Hawaii (& other trips ) With Dad

                      (My dad and me.  First journey together, a trip down the front door steps)

   It wasn’t unusual for the phone to ring on my office desk  at the Downey Call-Enterprise  early Monday morning, what was unusual  was to hear whose voice it was on the other end. 

“Kathy, it’s  your dad.” 

“Yes.  Hi ,  dad.” 
 

    Because my father lived in St. Louis, and it wasn’t his habit to call me at work, my first thought was to ask if everything was okay.  It was.  

    "I’ve got a  business meeting  with a client in Hawaii”, he said, “and would like  you to join me. How about it ?  Can  you get Thursday and Friday off ?   We’ll depart LAX Wednesday evening with a return flight Sunday night.”

    I had gone on other trips with my Dad, one when I was only  eight years old.  We  drove to Salt Lake City   from our  two bedroom duplex in Bell, California to attend my Uncle Pep’s outdoor  wedding. Mom  had a serious  eye infection so she and  my brother, Walt was unable to go.  For Dad n' me, it  was fun time.   Although,  I'm not sure how much company I was for dad, since I slept so much of the way.    We travelled in our  bright red ‘57 Chevy.  It reminded me of Christmas with it’s shiny silver like chrome trim.  Even at my young age I thought it was very cool,  and wonder  if dad had any idea then, our  '57 Chevy  would one day be a  classic !

    Another trip  Dad and I took  together was  June 14,  1968. The day after my high school graduation.  We flew to San Francisco to visit a college in Marin County I hoped to attend in the Fall.  My emotions were raw, giving way to typical teenage dramatics. Not only was I tired  from attending the all night party at Disneyland,  I fretted    my comfortable  and familiar life at Bell High was ending ,  and was sad I'd  no longer be part of it. I worried about the future.   Dad was his usual optimistic self, and very encouraging, telling me   my future was bright, and I had much to look forward to. How right he was !, and how grateful I am for his promising words of encouragement.

     But  our trip to Hawaii was truly special ! Dad and I had  fabulous fun exploring the Aloha state,  taking in main attractions on both Oahu and Kauai;   Diamond Head, Pearl Harbor, Banyan Trees,  the Fern Grotto, and Upside Down Falls. We ate Poi at the Polynesian Culture Center,   juicy pineapple at Dole Plantation, and sipped  refreshing Pina Colada’s    on the white sand of Poipu Beach.    I always thought if Dad didn’t have a  successful career in marketing,  he would have made an excellent travel planner or tour guide ! He's the best at seeking out, and finding the most interesting places to visit.

 

      After sightseeing all day Saturday,  we had  dinner that night   with Dad’s client  and his wife at a small  Japanese restaurant  tucked away  in a corner of Honolulu far away  from the tourist filled  high rise hotels, and well worn  Waikiki path. It didn’t take long for Dad and I to recognize we were the only Anglo’s there,  and only three of us were speaking English—Dad, Dad’s client and me.  Petite Japanese women wore kimonos, and bowed  their head each time  they greeted us, and  lots of tea and Saki being served .  With our   look a like dark  brown eyes, dad and I  smiled at each other, as if in silent agreement  acknowledging  it was a  most  charming evening. Later that night I reflected on how different  it was in the 1940's , when Japan and the United States were at war, and how much better it is  now  that we're friends and allies , able to  enjoy meals, music and laughter  together.

 

     For me, my  Hawaii holiday with Dad ranks  high on my list of favorite times,   not only because it was spontaneous, and such a happy surprise ,  or  because of  all the special sights we saw,  but because I was with my dad;  neither one of us had been to Hawaii before,  it was a first time experience we shared together, and  now , like a warm tropical  breeze, the sweet memory of our island adventure  gently lingers on, and makes me hungry for fresh pineapple, and another trip with Dad !

.

Daytime Moon, Summer Sun

The fiery sun is  too bright to
look at straight away, even
with my sunglasses on
The heat of the sun, on this
nearly cloudless day is hot
against my skin as i work
a landscape project, lining
up bricks and setting 12 x 12
stone squares in sand
i wipe my brow, and
glance upward - The sun, still slowly

moving on its path from east
to west will soon be
directly overhead
What grabs my attention                      
isn't the normality of the
summer sun,  but the unusual                                                    
daytime moon, propped like a soft,

white halo resting high  above                    
age-old  trees

Gavin's Birthday

From the first moment I  got a  glimpse
of him, my heart was captured,  and totally his
He came into the world with
a  head full of hair, and long toes
and fingers - perfect for playing
the piano someday
 He was the most beautiful
baby I'd ever seen. The nearness of
him wrapped in my arms, his new
breath so close to mine brought
joy beyond compare. My own
precious son, so sweet and fair

