Twinsets and Cardigans

Sweater weather.  This item of clothing is my one true love of fall.  I can skip the boots - my arthritic feet don't fit in them - and the pumpkin lattes.  I can forego Halloween, and have ambiguous feelings about Thanksgiving.  Are we really celebrating genocide while denying entry of others into our country?  Don't get me started.

But sweaters?  I love them.  I trace the origin of this affection to my Aunt Irene.  She really rocked the twinset in the sixties.  Light green, pale yellow, winter white.  Some had buttons made of seashells, others were decorated with rhinestones around the shoulders.  I'd climb onto her lap and play with the 'pretties' on her sweater.  She had two sons and would preen over me; all the while I was coveting her sweater!

In junior high the sweater was immortalized in a schoolyard ditty:

We must - we must - we must increase the bust.  The bigger the better - the tighter the sweater - Yeah Bust!

Early training for girls to view themselves as objects.  Sang aloud while flexing our pecs.  In retrospect I am appalled at this and other insidious ways young girls were indoctrinated to please men.  Have a body that is acceptable to society.  Model perfect.  I had a boyfriend who called me jukebox Jane because of my vast knowledge of jingles and songs to fit any occasion.  Rest assured this is not a tune my grandchildren will hear coming from me.

The first sweater I truly loved was a Fisherman Knit from Ireland.  My mom bought this treasure at Gimbels, where my dad worked.  She may have enjoyed the 25% employee discount undoubtedly bestowed upon her purchase.  I however was in love with the cable knit.  The ever so slightly off-white color.  The way it was tight, but comfy.  Remember pointed collars coming out of the necks of our sweaters?  And the cuffs playing peek-a-boo?  I would wear a flannel shirt under this warm article of clothing, don my Frye boots...  I was styling!  When I moved to Colorado this sweater came with me.  And when I outgrew it (a/k/a gained weight), I kept it for a long while.  It reminded me of my mom, working alongside my dad in the department store, walking the avenues in NYC - young and confident.  In one of my many moves along the front range, I finally admitted it was never to be worn again and I gifted it to the Goodwill.

Colorado is the land of ever changing weather, so next up was cardigans.  Easy to get on and off.  No messing up my hair.  I have a zippered beauty from Norway that was my Dad's.  It is dark blue with the requisite winter motif adorning the sides of the zipper.  It is tight-knit and really warm.  Made of wool.  I refuse to relinquish it to the dry cleaner because it still has the faint smell of my dad, even though he has been gone for more than 25 years.  The warmth I feel when I don this sweater has more to do with love than sheep.

I did own two pullovers that I finally parted with at the end of last winter.  One I dubbed Ice -Rink Pink.  It was lovely, and I did wear it once at the ice arena on the Colorado College campus.  My friend Randy was re-teaching me the childhood skill of ice skating.  I envisioned him skating backward, gently pulling me along.  He was more of a get out on the glassy middle and enjoy the ice kind of guy.  I had a successful skate, gliding and feeling that cool breeze, but I haven't laced up since.

The other was teal green.  It was pilling and out of shape and I didn't let go easily.  But I profess to minimalism, so out it went.  I keep reminding myself that I can only wear one sweater at a time.  Actually that is not true, I've been know to wear an cardigan over a pullover...  Anyway, when I purchased or was gifted, or had dug out of my daughters' reject piles a few new jumpers, a couple of older ones had to go.

Sweaters are used to admonish cold people - Put on a sweater!  We've all heard that especially as kids.  The word is a slant rhyme enjoyed by poets and marketers: Sweater Weather.  Each Christmas sweaters are deemed ugly and contests abound.  Mr. Rogers wore his cardigan in every episode.

For me they are practical and pretty.  Warm and simple.  Itchy and soft.  I think I'll wear a purloined purple pullover today.

Time to Write,

Jane

Thousand Oaks

I was a little girl when I first heard of Thousand Oaks, California.  Our neighbors had kids much older than me and their daughter was marrying and moving to California.  It sounded so exotic back in the sixties.  A young bride leaving her parents for the Golden State.  I didn't occasion to speak with this sophisticate much, but I recall her saying how warm and nice it will be.  By the ocean.  Palm trees and tropical year round breezes.  I was enamored by her wanderlust.

