Marriage Quartet – on the Occasion of Our 38th Anniversary

38th

MARRIAGE QUARTET

SOMETHING OLD

Look behind the chair – the yellow one.
Or check under the Wall Street Journal on the coffee table,
or look on the ledge above the kitchen sink.

If only you would leave it on your finger,
Twirling and spinning it, tossing it into the air
or worse, clunking it on the floor.

You’d think after 38 years
you wouldn’t fuss with that ring.

I barely notice mine,
but yours is alive, dancing on and off your finger.

SOMETHING NEW

I. First Anniversary

Gino’s deep dish pizzeria, heart of Chicago’s Rush Street.
Double cheese, double sausage, extra sauce. No garlic.
Jukebox sweet sings Seals and Croft’s Summer Breeze
Later, a six-pack of Old Style for you and tequila for me,
Oak Street beach, the surf of Lake Michigan, background music.

“Be careful crossing Lake Shore Drive.”

II. The Fourteenth

Macaroni and cheese from that blue cardboard box
Single carrot sticks, whines of protest, ranch dressing.
Dripping candles, globs of wax on chocolate cupcakes,
burnt and lop-sided, smeared thick with frosting.
Raffi thumping out This Little Light of Mine.

“You kids stop kicking each other this minute and I mean it.”

III. The Thirty-First

White Riesling from organic growers in California
Eight grain bread warm, drizzled with Porcini Olive Oil and Parmesan
Smoked salmon and fresh dill, Asian pears.
George Winston playing Sweet Soul on the keys.
Something new – the house quiet, the children in college and beyond.

“Let’s call it an early evening.”

IV. The Thirty Eighth

Steak and pineapples on the grill.
A twilight walk around Sticker’s Pond, the rain passed through.
You study remodeling plans for your wish list kitchen;
I process photographs from my adventure in Escalante.
If you think after 38 years, we know the secrets of a long, happy marriage,
you’d be both wrong and right.

“Full moon tonight. Wish upon a moon?”

 

SOMETHING BORROWED

Ma said I was borrowing trouble

when I married poor –
“can’t buy bread with love”

and married young –
“not old enough to keep your nose clean”

when I married the wrong guy –
“what will the neighbors say?”

got married by the wrong preacher –
“what will God in heaven say?”

I went on ahead, paid her no mind, said my “I do’s” proud,
and the money I saved by borrowing trouble
— and not buying it outright –
paid for my dress and the band and his white dancing shoes.

 

SOMETHING BLUE

Our first Christmas we spent the last money on rent and
kerosene for the space heater, and took the last dollars
from the envelope marked Savings.

Skipped lunch the day before Christmas Eve, and
rode the el into the Loop, squeezed through the Marshall Fields shopping frenzy,
searched, fumbling and fretting,
finally chose a tiny comb in tortoiseshell,
so you might groom your mustache –
a fad that year, mustache combs.

You, the number cruncher,
fashioned a love sonnet in awkward meter,
rolled the cheap typing paper like precious parchment,
and tied it with ribbon from Woolworth’s.

The comb’s now jumbled in your jewelry box
with antique silver cuff-links
and your grandfather’s gold watch fob.

I keep that worn sheet of fresh promise
with birth certificates and old mortgage papers
tied with a faded deep blue ribbon,
now the color of a desert sky.

————-

I wrote this poem quite a few years ago, and updated it for today in honor of our 38th wedding Anniversary – a testament to the strength of commitment and love, in good times and in bad, in flow and in transition. Honoring our anniversary, Sherpa.

Note: Please let it be known that this is memoir poetry, and as such, it is not 100% accurate. (Pretty close though!)

A Walk with Grace – While Struggling with Patience

A Walk around Strickers Pond

A Walk through the Woods © Bo Mackison

I am in wait mode, struggling with patience.

I walk through a wooded area heading towards Strickers Pond,
cross a street, a prairie grass restoration spreads before me,
the glacial pond is just beyond.

