Dana Elise as a
"Schlower" Ballerina. . . ectomy Urine slaps, eyes sting - Cadaver-like shells stare - Talons clutch at filthy shawls Draped on stooped shoulders - Bones protrude - Folds of skin droop, hanging from once-loved faces - "Ladies" and "Gentlemen" promenade - exposed. Needles puncture, bottles hang Dangling, dripping forgetfulness and life - The priest-doctors gather for the sacrifice - vultures. "Like Druids of old - with voices sad and prophetic." The victim is slit - The incubus delivered. Malingering malaise or swift, slicing death - The choice is thrust by Fate. (© by Denna Rae Bryant, May 15, 1986) RETURN HOME Accustomed to Cold Accustomed to cold - Knowing no warm - The sun's first kiss Is misunderstood If it will forgive Understanding At last The ice-circled soul will melt doubly fast From its own inner glow and the sun's gentle blast. (© by Denna Rae Bryant, July 3, 1970) RETURN HOME If You Were Truly Kind If you were truly kind You would let me love you - fully - Drinking You In - My Mind Sating itself until drunk I'd let the emptied cup Slip from my fingers willingly. It would only take a little while Having you near A lifetime at most - Give or take a year. (© by Denna Rae Bryant, July 3, 1970) RETURN HOME Come To Me Gently Come to me gently. Take my hand in yours And lead me quietly to your bed. Move slowly, And speak soft love to me. Caress me with warm, strong hands - And stay awhile until I am no longer frightened and can learn to love again - For my soul has hardened from icy lies That only your smile can melt. (© by Denna Rae Bryant, August 6, 1970) RETURN HOME Being Without Essence I am a shadow of woman - I lengthen or grow small in the sun's orbit And sometimes I disappear completely to exist only in someone else's mind . . . if at all. I need the light of a warm smile to grow strong Until my metamorphosis is complete And my being achieves solidity. Could you share your smile with me for a moment or two? For it is only my great loneliness that has made me a shadow. (© by Denna Rae Bryant, August 6, 1970) RETURN HOME Empty - is the gnawing ache in the pit of my stomach when I discover the one I loved is a lie. Empty - are my eyes as I search the eyes of strangers, looking for warmth. Empty - am I after love has gone or has never really come. Empty ? I am Empty. (© by Denna Rae Bryant, August 7, 1970) RETURN HOME Goodbyes We smiled and kissed - a "hello." Lying with you later, I gave love. You would say "goodbye" after a time of "hello." Why, then, do you say nothing after LOVE? (© by Denna Rae Bryant, June 22, 1970)
When you go please say "goodbye" So I'll know you've really gone. I may weep but not wait wondering . . . (What went wrong?) (© by Denna Rae Bryant, June 22, 1970)
RETURN HOME
He is like sweet Spring to me.
His love coaxes dormant buds
to open to the warm sun of his smile.
He brings ripeness to the fruit of my love,
and there is sweet ecstasy
when he leads me from my long Winter
into the warm meadow of his Spring.
Then Summer burns in my head.
My love grows to such an intensity that I feel
it will consume itself by its own fire.
He sees its licking flame and draws back from it -
half in fear and half in the unwillingness
to feed such an all-consuming fire.
So follows my Autumn.
The flames of Summer have singed my leaves
to a burnished gold.
But his sun's withdrawal has taken from me
my life's source,
and soon my leaves flutter down.
Some are caught up in the swirling wind and scattered;
others lie at my feet and decay.
Cold blasts of Winter chill my heart once again
until I feel the ice slowly encircling my soul.
So thick - surely it will defy any sun's warmth to come.
I grow accustomed to the cold
after the first shock of its fingers touch my barren branches
and pass slowly down to my roots.
I am reconciled and exist once again
in my half-sleep of unfeeling dormancy.
Then sweet Spring returns to melt the ice around my being
and to send life coursing again through my body.
I must be wary - after so long and so solitary a winter -
Bark often splits from sudden blasts of warmth
with alternating cold.
Or, it might simply refuse to yield its sweet fruit,
becoming barren . . .
For I am loathe to watch sweet fruit ripen - ignored,
fall - unnoticed,
and rot on indifferent ground . . .
(only because my love feared to bite and suck its juices -
sharing its essence.)(© by Denna Rae Bryant, long ago.)
RETURN HOME
Teaching
Each Spring -
when it is time to lead another crop of students
through masterpieces of poetry,
It is also time for me
to flake away at the temporary crust
around my heart.
Nothing heals when you're a teacher.
