Memo from the Department of Just Showing Up

Memo from the Department of Just Showing Up

By Lynnette Bukowski © 2011

How is it that I find myself at 3:30 in the morning on my back porch with an old box of matches?  I ask this aloud to Spike.  He does not answer.  Instead, paw on my leg, tennis ball in his mouth, his brown eyes look up at me, hopeful.  The print is faded, but I can make out “Subic Bay Christian Serviceman’s Center” and on some dare to the full moon, I slip out one match, strike it, and marvel at the spark and fire, the sharp, pungent smell of thirty-three-year-old sulfur.  Spike is not impressed with this magic.  Still, my spontaneous grin ignites a full body wag and thumping tail and I cannot help but throw a high curveball into the moonlight and watch as he ducks under the fence and chases across the pasture. 

Surely, it is no accident that on this particular night I woke up to rummage through a drawer for warm socks and came up with a memory so potent that time slips away in decades, like a golden liquid it seems to drip from the palm of my hand.  I am so entranced that when my captive audience of one returns triumphant - ball in mouth – I cannot help but tell him the story.

In 1976 I lived in Coronado, California with my parents in a high-rise condominium overlooking the Pacific Ocean.   I attended college and worked as lead vocal in Whitefeather, a top-forty, all-girl band.  We played military base clubs and private parties four nights a week and I was rarely home before 3:00 AM.  It began in October that year, each morning at dawn – with only two hours of sleep – I woke to a crude, slightly entertaining mantra emanating from a group of men dressed in blue and gold t-shirts, tight tan shorts and combat boots.  They ran in formation down the beach, chanting their cadence, replete with original and rudimentary rhyme that echoed up six floors and into my head.  Most of the time I was intrigued, but after one particular week of very little sleep and finals looming, I leaned my head out of my open window and issued a stream of oaths.  Without breaking stride, every single man waved at me in unison, mocking my sunrise angst.  Thus became our morning ritual. 

A neighbor educated me about these supercilious behemoths.  All were trainees or instructors at BUDS (Basic Underwater Demolition School), a brutal 6 month training course for specialized commandos known as Navy SEALs.  It was several weeks before I had my first close-encounter. During a private gig, and mid-way through my rendition of Moondance, the most ridiculously handsome, arrogant man I will ever meet, walked right up onto my stage and asked me to dance.  We spent the next year in heated debates disguised as dates.  During one such date he dared me to marry him.  I accepted the dare. 

Years later, when he arrived from a mission just moments before I gave birth to our daughter, I yelled at him about his lousy timing and party-crashing habits.  He laughed, kissed me square on my panting lips and said, “I didn’t crash your party, I simply showed up to the rest of my life.”  The sweetness of that moment may have been lost to labor pain, but I digress…

In October 1978, Steve and I were married at 10:00 o’clock at night at the Christian Serviceman’s Center in Subic Bay, Olongapoe, Philippines during a monsoon.  Picture this: me in red Candie high heels, (I had them in every color) climbing alone into the back of an open Jeepney (a Filipino taxi) in rain and wind that sliced the sky open. When I arrived, the electricity was out but Steve was there, along with Sixteen Navy SEALs (slightly intoxicated), a Navy Chaplain who stood wearily between our friends – the other crazy couple of the PI.  I stood at the entrance, charmed by the glow of the votive candles they held.  In unison, they began their own off key version of the wedding march. The room smelled of matchstick sulfur, wet clothes and grain alcohol, but I was delighted by their goofy smiles and I think I laughed aloud as I sloshed my way down the aisle with mud spattered up to my knees and rain dripping from the hem of my cotton dress.  Steve smiled that cocky, edgy smile, leaned in close and whispered, “See, all you had to do was show up.” 

Exactly six hours later Steve and his platoon left for a three-week excursion.  Middle of the night exits and unannounced returns became the rhythm of our existence.  During our first year of marriage, we spent exactly 98 days together, no more than 15 consecutive days at a time. I found it fascinating to drill him on details about his trips and quickly learned that even my best methods of persuasion only worked for short clipped versions of his days (so to speak) at the office.  Eventually, we found other things to talk about. Every two to three years from 1978 on we moved across the street, the country or the world.  We lived in seven different states and four different countries.  I learned to enjoy change and introducing our children to new cultures, mores and languages.  

