A desert poem

Here is a poem for summer, I have never published. It has been buried in a file cabinet for years. The handwritten date at the bottom of the typed page is 11-11-1987; this is when I still lived in California.

The Desert Dance

Around and around we spin in the sand.

Single and double headlights flash

preceding our intersecting paths, as if they were flashlight beams crossing in the dark.

We leap the hills, our tires bouncing as we land.

We scream and yell as if we are children riding roller coasters.

Some nights, the desert is like the endless Sahara. The sand and dust is thick in the air, and we wake up with grit in our teeth.

Other nights, after rain, the desert is damp and still as if it was the surface of the moon. The world exists only as far out as the headlights shine.

The motors rev and hum much like the growls of wild animals. The noises terrify the desert creatures, which do not understand. Cowering, they have taken refuge elsewhere, not knowing if their dens are being destroyed while they are gone.

Our bodies unconsciously tense and relax, contract and release with the bouncing, turning, and bucking of the vehicles. We hold our breaths, then breathe fast and explode with laughter.

Once we stop, all is still. The desert night twinkles with a thousand stars lighting up the dunes. The moon glows like a nocturnal sun.

Although distant in our daytime lives, we are compadres of the night. Giggling, sharing secrets, we are fearless with drink.

When daylight comes, tracks reveal the past shenanigans of the mechanical animals. The tracks begin to erode in the wind, and the memory of the night fades, for us and for the desert creatures, cautiously returning home.

-SLG

Baton Recital and David Byrne

It starts out as something simple. You think you are going to your daughter's baton recital, or whatever it is in which your child is performing or playing. You're not even that present at first - you've been rushing after work, trying to quickly prepare dinner, get everyone ready, get the child into their costume or uniform, tying down the hair, finding the equipment.

Then you're sitting there - it's hot in the bleachers or at the field, the seats are uncomfortable, you're crowded by the person sitting next to you. You're ready for it to be over with so you can go home.

Then it starts, and you're watching your child. And this strange transformation happens - you're watching this wonderful child, and you go inside your head and you say to to yourself, "Who is that child?" "I KNOW that's MY child, but how did we get to this point? How did I get here?"

And you seem to be living the David Byrne of the Talking Heads song, Once in a Lifetime. You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack. Or you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife, and you may ask yourself, 'How did I get here?'

And you're sitting there with your family all around you, and you feel tears streaming down your face. No one else around you is crying - it's a baton recital. Kids are twirling and catching and dropping batons, and shaking pom poms; parents are cheering - there's nothing to cry about. And you have a memory of your strong father, a military veteran, doing the same bewildering thing as he watched YOU on stage, many years ago. Oh, you understood it then, because you had a certain depth, an intuition, but you really get it now. Tears of joy. Of the water flowing out, underground. And you are awake again - this is a once in a lifetime experience. This is the only time you will be at this baton recital, and she will be that age, and you have all the people alive in your life you now have.

And all the lyrics to the David Byrne song make sense, in many ways -

Letting the days go by - MY GOD! What have I done!

Time isn't holding us, Time isn't after us. Time isn't holding us; Time is a pony ride.

You realize everything you've ever done, and everything you are, has led up to this moment. That's how you got here. This is the reality - this endless, eternal moment in time. You've been waking up worrying, about lots of things, including that horrible, nightmarish oil disaster spewing into the beautiful, fertile gulf of Mexico. The images come up in your consciousness, making you sick and scared for the future. But there's really not much you can do about that. Or maybe there is.

And as you sit there in the hot gym, you feel the love flowing out of you until it all flows together, as the waters find each other and become one. And you're connected again, to the gym, the recital, the audience, and the joyous little girl who is very present, a radiant smile on her face. And I think of all of you who have felt this moment; you, my family and friends, many of whom are now grandparents and are really seeing their connection to these things.

same as it ever was, same as it ever was. same as it ever was, same as it ever was.....

Let the love flow.

Skunk and Raven

I wrote this piece of prose today. I think that's what it is - not poetry. With this I give a nod to one of the best short pieces of fiction I ever read in our award-winning high school literary magazine, JAVA. The piece I liked was called "Fresh-Squashed Squirrel on New Fallen Snow." To you, Pat (?), the author.

Skunk and Raven

Skunk. Unmistakable.

It rousts a person from a deep slumber. Walking by a bedroom window, with a little pfft, phsst, ffiisffptsh,

off it toddles, and you begin dreaming of skunks.

You are smelling it while you sleep. You nearly taste the smell on your tongue, almost becoming intoxicated by it, needing to sniff it just a little bit more. Then it wakes you, the blooming smell of skunk overriding all the pleasantness of your bedroom.

So pungent, almost edible. A complexity of aroma, almost a flavor. I am reminded of the people who describe wines:

"Notes of moldy cheese blended with week-old b.o. Aerate, waft, and sniff again, open-mouthed; feel it expand up into your sinuses and there take residence."

Once, Pally spotted a skunk while we were in a rented house for a family vacation. He took all the children out and they chased it from a distance, fascinated. This young skunk had soft and pretty fur, bobbling and rolling as it loped along. Not terribly afraid of people - no need to be.

The kids had fun scaring themselves and each other, chasing it. The adults had fun chiding Pally for his risky behavior. "What if it had stopped and sprayed one of you?" they said.

Later, the little one appeared at my bedside, and woke me.

"Mommy, I can't sleep."

"Why, Honey? What's wrong?"

"I dreamed the stinky cat was chasing me!"

I comforted her. "There, there. The skunk doesn't want to get you!" We laughed about the 'stinky cat' story later.

That was a long time ago. I am driving today - and too late I see it - had I more time, I would have turned off all the vents and air conditioning in the car.

Instead, the smell will fill the car, permeating it. I will be tasting it for days, a companion in my vehicle.

What I am struck by today is that as I pass the road kill, a huge raven stands astride it, piercing and eating it with great relish.

I think this is the most intense, powerful, most awful skunk I have ever smelled. The reek of it nearly burns my eyes. It's an odor with many levels. Yet the raven is a machine -so absorbed, tearing and swallowing chunks with such gusto - I guess it really likes the way it tastes, consuming all that rude smell.

What I want to know is this: can the ravens and the vultures not smell it, or do they choose to wear the odor as a calling card, a carrion's personal badge of honor?

-SLG

The Joy Killers

Here is a poem I started a year ago, and set aside - I felt like it lacked something, and I don't usually use a sad tone. I picked it up this morning and finished it. It's written on a ripped out, lined sheet of paper from a spiral bound planner.

The Joy Killers

They are circling the school yard right now - the joy killers.
They don't realize it shows in their eyes, their hard faces, their posture. Born without joy,
or having had it wretched from them - by the unfulfillment of their parents, the unrighteous jealously of their siblings,
the needy rabble roaming the neighborhood.

Now they patrol, joyless. The emptiness within has left them seeking to fill the gaping hole, the void.

And what is SHE doing right now?

So little, so sweet -

On the school yard.

I have taken no time to think about her all day -
selfishly involved in my own petty thoughts - working - the excuses we make to say what is more important.

But then driving somewhere else - passing the school yard at a distance -
a glimpse, flashes of children, running, bright colors, the little high screams and shrieks.

She's in there, somewhere.
What is SHE doing?
And who is try to steal her joy?

I wonder why the thieves don't have their own. What happened to them, what words or feelings were they not given, that my child has it and these others do not?

Were they simply not born with it, unlike her?

After all these years, my heart still pulls hard for her. Yet I'm grateful it's full, and glad it pulls.

-SLG

Synchro hikes Mt. Sorak

This is the latest adventure about Synchro, my friend from Fort Wayne who became an air force officer and was stationed in South Korea in 2000. Here she writes about time off from the base and exploring beautiful Korea:

This weekend I went to Mt. Sorak National Park. The parks are beautiful especially with the fall colors (Oct.). The parks were extremely crowded. People of all ages were hiking. One of the hills was 1000 meters straight up. We had to climb staircases along the face of steep rocks along sheer cliffs. It was a little scary at first due to the crowds.

Despite the number of people it was fun. Once at the top I felt like I was on top of the world. Midway on the hikes were 'hut' restaurants and vending areas. It was nice to stop and buy noodles and a drink instead of carrying food on the hikes. The Koreans dressed funny for hiking. The old people wore red vests and leg warmers. The young women wore high heel shoes. The young men wore suits.

You asked about religious preferences - On base, the chapel has six chaplains of different Christian denominations. Off base, I have seen Mormons and Buddhists. Koreans tend to be either or both. There are very few Muslims or Jews in the service here. The Koreans have lots of Buddhists temples in the hills and mountains around the base.

Postcard photo is of a standing Buddha in Mirukni, Korea sent in July, 2000

Synchro is stationed in South Korea

So, in the Air Force now as an officer/eye doctor, Synchro had her basic training in Florida, and was shipped over to Korea. Here is an excerpt from her postcard, July 2000 -

I wear a flak vest (bulletproof) helmet, gas mask and play war games for a week at a time. There are jets screaming over my apartment day and night. I hang out with fighter pilots. They are interesting. It's like Top Gun. None of them go by their given names but go by their call names. So I hang out with people called Mojo, Ranger, Craps, Nickel.

Every day at 1730 the national anthem is played and everyone must stop and stand at attention. I was given a couple of days to adjust to the time change with R & R when I first got here - I went to Seoul and went shopping. I went to the night clubs here which are wild. Men like to dance here and they dance with other men. Not Koreans - I'm talking about American men. I'm told it's socially acceptable here and there aren't any women to dance with.

The off-base cops are called the Town Patrol. If you are off base past curfew the Town Patrol arrests you. Each night the MPs patrol off base and arrest drunk military personnel. Every night they play the US and Korean National Anthem through the base and city, followed by a jet fly-by. The jets are loud.

One of the religions in Korea is Buddhism. Kyongju is the home of Buddhism there. It was also the capital of Korea from 37 BC to 935 AD. I visited and there were lots of temples, tombs and statues (postcard photo above is from temple there). It's a very old city.

Next time - some hiking and nature in Korea

My long-time pen pal from Northside Park Pool

We met on a ski bus trip to Sault St. Marie, Canada. As unaccompanied women, we were seated as roommates and ended up cracking jokes about the loose women on the trip.

Later we met again at the Northside Park swimming pool in Fort Wayne, where I took a lunchtime break from my corporate communications job, and she started her day before working on second trick. A graduate of of the University of Michigan, she had a big job at the Kraft Plant in Kendallville. She knew a lot about the mini-marshmallows that were put in Lucky Charms cereal, among other facinating things.

And during those lunch times at the pool, while she religiously worked in her sets of laps, and I read and planned next to the pool, we bonded. We clicked.

She had been a competitive synchronized swimmer in college, and could still do all the moves. She liked that I was a dancer and a skier, and how I was brave around dogs. Growing up, she had spent a lot of time in bad parts of Detroit with her family's grocery business, and all the dogs around there were guard dogs. Not exactly friendly.

After school age, women sometimes have trouble connecting with each other as friends. It's like there is an unwritten rule that all other priorities are more important. Whatever it is, the rule didn't apply here. We weren't just alike, but we made a connection -one that has lasted some 22 years, over a great distance.

You see, Syncro, as I'm going to call her, got bored with her Kendallville job - It wasn't like working for Ben & Jerry's. So, she went back to school at the lovely Bloomington campus of Indiana University and became a doctor of Optometry. Then she enlisted in the Air Force, and has been all over the world, traveling and serving our country. She has worked on American Indian reservations in the United States, and was stationed in South Korea for a while.

It was from Korea she wrote me and sent me a series of stunning postcards, detailing her life and impressions of the area. I always wrote back, and we have now been pen pals for about 20 years. She moved back from Korea to Arizona, then to Washington State, and now San Antonio. She dated Top Gun pilots and servicemen, but never married. Still, she wrote, and I wrote back, and told her about my children when they were born, and our home and our life.

I will share some stories about Synchro in the next installment of the blog - observations she made about people in Korea, and her ideas about the risks to the freedoms of our country. But for now, just know how great it is to have an old-fashioned, snail-mail pen pal, and how thrilling it is to get that next card or letter in the mail. The image above is one side of an actual postcard from Korea. Tailwind out, until next time.

Grabill Dairy Sweet

I mowed the lawn today. I've heard people say they love to mow, and although I actually enjoyed it today - the weather was so pleasant - I don't feel very natural on a lawn mower or tractor. I don't want to mess something up, or break the mower blade or whatever, so I'm always kind of relieved when it's done.

When I was finished, I was so thirsty and tired of drinking water I decided I had time to head down the road to the Grabill Dairy Sweet. This mom and pop shop is an institution in Fort Wayne and northern Indiana. Located in clean, quaint, artsy Grabill, where New Age followers and the Amish mingle, Dairy Sweet is an old fashioned drive-in where you are apt to see both 60's muscle cars and horse-drawn buggies carting boys and girls through the drive-through.

I like their sandwiches - I'm going to lose any semblance of respect here when I admit I like the breaded tenderloin here - not a healthy sandwich but something I loved from Mount Vernon, and this area of Indiana is really known for these as well. The Dairy Sweet always gets it done right. Made to order, pickles, onion, tomato, whatever.

I also like their fried fish, which they bread themselves, and vegetables such as mushrooms and sweet potato sticks. But what they're known for is their ice cream menu - and soft-serve and frozen yogurt.

Today I order a chocolate shake, and I ask for it with about half the chocolate syrup in it. It tastes better this way - I think one can actually taste the flavor of the chocolate better, it's not overwhelmed. Call me crazy.

They have lots of sundaes, lots of choices. This is not a chain, and it has the feel of an individual shop where they care. Of course, they have the usual 'swirls' that everyone loves these days - with your favorite candy bar or cookie - Oreo, Snickers, M & Ms, Butterfinger. Slushies, ice cream cakes, floats - talking about this will make me lactose-intolerant. My favorite-all-time ice cream store was DeMent's in Mount Vernon, with everything homemade with real fruit - peaches, strawberries, you name it. The snap of their little glass window in the brick building; the frosty cold of their freezer doors in the southern Illinois humidity; the photos of the family with their horses at the DuQuoin race track.

The Dairy Sweet isn't DeMent's to me, but it's nearly as much of an institution to its town. Sometimes a little ice cream goes a long way to cheer up a kid or sooth a grown-up; just don't make a daily habit of it if you can help it!

Nine, The Hurt Locker

It's been raining here in Indiana all week, and yesterday we even had heavy fog that delayed the start of schools. I have been wanting to take the family to a baseball game and write about it, but with all the rain, most of the action at the stadium downtown isn't happening. Hopefully the weather will cooperate next week. The "Tin Caps" is the newly-renamed professional team here, what had been most recently "The Wizards." The new moniker is an homage to Johnny Appleseed, (John Chapman) who is another famous figure buried in Fort Wayne. Johnny Appleseed with the cooking pot on his head - what where they thinking? Where is the wisdom in making a sports team a potential laughing stock? Who's in charge of this stuff?

Anyway, no baseball yet - so plan B is to stay in and watch a date-night type DVD. A movie not for kids - they're off doing their own thing. It really helps if it's something you both want to see. This is sometimes not as easy as one might think.

We thought we wanted to see Up in the Air, and did, but I'm not going to review it and I don't recommend it. I didn't like it and my neighbor woman friend said she thought it was depressing. George Clooney, save yourself. You don't have to be in everything.

Nine. Your average guy would not be renting this movie, unless he just wanted to see all the hot chicks such as Penelope Cruz, Fergie and Nicole Kidman. Or unless he was a real Italian film buff or a fan of the movie musical genre.

I think it's not the average guy's movie - but girls like to see beautiful clothes and hair and each other - isn't that funny - so your chick friend might be calling or texting from the video store or Red Box saying, "What about getting Nine?" and I'm telling you say

"Nein! No, no, no!" So what happened here? Directed by Rob Marshall, based on 8 1/2 by Federico Fellini, this had no excuse to flop. All these great stars, and a beautiful elaborate set, and it doesn't come off.

And I have to say - word - Daniel-Day Lewis, of all things, killed it. Wasn't he supposed to be the great actor guy, and all that? Submersed in indie characters, and blockbusters such as The Last of The Mohicans - he was attractive in that. Why couldn't he better carry off this Italian director character?

Well, here's one for you - he does not have the Italian accent down. I mean I hated his fake accent. Did they not spend enough time with dialect coaches or something what with all the song and dance numbers? That surprised me. His singling Italian accent was terrible.

And here's the other big surprise - you have all these hot women in this film, and out of all the people, who is the least hot? Daniel-Day Lewis. And it's a movie about this creative, sought-after, powerful movie director that all these women are attracted to. And the great actor doesn't persuade one of his hotness. How did they screw that up?

Did they need somebody else? Richard Gere? Warren Beatty (I don't know if he can sing and dance) I would welcome other suggestions from musical theater. Dame Judy Dench was hotter than DDL in this movie (maybe that's not saying much) but get this - the Brit has to sing her number with a French accent and she don't convince either! If it's that hard, why not just get a French actress to sing that song? Gee whizz, what a waste of time.

Penelope Cruz, though, is the bright spot in this movie - the camera loves her, as always. Her song and dance number is impressive. Well done. You can come back, Penelope.

Sophia Loren - classy. Iconic. Somehow above being hot.

Now, surprisingly DDL's dancing was better than his singing, and the sets, production numbers, and outdoor shots of the Roman scenery were beautiful. They took advantage of the breathtaking coastlines, architecture, and city streets and fountains to make it authentic. So why didn't they get the people connected better? I felt like DDL's most believable film relationship was with Marion Cotillard, who played his wife. Her acting was on, she had the patience, the timing. They connected. But much of the rest of it was a train wreck for me.

Another bright spot - Fergie (from the Black-Eyed Peas) - I thought she made a real transformation here, and her singing blew nearly everyone else out of the water. She killed, belting it out. Kate Hudson was okay - good - and at least she played an American character so no fake accent while singing.

And then Nicole Kidman, who looked smashing in the long designer gown, fur coat and man's fedora with the Roman fountain behind her - when she opened her mouth, half the time Aussie dialect broke through on words in the Italian phrases - unnerving! Come on, now.

There was one line I liked from the movie - the long-suffering wife chastises her cheating husband - "You're just an appetite! If you stopped being greedy, you'd die." Take that, John Edwards, Tiger, and Jessie.

So, I know you skimmed through this whole thing just to hear what I'd say about the Hurt Locker, the film that won Best Director at this year's Academy Awards - In my opinion, it should have won Best Motion Picture over Avatar. Certainly, that's just my opinion.

So the Hurt Locker - no review. Just get it, see it, don't let the little kids watch it. Every American should see this movie, and the sooner the better. Simply great, well done. Adios.

Let me read you a good poem

It's raining and blowing in Indiana today. I love it when it rains, as long as it doesn't do it every day. When I lived out West, I loved the heat and sunshine, but some days I would nearly pray for clouds or rain just for a change. People there thought I was crazy.

As I sit inside today, I see the rain has been blown sideways into the picture window, and is running down it. The red bud trees are no longer pinkish red - the tiny heart-shaped green leaves are emerging, into a new phase for the row of trees. Irises have now replaced tulips in the yard.

The following poem has spoken to me ever since I first read it in The New Yorker magazine a year or so ago. It made me find it in a stack of magazines, and read it to myself again and clip it out. Sometime later, it then called me to make my partner sit and listen to me read it aloud in the driveway - I may have indulged kind patience in this more than once. I am addicted to this poem. The author was a professor at the University in Austin, Texas - I've seen the bridge where the roosting of millions of bats occurs there. It doesn't really get in people's way. People need to respect bats and protect them; for one reason, they play an important role in pollinating plants worldwide.

Delphiniums in a Window Box

Every sunrise, even strangers' eyes.

Not necessarily swans, even crows,

even the evening fusillade of bats.

That place where the creek goes underground,

how many weeks before I see you again?

Stacks of books, every page, characters'

rages and poets' strange contraptions

of syntax and song, every song

even when there isn't one.

Every thistle, splinter, butterfly

over the drainage ditches. Every stray.

Did you see the meteor shower?

Did it feel like something swallowed?

Every question, conversation

even with almost nothing, cricket, cloud,

because of you I'm talking to crickets, clouds,

confiding in a cat. Everyone says,

Come to your senses. and I do, of you.

Every touch electric, every taste you,

every smell, even burning sugar, every

cry and laugh. Toothpicked samples

at the farmers' market, every melon,

plum, I come undone, undone.

-Dean Young

A Dog Poem

This poem shouts out at me, every time I read it. I found it in a book called "Just Dogs." I find it somewhat unbelievable that the author is listed as 'Anonymous'.

Play House

Oh! Happy Boy; you have not lost your years

You lived them through and through in those brief days

When you stood facing Death! The are not lost!

They rushed together as the waters rush

From many sources! You had all in One!

Why should we mourn

your happiness? You burned clear flame, while he

Who treads the endless march of dusty years

Grows blind and choked with dust before he dies.

And dying, gives back to the primal dust

And has not lived so 'long' in those long years

As you in your few, vibrant, golden months,

When, like spendthrift, you gave all you were.

-Anon.

I've got your back. Talk to you soon. -Tailwind

An Ode to Indiana

When the Wind Stops

Indiana - clear and blue, with a stiff breeze blowing.

Yes, Indiana it is. Then - the sun goes behind a cloud,

the wind stops, and all is suddenly quiet -

quiet enough to hear, not see, the mourning dove

cooing as softly as breathing

in the middle of the day.

Now, in the windless quiet,

the bright voices of wrens and cardinals

trilling

the sounds of trucks, a train

the heady smell of lilacs

and potent, yet tiny, lily-of-the-valley

a poet writing in a bathing suit.

The sun is coming out again

And with it the wind, heated, blows the trees

The movement in the trees is what is actually heard, not the wind itself

a rustling, then a roaring as the

trunks twist and the leaves feather

like fingers

Still again.

Then wind chimes

like a dinner bell

a motorcycle

a single whistle tweet

a chirrup, a cluck

in reply

another truck rattling on the bridge

and then silence.

- SLG

Authors' note: This poem wasn't composed sitting at the computer screen. I write all my poems in long hand, often on the back of previously used paper. This one I started on the back of a hand-out from the kids' school, and I had folded this page down to quarter sections so as to not be looking at a big blank page.

For me and poetry, I have to get away from distractions, such as children talking to me or television or whatever - quiet moments in the morning, perhaps, and I kind of get into a quiet, meditative state to open the channel. I don't try to 'force' some kind of poem out, just to write one. There has to be just a feeling, a vague idea, a random thought from which I can build. Sometimes I write the whole thing in a few minutes, and sometimes I'll put it down and work on it over days.

I also believe reading a lot helps. And just the practice of writing. It's a craft that must be honed, and the more one writes the more natural writing is, like playing the piano or something similar.

Facebook and the new forms of media will help a lot more people sharpen their skills at writing, and we can self-publish much more easily than we used to be able to - all of this is good. Change in technology will be a constant, so you've got to stay upright on that surfboard, but good writers and good talent are ageless and timeless.

I woke up scattered and senseless, trying to get people organized for the day and all their belongings together, but now after concentrating on this I am focused and calmer. There is a skill to channeling those racing thoughts and doubts - be it can be done. Peace be with you.

Waterskiing May 4, 2010

When the air temperatures are in the range of 70 degrees and it's sunny, we go water skiing. There is nothing that replaces it in our lives; when we are no longer able to do it, I'm sure that will be hard on us emotionally.

The physical challenge, the rush of the water, the joy of boating with the kids, the excitement and the peace of the lake - we have been water skiing since we were teenagers at Jaycee and Rend Lake in Illinois, and we have worked our lives to be set up for it in Indiana.

One has to do what one loves, and be where one needs to be, to live a satisfying life. Life is too short to put things off. This doesn't mean it's all play. Life is a practice, a discipline. Exercising to be in shape to ski. Eating the right foods. Working, to be able to afford the sport and sleeping to rejuvenate for this life and it. Respect and reverence for that which is greater than one and what made one. And balance in all things - time off to laugh, to go for walks, to fish, to write poetry. He works a lot, but my husband likes time to care for his trees and do projects with tools and tractors. The kids need free time to play with friends and jump on the trampoline. I try to envision a simple life that sloughs off the extra stuff so we have time to live.

Water skiing - I can be nervous before I do it, and transformed when I hit the cold water, and sore while I'm doing it, and yet by the next day I feel five or ten years younger. My arms feel strong and I am relaxed and have a better attitude. This is after doing it enough, to no longer have the aching soreness one has when a person is out of condition. Even weightlifting does not give me this kind of rewarding body rush, and I have to lift much longer to get the same effect.

Paul is working on 32' and 35' shortened off the 75' rope tonight - it's very early in the season so he's doing pretty good for barely May. Paul has competed in the amateur nationals, which are usually in West Palm Beach Florida or California, and he's a very solid player in the state and region. I think it was 2003 when he won his men's division of the regional tournament which was held at the DuQuoin, Illinois Fairgrounds that year - a lot of fun for the family to see. I also skied in the regionals there that year - I had lousy conditions that morning (wind) and didn't place highly.

