Category Archives: family

the funk and flash of elder style

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A comment on my previous post led me to this site featuring stunningly attired elders.

Appropriately entitled “Advanced Style,” this site is constantly adding photographs that illustrate just how creative, funky, and individual elders can be in the way they dress. I can’t help notice that many of the photos are of people who live in New York City, where style is queen.

As a tease to get you over there to look around, here’s a look at three of my favorites.

The site welcomes photo submissions of elders in full regalia — or even just elders with remarkable style. Send to Advancedstyleinfo at gmail dot com.

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At some point back in the early 70s I had a book called Native Funk and Flash. I wish I had held onto it, because here on Amazon, a collector’s copy is worth $100.

I copied several of the designs in the book into embroidered embellishments on clothing. I put one design on the bottom side of a denim skirt that I made. It was called “four faithful fish feeding on the bread of life,” with a circular braided bread image in the middle and four fish facing the bread, each positioned in one of the four directions.

My most elaborate project reproduced the rising phoenix (pictured on the butt of the woman on the front cover, above) to cover the whole back of one of my husband’s muslin shirts. I embroidered it all with various colors of metallic thread.

I still have that shirt in a storage bin in the cellar. I’m going to dig it out and post a photo of it because that glowing phoenix is one of the most beautiful things I have ever created.

Ah those 60s! Even though we were married and parents, we still had a lot of funk and flash.

(For images from the book: Native Funk and Flash, link over to Knitting Iris.

last night, last life

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Last night, as I sifted through some of my earlier poetry, I remembered just how therapeutic writing it was at the time. I was so young, unprepared for the realities of husband and child/children. And I married someone as unprepared as I. He dealt with it all through multi-media productions of his original scripts. I would sit in the audience and watch the characters he created speak to our relationship more poignantly than his face-to-face words ever did.

I’m not sure I ever showed him the poems I wrote as I slowly felt my own self lost in the wake of his magnificent obsession. I’m sure there were many young women like me. Some went mad. Some got mad.

I am no Sylvia Plath. These are not great poems. But they were, and are, an essential part of my story.

Patterns (1967)

I await the unexpected,
the unsought.
My life is a contradiction.

When the goal is set,
when conscious action
strips away the dream,
I turn off.

Because I am
(why?)
a patterned person,
I am surrounded, bound, bonded.

I don’t need any more directions to go
or any more goals to touch.

I wish I were the wind.

***

Nonessence (1973)

Change is what I
wear at the edge
(where I have the best perspective)
waiting for familiar whims
to coax me into shape
and coast me down
the deepening dayslide.

Essentially, I am
not.

Medusa, I
am stoned on my own reflection.
Words curl straight
from the hurt in my head
forming questions,
marked and mumbled
under a heavy heartless hum.

Pan (Peter), I
cling to the rings
of endless adolescence,
hanging tight
as the merry goes round

Zelda, I
run screaming
toward the dark and gathered things
that claw at the threshold
of darkest dreams
and dive naked and dancing
into the fountained pool
behind my eyes.

4 am, Friday the 13th

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I tell myself that it’s a dream and I can wake up. But I don’t wake up.

I have gone back to my apartment building, but I can’t find my apartment. It’s no longer there. Everything I own is gone — my clothes, my cell phone, my car keys. I have to call my daughter, I think. I can’t remember the last two digits of her phone number. But I don’t have a phone anyway.

I run down to the lobby. I don’t know anyone. I ask various people for help, but no one will help me.

It’s dark out now, and raining. I run out into the street, go into a store and ask for help. I ask them to call my daughter at ….. I can’t remember the phone number.

I am crying now, running down the dark wet city streets. I find a police station and run in, asking for their help. They ignore me. I go to reach for the phone on a desk, but I can’t remember the phone number anyway.

I run back out into the street, lose one shoe, keep running and crying,

Part of me says it’s a dream. You can wake up.

But I don’t wake up.

I run farther, shivering in the cold rain, without a coat, with only one shoe, and with no way to find a safe place. I run and cry.

I can wake up. I can wake up. This seems so real, but it can’t be real. I can wake up.

Eventually I do wake up. It’s just about dawn, and I am in my bed with my cat sitting on my head.

While I was in the dream, it was so amazingly real — the fear, the abandonment, the isolation, the cold rain. At the same time, I was watching myself in the dream, telling myself to wake up.

I wonder if I had been having my mother’s dream.

family values

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No, this is not some kind of rant about that political football.

This is about my family (of origin) and how we deal with each other, the value we place on each other and on ourselves.