Every once in a while as I grew up, made my own cross-country treks, settled in the mountain west, I'd think of Thousand Oaks and the dreams of Judy Grasiola.  I'm not sure that is her real name.  A Facebook inquiry to a hometown group I belonged to yielded ambiguous results.  But I'm going with what I remembered.  Anyway - I've been to California three times in my travels.  The first time was in 1987.  My wusband and I took almost a whole year and bummed around the United States in his little light blue Chevy S10 pickup truck.  We drove many miles and logged about 40 states into our National Parks passport.  That inaugural trip to the land of nuts and fruit started in northern California.  We dropped in from Oregon and took the famous US1.  A thrilling and nauseating adventure.  It is hard to remember more than 30 years later, but I am pretty sure we only got as far south as the San Francisco area.  We visited my Uncle Frank and his friend Kay.

Trip number two was in 2001 - pre 9/11.  My ex and I took the kids to SoCal for a Disney/Sea World/Legoland whirlwind.  The most memorable part of that trip was having to buy winter coats in April - in California!  It was warmer in Colorado when we departed, than when we deplaned at John Wayne Airport.  We treated my nephew Michael to Disney Land.  I recall him donning sunglasses and proclaiming what a sunny day SoCal was having.  My ex and I both chortled.  To us it was hazy and overcast.  The skies did not compare to our everlasting Colorado sunshine.  The bonus on this trip was connecting with my childhood friend - and sista of anotha motha - Pamela, and her kids at Legoland.

My last visit in was in 2014.  I drove with my youngest daughter through western Colorado, Utah and Nevada to arrive in San Diego where we stayed with my cousin Billy and his family.  His mom, Cookie is my first cousin on my dad's side.  These two were fabulous hosts with a great guest set-up.  Our own casita on the property in the hills just east of San Diego.  We were enjoying our time so much that we convinced my middle daughter to fly out and join us.  We went to the beach, ate amazing meals and enjoyed the sunshine.  Yes - finally the state lived up to it's nickname.

We also visited my childhood friend Pam again this time in Ojai - just east of Ventura.  Beautiful landscape.  But dry.  Lake Casitas, the source of drinking water for these parts was depleting.  The trees appeared to be suffering.  Landscapes were tinder.  I recognized all too clearly conditions that were ripe for disaster.  Just two short years earlier, my own neighborhood in the suburban/mountain interface of Colorado Springs was ravaged by a wildfire.  The wood slat fences designed to assure neighborly privacy fueled the flames.  Dried out decks, lack of a defensible barrier surrounding homes and even wood shake rooves contributed to the decimation.  To my untrained, but familiar eye this artsy enclave was in peril.

Now the news of fires in California are prolific and heart-wrenching.  In the past few years we have seen my friend's beloved Ojai surrounded by the Thomas Fire.  The Mendocino complex.  Napa Valley.  Southern California.  Even metropolis' like LA are barely spared.  The list of names to denote the fires is voluminous.  The headline remains the same "Largest fire in California history", but the place name is constantly changing.  The Camp fire is massive.  More than 600 people missing, though authorities are hopeful that this number will decrease as evacuees mark themselves as 'safe.'

The fire near Thousand Oaks, Woolsey, came on the heels of (another) mass shooting.  How much grief can a community endure?  No time to process a hail of bullets before a wall of fire prevails.  I cannot imagine how this childhood notion of a town with swaying palms and ocean breezes is holding up.  Reality always tempers fantasy.  These people are suffering.  The way my neighbors suffered in Colorado Springs.  Just two years past the Waldo Canon Fire, we had a shooting in the same supposedly bucolic corner of the city.  Tragedy after tragedy.  I am mentally fatigued.

I don't know what became of Judy from Edgewood Lane.  If she still lives in Thousand Oaks, I hope she was spared the sufferings of late.  If she ever reads this, I want her to know that I have thought about her and her Utopia many times over the years.  Perhaps her move to California  was an early seed of adventure planted in my pre-pubescent consciousness.  To her and for that- I am eternally grateful.

Time to write,

Jane

The Heat is On!

