheels. The next challenge was how to connect the wheels with some sort of drive shaft and then secure the whole apparatus to the driftwood car body. Somehow I managed to contrive such a setup with a long pencil and several rubber bands (and possibly a good bit of tape). I was quite pleased with myself until Miss S. said, “but there’s no steering wheel.” She was right. I knew we didn't have any pipe cleaners (the fuzzy bendable wire-of-choice when I was a little girl), so I resorted to grocery-store twist-ties, bending them into a round wheel-shape with a connected shaft that I then jammed into a crack in the driftwood near the driver’s seat. “What about lights?” said Miss S. I rummaged through my sewing box and came up with some plastic beads, two red ones for the tail lights and two clear ones for the head lights (I didn’t bother with yellow parking lights, back-up lights, or high beams). We glued the beads to the top of the wood, front and back. After the glue had dried, Miss S. supplied plenty of engine and battery power, so off the car went with Mr. Mouse in the driver’s seat.

When her mother and grandfather returned from their outing, Miss S. ran to them to show them her new toy. “Look what Andi made,” she said excitedly. “She’s so smart, she must have two brains!”

Miss S.’s comment came to mind recently as I have felt the push and pull of those “two brains.” I have been simultaneously engaged in many activities associated with my poetry (writing new pieces, giving poetry readings, attending literary & art events) and employing my “other” brain in an intensive career building process: researching opportunities, networking, submitting applications, and interviewing for several positions. I’m looking forward to applying both brains to my next challenge.

Compassion & Choices

The New Mexico Compassion & Choices chapter has asked for stories from those who have watched a parent or other loved one endure an end of life situation in which physician aid in dying would have been desirable. What follows is my "Amicus Brief" explaining why I support "physician aid in dying." 

My mother died in 2007 at age 75 of Multiple Systems Atrophy (MSA), a neurodegenerative disease from which she had suffered for almost 10 years. MSA initially presents with Parkinsonian symptoms, but quickly differentiates itself by the patient’s rapid deterioration and non-responsiveness to dopamine treatment. Eventually, my mom could not move voluntarily, with the exception of blinking her eyes and moving her index finger. She could still speak, but only with tremendous effort. Swallowing was extremely difficult; earlier, she had made it clear she did not want a feeding tube, but somehow, near the end, after she could no longer voice her wishes, she was fitted with a feeding tube.

With the exception of a few hospital stays and respite care, my mother lived at home with her husband. They hired a young woman who devoted herself to helping my mother be comfortable at home. Toward the end of my mother’s life, this young woman moved into the home so she could be there to assist my mother 24/7.

Traveling from New Mexico, I regularly visited my mother in Las Vegas, NV during those years. At first, I would take my mother (and her walker, then wheelchair) to the mall, doctors' appointments, and restaurants; we would enjoy our conversations. Later, she became house-bound, and was ultimately admitted to hospice care in 2002. Her vital organs and her mind were properly functioning, but her brain was no longer transmitting dopamine, and her body became rigid. Her head was permanently angled to the left and down, her neck twisted unnaturally and uncomfortably.

One day, when I was alone with my mom in her bedroom, she cleared her throat to speak. I leaned in closely. She said quite clearly, “If I were a dog, you would have put me down already.” She was right. Had she been the beloved family pet instead of its human matriarch, we would have wrapped her in a blanket, put her lovingly in the car, and taken her to the vet for a humane exit. Yet that option was available neither to us nor to her doctors. She lingered in pain and dismay for another several years.

The last time I saw my mother, months before she died, I had the opportunity once again to be alone with her, by her bedside. I held her hand while she alternately slept and stared (she no longer had a normal facial affect). Then suddenly she made eye contact with me, squeezed my hand, and began to speak. She attempted some words that I couldn’t understand. I was imagining some sort of profound “last words,” though we had long ago said our “I love you’s.” I put my ear to her lips and heard her say, “Wipe…my…nose.” I looked at her face; sure enough, her left nostril was draining clear liquid onto her lip. I grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and wiped her nose. Those were her last words to me.

