WWI: Switzerland

A century ago WWI in its last days continued to make itself felt even in European countries not caught up in the conflict.

My mother often reminisced about her childhood in Switzerland in those years of going without, and her father already in America waiting for their arrival delayed by the war.



WWI: Switzerland


Next door
the Marne and the Somme.
I was like the Princess
with her nonsense pea,
bemoaning a lack of oranges
and pebble knots in stockings
darned instead of discarded.

Empty shelf years
broken once with a celebration:
Oma and Opa's 50th anniversary.
I imagined our offering to be gold,
jewelry for her, cufflinks for him.
But all my pleas for a grand gift
only brought head shaking.

Cheeks burning,
prodded by my mother
I handed them our beribboned box,
confused when they proclaimed it
their favorite present of all:
a half-kilo of coffee beans
trailing earthy aromas.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Intern's Lament

Last night I attended a farewell party for a colleague of mine now headed south to a new job in New Orleans. I couldn't help but recall the very beginning of my own career as a bright-eyed doc ready to take on the world.

Little did any of us know what awaited that first year on the pediatric wards with no defenses against even common viruses that kids harbor. By the second year our force shields were almost impervious.



Intern's Lament


How many sneezes in the face
does it take to take down
a pediatrician in training?

How many doorknobs harbor
dastardly pink-eye, waiting to pounce
like a villain from an action cartoon?

How many tummy upsets
turn the tables on newly minted docs
causing them to bolt from the room?

How long 'til the mucous man
rooms with a resident,
unpacks a sack of sniffles and snot?

How many hours turn into a staycation
on the couch, fighting a fever,
sleeping through precious time off?

How many kid diseases rule
before antibodies activate superpowers,
and this rite of passage passes?



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor  

Limited Visibility

The I-90 corridor along southern Minnesota stretches across open prairie. Easy to drive on nice days, and a bugaboo during bad weather of any kind. Heavy rain dogged me this trip but thick fog has haunted me on more than one occasion.



Limited Visibility


Wind turbines, pale giants swallowed
by ghost clouds, spin layered vapor
floating over the plains.

Warning signs and raised crossbars
prepared to halt highway traffic
loom and recede like prairie phantoms.

Drifting snow and blizzards trigger
extended arms/alarms, but diaphanous fog,
famous for pileups, holds no leverage.

                            *

Uninvited passengers,
a throbbing headache and white knuckles,
slide in for the ride.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Summertime Riff

It's mid-September and the noisy cicadas have gone but the crickets continue to natter. It's mid-September and still the heat of extended summer makes for sweltering nights. It's mid-September but it feels like the dog days persist, heat advisories and all.



Summertime Riff


The jazz of crickets
lulls me to sleep on sticky
August nights. Like the steady
thrum of a Bourbon Street beat
it floats through my wide-flung window
long past "Last call."

When the sultry sun rises
I wake to these jam sessions
finally winding down
as one by one the players pack it in,
amused by the ants already hustling
at first light.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Uncle Ben

My father came from a farming family, and I remember summers spent in the country with two uncles and an aunt, siblings all, still working the land. Of the three of them, Ben left the biggest impression.



Uncle Ben


A wide-mouthed jar brimful
with change, and sitting out
in the open on his dresser
proved to me at age eight
what a wealthy man he must be.
I paid scant notice to his worn
overalls and the back-firing tractor.

He taught me my first salty words,
how to milk a cow without getting kicked,
that Kool-Aid without sugar was only
colored well-water and just as bitter,
exactly the way he liked it.

I acted as his co-pilot when we drove
to town. He surveyed the crops
while I watched the road, gravel pinging
all the way to O'Toole's Bar. A beer
and a bump for him and without asking
always a mouth puckering Squirt for me.

He cursed the noon market reports,
swatting at the airwaves with his thick,
calloused hand, thought it a joke
to toss my straw hat into the hay baler,
and bluffed strangers with his gruffness.

More grizzly than teddy bear, he once
let me hide in his arms during a hailstorm,
and I think I saw him smile.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Linguistics in a Nutshell

It's been a few years since my grandson gathered medieval looking conkers, but I clearly remember their prickly appearance. Last I checked, no chestnut trees menace our neighborhood. It's only the black walnuts we contend with.



Linguistics in a Nutshell


My grandson collected conkers
fallen from a chestnut tree
on a leafy street in London.
And I puzzled over the odd,
British moniker for this glossy nut
bundled in a spiky shell
until acorns, elfin in comparison,
pelted my head from an oak
found at home three months
and a turn of the globe later.

At least the black walnut held its fire.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Summertime Arrangement

For years a pot of flowers annually graced my entry. A simple affair of colorful geraniums and some greenery, enough to brighten the stoop.

I miss them, and each spring revisit the idea of flowers on the balcony of our 10th floor condo. It's usually the wind that squelches these schemes.



Summertime Arrangement


A pot of plants watches
from my front stoop,
red and white geraniums
cheerfully waving at passers-by.

They are a happy bunch,
this hardy crew thrown
together for a summer,
root bound for the season.

And now in August
I notice just how close
they have grown: a bloom
of pink peeks from the foliage.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

To Be Blessed

I've returned from a trip to Europe that included the wedding of Andrew's nephew in northern Italy. The bride and groom requested me to write a poem to be read during the ceremony, and that offering is this week's entry.



