The Crab Chronicles

Sarah's Eyes

I was very happy to hear that one of my poems is going to be published in December over at vox poetica, my friend Annmarie's wonderful site for poetry lovers. Annmarie has encouraged my efforts to get back to writing poetry, which I had not done in a long time, and I will always be grateful to her for that. During times of stress in my life poetry has been a great comfort.

Annmarie sent out an email a while back asking for contributions to a series called Contributor Series 7: The Confessional Diary of Bone. I love that title.

My poem is below. It was written about my great great grandmother Sarah Mahalie Nelson, a half-Cherokee lady who married my great great grandfather John T. Hasty well over a hundred years ago. For years, nobody in the family talked about the fact that she was part Cherokee. I believe some Cherokee women married white men in the North Georgia mountains, and thus didn't go to Oklahoma on the Trail of Tears.I don't have any diaries or letters from Sarah, and I know almost nothing about her life, but I feel sadness when I look at her photo, and that inspired the poem.

Sarah’s Eyes

 

I have come to understand that memory is biological.

When I look at the photos of my Cherokee great great grandmother Sarah,

her tiny skull,

her sad eyes,

 I feel her despair.   I have no words

for her story, only legends and suppositions, but her eyes –

Over a century, her eyes hold the truth.

My bones hold her stories, secrets.

She went deep into the mountains where they couldn’t find her

 and stayed off the tearstained trail.

She married a white man,

 took a white name, and bore him sons.

Her grandson/ my grandfather - Papa - he wore long limbs

from his father, a giant, angry man.

Was it the taint of mixed blood that caused Papa’s father

 to tie the hands of his sons and beat them bloody?

Papa stopped the carnage

as soon as he was big enough to fight his father.

Or was it anger at Sarah

 for turning away from her Cherokee family?

Papa turned away from that rage

and became a gentle giant,

a great warrior on the baseball field.

As an elder, he fed me bits of bread and honey

 and read me stories.

Like Sarah,

he loved the sanctuary of mountains.

 

I lost Papa when I was nine years old.

I feel Papa in my bones though,

in the beat of the drums when I go to pow-wows.

 I feel her inside me too, in those drums;

mute memories pulse in a newer heart, but

I always want to weep for what we lost.

 

By Dee Thompson

July 2010

 

 

Mea Culpa

I was informed a little while ago by my mother that I was a total pill yesterday. She's right. I was awful. I yelled at Alesia and Michael. I was a Bad Mommy and a Bad Daughter. I didn't do anything right.

I was doing what I swore I would never do - taking my stressed out state too seriously and lashing out at the people who love me.

I feel lower than a snake's belly.

The only thing that has kept me out of the loony bin for much of my life has been my ability to write. So here's a poem I wrote this morning.

 

For My Children

 

These are some things I want you to think about.

When someone says they are a friend, it may last forever, or it may only last a short time. You must not grieve over the lost ones, even though they hurt you. Or if you must grieve, acknowledge the pain and move on.

When someone acts very friendly, they may only want you to buy something from them. Be wary.

Crying is not weakness. Tears wash your soul clean.

You don’t have to do things perfectly. You do have to try your best. Make it a habit early, so you will not have regrets.

There’s an Italian proverb you need to ponder: “Those who don’t love you make you laugh. Those who love you make you cry.”

When I yell at you, it’s not really your fault. It’s a flaw inside me, and I am not a patient person. I always regret it later. I ask God to help me be a better mom all the time. I fail all the time. I still love you both more than my life.

As time progresses, I will yell more. I will say things that upset you, even though I don’t mean to. Try to remember that behind it all is fear, my rotten, old, rancid fear – and it’s not about you at all. When you can do that, you will have a valuable life skill, called Not Taking it Personally.

 

You must venture outside what is comfortable, or you will have a stagnant, unhappy life. Take chances. Risk.  Love with abandon. Try things.

Fail at things, but never call yourself a failure.

If I had not gone to Russia in 2003, we would not know each other. I had to take a risk, do something scary and uncomfortable. My reward – the two most important people in my life, you.

