Kicking and Crunching in Autumn

Fall colors the neighborhood everywhere I go these days and my walks inspired the following poem.


Kicking and Crunching
By Judy Beaston

Leaves litter my path
wake memories
of walks with you,
those canvas sneakers
kicking and crunching,

I smile as I recall
another scene,
me on the sidelines
as you create
color storms
around the wheels
of your tricycle.

Autumn follows autumn,
time marches on,
finds me here today,
my feet alone
on these paths of fall,
remembering

when you were young
and our lives
held all the colors
of laughter

your canvas sneakers
kicking and crunching
fall’s clutter of leaves.

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Musing on a Tale

In a small town tucked away in the hills near a lake, secrets weave a backdrop to an otherwise quiet community. 

Are the adventures we experience everyday the weavings of reality or are they seeds for something deeper?

When will these tales surface for you, my readers? Stay tuned...

An August Moon

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I missed this year’s August moon. Cloud cover stole the show, left me dependent on science websites for images of the Mercury/Moon pairing. I look forward to full moon days, generally find the light of night more peaceful than what fills every crevice during sunlit hours. Waking during the night, I’m drawn to the window, sometimes leave the house to be bathed in the energy reaching me when I stand on my deck or in my backyard. This year, my views were delayed until the moon’s edges withdrew, replaced by black shadows and leading me to the following poem.

Did You Wake Me?

Ragged moon still holds power

over night’s clear skies,

draws me to the large back window

when I wake after midnight.

Did you wake me, friend moon?

by judy beaston

August 30, 2018

Summer Sizzle

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Long days riding above Northwest Oregon's average temperatures have given me reason to label this summer as sizzling. Oddly, though, my body isn't rebelling. Where I once fretted at any temperature above 80, with general preference for 70-75 (still my preference, truth be told), I now effectively shrug my shoulders at 90-95. I won't claim to relish the hotter days, but I function comfortably enough.

Probably a good thing. This may become our new normal. And the fires. Once again the western half of the United States rises in flames -- while the eastern half drowns. Smoke tints sunrise and sunset in burnt orange while masking any hopes of mountain views.

Such was my experience during a recent visit to central Oregon where those mountains were merely vague, ghostly images on the horizon - if that. The stars still stunned and delighted me at night, out there away from the far too many lights of suburban Portland. I'd almost forgotten the power of such a view -- only wishing I could have slept beneath the stars as I'd once done when younger, watching for those star-streakers, this being the time of Perseid Meteor Shower.

My days spent biking, hanging out with family by the cabin, by lakes, exploring lava caves. Here's a poem that came to me as I sat on the deck one afternoon, listening to my surroundings.

Music of the Wind

Begins as a distant low rumble

this song of the wind

traveling through the trees,

each needle played for its special

sound, the music blending, growing,

harmonics picked up along the way

until its very present crescendo,

full bore sound and whipped up air

wraps around the cabin, 

makes nearby trees sway, and sends

waves of wild air across my body

where I sit, reading, in the shade.

by judy beaston

August 2, 2018

In Search of Truth

💭💭💭💭💭

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Is There a Future For Truth?

Another day dances around me

skirt swirls but reveals little,

a tango with trouble

while hip-hop artists

settle on the side

composing countermeasures

in rap words insufficient

to conjure change

rescind dangerous elements;

always the way—the bards sing

truth but the world hears dissonance,

misses the message

shrugs off harmonious resolve

blinded instead by glam & glitter

of ominous forces

whose words rasp toxic

like a cheese grater on the brain

dismantling too many

of their final connections

to empathy, compassion, respect

tone-deaf now to truth

they hear lies as reality

a song without chords, a drone

from the dark side of everything

including this day

now dancing into the shadows

bereft of confidence, no guarantees

her dance numbers allowed

more rounds in sunlight.

by judy Beaston

November 18, 2016

Autumn Splendor

October Gift

A full day of sunshine

on a Saturday

with near peak fall colors

around every bend in the road

and I

breathe deeply,

immerse body, mind soul

in the fragrance of Autumn.

by judy Beaston

October 22, 2016

My Revision Process

Thoughts on Revision:

Keep the buttons, save

strong stitches,

remove the lint

caught

between phrases

where story importance resides;

catch darlings,

those phrases, sentences,

lines loved "too much"

considered clever,

special and likely not

an enhancement;

weave through, locate

'ing' words, weak cheaters

they steal emotion's thunder,

deny readers access to subtext

or intricate details present

for close inspection like lace on a bodice;

ignore not those adverbs sprinkled

like fancy seasonings, a few perhaps nice

while abundance hides true flavor;

now review this "new" story, perhaps

recognize with delight the light

wakened from below the surface.