Poetry and Pottery (& my Grandma Viv)

A couple weeks ago I stopped at Browser’s Books, a small  over-stocked used bookstore  in Coeur d Alene to   peruse their poetry section. I quickly found the Robert Frost I was looking for, when another book of poems  caught my attention, Mostly California  by Don Blanding.   Copyright 1948, published by Dodd Mead.   Initially , the author wasn’t the reason I picked the book from the shelf, but  California.  I was raised in the golden state, moving there with my family when I was 4 years old,  not moving away  until I was 42.  I enjoy reading about California history, especially southern California   1930’s thru the seventies, and  am old enough to remember the sweet smell of colorful orange groves dotting the land, oil wells pumping  the ground  along Telegraph Road, and freeways not yet crowded with bumper to bumper traffic.

So after reading  the  description  on the inside cover,   “Mostly California is entirely Blanding in its colorful presentation, by drawings and verse, of California,  the Land of Gold; of the Padres and Forty-niners;  of the magic of the mountains and deserts and redwoods; of the fabulous cities and towns and of Hollywood with its glittering stars”, I knew I had to buy it. 

To my great delight I discovered Blanding wasn’t only a poet, but a pottery artist/designer  for Vernon Kilns,  the same  southern California company my maternal grandmother worked for  in the 1940’s and 50’s,   hand—painting their  popular plaid pattern  dinnerware.   

Just as I was familiar with poetry from an early age, I was also familiar with Vernon Kilns , not only because Grandma Vivian was an employee,  but because  their Organdie pattern  was the dishes grandma used to set her table  -  the dishes I would help wash and dry after eating dinner.  The same pattern I have now.

For the past several years I’ve used  that set  at Thanksgiving, and other special occasions.  They always trigger a warm feeling, and bring happy memories of my grandmother and the wonderful meals she prepared , and holidays shared.  And of Scrabble games played , when  she and I would  eat ice cream from  brown and yellow plaid  bowls. Each one  marked on the bottom,  Under glaze Hand Painted ORGANDIE Veronware California U.S.A .

I’m sure I didn't think much about it then,  but today it makes me smile, and proud  to know many of the painted   are from my grandmother’s own hand.

My Wooded Realm

How i delight in this  wooded realm, the
small  outdoor kingdom  i
share with a family of lively  rabbits and
white  tail deer, wild turkey
and busy bee's ; Eagles, grosbeak
and chickadee, and the tiny hummingbird
sipping nectar from wildflowers
 No artist's rendering dare
compare to this panormic
view of  deep, blue lake
and  evergreen trees, some
older than me, standing
tall with all their majesty

American Authors, The Flag & Freedom

Hooray for the red, white and blue

for the stars n’ stripes that

wave so proudly from

pillar and post, from

 roof top and Cemetery grave,

From city park and baseball

field, and to the

Republic for which it stands;

For the parade of citizens

of every nationality, language

and color of skin

We the people. Not the politician,

pundit, or demagogue.

We the people—our voices heard

Freedom of Speech

Freedom of Religion

Freedom from Want

Freedom from Fear

Democracy.

Orators and statesmen,  proclaim

It loud, proclaim it clear

“One nation under God, indivisible,

With liberty and justice for all”

Our pledge of allegiance  - cherish the

words, hold it dear.

Since Monday is 4th of July, and we observe and celebrate the day with barbecue, picnics, and fireworks; Salute the flag and everything USA, and because WNI is a blog dedicated to writers and writing,  I thought I would mention a few favorite authors whose prose and style are uniquely American.  Whittier, Whitman, Dickinson, Twain, Crane, Sandburg and  Poe;  Robert Frost, and  the poem he wrote for Kennedy’s inauguration :

To break with followers when in the wrong,

A healthy independence of the throng,

A democratic form of right divine

To rule first answerable to high design

And in The Gift Outright ,  Frost prophetically   writes,

To the land vaguely realizing westward,

But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,

Such as she was, such as she would become.

Since the birth of our nation, there have been  many writers we acclaim, and hold in high esteem—Franklin, Jefferson and Paine, who wrote of liberty and lofty goals.  James Fenimore Cooper, Melville and Hawthorne—bringing to life The Last of the Mohicans , a menacing whale, and witch trials. Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Hemingway;  Willa Cather, and Little Women’s , Louisa May  Alcott. 

Each one presents, and helps preserve a slice of Americana through the  stories they write. They tell us about the lay of the land during  certain time and space,  of people and places , prejudice and
 great generosity -  the challenges of life, choosing good over evil. Always, a call to freedom of spirit prevails.


So, this  4th of July, along with cheering  fireworks bursting bright,  I encourage you to read a book by an American author, who also  sheds a light— a light of knowledge and  imagination about our America; Who we were, who we are—  

To all of you, Happy 4th of July ! Let Freedom Ring.

