The Poetry Of...
Francis Masat....................................
Perla: River Bank Roots
.-for Perla Moore Masat Olsen
Perla, my Dad's Mother, of the Wisconsin Moores.
A college graduate when few women even went on.
Perla, who loved and helped her immigrant Czech husband
in his new restaurant, down in northern Illinois.
Perla, who ran off with Willie _____,
a lineman who ate at the new restaurant.
"Him." "Wilbur N.," as my mother liked to sneer.
Very young, I was sent to live with them,
in a trailer park, behind a gas station by the river;
riverbank roots - on the edge of town.
Later, by the tracks in town, her silver palace sat
on wheels that never went anywhere.
Perla's Harbor before there was a Pearl Harbor.
A riches-to-rags story starting with the Gatsbys -
and ending with the Joads.
From academia to smoke filled Moose halls -
slot-machined and beer filled weekends.
The darkness and shiny lights fascinated me -
and always the click-click-click ... click.
Willie, her common-law husband for 30 odd years -
a step-granddad who taught me
to take cold showers, make do with what you have,
never buy anything impractical: fix it, build it yourself.
Willie, a gin alkie who lived on a pint a day
all the years I knew him.
He thought he hid it by always chewing gum.
Never raised a finger to me. The only grandpa I knew,
but only as Willy; never by "Grandpa."
"Grandpa" was not allowed -
because he had beaten my Father when he was young -
after Perla was widowed by Grandpa Frank,
a Christmas suicide after Perla ran off with Willy.
No metaphors here, only the beginning of life - again.
My parents' Great Depression days spent
living in a riverbank tent,
clamming - "pearling" for button factories.
They ended in a tuberculosis sanitarium - before WW II.
Hot summer afternoons, Perla takes my hand.
We walk up the alley - chickens in crates
squawking and clucking - to the drug store.
Cavernous dark ceilings and tall stools -
lemon sodas on a marble counter - cold,
shadowy ceiling fans turning slowly.
My Mom in a sanitarium -
whatever that was - somewhere else.
My sister living some place else, too.
With WW II, Mom healed enough
and our family reassembled -
far, far away from my trailer park days.
But Perla and Willy came to visit each summer,
a watermelon in their Ford trunk - always.
The family visited Perla and "Him"
on my way to the university - my first year.
No time had passed for the tiny silver trailer,
duller now.
Nor had time passed for Dad or Willie,
"Him" duller now too.
When they began to hit each other inside,
Perla and Mom shoved them outside.
In haste to hide the scene, I slammed the trailer door -
on my Grandma's hand.
Nothing broke - except my heart - except my heart.
I never saw Perla again. My only Grandmother died
of cirrhosis of the liver three months later
in bed in her silver palace by the tracks,
"Him" leaning over her - to give her one more sip,
so I was told - and told again.
"Him" being poor, Perla was buried beside Grandfather
under a stone that reads "Perla ___,"
Willy's last name, not the family name.
Willy drove away afterward - never to be seen again.
Today, when I see chickens in crates,
or taste a lemon soda,
or glimpse a silver trailer,
I think of Perla, of Willie, of where a life started:
a trailer park by a river - riverbank roots.
Hanging in the Side Hall
An old shelf from who-knows-where:
Grandfather's carvings, Grandmother's porcelains,
a teacup of Mother's, Father's gold coin,
books from a brother, ornaments from a sister,
a Buddha and a pink hat from a son - far away,
photos of peas and berries from a daughter - near,
and geckoes - painted by grandchildren.
The shelf holds eras, trips, and heroic deeds:
schoolmates reduced to black & white photos,
a piece of Jersey slag and a wood Indian elephant,
a silver Eiffel Tower and a weathered plastic duck,
a Chinese box, an Egyptian scarab, and stacks of . . ..
More than once I choose a piece,
actually throw it in the trash.
But the empty spot nags and begs until . . ..
In time, I have learned:
nothing on the shelf is mine,
though every bit and piece
is now a part of me.
A Clock I Haven't Heard
"When your Dad was alive.-"
......."I know, Mom. Talk with ya nex' week."
"All right - bye-bye."
......."Take care," I whisper. Gently
I ease my phone into its cradle -
waiting - not wanting to let go.
Silence follows - hard,
dark, ringing, soul-filling silence.
Rooms away, a clock ticks.
A clock I haven't heard
since last week - after the same silence.
Dog breathes a sleeping sigh.
The ceiling creaks.
A branch scratches the rainspout.
Silence is once more
in retreat, forced back
for yet another week.
