Chipping Away

Even though National Potato Chip Day was back in March - I received a gag gift of Lays Classic chips earlier this week.  The bag resembled a Mylar balloon, having travelled from sea level to the Mile High City.*  This delivery affirmed my steadfast belief of how important the US Postal Service truly is.  Receiving my ballot in a timely manner was civics in action.  90-day medication deliveries are life giving, cheaper and safer than an in person pharmacy visit.  But potato chips?  Excuse me for mixing metaphors, but they take the cake.

I subscribe to "Informed Delivery", a service of the USPS.  Almost every day I am pinged that a package or handbill is in the mail hut of the complex where I live.  Knowing what is in store when I open the little mail receptacle adds drama and excitement to my otherwise mundane life in the time of Covid.  It's my own personal OOH-OOH moment!  I can be a kid in the minutes between notification and gathering.  I can get my tools for opening the package at the ready.  Knife, letter opener, an orange band-aid for the inevitable paper cut incurred by overzealousness.

But the USPS failed in their mission of informed delivery and neglected to get my hopes up that a surprise awaited.  When I opened the little door recently there was a key to enable me to access the larger boxes available for packages.  This convenience has never stopped the mail carrier from pushing and shoving bundles into the rectangular slot: bending CD cases (sorry Andrea), and tearing fliers and other important correspondence. Once he packed my mail and a package in so tightly, I had to leave a note and ask for him to put it in the bigger box, less than an arm's length away.  But I am not here to bash the postal service - our current administration does enough of that without help from me.  I am grateful that my mail shows up, mostly unscathed and somewhat on-time.

I took the key and a deep breath and opened door #118.  What would I find?  Well, we already know it was a bag of chips.  But not just any chips.  Lays Classic - a generous 8oz bag to boot.  Not one of those small school lunch sized bags, but a convenience store end-rack special.  I used to buy those individual, portion-control chip bags ostensibly for my children's brown-bags.  I would tell myself that I could eat just a little bitty amount, maybe 15 chips or so.  But the truth is the effort to open another bag and then another wasn't too strenuous and the reward of salty goodness was always worth it.  After all you can't spell chips without HIPS!

The box had a coconut water logo and I thought "Why would my daughter order coconut water"?  Sorry, Andrea.  I do know better... (and sorry for the ellipses)  It was light as a feather, so the muscular strength I mustered to slide it out of the mailbox was not needed.  I balanced the empty recycled bag, a stack of late arriving election fliers and the mystery box for the 200 steps or so back home.  Not Hanukkah, not my birthday, not national potato chip day.  Why would my cousin's husband send me a bag O'Chips?

The note read:  Sorry.  I think these are all good.  Enjoy. Marvin.  Now why would Marvin send me chips, you might ask.  I admit it took a bit of head scratching to recall that I had recently told Linda a story about me, Marvin and America's favorite snack.  I was six and let's just say Marvin was a grown-up.  No need to out his age here.  We were at this idyllic swim 'club' that my parents joined each year for about $100.00.  A five-acre sand bottom pool, tennis and volleyball courts, picnic areas, even mini-golf!  This was the sixties and I would later come to learn that my mother was not drinking coffee from her bottomless thermos in the 90 degree/90 percent humidity weather of the Hudson Valley.

I was a skinny, high-diving mermaid.  These leisurely days of summer were the highlight of my suburban childhood.  This day found us under the giant willow that shed thousands of leaves into the water every day.  There were lounge chairs to catch the breeze, enjoy the shade.  I was having lunch - and though I don't remember all the details of the day -   I am confident that I was hungry because swimming still has that effect on me.  Five+ decades later, that hasn't changed.  Marvin kept dipping into my bag of chips and would proclaim after each one "That one is no good."  Finally, the final chip and Marvin declared "Now that was a good chip".  Or something like that.  It was a long time ago, but I know the gist of my memory is accurate.  Just like my dad taking a giant forkful of my cheesecake at Leonetti's - these memories of purloined potato chips and pastries do not elude me.  Unlike the diner caper, I did not burst out in tears over a chip or two.  Nonetheless the trauma is real or I wouldn't be dedicating an entire blog post to potato chips!

The memory of that day, those times of carefree childhood, telling Linda the tale...  It all came back to me.  I laughed out loud and that was medicine for my soul.  I glanced at the postage Marvin had shelled out and realized these chips would be the most expensive snack of my life.  Ha! - worth it I thought.  I quickly penned Marvin a thank you email, told him an old corny potato chip joke in the process.   And then it occurred to me.  I should have told Linda the story in exact detail editing just one small fact.  Nothing too major.  What writers might call embellishment or a character change to move the story (or reward) forward. I should have made the star of the saga Mallomars.

*Mylar Potato Chips

Forty is a Good Number!

Just three days until the election.  This evokes many feelings within me:  anxiety, hope, disgust, relief.  And those emotions are stirred up without the brutal whisk of Facebook.  2020 has been a tough year, no need to tell you that.  For me it has been all about keeping my serenity and my sanity in good working order.  Thus, I decided the last weekend of September would be my last foray into Facebook - I would refrain at least through November third.  

Here is my true story of surviving and perhaps even thriving without the scourge of social media.  Early in the pandemic I began taking a weekly "Spiritual Fitness" class via Zoom with a Torah Educator.  As a kid I did not receive much (any?) formal religious training and the casual, conversational format of this weekly talk appealed to me.  Yes, I resonated because the instructor is a woman.  Yes, it was a convenient time and place - HOME!- to take the class.  But it was more than that.  I thought why not now?  This is a good time to strengthen my emunah (faith) in a more specific way, not the generalized "I'm spiritual, not religious "mantra of late.

I knew the Jewish calendar was lunar, and the Gregorian calendar revolves around the sun.  I understood that the dates of  holidays were always the same in the Jewish calendar, but beyond that my knowledge of the months of Judaism was scant.  In mid-August Chaya began mentioning the month of Elul.  How it is a full moon cycle of reflection and repentance leading up to Rosh Hashanah and the Days of Awe.  As a 12-stepper in Al-Anon the idea of taking a month to ponder my being, my actions, my thoughts...  well, it really appealed to me.  I downloaded an Elul workbook that extended to Yom Kippur and faithfully did the daily reading and writing.  There were questions, deep thoughtful questions to reply to.  All done in my jammies, at night, by myself, in brutal honesty.  This was a forty-day endeavor as the workbook extended through the Days of Awe to sundown on the night of Yom Kippur commencing.

I was still on Facebook during most of this time.  Being pawky, highly opiniated and vociferous.  We were gearing up to an historic, important election and I wanted my voice heard!  In a punny, funny, witty way of a writer.  Clever me.  But then I started to not feel good about my behavior.  My overzealous engagement with friends and family.  Having harsh judgements about the intelligence levels of people who had different opinions than mine or supported the contrary opponent.  Doing this meaningful reflective work and Facebook sniping seemed to be in opposition of one another.  

I decided to give up Facebook on September 27th before sundown and the beginning of Yom Kippur.  I had a prior thirty-day hiatus a few years back and found the self-imposed blackout difficult.  I occasionally snuck a peek to see a post or check in on someone.  This time I vowed to be clean and rigorously honest with myself.  I uninstalled the app on my phone to limit temptation.  I had a last proclamatory post so folks would know I hadn't just fallen off the face of the earth.  After all, anything is possible in 2020.  

What was also floating around my brain was the number 40.  There are forty days in the penitential period from Rosh Chodesh Elul and Yom Kippur.  Moses told the Jews they were not worthy to inherit the land and would wander the desert for forty years.  The heavens broke open and rained on Noah's ark for forty days.  Jesus fasted for forty days and forty nights before his temptation.  In the middle ages ships had to harbor for forty days before passengers could disembark due to the bubonic plague.  Sound familiar?  Even Lent is forty days long, not counting Sundays.  This number 40 carries significance!  Ergo I decided my Facebook free period would honor the gravitas of forty.  I quickly looked at my (Gregorian) calendar and calculated my social media sabbatical would end on November 5th.  

