What I Learned Talking To A Writer

For a few days last week I though about dropping my computer off the Freedom Bridge, a high bridge on the PA Turnpike near my house. I thought, “Look at all the books in the world, why does anybody need one from me?”

Bestselling authors walk through any airports everyday without being mobbed by fans. Writers neglect their friends and let dust bunnies gather, shut up in their offices with people from their own imaginations. Only a few earn a living selling writing. I know an author that rolls out of bed at five in the morning so she can write before work.

My daughter Margaret paints pictures and works retail to pay her rent. Her boyfriend Jesse has a passion to climb rocks, but he has to throw pizzas to afford more rock climbing equipment.

KK lives for Community Theater, writes amazing plays and ekes out a living doing other things. Sue lives to sing in a choir but has to put dinner on the table with her secretarial skills. Jen wrote insightful poems and never made a dime on one of them. But all of us would agree that our art gets us up in the morning.

I write because I love it. I’ve spent years honing the craft because I love it. Everything turns to stories in my head, and my kids say when I’m finally senile I will be asking for the book characters along with my own children.

What ever kind of art you make, writing or climbing rocks, cake decorating or singing, don’t stop. The world would fade to gray if all of us stopped making art and nobody at all would get up in the morning.

What I Learned Welcoming Christmas

Talk of Nativity

When we talk

of Nativity,

it’s like

planting an ancient oak

back in an acorn

like

pouring a tsunami

into a fish bowl

like packing

a record snowfall

in one furry boot.

What He has done

laying aside royalty

to become us—

can hardly be held in

one timid, trembling heart

in one quaking hand

one puny off-tune voice

singing praise.

Yet—  

He thinks it can. 

Merry Christmas everybody. Love you and thanks for reading along with me. Love Les

                                                                                                            11

What I Learned From Cookie Eaters

So if you want to be radically hospitable for Christmas, make cookies.

I can still hear Grandpa’s voice as he taught me cookie making. He read the recipe slowly and clearly. He read one ingredient, then made sure my measurements were precise and read the next one in a recitation voice that I’ m sure he learned in a one room school house.

Every time I make cookies it’s a nod to him, the best cookie baker and eater.   

He favored Ranger cookies. They are the granola of the cookie world. Imagine forest rangers pulling Ranger cookies out of their old kit bags, and eating a cookie that helped them trek on through trackless trees.   

Soccer players like chocolate chip cookies. I made cookies for all David’s away games.  I made somewhere between five and six thousand cookies, eagerly eaten by the Tunkhannock Tigers boys soccer team. Chocolate chip cookies mostly, followed by peanut butter, then oatmeal.  

Of course since it’s Christmas, fancy cookies are required. The favorite fancy cookies among cookie eaters of my acquaintance are shortbreads. Elegant and easy! Butter, sugar and flour, that’s it. Use a big glass for a rolling pin and a little glass for a cookie cutter, roll them on a sugar-coated counter top, and throw on some read and green jimmies. Looks like you’ve been slaving for hours.  

 People are thrilled to get something homemade. And only Scrooge and the Grinch don’t like cookies.

Put Christmas cookies on the top and the standbys on the bottom. You have a full plate and people are just as excited to eat chocolate chip cookies as they are to eat something with red and green sprinkles.

If homemade cookies are just too much for you, come on over. Tell me all your news while I bake cookies and I’ll give you hot cocoa and a plate of cookies to take home.

A Little of What I Learned From Jen

My friend Jen, a great poet and wonderful woman died this week. Here is a tribute to her. Hope you all like poetry.  I never wrote so many poems on one theme before. These came out from yesterday when we buried her, to a couple weeks ago, and even a summer memory. From the newest to the oldest developments in our relationship. I hope this all makes some kind of sense. Welcome the indwelling memory of those you love.

