I received an incredible gift this week from my niece Dale and her sixth grade class. Last year I visited her public school in Chicago as a visiting poet. She is in a gifted classroom and these kids have been together since kindergarten. I have met their parents and heard about many of them for years in her stories. It is also my favorite age for poetry, 4th-6th grade, when I really started exploring what poems were and how they worked– and what they could hold and express.
Dale said that it was the first assignment that everyone turned in on time all year. They were asked on a Monday to bring a poem for the book on Tuesday, and all 21 students showed up with a poem. And not just a poem, but in most cases elaborately decorated pages with drawings.
The overall theme is memory– a favorite memory or strong memory. The poems are in different styles and form, some tightly rhymed and humorous, most more organic. I always am interested in forms they come up with themselves, like a few that use a sort of question and response, before and after structure. Some are funny, and others are full of feeling. It is always moving and exciting to me to see people, children or adults, working with words this way. It is what my new book, H is for Harry, is about– the way we make worlds, identity, our lives, out of words.
Here’s another in that style, which will resonate with everyone who was a perfectionist tween or teen! The Performance
And here’s a lovely emotionally honest poem by Dale’s friend Claire: Another
And finally, a poem about aliens with a great illustration, by Adamina, who has been watching The X Files: The Truth is Out There
But of course, I didn’t make it through Dale’s poem without crying. It is so beautiful and such a testament to our relationship.
It is called “My Memories of Your Memories,” and goes through a number of stories I’ve told her about my own childhood (and recent life) in an attempt to fill her endless desire to be told stories since she was about three years old. Each story is condensed into one or two lines, and the rhymes are there but subtle– and still, the rhymes guide some of the poem’s decisions, and it is the rhyme that sets up the last line, which is a gem.
And the illustration! It includes a drawing of the two of us on the couch, me in one of my hats and her with all her hair, based on a selfie we took during my recent visit to Chicago. And out of my mouth comes a series of bubbles with illustrations of the stories in the poem.
And of course, it isn’t lost on me how many of those classic childhood stories involve my sister Kathy. Those are my precious memories, the most fun times– going down a slippery slide during a rainstorm into wood chips, getting attacked in our snowsuits when we were little by two even younger boys at a park, losing my retainer in the ocean and waves lifting us up just as one of us would dive for it… Last night on the phone I shared the lines about those stories and we laughed and shared some more.
The stories sometimes have a dark edge: Ivan the indoor cat who we saw quite often outside before he disappeared, along with baby ducklings and muskrats and other helpless creatures on the farm. The Ebel boys who call our swimming hole “Leech Pond.” I gasped at the story about the truck and guns, which was not as dangerous or scary as it sounds, because her parents aren’t supposed to know I told her that one! It wouldn’t be the first time a poem and what is in there got me in trouble.
Cheers from here. Write poems. Tell each other stories. And love each other as fully and joyfully as Dale and I love each other. That is what I wish for everyone.
When chemotherapy knocked out my desire and the taste for alcohol, many carbohydrates, and sugar, particularly chocolate, several women on both sides of my family said: “Oh, you’re going to lose weight!” This is, for middle aged women, an unqualified good result, no matter how you get it. They weren’t being flippant. It is a silver lining, let’s say.
This week my parents were here helping out, and my mother cleaned my bathroom. She carefully set up my 
I’m sitting in my room in treatment and just finished watching Fred Astaire dance on the walls and ceiling of his hotel rom in Royal Wedding. It is not the first time I’ve seen this number. I’ve seen it dozens of times. But my smile– I have never felt such joy and exuberance over it before.
And when I turned on TCM and saw Fred Astaire, well, bonus! Now I have 
Perhaps when one is choosing what to let go of and what to hold onto, one should not hold onto something that is dependent on the weather.
Let’s give up beets. Give up the Brussels sprouts. Give up peas. Give up eggplant and parsnips and cabbage. Let’s give up most of the tomatoes and peppers. Focus on a few hardy cherry plants and some sweet peppers. If the weather goes bad, I’ll let go of the tomatoes and peppers, too. If I’m in a place to can in September, I can buy a case of tomatoes that someone else grew.
Postscript: 
When you have cancer, people will talk to you about marijuana. Pretty much right away. A lot of people (I suppose this depends on the circles in which you travel, but still, I’ve been surprised by who and how many).
This week marked a turning point for me in terms of fatigue. The real low point was marked by my inability to make a meal on Thursday. I haven’t been keeping up with the grocery shopping, and sending others out with a list is inadequate at best. So far I’ve always been able to prepare something simple and fresh. But Thursday, Sunday’s leftovers were gone and about all I could manage was getting dressed and driven to my Granix shot (for WBC count) and some online work in bed or on the couch. Through the fog of my nap I was being hard on myself– there is leftover rice, eggs, snap peas and frozen cooked shrimp down there– surely you can rally for some stir-fried rice!
My friend Kate, who runs 
The bonus was this year’s yak skeleton find. The compost is the last from a local yak farmer who has since gone back to growing Christmas trees. 
For example, they sell tomato sauce in jars! I used to be a big “Sockarooni” fan before I started canning tomatoes and freezing my own sauce. And the frozen entree aisle of the grocery store has also improved. I’m not ready to fork out the money for PF Chang’s entrees, but Birdseye makes some bags of stir-fry ready stuff and also creamy chicken pasta vegetables… And there’s frozen pizza, another thing that I’ve continued to enjoy eating somewhat (pepperoni, gotta be DiGiorno’s pepperoni).
The most terrifying part of the ovarian cancer diagnosis for me has been the numbers. There are many numbers.
I came back from my trip to warm temps, greener grass, and full-throated frogs in the wetlands. And that means I need to move from my winter hats and think about lighter headwear for summer. I tell you, I am enjoying this bald-headed challenge and loving the hats and scarves!
So today, as part of my errands, I went to a local Somali shopping area. This place has really grown, and every spot is occupied by Somali businesses. There is also a place for prayers, and the parking lot was full and men were coming out of that space. There is a pharmacy where the old Asian grocery used to be, two restaurants, a grocery or two, and other multi-use spaces like “Sistah’s Beauty Supply” which I misread twice as “Susan’s Beauty and Supply.” How’s that for chemo brain? That space has a myriad of household items, clothing, fabrics, a sewing machine for customization, and in the back a money transfer office.