 Independence, while slightly force-fed, taught me how to run our family on my own for months on end.  Then Steve would show up on the doorstep and we would begin again the next adventure.

This is no sad story, I tell Spike.  He lifts his head, having long since curled himself around my bare feet, and looks at the small box in the palm of my hand. It is not a treat or ball and his obvious disappointment makes me laugh through my tears. Death is nothing at all.  Even now – fifteen months after Steve’s passing from this earth – he is urging me on to show up to life without him. This, I announce aloud, is beyond measure, a legacy much larger than our little universe of dog and odd woman in the wee hours of dawn.  This ancient little box of matches is a gift full of brilliant love and serendipitous moments.  

Steve was right. Life is not complicated.  Rather, it is a sequence of surprises, both excruciatingly painful and full of glorious adventure mixed and stirred up in moments. We mere mortals too often obscure the steps and miss the moments, when all we really need to do is just show up.

Lynnette Bukowski is the proud widow of a 32 year veteran Navy SEAL, Master Chief Steve S. Bukowski. She continues to show up to life each day as a freelance writer and artist and is always available to correspond with military widows and families of our fallen warriors at bukszoo1@embarqmail.com.

Bucket

Author's Note - Finding My Strength

            I discovered the magnitude of silence and inspiration of solitude at the top of a large outcropping of boulders known as Rim of the World.  By the time I was eight years old I had memorized the natural ridges and curves where I placed my feet and hands just so, a single move at a time, until I reached the very top.  It was there that I learned to share and to appreciate the miracle of God, because until I could sit still and watch the trees bend in the wind and allow my dreams and ideas to culminate, God was just a man in a book.  Eventually, I understood that this gift of force and grace remained in my heart.  As a young woman, I learned to rock climb and billet with my husband.  Much later we shared the lessons and experience with our children in Arizona, Hawaii, Italy, Switzerland and Germany.  Upon reaching the peak of each climb and during many of my life’s summits, I’ve returned mentally to my place of solace and found strength.

Bucket

Lynnette Bukowski © 2011

           

This is the story of Bucket, a three-legged, huffy little dog with blue eyes, shaggy white fur and silly brown speckles.  But I can’t tell the story of Bucket without telling the story of Kyle, his beloved imperfect boy.

Kyle was seven when he became our official tag-a-long.  Danny, my best friend, and I knew Kyle was sick with leukemia – but to us, Kyle was simply Danny’s little brother.  He was small for his age, and his left leg was much shorter than his right, but his most entertaining features were the freckles on his ears that looked like connect-the-dots, and his full head of red hair, with a dollop that stuck straight up from the crown of his head. 

On Monday, the first day of Easter week, Danny and Kyle’s Mother announced that Kyle could come along with us on one of our adventures.  Danny beamed, as though he’d been entrusted with a precious treasure.  We were only nine, but when Kyle’s face lit up and he hobbled off to get his shoes, it made everyone in the room get goofy smiles and their Mom’s eyes sparkle like glitter.

            Still, in the 1960’s the seriousness of life lasted only until the next opportunity to play and of course, because Kyle was Kyle, we treated him like any little brother long before this milestone day. We called him “runt”, “slow-poke” and “Opie” with the love and affection that only a brother and his tom-girl best friend could show. He’d laugh it off, stick like glue and never give up. Secretly we were pleased because Kyle was special and perhaps some of that special would rub off on us.  Plus, we were fascinated by a kid who was smarter than all of the encyclopedias in the school library, and he didn’t even attend school!

We hiked to our favorite adventure spot in the woods; a small meadow surrounded by pine trees and vacant cabins. We had just started to gather wood for our “fort” when Kyle dropped his handful of sticks. “Do you hear it?” he asked, “Something’s afraid – a tiny cry that goes up at the end like a squeaky sigh?”

            Danny and I laughed.  Kyle loved to tell stories and this day, bright blue and warm, was no different from the rest, except that Kyle was with us outside.

