Rock the Synagogue

I had my first experience inside a synagogue this weekend. It started with a beautiful and meditative group chant to end the Shabbat, ended with a beautiful Middle Eastern sounding melody that I didn't even know a guitar could make, and somewhere in between we all rocked to "Little Pink Houses" by John Cougar Mellencamp. I'm not making this up. In my head, a synagogue had a specific look. Like a small candlelit cellar, damp and cool, with hard, wooden benches and solitude. I don't really know why this was in my head, I don't have any real reason for making up a synagogue story in my mind. I was really wrong, by the way. It looked like a church. Like an average Methodist, maybe a little Baptist, throw in a Lutheran minus the kneelin' benches. One big difference however. The pew cushions were amazing. They were cotton candy pink and even softer. It felt like sitting on a cloud. Or maybe it was just all the great music. I have to say, my first synagogue experience was pretty cool. I don't know if I want to go back for a regular service though. It just might not be the same without Mellencamp.

Fire In the Morning

A while back, we woke up to the sounds of sirens. When we walked outside and stood in our front lawn, we saw a black tower of thick, heavy, smoke rising up from a nearby neighborhood. Ironically, it was a beautiful morning. The sky wasn't quite ripe and still held the colors of twilight. I stood in silence with my husband and watched helplessly. Later that morning, I wrote this:

Barking dogs mingled with wailing cries,
As thick black smoke poured into the dawn.
The night blooming vine, the deepest purple,
Like the jeweled slipper of an Egyptian queen,
Lay on the ground, fragile but unaware.
Voices called out, directions in a robotic tongue,
And the smoke billowed up, soft as a cloud,
But black as night.
The morning springs eternal until everything
You own is destroyed.
We are guaranteed nothing.

The Flour Sack Shirt

My Dad passed away in 2008. He didn't talk much about his childhood, except that it was hard and that he loved his Mother. One of my favorite stories is the one that follows. He never gave me much detail, but I often think of him, as a boy in the country, and how it must have felt to walk to school that morning. I wish he were here to read this.

The Flour Sack Shirt

Virgil walked to school a little more slowly than usual. It was cold that morning and he wanted to run, wanted to hurry, to move quickly through the crisp air and take his seat close to the wood stove in the small one-room clapboard schoolhouse. His bare feet ached with every step and he looked down, making sure he could avoid all the puddles created in all the holes in the dirt road from the rainstorm the night before. It wasn't supposed to be cold yet. He didn't have to wear shoes, so he didn't understand why Mother had put him in this stiff ole' shirt anyhow.

A slow tear slid down his face. It joined the puddle at his feet as he hopped over it, hurrying just a little.

He could remember, on one hand, the times he had back talked to Mother. In all of his ten years, he had tried hard to be good. Since Daddy left, he was the man of the house. He had to take care of her. His oldest brothers were off in the war. "You take care of our Mama, and we'll take care of ole' Hitler," they said as he polished their boots for them before they packed up their green bags, shiny straight razors, and small bars of white soap.

There's a war. Mother says we have to make due with less now. Like everyone else. "Your Daddy is gone and you are the baby of thirteen," she had said this morning, handing him the shirt. "Brother is older so he gets the white one. No one will even notice the writing, I promise," she smiled. He wished now he had just kept his mouth shut.

It was the only time he had seen Mother cry. His heart felt like it had burst into a million tiny pieces.

He looked down and read the words "Adluh Flour" creeping over his left shoulder, hot and red like a fiery brand. He remembered Mother's tears and wiped away one of his own.

He hurried a little faster toward school, and his worn warm desk. He knew most of the kids didn't even get new shirts, just got handed down whatever there was to hand down. But they had Daddies.

He looked up as a big fat raindrop plopped on his cheek. In the same moment, the sun came out and a warm beam stroked his face. Rain and the sunshine at the same time. "That ole' devil is beatin' his wife," he said out loud to no one. The sun shone right on his bare, dirty feet.

He looked down again at his shoulder and then stooped over to pick some of the last flowers of the season. "They'll make Mother happy again," he decided, as he broke out in a run for the small schoolhouse ahead.

The Porch

In the South,
is the extension of the house.
Where you sit. Relax. Enjoy.
Entertain. Court. Learn how to be.
It is cooler than the couch,
As inviting as the kitchen.
The chairs are wood.
The feet are bare.