Chasing Utopia Read online

  And the rest said: Yes we Can

  And the clouds settle in that welcome place

  Between ground and trees and sky

  Like smoke coming off a coffeepot

  Like steam coming from a kettle of pinto beans

  Like the rustic smell of a wood-burning fire at day’s end

  At home and at peace

  Like God has a rocking chair in the sky

  Smoking his pipe

  And being proud

  Of His Great Smoky Mountains

  THESE WOMEN

  I have known these women

  Have loved and admired them

  Have been afraid of and for them

  I have slept on lumpy double beds

  That were covered with quilts

  Made by these women and their friends

  Washed in a communal tub

  And dried with kisses from the Tennessee breeze

  The dreams I have dreamed under those quilts

  Took me on this journey not yet completed

  I have sat with these women

  On back porch steps

  Gutting Catfish or Whiting

  My knife flying up and down

  Split exactly to the center the better to lay flat

  In the hot grease of the skillet

  My hair covered in fish scales

  My hands covered with blood

  My lips smiling as I have been welcomed

  Into the company of women

  My grandmother would let me

  Break the green beans

  Pop pop pull the string though

  When guests were expected she

  Would “French” them

  That was a kitchen job

  Saturday was a cleaning day

  I have bent to my knees to scrub

  The wooden pantry floor

  And climbed on shaky chairs

  To Pledge the cabinets in which are kept the good dishes

  Sundays were Sunday School and Church

  Our Sunday best clothes

  Our deliverance from and to

  Sunday was the answer

  I did not know then

  The question

  I have heard these women

  When they thought I was asleep

  Crying for their sons

  In jail

  Or their daughters

  Being beaten

  I have seen the bruises of the daughters

  And I have seen the grandmothers

  Not looking

  I have heard their prayers when they didn’t know

  What to pray for

  Looking for understanding and relief

  Praying for their granddaughters to not

  Make the same mistakes

  Had there been magic

  I would have lifted these women

  All of them

  Into a red cape

  And sprinted them away to a happy land

  But they are grounded

  In their God and their families

  They are grounded in their hearts and minds

  They majestically knew

  They are grounded in me

  And here I stand

  With arms wide open

  A song fleeing

  from my breasts

  from the goodness

  Of our grandmothers

  And I must sing

  COOKING WITH MOMMY

  After my father had a stroke my son, our dog, and I moved back home from New York to Cincinnati to help my mother. Always being a mama’s girl it was a natural thing to do. Plus I must admit I hate it when people know you need help and then make you ask. There was no way taking care of a stroke victim would be easy so we moved. First I put a fence in the backyard for the dog, then turned the garage into a tree house without a tree for my son and the friends I knew he would make. That turned my attention to the house.

  It was a nice house. FHA-type house. Small but enough room. We needed a porch, since decks and porches are so different. We had one put on which extended the living room and cooled the house better. My father was an Alabaman by birth and he loved sitting on the porch and calling out to his neighbors. Lincoln Heights is a country town where folks do that sort of thing. Everyone was doing O.K.

  Mommy still was working which I hoped she would continue to do until he was on his feet. Mommy tended to feel sorry for her husband, my father, and she would cut his meat, make his bed . . . things like that. I thought he should do for himself. If I could keep her working he would. That would be another story for another time.

  I don’t eat breakfast. There is probably some deep meaning or perhaps trauma about that but I don’t eat breakfast. I am not necessarily disdainful of breakfast but it seems awfully early to put food on the table let alone in your mouth. My first meal of the day to start is dinner. Dinner is my favorite. You can sit down recognizing there is nothing important that you need to do. You can relax. While I was helping Mommy that was what I did: the same as if I were in my own home. I start dinner. It actually got to the point that when my father awoke if there was nothing on or in the stove he would ask where we were going that evening because he understood the pattern.

