WOMAN

Woman, incredible to me

as teenager to believe,
that this wiry, whippy,
less than five foot female
was a pioneer woman.

Yet the facts remain:

that Grandma Strid -barely thirty-

but already with a brood

at her heels,

at least, half of those seventeen babies

she was to bear,

fought sea sickness

on that steerage trip

from Sweden in 1906.
Of course, Grandpa Strid
was there, too,

to clear the land

to build their sod hut,
but he died
before I was born, before my memories.

So I only recall
the dark brown darting eyes
of Grandma Strid
that still found humour
in little things
after three-quarters of a century
of living.

Grandma content

in her bedroom rocking chair
- store teeth set aside-

sucking on the curved stem

of her black pipe,

while she darned socks
- still under the urge to be practical-

telling us heirloom stories

of how she hid

small Swede potatoes and

other seeds in her apron pockets

all that long trip
- by boat, train and foot-

to the new land to grow the food

they'd always known.
Incredible woman!
How could this tiny,
bright-eyed bird of a woman
have raised thirteen children?

(Four did not survive

homesteading hardships.)
I feel exhausted with thoughts

of continuous lines of babies

sucking greedily for milk,

chickens to feed and

bread to knead - even more -

the demand for white lines

with only wooden outdoor tubs,

carrying buckets of boiling water

from wood fed stoves.
She did it,

Grandma was a pioneer!

Grandma, did you have time

for romance, dreams?
Were there roses and greys

in your day?
You told the "painted lady"
at your farm house door
that you did not know her.

Your eldest daughter - my mother -

giggled and replied,
"It's me, Signe. All vorking girls
in Edmonton use lipstick and powder."

"Vell, if it's you, Signe,
go vash your face
in the horse trough
'fore you come into me house."

No wonder, Grandma,
blizzards and droughts
did not - could not - bend you.
Still, I believe that my mother

sent out to work at fourteen

and all her wages, save fifty cents,

sent home weekly to parents,

had dreams, felt romance.
I can see her now

striking a match on the rough sole

of her slipper lighting her cigarette.
Mother would gaze

smiling with silent memories

through wisps of smoke but sometimes
she shared her stories:

how she and Dad wed as teenagers

lost their first son in a farmhouse delivery
and then struck out for B.C.
- the 'promised land' -
now that prairie farms
had more sons than land.

Mom became a townswoman
still valuing her farm skills
for our cow, chickens, huge vegetable garden.

Yet glad to have salmon
and venison - even bear -
when Depression days
kept townspeople from work.
Mom took in sewing - what else did she do?

for we - five children -

who only remember

the best home-made bread & butter in town,

lavish with wild strawberry jam.
Oh, those memories

of mountain outings,

as my mother and three older sisters

gathered wild berries.
I was more interested in spying on

wild deer - even better - a bear.

Everlasting purple stains recall that

bountiful blueberry crop
when we tied my sister's slip into an extra sack.

Oh, those days of canning and storing

when a winter of good eating

still depended on the skilful

hands of a woman.
Can I call myself talented

with my super-market garden,

my preserving a la freezer,

my can-opener, add water

and stir meals?

Did I fulfil the dream,

third generation, university trained,

and crossing the Atlantic

just for holidays -- non-steerage?
Was it for me

you toiled to break, to beat the sods,

to raise bumper wheat crops?
NO, I sense that Grandma Strid

knew the harmony
of living each day for itself.

Contented in your parlour
- so many years awaited-

sitting stiffly in dark taffeta

for a few restful hours

reading the 'good book'

on the Sabbath,
knowing another week of bread kneading
and snow-white linens
was ending, was beginning
in your clearly defined world.

Yet woman, I am
still believing that all I need
is one man - the right person -
at my side, especially in bed.

Luckily, having more time for self

than any of my ancestors,

our woman chain.

And closer now to my dead
mother and grandmother
now that I have known

that violent tearing

of babies swimming, pulsing,

down their, my birth canals,

only to suck urgently

at my milk-swollen breasts.
Oh, the pain\sweet surging of milk -
that life line from mother to baby.

Yet the cord is never completely cut.

Each mother mouths her partial wisdoms,

"Remember, men are after only one thing!"
which may help or hinder

her daughter
as she, too, become woman.

As long black underwear bathing costumes

diet down to bikinis or ...,
each mother tries to soften the way
for her daughter.

Slowly, fear\envy
turn to pride as we see our daughters
as women fulfilled, independent.

But look - WOMAN - is demanding more -

my daughter, with more eye make-up

than underwear,

says she's equal to any man!
With Ms in front of her name,
she'll fight for her dreams.

And maybe - maybe - some day
our clever men of science
will grow life in a test tube.

But babies will always
come from mothers.
Somewhere looking in joy

over the suckling head of her child

to her partner,

there will always be
a woman.

---

Santa Anna

Santa Ana winds

blow hot, blow dry,
bend the palms,
scatter banana fronds,
drive the smog from the sky,

canyons rumble

guns rattle

boulders tumble
from the San Gabriels.

Santa Ana winds

blow hot, blow dry,
evaporate
my cold hate,
warm my face,

give me smiles that belie

my crying heart,

bring life to those
below the San Gabriels.

