Lovenotes

Lovenotes

©2016 Susan Noyes Anderson

Each whiff of Mama's bread

rose in his heart

infused his head

with wafting warmth

and scented joy.

He was a happy boy.

Her perfume graced the air:

Light citrus

buried in her hair

so soft yet spicy

in its way,

pushed all his cares away.

Outdoors, each breath smelled new.

Bright green bore fruit

of orange hue

and flowers white

as blossomed bliss.

Fresh juice, the sweetest kiss.

Aflutter on the line,

sheets swaddled him

in fragrance fine

as sacheted lovenotes,

potpourri

of sacred memory.

THE CHALLENGE? 
WRITE A POEM ABOUT SCENTS.

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In Weather

Adolphe Valette

In Weather

©2016 Susan Noyes Anderson

I went to England once.

London, not Manchester.

Rained cold, a bit sideways.

Dark, dreadful, dingy.

Under the weather.

I ran watered streets.

Unbooted, blithely undone.

Up, down, willy nilly.

Slowed through Piccadilly.

Magic.

Steve Lavelle 2015

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Journal Photos

A photo of me from my Journal

FOUND:

©2014 Susan Noyes Anderson

One faded girl in sepia,

eyes bright and opened wide.

Her life was sweet and simple then,

with nothing much to hide.

No worry bubbled through her veins;

no sadness scarred her soul.

The world was hers or nearly so;

she traveled without toll.

The sun shone warm upon her face;

each storm but cleared the air.

When lightning danced, the thunder clapped;

foul weather bowed to fair.

Her photo whispers, draws me in,

reminds me of a day

when innocence was all I knew

and troubles passed away.

The glow of faith had yet to face

the darkness at the door,

and loss had left no lasting stain

upon the unmarked floor.

What would it be to turn back time

and dwell behind her eyes,

when answers came in black and white

and truth steered clear of lies?

I still remember joy unbound

by grownup woes and cares,

untempered by the ups and downs

a wife and mother shares.

Those narrow shoulders left no room

for burdens on my back,

and every hope was still alive

and every dream on track.

Sometimes I long to be that girl.

Just once more, I would be

the little girl who thought she could

control her destiny.

And for a day I'd sail away

as far as I could go,

back to the years when clouds and rain

bespoke a bright rainbow.

Yet seasons change, all in their time.

Each foe and every fight

made of that girl a woman

who has learned to seek the Light.

Not only for herself but for

the ones that she holds dear.

Sweet memories in sepia

yield now to pictures clear.

Today, her golden hair is white,

and years have lined her face

with hard-earned knowledge, wisdom, and

no small amount of grace.

When courage wanes, sometimes I mourn

the girl I used to be.

And yet, to lose what I am now

would set me back, not free.

So I will keep my lessons earned,

embrace the roles I fill,

and treasure up the little girl 

that lives inside me still.

Life calls for guts and glory and

a forward-looking view.

The burdens bring forth blessings.

God sees His children through.

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Maitresse

Danseuse ajustant sa brettelle, 1895-96, Edgar Degas

Maitresse

©2013 Susan Noyes Anderson

It's music I remember most of all.

Soaring strains of winged Tchaikovsky

brought to earth by steady beat

of wooden cane against a parquet floor.

The ballet mistress, mean with added weight,

despised her torpid flesh and tortured ours.

Through us she danced, each arabesque

a thrust against our firm yet fragile borders.

I foiled each foray, held her off with

grand battement, changement, changement, changement.

Her face was rouge, piqued by my piqué turns.

She chastised us for nibbling a cruller,

gorged herself on crepes and jam.

∞§∞

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A Memory with a Message

When one of my sons was in kindergarten, I received a troubling call from his kindergarten teacher, who was expressing concern about his mental health. After learning that she was inviting the principal to join the meeting she wanted to schedule, I became concerned as well.

I arrived in the classroom only to be shown a picture my son had drawn, at her request, of himself. He had created a pretty reasonable facsimile, as had the other children. The only difference was this: After drawing the picture, he had taken a black crayon and scribbled all over it, as dark as he could. He had basically crossed himself out.

I don't think I need to tell you this was not a good thing. I'd seen no sign at all of the depression (or worse) that his teacher and the principal were talking about, and I just couldn't wrap my head around the idea. The whole thing was disturbing, though, and when I got home, I asked my little boy why he had taken a black crayon and scribbled all over the self-portrait he had drawn. His answer surprised me.

