CRAYON WATCHING

When the grandgirls open brand new crayons,
Their eyes grow wide and start to scan for paper.
There's ninety-six in all, straight up they stand,
Four multi-colored rows all sharp and tapered.

Jaydee's favorite colors are purple shades,
Plum, blue violet, glycene, and razzmatazz.
A bear, an ape, her passion never fades.
They're colored purple, everything she has.

Willa's color sense is much more varied.
Her main concern is drawing graphic scenes
Peopled with the folks she loves and needs
All gathered round as friends and all that means.

So great to see them play with art.
I love to do this watching part.

THE STRING LAKE BRIDGE

The String Lake bridge is where most hikes commence.
A photo of it hangs upon our kitchen wall.
The stream's so deep a crossing there is tense,
Still, horses ford right there from Spring through Fall.

Above the bridge, three mountains are in view.
The Grand sits high above the Teton range.
Mount Owen with its glaciers sits there too,
And Teewinot, it's jutting spires so strange.

Below the range, a forest of Lodge Pole Pine
And a leafy carpet flecked with sun
With Glacier Lilies and Fireweeds so fine
You want to break into a joyous run.

Nine miles up the Cascade trail,
We're up there yearly without fail.

STREET FOOD

Stands of Tacos sit on old town streets
With birria pots and crisp carnitas too,
And butcher shops, their counters filled with meats.
Locals stand in lines--more than a few.

One deals with money; make sure that's all he does.
He shouldn't touch the food plus your cold cash.
Hygiene issues do give some a pause,
But me it never bothered.  I'm sort of rash.

At times this food scene makes me want to live here,
But then I'd have to cook and clean and more.
So much to eat, so little time, I fear.
In fact, it's time to eat again; it's four.

The food down here is just so good,
I'd be here every day--I would!

MORNINGS AT THE Y

I walk two miles around the track each day
And then I row four thousand meters more.
To keep my weight I've found the Y's the way.
You'd think by now my bod would not be sore.

And then I go downstairs to lift some weights.
On day one I focus in on arms.
If I can lift them all, the workout's great,
But if I can't, I figure what's the harm.

When I'm done, I jump into the shower,
And used the spa before they ripped it out.
For me, the whole thing takes a couple hours.
Another morning's done I'd like to shout.

This workout keeps me young and fit
And then I go right home and sit.

TWO BLUE SPRUCE

The two blue spruce reside in our front yard.
A nursery planted them when we moved here.
They flank our door and stand a stately guard,
As if to say there's nothing here to fear.

They're filled with cones all gathered at the top
And with each gust they hurtle to the ground.
Jaydee picks them up and never stops
As new winds come and start another round.

These trees have grown most of our married life.
From little sprouts they now reach to the sky.
They feed the wonder with which grandgirls are rife
And like those trees, their reach is never shy.

When we're long gone the spruce will stay
And sow more wonder on the way.

HOMELAND SECURITY

I have a baseball bat beneath my bed.
It's there to ward off unexpected guests.
Close by to grab and club them in the head,
At night it gives us both a carefree rest.

This whole idea, of course,  is more than laughable,
The thought of me with club in hand--then what?
To hit someone?  I'm just too affable.
That's why I keep the bedroom windows shut.

My well-armed friends will doubtless roll their eyes
And worry for my welfare late at night,
But every morning when I safely rise,
I have to think they're wrong and I am right.

There's danger lurking everywhere.
That's all right; I just don't care.

SAN PEDRO

The cushions at the pool in Banyon Bay
Are laid out every morning when I rise.
Waiters take drink orders through the day,
And I hang out and watch the cloudless skies.

A dock juts out into the morning mist
Where boats line up with bait and rods and reels.
They trawl for snapper and for other fish
To grill up on the beach for midday meals.

Estel's for breakfast always starts our day,
A walk along the beach with the whole group.
And don't forget the chicken drop on Wednesday,
When gamblers bet on where a rooster poops.

Palapas bars line every beach.
We ride our bikes from each to each.

BACKYARD SPRING

I love the backyard when things turn to Spring.
The ash have just begun to get their leaves
And mountain winds blow in with all they bring,
While cold night chill gives way to gentle breeze.

Lilac bushes line the cedar fences,
Old benches here and there for decoration,
Honeysuckle blossoms fill my senses,
And a garden for grandgirls' excavation.

I built a deck back there for get togethers.
We all gather there for family dinners
That last all day depending on the weather.
One thing for sure, no one's getting thinner.

The snow is gone; the sky is blue.
Another winter we've just gone through.

READING HABITS

I used to read The Post to F. each day.
Strapped in her chair down in the breakfast nook,
Gurgles and coos were all she had to say,
While I read ledes and pointed out each hook.

I read to her from other texts as well.
For instance, Dr. Seuss, L. Frank Baum,
And Maurice Sendak all had tales to tell.
There were others--too--that surely did no harm.

