Reign of hail

A rain of hail

It could happen
The spring rains certainly hard enough
The icy hail frequent enough
So intense
They pounded the garden flat
Left the clay soil
Reformed. Crusted over
Like a child’s try with a potters wheel.

So it happens.
Perhaps. Tapped too many times.
Running into ruin.
We tire of replanting.
Seeds again and again
Cutting away the ratted leaves.
Giving up is so much easier.
Let victorious spurge and chickweed
Claim their soils

I’ll not look
And call it the garden
Instead
I’ll not turn that way
At all

Mullin’ Mullein Take two

Rachel writes,

I have risen from near ghost

to near human

I ponder. She is right

as my finicky appetite

nibbles whole pickled garlic cloves

rolled in raw spinach and fresh snow peas

A garden I struggled to plant in March.

The peas in their pods so tiny

My fantail goldfish beg to me from their bowl.

I love to share with them

as they swallow the tiny bites whole.

 

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It’s a far place I am
In my garden, tending, mullein
Far from where I wintered
on the plains as a ghost
stumbling through invisible snowbanks
now flooded banks

I feel rich. Eating radishes more or less washed
right from the bed.
Mullein does that.
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Maybe because it, too
feels nameless with a hundred comforting names
Beggars Blanket
Candlewick
Flannelflower
Velvet Ice
Oreille de Saint Cloud

Useless weed
with endless uses
heals cough, earache, stomachache
burns, wounds.

Wikipedia doesn’t include
vertigo or rue in its list

powerfull
I am
float floating a bit, still.
in my horse tank
turned back yard pool
as the fog burns off slowly this chilly summer
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Dad texts me.
once lost in fog,
one’s sense never seems the same
feeling as if the sun rises in the north
or the road twists when it should curve

for me, the sun will set in the south from now on
and my dress size settles there too
As the old ache in my belly from doctors orders
is soothed by fried chicken, ice cream, and potato chips
bacon on my organic spinach salad
spiked with mullin’

Rachel writes.
I have come back from
near ghost to human

Riches found
in Beggars Blanket
Fluffweed
Welcome de Saint Cloud
Sloughing off the fog

Heartland

 

For Gina

Radar in Colorado

Radar in Colorado

The heart has no radar
And needs it so desperately
Layers of greens and blues
only part we dare show
The scalding twisted center core
Writhes along a deserted
Inland sea
Twisting its way into
Tornados hailstorms
Finally Floods
We press our hands against breaking hearts
Trying to keep hooks and shards in place
Afraid of everything
We’ve been afraid of so long

Tapping
We hear a voice
Let it go
just let it go

let it rain

down

Chasing Life with Johnny Winter

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Some of us follow life
Its rules easy enough
Eat, sleep, work, play
Walk, talk, run, swim.

Then there are the brave
Those who grab life
14er Hikes, Moab mountain bikes,
White water raft
Cross country ski.

For me
The water cannot be held
Any longer
By my cupped hand

the rules are sleep, sleep, nibble, sleep
Life must be chased
Pills laced
And chased by life’s vitreous iv drip
It seems just a bit out of reach these days

Staring out a

Toosmallapiece of sky window.
Clouds that I once caught
Sift by. Without the game of
IthinkIsee a……

Seems odd that chasing life

for some must be
Done in prone and poem
So it is
So it is for now

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Love, life and money

by Johnny Winter

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Everything’s Ducky

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Chicks and ducklings arrive
At the farm store
They squat in their little
Sawdust aquariums
Reflecting misery

We imprint humanity
On Hatchlings two days from the shell

How diversely they absorb it

Chicks peck aggressively at
My fat  fingers pressed against
The glass
Becoming tiny hungry humans

Ducklings
Clustered under a false sun
Staring up at plaid skies
Ever fearful
Ever watchful
For the already circling
peregrine falcon

We too, feel the pull of a familiar face

along monitors and screens

We’ve ever never seen

Run our fingers over
familiar profiles
Of long lost cousins
Unmet friends
missed mountain weddings
We tap tap tap
wondering if they can feel
Through the ether

hurt by cruel fate fingers
watchful eyes
Turn skeptically
Not allowing Wondering why
Destiny chose this palette
Not free open sky