I was not with her when she died. She turned blue in the back seat of the car on the way to the hospital. I don’t recall the exact circumstances—why her husband and not an ambulance was transporting her—but I am grateful that she died before anyone had the opportunity to intervene and prolong her end-of-life agony.

I wished then, and continue to wish now, that her doctors had been able to aid her in dying well. As it was, they could treat only her symptoms, and, like the rest of us, watch her suffer. 

Just write a word a day

I have been thinking a lot about my mother and her mother lately. My mother died in 2007, but her mother will celebrate her 107th birthday next week. I visited my Grandmother (in my Tangerine Scream rental car) last month. She was witty, perceptive, and funny.

In 2001, when my mom was 70 and my grandmother was 95, my mother was already quite ill, and could no longer write the long, beautiful letters that her mother was accustomed to receiving. I wrote the following entry in my journal that December (and came across it again yesterday) based on a story my mother had shared with me, by phone:

My Grandma Hannah wanted my mom to write her a letter. Mom said, 'but, Mom, I can hardly write anymore.' Grandma said, 'can't you just write a word a day, and when you get enough words on the page you can send it to me?' My mom rose to the challenge and wrote out the Serenity Prayer for Hannah.

I've been revisiting my journals and memories lately, specifically in reference to my mother, as the Scientist has begun to research compassion and choices, a group dedicated to end-of-life care and choices for those enduring terminal illness. I have shared my story, in the form of an Amicus Brief, with compassion and choices New Mexico to explain why I support physician aid in dying. The brief can be found on this blog: http://pennerink.blogspot.com/2013/02/compassion-choices.html

Reimagining College Writing

Proud mom can't resist letting you know about Erin's just-published article. "Mapping Student Literacies: Reimagining College Writing Instruction within the Literary Landscape," Mapping Student Literacies by EAP

Tangerine Scream

Recently I traveled to California to visit relatives, courtesy of a Southwest Airlines 35% off deal that included a similar price break on a Budget rental car. When I arrived at the Budget counter to retrieve my car, I had a brief, polite exchange with the sales associate.

     He asked if I wanted to use the credit card on file. I said, "Yes."
     He noted that I had selected an economy car and asked if I'd like to upgrade for just a few dollars more. I said, "No, thank you."
     He recommended that I purchase a GPS unit for the car, but I declined and asked for a map with directions for the rental car return. (It took him a good 3 or 4 minutes to locate the item.)
     He then suggested that I purchase the optional insurance coverage to protect myself from damage claims. I said, "No, thanks. I'm insured."
     Finally, he politely offered me the convenience of having Budget fill the tank with gas upon my return, for a small surcharge. I said, "No. I'll buy my own gas, thank you."

With that, he hurriedly directed me through a set of "screens" on which I was to press "I Agree" at the bottom of each one, and then sign my name in order to complete my rental agreement. He handed me the paperwork with a quick "here you go." As I walked away from the counter, I realized I did not have the keys, and had no idea where the car was located. I turned back to ask. He answered, "Keys are in the car, and the car is in the space marked on the folder." Ah, okay. C-57.

Exiting the building, I saw rows and rows of A spaces and B spaces, and 4 lines of just-returned rental cars, but no C spaces. I asked one of the lot attendants where "C" cars were located. "Around the back," she said, "just follow the sidewalk." My car in space C-57 was in one of the last spaces in the last row behind the building. It was a Ford of some kind, in the ugliest color I have ever seen. Real California lemons--the kind that grow on trees--are beautiful. This yellow-orange car was not. Was it mustard yellow? School-bus orange? Or maybe yield-sign gold? I drove my bright yellow-orange (orange-yellow?) car all around Southern California. One of my father's neighbors commented, "That is some bright car you've got!" During my 5-day stay, I saw thousands of cars on dozens of freeways and roadways, but never saw a single other car the color of mine.

Arriving back at the Budget lot two hours before my flight, the attendant grinned at me as I rolled down the window. He used his scanner to check-in the vehicle, and then leaned in the window and said to me: "Besides the COLOR of the car, how did you like your vehicle?"

Oh, how we laughed. I regaled him with my ticket-counter story, concluding that I was absolutely certain that  the sales associate had deliberately down-graded my car with every "no" I supplied until he determined that the "Tangerine Scream Metallic Tri-Coat" (see Ford's web site) was what I deserved! The attendant would not comment, but his smile confirmed my suspicions.

"Forbidden Fruit Jam" Apron

Albuquerque artist, Shari Adkisson, has launched her second annual Womyn's Work Apron Project in honor of International Women's Month (March). Shari made an apron to illustrate my "Forbidden Fruit Jam."

Shari Adkisson's artistic apron vision of Andi's poem, "Forbidden Fruit Jam"

The poem itself concludes by book, When East Was North. Very cool to see it off the page and into art space. Here it is, for you, dear reader, off the apron and onto the blog:

Forbidden Fruit Jam

Sunday’s sermon title

on the Baptist Church sign

sternly warns:

forbidden fruits

make many jams.

As I drive past,

my thoughts ripen

toward luscious, lickable loganberry lips,

and sweet, dark cherry syrup

finger-spread across your

            tongue.

Our table is laden with fresh figs and dates,

     lychee and kumquat.

Golden grape clusters spill over platters

     of persimmon, quince, orange, and lime.

In the steamy kitchen

you peel soft skin

from round ripe peaches

while I pare the zest of citrus rinds

until our hands

preserve the scent of pleasure.

Exotic fruit flesh bubbles

     into thick aromas.

You kiss the marmalade sweat

     from my neck and brow—

Oh, don’t stop now—

Keep stirring our wild raspberry-rhubarb passion

until the perfect full rolling boil

draws me in sticky sheets

and we can keep

the lid

on this jar

no longer.

Unintentionally evoking

the tangy spice

of our illicit mango love,

that preacher will never know

the delicious truth

of his marquee’s message.

Andrea M. Penner, When East Was North, Mercury Heartlink, 2013

In Praise of Scissors: A Meditation on their Utility

Scissors photo courtesy of Clip-Art

I have been thinking about scissors, lately, and how much I like them. My current favorite pair was made by ELK, Italy. It is stamped HOT DROPPED FORGED STEEL on the upper part of the larger blade just above the pin that connects the halves (I never noticed until now that the blades are not of equal shape or size). The handles are painted shiny black. The larger blade also has the larger handle—the one that fits my third and fourth fingers through a comfortable oblong opening. The other handle is rounder with a nicely beveled space for my thumb. You might think I selected this pair of scissors for just these qualities, and perhaps even paid a tidy sum for it. You’d be wrong.

These Italian scissors came to me by way of my Grandma Rose, after her death. By the time Rose died at age 100 yrs. & 9 months, she had very few possessions left. After about age 90, she had begun giving away her belongings in earnest anticipation of her death, preferring to bestow the gifts on selected recipients, rather than have someone else distribute her things after she died. But the decade saw her in good health. At her 100^th birthday, she was presented with a check, from her nephews, so she’d have some more money to give away.  I was not named in her will (a long story for another time), but I did have the opportunity to sort through some of the items from her apartment that ended up with my cousins, her primary caregivers. From the amassed assortment, I selected: a dented red & gold Zvetouchny Tea tin, 2 small hand-painted china plates, a framed Bunko embroidered picture of irises (that my father had made for her), several old black & white photographs, and a small pair of very sharp scissors that fit my hand perfectly.

My first pair of scissors was probably a child-sized stainless-steel specimen, its blades with rounded edges to protect uncoordinated kid-fingers. I don’t have any memory, fond or otherwise, of this tool. I do, however, remember a number of other household scissors from my childhood years—each with its own purpose, its own place, and its own set of rules. (I suspect that my own children will recognize a similar scissorly pattern.)