The story is ready for final edits.

by judy Beaston

March 6, 2016

ONE

I am

but a drop of water

falling through a rain forest

landing on a single leaf

of a large tree

but even I am important

to the life of that tree

and the existence of that community

I am a part of the bigger whole

each drop and each plant

weaving our energy

into existence

We're all connected

We're all part of ONE

community

ONE

existence.

by judy Beaston

February 6, 2016

Opening The Door Marked '65'

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There's a joke I've heard in various versions over the years, the gist of it being that the way to reach any age is by waking up alive on the date in question. Today my human body has journeyed around the sun for a total of sixty-five years.

I remember viewing sixty-five as both a destination and the start of old age, the decline of life. It was a destination, back when I was in my twenties and thirties, because that was the enforced age of retirement. It still is, in many industries, though as more and more folks cannot afford to stop working, REAL retirement might not happen until age seventy or maybe not until death descends.

When my parents reached their sixties, they seemed to count the days to my dad's retirement. His final few years on the job were challenging. Management wanted young blood and curtailed his ability to be the experienced, wise adjunct to the department -- a benefit not a detriment. Nowadays, more companies do understand the benefits of experience, but not then. Or so it seemed. They tried to convince him to take early retirement and eventually he did leave earlier than originally planned. The release from stress was worth it, I think.

Then came the adjustments. For my mom, adjustments to a routine that counted on personal free time and not having anyone underfoot. But soon they were scheduling adventures. They went golfing, took trips to visit all four children who now lived far from home. My sister and her son had returned home and became their built-in house sitter while they traveled. Free at last to spread their wings and relax.

My perceptions about age sixty-five shifted. It still seemed "old" but also held the promise of experiencing the world without attachments to a daily job, competition for promotions and the complications of children.

Now I've opened the door marked "65" and, no surprise, the room on the other side appears the same as the room I'm leaving.

I've been semi-retired for several years. When my daughter was born, I became a stay-at-home mom. I worked part-time after both children were in school and then the marriage relationship came undone. Complications related to our son, mostly, left me unable to assume a full-time job and after so many years home with family, my resume was sorely lacking in anything that would interest employers in fields that once suited my college education.

When separation led to divorce, I believed the stories I told myself about older folks (older here being anything over fifty) not welcomed in the marketplace. AND, ten years ago, that was reality compared to changes since that time. These days there are too many baby boomers needing to find new work or to continue working. They've elicited changes, convinced businesses that their skills and stability made them desirable employees.

But I decided it was time to seek out what I'd never been able to pursue earlier in my life -- creative expression, particularly writing. I had considered becoming a technical writer before my children were born and contemplated that as a course to follow after the divorce. I decided instead to pursue new directions, to dive into fiction stories, poetry and essay composition.

Now I'm sixty-five and still figuring out who I want to be when I grow up. Cliché but fitting. I don't see my road as one headed for a tangled, dangerous forest. I see an open road, blue skies, vast ranges of meadows, mountains, valleys, fun rivers and many, many people and experiences waiting for me to explore.

And that's the designation I give to this stage of my life: Explorer.

A Spot or Two of Rain

.
At last a day of clouds willing to weep a little on our parched land. Though the morning began with dribbles, sufficient rain fell throughout the day to refresh my spirit -- and, apparently, enliven the swarming white flies (not native to Oregon, as best I understand the situation) -- they've hatched in numbers not known here. In fact, this is the first year of the thirty-four I've lived here that I've seen any white flies--period. They're a nuisance and small enough to fly into your eye, but they apparently don't bite, don't appear interested in landing on people -- just fly and fly like white dust covering the air.

But, this morning, in that morning dribble and drizzle, I had the honor of walking my granddaughter to school. Brought back fond memories from my own childhood and encourages me to consider offering to walk her to school every day. That tune might change once the real rain and cold arrives, but for today, walking her to school was a gift I treasure.

