| Title | Poem |
|---|---|
| In an Old House in Bellevue | (Christmas poem December 25, 2006) In an old house in Bellevue Surrounded by trees, There were rooms of enchantment To be explored as I pleased. First stop was the kitchen Where my grandmother sat. She would offer me gum While we had a nice chat. Then my grandfather Would pour me a drink Of his orange-banana juice By the kitchen sink. And right above the sink I could see the next room Where fresh laundry and quince leather Was like a perfume. On top of the washer Was the food dehydrator, Where the quince was transformed Into leather days later. It was so delicious, But not as much as quince cake Which we referred as bread For my grandfather's sake. Just around the corner And past the front door, Was a room of old dolls, Antique toys and much more. I remember one doll Fashioned as Red Riding Hood. But when I pulled up her cape I saw the wolf in the woods. There was a stuffed animal Missing a button eye, And miniature teacups I could stack up to the sky. One game I played Was a long wooden board. Each hole that was in it Represented points that I scored. The marble would roll down Two long metal poles Until it fell off Into one of the holes. There was a board for cribbage Which I never understood. But it was still entertaining To stick the colored pegs into wood. After leaving this room I'd walk down the white hall Where just past the bathroom Was the biggest mystery of all. The master bedroom Where my grandparents slept Contained many of the collections My grandfather kept. He had records, and diaries, And books, and rocks. In fact those stones alone Could have stretched 50 blocks! The man horded articles And papers in files. He had miles and miles Of organized piles. He kept stamps and coins From all the places he'd been. He collected just about everything That wasn't a sin. Then out to the living room With its white ceilings so grand. It was like I had entered A far away land. The carpet was green And thick like grass. There was a round wicker chair And carvings of glass. There was a portrait of Mary Up on the wall. And not far from that Was a picture of a horse stall. Every year at Christmas We'd put up Tweety Bird Which would spin and make noise And was actually quite absurd. The gifts stretched from one wall To the opposite side. And that was partly because The tree was so wide. The tree was so wide Because it was tall. Anut Helene always managed To find the biggest tree of all. There were seven stockings That were larger than life, Stuffed full of items That were meant to cause strife. Boxing nuns And rubber dog poop, Voodoo dolls And recipes for slug soup. My Uncle Bob Enjoyed this the most. Every year There was someone new to roast. I heard this tradition started With Bob himself When one year he decided To give of his wealth. And support a poor child Who lived far, far away In the country of Congo. But to this day We have yet to hear news Of this needy Congo kid And the saintly act Bob supposedly did. So to honor his good intentions Every year we exchange Little Congo babies, Most of which are quite strange. But his wife Maureen Never lets us down. She makes us The best ginger cookies in town. And every Christmas Mrs. Hoveter would come And bring us a tray Of her warm sticky buns. For dinner was smoked turkey And Aurthers' white bread. Between that and the side dishes We were all well fed. And all of this eating Would not have been complete Without Aunt Margret's plays We would watch from our seat. She enlisted the audience To be part of the cast. They would reenact stories From the family's past. Now back to the Tweety Bird Which hung in the door way Of the small dark den Where I'd occasionally play. There was a poster on the wall Advertising an airline That pictured the Cartano Family of nine. I remember some bongo drums And a desk with more rocks. And I was told this was the room That hosted many stern talks. Children that were naugty And full of sin Were firmly reprimanded And sent to the den. Returning to the great room, Walking past the china hutch With just one little glance I could see so much. The East Channel Bridge Stood out the most And my Aunt Helene's sail boat Tied up to a post. And just outside the window In the midst of the grape vine On a teeny tiny perch Cats would bask in the sunshine. My grandma had two cats; Bieja was gentle and white. But Mango was black And full of spite. I could never pet them Before they got away. They must have been traumatized By children everyday. When I would grow tired Of playing on the main floor I traveled downstairs Where there were rooms to explore. The staircase was fine If you were 5 ft. tall. But if you were not You might hit your head and fall. There was a room for storage Full of dusty old jars. There were board games with pizzas Fake money and cars. The most foreboding faces In the entire town Hung on those basement walls And looked on with a frown. They were three tribal masks That probably came from Congo. No doubt they cursed the family Along time ago. Just outside the house Was the most amazing landscape. It was enough to make Martha Stewart's mouth gape. Although she would have sided With my Uncle Bob When it came time For the pruning job. That five letter word That started with "P" Caused enough contention To start World War III. Just a few snips Was my grandfather's opinion. How dare anyone prune His luscious dominion! Rhododendrons and raspberries And roadside Scotch Broom, All took their turns Being in bloom. Two steep rocky trails Led down to the lake, Winding around Like a slippery snake. The massive stone steps Were slick with green slime, Which presented a challenge When attempting to climb. And you had to be fast Because lurking in the trees Were swarms of deadly Child eating bees. At the end of the trail Was the tree of quince fruit, The most valuable shrub From leaf to root. There was a pump-house, a fire pit, And an 'L' shaped dock. There were white plastic chairs Where we'd sit and talk. I would jump off the dock For a nice cool swim, Hoping the seaweed Had been recently trimmed; Because if it hadn't been, It might grab my toes And wrestle me down To the depths below. My mom would pay me money To swim laps to and fro. A nickel was a lot back then Don't you know. It's amazing how many memories One house can hold. And I've come to realize As I grow old. The greatest joys in life Do not come from what you possess. They're not found in mink coats Or grandma's fancy black dress. They're not found in her diamonds Or table cloth of lace, But they're found in my thoughts When I picture her face. I can still hear my grandfather Whistling away, The same little melody Day after day. And although the house Sits alone upon a hill, I keep my memories with me And I always will. ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. |