Service for Two

Sunday mornings have always been a refuge for me from the tedium and trepidations of daily life. A time set aside to enjoy a stack of papers, leisurely drink a latte, and discuss the state of the world with more irony than rancor, more humor than heated dissent. A few sacrosanct hours to kick back and relax on a routine basis. Hopefully, my attempt at replicating a cup of coffee comes through.



          Service for Two


                Coffee
           and crosswords
             as in puzzle,
            toes touching,
      Etta's voice still smoky
       with Saturday's songs
        now on the radio, low
         and reverent as any
           "Come to Jesus"
        choir down the block.



     Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Beltway

This year of political upheaval underscores the many different views held by Americans. Some of them so diametrically opposed as to inspire violence.  Daily, the media brings these disagreements to our attention, fuels the fire of dissent. Reasonableness suddenly passe. Hot rhetoric the latest buzz.

I enjoy the luxury of living ten stories up with incredible views outside my windows. Thickly treed neighborhoods to the west, city street scenes on the east. One evening I realized this vantage point demonstrated the gestalt of politics.



The Beltway


Come nighttime
a river of crimson and cream
split by a sorcerer to stream side-by-side

Above
luminescence crowns
the brows of buildings unworthy

Below
streets set in black-wash
flare like jewels fallen

Steady lines of light pulsing stop-and -go

Which flows forward?
                          Which ebbs back?

Different perspective, same milieu
driven/riven by their views

Neither, both



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Falling Barometer

It's the season of thunderstorms and tornadoes. Having grown up on the plains and threatened by these weather patterns every summer, I empathize with those caught in the destructive path of any storm. And annually rejoice that I have moved farther away from the heart of tornado alley, albeit still on the northern fringe.

Thankfully, rainstorms predominate and not cyclones throughout the targeted states, despite what you might see on the news. But rain clouds can harbor lightening, dangerous in its own right, along with the menacing sound of thunder. And I had an aunt terrified by them, especially in the black of night.



Falling Barometer


Farmland Dakota flat
and wide to the weather.

My uncle concerned only
if the sky turned sickly with hail

but my aunt skittish
as a horse during summer storms.

Dark prairie midnights
roused with lightening strikes

yawned us into the front room
to pray for deliverance.  Every tempest

we mumbled the rosary by rote.
Come fall and football I pictured

lucky game-day jerseys spun from prayers
like those: talismans both

frequently charmed but sometimes crushed
by thundering forces.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Fairy Tale Adjusted

A long weekend at the cabin sans internet connection. A welcome reprieve from the world at large. Each spring we try to time our May trip north to coincide with seeing our crabapple tree in all its rose-infused glory, surrounded by the green of the forest. In the last ten years we have only managed this once. Many a time we have come close but something always seems to trip us up. A work schedule. A long, chilly spring. Obligations here in the Cities. A warmer than normal winter. For whatever reason, the tree's springtime beauty eludes us on a regular basis.

This year, sad to say, followed the same pattern. The buds were set but not yet plump enough to even consider opening. We missed the blossoms by a good week to ten days. Meanwhile, I console myself with those trees and bushes here at home filled with all the pinks and purples and whites that grace too brief a period each May.



Fairy Tale Adjusted


There is a crabapple tree
on my block easily missed
in passing.  Her stepsisters
overshadow her with willowy
grace but a Fairy Godmother
blesses her each spring.

For two days the shy tree
dresses in fragrant, pink
blossoms, a regal princess
come out of hiding, dazzling
all who see her.  A short lived glory
while others tarry longer at the ball.

Unlike Cinderella she has no
glass slipper but her liverymen,
the bees, act as go-betweens.
And the prince knows
where to find her.


 Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

My Mother the Cook or How I Learned about Spontaneous Combustion

Mother's Day today and, of course, my thoughts drift to Mom. Born and raised in Switzerland she emigrated to America as an adolescent. When I think of her life, apart from her husband and children, two things made her the most proud: her Swiss heritage and her reputation as a fabulous cook. Among her hobbies she loved collecting cookbooks and recipes of any kind. Enough to fill shelves and sacks, boxes and cartons of them.

At the same time she was both intuitive and inventive with her cooking/baking skills. These additions or subtractions, for the most part, improved whatever she prepared. But sometimes she became a tad too generous in altering a recipe. Here's to you, Mom.



My Mother the Cook or How I Learned about Spontaneous Combustion


Ten minutes into bake time
a faint smell of smoke and telltale
tendrils drifted from the oven door.
A peak inside revealed pure blue
flames wafting over a brandy laced
pound cake. In a mini-whirlwind
she whipped open the window
and fanned the frantic alarm.
Her dessert black as bituminous,
a lush apricot liqueur wasted, guests
due to arrive shortly, and a dumbstruck
child present when she least needed it.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Magic Carpets

Spring has always been my favorite season. The reasons are legion: longer days and abundant sunshine, the earth returning to life, countless shades of green, fruit trees dressed in stunning blossoms of pinks and reds and whites, lilac bushes heavy with perfume and purple, even the perky/pesky dandelions scattered across playing fields loud with sporting exuberance.

