|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #1-450-B|
|Author Notes||Photo: Billy and his dog Lips.|
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #2-450-B|
|Author Notes||This is a poem about my mother, Bea, who has since joined her husband, Billy. Thank you for reading.|
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #3-450-B|
|Author Notes||Thank you Liubov for the wonderful photo.|
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #4-450-B|
|Author Notes||An acrostic poem of childhood in Massachusetts. I had no winter image of my sister and I, so thank you bing for the nostalgic image.|
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #5-450-B|
Every nana (grandpas, too) understands these special times.
Image: Thank you to ministry-to-children.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #6-450-B|
|Author Notes||Thank you for reading.|
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #7-450-B|
Rondel: Poem consists of 13 lines in 3 stanzas
Rhyme scheme: ABba/abAB/abbaA (uppercase letters are refrains)
Usually 8 syllables per line
Image: My photo of my grandsons at the river using the rope swing. It's my privilege to spend afternoons with them all summer.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #8-450-B|
|Author Notes||Thank you for reading my poetry and thank you Vintage Clip Art.|
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #9-450-B|
Once in a Blue Moon, the saying goes,
meaning seldom, never, no one knows.
Wishing, last night, on this bright Blue Moon,
a chance to visit and none too soon.
It's been some time since I've seen your face,
not enough for me, too slow a pace.
If this event portends happy things,
you are the reward this Blue Moon brings.
Marilyn D.F. Boire ~ August 1, 2015
A blue moon occurs when there are two full moons in one month. Last night, July 31, 2015, there was a beautiful, bright blue moon.
Photo: "Blue Moon" by author.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #10-450-B|
Before that summer in nineteen fifty,
I was not aware of uncle Henry,
until he visited that day in June.
Once husband to Jennie, his wife now gone.
Henry took his seat on the old divan,
where his short stout body appeared to melt.
Balanced on his knee, a felt fedora,
a cane resting handily by his leg.
I studied his face as he sipped his tea
while conversing in low tones with my folks,
his drooping cheeks like a jowly bulldog's.
From the doorway where I stood listening,
Henry chose to glance in my direction.
I remember drawing near to meet him.
"Tell me your name, little girl," he sputtered.
The first and only time he spoke to me.
Even at my young age of nearly eight,
I sensed the importance of his visit.
My great uncle needed a place to live,
and joined the family soon after that.
Mother gave Henry the large garret space.
I observed that uncle stayed to himself,
shuffled slowly using his wooden cane,
while on his way to and from the bathroom.
Sometimes he gave me a hint of a smile,
teeth tightly clenching an unlit stogie.
On most days Henry lounged in his chair,
placed by a window above the garden,
resting a gouty foot upon a stool.
My mother served simple meals in his room
since he was unable to go downstairs.
In the fall I dared to ask my mother,
"Where's uncle Henry? Is he on a trip?"
not having seen him for a day or two,
nosiness getting the better of me.
She must have thought I could handle the truth.
"Uncle Henry was old and sick and died."
"Oh!" was all I said on hearing those words.
Years later, mother spoke of this again.
Great uncle had fallen dead on the floor
on a morning after I left for school.
The coroner came and took him away.
I can't say I missed him, although I tried.
I didn't know him well enough for that.
Henry's passing introduced me to death,
and along life's path we have met again.
Marilyn D. F. Boire ~ September 9, 2015
I wish I had a photo of my great uncle Henry. I don't. But he's in my mind's eye and often I think of him, so I guess he did make an impression on me. He was a short, block of a man with a wooden cane, a gray fedora, and an unlit stogie (short stubby cigar) clenched between his teeth.
Image: Thank you startribune for photo of fedora.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #11-450-B|
Remembering the summer and all of its joys,
going to the river with my grand little boys.
It seems so long ago, but it was just in June.
Vacation flew by quickly, it ended too soon.
Then September rolled along, lazy days now gone.
Jake started junior high, growing up, moving on.
Luke climbed to fourth grade, taller, maturing a lot.