Kyle limped wildly toward the pile of leaves.  We both heard it then - just the slightest sound – like a broken bird in the wind. Danny cocked his head and motioned for me to follow him, but by this time, Kyle was waist deep in the leaves, “Here!” he yelled, and we both ran full out toward the boy holding up a large metal bucket. 

             “Kyle, be careful!” Danny yelled, “It might be a squirrel or a raccoon and they bite and Mom will kill me and…give it here!”  Danny was clearly more afraid of his Mother’s wrath than the mystery animal in the bucket.

Kyle held his free arm straight, palm out.  Danny stopped short. “Shush! You’re going to scare it, now shush!”  Kyle warned.  Before we could stop him (and honestly we didn’t try), he high-stepped his way from the leaves, reached into the bucket and brought up a ball of quivering fur.  “Hello,” he whispered, and even as he said it, even as he placed the tiny fur-ball on the ground and we gasped at the wobbly three-pawed stance, Kyle grinned and shouted, “Look!  He’s absolutely perfect.”

Once home, we all crowded at the kitchen door while Kyle announced to his Mom that God had sent him a puppy with only three paws to keep him company for the rest of his life.  Bucket – aptly named - wiggled from Kyle’s arms then, plopped onto the linoleum and did a lopsided pitter-patter across the floor.  Their perfectly coifed Mom, in her pressed and pink paisley dress, actually kneeled on the kitchen floor to greet Bucket.  Something was way off.  We all stared dumbfounded when she burst out laughing and wiped tears from her eyes.

            From that day, Bucket was Kyle’s shadow and protector.  Kyle read Huckleberry Finn to Bucket and it was downright creepy because Bucket always barked at the good parts. When they watched the “Andy Griffith Show” together, Bucket danced to the whistling tune and then he’d fetch Kyle’s small fishing pole.  This always caused uproars of laughter for anyone watching.

We played “go-fish” and Bucket tapped the cards with his paw when it was his turn.  On our adventures or just around the back yard, Kyle and Bucket had the same walk-and-wait gait that made us all (even Kyle) laugh until our bellies hurt. 

Shortly after the school year started, Bucket began to meet us at the bus stop and as we stepped off the bus, he’d bark twice and run home.  We came to learn that these were days Kyle didn’t feel well and Bucket was sent to tell us he couldn’t play. 

On good days, though, Bucket would meet us and turn two circles, sit, turn two circles and run back to where Kyle stood, waving and yelling happily, “I’m good today, you guys!  Real good.”

One week before Easter and one year later, I sat alone on my rock thinking about how to pray and what the rules were for miracles.  Kyle had not been on an adventure in two months and now they were down the hill in San Bernardino at St. Mercy’s Hospital.

            I rolled onto my stomach and stretched myself across the sun-drenched rock to peer over the edge, just as my best friend’s bicycle clanged to the ground twenty feet beneath me.  I was surprised because Danny knew this was my private place and I had never let anyone sit on the top of the Rim of the World with me, especially a boy. He leaned his head back to look up at me, not bothering to swipe the tears that leaked from his swollen eyes.

“Kyle died,” he whispered. 

            My throat crowded and my eyes stung.  I couldn’t talk, so instead I reached down and held my hand out. Danny climbed up easily and took my hand. He held on, even as we scooted across the rock, even as we lay down, side by side.  He murmured that we must be very close to heaven and then we cried together until the tree limbs and light sky above us blurred to dark blue, until a tiny bark drifted up to us in the night.  We rolled to our stomachs and peered over the edge. 

            Bucket turned two circles, barked again, turned two circles, sat and stared straight up past us to the night sky.

“Kyle must be feeling real good today,” Danny said.

I began to believe in miracles at the tender age of ten.  Now you know the reason why.

My Emily Friend Who
Smells Like Pine
A Christmas Glimpse

by Lynn Bukowski c 2006


Emily Diedra, small girl who smells like pine, like a tree cut fresh that Daddy shakes and brings through the door on Christmas Eve. Something like the crisp of the woods—it gets in my nose, the way her head smells when she’s leaning close to me over a jigsaw puzzle or on the porch where we are squatting over jacks and trading shiny rocks that we pretend are from different countries where my Daddy goes.


