Do We Really Choose?

   'That standing pants tale.' Julia's piercing voice cut through the silence. 'Ladies, did you read that? How endearing. How many of us had such a romantically experience in deciding whom we would marry? Certainly not I-- not for any of my three marriages. I had very little, if at all any. As I am sure is the same with you.'
   'Not the case with me,' Tanaquil said. 'I chose my man, over the harsh objections of my family. With harsher warnings from the priests, and with the rejection of the whole Lydian population. Surely I have shared with you my meeting with Lucomo.'
   'Not that old story about falling into his lap at the games', Julia did not fall easily to arguments questioning her prejudices.
   'I too made my decisions,' Carti said. 'Jewellee has done a fine job describing it. There was that horrid interloper from a northern tribe. He came as a foster son to us. I hated him. At least I think I did. For the most part all the foster sons were bothersome. But then my cousin, Branwen, -- the vamp she was-- set her sights on him. It was disgusting and degrading how she threw herself at him. And he took notice. Oh did he take notice. But then how does a hot blooded man not react to over exposed breasts and endless flirting? I decided she would not have him. Don't let me go on and on. Read Jewellee's account.

        

                   FROM JEWELLEE'S ROMAN CELTIC QUEEN 

Cartimandua peered into her father's workroom.  King Orain, his back to the door, twisted the left side of his long mustache as he leaned forward to examine the sword on the wall. Presented to him by the king of the Parisi, who had extolled the hardness of the iron from which it was forged, it had  not yet been used.

"Is it true," Cartimandua once asked when she was but a child, "that the Parisi once lived where Vercingetorix did?" 

Orain had dropped the shield he was polishing. "Vercingetorix? What do you know of him? And how?"

She had shrugged; then she shrank under her father's piercing stare. "Somebody said it. Sometime."

"You amaze me, daughter." Smiling with obvious admiration he had added, "As far as I know the Parisi are no more related to Vercingetorix than you or I." Then he fell silent. She had never gotten around to asking him again. Someday  maybe.  Cartimandua watched her father, occupied with his thoughts. She bumped the stool near the door, toppling the basket of torcs to be presented to the young recruits at their next inspection parade. 

"Is 'not to be disturbed' an unclear order?"  Orain turned to see his daughter backing away from the door.  "Wait," he ordered and burst into laughter.

Finally he stopped laughing and dabbed at the tears running down his cheeks. "What do I see before me?  Can this really be my Sleek Pony?  And with properly braided hair and -- if I may say so -- a charming tunic, with as far as I can tell not a single grass stain.  And a shawl."

Cartimandua winced at the 'Sleek Pony'. Orain's eyes softened when she did not protest. "Well Cartimandua, what is so important that you need to interrupt me when you know I am at work and specifically asked not to be disturbed?  Or is it that you just wanted me to see you all decked out and were afraid you'd tire of maintaining your appearance until I'm done here." She reddened.  "Well what is it?"

"Father, I wish to marry."

His smile fell away.  "Marry? Did you really say marry?"  She nodded.

"I see.  You wish to marry.  And just whom, if I may ask, do you have in mind? Just whom do you wish to marry?"

"Venutius."

He shook his head while keeping his eyes on her. "Venutius?  The same Venutius you said you detest? The same Venutius you've done everything imaginable-- and some things quite unimaginable-- to irritate.  With the hope, I'm told, to have him go running back to the Carvetii?"

She lowered her head to avoid her father's stare. "Cartimandua, look at me.  You're seriously telling me you want to marry Venutius?"

She met her father's stare.  "Yes."

"And just when did you decide this?"

She shrugged.  "Just lately." She could not confess it was because her cousin wanted him.

"And does Venutius agree?"

"I don't know."

Orain crossed his arms across his chest.  "A permanent connection," he said, "with the Carvetii can only help the Brigantian Federation.  And young  Venutius is quite suitable, I would say. He is turning out to be a promising warrior, better than either of your brothers.  And if what I hear is true better than his brothers.  But are you serious?"  He smiled softly as he looked on face of his most promising child. "I rather imagined Venutius with someone like Mertha or Branwen.  I see the way he looks at them, especially Branwen."

Cartimandua's eyes twitched as she drew her lips tightly across her teeth. The King shook his head.  "As do you, I see.  Well, I'll take the matter under consideration. Now I have work to do."  He waved his hand to dismiss her.  "And Cartimandua, maybe you'd better find your young man and present yourself before you've lost your shawl and dirtied your tunic."

She heard his laughter as she left, but could not know the joy he felt. His chosen heir had made an entirely satisfactory proposal.

   'So,' Carti said. 'My father may have agreed, but it was I who made the choice So your highness, you are not so right this time.'  In a rare time of silence Julia sat sullen and withdrawn.

My Husband's Clock

   It's Sunday. It's noon. Every Sunday noon (for years whose number I have trouble counting) my husband, Paul, pulled the chain of his seven day clock, (fashioned after Thomas Jefferson's eight day clock). Every Sunday since his death in April I have pulled that chain. Most Sundays it seemed a part of my Sunday tasks. Today it was different.
   My coffee cup was empty; the crossword puzzle was done (with cheating only three times). Paul would have disapproved of the cheating. I deem cheating a replacement of his share of solution.  A few minutes after 12 noon I approached the clock. With one hand I held the left chain; with the other I lifted the weighted chain.
                A simple pulling
                A simple pulling
That was all that was needed. I stood before the clock chains in hand. My left hand felt numb; my right hand tingled. Laughter erupted from my constricted throat. Piercing my consciousness was the old song -- My Grandfather's Clock.
    Who besides me remembers it?
                  My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf
                  It stood ninety years on the floor.
                  Then it stopped, never to go again, when the old man died.
  Paul  would remember it.

