In fevered dreams of days long past

I find a host of ghosts who wait

For moments when I slip, at last,

And open wide my memory’s gate.

 

DICHOTOMY

 

Were ever two people so mismatched,

So absolutely unsuited to sail

Life’s oceans bound as one,

Man and wife?

 

What perverse cosmic force

Conceived the plan that brought together

This man, with a dark and bitter heart,

And this woman, with an infinite capacity to love?

 

In Spring, he cursed the wind and mud

And threw word spears

At all who came near him;

While she started seedlings

In milk-carton beds,

Tucking them in, gently, under blankets of earth.

 

Summer brought rage and restlessness to him,

And found her nurturing

Children, animals, and plants;

Loving, feeding, watering,

Trying to fulfill the needs

 Of those around her.

 

Only in Autumn did their needs

Complement each other;

His need to hurt, to kill,

And her need to put food by.

He was the executioner;

The steer, the hog, the chickens,

The deer carried down from the mountain.

And, she, with deft and powerful hands,

Disemboweled, dismembered, and put to freeze

Food for the coming winter.

 

 

 

 

 

Winter was the quiet time,

The still time, the waiting time.

“Don’t move too fast, he’ll see you!”

“Don’t talk to loud, he’ll hear you!”

“Breathe shallow, hold still!”

She called us to the kitchen

And told her stories by the stove.

She spread her wings

And brought us close to her;

A hen sheltering her chicks

From the shadow of the hawk.

 

 

SURVIVOR

 

Under the wide canopy of the cottonwood tree I lie

Adrift, on a sea of Queen Anne’s lace.

Beneath me the gentle swells of green

Cradle me over the earthen deeps,

While, above me, giant breakers of taller plants

Loom over my head.

 

Far down, in the stygian darkness,

Under this pale green sea,

Lurk mystic frightful creatures;

Long, sinuous filaments of fear,

Many-tentacled tremors of uncertainty;

Dark denizens of my childhood’s nights.

 

With arms spread wide, I float,

A castaway,

Seeking an island of sanity;

Caught in the vortex of

Lives that are sinking.

The shimmering cottonwood leaves whisper,

“Swim or die!”

 

 

 

My glamorous Uncle Win. Oldest of my father’s seven siblings. Master sculptor. Dedicated to preserving the culture and faces of Southwest Indians. Created 41 busts in his Santa Fe, New Mexico studio in the 1930s.

Tan. Trim. Friend of the Navajos, Pueblos, Acomas and Tewas. Here are three of his bronze castings that greet me every morning—Albert Lujan, José Nacio Herrara, and an unnamed old Indian man who walked 100 miles to sit stolidly for his clay portrait in spite of warnings from his shaman that he was risking death. Winslow’s friends. My friends.

Deeply tanned, handsome figure, highly respected in the art colony of Santa Fe and driven by his goal to create 50 bronze heads of real native Americans. Dropped dead at 70 short of his goal.

Piercing brown eyes, baldheaded. White sweatshirt, white flannel slacks, white tennis shoes, white custom-built Lincoln roadster. A dashing, exciting, inspirational figure worshiped by dozens of nieces and nephews.

If you are ever in the New York City Metropolitan Museum of Art, you may see the Buddha-like bust of Albert Lujan, Tewa from Taos. Famed art critic Ina Sizer Cassidy wrote these words about this magnificent bronze in the New Mexico magazine: “Winslow’s work is simplified in the last degree, his planes being only those needed to delineate the significant form and inner spirit of his model, giving strength and dignity to his portraits. It is amazing to observe the individual expressions he gets in the eyes of his sitters, as clearly individualized as is gotten by painters and accomplished by lines and planes alone.”

In Creative Art magazine, noted psychologist David Seabury paid this tribute: “It is so rare to find a man who senses meaning and yet does not try to evade reality, who seeks meaning in the form and lets that meaning so empower his vision and strengthen his touch that he renders the life before him with true power and perception.”

After World War II, he became Executive Director of the World Federalist organization for New Mexico and worked tirelessly for peace but never gave up his dream of creating a national gallery for the preservation of American Indian Art—a dream that came true after his death in 1958.

When I gaze intently into the eyes of Albert and José Nacio as they sit on our dining room buffet, I feel the warmth and kinship they shared with Winslow, my favorite artist and beloved friend.

By
Reiss


Garçon was born before his time. Garçon was a man of his time.
Garçon was a novelist’s character. Garçon was a real man.

How Aunt Marie and her husband, Garçon ever meet, fell in love, married and lived together into old age and until one, then the other died, will always be a family mystery. Aunt Marie, my mother’s Rubenesque sister, wanted and appreciated the finer things in life, loved fashion, socializing, a lovely house and good foods. Garçon, you will learn, had no interest in any these things. He was a simple man, a man who thrived on the basics in life. He was, simply, Garçon.

