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For this year's challenge, my theme is The Fun in Writing. Each of my 26 posts for April is aimed at
illustrating fun parts of an author's day. A writer doesn't only write.
Creating a story or an essay requires research, revision, editing, and lots and lots of coffee and chocolate. |
Two of the poems I wrote for
Another New Beginning focused on the cold weather in Wisconsin. Often times, thoughts of winter bring pleasant thoughts of ice skating, hockey, and skiing. Those are memories of fun times. In this first poem, though, not so much:
28
A Hard Winter
Drag himself out of a warm sleep
Dress fast
Ice forming psychedelic shapes on
window panes.
Rush down the stairs,
through his parents’ bedroom to
the bathroom for his turn to wash
and brush.
Milk and hot oatmeal at the kitchen
table
Mom pours orange juice, smiles
encouragement
until the engine cranks outside.
Over the chugging sounds, Dad
calls,
“Get a move on Danny,” adding his
mantra,
“The mail won’t wait.”
At the post office
gather satchels of letters and
cardboard boxes
filled with the route’s daily
deliveries.
Up and down country roads,
Slide envelopes into mailboxes, or
tromp
through snow delivering packages to
front doors.
The old Ford with chained wheels
like a German tank; so cold, the
bones ache.
Shivering to keep warm. Hot cocoa
on his mind.
Grampa
Baugniet worked for the hometown post office all his life. He had this
fantastic car for delivering the mail, probably built in the 1930s. He modified
it with a full set of chains, like an army tank, so he could plow through the heavy
Wisconsin snowfalls.
I
remember a picture of us kids standing on a snowbank that reached to the
telephone wires. Snowplowing continually added to the bank’s height. But long
winters kept the snow frozen in place for months.
During
the time I was doing most of my family genealogy research, my father told me
about how he helped his dad on the mail route. When I suggested it must have
been fun, he said, “No, it was hard work. And in the winter time, it was very
cold.”
In
a town that extended seven miles into Lake Michigan, you can imagine the wind
chill coming off the lake. That’s why it was easy to imagine my father having
hot cocoa on his mind!
**********
29
Hot Cocoa
Skating
at the ice rink across from
the
high school or the pond in our own
backyard.
Swing forward, weave back, slice
left
or right.
Race,
glide, tiptoes, edges.
Into
the warming house when fingers
grow
numb. Thick mittens removed for
a
brisk rub of the arms, stomping blades on
bare
concrete, thinking
of
whipped cream topping as frozen toes thaw.
Return
outside quick before body heat
makes
you adjust to the cold all–over–again.
Play
ice tag with three school mates. Then home,
tired,
feet sore, stomach
growling;
smiling, in anticipation.
When I wrote the linking poetry, I wasn’t aware of my
strong focus on sports. No surprise, though. We didn’t have videos, iPhones, or
e-readers to occupy us. (I’m making up for it now!) We would never have considered
watching television after school. Other than meal time, we seldom spent
daylight hours inside the house unless the weather was bad.
As a young grade-schooler, ice skating at the rink
across from the high school was a big deal. Part of the appeal was that I could
walk to the candy store up the street. One day, I removed my skates and put my
shoes back on, then hiked down to the store. Visions of penny candy danced in
my head.
At the store, I tried to open the front door but it
was stuck. I must have made quite a racket trying to get that door open because
the candy store owner finally came and opened it for me. He lived up above the
store. It was Sunday. The store was closed!
He let me come in to make my penny candy purchase,
then locked up again as I climbed down the porch steps. I've always thought he’d
been kind to do that for me.
