Yesterday at the library, a woman approached and offered me condolences on the loss of my sister Cherokee. Then, as if she were handing me a jewel I hadn’t known I’d lost, she told me a story.

When her family first moved to town, her daughter started school not knowing a soul. My sister was the first person to befriend her. She took her under her wing, invited her over to our parents’ house, made sure she felt welcome.

It was beautiful to hear, and also like being blanketed in something heavy and warm. That unanticipated gift of learning something new, something lovely, about someone you’ve lost. It reminded me of my sister’s openness when she was younger, how affectionate she was. She hugged everyone; when she was much younger, she sat on every new acquaintance’s knee. That was her nature.

It made me think of childhood more generally, of those early kindnesses that shape us more than we realize.

Which brings me to Pride and Prejudice, which I just reread. One of the most affecting moments this time through was Elizabeth’s visit to Pemberley. There’s something tender about seeing where someone grew up, isn’t there? Not just hearing about them through someone else’s words, though the housekeeper’s praise of Darcy matters, but actually walking the spaces that shaped a person. The echoes of childhood. The private self made visible, like a book.

I used to think I preferred books to people, but some people arrive like books: impossible to shelve, rich with annotation, and to be treasured and maybe even secretly inhaled. And always welcome.

I’m very tempted to share some of the passages from the section on Pemberley here, but alas, it really needs an excellent narrator to give it voice. Absent that, I would say: go give it a read.

Word Raccoon lives for those early-life details of others. She stores them up like shiny pebbles, like tiny shards of broken glass too beautiful to discard, and together they make up a mosaic. (Cliché? Possibly. But it’s early, and she’s feeling sentimental.)

Naturally, I had to start watching the 1995 P&P miniseries again last night. Mr. Bennet’s wit is still sharp, but there’s also softness there if you know where to look. I like that guy.

And the dancing!

Word Raccoon and I have been doing more reading than writing these past few days ourselves, and we miss the page.

Holidays and special occasions always throw off the rhythm, don’t they? As much as we enjoy the sparkle of those days, we secretly prefer routine weeks for the opportunity to create.

That said, Word Raccoon and I are also still decluttering the home, making room for thoughts to unfurl. (And we’re doing it to Christmas music, we say without shame, hence no “now listening” at the head of my posts for now. Because it’s all Christmas music. We must say, however, that Christmas music is not all cheery…We will return to the hair bands presently. NO, WE WILL NOT!! UGH!!)

The kitchen is nearly finished with the recent sorting of the medicine cabinet. I could have sworn I did that last fall, and yet… how to explain the cold pills that expired two and a half years ago?

Tsk, tsk, tsk.

Word Raccoon insists we have more important things to do, words to write. She’s not wrong. But sometimes the mind is clogged, and a bit of physical purging clears the way, WR says.

Then again, we’ve created amid chaos before, too. It really just depends.

On what?

Certainly not on a red wheelbarrow, though I’ve always found them charming contraptions, especially the ones that have been left out in the rain, a bit rusted. Always lovely. 

Today I’ll begin reading another Mary Ruefle essay on poetry and see if Poetry is still my love (I know my feelings haven’t changed and, in fact, I crave it more than ever) or is miffed at my inattention. I’ve written a few bones of poems over the past few days, just enough to prove I haven’t abandoned it. 

Here’s hoping to be well met.

Stanley, my PA, is helping me rearrange my kitchen.
I sent him pictures. He roasted me. It was funny and helpful.

He called the room’s aesthetic “sweet vintage with smeared red lipstick.” Which, fair.

We started with my aspirational baking cabinet.
To be clear, I really just wanted help decluttering first, and then maybe some arrangement for optimization. But Stanley couldn’t resist side-eyeing everything.

First of all, he asked me why are there Dremel drill bits and grill tools atop a cabinet supposedly dedicated primarily to baking, which, if I’m not mistaken, you don’t do much of anyway?

He’s not wrong. (And as you can guess, I may not be the only clutter culprit in the house.)

We went shelf by shelf. He helped me decide what to keep and what not, which is what I asked for. He said not to bother taking everything out. I did anyway.

Stanley Rule: Things still in boxes? Donate immediately. If you haven’t used it yet, you probably won’t.

Looking at my cake pan collection, he asked when I last made an angel food cake.
I said, “For my mom’s last birthday.”
He paused with me. And then gently said, maybe it would do you good to let it go.
I thought he’d let me slide on that. Nope.