  One of my favorite restaurants then was a little Bistro called Le Central. It is French. In downtown San Francisco. Le Central kept a pot going and they would post on the board how many days the pot was still stirring. They sometimes got several months. The pot works this way: You keep your vegetables in the pot and add water or wine or, I suppose, beer. No meat. Mommy and I got to laughing one day and we decided we would start a frontier pot. Mommy and I had been having a very very low-grade argument about saving grease. I said No. She said Yes. I would throw the grease out; she would hide it in the back of the fridge. We finally called a truce: the frontier pot. Mommy thought I was wasteful because I throw things out; I thought she was foolish to keep teeny tiny leftovers. This was a good compromise.

  I think it started with peas. No. First you need a clean gallon jar with a top. Then the leftover veggies of the day. Peas. Corn. Squash. Whatever you have left over. Ziplock bags are important because you might want to save the juice. If you, for example, boil potatoes, the water has nutrients in it but you don’t want to save the water with the veggies or they will get soggy. I saved 2 cups liquid in ziplock bags which I froze. Then when I needed to add liquid I could, in 2-cup amounts. Anything can go in the frontier pot. Pasta. Tomatoes. Anything you have. We kept it going for 30 days, then we made soup. To be honest it drove my father and son crazy. They hated Saturdays when Mommy and I would say Oh Frontier Pot for dinner. Of course we made a nice green salad and warm bread, usually corn bread, and we tried to make it very nice with bread pudding for dessert because even though we were four people it still is very hard to eat a loaf of bread. What I did was freeze the leftover bread so that we could have fresh bakery bread most of the time. My son learned to hate frozen bread, too, but we can’t always get to the bakery. Bread pudding is the easiest thing on earth so the house smelled good. And let’s be honest: If this is all you’re getting, then you may as well enjoy it. Sometimes when we finished off the Pot and had to start again, we wrote the number of days on the refrigerator; sometimes we had a little left over and the day count would continue. It was fun. I still put stock in the freezer and when I make soups or beans I pull out my ziplock and think of the good times I had cooking with my mother.

  P.S.: I recognize this has no recipe but it is a living thing. It’s fun to try, especially in winter. It does keep you from wasting “a little bit.” And with herbs, spices, and a bit of beer or wine it’s wonderful.

  WHAT THE FLY ON THE WALL OVERHEARD AND TOLD A FRIENDLY YELLOW FINCH WHO MENTIONED IT TO A LONELY BAT AS SHE SET OUT ON A CLEAR, DRY EVENING TO SEARCH FOR RIPE FRUIT

  Or

  Happy Birthday, Nancy

  The Department Head was hurrying to close her door against the ravages of demands when she heard a whimper. Or perhaps it was a sigh. But whatever it was it was u
ndeniable: Someone needed help. She turned toward the sound. “I am having a birthday soon,” said the Associate Head, “and it makes me feel so old.” “Oh,” said the Department Head, “you shouldn’t feel old. There are lots of people here older than you.” “No,” insisted Nancy. “No one is older than I. Some people have been here longer but I am the oldest person in the world!” “Oh, no,” declared the Department Head. “Look at Nikki. No one is older than Nikki.”

  “Are you sure?” Nancy said. “Nikki always looks so chipper and vibrant.”

  “Yes, I know,” said the Department Head, “but I looked it up. Nikki is way older than she knows. There was a mix-up in her birth records. She thinks she was born in 1943 but she was actually born in 1439. No one knows how to explain this to her so she still gets a birthday every year.

  “I know this,” the Department Head continued, “because two years ago I forgot her birthday and received a blistering message from The Birthday Fairies. They made it very clear that if I ever did that again they would take away not only my February date but my husband’s December. That Birthday calendar is very strict.”

  “Well,” Nancy asked, “do you think Nikki is planning to live forever?”

  “I have to say,” said the Department Head, dimples resting in their arches, “it really looks like it. If she accepted her age now the entire Civil War not to mention the War of the Roses and . . . Good Gracious! Think of the love affairs . . . financial things . . . discoveries that would have to be undone. No, I think the best thing is to let it be.”

  “But aren’t there people in Heaven waiting for her?” asked Nancy.

  “Well. I’m not so sure of the location,” said the Department Head, “but Bandit has been in touch with Wendy who is enjoying Nikki’s mother’s company. They were just joined by Nikki’s former babysitter so the beer and the talk is flowing. Wendy misses Nikki. Don’t tell her that, though. It would make Nikki sad.”

