Destroyed, Damaged or Stigmatized

Seven years ago two people lost their lives and 346 houses were destroyed.  Countless other homes were damaged or stigmatized - those are not my words.  They were the three categories the El Paso County  Assessor's office used to revalue the affected homes in the Waldo Canyon Fire.  In retrospect I can see how those categories were apt, but at the time - when I opened that letter - it seemed cold and sterile.  I wasn't a category.  I was a person whose house fell in the third category.  The rear-view mirror is a funny tool - looking back today I can see how those three categories; destroyed, damaged and stigmatized also described the people who lived in Mountain Shadows.

Today - seven years post fire, the stigma has abated.  I sold my devalued home five years ago, two years after the conflagration.  The trauma is more subtle now.  The years have softened the hurt.  I can drive to Colorado Springs, crest Monument Hill, and look without looking away.  I used to enjoy eyeballing my neighborhood from that vantage point.  After the fire, not so much.

To be clear, even though I did not lose my house, I was profoundly affected.  I am eternally grateful to my friends the Knapp's for allowing me, my daughter and my dog to stay with them during the ordeal.  I am grateful I was able to take the hit on my house and leave the area.  Once the view changed, from green trees and native grasses to black sticks and dead brush - I had no interest in staying.

Two years ago I wrote a poem to process my feelings.  I tried writing another one yesterday, but it wasn't there.  No inspiration.  No spark.  Maybe that means I am a good spot.  Maybe seven years is a good number.  Like the opposite of the seven year  itch. I'm good right where I am.

Time to Write,
Jane

Pronouns and Mom Hugs

Last week I crammed five craft classes in writing into three days.  I'd love to do more, but the venue is a good forty minutes away and not in the best neighborhood.  Of course money comes into play as well.  A five pack for Lighthouse members is $285.00 and I'm not willing to spend more than that.  So, I make my selections carefully, and occasionally whimsically.

The first class I chose was Tips on Writing and Assembling Your Short Story Collection.  This was geared more toward writers of fiction; novellas, short stories and flash.  But the time slot suited me as immediately following this presentation was the Poetry Collective Reading.  My interest in this was a bit bittersweet.  Last year I applied for the program and did not make the cut.  I wanted to go and listen with an open mind to the poets who were chosen, and who spent the last year working really hard and now have a manuscript.  Mostly, I wanted to be wowed!  In a knock the socks off kind of way.  Because I think I am a good poet, and I like my poetry and I'd be pissed if these ten chosen people weren't good.  I wanted them to be excellent and profound and poetic. 

The class was good for me.  It gave me clarity on how I may assemble my poetry into a cohesive collection.  A mix of short and long pieces.  Ones that may be hard on the emotions to process mixed in with a few light-hearted ditties.  (Do I even have any poems like that?)  Then I hung out on the porch of the beautiful Victorian mansion that houses Lighthouse Writers Workshop before making my way to the tent to be a good listener.  

I did listen intently.  The first poet blew me away.  Her subject matter of being a young army wife, was written in beautiful contemporary language.  I settled in for the show.  The final score was three masterful poets, four really good poets and three HUH?  WHAT?  MEH!  Each poet was presented with an artful, wooden plaque with their name and a poem on the edges.  If there was going to be a pang in my belly moment, this would have been it.  When I was four, I took ballet.  Just a leotard, nothing fancy kind of practice class. I didn't continue, but Geraldine, my friend next door did.  When she left her house for the recital in her frilly pink tutu I experienced that regretful pang for the first time.  I wanted a tutu.  I wanted to be a ballerina.  Instead I watched her get in the family car and that was that.  

At sixty, I'd like to think I am more mature than that girl long ago.  This time I warmly congratulated the poets I knew and a few I didn't.  I watched them shine in the moment - a moment they worked hard to revel in.  I was happy for them all.  And gratefully, not jealous or regretful.  Maybe I even gained some clarity about my work ethic, my time restraints and my physical limitations living with Rheumatoid Arthritis.  Not everything is for everybody.  

The next day was a heady form class - From Sestina to Pantoum: Fixed Lyrical Forms.  I had this  instructor last year and wanted to take a class with him again.  I came away inspired to explore the freedom that can come with form.  An oxymoron in action!  My next class was billed as Writing Life and Death: Poetry and the Multiplicity of Self.  I'm not sure the class followed the description, but it was good!  

