Before I Became a Mermaid #2

For Rich*

Before I became a mermaid I could ride a bicycle
Then one day I grew that tail

Now my bike is rusting in the shed

Unused
With my old piano
My brownie scout uniform
And those old Beatle albums.

Don’t need those here in the creek
Floating under mama’s mimosa tree with the crabs and croakers
Breathing in brackish water
Breathing out memories

Missing the sweet sounds of my youth

*When my friend Rich read my first mermaid poem his immediate response was "You don't need legs to play a piano...but you need them to ride a bicycle."

How I became a Blunderite*

I didn’t intend to become a Blunderite. It just happened. One day I was normal. The next day I was sitting at the Blunderite table at the Birchmere listening to my husband belt out all the lyrics to Alice’s Restaurant while pounding on the table so fiercely that he spilled a drink on Don and Agnes (fellow Blunderites.) Regardless of how I got here, I enjoy being a part of a group that takes their music seriously and life lightheartedly. Today as John and I celebrate our 19th wedding anniversary (and begin making plans to celebrate our 20th in Rome) I can’t say it any better than Arlo did. (Happy Anniversary, Honey...and thanks for the roses!)

It's been years since we've been married

I know we paid some dues

Now ain't it something just to lie here together Just me and you

Outlasting the blues

***

* A person who has entered Blunderdom (Arlo's domain)

** Photo by Cheryl Harrell, Arlo Fanatic

I Must Have Imagined

I must have imagined Embudo. Sitting on the deck of Aunt Gladys’ tidy stucco home with the citrus colored rattan furniture and the gleaming terrazzo floors, Embudo seemed far away. I watched the seemingly unlimited supply of water from her automatic sprinklers douse her perfectly manicured grass, spray her grapefruit trees, sprinkle her lime trees and decided I must have imagined carrying water from the Rio Grande for cooking and bathing and drinking. I must have imagined emptying our chamber pot in the arroyo. I opened her avocado colored refrigerator and gazed at shelves laden with yogurt and milk and cheese and Pepsi Colas and beer and iceberg lettuce and shrimp and sirloin steaks and I was sure I must have imagined going to sleep with an empty belly. I picked up her telephone just to hear the dial tone. I turned on her radio and listened to Cream and Vanilla Fudge and Mountain and knew I must have imagined reading by lantern light. I let her kiss me goodnight and tuck me in. I let her brush the tangles from my matted hair and paint my toenails pink. I let her make me feel like her little girl again and I was convinced I must have imagined the terror and the loneliness and the hopelessness of those silent nights when we huddled together in that cold cabin for warmth not affection and no words were spoken and I was sure no one could ever love me again.

The Wanderer

I was sleeping deeply, but not well when I heard it. Something between a growl and a howl. I woke up. 4:25 AM. I must have been snoring because I was alone. When I snore John just quietly retreats to the guest room. He has learned from bitter experience not to awaken me. Something else was missing. Arlo. When I’d fallen asleep the big white dog was curled up between John and me. Thinking he might have followed John to the guest room. I checked. No Arlo. Just John – snoring away. (Later he will tell me he had insomnia – didn’t sleep a wink.) I search the rest of the house looking for Arlo. I check in all the usual hiding places. Bathtubs, puppy crate, under beds, behind the big chair in the living room, under my desk. I go back to the guest room to check again to see if he is there. He isn’t. Finally, close to panic, I shake John. “Honey, I can’t find Arlo.” He wakes up quickly. If he had to choose between losing me and losing that dog I would lose. He looks in all the places I have already looked…and behind the woodstove. Then he notices the patio door is open – just a few inches. “The door is open,” he moans. Panic creeps across his face. “Arlo, Arlo come here” I shout from the kitchen - accompanying the call with the customary two claps I always use to beckon him. A second later a big white head peeks through the open door. His expression says – “What’s the matter? Can’t a fellow take a little moonlight stroll?” He smells of fresh earth. I check him for injuries. He has apparently avoided the coyote and fox that have begun to frequent our suburban neighborhood. He has learned a new trick. How to open the patio door. He tries the (now locked) door at least a dozen times between his unscathed return at 4:45 am and our 7:00 am departure for work. I make a mental note to remember to keep the door locked and say a silent prayer of gratitude.

