Brother Don

When I was a boy, I would sneak into the low ceiling attic of the small bedroom were brother Don slept, before going off to WWII as an army private. He was shipped of to India with a load of mules, possibly with the intent of packing supplies over the Himalayas to China if the air lift faltered, I don’t know .

The attic was filled with model airplanes (stick and paper, covered with model dope), all sizes and shapes so light and delicate. Balsa gliders, that were said to fly for blocks when properly balanced and flung. And stacks of magazines, showing every type of Allied and Axis aircraft along with model airplane books, all in perfect order. It was a wonderful place for a boy.

Brother Don, the meticulous mathematician, wanted to fly I am sure, was designated  a master sargent Postmaster by the army, while his older brother Wally was assigned too be a radio man, flying PBYs out of Whidbey Island, in the San Juans.

I lifted and touched all the models even though my mother would not allow anyone into that attic while she waited for her boys to come home.

Later when Don did came home and took up residence in the small bedroom while working and attending St Johns university, he would take me to St Cloud to visit the model shop. A narrow building with balsa pieces of all sizes and shapes and box upon box of red and blue containers, full of all sizes and types of stick and paper airplane kits.

Then he would take me across the Mississippi and buy me some fresh made caramel corn at a little shop at the foot of the bridge

I spent much of my youth constructing these planes. However if I wanted to see the great and ever growing airplane collection, I would have to travel to St Cloud in Stearns county Minnesota to the basement of Brother Don's home, probably purchased on the GI bill.

Brother Don in his 80s assembled and built models most every day, but told me on our last visit together:

THEY JUST DONT FLY LIKE THEY THE ONES I USED TO BUILD, I DONT KNOW WHY?

New Joseph Conrad Sampler

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In Mexico We Kiss

Doctor Smith walked by my room softly announcing that Terry had arrived at the lake home from her home in Mexico City.

As I continued to arrange things in my room I could here a soft lilting angelic English spoken in the kitchen where Elizabeth was welcoming her friend with cheese and bread.

The tender voice reminded me of hearing children talking to their parents at a country bed and breakfast in Tuscany, years before. All sentences ending on a lingering high.

As I approached the kitchen, I was intimated by the round faced,large dark eyes, and beautiful form in designer jeans, smiling at me.

I stuck out my shy Stearns County Minnesota hand to greet her.

She said in lilting English,

IN MEXICO WE KISS.

I Once Knew A Woman

I once knew a woman who was a citizen of Cyprus, but lived in Sudan.

She knew about Swahili, Oil painting, Hungarian men, and cosmetics.

She could dive and swim in the Mediterranean with the best of men.

However she couldn’t figure out how to get in my pickup truck.

She banged her head each time, then glared at me, even though I acted as if I didn’t notice.

She could dance all night in Madrid, but couldn’t decide whether to put her foot to the floor and swing her bottom over, or step on the rail, and drop it down in Portland town.

I thought she had a wonderful bottom to counter balance her entry, but lifting her leg seemed awkward to her even though, she claimed good form in her Honda car.

Since it seemed so hard for her to decide where to place her foot entering my pickup truck, I decided to end the dilemma before damage was done to my head, if I could not conceal my delight at her predicament.

The 70s

I remember still

The tall slim shape,

Miss Oregon runner up,

Farm raised. City living,

Staring at me,

out of touch

living alone,

with my two children.

She sent by a friend,

to get me out of my life,

and into the world.

Arrived, to take me to

a disco dancing contest,

she entered, weekly.

Directly looking at me,

as she entered my home,

saying

IS THIS AS GOOD AS YOU GET.

Aunty, Would You Be Proud?

Aunty

When Red left

you with the bills and restaurant

he with the waitress

You carried on, in the trenches, sewing Jean Lang designs for sophisticated ladies by day. Cooking chicken and dumplings and drinking beer to numb the lonesomeness by night.

Organizing with the union, in the trenches with Humphrey, and Stevenson, humbly asking for a living wage for 40 years.

Then buying a Greyhound pass to visit nephews and nieces across the country, before dying.

Aunty, would you be proud of sophisticated grand nieces living in Jean Lang style,

scolding grand nephews about semantics as they philosophize about globalization in splendid homes.

The State of the Arts

He was a beautiful man

Hungarian cab driver in Vienna,

locally referred to as Wien.

Throwing his great 60 year old arms up

declared in a rich baritone voice

Wien, a city filled with art,

over two hundred museums,

Franz Joseph the Hapsburgs were collectors.

Western, Eastern, Asian, African, Persian, Polonaise, Egyptian, Turkish, Greek, Roman,

Ancient, Renaissance, Baroque, Modern

all the masters kept

here in Wien

A city of musical genius

Haydn, Brahms, Mozart, Schumann, Strauss

all kept

here in Wien.

Sculpture along the Danube

and at every turn, beauty,

here in Wren

Architecture, and Gardens equal to any in the world kept,

here in Wien.

BUT

someday I hope to go to your country

to see your great art,

in MEMPHIS

home of

JERRY LEE LEWIS AND ELVIS PRESLEY