Jen #7 Poetry Teacher

I want all poetry banned

every bit of Dickinson, Patty Smith

Carl Sandburg, and all that Howls

rounded up and burned in public square

every Cat in the Hat and rhyme crucified

they all rub my nose in you-not-here,

You, the one who gently swung open the doors

who unraveled the mystery and explained it

who bared your soul on paper

and prodded until I bared mine.

So my bare stand shivering now

and there is no one

Receiving

I will never again be sure I have a good poem.

I would ban poets because they are like you

And they all should stop with you gone

But I can’t.

If I bought every laptop, notebook, pen

in every office store on the planet

Poets would still write on napkins

on receipts on box tops on tree bark

with charcoal their souls would lay open

So I guess I better just ready for

Poetry

in not your voice

I better find another teacher

When I decide to make poems again.

12/14/11  leslee clapp

 Jen # 6  Wedding

In the chapel,

we rose.

We turned toward the back

waiting

looking for you

to honor you.

Row by row we faced forward

as you passed by

instead of one groom

you had pall bearers.

Not a white gown

but a snowy white cloth

draped over your casket

No rejoicing

that you found Mr. Right

but weeping

as we hand you off to angels.

how wrong, how wrong,

us gathered at your funeral

and never your wedding.

12/14/11  leslee clapp

Jen # 5 Lives On

The priest says, “We bid our last farewell to our sister Jennifer,” but it will not be—our last farewell.

Every poem I ever write is a nod to her, every handicapped access where I still think,

“Oh, the I can take Jen here someday,”

 Every open mic where I expect her to walk meekly to the front then read a poem that blows

the tops of our heads off,

and all the faces and voices, all those creative souls still here,

each of them one more acknowledgement of her, no farewells at all.

12/14/11 leslee clapp

Jen #4 ICU

Touch someone who’s dying.

Find a spot with no needles

or tubes connected to no

monitor that hums or

clicks or beeps,

 in cruel parody

of back yard crickets or mockery of

a commuter train to carry us

to the Bowery Poetry Club to hear

the Wilkes graduates read.

Look into a face eased of worry

by strong medication or inner peace

a classical Madonna in a rumpled hospital gown

Connect your gaze with hazel eyes

see the battle, fear and pain

vs peace

Knowing she must go now

even though she still has so

much to say.

12/1/11  leslee clapp

  # 3  Sunny Saturday

My memories

seem to be only mine

since you are gone.

How I liberated

you from

the nursing home,

where you

lived decades too early,

as I pulled up

in the convertible

 and whisked you away.

The folded up

wheelchair

took all

the back seat,

and stuck up behind

 our heads.

I wore

a floppy straw hat

you wore

the silly red one,

while the sun

kissed us as we drove

the length of Green Ridge,

toward town

where the rest

 of the poets

waited.

Summer 2011 leslee clapp

Jen # 2   Cape Cod Her favorite Place   

The soft poetry of the December day,

afternoon, 4:30, teatime, light marks

sky, trees across the sound

like figures drawn in chalk pastels,

as I’m standing on a December beach,

a poet’s beach

how much you should be here instead

You live in words

this would stir you,

you could capture it

the light right now is poetry.

Then the new day, sunrise

Bright, brittle, bold,

as sun, certain of its right

to light the world, travels its  

east to west course,

as it has since assigned its route

my own assigned route

altered by a

few degrees at least forever

as you lay, not responding,

far away in hospice,

and I stand in your favorite place

the sand at Cape Cod.

.

12/10-11/11 leslee clapp

Jen # 1  A Prayer  

I know you from the outside,

Enemy, my own, my only.

and it’s only You I would beat

back with flashing words,

fiery lances of words,

feathered steel-tipped words.

they are all I have, small hard scatter-shot,

to get inside your targeted victims,

hoping one of my words will grow

on the battleground of a heart

to replace the mortal fear You’ve sown

with immortal peace

just this one time, Dear God let them work,

let my words be the right ones right now.    

12/4/11 leslee clapp

What I Learned From Leslees

There are 113 Leslees on facebook. Okay, so maybe that's not a scientific count, but I'm not the only L-E-S-L-E-E out there! There is at least one Leslee that went to Penn State, one that is a cute little baby, and several that are my age, born in the 1950's.

