The Kansas Wind, by Marty Blue Waters

Every day in Kansas you can pretty much count on the wind to mess around with you. It is so ubiquitous an element that not much concern or attention is usually given to it. Even when everyone grabs for their hats at exactly the same moment an enormous gust of wind whips by, nobody misses a beat, they just continue on with whatever they were doing or saying.

It really made sense to me when I learned that the state of Kansas was named for a Sioux Indian tribe, the Kansa, which means “people of the south wind.” When I was growing up in the open spaces of western Kansas, I liked to watch the wind at work, and discovered many different ways to witness its power for myself. A cottonwood tree was a good choice for climbing. I could sit astride a high branch as though I were riding a pinto pony, heading into the wind, and looking it straight in the eye. I rode with great glee. The leaves of the cottonwood rattled like fleshy castanets and provided an inspiring rhythm to dramatize the movie that was playing in my head.

Nobody had automatic clothes driers in Kansas. We had clotheslines stretched across our back yards. Sheets became parachutes, straining to free themselves. Everyone had their own special methods of battening down the wash. Clothespins usually worked just fine, if you used enough of them. But sometimes they still needed a little help. Mom sewed iron weights into old pairs of socks and knotted them together into long, heavy strands. Then she tossed these odd ballasts over anything that attempted to leap into the sky.

For some reason, our next door neighbor, Miss Pew, never quite got the hang of it. She was a robust woman, and her huge overalls flapped on her clothesline like giant flags on a ship at sea. Her bloomers, as she called them, were cumulous clouds darting about in the bright blue sky. It was not unusual to see a pair of her runaway bloomers flitting down the back alley in search of a lilac bush to get all tangled up in. It was one of my favorite neighborly duties to retrieve these escaped undies, fold them up nicely, and knock on Miss Pew’s door with a grin on my face. She always had a good laugh and said “Oh, did those naughty girls run away again?!?” Then we’d sit on her big porch swing for a long while and talk about anything that crossed our minds. Or just be quiet and rock gently back and forth.

Miss Pew was called a spinster, whatever that was really supposed to mean, and I think she was in her 80s when I was in grade school. She lived in an enormous house all by herself and she loved to collect things. Like salt and pepper shakers. They were handsomely displayed in two giant glass cases in her living room and she enjoyed telling me the history of each pair, over and over.

And, speaking of pairs, I wanted so badly to have a pair of overalls like she wore. They looked so comfortable and had lots of deep pockets. As soon as I started babysitting to make some money of my own, I went by myself to Woolworths and bought a pair of Osh Kosh overalls, much to my mother’s horror. She had to drag me into clothing stores to shop for skirts and dresses to wear to school and church, so this was quite a shock for her. Thank you, Miss Pew, for giving me the courage to do that, back in 1958.

As I approached my teenage years, whenever a big storm blew through town, there I was in my overalls, disregarding the sirens that were blasting the well-known code, informing everybody that it was time to dive into their basements immediately. I only heard the wind in superb action and headed for my favorite tree. I had to grab on to that upper cottonwood branch so tightly I thought I might snap it off the massive trunk all by myself. Like a Thanksgiving Day turkey wishbone. I imagined I was in a rodeo riding a bucking bronco and I was not about to let myself be thrown off. Afterall, I was a fearless cowboy having the ride of my life!

Things That Make No Sense, by Rob Sullivan

twig cracks underfoot,
rain drop chooses
this moment to fall
into a puddle

eyes smile serene,
knowing long beyond
the kingdom of words
the province of thoughts

mind blown as the wind
shifting, sculpting
dry, desert sand
into a greater design

body, ephemeral vehicle,
for this leg of the journey
that spans the birth and death
of many universes

spirit remembers true calling,
dross melts away
revealing wondrous beauty
of a love supreme.

I Remember (Except When I Don’t), by Annie Wexler

There are things I don’t remember anymore. Like I don’t remember what I did three days ago, or two days ago. On a good day I remember what I did yesterday, but I don’t have a good day every day.

I started a journal a few months ago where I wrote down everything I did on a particular day so I could look back on a date and be reminded of what happened. But after a few entries I forgot to write in the journal, so most of the pages are blank. I would be in a state of panic over this except for the fact that most of my friends nod in knowing empathy when I bring it up. “Oh God, me too,” is what they say.

But there are many things I do remember. Like most people’s names. When I see someone I haven’t seen in a while the wheels start turning and out pops, “Hi Jane,” or “Hi Joe.” My husband Tony remembers clearly what he did yesterday, but when we run into someone we haven’t seen in a while I can see that blank look in his eyes. So I announce, very loudly, “Bill! Great to see you.” Or if I think Tony still doesn’t get it, I’ll say “Look Tony, it’s Bill.”  I’m sure our friends know exactly what I’m doing. If they are young they just say “Hi Tony.” But if they are old (our age!) they catch on right away and say, “Don’t worry, I’m the same way with names.”

I remember quite well things I’ve learned over time, like how to speak French. And even some Hebrew, which I spoke fluently in 1968 after living in Israel for two years, and after lying in an open trench, terrified, during the six day war, wondering if I’d come out alive. I remember how to cook chicken and matzo ball soup from my grandmother’s recipe, but not how to make her sweet plum tart. Although I can’t fault myself for that because I never tried it.

I remember how to read music and how to play all the chords, including all the diminished, and the majors, and the minor sevenths and ninths. I just started my piano lessons again last week and sat down to play “You Go to My Head” and only messed up on the G-flat major 7th chord  with a sharp ninth.

I remember all the bird songs I’ve ever learned and I can walk in the woods on an early May morning and hear the yellow warbler go, “sweet sweet I’m so sweet.” Or a chestnut-sided warbler sing, “pleased pleased pleased to meetcha.”  Or if I’m lucky, a barred owl in the distance hooting, “who cooks for you who cooks for you all.”

I remember how to play crazy eights and gin rummy with my grandchildren. How to iron a shirt collar first, as my mother taught me. How to blot out a red wine stain by pouring seltzer on it.
How to polish my brown leather shoes, but come to think of it, since I never do that anymore, I can’t be sure that I actually do remember.

I remember how to design a garden — how to know in early April what flowers will bloom, and what color each will be, just from seeing a few shoots of green.

I still know how to find my way around town, how to make and keep friends, how to be happy. So until I find my purse in the freezer I’ll consider myself lucky and be grateful

Morning Glory, by Barbara Anger

Before I had a garden I praised the morning glory
Watched it climb up the sides of porches
Open its fluted white flowers
At the dawn of day and reach for the sun.
How sweet, I’d think.

Now as I weed my garden
There she is in all her glory.
Wrapping herself around the clematis
Choking its budding flower
Taking it, pulling it over
Toward the thorny rose vine.

Careful not to break the stem
Of the clematis
I begin to unwrap the morning
glory
Pulling its root from the ground.

There I spot another one.
Her leaves nearly heart-shaped
Taking my leg in its reach.

Clinging to my bony ankle
And running up to my knobby knee
Growing upward to the spot,
My spot, where I cannot resist.

You can’t get rid of morning
glories.
So I try to manage her,
But you know
That’s not something you can do
In a relationship.
Wild remains wild.
Accept her in the garden.
What else can you do?