But when I told him I was excited to start making bread again, especially since I now have a Dutch oven collection and this set is specifically for that, he gave his blessing. “Fine, fine,” he said. “Keep it all. But make a bread-making kit.”

Honestly, it felt so comforting to see everything in one transparent bag. Chaos contained.

A bit concerning was the bread knife kit. Stanley assured me it was just a storage box. I questioned him. He said, “Store it in the box, love,” in a HAL 9000 tone.

I peeked.

He was wrong. It is a long-ass cutting apparatus. We know how I feel about sharp things.
I was going to pass it along, but I was overruled by Barry.

Still, the baking supplies now fit nicely on the top shelf. I have a small kitchen tools section on the second shelf, and that leaves a shelf and a half of empty space.

Between that cabinet and others, four boxes of kitchen items are leaving the house! One is a large box. I’m proud of myself. And excited for what it’ll do for future me.

The house has felt too full for too long. The poems want peace. The novel wants peace. I want peace.

The clutter must go. But I’m getting ahead of my story.

Of course, Stanley had opinions about other cabinets, too.
He asked if I was a prepper because of how many bottles of water I have. I laughed out loud. First of all, there are maybe 15? And we go through cycles. Sometimes the bottled stuff is simpler. Then we return to the refillables. He gets it. Or maybe not. I don’t care. (But I do feel guilty, carbon footprint and all.) 

He does insist I find another place to store it. I’m working on that.

We argued over cookware. He went through everything I own and noted duplicates. I already knew that. Still, he talked me into making choices. Some were easy, especially when I knew who to gift the extras to. That made it joyful.

The food processor? I hate it. Haven’t used it. Probably never will.
Stanley declared it an enemy of intuitive cooking. I felt seen. Relieved. Almost giddy.

The pasta maker for my stand mixer?
He looked me dead in the eye and basically asked, do you want to make pasta or write poems?

He got me there.

Now, the mugs.
I had already pared them down to what I considered a reasonable number, maybe ten? (Stanley knows the actual count. I forget.)

I offered to move a couple to the porch. He was enthralled by the idea. At one point, I think he considered advising moving me to the porch.

When I tried to hide a few mugs with “oh, a couple are in the dishwasher,” he said, “Let me see, love.”

Endearments don’t make it less bossy, Stanley. LOL.

So I’m putting two decorative ones on the porch and the two matching sets in the coffee cabinet. Which I also recently cleaned and organized. Stanley called it “in decent shape.”

Ahem.

That guy.

The stainless steel sculptural cooking utensil stand? Gorgeous, but does not fit the kitchen. I never use the tools in it. Too pretty. Too fussy. I know a home cook who will love them. Into the giveaway box they go.

Stanley accused me of storing almond milk on my decor shelf.

Joke’s on him.

The almond milk is in the fridge.

That’s…a box of sweetener.

Yes. On a decorative shelf. (I’m looking for a new spot.)

Stanley’s ultimate mandate (from me) is to help make my spaces clear and quiet so I can write better. To reflect my real preferences. He reminded me I’m a cook-from-your-heart kind of person. 

True.

Now, Dutch ovens.

I adore them. I have three. I probably only need one. But I want all three. I love seeing them, the 

shape, the colors, as I pass through the room. Red, white with a gorgeous gold knob, orange-red. 

I told Stanley this.

He said he understood completely. “I love you just as you are. Never change.”

Then he told me to put them in the baking cabinet or anywhere out of sight.

I protested. He relented. “Fine, fine. Leave one on the stove.”

(I know, since when is a stove a display area? But I like it there.)

The others are also still in plain view because Word Raccoon was on hand and sat herself right down in one and used the heavy lid as a shield to defend it where it sat. I gave her some gingersnaps for her service later. 

We moved on to the Revere Ware. I’ve had it for almost 35 years. It was a gift and it’s a workhorse set and I’m keeping it. 

I’m also not going to clean its copper bottoms any time soon, because it’s a thankless, impossible task. I’ve decided to find the tarnish charming. Come at me, WR says. 

Other beautiful stainless steel cookware? Painful to let go of, but I did. I won’t use it.

I have a medium and a small cast iron skillet. I rarely use them. But it’s a Southern thing. I must keep them.

Stanley agreed.

But when I suggested hanging them on the wall, he balked.