If you name is something normal like Jennifer, or Kathy or Ashley, you might not understand how amazing it is to find so many Leslees. I only have ever met three other people named Leslee in my life, and nobody that spells my way.

The Leslie that went to my high school was a boy. And back in the day of segregated gym class, my school put me in the boys' gym class every year.  They couldn't even imagine a girl name Leslee!

My mother was livid when I learned to write in first grade, and wrote my name very neatly, but spelled wrong as the school insisited I should spell it. It has always caused me trouble.


I grew up thinking that my name was a little weird and I didn't even know I felt that way until I saw all the beautiful Leslees that weren't afraid to say so.

I would like talk to the other Leslees. There was a Leslee running for office, and several that used their uniquely spelled name to advertise their businesses. There was a Leslee Leslie.

Leslees out there---do you think your name is weird?  Do you like it spelled leslEe or are you a little uncomfortable correcting somebody or spelling it aloud to someone in a doctor's or dentist's office?

Do you wince when your friends spell it wrong? Did you ever go by Les so everybody got it right?

I feel like I just found some long lost family members. There are some Leslees out there after all. Any of you Leslees want to be my friend? You're welcome here because of your lovely name.

And the rest of you, Joyces and Stephs and Julies thanks for indulging your friend Leslee.

What I Learned From Jen Clapp

So the other day, I started to tell a story. Big surprise there, huh? I said, “We used to have a party for the anniversary of when we bought our old house and  . . . “

I was interrupted right then by my daughter-in-law Jen, who said sweetly, “Any excuse to have a party. “ Oh, look,” she said, pretending to be me, “our bush died. Let’s have a party.”

That stuck me as so funny that I laughed until I couldn’t breathe. I laughed until no sound came out. If I had been standing up I probably would have wet my pants.

She poked fun so gently that I felt loved and appreciated. She showed me a truth in my life and that truth made me very happy. Here it is: I love to have parties. I love to have people over, to go out for lunch, to make plain old chores an adventure. If it’s fun, it’s a party.

Until she said it, I never saw that truth before. I never saw how much I wanted it to be true. I never saw that I had achieved a great goal in my life until she said, “any excuse to party.” Any excuse to bring joy, to have fun, to gather people and enjoy them, any reason to get happy, to light up a room. I’ll take any excuse to fight the dark, fight loneliness, or sorrow, or isolation.  

So I’ll make the cookies and put on the coffee. Having you here will make the party. Thanks, Jen.    

What I Learned Inked

I got a tattoo last night. It is my second one. Come and look at my left arm and my right arm, see both of them and have a coffee with me. 

The first one I got about five years ago. It’s a line drawing of Aslan the lion, from the Chronicles of Narnia. He is a representation of Christ. This tattoo is a designer label. I look at Aslan and think, “I am God’s design, and He's not done with me yet."

 In this new tattoo, a Big Man is kneeling listening to a little girl talk. He is smiling while she yaks away, and in one hand, He’s holding up a globe. This reminds me that God has time to hear anything I have to say. He wants to talk. He is big enough to keep the world spinning, small enough to live inside me, and loves me so much that He never gets tired of me. 

This tattoo is bright, happy colors, as I am when I remember Who can handle my worries. The Big Man wears purple Chuck Taylor converse high tops, and the little girl (me) wears red ones.

My new ink is a symbol of me trusting Him even more, of laying down worry and fear once and for all. Thank you, Stella Novack. Thank you, Jacob Institute. 

Don’t write to me about being addicted to tattoos, they hurt! Save your lecture about me blowing my professional image, nobody knows what’s under my short-sleeved shirt. And don’t tell me I’ll get tired of my lovely pictures, I’m 56, I only have thirty years until I’m senile and forget about them! 

Just rejoice with me that I trust God now more than ever. Rejoice that there’s Somebody who’s never tired of hearing my voice.