"I want to be black, like Michael Cooper," he answered matter-of-factly. (Michael Cooper was his then-favorite basketball player on the Lakers.) In other words, his "depression" was actually hero worship!

I tell this story for two reasons. One, because it's kinda funny. His answer really tickled me at the time, and I think the teacher was pretty amused too...well, equal parts of relieved and amused.

The second reason I tell this story is because it's a good one for moms/parents to hear. Things are not always what they seem, and while it's important to investigate any red flags or warning bells that we see (or hear of) in regard to our children, it's also best not to jump to conclusions. Sometimes there are logical explanations for seemingly illogical things.

Just something to think about vis a vis the parenting process...

The Best Things in Life...

A great memory I have centers around an unusual party one of my best buddies threw for our fun-loving friends when I lived in Southern California. We were all the overworked and underpaid parents of young children, and there was nothing we liked better than a kid-free evening with our crew. No wonder we were so delighted with Rayetta's invitation to make ourselves at home, her home, for a sit-down dinner (a pretty extravagant plan given that we were all on tight budgets). Needless to say, the whole gang signed on wholeheartedly as eager dinner guests. Why not? She was a terrific cook and one of the most enjoyable people you could ever meet, always ready for a good time. I, for one, was counting the days.

The highly anticipated evening rolled around, and we all showed up at our friend's door. She led us to an elegantly appointed table, including flowers, candles, and place cards...the whole nine yards. As if that weren't enough, beside each place setting was a beautifully wrapped gift for every one of us, each package a different size and shape. My first instinct was guilt that she had spent the money, but my second one was curiosity...closely followed by excitement. As I mentioned, none of us had a lot of extra cash, and presents were hard to come by. What's more, Rayetta was a great shopper, and I couldn't help wondering what she had given me.

I wish I could remember what she served, but I don't. All I can say is that she served up a warm, happy atmosphere for good friends to listen to each other, laugh together, and wax philosophical. What a close-knit group we were, bonded by our enthusiastic involvement in church, community, and family life.

Finally, when the conversation over dessert was nearing its natural end, we were invited to open our gifts. With a chorus of "awwww, you shouldn't haves," we ripped off the lovely paper like little kids on Christmas morning, only to find that the presents we had looked forward to so eagerly were items already belonging to us. Yep, my good buddy had cased our homes in the previous month, swiped something unique, and wrapped it up. Even funnier, it took most of us several seconds of effusive thank-yous to notice that what we had opened was, in actuality, our own property! (I was one of these lame brains, disappointed to find that she had somehow purchased a piece of decor identical to one I already had. Duh.) Of course, we all had a good laugh at ourselves, not just because we had been duped, but because the majority of us had never even noticed the item was missing from our homes.

We had a lot of crazy, creative parties at Rayetta's (including one where the wives were blindfolded and had to identify their own husbands by feeling all the mens' legs from the knee down), but I remember none more clearly than the purloined present dinner. I don't think I have to tell you that a good time was had by all!

=)

The Greatest Generation

It's kind of ironic that I don't have time to do my Walk Down Memory Lane post today. Why? Because what I AM doing is writing down a whole bunch of memories in a poem that I will be presenting tomorrow night at a dinner honoring all the men and women in our stake who were born in 1940 and before. Fun idea, right?

Of course, my husband's singles ward is putting this shindig on, and the planning committee asked me to pull out all the stops and write a nostalgic piece of poetry "remembering" the Greatest Generation in all their glory. Soooo, I'm going big with a mix of history, pop culture, humor, and trivia that I hope will make them feel like singing Thanks for the Memories, Bob Hope style! With any luck, they will be touched, tickled, and teary by the time we're through. (That's right; I am not the big event. I'm just the introduction.) After my bit, our multi-talented singles ward will be putting on a variety show that should put Ed Sullivan to shame, including music and humor from the very generation we are honoring. Yes, folks, this is going to be one fun evening!

Anyway, I gotta get back to work. There are rhymes left to be made...and heartstrings left to be pulled. Wish me luck, okay?

;)

Grandma's Secrets: Was She Witch or Wonder?

This piece is from February of 2009, before I had any readers.

Hope you enjoy it!

Grandma's Secrets - A Memory Sketch

by Susan Noyes Anderson

My grandmother lived on the top floor of a red brick house. It looked pretty ordinary from the maple-lined street, but walking through her door meant leaving the familiar behind. Every cushioned step up her gold-carpeted stairway was a step away from everyday life, for my grandma lived in a curious world of her own making.