The heat is on!  Not really.  My heat is off, it went kaput two nights ago.  Yesterday I woke up to a balmy 63 degrees and in my half sleep, no coffee perusal at the thermostat I was confused.  It was set for 70, but I was cold.  A cup of joe later, it all became clear.  The heat wasn't working.

I live in a nice townhome that we rent from a nice lady.  But she is a senior and a widow and utilizes a management company to save her from headaches like this.  So I don't call Rose.  I call the middleman.  Or, more accurately in this case, middle women.  The management company is newly owned by two former female employees that bought out the company and renamed it to reflect their first names.  J & J Management Co.

I enjoy an early morning go-round of voice mail.  Press this, wait for an entire message, leave my own plea for warmth and then?  Wait.  At nine am when I am sure a human will answer the phone I try again and connect with one of the J's.  Oh, yes.  She got my message.  The HVAC company has been notified.  I'll get a call.  Not one to sit around all day, I go to Nia.  I go to Al-Anon. I bring my phone to two places where I cherish no interruptions, but I will need to take this call.  I shouldn't have bothered.  No buzzing or blinking.  No courtesy call.

I am driving home from my meeting and decide to call Rose, just to confirm she is in the know.  She is and she is also surprised that at one-thirty nothing has been done.  No worries I tell her I'll call one of the J's, and I do.  This time I am reassured a call and appointment are forthcoming.  OK.  I can go home and wait.  Chill out.  Chillax.

I'm kind of handy.  I've been joking with my own two girls recently that I am a genius.  Because I know little things.  Big things.  Some things.  Nothings.  It has been a fun little joke.  I decide to take myself seriously and tackle the heater.  I used to live in a house with a furnace and a man.  I'd watch while he fiddled and fixed just about anything.  How hard could it be?  My instinct was the door switch.  I'd had to push the door in tighter recently, and even secured it with duct tape.  My favorite go-to tool.  Silence may be golden, but duct tape is silver.

So I switch on the thermostat, take off the door and press the button in.  Hard.  On comes the heat.  I decide to tape the switch down and see what happens.  I have a voila! moment.  The furnace is cycling on and off according to the thermostat settings, the house is warming up.  I am proud.  Preening.  I tell my girls via text that I really am a genius.  The HVAC company calls and I tell them don't bother to come.  I don't need a man with a tool belt and biceps to warm me up.  I call the J's and leave a message.  We're good.  I saved the day and Rose some money.  I am truly beside myself and my abilities!

Darkness falls and it is shower time.  I decide to really crank the heat up.  To like 78.  I never do that.  Get a sweater.  Wear socks.  Put mittens on.  Drink hot water.  I can sound just like my dad at times.  But I am thinking, maybe intuiting, that if the heat decides to die again, I should at least blast the furnace as a preventative measure.  I can't hear the heater blowing while in the bathroom with the water cascading and the exhaust fan going.  I can't hear the heat when I step out to towel off, because of the fan and the closed door.  I switch off the exhaust, open that door and hear...  nothing.  Shit!  I look at the thermostat and it is a balmy 72 in the house.  OK and crap.

I dress in pajamas, my usual work clothes, and open the closet that houses the faulty furnace.  I press buttons, utilize tape, tap the buttons on the thermostat, toggle the on/off switch.  Nothing.  I am really bummed.  Now it is after hours and I've missed my window of a service call.  I humbly call back the HVAC company and the J's and tell them I am not a genius.  I did not fix the heat.  I do not know what I am doing. I may need a man in coveralls after all.  Dammit.

The oil filled space heater in the living room has done a damn good job of keeping the main areas of the townhome warm.  I debate between arm-wrestling my daughter for whose room should house that trusty standby this evening.  I decide upon hers.  My room faces the sun most of the day.  Hers does not.  She comes in late from her restaurant  job, and needs to shower.  That would not be pleasant at the frigid midnight hour.  I grab some pot holders and carefully wheel this apparatus across the townhome.  Being ever so mindful of not inflicting second degree burns upon myself.

Finally, just now, a man who is really wearing coveralls shows up.  Yeah!  I'll let him mess with the heater.  The furnace.  The boiler.  I don't care what we call the dang thing, I just want it fixed.  I'm OK with wearing mittens, a sweater and socks.  I'm alright drinking decaf all morning to stay warm, but not buzzed.  I'm strong - I can handle this minor inconvenience,  But only for two nights.

