Tuesday, April 28, 2015

The Cars of My Youth

Grandpa Lou drove a red pickup truck with the words "Vinicoff Electric Company" on the side. I think I rode in it only once, when he picked me up at a friend's house after he had an accident at work.

Grandma Mil drove an ancient black Volvo, like an overgrown Beetle. It had a small, rectangular window in the curved back. I was told she drove it so slowly that its transmission had grown accustomed to shifting into third gear at an absurdly low speed.

Family friend Nancy drove a little Karmann Ghia - I don't remember its color - that she described at a sheep in wolf's clothing - a sports car with no guts.

Dad's first car was a 1956 Ford Thunderbird convertible. It was white, with a white removable hardtop and a black ragtop. There were little porthole windows in the hardtop, and I think it was a two-seater. I faintly recall an occasion in which we somehow crammed three adults and two children into those two seats. Dad liked to drive with the top down. Often, I was so cold that I'd curl up on the floor in front of the passenger seat.

After my brother and I came to live with him, Dad bought a green Ford Mustang, which at least had a back seat. I liked its shape and the round logo on its rear end.

My brother inherited the T-bird after Dad died. It had an electrically adjustable seat, and so much horsepower that my mother worried about me driving it. But there was no need for worry. With the seat up and forward as far as it could go, and my leg and foot stretched out as far as they could go, that car wasn't going more than 30 mph. My legs were too short for speed.

Friday, April 17, 2015

Ladder Poems

In my last writing class with Janell, we read a fairly gloomy poem by Adrienne Rich and were asked to spend some time writing something based on it. I wrote the following:

Adrienne's Ladder

Adrienne wrote of a succession of movements, each one making the next one possible. I reach for a ladder of such movements when mired in the paralysis of depression. I cast about for the lowest rung, for any movement at all that seems remotely possible from where I hunker in darkness, afraid even to look up, afraid to draw the attention of a malevolent universe to my timorous, vile self.

Then, at a time that comes to me as a gift, the thought, willingness, and energy to put my foot on that ladder all coincide as the first rung glides into view, offering enough challenge to get me moving but not a discouraging amount.

And I take that step, breaking the locks on my joints and my mood, climbing that little bit up from the depths towards the light, the next movement, and the movement beyond that, feeling better, stronger, more worthy with each step.

But then, I pause too long, and the next step drifts out of sight. The upward momentum cannot be sustained. My energy ebbs, and I slide back down the ladder, acquiring splinters and blisters, until the next time.

______________

Then, oddly enough, one of Janell's next prompts was a line about carrying a ladder. So I approached the same topic from a different angle:

Happy Ladder


We all need ladders to extend our reach,

to step on to touch the top shelf

or the sky.

Our legs and arms take us only so far;

we need help to go further

go deeper

go into a different realm

where fish swim through the air

and words array themselves on the page

and old thoughts are clothed in new words

and old words take on new meanings.

Ladders lift us up

take us over obstacles

up a fire escape

into a treehouse

through the looking-glass.

Each rung supports our weight

and lays a foundation for new realms

each step a higher realm

thrilling with more beauty and insight

taking us up and up and up.