The Cruelest Month Approaches (NAPOWRIMO 2018)

I've kept my years of Poetry Month writing together in a folder called "The Cruelest Month," which is how T.S. Eliot describes April in his poem, The Wasteland. What he meant by that has been the subject of many English class writing assignments. To me, perhaps, because I live in New Jersey, it is April who is charged with wrenching herself out of winter's grip, a reminder of Persephone coming up from Hades. April must repave the way of growth to may the work of her sisters May and June easier. As a daughter of April, I understand her responsibilty, not only to reinvent herself every year, but to sometimes drag along an unwilling Earth. So, in that respect, she may be cruel — moving forward can sometimes be a painful process.

As I prepare for another April of poetry writing, I have submitted this site to www.napowrimo.net for sharing, and have written an early poem. For April, on her journey.

Older Sister

April arrives, hair damp and disheveled,

shoes muddied and worn,

buttons missing from her coat.

She drags overstuffed parcels across my yard

unaware they have ripped open

leaving a trail behind her.

Something soft and easily windblown,

swirling up in March's fading eddys,

catching sunlight as they drift.

April walks on, her parcels grow lighter,

coat discarded and shoes kicked off,

around her a settling mist

through which the sepia world gains color

preparing for her younger sisters,

the bearers of flowers and fruit.

©2018 Noreen Braman

Please help support fundraiser NJ Laughter raise money for the 9/11 Memorial & Museum 5K Run/Walk

The LOML and I will be doing the 9-11 Memorial Run Walk on 4-22-18. We have set a modest goa1 for fundraising. Every dollar goes to support the memorial!

Yet Another Ridiculous Problem Involving a Hyundai – Thanks for Nothing, DCN Hyundai

The Hyundai Horror Show Strikes Again

It is Déjà vu all over again. Last year, I had the Getting My Title for a Paid Off Car from Hyundai Motor Finance horror show. I swore I would never buy another Hyundai. This year, the Love of My Life’s Hyundai lease expired, and still needing that car, but offered a new one that would be cheaper if purchased instead of leased, we took the bait. And at first, it did seem like a great deal. Until the calls from Hyundai Motor Finance started. 

“Your payment is late,” they said. “We are going to report this to the credit agencies.” How could a payment be late on a car that was traded in, with a title signed over to DCN Hyundai in South Brunswick, New Jersey, we replied.  But, apparently, Hyundai Motor Finance, despite “Hyundai” being in their name, has nothing to do with dealerships, and they were holding us responsible for the payoff amount of the car.

First phone call, someone will get back to you.  In person visit; oh, we sent the money to the wrong place. (???) Phone call after phone call, passed from one person to another,  “the check is in the mail.” Oh no it isn’t. We are living inside some sort of dark sitcom and not laughing about it yet.

I really can’t believe this craziness with Hyundai is happening all over again. Hyundai USA doesn’t care. The dealers are independent franchises. Hyundai Motor Finance is its own company. Silly us, thinking that just because ALL THESE COMPANIES HAVE GIANT HYUNDAI LOGOS EVERYWHERE, that they can, in any way, correct this situation.

I wish we had checked the Better Business Bureau on DCN Hyundai. We would have seen a trail of complaints, some for this very non-payment of a traded in car trick. I know we are very small fish in the big pond of NJ, but so far, reaching out to my Congressperson, the local newspaper, and a TV consumer advocate has gotten no response. We are currently filling out a form to let NJMVC know that we signed the title over to DCN Hyundai, but they have not yet paid for the car. I don’t know if that will make them unable to sell it, if they haven’t already.

It will be very interesting if Hyundai Motor Finance decides to repossess the car. Where will they go? If they show up at my house, I will personally drive them to DCN Hyundai and help them put the car on the hook. Because that’s how you give good customer service. 

“Man’s Faults Revealed,” Alex Schachter and Me

Human brains are mysterious and vast, both your operations center and information warehouse. Electrical impulses flash along well-used and not so well-used pathways.  And, for me, it seems those pathways are lined with memories and I never know when a stray electrical impulse is going to set a memory in motion.

