Daddy’s Great Granddaughter and Me

Forrest Jewell

“Oh! Granma! What a wonderful dress!”
“May I?” she pleaded, Daddy’s Great Granddaughter and Me

Forrest Jewell

“Oh! Granma! What a wonderful dress!”
“May I?” she pleaded,
Her irresistable smile tugging at my heart
As she lifted the garment in its wrapper
From its storage container.
Oh my!” she exclaimed, gently replacing the dress,
Coming to take my hand,
Lead me to the rocking chair,
Seat me,
Climb into my lap,
And cuddle against me
As she peered sidewise at the dress
And trembled.

I held her — my ten-year-old treasure,
re-definer of childhood
possibly re-definer of human,
Held her and rocked her
And softly sang to her
The songs of her childhood
And, then,
Trying one of the songs of her present
Brought a giggle and
“Granma, you don’t have to sing that song;
“You don’t even like it.”

I kissed her cheek and then her forehead.
I held her away and looked in her eyes;
“Tell me,” I said,
She stood from my lap, took my hand,
And gently led me to the dress.
” Granma,” she said,
“This dress was part of a parachute,
“And a man used it to jump
“From an airplane into a war.”

“Yes, Sweetheart,” I said,
“That was my father;
“He jumped into Holland.
“No one was shooting at them right then
“So he took the time to cut apart
“The parachute and keep a large piece of it;
“It was used to make my mother’s
“Wedding dress.”

My granddaughter somehow visits
Areas of existence that seem closed
To most of us…
“Granma,” she said,
“That was his second time;
“The first time he was shot at;
“Big guns shot at the plane;
“And some hit the plane

“And all those men were scared
“Some of them cried,
“Some prayed,
“Some cursed the people shooting at them,
“But the plane was full of the stuff
“That turns a boy into a man
“And some of them
“Joked and bragged and promised to destroy
“Everything that opposed them;
“And Granma, one of them planned to kill
“One of the boss men in the airplane.
“And some of them thought of people they loved.
“Then they sort of fell out of the airplane into the dark
“And guns kept shooting at them
“While they hung ;in the sky
“And when they were on the ground;
“And, Granma, they were mostly
“Just boys.
“They weren’t really grown up yet.”

“Sweetheart, you’re right;
“My father was eighteen.”

“And, Granma, the other people were scared too,
“The people shooting at them.
“Everybody was scared,
“Nobody wanted to be there,
“But they had to try to kill each other;
“That’s so sad!”
She began trembling again
And tears streamed down her cheeks.
“So sad,” she repeated.
“Your daddy kicked open a door

“And was going to shoot

“But the only people inside
“Were a lady
“and an old man
“and 2 kids hiding behind them.
“Your daddy closed the door,
“And went to the next house.
“He felt bad for the people
“But he felt glad he had opened the door
“Because some of the other soldiers
“Might have killed them.”

I sat again and took her in my lap
To hold her until she calmed and the tears stopped.

“Granma,” she said
“There’s a whole energy of war;
“It seems to go
“Almost everywhere people go;
“All those people in my history books
“Are from wars
“And about making better ways
“To kill people
“And they talk about it
“Like it’s something to be proud of
“And it’s not.”

She sort of collapsed then
And fell asleep.
I hugged her
And rocked her
And caressed her back and shoulders.
I hummed her favorite song
Until it penetrated her awareness
And she woke with her delightful
Giggle
And then a whole-hearted laugh
And a kiss for me.

“Granma,” she said,
“I love you and, you know,
“Your mommy and daddy
“Did some wonderful things:
“They took a war thing
“And made it into a love thing
“And then they gave me you.”

Through my tears
I could see her radiant smile
And there was no way
To hug her tight enough.

“But, Granma,” she said,
“After people had one war,
“Why did they ever have another one?”

