Walking along a trail the other evening, we saw this plaque, attached to a boulder adjacent to a picturesque brook. The phrase “Trickling down from the Old Ham Farm” played over and over in my mind, sparking thoughts not only about the brook, but also about the Ham family line and about the intertwined history of brook and family.

Trickling Down

Everett and Vivian’s
old homestead remains,
populated with their progeny,
a landmark imprinted
in the county’s
geographic lexicon.
“Turn right just past the Old Ham Farm,”
the locals might say.

Ham’s Brook
still trickles down
from the farm on the hill,
swirls into the Sabbatus River
and ripples in the rapids,
rushing over and around
slabs of granite ledge
and waterfalling
over moss-strewn boulders.

Through the years
the farmhouse children,
Lucy and Rufus,
Harriet and Stephen,
followed the brook
from hilltop to river valley,
stirring the carpet of leaves,
slipping on moss,
dipping toes into icy brook water,
foraging for frog eggs,
and flipping over rocks and logs
to locate shy salamanders,
skipping through a childhood
rooted in the earth
of the farm,
discovering treasures
that abound by a brook
deep in the Maine woods.

Today, Ham’s Brook
still trickles down
inviting you
to slip into the shadows
between trees
to explore its tumbling length,
to ramble over its rocks
and to search for its source…

I imagine it springs
from deep beneath
the Old Ham Farm
and ebbs
and swells
through seasons and time,
coursing
through the landscape
like a pulse.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

Ham’s Brook, Lisbon, Maine

To enjoy more poetry, head to the Poetry Friday Roundup at Jama’s Alphabet Soup. You’re sure to be inspired!

Reverso poems are tough! When recently interviewed by Michelle H. Barnes at Today’s Little Ditty, Marilyn Singer summarizes a reverso like this: “A reverso is one poem with two halves.  The second half reverses the lines with changes only in punctuation and capitalization and it must say something completely different from the first half.”  I was able to get the first verse to reverse to a meaningful second verse, but I couldn’t capture the heart of a reverso–a totally different message when reversed. Oh well!  I’ll keep trying but thought I’d share this first effort anyway.

With dainty, slippered stamens,
dipped in electric blue,
Scilla dances
in the cool spring breeze,
each petal a marvel
as it bursts into bloom.
One single flower
enhancing
a watercolor world.

A watercolor world
enhancing
one single flower
as it bursts into bloom,
each petal a marvel.
In the cool spring breeze,
Scilla dances,
dipped in electric blue,
with dainty, slippered stamens.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

Somewhere  I have a picture from Connor’s first day of Kindergarten. It was a beautiful day in early fall. The bus drew to a stop before our house and we crossed the road together. Connor stepped up onto that tall, tall bus step and then with the encouragement of the bus driver and me, turned dutifully to have his picture taken, grinning at me. Then he turned, climbed up the remaining steps, and disappeared onto the bus. I crossed the road and the stop sign on the bus rotated in, the red, flashing lights turned off, and the bus slowly pulled away, gathered speed and moved down the road.  I waved and waved as it left, keeping it up as it went up and down the road, then disappeared in a misty yellow blur over the hill.

As this was almost 20 years ago, I wasn’t sure how my pictures would turn out. I deposited my film for development and waited. (My, how times have changed!) When they came back, there he was, my little boy, smiling on the steps of the bus, heading off on a new adventure. And then I noticed his hands. They were clenched tight, knuckles white. My heart cracked. On that day when he pasted that bright smile on his face, clearly he was scared as well. But he stepped up onto that bus, smiled for his picture, and took his seat. And I didn’t notice. I didn’t see his small clenched hands through my tears. I only saw his smile.

Next month Connor graduates from college. It’s hard to think about. As the oldest, he’s always been the one to go first–the one I’ve had to let go of first, little by little. While cleaning out my Inbox recently I found some old e-mails from his early college days, many of them from me to him. Not so many from him to me!  It’s an interesting record of our relationship. Many of mine were filled with variations of this line: I love you and miss you! and So, can you drop me a quick note so that I know you’re alive and hopefully thriving? or  Are you feeling any better?  My maternal radar is on high, trying to pick up incoming signals of your health status.

There are also helpful bits of advice: P.S.  It’s good etiquette to answer your mother’s e-mails, especially around Christmas time.

Or evidence of enabling:  We mailed your package yesterday so keep an eye out for it!  Your glasses are in a case tucked into the middle of all the clothes.  I also sent out your thank you notes today and will hopefully deposit your checks this weekend. 

I also found some snippets of our conversation on our drive up to get textbooks for his first semester:

Last Sunday after enjoying (and envying) the splashes of color at my friend’s feeder, I switched to black oil sunflower seeds in my feeder. I put the seed out on Saturday evening and first thing Sunday morning, I had finches at the feeder!  I couldn’t believe how quickly they appeared.  I hadn’t seen one finch this spring and in less than 12 hours, there were more than half a dozen of them happily feeding in my yard!  How did they know?

The Bird Word
Do they read a daily flyer
to alert them one and all?
Do they indulge in back-fence talk
and disclose each new windfall?

Do they banter at the birdbath
’bout the tasty treat du jour?
Do they gossip while they’re gorging
at the feeder by the door?

Do the bluejays trade in hearsay,
while the chickadees chitchat?
Is there a message to decipher
in Woodpecker’s rat-a-tat?

Do the sparrows spread the good news?
Have they a coded whistle?
Could one chirp mean sunflower seeds
and two long tweets mean thistle?

I suspect they gather nightly
to exchange the bird seed news
and to plan their daytime visits
to the feeders that they choose.

Now when I hear their trilling song
sweetly fill the morning air,
I wonder if each note’s a clue,
information that they share.

I plan to sit and ponder
how the word spreads with such speed,
but I’m heading to the feed store first
to buy more bags of seed!

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

To enjoy more poetry, head to the Poetry Friday Roundup hosted by Michelle H. Barnes at  My Little Ditty.

It was snack time. Every day X has a Slim Jim. Every day he announces the flavor with great fanfare. On this particular day X pulled the Slim Jim from his lunchbox, looked at it, looked at it again, then held it aloft.
“Oh!” he announced with great enthusiasm,  “It’s a new flavor!  I’ve never had this one!” He paused and then said slowly and dramatically, “I can’t even read what it’s called!”
A friend rushed over, “I’ll help.” They bent their heads together trying to decipher the small print of the unknown word.
Curious, I approached, and the boys handed it to me.
“What does it say? What does it say?” they asked.
I looked, smiled, and then said, “Oh, I’m sure you can figure this out.” I wrote the letters of the unknown flavor in larger letters on the board. “Come on, give it a try.”

They stumbled through for a moment, trying a few possibilities, and then X called out, “Original! It says Original!” He danced about in place, triumphantly waving his Slim Jim in the air, chanting, “Original! Original!”

Then suddenly, he stopped, “Wait a minute… ”
His smile faded. His face fell.
“That means it’s just regular!”

Sometimes it’s better to just preserve the mystery.

When I was young, I always loved the stories where the characters may not have had much, but their house was sparkling clean, their clothes neatly mended, and their garden tilled, weeded, and supported as needed. Sadly, admiration doesn’t always translate to imitation. Cleaning is not my thing. When my children were young and saw me pull out the vacuum cleaner they immediately asked, “Who’s coming over?” This was a pretty accurate assessment of the situation.

I love having a clean home, but I’m not much on maintenance cleaning–it just isn’t a priority. It gets downright dirty around here sometimes. I feel bad about it. But not quite bad enough to rectify it or to put down my book (or my writer’s notebook, or my glass of wine…).  And spring cleaning? Do people really still do that? I mean that intensive wall-washing, curtain-washing, cabinet-scrubbing crazed top-to-bottom house cleaning?

Ellen Taylor, a Maine poet, tackles this topic in her poem, Spring Cleaning ,and though I may not be a cleaning goddess, Taylor’s poem resonates. There is something deeply satisfying about the click and clack of grit whirling down the vacuum cleaner hose. And I’ll let you in on a little secret– cleaning is especially satisfying when there’s a good supply of dust bunnies, dirt and debris to disappear and you can make visible progress!
Spring Cleaning

By Ellen M. Taylor

Why are there no poems of the joy
of vacuum cleaning after a long

winter? Of the pleasure of pulling
the couch back, sucking up cobwebs, dead

flies, candy cane wrappers, cookie crumbs?
The sun rises earlier now, flooding

the room with daffodil light, enough
to see long unseen clumps of dog hair,

 (Read the rest by clicking on the title.)

Soon after enjoying this poem, I read April Pulley Sayre’s Stars Beneath Your Bed: The Surprising Story of Dust, to my class. Pulley poetically explores the origins of dust–“Dust can be bits of unexpected things-“– and its timelessness –“Old dust stays around.”
This tickled my imagination and combined with Taylor’s poem to inspire me to rethink dust and dusting and to write this poem.

Dusting

The dust on my floors
has been stirred
by the feet of dinosaurs,
the leaping of gazelles and
the sweet shuffle of footie pj’s
in the early morning
on chilly winter days.

When I sweep the floor
and make the dust fly,
I stir up a tornado
of particles and pollens,
and pharaohs dance with dodos
in a temporary tango.

Scales from a butterfly’s wing,
a stray piece
from a comet’s streaking tail,
or fragments of skin-kissed skin
from my once-upon-a-time-toddlers
accumulate atop the old wooden table,
where once my grandparents dined,
and coat the lightbulbs
in the hallway chandelier.

With duster in hand,
I wipe away the remnants,
sneezing stardust,
and marvel
that our history
is writ through dust,
as is that of the universe.
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
Cosmic.
Historic.
Mundane.
Transcendent.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

If you’re interested in reading more poetry, Laurie Purdie Salas is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup.

I traveled with my family this summer and spent a fair amount of time on the roads in France and Italy. We noticed several differences, but chief amongst them was that there were almost no bumper stickers. This made us wonder if other cultures embrace bumper stickers or if it’s an American thing to loudly proclaim our opinions to the world. (If we can’t do that because we’re shut in a car, we’ll emblazon it on the bumper!)

I  love the bumper sticker “Well-behaved Women Rarely Make History” and long ago I wanted to put it on my van. But I hesitated. I felt like a fraud because essentially, I am a well-behaved woman. It felt like false advertising. When I mentioned this to a friend, she said, patiently, “Molly, you don’t have to “be” your bumper sticker!  It can be something you aspire to or simply admire.”
Duh! So, I smacked that bumper sticker right on my van and never regretted  it.

With a new perspective on bumper stickers, I added another one. Again something I strove for continually. I figured I could use the reminder and since I spent so much time in my van, why not put it there?

And then I chose one more, because when my emotions are high, I have a hard time communicating. If my voice is shaking, I’m probably not speaking. I’d like to change that.

These bumper stickers didn’t reflect who I was. Instead, they reflected who I wanted to be. Every time I read them,they reminded me. They became traveling mantras, reminders of personal goals.

I have had one bumper sticker that did not fit this pattern. This one was on another vehicle and documented an achievement and a philosophy rather than an aspiration.  Simple and to the point.

Currently, I have no bumper stickers on my car. As I finish writing this, I’m thinking I may start adding them. A quick google search reveals endless promising options ( and some horrifying ones as well.) I’m considering this one at the moment:

Do you have a bumper sticker? Does it reflect who you are or who you want to be or something else entirely?

There are poetry challenges all over the internet this month and while I am not up to committing to another 30 straight days of blogging, I thought I’d try a few along the way. One recent challenge was to write a lune, which is a three-line poem with a 5-3-5 syllable or word count.

On a recent much-appreciated early-spring snow day, I spied these two mourning doves nestling together in the birch in my garden. They seemed the perfect subject for my first lune attempt.

Ruffled mourning doves
perched in birch
watch winter linger

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

The more I write, the more I realize how little I know. Now intrigued by mourning doves, I did a little research and couldn’t resist sharing my new-found knowledge.

Mourning Doves
Monogamous,
devoted,
male and female
incubate the brood,
rarely leaving a nest
unattended.
Both parents care
for the squabs,
feeding them crop milk,
a protein-rich secretion.
Their song is a lament,
their flight path strong
and bullet-straight.
On take-off and landing,
their wings whistle.
A symbol of peace,
mourning doves
are the most hunted bird
in North America.

Molly Hogan (c)2016

March SOLC–Day 31
A huge thank you to Stacey, Anna, Betsy, Beth, Dana, Tara, Deb, and Kathleen for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.  Also congratulations to everyone who participated in this month’s challenge and thank you for sharing your stories and commenting on mine. It’s been a wonderful month!

I’ve never considered myself a sadist, but back when my kids were little, I used to read Family Fun magazine, or as I commonly referred to it “How-to-Make-Yourself-Feel-Inadequate-As-a-Parent Magazine.” Every so often I got really motivated (or delusional) and attempted one of their more benign projects. As a matter of fact, I think we still have a pink soda bottle piggy bank that my daughter and I made together. But one year, I decided to go all out. I was hooked by their idea–A fun April Fool’s joke that would also feed the kids. Who could ask for anything better? This idea didn’t call for mad crafting skills, obscure glues, protective gear, aligned planets, or a home equity loan for supplies. I could do this!

The basic premise: Announce to the kids you’re going to have a backward dinner as a sort of April Fool’s joke. You’ll start with dessert and then move to dinner. But here’s the trick. The “dessert” is cupcakes–actually meatloaf baked in foil cupcake liners with dyed mashed potato frosting. “Dinner” is grilled cheese–Sara Lee pound cake sliced and toasted then filled with orange frosting. Fun, right? That’s what I thought.

So, I plotted and planned, secretly cooked and frosted, and in general built up the anticipation with my three children. Finally, we all sat down for dinner and with great fanfare I brought in the plates with cupcakes.
“Tada!” I announced, “Tonight in honor of April Fool’s Day we’ll begin with dessert!” My kids were grinning, ear to ear.
“Yay!” they cheered.

My youngest daughter was the most excited of all of them. She danced in her seat impatiently. As soon as the plate touched the table, she eagerly scooped up her cupcake, peeled the liner back, and took a giant bite…And that’s when it all went south. Those masquerading mashed potatoes hit her sweet little lips and a puzzled look flashed across her face. Then as her taste buds revolted, her face fell and she looked at me–oh that look! It was a look of such horror and accusation. Her full bottom lip quivered and then she scowled ferociously. How could I have betrayed her so? Spitting out her mouthful of psuedo-cupcake, she threw the rest of it at her plate, pushed back her chair and stormed from the table, sobbing. We sat momentarily stunned. After a moment, the rest of the family resumed eating, laughing about the silly dinner, thinking it was good-natured fun.

I quickly followed my daughter, trying to make amends. “Sweetie, I’m sorry. It was just an April Fool’s joke,” I apologized.
Silence.
“We’re having grilled cheese made of cake later!”
No response.
Then I pleaded, “Please come back and eat with us.”
She turned her head away.
Finally, I resorted to bribery. “You can have the cake first!”
But she was having none of it. She felt utterly betrayed. It never even crossed my mind that this was a mean-spirited joke. I thought it was fun and so did my other two children. But my youngest did NOT see it this way. She refused to eat dinner or to come out of her room that night.  For years and years she would leave the room if we talked about this dinner and/or her reaction. To this day, I’m not sure how much she remembers, but I’m almost afraid to ask. I have never played a prank on April Fool’s since then and I never will.  For the record, I still feel a bit guilty, but I blame it all on Family Fun magazine!

March SOLC–Day 30

Conference week is hell. I don’t know how I’d forgotten that. We have regular full days of work and tuck conferences in around the school day. It’s essentially miserable. So one night this week after a full day of school and a number of conferences, I was exhausted and delighted to be home.  I clicked onto Facebook to check in with my kids (and to try to delay heading to bed til at least 7:30 pm). The first post I saw  was from my youngest daughter, currently in her first year in college. She’d posted this poem on her Facebook page:

I read it. Then I read it again. And I know I will read it again and again. I am delighted that this poem resonates with her. I love its message but even more I love that my daughter recognizes and values that message, too.

As a parent to three young adults, I sit on the sidelines as they lead their busy lives. I gather up bits and pieces, clues, from conversations, observations, and Facebook posts and chats. These clues are like puzzle pieces with glimpses of  who they were, who they are and who they are becoming. But there’s no guiding picture on the box, no obvious way to assemble them.  I gather the pieces and puzzle over them and it’s not always a clear or reassuring process. Sometimes the emerging picture surprises me. Sometimes it warms my heart. And sometimes it keeps me up at night.

While she was home over spring break, I mentioned to my daughter that I’d turned down a full scholarship for a Master’s Degree (eons ago!) because they didn’t have an appropriate program for her father at that school. She said, “Wow! You made that big of a decision because of a boy?” Another puzzle piece.

It’s been hard seeing our youngest leave the nest and spread her wings. There were a few initial bumps, and lots of worries, but more and more, I think she’s going to do just fine. The picture forming is sweet, strong, and centered–Beautiful and so much more. It’s been a heck of a week, and there are still days to go, but my energy just got a boost. Rock on, sweet Rosie!  You are extraordinary!