ALL AT ONCE
She drank to forget
But when she drank
she remembered
as though reading from
a volume of Dickens,
reciting a poem
by Gwendolyn Brooks,
exhaling a road song
by Woodie Guthrie
Slowly, no rampage,
these ramblings; recalled
in a trance of romance and
morbid, mothballed memory
all at once
Cloistered as she and I were
in our clapboard ranch house
To me, she was home
To her, this house,
this home meant a range,
a fridge, a freezer,
a coffee pot, a yard
a car, and especially
a bathroom that locked
all at once
“Back then,” as it always
started, these old stories,
“back then” was a
cumbersome load
carried by a little girl
whose mother would
disappear mysteriously
in the middle of the night
and come back weeks later
haggard but much calmer
after being committed
all at once
She told me of
late-night runs from
the landlord and the
perils of being the
only girl with an
absent mother and
a drunken father
and a brother who was
sent off to Auntie Ruth’s
All this turmoil
milling through her mind
In a gaze hazy with
absolute truth
all at once
She confessed it all
I was her eight-year-old
confidante, her committed,
codependent kid and I
maintained that role
until she died. It’s hard
being all things
to one person
all at once
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Photo of Charlotte at age 9 (with “Little Iodine” bow, all the rage back then), all rights reserved by Amy Barlow Liberatore © 2013
When I read Three Word Wednesday’s prompt words (Rampage, Morbid, Cumbersome), they took me back to The Kitchen Table Days, afternoons with my mom. She had gin and I had chocolate milk… later, coffee. I’d listen for hours; sometimes, she’d fall asleep in her folded arms and I’d wake her and lead her to bed. The three writers cited (Dickens, Brooks, and Guthrie, “all at once”) were embedded in this one woman forever. The poverty and sharp observation of the British author; the African-American jazz flavor of the poet; and her Midwestern upbringing in Iowa, along with her support for social justice (just read the unpublished final verse of “This Land Is Your Land”) by the songwriter.
There is much alliteration in this piece, among other “tricks of the trade,” so dverse’s Poet’s Toolbox will also receive a link. Check these sites out, folks. There are literally HUNDREDS of great poets contributing to these blogs. Also check out Poets United, my poetic family.
My mother: Singer, writer, storyteller, alcoholic, mental health history unknown. But if YOUR mom was institutionalized repeatedly and came back looking like Blanche did (haggard, calm after massive electroshock) in those days, you’d have thought twice about seeing anyone except your clergyman. I do not blame her, nor do I attempt to demonize her. Charlotte was a helluva lot of fun, and she and Blanche are a huge part of the reason I’m the sharp little pencil I am today. Peace, Amy
Moving Day, circa 1933
I was entranced by my mother’s stories – all about the dilemmas of the 30s, the Great Depression. Never reluctant was she to retell the travails of Little Charlotte On The Ice Floes:
Come the end of the month, Mom would murmur about rent money. Dad answered by mapping out the next dwelling. Late that night, my senses on high alert for footsteps in the stairwell, I was once again loaded by like a burro: Mom’s shedding fox pelt over all the clothes I could manage to put on. Frying pan in one hand, big can of lard in the other, more cans stuffed under my arms, and a colander for a hat.
Our family would disappear monthly into the dense fog or deep snow or sweltering summer Iowa night, carrying our weary, cumbersome life like a sad caravan. The stray mongrel, Tilly, toddled behind, tail between her legs – even she reflected the shame of poverty.
Dad would eventually stop our mule train to light a Lucky, smoke tailing skyward, ashes flicked onto the cement. He’d whistle. Mom would sigh. My big brother, Tommy, never complained about handling three satchels, as long as his beloved sax could be strapped to his back.
I’d struggle to keep up, a three-foot Five and Dime housewares department wrapped in cheap fur. So to answer your question, Amer…
…that’s why I never had a doll. Who would’ve carried the frypan?
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil, photo by the inimitable Dorothea Lange
For The Sunday Whirl: Cement, Cumberson, Answer, Reluctant, Murmur, Senses, Dense, Pelt, Smoke, Map, Entranced, Stray
Also at Poetic Asides, for the Poetry Pantry.
