Notes to Mom

Preface

It began as a book of poems and became so much more personal. A gut wrenching, soul sharing autobiography. The poems were written over many years. A first cut of the book was something different. Rating the poems. Ranking them. A count down. Top 100 or so. That one disappeared. Literally. Poof, electronically speaking. That led to soul searching about what the book was meant to be.

The book became a love letter to my mother. The stories of my life shared with her in the way she and I spoke all the time. On calls at 9 0’clock Sunday mornings. During her many visits to wherever I lived. Mom and I were close. Are close. Will always be close. A book of poems and the poems were merely the embers for the passions of stories and sharing with my Mother.

As with many books, the title changed once the writing was done. All the way through, it was called Clean Underwear. After all, Moms want us to wear Clean Underwear….just in case. Well, Mom, my underwear is clean. Not conventional but clean. A clever title. Cute. Catchy. Then on the day the book was done, the truth showed itself. Notes To Mom. Much more accurate.

Hope you enjoy it. It is my life. A life of love and a love of life. Hope you find laughter, inspiration, tears, and sweetness in it and in life. We all deserve to be happy. I am very, very happy. Hope you are too.

Five Story Walk Up

The bricks challenged.

Façade with an attitude.

More came before you.

More will follow.

Seven blocks from the ocean.

One bridge away from Downtown.

A place passed if even seen.

Forlorn and forgotten.

Just another five stories no one hears.

They remembered.

Dark things.

Little ones that quit breathing without reason.

Two that had help.

Fights that never really stopped until blood flowed.

Some that went on even after that.

Lonely people gone before others noticed.

Days sometimes.

Weeks one time.

Bricks remembered.

Tagged and repaired.

Tagged and repaired.

Weather beaten and all the heartier for it.

Hit by a Volvo guided by a blind drunk in sixty-three.

Newer bricks came and still showed their difference.

Still, red is red and you had to know where to look.

The bricks were cold.

Sun kissed too little.

Shaded too much.

People noticed the Maple Tree.

I noticed the bricks.

The bricks noticed me.

They didn’t care.

Perhaps they never will.

It’s been a long time since anyone cared.

They fit right into the neighborhood.

Note to Mom:

This poem reminds me of you, Mom. It is about Brooklyn. Well, a building in Brooklyn. I like to think it is a real building that crossed time and space so it could have me feel and write its story. Just a few blocks from the ocean. Lots of tales on each of the five stories.

Brooklyn is a special place to me. It is yours. Sure, Dad lived there too and so did Aunt Margo and a bunch of people. For me, Brooklyn is all you. You had a Brooklyn Passport in your drawer. Remember that? I sure do. It was in your red jewelry box, well your only jewelry box. About the size of a two-sleeve cracker box, it had a white top. You have a bunch of jewelry in there. Likely it was what you said was costume jewels. They looked like diamonds on you.

A Brooklyn Passport. Made that Borough seem like its own country. Special. The Brooklyn Bridge is my favorite bridge. Even more than the Golden Gate and Dad’s Guinea Gangplank.

The first time I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, I really needed it. You were buried the day before and it left a hole in me. Took the ferry from the Highlands to New York with Krissy.

You’d love her, Mom. She is strong and beautiful. A great mother. She loves her kids and pushes them hard to do their best. They love her and are just a bit afraid of her. She got that from you. In their hearts, they know her love is unconditional. They just don’t want to piss her off.

Krissy and I headed up to the City. I didn’t know why. Didn’t know what called me to do it. Did know it wasn’t avoidance. Wasn’t running from Jersey and the pain of the day before. Just needed the City.

Knew why as soon I saw the Brooklyn Bridge. Turned to Krissy, That’s why. I pointed to the famous arches. That’s what we are doing today. We are walking across the Brooklyn Bridge. We did.

It helped. I felt that long ago day you took me to Brooklyn to see your old house and then onto Coney Island. It made me sad. Prospect Place looked dingy. Dirty. The ten-year old me didn’t want the ten year old you living there. It wanted you in someplace like the Burg. Someplace like my home.

You tried to reassure me. Said it used to be nice. Used to be safe. I didn’t believe you. It made me sad to think you grew up there.

Years later, I got to see a lot of Brooklyn. Even your old neighborhood. It came back. It was nice. Made me feel better. Needed to see a hint of what it was. You deserve the best. Brooklyn is a magic word for me. It is where Mommy was born.

The Drinker

A pop-top away from Jesus

Who are you to say?

The key is in here somewhere.

Let me have my day.

One more swallow and I’ll know.

Leave me alone. Just go.

I’ll pay in cash and risk my ass.

Who are you to say?

He made me promises. I heard His words.

Just let me drink. My words are slurred.

Soon I’ll know.

Soon I’ll see.

Soon I’ll be okay.

Who are you to say?

Leave me be. Let me see.

Jesus waits for me.

Who the fuck are you to say?

Peace be with you.

Now go the fuck away.

Note to Mom:

Pretty obvious, ain’t it? Alcohol is not a good thing in my life. You and Dad both drank and still were good parents. Still raised Jack, Sis, and me. Still functioned. Yet I learned by example how with booze you lose.

Booze was all around in the Burg. Thirty-Six bars/liquor stores in one square mile. People just drank. Beer with anything. It was just the way it was. People got together and got drunk. I did it as a teenager and even later. Yet, it scared me. I wondered if I was strong enough to actually stop.

Remember the time Dad took Sis and me to church while he was drunk on his ass? Falling down drunk and he took us to church so we could be holy. Almost fell out of the pew. Then he drove home and got pulled over by a cop two houses from home. Argued with the cop about his ability to drive.

We told that story hundreds of times and laughed each time. Laughed at how stupid it was. It was just one of the many stories centered around someone being drunk and the funny things that happened.

Well, my name is Gil and I am an alcoholic. Went through recovery with Dad only Dad was already dead at the time. That is the power of addiction.

This poem is anyone. It’s me. Sitting with a glass of helplessness and pushing away the world. Mad at God. Mad at anyone. Mad at myself.

Pretty obvious, ain’t it? I need to remember how obvious it is. How cunning and sneaky the disease is. This is about me, Mom. That’s who I am. My name is Gil and I am an alcoholic.

One More Try

Here I am again.

Here I am starting over.

Square One.

Square One, one more time.

Just knew.

Just knew it was coming.

I Swore.

Swore this was all far behind me.

Here I am.

Here I am, one more time.

Hey, can you help me out, brother?

Hey, can me spare me the time?

Hey, can I stop spinning in circles?

Hey, can I survive it this time?

Thought.

Thought it was over.

Prayed.

Prayed. the worst was long gone.

Aimed.

Aimed to do better.

Aimed to be better.

Missed.

Missed the mark one more time.

Hey, can you help me, sister?

Hey, can you hold me tight?

Hey, can I stop spinning in circles?

Hey, can I just do what’s right?

Here.

Here I am spinning.

Back.

Right back where I was.

Thought.

Thought this was behind me.

Not.

Now, I’m back where I was.

Hey, can you help me out, Mother?

Why do you feel far away?

Please, can I come to you, Mother?

Please, make it safe here today.

I saw.

I saw it all coming.

It came.

It came anyway.

Help.

Is it really all over?

Shit.

Did I just piss it away?

Hey, can you help me out, brother?

Hey, can you spare me the time?

Am.

Am I just spinning in circles?

Is this?

Is this the last time?

Is this?

Is this my last time?

Please.

Please, be my last time.

Please.

Please, be my last try.

Just one.

Just one more last try.

Note to Mom:

Put this one right after The Drinker to emphasize how easy it is to fall back into the addiction. Dad fought the battle and lost it in life. Dead Drunk was my time with him as he worked his recovery from the afterlife. Talk about a disease that keeps you in its grip. Wow.

Dad was the everyman I met in AA meetings. His story is the story of that struggle. I am glad he won the battle and even prouder to be part of his recovery.

Addiction means forever knowing and feeling the addiction. It has a dark call and we have to work, literally every one day at a time, to remain out of the disease. This poem is about that personal war.

It is also about forgiveness. Our Higher Power is infinitely patient. It waits for us to be ready. To be truly ready. The message is we can’t not fail for we will succeed as soon as we choose to succeed.

In AA meetings, they speak stark truths. They will tell someone to go back out because they are not done yet. Go back out and hit bottom. Hit it hard. Really so hard you have no desire to ever hit bottom again. Maybe then you will be ready to really recover. This poem is that moment. The moment we are on our knees and beg that we are really ready.

We have to beg so we hear ourselves and believe we have to do the work.

That’s what this poem is about, Mom. One more try. Until we succeed.

Penny King

Everyday Epics.

Stop counting the change.

Flow with the flowathon.

What’s in a name?

Show spoken Words.

Bend into the curved.

Straight one in five.

Roads will be heard.

A few minutes with.

Turn of a phrase.

Play circus music.

Parade unafraid.

Floats like flotillas.

Tortillas are bread.

What’s going on there?

Inside that head.

Note to Mom:

Remember the noon whistle? Right across the street from the house. Well, of course you do. It went off every day at Noon and anytime there was a fire. It is part of my special memory. My memory of 1 Maple.

It was a daily reminder. It made me smile. Almost every time it went off, I thought of Aunt Thelma’s son. Can’t remember his name. Jeff? Maybe that was it. Jeff was little and the Noon whistle blew. He had no idea what it was. He ran through the house yelling, Who dat? Who dat? Who dat? Maybe it was What dat? I hear Who dat? in my head so in my story it’s him running around yelling Who dat? over and over.

Makes me laugh.

The Noon Whistle is also Sky King time. Well, at least on Saturdays…and when Dad was either out or asleep. If he was up, I was either doing chores or had escaped before he caught me. Sky King was on right after Roy Rogers……..once they moved Roy from 9:30 to 11:30. The show would start, Out of the Western Sky comes…… The Song Bird would divebomb the camera as the announcer proclaimed, Sky…….. The Noon Whistle was Sky’s middle name…….his last name……and whatever followed that.

Makes me smile.

The Fire Whistle memory. More Noon Whistle since it was part of the routine. Our routine. Those fabric of life things. You gave me a lot of those. Dinner at Five come hell or high water. Sis and I doing the dishes while you and Dad watched the news with Kevin Kennedy and Gloria Okon. Questions about homework, bath time, clothes for school, and more.

What the heck does this poem have to do with all that? Noon Whistles. Sky King and his Daughter Penny. Everyday Epics……..Inside that head……….and all the stuff from there to here and then till now.

I am who I am because you are who you are, Mom.

Thanks.

He Helped

He shared.

He washed the feet of his followers.

He turned the other cheek even at the darkest moments.

He welcomed the outcasts.

He forgave sinners.

He healed the sick.

He cried.

He went into the desert to ask deep questions.

He enjoyed the company of his friends.

He helped me tonight.

Note to Mom:

Thanks for making me go to Church. Even though you and Dad stayed home, Sis and I had to go. You insisted on it. We had to bring home proof….in the form of the Holy Grail of evidence, the Church Bulletin. I spent as much time looking for the Bulletin as I did for Jesus.

Still, there was lots of good learning. Roman Aerobics. There is something special about ritual. Gathering. Honoring our linkage to God, Jesus, and all the angels and saints. Penance. What a wonderful lesson. Come clean. Admit your sins. Pay your dues. Lessons for life. I remember how Holy it felt to be dressed all in white and receive Holy Communion. Then how grown up everyone felt just a few years later when it was time for Confirmation. Rituals. Rites of Passage. A good foundation for life choices based on learning and living. Being Catholic prepared me for being spiritual.

Thanks for making sure I went to Saint Ann’s School. It was a great school. Heck, I was a Junior in Keansburg High before they taught anything the Nuns hadn’t already taught me by 8th Grade. To this day, I can recite the prepositions, conjugate verbs, and diagram a sentence in a pinch. Parochial school prepped me for Trivial Pursuit, Jeopardy, and life. Knowledge is power……..and you made sure I had the tools for power.

I learned a lot in school and church. Learned even more from you and Dad……everyday.

You gave me Jesus. What I do with Him is up to me.

That’s really all that matters when it comes to parenting and religion. You made sure I had something……..and trusted I would find my thing.

I did.

Jesus stayed me as my path moved me beyond walls, doctrines, and dogma. He is part of my life. You made sure of that.

I shall Honor My Mother and Father. The proof is in the living. Don’t need a Bulletin for that.

Hallmarked

Thou shalt love.

Thou shalt honor.

Thou shalt do it on this day.

Thou shall do it in this way.

Thou shalt do it as we say.

Thou shalt give this to show thy love.

Thou shalt give this so they know your love.

Thou shalt give this to prove your love.

Thou shalt for this is how they will know.

Thou shalt for they deserve to know.

Thou shalt and then thou will know.

Note to Mom:

Sometimes, I get a bit of an attitude about obligatory love and celebration.

Valentine’s Day.

Mother’s Day.

Father’s Day.

Grandparent’s Day.

Sell more cards, flowers, and candy days.

Put it on a calendar and lay on the guilt. If we ignore the celebrations, we ignore those we love to prove a point. If we honor the celebrations, we are showing our love on schedule. Lose-Lose? Maybe.

It can be win-win, too. We can honor that day with gifts of self. Touch. Time. If we are the writer, write. Painter? Paint. Chef? Cook. Use your natural gift to honor the intended rather than profit the creators.

Thou Shalt. How Thou Shalt is up to Thou.

I love you, Mom. On Mother’s Day. On every day. Want to know my special Mother time? 9 AM on Sunday morning. It was the time you and I called each other from wherever we were. Long distance, scheduled connection. You expected…..even demanded the call. Sometimes it was square filling. Who was doing what? How was everyone feeling? What are the kids up to? In fact, it was usually square filling.