Day three started like days one and two.  I got up early enough to go to the gym, because if I just sit all day, I will not be a physically happy person.  I need to keep moving, to keep moving.  Each day I packed a lunch and snacks and lots of water bottles because... I'm cheap.  And there are many good restaurants in this part of Denver, but practicality and frugality rule!  Especially if I want to stay retired.

Elements of Narrative Structure was also a fiction forward class.  I needed a good refresher on first, second and third person and Point of View.  I already know about verb tense - I did pay attention on some of the days I was in Tappan Zee High School.  Lastly I chose to explore Writing Through Tarot. The best was saved for last.  Not really - they were all good - but this cliché just fits here!  This instructor was so qualified and knowledgeable and had the most radiant energy.  I dug this class.  I used to dabble in Tarot as a teenager and young adult.  A little shaking of my intuition occurred in this class - I've been spot on all week!

All of the classes at the Lighthouse start with participants briefly (hopefully) introducing themselves.  The young person next to me said their name and pronounced they identify with 'they pronouns'.  I became distracted by this statement.  Is this a new way of saying hello?  Should I tell people I identify with female language?  Do only LBGTQIA get to do this?  Then the person behind my table companion said the same thing and I thought  - Is this a new trend?  Am I missing something?

This was the Friday before Pride weekend in Denver - where our gay governor and the first gentleman would be the Grand Marshalls of the Parade.  So maybe it was timing, or being open and bold (bravo!) or just something I had not heard before.  Nonetheless, we worked together and shared some stories as well as a Tarot deck.  They were very nice and on a whim - or maybe intuitively - when it was time to bid adieu, I told them I give Mom hugs, if they missed that. I almost cried when they told me they never remember having one. We hugged a long time. I'm pretty sure we both had tears in our eyes.

Driving home gave me time to reflect on the past three, intense days.  I learned that I wasn't ready and may never be ready to undertake a year-long program with a vigorous commitment.  I had a basic refresher on the elements of writing.  I dug a bit deeper into some difficult poetic forms.  I renewed my belief that I am not meant to be a Central Denver dweller. I affirmed that I like brown bagging over hipster dining.  But you know the most important take-a-way of the week?  The single most profound, eye-opening lesson?  It is simple and it is easy and we can do it all the time.  Over and over again. It was the hug on my last day, my last class. From a person who showed me how to be bold and be yourself.  We are put here to love.  We are put here to love.

Time to Write,

Jane

Not Yet - my blog on not being accepted to the Poetry Collective

Collateral Damage

Ode to Austin Eubanks

Collateral Damage

by Jane Hillson  May 2019

He didn’t die from an overdose

Drugs were never the problem

They were the solution

His pain too great to bear

Twenty-year old scabs bleed

When picked.  Over and over

The gun may have been shot

In the Ranch, but the ricochet

Arced, then fell in Steamboat

No reform. Just rhetoric

No change. Only bullshit

Collateral Damage

https://kdvr.com/2019/05/18/columbine-survivor-austin-eubanks-37-dies-at-steamboat-springs-home/

Macy's, Gimbels And Me

This book was on the small corner bookshelf in my father's office, or the 'back room' as my siblings and I referred to that sacred space where dad could continue working after coming home from his long commute to New York City.  Dad had a lease department in the behemoth department store, Gimbels.  And though not an official employee, we enjoyed the perks that came from this arrangement; a 25% discount, early entry into the store, inside info on the newest, upcoming products.

Gimbel's is long gone, closing in 1987, when I was 28 years old and traveling the country in my then husband's Chevy S10 pick-up truck.  I'd lived in Denver for nine years by that time and there was no Gimbels or Macy's here in the Queen City.  Colorado boasted The Denver, May D&F and Joslins.  All these places are long gone now as well. I even enjoyed a few short years of upscale Neusteter's before they closed in 1986.  Macy's seems to be the stalwart of them all.  

Growing up on the west bank of the Hudson river, Macy's disguised themselves as Bamberger's in the new and ultra modern Nanuet mall, that opened to much fanfare in 1969.  It was one of the first indoor shopping concepts in the country and we were lucky enough as teenagers to hop on the Red Line bus for 35 cents and enjoy a day of blaring boom boxes and grilled cheese sandwiches at Friendly's.