Logically this date of reemergence made sense.  The election would be over and that was my initial reason for the respite - add two day and maybe some of the rancor and nastiness would have subsided.  Now I have doubts that a quick turnaround to normalcy is feasible.  Each day I am growing more comfortable with the possibility that Facebook is firmly in my rear-view mirror.  I haven't peeked at all this time.  Not even to go onto my beloved groups - Embracing our Silver Hair, a Cop Mom forum, one that is all about living with Rheumatoid Arthritis and a couple more.  One of my daughters told me that I can just go onto my groups and not the general scroll till I fall down a hole feed.  But I thought I am all in this time.

Here is what I have gained from my absence.  I don't miss Facebook.  I didn't engage in inane, circular conversations with virtual strangers.  I didn't read any death wishes or slimy slogans.  I did miss photos of kids and food and vacations - well not vacations - we don't do that anymore.  But you get the gist.  I wish there were two Facebooks - one for the political/social/societal hostilities and one for butterflies and flowers.  I suppose Instagram is more geared for the latter and I might try to be more diligent about checking in and posting there.  Maybe I will even figure out how to post this blog on that friendlier forum.  But not this instant.

Right now, I reflect on my choice to abstain.  I liken it the practice to exercising my willpower muscle.  Seeing if I have the courage to change a habit.  Can I give up something I love for forty days, like a Lenten practice?  E-Lent-ion is what I jokingly called my experiment.  I survived!  I found more time to read, write, crochet, and cook.  I spent less time staring at a screen.  My blood pressure remained slow and steady.  I didn't feel riled up or raring to go with anyone about anything.

As for returning to Facebook, only time will tell.  In the meantime, I will engage with my Spiritual Fitness and remember to place principles above personalities.  

Time to Write,

Jane

The Last Word

The last word is exhausting.  I spend a bit more time on Facebook these days, and I find myself negatively engaging, trying to be witty, formulating the quirkiest quip.  In other words, getting the last word.  Because of this I am setting some rules for myself in order to limit my screen time.

Rule # 1 - No phone in my room.  I waver on this self imposed prima regula.  What if there is an emergency and I need to call 9-11? What if one of my kids need me?  Those possibilities are slightly outweighed by my need to be in bed - without a phone.  Two nights ago, however, I was awoken by a man and woman having a loud disagreement outside, under my bedroom window.  In my half-awake-ness,  I hobbled to the dining room table to retrieve the banished phone from its charger.  Perhaps this was a good thing.  Those few moments of being upright, gaining a sense of bearing, allowed me a chance to breathe deeply.  Think clearly.  No need to call 9-11 on a couple's fight.  Chances are most of us have been a publicly dueling duo a time or two in our relationships.  Instead I cemented my brief, initial (WTF) peek through the blinds to memory.  I heard the name 'Ashley' several times and noted that as well.  I looked at the time in case it ever became important.  A bit more cognizant now, I decided to just be a silent, unknown witness.  Even though I really wanted to open my front door and tell them to move along, decent people are asleep at this hour, I resisted that inclination.  I quietly gave it 10 minutes to see if the situation escalated and needed (heaven forbid) police intervention.  I don't know the number of any counselors who would race to scene past midnight.  Thankfully I was able to resume slumber and no somnambulist statement to the sheriff was needed.  Mmm, maybe I do need my phone by my side.  But not tonight.

Rule # 2 - No automatic phone reaching in the morning. Not being an automaton. Something like that.  For an addict of Words with Friends and 7 Little Words this proves to be harder than it sounds.  Setting a morning ritual assists me in this no phone first mantra.  It's a bit old-fashioned, but bear with me.  I look at a clock to see what time it is.  And - wait for it -I go outside to check on the weather,  As a writer I hear over and over morning pages.  Morning Pages.  Stream of consciousness.  Awaken your brain first thing in the morning.  Three pages at a minimum.  Truth is, that is exactly what I am doing right now.  As always, the practice of heeding this advice serves to remind me what a great discipline it is.  But I'm weak.  I'm human.  I'm curious to know how 'liked' I am.  All the more reason for me to employ alternative activities to begin my day.  If not morning pages then the crossword puzzle in the Denver Post.  They graciously print two every day - can life get any better than that?  What I am actually doing is replacing a bad habit with a better one.  There are a lot of hours between six am and ten pm.  The reality is I only carve out two hours enforcing rules # 1 and 2.  This leaves a huge swath of time - say 8 am to 9 pm (that is 13 hours!) to un-occupy my screen time.  Let's explore another wrinkle of this system.  COVID.  I spend more time at home than ever before.  I need to recall time-tested ways of how to spend days.  Reading & writing of course.  TV watching?  OK - but not too much.  Certainly not first thing in the morning, and not as background noise all day.  Cooking?  Sure, I like chopping and slicing and dicing.  I'm a regular Ron Popeil in the kitchen.  But what else?  Thank Goodness sleep gives me something to do for 1/3 of the day.

Rule # 3 - The Pomodoro Technique.  Better known as how to keep Jane focused and away from her phone.  Last year in my memoir class (Live!  In a Library! With Lots of People! We Were Daring!) Ray, one of the duo who prodded us and prompted us weekly, set out a timer and introduced the concept of the Pomodoro Technique.  Simple enough.  Set a timer ( I say egg, he says tomato) for a mere 25 minutes.  Write and only write for that chunk of time.  Ding!  You're done!  Stretch, loo, do it again.  Did you know that I am a resistor?  I'm talking to myself here, but feel free to chime in.  I resist structure, authority, chocolate cake.  Scratch that last one.  I don't need a tomato to tell me to write!  I'm a writer.  Ideas come to me.  My pen loves my paper- why put limits on their love affair?  I filed the Pomodoro Technique in the back of my cranial Rolodex and never tried it.  Not once.  Don't tell me what to do...  Sound familiar?  And, yes - I wear a mask.


Two years ago I rented a casita in Santa Fe, NM.  The sole purpose was to write.  And I did, but I was also distracted.  I could walk to The Plaza, to the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum, to a cafe that had green chile scones.  A short drive took me to Canyon Road, to the Recreation Center at Ft. Marcy, to the Indian Market.  One morning after picking out my produce, I wandered into the indoor market and found a stall called Deb's Bargain Den.  I'm a gal who cannot resist a bargain.  Instead of being on the sunny patio of the casita (writing...) I'm digging through dusty books.  I purchase one for a buck called the Productivity Planner,  It made perfect sense to me that while I was procrastinating - and doing it well, I might add - my Higher Power found this book and put it in my hand (the hand that really should have been holding a pen).  In my typical way, I only glanced at it when I returned to the casita.  Oh yeah, it is like a day-timer, but kind of weird.  And in time it went from handsomely sitting on my bookshelf (pick me - pick me) to a bucket in the bottom of a closet.  Snugly nestled with all the other must-read, gotta-have bargain books from (mostly) library book sales.

Quarantine is a perfect time to clean out closets, so it was no surprise to find this thin volume in my hand last week.  It's a nice book with a good feel to the touch.  It has three components I like in the physical construction of a book; gold lettering on the cover, an elastic to keep it shut, and an attached ribbon to mark my place.  This time I found myself actually opening the book and reading the first thirty or so pages of instructions of how to effectively use this book to boost productivity.  I consider it a win that I only had to hear about tomatoes and timers twice to give this technique a chance.  I haven't actually WRITTEN anything in the book which is highly recommended, and most likely the entire point of the book, but I am trying.  C'mon.  Baby steps is all this PRO-crastinator can do right now.

I am learning.  I've had several aha moments.  25 minutes is a manageable amount of time.  My brain is beginning to let go of really wanting to hear the bell.  Time's Up!  Thank you Dr. Pavlov.  Today, or maybe tomorrow, or the next day, I will re-read the instructions and begin to utilize the book as intended.

Somehow, this brings me back to my phone and more specifically Facebook.  My time vampire.  It's all connected.  The Pomodoro Technique is giving me permission to put my phone on silent.  Remove it from my reach.  And thus, I work.  I am more focused.  It feels good to hear the timer and see what I've accomplished.  Not just writing either.  I use the technique to measure housework - twenty-five solid minutes and the place sparkles.  Chop veggies, prep and tidy the kitchen?  Done.  I can even time crocheting while I mindlessly watch evening TV and still garner a sense of worth.

Facebook sucks me in to a negative space.  Cyber arguments, exerting my will, wanting others to see things my way.  I need to let go of all that for my serenity, sanity and dignity.  The Pomodoro Technique is showing me that the only place I need to have the last word is right here.  On the page.

111 Days.

Apologies to my blog.  I've ignored you most of 2020.  That is not to say I have not been writing.  I was and I am!  In April I participated in a poem-a-day challenge to celebrate National Poetry Month.  Indeed, I wrote every day and did post some of the (hopefully) better ones to my FB page.  May brought me to a daily meditation/writing prompt program that I purchased on-line.  I did not diligently write each day, but the program is mine (and the clouds) to keep, so I can tune in and write whenever I like.  Also in the beginning of Q, one of my favorite yoga teachers invited me to a 21 day meditation challenge which included non-creative writes.  So, all in all, I can reflect and say YES!  I have indeed been writing.

Now we are at the end of June.  This month was LitFest, presented by Lighthouse Writers Workshop.  This year the festival was delivered via Zoom.  Initially I was hesitant to plunk my money down to stay at home; shouldn't they be offering a whopping special since I won't be using their electricity and toilet paper. (no longer a hot commodity, but still a necessity!)  Something I knew, but confirmed in Q is that whatever I resist, I should embrace.  I have a tablet and always thought that I was a hard book in hand kind of reader.  But with libraries closed and my personal collection being almost exclusively non-fiction, I took the leap, downloaded Hoopla and am giving e-reading a try.

A while back Nia, my preferred exercise and dance practice, launched NiaTV.  Here again, I was of the ilk that I don't need to watch a video in order to dance.  I go to the Y.  I love my teachers and fellow dancers so much I've written poetry and prose about them.  Now, unable to go to the Y, and with Nia HQ offering a free trial, I took the leap (arabesque?) and signed up.  My morning routine consists of a warm-up by moving furniture around to create a space in my living room to jazz-square, cross-front and shimmy.  Plus I enjoy a few unexpected bonuses, one being I can dance on demand and the other is dancing on carpet is sooo much easier on my knees.  Who knew?

For me, a routine is a component of my sanity.  Thus, each day looks pretty much the same.  Coffee and a morning write, often on my front porch, no matter the weather.  Exercise to the TV - yes TV - because I figured out how to duplicate my laptop screen onto the TV.  No squinting!  And since Nia includes Floorplay, and yoga is up and down (kind of like temple/church) I can put my laptop on the floor and never strain my neck to see what I am supposed to be doing. 

Before I know it, two meals under my stretchy yoga pant waistband, it is afternoon.  More reading, maybe some mindless TV, or an Al-Anon meeting, a phone chat or two, more writing....  you get the picture.  Somehow the day passes, nighttime falls, and then I get to wake up and do it all, or nothing,  again.

Occasionally I sneak in a trip up the highway to see the kids and grands.  But with everyone going back to work, this is going to become less frequent and more heartbreaking.  I'm in a double risk category and take the cautions to Q seriously.  As my mom would have said "this too shall pass".  Yes it will.  When?

So blog...  I am back.  I will endeavor to fill some pages, if for no other reason then to document these difficult times.  And to process the range of emotions I roller-coaster on a daily basis.

Time to Write,

Jane

Almost One

If you popped over here from Facebook - thank you!  I couldn't format on that platform and this short piece has a message  - a hint if you will - to the subject matter of the poem. 

Almost One

...but still I have this
Dilemma.  Where is the box
Big enough to hold my grief

How do I seek
Nepenthe.  Magic potion
Elixir.  Cocktail of
Altered consciousness

Where is relief
Easing of heartache
Soothing of pain
Smoothness of emotion

Schoolchildren should never be
Concerned with two things
Being hungry and being shot
Moms raise babies.  Not targets

…but still I have this quandary
Where is the box to
Banish bereavement
Expel maternal anxiety

Bang-Bang. Pow-Pow

Where have I been?  It has been almost two months since I returned from Florida and blogged about my magical travel experience.  Fast forward to mid-April.  I'm home.  I've been in self-isolation (is that redundant?) since the afternoon of March 10th.  I left the YMCA and then my Al-Anon meeting that day and had the same sense of not wanting to go back out into the world.  And while I miss my routines, I am happily employing a Can-Do attitude.  Certainly my forebears endured more hardships in their lifetimes. Pogroms and The Holocaust to name just two.

