But we did do barbecues. Food was a thing that my family always did well. Hotdogs. Bratwurst. Chicken. Supplemented by watermelon and corn on the cob. Some of my fondest memories are family meals, especially around holidays.
Sharon Olds writes about her father’s dignity . . .
His Stillness
by: Sharon Olds
to tell you when nothing more could be done.
That's what I'm telling you now." My father
sat quite still, as he always did,
especially not moving his eyes. I had thought
he would rave if he understood he would die,
wave his arms and cry out. He sat up,
thin, and clean, in his clean gown,
like a holy man. The doctor said,
"There are things we can do which might give you time,
but we cannot cure you." My father said,
"Thank you." And he sat, motionless, alone,
with the dignity of a foreign leader.
I sat beside him. This was my father.
He had known he was mortal. I had feared they would have to
tie him down. I had not remembered
he had always held still and kept quiet to bear things,
the liquor a way to keep still. I had not
known him. My father had dignity. At the
end of his life his life began
to wake in me.
We always swear we will be different than our parents. Raise our kids differently. Be more successful. Retire earlier. Travel more. Some people don’t even want to look like their mothers or fathers.
Yet, when I look in the mirror these days, I see my mother’s and father’s faces. No getting around heredity. I think I look a lot more like my mom than my dad, and I inherited her calmer disposition, as well. My dad could be a hothead. My mom, on the other hand, was always cool and thoughtful. (When she lost her temper, you really didn’t want to be around her. I think I take after her in that respect, as well.)
Around holidays, I think a lot about family members who are no longer around to celebrate with us. My faithful disciples know that, in the last ten years or so, I’ve lost quite a few people in my life—a best friend, brother, two sisters, and both my parents. The kind of nostalgia I’m experiencing today is pretty normal, I would guess. Big holidays conjure up big feelings.
I did attend a parade this morning with my wife and kids. There was even an Elvis impersonator on a float. Now, I know we were supposed to boycott parades this July 4th in protest of the Republican apocalypse happening in Washington, D.C. Nothing about the United States at the moment makes me proud to be a citizen of this country. Yet, I do celebrate the freedom I have today. (This time next year, I may have a different opinion. Check back in 2026.)
I know that our country is incredibly flawed. We live on stolen land in a society built on the backs of African American slaves. Not really a great way to start this grand experiment in democracy. However, I’ve also believed that we can be better. Do better. And I’m holding onto that hope right now. I celebrated today what we CAN be as a nation, not what we currently are.
The fireworks scheduled for tonight were rained out, so, instead, I went to the laundromat to wash some clothes and work on a new poem. It’s about nine o’clock at night right now and still raining intermittently, but that’s not stopping our neighbors from disturbing the peace with some bottle rockets, firecrackers, and mortars. That doesn’t bother me, though. They’re out there having a good time. Celebrating the freedom that still exists in the United States. For now.
Saint Marty wrote a poem tonight about ghosts based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
It’s the birthday of Jean Cocteau, surrealist poet and playwright. In honor of his birthday, write a surrealist poem today. One way to do this is to begin with a 5-minute automatic writing session. Write as fast as you can without thinking logically or worrying about making sense. When you are finished with your timed writing, read it over and highlight passages that interest you. Using these passages as triggers, continue writing fast. Once you’ve done this, shape this raw and strange material into a poem.
Pizza Party
by: Martin Achatz
What do ghosts like on their pizzas?
Does my friend, Helen, want just
cheese, unadorned, plain as yoga?
My brother, Kevin, he loves ham,
even though he claimed to be vegan
when he was alive. Sally is always
particular, doesn’t want anything
besides pepperoni to surprise
her tongue with too much heat or salt.
Rose, my other sister, eats everything with
the abandon of a flock of seagulls. Dad
is meat and potatoes, wants as much
pork and beef and bacon as possible
on his slices, as if he grew up in a Russian
gulag with only one bowl of cabbage
broth to fuel his daily labors in the fields.
Mom? She always eats after everyone
else, cobbling together her dinner
from turkey necks and sweet potato
skins. Her pizza will be whatever
is left in the greasy boxes after the rest
of us are ready to nap or go for
a long, long walk. That’s her now,
gliding around the table, asking
if everybody has had enough
to eat, her ghostly stomach glowing
like a stove burner that’s just been
used to fry up a skillet of scrambled eggs.
