Almost two years

I'm adding my blog to the list of blogs that were started and then dropped, like a good habit. Two years and I'm back. I don't know if it is official. But, for today, it is.

I pause in a day that does not have time for pearl musings. I have no idea why today I decided to look at my blog and "reclaim" it now that google purchased it. I remember reading it in the news, but hadn't had to log in since....

I'm off to stick to my plan for the day. Perhaps soon, though, I will return.

Purple Underwear

Who wears their mother's old underwear?
I do--
with valor, zest and smiles
every time I whisk them down
or tug them up
or pick them out of the crack

How often does underwear make you smile?
Not very--
unless it's sexual, suggestive and bedtime
every time it's Valentine's Day
and they're red or black or pink
and oh-so-sexy, especially when they are not really there

But, she loved purple
my mother that is, and
so Joanie (Joanie, Joanie the all night pony)
sent her purple underwear
from California
for her birthdays

What a luxury!
The purple ones--
the only ones left with any elasticity
holding themselves onto her legs
and, now mine
they probably don't know the difference

Say Goodnight

"Goodnight P"
"You can't say goodnight yet. I'm still talking to you."
"But sometimes I fall asleep before you have said goodnight and then you wake me up with, goodnight T"
"You can't say something before it actually happens"
"Why not?"
"Well, Merry Christmas"
"Happy 50th Wedding Anniversary"
"Happy 37th birthday"

Then, I got excited for all those events that we would have together and I snuggled up close.

Sunshine on my Shoulder

Somehow, my ipod set to shuffle, I ended my workout with "Sunshine on my Shoulder" by John Denver. Stretching out on the gym mats, tears began rolling down my cheeks, finding their way down to meet tight hamstring. Mom loved that song, I could almost hear her singing it in the kitchen back home, then turning it up and starting it over again. John Denver's voice makes you want to cry for something he, himself seems to be mourning for. A deep sadness there that catches in the throat and then I am self-conscious of the other gym-goers--all the young chicks and dudes attending Ohio University--who are asking each other if they are going out tonight and suddenly my thighs feel huge and my pants blaringly different from all the other short shorts in the area. And, then "Here comes the Sun" was the next song and I had to smile as it was another mom favorite. As youngens two of my brothers and I did a lip sync to that Beatle tune in order to impress our parents and give them a show. I think we secretly were trying to give them a date night. We even did special lighting and gave out tickets to the show downstairs in our living room. My older brother played the air guitar well that evening. Our parents were so proud and, thinking back on it, they never mentioned the fact that the Beatles never had a female lead singer.

For Chuckles

He arrives into the room
breathing dried Rye grass
and stories of the clouds.

The youngest of five
found the muse of truth that
was running on the reservation
much sooner than the other four.

Wearing the green dinosaur shirt
or the red Cheshire cat tee
until they were paper thin
across his young boy body
made Pete and Georgia laugh
and the kids tease.

It saved time on laundry for the kid.

Then a young man
who found older sibling cologne
body scrubs and hair cuts
His body leaned
from long summer hours on the land--
working his family's way of life.

For harmony, he let the tone of the land
sculpt his last years of childhood
when abandoned by others
going off to college
losing to cancer
finding new love

And, then he found flying
just like the land, but different colors
His heart beat raw in the sky
He smiled and told stories at the dinner table
over prime rib and pasta
he grew

Hugging himself goodbye
he left
just like the others
looking over his shoulder
but to a new place
a place where he could call his own

Freshman year at University of Santa Cruz.

Superbowl Sunday

And, its the beloved 4 hour television advertiser's dream . . . masses of Americans piled up on their couches, reclining in their chairs and propping up their feet--mesmerized by men hitting one another, flying pigskin, beer, loud yelling, whistles, shiny uniforms, big biceps, and of course, the clever, colorful, this-one-is-funnier-than-last-year commercials. I can't wait because it is tradition. Because it makes my man so happy to do nothing but stare at a square screen, eating salt and pepper Krinkle cut potato chips with ranch dressing. I will make pizza dough and for 4 hours we will be the quintessential young American couple--full of ourselves in doing what everyone else is doing.

The windmill. A symbol of . . . I wonder how many children know what about the purpose of a windmill's. It's a beautiful backdrop or center stage for a landscape picture, used many times for illustrating the west, ranching, farming or simply the rural lifestyle. It is all of those things for me, as well as symbolic of home, my home, right in the front lawn.

My dad climbed to the top all the time. Once, he dropped some baby mice to show us that their bones were soft and that they could withstand the impact. Sure enough, they bounced and then scurried off into the shelter belt. My dad also used to climb up to throw our balsa wood gliders off. He and my older brother, Jesse, used to make and fly airplanes together. Dad dropped a few cats too, not from the very top, but from about half-way up, to show us kids how they could right themselves and land on their feet. They did. I can remember climbing up the windmill at least once a day in the summer just to have a different look of the land. It seemed that my heart raced just as fast every time. The most rickety wire steps were at the top, of course. A few bolts that always spun, a few steps that always creaked.

The top of the windmill was the best place to see what vehicle was coming down the road, where the smoke on the horizon was coming from and, most importantly, the best way to show off to your city visitors how brave you were--the oooo's and ahhh's and the "be careful" yells from the ground made the climbing experience that much fuller. When I was 6 years old, I felt this, with or without an audience. When I was 13, 17, 20 and now at 27 years old, I still get this incredible rush when climbing to the top of that windmill.

I was always told that this windmill was used by the old timers to pump water for the entire homestead. This water was the only water used for cooking, cleaning, bathing, watering, and drinking. Basically, windmills take advantage of a completely free source of power, the wind. Windmills harness the wind and use that energy to lift underground water to the surface of the land. When the wind blows, it turns the big fan at the top of the tower, which moves a large rod that is stuck in the ground up and down. This rod, in turn, powers a small cylinder pump located deep in the ground to move the water to the surface, where it can be hand pumped into buckets and carried for use or stored for later.

I have only seen water come out of this windmill a few times, but I sure loved pumping the big metal arm when I was a little girl. The pump arm made a great clank, real loud, and I could easily pretend water was gushing out the nozzle. It was fun until dad told us that we could ruin the underground well mechanism that way because there was no water.