Come September

It’s the end of August here in Little Town, and all the kiddies are back in school. The college kids are swarming Walmart, stockpiling ramen, energy drinks, and Little Debbie cakes. They might be packing heat this year, too, thanks to our suck-up-to-the-tyrant legislature, so flak jackets are this year’s trending holiday gift for any college faculty and staff on your list. K-12 kids are back in their classroom petri dishes, passing around their viral/bacterial loads. Hummingbirds are slowly buzzing back through, early birds (see what I did there?) on their way back to Mexico.

Here on the Row, it’s been a weird summer. The weather has been strange—smoke from Canadian and Western fires, weeks of extreme heat, weeks of rain, storms that bring down trees. Our garden, slow to get going, suddenly took off quite late and is now a semi-tropical, impassable rainforest, but somehow unproductive (except for cukes…you want some cukes?!?). I’ll roast and freeze only my second load of tomatoes today; I’d normally be eyeball-deep in canning season right now.

I turned 69 this summer. That’s darned-near 70. I remember telling my friend once that his mother shouldn’t be driving alone from South Dakota to Texas. She was 50 at the time. I also remember thinking once that my mom had one foot in the grave and I could lose her at any moment. I was 14. She was 34. My, how our perspective changes…

Pedro and Fiona watch for fish.

We did very little traveling this summer, but we did make it to Kansas to scatter my mom's and dad's (and my mom's dog Oprah's) ashes at the lake cabin Mom loved so much. It was a quick trip with all three dogs, but a sweet mission of love.

Another weirdity (okay, I"m making these words up) this summer is the continuing, escalating Great Disturbance: democracy’s depressing decline and the greed, narcissism, and cruelty of the current badministration and MAGA sycophants; I’m generally a pretty insightful person, but honestly, I don’t get it. I don’t get how this happened, why it’s still going on, and how so many people could be so duped and so selfish.

This darker energy is also complicated by the standard “facing mortality” thing that crops up as we get older—a growing list of family, friends, and Little Town villagers have moved through the veil into the Beyond, are heading there (as are we all, Iowa senator Joni Ernst reminds us), or are living (suffering sometimes) with an assortment of serious injuries or ailments. I realize that mathematically, I’m also nearing the end of my tenure in this body. I know these things are natural and inevitable. I’m not afraid of death; I DO believe it’s a passage (to what, I don’t know) and not an ending. But I don’t like saying goodbye to the people in my little bubble.

Pretzel waves at passing boats.

In another bout of weirdness, our roof started leaking, and our fridge and dishwasher died on the same day. My very wise daughter, whose fridge also died, claims our collective frantic energy and anxiety over the state of our country is breaking stuff. I’m sure she’s right.

Meanwhile, retirement life goes on at the Row. Ray practices drums, guitar, and trombone, he archives his audiophile collections, and he’s still playing drums with the Boyz every Friday night at our Little Town Watering Hole—a weekly well-attended ritual we affectionately call church. I’m writing, working jigsaw puzzles (very meditative), knitting whenever I can manage a dog-free lap, and tending to a ridiculously large collection of houseplants. Our 3 dogs are constantly at work training us, and don’t get me started about the 30-year-old self-plucking parrot or the 10 molting canaries.

The Boyz in the Band

On we go. Happy Labor Day weekend to you all, and many thanks to the women and men who gave us unions. And as the mornings get chillier, I’m wishing for us all a golden, peaceful, SANE autumn, for compassion to stir in the hearts of Republicans, for sensible gun legislation, and for full larders, even if they’re only full of pickles.

Gustav Klimt, jigsawed

Somewhere there's a garden gate...

Gratuitous pic of daughter's dragonfly banana cupcakes

If the Body is a Temple...

I don’t know if Sylvia Plath had ink, but she once said, “If the body is a temple, then tattoos are its stained glass windows.” Amen, Sylvia.

"Turtle" from The Sea is My Ugly Twin, in process
by Johnny Wheatstraw, Vishnu Bunny Tattoo

I got my first tattoo when I was 61. I’d planned to do it for a few decades, but I got busy and couldn’t decide what I wanted permanently etched on my pale, freckled skin. Imagine Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm with an anchor tat. Or Heidi of the Swiss Alps with a skull...

I knew I wanted a constant reminder to always bring my attention back to the Center—to what really matters—but I didn’t know what that reminder could be. Then I discovered the Sanskrit phrase, sat-chit-ananda, which refers to the true nature of reality, the tripart aspects of the god principle: truth, consciousness, bliss. So I put it on my left forearm with a lotus flower (a symbol of the mind), where I would see it everywhere I went.

Sat-Chit-Ananda with lotus, by Johnny Wheatstraw

Then, one night in the same year, Ray and I both dreamed about turtles. In some Native cultures, turtles represent the link or balance between earth/water and sky/spirit. The dream eventually became a poem, “Turtle,” which I included in my first-ever poetry book manuscript, The Sea is My Ugly Twin. Later that year, I signed my first-ever publishing contract for that book, and the turtle became my second tattoo, an “illustration” of the poem and the book, and a celebration of finally having a book published.

So that was me with fresh ink at age 61 and at least one foot pretty far down the rabbit hole.

Let’s zoom ahead. I just turned 69 this month. I will publish my 4th book, Stroke, Stroke, in February of next year. My 3rd book, Hysterian, comes out next month, and my 2nd book, The Book of Crooked Prayer, came out when I was 64. I also have two finished but unpublished manuscripts to shop around to publishers.

For each book/manuscript except one, I now have a tattoo representing one of the poems in that book. And the last design is in the works. The tattoos seem random to some, disconnected from each other, and I often have to explain them. (I should hand out wallet-size, laminated cards that explain them—a topographical map). You’ll have to buy the books to read the tat poems. You can go to Marcella Remund for links to buy the books, or check Finishing Line Press, or Amazon.

"Rapture" (cinquefoil flowers) from Some of This is True (unpublished)
by Erin Bennett, Thistle & Ivy Tattoo

"I Have No Proof" (moon), from The Book of Crooked Prayer,
design by my brother Joe Prescher,
ink by Allison Haney, Moon Rae Tattoo
"St. Brigid's Oak" from The Sin Ladder (unpublished) by Allison Haney

"Hummingbird Moth" from Hysterian, by Erin Bennett

Here’s a puzzler: The book tats are all on my right forearm (I need to keep sat-chit-ananda solo for focus). They’re all together on this arm because I want to see them—they’re for me, after all, not for anyone else—but I’m a stubby little short person with baby-sized forearms, and I’m running out of room. Also, it’s unlikely I’ll stop writing, so...

The takeaways from my little ink story? (1) You are NEVER too old to do what you love (both publishing and tattoos, for me); and (2) When someone says, “tattoos are addicting,” don’t laugh.

The Spring of My Discontent

It’s early spring on the Row, and the sky is full of honking geese. The robins, grackles, and starlings are back in South Dakota. The college students’ little blue legs are poking out of their nylon basketball shorts, and their little frozen feet spill over their rubber flip-flops. Under the leaf piles, patches of grass are already trying to turn green. Warm days, some in the 60s and 70s, will probably fool the trees and flowers into budding, although you can never write off the possibility of a spring blizzard.

Spring has always been a time of relief and optimism for me, a time when GREEN = GOOD. But this year feels different. Our country’s political upheaval is the spring storm everyone is watching right now. I’m not sure millionaires and billionaires can understand the fears so many people are living with, and the debilitating way these fears are pick-pick-picking away of any sense of wellbeing we had before the past 6 months or so. Let me guzzle another glass of wine, pop a Xanax, and slug down a cup of NyQuil, while I share some of my current fears:

1. Ray and I live on Social Security and a tiny retirement I get from my former teaching position. We still pay a mortgage. If Social Security goes away or is reduced, we are in serious trouble. Like living-under-a-bridge trouble. Or, many older Americans like us will have to move in with our children, 2 or 3 or 4 families in a single family dwelling. I know people are forced to do this now in many other countries; I just never thought that we’d have to do that here, after long careers and retirement. I’m stockpiling blankets and canned beans; I see us in some bizarre WillyWonka’s-grandparents kind of situation.