A Walk around Strickers Pond

Strickers Pond © 2014 Bo Mackison

I imagine walking with Grace around this pond.
I love the sound of that, the double meaning.
For I have an application in for a rescue dog,
a sweet four-year-old labrador/pointer mix.
Her name is Grace.

A Walk around Strickers Pond

Prairie Grasses © 2014 Bo Mackison

The process is excruciatingly long, understandable enough,
the rescue group wants to find the perfect home for Grace.
She was rescued from a Missouri shelter on what would have been her last day alive,
and transferred to a foster home in Wisconsin with only hours to spare.
(“She loved the car ride, by the way!)

But she’s been there since November,
and she needs a home of her own and I need a companion.

A Walk around Strickers Pond

Stickers Pond and American Lotus © 2104 Bo Mackison

We met, Grace and I, at her foster mom’s place.
Such a sweet girl, and still waiting for a home because, though she is a large breed dog,
she is small for her size, just forty pounds.
I find that a simply perfect quality. I find her quite perfect, too.

The questions in my head start.
Am I good enough? Will she be happy with me?
Will she like the desert as much as I do? Will she love to travel and hike and camp?
Am I good enough?

A Walk around Strickers Pond

Purple Martin Colony © 2014 Bo Mackison

She has the sweetest eyes, her look says I want to please.
Her foster mom gives her glowing reports. She sits and shakes hands, and looks at me.
Bright eyed, tail in perpetual wag.

I struggle with patience — on so many issues —
and I’m impatient with the wait for Grace as the adoption process slugs along.
Application, in and acknowleged. Now the papers are sent to “the board”
the vet is called, three references checked, and last, a home visit.
Another test of patience.

A Walk around Strickers Pond

Purple Martin and Colony © 2014 Bo Mackison

I’ve been searching for a companion dog since January,
and now that Grace and I have found each other,
I want her to be in a place she can call her own.
I’m seeking that same place – my place to call home.

A Walk around Strickers Pond

The Resting Place © 2014 Bo Mackison

Settling in is always a struggle after I have been in Arizona.
I know this. I expect it. I plan for it.
And still, I do the transition with many requests for the gift of grace.
For acceptance of what is, acceptance of what isn’t,
and the courage to embrace each day just as it is, just as I am.

Fits and starts, and ups and downs,
this practice of sitting with patience.
Of fitting in, of finding my place again.

I wait, and learn to wait with more ease as I practice.

All shall be well, I whisper. Yes, all shall be well.

An Interlude in Travel; Expounding on Spring in Wisconsin

Silver Drift Ornamental Crabapple

Silver Drift Crabapple © 2013 Bo Mackison

There are bugs, no-see-ums, in Wisconsin.
There are crab apple trees so heavy with white blossoms you know they are really
floral bouquets gently swaying on the earth, in Wisconsin.

There are skies dense with clouds, white, gray, pink, puffy, dense, beribboned, in Wisconsin.
The red maple stands tall, branches widespread, deep in greening leaves, sturdy, in Wisconsin.
There are tiny bugs that buzz about my ears, in Wisconsin.

The rain pounds the earth, sheets of water, and thunder snap crackles,
The rain barrel is overflowing, in Wisconsin.
Gnats swarm in my eyes, follow me in a haze of flight as I dodge and swat, in Wisconsin.

The yard is green, abundantly so, not cultivated,
we chuck the hang tags from the pesticide companies,
greens of clover, purple and white violets, and wildly growing,
rampant spreads of escape-artist mint.
I pick the mint sometimes, the runners squirm loose from the earth with a tug, in Wisconsin.

The paper birch is pregnant with leaves, they drag upon the grassy understory, hide the neighbor’s yard from view, in Wisconsin.
Its bark once pale and baby skin smooth those many years ago
when we dug a hole and set it in the black earth,
the bark’s now rough and deeply textured, full of character like its caretakers, in Wisconsin.