As I was growing up, “love” was equated with money. My parents showed they loved us by buying us things. I never refused any of their “love.” It’s all I knew, and I grew to love “things.” Until I immersed by self in therapy — years after a lot of damage was done.

I have a sibling. We have become about as opposite as two offspring from the same parents could be. Maybe because he never dealt with those warped family values.

And now I find that I am going to have to battle him for control of my mother’s assets and for her guardianship. She (93 years old with dementia) is in his care, and he doesn’t know how to care. I can’t bring her to live with me here at my daughter’s, and after the last eight years taking care of her, I need to take care of my own health and well-being.

I have avoided visiting my mother and brother for almost a month because he treats me so awfully. And I can’t stand watching how he treats her. When I go there, I wash her up so that she doesn’t smell, I change her sheets, her clothes, wash her hair. I dance with her each night before she goes to sleep. I make sure she takes her meds and eats nourishing food. I am tired, but she is being treated abusively when I’m not there.

He can use her assets to bring in professional help to take care of her. He won’t.

I feel angry and stupid and tired. I wonder where that “Kali” part of me went. I need to find that part of me to help me win the battle ahead.

I am going to be 69 in a few days. I think I need some Geritol.

a good day for a poem

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While I was moving, I sorted through some of the stacks of poetry that I had written over the years and pulled out a batch of short ones. Perhaps Thursday will be the day of each week that I will post one of them.

I live in Pioneer Valley these days, but I wrote this one back in the 70s when I lived in another valley. I think one of the reasons I call this blog Kalilily Time is because of my memories of that past valley time.

Valley Time

Easterly,
the winds tease the the sun
toward morning,
brushing aside the easy showers
of early summer clouds.

Time follows the way of the wind
through this dawn-misted valley,
filters through the blue unfoldings
of fragile morning chicory,
flows through the slow, green seekings
of those low growing vines,
breathes honeysuckle and wildrose rain
into the season’s drifting light.

Westward,
the sun leaves the high horizon,
draping a dry autumn night
over the tired faces
of September sunflowers.

I am thinking today of my late once-husband, who loved the power of words more than anything in his life, except his children. We shared both of those loves, but not in the same ways or same volume.

I am, once again, searching for the voice that I misplaced somewhere during this last decade.

what’s that broom?

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“What’s that broom for?” my six year old grandson asks, referring to the “witch’s broom” that hangs on my wall to the left of my computer table, alongside some quilted wall-hangings created by a close friend, an icon of Akuaba (a gift long ago from b!X), and a old photo of 19th century “Witches at Tea” upon which I superimposed the faces of my five close friends and myself.

“It’s a witches broom,” I tell him.

“There are no such things as witches,” he asserts.

“Well,” I say, “it’s a magic broom.”

“There’s no such thing as magic,” he again asserts.

I take the broom down from the wall and wave it around, singing Salagadoola, mitchakaboola, bibideebobbedee boo.

“Well, maybe there is, and maybe there isn’t,” I say. “How about if I try to do some magic with you.”

He hesitates. “I don’t know. What will you do?”

I stop and think a minute. What would Granny Weatherwax do?

“OK,” I say. “How’s this: I think it would be really nice if you weren’t so fidgety at the dinner table, if you could sit and relax and join in the dinner conversation instead of getting up and and walking around and then sitting down again. How about if I do some broom magic so that you could relax and we all could enjoy a quiet dinner.”

As he looks at me from his perch on the carpet-covered expensive cat-litter enclosure that sits behind my chair in the corner, I look him in the eye, wave the broom around in circles, and tell him that today he will be more relaxed at the dinner table. And I tell him that he will also have a peaceful night’s sleep.

I twirl the broom like a baton and respond to his skeptical look with a “Let’s wait and see.”

At dinner that evening, except for getting up once to go to the bathroom, he sits and converses and eats all of his dinner.

“See, I say, “my magic worked.”

“I was hungry,” he replies.

The next morning I ask him how he slept.

“I only woke up once,” he tells me.

“See,” I say. “My magic works.”

Granny Weatherwax calls it “Headology.”

Despite her power, Granny Weatherwax rarely uses magic in any immediately recognizable form. Instead, she prefers to use headology, a sort of folk-psychology which can be summed up as “if people think you’re a witch, you might as well be one”. For instance, Granny could, if she wished, curse people. However it is simpler for her to say she has cursed them, and let them assume that she is responsible for the next bit of bad luck that happens to befall them; given her reputation this tends to cause such people to flee the country entirely.

