A TRIP TO MENOMINEE

 

A ten-hour road trip to Farm 

Day One, through Chicago and Milwaukee 

Finally a motel in Sheboygan 

And only one eighty-two fifty 

The Marinette Best Western, our local respite 

A grand view of my home town’s skyline 

Scrambled eggs and sausage each breakfast 

We slept like oak logs until nine 

Farm could be featured in “Better Homes and Gardens” 

Jim cleared a new space by the coop 

New roofs on most of the buildings 

A welcoming abode for our group 

Our parents’ presence was everywhere 

The organ refinished by Doris 

Vic’s photos, oils, and stained glass 

A paradise they passed on to us 

Jennifer, Wynn, and Ingrid drove here from Seattle

Jacob and Delphine flew in from Brooklyn 

Justin, Alex, and Leo traveled from NOLA 

Katja and I, the last to come in 

Justin has great fun with his cousins 

Many jokes, lots of laughter and smiles

An only child, his cuz are like siblings 

Well worth it to travel those miles 

The youth had their fun time at Farm 

Shooting B-B’s, riding bikes, doing art 

Alex and Leo and Ingrid and Delphine 

Growing up evermore and so smart 

Co-Co and Osa were also there 

Seattle poodles, filled with play 

They raced about, rolled over on their backs 

Delighting the humans every day 

Justin was teaching his kids to drive 

Back and forth on our road, M-3 Drive 

This struck me as a little bit scary 

But they both gave their dad a high-five 

Menominee’s the new home of six cannabis stores 

They’re lined up on Highway Forty-One 

I askedif I could buy a few gummies 

Katja scowled, “No way under the sun”

Justin brought us pasties for supper 

A reminder we were in the U.P. 

I have to conclude they were tasty 

Eaters gobbled them up with such glee. 

On Saturday we did all the yard sales 

A great buy, Katja’s colorful rooster 

Justin found me a Maroon tennis cap 

Now I’ll be an out-of-town booster 

We toured the Marinette thrift shops 

Goodwill and St. Vincent de Paul 

One buck for a Menominee River T-shirt 

Plus “Oconto Golf”, quite a good haul 

We devoured our burgers at Mickey-Lu 

They’re voted the tastiest in the state 

Butter burgers and scrumptious buns 

Plus thick chocolate malts, flat-out great 

Main Street Antiques was thriving 

The top floor, Rusty Wolfe’s fine art 

I searched for Lundgren Drugstore bottles 

Once again my fruitless quest broke my heart

I love to cruise around the Loop 

The best part is Menekaunee 

I told the kids, there’s a murder each week 

I’m not totally sure they believed me 

Every day we hung out in the gazebo 

I’d say Jennifer’s the life of the party 

She reminds me a lot of her dad 

With the bonus that she’s much more arty 

Jim and Sharon paid us a visit 

The longstanding caretakers of Farm 

They keep the property shipshape 

And guard it from every kind of harm 

A family night out at Berg’s Landing 

A long-time tradition from Vic 

Walleye for me, filet mignon for Katja 

Berg’s continues to excel at their trick 

We did a quick tour of Henes Park 

The new bathhouse, a splendid addition 

The views of Green Bay are glorious 

John B. Henes accomplished his mission 

We accompanied Jacob to the river 

Vicki’s property was again looking swell 

We had a nice chat with neighbor Troy 

He still dreams that my sister might sell 

Jacob treated us to lunch at Jozwiak’s 

Their famous burger, the Wabash 

Vic and Doris’s favorite hangout 

Beer and burgers, they spent lots of cash 

Before we knew it, the time came to leave 

Tons of family photos in the front yard 

Hugs and kisses and sayonaras 

Goodbyes are always too hard 

I’m pleased that we came on this trip 

It keeps me in touch with my history 

The river, the bay, the forests, the town 

A world that enjoys its own mystery

UNALTERABLE JOY

 

Every five or six months

my father would bundle us up 

and take us after hours

to my grandfather’s Rexall drugstore

on Electric Square. 

Inside the dark store he’d let us loose

behind the soda fountain, 

encouraging us to create any ice cream 

concoction we wanted. 

The only rule: if we made it 

we had to eat it. 

As the oldest of four 

I always constructed 

the most mammoth sundae.

Six giant scoops of ice cream, 

a mix of vanilla, strawberry, 

chocolate, and butter brickle. 

Then the tongue-teasing syrups:

butterscotch, cherry, raspberry, 

chocolate, strawberry, 

peppermint, caramel, 

Topped off with globs of whipped cream, 

a fistful of crushed nuts, 

and three maraschino cherries. 

Maybe even a banana. 

So magnificent, so delicious. 

If we finished and were still hungry, 

we’d simply make another. 

Holy moly cajoley. 

These were the most thrilling 

moments of my youth. 

My father was a stoical man, 

born of Swedish Lutheranism 

and hardly taken to extremes, 

but he’d suffer uncharacteristic 

lapses into hedonism, 

and his offspring 

were the fortunate beneficiaries.

FATHER'S DAY

 

My father died in 1993. 

It’s been very strange all these years. 

not having a father. 

Actually kind of scary. 