First, in the kitchen was an implement that looked like a regular pair of scissors, but it had some heft and curves, and was a lighter silver color, perhaps some sort of aluminum alloy. I associate this pair of kitchen scissors with chicken fat. My mother would purchase, from the butcher, a large stewing chicken for making soup. Before the bird could be plopped into the pot, however, it had to be skinned. The chicken/kitchen scissors was up to the task. It could slice through the thick layer of puckered skin, cut the skin away from the muscular meat, and free the yellowy chunky fat from skin, meat, and bone. The bald, muscular bird was then ready for its fate. In the process, human hands and forearms, and scissor blades, all became covered in slippery chicken fat and had to be washed thoroughly in hot soapy water. The kitchen scissors never left its appointed room; it may have cut other types of fat or meat, but was not used for non-food purposes.

The second category of household scissors lived at the other end of the house, in my mother’s sewing box. These were the sewing scissors, and there were 2 kinds. The long straight-blade scissors with orange plastic handles were the generic “sewing scissors” for all non-paper projects, whether real sewing or just crafts. With these scissors we were allowed to cut thread, embroidery floss, yarn, fabric, felt, and scraps of textile materials such as ribbons or lace. With these scissors, I could create patches for my jeans, trim crewel projects, cut stray threads from clothes I was ironing, or make clothes for my dolls—but under no circumstances were these sharp blades to be dulled by contact with paper of any kind. The other pair of scissors in the sewing box was the pinking shears. These heavy-duty scissors had thick saw-toothed blades with which they created zig-zagged edges. Why does one need zig-zagged cloth edges? I have no idea! But what fun to cut material into strips trimmed with little diamond points.

For serious paper cutting, there were the desk-drawer scissors. These were heavy enough and sharp enough for cutting multiple sheets of paper at once, or thin cardboard, one piece a time. With these, we children could make our brown-paper-bag book covers, science-project posters, math or language flash cards, and the endless array of creative projects that we proudly presented to our parents. Want to make a jelly and jam serving dish? Just cut an egg carton into thirds, giving you 3 four-section dishes that you can cover with aluminum foil. Then create a center handle out of wire, and fill the 4 foil-covered cups with different kinds of jam. Want to make some birthday cards? Get some construction paper and some cardboard and start cutting! Time to wrap presents? Cut the wrapping paper straight and true, and curl the ribbon by dragging it across a scissors blade.

I do not remember which scissors we used to cut roses or gardenias to bring in from the yard, nor do I recall whether our parents had scissors for cutting hair (I, however, do have a pair of hair scissors--not to be confused with cuticle scissors, in my bathroom drawer). And I suspect that my father had various types of shears or scissors in his garage shop, each with a specific purpose and special place.

Having grown up in a multi-scissors household, I credit the later successful and timely completion of my master’s thesis and my doctoral dissertation to a good pair of scissors. Cutting and pasting is not the exclusive purview of word processing software. Throughout graduate school, I would write, type, print, and photocopy ideas onto paper—then I would cut paper into strips, lines, chunks of ideas, and quotations. I’d trim the margins and the unnecessary words with scissors blades as often as with a click and drag motion, and rearrange the chunks into coherent paragraphs.

Scissors are utilitarian. They are not weapons (unless you’re Angie Dickenson in Dial M for Murder); they have specific uses, and it’s probably a good idea not to curl ribbon or cut paperdolls with the chicken shears. For me, one definition of wealth is the possession of multiple pairs of scissors kept within reach in the desk and the nightstand, the kitchen and the garage. I am a wealthy woman. I have scissors, and I know how to use them.

(Another new post, below....Keep scrolling.)

Deer in the 'Hood

I startled a young couple just now. They were hanging out on our front steps, in the shadows of the scrub oak and juniper trees, camouflaged even against the bright snow. I was putting on my gloves, heading out for a walk, when suddenly they jumped up, bolted in opposite directions, and stood their respective ground leaving me between them in mid-stride. The buck was a young 2- or 4-point creature (depending on how you count—two prongs on each antler, making 4 points total); his doe-friend also looked like an adolescent, not quite two years old, perhaps.