Time to Write,

Jane

Ballots and Bullets

I voted on Tuesday.  Actually it was Monday night, via a drive-by collection box.  My county of residence sent an "I voted" sticker with my ballot and it is somewhere in the bottom of my purse.  I did intend to don it, but I forgot.  Maybe people who don't vote should be the ones to wear stickers.  They could say things like "I don't care" or "Who gives a shit?".

I do care and I do give a shit.  And even though it is just one vote, it is important enough for me to take the time to wade through the voluminous ballot, discuss the initiatives with someone else, read the accompanying  booklets and frankly hope for the best.

Colorado now has a gay governor who introduced his partner as the "First Man of Colorado".  That's worth noting in a state that passed Amendment 2 back in 1992.  Even Barbra Streisand spoke out against it way back then, encouraging fellow Hollywoodians to boycott Aspen in protest.  It must have been important if she spoke out!  Sarcasm, here.

Jared Polis is also Jewish.  I'm personally hopeful this will be positive for Colorado.  The state I have called home - on and off for almost 40 years - has a history of prejudice.  Lynchings, an active KKK back in the day and perhaps even now. Polis's opponent, Walker Stapleton's grandfather was a hood carrying member in the 1920's during his five term stint as mayor of Denver.  But hey, that's crosses under the bridge.

I'm happy Congress will be decked out in blue.  I feel my health care is safer.  Not perfect, but as a person with a serious pre-existing condition I feared the red tide of stripping protections.  I try not to think about Medicare and Social Security.  It is my head in the sand moment.  I just hold out that when I am eligible, it will still be available.  But really, who knows?

I listened in full to the president's press conference yesterday.  Ironic to tune in while in Boulder and turn off in Arapahoe county.  45 was like a street thug, itching for a fight.  So what if he wears a designer suit?  Pedantic and uninformed, in my humble opinion.  I was impressed to learn how every world leader congratulates him FIRST THING when they meet.  I can only imagine the real words - loosely translated.  "Mr. President - a warm congratulations on bamboozling the American people into voting for you.  We did not realize how many stupid people live in the worlds (formerly) most powerful country."

Time to step off my soapbox and ponder another mass shooting.  They come rapid fire these days.  I am hardly through processing Pittsburgh, Kentucky, Parkland, Vegas and Orlando.  Now I add Thousand Oaks to my list of sad cities.  I have lived in places where events have caused collective community grief.  I lived in JeffCo during Columbine.  Colorado during the Aurora shooting.  A niece on my ex's side was in the theater next to the tragically picked shooting gallery.  I had never received a group text before.  "My kids are safe".  I was confused.  Clarity came all to quickly.

Every time I clear my head.  Every time I pray for the victims and the families.  Every time I hear the political rhetoric of don't politicize these events.  Every time I cry.  Every time I wonder...  Did my vote count?  Will there be change in our perceptions?  Our values of human life v make my day?  Time to turn the dial to music.  The 24 hour news cycle is not good for our mental health.  If you hear crazy voices in your head?  Turn off FOX.  (and the others)