To Be Blessed
             for Adam and Valeria


To be blessed said the poet
is to pledge one's love
on the verdant shores of Lake Como.

To be blessed said the water
is to ripple with sun-crested waves,
and adapt when they darken.

To be blessed said the foothills
is to flourish under soft, summer skies,
and weather winter winds.

To be blessed said the Alps
is to provide plateaus for lupine,
and allow for valleys of snow.

To be blessed said the sky
is to dust the heavens with magic,
and remain constant behind the tempest.

To be blessed said the parents
is to wake up together, smiling,
even as rain beats against the window.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Promised Meteor Shower

Many years ago I witnessed a spectacular meteor shower, and have been in search of a similar experience ever since. The conditions need to be just right: late night or predawn, no clouds, and no ambient light.

I thought I had nailed it last summer at the cabin. But the timing of predawn darkness in the northland differs from that farther south.

As an aside, I will be traveling the first two weeks of August, so my blog will contain no new entries until the middle of the month.



Promised Meteor Shower


The best seat dockside:
an hour before sunrise or so it's written
         by someone in southern latitudes.

My laughing alarm pushed me
           into the far north predawn, lucent enough
                            to mask the faintest of fireballs.

Steam drifted off the water;
             the mirrored lake beckoned me to stay
                            but, bent on a firecracker sky,

I sulked away.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Medical School in Mid-Life

I recently received an invitation to attend the 30th reunion of my graduation from medical school. If I had done it in the usual time frame, it would be closer to a 45 year celebration.

True to form, I chose the hard way: in my 30s and with a half-grown family. It proved to be a very intense four years.



Medical School in Mid-Life


Master the facts crowding your head.
Fold the laundry, humor your spouse,
But never leave a page of text unread.

Groceries to buy, exams to dread,
And a waste of breath to grouse.
Simply master the facts storming your head.

Vacuum the floors, make the bed,
Find time for a movie, dropkick the doubts,
And nevermore leave biochem unread

But no casual scanning. Instead
When handed a memory aid - pounce!
Master the facts leaking from your head.

Chauffeur the kids, keep everyone fed,
And do not forget to iron your blouse
Nor leave a single assignment unread.

Family time dwindling, wrested
By med school, that blasted powerhouse.
Just master the facts crammed in your head,
And don't leave "Saving a Marriage" unread.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Seventh Heaven

I wrote this poem a year ago. It speaks for itself and all the wonders of a nighttime sky in the north woods.



Seventh Heaven


In wildwood clearings I linger
on the dock of midnight,
circle under the marvel of stars.
The summer sky shifts

the view I witness in winter
when Ursa Major rides low
but tonight somersaults higher
in the heavens of July.

And from his father's arms
Ursa Minor, tossed upwards
like a laughing child,
dangles the North Star on a string.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Tempest

The abundance of trees and lakes here in the Cities provides habitat for a wide diversity of birds. I watch herons fly between ponds and wooded areas on a daily basis, listen to any number of warblers early mornings, and, just yesterday, stood beneath an osprey gliding on thermals high above the street.

When I wrote this poem I was keeping track of a blue heron nesting on our lake in Wisconsin, but the sentiment applies equally well here.



Tempest


Where does the heron hide
when rain slashes the lake
and lightening fissures the sky?

Does she dash inside, secure
the windows, check the door, fiddle
with a flashlight, watch it pour?

And when the wind rakes the woods,
sends pine needles flying,
does her heart beat hard like mine
when hailstones strike?

Or does she shelter in a thicket,
feathers tucked tight, unperturbed
by sheets of rain and the pounding
roar of its refrain?



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Advantage: Sun

We suffered through a brief hot spell this past week, and the humidity only intensified it. To those who live in the desert Southwest unrelenting heat is a way of life. But each summer stretches a bit longer, and even dry heat can suffocate.



Advantage: Sun


Eggs over hard
fry on an Arizona tarmac, tacky
from weather too hot for pilots or planes.

Outside a Vegas casino
flamingos cluster under mist sprayers
as temps edge toward 120 degrees,
the winning number for an indoor reprieve.

To the west of Phoenix
train tracks soften, spark as railcars slip.

And to the east
a dust storm blindfolds a major highway.
Jackknifed semis and crushed cars
enmesh like a complex Erector Set.

The Sonoran desert keeps raising
the ante, holds every ace
in this high stakes game
brazenly dealt by human hands.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Sunny

Rain drenched the north woods this past week, dumping over ten inches one stormy night, flooding roads and cabins, our own included, and claiming two lives in the process. It is hard to remember the dryness of the forest and the unexpected sandbars uncovered by the lake only a few years back. If only that were the problem now.



Sunny


A lazy pontoon day
on a lake grown smaller,
leaving mudflats and marshes
beneath extended docks,
revealing the island's geological
layers, exposing the nests of loons
and geese, water grasses gone.
Four years lost already,
slippery minnows through a net.
The old-timers talk of cycles,
the cabin owners shake their heads,
the water ripples carefree as bare feet,
plovers still play along the shoreline
and For Sale signs take root out front.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor