Half poems, half prose. The memoir opens with Jo. Poems all. It moves on from there to Dad. Dad was physically abusive to me from eleven to seventeen. He used a razor strap in his study and a half wooden shingle in the dining room. Prose and a poem at the end of his life. Next Mom. Looking back. Sadness because I went to Illinois to teach high school English. Because she died so young. I only felt my love after she died. Next, My Second Black Mother. I was the only white person at the funeral service. They smiled and included me. She taught me all the important characteristics: justice, courage, and faith. Next, Chris. Journal entries by Chris, plus four of my poems at the end. Now Me Again. December 22, 2009 when I had the two strokes. Things changed permanently. I couldn’t swallow. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t write. One poem sums it up: “I Told No One” about the stroke. Next, Jen. Poems. One poem in particular, implanted in my heart, whirling with Jen at “New Years Eve.” Next, Me at Camp Hio Ridge or Lac de Mille Lacs, or Striper Fishing, Sailing, and Tennis or After the Strokes. It draws you in to my memoir as I tell it. Honest, compelling, sad, and joyous. You can find my book here.
I Am On My Way to Healing: Two Strokes and a Recovery
The first stroke was in the parking lot of Jones Coffee Roasters, before I ordered two cappucinos. A second stroke in Huntingdon Hospital, Pasadena, at night. Jo, my wife, Jen, my daughter, and Sandy, my son-in-law, were anxiously waiting. I didn’t think I would wake up from the second stroke. But I opened my eyes, flat on my back. Hazy, blurred, weak, etc The right side of my mouth drooped. I could not swallow. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t use a wheelchair. Yet. I couldn’t speak. I couldn't write. I could read but slowly. The left brain, with mini-whole hole, was gone. The right arm was in a sling for months on end. The right leg was weak but all right. I experienced the entire devastation of my right side. I had to reconstruct the neurons into some kind of new order to fire me up again.
I took me three years to start writing after the strokes. I didn’t think I could do it. I began to write slowly, tediously, and painfully. It took me three weeks to finish the first page. Garbage bound. I had to redo it. It took me two weeks to do the second page. Three or or four lines per day. Then I had to rest on the sofa. To the laptop and to the sofa. It was determination to get to the end. Believe me. As I made progress, there was hope for other stroke survivors. We can spread the message more widely. I join you in spreading the inspiration out in the world. You can find my book here.
Poems & stories 2016
I was frightened by publishing my first poetry book. Seventy-seven years old and two strokes. Sixteen poems, three stories written over a thirty year period and tucked away in a metal file box in a garage. However, not completely forgotten. Now and then I went into the garage and read poems and stories once again. Eventually, I took them out of the metal file, brought them to my study, and fingered the poems and stories. Could I publish eleven poems and three stories? Could I publish five additional poems after the strokes? Would they be as good as the eleven poems I’d written before the strokes? Determined I set out to see what happens to the poems after the the strokes. I wrote five. Yes, I said to myself, you can write poems after two strokes. I couldn’t tell the difference between them.
My favorite poem before is Ralph: “That moment, with juice running down my face/and dripping from my fingers . . . “ After, my favorite poem is Eva: “ . . . because/we want to be where she is/at that very moment/joined together.” I also revised the three stories. So here it is: poems and stories. You can find my book here.
a puzzle of his life: A Virtual memoir
A fabulous picture on the outside front cover is Chris, my son. Long dark red hair, skinny, and a half smile. I had three visions of his life after he died. The visions were implanted in my memory, but I hadn’t acted on them. The fourth vision appeared as Chris communicated with me. He wrote “I couldn‘t see exactly what he had written. It was an almost-puzzle. Suddenly I could flashes of his words. The words flowed to my mind. I couldn’t wait to write down the words, phrases, and sentences in the computer.” I wrote the “real” story. Is it fact or fiction? Interwoven always? I have blurred the meaning. I like that blur. It tells me something about the intersection of fact/fiction where it is always blurred.
Back to the story. Chris failed all his 10th grade classes, smoked a bong every day, and got in trouble with the police. Eventually, on January 1, 1979, Barbara kicked him out of the house. I arrived in Flemington where Chris stood outside with one suitcase. When I got to Rumson, Chris stomped in furious at all of us. Stood there, head down, always sullen. A resounding beginning for me and Jo.
After a while, Chris quietly cleaned up his act. Stubbornly. On his own. He graduated from high school with B-. I was astounded. At the University of Montana, he majored in music and, then, art . Discovered sculpture. In mid-junior year, he died of a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. February 13, 1983. I remember that vividly.
Chris knew all along that he was fine. Quietly he blossomed inside. He knew that a degree from the University of Montana was out of reach. He didn’t care. Thirty years later, Chris reached out to transfer “the power” to me. I wrote this “virtual memoir” for the two of us. Moving toward poetic, this is a spiritual and moving book. Furiousness, sadness and joyfulness are joined together. For me and Chris. You’ll enjoy reading it. You can find my book here.