Monet's Lament

I hear the birds in busy work,

Singing 'mid the sunny fields;

Flowers, too, are blossoming;

Spring is bringing forth her yield--

But, not for me.

I hear the children laugh in play,

Games of joy and hide-n-seek.

Squirrels are chasing lovingly;

They beckon forth the shy and meek--

But, not to me.

Today I sit alone in darkness.

Today I weep in pain.

Today the shadows, my companions,

Reach out--to embrace me.

Deb Borkert ‘11

Fear

Sadness is within the shadows

My old foe has returned.

I sense you there

Beyond the wispy branches,

In the forest of my mind.

What calleth thyself this day?

Disappointment, fear, reality?

Ah, fear, my worst fear—

It has been some time.

When I was young, I wailed against you,

In middle age, I ignored you—

I hadn’t time.

But, now you greet an old woman.

What shall my response be?

I desire to sink into you.

But, I know there is no rest in thy soft breast.

And it leaves me bewildered,

As we parley ‘round this tree—

Deb Borkert ‘11

Suddenly

Suddenly—

She stood open,

Visibly rattled,

Beseeching—

Uncloaked, she awakened

Something in me—

Compassion?

And I was drawn to her.

Next day,

She’d pulled

Herself back under her

Wrap of insecurity—

Arms folded,

Hands withdrawn.

And I could not reach her—

For I could not touch her fingers.

D. Borkert 8/15/11

I'm Losing My Red

I’m losing my red.

I first started to lose my red when I dropped my cute, red, point-and-shoot camera in a London airport. Helen was just so cute walking along pulling her little suitcase, that some ridiculous idea came across me that I could (because my right hand was full of stuff) take out my camera with my left hand, push the button to open it and take a video of her —all, while walking and getting farther behind the rest of the group. (Yes, you guessed it. I’m right handed. And yes, it was a stupid idea, which resulted in my cute red camera having the back pop open…right at the beginning of our Great Britain vacation with the kids.) After we arrived at our B & B in Cambridge, Jay and I both futilely tried to push the sides back together.  Eventually, Joel walked over, peered down at the camera, took it, smashed it back together (either because he is stronger than us, or he didn’t care to be careful), and it clicked right in place. Though the screen had a few bubbles in it, it worked great for the rest of the trip. I have pictures to show for it…if I ever get them posted on facebook.

The real death of the camera came on our anniversary. Well, really the day before because we generally get to spend our actual anniversary sitting in before-the-start-of school meetings that every teacher in America find inspiring and beneficial. So the day before our anniversary, we made a picnic lunch, consumed it at Cheyenne Mountain State Park, and hiked up a trail. All was well until it began to rain, then pour. Though I tucked the camera in the pocket of my rain blazer, it was thoroughly soaked when we slid into the truck. Alas, the display on the back has been black ever since. Pictures it will take, but looking through the view finder is not my idea of fun. Jay said, “You just need to get a new camera like my new one.” “Do they come in red?” I responded. “No, just silver or black, I think.”

Then tonight we went to look at new phones. Our phones are old…way over the contract period. Jay wants a new iPhone when they come out. We decided to scout around the AT&T store to get an idea of our options for the other 3 phones. Right away, we found great little phones for our moms. They’re flip phones, have large number pads, and pretty much look and function like their old ones. Then it came to me. I wanted something I could text on if I ever decide to learn how to do that. I wanted something that looked a little more “with it.” (I feel like I need to keep up appearances with these teenagers I share life with 5 days a week.) Touch screen, it had to be. I gazed longingly down the row. Not one red phone in the entire store. So, in a couple of weeks, I’ll switch out the sim card from my cute little red phone and slide it into a classy, but black, phone…with a touch screen.

I’ve also noticed that my little red purse is looking a little worn around the edges. It’s handy with little pockets for all my cards. But I do have a bag that I bought this summer that would work well this winter. You guessed it. It’s a nice black fabric.

Yes, I’m losing my red. I see it slipping right away.

I guess in reality I began to lose my red years ago, one hair at a time. I’ll never quite forget the time I updated my driver’s license, and they changed my hair color from red to blonde…without even asking.

Now, I don’t have anything against black. It’s classy, sophisticated, and sexy. I just happen to think red is fun. And I do want to push into the future, but I’m sure going to miss my red. 

