City Map - Chicago

This week I spent time at the Wisconsin Dells with my grandchildren and their parents. Part of us traveled east from Minneapolis, the other group headed west from northern Indiana which meant braving Chicago traffic. The trick to making reasonable time through the Windy City rests with avoiding rush hour both coming and going.

Their trip out proved successful, the drive back turned into a different story. A four and a half hour journey expanded to six and a half hours. Even with GPS advising them on the fastest route they did no better than my well worn map used for years before Siri had a voice.



City Map - Chicago


Riding shotgun or in my glove box,
useless. Your streets show no
escape routes during rush hour

but force me into the flow
of your car-clogged arteries.
Bumper to bumper

from the Edens
east to the Indiana Skyway,
squeezed between eighteen-wheelers

and cell phone screamers
all caught in a slow moving
tango of vehicles.

From you I learned: NPR
repeats itself every two hours,
Fast Pass stickers become oxymorons

and flipping through iTunes may result
in missing a crucial exit.
Still, I scan your fan-folded pages

searching for a time warp portal,
a gun-your-engines run
on a thruway to elsewhere.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

City Pond

Even this far north there is no escaping the season's heat. When I walk for exercise this time of year it becomes imperative to do so early in the morning or I find it intolerable. There's a reason I live in Minnesota, especially when it comes to hot weather.

My usual walking course takes me through a wooded city park, around a lake, and past a handful of ponds. A great place to hear birds singing and frogs croaking, to visualize herons and egrets. But the increasing warmth of summer alters the composition of the smaller bodies of water. I don't know if this is problematic or simply a typical response.



City Pond


A cauldron of vichyssoise
thick with pea-green algae.
Ducks on logs preen, clean
feathers dripping with chlorophyta.
Turtle hatchlings dragging slime
slip and slide on rocks.
From a willow a kingfisher
watches the water below, flies off.
No fish? Poor visuals?

Parks and Rec unconcerned.
Should I be?



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Fireflies

I realize this posting is overdue, and I know my travels initiated the delay but the airlines prolonged it. Something about a mechanical problem which repeatedly pushed back our departure time. Always a tad unnerving and more than slightly aggravating for those making further connections.

In any case, I'm back home after visiting my son and his family. Come nighttime fireflies lit up the backyard, a pleasure forgotten when living in a high rise. Their graceful meandering reminded me of another summer evening watching my then six-year-old granddaughter and these magical insects.



Fireflies


On a muggy Indiana night
my granddaughter
filled her hand still sticky from cobbler
with sluggish bugs blinking their way
above new mown grass. Her fist clamped tight.

Sent to wash off the gooey mess
she pouted in protest, unfurled her fingers
and loosed nine tiny, twinkling lights
like a handful of stardust onto the breeze.
Not an injured wing among them.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Eulogy to a Primary School

Back to my hometown for a high school class reunion the past few days. So many faces, so many changes. It always amazes me how time marches on for all of us. Doesn't leave anyone behind even those who remain fixed in our minds at age 18 or whenever we last saw them. Yes, they have aged, too.

Upheaval in the old order can sneak up on a person, especially, when one is not paying attention. Seven years ago the news that my grade school permanently shut its doors jolted me, caused me to remember those kid crammed classrooms, consider how nothing remains static. Which brings me back to my reunion this weekend, and how fortunate we are to be able to reestablish connections that could easily slip away given the years and distance between all of us.



Eulogy to a Primary School


They're closing my grade school:
the one next to the Cathedral
that bulged with kids fifty to a room,
run by nuns in white habits and starched
black veils, masters in the art of yardsticks.

They're closing my grade school:
where they tried vainly to teach me
cursive, told me to mouth the words
during singing, and displayed drawings
of mine only out of compassion.

They're closing my grade school:
established in 1905 in the North End
where Victorian homes once housed
lawyers and doctors generous
with fund raisers and collection plates.

