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HE WANTED FRIES WITH THAT
.................
Where I like to stay on my
upcoming annual drive
Everything
Ends
Within too close of a span of time
I
lost my aunt, and uncle
And
father, and mother;
Today I telephoned for a reservation
At
the Wheeling Inn
To
the Maryland
I
like to stay there because it’s at the foot
Of
the United
States
A
swinging bridge, though made of steel and heavy cables,
Still, Civil War soldiers brought it down with just their boots
And
their legioned in-step marching;
It
fell for the first time; there were two other collapses
Until engineers got it right.
In the morning, rested, before
continuing
The
eastward drive over the Alleghenies
Into
Maryland
Across that swaying bridge sequestered in tons of
concrete
Outside the door and under the Wheeling Inn,
Across it to
Wheeling Island
In
the middle of the Ohio River
Where I continue walking the mid-river turf
Looking at and photographing mansions
From
another era, when the economy boomed;
Now
for years it’s been a region of depression
But
the residents are cheerful, and striving
To
rehabilitate some of the structures
And
year by year I monitor progress and further
erosion,
And
even shoot pictures of their cats
In
the alleyways paved with brick,
And
of high water marks scrawled
On
the outside of their community building,
Of
old churches and sidewalk bricks dislodged
By the roots of giant
trees
Well-watered by their constant source;
Always in the hour of dawn I wander
And
wave at, sometimes chat with bath-robed
Early risers on porches; some recognize me;
They're drinking their coffee, or watering their
honeysuckle
And
bougainvillea in the muggy river atmosphere;
But everything
ends;
I found today on the telephone
with the Chamber of Commerce
That
the Wheeling Inn died, is boarded up, a victim of
The
poor economy; it was getting
seedy at the edges,
Yes,
and I guess too sparsely used,
But
I will miss it.
One year Dad and I
stood
On
the fifth floor balcony staring up the Ohio
And
I stepped back and took his picture,
Which I still have,
A coal barge below, full, in it's
unstoppable momentum
Floating gracefully by;
I
will stay at another place east on Route 70
And
it won’t be the same;
Ancient bridge anchors won’t be set under that
hotel;
I
won’t feel the vibrations of night traffic
On
the bridge in my bed, they won't be there;
I’ll get my bridge walk in
By
driving back to the vacant Wheeling Inn
From
that place so down the road and into the foothills
Yet
only point eight miles that it’s disconnected
From
the water-treading city of Wheeling;
Another thing ends,
Another subtraction that is unwelcome.
[David Z. Dix
6-16-2004 ]
Holocaust survivor Stella Knobel's teddy bear
on display at the memorial's "Gathering the Fragments" exhibit at Yad
Vashem Holocaust memorial and museum in Jerusalem Poland Iran
and finally the Holy Land . "He was like
family. He was all I had. He knew all my secrets," the 80-year-old now
says with a smile. "I saved him all these years. But I worried what would
happen to him when I died." So when she heard about a project launched by
Israel's national Holocaust memorial and museum to collect artifacts from aging
survivors - before they, and their stories, were lost forever - she reluctantly
handed over her beloved bear Misiu - Polish for “Teddy Bear”- so the fading
memories of the era could be preserved for others. (AP Photo/Ariel Schalit)
forget naught
What's that
You're asking,
"What is potato-thwocking?"
It is another art practiced
wherever Waukesha Dixes gather
-one or two - wear their hats
and ingest food gracefully.
The potatoes first of all have to be
prepared and mashed just right,
as Mother Denise skillfully knows how to do.
Next, a well-rehearsed partaker
takes an imaginary practice swing
with a genetically supple wrist,
then dips the serving spoon into
the whipped mass just so
and deftly flings it at the waiting plate.
The properly mixed and tufted
spoonful will separate downward
with rapidity
and thwock onto the plate;
yes, a crater forms in the motion
before the diner, who, hungry,
will find this proper white mixture
automatically awaiting a ladle
of good gravy placed within.
Elephant paper
from recycled material
from recycled material
Heart-shaped note paper
and finer stationary is available at Plowshares
on Main Street in downtown Waukesha,
a district of seething and churning shops.