My father took us to the drugstore after hours 

to eat all the ice cream we wanted. 

Towed us behind the car on the toboggan. 

Introduced us to Louis Armstrong and Benny Goodman. 

Bought the World Book Encyclopedia to enlighten the youth. 

Also a Hammond Chord Organ. 

Let me charge all the gasoline I wanted 

at Cooney’s Standard Oil station. 

Taught me how to do water color and oil painting. 

Rowed the boat when 

we swam across the River to Pig Island. 

Hid quarters and dimes in the sofa 

where my siblings and I found them. 

Took our Christmas trees to the body shop 

and had them painted red or blue. 

Bought me my first camera, 

my microscope, 

a tape recorder. 

Took our family in the boat 

to Indian Island for picnics 

with our dog Mike swimming behind. 

Also to the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago. 

And the Chicago Art Institute. 

Erected a basketball hoop above the garage door. 

Took Steven and me on a trip to Mexico. 

Hired me as a drugstore clerk 

and paid me 25 cents an hour. 

Paid my way through Antioch College.  

Treated Katja and me to a French Riviera stay.

Held family reunions at Farm every August.  

I have to say Vic was a terrific dad. 

I miss you.

MY OBITUARY

 

The older I get,

the more I read the daily obituaries.

Interesting but depressing. 

Just about all the dead people in Cincinnati 

have had more impressive lives than mine. 

When I draft my obituary in my mind, 

I run out of items after 6 or 7 lines. 

I didn’t belong to any groups of note. 

Wasn’t the champ at my golf club. 

Actually, I didn’t even have a golf club. 

I wasn’t the CEO, 

didn’t serve on any boards, 

didn’t volunteer for charity. 

never did gardening 

or scuba diving 

or wood-working 

or travels to the Far East. 

My obituary kind of sounds like a footnote. 

I think I will tell them 

to list my age and cause of death, 

my sundry relatives, 

a list of family dogs, 

No. 2 singles on my high school tennis team, 

my introverted nature. 

That’s about it. 

Instead of flowers, 

send contributions to the SPCA.

IN PRAISE OF THE PANDEMIC

True, a horrific catastrophe for millions,

but, for myself, the pandemic

was not so bad, not so bad, actually pretty good. 

First of all, I was cleaner than I’ve ever been. 

I washed my hands each time I sneezed, 

covered all exposed flesh with Purell, 

changed clothes each time I came home, 

stayed away from my eyes, nose, and lips. 

And my surroundings, so clean too. 

I de-sanitized the doorknobs at noon and at night, 

scoured all the fruits and vegetables, 

never shared spoons or straws with loved ones, 

wore my surgical mask when walking the dog. 

So many new prohibitions, 

very stimulating for a rule-lover like me. 

Then, of course, the demise of the public sphere. 

The gym closed down, no more painful workouts. 

The theater, the symphony, the shopping malls. 

They even cancelled my high school reunion. 

No more movies, no restaurants, no trips anywhere. 

Life became much simpler. 

I enjoyed my new existence, 

locked away in my cozy little house,

like a faraway Tahitian island, 

so peaceful, so quiet, such solitude. 

My hearing miraculously improved (no talk). 

My social anxiety disappeared (no people). 

I did finally come down with Covid. 

It took the bug two years to find me. 

I can’t imagine where I slipped up. 

mild case, not much to it. 

Now, they say, the pandemic is over. 

Have they given any thought to we 

who were doing so well with social isolation?

I rather doubt it. I just cling to my fond memories.

HOW I SEE IT

 

The populace has exploded in two. 

I call the survivors the Purples and the Yellows. 

The Purples are the reasonable folk, 

intelligent, informed, 

responsible, tolerant. 

The Yellows, the complete opposite. 

Ignorant, often insane, their leaders pure evil. 

The Purples prevail in our big city 

but we are hemmed in 

by towns and villages teeming with Yellows. 

I’ve quit doing small town day trips 

to my once favorite destinations. 

Lebanon, Waynesville, Burlington, Metamora. 

The crazies have over-run these places. 

I’m more and more wary of rural people, 

people with less than a college education, 

evangelical Christians, 

white people, (which, sad to say, is what I am), 

people from the Heartland 

(which, sadly, is where I am from), 

Ohioans (even worse). 

I size up strangers on the street. 

Are they Purples or Yellows? 

To be safe, I avoid eye contact. 

The strange thing is that 

my best friend neighbor 

thinks exactly the same way I do. 

Except that he says the Purples are evil 

and the Yellows are good.

Is it possible that we are both right?

LIFE'S DARKEST SECRET

Holy moly,  

this might be 

the most tantalizing title 

of all times.    

It grabs at you with its claws, 

jiggles you up and down.  

No way I could ever stop reading

a poem with a title like this.   

I dialed up the poet, 

one Perfecto Marchesa, 

and they told me 

that life’s darkest secret 

can be wrapped up in one word or less.    

What could it be? 

Loneliness?

Angst?

Greed?

Bisexuality? 

Morality? 

Repression?

Sorry, interesting but not in the ballpark.    

I had hoped to tell you more but unfortunately

this poem is now at its end.    

That, dear reader, is life’s darkest secret