THE DASH

          THE DASH

                                             by Marggie Rassler

         

                                                                         

                                                                            

Numbers, marks in tombstones stood,                   

Like sentinels at busy gates,

First the entrance we call birth,

Then the exit ending date.

 

But my focus came to rest,

Upon the dash, those little lines,

That separate the times

Ticking clocks with different chimes.

 

I pondered then how to fill that line,

How to drink life’s sap,

Before the dash begins to end,

And life’s road takes its final bend….

 

How to fill my dash.

In better ways to leave a splash!

While savoring moments in this life’s stash,

Those joyful chips right now to cash!

 

Have to make it count,

For those I love and live around,

To leave a testament that is sound,

Of faith in Him, the Crimson Fount.

 

Gotta  ...  fill my dash!  Have to make it count…! 1950-?

  ( written after a visit to a cemetery )

The Gift Of Grandchildren ... Poem

               

The Gift Of Grandchildren                             by Marggie Rassler 

                                                                            Written in  June 2008

                                                                            Still heartfelt today!

Oh, what gift grandchildren are,

Flowering memories from afar.

 

Once again a child i am,

Walking through another land.

 

Ibuprofen left behind,

Meds and ointments of all kinds.

 

Thrilling times we spend together,

For a while I feel unfettered.

 

Books of castles, moats, brave knights,

Fancy Nancy, speaking French, in purple tights?

 

Amelia Bedelia’s blunders plus Veggie Tales,

Yummy Pizza buffets that, never fails!

 

Hugs and kisses sweet as honey.

Brooches on Papa seems always funny!

 

Going to performance, recital, church play ...

Times making cookies and figures with clay.

 

Oh, what gift grandchildren are …

But look! There goes our childhood now, in their car!!

 

 

“Every perfect gift comes from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights…”         James 1:17

 

“Children’s children are a crown to the aged…”

                                       Proverbs 17:6

THE TEN COW WIFE

           
             

  TheTen Cow Wife                                                  First for my husband,

   from memoir, A Dot In Time                                                   then for my granddaughters.                         

      by Marggie Rassler

         New Haven, Conn.  1963

                   She kneels by the window. Below, snow blankets the street. Not too far from her the family sleeps. The thirteen year old pulls the flannel gown up and wipes the tears. She stares at the figure on the mural painted on the church  across the street. The events of the day cling to her mind. 

                    "He likes You better than me."  The tears roll. "Not fair. You got enough."

                 She remembers the looks he gave her in class. The blue eyes that turned on the heat upon her face. "I thought ... he liked me."  She covers her mouth to muffle the sound of her cries. The boy's words in the school yard haunt her. "Amarilys, I'm going to be a priest."  

                  She glares at the figure across the street. "Ok. So send me someone else. Someone that will ... love me."

   Tampa, Florida, 1980's

                 The young woman stirs her coffee fast. There's a hill of crumpled tissues next to her pocketbook on the table. The restaurant is busy, but people eat their lunch inside the orbit of their own planets. I finish mine and focus once again on the young lady across from me.    

                  She drops her arm on the table, her bracelets bang. "But how can I leave him?"  She shakes her head. One long black curl covers her eye. Her hand, like a paddle, rows it away.

                  "He's all I got," she says.

                   I move my dish out of the way and pray for wisdom to know what to say. It's the third time I meet with this college student from our church. Someone gave her my number and she asked for my help. The first time she informed me, "I'm the daughter of a Marine. He met and married my mother in Nam. I'm a combo of both. Stubborn like my Mom, obstinate like my Dad. Good luck counseling me."  I had no trouble loving her right away. Her countenance often transforms into the mirror reflecting a well-known face from my past. I lean back against my seat.

                 "Maritza, you told me before he throws shoes at you when he's mad. And he's been unfaithful at least twice."

                  "But we're engaged."

                    "My grandmother often said to me, 'It's better to be alone than badly accompanied.' Last time you showed me bruises on your arm...."

                    She reached for more tissues and wiped her face. "Men are rotten. I hate them."

                    I reached her hand and gave it a squeeze. "Let me tell you a story someone told me."

                    She leaned back and crossed her arms.