I usually don’t revisit the same subject so soon, but Poetic Bloomings had a prompt with such specifics (a great-grandfather, a pocketwatch, a camera, getting film developed) to one I just wrote about my Great-grandpa Dunn that I though he deserved a special remembrance. I’m looking at the portrait as I write this… Mom looks so little, like a puppy standing next to Gary Cooper. So thanks, Marie Elena and Walt, for reading my mind! Peace, Amy
Portrait of Great-grandpa and Mom
Mom told me her Grandpa
died on the tracks
The storied train conductor
lay down to relax
and died as he’d lived
in his suit so fine
Forty-some years working
the Rock Island Line
They found him, right hand flung out
They opened his palm
His prized pocket-watch was
still perfect as a Psalm
They went to the shack
built around his prize
A massive telescope;
Mars seen with his own eyes
and papers lined in ink
detailed her Grandpa’s plan
that someday on the moon
a spaceship we would land
Mom spied a camera
sitting on a shelf
slipped it her in pocket;
this, she’d do herself
Three pictures on that film
One of his cherished Scope
One, her grandma making
homemade lavender soap
The last, my mom and grandpa
Great-grandfather Dunn
In full conductor-timepiece suit…
to his long leg she clung
That picture, now in sepia
hangs upon my wall
A testament to dreamers
no matter how they fall
In death, he chose his exit
In life, he held such hope
Great-grandma washed his broken body
in homemade lavender soap
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
THE TRAIN CONDUCTOR
“End of the line,” called out the conductor, roaming car to car
Rail-thin and rangy, dignified in the spotless black uniform,
his timepiece gleamed at the end of a long gold chain.
Will was a good conductor, one of the best on the line.
He knew precisely the timeline, all destinations
His resonant voice calmed riders during bumps, holdups
and especially during inclement weather
He had a way with children; could recognize kids on their first ride,
fear and fascination dancing in their eyes
Will treated all workers with the same respect.
Never saw the color of their skin, only the quality of their service.
The last of a dying breed in the 1950s, both Will and the Rock Island Line,
as autos took to the highways and trains fell by the wayside,
rusting gravestones, remnants of the past.
He kept to himself, rarely shared stories about family.
Seemed troubled, standing off in a corner by himself on breaks.
But when tapped on the shoulder, came down to earth, immediately engaged.
The porters worried about Will, and the maids
saw his uneasiness; they prayed for him in church.
No one was surprised when, one foggy night
the man who knew the clockwork of each train, the routes of every line
was felled on the tracks and died.
“Accident,” read the report, thus ensuring widow’s benefits
for the wife he never talked about.
But she knew in her heart that for Will,
it was simply the end of the long, sad, lonely line.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Magpie Tales asked for poems about our ancestors. My great-great grandfather was a train conductor, amateur astronomer, introverted, extremely depressed man who help out my mother’s family during the Midwest Depression of the 1930s. I figured out the puzzle of his death, which the rest of the family never discussed.
Silken Softness
My mom, Charlotte,
grew up in Iowa.
Council Bluffs, to be exact.
Recession, then Depression
brought the town to its knees,
at least until corn season.
Mom said Grandma Blanche
could make anything
from corn in a skillet:
Corn cakes, corn pone,
corn bread, but the best was
corn alone.
In the field, the poor were
allowed to glean from
Old Man Jones’ field.
Yanking from stalks,
home to shuck the ears.
Corn silk was, for Charlotte,
a miracle, a treasure. She said,
“I hope someday my wedding dress
will be as soft as this corn silk.”
Blanche marveled at
how her girl could always
make magic from simple things.
It’s a Laughlin tradition,
passed from Blanche to Charlotte,
from Charlotte to lucky me.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poets United, my favorite site, asked for food-inspired, home-grown tales. Can’t get more “down home” than this!
Cheesehead
I’m a newly minted Cheesehead.
Wisconsinites call anyone
from the other side of Lake Erie
“an East Coaster.”
They fretted that we would
never make it through a
Madison winter.
I replied with one word: “Buffalo.”
Slowly they realized that, not only is
New York State snowy and cold and
a cheese heaven in itself,
but I have a Midwestern pedigree.
Mom grew up in Iowa.
I’m willing to eat all the ‘pig corn’ they put on my plate!
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “C,” and also on Poets United, my shelter from the storm.
Sharp Little Pencil 