In my memory we say prayers and then for the fifth night in a row she takes a twig of pine needles and wraps a ragged towel around it, gently, like we tuck in our baby dolls. She puts the towel under her pillow and tells it something. I never hear what she whispers and I tell her again, “Mama doesn’t like us to whisper,” but she smiles, just before I turn the lights off, and promises someday to whisper loud.


In the dark Emily Diedra tells me a story about her mama with green eyes and about so many brothers there’s no time to count them. And how they would all sleep in one bed, some at the top and some at the bottom, because that way her mama could hug them all at one time from one side, like bundling up big fluffy pillows. I tell her I think it would be fun to all sleep in the same bed and I ask about her daddy and if he hugged them all from the other side and she rolls over and pretends to fall asleep.


Even though it’s cold the sun heats up the leaves and they crinkle under our feet and we step carefully because we’re on an adventure in my special place in the woods. Emily Diedra sits on a sappy log and wipes the back of her hand across her face. I think it’s because the chilly in the air made her nose run, but then I see the drops well up in her eyes and spill down over her lips. In a tiny voice she says her daddy went away because he was angry too much and when her mama went to find him, she never came back. She breathes hard and asks if I still love my daddy and I laugh and say, “Of course, silly.” Then I stop laughing and tell her in my best serious voice that Mama says sometimes people have to learn how to love. When I sit on the sappy log with her I give her my special friend hug with my arms criss-crossed around her neck.


We run half way home backwards and some of the way sideways. We trade shoes and wear them on our hands. We lay down with the leaves and stare up at the sky so blue and heaven inside the white clouds. I give Emily Diedra three M & M’s I’ve been saving since yesterday. She asks me if I think Santa knows where all the foster kids live and if it’s too selfish to ask for paper doll cut-outs so we can color in their clothes with crayons.


We somersault off the rail of the front porch and Emily Diedra runs to pick up a fallen pine twig. She tells me pine twigs help Santa’s reindeer find kids who don’t have a Christmas tree because they can smell the fresh needles and tell Santa to land. I tell her I don’t get it. But she looks sad and crosses her heart that it’s true because that’s what her daddy told her a long time ago when they couldn’t get a tree, and even though Santa didn’t find their house it was true. I tell her not to worry because we do have a Christmas tree and Mama will make sure Santa knows Emily Diedra lives in our house now.


When we go in Mama says, “Didn’t I tell you?” and we get it because we weren’t supposed to tromp through the mud and sit on sappy logs and we have leaves dangling from our hair and sweaters. But she smiles with her lips all tight and gives us hot chocolate anyway.


This Christmas Eve we tuck our own girls in, one each, with braided ponytails and red cheeks and pine twigs under their pillows. We sip coffee and make cookies and laugh about so many years ago waiting for teeth to fall out and breasts to grow in, for dads to come home and Santa to land. And when we look at each other, our arms gummy from cookie dough we split in two bowls, we could be sisters, right? We could be, she and I back then, born of secrets and dreams, because blood owns no promise and love is learned. Tonight we can whisper loudly and laugh at the memories we hold dear, me and her, my Emily friend who smells like pine.
--- --- ---

Hats

God knew as I
before I came to this world
my hats would run out

The dirty Easter bonnet
The Black Beret' with Sass
The lovers timid veil
Designer Ribbons flare
A Mother's backward cap
A Wife's honorary Trident
A widow's brimmed ache
so liquid now it melts
around my hair and eyes
and down into my soul
and there I am like Jonah in the whale
folded in half
with prayers so thin they are
whispered until I am
the string between two tin cans
rusted with regret I cannot find

What now does the Mother
of a dying son's hat look like?
Oh, Mother Mary hold my hand
you know this part

all of the imperfect in me is naked and I am left
with nothing but a leaky love
that drips through my final hat in hand
onto the dusty floor
and scatters with such missing
that I am afraid
I may not gather enough love to
fill another cup of life.

Lynn Bukowski
September 11, 2011

Sleeping With a Terrorist?

© 2009 Lynnette Bukowski

(Author's Note: I wrote this in obvious response to political gesturing by the present Administration in 2009, and in light of our recent loss of so many Warriors, I believe honoring our Warriors bears repeating over and over until it echoes across our America and reaches those who so bravely fight on against the Real Terrorists. To Honor my husband and his recent fallen "brothers", who have no doubt joined up on the other side, I'm sending this out again. Pass it forward and Pray for our Troops and their Families).