I can be watching a sunset, and suddenly, I am remembering the sun slanting at that same angle on the Brooklyn street of my childhood.  Music is so evocative that sometimes I can’t listen if I am working because I just start drifting off.  Both good and bad memories help us remember the feelings of past times, and better empathize with others going through similar circumstances. Or, they can make us realize that we could never imagine someone’s pain.

I’ve written, and told, funny stories about guns. My father's tale of the Marine on guard duty in Korea who shot up a whole clothesline full of his commanding officer's clothes in the dark, because they didn’t give the password. The time I was handed a gun at the range with no warning, and the kick almost took my arm off, the bullet ricocheted off the walls, and the range officer tackled me while everyone else hit the floor. No one hurt = funny story. And the story of the family member who thought the way to get rid of bullets was to hit them with a hammer in the back yard. Yes, shrapnel wounds, but no serious injury. I’ve put those stories in the archive for a while, and know, as we did after 9-11, that there will come a time to laugh again. Maybe even at my gun mishap stories.

But real gun safety issues are serious. We are at a crossroad, deciding if we, as a country, want to live in an armed encampment or try the road less traveled toward a less weapons-oriented society. I have my opinion, but I don’t have any answers.

What I do know is, I don’t want to ever hear a parent, a sibling, or a friend have to eulogize a gun victim. Each new one that happens brings back the memories of the previous ones. I can’t imagine the pain for those who have gone through it.

Last night, a parent read a poem that his son wrote, two weeks before his death. A poet, in the school band. This was something that hit very close to me. The unbidden memories flooded my brain. A stark realization came to me — I was once this teen, and he was me. I remembered the bomb thrown through the window of the band room when I was in high school. The room was empty, but it was a terrible incident for us. Today, that could easily have been a shooter, or a larger bomb, thrown when the room was full. It made me realize how thin the line is between a safe place and a place of horror; between life and death.  And I wondered, what would be the words, the poem, that would have been left behind if I had been a victim of violence in my school. Yes, there is one, and I see, even then, in 1973, we teens were confused, even frightened by the world we were growing up in. Parkland students, survivors, and those lost, especially you, Alex Schachter, I cannot imagine your pain or the pain of your friends and loved ones. But, because poetry is how I have been able to express both the hurt and joy in my life, I share that poem I would have left behind. I truly wish we had done more about “man’s faults” for your generation.

Snowfall

The snow drifts down,
and covers all,
the hate of man,
his slow downfall.

The snow, when here

is glist’ng white,
but when it melts
in bright sunlight,

man’s faults, revealed,
come back in sight.

©Noreen Braman EBHS 1973

I have just learned that the family has created a GoFundMe page for scholarships for students to study music. Here's the Link

Here is a poem from one of the survivors. Poetry is often the only way to express the deepest hurts. 
Samantha Deitsch's poem

True Love Saved Me From Being the Neighborhood Crazy Old Lady – A Valentine’s Day Story

I’ve talked about it before, the choice I gave myself in 2010. Give “true love” one more chance, and if it didn’t work, spend my time polishing up my Crazy Old Lady skills.

One has to understand that I grew up in places that held fast to the theory that there is a crazy old lady in every neighborhood.  I’m sure it was unkind, used to demean and ridicule an elderly person, living alone. For kids it was a kind of mythology. In Brooklyn, it was the woman who lived “down the block” at the corner. Hers was the last of the row houses, secured by a high, chain link fence. Her front door was a long set of steps up from the sidewalk, and we were convinced she used her lofty vantage point to spy on us.

If we were to hang around outside her house too long, for example, playing in one of the huge puddles that often formed in front of her house, she would come rushing out. With messy gray hair and a wrinkled housedress, she would scream at us from on high to get out  of that water and away from her house.

There was also the woman with the baby carriage, who would go down our alley, and pick through our garbage. The legend was, that she was really very rich and dropped off at one end of the alley and picked up at the other end by a chauffeur. However, we were too scared she would see us to check.

Having already made one foray into the character by chasing potential dog-fighters out of my front yard with a broom, I knew I could do it. But, I still wanted to give that “true love” thing a try.

I’d dated quite a bit after my divorce. The general atmosphere of this period of time was that anyone “my age” was interested in dating, having laughs and adventures, but no interest in commitment.  For the longest time, as I was getting my children through high school and beyond, that was fine with me. But one day, I realized that it was only me, the dog, and the cockatiel in the house. And I began to feel the desire for more. I didn’t want to continue with the casual dating circuit, so, I signed up for an online trial of a dating site.