Time to Write,

Jane

Schools of Poetry

I'm three weeks into an eight week poetry class. It is called Reading for Writers and it is a literary gallop through twentieth century schools of poetry. I did not major in literature in college, hell, I barely eked my way through high school. So I was a bit worried about my ability to comprehend an academic jog through poetry. I had no idea that poetry was categorized by 'schools'. I can only describe this by having you think about different movements in visual arts. Impressionism, cubism, surrealism and others. As with the visual arts, different movements of poetry emerge to follow, reflect and shape the times. Many of the names are shared and overlap or run concurrently in time. We study two schools each week, read poetry aloud from the genre, and get a brief history of some of the known and lesser known poets who practiced in that style. It is heady stuff. I am not as well read as others in the class. I used to be the kind of poet who only wanted to write the stuff, not read the fluff. Sorry I couldn't resist throwing a rhyme in here. It is not what I really mean either. I understand my poetry. I may not understand yours... or theirs! Back in June I wrote about not being accepted into a year-long program called The Poetry Collective. The teacher of my current class is one of the facilitators of the collective. I was not devastated when I wasn't accepted. My philosophy was that I wasn't ready. Not Yet. A friend of mine who read my Not Yet piece had also applied and was also not accepted. Notice how I do not use the word rejected. I had enough of that crap in high school, no need for that in the fourth quarter of my life. Anyway, my friend said my piece was graceful. I think he meant gracious, but I like the twist. Maybe it is grace-full to not harbor resentment. Not being accepted pushed me into committing to a nighttime class in a not-so-nice neighborhood that is almost 35 minutes from home. If I had not applied and had not mentally accepted I wasn't ready, I may not have paid my money to take this class that is stretching my view of my favorite thing in life; poetry. I show up early, not because I am an overachiever but because I want a parking spot in the small lot. I may write poetry, but my head is not in the clouds. I am practical and poetic. It gives me a chance to review the weeks readings. Clear my head if it's been a rough day physically. I eat a snack - I am truly famous for having food in my car at all times. It has been suggested by the teacher to attempt to write the same poem in each of the different schools. I love a challenge. What I find hard is to pre-write a piece about a movement we have yet to study and discuss, so I have felt a week behind the last couple of classes. I am going to try and play catch-up and be more prepared. Procrastination is one of my character defects. Perhaps that is why I was not a successful student in past endeavors. At 59 I am not too old to change my ways. Last week I published a poem called Platt Park on an October Afternoon. It was an imagistic poem and I felt like I nailed it. I love to evoke images in the readers mind. Take you - them - there with me. Wherever it might be. This week's poem is based on the same lunch, in the same park. I am actually not sure if it is vorticism or futurism. I just know I had a tough time reconfiguring the original into a more masculine, mechanical poem. Here is a peek into my mind and the process. The boys in the park had skateboards as their transport mode. Since mechanical references are part of both these schools (I think?) I read about the history and construction of skateboards. The references to the parts are smattered throughout my poem. The double meaning is left to you the reader, but every part; kingpin, bowl, half-pipe, pivot cup, maple board, goofy and regular, grip, bushings all have an alternative way to look at the word. It has everything to do with skateboards and nothing to do with skateboards. Enjoy! Propelled by Gravity

Eating my sandwich of barbed wire and nails

Full bowls and half-pipe dreams

Dirt and grime inhibit the grip

Tricks performed on concave maple boards

Full bowls and half-pipe dreams

A kingpin holds it all together

Tricks performed on concave maple boards

Stiff bushings make the turns easier to bear

A kingpin holds it all together

Imperfect fit.  Pivot cups endure the hard times

Stiff bushings make the turns easier to bear

I scrutinize these boys; regular and goofy

Imperfect fit.  Pivot cups endure the hard times

Dirt and grime inhibit the grip

I scrutinize these boys; regular and goofy

Eating my sandwich of barbed wire and nails By the way the above poem is a Pantoum. Time to Write, Jane

Platt Park on an October Afternoon

Platt Park on an October Afternoon

Scanning the expansive green of the park

Spying an empty bench with a warm

Ray of sunlight across the brown metal slats

Two little girls in pink tutu’s

On scooters, helmets with plumage

Toddler flamingoes gliding across the concrete sea

Near the edge, young adults in sleeping bags

Uncamouflaged lifeless mounds

Haystacks of homelessness

Lunching on Brussels sprouts with lemon aioli

Roasted golden yams under a brittle blue sky

My mind wanders, my eyes dart

Between the fuchsia flamingoes and the wingless wanton

How can just a few short years separate

Brilliant flightless birds from those with clipped wings?

Never a Dull Moment

When folks ask me what I write, I tell them this - Poetry, prose and prattle.  I am a poet first.  Prose can be fiction or true life and I lean strongly to the latter.  Prattle is just going on and on, mostly about myself (my blog, lol), sometimes nonsensical, more often an honest accounting of a life event.

