Girlfriends celebrate my birthday - Three poems: Girlfriends, Standing, Donna

We met at Martha's house. Not only this table but the whole house has been fixed up for Christmas. 

Garlic bread to the right. Salad to the left. And lasagna right in the middle on my plate. I ate every last bite. Surprise ingredient:  Tarragon. I believe her husband David grows it.

 Martha is color-coordinated with her dishes as she pours tiny croutons into our salads.

 Donna Ellen Krause sneaks a look at the camera as if to say, Don't you dare take a bad picture of me!

I knew it! she's thinking. Carly what are YOU thinking.

Carly your cake was to die for. Angel Cake spruced up with icing and strawberries and blueberries.

 Martha made a collage for Brianna, whose real name is something else, but they call her Brianna. She also made one for her daughter Emily, an RN, who lives with her male partner. Her other two daughters and their families don't live nearby, but she'll see the one living in DC, when they go to the Big Apple for the holidays.

Was visiting my ailing mother today. You'll read about her in the below poem.

Guess what kind of piano Martha has? I asked Mom.

A Krakauer, she said. When we lived on Marlindale Road in Cleveland Heights, we had a Krakauer baby grand. They don't make em anymore.

Gifts from my friends at the party.

I have no idea what that card for 70 years old is doing in my house, do you?

Crafty Martha, who works PT at a preschool center, gave us each a bag, asked us to decorate them, and then everyone should sign one another's. Below are the front and back of mine.

 Will look again at these poems tomro. Exhausted now. My friend Greg Godfrey, one of our phone greeters, said to me, "Ruth, dyou take a nap every day?"

"Usually," I said.

"How long are they?"

"Ten or twenty minutes," I said. 

BLUE NAIL POLISH

She doesn’t realize it

but she teaches us

with her nail polish.

We all want to be like her.

Like Donna.

Sorrow invaded her life early   

the onset of the misery-maker bipolar

the death of her sweet Mariel

the turning away of her husband

yet this beautiful Italian woman

persuaded him to have another

and Danielle was born

Years later, his sudden death

at the massage parlor, shook

her like a frightened rag doll. How she

wished she would die. But knew

she would never take her life.

All through the hardballs life

aimed her way, she never lost

her faith, and knew, though

her insides were hollow

she must make herself

presentable for the world

she so loved but could not feel.

On came the make-up around

her black onyx eyes, and the

nail polish, she dabbed on

her long nails of fingers that

had tousled the hair of her

childrenand of John, and now

this new man, Denny, that came to

live with her.

I am invited in. And feel

I’m at home. “I could live

in a place like this,” I think as

I stare at the rolling green

back yard, knowing the deer

will come to drink at the stream. 

My hands in hers

she paints my nails blue,

like hers, then my feet

resting in her lap, where my

freshly washed toenails

wait their turn to be colored

a shiny blue.

We have snacked on cashews

and an in-your-teeth Luna Coconut Bar

Why should I go home?

I pass her man in the living room

watching his shows

never in my life have I seen

such a look of love on the

face of a man.

This is the reward her God

has sent her. Only the

best for this long-suffering

woman. Only the best.

His name is Denny.

Denny Wilson.

*** 

STANDING

At 93 my Mother of the Bad Legs

had a good legged day and

made supper. She wowed us –

and there were five –

my boyfriend Scott, Kamellia, her

husband Tyler and baby David

who chewed the meat like

a man – his smile shows little

chompers on the top and

bottom rows. Scott said it

was like eating at his mom’s,

these Jewish women could

have owned their own

restaurants – his bubby Yetta

did! – as we purred over the

lean brisket, plump golden

potatoes, seven layer salad

like a dobisch torte but made

with peas and onions and

romaine instead – and that

unique sauerkraut dish with

tomato soup and caraway

seeds – no biggie that she

forgot the seeds – and though

she cajoled Scott he refused to

eat dessert. Creamy pumpkin

pie with no crust – why detract

from the flavor with a useless

piece of dough – pizzelles from Hildegund,

garnished with powdered sugar

I blew onto the red tablecloth

and butter pecan ice cream,

Dad's favorite till his tumor took
away his flavor buds.

Although Mom was tired, like a

champion thoroughbred she

knew she could run a little more.

Scott and I led her, arm in arm, to our

car, the perfect night to view the

Christmas lights.