This past weekend, my youngest daughter and I visited Macy's in Boulder, Colorado.  Even though Boulder was bumping with The Boulder Bolder and other Creek Festival activities, the parking lot for Macy's was pretty open.  We entered the store and asked where housewares is located.  Down the escalator in the basement of the store.  Though well lit, we both thought the space cavernous and empty, my daughter used the word abandoned, and that was an apt perception. The elevator down put us at children's clothing.   No one to help us in the kids department, and the merchandising seemed scattered and not well organized.  We never did find infant socks for girls. 

Onward to housewares, where I chuckled that the Macy's branded merch was called "The Cellar".  How many folks, I wondered knew that reference?  As a teenager in fancy shoes behind my dad's watch and jewelry repair counter in Gimbels, I was privy to a thing or two about Macy's - located through the arcade that separated 33rd and 34th streets.  This was a cutout, arched tunnel, through a building, that linked Macy's to Gimbel's in the shortest possible manner.  I loved the pizza place in that arcade - just a few seats, and a giant window that the cooks pushed my order through.  I first tasted calzones here and still have a strong affection for those cheese and dough bombs.  

My friend Christine's grandmother worked in the hosiery department of Macy's.  Like my Dad's leased space in Gimbel's, it too was located on a balcony overlooking the first floor of the store.  In the days before ADA compliance there were long travertine staircases leading up to these mezzanine areas.  I occasionally ventured over to the rival store and had lunch with FiFi.  Woolworth's had a worthy and inexpensive little restaurant and we enjoyed eating there.  A mature teenager in grown-up clothes and a grandmother, who filled a spot in my heart; my own two grandma's long gone.  

Even though I didn't grow up in Macy's, I have fond memories of the era, the city streets and the way generations interacted back then.  When I enter a department store, memories easily flood my mind.  How many times did I take the escalator up eleven floors to get change for the newfangled cash register?  Dad always said take the elevator - it is faster; time is money and all that...  Or when I had a small Sweet Sixteen party at our house, and Dad procured a giant silk heart, bedecked with lace and ribbons that had hung from the ceiling of the store for Valentine's Day just a week before my soiree.  Everyone that attended my party signed that oversized memento with a grease pencil.  The heart lived in my bedroom for a while, then the basement, and landed in it's final resting place, the dump off Route 303, sometime in my 20's.

The reason my daughter and I went to Macy's was two-fold.  My uncle had sent me a future Harriet Tubman valued gift card he had received from the casino and the Sunday paper had a ten dollar off thirty-five purchase.  We figured we could buy $35 worth of stuff for about five bucks.  Baby clothes are always on the list, but we struck out in that department.  So, here we are trying very hard to spend some money - looking at clearance housewares.  

I couldn't believe that Thanksgiving and Christmas items hadn't already been snatched up.  Were they still pricy?  Was Macy's so overstocked at the holidays that five months later they were still carrying inventory?  Did anyone even shop here?

We couldn't find anything over in this section either.  We were looking for a simple, everyday drinking glass set.  The kind that comes a dozen to the box in three sizes.  One size that is actually useful, an oversized goblet, and a miniscule juice glass.  The kind that costs four dollars and lasts for two good sips at a hipster breakfast joint.

Up the escalator we went and more memories seep in.  The last time I visited Macy's 34th St.,  about 15 years ago, the upper floors still had the original escalators.  Narrow and wooden, they made a rickety-rick sound as this same daughter and I wended our way up to the Juniors department for some Fashion Week fun.  Yesterday we exited the moving stairs right in front of a Fit-Bit display and wondered if this would be a good fit for our foray of the day.

This is a locked case and the store is seriously devoid of not only customers, but associates as well.  We stood there looking and couldn't see any price tags.  Ready to mosey on, an associate appeared; she was obviously on lunch, brown paper bag in hand,  asking if us we needed help.  She summoned someone to assist.  But the key didn't fit, and then she couldn't find the other key ring, and she finally told us the price range, but no specifics, and my daughter said, politely "That's OK.  I can look on-line"

And that's it, isn't it?  A generation of young adults who shop differently than we ever imagined.  Why wait for a clerk, when a mouse is just a click away from informing us in ways that can overwhelm and educate.  Why venture out, park, walk, search endlessly for assistance when one can stay home in jammies, hot tea in hand, and spend money just like that!  Easy peasy.

