Fish swim across the woven cotton. Faded whites on a deep aquatic blue. Somehow the dress has moved with me from place to place, year after year, surfacing periodically. I’d almost forgotten about it until now, when my daughter, Adeline, pulls it from the depths of her closet.

“Mom, do you want to keep this?”

I turn to face her, catching sight of the dress.

A small “Oh!” escapes me. Then I gather myself. “I don’t know,” I say. “It seems kinda silly, really. I’ve just been holding onto it for all these years. I don’t think I’ve even worn it.”

“Didn’t your mom make this?” she asked

“Yeah.”

“Well, does it fit you?”

“I don’t know. I think I tried it on years ago and it was a little tight. I’m not really sure.”

“Try it on,” she urges, handing me the dress.

I take it from her and go to my room, holding it in my hands. Wow. This dress must be around 40 years old. So long ago, my mom’s hands chose this fabric, cut the patterned pieces and stitched the cloth into this final garment. I have a vague memory of her wearing it–tan skin against the batik, a flash of a smile, frosted hair– but I’m not sure if it’s real or imagined.

I slip out of my clothes and pull the dress on over my head, tugging it down to slide over my hips. I look in the mirror, turn to one side and then to the other. It fits snugly through the bodice, but falls loosely from the waist to my ankles, swaying about my legs. It’s a simple cut, timeless.

I return to Addie’s room.

“What do you think?” I ask. Again, I turn from side to side, the full skirt of the dress swishing.

“It’s cute,” she says. “You should keep it.”

I look at my daughter in the midst of her really-moving-out-for-good room cleaning. My daughter who never met the grandmother who created this dress. How interesting that it reappeared today, on the eve of her departure.

Again, I touch the fabric, taking comfort from its soft cotton and from its connection. Past–present–future. Woven together in this moment.

Of course I’m going to keep it.

March 2018 SOLC–Day 1
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
twowritingteachers.org

“I gave it to you,” the man insisted to the bartender. His belligerent tone caught my ear, and I glanced over.

“No,” the bartender said, calmly,  “I ran your card through the machine and then gave it right back to you.”

“No. You. Did. Not.” he stated emphatically, his voice raising slightly with each word. He was older, well-dressed, and visibly irate.  The tension in the air was palpable. The few customers in the cafe shifted in line and glanced at each other uneasily.

He continued, spitting words like shrapnel, “You asked me if I wanted to start a tab and I didn’t want to give it to you but I did. I told you the card was cracked at the bottom and to be careful.”

The bartender looked around her as he spoke, lifting menus and other small items, double checking. “It’s not here,” she said again.

After a few more protests and angry complaints, the man retreated to his table at the far side of the room. His group began pushing back chairs and putting on their coats, apparently heading to the 7 pm documentary showing in the attached cinema. The rumble of his irritation buzzed audibly in the room and I imagined he was sharing his outrage with his dinner companions. There was a pause and then I heard a faint, more moderately toned, “Where did you find it?”

“I think he found his card,” I said to the bartender as I ordered my tea.

“That’s good,” she said. She didn’t even roll her eyes. Class act.

I wondered if the man would come over and apologize, though clearly he wasn’t in a rush to do so. After a few minutes passed, I realized I might have misconstrued what I’d heard. Perhaps he hadn’t found his card after all. He continued to talk with his companions. I paid and gathered my change and tea, and headed to my group’s table.

A few minutes later, I noticed the man was at the bar again, talking to the bartender.

“That’s ok,” I heard her say. “Not a problem.”

Once again, I admired her graciousness (and wondered if she was repeating “The customer is always right” in her head over and over). I also wondered what exactly the man was apologizing for. I suspect he was apologizing for insisting she had his card although she did not. From what I overheard, it sounded more like he was excusing his mistake, rather than really apologizing for his words or his behavior.  He clearly was not apologizing for how he spoke to her. Did he even recognize how rude he had been? How berating and aggressive his tone was?

There were two players in this scene—the bartender and the man. One problem—the missing card. They each chose how to respond. She clearly took the high road. He didn’t. Maybe he’d had a bad day. Maybe something else was going on. But, the bottom line is that he was far more concerned about his credit card and its potential loss and his emotional response to that than he was about how he chose to interact with another human being. In my book, that’s a huge problem. It’s okay to be mad. It’s okay to be frustrated. It’s not ok to splash your emotional upset over others without any consideration. Especially over a missing credit card. It just doesn’t work that way. Or at least it shouldn’t.

K. wandered up to my desk at the beginning of the day. She touched a tulip blossom.

“Oh, these are pretty! Why do you have flowers?”

“Mrs. V. gave them to me for my birthday,” I replied.