The moss creeps between the flagstone, a tiny community for ants and beetles,
littered with maple spinners and bits of dried purple scent
from the overhanging lilac, in Wisconsin.

Two ashes we planted a quarter century ago began as sticks,
each with a lesser god’s headdress of leaf, and now
they rise taller than our two-story home, in Wisconsin.

The hummingbird feeder has fresh nectar, but the sighting of a hummer
is a rare treat, in Wisconsin.

The perennial garden we planned, painstakingly mapping color and height,
bloom time and sequence, it weathered the harsh winter with fair results, in Wisconsin.
The pink spikes of the coral bells wave two feet above its fluff of purple leaves,
but nothing else is yet in bud. There are spaces now for three or four new sets of plants.
The ornamental grasses and lavender were lost to winter’s brutal cold, in Wisconsin.

I dawdled this year,
unwilling to leave Arizona for the greener spaces, of Wisconsin.

There was work to finish, meetings to attend, and the lure of the desert remained strong.
I watched the saguaros bloom. I lingered.

I wasn’t ready to depart, and then I was.

Fate had other plans. A disabled car 300 miles down the road
and an engine overhaul, delayed parts,
led to weeks of side adventures into red rock wilderness and the Grand Canyon.

When I return to get my car,
I’m told there is another week’s delay, it is the same day Slide Fire begins
scorching beloved Oak Canyon, and a pyrotechnic smoke show hovers over Flagstaff for days.

Fire, twenty miles distant, throws up orange walls of smoke to the south of town,
obliterates the San Francisco Peaks to the north. They stand, shrouded in gray.
And then a black looming cloud, reminiscent of sci-fi saucers, settles on this city of 70,000, and blots out the sun. We breathe through makeshift masks, in Arizona.

The blooms are late-coming this year as was I, to Wisconsin.
Respite from my travel, the lilacs and crab apples, the dogwoods and magnolias in flower.

The sandhill crane, squawking its rattly ka-roo-roo, flies over my home, in Wisconsin.

Musings About Energy of All Sorts

Power

“I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.” – Douglas Adams

Do you notice, do you get a feel for the swirling energy around you? Good? Bad? Neutral?

Do you seek spaces where the energy is good, and avoid places that feel out of synch?

While on this trip, I landed in a place that didn’t feel like a good match for me. The destination required last-minute planning, and the types of places I usually stay were booked. I stayed in a hotel that I normally would not have chosen. It was only for one night. Not a big deal.

And still, I felt out-of-place. I slept poorly. I didn’t feel grounded. Or perhaps it was the lack of positive energy, or too much free-floating, unattached energy.

Once I’d gotten settled in my room, I went looking for something to see or do, hoping to make a connection of some sort. I followed a partially hidden sign which directed me to “Road of Little Motels”. It sounded historic, interesting. But either I took a wrong turn, or the little motels now only exist in the memory of the townspeople.

I found nothing that resembled a quaint street of little motels. Instead I found winding roads and crowded city lots, yards with small houses surrounded by chain link fences and filled with large toys — pontoon boats, speedboats, ATVs, snowmobiles, super long RVs.

The next morning I looked for a main street breakfast spot, a mom and pop sort of place. Eventually I found a coffee shop on the edge of town.

When I spoke to the hostess, she said there were available tables, but the kitchen was behind and it would be a 30 minute wait for food. I was okay with that. I had a cup of coffee and my book.

But I was soon aware of the conversations at the surrounding tables.

I overheard angry, impatient conversations: “You people don’t know how to (fill in the blank)” or “You don’t have WIFI? I need to get my emails,” or “This food isn’t like the picture on the menu, there are bananas in the picture.”

There were eight tables with groups of diners near me. Not a single person was smiling. One couple was talking quietly, otherwise people stared vacantly or complained in loud voices.

I tried an experiment. I caught a person’s gaze, then nodded and smiled. Of the six people who made eye contact – most avoided me – only one returned my smile.

This is a resort sort of place. Maybe it is just too busy, too hurried and crowded for me. But none of these people look like they are enjoying themselves. They come to . . . relax? Have fun? Get away from their regular routine?

I watch the waiter. He is trying his hardest. He apologizes for a mistaken item – not crispy enough bacon – and says he will be happy to make things right. He keeps the coffee cups filled. He fields requests with kind words and action. He hustles back and forth from the kitchen.

I think to myself that people have lost the ability to slow down.

The waiter brings my last coffee refill and the check. Then he says, “Thanks so much for your patience. You’ve been great.”

I was surprised, actually. “No problem. You were really busy.”

“Yeah. One of the cooks, his brother died. Funeral’s today, so some of the kitchen guys took the morning off. Thanks, again.”

We never do know what’s going on in other people’s lives, do we?

Maybe the people who come for a vacation have more at stake than just relaxing or having a good time. Maybe the people with the yards full of expensive toys are searching for happiness, and have found nothing resembling it. And maybe the kitchen staff is behind on the breakfast orders for an unusual reason.

Be kind for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. ~ Plato

The waiter shrugs, then smiles. And the energy shifts.

Traveling Cross Country, Interrupted – Still Learning Lessons

photo(17)

Sedona View on High © 2014 Bo Mackison

I’ve been riding shot gun with tow truck drivers lately – one taciturn,
one surly, and one with more problems than I could keep track of.

So I’m not expecting much when the current tow truck driver
readies my car-in-need-of-serious-help for a tow from Sedona to Flagstaff.

He surprises me when he opens the door for me, and gives me
a steadying hand as I navigate the metal steps into the cab.

Sedona

We admire the Sedona scenery on our way out-of-town.

He says “tough luck” on hearing my recent history with car repairs, and means it,
and I respond with acceptance – no choice there – and comments about lemonade.
Then mentions the people he tows who do nothing but curse and complain.

“What the whole world needs now is kindness. Kindness is the key,” he says.

I nod. Angels come in all shapes and sizes, and occupations, I’m thinking.

View from A Tow Truck

After four hours of diagnostics, both the mechanic
and the service department manager shake their heads, and frown. Deeply.

The news about the car is not the kind one wants to hear 300 miles
into a 2000 mile trip across half the country.

“It’s a head gasket.”
They might as well tell me the car’s developed an allergy to road dust.

“Big job. Should be ready by next Monday at closing time,” says the service tech.
But today is Monday.
Oh…

“See, I gotta take the engine apart and then put it back together. Takes me five full days.”
Simple explanations. I get it.

Then the good news. “It’s covered by warranty. So is the loaner. Unlimited mileage”

I may not be an auto aficionado, but I can learn Basic Auto 101.

“You need my car for a week, but I get a replacement…and I can drive anywhere?”

“Yes.” He nods. Then frowns slowly. “But not all the way to Wisconsin…”

“Right. Not to Wisconsin…”

I can embrace crankiness
or I can do a quick re-frame and consider the possibilities.

The possibilities win out.

After I send out a request on Facebook, I immediately get a dozen recommendations
on places to visit in or near Flagstaff. A car breakdown becomes a magical gift.

OK. Confession time. I am a phone-phobic.
If I can talk someone else into making a phone call for me, I will. Except,
I am alone in this predicament.

Time to grow into this independence and self-sufficiency even more, Bo. Sigh!

I figure out a schedule, calculate distances,
then spend several hours tracking down available hotel rooms and rates.

The angels once more do their work,
and in a synchronous social media moment,
two friends independently suggest a meet up with the same person,
a photographer who just happens to be a park ranger up the road.
When consulted, she agrees to a meet up.

Lemonade. Perhaps she likes lemonade, too.

(To be continued…don’t want to ruin any surprises.)