The smell of herbs commanded the air. Other smells tried to take over sometimes, a lentil and vegetable soup, for example; but it was those herbs that held sway over all the rest. Grandma was big on herbs, and she dried her own. Black cohosh root, comfrey, motherwort, and goldenseal were just a few of the plants that hung, upside-down, in the kitchen or bedroom, suspended from sap-stained strings that stirred gently as we passed through the rooms. Each rustling leaf made its pungent contribution to the botanical odor that was Grandma’s.

My sisters and I thought she was a witch when we were little, not the hex-setting variety, but the kind who had healing powers and talked to animals. The kitchen cupboards held, not food, but small brown bags, square cardboard containers, tiny envelopes and the like, filled with such treasures as twisted roots, tree bark, and odd-smelling powders. A lidless cookie jar, painted with apples and branches, stood alone on the counter, brimming with stale gingersnaps. My siblings and I didn’t eat them, though we did experiment with the contents of her cupboards. In time, it became clear to us that whatever Grandma was, “witch” was probably too easy a name for it, though we couldn’t deny she had more than a nodding acquaintance with the chirping robins that nested in her kitchen window every spring.

At the top of the stairs was the living room. A yellow slant board made its home right in the middle, where Grandma often lay, upside-down, and became a sort of human centerpiece, performing voice exercises whose syllables were so sharp they seemed, almost, to leave nicks as they bounced from wall to wall. “Eh-er-a-eh-ay-i-ee. Eh-er-a-eh-ay-i-ee.” Afterward, throat open and larynx engaged, Grandma would repair the damage with rich, deep tones from her favorite poem, beginning with the words “Oh, wild west wind,” and continuing until the walls resumed their former appearance, filigreed paper and all. Meanwhile, the blood rushing to her head (“good for the circulation”) lent a dash of vivid color to the otherwise muted room, turning her face red as the beets (“good for the bloodstream”) boiling on her stove. It was a marvelous spectacle, much better watched than replicated.

Probably because of its color, the faded yellow slant board didn’t even look particularly out of place, though much of the decor was quite formal. Everything in that front room had a golden glow to it, intensified by sunlight streaming through the windows, yet still evident when evening closed the curtains. What was the secret of that luminescence? It didn’t come from the old black box that was Grandma’s television, because she never turned it on.

Maybe it was a mysterious combination of simple things: the flaxen threads running through the fabric of her french slipcovers, or the gilded figures of a shepherd and shepherdess that served as lamps. Perhaps the ochre window coverings held the secret, or the goldenrod spilling over the chipped rim of a bisque vase. Were the peaceful nature scenes of her oriental wall hangings responsible for the glow? Was it a reflection of Grandma herself? A personal aura? Whatever the source, the effect was one of warmth, wonder, and not a little magic; and being there, you became part of it.

GRANDMA’S FAVORITE HERBS:

Black cohosh - for rheumatism

Butcher’s broom - for circulation

Cayenne - for colds and earache

Chamomile - for nervousness and to aid digestion

Comfrey - for skin wounds and irritations

Dandelion - to rid body of excess water

Feverfew - for headache

Ginger - for upset stomach

Ginseng - for vitality

Goldenseal - for inflammation

Motherwort - for female problems

Nicotinic Acid - for dizziness

Peppermint - for stomach cramps

Skullcap - for insomnia

White willow bark - in place of aspirin

There's a little bit of poetic license here, but my Grandma Noyes was a real character, a rare eccentric who was known for performing dramatic readings, doctoring herself and others with herbs and natural concoctions, and dressing with uncommon elegance. She was a rare woman, and I hope this piece does her justice. (Below is a picture of her as a young woman. Her father was George Edward Anderson, a well-known early photographer in LDS church history.)

Eva Anderson Noyes

#MeetMyGrandma

The Lost Summer

When I was in high school, I was invited to attend a summer writing class that would include the so-called "most gifted" writers in that sprawling bureaucracy known as the Los Angeles Unified School District. Having designated yours truly as the sole and supposedly lucky nominee for our high school, members of the English department clearly expected me to be nothing but delighted by the news. Instead, I was resentful, completely against the idea of having to spend the entire summer in a classroom with a bunch of kids I didn't know and wouldn't see again. If this was the reward for being a good writer, maybe I had miscalculated in my efforts to excel in that area.

