Grandma Jelinek's Featherbed

~

~

A thick, fluffy cloud I remember,

a bank of down--temptation too strong,

unexcelled luxury tempting me, calling me--

Pleasant experiences to my memory belong.

No one could make the bed like Aunt Mary.

She was very fussy about how it was done--

not just a chore, but artistic achievement;

the finished product was second to none.

First the bedclothes were all removed,

the bed was thoroughly aired;

it was shaken, turned over and shaken again,

not one little bit was spared.

Shaken until it was fluffy and light,

like meringue on one of her pies,

she pounded, punched, patted and smoothed,

maneuvered each feather 'til t'was right in her eyes.

Then very carefully over the mound

the sheets and the quilt were spread;

the bed was tucked in all around

and pillow piled up 'gainst the head.

The pretty pink spread left it looking

like a giant frosty cream puff.

The unpardonable sin was to sit on the bed

or to dent that flawless fluff.

I'd look with admiration

at her finished masterpiece

and wish I could bounce in its billowy depth

and sink in that perfect fleece.

Aunt Mary's been gone now for many years--

the feather bed?...Who knows where?

It's likely the feathers into pillows were made

as my memories into stories to share.

~

Grandma Jelinek's Great-Granddaughter Barbara Jean Dennis

specifically drew the above picture

for Grandma Sanders' Purple Patches chapbook                       

So Much More Than Memories

In The Light Of The Full Moon

~

It was a full moon last night, my love.

It was here with me, so palpable

I could reach out my trembling fingers

and feel the cool warmth of its beams.

It shined upon my head

and turned my gray hair

into burnished silver

just the way

you loved.

~

The full moon was here with me,

and you were not,

except for in my memories.

Your face came to me

just as it was,

on golden, sparkling beams;

your voice on the breeze, once again

whispered sweet nothings in my ear.

I could feel your presence beside me

in the creak of the porch swing.

~

I could almost feel your hand in mine,

your arm about my shoulder,

the gentle pressure against my cheek

as you turned my lips to yours.

I could sense your rising desire

for the two of us,

once more,

to be just one--

in the light of the full moon.

~

Photo:

Grandma & Grandpa Sanders

standing outside of Winnwood Baptist Church

on a Sunday morning in the 1980's

Shadows Of The Past

Spanish moss blowing in the wind as it hangs from spectral limbs,

reaching out in evenings failing light,

all encompassing ambience of the night's arrival,

calls to mind how the shadows of my past
and the future of my grandchildren are entertwined.

Somewhere in the middle am I,

remembering the stories of my heritage

and watching the future of my progeny

form before my aging eyes.

My grandchildren play amongst these trees,

swim in these waters.

They never give a thought to the shadows of their past.

But, I remember...

Pretty country girl

Girl of beauty

Beautiful City

City of Prague.

Praha, City of Dreams

Dreaming of her love

Loving every minute

Minutes grow to hours

Hours spent hoping

Hopes soon to be

Being alive

Alive and waiting

Waiting at Wenceslaus Square.

Soldier--strong, young
Youth is promise
Promise of things to come
Coming across the bridge
Bridge across the Moldau
Moldau, river of my life
Life with Mary
Mary my love
Love will lead the way
Way to a new world
Worlds across the ocean
Oceans of desires
Desire at Wenceslas Square.

Coal mine in Missouri
Missouri far away
Away from Prague
Praha, City of Dreams
Dreams that died
Died in the coal mines
Miners with black faces
Faces with dead hopes
Hopes of good things
Things never to be
Be strong, work for the children
Children of my love
Love of Mary
Mary, pretty country girl.

Photo: Florida play area of my grandchildren

Faery Dust And Memories

A little woodland faery, she fluttered in on gossamer wings

drawn to white coral bells and tiny things

along my garden walk:

an acorn cup, a hollyhock queen, a firefly's glow,

any little thing above or below

the flowers and vines, the rippling brook,

a toadstool seat, wild cherries to eat.

And, when I got used to her being there,

she was gone. I looked everywhere.

