Sunday, August 28, 2016

2016.08.21 Dear Adam

Dear Adam,

You shouldn’t have left me here.
I haven’t turned to stone yet—not God’s way,
         But  . . .
I’m indescribably bored.
Oh, I know Eden was for my own good
—so you told me—
But I’m out of apples   
  and peaches
     and pears
       and plums
and worse . . . lemons! 









So,
dearheart, my man, my foolish
man-child. Don’t tempt me with more lies.
Come on back and get me.
I can give you a dash of eternity—
a couple centuries or three + apple pie.

                  with love, your rib-eye wife, Eve

P.S. God says hi, the god you forgot to tell me about,
the same one who told you you were naked but forgot to tell me,
the one with the sense of humor big enough to blow up the universe,
the God who is dictating this letter.

Sunday, August 21, 2016

2016.08.21 Life is a Beach

I love you, God.

I love your vast ocean spread

I love your yellow beach-ball sun, proving heliocentrism.

I love your pencil-thin steadying horizon.

I love your warm gentle sand massage between my toes.

I love your squawky sea gulls at feast.

I love your squealy giggly children, every one sounding
     just like one of my own when they invented beach games
     and never tired of salty skin and sand-logged bathing suit bottoms.

I love your echoes of memory at play: Daddy, Daddy watch this!
    Mommy, Mommy look at me!

I love your silvery green dune grass
                                waving
                                swaying
                                singing
                                working to keep my beach intact.

And now that our cottage and our bodies are all properly de-loused, and everything is sqeaky clean, I even love the lice who came to visit in our beautiful granddaughter's long tresses. I can only wonder how the lice couple marched onto Noah's ark of salvation—perhaps hiding, burrowed into a camel's tough tufted curly topknot?


I love you, Godde

Thank you

 




Sunday, August 14, 2016

2016.08.14 Sum, Sum, Summertime/Plumbertime

The plumber knocked on the screen door—thrice. It must be some bishop wanting into the sanctuary I thought with a grin. Well, that's the kind of thing you think when you're sitting half-naked under a ceiling fan, slurping a juicy peach whose juices are dripping down your cleavage.

Knock, knock knock.  "Plumber, here, someone called about a leaky faucet."

It was too late to rush in and don a less transparent garment, and besides I'd have to run past the screen door in full view of said plumber anyway, so I just opened the door and let him in, crossing my arms over my chest and thinking that this could be one of life's most embarrassing moments, or simply a summer vacation moment —weather steamy, living easy, surf salty, plumbers on call.

"You called about a faucet on your porch," the plumber said his eyes straight ahead and with a smile. "I work Saturdays in the summer here."


Enter very smart husband, Dick: "Oh, that outdoor shower faucet's been leaking for years."

"Well, a former tenant must have called, finally," the plumber said as we showed him where the errant dripper was. Sure enough it was dripping. "This will take no more than 10 minutes," he said as he came back inside and turned on the tap in the bathtub. "This will run dry so don't use any water for a few minutes while I fix this little leak."

Damn, he knew what he was doing. I followed him outside to gawk, by now in thrall but aware enough to keep my arms crossed over my chest. "Sure enough, only a gasket," he said. "You're all set now. Have a great day."

"Thanks," we said. I smiled and gave him a Namasté bow. He returned the bow, chuckled and left.

Namasté means: "The divine in me salutes the divine in you."

Plumbers are indeed the best people in the world—full of divinity.




Sunday, August 7, 2016

2016.08.07 Adorbs!

My teenage granddaughter called me “adorbs.”

After I melted into a ball of grammy-goo, I faced the first challenge: to get my various spell checks NOT to alter it to “adorns” or “adores”! 

The second challenge was whether I should go public with this great compliment. Hell, yes! It’s my 78th birthday today, and this is my present to myself.
What’s better is that my granddaughter, who calls herself Izzy (from Isabella) and who can also be  adorbs, didn’t say this to my face but was heard to say it to her teenage BFF, Sophie. That indirection is what made it such a compliment, not said to flatter or to endear herself to me.
 
              Sophie: “Your Grammy’s pretty cool.”
              Izzy: “Oh yeah, Grammy’s adorbs.”

My daughter reported the conversation, making it all the more sweet. (Izzy and Sophie to her left, at lower right.)

Now why does such a small an goofy thing like this matter to me? It matters to me because it’s got heart and soul, and heart and soul are where Godde lives.  

Today, in fact, is also my beloved husband’s birthday—same day three years’ difference. I have seniority, which occasionally I attempt to assert. He gave me a funny birthday card. It was covered with red and pink squiggles and stars, a real alleluia creation.  It read:

              “Sassy, Classy . . .
           
                   Still kickin’ Assy! 
           
                                                         Now that’s adorbs!