Talking to Myself Fifty-Nine

Talking to Myself Fifty-Nine January 24, 2021 Once I held a songfest with a blue grosbeak at six in the morning. I sang, “Where are you?” and he sang, “I’m over here.” “I see you,” I’d call, and he’d reply, “I see you, too,” then fly away before my eyes with his mate. We were at the dam, No one else around. Now he is my screen-saver. I meet him every morning when I wake at three, four, five. His head and body are bright blue, his wings black, white, gold, even red. Imagine a bird singing to me. Out of the wide universe, a little bird. He doesn’t care if I forget what I’ve just said or lost an order I forgot to finish. All the limits of old age are upon me, one after the other. But people help me, and my spirits are generally good. I forgive myself and other people, too. No point in holding grudges. Best to have a clear conscience, achieve what I can, and then let go. I escaped our plague and get my shot tomorrow. Hallelujah, ***************************************************

Talking to Myself Fifty-Eight

Early Spring Garden several years ago.

Talking to Myself Fifty-Eight January 17, 2021

The woods are full of gun-shots

on a Saturday afternoon. Two helpers

come to clear the garden for planting.

They bring dry wood treated to start

fires. I give them a loaf of bread and

some frozen collards. Tim goes out

to help them. The local Trump

supporters still have their signs out.

Most of us are Democrats, with a

few exceptions. We watched the attack

on the Capitol building. We hear

they’ve put up a fence around it, and 

National Guard troops brought in

to defend it and our elected president.

Where is our peacefulness? Where

is our living, breathing democracy?

Why are they shooting in the woods?

The first shipment of seeds is here.

Sugar Ann Sugar Snap peas, Early

Wonder beets, General Lee Slicing

cukes, Cajun Jewel okra, and Gold

Metal Mix zinnias, Sensation Mix

Cosmos. A brave man and a brave

woman will travel to the capitol

in three days to be inaugurated. We

Americans elected them. Why now

are we afraid for their lives

and our own?

 

Talking to Myself Fifty-Seven

The village post office.

*****

Talking to Myself Fifty-Seven January 10, 2021

I live in a democracy, which some

discount, including our president.

We want him gone. He still has

ten days, but how much damage

can he do? Too much, we fear. 

The one we want is waiting in the

wings, waiting his turn. He was

elected. Some cried that our votes

didn’t count. So many absentee

votes made a difference. It was

the lawless crowd we worried

about. No respect for other people,

no respect for our democratic

traditions. An old man in the

post office leered at me, came 

close. “How you doin’, honey.”

I kept going. I had packages 

to mail. This was not the Capitol

building in D.C. This was in the

village post office. When I’d

mailed my packages, he was

gone. The signs said to stand

six feet apart. He was not even

one foot from me. Gone when

I came out, yet, in reality,

how far away?

 

Talking to Myself Fifty-Six

"First Snow" by Nikolai Smirnov. A Kostroma Region village farmhouse.

Talking to Myself Fifty-Six January 3, 2021

All around me: photos and paintings,

and a Finnish poster. My loved ones

take up wall space. I’ve been in this

room most of the time in most of last

year, staying safe from the virus that

kills. The poster over my desk is of

glacier-cut Finnish islands, a jigsaw

of forests in an impossibly blue sea

over my desk where reside printer,

fax, and scanner, and my Bach records.

To the right the wall holds Rumyantsev

forests, an abandoned village against

a golden fall. To the left, Nikolai Smirnov’s

roads, his mother’s village and her

small figure. Also Lyuba’s image of

her sister Vera emerging from the

forest like a modern Demeter. Then

that sister’s painting of the Krukov

Canal. Above the computer table, 

the face of Esenin--such sad eyes.. He

was forced to kill himself, his last

poem written in blood. Beside him

Vera’s flowers, and below Nikolai’s

rendering of the Kostroma city

center, and still lower, the Ipatievsky

Monastery from across the Kostroma

River. Behind the computer on a 

shelf, the Virgin’s Annunciation by

Lyuba, and my twin grandchildren,

and my friend Jaki and me. The back

wall has a long one of a village field

of dandelions, the coming of spring

with cranes flying. I thought it was

fall before I had my cataract surgery.

Aleksei’s forests and Nadya’s pink

landscapes, the ruins of Goncharov’s

home, and the enlarged flower by Doc

Ellen–all above the chest freezer where

I store my bread flours and keep all 

my published books on top, and 

a photo of me in my father’s arms

at age two. The back door holds old

Christmas cards, and the wall beside

it, two paintings by Roman Smirnov

of water and trees. Behind me, Smirnov’s 

village farmhouse, the Golden Autumn

giving way to the First Snow. Farther away

my son Tim’s memories of New Mexico,

and Julia’s colors, which I chose that go with

Tim’s. Also, from a magazine, Botticelli’s

 Arrival of Spring after Winter’s Deadlock.

May it arrive soon.

 

Talking to Myself Fifty-Five

 

Photo of Wag by Doc Ellen DVM at Jordan Dam

Talking to Myself Fifty-Five December 27, 2020

Oh, Wag, where have you gone?

The house feels empty. You fought

so hard to keep living and then you

quit. Too much trouble to eat or

drink. Your moans got quieter. Your

front paws barely moved. Tim said,

“She’s dying,” and so you were. He

said, “I’ll bury her, out behind the

garden.” I said okay. Words escaped

me. I remembered the puppy I 

rescued when the weather turned

cold. I got her inside the backyard

fence. She cried all night. I called

the animal rescue people and got

her inside. She hid behind the

toilet, her little world in disarray.

Two dog-lovers came. The man

got down on his hands and knees, 

and acted like a dog. You were

reassured. You peed on the woman

who was holding you, and she

didn’t mind. They gave me a booklet

on dog care. We’d had a dog when

the kids were young, but she lived

outside mostly. When she died,

she’d gone into the woods, and we

didn’t see her die. You lived eighteen

years.  People told me, “She must

be loved to live so long.”  She couldn’t

walk, had trouble eating, often kept

Tim awake. He carried her in and

out, knew how to position her so

she wouldn’t cry and could get

to sleep. Now you sleep with the

night creatures, and Janet says

you watch us from your new

heavenly home.

Talking to Myself Fifty-Four

Photo by Janet Wyatt

 Talking to Myself Fifty-Four December 20, 2020

Christmas in a pandemic requires thought

and deliberation. My grandson, off at college,

has the deadly virus, though he’s not very

sick. In a family that doesn’t go to church,

he does, and he looks to me, who grew up

in the church, for comfort. I’ve given him

my Bibles and told him about his great

grandfather who was a minister, and about

his great, great grandparents who were

missionaries in China over a hundred\

years ago. Bobby wants to read their story, 

which I have published in a book called

Grace: A China Diary, 1910-16.  I’ve

wrapped it for his Christmas present.

We send emails. I may not see him at

Christmas, but there are many ways to

send and receive messages when your

society has fallen victim to a new plague.

I send cookies and books to my grandchildren

for whom I cared when they were babies.

For Lilly, who lives nearby, I’m giving the

activist anthology Impact, where I appear

fighting the dumping of coal ash in my

community. For me emails arrive, some 

cards and gifts. I make cookies and so does 

my helper Janet, from recipes I take out

every Christmas. Familiar tastes and smells

in our cold, dark days to throw a little

light, a little love, a solemn thankfulness 

that we are still alive.

Talking to Myself Fifty-Two

 Talking to Myself Fifty-Two December 13, 2020

                                Photo by Janet Wyatt

A strange year. They give us rules

and more rules, but too many people

are getting sick. A vaccine is coming,

but will there be enough? Health 

workers first and then the elderly.

Meantime the postal service isn’t

working well. Letters disappear. 

Ordered books don’t arrive. Bills

can’t reach their destination, and

people buy on line and wait for

their packages. Rene brings her

church’s basket of fruit. Neighbors

bring wood. A few cards arrive.

More gifts go into the mail. Will

they get there at all, much less in

time for Christmas? We rejoice that

we’re alive, that our woodstove 

heats our small house, that our

old dogs sleep. I take gingerbread

to the postal workers and my friends

at the Mini-Mart. Janet helps me

make cookies to take to loved

people. I can’t do all I used to, but

I do some. I send words by email

and mail. I wrap a few books for

the grandchildren. Christmas is

for peaceful nights, celebrations,

feasts and smiles. We are healthy

We have each other, we are warm

and well-fed. This year, too, will

slowly pass and bring us joy again.