                    "There was once a young woman that lived in, let's say, Viet Nam." I saw her grin.

                     "She was very shy and thought herself plain. Nobody in the village found her attractive, let alone asked for her in marriage. No one wanted to offer the dowry required. Cows. The custom followed by the village was that the more cows offered the prettier and more desirable the bride. Five to six cows were top. But, for this girl ... not even an offer of one. Then, one day, a handsome fellow came calling. He spoke to the girl's father. 'I want your daughter's hand in marriage, sir.' In shock, the father could hardly speak. Who would be so foolish as to want the homely girl. 'And, what would you offer for her young man? '" I kept my eyes on Maritza. She was biting her nails. I paused.

                    "Mrs. Rassler, don't stop."

                    "Ok, Maritza. The handsome fellow took the father outside and showed him his large caravan and a row of cows among it all. 'Ten cows, sir. For your daughter's hand, ten cows.'" Maritza's eyes sparkled. She reached for another tissue. "Mrs. Rassler please, finish the story." I took a sip of my water and continued.

                    "They married and went away to live in the young man's village. A year later the  fellow came back with his wife. The village gathered to greet them. Many gasped, some whispered words of unbelief. They saw a beautiful, striking woman aglow, with dancing eyes, decked in silk and covered in gold. The girl nobody wanted. Astounded, the father ran to ask his  daughter how she changed. And this was her reply. 'A man loved me and saw me as a ten cow wife and because of his love that's what I became.'"  

                    Maritza eyes stay fixed on mine. "Maritza, don't you want to wait for that kind of guy?"

                    "They don't exist Mrs. Rassler. I don't know ..."

                    "Yes, they do Maritza. It all can start with a prayer. A little girl once prayed a prayer a long time ago and it was heard."

                    "Who?"

                    "Me, Maritza. I'm a ten cow wife."

ROBERT FROST ... DID YOU KNOW?

             ROBERT FROST ... Did you know?             A Tribute by Marggie Rassler
                       
                      What makes an artist's heart beat with such enchanting magic? What emotions,
                       experienced by the soul create such memorable works? Here's what I found.

              ROBERT FROST  (1874-1963)
 
               Did you know that Robert Frost:

                     1. Received four times Pulitzer Prizes for his poetry.

                     2. Sold his first poem, My Butterfly. An Elegy, for $15, in 1894.

                     3. Proposed to his wife, Elinor Miriam White, twice before she said "YES."

                     4. When Frost was eleven his father died of tuberculosis, leaving the family with
                          just eight dollars.
       
                     5. Had six children with Elinor.
        
                     6. Suffered immense grief. Mental illness ran in his family.
                        He committed his younger sister, Jeanie, 
                        to a mental hospital where she died.
                        Both he and his mother suffered from depression.
                        He lost a son, Elliot, to cholera, an one son, Carol,
                        committed suicide. Daughter, Marjorie, died of
                        puerperal fever and daughter Elinor died just
                        three days after her birth. Robert Frost,
                        already  acquainted with much grief
                        lost his wife to cancer and heart failure in 1938.
  
                      7. Frost moved to England with his family in 1912. There he was very much
                           appreciated. His first  poetry volumes were published in London in 1913,
                           (A Boy's Will and North of Boston).

                      8. In 1915, Robert Frost launched his career in the U.S., as writer, teacher
                          and lecturer in Franconia, New Hampshire, where he bought a farm.
 
                      9. At 86, Robert Frost performed a reading of his well-known poem,
                          The Gift Outright, at the inaguration of President John F. Kennedy.

                    10. Robert Frost died in Boston two years later, January 29, 1963.

       

                                                                 
                                                                    Robert Frost ... My Tribute
       
                                                                         
           

 A Dance With Frost,  by Marggie Rassler      

I dance,

With Robert Frost

Today, and with

His words,

I trace his face.                                                                                                    

I twirl through worlds

Of roads not taken,

And woods of

Downy flakes awaken,

While little horse

May feel forsaken....

I dance and dance

By verses held,

The power of

This poet's spell.

Will stay in step,

Will learn his art?

Have my own dance,

Within my heart?

Want much to write,

Before I sleep...

Want much, to write

Before I sleep.

         

I Wish ...

