Sister's Bacon

The kitchen is filled with smoke.

Sister is cooking again.

Bless her.

She can’t cook bacon without filling the kitchen with a medium-thick haze.

Is your heat too high?

No, I turned it down to medium-low!

When she was ten or eleven

She told us she wanted to be a chef.

That plan has changed in the past five years.

Probably because we told her it was

Her turn to cook dinner

More often than it actually was.

For practice, we told her.

She changed dreams pretty fast.

I suppose that’s to be expected for a ten year old.

Besides, she can’t be a chef if she can’t cook bacon.

Bless her.

So I crack open the kitchen window.

It’s chilly this mid-April morning

But cold toes are better than burnt bacon fumes.

Substitute

I’m an intruder

Filling another’s shoes

Shoes that I’m not trained to fill

That are too big

Not comfortable

And that often leave me unfulfilled

An outsider

Thrust into a situation

Where I am supposed to

Pretend to be

An insider

But I know none of the answers

Can tell little beyond what the sheet says

And have no rights to

Privileges granted to another

I get called

I show up

I read an outline

Bare bones of a structure

With no knowledge of how things work

Names to go with faces or

How to get to places

And for 75 bucks a day

I pretend to be what I

Spent 4.5 years and

Thousands of dollars

Learning how to be

Except I’m not a

Teacher

I can pretend all I want

But I will only be a

Substitute

Tractor Times

I've missed a few days of poems, which stinks. Lots going on, or at least that's what I'm going to tell myself. This weekend at least has been pretty full, helping Mom at the quilt shop on Saturday and Dad on the farm today. I'll hopefully do better this week about keeping up with National Poetry Writing Month. 

Here's a poem I wrote about today's adventure on the farm. 

Today I was Tractor Girl

Which is a better title than Barbed Wire Boys

Which fit my brother and cousin quite aptly this afternoon

As they pulled nails from posts and untangled barbed wire

My job was much simpler

Sitting in the tractor and pulling the correct lever to wind up the wire on the fancy gizmo

that attaches to the tractor and spins wire into spools

Plus I didn’t get rained on

I won’t lie and say I’m an awesome Tractor Girl

Quite contrary to tell the truth

I lack many of the skills and finesse required to drive a tractor smoothly and safely around our farm

My driving is quite jerky

Lowering or raising the bucket often requires a push and a pull

To remember if pushing lowers or if pushing raises the loader bucket

I haven’t had a whole lot of practice

And I still can’t tell you which tractor is the 4020 and which one is the 6020

Truthfully I’m not sure if those are even the real numbers to identify our tractors

I may have grown up on a farm

But I sadly am not that good of a farm girl

I’ve picked up a few things

I am not afraid to get dirt under my nails

And I’ve ruined my share of clothes

But farm work is not where I’ve found my passion

And that’s okay

Because if anyone depended on me to run a farm we’d all be in trouble

Don’t worry though

If you need a jerky and timid Tractor Girl

I’m the girl you’re looking for

Dog Days

Sometimes I wish I was a dog.

Not very often, mind you, but sometimes it happens. Especially today.

Because while both me and Sammie are on the front porch enjoying this mild spring day, he seems to be better at it than me.

Sprawled out on the wooden deck, half of his black body in the shade, half in the sun, eyes closed. Once in awhile, his head will rise, watching a goat walk by or a bird flutter past, but mostly he just exists there.

On the other hand, I’m sitting in a chair, computer on my lap, Billie Holiday playing through the speakers. A nice existence, don’t get me wrong, but nice in a different way.

Sammie’s biggest concern is whether or not I’ll ever open the front door for him to go back inside. That must be nice.

Sometimes I wish I was a dog.

I wouldn’t be concerned with what time it was or my plans for the evening. I wouldn’t worry about applying for more jobs or finding a place to live in two months.

I would be a dog. And dogs just don’t care.

That would be nice. For an afternoon, at least.

After that, I’d probably be tired of walking on four legs and eating weird processed dog food. Chasing squirrels and raccoons might be fun, though.

Sometimes I wish I was a dog.

But I thank God I’m not a cat.

Communication Block

I’m not always a great communicator

Words don’t always come out right

Thoughts get too jumbled up to make sense

But with you it’s different

I say lots of words

You don’t hear a single one

Not because you don’t want to

But because you can’t

Never have been able to

And suddenly the ability to hear

That really loud clock ticking

The sound of cars passing on the street outside

The mumblings of your roommate

The buzz of my computer

Is a blessing I never counted before

So I resort to a very basic sense of communication

A lot of nodding and shaking and pointing and

The very little sign language I’ve picked up

All our conversations boil down to

 

 

And a whole bunch of signs you do

That I have no idea what they mean

But even more than words and signs

I am grateful for physical contact

Because you like to hold hands

And sit close to me on the couch

Explore my hands for something I don’t see

Compare your small feet to my larger ones

Loop your arm through mine

Words are not required to communicate

But that doesn’t stop me from talking to you

Even when I know you can’t hear me

Because old habits die hard

And you are a very new friend

One where you will have to

For me to break down the

Communication block