And I'm calm Nana, loving the free time I've got.
Marilyn D.F. Boire ~ September 18, 2015
The start of a new season and a new school year for my grandsons. I met many grandparents at the river, all of us watching our grandchildren. Enjoying the kids while we still can--before they grow up.
All lines have 12 syllables.
Photo: By author ~ June 2015 - "At The River."
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #12-450-B|
All lines have 9 syllables with 5 lines each stanza. Middle line repeated throughout. This is a love poem for my parents, Beatrice and Billy. The photo is one of my favorites of them (circa 1930's).
Thank you for reading my poems.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #13-450-B|
There may be some who whistle well,
but you, my dear, aren't one at all.
The single note on which you dwell
will surely drive me up the wall.
You're standing on my one last nerve
with that annoying one-tone trill.
Soon I'll bestow what you deserve,
a reservation on Boot Hill.
Marilyn D.F. Boire ~ October 18, 2015
No offense to those who CAN whistle. I guess I'd better go outside and rake some leaves. Thank you for reading my poems.
Image: Thank you vector.rs for the perfect image.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #14-450-B|
Today is the anniversary of my mother's birth, March 13. I like to write a memorial poem each year. She was a poet, too. She is the 'Bea' in 'BeasPeas' and I am the 'pea.' This photo was taken in 1982 of the two of us.
Thank you for reading my poetry.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #15-450-B|
Celebrating my mother's birthday, so I decided to post in bright colors. She passed in 2002. I was fortunate to have a great mom. This is a photo of her at about 18 years old. She is the "Bea" in Beaspeas. Thank you for reading my poetry.
Image: "Beatrice, My Mother" (circa 1930).
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #16-450-B|
Here truly stands the last boy scout
with ready cheer, he didn't pout.
In uniform was clad.
Mischief he loved, this wiry sprout,
his inner mettle made him stout,
though he was but a lad.
Soft spoken, firm, he didn't shout,
this good boy turned good man, no doubts.
His honor made me glad.
Here truly stands the last boy scout,
a proud, courageous man to tout,
for Billy was my dad.
Marilyn D.F. Boire ~ March 21, 2017
Today was my dad's birthday. He was a brave, honorable man and I miss him.
The Rime Couee is a 12th century French rhyme form often used by troubadours. It's written in rhyming couplets with a third line where every one throughout rhymes. I've read various poems in this form which seem to differ in third line consistency, but I chose to write mine where all four last lines rhyme. Thank you Dorothy Fennell for encouragement to try to write one. Thank you for reading my poetry.
Syllables: 8-8-6 throughout.
Image: 'Camping At The Beach' - Billy, my dad, truly the last boy scout (circa 1920's).
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #17-450-B|
Image: Michael Gerbino, 'Mikey Bonz'
'Bonz' = Bones
Thank you for reading my post.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #18-450-B|
the sun came up again today
although it shed the weakest ray
the sky is overcast and gray
I know it's in God's arms you lay
Marilyn D.F. Boire ~ April 4, 2017
Image: 'Michael Gerbino, Mikey Bonz' ~ source anonymous created by a friend who loved him.
Michael was a talented bassist who performed with many metal and rock bands. He touched the heart of everyone he met, an exceptional human being and my nephew. He leaves behind his wife, Tracy, and uncountable friends who loved him. God wanted him back at 54.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ 19-450-B|
One of my grandsons, 11-year-old Luke jumping off the bridge as all the kids do at Iverson Park in Stevens Point, Wisconsin. He loves the photo, caught mid-air, when I took him swimming on Friday. Iverson is a gorgeous place with lots of families and kids. Thank you for reading my poetry.
Image: 'Luke at Iverson Bridge' - Marilyn D.F. Boire, June 9, 2017.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #20-450-B|
On this Father's Day, I remember you well,
a man of honor with strength to family.
I cannot say I felt your love, heart to swell,
but you remained steady with duty manly.
I waited for years to gain your devotion,
listening for the praise that would hardly come.
I longed for your approval, adoration,
waited and waited ever glad for a crumb.
