In one of my earlier blogs, I asked to be shot if I didn't get a memoir finished within a year. Don't shoot! I produced a memoir. If I remember correctly, I did not specify exactly what kind of a memoir? What I finally produced is a chapbook of poetry containing a bit of genealogy, and then the "story" of my life thus far.
It is a hit! I published (that means my computer and printer and I published) two versions. The first was so not cool, just normal typing paper folded in half, with a poem on each page. And no pictures. Instead, I used STICKERS! I know, I can't believe I stooped so low. And the type font was so tiny even sharp eyes could benefit from a magnifier. The next version is 30-something pages of 8 1/2 X 11 paper, with card-stock fronts and backs, a clear plastic cover sheet and a binding by Office Depot. I used my own photography for the cover.
My family is in love with the product. Now of course they're not prejudiced. Not at all. Well, I'm almost certain they're not influenced by love, or just hilarity, or embarrassment. Never mind, I'm happy with the product. I'll leave you with two of the poems.
Life in Five Stanzas
I fell into a ditch near school
when I was in first grade,
trying to walk across a pipe
over that ditch--I fell, my classmates
didn't. I wondered what that long
word uncoordinated meant?
I fell out of a chinaberry tree
when I was about ten and
landed on my head and mama
said I was lucky 'cause that was
the hardest part of me and she
wasn't worried even a little bit.
I fell off my big horse Judy
when I was twelve and was sure
I was dead or about to die but
eventually my breath came back
and I inched my way up in the saddle
and rode her back to the barn.
I fell out of love with my husband
when I was in my twenties and had
too many kids to leave so stayed and
had two more plus scars on my body
and deeper ones on my heart and
fearsome ones inside my head.
I fell in the yard and broke some ribs
when I grew old and had no one to blame
except for my love for gardening and
perhaps Father Time. I didn't tell anyone
about that either, just forgave myself
and continued to putter away.
defeat is an ugly word, as is divorce
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state. . .
Wm. Shakespeare, Sonnet 29
If William could experience such an ugly word
and live to write about it in forever terms, surely
I will not let the slattern little word become a
motley mantra for me? Divorce can be a good thing.
Defeat, disgrace--World, do you think I care more
for what you think than I love my children? Forget it.
Ladle out to us what you have to offer and I will take
it and cook a better stew or perhaps a soup to fill
our bellies and warm our souls.
Yes, I do remember how these children tried what
little patience I could find--the tomato war inside
the kitchen was a memory for the ages with its red
collages decorating the ceiling, walls, and counters.
Yes, I do remember the boy locking himself inside
Grandfather's roll-top desk as he sought privacy in
a house where there was little to none. Ah, where
was the elusive key? Nowhere. Then rescue by my
oldest son: Lift the top straight up. Prisoner sprung!
Stumbling, working, attending endless ball games,
dance, piano, and band recitals, knocking on doors
to sell everything but my body--Avon, Amway,
World Book encyclopedias. And grading papers,
making lesson plans, directing plays, National Honor
Society, producing the school paper, overseeing the
library and counseling untold students while my own
roll-top boy ran away down the railroad tracks only
to be stopped by waiting sheriff's deputies--so hard.
Oh, God, I can't do it anymore. Now the second girl
has packed her clothes in a bandanna and says she
will run away. I make her a peanut-butter and jelly
sandwich and tell her I do not want her to be hungry.
She stops at the cattle guard and rethinks her situation.
Lord, how do I go on? I'm tired, yes, I know I'm feeling
sorry for myself--is that always bad? Oh, too many "I's"?
Let you carry the load? This is why you came to earth?
So I had it backwards all this time? Thank you.
It is a hit! I published (that means my computer and printer and I published) two versions. The first was so not cool, just normal typing paper folded in half, with a poem on each page. And no pictures. Instead, I used STICKERS! I know, I can't believe I stooped so low. And the type font was so tiny even sharp eyes could benefit from a magnifier. The next version is 30-something pages of 8 1/2 X 11 paper, with card-stock fronts and backs, a clear plastic cover sheet and a binding by Office Depot. I used my own photography for the cover.
My family is in love with the product. Now of course they're not prejudiced. Not at all. Well, I'm almost certain they're not influenced by love, or just hilarity, or embarrassment. Never mind, I'm happy with the product. I'll leave you with two of the poems.
Life in Five Stanzas
I fell into a ditch near school
when I was in first grade,
trying to walk across a pipe
over that ditch--I fell, my classmates
didn't. I wondered what that long
word uncoordinated meant?
I fell out of a chinaberry tree
when I was about ten and
landed on my head and mama
said I was lucky 'cause that was
the hardest part of me and she
wasn't worried even a little bit.
I fell off my big horse Judy
when I was twelve and was sure
I was dead or about to die but
eventually my breath came back
and I inched my way up in the saddle
and rode her back to the barn.
I fell out of love with my husband
when I was in my twenties and had
too many kids to leave so stayed and
had two more plus scars on my body
and deeper ones on my heart and
fearsome ones inside my head.
I fell in the yard and broke some ribs
when I grew old and had no one to blame
except for my love for gardening and
perhaps Father Time. I didn't tell anyone
about that either, just forgave myself
and continued to putter away.
defeat is an ugly word, as is divorce
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state. . .
Wm. Shakespeare, Sonnet 29
If William could experience such an ugly word
and live to write about it in forever terms, surely
I will not let the slattern little word become a
motley mantra for me? Divorce can be a good thing.
Defeat, disgrace--World, do you think I care more
for what you think than I love my children? Forget it.
Ladle out to us what you have to offer and I will take
it and cook a better stew or perhaps a soup to fill
our bellies and warm our souls.
Yes, I do remember how these children tried what
little patience I could find--the tomato war inside
the kitchen was a memory for the ages with its red
collages decorating the ceiling, walls, and counters.
Yes, I do remember the boy locking himself inside
Grandfather's roll-top desk as he sought privacy in
a house where there was little to none. Ah, where
was the elusive key? Nowhere. Then rescue by my
oldest son: Lift the top straight up. Prisoner sprung!
Stumbling, working, attending endless ball games,
dance, piano, and band recitals, knocking on doors
to sell everything but my body--Avon, Amway,
World Book encyclopedias. And grading papers,
making lesson plans, directing plays, National Honor
Society, producing the school paper, overseeing the
library and counseling untold students while my own
roll-top boy ran away down the railroad tracks only
to be stopped by waiting sheriff's deputies--so hard.
Oh, God, I can't do it anymore. Now the second girl
has packed her clothes in a bandanna and says she
will run away. I make her a peanut-butter and jelly
sandwich and tell her I do not want her to be hungry.
She stops at the cattle guard and rethinks her situation.
Lord, how do I go on? I'm tired, yes, I know I'm feeling
sorry for myself--is that always bad? Oh, too many "I's"?
Let you carry the load? This is why you came to earth?
So I had it backwards all this time? Thank you.
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