Feelings scab over, and you forget them -
for a time -
Then - some lesson about life - some short story -
some cherished poem - rips open the hurt once again
to reveal the pain of loving or of caring too much
or of rejection -
All those exquisite agonies that keep life's edge
so sharp -
so poignant -
(© by Denna Rae Bryant, March 28, 1990)
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Male Anatomy
This observation has been made,
empirically noted, tested, retested, and is hence put down as fact
that . . .
The noted singularity of the male anatomy is wondrous,
but slightly puzzling to behold.
While God most definitely placed woman's brain within her head -
HE seems to have misplaced man's between his legs.
(Denna Rae Bryant)
RETURN HOME
What Might Have Been
I look at him and see
what could have been
Laughing eyes and smiles
that should have been
Instead of lonely bitterness
that would have been
Erased
by simply taking the hand I offered in love
and walking awhile with me there.
(© by Denna Rae Bryant, December 8, 1970)
RETURN HOME
Warm
Warm is a strong, rough hand
brushing the hair away from my cheek,
cupping my face, and kissing the tip of my nose.
Warm are twinkling blue eyes
laughing at my frowns
and easing worry from my brow with a carefree grin.
Warm is strength slowly
drawing me up into his arms
and scratching me with a bristly chin.
Warm is you -
You are love.
(© by Denna Rae Bryant, August 7, 1970)
RETURN HOME
Waiting
I was a lonely shoreline.
I waited endlessly for a wave
and finally it came.
It crashed upon my soft belly of sand
and caressed the mounds of my breasts
with salty fingers.
It spent itself upon me and permeated my being
with its living warmth.
I tried to encircle it with my strong, smooth thighs,
To draw it closer and share its secret strength,
But , having spent its power
It withdrew once again to the sea
Furrowing my skin in its wake
and carrying away with it small grains of my soul -
As waves will often do.
(© by Denna Rae Bryant, July 2, 1970)
RETURN HOME
The Flower Child
You held my hand
without touching.
You took my love
yet felt nothing.
Because I gave love freely
You thought it easy.
It wasn't your fault -
I'd hoped you knew -
I'd kissed so many
And loved so few.
(© by Denna Rae Bryant, June 23, 1970)
RETURN HOME
Potpourri
I have a can of love to give -
Do you know where an opener lives?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
How very singular that hairpins outlive women in men's beds.
Of Bees and Flowers and Life
Some flowers offer their sweetness to attract the bee,
then they enfold him in their petals,
slowly squeezing life from him, draining him completely,
leaving only an empty shell as testament to the act.
Other flowers offer their essence freely
for the enjoyment and enrichment of the bee.
From this union comes honey that nurtures growth.
The bee also spreads pollen from flower to flower,
thus aiding the continuance of species.
Love is like the cycle of bee and flower.
Some love is like the first - Some like the other.
The best is easily recognizable;
it does not seek to possess and stifle -
It is free and open and spontaneous - bringing much joy -
and sorrow too at the bee's departure -
but these things are necessary in the cycle of life.
(© by Denna Rae Bryant, December 8, 1970)
RETURN HOME
Rejection- July 24, 1980
It is not the giving that is frightening.
It is the rejection - or worse - the devaluation (of being).
Therefore, if I only cared about my own thoughts;
if I were strong enough to sustain myself,
I would give freely without regret or guilt -
for those feelings are generated from without -
not within - or from self-doubt.
"I am not afraid to tell you who I am - I am afraid you won't like it."
When my mask slips and I come face-to-face with myself -
I ponder the stranger in the mirror -
Consider her dreams and their fulfillment.
Ah, security - obscurity.
(Denna Rae Bryant)
RETURN HOME
Portrait of John
His hair is sandy and soft, covering the tips of his ears at hair-cut time.
At his temples, coarse sprouts of grey work their way in.
His eyebrows are most unruly; curling every-which-way
and growing across the bridge of his pug nose.
His eyes are small and greenish brown with short, soft lashes
surrounding the almost imperceptible twinkle that is ever-present.
His "macho" moustache is a thing of beauty - straight, coarse, and thick.
He has a soft mouth which comes to a small, curvy point
at the center of his upper lip, hidden somewhere
under his "bandito" moustache.
His chin is strong and well-formed with a small cleft in the middle.
He has a little mole on one of his cheeks.
There are deep ruts extending from his cheekbones to his chin,
and his forehead is scarred from an old fight.
His teeth are yellowish-white - uneven with gold fillings flashing with his smile.
His frame is lean, tall, and wiry - belying its strength.
