Opal Reflections
Perspectives through Prose, Poetry and Photography
Beasties ‘Tween The Slats
Picnic benches ‘Fall’ dormant,
Tiny termite beasties nestle warm,
‘Tween redwood slats.Munching mulch aplenty,
Awaiting, anticipating
Wicked over-wintering.Unseen by humans far below,
Cleaving ‘neath thermal wraps,
‘Round lakeside fire-pits.
Your Trifextra challenge is to write 33 words on a beast in an unusual place. No swamps or forests or caves, we really want you to take your beast out of its comfort zone. – See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.N6zsjQi4.dpuf
Photo Friday…This week’s Challenge: ‘Autumn 2013’.
http://www.photofriday.com/challenge.php?id=1339
Shadow Casting
Light
Golden, bright
Shining, blinding, clarifying
Warm, healthful, chilly, cool
Looming, cooling, threatening
Dark, ominous
Shadow
I immediately thought of the Diamante poetic form when I reviewed this photo, taken on the grounds of (you guessed it), The Maplestone Inn, a charming and welcoming B&B a few miles south of New Paltz. It seemed that my every footstep unfolded an irresistible photo-op. This photo of a simple tree in a bright green meadow, takes on an ethereal character, as the rising sun, a starlit point of light barely breaking through the leaves, creates a long, broad shadow. The lonely, usually unobtrusive tree, becomes a looming, almost threatening figure.
Behind The Brick-red Barn
My tote-sac always stocked, prepared to fly,
Escape to spur-of-moment quietude,
Where out of sight (and out of mind, perchance),
I gather wool, behind my brick-red barn.
The beauty and bucolic balm pervades
my deeply hidden, inner sanctum dreams
With sticks and string I turn each stitch; I knit
in thoughtful retrospection, oft in prayer.
Schubert (noodling in my brain) replays
Impromptu insights, pierce to calm my soul,
While breathing in this brisk October morn,
As autumn’s arms entwine, renew, revive.
The wood-white resting stop, whereon I lay,
Is comfort, more than chaise or chair could be,
Whilst leaning on one arm, I loll and languish
‘Top the aged, soft and grainy treads beneath.
I sense that I am not at all alone
A “Monarch” flits ecstatic, here and there
Alit at last upon my red-barn step, to share
my private perch, to gently co-exist.
My tote-sac always stocked, prepared to fly,
Escape to spur-of-moment quietude,
Where out of sight (and out of mind, perchance),
I gather wool, behind my brick-red barn.
An Engineer’s Journal: April, 1967 – Interview Day
Journal Entry, April 21, 1967: Interview Day on Campus
Why did I add my name to so many sign-up sheets? Hedging my bets, I suppose. That little insistent voice in the back of my head is still gnawing at my insecurities. Maybe I’m not good enough or smart enough. Maybe I am still listening to the naysayers; the skeptics, the rude classmates in ‘Thermo’ – boisterous boys who kept reminding me that I was taking the place of ‘guy’, who “…really wants to be an engineer!”
Somehow, I made it through an exasperating and challenging freshman year, with a GPA that took me dangerously close to probation. I hope the recruiters see the total picture; the upward trend (after that shell-shocked semester), driving up to a glorious 3.84! Clearly I’ve acclimated to the rigors of the curriculum, especially in my selected field of specialization, Chemical Engineering; and in spite of the never-ending harassment.
Maybe today, in one of these interviews, I will be taken at face value, without the stereotypical slurs. Maybe today, one of these companies will see that I can be an asset to their team.
Interview #1, Rm.424: Multinational Chemical Company.
I inhale deeply, stand up straight, shoulders back (Yes, Mom. I listen to your advice), knock and walk in, confidently.
“Good morning. Come in, Joanne – take a seat. Let me spare us both and cut to the chase: I see from your application that you are Roman Catholic, and that you are soon to be married. Tell me…
(My heart is thumping loudly.)
…what are your plans about birth control?”
(Birth control? Did he really just ask me that? How do I answer? My voice is speaking, some blather about future decisions; but I can’t hear it. Ringing in my brain are the words from last night’s pre-Cana lecture; ‘procreation’, ‘vocation’, ’rhythm method’).