I said hello and apologized for disturbing them, then made my way, slowly crunching snow underfoot while trying not to make any sudden movements. I gave the buck a minute to cross my path and reunite with his doe, then I made my way down the gravel driveway.

Deer in the back yard, Feb. 2012. Photo by Andi.

We often see deer in our yard—singly, in pairs, and sometimes whole family groupings. Recently we witnessed a challenge and fight between 2 large (8-point) bucks who faced off between the large granite boulders at the edge of our back patio. We have also seen a young buck courting a young doe, while another younger doe climbed up on one of the boulders, apparently to get a closer look at the ritual. When the light is just right, we catch the deer eyeing themselves, sometimes quite warily, sometimes nonchalantly, as they see their reflections in our sliding glass door, unaware of our presence on the other side of the pane.

The most amazing recent siting, however, was not in our yard, but a few streets away. The Scientist and I were out for a long circuit of the neighborhood to stretch our legs after too many hours spent indoors and at the computer. We turned the corner onto a narrow connector road, neither breaking our stride nor our conversation, when suddenly the Scientist grabbed my arm and said in a loud whisper, “Look!” We both stopped in the middle of the road. There to the left, among the cactus, tall grass, scrub oak, and juniper was a doe…no, two…no, three. Wait, there’s another doe, and another…. When our eyes finally adjusted to the scene, we counted ten doe—all of them standing quite still, some with their rumps to us, some facing us, none moving with the exception of some slow chewing. We continued walking, in silence and awe, catching a glimpse of number eleven, a buck, a little higher up the incline. What a harem he has!

Queen of the Car Club

Viejitos Car Club boasts cars like this one.

Today I attended the grave site service for a former colleague and a beautiful person, Sylvia. She and I were the same vintage -- she was just 7 months older than I. Today, hundreds of people--many of them members of various Albuquerque car clubs, like the Viejitos--mourned her passing, attending the rosary/mass, or the cemetery service, or both. And they celebrated her life with shiny cars, pans of red and green chile enchiladas, plates piled high with tortillas and tamales, and music, conversation, and hugs. I knew only a few of the other guests--we had worked together for a short time at ATI where Sylvia's reputation for genuine warmth and caring was universally acknowledged among staff, faculty, and students, alike. I am honored to have known her.

After I left the reception, I attended a local New Mexico State Poetry Society chapter meeting at which we were given a prompt to write in a style called Rhyme Royal. Because Sylvia was very much still on my mind, my "rhyme" wrote itself in her honor:

Queen of the Car Club

The cars drove up the hill in single file.
In each at least one mourner, maybe two--
all were dressed in black, a few in style
adorned with pink for Syliva, her hue.
The vintage Chevys and Buicks paid homage due
to her for whom they all had prayed with tears
as cancer took her smiles, her life, her years.

 [I'll likely write more stanzas about the day, but wanted to share this before the rose fades.]

Poetry Matters

The Han Shan Poetry Project:  McLellan Park Forest East

In December 2012, poets from Oregon, California, Colorado, Florida, New Mexico, Australia, the UK, Canada, and Turkey responded to a call from Langley, BC poet Susan McCaslin to submit poems celebrating trees in an effort to protect a unique forest just outside the heritage community of Fort Langley, British Columbia. I happened to have seen an email from McCaslin forwarded via a Santa Fe Poets distribution list, and responded by sending in my only "tree" poem, "Cottonwoods for Cornelia."*

That poem, along with all the others McCaslin received are now suspended (with string--no nails) from the forest trees in the hope that the voices of poets will be considered when Langley council decides the fate of the forest. The installation was inspired by Han Shan, a Chinese hermit poet from the Tang Dynasty era over 1,000 years ago, who wrote poems on trees and rocks, living respectfully with nature.