Next stop - Home Depot.  This is really the grand-daddy of big stores.  Boulder's store is two stories! Steps or  an elevator (What?  No escalator?)  bring one up to appliances and that is where we headed first.  Here a very nice, well informed young man was super helpful.  What a refreshing change from the dungeon we just escaped from!  But downstairs, looking for two small items, no help in sight.  My daughter whips out her phone, presses a few buttons and tells me that tape measures are in aisle 7- bin 2.  I am impressed.  Youth and technology reigned again.

Driving back to my daughter's new place, I am reflective.  'Retail' laments that people are foregoing traditional avenues of shopping, yet try as we might, the experience is not pleasant.  It really is easier to go online, store all the pertinent info for ease of completion, and get what we want.  In just one or two days.  Plus, it could be fun to play Porch Pirate relay and get home before the parcel disappears.  But that problem is solved by having pick-up lockers either at a central location for housing complexes or at your local Whole Foods.  Amazon thinks of everything.

So you know, I am not advocating shopping at Amazon.  I am just ruminating.  I was about halfway through this post and had to go to a meeting.  I decided to run a couple of errands en route home.  Michael's for thread and upholstery needles.  Walgreen's to pick up some photos.  I couldn't find a clerk anywhere in Michael's and almost gave up after two jaunts around the store.  In the end, they didn't have all of what I wanted, but I bought one item utilizing their enticement of a 40% discount off one full price item.  I can't even tell you how many times the clerk asked for my phone number and email address before the coupon would activate.  Can I just check out?  One item shouldn't take 10 minutes.  My $2.01 sale lost them money in time and labor.

Walgreen's was no better.  Three bags of nuts for $10.00 and a BOGO at $2.99 should ring up at thirteen bucks and change.  I may not be good at math, but I can muddle through money.  The photos were prepaid - thank goodness, or I may never have gotten out of there.  My total?  $20.52.  So, here comes the manager, and he jogs around the store price checking and oh!  guess what? this customer is right!  Sorry, voids and re-rings and it still isn't correct.  I'm ready to leave $13.50 on the counter and tell them to figure it out while I get a tooth extracted.  That might have been less painful.

Driving home, alone, I am equally reflective to yesterday's ponderance.  Why do I even need to go to Walgreen's?  I can't get my prescriptions there.  It is always a hassle.  Leaving their parking lot is a left turn home, and I DO avoid those at all costs.   As far as my visit to Michael's, well I still need to go to JoAnne's, or maybe I'll try to buy one solitary spool of  jewel-tone blue thread on-line.

There was a saying when I was growing up. "Does Macy's tell Gimbels?".  Simply put it meant, you don't tell your competition what you are up to.  And Macy's was the bigger of the two.  Saying my dad worked at Gimbels always seemed second best.  How would this translate today?  Does Amazon tell anybody, anything?  Did Macy's tell us something without saying a single word?  From 2000 to 2016, Macy's closed 90 stores.  Wasn't that telling enough?

The Macy's located about two miles from where I live is slated to close at the end of 2020.  The same shopping area, had a Sears that closed just before the Holiday season in 2018.  Both pieces of real estate are being developed to have 400 apartments on each site.  Where will these newbies to Colorado shop?  On-line.

These new apartments will undoubtedly sport all of the latest amenities;  Resident Happy Hours, trash pick-up nightly at your door, access to public transportation, rooftop pools and of course they will be cable-ready with high speed internet access.  In a strange twist of retail fate, these 800+ apartment dwellers will shop at home, devices on, cold brew coffee in hand in the very spot(s) where the stores Amazon put under used to stand.  They might even hear a ghost of a whisper...  Can I help you, Ma'am?  The whisper of a ghost... What may I do for you today, sir?