Before I Became a Mermaid...

Before I became a mermaid I could play the piano.

Then one day I grew that tail
Smooth and taut like the skin of a quince

It grew faster than my breasts that swelled overnight
Limes one day. Mangos the next.

I shimmied to the creek
Slid down the bank next to mama’s mimosa tree and
Buried myself in the water with the crabs and croakers
Swapping the sweetness of my piano
For the silence that stretched from here to yonder.

Bronze Plaques

Across from the Federal courthouse, and my house, the Department of Commerce, Patent & Trademark Office, has decreed its own stately pleasure dome. An army of construction workers, once the largest east of the Mississippi, transformed an open field into a vast complex - a central tower with a 14 story glass atrium, 4 outbuildings, and 2 humongous parking garages.

Outside of business hours, I find the formal garden at the heart of the complex deserted. I go to sit on a bench and notice a bronze plaque in front of it. I bend down to read. Does the plaque honor some departed Lord of Commerce for long and faithful service? No, it honors the bench:

Plainwell Bench
Designer/Inventor: Robert G. Chipman
U.S. Patent No.: D419,341
Date issued: January 25, 2000

Intrigued, I go in search of more plaques. I don't have to go far. Instead of a statue, the fountain in front of Mr. Chipman's bench has a:

Geodesic Dome
Designer/Inventor: Richard Buckminster Fuller
U.S. Patent No.: 2,682,235
Date issued: June 29, 1954

So Bucky's first name was Richard - who knew? Surely that patent can't still be valid. I seem to remember from my Intellectual Property course that a patent is only good for 18 years, with an 18 year renewal.

On the other side of the fountain, a young sappling is identified as:

Ulmus Americana
"Independence" Elm
Designer/Inventor: Eugene B. Smalley
U.S. Patent No.: PP6,227
Date issued: July 19, 1988

Two smaller plants are also singled out for notice:

Lavandula Agustifolia
"Blue Cushion"
Designer/Inventor: Joan L. Schofield
U.S. Patent No.: PP9,119
Date issued: April 25, 1995

Campanula Persicifolia
"Chettle Charm"
Designer/Inventor: Janet E. Bourke
U.S. Patent No.: PP9,815
Date issued: March 9, 1997

You can patent a plant? I guess I knew that, but I'd forgotten. I'm unsettled by the idea that you can own a living thing, but I can see an up side. Having memorialized these plants in bronze, surely the Lords of Commerce have taken on a duty of care. Surely now they will feel obligated to protect Ulmus Americana from Dutch Elm Disease; to see that Chettle Charm doesn't die of thirst.

This place has a lot more character than you'd expect from a government building. I'm glad I got to know my neighbor.

Sharks

Sharks are mysterious and ancient creatures and very frightening – especially at midnight on a deserted beach. That’s what John said when he woke me up to describe the evening’s adventures. “It was 7 feet long. Over 200 pounds.” That’s what he said. “We were a mile up the beach. It pulled us that far. I wish I’d had a camera. No one is going to believe me.” By breakfast the shark had grown to 8 feet. Failing to comprehend the ardor that my husband felt for shark fishing, I spent our three days on Assateague Island beach walking, reading, napping, writing and meditating on ocean sounds. This is what I decided. (1) As noted above, I don’t care for shark fishing. (2) There is too much sand on the beach. (3) Samoyeds are too large to share a berth with while camping – especially sand covered Samoyeds (See #2). (4) It is not a good idea to leave burgers on the counter when you leave the sand covered Samoyed for two minutes to run outside to check on shark-fishing husband. (5) Make sure you check to make sure the camper is fully provisioned before setting off for the camping trip. Husband had removed spatula and pot for boiling water. (6) There is no place like home.

Request for help

In the following excerpt from Daughters of Pungo Creek I refer to "tenant farming" a subject I don't know much about. Do any of you have any knowledge of this phenomenon that you can share with me? Any suggestions/insights would be appreciated.

Roswell spent twenty-nine days in Belhaven Hospital. The doctors tried to save his crushed leg, but it was beyond repair. When he returned home he had to be carried up the back steps.