His shoulders are broad and powerful,
and when he moves, the muscles ripple under his smooth skin.
His arms are well-shaped, downed with soft sandy hair.
His hands are large - having an extremely powerful grip.
His legs and knees could have been used as a model for a statue.
With such power and beauty, it is strange to see him move haltingly,
as a old man does; spreading his legs, bending down to unlock a car door.
He stations his face close to the lock as if to release it with his piercing gaze.
But when he is building something or drawing a plan,
his every movement flows into the rhythm set by his muscles,
and it becomes a ballet performed by a master.
This, then is John - on the outside.
(Denna Rae Bryant - 1973)
RETURN HOME
Dear Mom,
Here is the short story I wrote last year about our last visit to Grandmother. As it is a story, I have added and taken away things to evoke a certain feeling, trying to capture my feelings and my inability to face certain "ugly realities" of life. I know Grandpa Tom wasn't your father, but he was the only grandfather I had, and it makes a better story if a lady like Grandmother actually loved a lowly cowboy. Sometimes I wonder if maybe she did - just a little.
Tonight when Bill called me downstairs to the window to watch him slide down the newly shoveled driveway like a kid, and I went outside to take a turn sliding down, sitting on the snow shovel, with the puppies and Myrriah gamboling after me, and then Bill and I stood looking at the lights shining through the snow-laden trees next to the house, and he knocked the tree, sending a cascade of snow onto my head, I thought about Grandpa Tom and Daddy - how they both gave me the precious gift of loving the beauties of nature and of appreciating the importance of little things. And I looked at Bill and thought, Grandmother might very well have loved old T.J.
Since short stories only focus on one character, Andrea is alone at the hospital, and the only reason I left the protagonist's last name Lesight is because it is the perfect symbolic name - less sight. Andrea cannot face certain things.
In any case, it is meant as a loving tribute to Grandmother and to Grandpa Tom and to the little city girl in the stiff boys' Levi's who rode horses, rambled beneath boysenberry bushes, went frog-gigging (always fearing she might actually have to stick one), and sang to the cows from the branch of the tree that "even a city girl could climb," but who couldn't face death or dying.
I still have not left the grief of that last visit to Grandmother behind, and every time I read this or even think about that convalescent hospital, I begin sobbing, but I think the story is good - all by itself, as a short story. When I get time I'll investigate sending it in to a magazine for possible publication. But I haven't the time to look at ladies magazines to see who is publishing what right now.
Can you see any unclear or undescriptive parts? Anything that should be added or deleted? Every word of a short story should pull its own weight and move the story along. So, besides being my mother and thinking that everything I do is wonderful, do you like it?
I love you, and I pray to God I will never have to go through an experience like this with you or have it happen to me or to anyone I love. If I were God, every one of us would die with dignity.
Denna Rae
I opened the glass door of the convalescent hospital and immediately smelled urine, antiseptic, and floral room deodorizer. I tried not to breathe too deeply and went directly to the receptionist's desk. There was no one in the area behind the counter. Only a bedraggled poinsettia stood sentinel, so I decided to look for Grandmother on my own, all the while thinking, "Grandmother cannot be here. She always smells of English Lavender. She couldn't stand it here."
I passed an alcove where a group of patients with blank eyes mindlessly watched the soothing screen of the television set. An image of huddled vultures flashed through my mind. I shook it off and started down the far hall, gifts in hand, looking carefully into each room for my grandmother who, I knew, would be overjoyed by my surprise visit.
From the first room stared an old man who sat shaking in a wheelchair facing out into the hall. I looked beyond him to search the room, but no one else was there, only a small radio crooned a carol in the background. I mumbled a Merry Christmas and hurried to the next door.
I paused at the entrance and watched two gray-haired ladies playing cards. The action was lively as the woman whose back was to me was just "going out," and the other was busy laying down as many cards as she could to avoid being caught holding points.
"Oh, Grandmother, you've done it again!" I began, stepping into the room. "You're still the Canasta champion of Merced."
A bluish-white, neatly permed head turned to regard me with faded eyes. "I beg your pardon? Were you talking to me?"
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I thought you were my grandmother. She's here somewhere. The receptionist is away from her desk." I continued lamely, "Perhaps you know Grandmother. You may even have played cards with her - she was always a great one for cards. Mrs. Jackson - Florence Jackson?"
The women glanced from one to the other questioningly. I waited for their directions to Grandmother's room.
"No, don't believe I know her," offered one. "Do you know her, Mamie?"
"Florence Jackson, you say? Seems to me I know a Florence Jackson - if it's the same Florence Jackson." She paused, considering, "Used to be President of the Women's Club, wasn't she?"