  “So what should we do,” Nancy asked, “about June 7th?”

  “I think I’ll make her a quiche. She really likes my quiches.”

  “But should someone that old eat that many eggs? It might kill her.”

  “Well,” said the Department Head, “we all have our jobs, don’t we?” She turned to present a box to Nancy. “And here is my very best Red Velvet Cake for you!”

  “So it’s O.K. for me to go ahead with my birthday?”

  “Yes, Nancy. Happy Birthday. And many many more.”

  The End

  FEAR: EAT IN OR TAKE OUT?

  I think fear should be a spice. Something we sprinkle on our steaks just before we put them on the grill; something we mix in with our corn muffins and bake at 350 degrees for twenty minutes or until golden brown. Maybe we take fear leaves to decorate our apple pie right out of the oven . . . not before or the leaves will burn and not look nearly so pretty. I’m thinking if we can learn to distill fear we have two wonderful preparations: perfume for smells and alcohol for ingestion.

  Perfume carries its own scent of danger and excitement but when we throw a little Fear in there things really heat up. Ask John Edwards or Herman Cain and see if I’m not right. Fear: The Scent He Can’t Resist. We’d have to find an exclusive outlet for it. We wouldn’t want everybody to be able to get their hands on it. I’ll have to form a committee to find that solution. Maybe the White House has some ideas. Or . . . oh yes . . . The Tiger Woods Emporium! Get Your Fear Right Here. You can practice your swing, whatever that might mean, while your bottle is bagged.

  And if we made it drinkable we’d probably have a light green liquid with its own two-ounce top. You can take your fear on the rocks . . . or slip a bit of coke in there to make it mighty smooth. We could get the Culinary Channel to feature Fear at one of the drink offs and we’d reward the best new barista with his and her very own gold bottle of Fear to be used anytime they’d like.

  I need to explain right here, it’s not fear that causes problems, it’s when hatred is combined with it. Fear on its own tells you not to lend your cousin money; don’t go down that dark street, girl; take yourself home from this party now. Fear is a warning signal. Healthy. Good idea. That fish smells funny. My dog does not like this man. Fear is a good thing. It’s why I want to keep it exclusive. If everyone can have fear then we have to cut it. Like drugs. It’s not the cocaine that kills you it’s the stuff they cut it with to make the drugs go further. You don’t want pure fear but you don’t want it cut with hatred either. Hatred is a bad idea. Which is why it’s cheap and available anywhere you look.

  Maybe what will really work is we all need to have a fear tree in our backyard or a small fear plant growing on our apartment windowsill. When we are feeling uneasy we pluck a few leaves and find the right place to put them. Champagne would be the number one choice but spaghetti works, too. Have a little Fear at least once a week and you will build up your resistance. Like a vaccination. Then when wars and hatreds come along you’ll be able to recognize that’s just another expression of Fear. No thanks, I’ve had my quota.

  That’s what I’m thinking we really need: An Antidote for Fear.

  BISCUITS: DROPPED OR BAKED

  First you harvest the laughter

  Local is best

  But sometimes you need nationwide

  To really get the bellows

  Mix a bit of dirt

  Not the serious hurting kind

  But the kind you’ll find in the beauty

  Parlor or barbershop

  Parlor parlay biscuits

  All the same

  Then gently fold in some grandmother love

  There is always a bit of grandmotherly

  Love somewhere

  Some days though I will admit

  It can be more difficult to find

  Than others

  Call a girlfriend for “Dropped”

  Or an old love for “Baked”