Then there is this year. Recurrent leaden skies and almost daily rains have been the recent norm, and they do nothing to promote the joie de vivre usually found in abundance come April and May. On the other hand, the forecast calls for sunny days ahead and a jacket-free week, starting today. Something I must take on faith given the disappointing cloud cover from horizon to horizon present this morning. But what is spring, if not a time of hope?



Magic Carpets


The elusive rug maker
is showcasing
his wares this week:

cherry blossoms
grounded after April's party,
a Persian covering

apple tree petals
fallen like a picnic blanket,
steadied by morning's dew

and if you're early enough

a saffron runner of seeds thrown
over cars parked street-side,
edges sunning the cement.

I blink and they take to the sky.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Performance on the Prairie

All this week the unexpected death of Prince dominated the news, especially here in his home town of Minneapolis. It made me pause, consider what I knew of him, of his music. Not much, I'm embarrassed to admit. His crossover genres were not mine, but still I can appreciate his creativity, his musical genius. At the very least, I know "Purple Rain" and "When Doves Cry," and probably a few more that I didn't realize were his creations.

In any case it started me thinking about music in general and the first concert I ever attended with an internationally recognized headliner. It's probably not what you're thinking.



Performance on the Prairie


At nine my very first concert.
Cellos, flutes and fancy fiddles heard
on the Dakota plains.
Yehudi Menuhin soloed on his violin.
A New Yorker performing there, a maestro
trailing bright lights and Carnegie Hall cache
alongside pastures and cow pies.

Why this journey to a sea of grass
labeled "Empty Lands" by mapmakers?
A son's sense of duty to the underserved?
A chance for prairie winds to catch classical scores?
A desire to trade big city clamor for the music
of meadow larks?

A child doesn't care.
My body hushed as a pianissimo,
my mind cartwheeling through wildflower notes.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

London to Minneapolis: Economy

In a few hours I'm off to Heathrow and then home. Of course, my last morning in London dawned bright and sunny without a single cloud to be seen, unlike the usual rainy days that marked most of my stay in the city. But so it goes.

If my upcoming flight holds true to form, it will be comparable to past travels back to the States. Simply replace London and/or Minneapolis with the names of any other long-haul destination cities and the journey is easily recognizable.



London to Minneapolis: Economy


Hours  e  x  p  a  n  d,  wArP

A robin-egg sky too big for any nest
A monotony of mallow-cream clouds below
Time butts the jet stream to a tidal crawl

Once, a contrail starboard:
And I watch as we pull ourselves
Hand over hand on its fraying lanyard
Until the distance closes, the connection drops
And Virgin Atlantic slips beneath us

No sleep
Wadded pillow jammed against the fuselage
No sleep
Attendants hawking, "Duty free, shop duty free"
No sleep
A cackling movie watcher close enough to smack

And how do people two sizes too big shoehorn into the loo?



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

London Gallery

April in London resembles springtime anywhere - warm, sunny days interspersed between rain showers and gloomy clouds. Eager trees already leafed-out stand alongside reluctant neighbors still bare and boney-branched. Daffodils everywhere, tulips ready to bloom, but also winter's detritus occasionally visible in back gardens.

New to the city a few April's ago I visited those places newbies need to see, including St Paul's Cathedral. Outside its massive front doors we sat on the broad stairs leading up to the church, the sunshine more than welcome. Our ten minute break proved a great place to watch the individuals that call London home.

On a wider format than this blogs permits the very last word of the poem would extend the last line making a sideview of a grand staircase. In this instance you will have to use your imagination.



London Gallery


The stone steps of St Paul's:
a casual gathering place for foot sore
tourists seated by Gothic clad youth adjacent
to missing office workers relaxing with others fed up
with heavy metal skies, reveling in sunshine, people watching.
Curbside a bridal couple bubbles up. She wobbly in heels, white fur
stole over gooseflesh arms, holds her groom, smile fixed. Whistles, claps
bounce off the great oak doors, a lone camera-toting friend scattering the pigeons.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Commuter

Transportation in London is a story unto itself. First of all, there are the iconic double-decker red buses found everywhere in the city. This time here I noticed new ones in service, an updated design, actually sleek in appearance given their behemoth size. How they manage to maneuver through warrens of narrow streets crammed with cars both parked and moving is a testament to the patience and abilities of the coachmen, themselves.

Then there are the Underground, the Overground, and the Thames Link systems, all various forms of rail transportation. These trains carry the bulk of the commuters. Any of them provide fascinating people watching on a regular basis. One morning on the Overground a particular rider held not only my attention but also the notice of others in the carriage. And it was obvious to us all that he hadn't expended any money for a ticket.



Commuter


Late morning, sparse crowds
and a pigeon
hops on the train
confident as any habitué
strutting the speckled floor,
checking for stray crumbs,
dodging a well aimed foot.

One round of the carriage
and flawless timing
makes him first off
come the next stop,
squawking to his buddies
already arrived at Gospel Oak
the old fashioned way - by flying.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Underground

I am in London visiting my daughter and her family for the next three weeks, and my posts will reflect that. On the flight here I couldn't help but mull over the recent events in Brussels, and lest we forget, England has also been a target of the terrorists in the past.

The Tower of London has fascinated my grandson ever since they moved here. When he was younger he overheard a discussion about bombings at the affected Underground Station and the double decker bus on the street above.  Over the course of a few days he processed this information in reference to the things he knew, one of them being the Tower of London. Now a tourist mecca and no longer the formidable prison of earlier centuries. This poem is a result of one of his thoughts.



The Underground


we are going to take
this train    this train
         to visit
       the fabled
 Tower of London

my grandson guide
face pressed against pane

watching the platforms
checking graffiti framed posters
a pony-tailed man limping
away     the Jubilee Line down
change at Baker Street

thirteen color coded lines
crossing, adjoining, diverging
tunneled like the ant farm
in his room    plumbed through history

we pull out, plunge deep
into darkness    the window
reflects his trusting eyes    every
route burned into his brain

he counts the stops from here to Aldgate
        bombings

"Did Bobbies take
    the terrorists
to the Tower of London
    on this train?"

this train     this train



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Salty Language

Once a week I consider two or three options for stay-at-home dinners. A seafood choice is always a given since Andrew comes from Singapore, an island surrounded by oceanic waters and abundant crustaceans, his favorite type of food. It doesn't help that we live 1500 miles from the nearest coastline. But this is America and most everything is available, even shellfish flown in daily.

Apparently, I'm enough of a regular at the seafood counter that I was once asked how I fix the mussels I routinely buy. When I mentioned steaming them in wine, the fish-monger/meat-butcher nodded knowingly. Perhaps he hoped for a different take. Maybe a recipe for combining them with scallops in a black bean sauce which is equally tasty but much more complicated. Me? I'll stick with delicious and easy every time, if I'm the one in the kitchen.



Salty Language


The mollusks were talking last night. They remained mum in their mesh bag on the trip back from the market but started a sotto voce chatter in the 'frig. They clammed up tight when I rinsed them and scrubbed them and put them in a strainer. Restless, the pile shifted, squeaked, and caught the smells of a wine laced broth drifting overhead. Lulled by the warmth as if on a beach, they relaxed their jaw-clenched shells. And, I swear, one stared me in the eye, accusingly, as I upended them all into the boiling pot.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Morning Rituals

Up to the cabin this weekend, and a day spent reading outside in balmy sunshine. The weather warm enough to ignore stubborn patches of snow still clinging to low lying areas. Moderate temps and clear skies meant reveling in midnight's star filled heaven, undiminished by city lights. It's so easy to forget what incredible beauty hovers above us nightly. That alone was worth the journey.



Morning Rituals


Coffee black, muffins steaming.
Disagreements and stubborn streaks
with cream and sugar.

Conversation drifts
like a lily pad unmoored:
neighbor's politics but not our own,
the lake level and loons, weather a given,
comments on food from yesterday's gathering
called pot luck for a reason,
opinions about chancing a second bird feeder
versus tempting another bear.

Breakfast at home - hit or miss
but at the cabin - sacrosanct.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Growing Pains

Many years ago a cousin of mine who lives in Zurich suggested that he would like to visit Minnesota on his down-time in March. And I dissuaded him.

Of all the months to choose from he picked the one with mounds of dirty snow melting in mall lots, with trees still bare-boned and without buds, with wild weather swings from days in the 60s to plowable snowstorms, with winter's detritus of food wrappers and cups and cigarettes freshly exposed and not yet swept away.

In my opinion Minnesota is an incredibly beautiful state 11/12 of the year. And then there is March.



Growing Pains


March in Minnesota:
a junior high collection
of bad haircuts, forgettable
photos, and unhappy skin.

Hedging toward change,
it wears a winter coat
two sizes too small,
knobby wrists exposed.
New growth stumbles in boots
suddenly grown tight.

One ear flinches from winter,
fearing another swipe
but the other strains to catch
summertime blues playing
around the corner.

A time of brooding, a month of angst.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor