Waiting for Hannah

Hannah was on the horizon, due within a few months. I wrote this about Elisabeth's baby-ness as she was getting ready to be a mom.

Elisabeth Susan Potts. Baby. September 1973.

I remember…

Dark Indian-baby hair

  soft and silky upon your tiny head

The smooth warmth of your

  miniature self, snuggled against my neck

Fragrant new skin, impossibly

  small fingers and toes

  pink, sweet, and delicate

The frantic sounds of

  your instinctive quest for nourishment, greedy and eager.

  (Did you think I wouldn’t feed you?)

Unfocused eyes moving in wonder toward movement 

  and light—

  crossing and uncrossing

I remember…

  wakeful worry your first few nights at home,

  holding my own breath while listening for yours

  climbing out of a warm sleep into the cold

     3 a.m. darkness to change little diapers,

     to feed you, rock you, love you

   small movements, tiny sounds,

     baby girl.                                                                           4/07

Larry wrote this piece at the same time.

 

I introduced you to Winnie when you were a little baby…and you introduced me to Pooh.

I introduced you to Charlie and Annie when you were a little girl … and you introduced me to you as a helpful and loving big sister.

I introduced you to reading and ideas and science fair …and eventually you introduced me to your friends in Phi Beta Kappa.

I introduced you to the possibilities of medical school and residency and the pursuit of a difficult professional career … and you introduced me

to your new friend, colleague, and eventual husband, Evan.

Soon you and Evan will introduce your mom and me

to your new baby and we will be grandparents,

happy and proud.

I loved you before Pooh, and always will,

Daddy

Brothers

In the fall of 2011 I wrote this...

I have completely stopped trying to write anything since I’ve been done teaching at Gustavus. Not that what I wrote was special or wonderful, but at least I worked at it , hoping to put into words the things I feel about family, especially. Maybe ADHD is the reason, or lack of commitment, or no energy, or insecurity, or lack of will.

I started this poem for two voices that same day, but didn't finish it. I forgot about it and I didn’t find again until April of 2014, just before Ethan and Owen turned 5! I decided to finish it, then took it along to Perkins, when Gpappy and I joined the boys and their mommy and daddy for E and O's birthday dinner.

-----------------------------------

Ethan		Owen
	Twins by birth
Older brother		Younger brother
Brown eyes		Blue eyes
Books, books, books		Baseball, football
Tiny books		Tiny football
	Love mommy and daddy
Sounds Italian, sounds Norwegian		Loves to be loud
stealthy		obvious
	Loving, sweet, ‘nuggly
Fine motor skills		Gross motor skills
Creative in using objects for play (“lily pads”)		Persistent in learning how to cut with scissors
Quiet and watchful		Sings, sings, sings
	Brothers

Fall 2011

My life flashing by

This is a poem that makes my stomach ache. It twists my soul into an impossible knot of pain. Annie had surgery three years ago around this time (June of 2011). Westy was a baby, Miles was Westy’s current age. We were all numb, not knowing how it would turn out. She’s healthy, happy, and safe now, but it was hell. I feel sick to my stomach typing this introduction, it’s that fresh still, after three years.

                          -----------------------------

My life flashing by, but not really, after Annie’s surgery

I’ve heard stories and so have you of how

A person’s life flashes in front of her eyes as she

Lays dying, inhaling and exhaling slowly… goodbye.

I don’t know if I believe it, although it could be true

But not in those last breaths. Rather, now, in this minute,

Parts of my life go by, floating like bubbles that burst suddenly into nothingness.

I make myself look back, look ahead, then from side to side to

Keep from rolling into a ball of pain and sadness

Then: A little girl, rosebud lips, pink cheeks, sleepy and warm tucked in her bed, under the thick cabbage-rose quilt. In the sunny garden of her room, she is beautiful, peaceful, innocent.

Now: The same little girl all grown, same lips and cheeks, sleep forced upon her, tucked in a bed in the middle of the afternoon, wearing a hospital gown. Surrounded by digital read-outs and connected to IV’s and drainage tubes, she is beautiful, peaceful, innocent.

6/19/11; Rev. 9/11/11 and 11/14/11; 6/2/14

PS  A few days after I put this poem on the blog, Annie told me that Weston was exploring her face with his little hands and asked her why the spot where she had surgery felt the way it did. She explained that she had a bump there, and the doctor removed it. he asked where the bump came from. She explained that grew there. Westy suggested maybe she'd bumped it, and Annie patiently explained again that it had grown there.  Westy was trying to make sense of it, how it got there, and he decided in the end that they could just say that she bumped herself. It obviously made the most sense to him, since that's how he "grows" bumps.

For Miles, kindergarten graduate

Miles is graduating from Kindergarten in two days. He somehow went from zero to 6.5 in the blink of an eye. I wrote this when he was 8 months old, when he was such a baby. Now he's such a big kid!

Dear Miles,

I borrowed one of your daddy’s best comments, “Miles, you’re such a baby!” as inspiration for this little poem about you, just as Alison McGhee used William Carlos Williams’ poem “The Red Wheelbarrow” to write Little Boy. Alison McGhee is one of my favorite authors, and Peter Reynolds is an illustrator who knows how to draw little boys! I love the book, and I love you more! 

                             XXXOOO

                            Gramma Jill        7/08

Miles, you’re such a baby!

You depend on

  a dooza decorated with a baby blue zebra,

  a froggy swimming pool for splashing,

  a farm with singing animals, and

  a caterpillar named Gus.

Miles, you’re such a baby!

You depend on

  squealing and shrieking your joys and annoyances,

  yelling “MA MA” when you’re mad, and

  babbling peacefully to your mobile and the crib bumper when you’re not.

You are such a baby, Miles!

You depend on

  learning to wave bye-bye from Grandpa Dave,

  playing games with Grandma Doreen,

  grabbing Grandpappy’s scratchy face until you both break out in smiles,

  bouncing on Grandma Jill’s lap, and

  keeping your eye on Cousin Hannah for the next baby milestone to attempt.

You’re such a baby, Miles!

You depend on

  soy formula and mom-made baby food,

  bath time for splashing and smelling sweet,

  the joy of clapping, clapping, clapping, and

  a myriad of fascinating facial expressions.

Miles, you are such a baby!

You depend on your mommy and daddy to

 return your smile every morning,

 read to you,

 toss you in the air,

 take you out for walks,

 change your diaper,

 tickle your tummy,

 kiss you and comfort you,

 tuck you in every night, and

 wish you sweet dreams and say, “I love you.”

      

 Yes, little Miles, you are such a baby!

I remember Del Wiese

I mentioned Del Weise in the previous piece, and now I'll tell more about him. I don't know how many times I revised this poem, a word here or a phrase there, never getting it right. This is where it stands now, and maybe I'll go back to it again.

Del Wiese

Del Wiess? Dell Weiss? How do you spell his name?

It matters to me. If I can’t spell his name correctly—his name, the way he spelled it, the name his mother and father gave him—how can I describe to you who Del Wiess was without feeling guilty?

Del’s breath.

I remember Del’s breath.

Even now, so many years later,

when I catch a hint of that particular moist,

stale,

slightly acrid odor, I remember Del. 

Del’s legs.

I remember Del’s legs.

Del’s legs were different

than my eight-year-old legs or my brother’s six-year-old legs. Del’s legs were thin

and motionless. His pants hung over his

bent knees and his immobile legs like a tarp thrown over a pile of sticks.

Del’s hands.

I remember Del’s hands.

The skin on Del’s hands was smooth and pale and shiny, as transparent

as a seashell held up to faint light.

Del’s hands were awkward and could do none of the things

my hands could do; simple things, like lifting a straw to sip

cool lemonade on a hot summer day.

Del’s shirts.

I remember Del’s shirts.

Long-sleeved, crisply creased

and cuffed,

always like new. There was no movement to fray the cuffs,

no perspiration to stain the tightly woven

cotton.

Del’s wit.

I remember Del’s wit.

He made us laugh with his jokes and the sparkle in his eyes.

Del was playful; Del was intelligent and clever. Del was in his twenties and

his life was in a wheelchair on the front lawn of his home when

the weather was kind--a place where he would watch the world with intense curiosity, and where people

who didn’t know him would drive by and stare,

curious themselves… about Del.

Del Wiess. I remember Del Wiess.

Revised 7/2/06 and after, many times

Postlude:

A six-block stretch of Huron Avenue was my neighborhood when I was a child. I lived at the start of the street, and Del Wiese lived a block away, next to my good friend Tookie Esklund.  I know now that Del was a paraplegic, perhaps from an accident when he was young --although my brother Mark’s friend Ted insists that Del was a fighter pilot and was injured in a plane crash! Del must have been in his early 20's when Mark and I spent time with him, but we never asked his age. What I knew then was that Dell lived in a wheelchair, often sitting in the shade of his front yard on warm summer days, and that his mother was devoted to his care. Del piqued our curiosity at first because of our fascination with his wheelchair, and later he captured us completely by his humor and his storytelling. I will never know for sure how Del knew so many stories in such detail, but since a book often lay open in his lap, I imagine he was a reader.

What to do in Spring Valley, Minnesota, 1955-1960

What we did on a daily or weekly basis in Spring Valley as kids depended largely on our ages. Here are some childhood memories (accurate or not!) from the years my family lived at 608 North Huron Avenue.