"Yes! Yes. That's Grandmother." I volunteered, excited to have found someone who knew her, "She was very active in charity work. Can you tell me which room is hers?"
Ignoring me for the moment, Mamie warmed to the subject as she recollected her memories and turned to her companion, "Well, I'll be! Florence Jackson, here. You surely have seen her picture on the society page, Madge? Tall, slender woman - a real looker when she was young. Even when she got older, she was somethin'. Always fresh and crisp in them linen suits she wore with those high-heeled shoes, and so charming. Why, not even a month after her husband died, it seemed all the fool widowers in the entire valley were abuzzin' round her like she was pure honey, and her, a woman in her sixties. Why, I recall..." And then the old woman remembered me, "When did you say she got here?"
"She was brought here last week. She had a stroke, you see, and could no longer care for herself at home. Did you know her husband, Thomas, too?"
"Not really, but my Henry was great friends with his brother, Everett. Haven't seen any of 'em in years, though, not since Henry passed on. You remember Everett Jackson, Madge? Big, strapping man. Widower. Owned about 1,000 acres out Winton way. Kept horses and dairy cattle."
"Oh, yes. I believe I do," Madge replied. "Wasn't Elsie McGinnis after him? Seems to me, years ago she'd set her cap for him...gave him no peace for about a year, then that new barber came to town and she finally gave up on old Everett."
"Yep, one and the same. Why, did I ever tell you..."
"Excuse me," I interrupted as they were about to begin another chapter of local history. "Thank you, Ladies. I've got to find my grandmother now. I'm sure she'll be delighted to know she has acquaintances here. Maybe you can stop by her room later for a game of bridge or Canasta. Goodbye and Merry Christmas to you both."
They nodded and before I had reached the door they had resumed their litany of "Who Was Who" in the San Joaquin Valley during the last 75 years. I heard a wheeze and a grunt and glanced back down the corridor, where I saw an old woman coming out of a room, clutching desperately to an aluminum walker as she pushed herself forward. Carefully, she lifted first one foot about 3 inches off the floor, thrust it several inches in front of her, set it down with determination, then repeated the process with the other foot. With each effort came an accompanying grimace to her face as she twisted her mouth to whichever side corresponded to the foot being lifted, then as the foot descended, she wheezed loudly and grunted in satisfaction, changing faces. Every so often she stopped to bat at something behind her, and as she passed, I saw the reason, as the back of her gown flapped open to expose her flaccid rump and bony legs to the air. Unperturbed, she continued her slow journey down the hall. I followed, then passed her, trying to stay out of her way, while looking into each room for Grandmother.
The woman's walker and her stubborn determination called to mind the time during an especially sizzling Merced summer, Grandmother, who was by then in her late sixties, proclaimed that she was going to wear a pair of shorts to do her grocery shopping, and the first person who dared to say, "Look at that wrinkled old bag in those shorts," she was going to run them down with her shopping cart. I smiled, recalling the wicked little look she had in her eyes that day, and I almost believed she would do both.
Near the end of the second hallway as I grew close to the receptionist's desk once more, I paused at a dimly lit room that had my favorite Christmas commercial playing on the television set. A horse-drawn sleigh carrying two snug lovers through a snow-covered meadow moved smoothly through the strains of "I'll Be Home for Christmas."
The room smelled especially strong, not just of urine, but of another scent - a floral perfume that battled with it. I looked closer as my eyes adjusted to the dimness. A poor old soul sat hunched over in a wheelchair to which she was tied. Straggly yellow-white hair hung from her head in thin wisps, framing her sunken cheeks. She nodded her head repeatedly up and down as if agreeing with someone perched invisibly upon her chest, never fully raising her head, and her gnarled hands clasped and unclasped the steel handles of the chair to which she was secured. Tears welled in my eyes and my breath caught in my throat. I felt as though I had intruded upon a very private moment in this poor woman's life. Embarrassed, I backed out into the hall and continued on to the receptionist's desk to which she had returned.
"Excuse me, I'm looking for my grandmother, Mrs. Florence Jackson. Can you please tell me which is her room?"
"Mrs. Jackson is just two doors down the hall in one-eleven. You must have passed it on your way to my desk."
"Oh, perhaps Grandmother isn't in her room. I thought I looked into each room I passed. Thank you, I'll look again. One-eleven?"
"Yes."
I retraced my steps to the room of the nodding woman, then glanced back down at the receptionist who watched to be sure I found the right room.
"Miss?" I called. "There seems to be some mistake."