Time to Write,

Jane

Horology

Horology

My father was a watchmaker

But he didn’t really make watches

Instead he disassembled those 17 or 21 jeweled beauties

Dipping some parts in solvents, others in new grease

One customer’s treasure at a time



Dad’s loupe pulled over his weary, hazel eyes

To magnify the mainspring.  The bezel

The balance staff.  The stem and the crown

Slow, tedious work



Once he told me a story about

Women in Illinois developing tongue cancer

From licking the small brushes used to paint

Radium on the dial



I always wished he had never told me that because

I could never admire my own small wristwatch

With the twist-o-flex band and

Luminous face in the dark

Of my own room, late at night

Without feeling a sadness

A child shouldn’t know

This poem came out of a workshop on Philip Levine.  My dad was already on my mind as a few fellow poets and I ate dinner beforehand, and the restaurant décor was large clocks and steampunk themed furnishings. With The Radium Girls in the news, I felt compelled to share.

Babies and Bullets

Again, I am motivated to write from a place of grief.  Disbelief.  A not again, never again, REALLY AGAIN? type of sadness.  I off-handedly joke that poetry is cheaper than therapy, but I am profoundly affected by violence, once again.  And I am not sure I can work through my feelings with prosaic psychology this time.

This past Tuesday, I was supposed to meet my middle daughter at her place of work after I finished up leading a poetry workshop.  But the neighborhood was cordoned off and good citizens were directed not to enter the area.  Another school shooting.  Close to home.  Was I terrified that my daughter was just a few blocks from a shooting?  Yes.  Was I pissed that it was happening again?  Yes.  Did I feel helpless?  Yes.  Later this feelings would amplify as we all learned details and I discovered that I had some personal connections to parents of students.  A fellow NIA practitioner.  One of my favorite yoga teachers.

My daughter came home, shaken and also angry.  She told me her step mom had called her at work to let her know the latest news.  I wasn't surprised as her dad's wife used to live in this area.  Then my daughter told me that her dad had called her when a different shooting had happened by our house.  And I had to work through the process of figuring out which house?  Which shooting?  The Planned Parenthood shooting just miles from our home in Colorado Springs?  The murder of Douglas County Deputy Zach Parish*, just blocks from the apartment we rent in the suburbs south of Denver?

We lived a mere eight miles from Columbine on that fateful day.  I remember wondering why I moved back to Colorado.  And now I wonder if my friends who have kids at STEM wonder why they moved here from Virginia and Wisconsin. Of course geography offers no immunity for school shootings and gun violence in general.  It is an epidemic.  Widespread panic is the new norm.

I wrote this poem in the wake of Parkland.  I marched in a protest following what was then the latest school shooting.  More school-based murders have happened since then, and I fear we have not seen the last.  Listen to the kids who exited STEM, seemingly unscathed, but forever harmed.  They are not cavalier.  They have a reality that I cannot comprehend.  They live in this fear and this culture.  I decided a long time ago not to be the adult who judges their feelings, edits their speech, or tells them how to act.

All I can do is write.  Spit my feelings out on paper and hope it provides relief or insight for whoever may read my words.  I don't expect every reader to nod and agree with every word I say.  But I do ask this; if you disagree - write your own words.  I'm in no mood to engage or argue.

Have a violence-free day.

Jane

Time to Write

* Four other deputies were also injured

The New Annihilator

by Jane Hillson Aiello - February 2018

The current day obliteration will not be
By troops in heavy boots and woolen coats
Arms outstretched in a superior salute

This modern-day madman has an
AR-15 as his arm extension
His uniform is blue jeans and a backpack
A trench coat, blank eyes
His artillery? Video games and easy ammo

Soon, there will be no more Holocaust survivors
Schoolchildren today are the last generation
To hear a real person
With a sad, guttural voice speak the truth

Telling us never, never again
One day any shard of light 
Ashen afterglow of extermination
Will be forever dimmed

Citizens stood and saluted
An evil man with no heart
Neighbors clucked their tongues
Disregarded the glaring truth

Today’s society has a different breed of survivor
Years from now a grandmother will hold a toddler
In the warmth of her bosom and tell
Of the time of terror

Innocent children being murdered in kindergarten
Teenagers gunned down in the halls of high school
That practicing your faith was dangerous
Synagogues were targets, unsafe
Movie theaters provided real life
Bolt-action, dive under your seat experiences

Our blind-eye is vapid
Thoughts and prayers
Hollow sentiments, candlelight vigils
Fallow filibusters

We must pray these current survivors of today’s reign of terror
Perpetuated by the new regime of a corrupt congress
Puppeteered by the NRA
Will find the strength to procreate

Overcome this satanic inhumanity
That values bullets over babies

C'est la Vie

Fellow Coloradoans; I hope you are hunkered down and enjoying the blizzard to end all blizzards.  Snowpocalypse.  Bomb Cyclone.  Snowclone.  I've prepared as much as one can.  I have pasta cooked for later.  I've got a big pot of water simmering on the stove.  All devices are charging, and a couple of charging sticks are also ready to employ.  The heat is blasting up to a temperature that would have warranted a good scolding in days gone by.  But in case the electricity goes, I want to be ready.  My daughter recently bought a few candles, and there's a flashlight or two somewhere... right?