Headology bears some similarities to psychology in that it requires the user to hold a deep seated understanding of the workings of the human mind in order to be used successfully. However, headology tends to differ from psychology in that it usually involves approaching a problem from an entirely different angle.

It has been said that the difference between headology and psychiatry is that, were you to approach either with a belief that you were being chased by a monster, a psychiatrist will convince you that there are no monsters coming after you, whereas a headologist will hand you a bat and a chair to stand on.

Hey, I figure. Whatever works.

the legacy of voice

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We are all writers in this family: my daughter, my son, me, and my late former spouse, whose unexpected death almost a year ago still affects our offspring. My kids and I write when we are moved to do so and have the time. He wrote because, as he once said to me “everything else is sawdust.”

And so our daughter has launched a brief and intense campaign to raise enough money to fund a summer writing workshop for a talented kid. She is negotiating with the New York State Writer’s Institute to provide this support through their program.

She has until March 21 to raise $550.

Those who knew Bill Frankonis know that his life was dedicated both to the art of writing and to encouraging creativity in children of all ages.

We have been affected by the legacy of his voice. It’s fitting to extend his legacy even further, and to help some young budding writer to find her or his own unique voice.

You have until March 21 to add your $10 (or more) donation. If the goal of $550 is not met, your donation will be returned.

You can go here to donate to the W. A. Frankonis Budding Writers Scholarship Fund.

a good day for a poem

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It’s snowing outside, and I’m marooned here with my mother and brother for another day. Mom is sleeping, exhausted just by getting up to eat. My sciatica is acting up and I have a pimple blooming on my chin. (That’s such a perfect metaphor for who I am!)

Several weeks ago, I waded through my stacks of poems and picked out a bunch of short ones to blog once a week. Of course, they are waiting for me in my new home, but I won’t be back there until tomorrow.

But today seems like a good day for a poem, especially after reading my daughter’s poignant post of yesterday.

So, instead of one of my poems, here’s one of Jim Culleny‘s — because it seems like a good day for this particular poem.

DUST
by Jim Culleny

A restoration of faith
(if only for moment)
makes that moment great
and raises dust.

Dust? Don’t wait.

Dust drifts and settles but can be shaken off.
We do ourselves a justice when we shake our dust.
Once it’s shaken off, work we must
to raise more dust.

Change raises dust.

In our metier (before we return to it)
dust is a must.

Well, mom’s up. So much for engaging with the world of the internet.

the opposite of learning

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I’ve decided that the opposite of learning is forgetting.

Several mornings a week, as I sit at the table and drink my daily vitamin shake, my six and a half-year-old grandson gives me a memory test. Sometimes he shows me each of his little die cast airplanes and sees if I remember the name of each. He has dozens, and he knows them all. Sometimes he sets up his dinosaur models and tests me on the names of each of those. Each time I remember a few, but I forget the names of most from day to day — even though he names each for me, speaking very clearly and explaining the distinguishing features of each.

As he learns, I forget.

On the other hand, as he learns, I also find out about all sorts of bits of information that I didn’t know and didn’t know that I didn’t know. Of course, I forget most of it, but, at the time when he is explaining to me that whale sharks eat plankton, I find it interesting, both that I never knew that and also that it doesn’t matter that I never knew that.

I forget. He seems to remember everything, and I think it’s because being home schooled enables him to pursue learning about what interests him, whether it be tornadoes, fossils, war planes, or road construction. And, at the same time, he’s learning that math, science, history, reading and writing are necessary to his understanding of what interests him.

His mom posted a unique perspective on what she has discovered that is important for kids to learn on her own blog.

We are definitely a bunch of avid learners in this extended household. Unfortunately, I am forgetting as much as I’m learning.
Hopefully, my son, who is on a learning curve regarding moving this blog to WordPress, will soon finish the job so that he can then forget it.

Soon. My new look will be up soon.

And, with it, a new photo of me, which my daughter is going to take for the little blurb about me that is going to appear in Vicki Howell‘s upcoming Craft Corps book.

And you thought that I was just a blogger. Live and learn. Except for me. I live and forget.

Resettling

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While b!X is working to move this blog onto Word Press, I am surfacing to announce my upcoming redesign and resurrection.
I have completed my move from the mountain to the valley, both physically and metaphorically. And now I have to figure out who I am now that I am where I am. It will not be the first time I reinvented myself, although it might be the last.

In the meanwhile, you will be able to find me at Time Goes By on January 26, where I will be guest blogging for Ronni Bennett while she takes a much deserved blog break.

Stay tuned.