Still underneath, I had hoped you would soften,
as the daily grind ground out the life we led.
Yet now that it's done I think of you often,
sadly lamenting tender words never said.
Marilyn D.F. Boire ~ June 18, 2017
I think we, as women, tend to pick men like our dad. I recognized in my ex-husband the traits of my father, honor, family, steadiness, duty--but with that came inability to share, especially emotion. There were glimpses here and there, a teary eye quickly wiped away. Maybe their love was deeper than I thought, but I'll never know.
Image: My mom, Bea, (the Bea in beaspeas) and my dad, Billy. Coney Island, circa 1957. Photographer: Marilyn D.F. Boire
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #21-450-B-C|
Thank you for reading my poetry.
Image: Grandma Bessie Victory Allen Ferguson (circa 1951).
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #22-450-B-C|
All the kids play well together even if they don't know each other when they get there. Many do know each other from school, the blessings of living in a small community. The boy in blue who is running in the center of the picture is my 11-year-old grandson, Luke.
Image: Kids at The River, Iverson Park, Stevens Point, WI, by Marilyn D.F. Boire, June 2017.
Thank you for reading my poetry.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #23-450-B-C|
Dedicated to all caregivers, especially on FanStory. Thank you for reading my poem.
Image: 'The One Consolation,' 1958, Giorgio de Chirico
Giorgio de Chirico was an Italian artist and writer. In the years before World War I, he founded the scuola metafisica art movement, which profoundly influenced the surrealists. After 1919, he became interested in traditional painting techniques, and worked in a neoclassical or neo-Baroque style, while frequently revisiting the metaphysical themes of his earlier work.
Born: Jul 10, 1888 ~ Volos, Greece
Died: Nov 20, 1978 ~ Rome, Italy
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #24-450-B-C|
My mother's name was Beatrice and some called her Bea. My dad always used her full name as did her sisters. Bea, herself, used the pen name 'Sunshine' ~ she certainly was mine. She is the 'Bea' in my own pen name 'Beaspeas.'
Bea made this birdhouse from a pint milk carton as one of the senior crafts. I hang it on my Christmas tree each year. The rest of the year it sits on the foyer hutch. Thank you for reading my poem and Merry Christmas to everyone. Marilyn
Image: 'Bea's Birdhouse' by Marilyn D.F. Boire, December 2017
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #25-450-B|
Blessings to all caretakers to cope with the demands needed of them. It's important to take care of self, too; not to suffer burn out.
Image: Public domain.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #26-450-B|
Our son, Billy, and his wife, Leslee, couldn't visit for Christmas. They came for New Year's Eve instead. One of their passions is cooking together and they're a good team. They watch the cooking shows and then try out the recipes.
Billy's dad is first generation Italian-American. The kids' gift to him was to bring all the ingredients for braciole, a dish consisting of rolled stuffed beef simmered in seasoned tomato sauce. What Americans call "sauce" is "gravy" to Italians.
It was a gift of love for Billy and Leslee to cook for the family. Next time they'll prepare something different. I'm vegetarian, so I don't eat braciole. I looked in the fridge this morning to decide what to do with the leftovers. Packaging them up and freezing them for an occasional meal is the best bet.
In my younger years, I spent hours preparing the traditional dishes ~ lasagna, eggplant parmigiana, braciole, mussels, chicken cacciatore ~ time-consuming, but fun. Now my desire to cook has waned, except for the simplest of meals. Take me out!
Image: Billy and Leslee cooking braciole (bra-zhol ~ rhymes with coal).
Both our son's and daughter's spouse and our grandkids made it a great family weekend.
Sorry I'm behind in my reading and reviewing of your good writing. Hope to catch up shortly. Thank you for reading. Happy New Year everyone. Marilyn
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #27-450-B|
Snow overnight in Wisconsin. I was out shoveling this morning (my therapy). Jeep pulled up ~ Steve, my son-in-law, who is a gem, came to help. He's a good man, husband, dad, and a second son. He served in the Marines ~ once a Marine, always a Marine. Semper fi is the Marine motto which means 'always faithful.' Oorah!