                                         

                                                                       I Wish ...      

                                                             by Marggie Rassler (2012)

You taped the photo

To your desk lamp,

A picture to treasure

Like a collector's stamp.

A bridge to age

That raced so fast,

The blue-eye boy,

Within your past.

Oh, how I wish

I'd known you then,

In overalls

The boy of ten.

Did you catch bugs

In carefree hours

While I in homeland

Picked jasmine flowers?

Oh, to have brushed

Your unkempt hair,

With trembling hand,

My flirting dare.

To sit with you on

High oak tree,

And glow beet-red ...

Your lips on me!

Oh, how I wish

I'd known you then,

In overalls

The boy of ten.

 

HIGHLIGHTS FROM A JOURNEY... for lovers and dreamers and me.

      

                    HIGHLIGHTS FROM A JOURNEY         From Memoir, A Dot In Time

                                                        

                                                                                                                         

                                                  for lovers and dreamers and me.

                                                                   

                                              
                                                                                        

                           

                

  First Day:  Sunday,  Bon Voyage!    ( mini-dot)

         A day of leaving worries aside. Bags packed, house in order. Then, embarkation smooth, with colorful people … straw hats, shorts and tank tops, flowery dresses and luggage led by multiple toes, in myriads of colors, pink, red, purple, French style. Thongs and sandals moving to the happy beat of welcoming adventures.  Inside the ship people buzz, searching for cabin numbers, food, drinks, family members. We stop at our cabin, depositing our carryon and examining our home for the next seven days. My spirits dance with anticipation. I glance toward the back where the curtains are open. A balcony. I know where I’ll be spending a great deal of time!  

                                                                                                           

                                                                     

  Second Day:  Monday,  At Sea       ( mini-dot)

           A day at sea. My nerves, still tight like a clock about to break. My mind reels with the duties of care giving for my mother and I’m still sectioning pills in a dispenser in my head. Time to unwind and breathe in rest. Still in a trance, I snake through the $10 Ship’s sale. Not much there. My husband and I eat lunch among the crowd in the serve yourself dining area. A baby cries, a handicapped lady in a wheel chair speaks to the air. Bathing suits and cover ups run around with different size people in them. Hands on missions carry volcanoes of foods in islands of plates. I hear the ticking of the writer in me, watching, soaking in the essence.  Oh, yeah … bring it on!

                                                                  

   Third Day:  Tuesday,  Cozumel      ( mini-dot)

               My feet roll now off  the gangway.  A full day of rest paid most of the bill I owed to exhaustion. My steps have spice now like the life in their chillies. I hear Mexico rapidly calling with its charm. Mariachis with guitars sing us into the pier’s shopping area but we soon find the side of Mexico we don’t like. Vendors and shopkeepers chase me with a knat-like drive.

                “Seňora, pase. Enter. It’s free to look.”

                I enter a store and hear Spanish, the instructions of a seller to another clerk.

                “Don’t give in. These Americans can afford it. Look at them  … ahem.”

                I zoom out of there like there’s fire on my fondi. That’s our family’s slang for the Spanish fondillo, which means booty or seat. They have nothing I need.  I have caught a side of humanity I didn’t want to see.

                Tired of saying “No, gracias,” to vendors and my flesh sizzling in Cozumel heat I find a restaurant, Tres Amigos. I plunk my body down and wipe off sweat. My husband comes with computer in hand.

                “Hey, free Wi-fi!”

                She tends to us. Her eyes canopied by thick, dark eyebrows and  bright orange lipstick glows on her lips ... lips that appear so easily to slide and curve into welcomes.  Short, young, with the flare of Mayan that God breathed upon her face, she wipes our table with light movements like flutters. A Mexican butterfly!

                “I’ll help Senora. If you can’t connect. Salsa on the way.”  She speaks English well and mi casa es su casa, she communicates. “Si, gracias.” I say. The music pounds and the open restaurant fills with college age youth.  Some get a bit wild. Girls on bar counters dance. Crazy.  I easily connect with the internet and in the background people sing, dance and laugh. In our mouths … the best homemade salsa I ever tasted. Tomatoes, onions, green peppers and red, all freshly chopped. Heavens!  The pretty Mexican comes back to check my progress. She smiles again.