She came out from behind the desk to assist me. "No. This is one-eleven - Mrs. Jackson's room." She glanced in. "There she is just sitting there peaceful as a lamb, watching the Christmas special."
"But that can't be Grandmother," I half-pleaded, turning toward the hunched form.
"Oh, it's just dark in here. We'll fix that in one little jiffy." With efficiency the receptionist switched on the overhead light, bringing my misery into unbearable focus. She strode to the wheelchair and shook its occupant briskly, calling into her ear, "Mrs. Jackson. Mrs. Jackson, you have a visitor. Your granddaughter is here to pay you a Christmas Eve visit."
The head pulled slowly up, the unfocused brown eyes cleared a little, the slurred tongue protested in an irritable tone, "But I'm not hungry. Don't bother me now. I was just talking to T.J."
Persistent, the receptionist replied, giving the woman a little shake, "It's not time for dinner. Your granddaughter's here." She turned to me, "What's your name? Sometimes that helps."
The paralysis holding me loosened enough for me to utter, "Andrea."
She took the cue, "Andrea's here. She's come to wish you a Merry Christmas."
"Andrea?" the voice questioned. "Andy?" she sounded hopeful. "Andy," she looked up at me for the first time with a clearness to her eyes, "what are you doing here out of school?"
"Oh, Grandmother! It's Christmas break. I drove up from Palm Springs to be with you tonight."
"Palm Springs?"
"Yes, where I teach." I knelt in front of her wheelchair, painfully acknowledging her identity to myself. "What are you doing here?" I choked back a sob.
"Well, I'll leave you two alone," came the receptionist's voice from behind.
"No, please," I pleaded. "Can't you do something about her? Can't we take her out of this chair? Why is she tied into it? Couldn't we bathe her...clean her up? Tomorrow the rest of the family is coming to see her for Christmas." In panic I continued on, fearing a refusal if I stopped. "I've brought her a new nightgown and a bed jacket and some English Lavender cream perfume. Oh, please, I'll help."
"In her condition, it probably won't do much good. She had a bath earlier today," came the reply, then the eyes softened when they met the hopelessness reflected in mine, and she relented, "but, it certainly can't hurt either. There are some volunteers in the hospital tonight for Christmas Eve. I'll get you someone to help bathe her, if you can do the rest."
"Could we wash her hair, too?" I asked.
"I can't see why not!" she quipped, seeming to get into the spirit of the moment. "You just lay out her things, while I catch you a fairy godmother. Be back in a little jiffy." The crisp receptionist departed in a flurry of determination to return in minutes with a practical nurse, whom she ushered into the room. "Here's your patient, Dori, Mrs. Jackson. Gotta get back to my desk," she piped, leaving us alone with Grandmother.
"Hi, my name is Miss Thatchett, Doris Thatchett." She wheeled her patient over the bathroom and began untying the cloth strap that held her into the wheelchair.
"Mrs. Andrea Lesight," I offered. "Why is she tied in?"
"For their own protection they're often tied in. They fall out easily. Can't control themselves - especially after strokes. She's had a stroke, hasn't she?"
"Yes."
"Thought so - side of her face is all droopy - sure sign. Here, you undress her while I get the commode chair into place in the shower and make sure we have everything we need."
Miss Thatchett either didn't see or didn't care about the look of panic in my eyes. I nodded numbly as she disappeared into the bathroom, then took a breath, undid Grandmother's sash, and began pulling the maroon flannel bathrobe from the bony shoulders. The smell of urine grew stronger as I unfolded the flannel gown from her lap. I rose, breathed shallowly, circled behind her, and wrapped one arm around her as I began untying the hospital gown she wore. I loosened my grip enough to allow the gown to be pulled away from her hunched body. My eyes fell on the top of her withered chest, and I looked away. I glanced back again. Grandmother had been a buxom woman, but now the useless breasts hung flattened against her skinny body.
"Miss Thatchett...I...I...She's ready."
"Why, you haven't even taken off her didy yet, Mrs. Lesight. A lady can't have a bath with her didy on."
"I can't....Got to get some air...Be right back," I managed as I fled the room and made my way down the corridor and out the front door. Tears welled into my eyes and spilled over the lids blurring my vision. I spotted the sanctuary of my car parked next to a huge old tree at the curb and headed for it. It was locked, and my keys were in my purse in Grandmother's room. I leaned against the fender and breathed the clean, chilled air into my lungs. I hugged myself, clinched my jaw, and fought to calm myself. I looked up through the branches of the tree at the stars spread against the night sky, that ran and fused into one another through my tears. "It isn't fair! It isn't right!" I sobbed.