I specifically stated I wanted to meet someone who lived close, and was interested in a friendship that would lead to a long-term commitment. I was immediately beset by men from distant states, even foreign countries, who professed to falling in love with my irresistible photo. They wanted to come visit and on and on. Scammers, every one.

And then there were the creepy guys. One claimed to be a married, “defrocked priest” who had to be home in the evenings to take care of his disabled wife. However, he was sure we could have some “meaningful afternoons.”

The only person I agreed to meet was intelligent and funny. Two points. He was local to me! Another point. We decided to meet at a Starbucks midway between our homes. The only problem was, it turned out that the Starbucks listed for that location was actually a take out stand in a grocery store. I sat in the parking lot. Tempted to just leave, but not wanting to be rude, I figured we could at least have a laugh and reschedule.

The laugh was long and hearty. The smile was genuine. We noticed a Chinese restaurant in the shopping center, and our first date began. We found some real coffee shops to meet at after that. We went down the shore, toured the Twin Lighthouses and then spent some nervous minutes back tracking to find my bag that I had absent-mindedly left beside a historic cannon.

There were long walks and long conversations. Introductions to the family and in less than 3 months, we were inseparable.

This summer marks eight years since I delayed becoming the neighborhood crazy old lady. Five grandchildren have entered our lives. We said goodbye to the golden retriever I had once looked in eye and said, “It’s just you, me, and the bird.” We’ve weathered a couple of scary health issues, and dealt with car repairs and house repairs. We count our pennies and laugh with friends. It is knowing that “happily ever after” is what holds you together when things are not so happy. It is knowing you have someone who connects with you heart, mind, body and soul.

So, on this Valentine’s Day, and every day, I send love, laughter and gratitude to the Love of My Life. May we have many more years together.

Love,

Crazy Ol' Me

Water Again? With Apologies to Forrest Gump and Instant Oatmeal

Water and I have a love-hate relationship. It started on my first day of kindergarten when hurricane floodwaters cut my Brooklyn street off from civilization and I couldn’t get to school.  It continued through childhood with the famous bubble bath incident that resulted in a cascade of bubbles flowing down the staircase. And over the years water seems to prank me at every turn, especially when any reasonable person would not at all expect water waging mayhem. To paraphrase Indiana Jones, “Water! Why does it always have to be water?"

Every workday morning, I arrive at the office, drop my bags in their designated spot, turn on the desk lamp and boot up the computer. I grab my coffee cup and take a brown, crinkly packet of plain instant oatmeal out of the box and head to the kitchen. A simple, automatic, mindless routine because without coffee, there can be no mindfulness.

I fill the coffee maker with water from the water cooler. While the coffee brews, I tear open the oatmeal packet, dump it into a bowl and fill up the packet to the prescribed line with water from the water cooler. Mix the water into the oatmeal, put it in the microwave, and wait impatiently, sometimes even leaning against the wall with my eyes closed for a few seconds more of mindless-ness.

The first time the oatmeal betrayed me, I didn’t know what was going on. As I carried the water-filled packet to the bowl, I felt a cold sensation on my leg. Water. I must have spilled some water. I continue with my routine.

The following day, the same sensation. Wow, I must really need the coffee, I am spilling water all over the place. On the third day, the coincidence finally made me look at what I was doing. The oatmeal packet wasn’t all the way sealed, and the water was dripping, no, pouring, out.  A slippery trail reached from the water cooler to the counter. A blurry remembrance of overly dry oatmeal the previous day floated around in my uncaffeinated brain. Finally, I understood that someone at the oatmeal factory had pranked me, (at least I took it as a prank, not some oatmeal factory malfunction) and it had taken me three days to notice.

But by the next morning, this realization had vanished, and again I got a wet leg. This explains to my fellow coworkers why, as a reminder to myself, I’ve placed that new sign in the kitchen, “Life is Like a Box of Oatmeal, You Never Know When You’re Gonna Get Wet.” 

What does Facebook, Bob Newhart, the Unabomber and me have in common?

Hint: its a term that has use in both mathematics and technology.

Read my essay on LinkedIn:

Hey, Facebook! Just Stop It!