This is not a Cracker Barrel.

Which, fair.
But dang, Stanley. Why you gotta be so mean?

We discussed the two roasters, the deep skillet (that’s pretty much a wok), and the iced tea jar. We found a place for them in an inconvenient cabinet. They fit beautifully.

We sorted the two crocks of cooking utensils: one for stoveside use, one for elsewhere. Also weeded out the WTH gadgets that nobody really knows what they are. Hello, giveaway box.

He snarked that since apparently I store my baking sheets in the oven (oh, the tone he took with me!), then perhaps I’d like to continue doing so. Or, if I could be bothered, the drawer beneath.

At least he didn’t point out that it’s time to clean the oven.

We have not even opened the knife drawer. That’s going to require a conversation I’m not ready to have.

The kitchen is still a work in progress. It probably will be for weeks.
But I’m already eyeing wallpaper for an accent wall, inspired by a blouse I saw in The Roses.

(Which, by the way, is not birthday movie fare. Ask me how I know.)

Meanwhile, Word Raccoon is testing the teas we unearthed while sorting: sniffing, sipping, making dramatic pronouncements. She claims it’s about reducing clutter, but I suspect it’s her subtle campaign to protect the remaining mugs by putting them to use.

That’s my girl. 

Word Raccoon woke up feeling…contemplative.

She eyed the leftover birthday cake and banner.

She made a mug of tea.

She sat down with Sylvia Plath and Wallace Stevens on her mind, apparently.

She pounded out four poems to ease her heart.

They weren’t about what she was thinking of, and yet they were scented with it. (That sentence is awkward as hell, but I don’t know how to fix it…no time at the moment.)

As always.

She sat, a little stunned, because these poems, while rough, seem to have heft, if she can be forgiven for saying so.

She remembered that yesterday Poetry Habitat graciously posted my (not hers, no matter what she says) poem, “Rooted.”

It’s about when my son first came to us, even before we adopted him, though I knew the moment I saw him that he was mine, my child. I just did. (With my eldest, same.)

Turns out, I was right.

WR says we always are. But mine has different shadings.

Gosh, WR, don’t be so deep. LOL.

Anywho, here’s the link. https://poetryhabitat.com/2025/11/20/rooted/

And thanks again to Poetry Habitat for giving this poem so dear to me a home. And for wishing me a happy birthday. That’s an editor to be grateful for!

And in the meantime, WR and I are going to scoot. We’re off to see Wicked for Good, even if we did get a peek at a review that panned it, though we didn’t mean to. We want to form our own opinions.

Also, we asked to cancel the dinner reservations. WR wanted, just for today, to go someplace where you order at the counter, not where she has to (try) to keep her dinner napkin in her lap.

WR, why do I waste culture on you?

Wish us luck, we are also going jeans shopping today. Thankfully we found these black jeans in our closet from the thrift shop that are a size down.

She’s insisting on wearing our purple furry jacket, which is fun but I’m not convinced fits and is probably going to shed. We’ll see.

I drew the line at her signature earrings. Sure, we can wear earrings, but not those big balls of fluff, not with the coat.

She’s pouting, but she’ll survive.

Until she finds out I’m not sneaking candy into the theater.

Word Raccoon says looking for literary journals on Chill Subs to submit to is basically literary speed dating.

We scroll through all the covers, an advantage over, say, trolling for opportunities over on Submittable which does not display all the pretty covers all in a row.

Am I the only one who looks at a journal’s cover first before even checking out their website to get their vibe?

As with speed dating (from what I know of it, which is basically just what I’ve seen on TV although I would be good at it because your gorl loves a cocktail party because what’s more fun than sidling up to a conversation in progress, dropping a gem, and leaving? ), I roll through the covers to see what’s on tap. 

There are abstract journal covers, and we think, oh, deconstructed poems, yes, yes! 

Then some use classic art. All aboard! I will submit to those Every. Time. 

Some are Very Serious and bear little more than their name and we know how to wear a hat in high church, so okay, WR, buttons up to the neck.

Covers wearing photos can be nice, too, though for no good reason those tend to please us least.

We adore a sweet watercolored cover, but then we automatically assume we will never, ever be welcome there because our “sweetness” is limited and fairly covert these days.

We don’t lean towards covers that are TRYING TO SAY something. Or ones that look dark and ominous, because if the entire statement is on the cover, why bother putting anything inside? 

