Adjustments

Once again it is time for adjustments, or maybe I should say re-adjustments. This time I find myself adjusting to living in my own house, in my own town, once again. Having been gone for two and a half years, I find I am feeling a bit discombobulated and in need of a routine. Last week was all about moving from Kansas, but this is the first week I have been home, with no job, and no real routine.

The move itself went pretty smoothly thanks to my wonderful sons and Nick's friend, Lindsay. They packed, hauled, moved and cleaned like pros. They got up early and piled into the truck and car, and the drive was fairly smooth. Even Oscar (terrorist kitty) was wonderful - didn't make any fuss at all during the long, long drive back to Michigan. Except for my poor choice in picnic area along the flooded Mississippi, the whole trip went off perfectly.

Actually, we have all been adjusting. I have been combining my household back into itself after dismantling it a few years ago - and yet, everything has changed. It isn't a bad thing, it is just different. And once again I am reminded, you can't go back. So I have returned, and I am adjusting. At least unlike Oscar, I am not afraid to come out from under the bed, go downstairs and reacquaint myself with my belongings, my yard, my street, my town, the general area, and adjust.

Flash fiction

The Phone Call

She reached for a towel to dry her hands before she picked up the ringing telephone.

“Hello,” she said as she reached over to turn off the hot water running into the sink. There was a lag and a crackle on the line and then,

“Mags, sweetheart?” asked a British man’s voice.

“Hey, Ronnie! Where are you guys?” responded the tall, lithe brunette.

“We’re in Osaka" he replied.

Her face broke into a smile as she leaned up against the kitchen wall in her apartment. They had been friends for about ten years, since she sang back-up on his debut album.  A few years later Ron had introduced her to his new drummer, Vic, and they had fallen madly in love.  Ron had been best man at their wedding almost five years ago.  They were the perfect couple for almost five years, but the stress of their careers had taken a toll on their relationship and she had moved into her own place about two months ago. The divorce would be final in another six weeks, and even though the marriage hadn’t worked out, they were all still very close friends.

“Are you taking good care of my soon to be ex-husband?” she asked.

“Well, luv,” he began, “that’s why I’m calling.”

There was a tone in his normally lilting voice she didn’t like.

“Pete is coming by with the limo to take you to the airport so you can come on over. You can pick up your tickets at the counter…”

She slid down the wall and could see herself sitting on the floor in the reflection of the sliding glass door. Something was terribly wrong.

“Ron,” she interrupted, “what’s happened to Vic?”

“Sweetheart, I don’t know how to tell you this…Vic collapsed after we played your song last night and we had to bring him to hospital.” His voice was cracking with emotion. She was suddenly aware of noises in the background, hospital noises.

“Ronnie…?” she began, but couldn’t finish.

“I’m so sorry, luv, but Vic had a massive heart attack and…” she could hear him sobbing on the other end of a call from half way around the world. There were muffled voices, but no one was talking to her.  She was stunned. This couldn’t be right, he was only thirty five and in great shape.  She sat staring at her own reflection in the sliding glass door, unable to think, dazed.  Time stood still.

“Mags? It’s Lou.” Their road manager came on the line. “Sweetie, you’ve gotta come over here and handle the legal stuff so we can bring Vic home. Baby, are you there?”

“Yeah, Lou, I’m here…” she choked out.

“The consulate says you’ve gotta sign the release so we can bring the body home.”

“Oh my god….Okay.” was all she could say.

Tears were streaming down the face in the reflection in the sliding glass doors as the silver stretch limo pulled up outside. As she watched the driver get out she realized that her life had just completely changed. Suddenly she realized she was looking at the reflection of a widow.

Tears for Biafra

This is written by my father at a time when the word genocide was not well known. I found the origianl and several mimeographed copies along with a letter of rejection from the New Yorker. He wrote this shortly after he returned from a fact-finding mission to our old home, and his report on the situation there to the U.S. Congress. I post this again today in honor of Nigeria's most well read writer, a man for whom my father had great respect, Chinua Achebe.