A Woman's Handbag

On our trips to Europe the last two years, I’ve carried a compact purse with a shoulder strap, which holds everything I need. There’s a small front pocket with a flap that fits my digital camera perfectly. Inside there’s room to tightly stuff my passport, a package of Kleenex, a small bottle of hand sanitizer, a tube of lipstick, and an adequate supply of Smarties. There’s also a compartment for the most important things when visiting Europe: my debit card, a credit card, money, driver’s license, and my health card (not that the health card could do much for me over there.) All in all, it’s the best $5 clearance purchase I’ve ever made. Jay calls it “Granny’s Magic Purse” because the Smarties have come in handy on many excursions with our grandchildren—so much so that they think the purse holds a never ending supply.

In York, Helen procured a cute little handbag. Each morning in London, she greeted us at our hotel door with her purse slung over her shoulder. Each day as her 4 ½ year old frame became weary, Helen’s purse spent a good deal of time draped over Kim’s shoulder or stuffed down into another bag I often carried that housed things like a rain jacket, snacks, and a scarf.

One London evening as Helen pushed her handbag into Kim’s hands, Kim stated flatly, “Helen, what do you have in here?” and began to take out its contents as the three of us stood there next to the Thames under a setting sun. She lifted out 3 headbands, an assortment of small dolls—with accessories, the pink handle to Helen’s broken suitcase… At this point Kim tilted her head and gave me the look that speaks far more than words to anyone who’s ever been the mother of a little girl, and said, “This is ridiculous,” and tossed the handle in a nearby rubbish bin.

This event caused quite a stir until Helen was assured that she would receive a new, improved, and unbroken luggage piece before returning to Germany. She had been quite concerned over the small suitcase when we’d returned the rental car at the airport, glaring up at her dad and stating emphatically, “I can’t drive this thing because it’s broken, and you didn’t fix it!” (I guess she simply wanted to know where the handle was when he got around to it.)

But, for anyone to assume that Helen’s purse served no purpose, that was surely not the case. On the day that we wove ourselves into the bowels of Westminster Abbey’s elaborate and vast series of tombs, Helen and Breck sat patiently on the floor in several locations, playing with all sorts of items from Helen’s purse.

Most certainly, when J. K. Rawling developed her character Hermione in The Harry Potter series, she realized that second only to a magic wand is a woman’s handbag.

Walking through Summer

I have a deal going on with my doctor. Last May, I felt terrible—actually I’d felt terrible all winter. So, I looked him square in the face and stated: “I think it’s stress. I think I need to quit my job.” To my surprise he concurred and said we’d all feel better if we quit our jobs. Then, he proceeded to order a set of blood work, which came back less than stellar. There were certain markers for type 2 diabetes, and my family history didn’t assure him one bit. But, when he started talking meds, that’s when I put in my two cents once more. “If I were to lose weight, those numbers would come down, wouldn’t they?” Since he was in a compliant kind of mood that day, he gave me six months.

But, as summer began, there were tons of things to get done—house stuff. Then, there was the trip to Texas to see a new baby and play with little girls. We made cupcakes, a pie, and we went to Babes. (I could go to Babes every night.) Next, we spent a few days with Mom and since there were just the three of us, and we had lots to do, we ate out nearly every meal. From Mom’s, our plans took us to Kansas City where we did movie night (with lots of popcorn with Flora and Scout) and late night snacks. On our return we’d both managed to gain 5 pounds.

So, with a trip to the UK a mere 2 ½ weeks away, it was time to get serious about weight loss (between spending time with our grandbaby here, of course). A 9-inch plate suddenly became my best friend and we walked. And we walked, and when I’d complain, Jay’d remind me that this had been my idea. He’d made no deals with the doctor, but he was incredibly supportive of mine.

As soon as the American Airlines jet touched the ground in London, so did our feet. We walked to our B&B; we walked through a library, galleries, and museums. We took a fast train to Canterbury and walked all day. My goal was simply to not lose ground, so my diet plan was to eat half my meal and give the other half to Jay. (I’m not sure what that did for him, but at least he wasn’t ever hungry.)

After meeting up with Joel’s family, we walked in the Lake District and down Hadrian’s Wall. We walked up more castle stairs than I want to recall, and we walked some more, even down the Royal Mile in Edinburgh. We walked up more castle stairs, looking out over the North Sea, and I was grateful we’d started walking weeks before in Colorado Springs, or I would never have survived.