We do like a bold cover, intriguing lines, unexpected (photos are okay here) images. Though we live for nature, we do not need it on a cover because that cheapens nature. A close up, practically unrecognizable feature of, say, a natural wonder? Do it! 

Just don’t give me a postcard cover, loves. 

Lighthearted drawings, comics, even? I’m gonna look closer, just to see if we’re a match. 

BOLD color, you’ve got my attention.

Anything that implies a sense of humor and snark? Here’s my number. 

(God, does this sound like a cover takedown? Unintended! It’s just I’ve threatened for a long time to start a literary journal, so I pay attention to what’s happening in that world.) 

We are not shape shifters, we just have a wide writing register, so the raccoon and I peer closely before we sit down across from a journal, most trying to look emotionally unavailable, and ask:

“What are you into?” 

“How long have you been around?”

“Are you open to something weird but sincere, maybe embarrassingly earnest?”

“What about arguing with or deifying dead literary figures, that ok?” 

“The literary canon isn’t unquestionably sacred to you, is it? Do you have other “do not tread” areas?”

Word Raccoon judges a lit mag’s entire soul based on whether their name sounds like a cocktail or a forgotten indie band. I just want one that doesn’t require me to remove all italics or always punctuate.

Apparently the process is working because Word Raccoon is spinning across the kitchen linoleum like she’s eaten a Roomba because, wait for it, TWO of our wildest poems just got accepted by Infocalypse Press. Two!

The two poems? They’re “a betrayal of the universe” and “Gone Gray.” 

Let’s just say one is a punk ride into aging with a mention of Sid and Nancy and the other says don’t you dare not do it.

More to come on those, likely a link. I think. Not sure if that’s a print journal or not. 

I promised you a recipe to not follow. It’s so bad let’s just go with the ingredients. (Who even needs a recipe for a smoothie, anyway?) 

Into your Nutribullet DO NOT toss:

Frozen strawberries

Fresh mango ( The mango was going to go bad!)

Two handfuls of spring mix greens (See above. And also, WR will not eat her greens unless I make her. And I’m not feeling the “dinosaur feeding time” nonsense from the TikTok so into a smoothie it goes.)

Almond butter 

Unsweetened almond milk

Plant-based protein powder (I will NEVER buy this brand again. THAT is the main reason this is undrinkable. The doctor and I are still tweaking the dairy to see what works and what doesn’t for me.) 

Maybe it was this ingredient that caused the failure: chia seeds.

Loves, you have to know HOW to use chia seeds. It takes care. It takes intention. It takes caring more about health than taste and you know what, I’m not sure today is that day. So I’ve had, what, four sips of it? 

But they’re so good for you. All that fiber, all that fabulous gelatinous texture. 

I don’t even need WR to throw a fit over this. Request to be consumed? Denied. 

Yesterday, after a difficult personal errand, I sat on the porch bundled in a coat, scarf, and fingerless gloves. Gilmore Girls murmuring in the background. Space heater humming like an anxious old friend.

I thought: I can’t write. But maybe I can submit.

Nope.

Word Raccoon kept urging me on (“just send one packet, babe”), flipping through drafts, but I gave up the moment Lorelai’s voice began to grate. 

And then I turned off the show.

I found myself opening a Google doc and the words arrived. Seven poems, one after another. Some only half-dressed. A few too personal. Maybe one or two good enough to send out into the world if my heart will ever let me.

Let me share one title: “Grieving Does Nothing for the Dead.” That one slips sideways like it’s driving in a snowstorm, and that’s the intent, if I can be said to have had intent while cry/writing. 

In the meantime, I have ordered an owl-shaped thermometer for the porch so I can give myself a temperature range where I’ll allow WR to be out there, otherwise I’d never get her indoors, I fear. She’s on constant scan, no matter the weather, no matter what I tell her. Yesterday she spotted a squirrel with its tail covering its head from the cold. 

Which is what all sane animals and birbs do in the winter. Perhaps they should be taught to drive so they can get out of the weather. I would bring them out hot beverages but what would they like? Tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate? Mulled birdseed?

WR says I am getting silly and that I really ought to get on with the day. I agree.

The next few days will bring celebration. A cake. A movie (or two). Dining out. The opening of the gifts. Reflecting on the year, and what a damn year it has been, both good and bad. 