  Either way you’ll know when they’re done

  Oops! We forgot the salt

  You can laugh till you cry

  Or cry till you laugh

  The salt will come

  Crispy Brown Ready

  Serve them warm

  Remembering summer mornings before Church

  Or Saturday evenings with fried fish

  Biscuits always bring memories

  Of home

  POETS

  Poets shouldn’t commit

  Suicide

  That would leave the world

  To those without imaginations

  Or hearts

  That would bequeath

  To the world

  A mangled syntax

  And no love

  Of champagne

  Poets must live

  In misery and ecstasy

  To sing a song

  With the katydids

  Poets should be ashamed

  To die

  Before they kiss

  The sun

  FOR MARK DRESSMAN

  Who would have thought

  There would be / could be a button

  On the wall

  Where when you touch

  The room lights up

  Electricity didn’t build

  On the candle

  It replaced wax

  Who would want to believe

  Human beings could sit

  On a Hydrogen Bomb

  (we call it a Space Ship)

  and sail off into Space

  and walk on the moon

  and land a surrogate on Mars

  Just to Marvel! at the unknown

  And why wouldn’t

  We want to take what is

  Known

  And add what is

  Wonderful

  And let the poems flow

  From tears of laughter

  From sweat of work

  From the deliciousness of tomorrow

  To the knowledge of Today

  Grant me that A implies B

  B necessitates C

  C calls
for D

  And eventually

  You and I will get an Alphabet

  Grant me that Curiosity implies Research

  Research requires Reading

  Reading delights the heart

  And you and I will get a voice

  Grant me Love implies

  not desire but

  Commitment

  Commitment accepts Challenge

  Challenge embraces Theory

  And you and I will get Reason: A way to explore

  past actions

  and

  future dreams

  Good for us

  On your Mark Dressman

  Get Ready!

  Let’s Poem!

  POSTCARDS

  A little calf

  Dancing in the rain

  Unaware of the joy

  She brings me

  I speed along at 70 mph

  Trying to get home

  The baby colt asleep

  In the sweet grass

  Mother patiently watching

  Over him

  I am packing my bags

  For London

  Trafalgar Square

  Silver-faced mime

  A war throwing kisses

  Couples laughing

  I wish I wish I wish

  You were here

  IN DEFENSE OF FLOWERS

  Dear Editor:

  I write in defense of flowers. It seems that lately everyone wants to put flowers in competition with other good works. Someone will die and the family will say “in lieu of flowers,” which seems unfair to me. It should be “in addition to flowers . . .” Flowers and the florists who make them into beautiful sculptures are not some adjunct to our occasions. We wouldn’t dream of marrying without flowers no matter how small a bouquet nor how elaborate a setting. What would February 14th be without flowers for the ones you love? And Mother’s Day! Could there beat a heart so cold that there is for Mother a . . . what . . . electric skillet, “in lieu of flowers”? But florists cannot just count on one or two days a year for a business. Florists purchase flowers that a flower farmer has nourished from seed, then harvested, then transported to shops where they then fill your loving request. Florists hire people to work with and for them, keeping a small business going in these difficult times. What are we saying when we say insurance companies and predator lenders are too big to fail—that florists and other boutique businesses are too small to succeed? Why is it the minute we want to save money we cut out the arts and flowers? I know that some will say “Well, what do we do with the flowers when the event is over?” We use these wonderful gifts of nature to comfort us when we bury the departed; we use them to celebrate our special occasions; we use them to say “I love you’’ to a beloved. They then can travel from our hearts to hospitals comforting the ill and injured; they can visit with the Ladies of the Red Hats to add joy to their meetings; they can be shared with an elderly neighbor on a fixed income who would welcome the extravagance. Some will surely say “But we need charitable contributions.” Indeed we do. I cheer for charity all the time. But there is a need for flowers as surely as there is a need for hummingbirds. Some things are wonderful on their own; enchantment is reason enough. I remember when my mother passed five years ago a friend who had been in Thailand learned late of her passing and sent a beautiful bird-of-paradise almost a year after the event. I confess: A note saying A Tree Has Been Planted Somewhere would not have been as comforting. And I could dry it and press it into the memory book as “The Last Flower.” Not “in lieu of flowers.” No. In addition. Because flowers neither reap nor sow they are perfect for mourning and rejoicing. Flowers sing a silent song that says: “I really care.” Flowers are the “Honey, I’m home” when work is put aside; “Good Night, Sweetheart” at the end of the day; the sigh at the end of a kiss. Why should we deny ourselves the beam of the moon against the quiet sky? Why should we privilege anything over the fragrance of love?