Arriving back in London late, we discovered our hotel room for the next 5 days was perched on the fourth floor—76 stairs up. And after we ate breakfast each day in the basement, we hiked a whopping 92 stairs back up to our room. We walked down streets; we walked across bridges, and we walked along the shores of the Thames.

Once home it took a couple of days to lose the two pounds of water weight from being on a plane or sitting in an airport for nearly 24 hours, and I was grateful to be back to where I’d left off before leaving.

So, jetlagged and all, we once again began to walk. We walked early in the mornings. Once school started, we began walking late at night. I guess we’ll just keep walking until we walk into the fall and winter, where I plan to walk right into the doctor’s office a slimmer and healthier me.

Now that I have them, I don’t want to lose my walking legs—because next summer I just might decide to walk up one of those mountains that I look at each day as I trek across the east side of town.

Remembering Paris

Remembering Paris

I think it’s our destiny to visit large, famous cities in the rain. So, it was with Paris. We’d taken an overnight bus trip from Heidelberg to Paris. Some people can sleep anywhere. I’m not one of them. By the time morning broke and we were weaving into the streets of Paris, the rain poured in torrents. Our French guide, jumping on the bus and shaking off the water, assured us that we were fortunate. It’d been blistering hot the day before.

In a fog from lack of sleep, we drove around the points of interest. I gave little attention to the expensive shopping district. But the history of the tall buildings that lined the older parts of the city roused me from sleepiness. “In past centuries, businesses were on the ground floor, the wealthier tenants next and the very poor in the upper reaches 4 or maybe 5 levels up.” (There was certainly no way to ignore the less fortunate or the more fortunate in those days, at least for city dwellers.)

I strained through sheets of rain to see the backside of The Thinker in a courtyard somewhere. The Arch of Triumphe pretty much escaped me. We were simply too close in the bus to see as we drove under it in the torrential rain. A quick stop at a great place for pictures with the Eifel Tower in the background and then we were headed for the famous tower itself and our drop off point. We were instructed where to meet that evening and admonished, “We will not wait for you if you are late!” She made believers of us, and everyone else—as we were all assembled long before the bus arrived back to pick us up.

Standing in the steady rain, Jay and I decided we’d pass on the long trek up the Eifel Tower about as quickly as we’d decided to pass on the 400 plus stairs up a dry cathedral tower in Florence. With merely a day in such a city, we’d had to choose between the Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay. d’Orsay won as Kim had said the Mona Lisa was in reality quite small, cordoned off, and hidden by masses of onlookers. Our bus guide, a French lady, had agreed.

Being less than art novices, I don’t know what we expected. At the moment, its lure was simply that Musee d’Orsay was dry, and as the rain continued to weep over the city, we were in little hurry to move through its galleries. We saw Van Goghs that I’d previously pondered why anyone would care about them—from the poor textbook pictures I’d seen. Now I knew. Even my untrained eyes widened at the bold strokes and the something that I don’t even know what it is. I just knew. We sat in the room of Monets, not lily pads but large panels of a beautiful woman stepping through the countryside. There were other great Romantics and scenes made from tiny dots I’d read about, but could not remember what the technique is called. It made me wish I’d been required to take an art appreciation class in college like our children had.

With d’Orsay thoroughly experienced and the low clouds cried out, we picked up a sandwich at a stand, and I took off my soaked through and worn out Sketchers and tossed them in a rubbish bin, replacing them with flip flops. We located the Metro and headed for Notre Dame. Our only regret was that we didn’t go inside, but the fear of missing the bus kept us from the long line. We did, though, saunter around each side, snapping copious pictures of flying buttresses. We wandered down famous streets and crossed the ancient bridges that span the Seine.

We stopped by a vender and split a French something that I don’t remember what it’s called, because Madame Voss had said, “It like nothing you’ve ever tasted.” We agreed, but we didn’t much care for it.

I cherish our two trips to France. I could go back to the bustle of Paris or the quaint streets of Strasberg and be glad for it. It was fun to read French, even when I didn’t know what the words meant. When I left, I wanted more than ever to learn French, but the school year that followed would not allow it. Madame Voss had moved on to new adventures, and my teaching load was one of the most challenging ever.

But as I reminisce sharing Paris with Jay, a new school year is on the horizon. I’m returning to my comfortable and established routine, and Madame Voss just might be back (for at least a few weeks) to broaden French students in my room during my planning period. And when I hear her voice, I’ll remember sitting next to the palace pond with the Farris wheel in the distance and no doubt long for a pain au chocolate which will always remind me of France.