What to do in Spring Valley, Minnesota, 1955-1960

Go on neighborhood adventures with Cindy Ward, Merry Lundby, and Bobbie and Tookie Esklund. Head south on Huron Avenue, hurry past Mrs. Schultz’s house, cut through the alley, and go skating at the rink. Another day, stealthily pick marigolds from Mrs. Distel’s garden and experience terror when she catches you, threatening to call the police. Avoid walking or biking past Mrs. Distel’s house for the next five years, including Halloween.

Go downtown on a “Hot enough for ya?” summer day and watch someone fry an egg on the sidewalk outside the Home Federal building. Read the next issue of the Spring Valley Tribune to see the front page story and a photograph of the egg frying on the sidewalk in front of the Home Federal building, along with a shot of the Home Federal time and temperature sign as proof of the daunting heat.

Go to Susie’s little store after church on Sunday morning to buy her gigantic homemade sweet rolls and three pounds of ground beef for a dollar (four pounds for a dollar if it’s on sale).

Visit Del Weise as he sits in his wheelchair out in his front yard. Enjoy his humor, talk about your adventures in the neighborhood, and wonder if Del ever had adventures of his own as a kid. Come back the next day, and the next.

Sit on the curb by the highway, right across from Berg’s Station, and wave at the army men driving by in their jeeps. Do this for hours and hours at a time.

Make leaf houses in the fall by creating the outline of the house and its rooms. Fight with brother Mark over who gets the biggest bedroom instead of pushing back the leaf walls (but then there would be nothing to fight about). Watch lazy smoke wisps rise from the fragrant piles of burning leaves in the gutters along the street.

Cry when you learn your pet kittens, Sweetie Pie and Blackie, were run over by patrons of the nearby 66 Motel. Figure out that all the other kittens you’ve had over the years met the same fate, but your dad was too kind to tell you.

Walk to the Texaco with a quarter and a few pennies in your pocket and a note from your mom that says you have permission to buy her a pack of Lucky Strikes. While you’re there, buy some penny Tootsie Rolls and have a conversation with Cliff.

Go with your dad to the Spring Valley Bakery and decide between a Bismark and a chocolate covered cake doughnut, knowing you’d buy both if you had enough money. Help your dad carry the white bread (sliced) and the snowflake rolls out to the car, and wonder how anyone could work in a bakery when it’s hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk.

Go to the park and fly through the air on the big swings with the long metal links, go down the tall dented slide, and make yourself sick spinning around on the twister. Grab on to the wooden merry-go-round with three of your friends and run like the wind to build up speed, then jump on. Move the chain and board the teeter-totter so you can give “bumps”, then wander over to watch the Little League game.

In the winter, slide down the hill outside Lundby’s garage. The angle of descent isn’t so steep, but it’s better than no slope at all.

Go to Stickan’s dime store and buy ten cents worth of candy, especially Brach’s chocolate stars. Watch one of the eagle-eyed dime store ladies scoop the stars out of the bin and weigh out the exact number of pieces that ten cents will buy. Or, get a pair of wax lips you hope no one else has tried on, and maybe a candy necklace or some baseball cards for good measure (and for the bubble gum inside). Go to the back of the store and visit the miniature turtles, the goldfish, and the parakeets kept in variety-store captivity. If it’s close to your mom’s birthday, buy her a 39-cent tiny cobalt blue glass bottle of Evening in Paris cologne, hoping she’ll say it’s the best present she’s ever gotten.

(Revised 9/20/07)

Here's how I imagine it...

I had a sudden jolting reminder that I have another blog, namely THIS BLOG, which I have ignored for nearly three months--since October 19. Yikes! 

I chose this particular poem and picture at this particular time after seeing a photo taken by Charlie or Angie on their recent trip to North Carolina. Hannah had a late school start because of the ferocious (not) winter weather creating supposedly-slippery conditions in school parking lots. The MN cousins watched Hannah get on the bus, and seeing that photo later in the day reminded me of Hannah's first days of Kindergarten, getting into the routine of riding the school bus. What a big girl!

Here’s how I imagine it…

It’s becoming routine.

Neighbors, chatting amiably,

       gather again this morning to wait with their

       kids who are

       weighted down with backpacks, but

light on their feet,

skipping along

toward the bus stop.

Vivi sees the flash of bright yellow first, and shouts out “Buuus! Hug, Hannah, kiss!”

then grabs her sister

for their last hugs and kisses for hours and hours and hours.

Hannah hops on Bus 116 as Princess the bus driver

     checks the rearview mirror for

                 last minute arrivals.

Vivi waves good-bye, tossing kisses,

      eyes glued to Hannah until she is safely aboard

      and on her way to Carrboro Elementary for a happy

      day of kindergarten. Vivi knows her turn will come soon enough.

Too soon, her parents are thinking… 

                                                                            September 12,  2012