I have the luxury of a warm home.  Television and internet access.  Food and other sundries can be delivered to my doorstep.  The newspaper still thuds on my balcony every morning.  Zoom enables me to see, but not touch, my kids and grands.  Overall, I cannot complain.  I am breathing, staying fit, reading & writing.  Which brings me to this...

I am not a fiction writer.  I've never dabbled in dialogue, set a scene, developed a plot.  I am mostly a poet.  I do write essay-esque here.  I've written vignettes of memoir - storytelling really - of my childhood and perceptions of growing up all things suburban.  But fiction?  Nah.  In fact I read mostly non-fiction.  I tend to grab books on the craft of writing, poetry collections and memoirs.  During this endless Sabbath I have dipped into fiction.  Mainly because I have them here on my bookshelf.  I discovered that reading fiction is much less heady than digesting non-fiction.  I am whipping through these stories.

Denverite (on-line news source) had a Covid-19 Flash Fiction contest.  Complete with publication and prize money!  I thought - Why Not?  Though I have never written fiction before, I'd try my hand at something new.  After all what else was I doing?  Flash Fiction is typically between 500 and 1500 words.  I submitted the following piece that came in at 786 words.  With little hope of winning, I might add.  When the winning entries were published on three consecutive days last week I didn't see my name or piece.  No surprise there.  Reading them made it clear what mine was lacking.  Did I mention dialogue? Scene?  Plot?  Yep.  All missing.  In retrospect I realize my 'fiction' piece was more like my other writing.  What was in my head making it's way onto paper.  C'est la vie.
Will I attempt fiction at a future date?  Only time will tell, so stay tuned.  In the meanwhile enjoy my non-winning foray into fiction.

Time to Write,

Jane

Just One

by Jane Hillson Aiello    March 2020

What if this is it?  The last time I’ll ever brush my teeth with Trader Joe’s Fennel toothpaste?  I love this stuff.  I suppose I can resort to mint when it’s gone.  What about the last grape I get to savor?  Or witnessing my last snowfall?  I sometimes see those vintage yellow and black Fallout signs on Colfax, near the Capitol Building, announcing an underground shelter.  Why am I thinking about Fallout Boy and how similar the Fallout symbol looks like the little disc I used to press into the large, center hole of my 45’s of The Partridge Family or The Cowsills.  Then I could play them on mom’s hi-fi console that was a gift from my uncle and came all the way from Germany in a big wooden crate.  And my little friends and I would play-out West Side Story and dance to Trini Lopez and why am I thinking about being a kid in the sixties.  How we would duck under our desks and how come I was never the important kid designated to pull down the black-out shades.  Or the seventies where my biggest worry was how mad my mom was going to be when I told her my earth shoes melted on a heating grate at a party I wasn’t allowed to go to.  But I did.


Stay focused.  Stay present.  Those years of Beatle mantras and pop-psych should be paying me a dividend.  Helping my mental health.  Breathe.  Slowly, not suddenly.  Calm down – there will still be bananas.  Maybe not.  Isn’t the Cavendish variety popular today because the bananas of my youth were wiped out by a virus?  A virus?  No, it was a fungus.  I’m sure of it. A fungus.  Not a virus.  People get viruses.  Plants get funguses.  It started in Asia and morphed to Africa; I think.  I’m not sure.  I do know that I’m feeling like a banana.  Thick-skinned and sturdy on the outside.  Nothing but mushy flesh and fear on the inside.  And I’m fatigued.  Tired of being cooped up.  Aren’t chickens in coops?  What if there are no eggs?  Why am I thinking about bananas and chickens and eggs?  I eat bananas and eggs.  I don’t eat chicken.  I am pondering all things yellow.  Maybe because I am a coward.  Fearful of the times.  Afraid of both fungi and viruses. 


I am holed up at home. Rabbits hole up in a warren.  Outlaws of the wild west holed up in caves, deep in the mountains. Them thar hills.  This is Denver.  This is not the days of Pioneers.  Have you seen the pioneer license plate?  It has a wagon.  Maybe it’s a Conestoga.  Alcoholics are on the wagon. As a kid I had a Radio Flyer.  I never had a rabbit as a pet.  I had a friend named Warren.  Why am I thinking about wagons and rabbits and childhood friends?  We used to play Cowboys and Indians.  Very inappropriate, appropriating, politically incorrect.  What else?  My mother never let me have a toy gun.  I used my finger.  Bang-bang.  Pow-pow.