                 “Que bueno, Seňora. okay?”    

                 “Sí.” I take in her smile. A soothing balm.

                 But too soon, faster than I want, we pay our bill and have to go. The ship will leave port. I see her. She waits on someone else and when she turns, catches my eye. Something moves me to her side. She opens her arms and so do I. The embrace so natural. Loving. A cultural thing?   More than just the salsa fills me. I move to weave myself through crowds of tourists coming in. I think of the many people I’ve encountered in places. People that shine within the beauty of the land where they live. And once again I leave a stranger behind that in a dot in time I’ve connected with.  A gift  that can’t be bought … for me the best type of souvenir at Tres Amigos, Three Friends. I walk to the ship in a pensive way.  I’ve been gifted with a side of humanity today I thought I wouldn’t get. I savor the magic of the moments passed. An appointment arranged?  A gift given. A moment  of  Tres Amigos, she, I and … The Giver.

                                                                         

      Fourth Day:  Wednesday, Belize City, Belize

                       Visited Belize many times before. I stay in and read, Living In Shadow. Exciting book. Way to go, Mac!  I'm interrupted though, by these little guys that keep appearing every night on my bed!!    

                                                                   

      Fifth Day:  Thursday, Roatan, Honduras Mahogany Bay      (mini-dot)

                The big steel whale opens mouths to spill out people ready to immerse themselves into a new day’s adventure. A blazing sun welcomes them, licking his chops. We observe the crowd below us from our balcony. Groups in lines saunter down the gangway, ready to shop in the close up stores owned by Carnival Cruises. Others prepare to spend the next coming hours in the nearby well-manicured beach also owned by Carnival. We’ve been here before and decide to spend the day reading, resting and me ... writing. Oh yes, also somewhere in there, we get in some eating!  Alas, this ship has sequestered a French baker and an Amish lady who bake together with goals to drive any palate insane.  I have discovered I’m on a reverse Atkin’s diet. Screaming carbohydrates everywhere twist my arm and force me….

                                                                       

                                                          Mahogany Bay, Honduras               

  Fifth Day:    Cayman Islands           ( mini-dot)

                 My husband sleeps. I slip out of bed. The tranquility of the balcony greets me. My watch marks 6:30 A.M. Semi-darkness. The cape of Lady Night still blankets a yawning sun. I trace the scene before me. Miles away the horizon slices a division between the black amber sea and the wide page of grey skies. I hear the sounds of playful waves against the ship. Standing by the rail, I catch the contrast of ebony waters, appearing like an extended grand piano while snow-white foam splashes steel … the musical instrument’s frolicking keys.  I come and sit clothed in solitude. My heart dances to the soft beat of gratitude. The Lord of The Dance allows me entrance into one of His alcoves. I sense His pleasure. His dance.  And, for this time, I too own the space, the scene, the moment. And … He owns me

                                                        

 

Sixth Day:    At Sea     From the spiritual to the mundane!    (A mini-dot)

                The last day and we find ourselves where we started, back on the self-serving area. My mind fantasizes. Food everywhere seems to pout and then scream, “Pick me!” People rolling now, like colorful beach balls, to fill warm, just-washed plates. Plates that cry “Mercy, leave already.”  And me? My affair with desserts and breads is nearly over. Our fling has lost its luster.  Is it that the Amish lady jumped ship? Or that the French baker went on strike? Why do the cakes, all of a sudden seem dry and the cheesecakes grainy and bland like talcum sand?  Could it be my look ahead, to the awaiting bitter taste of consequence?  The coming greeting of my treadmill at home, “Oh, honey, what’s that around your middle?  You got yourself a new breadbasket?” 

                     Oh, woe is me. I’m undone! But, get out of my way. They just opened the Chocolate Extravaganza!

Seventh Day:    Sunday  Going Home     (mini-dot)

                      Early morning, all's packed and ready. I glance for a last time at the cabin. The camera in my mind rolls to recent memories. A man in a psychedelic green tank top and navy blue cap, brings breakfast every day for me in bed. The voice of the cruise director calls us to attention.  Adios, cabin .... My Kermit and I step back into reality.