Lilly Petersen—2011

There it is

slowly grazing

peaceful, pure

moving slowly closer

closer to the road

It looks at me

eyes big, black

full of life

Fur so soft

so smooth

Curiosity is taking over

Ever so slowly inching toward me

The mind has no thoughts

In a blink of an eye

Gone

life draining

coldness taking over

Leaving our world

The driver goes away

leaving it behind

It will disappear from our mind

As will everyone

Who lives must die

Who starts must stop

At one point everyone will be forgotten

But we have them now

Cherish the time you have

Because one day

they will be

gone

—————————————————————

Introducing a poem by Michelle Porter Petersen

Michelle Porter (Lilly's mother) was fifteen years old when she wrote the following poem, an assignment in Mr. Levin's English class at Glenbard West High School in Glen Ellyn, IL. She notes, "I think it had to do with a boy I dated. He wrote poetry, and he encouraged me to write my thoughts down." My mother loved this poem, saying it was honest and perceptive.

I Don't Know You Anymore

Michelle Porter—1985

I don't know you anymore.

I look at you in the morning,

Your eyes are full of love.

You act like the mother who cares

what I do and say.

 

I don't know you anymore.

I see you in the afternoon,

Your eyes begin to look frustrated.

You don't care as much anymore,

You just want to be left alone.

 

I don't know you anymore.

I look at you in the evening,

Your eyes look tired and worn.

My problems are minor to you,

You become selfish and cold.

But I think morning will come again,

And the cycle will start once more.

—————————————————————

May I say a few words about the—I’ll call him Resident—living...right here in Monticello.

A few nights ago, the Resident was seated in his Lazy Boy, anxiously awaiting another viewing of Rose, Dorothy, Sophia and Blanche—who recently died. Rose is now the only one still living. Adding to the sadness of the occasion, just the night before, Resident’s six-year-old Norelco had expired. Aware of the meeting he must attend the next afternoon, Resident glanced at the clock. It was 9:30 PM. Why not rush to Pamida, buy a shiny new Norelco and shave while watching the Golden Girls.

At 9:55, Resident sat down at the kitchen table and examined this very attractive package for opening instructions. There were none. Resident arose, took a few steps to the drawer beside the kitchen sink and came back with a packet of small screwdrivers. At 10:10, back to the drawer for a large screwdriver.10:25 and back for a pair of pliers. Beads of perspiration were nearly at the dripping stage. At 10:40, out to the garage where the heavy stuff is stored. Heavy nippers didn’t do it. At 10:50, one more try. Hammer and chisel—a complete failure. Exhausted, at 11:05 went back to the Golden Girls—razor less. Too tired to laugh at their humor, managed a faint smile and went to bed.

Resident attended the meeting the next day, unshaven.

Two days later, Resident’s loyal housekeeping lady of 25 years, after 15 disgruntled minutes, finally pulled the elusive Norelco from its badly damaging display casing. “Resident,” she said, “If you ever assign me a job like that again, it’s more money or I’m gone.”

Sure glad all Golden Years aren’t like this one.

—Bob Miller, (Resident of Monticello)

———————————————

Introducing a short story by guest author Daniel A. Stein

Dan Stein is an ex-marine, and a jack of many trades. He lives with his wife and seven children near Kansas City, KS.

Skunk Works Telecom

Daniel A. Stein

It was late in the afternoon toward the end of June. My older brother had left a half hour earlier to deliver newspapers. I was carving a stick in the living room, thinking I should pick up my mess before Mom saw it, when the phone rang. Mom's usual smile changed briefly to a “what?” followed by the “you've got to be kidding” face before settling into one of those scowls reserved specifically for errant children.

“Who was that, Mom?” I asked ready to deny any wrong doing.

“That was Mrs. Schuman. She called to warn me that Michael is bringing home a skunk.”

Whoa. Mom had called him “Michael” instead of “Mike.” This was serious. There was an ominous timbre in her voice that any other time would have sent shivers up my spine. Any fear and trembling though, was quickly overcome by the words “bringing home a skunk.” How cool is that!

I had visions of my older brother having to burn his clothes and sleep outside until the smell wore off. I quickly gathered up every harsh cleaning chemical I could find along with a scrub brush and dashed out the front door. Dropping everything near the driveway, I ran to grab the garden hose. I turned the water on full blast and returned to stand beside my cleaning supplies. I was ready. I waited.

In a short few minutes Mike came careening around the corner onto our street. His newspaper bags were missing from his bike. In the crook of his left arm he held a Folgers 5lb. coffee can with a plastic lid on top. He skidded to a stop, tossing his bike away from him as he lept to the ground and ran into the garage.

“I thought you had a skunk.” I yelled after him. I ran to catch up to him in the garage.

“I do. Grab your bike. I need your help,” he said catching his breath. He placed the coffee can on the floor in the corner of the garage.

“Where is it?” I asked. I walked over to see what he was doing and caught the faint oder of skunk.

“It's in the can,” He said.

“Are you kidding? That's too small!” I bent over to look and could see a dark shape slightly moving beneath the semi-transparent lid.

“It's just a baby. I saw it walking in the gutter up the street in front of Mrs. Schuman's house. I asked her if she had a container I could have and she gave me the coffee can. I'm going to keep it for a pet. Now quit gabbing. I need your help. It's getting late and I still have half my papers to deliver. We'll tell Mom when we get back.”

He was already headed back to his bike so I ran to get mine and catch up. “I think she already knows.” I yelled from the garage.

“How'd she find out?” Mike asked

“Mrs. Schuman called, I think.” We were already out on the street and around the corner pedaling hard.

We soon arrived at Mrs. Schuman's where Mike's newspaper bags still lay on the curb where he had dropped them. She was watching from the front porch. “Is everything all right?” she yelled.

“Hi Mrs. Schuman,” I yelled back

“Yeah. I just need to finish my route,” Mike answered simultaneously.

“What did your mother say?”

“Oh it's okay,” he lied optimistically. “See you later. Here Dan, you take that side of the road and I'll take this. You need to put them by the front door.”

As I looked in the direction we were headed, it seemed that at every house still awaiting delivery there was some one standing by the front door or out near the drive way. Even with the good weather this seemed a little odd. Glancing back where Mike had already delivered papers, there was no one around. As we started down the street all eyes were upon us. At the first house I rode up to, a middle aged man yelled from the open front door, “Don't come over. Just throw the paper from the curb.” I did as asked and headed over to get the next paper from Mike. He was getting similar treatment from the house on that side of the street. In fact, for the remaining 60 houses in the route, we were told either to throw the paper over or to leave it on the sidewalk and they would get it when we left.

After about 10 houses, Mike said, “They know about the skunk.”

“How?” I asked.

“I don't know, but that's why they're doing this,” Mike replied

“How could they find out that fast? How could everyone know?”

That was nearly 40 years ago. In the past 10 years cell phones, the internet, and applications like Instant Messaging and “Twitter” have made high speed communications common place. Yet with all the latest technology, I have still never seen any thing as fast or efficient as Mrs. Schuman.