She sat in the front, sunk down in

the seat like a child, as I cruised

slowly from one bejeweled house

to another. Lost in a labyrinth

of houses, Hoffman Lane

had flashing red and white

peppermint drops, running

up the driveway which

switched into greens and

then whites.

What gives? We had no

idea how they did it, just as Mom and I

have no idea if God exists

but we enjoyed the view

all the same.

At home, the perfect night

ended. The sight was

terrible! Say it in French

to make it more horrid.

We drove back to the

house. I’d gone in to

fetch Ellen to help Mom

into the house. When I

returned, she wasn’t there.

Suddenly I found her

in the pitch dark

on the black driveway,

lying face down like

a whooped boxer

without gloves. Scott

stood looking down

helplessly.

One hand was bloodied

trapped beneath her

warm coat. We wondered

with her terrible legs how

she’d ever stand up.

She took control. Stand me

up, she said and hold me.

Ellen and Scott lifted her

into my arms. I stood there

holding my mother, as if

she were a wife whose husband

had just come home from

the second World War.

The stars twinkled up above

and a sliver of moon gazed

upon our own nativity scene.

Ellen lugged the wheelchair

from the garage. We sat

her down. She never said

a mumbling word as we

pushed her, slowly, into

the living room, the loveliest

room in the house, and

lowered her onto the long

flowered couch that followed

us to Pennsylvania from Englewood Cliffs

New Jersey.

We blew kisses good night and I

stole into the kitchen for

one more of Hildegund’s pizzelles.

Our friend Mary Pasorini had

introduced them to us, came

over one afternoon, showed us

how to make them in her

pizzelle iron and said in her

high-pitched voice – she was

86 at the time – “Get one of

your own, Bernice. You have

enough money.”

****

GIRLFRIENDS

Girlfriends talk about anything they

please with one another. Their con-

versation is smooth as cream cheese

on Triscuits. The four of us sit in the

third floor kitchen at Martha’s house.

A house filled with the echoes of

her dead ancestors. When she smells

lavender, her mother’s come to

visit.

Donna, with luxuriant black hair and

dark eyes, laughs and tells us what

her mother and aunties are doing

“up there.” Carlana at the other

end of the table has had spiritual

experiences, too.

Once, I was asked to fill out a

survey online to talk about

mystical experiences I’d had as

a bipolar woman. Quickly

with a pounding of my mouse,

I got rid of it. Meaning, you’re

no friend of mine. Why should I
trust you with my precious inner

workings?  

We’ve consumed my birthday dinner,

lasagna that’s smooth, creamy and

tarragon-flavored, crunchy salad with

croutons the size of edible pebbles,

and that layered cake Carlana put

together. The white Angel cake

seemed to levitate on its crystal

cake plate, iced with white frosting

topped with blueberries and strawberries.

With girlfriends, no topic is off limits.

Kindness of husbands and boyfriends – once when

his girlfriend had the menses at college and didn’t

want to see him – he begged to make her tea. They

married later. The humor of men – Go sit on the third

step, said Denny and his Donna roared with laughter.

Hunks, Donna called our men. Have you ever

met with women who had no complaints

against their men?  

Bigelow’s Constant Comment tea – cinnamon

spice – swirled in our cups. I like mine hot.

Not too hot, mind you, or the bump on your tongue

won’t heal for days. I was careful.

Careful too when I drove home, past a house on Allison Road

I wanted to buy. How awful it looked now

with 7 steps to enter the front door. My mama

wouldn’t buy it for me.

Of the many perfect gifts they gave me –

tiny birdlike wind chimes, flowered cup no saucer,

blue menorah, jaunty cards, the one I liked best

was edible, a large tub of Maxwell House Coffee. That

deep blue color Goya would clothe a general in.

How I wanted to make it tonight. You will, said

Scott, I know you. And you’ll be up until dawn.

Girlfriends! You know me. You sing to me. You

hug me and tell me you love me. And call me

“Ruthie” as I look at the blue candelabra and

ask God to bless us all.

****

Carly and her husband Charlie are night managers at Gloria Dei Farms. She mentioned that one of the apartments is HUGE. She said it belonged to the founder of the Farms, who was also the pastor at Gloria Dei Church. 

Read about the late Pastor Ernie Schmidt here.