He was a major force in my life from the very beginning. He, with no prior knowledge or approval from my parents, chose my name, gave it to me at my christening and allowed no discussion once the deed was done . He was, from that moment on, was my Parrain. When the world called him Garçon, rather than Gustave, his given name, I, alone, called him Parrain, the French word for Godfather. In our community godparents were important, respected and considered vital to our Catholic education and survival. Interesting choice for that job, my Parrain. I never saw him enter a church, never heard him utter a kind word for the priests or nuns, yet knew he was, in his own way, a deeply spiritual and, even, religious man. His communication with his God was a private matter...except for Saint Theresa. Who knows why, who knows when or how it got there, but there was a picture of Saint Theresa in his work-shed and was the one saint for whom he seemed to have respect.

He had no formal education, was one of several children of an immigrant father from Sicily and learned very early in life the value of hard work. His love and understanding of animals, especially horses, made him a major asset to his unit when he served in the Cavalry during World War One. Family members older than I, tell the story of Miss Blaze, a horse whose owner was about to shoot after a horrific accident that left its leg torn open and, they thought, beyond repair. Garçon pleaded for the horse’s life and convinced the owner to give the injured animal to him. He took it home and, with no professional help, did surgery on the leg. Later, he brought Miss Blaze back to racing glory. I don’t remember Miss Blaze but I am old enough to remember the pungent “liniment” he concocted that was, for him, the miracle potion he used to massage his horses and, when allowed, humans back to health. There are those who insist it worked. Luckily, I was never in need of that strange, thick, greenish liquid whose aroma filled his room at the back of the house and made my eyes water. The musty old bottle with the tall cork was always standing there, at attention, on his dressing table, ready for use when needed. Saint Theresa, help us!

Garçon did not know how to read or write but, one day, in order to keep abreast of the racing activity at the Fair Grounds, taught himself to read and write. I remember breakfast with him and my Aunt Marie when, after the racing results, he relished the comic strip antics of Mandrake the Magician. Good reading, I thought.

He, one day bought a truck and decided what the city needed was a traveling fruit and vegetable man. He was their man. He ran a lucrative business until retirement age. Aunt Marie was never overjoyed by the truck, or the vegetables that he sorted, washed and stored in her back yard. She preferred flowers and plants. She wanted roses, he brought home crates of fruit and vegetables for the next day’s run. When she complained about the mess he brought into her yard, he retorted, “It’s this mess that gives you all those pretty hats you buy.” Her complaints, though, never stopped. His business sense allowed him to protect and maintain his nephew’s neighborhood market until the younger man returned from World War Two to find it still there and thriving.

Parrain’s idea of wardrobe was an old pair of Khaki pants, a plaid shirt and a frayed rope to hold the pants up. That was his uniform and those who did not like it could look the other way. Interestingly, people did like it ... and him. He was, in addition, to everything else, the neighborhood clown. His wit and his willingness to make light of everything had the entire community laughing.... everyone except Aunt Marie who was perpetually embarrassed by his appearance, his demeanor and his lack of respect for propriety. His willingness to say whatever came to mind was a constant source of “mortification” for poor Aunt Marie. I remember, very clearly, the morning, I sat on the floor in the large dining room of their house thumbing through a picture book of world wonders. When I found a picture of a tall tower, I asked, “Parrain, What’s that and why did they build it?”

He smiled down at me and said, “That, my boy, is the Eiffel Tower. Those silly Frenchman, built it to see who could urinate the farthest!”

Purple with rage, Aunt Marie, broom raised high, rushed toward the giggling man. “Mon Dieu, you terrible old fool... telling that child that sort of vile thing! Out of my house, you are not fit to live indoors. Out! Don’t come back until you decide to behave like a decent human being! Out, out of my house! Oh, Mon Dieu!”

More about Parrain later.

Beverly Glen Circl

A strange plant stabs seven foot leaves
Like swordblades
Into the sky above Beverly Glen Mountain.
Slim eucalyptus trees--
Roots poisoning any native plants--
Stretch pale arms high into the sky
Their little knife-like leaves
Ready to slice up and dice the air.
Planted at their base,
Traitorous pansies feign innocence.
During the day these foreign legionnaires,
Wielding sword and knives and poison,
Watch coming,going Sport Utility Vehicles
That at night transform
Into glinting, winking
Foreign-made luxury sedans.
When did this rout happen?
Who has invaded our California hill?

This once was your land, this once was my land
From the Pacific Ocean to Mulholland Highlands,
Long hazy vistas that held hawks gliding,
This land belonged to you and me.
Didn’t it?

A giant bite taken out of the hillside,
Spit out as shops,
Surround that lot of restless steel.
There are a deli and Chinese, Japanese, Italian eateries,
The ubiquitous coffee boutique;
A nightclub for dinner with live jazz
And a food store with vinotek that sells
Black Sea caviar and 200-year-old French wine.
The pet store sells doggie raincoats,
The Yellow Dog, dessous for any taste
And the bookstore deals only in rare books.