Daddy’s Great Granddaughter and Me

Forrest Jewell

“Oh! Granma! What a wonderful dress!”
“May I?” she pleaded,
Her irresistable smile tugging at my heart
As she lifted the garment in its wrapper
From its storage container.
Oh my!” she exclaimed, gently replacing the dress,
Coming to take my hand,
Lead me to the rocking chair,
Seat me,
Climb into my lap,
And cuddle against me
As she peered sidewise at the dress
And trembled.

I held her — my ten-year-old treasure,
re-definer of childhood
possibly redefiner of human,
Held her and rocked her
And softly sang to her
The songs of her childhood
And, then,
Trying one of the songs of her present
Brought a giggle and
“Granma, you don’t have to sing that song;
“You don’t even like it.”

I kissed her cheek and then her forehead.
I held her away and looked in her eyes;
“Tell me,” I said,
She stood from my lap, took my hand,
And gently led me to the dress.
” Granma,” she said,
“This dress was part of a parachute,
“And a man used it to jump
“From an airplane into a war.”

“Yes, Sweetheart,” I said,
“That was my father;
“He jumped into Holland.
“No one was shooting at them right then
“So he took the time to cut apart
“The parachute and keep a large piece of it;
“It was used to make my mother’s
“Wedding dress.”

My granddaughter somehow visits
Areas of existence that seem closed
To most of us…
“Granma,” she said,
“That was his second time;
“The first time he was shot at;
“Big guns shot at the plane;
“And some hit the plane

“And all those men were scared
“Some of them cried,
“Some prayed,
Some cursed the people shooting at them,
“But the plane was full of the stuff
“That turns a boy into a man
“And some of them
“Joked and bragged and promised to destroy
“Everything that opposed them;
“And Granma, one of them planned to kill
“One of the boss men in the airplane.
“And some of them thought of people they loved.
“Then they sort of fell out of the airplane into the dark
“And guns kept shooting at them
“While they hung ;in the sky
“And when they were on the ground;
“And, Granma, they were mostly
“Just boys.
“They weren’t really grown up yet.”

“Sweetheart, you’re right;
“My father was eighteen.”

“And, Granma, the other people were scared too,
“The people shooting at them.
“Everybody was scared,
“Nobody wanted to be there,
“But they had to try to kill each other;
“That’s so sad!”
She began trembling again
And tears streamed down her cheeks.
“So sad,” she repeated.
“Your daddy kicked open a door

“And was going to shoot

“But the only people inside
“Were a lady
“and an old man
“and 2 kids hiding behind them.
“Your daddy closed the door,
“And went to the next house.
“He felt bad for the people
“But he felt glad he had opened the door
“Because some of the other soldiers
“Might have killed them.”

I sat again and took her in my lap
To hold her until she calmed and the tears stopped.

“Granma,” she said
“There’s a whole energy of war;
“It seems to go
“Almost everywhere people go;
“All those people in my history books
“Are from wars
“And about making better ways
“To kill people
“And they talk about it
“Like it’s something to be proud of
“And it’s not.”

She sort of collapsed then
And fell asleep.
I hugged her
And rocked her
And caressed her back and shoulders.
I hummed her favorite song
Until it penetrated her awareness
And she woke with her delightful
Giggle
And then a whole-hearted laugh
And a kiss for me.

“Granma,” she said,
“I love you and, you know,
“Your mommy and daddy
“Did some wonderful things:
“They took a war thing
“And made it into a love thing
“And then they gave me you.”

Through my tears
I could see her radiant smile
And there was no way
To hug her tight enough.

“But, Granma,” she said,
“After people had one war,
“Why did they ever have another one?”