I went to bed last night with a hero and woke up with an extremist – a potential terrorist. Imagine my surprise.

For 30 years I've enthusiastically climbed into his bed, helped him raise three children and fifteen foster children, prayed for and with him, cried, fought, laughed, moved the household around the world and country – all in support of his job as a US Navy SEAL.

As an intelligent and intuitive woman, mother and wife, you'd think I'd know who I'm sleeping with. Not so, according to Janet Napolitano and her Homeland Defense team.

Sarcasm aside, I'll just say this straight up. I know this man. I know many, many of his fellow SEALs. I've fed them, cried with them, buried them, watched their children and commiserated with their families. Not for one moment have any of them – active duty and retired - forgotten these words: "I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."

Let me climb out of bed and get up on my pedestal so I'm equal to you when I ask this: Which part of that oath don't you understand, Secretary Napolitano? Between you and me, Janet, woman to woman, words hold meaning.

I noticed in your feeble mea culpa to our Military Veterans your reference to only the wording of a footnote regarding the Department of Homeland Defense's assessment entitled, Rightwing Extremism: Current Economic and Political Climate Fueling Resurgence in Radicalization and Recruitment. Please note that Page 7, Section (U), is not a footnote. Read in its entirety, the memorandum (which was certainly not written for us silly citizens to read) refers to sociopaths like Timothy McVeigh, violent Neo-Nazis, and white supremacists in the same sentence as… "the art of warfare in the [U.S.] armed forces.

How dare you disparage the men and women of the United States military to further your own political agenda and from my angle, ridiculous paranoia. There are indeed real terrorists out there among us, but they are not made up of our military men and women.

For 32 years my husband alongside his colleagues endured the rigorous, constant training of Special Forces, lived the life and perfected the skills that are second to none in this world. He took an Oath and by GOD, by our love and support of him and his career choice – this entire family has lived that oath for all these many years.

I'm guessing here, but I do not think a certain Merchant Marine Captain would liken the special ops men who saved his life with the pirate terrorists who nearly murdered him.

You, Secretary Napolitano, and your DHS Team, by accepting the memoranda as truth, albeit a few unfortunate words, have equated our brave men and women to sociopaths.

Indeed, there are a few sociopaths who have managed to serve and train with the U.S. military over the years. All walks of life endure such people. Ironically, though, when I researched the definition of Sociopaths – those who are interested only in their personal needs and desires, without concern for the effects of their behavior on others – I was startled to note that the behavior of a large majority of Congressman, Senators and members of our current administration exhibit several symptoms of a Sociopathic mindset, to wit: not learning from experience, no sense of responsibility, inability to control impulses [especially with our money], lack of moral sense, lack of guilt, self-centeredness, just to name a few.

But I digress.

Simply put, and on behalf of the United States Armed Forces and the families' who support them, let me say this: Your attempt at an apology is not accepted. I do not want to shake your hand or discuss this. I am an American, Ma'am. I am not politically correct and don't want to be. I'm on God's side, the Country's side, the People's side and as such, the Military's side... If loving this Country, supporting our military and believing in God is now labeled as Extremism, I give. And, with God's Grace, I will continue to sleep with my very own Extremist for many years to come.

The only concession I'm willing to make is this: If I gladly accept the label of being an Extremist, will you step down and take the administration, democrats and republicans alike, with you?

_ _ _

Lynnette Bukowski is a freelance writer and the proud Widow of a Veteran Navy SEAL. She presently lives in North Carolina.

2007-2008 Annual Poem

 

 

 

MERRY CHRISTMAS to you! dear family and friends, yes, to even those who cast a vote for The ONE,

The BuksZoo's right here, still in Norlina, clinging tightly to God and our Guns…

Did I just hear you chuckle?… or emit a slight groan… outright laughter? because you know how I get,

This particular election provided ten-years-worth of fodder, for my new Conservative In Exile prickly wit.

 

A short pause here to say, that I've pondered and prayed, on just how to write two-years of rewind,

Because huge life events came to pass in this time, that, as a rule, are not intended for rhyme.