People will hurt you. I cannot prevent that. Never let them make you feel you deserved to be hurt. You do not deserve that. You endured a lifetime of hurt in your youngest years, and any hurts that come now need to be processed and abandoned. Feel the hurt, cry your healing tears, then let it GO.

Remember, God brought you to me, and God will never abandon you. Never.

Even if you can’t believe in God, believe in love. They are one and the same.

 

You have seen two kinds of lives-

Biting cold, poverty, dirt, hitting, shame, vodka, nudity, cigarettes.

And another life – warm days in January, green grass lawns, bicycles under blue skies, English homework, family dinners, and a small dog who likes to play kiss kiss.

It takes strength and courage to turn away from those early imprints. You are both stronger and braver than I have ever been.

You are survivors.

Remember the past and its pain, but don’t let it define you.

 

And I want you to understand and remember this, if nothing else -

You get to choose your own life.

Choose to seek God.

Choose to learn, not just from books, but from people.

Choose to feel your pain and keep going anyway.

Choose to love and be loved.

Choose.

Published Poem

Another hot day, with little to report. Michael made french toast for himself and Alesia this morning. He likes to cook and we encourage it. I am very proud of him.

The poem of mine published in the new book From 9/11 to a New Year is below. It was written last December when my friend Cindy LaJoy was on her amazing adoption journey in Kazakhstan.

Weathering

My old Mazda slices through the wet cold morning world

Windshield wipers thwock thwock.

I hate driving in rain. Anxiety underlines everything.

  The only beauty - tall pines fringing the ashy sky, a fit canopy

to my meditation cave.

  Far west, my sister/friend prepares to journey east.

 I know her journey.

Years ago I sped across the sky to my children.

Warehoused in orphan prisons, their faces engraved on my eyelids,

My only thought was Hold On, Mama’s coming.

 

Five years past, my daughter awoke to her first day as an American.

I cannot forget her - huge eyes, thick straw hair, white stick limbs,

mute behind her Russian language.

We lived in terror together, Mother and Daughter, bonded only

by paper and mutual longing.

Now we fit together like a pair of old shoes, comfortable from the long wearing, separate, yet working together.

 

My son says he misses snow.

We live in a place of rain, a place of tiny winters and lush, expansive summers.

 

Studying for a science test, I explain ice wedging to him by recalling the potholes everywhere in Kazakhstan.

I explain about rivers as he remembers the recent torrent in our backyard that swept away our stone angel.

I explain tributaries by showing how fingers connect to hand.

We talk of weathering, of erosion, of alluvial plains, of steep canyons rising from ancient rivers.

 

I am not a baby! He says indignantly at breakfast. I’m thirteen.

You will always be my baby, even when you have gray hair and a pot belly. My baby.

I labored in planes and fell in snow for you.

Time and water change everything.

 

By Dee Thompson

December 2, 2009

 
This is Michael ice skating on the flooded soccer field behind his orphanage. He is facing the camera. This was made in mid March.

PLEASE make a donation to Antares before this Saturday. We really need to get Diana here for treatment. I will be drawing a raffle winner THIS Sunday. If you want to mail Laura a check, just let me know so I can include you.

Happy Thanksgiving 2009!

Too tired last night to write. Worked half a day, then came home and started cooking yesterday. Made both the pies – pumpkin and pecan. Despite not having any condensed milk for the pumpkin pie, and forgetting to start the timer on the pecan pie, they came out just fine.

 

Bruce came in from Columbia and we had a good visit. He brought presents for the kids, as always. He found Alesia several really cute shirts at a sportswear place that has great sales. I don’t dare buy her shirts because she won’t wear them, but she will wear any shirt Uncle Bruce gives her. He found Mike some shirts, too, and a couple of knives to add to his collection. Mike knows better than to try anything dangerous with the knives or to take them to school, which is why I allow them.

 

Bruce grilled steaks in the dark, which is something I don’t like to do. They were awesome. He got them at Sam’s. He marinated them in Coca Cola and some seasonings before grilling them. I made corn pudding and Souffer’s spinach soufflé. The corn pudding came out well. My brother is a good cook and it’s fun co-preparing meals with him.