“I’m just so grateful to have you home, son. When I think of what might have happened…but the Good Lord spared you.”

“I would have been a damn sight happier if he had spared my left leg too.”

Irene didn’t scold her son. She was too happy to have him home. She was actually relieved that the accident hadn’t taken away his vinegar. She knew he would need every bit of his pluck in the days to come. Her son had lost his leg, but not his backbone.

Roswell wasted no time on self-pity, but immediately began working on ways to save the farm. Finally he settled on a solution. He would find tenant farmers to work the land.

He drove them hard to produce. He became a familiar sight. Hopping about the farm on this crutches- pushing them to work harder, driving them on. The farm begins to prosper. Roswell was a bastard, but he was a good businessman. A year after the accident the farm was thriving.

One early spring evening, Irene and the girls were putting supper on the table when Roswell walked in the door. He was in an unusually good mood.

They ate in silence for a while then Roswell spoke. “I talked to Willie Modlin. He and his family are going to be moving into the tenant house behind the old pack shed. He’s going to be working that piece of land between the creek and Smith’s place for me. Mama, I told him we could loan him a milk cow and few chickens in exchange for his wife giving you a hand. Those daughters of yours sure ain’t much help.” He laughed again.

“Roswell, are you sure it’s a good idea to take on more tenant farmers right now? You’re spreading yourself thin, son.”

“It ain’t like I can tend the fields myself now, is it Ma?” He gestured toward his wooden leg. “These poor bastards do all the work. I just collect the money.” He laughed again. Irene hadn’t seen her son so jovial in a long time.

As soon as he finished his supper, Roswell went out on the back porch to smoke his pipe. “You girls clean up. I need to lie down for a bit.”

“Are you alright Mama?”

“Yes, Pearl. I’m just feeling a little tired this evening.”

“I wasn’t going to say this around Mama, but I think I know why our brother is so perky.”

“What are you talking about, Frankie Mae?” Pearl had noticed that Roswell’s disposition had improved but she thought it was just that the farm was going better.

“I think he’s sniffing after Willie’s daughter Madeline. That would certainly explain why he’s moving the family practically under our roof. And he didn’t give the others a cow, did he?"

Poppy

His name is carved in bronze for all eternity to read. Along with Ruth’s name. The dates they were born. The dates they died. I never met Ruth. What did he get from this life? Three children. One is my friend. The others are strangers - even to each other. What did he want? If I learned all I know of his wants from his eulogies, this is what I would know: He built the foundation of his porch with bricks he had salvaged from rubble of the Player’s Disco fire. He was a frugal man. He rebuilt the porch three times on the same salvaged foundation. He reused the nails. He taught his grandson how to straighten the nails. Each time he rebuilt the porch, he painted the floor gray and the ceiling robin’s egg blue. He liked to fish. He gave books to the children in the neighborhood every Christmas. Last Christmas he bought 29 books. Fearing a shortage, he began hoarding oil in the sixties. There are over a thousand cans of oil in his basement. He also converted his furnace to burn coal – just in case. He never needed to use the coal burner. He left behind a ton on unburned coal. He loved to garden. His niece brought a vase of blossoms from his trees to the graveside. There were lilacs, crabapples and azaleas. He lived on Orchard Street. When he bought the house in 1946 there was an orchard. Now there are only the trees in his yard and soon they will be gone too. He got up at 5:00 AM. Cooked his own breakfast. Shined his shoes – every day. He had the shiniest shoes at at the Atomic Energy Commission. He was a member of the Optimists. He was never late for a meeting, but he never ran for office. He was 92. I think my friend loved her father best. All the others left. My friend and I watched as they covered her father's casket with the protective shell. It didn’t fit properly. My friend said, “If Poppy were here, he would have that done in no time.” I hugged her and said, even though I didn’t believe it at the moment, “Your Poppy is here." We stayed by the graveside as they lowered him into the ground. We sprinkled his blossoms over the protective shell. We waited while they threw dirt on top of the blossoms. Then we left. We went to Starbucks. “Starbucks isn’t just coffee” my friend said. “It is comfort.” Then my friend dropped me off at the chapel so I could get my car. I went home alone. A few hours later I was sitting on my back deck enjoying my own blossoms and thinking about dying when Arlo started barking. I hadn’t heard my friend’s car, but Arlo had. He was happy to see her. She joined us on the deck. She didn’t have to explain why she had come. We sat there for a long time not talking much. Not needing to talk much.