Tears for Biafra

George H. Axinn

Beneath the palms the children played

With gentle laughter danced and swayed

While women fired the evening fires

And told each other of life’s desires.

They bore home water in earthen flasks,

And carried on their homespun tasks

Whilst at palaver the men did sit

And with palm oil, the lamps were lit.

Then like a curse the machete fell

From North and West they heard they yell

And refugees told of a living Hell

As they swarmed back home to break the spell;

With stories of horror there to tell

And hopes that the maimed might soon be well.

A people cried… depressed… forlorn –

And out of those tears, Biafra was born!

The lame, the beaten; the great and small

Brothers and sisters were welcomed all.
Cassava was planted where never before
And yams were gathered to fill the store.
Their plea was freedom to live alone
In Peace and safety; to throw no stone…
The Igbo, Ibibio, Effik and Ijaw
Ogoja and Annong, and so many more.
The leaders, in Ghana, their fears did allay
And on Aburi would they stand and pray.
But the Federals refused to let them away
Brought rifles and mortars to pave the way
To death for mothers and children at play.

A people cried… depressed… forlorn –

And out of it all, Biafra was born.

At first the battle went quite well

And both sides had their claims to tell
But then came guns and tanks and planes
To Lagos to enhance their gains
From London and Moscow and Cairo too
While poor Biafra had nothing new
As mortars fired and guns did blast
And no one lived as they swept past.
The world saw not how many died
Nor heard the sounds as children sighed,
Yet hungry dogs and vultures plied
The lanes alone – ‘twas genocide’.
All churches, schools, and markets wide
Were left in smoke, but not denied.

A people cried … depressed… forlorn –

And out of it all, Biafra was born.

Cars I have known

I am not sure why I have been thinking about this so much lately, perhaps it was the loss of the Buick this summer, but I have been thinking about all the cars I have owned. Or maybe it was getting my Honda Accord back from the mitten. I have always had an interesting relationship with my cars…

It started with my first, a 1973 Ford Pinto. My father bought it for me, brand spanking new right out of the dealership for $1995.00. I named it Spot. I name most all my cars because that way I can form a personal relationship with them and when I talk to them, which I do, I can call them by name. We have often joked that my parents bought me a pinto – they must not have liked me very much, but when they bought it, it was a simple vehicle, which could get me from home to school and work and back home again. (Barring any rear-end collision explosions, of course.) My boyfriend taught me how to change the oil, the filters and the sparkplugs. It had an AM/FM radio which was all a girl could ask for in 1973. Spot was my new best friend and eventually replaced my beloved Spellbound (who was a wonderful thoroughbred gelding) as my confidant. I could tell Spot anything and he would never tell another soul.

When I graduated from high school, Spot was replaced by Big Blue, a Ford F-150 cargo van whose job it was to help me get into the music business, schlepping me, and whatever amps, speaker systems and microphones, from lousy bar gig to lousy bar gig.

Blue was followed by a short affair with a Yamaha 650 motorcycle and a Pontiac Trans Am, with the one supposed to supplant the lousy gas mileage of the other, however in Michigan the motorcycle season is very short.

In order to save money, the next car was a real lemon – a Pontiac Sunbird. Even though I bought it new, it was one nightmare after another with this car, but I did learn all about head gaskets before I traded it in after making a stink in the showroom of the nearest Pontiac dealership.

The aforementioned (I just really wanted to use that word) was followed by one of my favorite cars, Jean Luc Pontiac, a Gran Prix. It was maroon with a plush interior and all the bells and whistles a girl could ask for in 1979. Jean Luc again became my confidant, and he and I went everywhere together. He saw me through my artist management days and my divorce before he was replaced by an actual French car – Pierre Renault Le Car.

Pierre saw me though the ‘between husbands’ era, and was eventually replaced by the quintessential soccer-mom vehicle, a Chevy Astro, which was supplemented by a Pontiac Fiero (otherwise known as “Daddy’s pretty car”).  I drove that mini-van into the ground with something like 165K miles over a period of 10 years, until we had a close encounter with Bambi on I-69 in the middle of the night, and then we moved to Germany.

