Published by Jean Sat Oct 7, 2006

The summer after fifth grade, we moved from our house in Uniontown, Ohio to the farm in Portage County. It was shortly after that move that my mom found the church she wanted us to attend... St. Michael's Byzantine Catholic Church.
In Akron, twenty-five miles from the farm. No more than ten miles from Uniontown. Oh, well. Long drives to get where you needed/wanted to be were not uncommon for our family.

Mom was born in Czechoslovakia, when it was still known as Austria-Hungary.
In her eyes, the Roman Catholics just didn't do it right.
St. Michael's was the church where the four of us kids (the youngest having not yet been born) finally took our first communions. On the same day. After having completed catechism and learning to "go to confession".

St. Michael's had, among seemingly hundreds of other social events and celebrations, an annual church picnic. The church owned property at the edge of another town not far away. This piece of land was a hill, at the top of which was the church cemetery. At the bottom of the hill, in the back, was the pavilion for the picnics. The pavilion was a huge, roofed-over concrete slab with benches along the outer edges. I remember large trees surrounding the entire piece of property, so the pavilion was nicely shaded.

The first picnic we attended there, I remember sitting beside my dad on one of the benches, listening to a local polka band and watching people dance. Dad loved music, but his sense of rhythm... or more appropriately, his lack of... kept him off the dance floor most of the time. So, I kept him company while people whirled, twirled, glided and bounced past us.
Mom was one of the dancers.

I could see Dad following Mom with his eyes, watching her graceful movements as she and her dancing partner... an older woman from the church... circled 'round and 'round the dance floor. I could tell that he would have liked to have been her partner in the dance. His gaze never left her face.

After she passed us several times, smiling at us while she danced, I heard Dad let out a long sigh. I turned to look at him, and heard him say so very quietly, "Isn't she beautiful?"
That was the first time I saw love and passion reflected in a person's face.
In that moment, he saw only her. The love of his life.

Not long after that time, their marriage started to fall apart.
But they never divorced, and he took care of her as she was dying from cancer.
I like to think that he never stopped thinking she was beautiful.

Published by Jean Dec. 1, 2009

I should be ashamed
having read so little
of so few poets
and nothing at all
of so many more.
they've spent their lives
writing words just for
the likes of me
and I barely know
but a few.
I should be ashamed
to do what I do like
I'm the only one
who has ever done it
when it's mostly been done
already and better and oftener before.
I should be ashamed
and burn my notebooks and
break my pencils and read
what's already been written and
what's being written now.
But I am reading what's being
written now this minute by me
and some others here and
there when I can and
when I want.
I should be ashamed
of thinking about quitting.
someone somewhere might
someday read what
I wrote yesterday or today
and think about writing
what they have to say
in their own way
and another link gets
added to the chain and
another chapter is added
to the story.
I should be ashamed
for doing so little.
But I'm not.

(after reading some Lawrence Ferlinghetti)

Originally published December 22, 2006

Winter. Late afternoon.
The beach is empty. The air is grey-blue.
The ocean is grey-silver, scattered with foamy white waves.

At the high-tide mark is a long wooden, railed walkway leading to
an old gazebo perched on top of the highest dune.
Inside the gazebo is a picnic table with benches.

Under the table is a pair of small deck shoes.
Between the shoes is an empty styrofoam coffee cup.

The most interesting thing is on the table. An open book.
The pages on the left are flapping lightly with the breeze.
The pages on the right are clipped together by a pen.
They struggle to move with the wind..

On that first page on the right is a single handwritten line.
In the most delicate and precise penmanship. It says...


"I am going home."

from Jean

I'd rather take the
quiet lane than highway speed.
To explore, detour.

+++++

Life's travels vary.
They take you far and away
yet can bring you back.

First published Sunday, March 01, 2009

Witholding words and, thus, myself.
No trust enough to tell all to anyone.
No one anywhere who can coddle and absorb and still
remain the same, loving, after knowing all that is.

Indeed, myself as most do, parse words carefully, even
in our own hearts.

Some words are painted glossy to look better than they are.
Some are weighted so as to never surface, certainly not
in daylight for others, and often not either known in our
own nights.

Sometimes tripping over the shadows (there are always
shadows since nothing true disappears completely), the
bolt of pain in the stubbed toe flashing a memory of self
back to surface. A moment only long enough to frantically
push it back into the basement and slam the door closed again.
Looking behind self, fearful that someone might have noticed,
might have recognized an unadmitted truth.
Then walked away. Ashamed for knowing.

But, no. No one else.
I keep myself alone enough to pick and choose, pick and choose
carefully, what words will be dressed for dinner.
Offered on a gilt-edge platter. Will be only my best at any table shared.
Why do we fluster so about how to know others while we fail
to know ourselves?

Words not spoken may reveal more truth than those brandished
in the open.

Not at all what you would think.
If you saw.
If you knew.