---

Futtemans

As kids we called them 'funny mans'

or 'funny cookies'
as every quick fried shape
of rolled and knotted
sweet dough bubbled and browned
into its own person.
"Stand back! Grease splatters hurt."
Firm warnings as we dragged
wooden kitchen chairs closer
- our viewing platforms
of fryin' kettle and black McCleary stove.

Each Christmas season/our taste of Sweden,
we waited and whined,
"Today? Can we make funny mans today?"
Of course, Mom did all the making,
we did all the testing and tasting
lip smacking up any broken
crisp bits, those spare limbs
or bodies that were not fit
for company, whole specimens so
neatly arranged on a Yule platter
all perfectly coated with icing sugar.

"Stop! Wait until I can dust them in a bag."
Mom's voice softened with a twinkle
or a tear in her eyes
she understood how long a few more
minutes were for four or five year olds.

We giggled as kids imagining
some monster "wind-breaker"
-as 'futte' seemed an obscene body sound -
blowing holes through some original
whole cookies as he 'putt putt'ed
around some celestial kitchen
so that today modern cooks create
finger-holed sweet morsels
in his Futteman's honour.

"Get your hands off that one! It's not broken."
Just when we thought Mom wasn't looking.
Love and magic: main ingredients
of Mom's annual baking bashes,
no uniformly dull, store-bought biscuit shapes -
we sought our "funny mans"
each unique with its own myths,
and hoping its future was inside us!

Now three decades and more, after her death,
I still want to share " funny cookie" hours

with Mom,
as no one ever makes cookies
as fantastic as your mother.

---

Funeral Farce

This is not my Mother
make-up enough

for a street walker
she never had to

entice our love

Cut flowers

something else to rot
she would have left

them growing

Gilded and carved

caskets to mould
guilty public gifts

easing private failings

Her spirit ir gone
her eyes are closed

Thanks, God
You've taken her

spared her
this ghastly money grubbing
farce of a funeral

No three day ritual
no granite verse

only our lives

trying and failing

then trying again
will be her monument.

---

Hurting You

Hurting you was never
part of my plan
I never meant,

"You're always a loser."
what I said was,

"This proves you don't have a brain.

I mean not checking the gas level!"
This doesn't mean that
I was trying to hurt you,
it was just something I had to do,
blurt out words for my own relief.

I never meant to hurt you,
but saying "sorry" never helps,

is no excuse nor solution.
Sorry is a useless bandaid
always slipping off and
never helping to heal hurt.

What I said wasn't intended

to hurt you,
it wasn't directed at

you personally,
just things can go wrong at cottages.
Just a passing observation
that I did mean,

"Remember, I was the one in labour

in a boat out of gas!"
well, but not to be painful.

I never meant to hurt you
at first but now
I do, I do!

---

Mother-in-law's Visit or How I Got My Ulcer!

"Give me that child,

I'll soon break her spirit.
I tell you that boy

should see a psychiatrist.
Do you tell people about ...

Of course, today, divorce is ...
No, not your type of dress,

more mine with my fuller ...
Do you ever go to the hairdresser?

I am the oldest and wisest here;
what I haven't learned from this world
the voices from the other
have told me.

Nineteen proposals I had,

they wanted me, I only wanted fun.
The spirits told me to marry Reg
and we would have a famous son.
I didn't love him,
knew our marriage wouldn't be much
but our boy ...

Men are ugly,
I mean that part of them
and the smell, it sickens me.

Once on a bus
a filthy old man stood
opening his coat and leaning over me

his pants were open, too
and ... the odour...

It's so much cleaner

to sleep alone.

This is not a proper home
for a cat ... Trixy must go.

I could die anytime with my illnesses

my bad heart
just going up the stairs could do it

No, no, I want it.
I've had enough of this life.
This life's only pain and bother.

But the voices say that the next
is a spring garden
where we will all
float free of body feelings."

---

Apology to my Children

My impatience is not with you:
too much calls me

signals to success or signs of sadness

wanted and wanting, I search

while greedy clocks
begrudgingly squeeze out
hurrying hours

minutes dash home

before I can use them.

Myriad opportunities
crook their little fingers

hesitating indecisions

relentless as ocean waves
lap through my brain

until each external voice seems
an interruption

each outside demand becomes
a plot against
my proper choosing.

Desperately, I scream

"Leave me alone!"
as one more

"Mommy, come here!"

and I shall lose my anchor
flailing in seas of might-have-been

compassless and

out of my depth.

Distracted, I may become stuck
in another reality

my ever present day-dreams
unable to broadcast myself
on our home channel again.

---

Inconvenient

Now there is no place
to put Mother,
not a free corner
in which to stash old Mom.

I am inconvenient
arriving in the midst of your summer
schedule already full of fun
and other young people.

You say, perhaps in one or two years,
you'll have a guest room.

I am a NOT guest!

How has someone so familiar

become an inconvenient stranger?

Now thirty-eight years later,

I feel the wrenching

pain of a miscarriage
draining me.

Have I lived too long?

Yet the time between injury

and healing is faster now

accelerating to nil.

Sorry, time for Mother

to grow up,
leave her children
as if three thousand miles

of earth's crust

were not enough;
my last cherished myth is dust.