Of course, my parents were thrilled by what they saw as a great opportunity, and they insisted I attend. I complied with the most negative attitude imaginable, unhappy that I would be writing papers instead of swimming, going to the beach, and devouring every book I could get my hands on whilst lounging in my favorite air-conditioned corner of our home. All of my friends, excellent students in their own right, were free as the proverbial birds in trees to do all the fun things I should have been doing with them. I, on the other hand, was relegated to four walls, a desk, and a chalkboard...penalized for a talent I took for granted. What an honor. Blecch.

I did end up meeting a girl I really enjoyed, and we spent many covert moments passing a silly poem back and forth that began, "There's nothing so pleasant as a day in June, except...". As I recall, the first entry (hers) was "...a nun, buried in a sand dune." (Can you guess that my new friend attended Catholic school?) My oh-so-clever follow-up, I believe, was something about a child choking on a silver spoon. And so on (and on and on). You get the drift. Both of us were equally delighted to be there, and we expressed our displeasure with great maturity. Or not.

But let me proceed to the real point. It was in this class that the first B of my English career appeared at the top of my handwritten page. At first I was appalled, then humiliated, then indignant. How could I, arguably the best writer in my school, if not the entire universe (I was a modest child), receive anything but an A for my efforts? What was the guy thinking? What kind of crazy was he? And what was the world coming to, anyway?

When I went up after class and addressed these questions to a surprisingly patient teacher, he explained that my paper had wonderful mechanics, excellent vocabulary, solid ideas, and solid support for those ideas. What it lacked, he explained, was ME. I was pretty much phoning my product in, and he wasn't buying. Happily, this shocked me to the point that I actually heard him, and the message hit home. I was simply giving my teachers what they wanted, writing to meet their expectations, going through the motions. And strangely enough, it had never occurred to me to do more. These were just assignments, and I wasn't investing anything in them at all...no passion, no flair, and no creativity.

My friend, by the way, received an A on her paper. Reading it, I understood why. In fact, I learned the most valuable lesson of my writing career that summer...not to put pen to paper until I was feeling something...a proviso which applied to anything and everything I intended to put my name on, assigned or otherwise, essays as well as poetry. Writing from that place of feeling was not only possible, but necessary. The good stuff started in the gut, not the head.

Of course, I don't always write from that place. It comes and goes, even now. Sometimes the passion just isn't there, or it's buried so deeply I can't come up with it. That's when I use my head and not my heart.

It always shows.

Grandma Doesn't Live Here Anymore

When my children were much younger, I wrote a number of children's stories in poetic form. At the time, I wanted to write and publish children's picture books, and it was fun to have a goal that kept me going creatively when they were little. Out of that period came a lot of full length story poems, but no publications in book form. (I did manage to get a couple accepted to magazines like Lollipops and such.) Sadly, this one never seemed to land anywhere, yet it is one of my favorites. That's why it felt right to let it land right here today...in my blog...on Memory Lane.

Grandma Doesn't Live Here Anymore

© 1990 Susan Noyes Anderson

My grandma doesn’t live here anymore.

She left the earth and moved far, far away.

I wonder if she flew through space to get there;

and did it take her long, or just one day?

I wonder if she likes the place she’s gone to.

Before I sleep, I look up at the sky...

And whisper, “Do you see the moon like I do?”

“Do all the stars still twinkle in your eye?”

I climb up on my bed and turn the pages

of fairy tales my grandma used to tell.

Some nights I still pretend she’s reading to me.

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” she says. “Sleep well!”

When morning comes, I look up at the white clouds

and see a sailing ship, a bear, a face.

My gran and I would lie down on the green grass;

and, oh, how many pictures we would trace!

Do you think she still sees the clouds like I can?

Could she be close enough to touch them now?

I wonder if she fluffs them up for pillows, or

uses them for cotton balls somehow.

Does she still make a wish on every rainbow?

I do. I’d like to take a rainbow ride.

I bet if I could climb up and slide down one,

I’d find her waiting on the other side.

I know she’s out there somewhere, that’s for sure.

Some days I really miss her, then I cry.

It’s almost like she puts her arms around me

and says, “We’ll be together, by and by.”

And I feel warm inside because I know

I’m going to see my gran again someday.

She gave me clouds, a sailing ship and rainbows,

the moon, and all the stars to light my way.

A Most Embarrassing Predicament

Now and then I do something that is beyond embarrassing, and this story definitely qualifies. My husband, a close observer of my life and times for 41 years (45 if you count the dating), believes I have a unique ability to bring these things upon myself, but I still maintain that this experience could have happened to anyone...would have happened to anyone, under the same conditions. Particularly disturbing is the fact that my little mishap occurred one afternoon when the two of us were attending an elegant luncheon and team-building meeting for the most senior executives of his former employer. Dave had recently been made the new CFO, and both of us wanted to make a good impression.