Me and most rules –well, we just don't play very well —add Christmas, and no-holds-barred when I write,

And like a bubbling stream over slippery rock, we've had a blessed slide around the mountain of life.

So it all goes on paper - uncut and out loud –the funny -- the sad -- the insane…

You're a witness to this – if it turns out all wrong –my politically-incorrect-self is to blame.

 

But enough of that now, Tis' the Season it is, I hope this finds you all living your dreams,

With cash under your mattress, an off-shore account, and strong libations to soften the screams.

If O's New Deal turns a corner, we'll catch horses to ride, (no gas needed) except for the hay,

Twenty acres to build on and plenty to plant, so we'll all eat and you're welcome to stay.

 

The Money Pit here has grown into a home, thanks to Steve working both day and night,

Wood fencing erected, landscaping perfected, power washing and painting done right.

Still married? Well, yes - no thanks to that fence - plus I learned a few things I'll pass on…

Master Chief's rules for the go-get-that-girl: hold-it! this-way-not-that! are just wrong.

I can make that damn tractor go forward, and I found "R", which must stand for Reverse,

And that bucket-knob-thingy should come with instructions, and oh.. horses don't care if you curse.

I think "level" is all in perspective, and favorite-country-song means "break time and dance",

I'm repeatedly fired, but then I write the checks –so I smile and respond with " fat chance".

 

There's a song entitled, "Live Like You're Dying…", well, I've dubbed it Steve's anthem of past,

Because for thirty-two years he pushed every limit, and now those SEAL days are over at last.

And just as I exhaled a very long breath, his devilish grin lit up that ol' blaze of blue eyes,

Now it's timber-frame building, snowboards and slopes, go West for big mountains and sky.

Someday we'll be planted, on the side of a hill, in a log house built by Steve's own two hands,

But that may take us a while, because the older we get, the less our bones oblige all of our plans.

 

As for our kids, well… they're not kids anymore, while we were busy they snuck out and grew up,

With lives of their own, clear cut opinions and sovereign thoughts on this Ranch and the muck.

They're scattered about, from California to Virginia, except for Aaron, quite content in his Cave,

So we pray now for grand-babes –round two of the Zoo–'cause the dogs, they just sit and behave!

 

Stephen and Shawna are still in Charlottesville Land, where they work far more hours than play,

Besides night jobs they own a small business with partners, and hone skills to flip property by day.

They worked in a few trips -this year and last - because they're young and don't need any rest,

Ireland and Jamaica, Austria last March and in August… the Burning Man Fest.

Somewhere around Spring they adopted Kavella, our grand-puppy, a pawed bundle of cute,    

Then moved Aaron in for a four-month long stay, slightly surprised by a wave of "teen-Tude".

A mile away from UVA, these two shared their time, their skills, even dates…

Cajoled and advised, begged and revised, until little brother learned the rules of "room-mates".

It's abundantly clear they went above and beyond, and we know this with full, grateful hearts,

When babes come along, these two -without doubt- mastered this: the abundant love part.

 

Sheri-baby is twenty-five this year, a quarter-century of sharp brains, great looks and keen sense,

A Political Science graduate who loathes the BS, yep… that college fund was money well spent.

I mean that with cheer, because the first four-year stuff, is just grounding for life, as we know,

And with Sheri that knowledge is lived, earned and shared, but I did save the diploma for show.

She promptly packed up, loaded the car, hugged us tight and drove West with a friend,

Landed in Redding, California that is, where she works to earn more than she spends.

The Bethel school's there, she attends everyday, teaches dance, heals the sick, studies faith,

Works wonders with Lattes', writes when there's time, and plans a mission trip to Croatia of late.

With stubborn from Steve, stir a spoon of me in, this Bukowski is dear ways and strong will,

Well, of course I sound partial, but then I birthed the girl, so I know she's got Supernatural skills.

Nous sommes si fiers de cette fille et la vie qu'elle habite, encore nous disons, bien fait !

If you're moral and handsome, work hard for your wealth - call her Dad and he'll screen you for dates.