Image: 'My Second Son' by author.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #28-450-B'|
Image: Painting by Edvard Munch.
Thank you for reading my post. I'll be on the site as much as I can be. Marilyn
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #29-450-B-C|
Bing Image: Edvard Munch - 'Agony' - oil on canvas - circa 1895
Text from Bing/Wahoo Art: Edvard Munch (b 12 December 1863 - d 23 January 1944) was a great painter of the late 1800s. He was a Norwegian Symbolist painter whose work was a forerunner of Expressionist art as done by figures such as Van Gogh. Very poor and ill for most of his childhood, Munch received much of his schooling through tutoring by his siblings, aunt and father. It was by drawing that Munch entertained himself most of the time, especially during the long winters when he was ill. Soon Munch turned to a career in painting. Though his style of painting was influenced heavily by the Post-Impressionist painters, Munch was more Symbolist in style than anything else.
Thank you for reading my poem.
|Author Notes||Thank you for reading.|
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #31-450-B-C|
|Author Notes||This is a photo of my sister, Anita, and me. She flew from Massachusetts to Wisconsin recently for a visit. Happiness shows on our faces. Thank you for reading.|
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #32-450-B|
Today would have been my 52nd year with Robert, our wedding anniversary. We divorced 15 years ago, but stayed in each other's lives. He lived with me and I was his caregiver. He passed away on January 16, 2018. A good man, he is missed.
Thank you for reading.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #33-450-B|
Goodbye to Old Yeller ~ Corvette and good friend.
Our memories linger, this isn't the end.
Open roads will beckon, you've new things to see.
Don't give in to sadness, leave grieving to me.
Believe in yourself ~ your vim and rich vigor.
Your brilliant lights shine, so don't let them flicker.
Embrace what life offers, you'll be the victor.
Though you're going away, greet days filled with pride.
Off you go to explore ~ so enjoy the ride.
Old life may be over, but savor the new.
Look down every highway, grip road safe and true.
Don't ever lose vision, delight in the view.
Yeller ~ I dread you're going, truck's pulling out.
Even want to shout "STOP," I'm feeling grave doubt.
Let me release you; depart while I'm able.
Lest I prevent it this fifth day of April.
Eyeing the future ~ and a good one you've got.
Recall Robert who loved you ~ forget him not.
Marilyn D.F. Boire ~ April 5, 2018
I wrote this poem as if I am addressing the car.
Syllables: 11 per line.
My husband's Corvette was sold yesterday. It was a sad moment to see it go. Robert loved that car. It was the best decision to make, though. The car will have a wonderful life with a new owner and they'll travel together. Car's name is not "Old Yeller," but it worked in this poem. The color is 'Velocity Yellow.'
Thank you for reading.
Image: Robert's Corvette.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #34-450-B-C|
My poem is written for my benefit as a daughter, but I wanted the poem to be inclusive of mothers with children of both genders--not only myself as a daughter but of mothers with sons. Therefore, I have used the word "child" rather than daughter. As a mother myself with a son AND a daughter, I love each of them the same. Thank you for reading.
This photo was taken of my mother, Beatrice, and myself at Hampton Beach, NH in August 1995.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #35-450-B-C|
|Author Notes||Image: A friend took this photo of my husband, Robert, U.S. Army paratrooper, in 1964. Thank you for reading.|
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #36-450-B-C|
Someone asked where Robert went. I believe he's in Heaven. Anger is one of the stages of grief. Robert passed away January 16, 2018. They say don't make any big decisions in the first year. That's good advice. Thank you for reading my poem.
Image: Mourning Wreath/bing
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #37-450-B'|
|Author Notes||This is a duplicate poem posted in another book, therefore, it is not promoted. Thank you for reviewing the first one which is in my book 'Picture This Poems 2018'.|
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #38-450-B|
Get to Know Me! And then join the FUN. Copy and paste the questions in your own document, answer them and then add them to this multi-author book as CHAPTER SIX. (Yes, everyone should use the same chapter number.)