Buying a used car with automatic transmission in Germany is not as easy as one might think and that adventure is a story in itself. When I picked up our BMW 325i at the dealership, the salesman asked me, “Are you going to be okay driving this? It has a very powerful engine.” I responded, “Hey, I’m from Detroit!” I have never been a nervous driver, but at first I was in Germany. The streets are narrow, the hills are steep, and the rules are just different enough that I wasn’t comfortable for a few months. But driving in Germany was a joy and Forrest (a reference to its deep green color) took very good care of us – even though my 10 year old tried to back it down the stairs to our house.

When we returned from Europe, my boyfriend thought we should again have a mini-van. Over my protests, we bought a very fancy Ford Aerostar. It was okay, lots of bells and whistles, but I never formed an attachment to it. Actually, I hated driving it. It was huge and the kids were growing up and most of the time I was in it by myself. We did take a couple of trips in it, but we could have rented something big for those occasions and that would have been fine by me.

 When I had enough of that behemoth, I went to the Honda dealership and bought an Accord. Even though my boyfriend paid for it, it has always been my car. The license plate said “MQUEEN”, so there would be no doubt as to whose car this was. It has seen me through a lot over the past 8 years, even though I wasn’t able to drive it much for several years.

To make what has turned out to be a long story shorter, a few years ago I inherited my father’s car, a Buick LeSabre. (Yes, the dreaded “grandma-car”.)  I named it Horatio, in honor of my dad, who would use that name from time to time when describing any ‘unnamed’ male person. My dad loved his car and when my boyfriend accidentally parked it beneath an SUV on the freeway this summer, I felt the loss of the man more than the loss of the car.

So now I have my Accord back and driving it is like pulling on a favorite pair of jeans.

Tears for Biafra

I have been away for a while... working and sticking my head deep into a hole which was inspired by the events which my father wrote about in this poem... I found it, along with letters of rejection from the Saturday Review and New Yorker, in a file folder which also contained letters from one of my father's colleagues, begging to send his children to us and safety...
 

Tears for Biafra

George H. Axinn

Beneath the palms the children played

With gentle laughter danced and swayed

While women fined the evening fires

And told each other of life’s desires.

They bore home water in earthen flasks,

And carried on their homespun tasks
Whilst at palaver the men did sit
And with palm oil, the lamps were lit.
Then like a curse the machete fell
From North and West they heard they yell
And refugees told of a living Hell
As they swarmed back home to break the spell;
With stories of horror there to tell
And hopes that the maimed might soon be well.
 
A people cried… depressed… forlorn –
And out of those tears, Biafra was born!

The lame, the beaten; the great and small

Brothers and sisters were welcomed all.
Cassava was planted where never before
And yams were gathered to fill the store.
Their plea was freedom to live alone
In Peace and safety; to throw no stone…
The Igbo, Ibibio, Effik and Ijaw
Ogoja and Annong, and so many more.
The leaders, in Ghana, their fears did allay
And on Aburi would they stand and pray.
But the Federals refused to let them away
Brought rifles and mortars to pave the way
To death for mothers and children at play.

A people cried… depressed… forlorn –

And out of it all, Biafra was born.

 At first the battle went quite well

And both sides had their claims to tell
But then came guns and tanks and planes
To Lagos to enhance their gains
From London and Moscow and Cairo too
While poor Biafra had nothing new
As mortars fired and guns did blast
And no one lived as they swept past.
The world saw not how many died
Nor heard the sounds as children sighed,
Yet hungry dogs and vultures plied
The lanes alone – ‘twas genocide’.
All churches, schools, and markets wide
Were left in smoke, but not denied.

A people cried … depressed… forlorn –

And out of it all, Biafra was born.

