Great-grand-dad Cooper

What I found out or was told: Great-granddad Cooper was an Irish blacksmith who worked for the Yankee's during the civil war shooing their horses. One day they came upon an Native American Cree camp. One lady was working very hard and was not treated well. So Cooper took her back to Dayton, where she had eight children. It was always cozy in their home with the fire on for the blacksmithing. The first one to be born was our grandmother to be. At least that is what I could coble together or was hinted at by our mother. There must have been a Cooper too? But I wouldn't know how he would fit in... I think you know more about the family tree than I ever did. Our mother was full of secrets... She must have expected something else when she married our father John. She probably dreamed of an American kitchen and a washing machine or a real fridge and not a zinc tub with a block of ice. They lived with ten people then in a clap house, like the put on the reservations in Arizona: Too cold in winter, too hot in summer... They lived in there with ten people, plus me as a baby. When a nephew didn't do what she wanted she slapped him in the face. Aunt Louise remembers the incident clearly. It was probably that what made them leave. Dad had a good job with the railroad in Dayton. Louise never understood why he gave that up to leave Dayton. I seem to remember they went East, and ended up in Texas where fate did its work, for you as well as for me and our mother. I think our father has been a good father to Mark. He and my late husband Tony Mafia used to talk on the phone a lot. John always came across as caring, but after he and our mother split up, he too went through a rough spot for a while, till he found his way back to Dayton.  He remarried after a while and along came Mark. He writes, he has done a lot of linguistics at the university but except for his writing he didn't do much with his linguistics. No, that isn't true: he once gave me a language he had developed and which would come in handy in meeting aliens ; ).

PS: There should be a Gallagher somewhere. So maybe I am confusing the Cooper branch and the Gallaghers

Family matters - Familymatters

The first time I met my father and my brother was after a year of interpreting for the meetings of ESSO, having saved each payment for the trip. We had flown in to Washington and the trip to Dayton was silent and long, driving through cornfields mile after mile to get to Dayton. It could have been a wild goose chase not having found a phone number from Belgium for my father. After we settled down in the local Holiday Inn I picked up the phone book. There were a bunch of Sauers... I knew my father was John A. or R. Sauer and found the number. So I called and a young male voice answers the phone. I said: My name is Annmarie Sauer, I am looking for a relative of mine. He, Mark said I pass you my father. A nice voice comes on the phone. I repeat what I just told Mark and the male voice at the other end answers: Yes, you are my daughter. I hadn't thought further than that. So I said I would like to meet you. So he gives me instruction to come to his work, He was a blue collar worker in a print factory. Jim and I and Maya showed up and had a nice meeting. He apologized for my English (which must have sounded too European or British) saying: She lost her accent... The young man, Mark had come too, and I thought: Oh, my little brother is Gay. I cherish that meeting. Years later when I was in Chloride, he called me and came out to me. So sweet... . We corresponded a while but now it is time to be closer again, seen there is another brother... I guess one way or the other we should all meet. Because no longer am I an only child, who has an only child... Although seen I didn't know anything about the child Tom, also my brother, I felt like an only child. So I am the oldest of the three of us.

Norris Bennet

Leaving Arizona always brings melancholy since I leave behind dear friends for about a year. So I have learned to cherish my friends while I can. Yes, John and Nadine (and Otis of course who is loved and adored by my Doggy Dog.) Also Cooper and Irene, Tucker and Annie Bones.
Norris Bennet has been a friend since forever. I probably met him when I was 19 or maybe 20. He was part part of a group of buskers and artists in Antwerp. He later moved to the Netherlands, but whenever he came to Belgium he would stay at my place. Derroll Adams, Tony Mafia, Robin an Irish busker who stayed a while with Tony and me ad of course there was singer songwriter Dave Betts. Anyway, this blog is about friendship. Norris always had bad eyesight, but when I met him in November it turned out that he was totally blind. He is one the musicians of The Ebony Hillbilly's, a large all black group playing folk songs. Norris's voice always had a special quality going high and strong. Deep and warm. When I asked him how he cooped, his reply was: you have to know a lot of phone numbers by hart. So I wondered how many he knew. His reply was a few hundred. But enough of that. It was on my way back from Arizona that I decided to have a three day stop over in New York. I wanted to see Norris, feel how he is and then also Carla came with Tara. We had a nice Italian dinner all together. It was wonderful and enlightening to see how he copes. He is a great example. By the way, it was Tony who gave him the Turquoise ring he always wears.

The end of mourning

In many cultures there seems to be a period of allowed mourning after a person passes away: It is about six weeks, or some forty some odd days. So yesterday, in the tiny family unit we are, we took down all the condolences cards, put them away in a nice box and just have her smiling picture there for her husband to enjoy. That smile brings him good memories.
My memories are still with her dementia.

my mother

speaks no

more

only remains  

the seemingly  

smallness

of her smile

the leaning over on the chair

mouth wide open

for a bite

she carefully

shoves in

her teeth

just don’t  want to go in

but a person

has to eat

painful of awkward

that head

which can no

more

till suddenly

my daughter

passes her something

and she

“thank you”

says –

 I send thanks for all she gave...

Africa IV: Gabon II

Gabon is also the home of the Albert Schweizer Hospital. 

It was quite an experience to go there, to see the result of one person trying to atone for the sins of the colonists in Africa, in a humanitarian way. It was spotless, a shrine, a place that made one think about inequality in the world. It is in a nice area near Lambaréné. He worked from a religious conviction translated into action. Yet I think one can do good as well from a non-religious grounded way of thinking. Afterwards we made a short boat trip on the river Ogooué. It was a motor boat and the only way to get on it was basically on all fours, one's butt to the quay. The comment by the guys on  the quay was: quel beau petit derrière... (What a nice little behind!) I had to laugh, it had never been called small before. So all is relative. That is something I had to learn over and over again in Africa. There are no absolutes. All is relative.

Gierik-NVT

Gierik is a Flemish publication. It started in 1983 and in the second issue I had four poems: two in English and two in Dutch. I had forgotten all about that until I was invited to read in Antwerp with seven other Gierik poets on poetry day next  January 31st. I knew the people involved in it were in the process of digitalizing the complete poetry archive and felt obliged to look at it and to choose a few poems I would then read. My poems have been published 19 times; however I also wrote articles for them, did interviews with authors I wouldn't have dared to approach, translated Native American poetry, wrote about 'Guilt and Grace' as in a cowboy's philosophy... Those other writings have not been digitalized yet. It is strange to encounter my twenty years younger self, to realize that even then I wrote in Dutch and in English, although not having been raised in the USA. I had this fascination for whom I would have become, had my mother stayed in Ohio... Thus I read American authors, followed American politics and became a flower power child in my own right. I learned to belong wherever I was... The distance to my origins have been sometimes a bitter blessing, yet for which I am thoroughly grateful. I too am grateful for the 'home' poetry in all its guises has offered me over all these years.

Unintended consequences

For while I wrote monthly a piece for the eight page Chronicle. Often I would deal with strange differences between the USA and Europe. I wrote my 500 words one a month before I left for an other stay at the 'gas station' dealing with the different views about guns and Uzi's and the high tech bow and arrows a friend had so he could hunt without a permit. Anyway, the conclusion ran something along the following line: seen I had not been raised in a gun culture that I didn't own neither a gun, a revolver nor a rifle and since I felt I would be a danger to myself if I would try to use one I would probably be shot with my own gun. Being on my own however I did not want to give the impression that I was totally defenseless. The people knew my two dogs, so I could invoke them for the job. And I remembered that upon leaving the last time, being halfway through the process of adding a kitchen to my place that I had left a crowbar next to the bed. So my last line was just that: But I have a crowbar next to the bed. I return and we muddle on doing the kitchen. In such cases all the neighbors come by and give their opinion and good advice. So one of neighbors after the inspection of the going-ons called me over and said: I wouldn't if I were you use the crow bar, you could crack someone's skull with that. Go get yourself a baseball bat. That will hurt the other person less.

Unsung hero

Rose vdw is one of my unsung heroes. She is gentle and compassionate, a good friend and poet. She is quiet spoken, a lover and supporter of art. She bakes a mean apple cake which I savor with relish. She is also a help in working through my feelings concerning my mother who is suffering with dementia. Rose, for about 16 long years, visited her mother with Alzheimer in the ‘Cocoon’. This soft spoken soul however was a power house when she felt her mother had not been dealt with as she deserved. The institution offered ‘comfort care ‘, which turned out to be mainly comfortable for the nurses. The patients would be bedded down every day and every night. They were no longer dressed, nor would they sit at a table to eat, or sit in a comfortable chair in the afternoon. Then the daughter became the advocate who trembling with emotions of sadness and anger would defend the quality of life of her mother and thus also of the other patients. When my mother's illness began, Rose would answer my questions, sometimes sketch what awaited me in the logical evolution that was to follow. She gave invaluable insight and thus acceptance of what was to come.

Here a moving poem about her mother’s reaction when Rose's father passed away.

I have loved him so much, she said.

A month before he died - he couldn't

eat a bite - she had set out there

the same stack of sandwiches

already for fifty years. He fumed.

A wounded lion. The berry jam, soon a

bloodstain on the carpet. In almost

a scuffle he was felled by her as if a feather.

I have loved him so much, she said

while crying and unknowing of the days,

now angry, then again fearful was left behind.

On her own a passport with a spotless past.

An old friend and life's surprises.

Let me introduce an old friend, let me call him Bert. He has a good mind, people expected him to do well. Yet his life turned out quite different than expected. One day, ages ago, I met him on main street and he told me proudly that he had joined the party. I innocently asked 'Which party?' He was astonished and answered 'The Communist Party of course!' He had a great heart, refused to do military service, went to work as a co-operant in an North African country, working as a teacher. Later he worked  in his home country for 'the' party. Being good at languages he was send to the motherland and worked for several years in Moscow. He didn't quite like the experience, nor the health service there which caused a lot of grief. When  his wife lost a baby during the fifth month of her pregnancy they returned. He went on teaching and writing for the communist publications and doing administrative work.  When his firm (I still mean the Communist Party) folded, he was out of a job and needed to provide for his family. Deemed too dangerous by most employers, he retrained as a truck driver and found a job. Being the smart one, they gave him the difficult jobs and one day discharging a volatile product the truck exploded. Having followed all procedures he survived the blast but still was badly hurt and suffered lasting consequences being quite crippled. Then the economic crises also hit the transport sector and being an older man, was laid off, now living on a small pension. This man listens to Bach, reads good literature and is lonely. He visits his mother in the nursing home once a week and that is quite a chore: walking to the tram, getting up on it and then off and to the nursing home and back. All that goes really slowly. In winter he once in a while takes a cab, since falling because of ice or snow would only complicate things since his legs don't work well at all. I never heard him complain, just that he doesn't have a girlfriend in his life...  All the best to you Bert, I hope you find what you're looking for.