High School Reunion

Impressions of two weeks in Singapore: an island nation on the equator, a country of almost 6 million people, a land crowded with high rises, fantastic food, intense heat, high humidity, and, of course, Andrew's home.

A family reunion and the college graduation of his grandniece coaxed us to travel to the other side of the globe. What memories will endure with these fresh-faced young graduates? And what will they recall decades from now about their experiences?

Last summer I finally attended a high school reunion of my own, and it left me with these thoughts.



High School Reunion


Tonight everyone's an intimate: the Army
recruiter and the dissident, the accountant
and the artist.

Yet when did this classmate become
so rotund, that one so drawn?
And why did my own friends not attend?
Not interested or lingering adolescent angst?

Like memories of a carpool
that picked up my neighbor and left me
at the bus stop: nose buried in books,
feigning disdain, and no date for the dance.

Friendships with kindred spirits thwarted:
one lived across town, another belonged
to the opposite sex.
Significant roadblocks to teenage rapport.

Tonight without fallback confidants
I linger with others from classes past,
and find affinity.

The night's end underscores
"What might have beens," as promises
to "Keep in touch" drift
like casual motes on the evening air.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Summertime Games

I am off to Singapore next week, and will be taking a two week break from the blog. If I don't melt in the heat, you'll hear from me again mid-July.

Summer - a season to sit back and relax, revel in long days and warmth. Best epitomized by kids let loose from school, and finally free to run barefoot in the grass.



Summertime Games


Freewheeling swallows

                four or five fledglings
                 gleefully chattering

                           soar and swoop for fun
                in evening mellow hours

like neighborhood kids

                     let loose after dinner
                  cartwheeling in the grass
                      playing tag out back

                                         before bedtime.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Ode to Joy

Music filled this last week for me. Twice in the past few days I attended concerts performed by the Minnesota Orchestra, Yo Yo Ma the principal artist at one of them.

At the same time, there exists a famous black and white photo taken in the 1950s of a young boy in Peru, playing a flute and walking down a road. The joy in that scene captures the delight experienced in any Orchestra Hall.



Ode to Joy
       (After Bischof's  Flute Player 
        on the Way to Cuzco, Peru, 1954)


Descendant of Incas

                        Classical heirs

In sandals and shorts

                         In tuxedos and ties

With stripes on his poncho

                         Wearing shiny black shoes

Played his flute

                         Commanded a hall

And the melody flowed

                         And Beethoven's Ninth

Eased distractions

                         Lifted spirits

Lightened the load

                         Erased distress

With a single instrument

                         With chorus and orchestra

As complete

                         As effective

As a symphony of musicians

                         As the stream of a flute



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Swampland Puzzle

Nature is full of surprises. For instance, I had no idea until this weekend that dragonflies molt, leaving behind tissue-thin exoskeletons. But insect deviations pale in comparison to the orange alligator photographed sunning on the banks of a South Carolina pond earlier this year.

One scientist theorized the stain may have come from naturally occurring sediment in some waterway. Another observed that if the pigment were only skin deep, the gator's color would be back to normal in two weeks.

To my knowledge, no one ever posted a follow-up photo, giving us the rest of the story. I guess we will never know.



Swampland Puzzle


An alligator lazes
Bankside of a Carolinian canal.
Carrot-color reptile.

A herpetology head-scratcher.

Rusty from culvert creeping?
Too many sweet potato pies?
A hoodoo spell? Toxins?

If it's not easy being green,
This change to tangerine
Begs for attention, wanted or not.

Could be it's a temporary tint,
Disappearing like the odd press item
Found on slow news days.

Or, maybe, it's permanent
And swampers will mark the trophy.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Wildfire

Unlike the previous 20 months, May in Minnesota did not average above normal temperatures. But that quickly changed with the arrival of June. Most of the State posted highs in the 90s the past few days. Just in time for the controversial withdrawal from the Paris Climate Agreement.

However, the heat we experienced last spring was one for the record books. And it was felt far beyond Minnesota.