Zebo, An Alsatian

I’m among those who walk large, wolf-like white dogs
On rounds of trees, utility poles, and shrubs;
And I’m among those who see poles as equals,
Unlike large, wolf-like white dogs
Who are connoisseurs of poles
And know which are to be ignored
which are worthy of scant attention
which are worthy of intense attention
and which are worth fighting leash and master
or which are worth being dragged backward to the next pole
in a bizarre compromise between master’s reasons
for the walk and large, worl-like white dogs’
reasons for the walk.
I’m among those who walk large, wolf-like white dogs
Who have a need to plant their noses at odd spots in the ground
Sniffing and snorting until impatient masters
Uproot nose and all
And continue to the next tree, pole, or bush.
I’m among those who walk large, wolf-like white dogs
In a futile effort to keep certain activities centered around trees, poles, and bushes
Rather than around legs of chairs and couches
But I’m also among those who wash legs of chairs and couches
More often than I like,
Or care,
To admit
And all because a friend
Who recognizes a fool when she sees one
Abandoned her large, wolf-like,  large dog
In my living room
When she could no longer tolerate the damned thing
And couldn’t face taking it to the pound
Any more than I can face
Taking it to the pound.
I’m among those who walk large, wolf-like, white dogs
Incapable of walking straight lines,
Forever tracking nose-to-ground
Across the line of walk,
Scenting large, wolf-like white dogs know what,
Visiting garbage cans and fire hydrants,
Visiting seemingly empty spots of lawn,
Puffing and panting against the leash,
Finding importance where Isee nothing,
Racing madly into the restraint of the apparently forgotten leash
As some slight sound or scent
Excites curiosity or arouses antagonism or elicits hunting instincts.
I’m among those who walk large, wolf-like, white dogs
Marking territory, as they say,
Though I have no idea why one dog would have use
For so much territory
Or the capacity to keep it marked,
Keeping the territory free of trucks and busses and motorcycles
Through leash-aborted chases of one-tenth second duration
Followed by urgent visits to the nearest tree, pole, or shrub,
Keeping the territory free of never-seen rabbits and squirrels and
dogs and cats and whatever other important
denizens lurk menacingly in burrows or
houses or trees
Whining and moaning at scents and sounds
Followed forever by urgent visits to trees or poles or shrubs.
I’m among those 2ho walk large, wolf-like, white dogs,
Transforming them from docile, barely-animate objects lying in doorways,
in front of kitchen sinks
or wherever anyone is most likely
to stumble over or step on them
Into valiant, free-born, free-living hunters of anything that moves
And some thing things that don’t.
For an hour or so a day I walk a large, wolf-like, white dog
Which, I’m certain, has no idea of my purposes in enturing forth,
Discrepant as they are from his own purposes,
For I’m merely trying to remove a nuisance from the house
While he struggles valiantly to remove all nuisances from the neighborhood
With the same nuisances he’s used to remove me from the house.

Adrian

.

The Computer Center
University of Pittsburgh
1960s

At the computer center,
So many young women and young men
Waiting anxiously to learn
Whether they’ve properly followed the etiquette of the machine
So as to be told by the machine
That what they’ve done
Has been OK.

The yammering, idiot machine (IBM 1401 printer)
Pounds out responses
In endless streams of processed trees
Bringing a grin to one face
A frown to another
In a depth of concern for etiquette
Seldom achieved by a mother.

You’ve got to do everything right
Or everything is wrong
And trying to get it to do more and more
Goes on and on and on.

There’s so much that it may someday do
They’re at it all the time,
Making it draw and squiggle and print
Morning, noon, and night
While meals go cold or are never cooked
And loves are won and lost.

An electronic game of widened scope,
I guess a computer is,
A slot machine exploded into awesomeness
With the sometimes nature of doing things right
Become so demanding that young men and women are consumed
By the etiquette of the machine.

Once you learn the etiquette
There’s so much the thing can do;
It may point the way to a better world
Where people needn’t do many things they mow must do
Where computers will figure and draw and design
All on their very own
Where people will be freer to have time for people
But will probably watch TV.

The machine won’t care what people do with their time
It’ll yammer and print and flash and type,
Telling children when they’re wrong or right;
It’ll use up forests of processed trees,
Printing steadily along;
It’ll keep on printing day and night
As long as anyone’s there
To push the buttons and twist the knobs –
As long as anyone’s there.