Questions? Ask the creator, Robyn Corum.
1.) If you could witness any event past, present or future, what would it be?
Attend President Trump's 2021 Inaugural Ball.
2.) Did you ever do anything, growing up, that got you in trouble?
What was it?
You don't want to know.
How much trouble did it cause?
Do you regret this action now, or did it help you grow stronger?
I don't regret it. Yes ~ stronger.
3.) Try to trick us. Tell us two truths and a lie and allow your reviewers to guess which one is untrue. (Try hard not to give it away!) In your comments, let me know which you think is a lie.
a)The neighborhood cop, brought me home to my parents after finding me in a partially constructed building when I was 5 years old. The other kids ran off.
b) I acted in an off-Broadway production when I lived in New York.
c) One of my professions was sandblasting glass in a hooded suit for restaurants and hotels.
4.) Have you ever been in the newspaper? If yes, what for?
Yes, several times for the usual things ~ graduation, marriage, winning art contests, plus as stewardess/purser for Pan American Airways.
5.) Have you ever entered a talent contest? If so, what was your talent? And how did you do?
Yes, art shows. I won.
Marilyn D.F. Boire ~ January 7, 2019
All true except for 3 (b).
I opted to use the poetry format rather than story. Thank you for reading.
Image: Marilyn 1952, taken at Great Pond, Kingston, NH.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #39-450-B|
Poem #1 was written on March 26, 2018, our wedding anniversary. Poem #2 was written today, January 16, 2019, after the one-year memorial Mass.
For those who have lost someone dear, I understand better why it is said not to make any big decisions in the first year of a loved one's death. It's a turbulent time, a roller coaster of emotions. I've joined a grief group which helps. Today was the first anniversary of Robert's passing.
Image: Tabernacle, St. Bronislava ~ January 16, 2019 ~ by author.
Looking at old photos,
my thoughts drift back to you,
a good man, always there.
As your younger daughter,
my love lingers, remains.
But you and I were so different,
living life on different planes.
I saw flights of fancy and dreams
as future possibilities.
You were rooted in realities,
the virtue of practicalities.
I recall our awkward banter,
trivial blips of conversation
trailing off to nowhere;
falling into weighty silence.
Yet, for all our bland exchanges,
for those small forays into the unknown,
Each attempt at talking with my father
taught me to dare to risk mismatched words.
I wonder if we had the chance today,
to try to get to know each other...
would we take it?
Or would it be as before,
a comment here and there...
February 11, 2016 - Marilyn D. F. Boire
|Author Notes||Image: Me with my father, Florida - 1959. Thank you for reading my poetry.|
The pain in your belly by nightfall is worse
It doesn't seem likely distress will reverse
Ambulance to the ER, a crisis they said
A CAT scan ran, can't just admit to a bed
Nervously I retreat to the hospital gloom
A place to reflect where it's quiet as a tomb
Settling in the lounge where relatives wait
Until they're advised of their loved one's fate
Time decelerates and becomes surreal
In spite of my fear I'm forced to anneal
Minutes tick by in hopeful expectation
Senses take note of every sensation
Lamp lighting is dim, a clock on the wall
An array of magazines, murmurs in the hall
Muted soft carpet, soothing watercolor art
A quiet oasis, just the beating of my heart
Meditation transports me to where you are
Which is right next door, you haven't gone far
Operating room blazes in white lights' glare
There you float somewhere in anesthesia'd air
Consciousness hovers between life and space
Discomfort ceases and memories erase
Your mother descends, she caresses your brow
"You must go back, my son, your time isn't now
The work's not done, you have fences to mend
This is not the day for your life to end."
She looks down once more at your surgical bed
Color comes back to your face, dreams to your head
Three hours have passed since the start of surgery
Reassured you're alright, I rouse from reverie
"Welcome back," I whisper, putting aside concerns
Footsteps approach and the surgeon returns
He's tired but smiling, not wearing a frown
Speaking softly, still dressed in his hospital gown
He asks, "family of Robert...?"
It will be a week tomorrow that my ex-husband had a medical crisis requiring emergency surgery. While in the surgical waiting room, I had the meditation experience described in my poem. I was just waking up from meditation when the surgeon entered to give me the news Robert was okay. So I haven't been on FanStory much this week. Looking forward to reading all your great stuff!
Image: Pen and watercolor by me.
My heart bursts with love and gratitude
For blessings granted which are many
You gift wrapped them in your attitude
And gratefulness costs not a penny
No money can buy the gifts you gave
Appreciation isn't for sale
You said to work hard for what I crave
To pull myself up if I should fail
So I don't take credit for my view
For advice inspired by you since birth
You're the person who carried me through
My mom who guided me here on Earth
Marilyn D.F. Boire ~ February 26, 2015
This is the Bea in Beaspeas. Thank you for reading my poetry.
Image: "My mother, Beatrice," circa 1943.
It was dawn
When you gave in
A dreary rainy morn
Death threw me into a tailspin
It seemed that I would never smile again
But now I dwell on pleasant things and not the sad
The times you stood by me through thick and thin
The games we played you let me win
So I greet a new morn
Sun shining in
Shades not drawn
Marilyn D.F. Boire ~ February 24, 2015
A tribute to my wonderful dad, Billy. Thank you for reading my poetry.
Photo: Billy (circa 1934)
Triolet: A total of 8 lines of 8 syllables with specific repetition of lines. Thank you for reading my poetry.
Each day this summer will be spent with my grandsons who are 9 and 11 years old. I'm fortunate to have this pleasure. In a year or two this chance will be gone as they grow up. Here they are enthusiastically adventurous with new friends they met at the "river."
Photo: "Wading in the River, Iverson Park, Stevens Point, WI" by Marilyn D.F. Boire.
Thank you for reading my poetry.
Photo: "My Dad, Billy, and Me," (circa 1948, probably taken at Salisbury Beach, MA by my mother, Beatrice).
My regret is not giving more time to my mother
although she always had time for me
Loving her dearly, believing we were close
I still gave short shrift to the one I loved most
And if I could take it all back, return the dime
I'd devote hours on end to that mother of mine
Hers was a deeper love
and her poet's soul had plenty of words to share
but she didn't speak them,
perhaps thinking no one would care
Instead, she wrote her poems, then stashed them away,
until I found those penned pages one day
Maybe she left them purposefully
to be read by my eyes, her daughter's,
to realize what had been missed
in not really knowing her
But somehow that reasoning doesn't ring true
She wasn't vindictive or coy,
devising a punitive ploy
I believe her secret treasure
had been a creative gift to herself
And isn't it the way of children,
to be self-centered in every way?
Placing the burden on myself,
just as I am today
And yet, if I could take it all back, return the dime
I'd devote hours on end to that mother of mine
Marilyn D.F. Boire ~ June 12, 2015
This is a freestyle poem about my relationship with my mother--the Bea in BeasPeas. It may take a lifetime (or longer) to truly know, or think we know, and appreciate someone close to us.
Photo: My mother, circa 1928, about age 15.
Mom's sweater rests over the boudoir chair
Sometimes I imagine her sitting there
I miss our chats and our time together
Though she's been gone now ten years or better
Sweater's faded and the elbows worn thin
One button's gone so it's closed with a pin
The two side pockets warm up my fingers
And a hint of mom's cologne still lingers
On those days when I'm feeling small and blue
Longing for the comfort of just we two
I put on the old tan sweater she wore
Feeling her arms wrapped around me once more
|Author Notes||Image: By author|
How much do we embellish or omit from a long-ago memory? What details do we choose to leave out or add to fit neatly into our nostalgic framework? To answer my own question, who knows. But this is how I remember spending summer weekends at our family cottage and going fishing with my father.