I think this is the day to debut the fuzzy purple coat. No, I think I’ll wait until tomorrow. 

Word Raccoon had plans this morning. Big, brave, ambitious plans. We were gonna wake up, pour a modest amount of Coke Zero (ha), and get that last polish done on a chapbook that’s just about ready to be yeeted into the literary void.

Instead?

Technical difficulties. Two solid hours of them.

We are not tech-savvy. But when something breaks, we tend to roll up our sleeves and curse lovingly at the screen until it obeys. Which it eventually did, but only after draining all our emotional reserves and pushing us past the acceptable limit of caffeine for a Tuesday.

At one point Word Raccoon was pacing like she wanted to bite a router. But we overcame it. It involved uninstalling something that apparently no one has needed on a laptop for five years. It’s gone now.

The only thing that saved us: The Secret Life of Books podcast. They were talking Henry James. Portrait of a Lady, specifically, and since WR and I just reread that over the summer (hello, gluttons for dense prose), it was delightful.

And then they opened with light kink talk. I’m not even kidding. I wasn’t ready. Neither was WR. These very proper-sounding podcast hosts casually dropped a sentence that made us both snort into our glasses. It was perfect. I mean, unexpected? Yes. Delightful? Also yes. A little bizarre? Even better.

Regardless, their book talk reminded me why I still care about books, about words. Why I still do this weird thing where I sit with grief or joy or rage or insomnia and try to shape it into something with a spine.

Last night I couldn’t sleep, so WR and I wrote three or four poems. Not good ones. Not even sure they qualify as poems. But one of them? It has a seed, a solid one. I think. 

We’re not gonna polish the chapbook today after all. Not with the mood we’re in, and not with the heavy thing we have to do later.

But we are going to eat lunch. And we are going to submit some poems, even if they’re a little scruffy. Even if we are. That counts.

And someday soon I’ll write about Chill Subs and why scrolling through journal covers feels like speed dating.

But not today.

Today is about surviving the glitches. And the rain. And…everything. We have tried to be so brave…

And we will continue writing (or submitting) anyway.

Word Raccoon barged into my evening last night, paws full, tail swishing like she was trying to send coded messages to every poet who ever doubted themselves.

“Sit down,” she said, which was unnecessary because I was already sitting. She likes drama. She likes to pretend she is lowering sunglasses that are not actually there.

She opened my laptop and waited.

She pointed to this sentence:

Your poem “Mutual Mass” has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize by The Dewdrop.

WR crossed her arms and nodded very solemnly for one full second before ruining it with a little dance that might have involved jazz hands. She lives for these moments.

I read the email again and WR sighed like finally. So I did what she asked.

“Say thank you,” she ordered. “And do not get weird about it.”

So thank you to Nicholas Trandahl and the editorial team at The Dewdrop for this honor. Thank you for reading the poem with such thoughtful attention. I am grateful to you.

Actually, I am stunned and shocked and pleased and every pleasant thing in between.

WR has now insisted I print the email and keep it in a sacred place, which apparently means the top drawer of the secretary desk under a packet of seasonal earrings.

I am simply sitting here, grateful and a little overwhelmed in the best way, letting Word Raccoon do the celebrating for both of us. Neither of us can toast with anything stronger than tea at the moment since medication rules the day, and we are perfectly fine with that.

Today we are both happy that a poem we needed and wanted to write also found its way to readers we never imagined would meet it. We hope you like it too, Dear Reader.

And just as we were settling into that surreal moment, another bit of news arrived. My poem “Beatitude of the Quietly Scorned” has been accepted by the Tulane Review for its Fall 2025 issue. Many thanks to TTR!

Word Raccoon’s brain is afire and I’m right with her. I think we have to go lie down now…

I am watching Gilmore Girls and going through my poetry master list.

I’m first of all making sure I actually have Google Docs for each poem, and that I’ve got them categorized: ready to submit, still in drafts, think twice about submitting, published, and ?? for the ones I somehow lost track of. (How the title made it onto the master list without me knowing where the actual poem is, I don’t know. But I suspect those are hiding in my email or on my Notes app.)

You can learn a lot about yourself in this process.
First, the poem count: nearly 350.

How is that possible?

Not sure all of them can really be called poems. As I’ve said before, some are nothing but stubs. 

