Surviving in this kind of weather,
with a man made from chicken feather
causes me to sometimes wonder,
"Why does that dang fool hear thunder?"
I think we'd be better off instead
if that guy would come home dead.
City life, for kids, before the onslaught of helicopter parents and mandatory parental involvement in every aspect of growing up. We played baseball, no umpires, the bases pieces of cardboard, scratched in dirt, or chalked on the pavement. Four neighborhoods abutted each other. We, the children of the game, formed teams, formed an impromptu “league”. On one of these occasions when a game was “scheduled” team A came up short of the mandatory nine. Team B would allow one of its players to play for team A. The proof that this did not hurt team A’s chances of winning became evident the day Billie, (we’ll call her Billy to protect the legend), came to bat in the last inning and singled home the winning run for team A.
After the game Billie walked home with the rest of our team. She looked a bit sheepish and we did sort of give her the business. We all knew it didn’t matter which team you played for because the game demanded you play your best and hold your head high in both victory and defeat.
Wham-o’s old Pluto Platter,
gets a brand-new name.
Fred and Ethel say farewell,
Dick Clarke gets his fame.
The Cat in the Hat is born,
Bogie has moved on.
Hurricane Audrey rages,
while Paul meets with John.
Sputnik said that space is now,
the brand new frontier.
Russia’s I. C. B. M makes,
their intentions clear.
Four hundred officials killed,
by Vietcong hands.
Elvis starts his life behind,
the walls of Graceland.
Seventy thousand more lives,
lost to Asian flu.
We were losing the space race,
as Vanguard dies too.
In Arkansas the guard blocks,
the Little Rock Nine.
Eisenhower sends his troops,
to settle the times.
McGovern points a finger,
says they're Commie Reds.
Soviets test the H Bomb,
brings ultimate dread.
Laika makes it into space,
U.S. is grounded.
Great Britain test their bomb and,
alarms are sounded.
Great innovations in births,
and technology.
Electric watch, Edsel,
Jayne Torvill and me.
It was 50 degrees in Carrolton
the moment I took my first breath of air
At 8:40 PM he slapped my ass
Dr. Smith said to mom, “well lookie there”
It’s a boy to add to your collection
of crying kids that will need to be fed
Mama took one look and with a big smile
“well now I do declare” was all she said
That miracle of childbirth set my place
as the fourteenth child and the seventh son
Forever known as just one of them kids
of Arlie and Sylvia Brotherton
Now that’s what my birth certificate states
but over the next twenty years or such
I would swear I had to be switched at birth
Cause I didn’t fit in with that crowd much
I know there were many times in my life
my parents would become true believers
that though I looked somewhat like all the rest
there was no way I was their son either
in the fifties, back in my school days, we hid under desks
anticipating the nuclear bomb we thought Russians were sending
not all of our body fit under there, but we still had to do it
Because if that bomb was coming, we wanted to be ready
What kind of car is that? My eleven grandchildren scream.
It has driven by slowly, and it is my childhood dream.
a 1957 Chevy, sleek, black, full of chrome, I say.
Coveting the red leather seats as it drives slowly away.
It doesn’t look like any contraption we have ever seen!
I know this is true, I wave to the driver as if she is the queen.
She is driving my dream and I am out of words as I watch her go.
Adding this much chrome is something today’s car designers do not know.
Mythical wizard hag sits on her haughty throne
Who is she? Some whisper, perhaps thinking crone.
Magical and mystical, she is rarely sitting alone.
Her power animals surround her, hoping for a bone.
She gets to make all their decisions, she is in charge.
Her ideas and ideals are incredibly worthy and large.
We know her as grandma, our grandpa calls her the Sarge.
She is the most magical creature we know, our grandma Marge.
Christmas catalog 1957
We fought over it,
It was our way to heaven
Dreaming of this, that and the other.
Arguing until we were separated
by our mother
We circled the things we wanted,
we two,
The whole toy catalog was circled
when we were through
Christmas catalog 1957,
it was a step closer
to Christmas heaven…..
Dancing and hopping in a robin-like way
The medium sized bird gives happiness a swift play
I watch him in wonder, loving his tweet tweet tweet
He looks like a rock-and-roll dancer, he’s simply up beat.
The song from my childhood comes quickly to mind
As I see this darling birdie, he is so clever and kind.
Rock’n’Robbin sung in 1957 by the keen Bobby Day.
The branch is bobbing in time with this robin at play!
Me.
Unique,
Strong,
Fragile old girl, gentle questioner,
unshakeable hand,
Curious eye, quiet ear.
A dirty old sidewalk
runs in front of grandma's house
with bumps and cracks from the roots
of ancient white-oak
Armed with cane poles and sack lunches
crickets and freshly dug earth worms
we meander down to the levee
barefoot in careless summers
One low spot beneath
a straggly Chinaberry
filled with pitch-black delta dirt
washed in by summer rains
We shuffle through and dig down
cooling our toes
In search of long lost orchards
where apple blossoms bloom;
an ole white ashen farmhouse
and corncrib-playhouse rooms.
Searching for the scent of pine
where lingering laughter lies,
for the summer days gone by
and seashells on the tide.
Hungering for spruce gum chaw
we dug from crooks of trees
for the tart and bittersweet
memories of childhood deeds.
Crinkling crinolines creating
a ballooning circle rising
out from my shins.
They are itching.
Socks neatly rolled into new maryjanes that
are stiff and hurt my big toe.
Afternoon spent at the salon
smelling of perm,
the radio blaring Diana
and Wake Up Little Suzie.
My corsage cold from
the fridge pinned to a
two-tight bodice.
This skirt tilts up precariously
when I sit down.
Three crinkling crinolines
creating a balloon.
Waiting now for the red-headed boy
with sweat wilting my curled hair.
Only men sweat you say? ....women perspire?
My perspiring upper lip ruining
newly applied
lip stick.
The clock's ticking is the only way
to know times passing.
At last! The red-headed boy rings
the door to be met by my father
who humphs and parumps before
we walk out into the cool
carressing night with all the
crinkling crinolines swaying.
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