#towrite #mywork
August 5, 2024
The Past, Present and Future.
This is the inside of my front door.
The Present is myself taking this photograph.
The Future is the black card on the door. It’s the card from a Funeral Home.
The Past is the streak of the rose color of love. I was going to paint the entire door.
It was to have the other colors of a rose, green for the leaves, tan for the stem.
But he didn’t love me. It was a love that wasn’t going anywhere. So I left it there.
#ToWrite #flowers #planter #city
The Last Bus To Ogden
Last year I wrote “The angels were up in the night casting handfuls of pearls on neglected and forsaken ground…”
That time is here again, and I saw beautiful Morning Glories, also known as Moon Flowers, this morning while I was on a campus shuttle bus going to work. I said to myself,
“The angels were up in the night casting handfuls of pearls on neglected and forsaken ground.”
When I look at them, I can always hear sweet, high, little voices singing, like flowers in a beautiful Walt Disney cartoon-
“Good Morning! Good Morning! We love you. Have a wonderful day.”
As I looked at them, I remembered an old drunk man I met one night in front of a UTA bus stop, when I was working in the Social Hall planter in downtown Salt Lake City. I had adopted this forsaken planter. He rode up on his bicycle, huffed and puffed, and said it was a steep hill. He was wearing shorts, his legs were tanned, and he looked to be in good shape in spite of the fact that he was old, drunk as a skunk, and stinking to high Heaven. I thought if that’s what riding a bicycle can do for you, I should buy one and get my own self in shape. He sat on the edge of the concrete planter and was taken aback, and then delighted when by the light of a streetlight, he saw all the flowers I had planted in the planter. Thinking that he must be in the middle of some kind of alcohol induced delusion, he asked me what the names of the flowers and other plants were, and why was I out there late at night working in a flower garden? I told him the names of the flowers, and how I had adopted the abandoned Downtown planter, and it wasn’t my property. I explained that it was better, and easier to work at night when it was cooler, and there wasn’t a crowd of people around the planter waiting for their buses. He asked if he could help me, and plant a flower. I said he could, so he dug a hole in the dirt with his hands and planted a flower.
He enjoyed it all so much that I suggested that he should plant a garden where he lived. He explained that he once had a home and a wife, and back then he also had a garden that he tended. He said his wife slept during most of the day, and working in the garden was how he kept busy. But she died. He put his head down and was silent. Then, he told me that now he lived by a river in Ogden, and it wasn’t his property so he couldn’t plant anything. I got the feeling that he must live in some kind of tent, or lean-to. I pictured him being cold in the Winter.
The old man said all he had left was the VA Hospital he goes to, and that’s where he was earlier in the day. He had been in the Army in World War II. He showed me the battle and surgery scars on one knee, and said he lived in pain all the time. I thought perhaps his physical pain was one reason he had turned to heavy drinking. His doctor appointment was the reason he had traveled from Ogden to Salt Lake City on the bus. A trip that took an hour or longer. Now, he was waiting for the last bus to Ogden. That sounded like the name of a song to me, or a movie title. “The Last Bus To Ogden.” He asked if he could plant another flower and I told him no because he was much too drunk, and would accidentally damage them. He asked me why I was so mean. I could almost hear him gently saying those words to his deceased wife. I told him it was my job to care for the flowers. Understanding the responsibility of having a job to do, and the condition he was in, he shook his head “Yes” and didn’t argue with me about planting anything.
Then he said,
“… most people think of them as weeds, but I really liked them…they’re little, white, pretty flowers…”
"..Morning Glories?"
“Yes. That’s them. I really like them.”
“I like them too. Shall I plant some here for you?”
“…No…I used to work for the Forest Service for many years…wildflowers are the most beautiful…out there where they belong…in their own natural setting…it wouldn’t be right to have them here.”
He spoke in a sober, serious, intelligent Forest Ranger kind of way, deserving of respect, and not like an old, drunk man, on his way alone in the dark, to finally fall down beside a river and go to sleep.
The next day as I was walking with a co-worker to a Deli for lunch, I mentioned to him, because he knows about trees and gardens, that I really liked Morning Glories. I said I had been thinking about digging up a few plants from the nearby open field where we worked, and planting them in the Social Hall planter. He replied,
“No…you don’t want to do that. They’re weeds, and their roots go way, way down. You’d have a hard time digging up one. Why would you want to put weeds in a flower garden? They sell ornamental Morning Glories-they look good.”
My co-worker was correct. Ornamental Morning Glories are very pretty flowers, but somehow they remind me of a bowl of plastic apples, oranges, bananas and grapes that sat in the center of an aunt’s dining room table. Real-but not real. But maybe I’ll get over that one day, and plant some orientals in the Social Hall planter. It’s silly to keep an unreasonable thing in your mind. You know, get over it!