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cross eyes at the cross hairs
Frosted by all the planted possibilities
Frozen down
Forget my wings
Fearing phony predators
I stare at perceived sky
Hazed, glassy sun
Confident that this is my permanency

 

 

 

We need. We

Our grasp usually
exceeds our reach
We need more
Always more

We need we need
One more touch
Down
Car, bank deposit , TV, iPhone, iPod
Really tho

More
me time
We need more hours in the day
We need someone to remind us
To check more hair growing out of our ears
To pull slivers from the bottom of our feet
To tell us that our garden is too large
For our faltering energy

We need our parents’ voices
Even if we are ourselves aging
We need someone to tell us
To eat better
Slow down
Take naps
Sleep 8 hours

We can live alone
Stare at screens
Chat on line
Work in solitude
Pray in silence

We can
but
Still
We Need We

#535 Giant morning stretches accompanied by stupid noises

Originally posted on 1000 Awesome Things:

Crack that back.

Everybody’s got their own gorilla jungle noises when they wake up in the morning. There’s a few famous moves for waking up your bones:

1. The Insane Wiggle. This one’s the classic. There’s no focus and direction here — you’re just twisting and turning in a crumpled lump of sheets and twisted blankets. Maybe you squeeze your face into your pillow, pull your legs into your chest, or just let out some long slow grunts to feel that stretchy buzz in the small of your back.

2. The Starfish. This is where you lay in bed and stretch your arms and legs in all directions. The starfish works best if you somehow managed to land a night in a king-size hotel bed by yourself.

3. The Old Man Can Walk Again. When I lived in Boston my roommate Joey was famous for this. You’d hear his…

View original 301 more words

T Rex TExt

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i invntd txtng.
Well, at least I thought I did and for it I heartedly apologize.
For we have become a short
Phrase
Single line read
Driveanenglishteachernuts.
Sort of society.
Except for my mom
Who denounces advancing
Technology
every year still mails
handwritten valentine cards
To each of her 6 children

I made the announcement of
my invention
last year on in my Facebook page
(where announcements of all types are apparently now made)
it was dubiously met.

When pagers were popular,
my coworkers and I would send
coded messages to each other.
It was a faulted system at best.
Tricky. And we had to think ahead of the system.
Pagers could only receive a numeric message.
 Of course, there aren’t enough numbers to match letters
or even sounds adequately
as the most common letters t,r,m were missing.
The numbers had to be put in backwards
and the pager tipped upside down to read the message. Misunderstandings were a given.

For example, the word “hello” was punched into the dial pad as “07734”.
image We added a 411 or a 911 depending on the urgency of the message.

LOL.RFLMBO.

Facebook friends responded.
Military vets chime in that they were using the subversive technique on radios and calculators when digital first arrived in technology.

An argument ensued. Baby boomers SHOUTED

Don’t be ridiculous!Ovaltine decoder rings implemented a numbers to letters system in the 1950s. Then the old CB radio folks jump in with a 10-4 GOOD BUDDY!

A visit to the cable tv 1930s movie channel reminds me that we used to say phone numbers like this HA9—-. A mnemonic device, apparently, to help people remember the new long seven digit phone numbers. Thus, PEnnsylvania 6 five thousand. (which for some reason, also required some shouting).
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I admit defeat to Bookworms reminding me of Sir Arthur Canon Doyle’s, Adventure of the Dancing Men from 1898.

Then one must consider Navajo Code Talkers.

Codes and signals are embedded in our language history as we reach to communicate across distance, in that secretly public way.

Circling letters on gum wrappers in grade school and tossing them out bus windows.

Mt me drng rcss at mnky brs.

k. i. b. der.

 

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It’s no blindness

morguefile.com

morguefile.com


One certainly does not expect
Sunburned eyes
In the midst of the worst winter
In the last 30 or 100 years.
Strolling in
ultra violent violet light
Glare on glare
Sun on snow
Even from unrelenting haze.
Blue so iridescent
So pure
When I come into shelter
from dazzlingbright Skies.
There it is.
Snow blindness.
Can’t see the forest for the trees

It’s a study to be blind
Hands steadying along walls
Telly without the
vision.