Wildfire


A pall drifted in overnight,
tracings of a raging forest fire riding
Canadian air south. This one tangible

as a ninety-degree wrap in May, in Minnesota.
Not easily dismissible as someone's tall tale.

In Alberta parched pines burn on tar sands
owned by oilmen selling hydrocarbons.
A company town, booming as any goldmine
encampment, evacuated when gusty winds set in.

Nearby, levels down on the waterway tapped
to help with fracking.

"Karma," murmurs the Athabasca River,
drained of power, burdened with impurities,
fed up with the heat of man.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Obits: 19 May 2016

I have a confession to make: obituaries fascinate me. One can find amazing stories in the thumbnail sketches of people's lives, and I often find myself humbled while reading them.

A year ago I was struck by the fact that two, okay 67, newsworthy deaths took place on the same day -  those aboard an Egyptian Airliner, and half a world away, Morley Safer. It made me wonder about all the other people who might have died within those same 24 hours, and how little we know of our fellow travelers at this point in time.



Obits: 19 May 2016


Mostly unrecognized, the man
wearing the sports coat patiently waited
his turn in the crowded anteroom.
Occasionally a whispered, "Isn't that Morley
Safer from 60 Minutes?" reached his ears.

But the sixty-six souls from the fated flight
of EgyptAir 804 paid no heed, nor did
a group of war-savaged Syrians,
or those snagged by India's heat wave,
nor numberless others left out of headlines
but now called to account for their lives.

So many compelling stories,
and St. Peter with the only pen in the place.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Gully

Back to the cabin this weekend. Back to higher lake levels and filling wetlands. Back to a raw northeast wind and a slow but constant rain. Unlike the two day downpour of last spring that cost three people their lives, but raising the water table just as effectively.



Gully


Rain-besotted ground, tree roots rotting,
dry land no longer but true boreal bog.
Blue spruce waterlogged, day-trippers tripped up.

Stalled rainclouds sent rivers rampaging,
buckling roadways.
Three careless souls overwhelmed
by rushing water,
caught in separate nets of rashness.

Northwood news but not national. No one
live-streaming mayhem from black-top roads.
Only a doe and her fawn
attempting to leap a ditch turned floodway,
and a slow moving car with out-of-state plates.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

No Ballerina Flats in the Bunch

It's Mother's Day, and how can I not remember my mom. She stood barely five feet tall while my dad's six foot frame towered over her. As a result of this height difference and possessing an innate sense of fashion, three inch heels were her friends.

Like a lot of women she loved shoes. Many of them followed her from the family home to assisted living, and even a few found space in a long term care closet. Here's to you, Mom, a woman who lived life to the fullest.



No Ballerina Flats in the Bunch


Boxes of shoes
like guests reluctant to leave
crowded your closet,
hand-tooled pumps and heels

many of them stilettos outdated
to the point of being retro.
As a fashionista you never left home
in anything less.

With time and a leaky heart
your ankles started to balloon. You fumed,
frustrated as those unable to wear
the charmed glass slipper.

How many stores did we shop
trying to find something
both stylish and practical
before you agreed to a slip-on, forever

regarded with disdain? And woe
be to the daughter who suggested donating
any former footwear to the Goodwill.
You were not done with the high life yet.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

I Don't Want To

Since I'm still in London and immersed in my daughter's life, here is one more blog from my point of view about her year long journey fighting breast cancer. As I mentioned before, her Annus Horribilis is behind her, and she is more than well on her way to recovery.

It's always good to spend time with her family; it's always bittersweet to leave.



I Don't Want To


tackle your white cell count
decipher your persistent nausea
compile a file of toxic drugs
badger you not to ignore a fever
caution you to avoid crowds
fret about airborne infections
weigh the chance of cardiac side effects
hear you stumble with "chemo brain"
notice you fumble with stiffened fingertips
interpret your pathology report
weep as I watch women Race for the Cure.

