The Boy With the Green Skimming Board

The medical world has just released results of a study on the development of adolescence--that it is happening much earlier than in previous years. The contributing factors are unknown at this point, of course, but they include social, physical, and environmental factors. I didn't have to be told this new information, however, since I have been observing the changes in my eleven-year-old granddaughter for several months. Most apparent is that she is now showing a great interest in the opposite sex. Instead of being mere nuisances, as in the past, they are now her primary concern in life it appears. An example occurs from our recent beach trip to Galveston.

We arrived on a Sunday evening, and the children wanted to put on their swimming suits and go immediately to the beach. Upon our arrival, our granddaughter strolled into the water clad in her two-piece flowered suit with full make-up on. I have noticed this summer for the first time that her body has developed the curves of a young woman. A boy with a green skimming board looked to be about her age. The romance was on at that point with subtle glances from one to the other, a gradual moving of locations so that soon they were swimming in close proximity to one another, and a casual exchanging of names. By the next night, they were walking together on the beach looking for shells, talking constantly about their lives in Baton Rouge and Little Rock, and planning future times to be together.

I try, at age sixty-five, to remember my own adolescence. I remember being quite into actively still playing with dolls at age ten. By age eleven, I too was feeling that I was approaching adulthood and did not need any close supervision by any adults. At age twelve on the Mississippi coast at Long Beach with my mother, sister, and grandmother, I was actively flirtatious. The years might have gone by too quickly for me, but I don't think adolescence and its beginning have changed that much through time.

"I'd be lost . . . ."

My friend JoAnn and I went to see Winter's Bone yesterday at our art theater in Little Rock. I was interested in seeing the visual presentation of the film since my son and I had read the novel by Daniel Woodrell several years before. I have always loved the line from the book when Ree Dolly states to her younger brother and sister, "I'd be lost without you two on my back." Once more I find myself thinking about the dilemma that some children confront when they are responsible for younger siblings themselves.

The film is set in Southwest Missouri in the rural backwoods. It could almost be anywhere else as well, especially in Faulknerian Mississippi. Ree is a teenager forced to drop out of school and surrender her plans to join the army when her addicted-to-meth father disappears. Her mother is incapacitated, unable to speak anymore, and her twelve-year-old brother Sonny and six-year-old sister Ashley depend upon her for their daily sustenance. The conflict arrives when we learn Ree's father will likely miss his hearing with the judge, and the family will lose its little shack and the land connected with it. Ree faces the choice of farming out her younger siblings to other despicable relatives or giving up her dream of escaping her situation.

Again I remember my own childhood with an addicted, absentee father, a practically incapacitated mother, an inner city environment, and my own responsible sister cooking and cleaning and teaching moral lessons to me. Again I ask the question, "What gives children the tenacity to 'step up to the plate' rather than surrender to the enormity of it all?" In the film, Ree consistently is able to say "no" to multiple offerings of drugs herself. Perhaps she had just seen enough to know she did not want that life for herself. My sister and I both did as well.

The Cushion

The summer haze and humidity bore down on me like an anchor pulling me down into the earthy-smelling ground. I walked the usual path in Northwest Arkansas after a five inch rain the night before punctuated by numerous lightning strikes close to our house and continual torrents of rain. I glanced over on Old Depot St. to my left and saw a house built most likely in the early 1960's. The yard was cluttered with old cars and children's toys. One of the old vehicles had a crutch propped against its side. In the backyard I could see a rusting aluminum lawn chair that was popular in the 1950's sitting under a large oak tree and in front of a small swing set, also rusting, for children. I wondered if several generations of families were living there. In my mind, I could see a grandmother like me watching the youngsters play while their working class mother was likely in the kitchen making a meal for everyone.

It appears in some ways we have come full circle in our society, and due to the Great Recession of the past few years, many families are now living together again as an extended family. Personally, I know of several who are the "cushion" for their aging parents and young children. A friend in my book club on Wednesday provides care for her mother who lives downstairs, providing food and chauffeur services to doctors' appointments, while also caring for two active elementary-age sons. My best friend in Northwest Arkansas works full-time and cares for her aging mother, still living independently, but needing lots of assistance. The mother has never learned to drive and must be taken out for her groceries, errands, hair appointments, etc. At the same time, my friend provides after-school care and week-end care for her middle school grandson each day of the week. In our family, my brother-in-law provides caregiving for his and my husband's ninety-three year old father. Though he lives in an assisted-living facility in Wichita, he still needs to be driven to all his doctors' appointments and given care through his numerous health-care crises.