“You haven’t exactly answered my question, Joanne…what assurance can you give us that if we hire you, you won’t get pregnant three months later and leave?
(Pregnant? I feel my face redden with embarrassment.)
We must protect our investments and take only prudent risks with our applicants.”
(Oh my God, that’s so personal, such a delicate a subject. Even my parents don’t ask me questions like this. Is he still asking?)
“What assurances can you offer?”
“I can’t offer assurances, Mr. Gower. I can only offer a capable and committed engineer, who would be a valuable addition to your team.”
(I don’t like this judgmental man, sitting there in his pinstriped suit, determining my future. I want to crawl into a hole and hide.)
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think you are a good ‘fit’ for our organization. I wish you success in your future endeavors.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gower”. It was a pleasure to meet you.
I extend my hand; he doesn’t seem to know what to do with it. Managing a smile, I exit the room, catching a wisp of convivial conversation from the interview room across the hall:
“No worries, Frank; your grades aren’t great, but you’re a young man who would be perfect for our team. You can expect an offer letter within the next few weeks.”
—–
This anecdote is a true barometer of the changing scene in 1967, when my fellow classmates and I were trying to land good jobs, after four torturous years as undergraduate engineering majors.
That day, I fought back the embarrassment and found the self-composure to continue the interviews with several other companies, ultimately securing a position with a forward-thinking consumer products manufacturer, who was open-minded enough to take a chance on a ‘female’.
It’s sad and surprising that I didn’t even know enough to be outraged. I was frustrated and embarrassed but not outraged and angry. Looking back, however, I am outraged – not at poor, deluded Mr. Gower, but at a system that failed to recognize untapped potential. I didn’t think of myself as different – as a ‘woman engineer’, but rather as a competent engineer. In reality, I never got a boost up because of my gender, being ahead of the EEO curve, but I never felt I needed it.
And yet my journals are filled with examples such as this. I may share a few in future installments of this series.
I’m grateful that my daughter doesn’t have to live in that world, but I’m also grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to be all that I could be. Each hurdle overcome and each barb withstood has made me who I am today. I wouldn’t change a thing.
A Penny for Your Thoughts
A penny for your thoughts.
Oh, I don’t know. I was just thinking about tossing a shiny copper into that dried up old well. It’d be nice if it was a wishing well. Does it need water to be a wishing well?
Don’t know, but I don’t think it matters.
Maybe it is a wishing well. Maybe the mere act of wishing makes it so, especially if the wish is real enough, sincere enough and important enough.
What are you wishing for?
I can’t tell you or my wish won’t be granted. It has to be a secret.
I know, we could both make a wish. I’ll give you my penny, and you give me your penny.
This phantom dream weaver, cracked and creviced stone structure with leaky wooden bucket, had been the repository for hundreds, maybe thousands of whispered wishes, creating a vortex of positive energy. Hopeful young lovers, lifetime companions, innocent joyful children, and desperate souls, all tossed their coins into the well. It was as if the spirits conspired to ensure that all who had faith enough to dream, hope enough to believe, would indeed have their wishes be heard. The rekindled spirits stirred with anticipation, as the couple on the earth above neared the well’ s rim.
He gave her his penny and she exchanged it with hers. Laughing like kids, they closed their eyes, joined hands and on the count of three, tossed their pennies into the well, where they tumbled together to the earthy, coin-filled bottom, far below.
The sun shone on the eastern face of the structure and as the morning breeze picked up, a few more maple leaves drifted silently to the ground. Still holding hands, the childhood sweethearts sloshed through the leaves, as they had so often in their nearly fifty years together, renewed with the knowledge that their wishes were the same – would always be the same; and of course, they were heard.
This week’s Trifecta Challenge: use third definition of the word PHANTOM
1a : something apparent to sense but with no substantial existence : apparition
b : something elusive or visionary
c : an object of continual dread or abhorrence
2: something existing in appearance only
3: a representation of something abstract, ideal, or incorporeal
— phan·tom·like adverb or adjective
October Remembrance
The rippling brook traverses the meadow, behind the barn. I hear the water tumbling over the remnants of a beaver dam, before I see it. But as I step tentatively on to the first board of the wooden plank bridge, It’s beauty is unfolded before me.