I only want to be your mother, brush the hair
from your shoulders, banish the monsters
from under your bed.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
 

Shore

I'm currently in London visiting my daughter and her family. For those of you who routinely follow this blog, you already know she was diagnosed with breast cancer about 18 months ago. I am very glad to say she made it through chemo and surgery and radiation with her spirits intact, is back at work, and is doing well.

Of course, I wrote several poems about her long journey from my own perspective. And, more importantly, she has given me the OK to share some of them. Two of which will surface this Sunday and next.



Shore


The sea shifted the moorings,
stranding me on the wharf,
as cancer, a tidal wave, dragged my daughter.

Left me, a physician, to pace
like parents I once counseled,
on a desolate beach, all
afraid of spying any debris from chemo.

Used to piloting the rescue,
able to pinpoint each trickster reef,
I lean into the wind but the sand shifts
as I watch others fight to save her.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor  

April Fool

Yes, we journeyed again to the north woods this weekend with the weather taking us on a rollercoaster ride. Only shirt sleeves needed the first day. Perfect for pushing in our dock, soaking up warmth. But overnight the frogs went from a full-throated chorus to "save your energy" quiet. The next morning brought wind and snow on the coattails of plummeting temperatures.

The sudden change reminded me of an April in the Cities a few years back when a crabapple tree set to bloom, failed to do so.



April Fool


Rosy shafts of surprise
skim the soft wood
of an apple tree.

Its arms caught
with a sunrise of snow
blushing deeply.

A heartbreak color
embraced
where blossoms should be.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Grand Ole Creamery

Sunday morning and the skies are clear, finally. A faint haze of green colors tree branches, bushes. And I have already witnessed lawn mowers in action. The delight of no longer needing to wear a jacket becomes reason enough to spend time outside.

I used to live a stone's throw from the world's best ice cream shoppe. Okay, if not the world, at least here in the Twin Cities. I sorely miss being able to walk a mere half block and indulge in a waffle cone overfilled with coffee flavored ice cream augmented with bits of chocolate cookie. Per usual, it's the small operations that repeatedly earn high marks.

Grand Ole Creamery

A pleasure

to stand in a line 

zigzagging out the door  

and down the street

of the mom and pop shop

at 8:00 o'clock on the first

pleasant evening in spring

all for a scoop of homemade

ice cream.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Unaccompanied Minor

On our trip to the cabin in early March we came across a pair of swans pausing in the waters of a wetland, presumably hoping to find an open lake. Even with the warming atmosphere, "ice out" doesn't occur until late April that far north. I fear for those too early, too eager birds but will never know their fate.

Shortly after the ice disappeared at the cabin last year I spied a returning loon, or so I thought. They are the first waterbirds to make themselves at home on the lake come spring, no matter how chilly the water.



Unaccompanied Minor


The vernal equinox come and gone
yet nighttime frosts persist,
winter's dunning agents.
A flash of white like a message
from a signal light
rides the waterline - the loon returned.

But the size is wrong, more of a liner
than a small tug. Black eyes instead of red
and a long, goose-shaped neck once unfurled.

The bird, a singleton, glides off,
unaware of fading ugly-duckling coloring.
Head held as if royalty
bears the favor of spring: a cygnet on the cusp.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Plane Spotting

Yes, I am two days late this week but my excuse is valid. I spent an extended weekend with my son and his family simply enjoying myself. They live in northern Indiana, and there exists a non-stop flight between here and there. It's a quick trip by air, and, more importantly, avoids the hassle of dealing with the traffic in Chicago.

From where I live in the Cities I have a great view of planes landing and/or departing. And I never tire of watching them.



Plane Spotting


Rush hour in the sky commences
from a copse of hardwoods
or so it seems.

How many souls catapult
towards adventure? Who tackles
another day on the job?

Which suitcases pack
power points? Presents? Snorkels?
Suits? Sandals? Ties? Travel guides?
Ski wear? Beach wear? Wing-tips?

From my perch how I wish
my name graced a passenger list
instead of a book club confirmation.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor