Anonymous

To ‘Anon”

You always seem to say it best, Anon.
Even better than all the rest, Anon.
From ancient times up to the present day
Your works have proved that you are here to stay.
When did I first begin to like your style?
When did you move me first from frown to smile?
The potent words and then the dash – Anon.
The way you had your say and then were gone.
While authors die though talented and clever,
Anonymous, your rich pen writes forever.

Family Secrets

Our family is really strange where reading material is concerned. One daughter subscribes to many magazines and a few she picks up at the magazine stands. I have watched her do this and she always picks one from the back. He reason for this is that she likes to be the very first one to leaf through it. That little bend in the front page that we make as we snap the pages over takes a little of the bloom off for her.

If I want to look at one of her magazines before she does, I do it surreptitiously, lifting the pages carefully so there will be no tell-tale bends.

One day I didn’t feel well. She handed me one of her new magazines saying, “You may look at it first.” That meant a lot.

My other daughter doesn’t like to return books. If you lend her one, be sure your name is written in it or she might think it belongs to her. Some times I think I have loaned her a books and she thinks I have not.

I have solved this little problem rather well, I think. I pick out a nice book that I really like and give it to her for Christmas. Then I visit her for a couple weeks and read the book.

I want to be fair. My memory is none too good, so it may be that I haven’t lent her the books and that they are just laying around somewhere I can’t find them, but this is true:

I do remember one book I loaned her. I had just read “Australia Felix” and thought she might enjoy it. Twelve years later I asked her for it. She said, “But I haven’t read it yet!

Autumn

Autumn Ruse
(Dexter, ME)

This day of autumn leaves and wind and haze enticed us,
The child and I went our and as our rustic ruse,
We took a rake, to form our plausible excuse.

The wind plays havoc with our work. The child is sober,
Although among the leaves, so many of them blown,
The tiny raking makes a small joke of its own.

This rustling drowns the good rich sound of our own silence
This motion interferes with looking at the sky;
Disrupts the nakedness of things that bare hills glorify.

Let those who know this clarity exonerate us.
Come, child, we’ll lie upon this pyre of leaves together
And look up at the rudiments of wind and weather.

Signs of Old Age

When my daughters are around, I never get to finish a sentence. They say that they’d let me if I wasn’t so slow. Our conversations go like this.

Harriet: Liz, you know that guy –

L: What guy?

H: The one from Pennsylvania.

L: Ralston?

H: Yes, Ralston. His son – what’s his name?

L: Ed?

H: Yes, Ed. He said I looked like that television program in this jacket.

L: What television program? Dallas?

H: No. Young guys -

L: St. Elsewhere?

H: No, Florida.

L: Miami Vice?

H: Yes!

H: Liz, will you take that er---

L: Basket out to the car?

H: Liz, you know that fellow er -- the one that tried to er – sell me –

L: The insurance policy?

The other day at the mall we came out from shopping to drive home and I noticed how rusty my car was getting. I said, “O Liz, I’ve thought so much of my nice little blue car and it’s getting all rusty! What am I going to do!”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Mom, it isn’t your car!”

Memories

Here is an untitled poem my Gram wrote when she was just a teenager.

(1936 or 1937)

It’s a memory we’ve been thinking of,

Oh, quite a lot of late

It’s a little while haired woman

Who’s running from our gate.

Oh, for she was just a neighbor then

Who came to call and stayed

Just a little late and hurried home

To have the table laid.

And the men folk coming from the field

Would find a hearty fare

And a restful place and comfort

Pervading everywhere.

It has seemed to us that no kind deed

Was left to go undone

No word unsaid that might have helped

Or cheered a weary one.

I’m remembering how often we

Might find them sheltering there

Oh, a child or two beside their own

It was their way to care.

For the ones who suffered from the blow

Ill fortune often struck

And in sacrificing their own ease

Would nurse them back to luck.

Then, a warm hand clasp did often yield

Some money for this friend

And a neighbor gave a neighbor fruit

To help is body mend.

To the milk man on a stormy day

He lent a cap and coat

Or went to see an ailing cow

In answer to a note.

We’ll never see the old white house

But what we shall recall

All the mellowed years of friendship sweet

It offered to us all.

Oh, forgive us for remembering

But memory calls late

And a little white haired woman

Is running from our gate.

Safety of a List Doesn't Always Last

Here is something my Gram had published in our local newspaper. It is dated January 26, 1986.

Safety of a List Doesn't Always Last

I have heard of people who have total recall and do not have to write things down in order to remember them.

I have heard of them but if you will show me someone who doesn’t make lists, I’ll show you someone who borrows sugar from his neighbor.

Everything is written down at my house; what to do, when to do it, whom to do it with and where. Even so, things can get confusing and I end up knowing what to do but not when and where, or even when but not where.

I feel safer with a list; a Christmas list, shopping list or grocery list, something you can hold in your hand and focus on as you rub shoulders with other shoppers.

I sometimes run across old Christmas lists – things that I planned to make and give away. Frequently there are items that never materialized. There can be incorporated into the current list if you are an optimist.

The gardening list is one of my favorites. January is the month for this.

“Nasturtiums in tubs”

“Impatients in the shade”

“Six cucumber plants”

And you are out in the back yard and all is green even though the wind is howling and the snow blows outside.

I lost my shopping list yesterday. It has happened before. I start out with it clasped in my left hand, ready for consulting as I move from aisle to aisle and store to store.

Something catches my eye. A sale! I move into the crowd. Is it a good buy?

I put the list down to feel the goods. Perhaps someone jostles me and I retrieve my gloves but the list is forgotten and is not missed until I am back in the car.

Now comes the hard part as I try to remember what I had written down.

Under A – apples. Got those last week.

Under B – beans. Got those, too.

Let’s try another way. What had I used up? Butter? Eggs?

I snatch up a candy bar that has caught my fancy. Fish? Potato sticks look good for munching. Meat? I must have had cookies on the list. Green vegetables? I suddenly remember bananas. They were on the list!

On my way to them my arm moves out and my hand closes over a jar of nuts. Before I know it, breakfast bars, marshmallow fluff and Twinkies are in the cart.

Checkout time.

Can this be my shopping cart? Where did all this junk food come from? And the $64 question: Can I live for another week on this?

Back at home again, groceries put away, I think of the list: Is it on the counter still? Has the clerk found it and thrown it away? Did she read my cramped scrawl and try to decipher my humble needs?

Drifting off to sleep, I imagine the list wafting down through the darkness, settling on the floor. I hear the hum of the janitor’s vacuum. The tiny patch of white slowly disappears and all is dark.

Favorite Things

by Harriet Niles

Fire places

Apples in wooden bowls

Children

Moonlight

Warm Sweaters

Merry-go-rounds

Winks

Homemade bread

Smooth stones

Brown eyed Susans

Cast out Fear

As the deer grazes again

When the scent of danger has gone

And the rabbit continues her way

When the eagles shadow has passed.

As the fox creeps out from his den

When the baying and horn start to fade,

So soon let forgetting begin

And all love cast out fear and hold fast.