“It’s your birthday?” she asked, looking at me incredulously.

“Yes,” I said.

“You’ve got to tell everyone!” she insisted.

I laughed. “It’s not a secret,” I said, “but I don’t think I need to announce it.”

She stared at me for a long moment. Clearly this idea defied comprehension. “How old are you?” she finally asked.

“51.”

“Oh,” she said. Then she repeated, “You’ve got to tell everyone it’s your birthday! Are you going to tell them at morning meeting?”

“Probably not,” I said, then laughed again at the expression on her face.

Later that morning after I walked my class out to recess, I returned to the room and sat down at my desk. There atop my stack of papers was a homemade birthday card. The cover was decorated with a picture of a cake emblazoned with the number 51. Inside was a cute drawing of a cat. Smiling, I remembered snack time and K asking me “casually” about my favorite animal. How did she manage to make that card without me noticing?

Heading back from lunch, I thanked her, “K. I love my card–especially the cat! Thank you so much!”

She beamed. Then she glanced at me sideways and confided, “I might have told a few people about your birthday.”

By the end of the day a small collection of surreptitiously created cards was piled on my desk. A sweet birthday surprise. Thanks, K!

I went a bit dark with Laura Purdie Salas’s 15 Words or Less Poetry prompt this week. She shared a picture of an adorable penguin sugar cookie:

Photo credit to Laura Purdie Salas

Reminded of the catastrophic penguin breeding colony collapse I read about this past fall (here), I responded with this:

In Antarctica…

Tens of thousands
of Adélie chicks
starve and perish
while we enjoy
our frosted cookies

M. Hogan (c) 2018

“Loud are the thunder drums in the tents of the mountains.
Oh, long, long
Have we eaten chia seeds
and dried deer’s flesh of the summer killing.
We are tired of our huts
and the smoky smell of our clothing.
We are sick with the desire for the sun
And the grass on the mountain.”
–  Paiute Late Winter Song

We had a brief day of teasing spring-like weather yesterday. Dense fog finally lifted to reveal peeks of sunshine and patches of blue sky and temperatures rose into the 60s!  As I noted last week, February feels heavy this year and I’m looking forward to the calendar turning into March. I am indeed “sick with the desire for the sun.”

I’ve had loads of writing time this week, but have felt stymied–lots of false starts and roadblocks and difficulty tapping into anything that feels right. I’m still plugging away at Laura Shovan’s February Daily Ekphrastic Poem Project. It’s hard to believe that it ends next week!

It was my turn to share art this past Sunday and I shared this untitled painting by an unknown artist. Reading the poetic responses was a highlight of my week. I plan to print them all out and make a small booklet to place beneath the painting for all visitors to enjoy. I’m also going to share them with my students so they can see how many different directions writers can take from one prompt. Thanks to everyone who responded!

Here are my responses to two sculpture prompts from the week:

Oh, Olaf the Dandy
was a Viking much feared
though his biggest concerns
were his mustache and beard
He fretted in battle
that someone might shear him
So fought with great vigor
when enemies neared him

The stories grew daily
his feats legendary
He fought like a madman
to keep his face hairy
And when the war ended
to his sweetheart he sped
proposed that they marry
and here’s what she said:

Oh Olaf, I love you
you bold Viking knave
but ere we can marry
you simply must shave!

M. Hogan (c) 2018

I still miss your slumber weight
heavy in my arms
your downy head resting on my shoulder
your warm, milky breath
and that achingly sweet hollow
at the base of your neck
so ripe for kisses

Sometimes in the grocery store line
I catch myself,
a jug of Tide balanced on my hip,
swaying to and fro
in that age-old soothing motion

I wonder, is the gorilla sometimes
as puzzled by her empty back
as I am by my empty arms?
Does she still alter her gait
for a baby she no longer carries?

M. Hogan (c) 2018

To brighten up these final days of February, take some time to visit this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup. It’s hosted by Elizabeth Steinglass at her blog where she’s sharing her wonderful poem “Why I’m Here” and its inspirations.

“Spring’s coming,” I announced happily.

“Molly,” Kurt replied in his patient voice, “it’s February.”

“Yeah, but it’s getting closer. I can tell!”

“Uh-huh,” he responded.

“Remember I told you how warm the sun was when I went running Sunday?”

He merely looked at me.

“And the finches! We haven’t had finches on our feeders in ages. Today there were three of them! Three!”

“Molly,” he repeated, “It’s February. In Maine. Spring is far, far away.”

“I think we’re turning a corner,” I insisted.

“Uh-huh.”