What about fiction? is inevitably the next question.  Don't I want to be a novelist?  Mmm, not really.  I prefer non-fiction in both my reading and my writing.  A few years back I stopped, then haltingly restarted, reading fiction.  Damn, there are many good books out there.  Wonderful stories by prolific authors that beg me to keep turning the page.  But, there is also much to learn, hence my predilection for non-fiction.  Memoir, to me, is a nice mix of both the F and NF words.  I enjoy reading about others lives, triumphs and tragedies.  Oy vas mir* - how cliché.  It is also a challenge for me to take a small happening or a series of events in my life and string them cohesively into an enjoyable tale.

The freedom of memoir speaks to me.  My recollection.  My purview.  How I lived it and how I remember it.  I never set out to be a teller of tales, but as I get a little bit older, I find it enjoyable to both orally relate stories and type them out for perpetuity.  I've always considered myself a skeptic, a cynic and sarcastic.  Why not translate that wry way of thinking into pleasurable tid-bits for my friends and sometimes family?  I say sometimes because I think some of my relatives (siblings, perhaps?) are my least enthusiastic readers.  That's OK.  I can't compete with the NYT crossword puzzle and Joe Kenda.

About two years ago I began attending a 'memoir' class for those of us over 55.  Yep, I qualify and then some.  We've been through a few iterations of purpose and now meet weekly to discuss all types things; writing, written, wrote, rote, and verboten.  Lively, intellectual discussion followed by a prompt driven in class write, reading our piece if we want to.  We meet at a Denver Public Library, the teachers are delightful and volunteer their time and efforts to keep us amused and stimulated.  I try to make every class because I always get a decent 'write' out of the day, or at least some motivation to go home and keep at it.

Last Friday we continued our discussion of Strunk and White's The Elements of Style.  I knew I owned a copy, most assuredly a thrift store find of yore, but couldn't put my hands on it.  I've been borrowing the libraries edition and can say with much relief that I found my own book early this morning while pulling out a poetry book from my one little bookshelf.  Moments like these give me extreme pleasure and reaffirm my belief in a Higher Power.  After debating fancy words, orthodox spelling and over explaining, Ray handed out our weekly prompt.  Always two to choose from and I took on this one. "Dull not to..."  Here is my (almost) unedited write.  I did read my piece with a preface that I also share with you.  This may or may not be fiction.  Pick your own parts to believe.
Enjoy!

DULL, not to be confused with drab or simple minded.  He of dull mind.  She's a dull girl.  No.  This dull is an acronym:

Divorced
Uninhibited
Lusty
Ladies

It is a private club.  Not too small with a few chapters spread throughout the United States.  Denver's chapter, the charter, is quite active.  Active.  With a capital 'A'.

Mostly we began as a group of women who had led formerly dull- yes dull in the conventional sense- lives.  Children and dishes.  Laundry and missionary.  Gossip and homework.  Church, PTA and the hundreds of other things dull women do.

I started the Denver chapter in 2008; the year of my divorce.  The acronym back then stood for:

Denver
Unites
Lovely
Lonely(s)

We were a kind of lonely hearts club for women who were a bit
older, unfamiliar with the dating protocol du jour. Gals who wanted to go out, have some fun, build friendships.  Breakaway from the formerly mundane (dull?) lives of housewifery.  And boy!  Did we do that and more.

Dating younger men.  Exploring one-night stands.  Chippendale's.  Belly dancing in the moonlight.  Flirting with men in cars - but only orange cars.  Calling old boyfriends.  Facebook hook-ups.  J-Swipe and Tinder for seniors.

The twelve of us were completely out of control.  Word got around and more women burnt their bras, put purple streaks in their hair, bought black thongs.  And I don't mean sandals.  We were wild women!  Girls gone crazy. 

Chapters sprung up in New York, LA and Chicago.   National conventions convened.  T-shirts were made.  Key-tags for members gave us discounts at Christal's stores nationwide.

What started out as a small group of horny middle-aged women grew into a monster, a machine of it's own.  Every time I typed the newsletter I feared the porno police would beat down my door.  My ex told my kids I was not only unfit, but a sex addict.  My friends no longer talked to me for fear I would recruit them.  

Now I am in the process of rebranding this non-profit again. Can you believe we are a 501c3?  Our new acronym will still be dull:

Divas
Uninterested in
Living
Large

Time to Write,

Jane

* Oy vas mir - woe is me