Sienna Paley:
for my grandmother's birthday
I was in three worlds. I remember playing with these small action figures in my grandmother's living-room. The action figures would be on their farm, riding horses. My body would be distracted playing with them. Although my mind would be engaged by my grandmother, Grace playing a tune on the piano and humming.
From Duncan Nichols
Duncan, son of Bob Nichols, Grace's partner. Anyone who wants to create a yearly, other-yearly, reading for Grace (or Bob and Grace) I'd come, or I'd help organize. telephone 802 281 2692. We should be having readings of their work
Duncan's memory of life in Thetford for Grace and Bob:
I am thinking of Grace sitting in her kitchen, jotting things down. Bob is upstairs shuffling around, busy like her, at writing/tidying. Grace is sweeping small piles of house dirt, leaves, pens, bob's boot clogs, paperclips, dust, and leaving them in opportune places. Bob comes down from upstairs. He goes outside, sharpens something, dumps some ashes from the stove, brings in a bag from the car for Grace, comes back in, plunks self down and opens some letters. Grace clatters a soup pot, takes out a big block of cheddar, boils the water for tea (or Bob boils the water and Grace opens letters). Grace looks at a packet of garden seeds. "I should have planted these carrots, Bob" "You did wonderfully, Grace." "I can't plant them now, it's so wet. It's wetter than last summer, or is it still spring." "You can plant them in the rain." "Oh YOU could and get mud all over the place, Bob." "Did you see this letter from so and so?" "Oh, yes, isn't that terrific." "I remember so and so in Germany, in Sweden, in El Salvador, in Russia, in Ireland, in New York, in Burlington, in Cape Cod, in where was that?" "it was right here." "Oh yes, I just wanted to clean up the place, and we had no crackers... but we had cheese, we had wine, we had tea, we had photographs of the children, of the children all over the world..." "have you seen my glasses" "they're right here, under your sweater." "Oh, you're so great, you know that, you're so won-der-ful."
From Bea Gates:
“Banner” dedicated to Bob, and “Oak, November” for Grace.
Banner
for Bob
1. Bob wore salvia in his blue
shirt's buttonhole,
brilliant summer lasting in Grace's
garden. Red as red can be.
2. There are three beds of salvia, flaming ovals
at the end of the drive
where Elsa lives on the family dairy farm
in the old stone house next to the barn.
She sells eggs, stacked in the deep doorway,
and vegetables on the card table by the road, honor system.
She laughs about her high beds of salvia--
everyone comes up the drive to talk about them--
"You'd think there were no more flowers in the world."
3. A banner year for salvia
and I kept thinking as the fall wore on,
past Grace--how she always watched the spaces between
pulling to make room for every kind,
how the smaller buds must miss her hand,
zinnias popping heads and tough pale stems,
blue pansies curling to sun without her.
The vegetable garden just over the lip of the hill,
tomatoes still coming, long squash, and pumpkin,
beans gone by, and Bob tramping by, walking slowly
looking up at the curving line of trees
looking down hands in pockets
at the thick flower tangle--
the salvia upright
announcing triumph
because it knows death
alive alive.
--Beatrix Gates
______________________
Oak, November
for Grace
There’s an oak leaf, one caught in the latch on the door
lodged like a letter in a letter box.
It knocks slowly, eight-prongs the wind
tips it back, head leaning away stem like a tail,
wind knocking softly turning over the life of a tough brown leaf.
Stronger than a grasping hand, it takes years
for the veins to dissolve to brittle lace and still not want
to search the good brown dirt.
How did it? Why did it come so near the end? The oak.
From the bathroom window,
green rubber gloves across the sash
splay fingerless in crumpled, inside-out positions.
The leaf waves again.
The handsavers grow lazier and may have to go
in the trash bucket before the next cleaning.
I study the oak the many kinds of brown
graying and reddening oak across the clearing.
The message will open, and I will not have touched the veins.
I write a friend whose blood is not making enough
more real blood the kind that carries what we need
to every extremity in a day. I spill out, too much on the page.
The oak scratches a life into the soft wind.
I wanted to send word, tell her I got the message--
you don’t have forever you know.
--Beatrix Gates
(appeared in Ploughshares)
Garrison Keillor:
She wrote while her children were at school, and eventually moved from poetry to fiction. She wrote three stories and showed them to her friend, who happened to be married to an editor at Doubleday. He told her that if she could write seven more, he would publish the collection. Her first book was The Little Disturbances of Man (1959), and it was full of the voices of the immigrant women in her Greenwich Village neighborhood. She only wrote three books in all, but she was always busy doing something: teaching, or giving talks, or engaging in political activism.