I remembered that last summer I had visited my grandparents' ranch when Grandpa Tom was still alive - a city-girl in stiff new boys' Levis and a plaid shirt. There was a peace there I never found anywhere else. I rambled for hours across the pastures; climbing my special tree, the one even a city girl could climb, lazing in its branches, watching little water snakes glide, their little periscopic heads piloting them forward through the stream below. Grandpa Tom taught me frog-gigging, berry picking, horseback riding, rabbit chasing, irrigation ditch swimming. I listened endlessly to his stories about being a cowboy in Oregon when it was just a territory, trying to burn them into my memory to hold me over the summers to come when I knew he would no longer be there. I kidded and hugged him and called him a plucked chicken because of his white, hairless chest. I inhaled - like incense - his Old Ganger pipe smoke, but I could never force myself to sit on his lap anymore. Not after they cut off his leg. I just couldn't bear to think that pulsing beneath the half-empty, neatly tucked and safety-pinned pant leg was a stump with the skin gathered and sewn together over the end of it.
Gradually the stars cleared in my eyes. A troup of Girl Scouts was wending its way down the street, singing "Joy to the world the Lord is come." Dressed gaily for the season, they each carried a Coleman lantern decorated with holly sprigs and ribbons. They turned to enter the convalescent hospital, and I followed dejectedly to finish paying my own visit.
By the time I returned to Grandmother's room, Miss Thatchett had departed. Grandmother lay on the bed in light slumber, a towel wrapped around her hair and a sheet pulled up to her chin. With resolve I approached with the cream I had brought, pulled back the sheet, and began smoothing the English Lavender into her pale skin. A little smile played upon her lips all the while. Then I powdered and dressed her in the nightie of rose-colored satin I had brought, thinking she would be delighted I had remembered her favorite color. Finally I slipped a matching Oriental bed jacket onto her thin, white shoulders and felt quite pleased with my taste - a taste Grandmother had worked so hard to instill in me. Lesson after lesson about setting a proper table, arranging flowers delicately, seating guests for lively conversation, making people feel at ease and welcome. But more, too. She tried to push past the facade - the finishing school upbringing she had received as the child of a wealthy surgeon - to see the value of simple things. There was an almost humorous, contradictory earthiness about her that delighted and disarmed those who met her. That is what probably charmed Grandpa Tom, who loved the quiet things of nature and everyday living that are the very core of existence. Whatever it was, it united a lady and a cowboy for many years.
I unwound the towel from her head and looked at her once luxuriant white hair, now wispy and yellowed, and shook my head, feeling a little hopeless. "Grandmother, what shall we do with your hair?" I sighed, not expecting an answer.
"Andy," came the surprisingly clear reply, "let's play beauty shop."
"Beauty shop! Do you still remember when you'd let me style your hair? Grandmother, sometimes you are a wonder."
"Well, you take care of it while I take my little nap. Is there a magazine about?"
It was as if we were transported back in time 20 years. The same words always set the scene. I grabbed a magazine off the t.v. and handed it to Grandmother, then I began setting her hair in soft sponge rollers, remembering the day my very dignified grandmother had become so engrossed in the SATURDAY EVENING POST, that I had been able to neatly divide her hair into segments all over her head, around which I tied various colored ribbons into hilarious little bows until she looked like a "pickaninny". Then my brother, who had been primed for action with his new Kodak Brownie Hawkeye camera, burst into the room at the precise moment I pushed the magazine down, to snap the photograph that had the entire family in hysterics at the next Thanksgiving reunion. Their revered matriarch had never been captured in such shenanigans. I chuckled in remembrance.
Grandmother stirred with the noise of the blow dryer. "Thomas Jefferson," she called to my long-dead Grandpa Tom in her half-slumber, "the water cooler is blowing hot air again. It's hotter than a pirate's pistol in here. Can't you do something about it? And while you're up out of that chair, why don't you saddle that horse for Andy. She hasn't come all the way from Southern California to sit around the ranch all day long and listen to your cowboy tales. What's that you say? Your leg hurts? Lord, man, there's no leg there to hurt. It's 'ghost pain,' T.J.. Remember the doctor told you you'd have ghost pain after he took off your leg. It'll be all right, you'll see, they got all the cancer."