We were seated in the large and lovely, private banquet room of a posh hotel, thoroughly enjoying ourselves. The food, company, and view were excellent, with every need anticipated by the type of waiter who somehow manages to fill your glass without interrupting the flow of conversation. Shortly before dessert, I excused myself to use the restroom. Not surprisingly, it was large and lovely too, with marble floors and counters. There were no stalls, just one gleaming throne in the center of the room, so I quickly locked the door, availed myself of a disposable seat cover, and prepared to get the job done.

My outfit that day was a silky black culotte, a style which was popular at the time. In purchasing the split-leg dress, it had never occurred to me that the logistics might be a little difficult. Still, it didn't take me long to realize that I would have to unzip the one-piece garment, pull the entire ensemble down as if it were a pair of slacks, then do my utmost to keep all that extra material from touching the bathroom floor. Ever resourceful, I managed to accomplish exactly that. Having taken care of business, I went to reassemble myself and realized that something rather...unfortunate...had occurred.

Apparently, while the highly misleading toilet seat was oval as oval could be, the porcelain base beneath it was round as a penny. In other words, the top seat overlapped the porcelain bowl by several inches, meaning that one had to sit back rather far to hit one's mark. Entirely unaware of this dynamic, and carefully perched towards the front of said seat whilst endeavoring to keep my dress off the ground, I had quite effectively soaked both my outfit and the floor. Nary a drop had landed in the bowl for which it was intended, and beneath me was one alarmingly depthy puddle (thanks, water-filling waiter!) and one sopping wet piece of apparel. I was horrified and amused at the same time, laughing and panicking all at once. How was I going to get myself out of this mess without anyone being the wiser?

As I began frantically wiping up the floor with the seat covers (there were no paper towels in the room at all...just those linen, scented ones), one of the wives in my party knocked on the door. "Just a minute," I yelled as sweetly as possible, continuing to clean desperately. (May I mention that toilet seat covers are somewhat less than absorbent?) (And TP squares are smaller than you think??) But I pressed on, wishing as never before for a mop. Or a sweater. Or even a plush towel.

Once I finished that task (I'm still not sure how I did it), I ran the culotte dress over to the sink. Operating at warp speed, I washed the entire thing in soap and water, wringing it out as dry as possible. Amazingly, the material was such a shiny, silky polyester that it didn't even look wet. Of course, having to put it back on felt pretty uncomfortable, but I was so happy to have the matter taken care of that I didn't mind the cold clamminess at all. In fact, a wave of relief that could only be described as smug self-satsified engulfed me. Once again, I had beaten the odds, emerging unscathed from a dilemma of infinite proportions.

I opened the door to the waiting woman (actually women, now, because more had come) and tried to act natural. It wasn't easy, but I think I pulled it off. When I was seated once again next to my husband for dessert, I couldn't resist the urge to lean over and share my experience. "I just went to the bathroom all over my dress," I whispered nonchalantly.

To my disappointment, he didn't even look surprised. (Truth is, I'm kind of an accident waiting to happen.)

But I always seem to come out smelling like a rose.

Or in this case, like pina colada Softsoap.

;)

Just Breathe. (Oops, I can't!)

I wanted to delve into the past and write a beautiful piece for and about Dave in honor of our 39th wedding anniversary today, but I'm a little too sick to get the job done. I'm not even up to going out for dinner, which is kinda sad.

Oh well, today's walk down memory lane will just have to be a picture.

Happy anniversary, Dave.

We looked pretty good together, didn't we?

(Methinks the condition of this picture gives our age away!)

So does this one...

Sheesh. What happened to us?

(Maybe you should shave your beard??)

;)

Seriously, though. This one's for you, Dave...

Our Love is Life: A Marriage Vow

© Susan Noyes Anderson

Our love is deep and constant as the sea,

yet fresh as mountain air in early spring

and free as meadowlarks who, taking wing,

come home to find their rest in nest and tree.

Our love is life, for earth and sky are we,

and air and water––and two hearts that sing.

These are the lasting treasures that we bring...

I give myself to you, and you to me.

You give yourself to me, and I to you.

On this, our wedding day, with loved ones near,

the dream we found together has come true.

Our hands are joined, and now our path is clear:

to make love live and breathe in all we do.

This is our marriage vow, for God to hear.

(It's a reprint, but you are always my inspiration...)

Love you, Dave.

xox