Being Wise Thirty-Nine

                                 Judy Hogan, photo by Debbie Meyer 2021

Being Wise Thirty-Nine October 31, 2021

For my children

It has happened to other families:

children are rejected; parents are shunned.

My eldest won’t speak to me, pretends

I’m not there, and has written off her own

son. My second child lives with me and 

and helps me. My third child checks in,

wants to know how I am, is proud of her

own children. I’ve been active in the

world of my friends and neighbors, worked 

to stop coal ash dumping in our backyard,

published books about it and other

community problems, taught classes, 

got us laughing. I can’t imagine rejecting

a child, however seeming indifferent.

It does happen. I’m certainly not perfect,

and in one quarter I’m not forgiven.

Maybe I won’t ever be. I’ve said, “She’ll

have to figure it out.” I’ve heard that a

sign of maturity is that you forgive your

parents. It took me awhile to forgive

my mother, but I did finally. 

She did her best.

Being Wise Thirty-Eight

        Cover of Fatality at Angelika's Eatery photo by

                                        Jerry Markatos

Being Wise Thirty-Eight October 24, 2021

For Jerry

Talking to an old friend, I

wanted him to know everything,

not all of it good news. I have

a brain disease, and I’m more

forgetful. The medicine helps.

I can correct my errors most

of the time. He’s worried about

how we see China, and I, how

we see Russia. I publish books

about my dear Russian friends,

and write letters. He researches

China. I speak of my Russian

friend who tells me he loves me.

I’m sorting books, which ones

to keep and which to let go of.

I tell him we still have a few

tomatoes, and he says they’ve

picked the last.  Now they’re

eating persimmons. My world

grows smaller. I’ve accepted

that I’ll die, probably before

I make ninety, but I’m not

worried about it. Even eighty-four’s

not bad. So many things are going

wrong in our world, and we

Americans are partly to blame.

We do have visionaries, and Jerry

and I are two of them. The goal

is that you do your best

and then you rest. 

Being Wise Thirty-Seven

 Judy Hogan making bread. Photo by Virginia.

Being Wise Thirty-Seven October 17, 2021

Nearly seven, and only a little evidence

that daylight is coming. The bread

came out well, in spite of me. I was

exhausted by the time it was ready,

and Tim took it out of the oven. I’ve

been making it since I was told I was

allergic to wheat. So I’ve used rye

flour, and soy and oatbran, some

unbleached, but all organic. My son

and I enjoy it hot and fresh. It’s a

ceremony to cut a few slices when

we take it from the pans. People

we treasure get some, too. Once

I sold it to students who ate it as

they drove home. I think it keeps

me as healthy as possible. Every

few weeks I make a fresh batch.

The hens get the leftovers. My

friends say it’s a feast. There’s

so little in our world as such 

simple, elegant daily bread. 

May we always have enough 

and the energy to bake more.

Being Wise Thirty-Six

 Russian village house in Gorka in Winter. 2020.

Being Wise Thirty-Six October 10, 2021

Finally the rain came. Now the onions 

will have their first satisfying drink.

The flowers will bloom, bees swarm in.

Winter holds back, hesitates. I sleep a

few more hours, inhabit a quiet house,

a relieved natural world. Across from

me a dusty road in a Russian village.

Sorting books, we found it. I was

there twenty-nine years ago, and lonely.

So much has changed. I live from day

to day, glad I’m still alive, but knowing

I’ll die. I’m finishing my work in this

world. Friends accompany me. Photos

of children live everywhere. Books

overwhelm this room. Most of them

I’ll give away. I only need my favorites

now, my old friends: Austen, Trollope,

Eliot, Penny, Spencer Fleming, Cary,

my Russian dictionaries. It’s time

to publish my last book. The diaries

are for me. Other people may enjoy

the books I don’t need. The paintings

and photos will keep me company,

my children and friends. I don’t think

I’ll ever be completely lonely again.

Being Wise Thirty-Five

 Judy and Sheila Crump after a Gospel Sing in Moncure 2016

****

Being Wise Thirty-Five October 3, 2021

How many days?  There could be years, 

but not many, I think. I can still walk and

cook, read and write. Poems will spring

into being. I can still get the bread out of

the toaster when it gets stuck. I made

lasagna two days ago and lemon-ginger

tea yesterday. I teach classes. I go to the

post office and mail letters and bills. I’m

managing the higher dose of my medicine

I still do heel and toe walking. I have

friends–good ones. They comfort me. My

paintings remind me of my Russian 

friends. Some have left this world, but I

still feel their love. I leave my writings

behind me. So many books which were

never published, but thirty which were.

I’ve recognized greatness in others. Let

everything be told. I’m not afraid. I’ll

do my best while I live, however long,

and time will tell. It always does.