My prism heart colors my own apparitions
Now bleeding
My weary eyes
Spill out my own illusions

My sight wanes against the
Foolish belief that nothing
Ever
Will
Change

’s no blindness.
We are warned
But rarely listen.
The longing heart
Hears only love’s beat
Without discernment
Visors shut out deception
Blinded from wiser voices
Deafened by yearning choices
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The heart doesn’t always see
The heart doesn’t always hear
What’s best for this me.

There’s treatment.
No cure.
There’s preventative measures
No assurances.
No antidote but time.

One could wear glacier goggles
Block out any possible chance
Of seeing ice crystals glisten
Off the trees
Perfect flakes shimmer
In painful Blue
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But the tender heart wears no shades
Opening eyes sightless
Not gleaning
Yet
What is ahead.
Transience filters through
In the cracking ice beneath.

See me.
falling
through
Seeing you.
image
…..
A collaboration with three women who I have never met, but whose hands guided me to form this verse.
My thanks to them.
Rosemarie Mohr My-Heart-Speaks-Envisage
Debra Carson Squyres
Maureen Kwiat Meshenberg https://www.facebook.com/Heartcalling; https://www.facebook.com/HearttoHeartquotes4u; https://www.facebook.com/WomenAsVisionariesWithLoreRaymond

The River Reigns Here

feywit:

A fabulous view from the South

Originally posted on Levybrakes:

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A trough at high levels of the atmosphere became established over the interior West. Meanwhile, southerly low level winds directed a rich flow of moist air from the Gulf of Mexico into the Midwest. Upper level disturbances riding eastward from the western trough encountered the moisture-laden air, spawning drenching thunderstorms.

Wave after wave of these storms rumbled across the already soaked Mississippi River basin from June through August. By the end of summer, some locations had received over 30 inches of rain – nearly 200% of normal. ~ The Weather Channel

I never watch the weather reports

Well I do

but

not really

Mostly out of curiosity

rather than for information

-

The air always tells

What it will do

-

I listen intently

The Weather Bug

serves to obscure

What I already know

-

Patterns remain the same

decades past

-

Connection with the sky

Connection with the mother

View original 191 more words

Lamentation of Swans

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they warned us
As best they can
If we listen like Ancient Ones.

Miles, the short haired cat
In August
Suddenly grew a long thick ragged coat
Shot with silver
Yellow Dog called unto his Ancestoral cousins
husky and border collie
Growing a woolen fleece dense as a highland sheep.
as cold September flood waters destroyed
Colorado towns, farms, forests, roads

I stood and watched for hours
As a murmurration of starlings
Murder of crows
Flight of swallows
Hosts Of sparrows
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Freckled storm wrecked
skies with a blackened rush

‘That means something’
I told my troupe
Who yawned in the autumn sun

Indeed.
How do beasts read the earth
Seasons in advance
Feeling dread of harsh winters
Before summers last tomato ripened?

When did we stop listening?
How foolish and puny we are
In the face of natures collective knowledge

How frightened we are in our cars
And houses
Caught unaware
When fuel tanks run low.
Viewing ourselves without options.

I feel great angst
I selfishly sheared little lamb
in mild mid December
To make it easier to attach his collar

I lie

his static electric shedding fur is a nuisance
A shower of hair fills a room
When he shakes off imaginary snowflakes

I cropped his ears and tail too short
i pay penance
On our twenty below february walks
I stop often to warm
His bare ears with my bare hands
In the sharp wind chill
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He’s shivering without his dense wool ruff
Even with his sweater on
‘ I’m so sorry’
I whisper into his bright red ears.

He sniffs the yellow charcoal sky
Buries his head into my buffalo hide coat
He forgives me
He always forgives

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warms the cockles of his hart

He leaps
Twice from his right foot
Twice from his left
Skipping, skipping.
Warming up
Out loud he sings,
“Alive, A-live O”

The first song
He ever learned
In its entirety.
An Irish rounder refrain
From summer camp.
He didn’t know about dominant seventh chords
Or the texture of melodies coinciding
In different voices

The meaning was not at all clear
But he loved the cadence of
soft lament
tragedy of hope
Hope for freedom
Freedom from a life of capture.

