ALMOND HARVEST
Central Valley ranchers call them amonds.
Dad says it’s because you
have to knock the L out of them
to detach nuts from limbs,
send them spattering onto canvas tarps
wrapped around tree trunks.
Strong men pound thick branches
with heavy black rubber mauls.
Furry jacketed hard shells,
mixed with dust and mites,
rain onto workers.
A bamboo pole wielded like a pool cue
deftly frees stubborn stick-tights.
We rake almonds into mounds,
shovel them into metal carts
towed by John Deere tractor
from field to the huller.
At the Blue Diamond plant,
burlap bags of raw nuts are converted
into almond milk, flavored snacks,
chocolate swathed candy.
Each year, I combine shelled nutmeats
with sugar, butter, vanilla,
on kitchen stove top
until confectionary magic occurs.
I spread golden toffee on buttered cookie sheets,
harvest transformed into holiday brittle.
GRANDMA
She was our commanding officer’s mom,
stood six feet, two inches tall,
wore men’s size twelve black oxfords.
Formerly a cook at an Alaskan lumber camp,
she ran the kitchen at Elvrum’s Café,
intimidated her quiet Makah assistant,
taught me verbal shorthand
to call out my orders,
carry two full plates on each arm
to customers at Formica tables.
I served as a waitress in training,
worked the milkshake machine,
swept floors, brewed coffee,
bantered with airmen from the SAC base,
answered tourists’ questions,
washed pots, dishes and glasses.
At night, she helped me
fend off drunken fishermen,
haul plastic garbage sacks
out to the trash bin.
As sweet reward, she sent me home
with generous slices of blackberry pie,
cups of soft vanilla ice cream,
my share of tips from the pickle jar
displayed on the counter.
LITERARY HEIRLOOMS
After Dad died,
I found shoeboxes in his closet
stuffed with notes he’d written
to remember towns, friends’
and family members’ names.
He suffered from verbal aphasia, OCD,
took medication, saw a psychiatrist,
but still obsessed when he was unable
to retrieve vanished words.
I often wonder if I am infected
with the same dysfunction
as I grapple for absent terminology,
unable to identify faces,
recall song lyrics, label common flowers.
I use blank verse to capture nuance,
missing pieces of elusive language.
Is writing the electronic equivalent
of my father’s crude database system?
Is poetry the storage cabinet
holding people, places, past adventures,
chunks of the life I wish to retain?
HAUNTED HOUSE
“In the house where strangers live now…”
~ Jamie Armstrong
My dad and uncle built our home
as finances allowed, one room at a time.
Concrete blocks wrapped with chicken wire.
Plaster slathered unevenly.
Pieces of metal lathe poked through stucco,
snagged and tore skin.
My sister swore the place was haunted.
At night, she saw space creatures
glaring from dark living room corners.
During humid summers, when I lay
in my twin bed beside the open window,
could hear something breathing outside.
Swamp gas simmered in faulty plumbing,
sent green balls of St. Elmo’s fire
hissing and spinning
across tile kitchen floor.
Lights flickered for no reason.
Doors refused to stay closed.
Crammed into crowded space,
privacy was an alien concept.
Mom’s incessant screaming
of our many failings
sapped self-esteem.
To survive, I left for good
when I turned seventeen.
RELOCATION
After receiving orders for semi-isolated duty,
we pack pots, pans, and clothes,
shop for a mobile home
on the seedy side of Seattle.
We sell my sexy ’67 Mustang,
buy a battered Ford station wagon,
invest in a two-bedroom trailer house
to be towed, ferried, then parked on a concrete slab
overlooking Straits of Juan de Fuca
and Vancouver Island.
During the trip to Cape Flattery,
a huge pothole near Forks
collapses a wheel on our new trailer.
Crews come, fix the damage.
For hours, we drive through Olympic Forest,
along dirt and gravel roads,
finally cross a cattle guard,
enter the Makah Reservation
just before dusk.
That first night we sleep
in a borrowed camper.
Just after daybreak, men settle
our home on concrete blocks,
install plywood siding,
hook us up to water and propane.
There is no telephone,
sketchy electrical power.
For three lonely years,
the Clallam County Bookmobile,
tea and pinochle with other Coast Guard wives,
working part-time at Elvrum’s Café
and Washburn’s General Merchandise Store
keep me from going insane.
Dr. Jennifer Lagier inherited her Swiss-Italian heritage from her mother’s parents. She taught with California Poets in the Schools, at Modesto Junior College, Hartnell College, Monterey Peninsula College, and California State University, Monterey Bay. She edits the Monterey Review, helps publicize Monterey Bay Poetry Consortium reading series events and has published twenty-five books, most recently When You Don’t See It (Kelsay Books).
OVUNQUE SIAMO 