I did win second place in my women's division of the Indiana state slalom championship last year, and I hope to be ready to compete in my next Indiana prep tournament in June or July.

So even though I'm not in condition after winter hiatus to be running passes around the slalom buoys, I'm out there in my drysuit working up for it. My biggest challenge at the moment is my right hip, which has some arthritis, and some pain in my lower back; the pain sometimes moves around or causes nerve issues somewhere else. Hey, I'm blessed to be in as good of shape as I am, especially considering the punishment the ol' bod has been beaten with over the years. Ballet and other forms of dance through college and beyond, running, not always eating well - to be able to ski at all is fantastic. And folks, it is definitely use it or lose it. When I don't do anything it goes downhill so fast it's not even funny.

And it's never too late. My in-laws exercise now, my mother in her mid 80's - when she started going to Curves, even at that age, in a few weeks her body was straighter, she was stronger - folks, exercise is life. We are a physical machine and we must not let our minds tell us that we don't have to exercise. We do.

I like driving the boat for Paul, or driving anyone - and I'd much rather do that than sit backwards and look at the skier. Driving in any situation also helps me avoid motion sickness. But it takes precision to give a tournament skier a good pull; not letting him or her pull the boat out of alignment down the course, etc. It's fun and I guess I inherited the pilot genes.

It was a nice ski, but the sun nearly blinded me when it was lowering in the west and caused a paralyzing glare, as I had to drive facing into it during part of Paul's run. The red wing blackbirds sang and socialized around us, and the muskrats, our bane on the lake (they can compromise the dam) stayed out of sight. Now that summer is on the horizon, I'll be writing about water skiing more in the next few weeks and months. Stayed tuned to this channel, and thanks for listening.

A poem for May, the Roller Dome

The Lawn in Leo

The trees in Indiana are like those

standing hat-and-coat racks

(except for a fir or a pine)

and half the year they stand

naked, exposing the houses

they surround, with views for miles.

Yet, the yards lucky enough

to have trees

will change in a matter of

weeks from being bare

To displaying all their fine

colors, fanned out in a dizzying

range of hues

Wearing their bright hats

and cloaks of fine leaves

-and the yards and houses

unlucky, having no trees

wear none.

-SLG

A Day at the Roller Dome

My young daughter received an invitation to a birthday party -to be held on a Saturday morning at the Roller Dome North, 444W. Coliseum Blvd., Fort Wayne. We remembered the socks and the birthday present and headed out. I thought it would be fine, maybe I would drop her off and do some errands, and I was pleasantly surprised - the place was nearly empty at that time other than the party group, and the place, with its wood floor, brought back childhood memories. Not from there, of course, but of skating at the rink in Mount Vernon and how much fun I had.

I have in-line skated outdoors more over the years, and although I was never injured, we all know how dangerous that can be - and one must be careful of falling still indoors. Yet, going back to the oval track, there was something peaceful and mesmerizing about gliding around that path and grooving to the disco-type music. Most parents sat and watched the kids or did other things, but I decided to rent skates and get some exercise.

I just took it easy, but my legs got a real workout, and it was a nice cross-train from the running I have been doing - easier on my joints. It was actually relaxing - at a child's birthday party. I am used to kids screaming and running madly from one event to another at those things. Or experiencing the sensory overload of a place like Chuck E. Cheese's. Everyone was having fun, smiling, and the DJ was playing some great Motown music.

They did the same old games - the kids lined up for limbo, and 'switch directions', and a couple of other of the old school games. This rink still has special events such as Friday night teen skate, overnight lock-ins, school-off days, etc. The Wall family built the rink on the site, which had been a cornfield, in 1949, and the family has grown the business all these years.

This was a great, all-inclusive birthday party, where the rink provided the food and drinks, balloons, party favors, etc., and all the parents had to do was bring the cake. It went really well. Best of all, the business had to clean up afterwards.

Burma VJ Documentary

Burma, sometimes called Myanmar, is the largest country in S.E. Asia. It sits between Bangladesh and China along the South China Sea. Ruled by a very oppressive military regime, Burma is poor and was plagued with monsoons in 2008, which further killed and displaced many people.