Stingrays

“Listen up, mates,” the divemaster said in his yummy Australian accent. “Rumor has it some of you were over-served last night, so we’ll do an easy second dive. We’re going to Stingray City.”

Kathryn turned away from Steve and headed for the weight bin. She’d need extra lead for the shallow dive on the sandbar where the Southern Stingrays came to be fed squid. Then she listened as Derek explained the ins and outs of diving Stingray City. How to accept squid from the divemasters. How to feed it to the stingrays, which didn’t bite. How to avoid the squid-stealing yellow snappers, which did.

Once in the water, Kathryn settled on the bottom, accepted a handful of squid from Irina, and hid it in a clenched fist. Soon a four foot stingray approached her, detecting the squid by smell. She moved her fist, making the creature dance through the water, before opening her hand so it could eat. Its soft underbelly, where the mouth was, felt velvety smooth. She watched it flap its wings and swim away, then grabbed another clump of squid to repeat the process. Around her, other divers were busy at the same game.

After forty-five minutes of play, they’d run out of squid, the stingrays had taken off for the deeper water, and the divers were back on the boat headed for the hotel dock. Kathryn saw to her gear, then found a seat in the stern of the boat, in the sun. She leaned back and shut her eyes, but opened them again at the sound of Steve’s voice. “That was cool.”

“Very cool.” His enthusiasm was endearing. Kathryn smiled at him and found herself blurting out, “They remind me of you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Come again?”

“They’re big and beautiful and gentle.”

His smile turned soft. He picked up her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed her palm. “And you have them eating out of your hand.”

Oh, damn. Why had she started this? Kathryn shifted gears. “And they have very impressive tails.”

He let go of her hand. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

“Go on the afternoon dive, have dinner, and... make an early night of it.”

She just stopped herself from saying, ‘go to bed early.’ That would have sounded like an invitation.

Who was she kidding? That would have been an invitation.

“Have dinner with me,” he said.

She thought of his breakfast invitation. “Room service?”

A flush rose on his cheeks. “No, not room service. I want to take you someplace nice. Or are you ashamed to be seen with me?”

“Of course not. But I like you better with less clothing than would be acceptable in a restaurant.”

His body stiffened. “Whatever.” He jerked around and walked away from her.

Wet Clothes

Mama piled the wet clothes in the wicker basket and yelled for me to get my lazy tail out from in front of that damned television and hang them out on the clothesline. “I wish the last television ever made was in the middle of hell swamp” I heard her mutter as I pushed open the back door and felt the cold wind hit me. I balanced the heavy basket of wet clothes against my belly as I crabbed-stepped down the back steps. The diapers I had hung out earlier were frozen stiff as a board. I moved the clothespin bag to an empty line and reached into the basket for the first piece of wet clothes. My chapped, red hand found one of daddy’s ragged undershirts. The wind tried to rip the shirt from my fingers as I pinned it to the line. I worked slowly. When I finished the only thing that waited for me inside the house was a blank TV screen and an angry mama. I never knew what set her off these days, but she could get madder than a scalded hen at the drop of a hat.

“Stop dawdling and take those diapers off the line.”

“They’re frozen!”

“Bring them in and put them by the stove.”

With some difficulty I managed to unpin the frozen diapers and maneuvered them into the house where I deposited them on the worn rug in front of the woodstove.

“Don’t get too comfortable. I’ll have another load wrung out and ready for you to hand in a minute.” She disappeared to the front porch where her old wringer washing machine was doing the shimmy under the weight of another load of wash. The Maytag was an improvement. Until Uncle Roswell hooked up the old machine, mama had boiled our clothes in a cauldron over a fire in the side yard and scrubbed them on a washing board. Her hands were red and raw. I looked at my own cold-chapped hands and went into the bedroom I shared with my sister to hunt for the Juergen’s lotion. I was rubbing onto my hands when mama came in with another basket of wet clothes. “If you’re done pampering yourself, Mrs. Rockefeller, these clothes are ready to hang out to dry.”

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