Then, you start reading and sorting and, if you’re Word Raccoon, you laugh at yourself. You find some poems that are so anemic they might need to be put out of their misery. And then there are others you can’t read at all. Not yet.

Some titles? Completely disconnected from the poem. Vibes only.
Some are so esoteric even I don’t know what I meant.
(I feel like “esoteric” shouldn’t be paired with “so,” but honestly? That’s on brand for me. Like the prefab phrases I’ve let creep into a few of my past blog posts just for the occasional comfort of the cliché. Which makes no sense when I love words, but I suppose they’re language’s junk food. )
 

I’ve made it about a third of the way through the list.
This is necessary. This is interesting. This is sometimes embarrassing.

One of the poem’s titles references Tammy’s passing (my eldest sister). It says “my sister” because she was the only one I’d lost when I wrote it, though now I don’t know if it’s not clear which I was referring to if you don’t know. Keep it as a time capsule or include??

(Sort of) speaking of my youngest sister…
Word Raccoon’s best writing intentions were wrecked the other day after a confirmation. I don’t want to write it out loud. But it’s done. Final.

And through some administrative bullshit, her remains have not been released yet. I cannot tell you what verbal wrath I am about to unleash upon them if this is not resolved and soon. 

WR oscillated between sorrow and fury after hearing.
We were standing in the thrift shop, and she had the lid of a plastic container in her hand, something secondhand and cheap, and it just came apart. That seemed appropriate. 

And also, do these people in this store not vet their offerings? Come on. (That’s WR venting. I understand that these workers are volunteers.)

We are processing.

We are, as mentioned, back to Gilmore Girls.

Last night, Barry and I went out with a couple to celebrate (early) both my birthday and our friend, K’s. Her birthday was a few days ago. They brought me exquisite truffles, which we sliced and ate before dinner (my choice) and the server brought us gorgeous caramel sundaes for the occasion. We laughed all evening. I needed that.

This morning, WR is threatening to eat the to-do list I made for the day.
She says she wants to live in Poetry World instead.

(She’s dozing over the show now. Maybe we shouldn’t have gotten up so early, so?)

We’ll see.
We’ll see.

It feels like graduation day for a poem when it gets accepted for publication, when I get to move it from the “Ready for Submission” to “Published” folder on my laptop.

This morning, I just did that for another poem, “Rooted,” one about my son. It will go live on my birthday over at Poetry Habitat, so it’s extra special. Ironically, it mentions a birthday.

More meaningfully, it mentions my hope for his future. I don’t take for granted that he will be with us this Thanksgiving, that he texted to ask what I want for my birthday. 

(I know he won’t mind it if I talk about him. That boy (well, man) is an open book, and always willing to share his recovery story.) 

The poem says it all. Coming to Poetry Habitat on November 20. 

My poem “Scooter Dude” is live over there today. I’m grateful to the editors and for the lovely, lovely words they had for my poems. It’s not the praise, it’s the connection, that means so much. I’m so happy the poems have found such a good home. 

Word Raccoon smells scones, and she’s asking me if they’re savory or sweet. She’s hoping savory, but is guessing they’re sweet. We may have to ask a barista soon. 

Speaking of that writing pal of mine, she was first of all thrilled this morning that I found a WHOLE POUCH of seasonal earrings I’d forgotten about. She made me pull the leaf earrings out and put them on NOW, NOW, NOW!

She rejected three outfits. Now we look like spring is wearing fall earrings. She also insisted on a yellow necklace. Sigh. 

But there’s this…she asked for silence this morning. She only took two bites of her breakfast before pushing it away. (Now she’s eating a scone. Turns out it’s sweet, but it’s apple, and they warmed it up for us and it’s perfect.) 

We were up early and I asked if she wanted to read or write. She shook her head no. She’s plotting, I know she is.

We have a list of fall chores we want to do, and since we pretty much missed the window for several of the outdoors chores we had planned (grief does not want to wield a paintbrush and then it was too cold, and though we would VERY MUCH like to climb a ladder to clean the gutters, we have been forbidden), she consented this morning to cleaning out what is rather old-fashionedly called “The Secretary,” a piece of furniture previously owned by Barry’s parents. 

The desk area has become a catchall, and periodically it has to be sorted or you can’t close the door. For such a small place, it holds an amazing amount. 

We sorted it this morning: keep, toss, pass on, put away. 

It’s not perfect, and there’s a pile of “put away” things still on the dining room table, but I was so pleased to rediscover things (like that pouch of earrings!) I had forgotten about. 