Naught did I find, nothing at all

but one little lily cap gone.... Did it fall?

Or does she wear it as a crown

to match her queenly faery gown

when she holds court?

(I always miss her, but most of all in August,

for that's when she first came to me
and when she went away again)

Photo:
Lilies of the Valley
edited at Photobucket

The Road Never Ends

No trail to rustic...
No path too rough...
no country road too winding...
to see it is to feel the impulse that quickly grows into an unconquerable longing. I must go. I must see. I must be a part of whatever is along that way. Like siren song luring mariners to destruction, it summons me...

Mama is crying. Her eyes are red, her cheeks wet with frantic tears. Daddy's face is stern as he turns me over his knee, and I hear the resounding smacks that set my buttocks afire. "Be careful, don't injure her, she's so little," cries my mother. "She really can't help wandering off, it's the gypsy blood in her."

Stepping stones across a brook...
flowering meadow without a fence...
forgotten road map from times past...
I feel the pull. It is compelling me to leave behind all daily chores, all scheduled tasks, appointments, mandates. Nothing matters. All is forgotten for a time except the wanderlust that fills my veins, pulses in my heart, beats in my temples. No fixed course is needed. No goal is desired. What I see along the way is enough. All else can wait...

"Tell me again," I begged of mama. "Tell me about the gypsies...not Goldilocks or Red Riding Hood. Tell me about Great-Grandma Jelinek and the gypsies in The Old Country."

Mama couldn't help herself. She loved to pass along the tales told to her by her mother, of the gypsies around the village of Mala Dobra in Czechoslovakia:

"It was called Mala and Velka Dobra," she would always begin, "because there was good water and fertile land. There were nine ponds around the village green under the castle. It was along an important trade path that crossed the farmlands that were surrounded by forests."

Oh how I loved this!

El Camino Real...
Champs d'Elysees...
The Appalachian Trail...
You may go with me--or not. I care not if I'm alone. I will not remain that way for long, for there are others, who like myself, on occasion, are beset by the same bug--wanderlust. We carry what we need packed in a bag. We understand each other. We share what we have. We tell our tales that grow larger with each telling. Our peaks grow higher, our valleys deeper, our jungles more dense.

"Tell me mama! Tell me about the gypsies."

"They were Roma Gypsies, traveling about the countryside and camping in the forests around Mala Dobra. Their campfires burned in the dark of night. Their music and dancing, their games and their fighting were legendary, and frightening to the people who lived in the village. As the fires crackled beneath the stars, the tamburitzas, lutes, violins and accordians played. They sang their folk songs and celebrated with their wild circle dances."

Havasu Canyon...
Rutas Que Parten De Valdelavilla...
The Great Divide of the Wind River Mountains...
It's not just the young toting packs with unsatiable appetites for seeing what might be around the next bend. Retirement is only a word.

"Now and then the gypsies would make forays into the village to take whatever they could get. There were 36 little thatched-roof dwellings in Mala Dobra. The villagers worked hard for what they had, the women in the grain fields, the men in the coal mines of Kladno. There were assigned watchers. When gypsies were spotted, the call would ring out--GYPSIES! The gypsies are coming! The villagers would run to their homes to protect their belongings.

"One day, Great-grandma Jelinek ran to her home to find a gypsy woman at her saurkraut barrel stuffing the wet, stinky cabbage into the pockets of her fully-lined skirt. She had a baby on one hip and when confronted by the villagers, she took her own baby by the ankles and began swinging it around in a circle for her own protection, and to make her getaway when the villagers hesitated."

Glacier Gorge, Front Range Trail...
Black Bear Pass to Telluride...
PA-CO-CHU-PUK wedding celebration...
The call is there, but the energy is waning. The desire grows strong but reality is not far behind. Tomorrow I will pack my bag. The leaving can wait. It's time for another nap.

"Mama, did your grandma like the gypsies?"

"No, No! They hated them. They were afraid of them."

"Mama, if they hated them, how come I have gypsy blood?"

"You wouldn't understand child. Hush now. Go to sleep."