Last Rodeo

hot wind whipped my hair 
across my face
in Cheyenne, Wyoming
where a drunk truck driver
twirled my adolescence
on his sun-tanned arm
raising my skirt and pulse
in street dance frenzy
and I never forgot 
that beautiful bucking horse
that broke his neck 
on a fence he never saw coming



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Puppy Love

DOGGIE PLAYDATE AS METAPHOR FOR ROMANCE

Featuring Carl J and Anne Bonan

ANTICIPATION

WILD ABANDONED PLAY

EVEN IN LOVE YA GOTTA EAT

THE QUIET MOMENT, OR
"WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO?"

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What Do You Think YOU'RE Doing?

Anyone ever ask you, "What do you think you're doing?" Not "What are you doing?" That's pretty obvious. But "What do you think you're doing" is a poser. My stepdad asked it regularly. And not just of me.  Of an impatient driver pulling around on the shoulder back in the days when you could cross Kansas at 80 mph. Of some woman struggling to parallel park in a spot he'd been eyeing for half a block. Of my mother, when she'd gather up seemingly empty plates from chicken dinners before he or my Aunt Carolyn or my Aunt Juanita had sucked the marrow from the ends of their drumsticks and wings.

Here's the thing:

Space Dust and Human Ashes (Part One)

Look closely at your hand. Everything you see there has been on this planet in some form since the beginning of earth time. That used to blow. me. away. The outcropping of new life forms and new lives from the original blue bobble we call home as we dance about in our galaxy. (You can see how I try to grasp this concept in "Space Travelers," below.) And yet . . .

Trash Talk and Bob's Bread

I saw this adorable clip on Facebook a few days ago, definitely worth a watch if you’d like to get a few more of your happy synapses snapping. It’s of triplet girls--about three years old--dancing around the driveway in their anticipation of giving their trash collection guys each a cold Gatorade.  http://www.fox29.com/news/152141850-story

I found this especially endearing in light of my recent attempt to show gratitude--FAIL. 

What You Wish For

Mugging with Mother a few months before the accident.

All I ever wished for was to be a writer. (And that elusive pony.) At 10, I wrote my first book: The World and I. Fully illustrated. And then there followed a looong, dry spell.

My dreams of a writing life didn't begin to materialize until Wichita State University established its MFA program, and I went back to school--a divorced mother of three with a weekly study-work schedule of 110 hours. My mentor and life-long friend, Distinguished Professor Bienvenido Nuqui Santos, told me I was writing to find my mother, who was killed in a car wreck when I was 26. 

My Fathers Frank and the Birds and the Bees

In Santa Catalina with Sister-cousin Carol Dick Jansen.

Both of my fathers were race car drivers named Frank.

My first father raced on asphalt with the Sports Car Club of America and later stewarded for them, once fixing a gas leak in Paul Newman's motor home. 

My step-father was a three-time Grand National Champion of stock car racing, which took place on dirt tracks.

In spite of their mutual love for racing, stockpiles of trophies, and taste in women, they couldn't have been more different--one an only child of a wealthy family and one a farm kid with nine siblings being raised by a widowed mother. But what struck me during my growing up years was their very different world views, which was especially evident when it came time for "The Talk."

My 18th summer, both of them decided to have a heart-to-heart to explain what their expectations were sex wise--to me, not to each other. These fairly one-sided conversations came long after my first serious boyfriend said he might die if I didn’t “give in to him,” or at least he’d be really really sore “down there” (in the 60's, that was the anatomically correct terminology.) At the time, I thought that was an odd sort of power to hold over someone. 

Anyway, that summer, Father A came through town and told me that if I were being sexually active I’d better be using birth control. His friend had just paid for an abortion for his daughter, and “damn, it was expensive.” 

Father B, noting that I was pretty tight with my college boyfriend, said that if we felt we might give in to “our animal urges” to let him know and he’d give us money to get married with. 

The messages couldn't have been more mixed, but there was definitely a financial motif. 

Ironically, they also planned identical driving vacations that year--from the scorched checkerboard of Kansas to the temperate bliss of the southern California coast. Luckily, cloning hadn’t been discovered yet, so I got to visit my beloved Pacific Ocean and Santa Monica Beach twice that summer. 

Even back then, I recognized what a fortunate and privileged girl I was. On the other hand, I figured my celibacy was contributing significantly to my four parents' financial wellbeing.

Now I’m almost to the age where a boyfriend might die if his girlfriend did give in. I still think it’s an odd sort of power . . . .

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