It was heart filling, too. Sunday at 9 AM……..I remember. Even more. Every Sunday.

Sometimes, I get a bit of an attitude. It passes. Love remains.

Know

Dark, fear, and depression.

Snarl, growl, and whimper.

Truth beneath the deception.

The path that is yours.

The feel of your laughter.

The square root of seven.

Ice cream in all its joy.

The slow roll of your eyes.

When to rest and if to push on.

What to say and to do.

Things that were and that can be.

What comes has yet to appear.

How badly you’ve wronged.

Ache, anxiousness, and pain.

Friends that speak from darkness.

To let go of what is not meant to be.

To dance as if making love.

Free flowing rivers.

The sting of a bee.

To sing in the shower.

What loss means.

You reap what you sow.

To say you are sorry.

How fear tastes as it dies.

The glory of sorrow.

To care through it all.

You can't go back.

What you really do control.

To share and care.

The ache of wants.

There are more unknowns.

All will be forgiven.

When to speak.

The comfort of silence.

To stop complaining.

Each voice truly matters.

You are one of the many.

Everyone feels alone.

Gifts are to be shared.

Together all things are possible.

Note to Mom:

Pretty deep stuff in this one. That’s an everyday thing in my world. Life is all around us every moment. It ain’t later. It’s now. We have to know. Know how to feel. Feel gratitude with each lick of an ice cream cone. Celebrate nature as one leaf dyes for any to see. Purr when someone itches your back.

You purred pretty, Mom. Real pretty.

Moments are what matter. Each of them. 500 Rummy. Your fancy table setting the one time Uncle Larry came to Thanksgiving Dinner at his sister’s house. The sound of your laugh when I poked your side while everyone else was asleep on the bus from Germany to Holland. Our road trip in the Isuzu Pup from Utah to LA with an overnight in Las Vegas. I took a similar trip with Sis years later. Road Trips are important. Real important.

Dancing. With you. You with Dad. Dad doing the Twist with abandon. Me doing the Twist like Dad. Slow dancing with you at Michelle’s wedding. Maybe it was Denyse’s. You were a bit older and didn’t want to dance. I made you. Dad would have wanted it……and I needed it. I think it was the last time we danced together.

We don’t regret dancing. Regrets are sitting out when we could have. You and I could have. Lucky for me, we did.

You danced pretty, Mom. Real Pretty.

Every moment matters. Especially the ones we feel. Like dancing. I felt every dance, Mom.

In Memoriam

I looked upon the tombstone but saw no smiling face.

Knew what I was looking for was far from this dead place.

Artists paint still portraits yet life is there within.

Names upon the granite only what once had been.

You are near where they were when they said good-bye.

Let others see you clearly before its time to die.

Look into the mirror. The pictures on the wall.

See them in your children. In leaves raked in the fall.

Share your light in laughter and lessons life did teach.

Hike into the mountains then play upon the beach.

Savor well the sunsets and rise and kiss each day.

Greet the seeming strangers when you pass their way.

Let things be even better that you once were here.

Memories should be smiles, so much more than tears.

Note for Mom:

I cried like a baby at your funeral. Well, actually at your burial. Was really good at the viewing and the funeral and all of that. You would have liked your own funeral. All dolled up. The center of attention. M&Ms in the box with you. It was an awesome turn-out. Folks loved you and they showed up in droves at the funeral home. I delivered the eulogy. It was really good…..folks let me know. Probably have a copy of it stashed away somewhere. Hope you liked it.

You died just before I got out of the USAF. The mourning was in uniform. Did you plan the timing? Heck, you could have stayed around longer and just asked me to put on the uniform for you. Would have done it. Well, up until I gave it to Maurice for his burial but that is another story.

So anyway, I was big and brave right up until the burial. When they lowered that coffin into the ground, it was all waterworks for me. It all hit me hard and kept hitting me for over a year.

For a year, I was walking wounded. Thought the world knew better but the only one fooled was me. Life was less. Listless. Mommy-less. Each Sunday at 9 o’clock, the silent phone broke my heart. Each holiday was diminished by one.

You died and took a big piece of me with you. It finally was too much to bare. Headed out to hike it off on Antelope Island. To physically burn through the emotional pain. A quest to let you go. Nine mile loop. To be flooded by my dammed tears. The fence was locked. I kicked it. Thought about climbing it. Ripped out of the parking lot, tires spinning dirt and gravel with anger, and ended up on some other path. A path that took me to a butte. A Butte. A trap of not enough space. Not enough running. Not enough just going anywhere. So I paced back and forth and let you have it.