   Then I knew. This clock cannot stop. This clock must not stop. Paul wants it to run. Paul whose spirit has not died. As long as that clock runs; as long as those who knew and loved him are alive, so is he. When his memory is removed from us who loved him I shall not do this Sunday Clock Ritual. Until then--- The clock shall not stop.

From Here Where?

   Four short months ago (one hundred and twenty long days ago) my mate of fifty four years died. In another time I could count on one year for mourning -- without pressure from those would control any money left to me, from those who would exploit my vulnerability of loneliness.
    Four financial groups have offered advice. Each suggesting they are not pressuring me, but what they have to offer is--.
    Four computer sites offering to find me mate have sent me multiple e-mails.
                  If I am a Christian I can find the perfect mate.
                  If I am over fifty-five I will find  a suitable mate.
                  If I sign up I am assured a match.
    And not to be taken lightly the acquaintance who would move in on my grief offering a shoulder to cry on.
              How does one deal?
              One problem at a time.
    My guidelines, and I think I have my head screwed on right,  are:
    For finances take time to evaluate where I  am financially. Consider offers to help with dubious inspection, knowing that offered help is not without costs.
    For attacks on my loneliness take time to corral emotions, knowing that a wounded heart needs time to heal.
           TAKE TIME
           TAKE TIME

When Is Poetry Original?

   Julia rarely knows when to keep her silence. Today was the typical day.
   "Your attempts at poetry - I read your poems. The ones in your last blogs."  Her voice permeated what I wanted to be my silence. "Your attempts at poetry are pathetic. How trite and unoriginal can one get?"
   Had I been in full control of my emotions I might have dismissed her crass remarks. But I was not in control of my emotions. The bulk of the day I had spent with boxes and trash bags. The sorting of what to toss, what to donate, what to keep was a major issue. Culling one's own possessions is one thing-- not easy to be sure--, but removing the possessions of a newly dead mate is quite another matter.
   How dare Julia call my attempts at poetry trite and unoriginal? How dare she?
   "Tell me, your Highness-- if one in exile deserves that title-- can you do better? Did you do better? How long were you exiled before you begin to write poetry? And what did you write? May I quote. It is a matter of record you know in the story of your life, THE EMPEROR'S DAUGHTER.  Your poem I believe--
                     
                      My fair face is lined with age
                      My black hair bespeckled white
                               But I am here
                               What can I do?
                          My life cannot be redone
                            nor can it waste away.

   "And what is wrong with that?"
   "Absolutely nothing. It's classic. Absolutely classic. May I quote?
                           
                              All my flesh is wrinkled with age
                              My black hair has faded to white
                              My legs can no longer carry me,
                                  once nimble like a fawn's
                                      But what can I do?
                                     It cannot be undone.

Sappho's I believe. Tell me, Julia, just how original was your lyrics?
   Uncharacteristically Julia was at a loss for words. I felt none of the pleasure I expected.
 

Look Not On My Works But my Dreams

                  Behind my house -- how strange is 'my house'
                            'Our house' for so many years
                      Behind 'this house' stands an obelisk
              fashioned of concrete, ceramic tiles and creativity
                            Buried within its dark interior
                          the 'frozen in time' dreams of us
                           who love its now gone creator.
                         Opened one day by plan or hap
                            it will not ring of Ozymandias
                         No one said 'Look on my works'
                            Our vision is less lofty            
                                       LOOK ON
                                  'the places I will go'
                                  'the things I will do'
                        'the peace I will work to bring'
              'the reading list I have left for an increasing oral world'
                      'the best sketch I have done to date'
            Behind 'this house' the still yet unfilled dreams of us
        who survive the creator of this small but lofty monument.

The Girl In Standing Pants

This is written for my late husband.

                    THE GIRL IN THE STANDING PANTS

                            His eyelids were leaden
                        His body wracked by weariness
                          He had too long been here
              Nature whence he came was summoning him
                     The woman beside his bed faded
             Gray hair and wrinkled skin morphed into youth
                              His brow furrowed
               His lips spread recalling the first time he saw her
                           He the new shy student
                She seemingly secure in her too tight pants
                             Both were standing
                            She amid her group
                              He at the edges
            Urged to sit he shrank back with mumbled refusal
                 She without a hint of self consciousness
                "I can't. I'm wearing my standing pants."
                     He knew then; he knew now
               He wanted the girl in the standing pants

Sorting Shirts and Junking Jackets

   If you have no packrat tendencies or do not deal with someone who does, read no further. If you do, stay with me. Not that I can help you. I can't. But you will feel better about yourself and your packrat friend. Like the dismissed Men's Warehouse founder, 'I guarantee it'. You will re-evaluate the dimensions of 'packrattedness'.
   Those who have followed me for the past year have shared my emotional roller coaster as I watched the love of my life succumb to leukemia. It has been eighty short days; it has been eighty long days; it has been eighty chaotic days. But I have begun the physically laborious task, the emotionally draining chore of sorting his 'things'. I realize 'things' is an insipid term.
   Insipid-- that's how I feel.  Perhaps that is the proper feeling for sorting 'things'. I began with his closet. I had a plan. Sort by category --shirts, shoes, jackets, etc. Sort by condition - what to keep, what to throw away, what to donate. Sounded do-able. His closet, unlike mine, is organized. Shirts together, pants together, jackets --you get the picture.
   I began with shirts. After tossing the nearly cheese cloth ones, removing two that I could not part with, I had forty for donation. Forty shirts, some of which I had not seen for thirty or more years. The jackets proved a more daunting task. Most of his jackets I made; he refused to say 'made'; he said 'I tailored them'. Two I could not put in the donation box, the two which, according to him, fit so well no one could have tailored them better. The donation boxes have been hauled away. Next I tackle pants and sweaters.