I’m not sure what got into me yesterday, but I started cleaning out the upstairs linen closet. I pulled everything out into a jumbled pile of flannel and cotton and began matching up sets like pairs of socks. After a while, just like with socks, it became evident there were some incomplete sets. I decided to check the seldom-used downstairs linen closet.

Once I got started down there, I began wreaking havoc, pulling out sheets willy-nilly, triumphantly making a stack of the items to complete the upstairs sets. It was all going beautifully until I yanked on a sheet and a small yellowish item rolled across the wooden shelf.

What’s that? I wondered. I picked it up and brought it closer to my face to peer at it. Recognition hit quickly and unpleasantly. Ew! It’s a mouse head! (Well, to be more precise, a mouse skull.) How long has that been here?!?

“Ewwwww! Kurt, there’s a mouse skull in the cupboard,” I called into the living room.

He grunted.

“Did you hear me?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he grunted again.

Gingerly I pulled out a few more linens, realizing that laundry with hot water was going to the top of my to-do list. Then, nestled next to the striped twin sheet set, there it was–the rest of the body. A complete skeleton with long tail. Intact (other than the head/skull). In my linen cupboard.

“Kurt, there’s a complete skeleton in the closet.”

“Yeah.”

“A complete skeleton!” I repeated. “There’s an entirely complete skeleton in the closet!”

“Yeah, a Halloween one, right?” he asked.

What?! Clearly the man does not listen to me.

“No! It’s an entire mouse skeleton–right in the sheets!”

“Oh,” he said again, thoroughly unimpressed. “I thought there was one of those Halloween skeletons in there.”

What the heck is he talking about? 

“How long has it been there?” I wondered aloud. “I mean I don’t mind the occasional skeleton under the stove or in the wall, but this is pretty disgusting.”

“We live in an old house, ” he said. “It happens.”

“I don’t know. I think maybe we need to clean more,” I announced. He laughed and laughed and laughed.

Looking for a different reaction, I snapped a quick photo to send to my neat-freakish sister. I prefaced it with this comment: “So, I was cleaning out the linen closets–matching sheets, etc…And I think maybe I need to do this more often…Because this…”

But, when it comes down to it, public embarrassment vs. a slice topic. Well, duh! That’s a no brainer!

Supposedly February is the shortest month, but it sure doesn’t feel like it this year. It’s gone on and on and on….Laura Shovan’s February Poetry Project has been a welcome distraction from my mid-winter doldrums, although keeping up with the daily art prompts has been tough this past week. I think I might be three or four behind! Eek! During break next week, I’m excited to kick back and enjoy catching up and keeping up. Here are two of my recent efforts:

unsigned needlepoint

Blessing for a Rabbit

May your path be smooth and easy
your soft fur free from clinging burrs
May you leap with grace
and land with certainty
and always be downwind
May you see farmers’ backs
more than their faces
and find warm shelter in stormy weather
May your days be carrot and parsley blessed
And when those days reach their end,
may you slip into peace
in floral scented shade
to wander midst the bounty
of McGregor’s garden

M. Hogan (c) 2018

Monday by L.D. Wight

(I’m not sure about the ending two lines of this next poem. I almost left them off and am still pondering removing them.)

Mama’s Mad Again

Her anger roils from the porch
blasts us in the front yard
scours the grins from our faces
Her look could bleach sheets

We stop our impromptu
swirling washtub dance
hoist the heavy tub
and prepare to scrub
but soap and water
can’t remove all stains.

M. Hogan (c) 2018

And then a random poem popped up mid-week:

There is beauty
in yielding
says the birch
who, under heavy weight,
arches gracefully
to touch the snowy ground

M. Hogan (c) 2018

Jone Rush MacCulloch is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup on her cleverly named blog, Check It Out. While there, you can sign up to receive a Poetry Postcard from a student in April! Win-win!

So far I’ve continued to keep pace with Laura Shovan’s Ekphrastic Poetry Project–well, mostly. It’s definitely keeping me busy and I’m enjoying the process, if not always the results. Here are a few poems from this past week.

I do not have permission to share a photo of the artwork that inspired this next poem. It was a sketch drawn in white on a black background, like chalk on a chalkboard. A person’s head rests on a table/board, and her eyes are closed. On the table beneath her is a line of chalk that meanders about to end at one of her hands, which still holds a pen (or pencil or stylus). The flow of that one line reminded me of maps and travel and it seemed to leak from her closed eye, like a stream of tears.  Even after I decided to work with the “House that Jack Built” form, I still wasn’t sure where I was going. This poem really took on a life of its own as I wrote.