Adrian

Soul Speaking

A highway behind me and to the left,
Another before me and to the right,
An access road close on my left,
I sit at a picnic table
A brisk wind plotting to blow away
The pages of the tablet
Watching across meager grass and dandelions
Bordered by weed trees
The water of a lively stream
Flow through its prison of
Concrete, macadam, crushed rock,
Wind-toppled trash cans,
Steel barriers, Industrial-waste air,
Seeding cars, …,
On its long journey to a polluted ocean
Where fishing factories
Threaten everything that lives.

My soul speaks to me
Directing me to
The energy of the water
And its inhabitants
Weakened by the pollution threatening
The lives of the streams inhabitants
And the life of the stream.

My soul directs me to the life energy
Of the weakened weed trees
Standing in the stead of
The magnificent forests
Once standing here
And to the life energy of the pitiful dandelions
And the sparse grass.

My soul continues,
“You seek messages
“Of the wonder, the glory of you
“And those like you?
“Of hte strength of your connection
“To the SOURCE?
“You seek connection to the positive energies
“Of the universe
“But you must reach them
“Through the clutter and destruction
“Wreaked upon your planet
“And the areas beyond it
“Cluttered with your junk;
“And I remind you that
“Although G-d ( Jeanne)
“loves you
“And forgives your transgressions
“ill you continue to love and forgive yourself
“When you have at long last
“Sucked dry
“The life-giving properties
“Of earth?”

Forrest Jewell

This was sung to me by nature in an area of Cache Creek State Park in Wyoming

Spmg of he Earth
Song of the Earth

Oh, say, can you see
The size of our family?
Oh, say, can you believe
All the blessings we receive
From our connections to each other
Through the energy of our mother?
And can you understand
How rare it is for a man
Of your place and time
To ask us for a rhyme
Or to pay any heed
To our desires and needs?
You’re doing well,
Believe us, we can tell
And when the time does arrive
When your body doesn’t thrive
We will welcome back from you
The energy we lent to see you through
The life you’ve lived, our friend,
For nothing ever ends.

An area of Cache Creek Park as translated by Forrest Jewell

I – Last Week

My kids loved a book
By Dr Seuss …
A book about a aby bird
That was separated from its mother
And went hither and yon
Asking everything it met,
“Are you my mother?”

I was long ago
When I read that book
And the only potential mother
I remember
Was a steam shovel.

Last week it occurred to me:
That story is a metaphor
For my life
Only my question has been,
“Are you my me?”

My earliest memory
Is of being on my mother’s shoulders
Hiding in a closet
From my pistol-packin” papa –
Possibly the last person
To shoot up a town –
Who, having shot up the town,
Returned home
To roar through the house
Threatening to shoot everyone;
And I’ve come to believe
That one thing he did
Through that and many similar occasions
Was to take my me
Away from me
Making the experience the beginning
Of a long search … Because
My me went to hide
And watch from a safer place
And has never really returned.
Perhaps he’s still in that closet
And the house is gone.

People are fragile creatures,
I guess,
But they’re also tough
For they can live without their me
But they’re lonely for their me
And sad at the loss
And much of what they do
Is driven by the search for their me …
At least I’ve come to believe
That’s how my life has been.

What’s it mean to look for my me?
I can tell you lots of things I’ve done
And lots of things I’ve been
But I’ve been part of me for 69 years
And been unable to tell you
Who I am.

Love is in that closet, I think,
And the ability to trust
So I’ve found models –
Behavioral examples –
And words to describe and express
Love and trust
And many other things –
So I could claim them
And I’ve learned actions to convey them
But the me that should feel them
Is in a destroyed closet;
So I’ve asked those words
And those behaviors,
“Are you my me?”
And they’ve answered,
“No.”

I was a bright little boy
Who started reading
Just a little later
Than many kids start to walk
And I have read compulsively
Through most of the years since,
For long periods
A book a day
And you can think of every book
As being asked,
“Are you my me?
And I’ve taken courses
And classes
And workshops
And asked them all,
“Are you my me?”