The Sanguin girls, although, have different tastes.
They want the reader to put on a show.
Without some random sounds, the book's a waste.
Sometimes, you have to be a clown, y'know?

My reading habits haven't changed,
But they have been rearranged.

FEELING PROUD AT THE TATTERED COVER

To give you an idea of how important it was for me to see Kathleen Belew read from her book (BRING THE WAR HOME) at The Tattered Cover last night, you need to realize that I chose not to go to a whiskey tasting paired with food at Butcher's Bistro scheduled for the same night.  When I first heard about the whiskey tasting, I immediately called my son-in-law Ken, a fellow whiskey lover, to see if he wanted to go.  He did.  When I started to call to make my reservations, I noticed it was scheduled for April 5, Kathleen's big night at the bookstore.  As it happened, that was the only night in the entire month of April that I had something scheduled.  I called Ken and told him to forget the whiskey night.  I had more important things to do.

After dinner with C. Fite (Kathie was too sick to join us.), we went into The Tattered Cover a little early so I could buy a copy of Kathleen's book and find where we were supposed to go for the reading.  There were maybe thirty or more chairs set up in front of a table and lectern on the bottom level and it was quickly filling with folks.  Nicole Gonzales (I forget her married name.) was there.  Jean-Luc Davis was there, fresh from a jazz tour of Australia.  Kathleen's folks were there and so were a bunch of other people, all armed with questions to ask after Kathleen finished her reading.

I just sat there next to Cindy basking in Kathleen's accomplishment.  I mean the book is a scholarly exploration into the development of the white power movement between Vietnam and the Oklahoma City bombing.  It has one hundred pages of footnotes!  The scholarly blurbs on the back cover of the dust jacket are expansive in their praise of Kathleen's scholarship.  And I'll bet the folks at Fox are apoplectic at Ms. Belew's scholarly indictment of white supremacy.  After all, white supremacy is what Fox is all about.

It was a terrific evening and I drove home happy that I was a teacher and able to work with young people like Kathleen, who in addition to being an author published by Harvard University Press, is an assistant professor of History at the University of Chicago.

The bottom level of The Tattered Cover on Colfax is devoted to young adult literature, middle school literature, and travel books.  As Cindy and I were browsing around waiting for the festivities to begin, I wandered around and found Mike Merschel's book (REVENGE OF THE STAR SURVIVORS)in the stacks.  It was an interesting position for a retired English teacher.  Here I was in The Tattered Cover of all places and two of my students had books on display.  I, of course, attributed all of their success to the fine tutelage they got at good old GMHS and wanted to go over to all those people sitting and waiting for Kathleen to approach the podium and let them know that I was the one who taught Kathleen how to master the Controlling Statement, content in the knowledge that the first thing she did when she finished her research was to reduce the entire thing into that one sentence formula.  I resisted the temptation and sat quietly down.  I even grudgingly admitted that Kathleen and Mike were at least partially responsible for their successes.

When I was driving home, I came to the rather thrilling realization that, yes, I was most proud of these impressive adults, but I remember feeling just as much pride, just as much satisfaction, when they were high school kids bringing down the buddy buzzer bullshit in the library and writing opinion pieces that caused waves among the powers that be.  It was with the same sense of accomplishment that I read Kathleen's succession of one page poem analyses in Advanced Placement.  It was with the same sense of pride that I saw hundreds of kids walk across the stage at Red Rocks.

I never thought I was responsible for all those successful graduates, just like it wasn't my responsibility for the ones that failed, or ended up in jail, or on drugs, or just held down by mediocrity.  Mostly, I just loved being part of it all.

In THE THROWBACK SPECIAL, one of the characters maintains that the biggest part of love is just the willingness to watch your loved one go about his or her daily life.  There are, of course, other things about love, but watching is key.  That's what happens when you are a teacher.  You get to watch scores of young people negotiate their ways through their teens and into adulthood.  That's what I'm really proud of, all that watching.

GRANDGIRLS

It's nice to wait outside the grandgirls' school.
I stop and crack the window just a bit,
A magazine beside me as a rule,
With cars lined up behind me as I sit.

Jaydee's first and looks around for treats,
A sippy cup of juice, a bag of chips.
Sitting like she owns the place, she eats.
And then in half an hour we end our trip.

Later in the day it's Willa's turn,
Her face all smiles, she bounces out the door.
And in the car with energy to burn,
She laughs, she floats, she absolutely soars.

These grand girls, they make my day;
I hope our lives will stay that way.

GEOMETRY

That lonely highway running through the plains
Bisected all those verdant fields of corn.
And in our car so dwarfed by all the grain
I cuddled up for warmth against the morn.

I watched it all go blurring past the window,
The geometrics of the golden fields.
Straight and diagonal, the endless rows
Seemed to crosshatch fertile nature's yield.

One winter weekend we drove back that way.
The geometrics covered up with snow,
There was stubble where the rows of corn held sway
And in the field atop some hay, a crow.

My mother's brother died in bed.
The sky above looked just like lead.