They're closing my grade school:
sitting on a lot across from the convent
where I took piano from Sister Felicitas,
her voice icy when she caught me playing
pop and not Bach in the practice room.

They're closing my grade school:
the one granting diplomas to over
a hundred students in my eighth grade
class but in its last year graduated
less than twenty.

When did it grow so small?



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Intermezzo

Because of summer travels I'm a day early with this week's blog and already know I'll be a day late next time. So, I figure this evens things out, nicely.

Until three years ago I resided in various places where pleasant sounds of the night drifted through open, summer windows. Frogs and crickets lulled me to sleep, chick-a-dees and robins roused me in the mornings. That changed when I moved into a high rise. As we all know, builders tend to locate them in high density areas which usually means almost constant TRAFFIC NOISE.

Having lived here for a while, I notice that on weekends and holidays this annoyance decreases dramatically, at least for a few hours early on. And, occasionally, if I wake soon enough on an average day, I can still hear birds singing their way into the dawn. But the nighttime hooting of the owl no longer reaches my ears.



Intermezzo


Unadorned melodies of the night

      rain washing the world
      a concert of crickets
      the wind holding court

swallowed by scores
of mufflers and motors and horns
                           ten stories down.

The unmetered run of darkness
echoing hot rods and half-wits.

But sometimes            predawn
the chance for birdsong
in the hush between movements.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Faithful Servant

Solstice arrived this past week and brought along a full moon to the celebration. Almost half a century gone since its last invitation. I admit this was the first time I heard of a Strawberry Moon. Harvest Moon, Hunter's Moon, Blue Moon, those I know but never considered the possibility of others. Surely, if some have names, all of them must.

They do, and have for thousands of years. The names come from those people who relied on the moon and its cycles to track the seasons. Not unlike us with today's calendars. Next one up, according to Native American lore, the Buck Moon. Meanwhile, this orb continues to inspire stories of all manner in imaginations everywhere, including my own.



Faithful Servant


I looked on a gibbous moon
and the night disclosed softened
features on a pockmarked globe.

A scarred follower pulled
by the charm of the planet it shadows,
Sancho to Don Quixote,
subtly tugging, asserting gentle influences.

But from all reports
the master remains self-absorbed
and mostly oblivious.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Edgy Colors

Up to the lake again this past week, and even there the temperature surpassed the 90 degree mark. Keep in mind this was northern Wisconsin. All the while, the heat played footsie with a surge of humidity to the point of making our floor weep. On our final day a thunderstorm rolled in and disrupted the affair, clearing the air of all unpleasantness.

This morning we left a perfect day behind us: 72 degrees, clear skies, and a breeze ruffling the water. And now we're back to this island of heat we call home. I shouldn't complain; we could be living in Phoenix.



Edgy Colors


On plasma screens
the weather map lights up
with yellows and reds,
crabbing from west to east
along an unstable line.

          A towering thunderstorm forms
          a front on summer's brink.
          But it is my old black and white TV
          that has it right: gray on gray.

                             Outside
                             no bright candy color scenes,
                             only somber-suited clouds
                             and a hint of Oz-like green.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
       

Egret

I am fortunate to live within walking distance of a city lake and wooded hiking trails, both a draw for many different species of birds: herons, chick-a-dees, and red-winged blackbirds, kingfishers and cardinals, mallards, geese, and gulls start the list, nicely. But my favorite remain the egrets with their dazzling white plumage and elegant movements. Many times I have spotted one fishing on the far side of the lake. More than once I have come within a stone's throw from another on the near shore. Both of us startled, me holding stock-still, the egret taking to the air. Mostly, though, I am too far away to pose any kind of a threat.



Egret


                               White-hot
spotlit against the dark summer reeds

that curtain the shore
and prying eyes of soft-pawed predators

the long-legged bird electrifies my gaze.    

                                            Unperturbed
grown too large for eagles
no further worries water-side

he dips his head to fish.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

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