Not very long ago I hiked these hills.
Chaparral grew waist high and mustard plants
Sang yellow greetings to the spring.
Lizards darted over rocks and bees buzzed the herbed air.
Venerable live oaks rested away decades in the sun.

Now around me people drink “macchiatos”
Write laptop screenplays about the Wild West.
Two New York City types draft contracts;
Youths with fashionable hair prance by,
And girls in short skirts flash their thighs.
Cell phone conversations shred the air
With contrivances and complaint.

No longer does the mustard greet the spring,
No longer do the lizards play their games.
We’ve lost another piece of Eden
It was defenseless against our deadly greed.

I awoke while Mrs. Rowe was crossing the street. Why dream of Mrs. Rowe? I hadn’t thought about her in years. It was the weekend and the smooth jazz station had a couple of days off from summoning me to action. Mrs. Rowe and I first met when Truman was President. What was left of my family had moved closer to town. She was a frequent visitor to our landlady, Mrs. Gagnon, who was a fine listener. She could focus on the speaker to the exclusion of any distractions rather than hammering away at her own agenda. I knew when Mrs. Rowe was visiting the apartment below ours because I’d hear her staccato German accent and then the silence as Mrs. Gagnon meditated on what had been said. I’d been in Mrs. Rowe’s home a few times and all I recall were shiny teapots, platters, trays, goblets and vases in a honey-colored china closet. All I knew of her was that she was Jewish and had emigrated from Germany with her son. Her only relatives in this country, and perhaps in the world, were her physician son, his wife and children who lived 30 miles away.

Mrs. Alice Bissonnette, who owned the three-story building which was covered in imitation red brick, lived next door. Refined would not describe Mrs. B. She was fond of yelling at her two older children, Debbie and Danny, who were among my neighborhood friends. We all knew how Mrs. B. felt when she was angry, which was often. Way ahead of her time, she preceded by many years the belief that it was healthy to “let it all hang out.” Today we would nominate her for Dr. Phil’s guidance. We would say, “Go ahead, Alice! Tell us how you feel!” In my dreams of her, she always leans against the railing on her back porch while I stand on the grass. She confides that she is afraid of cats. Wouldn’t she be surprised to learn that many a cat napping on a favorite quilt or in a shady garden patch was shocked into reality by her grating voice? Many were the cats that ran to hide under the nearest bed or up the tallest tree to escape her hollering. Mrs. Bissonnette never knew how much our neighborhood cats feared her and her voice.

Across the street lived Mrs. Williamson who owned an enormous yellow building trimmed in white and enveloping innumerable apartments and quite a few garages too. Mrs. Williamson always spoke softly with a touch of a Polish accent. Each year between Memorial Day and Labor Day she offered residents colorful, semi-precious stones that flourished in her garden. She’d taken a dull piece of grass that grew between the sidewalk and the side of a garage and transformed it with whites, pinks, reds, lavenders, and purples sprinkled with touches of yellow flowers which saluted passers-by. She gave the neighborhood a soul. She had two sons, one of whom was two years ahead of me in school and who was the oldest of the neighborhood kids. Every time I hear “Moon River” I recall going to his high school graduation with Mrs. Gagnon, my grandmother and Mrs. Rowe.

The Gershonson’s lived next door to the garden and I sometimes played with their daughter, Rhoda, who was on a restrictive schedule. She was Jewish and went to a special school and I was Catholic and went to a special school. We both knew a lot about restrictions. We were restricted as far as time spent on mischief was concerned. A lot of my time was spent in attending Mass and mastering the truths that the Catechism held for all good Catholics.

Sometimes I dream of the jeweler’s daughters. The jeweler and his family lived at the end of the street in a grand home. Late in the afternoon, I would often see his daughters walking home from work. They were all tall and wore wonderful clothes. In my dream I’m standing at the picture window in our second floor apartment and I see Martha in a flowing camel wool coat that dances around her legs as she takes her long strides up the street. They were too old to play with us but I was fascinated by them since my grandmother and Mrs. Gagnon referred to the girls as “old maids”. How could you be so tall, I wondered, and not be married?

One family rented a small two-story house. Arnie, their only child, was one of the neighborhood kids. One day I was told that Arnie’s mother had found him hanging in his room. He died while playing Tarzan. We went to the viewing since that was our custom. We got there in time to recite the Rosary with everyone since that was expected. We attended the funeral Mass and the burial to comfort the family. Never did it occur to anyone to sue the estate of Edgar Rice Burroughs who had given Tarzan to the world’s children as an imaginary playmate. We were too busy mourning.

These were the neighborhood kids most of whom attended public school. My close friends were really my classmates as well as playmates and confidantes since I attended parochial school and spent more time with them than I did with the kids who lived near me.