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

Westy

In keeping with the theme of having no theme for this blog other than to publish pieces of writing I've done for various purposes, I thought I should post this little piece about Weston Charles Grimmius, the babiest of the Potts' grandchildren. Westy turned three on October 15. He's sleeping in our house tonight next to his sweet big brother Miles while their mommy and daddy are at the wedding of a friend. He's a chatty and adorable kiddo. Spending time with him tonight while he was trying to fall asleep was a revelation about how Westy can carry on a long conversation, tell stories, and be funny without realizing it. Here's to Westy!

Westy

Westy is almost three. Six days remain of his two-ness.

Always a blondie, sometimes a fireman, sometimes a lumberjack

Who knows what the day will bring?

His mama and daddy say he’s prone to tantrums,

which frustrates them and makes Miles roll his eyes and

shake his head.

His grandpappy and I say he’s prone to cuteness,

which delights us and makes us smile.

This little boy tilts his head and lopes with confidence. He honors

his big brother by watching him with intensity, and copies him with pride.

He’s almost three, this sweet child. The babiest, who melts my

heart when he looks at me with his blue eyes and says,

“Y-you want to play with me?”  Of course I do, Westy. Of course I do.

                                                                                                             10/9/13

Photo taken in Otown on Westy's birthday, 10/15/13

Shattered Vision

My second post, and already I realize a lot of what I'll be including here are pieces of writing I've done about the little kiddos. It will be nice to have them all in one place.

But for now, I'm putting in a piece of writing that has bubbled up to the surface because of the recent trip Larry and I made to Winona, to visit a couple of cemeteries where relatives are buried, and to locate a few houses which were once occupied by some of those relatives.

There is an ongoing mystery about the house my brother Mark and I remember as that of our grandparents on King Street in Winona. Apparently the house next door was there house for some time, for sure when my aunt Mary Lou was growing up. The confusion comes from both homes being owned by another relative, which I won't try to straighten out here.  "Shattered Vision" is about a trip to the house with the big front porch when I was about 7-1/2, the house Mark and I remember.

                                         Shattered Vision

The clear and sunny January day sparkles; frosty trees shimmer and twinkle in the sunshine. We are half way to Grandpa and Grandma’s house on King Street in Winona, 72 miles from where we live. Dad is driving and Mom is quietly talking to him about grown-up things that don’t interest me. I am in the backseat getting sleepy from reading the Bobbsey Twins’ latest adventure, and from listening to the steady hum of the tires on the road. My younger brother and sister have already nodded off, and my own heavy eyelids beckon me to join them in slumber. My blue-framed eyeglasses are in the way as I attempt to doze with my head resting against the window, so I slip them off, fold the bows, and carefully tuck my beautiful blue glasses into the red rubber, flannel-lined, over-the-shoe boots Mom made me bring along “just in case”. The blue glasses will be safe there, out of my toddler sister’s view, should she wake up and want to smudge the lenses with her busy little hands.

The ride ends and Dad reaches over the seat to nudge my knee, waking me up. Jill, we’re here. Will you carry this bag into the house and give it to Grandma, please? I gradually awaken from my near coma of too-short sleep, grab the green and white bag, and slip on the red rubber boots over my black patent leather Sunday shoes. 

Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes I trudge along the short gravel driveway to the back porch door. I must have rocks in my boots, I am thinking, because they feel so lumpy. Slowly it comes to me; I know what I have done, and I am immobilized by fear. 

Have you ever seen pulverized glass? It’s like crushed ice—glittery, hard, and crystalline. As I reach into my boots and pull out my still beautiful but now slightly bent blue frames, my helpless fingers wiggle in the holes that used to contain the lenses that kept the world in focus. I start to cry, and then I sob, gulping down air and shuddering in fear. Dad and Mom will be furious at me for this—new lenses are expensive. Dad looks angry at first, but then he sees my tears and understands that being nearly blind is enough punishment for my carelessness. He gently touches my shoulder and says, Let’s go inside and get ready for Grandma’s dinner. She's making ham and her home canned corn that you like so much. We’ll get your glasses fixed tomorrow.

 

Revised 4/08

and I can see it needs more work!

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

 

This photo was taken in the kitchen of my grandparents' home on King Street, a year before the fateful day when I shattered my blue glasses.

A new blog

This morning, for no apparent reason, I thought about creating another blog. I love writing and posting pictures on my current blog, especially because 95% of the entries are devoted to the six sweet little children in our lives. Since starting ivegotablogtoo.blogspot.com just over six years ago, I've printed blog books at the end of each calendar year. The most important reason for printing is to have easy access to the pictures and stories. I guess it's equally important to do it in case of an epic tech failure aimed specifically at my blog. Those things happen to me. No, I'm not paranoid. They just happen. Teresa has taught me to blame Elrod, the Cybergod.

So here I am, wondering if I'll write anything more than this first entry. Maybe not. My purpose is to post pieces of my writing that I've done over the years, occasionally as a part of teaching writing to fifth graders and often as a member of the writing workshop that was integral to the Language Arts Methods course I taught at Gustavus for 11 years. I think it was 11, which would make 22 semesters. Oh gees, I should have been more prolific as a writer than I was, considering how often I had the opportunity to write. I'll amend this to say that I was quite a prolific reviser, regularly using pieces from previous semesters to demonstrate revision to a later class of students. That helps with the guilt. 

Dang, I just discovered that I can't copy and paste from Word docs onto the blog. Or at least, not in the usual way. Time to do some research and find out what the trick is on Blogger.  

Back again... I wrote this before Vivian was born. She was "Lermie" to her parents, and therefore to us, until her birth, when she became VIVIAN.

Ten Days
 Anticipating Lermie

My friend sent a photo
of her grandson who is ten days old.
He was dressed in a little hoodie
with monkey faces on it, tiny brown pants
and a pair of baby-sized shoes.
Sitting there, eyes closed, one elbow bent,
a hand resting against his head. Cute and safe
and asleep.

Seeing baby Sam, age
ten days, gave me a jolt. I will see
our next grandchild,
our not-yet-born granddaughter on the day she is born! But
I won’t see her at ten days because we’ll
have come and gone. The sadness is
nearly unbearable.

9/10/10
Before Vivian’s birth