Day 253 – Because I Like It.

Because I Like It.

Day 253

by Wendy Rose

The way they do
this old woman
no longer cares
what we think
but spits
her black tobacco
any which way
full length
From her bumpy bed.
Finally up
she sprinkles
ash on the snow,
cold buttes
promise nothing
but the walk
of winter.
Centuries of cedar
have bound her
to earth,
huckleberry ropes
lay prickly
on her neck.
Around her
machinery growls,
snarls and ploughs
great patches of her skin.
She crouches
in the north,
her trembling
the source
of dawn.

Light appears
with the shudder
of her slopes,
the movement
of her arm.
Blackberries unravel,
stones dislodge;
it’s not as if
they were not warned.
She was sleeping
but she heard the boot scrape,
the creaking floor,
felt the pull of the blanket
from her shoulder.
With one hand free
she finds her weapons
and raises them high;
clearing the twigs from her throat
she sings, she sings, shaking the sky
like a blanket about her
Loo-wit sings and sings and sings!

People collect things.  They collect thimbles, spoons, rocks, teacups, sports memorabilia, cameras, baseball cards, Snow Babies, Avon bottles, angels, eggs.  They collect any manner of things.  I knew a woman once who collected her own fingernail clippings.  Eek!  Once upon a time as a high school senior, I made the mistake of telling people I liked bells.  Soon I had a bell collection.  I had crystal bells, silver bells, porcelain bells, glass bells, copper bells and even a cow bell.  Some were pretty, but most had the look of an item that had been picked up for a quarter at a garage sale (and I suspect that is how they were procured) and the collection sat, collected dust and grew into a bit of a monster.  Back then, I was a very nice person and so I kept accepting them and stacking them on shelves and tables all over my bedroom.  Thank God, I went to college and moved in with a friend because it gave me an excuse to unload the bells, every single one of them.

I like Mt. St. Helen’s ash glass.  I can tell everyone this with no fear and no worry about a monster growing.  It can not be found at a garage sale, at the local Salvation Army or Goodwill, and it can’t be found at Walmart.  The smallest piece is costs a bit more than most people want to spend on a small bit of glass.   I get one piece a year from my mother who picks it up at Bronner’s (who have adjusted the price for inflation).  The fact that they are a special gift from my mother to me makes them all the more valuable to me.

(The poem is about Loo-wit, an Indian maiden, who was transformed into Mt. St. Helen)

On a side note – my sister needs to hire a photographer in the Dayton, Ohio area to shoot my niece’s wedding.  It is going to be a small wedding and since it is going to be so small, the photos are the one thing that they want to really stand out.  If any of you is in the Dayton area or knows someone in that area, can you please leave contact info in the comment section?  Thank you!