Cancer! I remember when Grandpa hurt his leg building the new barn. A 2x4 toppled from a roof joist and banged him in the shin. The sore never healed. He'd disinfect it and change the bandage every day, but it never healed. I'd get him the peroxide and cotton and a new bandage like a good little nurse, but I wouldn't dab the medicine on the oozing scab for him. I didn't even want to look at it, but he'd change the dressing right in the living room and tell me I should be brave and learn to accept some of the ugly realities of life. The cancer slowly invaded the surrounding tissue until the only way to stop it was to amputate. But they hadn't taken enough, and in the end Grandpa had refused to let them operate again. He said he was damned if he'd let those butchers hack away at him piece by piece, and that he was going with as much of his body as he could keep a hold of. It hadn't taken long.
I leaned down to her ear trying to make contact. "Grandmother, do you remember what Dr. Mercy told us after Grandpa Tom's operation?"
"Yes, Dear, but they got it all, didn't they. Just like I said. My, it's hot today. I'll make you a nice cool glass of lemonade. That'll make you feel better when you come back from riding."
I switched the blow dryer to cool and kept it pointed toward the rollers as Grandmother continued to enter and exit my reality.
"Oh, T.J., that's so much better. You fixed that old cooler. I wonder how long it's going to last. I wonder how long...?"
I unwound the curlers and brushed the thin hair into soft waves, then looked down at this woman with the drooping eye and the drooping mouth, who was my Grandmother, but to my eyes something was still missing.
All the years I had known Grandmother, she would never leave her bedroom - which she called her boudoir - in the morning without first putting on her makeup - which she comically referred to as "war paint." She would sit down at her dressing table, which was itself an anachronism at the ranch - a hold-over from her days with her parents in their Pacific Palisades' mansion - and there, among her hand-cut crystal bottles that cast magical prismed rainbows around the room, she would carefully perform her toilette.
I impulsively reached into my purse to draw out my makeup bag. I brushed eyebrow powder over Grandmother's white brows, arching them the way she used to. Then I rolled a little mascara onto her thin lashes, smudging her cheeks several times as she blinked in her sleep. A moistened tissue quickly removed my mistakes. I stood back. Still dissatisfied, I smoothed a fine layer of peach blush over her sunken cheeks, then dabbed a little lipstick onto her drooping mouth. When I stood back to view my handiwork, I could almost see my Grandmother in the shell of the woman that lay before me.
"Grandmother," I called softly, "can you wake up for a little while?"
"Is it time to eat, already?" Again the querulous voice so different from her own asked.
"No, Grandmother. It's time for our visit. I have to leave soon to get back to the ranch. We're all staying there, and the rest of the family will be arriving for Christmas Day. It will be wonderful to watch Penny opening her presents at the ranch just like I used to."
"Penny? Who's Penny? Do you have a new roommate at college."
"Oh, Grandmother. Don't you remember, I graduated from college. I was Phi Beta Kappa. You were so proud that day. Don't you remember, Jimmy and I are your only grandchildren to have gone through college."
Somehow it had all seemed so important before.
"Penny's my little girl."
"Well, you said you were here on Christmas break, didn't you? It is Christmas break, isn't it? You said it was before." She sounded a little panicky.
"Yes, Dear. It's Christmas break, and I am a teacher, so I'm off. Do you remember now? And we all decided to come up and visit you and open up the ranch for Christmas. Tomorrow I'll stay home with all the children while the rest of the family comes to see you. Won't that be nice?"
"Oh, I suppose so, but why are you putting your grandfather through so much trouble to saddle that horse if you're not even going to ride it?"
"You're right, Grandmother," I gave in. "I'll tell him not to bother. But for now, I'd like to visit with you for a little while. How are you feeling?"
"Well, I surely feel a lot better. I don't know what kind of perfume T.J. bought me this last time, but I sure don't like it. I've been wearing it so I wouldn't hurt his feelings, but it is awful! It smells like one of his horses. I wish you would remind him I like lavender - English Lavender."
"Yes, Grandmother, I will."
She began clutching at her bed jacket. "What's this I have on? Where's T.J.'s bathrobe?" Her voice rose in panic, "I had on T.J.'s old flannel bathrobe. Where is it?"
"Oh, Grandmother," I laughed. "It's all right. It's in the closet. I thought I recognized that old rag."
"Well, bring it here right away, please."
"But Grandmother, don't you like the new bed jacket I bought you? It's your favorite color. It's your Christmas present."
"It's very nice, I'm sure, but I'd rather wear T.J.'s. It's warmer...more comfortable."
"But you always liked satin before."
"Oh, it's lovely." She began pulling it off of her, then looked at it disinterestedly. "Why don't you put it there on the chair, where I can look at it and enjoy it. I can't see it properly when I'm wearing it. Please, Andy, give me T.J.'s robe."