*** NOTE: I originally wrote  this blog for    Writing North Idaho  http://writingnorthidaho.blogspot.com    It was first  posted  July 1, 2011

A Good Day

Today was a good day

no fuss,no muss -

together we pulled weeds

from the garden, and 

worked in the yard

i made lunch - ham and turkey

sandwiches on whole wheat 

bread with a little mayo, 

and honey mustard, and 

green olives stuffed with 

garlic on the side;  My husband reached over 

and touched my hand, 

still warm from the heat of  the

sun, and warmth of his love

Chorus of Birds

4:30 a.m.  The window (slightly) open
 lets in cool, fresh air
from the wooded outside
The first light of day begins to filter
through slat shades, taking away the
dark of night from the closed
door bedroom. A loud, and
persistent chirp, chirp, chirp and
rising and falling passage of
cheek-a-dee, cheek-a-dee-dee
awakes me from restful sleep
like an early morning alarm
Soon the tweet, tweet, tweet
and ik- a- eek, ik-a-eek-eek
from other nearby birds
join their voices to the
growing winged chorus,
rousing  me from bed

Everyday Beauty

What i did today
is what i did yesterday, and
what i'll do tomorrow
sit on the deck
to drink my morning (decaf) coffee
and contemplate the loveliness
of  here and now;
The beauty of the lake
 the Evergreen tree
the blue of the sky
and swallow-like Swifts
swiftly gliding by
like a  sail on the sea

Cousins

Our fathers are brothers. Their sister is our aunt (except to Lynn, Lon and Beth - to them  she's  mother). Their parents are our grand-parents, making us related from the day of our birth,  giving us ancestors in common,  and familial traits recognized in one another.

Since Lynn, Shauna and I are the oldest of the Cooney cousins we probably  recall, and remember best  those first, early happy days at Grandma and Grandpa's house in  Council Bluffs, Iowa playing hide n' seek in the upstairs bedrooms, helping grandma bake cookies and picking raspberries with grandpa in the backyard.

But one thing  all of us can  easily  remember are the  wonderful letters grandma  so lovingly wrote  throughout the years, keeping us apprised of each others endeavors,  and encouraging us to stay close in heart - even as we grew older and lived miles apart. That we would continue to keep in touch, and affirm one another  was important to our grandmother - in her last Will and Testament Grandma stated she wanted all of  her 14 grandchildren to be at her funeral service,  and provided airfare for each of us to be there.

That was 25 years ago. Since then our children have grown, and some of them now have children. In April I attended  the wedding of cousin Nicole's daughter, Megan to her Prince Charming  in Mesa, Arizona , and  the Sunday before last had a  prime seat at  the Coeur d Alene Summer Theater to see cousin Kevin's daughter, Mallory star as  Dorothy in the musical production, Wizard of Oz . On both occasions I thought of Grandma, and how pleased she would be.

In May, 2010   my brother, Walt passed away.  The first of Grandma and Grandpa's grandchildren to do so.  Those who read my blog know I  write  about Walt often , and continue to miss him very much.  When his death was new, and my grief  raw, my cousins rallied around me with their unsolicited support, giving me strength.

 Nicole (and my Aunt Cheri) flew all night long,  from Montserrat to St. Louis, changing planes three times to   attend Walt's Memorial Service. Their presence meant more to me than words could ever tell.   And our cousin, Kim did the same from Seattle. Kim was the soloist, so sweetly singing at his cousins service.  Lynn, Lon, Elizabeth called offering solace, and words of love about Walt. Hearing their voices, and  stories they shared about Walt  lifted my spirit, and helped me heal.     Kevin brought a 5ft  fir tree  to my home, to    plant on our property in memory of his cousin, and   Shauna made a special trip to visit with me,  to give comfort and support, and share her  remembrances of my brother.

A year has passed, and again Shauna and her husband, Al were here. We spent a lovely Saturday  afternoon having lunch, and  chatting about all sorts of things (musing on the past,  present hopes, and future dreams).  When it came time to say good-bye and we hugged our farewells,  I couldn't help but think   we may be scattered all over,  and busy with our lives, but  there is a bond we Cooney cousins  share , one that  brings us together in time of need - sometimes sorrow, sometimes joy -   a bond rooted deep  in our grandmother's enduring love.