We love the elephant dung recycled papers
sold there from Sri Lanka.
.........
Turtle in the Road
It was the spring before we moved again, a list of what
we must do on the refrigerator, when my daughter
and I found a turtle in the road. He was not gentle
or shy, not properly afraid of the cars that swerved
around his mistake. I thought I might encourage him
towards safety with a stick but each time I touched
his tail he turned fiercely to show me what he thought
of my prodding. He had a raisin head, the legs of
a fat dwarf, the tail of a dinosaur. His shell was a deep
green secret he had kept his whole life. I could not tell
how old he was but his claws suggested years of
reaching. I was afraid to pick him up, afraid of the way
he snapped his jaws, but I wanted to help him return
to the woods which watched him with an ancient
detachment. I felt I understood him because I didn't
want to move either; I was tired of going from one place
to another: the introductions, the goodbyes. I was sick
of getting ready, of unpacking, of mail sent to places
where I used to live. At last I put my stick away
and left him to decide which direction was best.
If I forced him off the road he might return later.
My daughter and I stood awhile, considering him.
He was a traveler from the time of reptiles, a creature
who wore his house like a jacket. I don't know
if he survived his afternoon in the road; I am still
thinking of the way his eyes watched me go.
I can't forget his terrible legs, so determined
to take him somewhere, his tail which pointed
behind him at the dark spaces between the trees.
we must do on the refrigerator, when my daughter
and I found a turtle in the road. He was not gentle
or shy, not properly afraid of the cars that swerved
around his mistake. I thought I might encourage him
towards safety with a stick but each time I touched
his tail he turned fiercely to show me what he thought
of my prodding. He had a raisin head, the legs of
a fat dwarf, the tail of a dinosaur. His shell was a deep
green secret he had kept his whole life. I could not tell
how old he was but his claws suggested years of
reaching. I was afraid to pick him up, afraid of the way
he snapped his jaws, but I wanted to help him return
to the woods which watched him with an ancient
detachment. I felt I understood him because I didn't
want to move either; I was tired of going from one place
to another: the introductions, the goodbyes. I was sick
of getting ready, of unpacking, of mail sent to places
where I used to live. At last I put my stick away
and left him to decide which direction was best.
If I forced him off the road he might return later.
My daughter and I stood awhile, considering him.
He was a traveler from the time of reptiles, a creature
who wore his house like a jacket. I don't know
if he survived his afternoon in the road; I am still
thinking of the way his eyes watched me go.
I can't forget his terrible legs, so determined
to take him somewhere, his tail which pointed
behind him at the dark spaces between the trees.
..............
..............
Paul Kaske's Hand
Recently Paul came into Dady(sic)Oh's restaurant
On a Saturday morning and we exchanged our usual
Greetings
As he stood at our table absently
Tapping his rugged butcher fingers on the
Napkin folded at my right.
Sit down, I suggested, so he did.
I invited him to retell for Dee the story about the fall
He took in the meat-cutting room of a local supermarket
Where he now works part-time, keeping his hand in.
Paul learned the grocery business
And meat-cutting from his father,
Sturdy grocer from the old Congo,
Hawley.
Kaske's Grocery Store
Used to be up on Grand Avenue
And it is where I and my family and neighbors
All bought our food.
Paul could be a mischievous boy, but kind.
Today I watched his drumming hand gently
Addressing the tabletop.
The Kaske's have been Congregationalists
For years.
Paul was working not long ago in a butchering room
On a floor that was pitched down under the work table
To catch the blood and carry it to a drain.
Somehow he slipped and cracked his head badly
And wound up in he hospital, laid up for a long time.
But now he is back, and is seen sometimes at the Congo
And frequently on Saturday mornings having breakfast
At Dady(sic)Oh's.
(I am now willing to call the good place by it's given though
Erroneous name, instead of what it went by for years, Paul's.
For a lengthy while it was for me "The Former Paul's".
A downtown Waukesha place, it is now a cheery gallery of
American flags and good
Friday night fish.)
Friday night fish.)
PS
A waitress at Dady(sic)Oh's has a great Morton's Salt tattoo on her upper arm.