"Very well, if that's what you want." I brought her the robe and helped her slip it on.
"Grandmother, I fixed your hair for you, would you like to see it?"
"Well, all right, but the last time I looked into the mirror, a strange woman was staring out at me. I didn't like it at all - not at all. I suppose your brother, Jimmy, has been playing pranks on me again. That little dickens! I knew I should have brought my own mirror with me. Thomas Jefferson gave that mirror set to me as a wedding gift. He always did have an eye for fine things. He used to say that's why he married me. The old Cowboy! Wooed me right out from under my father's eye."
I glanced over to the table to see the same silver mirror set Grandpa had given her sitting there.
"Just a minute, Grandmother." I rustled through my handbag to find my compact. "Here we go. A mirror that does not play pranks."
I held up the mirror for Grandmother.
"War paint!" she cried, grabbing my wrist and pulling herself erect, her eyes brightening. "You knew I would never leave my room without my war paint on." She sighed and fell back into the pillows. "Thank you, Dear. That was very kind of you, but now I'm very tired. If you'll excuse me, I believe it's time for my little nap."
"But Grandmother, we never really..."
Grandmother seemed to look through me at something beyond. Then she said, "Yes, T.J., I'm coming. I know you won't go without me. No, not the sleigh. Why don't you just saddle Starbuck. I think I'd like to ride along right behind you. Yes, I know you've been trying to get me to do that for years - Well, now's your chance, My Love. No, Thomas Jefferson, Andy doesn't want to ride with us this time. I don't think Andrea wants to ride at all.
(©Final revision 11/22/87)
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May 2, 1970 - Journal
I Want To Run Wild
I want to paint, but the preparation is too methodical - the discipline, too confining -
I want to go wild today - horseback riding - rushing through green meadows
with shafts of daylight splitting branches.
I long for a laughing brook braided by small, smooth stones - something untouched by man -
by civilization. But even the stark serenity of Grandmother's long since sold, SOLD ranch,
would provide a respite. How can beauty be sold?
The ranch - one spot - a tree even a city girl could climb -
an irrigation ditch, not cement-paved, but dirt, long grass, muddy, meandering.
Little watersnakes skimming into the water, little periscopic heads trailed by the soft "s" curve
of their bodies - moving through the pollywog-filled water.
A semi-man-made brook enhanced by nature. A coalition with earth.
Sold - Sold - strangers - perhaps paving, clearing, disinfecting my dream -
tearing my coalition but not my recollection.
Unlike Wordsworth, my recollections do not bring tranquility - they bring longing -
longing to be away from a 20 x 40 foot patch of artificial nature
carefully measured off and enclosed by a 6 foot Orco block special.
God, how I long to be away - wild - running - abandoned.
Brambles, bushes, branches swishing by, scratching my cheeks.
My hair smelling of dust and dry leaves.
Sinew and will beneath me - not conquered by me as much as coalescing with me - spirits fusing.
He, frightened and frightening, but wild, magnificent and shiny flanked.
We never conquer or break that which we truly love.
Once I had a Dane - how I loved him - how I envy his now liberated romping at a ranch,
no longer confined by Orco. I never did break him - I couldn't - I loved him.
How different from fluffy Marshmallow who lies now at my feet.
Perhaps I am a little like she - chasing cats, birds, and butterflies with waggling tail -
comic and cute.
How I long for that man - sinewy and wild of will - never conquerable - a man, he -
a woman, me. Not running together like runny watercolors, but blending oils.
Separate colors - discernible, but still achieving unity of composition.
Softness, warmth, love, understanding, curiosity, questioning, delight -
yet basic sensuous emotion (Pale, insipid word for what I wish to express).
FEELING - not intellectualizing. Loving - not talking.
Spontaneous emotion. A look - a touch - a kiss.
How long I have waited, watched, and longed for him. Will I . . . Will I ever . . . ?
(ever tell him? will he even care? is he what he seems?
will he let me touch him, reach him, share with him, give him all I am able?
Why don't people realize that in giving love and friendship they do not exhaust
some nebulous supply but enhance their own ability to love?
A Gestalt theory - "the whole is not equal to the sum of its parts - it is more" -
the only thing, that when given away increases.
Why must I be frustrated and walled in too!
I love - I feel - I want to give freely.
(by Denna Rae Bryant)
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When you go
please say "goodbye"
So I'll know
you've really gone.
I may weep
but not wait
wondering . . .
(What went wrong?)
(by Denna Rae Bryant, June 22, 1970
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