Once or twice each summer my dad took me out on our motorboat to fish. The night before, I could barely sleep. It was just the two of us because my mother didn't like fishing and neither did my sister. Having my dad all to myself was both heaven and hell. The heaven part was thinking he really liked spending time with me. The hell part was my self-consciousness, talking too much, and that he probably didn't like me much at all.
My dad was a two-sentence man. Even at a young age I could talk it up with the best of them. I admit, though, that I tried my best to choose my words carefully, not to annoy him with too much chatter.
We'd leave right after breakfast. I carried as much as I could down to the wharf--our packed lunch, the bait box, and a couple of towels in case I jumped off the boat for a swim. Not likely for two reasons. Number one, it would scare the fish and my dad wouldn't like that. Number two, to tell the truth, I was awfully scared of the dark water in the lake. I think my older sister was too, but she'd never admit it.
My dad carried the gas can, tackle box and the fishing poles down to the pier where our mint green motorboat was docked. I never could figure out why we needed a tackle box since we had bait. But, inevitably my dad swapped out a waterlogged-worm hook for a shiny spangled lure when he got frustrated at not catching anything.
After the boat lines were cast off, I'd settle onto the middle seat and hold tight while it rocked back and forth. My father would struggle to pull the cord on the motor to get it started. He'd mutter a few choice phrases that I won't go into. By then we'd have drifted off into the lake where the motor finally caught, sputtered, and settled into a nice hum. Piled up in the bow were orange kapok life jackets that nobody wore. They just got more musty and sun-faded with each season. In those days, the '50's, we took it for granted we wouldn't need them.
When we got into deep water, my dad liked to "open up" the motor. Our little boat glided smoothly across the lake like it was on glass. I liked seeing my father smiling, the breeze ruffling his hair. He looked content, steering from the back bench cruising toward his first best fishing spot. Then he'd idle the motor, not to get the thick stems of the waterlilies caught up in it.
By mid morning the heat was oppressive. I'd cool myself with cupped handfuls of water, letting it trickle down my neck and arms. I remember the summer noises--the drone of bees, buzz bugs, dragonflies, and croaking frogs. To this very day, seeing a patch of waterlilies brings back those memories.
The girlie-girl part of me surfaced when my dad reached into the bait bucket. Yuk! He'd try to convince me to bait my own hook, but I never fell for that. I liked the idea of fishing with my father better than actually doing it.
Usually we didn't have any luck at the first best fishing spot so he'd row the boat out of the lilies, start the motor again, and off we'd go to the second best spot. It was along the shoreline among some fallen logs. Above there were thick overhanging branches creating shaded pools below. By this time I'd have to pee, so dad would push the boat as close to shore as he could. I'd hop off the bow and land ankle deep in mud, sploshing my way up the bank to the privacy of some bushes while my eyes roved the brush for snakes.
It seemed to me that the second best fishing spot should've been the first best fishing spot because we caught more of them there. Between casting our lines, we'd hungrily eat the lunch mom packed for us. It seemed like there was never enough of it. By then I'd be drowsy, stretching out on the middle bench of the boat, using one of the orange kapok life preservers for a pillow.
Luckily dad would catch a pickerel or two and a couple yellow perch to make our trip worthwhile. Toward early afternoon we'd head back to the camp. Secretly I was glad for two things. One, that I had a chance to spend some time with my dad. Two, that he caught some fish and wouldn't be grouchy.
I didn't care if I caught any myself, but was always glad when I did so I could impress my father. He, in turn, would puff me up to my mother, telling her what a good fisherman I was. For dinner, my smart mom would supplement our meager catch with plenty of vegetables and dessert so we'd leave the table with full stomachs.
We had "the camp" for about three years until my dad got bitten by the golfing bug. My mom decided she didn't want to be a golf widow and took up the game herself. It turned out she won more trophies than he did.
Thank you for reading my story.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #40-450-B|
|Author Notes||This handsome man is my father at about age 23. He was a good family man and a hard worker, but we never seemed to "click" with each other. Maybe next time we'll do better.|
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #41-450-B|
Image: Marilyn and Caroline, 1992, New York. This is my favorite photo of us together.