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Laughter and Umbrellas

We walked in the rain today,

granddaughter Riley and me,

she beneath her pink umbrella

me covered by a stately black & white

borrowed from her parents

Not a proper rain

where silver drops splash

in wild patterns, attach wetness

to legs and clothes, when boots

prove more appropriate than shoes;

No, this was a gentle rain

of dribbles widely spaced,

like tea-time with all the fine china

at grandma's house,

not THIS grandma, but back when

such would be considered

a proper afternoon gathering,

a bit like this rain that breathed in

before we were halfway to the school,

our umbrellas retreated, folded

as we crossed at the light,

crossing guard's flag raised,

added insurance

all cars must stop, as if the red light

won't be enough (and sometimes isn't).

Walk & Bike to school day today

and I earned the honor of walking

with my granddaughter Riley

in the rain, proper or not,

smiling, laughing, chatting non-stop.

What better way to start a day

than with rain and chatter

laughter and umbrellas

walking Miss Riley to school.

Seventy Years Married

Today in 1945, in a Catholic Church in Chicago, Illinois, my parents laughed, smiled, dressed in their finest, and, surrounded by family and friends they exchanged wedding vows. This poem honors their marriage of 70 years.

Seventy Years Married

I remember the photo

stark in black and white,

young promises exchanged

before God and family,

held steady for seventy years

and counting.

On that day, he wore army issued

olive-drab, wool garments, pressed

shirt, polished shoes and a peaked cap

over a full head of thick black hair

his face covered by a boyish grin

ready to conquer the world.

She wore white, her wavy brown hair

cascading across shoulders caressed

by soft fabric, bodice angled to reveal

a silver cross draped around her neck,

face tilted towards his, deep dimples

enhanced by her joy-filled smile.

Sisters, brothers, parents, aunts,

uncles and multitudes of friends

gathered in the church, tossed rice

afterward, celebrations of family

long-life, many children, they danced,

drank, laughed, sang until night called.

Seventy years of marriage, a maze

of fascinating corridors, dead-ends,

children, camping, financial struggles,

long hours, sickness, health, disruptions,

arguments, forgiveness, shared adventures,

memories made, memories kept, faith

or something akin to that deep commitment

kept them together while all the marriages

of their children dissolved, steadfast

in their desire to help and assist others

and now, bonded in difficult times, stroke's effects

stealing her from him but he won't leave her side.

Seventy years and counting. Not many marriages

manage a promise this long and strong.

by judy Beaston

September 29, 2015

Poppa Troll

My grandkids love a Nick Jr. show titled: Paw Patrol. I watched it for the first time this past week on an evening when I was playing my Nana role with my grandson.

"What shall we watch?" I asked

"Poppa Troll!" he sung out, quite clearly to my ears.

Baffled by the title, but certain such an odd title could fit a child's fantasy animated show, I searched the numerous lists of shows available via cable television. Nothing similar was found on the pre-recorded and saved list. Nothing remotely close was found among the "On Demand" selections. I searched "KIDS" and then Disney, Nickelodeon, and Cartoons. Nada!

Meanwhile, I kept asking my grandson to repeat the title of this show, certain now that my hearing loss was playing tricks on me. I considered alternate possibilities, such as "Paw-Paw Troll" and "Paw-Paw Toll" and though the first makes sense, the second doesn't and neither currently exists as a show for kids.

And then I stumbled upon it, on the Nick Jr. channel: Paw Patrol. Lights brightened and I laughed. "Oh! PAW PATROL not Poppa Troll!" 

My grandson looked at me as if I'd grown a set of horns. Then we settled together on the couch and I soon understood his pleasure in this show where dogs play a role in rescuing other animals. Both of my grandkids love animals, though so far, in their young years, most of their encounters are with the stuffed-animal and at-a-distance zoo variety.

It still sounds like he's saying "Poppa Troll" when he calls out the show's name, but at least now I know what he really wants.

Too Many Wildfires

When Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

Wind shifted overnight

no onshore breeze

pushes marine air

across Portland

tempering

summer's heat;

instead

air storms in

from the north and east,

wildfire-filled zones

air thick with smoke,

thick enough

my nose samples

memories

of backyard burning,

smoky haze so dense

particles are visible

floating in the heavy air

hanging at ground-level.

Eyes struggle, tears form,

lungs cloud with congestion,

heart fills with sorrow

for the losses

of forestland,

animals, too many

houses, ranches, lives.

And the sun lingers

in a cloudless sky,

fire-smoke red-orange

all day long.

by judy Beaston

August 22, 2015

Summer Sizzles and Other Notes

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After reading a post by a writing friend, one I know only via writing classes and Blogs, I realize my summer slips steadily past, my Blog page sorely lacking attention. I set an intention for a once-a-week post, but I seem to need more than intention to become close friends with my Blog page.

I could blame it on the heat. This has been a year for the record books in the northwest. We're not unique in our weather reflections of Global Warming. Elsewhere storms rage with rare intensity and quantity. Elsewhere, like Europe and Alaska, soaring temperatures out of proportion to even non-average years has become the norm for 2015. And here, in the Pacific NW, we've broken records for lack of rain (driest in 23 years), HOT months, HOT nights and now a new record number of days at or above 90 degrees in one year. And we're not done with summer yet.

Being quite more adapted to clouds, cool, and intermittent rain to break up the monotony of blue skies, I fought through the early parts of this summer. My muse fled for cooler climes, but left me behind and my lack of true creativity proved it. By mid-July, my system had acclimated to the relentless blue sky and HOT climate. I'm not yet the happiest camper, nor has my muse returned (though she sends me ideas and encouragement from her much more comfortable locale), but I'm composing poems and stories again.

What I've enjoyed about this summer includes more involvement with my grandchildren (5 and 8 - almost), mostly as Nana-taxi, but I also get to watch a little bit of their summer camp experiences. My grandson (5) gets to play little Ninja warrior twice each week in his pre-school Taekwondo class. He's learned to ride his bike, improve his water skills, and he taught me how to set up and play Skylanders (video game). Ah, clueless Nana! I never have been a video game player.

My granddaughter has been involved in theater camps, gymnastics, wilderness camp (called Trackers), studying environment and biology including her first river canoe ride, and something with dance. I think her return to school in September will be her "vacation" time.

And now I've just returned from ending the life of a mate-seeking giant house spider. Normally, I play catch-and-release with spiders, even these big ones. Between my family and me, we've caught and released more than six of these big ones. With the high proliferation of spiders (of every size) this year, my spider anxiety has been tested again and again. I had to knock tonight's big guy off the ceiling first. I'm shaking from the adrenaline, but maybe I'm knocking the fears into oblivion, too.  (Spider photo on the way)

I'll stop here for today. I HAVE been busy writing and taking classes since the first of the year. Maybe I'll bring some of that into the light of these NW Notes.

Giant House Spider Under Glass (not amplified)

Spring Poem

Spring's Sultry Mood

I considered morning

snugged in her gray wool winter coat

noticed white fur curled like thick lace

or scrollwork woven in random lines

north to east to west and south, some

folded back upon itself, bunched

in likely anticipation of late morning

opportunities for dispensing

with all this winter heaviness, an exchange

in order for Irish dances, blue sky;

but I erred on the side of optimism,

her sultry mood predicting instead

an afternoon sob-fest, a good soaking-in

for all the new spring growth.

by judy Beaston

April 23, 2015

Mail Call

.

Mail Call

My dad received an invitation

for an all-expense-paid flight

to Washington, D.C.

He and many other elder statesmen

long-ago dressed in military uniforms,

journey soon to visit

the WWII Memorial built

in their honor.

Upon their return

to Midway Airport in Chicago,

a familiar though long-gone sight awaits:

Mail Call

the same kind of Mail Call

woven into their days

during the war.

My dad and I exchange communication

as a rare event these days,

most of my news

about him

or my mom

reaches me via my sister,

but I would not miss this opportunity

no matter our distance

to share my gratitude

for his bravery

dedication

and commitment to freedom

that I embrace as matter-of-fact

every day of my life.

To all of our servicemen, past,

present and--unfortunately--future,

though I detest war

in all forms

consider none worth the bullets,

deaths and ruined lives

still I

thank you for your service

to this country.

by judy Beaston

April 25, 2015