Welcome 2012

Somehow 8 weeks have managed to fly by since my last post. I went back to Michigan for my birthday and the Thanksgiving break. While I was there I was lucky to attend a wedding between two of the tutors I worked with at U of M Flint, which was held at the Flint Planetarium - it was quite an experience. When I left I told my youngest son that what I really wanted from him for Christmas was for he and his dad to put Christmas up so I wouldn't have to do it at the last minute when I came back for the Holidays. Then it was back to Lawrence for the last weeks of the semester. That is always a busy time at any writing center with loads of panicked students who have waited too long. I love working in that kind of environment -it is so very alive.

I went to Michigan for two and a half weeks. Larry had promised me that we could see a lot of Christmas lights while I was home. Little did I know they would be on my own house!

Nick had gotten up on the roof of the house - in the middle of the night one night - and strung lights all over the front of my house. But that was only the beginning. He had put up three trees in the house, decorated the mantle, hung the stockings, put the Christmas village up on top of my piano, put the musical bears on top of the refrigerator, hung the advent calendar that I made when Danny was a baby, hung the mistletoe in the entry - every room on the first floor, everywhere I looked - it was Christmas. He even put lights up on the pergola. It was just about the best gift anyone has ever given me.

My break at home was everything I had hoped for. Lots of time with friends and family, very little stress, tons of good food, a little shopping, a few movies and naps on my sofa almost every day. I felt a bit like a bum, but I decided that was probably okay. As usual our anniversary went by in the usual post New Years fog, so we will celebrate later. We still haven't figured out what we are going to do for the big one next year.

Now I am back in Kansas, settled in and stocked up for the coming week. I will mark my one year anniversary at KU this week. I have been thinking about my resolution for this year... the one word resolution. I am having a hard time coming up with it. I know I want to be more efficient at work, I want to work more regularly on my personal writing, exercize regularly, eat healthier, etc. But I am having a hard time coming up with the word. Any ideas?

Busy, busy, busy...

The day before yesterday I was at the monthly meeting of the Writers Guild when I realized it has been a long time since I posted anything on my blog. Then I was thinking about, wondering why I fell out of the habit, and began to reflect. I realized that for the past 7 weeks I have either had events or company and I have not had two days in a row that there hasn't been something of some importance on my schedule. At first I was a bit dismayed by this realization, but now I have decided to relish in the fact that I have people and responsibilities in my life that are meaningful enough for me to put aside the fact that I am exhausted, to muster up the energy to push on.

Just a year ago I was adjusting to being back in the mitten after nearly a year of dealing with death and terminal illness. The future was bleak as well, and I was having a very hard time rising above despair. My children were grown and didn't need me, my parents had passed and didn't need me, and I was in the worst funk of my life.

Since I arrived in Lawrence in January I have been busy, but mostly busy figuring things out. I finally feel like I am finding my bearings. Since this semester started we have done 2222 consultations including 50 at special events like the research write-in last Saturday. In collaboration with the libraries here at KU we have been holding a series of these events this fall, and apparently the word is spreading. We take over a whole floor of the library and last Saturday 75 Graduate students came to write, research, attend mini-workshops, have consultations and write, write, write some more. It was awesome.

The weekend before I did my first "solo" at a conference presenting at the Midwest Writing Center Association conference in Madison, Wisconsin. I travelled by train with three of our fabulous, brilliant graduate consultants - who also presented at the conference. It was exciting and exhausting, but mostly a wonderful opportunity to learn  and laugh. I almost forgot that it would have been my Mom's birthday that weekend. And the two weekends before that my boyfriend was here and there was a lot to show him.

This past week I did a workshop for honors science students and one for honors business students, 7 graduate consultations, 4 onlines, covered shifts for consultants and office assistants who were ill or had some other kind of emergency, did a workshop for professional development for faculty and staff who needed to learn how to do online responses to writers, planned and held a birthday party, and set up and attended this month's consultant practicitum. Whew.

Now I only have two weeks before I go home for the Thanksgiving break, and then less than four weeks until I go home again for Christmas. In between I have four undergraduate write-ins, consultant observations, end of semester meetings and probably about 300 online consultations to get done. I am exhausted, so this weekend I am going to relish being a bum, watching football on TV, eating when I am hungry and  taking naps whenever I feel like it. (Oh - and I am going to remember to change all my clocks!)