18 Years Ago: May 9th--Due date!

Blogspot, May 9, 2015

When I confirmed that I was pregnant early in September 1996 (and I can't say "found out" because we were "trying"), the "first day of your last period" became an all-important data point. Sheila Kitzinger's Pregnancy Day By Day (which I have found in a 2001 edition as a used title on Amazon) provides a chart that pairs the start of your last menstrual cycle with a date exactly 40 weeks later. My pairing was August 2 and May 9. "Remember this date is only a guide," she says, "since babies are usually born between 37 and 42 weeks." The day I had a positive pregnancy test was the day before my Granny died at the age of 96. I didn't get to tell her, but I instinctively connect her lovely soul with Simon's.

Kitzinger's advice about the inexactitude of the due date, along with with other information such as both my mother and sister had given birth "late", convinced me to focus my energies on not expecting my baby to arrive on this date rather than gearing myself up for the event. Un-raised expectations cannot be dashed. I remember being cautious in my assumptions throughout this time. I don't want to use pain medications during birth (but if I can't bear it, I'll consider options). My baby is clearly a boy based on ultrasound (but what if this baby is actually a girl?). My baby appears to be healthy and so am I (but what if the pre-natal testing was wrong, what if we have a difficult situation ahead?). And so on. What I don't see in my notes is anxiety of this sort: what if I can't handle the birth, what if I can't be a good mother? All in all, I believe I was calmly awaiting whatever would come.

May 9, 1997 Due Date! (a Friday): "155 lbs; 40 laps" All I can say about that is you go, girl.

Elderberry-apple Schorle
and Rhubarb Schorle

May 9, 2015 (a Saturday): In breezy spring weather, I biked with Miriam from Flein into Heilbronn. We rode across the fields (grassy early wheat and rye, emerging potato plants and maybe some sugar beets) and down a big hill into Sontheim. From there we joined the path along the Neckar River and rode all the way to town. (Markus uses this route to bike to and from work every day. It's about 6 kilometers one way.) We had lunch at a pleasant restaurant called Pier 58 that serves Flammkuchen (Alsatian pizza). Next we hit Stein und Duftparadies (stone and scent paradise--needs no further description). In general, the area along the Neckar downtown has spiffed up considerably since we arrived five years ago (although the stone and crystal place has been there longer than that).

We ran a bunch of other errands, trying not to step on toes in the crowds at the unnamed international festival in the pedestrian zone. Back home, I took some photos in the garden and set myself up for blogging on the back terrace. The real benefit of writing in daylight hours will be getting to bed earlier than I've managed for the last several nights. I love the serial writing (it's also kicking my butt).

(Almost) ready to bloom: peony, clematis, rose.

Ants, doing whatever they love to do on peony buds.

First bloom! Pumpkin sonnets

Yesterday evening, the pumpkin plant's first buds looked full and yellow and ready to burst.

July 16, 2014 about 9:00 pm

July 17, 2014 about 9:00 am

I took inspiration for my morning writing from the pumpkin plants and the new flowers. "10 lines of iambic pentameter," I though to myself, "that will be easy." I've written about the pumpkin for so many years now. I figured sitting on a stool with my notebook right beside the plant would allow me to write freely and quickly. After a good forty-five minutes, I went inside to my computer with one scratchy page of writing--too scratchy even to count lines accurately.

I typed and redrafted extensively at my desk, all the while feeling less certain that the effort and time put into the exercise made any sense at all. I'm still not sure. But I have fourteen lines, some of which push boundaries of iambic pentameter past where I can comfortably evaluate them. Multi-syllable words and shifting emphases (anapests, trochees, dactyls and anything else that feels differently weighted) are a challenge. On the other hand, I've wanted to push past relying on one-syllable words connected by articles, conjunctions and prepositions. So, I give you fourteen lines of iambic pentameter, vaguely in the form of a sonnet.

[First bloom] 

Broad green leaves, part maple-shaped, part heart,
cleft and round where hollow stem meets veins
of beige that branch and re-branch to each leaf’s edge,
shade-making, dew-holding, chlorphylled veil,
a membrane lofty, thin and brave, prepares
to be sustenance for fruit that’s yet to come,
to shelter it from heavy rain and sun,
transforming light and air to feed new buds
now bursting through the calming cover of leaves
like jesters’ hats of wrinkled orange-gold.
They beckon flying creatures to come and coat
their bellies and bee-hinds in yellow powder
    then buzz away to roses, phlox or cat-mint—
    too soon to find and bless a pumpkin’s mate.

The first pumpkin nectar for bees in 2014.

July 17, 2014 First potential pumpkin of the season,
with adult human female toenail for scale comparison.

I recalled today that I wrote a sonnet about the pumpkin in 2008 while taking Tim O'Keefe's English 2500 Introduction to Creative Writing at the University of Utah. I was forty-five years old in a mostly undergraduate-aged class. I believe it is fair to say I cut my teeth in Tim's class. The pumpkin sonnet was my back-up, and the class much preferred my much less traditional dishwasher sonnet. (If I hear any requests, I'll post the dishwasher sonnet, too.) From February 2008:

[I grow a pumpkin aching back to you] 

I grow a pumpkin aching back to you,
My dear sweet child, my babe, my first-born son.
A sprouted seed held in a cup it grew—
At first we let it languish without sun.
Yet something urged me plant it in the earth
To carry on what school friends had not doubted
By sticking pumpkin seeds in soot-brown dirt
And watching awestruck as each green shoot sprouted.
Bent-backed, broad-leaved it crawled on thick-vined knee:
Straight toward your sick room restlessly it tore
As if wild growth could ease your agony.
One fruit all golden, full and round it bore
    That you might live beyond your seventh year
    And I, the tender, hold you thus still near.