I read Barb Hensongispsaca's nice poem about her daughters for National Mother~Daughter Day, which I missed (it was on September 25). But, I'm just in time for World Mother~Daughter Day, which is today (September 28). Thank you for reading.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #51-450-B|
Thank you for reading my poem.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #52-450-B|
This was a poem written on November 20, 2017, two months before my husband died. I'm re-posting it on the second anniversary of his passing. Thank you for reading.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #54-450-B-C|
Corona virus has been on everyone's mind. Mine, too, until yesterday morning. I was awakened by my daughter's phone call. I could barely hear her voice, shaky and weak. It took concentration to understand what she was trying to tell me. The gist of it was that she'd gotten up, could hardly stand and nearly fell down. The left side of her body felt leaden and unresponsive. She thought she may have had a stroke.
"I'll be right there," I said, throwing on an old pair of jeans, sneakers and a sweater. I carefully focused on my driving, despite my concern. It would take about fifteen minutes to get to her house. Traffic was sparse due to the virus scare, but each second seemed like an hour. My teenage grandson's face showed his worry when I arrived. He'd been keeping his mother company at the kitchen table while waiting for me.
She and I left immediately for the clinic. Luckily, it was still early. We were the first ones there. An attendant stationed at the front door gave my daughter a mask, telling her to go inside. I was instructed to wait for her in the car or someone would come get me, if necessary. The parking lot began to fill with cars as people arrived to be tested for the COVID-19 virus. I thanked God we'd arrived early enough for her to be taken right in.
When my phone rang, it was one of the ER staff. It was explained to me that my daughter had indeed had a stroke at the tender age of 49 years. I was to meet an attendant at the door who'd bring me in to discuss the next step.
Tele-medicine between the clinic and the hospital two hours away in Madison concurred that she'd be ambulanced down there for an emergency tPA procedure to clear the brain artery of blockage. They had a ten-hour window to get her there and into surgery. The sooner, the better. A neurosurgeon would be waiting for her.
Because my son-in-law worked out of town, we hadn't notified him of anything happening. It would have worried him unnecessarily if nothing had been found on exam. Now that a diagnosis had been made, it became my job to call him to come home. I could hear the hitch in his voice as I explained the situation. He'd said he'd leave right away. In the meantime, I'd spend the day with my grandsons.
By late afternoon I was home again. The phone rang which surprised me to see on ID it was my daughter. She'd undergone the tPA procedure as planned and was recovering in the ICU where she'd have to lie flat for several hours. The surgeon had inserted a wire through her femoral artery up to her brain, necessitating that she be awake and keep completely still despite her anxiety and pain. She told me that her daddy, who had passed away two years ago, had been there holding her hand the entire time.
It's now Friday. I awoke with a sore throat and chest congestion. My mind raced. Was this the start of a common cold due to stress or had I been exposed to the Corona virus while in the ER yesterday? Could it infect a patient that quickly, I wondered?
Rather than worrying about it all weekend, I decided it was best to call the COVID-19 Hotline. The nurse advised me to stay home and monitor my symptoms. If I should develop a fever, I'm to call back and we'll go from there. In my heart I feel God is watching over me as he did my daughter yesterday, and there'll be no need to call the Hotline again. Each day brings surprises to all of us. It's important to enjoy each moment we have with loved ones.
Marilyn D.F. Boire ~ March 21, 2020
Thank you for reading and for all those who voted for my entry. As I was about to post, I got a call from my daughter. After some further testing, if all is well, she may be discharged today for outpatient followup.
tPA =Tissue plasminogen activator, or tPA, is the only FDA-approved treatment for ischemic or thrombotic stroke, which is stroke caused by a blood clot interrupting blood flow to a region of the brain. It has been used in treatment for pulmonary embolism and myocardial infarction.
|Author Note:||'Family Matters' ~ #55-450-B-C|
Image: 'Golden Tears' by Gustav Klimt painting in 1898
Thank you for reading my poem.
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