Light of the Sun

The garden is planted ;
Seeded rows of  carrots
 and beets, radish ,  summer squash,
and leafy lettuce top the soil
Flowers, bright with color
are in full  bloom, while  baby birds
chirp to their mother in
early morn for something
to eat. Grass is green, sky
is blue.Oh,  how glorious the  earth
born  anew  in  light of the sun

Try To Imagine

We're told early man communicated with grunts and groans, and by drawing pictures on the wall of a cave.
The other day I tried  to imagine not having a language to express myself ;  No words to speak or write, no literary prose or poems to read. No letters, lyrics or periodicals to peruse.  The task was too taxing, I couldn't do it.  I couldn't  clear my mind of  vocabulary, and how important words  are in  allowing  us to  share thought and sentiment. To me, they seem   as vital to our emotional health  as blood flowing unrestricted  in our veins is to a healthy heart.

No, I can't  imagine not being able to say :

I love you
I like you
You make me smile
I'm happy
I'm sad
Will you forgive me ?
I forgive you 


or

Write a thank you note
Send a birthday greeting
a get well card
Keep a journal
Write a blog
Read the Bible
Sing a song


Words have a lot of power. I believe the old idiom , the pen is mightier than the sword  to be true. Words can be used   to edify or  destroy, to belittle or boost another's  efforts, to throw daggers or crown with stars.  It is always our choice in what words we use, and how we use them. Best used, words are a precious  gift to give, and receive.

Makes Me Smile

 My brother liked to laugh and have a good time; He enjoyed life, and  brought joy to  the people around him - friend and stranger alike.

In a conversation  several months before his death, Walt talked to me about who his role models were when he was growing up, and how it was never his  goal to sit  around in an office reading books, and  doing paperwork,  (as if I didn't know) but learning to ride  motorcycles, fishing, guns, cars . He wanted adventure,  and the outdoor life. I'd say he followed his heart pretty well along those lines.  Walt was a fine  fisherman, knew a lot about cars,  had a prize gun collection, and owned a Harley.

Two years ago, Walt called  to ask if I'd take a road trip with him on the back of his motorcycle. I asked if he was joking.  He wasn't . "We'll  have a great time", he said. I hemmed and hawed a bit too long.   "You're not afraid to ride with me,are you?"   I told him, no ,but in truth I was. My daring,  and longing for adventure didn't quite match my brother's. Thinking about it now, I'd give anything if i could turn back time,  as Cher sings,  "If I could find a way". I wouldn't hesitate a minute to  pack my  saddlebag (with a bottle of tranquilizers),   and  take that road trip with Walt. He was right, we'd have  a grand time ! Him in his Harley leathers, me in my Harley boots ,  we'd be a poster promo for  brother and sister  bikers on the loose.
This Memorial Day marks a year since Walt's been gone. We, his family and friends think of him tenderly - the darling baby, the cute little boy, the fun-loving teenager, and the good man he was.

A few minutes ago I read a poignant letter from dad, recalling funny things Walt said when he was little. Dad wrote,  While at Mass one Sunday,  he asked me, "Why do the Sisters wear cowboy hats?"

 Last night, with both tears and laughter, my mother and I sat together telling and re-telling stories about Walt, and the  joy he was to us.

Because my parents divorced when Walt and I were young, and  dad moved to St. Louis,   for many years it was just Mom, Walt and me - we called ourselves The Three Muskateers, and shared a special bond  of caring and  togetherness . It truly seemed we were , " One for all , and all for one".  Our home operated on team work. Mom was the leader. She went to work every day, Walt and I to school, but each of us were responsible for certain daily/weekly tasks .  For awhile I did the ironing, but didn't iron Walt's shirts to his liking so he took over that job, and was I glad he did ! I hated to iron, and do to this day. Walt also liked to cook better than I did. And kept his drawers neater than mine. When we got older , Walt would tease me , and we'd  laugh about him being a better housekeeper than me !

We also played together.  Mom would get home from work at 5:30, we'd give her just enough time to change her clothes,  never realizing how tired she was ,then we'd drive to the beach for some summer fun. While mom watched, Walt and I would make believe we were great body surfer's ,  and toss a Frisbee. It was an idylic time in our lives.

It's impossibe to capture all the memories of my life with Walt in a paragraph or two, and what he meant to me,  but I'll continue to tell stories about him, and in doing so will smile.


















."

Robin Red Breast

i sit at the kitchen table
looking out the window
at a Robin Red Breast
starring  back at me.
She doesn't seem bothered                
or concerned about the
weather or other birds,
but content and carefree;
Enjoying the quiet of
her early morning reverie.

Note: The American Robin (Turdus Migratorius) is a common and familiar bird throughout north Idaho,  making   their habitat in towns, lawns, farmland, and open forest.  Easily  recognized by its grey back, yellow bill and brick red breast, and by the sound of their sweet, lilting sing-song .  According to Stan Tekiela in Birds of Idaho Field Guide, Robin Redbreasts  aren't listening for worms when they cock their head to one side, but are looking with eyes that are placed far back on the sides of their heads. To learn more about Robin's and other birds, I suggest  The Cornell Lab of Ornithology at http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/American_Robin/id

Like Diamonds & Jewels

The lake shimmers, and sparkles
in the brightness of early
morning  sun, like diamonds
and jewels displayed at
Tiffany's;  A flock
of crow fly overhead
flapping their wings
like sails in the wind
across the pale blue
north Idaho sky,
while a lone bird
sits perched  high atop
a tall fir whistling his
cheery tune
At this moment, at this time
all seems good, and right
with the world

No Sun Today

There's a saying  in north Idaho  folks make about the weather, "Wait ten minutes, and it'll change". Ten minutes may be an exaggeration, but not much  (and not always true in the long cold winter), but certainly the weather  here  can be  unpredictable, and often changes from hour to hour, and certainly day to day.  Just two days ago that  May day was filled with things of spring; Lovely blue skies and warming sun.  We moved outdoor furniture onto the deck and sat outside drinking morning coffee, enjoying the lake view.  Not so this day.
 Today   the sun is in hiding, the sky dim and grey
covering the land  like a canopy;
A canopy full of holes
unable to keep the rain away
from an already rain soaked
earth, making mud of dirt
and puddles in the newly
planted vegetable garden.

May Day

This merry day, the 14th of May in beautiful, bountiful north Idaho
was grand and glorious from early morn until late evening; A warming sun
made it pleasant to work outside - planting seed, pulling weeds and
painting wrought iron benches and discolored fences.

Overhead, an Eagle in flight caught my attention, while nearby
a squirrel made a covert move from his hidden domain, to the
bird feeder hanging from the tree. In a moment's time,
both the squirrel and the feeder broke from the branch and
 landed on the ground with a loud ka-boom, and the startled
 squirrel scurried off to whence he came.

Friends - Past, Present, Future

Wapato Point, once part of the Chief Moses Indian Reservation  in northern Washington, and gathering place for Native Americans in the 1800's, now provides a peaceful, picturesque setting for this trio of long time, life long  friends. Sandy, Margaret and I   meet there  once a year for what we like to  call  the Friendship Retreat.

Free of family chores and daily duties, we laugh  and play   like the carefree kids we once were, and talk, talk, talk from the moment we wake until it's again time for sleep. We listen, too, not just with our ears, but with our hearts  about husbands, daughters and sons,  and beloved brothers now deceased;  House plans, travel plans,the book we're reading, and books we've read. We reflect about the ever changing  world, and our faith in God, convinced Divine Providence  brought us together back in '65 when we were lowly high school freshmen. We  reminisce about those early days of friendship and are  so familiar with each other,   one easily picks up the story where the other leaves off -   about where we lived, what we did, who we were then. We've come to know,  and  appreciate ours is a shared history, an evolving history that connects our past to present, into the future.

Commitment & Love

i lay my head on his shoulder
he takes my hand in his hand
we sit comfortably, cozy on the
family room couch, watching t.v.
and eating chocolate covered peanuts
and pistachios
At the commercial i ask,
"are you ready for a game
of cribbage"?  He nods
his head yes, and together
we move to the  table
to set up the board and shuffle cards
Sometimes i win, but not very often;
Gary is the acclaimed cribbage  champ
i'm competitive though,  and count
my crib 15-2,15-4,15-6
to make the game close

we exchange words of love
and reminisce about the many years
we've shared a bed, and a million other things
We smile at remembering  our younger  days
raising two sons, building a business, making a home
and wonder how the time slipped away so quickly
We look  into each others eyes, and
quietly know  commitment, and love
 is forged deep between us, and  those vows  made
thirty-two years ago (today)  forever  hold true

April Days

Baby birds. Baby bunnies. Young squirrels scampering across
rain soaked ground looking for someplace to hide their food;
A herd of elk browsing on newly sprouted grass
in an open field nearby.
Mountain Man Gary hard at work, rota-tilling earth
and building boxes ten by five
to plant his home grown garden ,
and a fence to keep deer from
reaping the harvest

Cool temps bring wind and hail, and afternoon storms -
not warm enough for me  to wear flip-flops and shorts
but warm enough for the Maple  to bud, and
tulips to bloom

BLOGGERS

Why blog?  I'm not exactly sure.  For most of us, it's not the money earned or accolades won, a new book published or literary score, but the hope of someone reading what we write, and finding it worth their time. Some blog to document the growth of babies and social events, others to rant and rave about something - anything they find fault with..

I blog to practice the skill of writing,  and   tell a story via essay, memoir,or poem. Perhaps a funny anecdote or sad plight; It might be  something heartfelt, thought provoking, or just plain silly  but whatever the story is, the words I write are  part of me, mine to share.

Another Take on Washing Feet

In my last blog I shared the happy experience of having my first pedicure and how Hannah took each foot, bathed them in a bowl of water,  and wiped them dry. There was something about her gentle, caring way that reminded me of how Jesus washed the feet of the apostles.  Even more so today,  as it's Holy Thursday. This night Christians  around the world commemorate Jesus' humble act - the washing of feet.

At first Peter squawked, " You, Lord? Wash my feet ?  No way!", but  Jesus kindly  rebuked him, " If I do not wash you, you have no part of me." Peter answered, "Lord, not my feet only, but also my hands and head."

Jesus was showing by example the importance of serving others, and of allowing others to serve us. Sometimes, isn't just hard to let others do for us?  We feel less independent, less in control, less powerful; Embarrassed, and even unworthy.   But isn't  that the point?  Recognizing in some way we are all a broken people, only made whole again by allowing another to minister to us at certain times in our life ?  Isn't that what Jesus was saying  to Peter,  when we serve, and allow another to serve us,  we truly become a part of each other.

When you let me take, I'm grateful.
When you let me give, I'm blessed
- Author unknown


The nature of love is to humble oneself
-St. Therese

First Pedicure

There the six of us sat , all lined up in a row,  comfortable and relaxed in over sized  massage chairs that snuggled  the contour of our upper body like a baseball in a catcher's mitt. Our ages ranged from 28 years to 74, and at 60 I was at the upper tilt of that scale.  No matter, this was a big day for me , I was about to have my very first pedicure (manicure, too) ,  and was filled  with the same happy anticipation  any twenty year old might have looking forward to experiencing something new.

 Being a  somewhat cautious person, I must admit there was  a wee part of me not quite sure   how  I felt about someone I didn't know  touching my feet, and cutting my toenails. But that  feeling quickly passed   when  Hannah, a soft spoken,  kindly woman of Vietnamese descent gently took my dry, rough  feet,  bathed them in a bowl of  scented  water,  and  wiped them clean. With her experienced hands, she massaged each foot  with soothing ointment and lotion. It was wonderful !  I began to feel more  like a pedigree pup, pampered and spoiled. All the while , my aunt and  cousin, her daughter-in-law, two family friends and me continually chatted and laughed together, enjoying each others company,  and our early morning pedicure party.

 Hannah  used  her  special tools to clip,snip and file, prime and polish,  and  like a sculptor with  his clay,   she  made   my  feet and toes  into a new creation.  Yes,  my first pedicure,  but not my last !

Wedding Day

England's Prince William and Kate Middleton aren't  the only pair with big  wedding plans this month.  My grandma and grandpa Cooney's great-granddaughter, Megan was the most beautiful bride when she and her Benj were married  last Saturday, April 9. Other than unusually  cool Arizona  temperatures, a bit of desert  wind and evening rain, the day was perfect in every way.   Meg's happiness was contagious. I watched  her face,  radiant with joy,   and   thought of grandma, knowing she would be so happy,too. 

Weddings are a cheerful and merry occasion. Meg and Benj's especially so.  Parents of the bride and  groom; Aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers and sisters, long time friends, and newly acquainted friends gathered together to witness two hearts  becoming one;  To celebrate the vows they made,   and love they share.

Ladies in lovely dress

men in suit and tie

flowers,  and flower girls -

(little boys squirming,  having a hard time 

sitting still)

Scented candles,  a three tiered cake

and beautiful music -

A toast   to the new  Mr.& Mrs., 

and cheers for their happily 

ever after, (eternal)  wedded bliss

A Love For Poetry

Longfellow, Whittier, Whitman, James Whitcomb Riley and Eugene Field; Dickinson, Millay,  Kilmer, e.e. Cummings and  Ezra Pound. Familiar names to me  just  like  Christy Mathewson, Dizzy Dean and Babe Ruth are to baseball fans.  That’s because from  the time I was a very little girl  my mother would read poetry to my  brother and me  - sometimes  during the day or after dinner, but always at bedtime.

I didn't understand  then about quatrain (four lines), tercet (three lines) or couplet (two lines),  nor did I know about  pure rhymes, slant rhymes or internal rhymes -  that would come much later. I only knew it was soothing and sweet to hear the sound of my  mother’s voice as she read about The Duel  between the gingham dog and calico cat., The Barefoot Boy kissed by strawberries on the hill, and Psalm of Life:

Let us then be up and doing

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait

 Because my mother so lovingly shared her fondness for poetry with me, I grew to have the same affection for reading poetry . I  found I liked poetry as story, and fitting words together like pieces of a puzzle.   One of my first attempts at writing a  poem  was when I was nine years old, and my fourth grade  teacher, Sister Mary  Wahlburg   had all of her students  compose a  non-sense verse. Here’s mine:

If I were a fish

I wouldn’t live in a dish

But in an aquarium

I’d play spish, spash, spish

If I were a goat

I’d wear a furry coat

Nibble on green grass

and drink from a glass

I thought it was brilliant, as only a nine year old can,  and made a special copy  to  give to my  grandmother Cooney for Christmas that year.  She  raved about it, telling me it was a wonderful poem, and encouraged me to write more. Now , that’s a grandma’s love for sure.

In recent years  my dad gave me the book,  How to Write Poetry .  He inscribed it,  To Kathy, my favorite poet (Now, that’s a dad’s love for sure),  I read in this book: Sometimes a few beautiful well-constructed  lines are more powerful than any thousand page novel could possibly be. So this book challenges you to always seek the few beautiful well-constructed lines.  My Love, Dad 

On the inside cover dad  made a few more  helpful  notations; Guidelines  he picked from the book:

*  Show joy, awe & love

*  Every word in a poem plays a role in creating rhythm

*Be creative, not careless

*Where do you begin ? Begin at the beginning with a thought or a phrase

*Poetry is personal and there isn’t a right or wrong way to write a poem.

I’m a lot older than nine now, but I still  write prose, poetry and essay, and because I’m no longer nine , or 39 or 59 I don’t think my writing is  as brilliant as I did when I was in the fourth grade,  but  that doesn’t stop me. I write on !

postscript: April is National Poetry Month.  Be kind to a poet !  To view my blog Solitude, Salvator and Ella Wheeler Wilcox  go to  http://writingnorthidaho.blogspot.com/2011/04/solitude-salvator-and-ella-wheeler.html

My Brother's Journal

I think my desire to write comes quite naturally.  My paternal grandmother often wrote prose and poetry, as does my dad.  My mother writes, too; Lovely words expressing moments in time, and feelings.  What I didn't know is  what a good writer my brother was.  Perhaps, the  best writer in our family.   That was a delightful discovery I  made this past weekend.

Although Walt lived in St. Louis, he stored many of his things at our mother's home, including a mid size duffel bag. Whenever he came to visit he'd go into  the garage to check on his  stuff, and would  point to the duffel bag telling  mom he didn't want her to ever toss it out, but didn't want her to open it.  She never did. It became kind of a family joke - "What the heck could Walt have in that bag, and why was he so secretive about it ?"  Mom would just shrug her shoulders and say, " I don't know, but your brother told me not to get into it, and I'm not going to."

That changed on Sunday.  Since my brother has been gone almost a year, I told our mother it was time to open the bag.  So that's what we did. No hundred dollar bills or rare coins, something much more meaningful - greeting cards and letters from family and friends , mostly dated from the mid to late 1980's - some from the early 1990's .   There were business cards from places Walt worked at while he lived in Phoenix, and lots of pens and pencils.  Then from the bottom of the bag, I lifted a file folder filled with a stack of papers. I saw immediately  it was   Walter's printing, and to my great, happy  surprise found he had kept a journal of sorts.  What a wonderful gift.  His thoughts, his words in his own writing . My eyes opened wide, I excitedly called out, "Mom, look ! Walt wrote these " , then began to read aloud:


by Walter Cooney

#1

What is it 
when they say, " I was touched by love"
I see love in her eyes every 
time I look into them
and when she talks I hear
love in  my ears, when we kiss
I can taste her love 
on my lips, but when I hold
her tight in bed, it's more 
than love, it's two
becoming one.

#2
This is it. The last day.
I have not seen everything there 
is to see, and I do not know 
what every man should know.  My
love for people is enormous, and love
for life even more. But this is it. 
 I ask myself, Where does a man go 
when there's no where to go?
Nothing left to be done
I don't know

# 3

My dad. He must be the smartest man in the world; the smartest man I know.  I could learn so much
from him. His fault is he will not listen to what I have to say, or give me a chance to raise my own opinion.
My mother is my Best Friend. I would , all though I can't talk to her all the time the way I want too.  Mom is always there trying to help me - like no one else. Never once can I remember mom saying, "Walt, you can't do it", or you won't make it. And the same goes for my sister, Kathy - I can't think of anything I am afraid of,
except going to my grave without my mother- sister- father knowing how I love them.


This last one brought tears to our eyes.  In that moment I wished with all my might Walt could be sitting there in that room with us. I wanted to hug my brother,  and tell him we did know how much he loved us, and to say,   "please Walt, always know how very much Mom, Dad and me love you".

                                                                         #


postscript:  These were just a few samples from Walt's journal.  Some of the writing will remain private as he would want it that way, some  I may share from time to time, as I want others to read his words to  see what a good writer he was...  his poems and essays  both  heartwarming and heart wrenching -    presenting a better picture of himself  during that time  than any camera shot ever could.  

*** To read my blog WRITE ON, WRITERS!  and more about my brother's journal please link to
http://writingnorthidaho.blogspot.com/2011/04/write-on-writers.html

Oh Spring, Where Art Thou ?

A few days ago I wrote a tiny poem about spring  for the Idaho Writers League (IWL) newsletter:

Spring is sunshine,
warmer days and
flowers ready to bloom,
budding trees, blue sky
and birds crooning
their early morning
song, sweet song


But I must have been delusional, or perhaps just hopeful, because there is no spring here.  Not in north Idaho. No warm, sunny days or tulips on the rise. Only

Grey clouds, a charcoal colored sky
rain and wind
slashing, bashing
through the trees,
crashing against the house
Muddy, ruddy earth
soggy ground -
too wet to be outside,
even the deer are hiding.
Where is Spring?
The sunshine and flowers
to lift ones spirit
from the drab freeze of  winter


I don't know, but please
Spring, get here soon.

March 17

Comin' from the Irish (Cooney on me father's side, Norton on me mother's),
I honor the great  St. Padraic  by
 prayin'  his Lorica:

(I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through a belief in the threeness,
Through a confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation),

and  by  wearin' of the green
I  fancy the  wee fairies
and sprite like leprechaun , enjoy a   pint of Guinness
and ancient  Celtic song
I wear the Shamrock proudly
and carry me rosary beads
I'm cookin' Irish stew
and bakin' soda bread
I listen to Irish music

while dancin' an Irish jig

Land of the Rising Sun

i lay on my bed
comfortable and warm
A lamp sits on the nightstand -
bright enough to cast a warm,
shadowy glow across the room; Light
enough for me to read a book
and write my journal pages.
Tonight i think of those
without even a blanket,
let alone a bed
without electricity
or toilet to flush
their crumpled earth
and washed out land
of broken lives,
and loved ones lost -
the people of Japan
Then  i cry,
and hope
and pray
the Rising Sun
will  shine  again

Ashes

 For many Christians Ash Wednesday is  the start of Lent, the forty days prior to Easter when the church  calls us  to reflect upon,  and contemplate more deeply the passion of Christ and   His sacrificial,  redeeming grace ; His  unconditional love for all mankind. For  Catholic Christians, we   are reminded of our own mortality when the priest uses  the sacramental,  blessed  ashes  to mark our forehead in the Sign of the Cross.

Father Jerry,  in his homily tonight made  it very clear about life and death, and   what  really matters. He told about those on the fated flights of 9/11, and how the record shows  many of the  passengers,  knowing they were going to die in a matter of minutes  used their cell phones to call loved ones to say, " Forgive me,  "I'm sorry" and " I love you".  

That sums it up pretty good,  doesn't it ? In the end, when our life on this earth is near over,  it doesn't  matter how much money we have, how famous we are, how educated,  political  or intellectual  we are; What matters most  is how we have loved, and  how we're  loved in return.

Thumbnail Drive

Since my brother's death last May, I'm thankful Kerri and I have remained close.  We text and  talk about television programs and movies we both watch; We talk  about the  weather, work, and other happenings of the day, and  in between  remember  Walt. The thumbnail drive Kerri sent arrived in the mail today.

I hear his voice

and see his face

throwing a Frisbee to his 

dog B

He looks like I remember him,

and acts like he always did;

Unpretentious and jovial,

having fun with life.

If only I could reach out 

to touch his arm,

stand by his side

and throw the Frisbee, too
and laugh together like
we used to do

(But my little  brother
 isn't here, not
 of this world,
 not anymore near;  So I slide
the mouse to  move the cursor
on the screen,  and click 'replay' -
then I see  the blue
of his eyes,  his smile,
and charming style  over and
 over again)

Snow, Seasons, Missy & Spring

Okay.  So I was wrong last week to pack away my snow shoes, winter pants and poles thinking spring was just around the corner.  I had been  fooled by  mild weathered  days,  and sunshine.  Not today. The calendar says March first, but it feels a lot more like January one.   No sun.  No puffy, fluffy cotton like clouds. No hint of blue sky.  Only grey and cold and lots of white - covering the ground like a blanket on a bed.  I'm beginning to think spring in north Idaho might not arrive until summer!  But I'm adaptable.   So once again, out come the snow shoes, poles and winter pants.  I whistled for Missy dog and off we went to forge a path across knee high snow.

 Missy enjoys being outside as much as I do.  Sometimes she takes off to cut her own trail, but when snow is deep, like today,  she  follows  behind me in the ruts I've made packing the snow down with my Yukon Jack's.   I pause and stop along the way to look up and around, awed by the total quiet and beauty of this place.  I offer a prayer of praise, thanking God for seasons and snow and  know when I take this walk in May, I  will think again of the beauty of the season, thankful for spring - warm, sunny days, and flowers in bloom.