 

Today the plan is to relax, visit, and eat. We will do the “big meal” tonight. I got Krispy Kreme doughnuts for breakfast and we will have quiche for lunch. The turkey and dressing are thawing in the fridge, having been cooked weeks ago.

 

 

Here's a little Thanksgiving poem, based on a semi-true story about a Thanksgiving we spent on Edisto Island, the last one when my dad was alive:

 

Falling Island
By Dee Thompson

To avoid the summer crowds, we
vacation Thanksgiving week at the beach.
Roaring waves throw down a carpet of shells
on the darkening sand, and
threaten
the house on stilts.
Hurricane's coming.
I picture the dead turkey flying again.

***********************************************************************************************************************

 

Days like this make me think of family. The photo below is me with my beloved grandfather, and other family members who have passed away. They are with us in spirit. Below is Michael and my uncle Bobby, and me and Papaw. See the resemblance between him and his dad?!

 

  HAPPY THANKSGIVING Y'ALL!! 

Poetry and 'Tude

I may or may not have the energy to blog tonight. I am scurrying around madly getting ready for a small party tonight. All the food I am making is done and in the fridge. I have been spot cleaning the carpet, dusting, and even straightened up my room and Mike's room. I also [wicked chuckle] made lengthy chore lists for the kids.

I have to have a party of some sort every 6 months or so, or my house would never be really cleaned...

My friend AnnMarie over at Vox Poetica asked me for a poem about vacation, fall, and death - on one or all three of those topics. Here's mine:

Falling Island

To avoid the summer crowds, we
vacation Thanksgiving week at the beach.
Roaring waves throw down a carpet of shells
on the darkening sand, and
threaten
the house on stilts.
Hurricane's coming.
I picture the dead turkey flying again.

She liked it. So nice to see a poet with a sense of humor.

When I was in grad school in the UT graduate English program, many moons ago, churning out poetry, I realized quickly that most of my professors had no sense of humor, at least not about poetry. The other grad students looked at me as a weirdo, too, because I had such a hard time taking it seriously.. I didn't make a single friend in the program. I did a lot of eye-rolling, too, like when I had a professor tell me I was wrong about the purpose of writing being communication. Those intellectuals didn't care much for me. I am 1/4 South Georgia redneck, and proud of it. To heck with 'em.

How To Send Your Baby To A New School

I have a million things I need to do. My kitchen is a wreck. The laundry is piled up. Am I getting anything done? No.

I have reverted back to grad school days. I wrote a poem just now. It's not much of a poem, but I don't care.

How to Send Your Child To A New School

 

I sometimes write for a website called eHow, but this

Is not something I can write for them.

 

I can write the steps, sure –

Buy school supplies, buy school clothes, write name in agenda, etc.

Tuck child into bed, after reading a chapter of Harry Potter.

 

Wake child up early, and promise him a cinnamon roll

if he will shower and dress and come downstairs.

 

All those steps are the easy ones.

 

Here are the hard steps.  

 

How do I look at my son’s face and tell him Everything Will Be OK?

How can I assure him he will understand everything, when there are still thousands of English words he does not know?

How can I hope he will be treated like anyone else when there is no forearm or hand coming from the right sleeve of his tee shirt?

 

How can I tell him today will be different? No child will tease you. No child will ask you what happened to your hand. No child will ask you why you talk funny.  

 

No reassurances are really possible.

 

How can I tell him to hang out with the Good Kids, when he sees himself as a Bad Kid?

 

How well I remember being the fat kid, the kid with weird clothes, the kid who was too tall, the kid with funny glasses. I was all of those. I was whole, though.

 

My daughter blazes out the door early, beautiful and excited. My son and I go upstairs to brush teeth.

 

I spend time just holding my son and rubbing his back. My 13 year old baby.

 

“You may not have all the things those other kids have, but you have three people who love you.”

 

He smiles.

 

I drop him off and drive away and do not look back.