My co-worker was also correct about the wild Morning Glories having very deep roots. I did get out there in that dusty, dirty forsaken field, and dig up some plants, with their long vines, and the flowers that I loved so much. It took over an hour and it was hard work. I transported the wild Morning Glories home on a bus, in a large grocery store paper bag, with their roots wrapped up in wet paper towels. It was rather thrilling to have this treasure in my own personal possession-to be mine, to look at and enjoy to my heart’s content.
Once home, I put the wild Morning Glories in Mason jars and vases filled with water. I also filled up one side of my kitchen sink with water, and put more of them in the sink. They were all doing just fine, and I must have looked at them a hundred times.
I put the vines that were in jars and vases out on my second story window ledge of the Downtown building where I live. To see and touch this little bit of wild Nature was wonderful. When the Sun went down, the little Morning Glory flowers folded up and disappeared within the leaves of the vines!! I was thrilled! When my alarm went off the next morning, I raced to the kitchen to look at the Morning Glories I had in the sink filled with water. All the little white flowers were in full bloom.
“Good Morning! Good Morning! We love you. Have a wonderful day.”
Some had a slight touch of pink on them, and others had a touch of light blue. All-so beautiful to me. The flowers that were out on the window ledge were also in full bloom. I was very happy.
I kept the wild Morning Glories with me for over a week, and knew I would have to plant them soon or they would die. But in thinking about it, I had to agree with the old man, the Forest Ranger, that they were at their most beautiful in their own natural environment. It was selfish of me to have them. And, the Social Hall planter was no longer a neglected, forsaken piece of ground. It had me to love and care for it, so they really didn’t belong in the planter.
I transported the wild Morning Glories, “a heavenly gift to barren and forsaken places”, back to the barren field where I had dug them up. I planted them, and watered them every day until I was sure they would be alright. I looked at them when I was passing by, and a few times I walked out into the field for a closer look. Winter snow covered them, and then one Spring day, bulldozers were bulldozing the large, empty field-smoothing it all out. The Morning Glories were plowed under. I walked out there and asked one of the workmen what was happening. A new medical clinic was going to be built there. I thought of the old Forest Ranger, taking a bus from Ogden to go to a doctor appointment in Salt Lake City. Maybe one day his doctor would send him to the new clinic that was to be built? And as he sat in the waiting room, he would look at the clock on the wall, and think about making the…last bus to Ogden.
A Walking Stick from a Pecan Tree
Dear Jeffrey,
You wrote ~
“I fashioned a walking stick out of a branch from our pecan tree…”*
You see. You are an "Our".
I am a "My."
You are a "We".
I am an "I".
You have all that I am without.
I have not seen a pecan tree since I lived in the South.
Nor have I had a slice of real pecan pie since then.
A substitute would be too cruel.
So, I pass them by.
But I often have pecans in my home.
I buy them in stores, or from far away places.
They are already nicely shelled.
I am denied the pleasure of cracking the shell open
with a nut cracker, or a light touch with a hammer.
I am denied crushing two together in the palms of my hands.
The goal is to get the pecan halves out in one whole piece.
I remember.
I am without relatives, and someone telling me
that my ancestors made beautiful jewelry out of pecan shells.
Others made boxes, furniture and toys from pecan tree wood.
I am without warm Southern breezes, and the scent of magnolias
and flowers in the air, and how it looks and feels when
It is just about to rain and the sun is still shining.
That all comes with pecans.
I am without the mindless chit chat in Southern accents
while we sat on a porch and snapped bushels of green beans,
shelled peas, and shucked the husks off of corn on the cob.
I am without my youth and innocent, happier days when I did not know ~
I was so ignorant. I did not realize those day were so precious
and would never come again.
I am without all of those pecan tree things.
But I do have corporate shelled pecans in a can as small mementos.
#dreams #towrite #mywork
I start out November .............
The Watchtower
I woke up without a song, but there was a dream.
I saw myself climbing the metal stairs of a high tower.
The tower was open and the air was cold. A cold wind blew.
I was wearing my wool green car coat, and a backpack.
I was also wearing my long, blue Winter coat,
draped over my backpack and green coat.
I struggled to climb up the stairs.
I stopped at a landing and removed the blue Winter coat,
the backpack and the green coat.
I put on the long, blue Winter coat and left the green coat
and the backpack on the landing.
I continued to climb up the stairs.
I don't know what was at the top of the tower.
Suddenly, I was in a car, driving down a highway.
I realized I had left my green coat and backpack
high up on a landing of the tower.
Should I turn around and go back to retrieve them?
No. I kept going.