He feels the burn rising.
He’s practiced so many times.
On the hundreds of small streams and creeks.
He envisions himself a gazelle.
Silently sailing from one safe bank
He leaps
Just as all the times before
He feels himself hover airborne
for that extra fraction. of time.
Alive. A-live O!

Oh, to cast in bronze,
Memories of Our finest moments.

This time his landing
Is accompanied by
A resounding crack
From somewhere deep within.
He knows he won’t imitate
The gazelle again.

Now as he shifts painfully
From creaky knee to the other
behind gleaming counters
of The Piggly Wiggly Seafood Market.

He dreams of her strawberry hair
of cherry bonbons
Burgundy against chocolate.
And those few fragile airborne flights.

He owns it, yet
carries the prophetic dirge.
chanting softly now:
In Dublin’s fair city
Where girls are so pretty
He first set his eyes on
Sweet Molly Malone
She wheeled her wheelbarrow
through streets broad and narrow
Crying.
Cockles and mussels
alive a-live O!
She died of a fever and no one could save her
Now her ghost wheels her barrow
through streets broad and narrow
Crying.
Cockles and mussels.
Alive.
A-live O!

He knew even skipping in his Keds
Along bogs and bayous
There is
No utopia.
Not on this side of Jordan

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……
Once again my muses rise to coach me.
Thanks to K for the concept and to E for the last line.

Dianna, goddess of the hunt


My tiny masseuse
Walks her practiced, powerful fingers
To find the knotted, bundled muscles in my neck
These angled cords and rods
Taut like bow against arrow
circle my head, ears, tipping my semicircular canals
Keep me from finding my sea legs
When try I to stand

She takes them as her mission
Finding fiery sore, angry places
where I didn’t know
I had places

She presses til my ears roar, rush, whistle.
Til my eyes well up with tears
Til I cry out for my mommy.

She hears no pleas for mercy
Only her fingers hear in her hunt
for errant myalgia.

My long irritated nerves
Creak under her ministrations
She releases the vile toxic acids
I have held there
Hunched over decades of computers.
Weighted by spreadsheets
Spread thin by deadlines and demands.

While I wonder why.
I pay for this by the hour
I know that I will pay for several days
Sleeping in hot baths
Surrounded by hot rice packs.

For days afterwards, I will find where
Her fingers traced a lineage of resentment
I will rework raw points with tennis balls
Round wooden pegs
until slowly released
rods and cones will allow me to turn my head from side to side
Without stagger or stumble.
Finally choleric bundles spun away

I realize as I text with Charlene and Rachel.
I do the same in my lone afternoons
And in my nightmares
I press hard against the knots of my failed history
In the night I grit my teeth
Until I crack the gold.Caps.
Wear through diamond drilled amalgams.

My mynd must relive every foolish blunder
The stupid and the unkind
The speaking before engaging the cortex
Cruelties both descending and ascending

Perhaps a few more sessions
Or a hundred more texts
gritty grains of angry sand
Will slide away

I will sleep without clenched jaws
Without angry knots at the base of my brain
And the dizzy sky
Will be just that
A blue canvas
And me.
my arms twirling me about
in winter’s ceaseless snow
Spinning spinning spinning
free
freed
from me
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Blind staggers and slight of hand

​the real Mary Poppins had a miserable sort of existence
While the sparkling Disney castle
A fascade to cover dark days

Some stagger through miserable lifetimes
Like ill, affected cattle with blinded, blunted brains.

Ah
To be a play
Right
with legerdemain
A enchanted quill holding magic decade ink
That draws broken years back into spotted feather filters
Erases errant ways
Rewrites a discordant score
Makes it all come out
New.
Our governances all kind, sweet, full of sugar
No warts, no gruel, nor barley water
With life’s nursery spotless
Dancing within chalk drawings.
laughter and hot teacups rising us to rooftops.
Spellbinding words change
cold, embittered straw bosses.
Only chimney sweeps shake our hands.
Our tupence fed birds sated
Our kites soaring
Harmonics rising

Fade out
.with gold Helevetica font credits
Fade out
to cloudwhite

..
..
With gratitude to my muse, who knows who she is

My enemy. My friend.