Political refugees have come to Fort Wayne from Burma, and there is now a population of 4500 or so, if I heard correctly, here in this part of Indiana. I recently attended a screening of the academy award-nominated film Burma VJ at the Indiana Tech College, Andorfer Commons building, beautiful Cinema Center screening room.

Food from the Mahnin Asian Restaurant was served at a reception before the film; everything was delicious - I had spring rolls and a crab Rangoon, and I picked up one of their menus - they're located on South Calhoun Street in Fort Wayne, closed Tuesdays. They have Pad Thai noodles on the menu for $6.

This was a meet and greet for the community - there has been some misunderstanding and mild culture clashes with the displaced Burmese in the Fort Wayne community - so several organizations got together and put on this event. I walked up to a young man standing behind a table of books and small treasures from Burma - His English was limited but we talked, he was a student - I asked if he was Buddhist, and he said no, Muslim. - are you?

No. Raised Christian, and a student of Buddhism, I told him. Then I asked him, is the oppression in Burma all political, or is it at all religious? He seemed timid, and I don't know if the answer was hard to explain, but he mumbled something and kind of shyly melted backwards, and you see the real fear of a person how has lived a life in which saying the wrong thing to a stranger can get you hauled off to jailed or tortured. We in the U.S. don't know what it feels like not to be able to freely use our simple freedom of speech.

The film, by Norwegian Anders Ostergaard, is made from video footage smuggled out of Burma - literally and over the Internet. Grass roots video reporters risked their lives to record images of protesting that was violently oppressed by military and secret police.

The network of video reporters called themselves the Democratic Voice of Burma (DVB), and spent years trying to get footage of how terrible things are, out of the country to show the world. This proved to be a very difficult task, with many of the reporters arrested or killed.

The film covers a student street protest in 1988 which led to 3000 people being massacred in the streets. The video reporters coordinated efforts and sent their images to a station in Oslo, Norway, where these were uploaded to CNN, the BBC and the world. This was compiled into some of the only images and reporting making it out of the country.

A woman leader of protesters, Aung San Suu Kyi, was imprisoned and placed in house arrest in 2007 - an army of Buddhist monks in saffron red robes marched in protest and demanded to be able to see her in her house. Video photographers got some clandestine pictures of her at her gate, with barbed wire fence all around her house/jail. She has since been re-prisoned after an American journalist swam a lake to interview her at her house and got caught in 2009.

It's a serious film, with beautiful Asian music and haunting imagery - as many as 400,000 monks protested along with civilians, and you see dozens of monks beaten and herded into trucks, never to be heard from again. It's overwhelming to see parallels of oppression as in other parts of the world, like Iran and Iraq, and it's humbling to realize how many of us take our precious freedom, political and religious, for granted here in the U.S.

I am drawn to things Asian - the aesthetic, the art, the serenity, the natural beauty - and I've enjoyed the Burmese people here in Fort Wayne. The school teachers say how grateful the kids are to be taught, how hard they work, what a special will they have. They smile and speak to their teachers in the halls. Maybe they will help to be the bridge in this predominately white community, where it can be hard to assimilate.

The Burmese Advocacy Center and Indiana-Purdue University officials helped to set up this event, which showcased the film and helped to get people talking. Movie-goers asked questions after the film to some of the Burmese present, including a man who had been at the 1988 protests and had parts of a leg, arm and fingers missing. Slowly, community awareness will surely grow and area residents can find more ways to help and connect.

The DVB Network was broken in 2007 when at least three of the main reporters were arrested - they are expected to serve life sentences for what they did. The Norwegian filmmaker pieced together the bits of the Burmese footage and made this film. As a graduate of a college of journalism, I find this whole thing very sobering. The difficult stories of the lovely Burmese, from cities with romantic names such as Rangoon and Mandalay, are worth telling.

As the woman with cinnamon-hued skin and shining black hair stood up and said, she was grateful to be in Fort Wayne, and was grateful for the kindness of the Indiana people. But, she said, "We didn't choose this life. It was chosen for us."

"We can't negotiate with these leaders," she said plaintively. "We are still suffering here, and there are millions suffering there."

And just as Catherine of the Cinema Center said, "The Burmese people are misunderstood here - they're honest, they like to learn, they like to fix things that are broken, and meet new people. They deserve to be somewhere like here - they deserve a chance."