The "cushioners" need a lot of support as they care for aging parents. We are simply living longer and longer compared to generations past. I heard on NPR just last week that if one reaches age sixty-five in relatively good health, he or she is likely to live until 82. The surviving spouse in the relationship thereafter is likely to live until 90 or older. We simply ask that God bless us all, but God help us all in these hard times.

Traveling With a Twilighter

Last week the whole family, including our son and our grandchildren Caitlyn (11) and Charlie (7) took a trip to Seattle and Victoria, B.C. The purpose was primarily to visit our daughter and her son Cole (5). Another very important goal, however, for our granddaughter was to go to the locations that the films in the Twilight series were shot. The day trip was to stop in Port Angeles where Bella and Edward had their first date by eating at the Bella Italia. Later we would visit Forks, Washington, where Bella and Edward met in high school, see the baseball field where the vampires fight the werewolves, see Bella's house and red truck, and walk on the beautiful Pacific Coast beach of La Push. The next night Caitlyn was to see the midnight premiere of the third film, Eclipse. The rest of the family simply went along for the ride.

I am trying to remember my life as an eleven year old when I hear Caitlyn read from her famous quotes book from The Clique series of books and movies, statements like "Ugly girls should stay inside." Her own original quote on this vacation, hopefully just as satiric as the previous one, is "Life is full of disappointments; I didn't get a sausage biscuit today." As I compare my life with Caitlyn's, I realize what a privileged life she lives. The only birthday party I ever had was celebrated my 11th year with a cookout at the Indian mounds in Greenville, Mississippi. One of my mother's current boyfriends, Joe, helped to pay for it; and we celebrated jointly with a friend who was born one day after I was.

I long to know how Caitlyn's life will go. Will she always been as self-absorbed as she is now? Every act is dramatic it seems, yet there are moments of incredible generosity hidden among many selfish acts. She gives us money when we are struggling to pay a small bill with cash; she takes cheese from her tacos and puts it on her brother's taco when he gets none on his; she, in essence, shows us occasional glimpses of her humanity. I remember Paul McCartney's interview a number of years ago when asked by an interviewer what he hoped for his children. He responded by saying simply, "It was always Linda's and my hope that our children would have good hearts." I concur.

Searching for Harriet, Blondie, and Lucy

I started thinking about the demise of women's clubs a few days ago. It was at the PEO meeting this past Thursday when I had a brief conversation with one of the fellow sisters. She had just presented a program on Julia Child and remarked that women's roles had changed so much sociologically in the past sixty years that women no longer felt the need to gather together any more. After all, their roles have changed from the view presented in the early television programs such as "Ozzie and Harriet" and "I Love Lucy," or the cartoons like "Dagwood." The change has been from seeing beautifully clad women in pearls pushing a vacuum cleaner to that of professional women going to the office very day. They simply have no time for women's clubs any more. Should there be a resurgence in 2010? Perhaps so--and here's why.

The day before my PEO meeting I had visited the Rockefeller Center located on Petit Jean Mountain with my book club. We were given a tour of the farmland and met Nicholas, the donkey, who scared away raccoons; Otis, the sheepdog, who lived in the same pen with the sheep; and numerous orphan lambs whose mothers had rejected them or died. The crops were coming up nicely with the rain we have had recently--sweet potatoes, purple hull peas, tomatoes, grapes, and so on. Our guide for the tour casually mentioned that she and a group of her friends had just had a "women's night out." They had gathered together for food and games while the men stayed with the children. I tend to believe that women's groups such as these still perform a valuable psychological function. Not only do they give women a few hours away from their roles as wives and mothers, but they also provide opportunities to discuss the nature of families in 2010, the trials (or joys) of multi-tasking, the challenges of rearing children, etc.

Even for someone in my age group (retirement), the fellowship often provides an outlet for an otherwise routine dull day at home alone. Yes, the programs can be a bit outdated, i. e. last month's PEO program was on Estee Lauder, but they challenge us to think about our roles in the past and in the present. We might not be able to resurrect Harriet, Blondie, and Lucy in their original forms, but we can create new models who still value the mentoring role of older women to younger mothers.