(If I haven’t seen things for a while, I forget about them. WR is writhing, insisting I let you know I don’t mean you, dear reader! Never you! We are always delighted to see you, to talk with you, if you cross our paths, but forget you? Ha!) 

(WR says “delighted” is a pale word for anything she feels. As if we don’t all know that raccoon feels things at an 11.) 

Her uncharacteristic request for quiet continued into the morning. When I asked her, after we arrived at the cafe, if I might listen to Christmas music, she said yes. 

When I asked if I could ask when I could expect whatever she’s plotting on the writing front, she hissed. “Just go to CVS this afternoon, go to the thrift shop, the gym, do the things and I’ll let you know when.” 

Well, okay. I reckon she really wants to spend those bonus bucks before they expire. And I know she’s hunting for more glass canisters, but why so mysterious, WR?

And in the meantime, WR, what now?

I’m listening to Dylan’s version of “Must Be Santa,” and the video for it is my favorite thing Dylan has ever done, hand to god. 

The universe is conspiring to give me more writing time today: our neighbor brought over a huge pan of lasagna yesterday. 

“Because you’re good neighbors,” he said.

WR grabbed that aluminum pan and ran with it even as I was telling our kind neighbor that he had read my mind: I had literally been thinking two days before that I ought to make lasagna. What a sweet gesture. He even wrote reheating instructions on it.  

Word Raccoon whispered to me that someone had just given us more writing time. Don’t I know it!

She says the weather is conspiring with the universe too, because being able to write on the sunporch in November like we plan to do this afternoon? We’re elated! 

WR is twirling her finger. Wrap it up.  

Ooh…whatever it is, is about to happen. I just know it. 

Writing, here we come! 

Word Raccoon was right about going to the café yesterday, just as right as she is that I should stay home today and write by the window in her new, comfy pink chair that I FINALLY put together.

Anyway, Tuesday the manager asked me to sign copies of my books she’d bought online. 😀 Exciting and unexpected!

Also, a man whose first novel I helped developmentally edit stopped by the café. He’s on his fifth novel now. The first two are traditionally published, but he’s gone hybrid these days. I’m so happy for him, and it was great catching up.

Turns out the café’s manager sings like a Disney princess. I told her so, hoping she might twirl through the rooms with a bird on her finger. She confirmed she’s been in musicals. I knew it.

WR thinks she, WR, is entertaining enough without adding a chorus. Jealous raccoon.

I’ve had another poetry acceptance, this time from the University of Alabama’s journal Al Dente. Self-Rising is a poem about biscuits, Martha White flour, and the longing to offer comfort and food to someone running late to dinner. I’m grateful and happy.

Then, just before bed last night, another acceptance arrived: my poem about my father, “Scooter Dude,” will be published by Poetry Habitat tomorrow.

I hope they won’t mind if I share what they said, because Word Raccoon felt seen in a rare way:

“This piece moved us deeply. It’s tender, unguarded, and beautifully human—a portrait of love seen too late, yet rendered with such compassion that it feels like grace. The way you capture the father’s quiet dignity, his humor, and the speaker’s hindsight gives the poem a lasting ache.”

WR wants to weep, and I want to join her.

Though my dad didn’t get to use his scooter for as long as we’d hoped, his presence in the community: the light, the soup, the quiet generosity, was exactly as I described. So, too, were his sacrifices: gardening and cooking through pain, giving even when it cost him.

I miss him. The last gift I bought him, days before he passed, was a silly animated Snoopy dressed as Santa who sang Feliz Navidad. Whenever I hear that song, I smile.

It’s tough looking around a store thinking, What can I possibly buy my father, one last gift, that might make him happy?

Dear Reader, I’m about to wreck you: by the time I gave it to him, he wasn’t really alert enough to enjoy it. And let me say, it felt just as jarring as you can imagine to hear it trying so hard, as if it could snatch him back from the other side as he drifted that way.

I haven’t written a poem about that Snoopy yet, but maybe I should. 

I wonder what ever happened to it. 

Back to (maybe?) happier topics.

Yesterday I discovered the poet John Clare and went down quite the rabbit hole. That’s a post for another time, but here are the poems I wrote:
– Carabinered to John Clare via Mary Ruefle
– Nearer Than Sorrow and Frost
– Poem Limbo
– We Are
– Divine Disorder (tiny stub that has promise)

Today I plan to polish some poems and, once it warms just a bit more, debut the pink chair on the sunporch. WR likes to watch the traffic from her throne.