Where is my weapon?  Do I have enough ammo?  This is not the old west.  We have hipsters, not cowboys.  When I first moved here, I would see Cowboys on sixteenth street.  They wore Wrangler jeans and almost white Cattleman hats by Stetson.  Only cowboys wore Wranglers.  Greenhorns, like me, wore Levi’s.  Button fly, boot leg.  We knew better.  We were happening! I never thought I’d own a gun.  I was a liberal flatlander.  Millennials know what is happening.  They seek information, but is it always accurate?  True?
  

What is truth?  My truth is I enjoy my oddly flavored toothpaste and firm, red grapes.  I enjoy exploring Colfax for oddities and Broadway for antiques.  I enjoy bananas, and eggs, but not chicken.   I enjoy snowflakes and music – but probably not Fallout Boy.  The truth is I’ve only shot my gun indoors, supervised at a range in Castle Rock.  The truth is I am not a very good shot.  The truth is I had Vaseline smeared on the right lens of my glasses when I learned to shoot.  The truth is I am right-handed but left eye dominant.  The truth is I didn’t know I’d ever have to learn these types of things.


The truth is I don’t know how this plays out.  The God honest truth is that I don’t believe I am all that resilient.  The truth is I don’t know how long I can maintain this false Can-Do attitude.  The truth is I don’t need to tally my bullets.  Because the truth is, at the end of the day, I will only need one.

The Power of Poetry

Travelling is not the joy I remember it being when I was a child.  Back in the sixties we took a family trip from New York to Miami, Fl.  This was my first time on an airplane, and boy was I excited!  I even remember the mustard yellow skirt and sweater set I wore on the plane.  The 'stewardesses' gave my siblings and me plastic wings to pin on our clothes, a deck of cards to amuse us, pillows and a blanket.  That wool suit, purchased in Gimbels, proved to be a sweltering choice of outfits upon deplaning.  Nonetheless, our meal was served on a real tray with metal silverware, our drinks were in glassware and the flight attendants were all smiles.

Recently, en route to Florida,  I arrived ridiculously early to the airport.  I checked myself in, and tagged my own bag.  This doesn't save me the long line to drop off my suitcase with an agent.  The bag I paid extra to schlep myself - hello?  Skycaps? - is weighed without a hint of a smile.  NEXT!  Next for me is the security line, a line for the train, lines for the loo...  By the time I grab a coffee and get to the gate, I am amazed how much time has withered away.  I'll be on the plane in no time - just to wait again!

It's OK.  I still marvel at the technology of getting on  a jet in one city and getting off in another.  In less than four hours I will be at my sister's on the east coast.  But the joy of flying has dissipated greatly over the years.  Yet I had a magical, marvelous experience on my flight home from Melbourne, Fl. recently.

When I had checked in through the app 24 hours before my flight I received a shitty seat assignment.  It wasn't until I was standing in that bag drop-off line that I noticed, because I didn't look the day before.  What I don't know won't stress me out.  But I'm waiting in what is of course the longest, slowest queue and thinking of how maybe being really nice to the agent will reward me with a better seat.  Luck and karma were on my side and I went from a middle seat in the way back of the plane to a place in front, on the aisle.  Score!

After a quick supper and several trips to the ladies room, I am in the waiting area of the gate.  Deep breaths.  I'll be home soon.  I'm seated next to a young man, who is with his dad.  I'm guessing the kid is 10.  He reminds me of my former neighbor, Jovon, at that age.  I strike up a conversation with the young man, he is hesitant to talk to a stranger, but warms up as his dad and I chat.  I learn his dad lives in Florida, his mom in Denver and his dad is taking him back after a long Christmas break visit.

The gate agent announces a delay due to a mechanical issue, always reassuring... NOT.  Then they decide to load us up and I'm thinking my brief time with this kid has come to and end.  Remember how I got my seat changed?  As we board the aircraft the dad, the kid and I find ourselves sitting in the exact same positions as at the gate.  I don't believe in coincidences.  I think of them more as God tapping me on the shoulder and telling me to pay attention.  I smile and sit.

