I have some stories on my flash drive but that is upstairs. And I am beat down exhausted right now. So I have decided not to go upstairs.
What I do have on my laptop is another set of poems, this time actually considered a set.
There's this old story in my family about an uncle somewhere back a generation or two on my father's side who lived in the New England states. I was never told his name. He was married to a woman who was marvelous at baking and making donuts, and had four children with her. All seemed well until one day, he up and left, heading south to Florida to hunt pumas with a woman named Jenny. There used to be a newspaper article about him somewhere but its long, long gone now.
These two poems are written in the voice of these two individuals.
Puma Hunting
Slow down, slow. Can't move too
fast here, else you'll make noise.
Once that cat hears you, it'll see you,
sure enough. Not your simple
house cat. Big, so big, it'll take
your dog for dinner. Devil's own
pet, a puma is. Stop.
Quiet now.
Hear that? Its nearby.
In that clearing, up in the tree,
look just under the top branch.
See that tail? She's waiting
for some doe to come by. Jump
right out on top of 'em, she will.
Come right around here. Raise
your gun, slowly.
Aim for those big green eyes.
Got it? Now, stop.
Stop.
Wait, breathe.
Have to be calm to shoot.
Wait, breathe.
I was highly intrigued by this story when my dad told me about it one day. Who was this man who abandoned his family at the turn of the century to hunt gigantic angry felines in the bug capital of the south? Was he crazy? Bored? Did he feel it was worth it later? What happened to Jenny? I'd assume children were born from them but who knows? A whole other sect of my family could exist unknown, linked by this strange uncle and his choice to leave.
But there's another side to this story.
The second poem is in the voice of the wife he left behind. The story goes after he left her with their children to take care of, she opened a bakery. There she made donuts, cookies, cakes, and treats to sell all day. Each day, she made just enough for the day so there would be no left overs.
Just Enough
My husband left me in the spring of
'09, for a life of adventure and passion.
Left me to care for four children and
myself. No time for tears though. Just
enough time to live. My little boy
took his daddy's place as man, stood tall
for me and his sisters. I opened shop,
sold pastries and doughnuts, just enough
for each order. Times got hard, we got by.
My girls helped around the house, learned
how to make it with just enough.
His leaving didn't make me alone, couldn't
make me fold. My children were enough
for my life, enough to watch, enough to see,
enough love, just enough to get by.
~~~~
This woman had to have been stronger than anyone could imagine. A single woman during turn of the century America was better off than most places but by no means was it easy. If ever a phrase defined how I think of someone, I'd have to say "Enough is enough" is for this woman.
It'll be said I talk about my Dad a lot. I can't help it, due to the fact he inspired me and my twin sister to read and use our imaginations to the fullest. But as the poems have a second story to tell, so does my life.
She may or may not ever read this but I adore my mother. Since she and my father got divorced, she's been a RNA at nursing homes in the Ocala area and more recently a home health care aid. I could never do what she does. My mother tirelessly takes care of others all day, sits with them, cleans them up, spends time with people who's family need some help to get by. She's a saint. If I ever get asked who should be canonized next, every time, I'll say my mother.
Now that I've rambled in the most sentimental and disjointed manner about my far flung family and those closer to me, its rather late.
I think I'm off to bed, lovelies and I think I'll text my mom to tell her I love her tomorrow. I'm no good at mushy phone calls so I do what I can.
Sleep well and Sweet dreams.
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