A Poem

Delta Images: Memorial Weekend 2010

Breakfast at McDonald’s with multi-colored, silk flowers on every table,
The scent of coffee and bacon encircling the convivial crowd.

An endlessly rowed plantation of cotton plants,
Two black men sharpening their hoes, with cigarettes dangling,
Their PT Cruiser with its eyes facing us.

The ancient bridge as we cross the Mississippi River in brightening sun,
The modern steel-cabled bridge parallel to it--empty, and yet to be
Crossed.

The showboat welcoming center with its paddle wheel and tiny museum.
Displays of Mississippi--high and low, present and past:
Jim Henson and Kermit, the flood of 1927, a bale of snowy cotton, and a figure of a blues musician, clad in orange and aqua, with an
Ever-present guitar beside him.

The scent of BBQ and magnolias in Greenville as dark, delta images
Of childhood memories flood over me instead of the levee.
The picture of an ancient me now on top of the grass and concrete,
A casino in the background, a brown muddy river flowing behind,
The sight of a ten-year-old in my mind, swimming
In the river from a sandbar with sister and friends.
Did we have any idea of the undertow in our lives to come?

A search soon for the burial ground of loved ones gone in Greenwood.
The noontime growl of my stomach as we pass a diner on the right,
Filled to capacity at tables and at the lunch counter,
All blacks in the glass-windowed place.

The Crystal Grill for us with its newly-added talipia to its menu,
Not the traditional catfish only. Lemon and tartar
Sauce added for delicacy,
the patronage--as always-- in this window-less restaurant fully white,
Have fifty years of absence not seen more changes?

The solitude of Odd Fellows cemetery as I place pale pink mums
Upon my grandmother’s grave, she who said she would
Haunt me if I did not take care of her final resting place.
Though not haunted verbally any more by my drunken father,
I forgive him for wrongs past and thank my step-grandfather
For loving me.

The bustling city-town of Oxford on a humid, summer-like day,
The ever-standing Confederate soldier ever guarding the square,
Square Books with its several children—discount books and
Children’s books now in separate stores, signed copies of
Great Mississippi authors—Barry Hannah, Larry Brown,
Willie Brown in abundance along with newer greats—
Richard Ford, Lewis Nordan, and others.
The mustiness of the old building paired with the scent of lattes,
Cappuccinos, and cookies upstairs.
I touch the books with a reverence.

The final stop: a multi-acre farm in Crowder owned by my
Best friend from high school’s family,
The search through the yearbook of 1962 and the recitation
By her of the fate of each of the fifty members of our class:
The deaths, the marriages, the children, and the unrecognized surprise—
Most still live in North Mississippi after all these
Millennia’s.

The cumulus cloud shaped like a sculptor of the thinker,
Backlighting provided by an exhausted sun.
The full moon with its man staring at us as we go west
Into the darkening night.

Dealing With Dadaism

When I retired four years ago after thirty-five years of teaching English, I thought I would never have to deal with dadaism again. After all, I was not a fan of the movement and taught it in my Masterpieces of Literature class as a small segment of twentieth-century literature. I was wrong to think my dada days were over.

Andrei Codreseu has recently written The Posthuman Dada Guide in order to explore his own feelings regarding the philosophy and history of dadaism. The book is an alphabetical listing of terms and people associated with dadaism. My book club has chosen this book for its next discussion. While it is quite informative, and even interesting in some places, I still am not convinced that the movement should have ever been legitimate. Putting words in a paper bag and shaking them out to form a poem still seems like an inexplicable exercise to me.

The movement began in the World War I period in our history of the world in a small cafe in Zurich. By definition, dadaism challenges anyone to find meaning in it; it seems to me that it was just an escape from the reality of war. After all, the artists were sequestered in a neutral country while their fellow countrymen were shooting or gassing the enemy while living in trenches for months. Dadaism opposes communication of any kind.

As an occasional writer of poems both for pleasure, and occasional publication, I have always believed in the value of communicating with the reader. Marianne Moore communicated this idea best in her famous poem, "Poetry." She says about poetic lines, "When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, / the same thing may be said for all of us, that we/ do not admire what / we cannot understand."

Hopefully, the dada movement, and its many offshoots like absurdism, relativism, existentialism, and so on have seen their best day in literature.