The Map that Jack Drew

This is the map that Jack drew

This is the tear that started the map that Jack drew

This is the sorrow that fed the tear
that started the map that Jack drew

These are the words that seeded the sorrow
that fed the tear that started the map that Jack drew

This is the mouth that uttered the words
that seeded the sorrow that fed the tear
that started the map that Jack drew

This is the mind, so unkind,
that moved the mouth that uttered the words
that seeded the sorrow that fed the tear
that started the map that Jack drew

This is the man, vain and blind
that spoke his mind, so unkind
that moved the mouth that uttered the words
that seeded the sorrow that fed the tear
that started the map that Jack drew

These are the men, wined and dined,
that propped up the man, so vain and blind
that spoke his mind, so unkind,
that moved the mouth that uttered the words
that seeded the sorrow that fed the tear
that started the map that Jack drew

This is the truth, much maligned
ignored by the men, wined and dined
that propped up the man, so vain and blind
that spoke his mind, so unkind,
that moved the mouth that uttered the words
that seeded the sorrow that fed the tear
that started the map that Jack drew

These are the people, bold and fine
who spoke up for truth, much maligned
ignored by the men, wined and dined,
that propped up the man, so vain and blind
that spoke his mind, so unkind,
that moved the mouth that uttered the words
that seeded the sorrow that fed the tear
that started the map that Jack drew

These are the roads that twisted and twined
that filled up with people, bold and fine
that spoke up for truth, much maligned
ignored by the men, wined and dined
that propped up the man, so vain and blind
that spoke his mind, so unkind,
that moved the mouth that uttered the words
that seeded the sorrow that fed the tear
that started the map that Jack drew

This is the map for all mankind
to take to the roads that twist and twine
to join the people, bold and fine
who speak up for truth, much maligned
ignored by the men, wined and dined
that propped up the man, so vain and blind
that spoke his mind, so unkind,
that moved the mouth that uttered the words
that seeded the sorrow that fed the tear
that started the map that Jack drew

M. Hogan (c) 2018

Finally, on a lighter note, after reading Michelle H. Barnes Today’s Little Ditty interview with Jane Yolen and J. Patrick Lewis last week, I was inspired by their challenge to write a funny epitaph. I think I’ll be trying a few more of these!

Epitaph for a Reader

She piled books beside her bed
Some to read, some already read
Throughout the years her book stack grew
Classics, mysteries, novels, too
The content of these tomes fulfilled her
Sadly a massive bookslide killed her

M. Hogan (c) 2018

Make sure to head on over to the Poetry Friday Roundup. It’s hosted this week by Sally Murphy, vivacious Australian poet extraordinaire, at her blog. You’re sure to enjoy her terse verse and you have to admire a poet who creates poetry during a dental procedure!

According to Wikipedia, “A coincidence is a remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances which have no apparent causal connection with each other. The perception of remarkable coincidences may lead to supernatural, occult, or paranormal claims.”

Last month, I experienced a number of striking coincidences in my life.

The seed for the first one was planted during a conversation with my sister, who is a middle-school librarian. We love talking books, especially kid lit.  Over the holidays, as we traded recommendations, she asked, “Oh, have you read any of the Spy School books?”
“No,” I said, “I’ve never heard of them.”
“They’re fun,” she said. “They run a bit young for middle school, but your fourth graders might really like them.”

A week or so later, I was at the library. What was that series that Ellen recommended? Oh, yeah, Spy School. (Note–it’s truly amazing that I even remembered this!) I wandered over to the library computer which appeared to be in sleep mode. I clicked and the screen came to life. Locating the search icon on the desktop, I clicked again and after a moment the search screen appeared…along with the name of the last book searched for: Spy School. Crazy coincidence, right!?!

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I was browsing through Target’s Cartwheel coupons and saw one for Compound W. For some reason my mind went hurtling back about a decade, to a time we invested considerable money into that product.

“Hey, Kurt,” I called to my husband, “”Do you remember when you had all those warts on your hand that were so hard to get rid of?”

“Yeah,” he said, coming into the room. “That’s so weird that you ask. I think one of them might be coming back. I just noticed it yesterday.”

Ok, not quite as startling of a coincidence, but still!

Finally, that same day, I read Rebecca Herzog’s Poetry Friday post. She linked to a song called “Langtree’s Lament.” I listened to it and thought it would appeal to my daughter, Addie, who lives in Philadelphia and who’s recently bought a ukulele. So, I sent her the link.

I mean, really, what are the odds?

So, what does it all mean? Are there supernatural, occult or paranormal forces at hand? I don’t know, but I’m wondering. And I’m keeping my eye out for wart-handed spies strumming ukuleles and singing encoded songs. But perhaps the message is more subtle…

PS Langtree’s Lament is well worth listening if you have a few minutes to spare.