 

Now, for our Aaron, he's nearly eighteen, a grown kid who stands near' six-foot-four,

Loves all Polish Soccer and Gaming 'til dawn, and still grins when he ducks through a door.

He's endured quite the year of perilous health, in certain circles he's the object of fame,

Yep, one in four-hundred, throughout the whole world, or so records from Duke proclaim.

We were caught unaware, because Duke doctors don't talk, but we found some at UVA who do…

They're smart and they're kind, know their stuff and take time, and respond to my emails.. it's true!

Now we could wring hands and be sad all day long, but Aaron says it's a waste of good time,

There's 'naught to be done and he'd rather have fun, no sense waiting around to be fine.

In the midst of all chaos, he worked his first job, finished high-school over summer this year,

Even God is in awe of this teenage-old-soul, who proves love overcomes any fear.

In '09 we look forward to long snowboard rides, great soccer shots and a college course try,

He reminds us by being, that moments are gifts, and each life has its high and low tides.

 

As for me, I'm still living out loud and on paper, mostly fiction, but I have to opine,

With political rants and conservative raves and I'm having one hell of a time.

I find solace in sunsets and oil on canvas and when I'm lucky, my words are just right,

I'm an author by day, a Mom all the time, and did I mention Steve's home day and night?

Just a joke from the now famous go-get-that-gal, so I'll finish this here and be done…

Peace. Out.

 

My poem this year is dedicated to my Dad, who passed on July 7, 2007 – He was always lucky like that…

And to my beautiful, brave Mom who for 61 years remained my Dad's very own angel on earth.

This sparkling night mid-December, one eve past the fullest moon,

Dad whispers to me from his heaven –slipped away, just in the next room.

If I listen with my heart I hear music, notes of sweet tenor sax fill the sky,

On the wings of an angel, past sparkling stars, Dad tips his cap and flies by.

 

Merry Christmas

May your New Year delight you daily.

Liberties cannot be bought with bailouts – and freedom isn't free

With love, prayers and appreciation for our Troops around the world,

 

The Bukowski Zoo

Bukszoo1@embarqmail.com

 

My Perfect Sunset & Steve's Perfect Ditch

Finding My Strength and Other Thoughts

Finding My Strength

I discovered the magnitude of silence and inspiration of solitude at the top of a large outcropping of boulders known as Rim of the World. By the time I was eight years old I had memorized the natural ridges and curves where I placed my feet and hands just so, a single move at a time, until I reached the very top. It was there that I learned to share and to appreciate the miracle of God, because until I could sit still and watch the trees bend in the wind and allow my dreams and ideas to culminate, God was just a man in a book. Eventually, I understood that this gift of force and grace remained in my heart. As a young woman, I learned to rock climb and billet with my husband. Much later, as we traveled the world, we shared the lessons and experience of rock climbing with our three children. Upon reaching the peak of each climb and during many of my life’s summits, I’ve returned mentally to my place of solace and found strength.

Sharing My Rock

I rolled onto my stomach and stretched myself across the sun drenched rock to peer over the edge, just as my best friend’s bicycle clanged to the ground twenty feet beneath me. I was surprised because Danny knew this was my private place and I had never let anyone sit on the top of the Rim of the World with me, especially a boy. I saw his cheeks wet with tears when he leaned his head back to look up.

“My brother died,” he said.

My throat became crowded and my eyes stung. I couldn’t talk, so instead I reached down and held my hand out. His brother was eight, two years younger than we were, and he had leukemia. Danny climbed up easily and took my hand. He held on, even as we scooted across the rock, even as we lay down, side by side. He murmured that we must be very close to heaven and then we cried together until the tree limbs and blue sky above us blurred into dark.

The Rim of the World

The Rim of the World is a large outcropping of boulders, which creates on one side, a shear cliff 200 feet high at the southern tip of Rim Forest, a mountain community on the outskirts of Lake Arrowhead. Most of the massive rock formation is surrounded by a thick forest of pine and oak trees. The back side of the boulders can only be reached from a dirt fire trail. On a clear day, at the top of the highest boulder, the view stretches down 5700 feet to the base of the mountains. The serenity of this natural stage to the world is breathtaking at all times, but especially so at night when the stars seem touchable and city lights shine from over a mile below.