Protected Summers

How did she keep us amused, unafraid, aware, cautious, even -tempered as she stamped out our freedom? How did she keep herself from drowning in worry? Our summers were being invaded by the polio virus, sweeping the city like a tidal wave. How did she know how to protect us?

My Chicago summers in the early 1940's were explosions of activity. The beach was nearby. Lake Michigan waves were as necessary as air while city temperatures climbed. The Health Department closed the beaches and pools. The streets were our private bicycle paths. We moved around by bicycles, sharing our handlebars. The street vendors were our privae cafes. We feasted on Good Humors, sharing licks. We traveled in crowds, sharing viruses. Our mothers closed down our summer exuberance.

How did she, and all the mothers of kids caught in the path of what came to be the dread disease of summer after summer, killing our freedom, killing and crippling neighbors and friends, survive herself?

We spent the sunny days indoors. Or with our parents on quiet family outings. We were watched carefully for any symptoms that might indicate something other than a summer cold. We heard of classmates rushed to emergency wards of local hospitals. We prayed for them at Sunday masses. We privately prayed we would not be among them. We all knew that our President hd been a victim. Big or small, rich or poor, no one was safe.

The epidemic raged on. Ten years later, having escaped what so many young boys and girls didn't, never having experienced the tragedy that engulfed the families of the stricken children, I was thrust into the midst of the horror. I was now in charge of the Cook Counthy campaign to raise money for polio research, the well-established Mothers' March on Polio. Brand new out of college, brand new on the job, I was sent to meet an iron-clad polio victim being transported into Chicago for rehabilitation. It was a "photo op" to garner publicity for our campaign. I met the train, in from California, and watched as the press photographers positioned themselves around the platform to witness the emergence of the tank surrounding the little body, pumping his lungs, forcing air in and out of them, a mechanical wheezing, keeping him alive.

He was California blonde, a very young boy, tanned, smiling bravely for this Chicago welcome. At first sight, I couldn't contain my sobbing. This is what I had escaped, what my mother had diligently protected me from. I had to leave and return to my office, in disgrace. My boss consoled me, understanding my empathy. "You'll get used to it," implying there would be other iron lungs, more victims, similar assignments. The visual impact of the disease on small children made good copy, raised good money for research. We publicists were using it often and well.

The years of research that the polio foundation had supported paid off -- that year -- with the development of the Salk vaccine, stemming the burgeoning epidemic. Later the Sabin vaccine replaced it and the worry over infantile paralysis, polio, was lifted from parents' shoulders. The success of the vaccines put the Mothers' March out of the polio business. Before I could "get used to it."

THE TROUBLE

The trouble with loving you
is
you are everywhere
except here.

In the ashy Camry,
the battered bumper
I pull up behind.
From Kansas

You are the cyclist
speeding by,
a head buried in a chest
avoiding bugs. And me.

Or riding the 147.
I remember the bumps
jolting our bones.
I remember our bones.

You are in an Emily Dickinson phrase
or line
that moved you
while I stayed still

across the table,
coffeehouse marble, shaker chairs,
light cream, no sugar please.
Nothing sweet.

I peer into
the faces of masses
all of them gaunt
none of them you

They see the expectant brightness
of my face belying
the dark emptiness
beneath.

The trouble with losing
you
Is the fact I face
of failure.

TO A DISTANT FATHER

Just as I had learned to live
With the no's of your ways,
With the "skirt-too-short-hair-too-full-eyes-too-dark"
Savage bleakness of your stare

When I finally figured out
That a freedom from hurt
At your hand, by your word or perhaps silence
Is to flush you from my mind

When I saw the drunken rage
Spent on me, spent on her
As a sign of defeat in a warrior
Who never tasted victory;

Then you left us, she now broken
And old and me, new,
New to life, new to soul, new to what's ahead,
New to know the grief of loss

Now I wonder if I were
Otherwise -- longer skirt,
Languid hair, gentler eyes that might see your pain --
Would you have stayed to watch me grow?

haiku, so to speak

tippy orange cradle
toppling its baby-bundle contents:
the moon


use spent, homeless, now at the wind's whim
hopelessly brown
november leaf


tall red ice,
boozy, snoozy vodka
with lemon and hot sauce and spunk

TELL HER

WHERE did she come from
This child of the beach
All bubbles and beauty and bounce?
She's one with the waves and the reeds and the birds.

she says that she comes unannounced

Tell her I want her to stay.

WHY does she swirl so
Like crystalline sand
Caught in a circular breeze:
Shouldn't she settle and take in the sun?

she says she will do as she'll please

Tell her I think that's okay.

WHO is she looking for
All frothy and fun?
There's no one in sight that I see.
She needs a companion to share in her dance.

she says she enjoys being free

Tell her to start the ballet.

HOW does she keep
Her spirit so loose
So lively so languid so light?
I feel it arise as the heat from the sand.

she says not to hinder its flight

Tell her I'll not disobey.

WHEN will the sunshine
Turn her to gold
All glitter and giddy and glad?
I notice she buries her toes in the shore.

she says that she often is sad

Tell her I want her to play.

WHAT can I call her
So she'll notice me?
I'll shout from my window above.
She'll turn and she'll see me, but what is her name?

she says that her name is love

Tell her to go away!

a small romance in byte size pieces

I STW and find you;
PAS, he writes.
EM fan mail. What to do with a fan?
A TYVM would be good.
A blog address trails behind,
Click. Lush poetry masquerades as prose,
Washes over her.
Yes, TY and S2U. JMO but you are OTR yourself.

DIKU, she ponders;
AFAIK, yes, she decides.

IRL he sees and ignores her,
SO at his side.
No poetic apologies
But BAK he explains himself

Certainly, ADN they will come together;
Then disastrously, they are F2F,
AAS.
Out from behind the electronic pulses
B4 long, he pulsates, delicately. But
She feels the metre.
They are close. BTW, nothing.

But IRL he stays tidy, balanced, sane, safe
With his SO sure by his side
And J4G he will have the fun of her, the freedom of her
In the mix. He is FUBAR

In an IM JTLYK, she writes

No, not AOTA with fun and freedom too.
Not all of it together.
And her --
IDTS
NT
EOT.

MY MOTHER'S VEIL

Crumpled and yellowing
The mantilla rests
Untouched in the flowered hatbox -
That too a vestige from another age
Flowered and round with a ribbon to hold the top,
Also yellowed.

Within
Delicate lace to shield a delicate face,
To shelter delicate shoulders,
To screen once delicate love
Now the face, ashen
The shoulders, humbled
The love, withered.

Pulling it from its billowing tissue
Spreading it wide
The young bride says yes
I wear the mantilla of my mother
To honor her bond to me
And mine to her -
To be as she was.

She gathers my golden hair at the nape of my neck
She lays the lace gently over my head
She puts her hands around my waist
She kisses my eyelids
And sends me on my journey.