We're told that even though we're all in our places, we are not quite ready to go.  A trim piece needs to be repaired, trips off and on airport property must take place to get the parts, security has to be followed...  we're in for at least 40 minutes or so on the plane, at the gate.  People are grumbling, but I decide to make the best of it and take out my writing pad.  I glance at the young man next to me and ask him if he likes poetry.  He shakes his head - uh-uh.

I tell him I am a poet, and ask him if he'd like to hear one of my poems.  I tell him I saw a space launch and returned to the beach the following day to write about it.  I read him this poem:

Launch

by Jane Hillson Aiello   01-20

Blastoff was quick
An upward star
Shot from earth
To the heavens

Falling stars down-sweep
Across the milky
Midnight universe

Flames and thrust
Blurry, yet concise
Propulsive marvel
Technological twinkle

God painted the sky
With tiny drops
Of sparkling light

Man gives us
Engineered force
Elusive destinations

Fire dot dissipates
I inhaled stardust
Exhaled molecules

Remembered how small
I will always be

He seems receptive, so I ask if he'd like to hear another.  He responds affirmatively and I tell him how my cousin told me to put a seashell in my pocket at the beach, and I wrote this poem just for her:

Linda’s Seashell

by Jane Hillson Aiello January 2020

Wherever she goes
There’s a shell in her pocket
From a beach far or near
She is never without it

When she feels chilly
Her hand closes around it
Remembers the day and
The place where she found it

If she’s worried or anxious
The shell is quite near
Running fingers over scallops
Brings her back to where

She was walking so quiet, on the
Day that she chose it
And it’s still in her pocket
When she chooses to hold it

A talisman, a worry stone
A vintage fidget spinner
It is priceless and precious
And it’s always there with her

It’s a memory, a promise
Of more beach days to come
If you look in her pocket
You’ll always find one

Then I take a leap and ask him if he's ever written a poem.  No is the reply.  So, I ask if he'd like to.  YES!  I gently prompt him to tell me about his visit with  dad.  He informs me about the Holiday party he attended, the presents he received for Christmas, the kick-boxing class with his father and I am writing it all down. Then I show him how to re-write those rambles into stanzas, quiz him to come up with rhyming words to make the poem work, and voila!  We have written an eight-line (four couplet)  poem to commemorate his trip.  He is wide-eyed and I feel pretty good too.  I put my name on the bottom of the page, tear it out and tell him that one day he will remember an old lady on a plane taught him how to write a poem.  We both smiled and laughed.  Finally we take off.  Waiting time is never wasted time.

Sometime into the trip, I raise my eye mask to check the time and sip some water.  The young man, whose name I still do not know, asks if he can have my notebook.  I give it to him and doze back off. It's a late night flight and with the delay I am tired.  I had no idea what he'd do with my pad, it was filled with notes and personal essays and poems, but I trusted the ask.  When I readied for landing, he handed the pad back to me and he was beaming.

This delightful young man, who had just penned his first poem had drawn me a picture that he said was based on my "Launch"  poem.  "See the rocket?"  "See the ocean?"  "See the beach?"  Yes I do!  And I also see your name is Angel, and thank you for the drawing and thank you for signing your name.  That is what an artist does.  And you young man are a wonderful artist.

Finally on the ground in Denver, everyone is sleepy and shuffling about, gathering items from the overhead, checking our surroundings.  A young mom travelling with two little boys, maybe ages three and five, if I had to guess, smiles at me and I smile back.  She hands me a small folded wad of paper and says this is for you and please wait until you get home to read it.  I simply say thank you.

My friend picks me up at this ungodly hour.  I am quiet.  I am reminiscing about my trip and the flight on the ride back to my apartment.  I am so tempted to unfold the paper and read the message from the mommy who sat one row up from Angel, his dad and me.  But I wait.  I suspect it is magical, a gift of sorts, and I want to honor her wishes.  By the time I am home (and dealing with a beeping smoke detector - could that battery dying have waited one more day?) I'm too exhausted to even think about anything but my bed.

Over coffee the next morning, in the chair where I have written much prose and prose, I unfold my note from a stranger:

 Maybe travel is a bit magical after all. 

 And that is the power of poetry.

Time to Write,

Jane