McCaslin says, "These poems express how poets respond to the creative outpouring of nature that encompasses and sustains us. It's about putting human language beside the larger language of nature and the planet. They have been offered specifially for the protection of this remarkable, biologically diverse forest."

The forest she refers to is known locally as McLellan Forest East, a publicly owned area slated to be sold off to partially fund a community center if a group of residents cannot come up with the $3M needed to buy the land. Click here to view "Together We Stand" YouTube video by area art students about the project...you'll see the forest and the poems, as well as statements made to the council. Great poem at end.

Update
NEW on March 1, 2013: http://commonground.ca/2013/03/art-activism/

As of January 9, 2013, McCaslin reports: "The Han Shan Poetry Initiative has been a huge success, garnering covering in local...and national newspapers...and [television] news....

I have received over 250 poems which are now suspended from the trees.  Folks come from far and wide to stroll through the forest and read them.  Because of the need to move on to other phases of the campaign, I had to draw a halt to my call for poems, as I couldn’t keep up with the flow.

"The overwhelming response to this project from poets proves to me once and for all that poetry matters and that the arts and activism can be seamlessly conjoined. It is a beautiful thing to witness and be part of."

If you want to learn more about McCaslin, the Han Shan project, and the fate of the forest, please go to her web site: http://www.susanmccaslin.ca

Photos of tree installation courtesy of Erin Perry, Erin Perry @ erinperry@telus.net

*"Cottonwoods for Cornelia" is one of the poems in my book When East Was North. See link on blog home page.

Eleventh Day

January 5, 2013

The Scientist and I just finished un-decorating the house.

About a week before Christmas, I had dragged in the purple and blue plastic tub marked “Christmas Decorations – Do Not Crush” and carefully unpacked its contents. Over the years, my collection of holiday decorations grew from a few inherited handmade items to enough ornaments and lights for a large tree, and an array of home décor both classy and kitchy to adorn every room (even a set of Christmas night lights for the bathrooms). Each year something new would get added to the mix – Piglet holding a candy cane, a tatted white star, construction paper chains and cranberry-popcorn strings, origami Santas, hand-painted wood and clay shapes, table wreaths, cranberry-scented candles, a stained-glass poinsettia, crocheted red, white, and green stockings—and the single Christmas box become two boxes, then three or four. But after the children were grown and I was on my own, I stopped accumulating Christmas paraphernalia, and began to give it away.

A few years ago, when preparing to sell my house and move back to Albuquerque, I discovered Freecycle (a Yahoo group). I purged my home of all things unnecessary, and found great delight in giving away just the thing someone else needed & wanted. At some point, I think I had already given my kids their childhood ornaments (like the one from 1984 that said “Baby’s First Christmas”), so the holiday items that remained had long since lost the shine of sentimentality. I put aside just a few things I wanted to save, like a string of small white twinkly lights, some handmade origami and wood ornaments, a few old Santa figurines, and a roughly made crèche scene. Those went into the labeled plastic bin; the rest went into a huge box. I advertised on Freecycle, and within minutes I had an email from a woman who said that her daughter and son-in-law had recently lost most of their belongings in a flooded storage unit while preparing for a move (or some such story—I don’t recall exactly) and she would love to help them start over with a box of Christmas goodies. I put the box on the porch and watched from the kitchen window as she picked it up – all smiles and waves and a mouthed “Thank You.”

This year, about a week after Hanukkah ended, I put on a CD of Christmas Concertos, unpacked the box, found places for the ornaments, bows, tins, and Santas, strung the lights, and searched my recipe box for the annual favorites, like Cranberry-Pecan Pie. I baked, cooked, listened to music, and corresponded with friends. And, perhaps because of the dark time for the families in Newtown, CT, I lit many candles.

Now the house is back to normal – no sign of the holidays (except the pot 1/4-full of posole in the refrigerator). But a certain warmth remains, and I smile as I think of the way our December traditions bring us light and joy and peace. May we carry those with us into the new year. Happy 2013.