2. I want my daughter, daughters-in-law, granddaughters, and nieces to own their bodies. I want them to make their own decisions about what happens (or doesn’t) with their own bodies. I want them to be able to get a safe, physician-assisted abortion if they choose to. I want them to be able to safely terminate a high-risk pregnancy or remove a nonviable or dead fetus if they need to.

3. I want science. I want warnings about and solutions for pandemics. I want someone to pull stuff off the market that’s going to kill folks. I want real treatments for obesity, not moralistic “just eat less and exercise more” scolding. I want tested, drinkable water. I want air I can breathe. I want vaccines. I want all the safety czars and air traffic controllers.

4. Please, can the U.S. be welcoming again? Can we give refuge again? Can we give up the “me” for the “we”? I will share what I have. There’s more than enough for everyone. We don’t need to make America rich again. I don’t want the razor wire. I won’t own a gun. Canning tomatoes is the only prepping I’m interested in. We need to make America kind again.

5. I want my trans family member to get whatever medical care they need. I want them to live a long, healthy, productive life in a body they feel is their own and that fits their identity. I want them to live in a world that embraces them with compassion and equality. I want to celebrate the joy of their love at their marvellous kick-arse wedding, even if their colors are pastels. I recently saw a picture of a woman who’s undergone body modification surgeries to look like a bat, including removal of her nose, which she can reattach when she wants…so species-affirming medical care is okay, I guess? Repeated reconstructive surgery to make oneself look perpetually 18 or to raise one’s vampire eyebrows isn’t identity-affirming care?

6. I’m an opinionated woman who does not always (never?) hold back. I’m pretty sure the entire world wants to know just what I think. I’m not sure I’d survive in a country that punishes critical or dissenting speech with firing or deportation, censors or stifles media, bans books, and will not listen to ideas except from a small group of elect. If, one of these days, I’m just not here, you’ll know they finally looked through my phone or Crackbook account.

7. I don’t want to live in a country of white people—I mean, some of us are only just now learning not to be jerk colonists. (Clearly, some of us haven’t even started to learn.) I want to learn about other cultures up close; I want to live among and learn from people of all ethnicities, backgrounds, religions, non-religions, traditions, walks of life; okay, I want real Thai food made by Thai people. I want job opportunities for people with disabilities. And don’t get me started on how much I DON’T want to live in a country ruled by all white MEN. Because fellas, you’ve had your chance, and you fecked it up. Over and over and over. I want diversity. Equality. Inclusion.

8. Japanese beetles stink if you squash them, but they also eat scaly mites on my orchids. There is BALANCE on this planet. If we don’t protect the earth, and the life she harbors (not just stop our willful destruction but reverse the damage we’ve already done) #s 1-7 won’t matter. At that point, you can either buy a ticket on the rocket (the minuscule number of you who can afford it, and only if Elania can fix that pesky explosion thing), or you kiss the whole thing goodbye.

Ray and I lead a pretty cushy life. We’re extraordinarily lucky, I know that. But the constant stress many of us are feeling due to the uncertainty, lack of empathy, downright cruelty, and arbitrariness of the current U.S. administration will take its toll on physical and mental health if it continues. That stress will cause people to turn inward, turn away from each other at best, and to turn on each other at worst. Now imagine if, on top of all that, you ALSO had to worry about finding enough food, shelter, and clean water, being deported, or personal safety for yourself and/or your family.

So yeah, spring should be the glorious season of rebirth and renewal. But this year so far, most of the green is around my gills.