I’ve constructed lots of mes
And let them go because,
As I’m learning,
It’s not about constructing
A me …
It’s about finding My Me
And I can’t open the door
To that closet
Because the closet’s not there
Except in some part of me
I don’t know how to find.
The books and the workshops
Are like a treasure hunt
Where the treasure is
My me.

Long ago
I lost a lot of things
Left in the closet
With my me …
But in searching for my me
I found a lot of other things …
a lot of other things …
That I might not have found
If I had had
My me;
But in recent years,
I think,
I’ve narrowed the search.

I was pronounced bipolar
When I took too few pills
To die
And I picked out ADHD
When all the case histories I read
Described my childhood …
But they still weren’t my me.

II – This Week

Three days ago
I started a workshop
But found I couldn’t hear the speaker
And couldn’t understand
What I could hear
And felt the room filled …
Courtesy of Christine Page’s course in intuition? –
Felt the room filled
With uncomfortable energy
So I asked to change
And found myself listening to
Robert Scaer
Talk about the effects of trauma
In shaping lives …
And for the next two days
I was in a class with
Belleruth Naperstack
Hearing about
Post-traumatic stress syndrome
And its treatment
With the emphasis on guided imagery.

In one exercise
We were to find some problem
We’d like to visit
And I settled on
Finding my me —
Then we were to pick a symbol
To represent the problem
We’d like to visit
And I settled on
Finding my me —
Then we were to pick a symbol
To represent the problem
And I found a question mark.
The altered state took me
Inside my head
Where I found two hemispheres
Asking each other,
“Are you my me?”
And the question mark
Became an exclamation point
And the two hemispheres
Began to merge into
One brain
As we were told
To begin to return to the room;
But that process continued
For several hours
Until …
I came to feel
I have found my me …
And now?
I have to get used to being me.

III-Next Week

I have to get used to being me …
At least until I find
Another me …
Or maybe this time
Just more parts of me …

But for all I know
I may just have gotten
To the Steam Shovel.

Forrest Jewell

Energetically,
We have passed into
The Yin cycle.

Our element, metal,
Marks the end of another
Earth elemental period.

The changes transpired last week
Accompanied by a hurricane
Named Reita
Following hurricanes
Ivan and Katrina,
All having left enormous
Death and destruction
In their wakes.

Officially,
Fall has come
But without autumn beauty;
Though it rained last night
A summer and early fall
Of excessive dry heat
Has left us with
Brown yards,
Brown mums
And brown gardens
Dripping of heavy dew.

Spirits lay low
This morning
Under grey skies
But in the greyness
Something moved.
Catching my eye:
A mother and child
Walked hand in hand
Down the sidewalk
Taking big steps
And smiling at each other.

In that moment, I paused
And breathed in
The sweetness of life.

People and their gods
And goddesses
Have interesting relationships;
People like to say that gods
And goddesses
Created people
But, clearly, people create gods
Then blame the creation of people
On the gods and goddesses
And then justify
As serving those creations
Human behavior
Ranging from highly spiritual
To  inexplicably cruel
And self-serving.

I’ve wondered what kinds of gods
And goddesses I might create,
Certainly not masochistic ones
Or insecure ones requiring
Constant reassurance
Of their importance;
I would like
Goddesses and gods
Who were entertaining,
Wise,
Fun to deal with,
Easy to love,
Somewhat mysterious;
And I see no reason why
They all need look like people.
I think I would like one of them to be …….

A jester.

On the Suicide of a Friend’s Son

Yesterday he was alive,
Facing life
And sharing
In his humanity
The struggle
We all have
In facing our humanity.

Today my tears obliterate
All else in my own struggle
Of facing my own life
And my loss
Of him
In his loss of
The will to continue facing
The struggle
Of being alive
In the world
Of being human
And frail
And alone
Even in the midst of
People whose love of him
Was not enough to sustain him
And led him along a path
That I can only imagine
And look for
Through tears of loss
Of a son
That I would gladly have died
To have live
And love himself
As much as I loved him
And as much as I will always treasure
Having had him as a son.

Forrest Jewell

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