I was supposed to fly out to Houston today, so I've been keeping an eye on the forecast.  That magical blend of guesswork and science.  Past data coupled with future predictions.  An all time low barometric pressure was coming our way.  I didn't need the weather channel to tell me that.  My bones do a fine job of foretelling changes, and they were spot on.  This low is supposed to stall the storm, and help it produce winds and lots of snow.  The standard definition of a blizzard, but this one is supposed to be a mother!

On Monday, I was all packed and ready to go.  Even though my flight was two days away, I never put off packing.  I'm a major procrastinator in every other aspect of my life, but not when it comes to travel.  Being ready to go, and heeding the pleading of the weather beast, I called Spirit to see about changing my flight.  I figured if I can fly out Tuesday, then why not?  An extra day with my sister would be nice.  Avoiding the hysteria of missed flights would be nice too.  Not sleeping on the floor of DIA would add bonus points to my plan as well.

Yes said the phone agent, who I am sure was really named Cassie and was hanging out in Kansas.  There is room on the flight tomorrow and we'd be happy to get you on that plane.  So far, so good.  There is a ninety dollar change fee.  I can ponder that.  She gets almost to the end and says - OK, there is also a $287.00 upcharge in the difference of what I paid and the new flight.  I took a breath because that is how I avoid being rude when completely flabbergasted.  So, I inquire, it would cost me almost $400.00 to fly out one day early?  Yes, she calmly reply as though ridiculous surcharges are an everyday occurrence.

Here's the rub.  I wasn't wanting to change my plans because of poor planning.  Or even a great desire to arrive early in the Lone Star State.  I thought I could avoid the hubbub of the airport following a storm.  Take an empty seat on a plane that is heading that way anyway.  I foolishly thought I was doing Spirit a favor.  Not the other way around.  They should have offered to pay me to avoid one less phone call, one less person navigating their bound-to-crash website, one less frazzled traveler in the aftermath.  Really, this is how I think.  Let me on the plane and I'll be out of your hair.  Spirit, however has policies and procedures and a ching-chinging virtual cash register that cannot deviate from fees and folly.  Of course I declined proffering 400 dollars to procure an early arrival.

Yesterday I was anxious.  Would they or wouldn't they cancel my flight.  This information is not as easy to find on-line as one might think.  I could see that United was already offering no charge travel changes to their patrons.  Southwest had proactively cancelled all flights.  But Spirit seemed happy to procrastinate the decision.  I used to be an event maven, so I decided to make plans concerning my upcoming trip to DIA.  I would pack an abundance of snacks.  I put a micro-fiber towel in my carry-on.  This is a small rolled item and takes up little  room.  It could be a pillow or a blanket in a pinch.  My medicines made it into the bag.  Eye-drops and lip balm.  Hand sanitizer, a toothbrush and lotion.  If I had to sleep at the airport, my worst nightmare at 60 with RA*, I would be prepared.  I just wanted to know before I left my house if my trip was being scrapped.

The e-mail came - FLIGHT CANCELLED - and I sprung into action.  I dialed Spirit and googled them simultaneously.  I was getting on Thursday's flight come hell or high water.  Luckily the phone tree was easier to navigate than the website.  I changed my flight pronto!  I waited to hang-up until I received my confirmation.  I felt a great sense of relief.  No accommodations at the DIA motel.  No driving out east in the storm to end all storms.

Yet - I'm a bit miffed.  In retrospect, I wish Spirit had a better spirit and in the spirit of outstanding customer service had allowed me to change my flight to yesterday.  Because if they had, I'd be on my sister's back porch right now.  In 75 degree weather.  With flip-flops on.  C'est la vie.

PS - The photo is from the Denver blizzard of 1982.  I lived on Madison and 6th Avenue.