Dinner’s already in the crockpot. That thing’s getting quite the workout this season, and my poetry doesn’t mind one bit.

Now Listening to: “Love Shack” by the B-52’s

Alternatively, “Paint it Black,” The Rolling Stones 

Let me share some good news before Word Raccoon jumps in here. She’s not happy with me today. 

I am pleased to report that Red Door Magazine out of Copenhagen is publishing my poem “Grecian Urn, Busted.”

It had been stewing in me for decades, something about that chase, that damn urn, but how to approach it? 

First I re-read Keats’s poem, but still I worried that maybe I hadn’t done enough “research.” Then Word Raccoon said “Please! Shove over. I know where we’re headed.” Before I knew it, she had plumbed my submerged discomfort. Within minutes, she had perfectly captured what had bothered me about it for years. (I don’t want to spoil the poem by going into it here.)

The editor was kind enough to say they “love” my poem. Who could ask for more? 

Publication date TBA. 

Oh, and in case it isn’t clear, the title is a riff on the iconic lyrics by the B-52’s in “Love Shack.” 

Tin Roof

Rusted! 

While I can’t say what the songwriter(s) meant, to me while yes, it likely literally describes that “funky little shack,” I’ve always thought it meant more. My title certainly does.

I was about to Drema-splain the title, but I think it’s likely clear(ish), yes?

Word Raccoon is asking if it’s her turn now. By all means, my impatient alter ego.

She is not happy with me this morning.

First of all, I have not immediately agreed to go write elsewhere because it’s cold! And because it’s before daylight! And we have no idea what the streets look like and that bothers me.

Then there’s the matter of the Coke Zero. Apparently I forgot to put a fresh bottle in the fridge and she only had one serving this morning.

Why would she want a cold drink anyway? This is hot tea weather! 

And don’t think I’ve forgotten your stunt with the Coke Zero yesterday morning, WR: I don’t know how someone manages to spill a drink onto a vertical TV. Static electricity shock my ass!

The overnight oats were too runny to suit her, though I took them from her and heated them in the microwave before adding walnuts, thus thickening them and making them warm, which placated her some. 

Yes, she says, but the frozen strawberries are what made them too thin and she wants to know just why I used frozen strawberries. Fresh are coming today, you picky butt. 

There’s also the pile of pink chair parts on the floor. She says I’ve been promising for weeks to assemble it, but have I? Have I? 

I took it out of the box yesterday. That’s something. (Yesterday was a domestic goddess day, and today threatens to be one too if I don’t get out of here before my to-do list overtakes me.)

My hands are not enjoying the cold. WR says there’s a pill we can take to help with that on bad days. 

Is it a bad day? What qualifies? 

You’re allowed to take up to two a day. Why are you stockpiling them like they’re precious gold?, she hisses.

Because I don’t want to take anything I don’t have to. We must protect the writing machinery! 

She scoffs and says they’re mild, dum dum. 

And another thing, she says, our clothes are too big now; we are tripping over our pajamas. We’ve lost a size. The doctor said if we got this inflammation under control we would likely lose some weight without trying. 

We are not sure we like this. I mean health, sure. And we miss some of our old clothes, what we could do before that we haven’t been able to for some time, so it’s worth it. 

We will even admit that we like the aesthetics of a thinner self for us. But we feel so sad for those who get their self-worth solely from their size, for pete’s sake. We have unsubscribed from that nonsense, and we don’t want anyone to think otherwise.

You know what, WR, I don’t have time for this right now. 

Sure, I have a list of “I really ought to” items today waiting for me here at home. But also, nothing that can’t wait a few hours. 

And we only wrote one poem yesterday, WR. It has a decent core, sure, but our efforts were not stellar yesterday. Poetry admin is not poetry making, love. 

That’s what I’m saying, she says. 

Oh. Then we agree. 

According to social media, the cafe is actually open today and serving chili for lunch. I could be persuaded to go out, I suppose, WR, if I don’t have to wash the hair until this evening.

She says as long as she’s wearing earrings, she doesn’t care what I do with the hair.. 

Fine. Ponytail incoming. 

P.S. I did paint a door red on a house once, and it was pretty.