The turning leaves cling tenuously to the branches of the brook-side brambles, as if they know that once fallen, they will be carried downstream, never to be seen again. And yet they are so fleetingly lovely. Their beauty is ever more enhanced by the rivulet reflections.
So I stand here; listening, watching, thinking, and reflecting. Each year, this day is one for reflection and remembering a time when a little boy with red hair and blue eyes joined forces with his partner-in-crime to outsmart their older sister.
We miss you Matthew💌
.
Our Bench
Our bench,
The place where we go
To be alone, together
Alone,
Together.
Hand in hand,
Having traversed the field
Finally sitting, hand in hand,
Alone,
Together.
Seasons come and go,
We always find our way
Back here, to our bench
Together,
Alone.
The Piano Lesson
He sits atop the oversized piano bench, feet dangling, sidling off the edge to press the pedals. He, like his Dad before him, craves the music; is intoxicated by the idea that he can make music; by the notion that he can push a few ivory keys and be moved by the sound he makes.
He is young, and only now beginning to learn the power he holds within himself – the power to play; the power to move others by his playing. He, like his Dad before him, is impatient to learn. He skips ahead, trying to see where he is going. Trying to get there before he is ready; counting the days until he can finish his grade and move on to the next. How many weeks? How many days?
Someday, his Dad and his Teacher will watch and listen and marvel at his instinctive sense of the music. Someday he will outgrow his teacher. Someday he will play better than his Dad. Someday he will look back and smile at the simplicity of these early days marking the emergence of his talent.
Today, he sees his piano as an instrument of infinite capability and promise. Today, we who love him recognize the irrepressible nature of his spirit and know that he is a creature of infinite capability and promise.
He can’t yet know (yet, somehow he intuits), that magical mysteries lie in wait.
Light in Our Window
I keep it burning, day and night
I keep it burning warm and bright
It flickers now and then, but still
Its flame will not be doused until
You come home to me.
The seasons change, the leaves turn gold,
The summer’s gone, and nights grow cold.
Soon winter’s white will cloak the yard,
Soon burning logs must warm my heart
‘Til you come home to me.
When you return you’ll see the light,
You’ll hear my laughter taking flight,
Your baby son within me, named,
The life we shared will be reclaimed,
When you come home to me.
Written for Trifecta, using exactly 99 words, and the word “baby”.
Autumn in New York
The barn at Maplestone epitomizes a country farm in Fall. We are staying here at the charming Maplestone B & B, just outside of New Paltz, NY. Our room is on the first floor, complete with a wrap around porch facing this romantic barn. Our day ended, as we sat in Adirondack chairs in the dark, listening to night sounds and sipping the last few drops of PlumpJack Syrah. I can’t wait to have morning coffee overlooking this spectacular vista.
Wordless Wednesday, NaBloPoMo
Moonlit Darkness
The nights are getting longer and darker.
In a few weeks we will be resetting the clocks to “Fall Back”, confirming that the run up to Thanksgiving will have begun. These nights do seem to be darker than summer nights; even when crystal clear skies offer the galaxy in review; even when the harvest moon hangs low and huge over the pastures and valleys.
“…The moon on the crest of the new-fallen snow, gave a luster of midday to objects below…” On such a night, I cannot help but recall these words. And yet it’s too soon for snow. And yet – even with moonbeams lighting the way, these October nights seem darker. I half expect the headless horseman to come galloping out from within the depths of the forest, onto the open meadow.
Still, I love fall nights.
I love sitting in the rocker overlooking Mohonk Lake, listening to the plethora of night sounds emanating from within the cave-climbs on the opposite side of the water’s edge. I hear wisps of spoken words, as a group of young folks meander around the lake’s edge, enjoying each other and the night-hush. I hear hums and purrs and owl-hoots, as I can only imagine from whence they come.
I smell the wood burning in the fireplaces of the old mansion, inhale deeply and wrap myself up a little tighter in my knitted throw. And I rock, and I listen, and I envelop myself in the glorious, cacophonous silence.
Written for NaBloPoMo October:
Lighthouse in the Mist, Cape May, NJ
Bandit
Festive View from the Pub, Peddler’s Village – Lahaska, PA.
Home Sweet Home
Opal Reflections 