​remember ​

In childhood how a fisticuffs
Led you to reach out your hand?
Turn what you thought was enemy
Into
life long friend?

How years after years of sibling rivalry
At a crossroads
Found your sisters
As ports in a storm?

Suddenly at 25 or 35 of age
overly strict parents
Became role models
And you find yourself calling them to hear your own voice.

I have a love/hate like that
Oh, yes, we have warred
Fought like cats and dogs
Over 25 years
Nearly half my life
My friend has flung me to the dirt,
Made me see the light,
Fought my battles for me,
Changed my way of thinking,
Altered my vision,
Eased me into a quiet retirement.

Oh it is one of those friends
You want no one to see you with
Keeping hidden,
Making liars of you both.

My teacher:
Bringing me
Wisdom, persistence, patience, determination, resolve.
We have spent holidays alone,
Vacations in silence,
Days in darkness,
Nights in introspection.
Brought me to my knees
Taught me prayer.
Made me into a homebody.
Reclusive poets are we.

I have clung to my friend in desperation,
And I know, of course,
My friend cannot live without me.
We are closer than ever these days
Moaning and bemoaning as our
30th anniversary together approaches

All those rough and tumble years
Leaving their scars and marks
We ache and complain about life’s foibles

There’s an odd comfort
Knowing we’ll be together
Come what may
Rain or shine

​Meet and greet my frenemy….

Addison.
.
.
.
.

http://www.webmd.com/a-to-z-guides/understanding-addisons-disease-basics

blessed are those who spin. . for they shall be called wheels

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We’re captive on the carousel of time
We can’t return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game. Joni Mitchell

gin makes me laugh
Reminding me of our childhood
Playground where a massive
Maypole of steel chains with handles
We called striders
photo (1)

Swung children at a mad speed
Til inertia lifted feet from earth
Circular flight
or not, as
Sweaty palms slipped us
At concussive force onto the
Dusty ball field
Giddly deciphering the extent
of our bruises we
Rushed again to leap aboard
We used to think dizziness was fun
photo (3)

I am visiting a land of carousels
Which comes to me with that same speed
On whirlwinds
eddy currents
Without courtesy
Of warning,
takes me for spin after spin

And I plead
Nay, beg to return to familiar ground
But this place has no such landing.

I could feel rich
For I have two more of everything
On this merry go round
Two rocking chairs,
two pinging phones,
two howling dogs.
Two swaying swings,
two or three tv screens
All repeating the same slideshow
Click. Click. click
gyrating letters on two keyboards
drives poetry from my heart
two coffee cups
neither of which my four whirling hands
can grasp
as they plummet to twitching hardwood floors
my cedar flutes lie silent
16 fingers
cannot manage to cover 8 holes
Even in the dark
With mom’s satin night mask over my eyes
I lie like Dorothy of Oz
In the eye of a twister
Waiting for mattress and house to
drop to earth
Click.
Click.
Two doctors with two opines
Two ear crystals
Two neck muscles

Occasionally.
I can step
off the
merry go around
There I have four knees, four feet.
None of which will lend me steady ground

While starlight reels counterclockwise
I cover my four eyes.
photo (4)
I try to believe
that these things pass
And soon the trip.
Trip.
Trip.
Shall end
I step onto the swaying dock
Leap off the playing ground striders
Grip breezes as they shudder
Shake off extra shadows
Hang up extra phones

Remember how it feels to walk strong and steady
If I dare I crane my sore neck
to look back
has the carnival left?
Painted Horses still
spinning screaming octopus dismantled
bumper cars stacked neatly
leer with fake headlights
‘A pox on your kind’

Absentmindly
my two hands search for fence rail
Or walking stick

It’s not there
I don’t need it anymore
I’m off the carousel.
photo (5)

Quarter to midnight

We dream through sunlit mornings of this life​

Wondering just who might appear

And when. ​

What surprises might form in the colours of earth.

I searched in long hot lazy afternoons of my summer

I bear frown lines from squinting against the sunsets ​

Still believing

‘Cause that’s what the fairy tales say

I wearied at sundown in my life ​

Resting quietly in the garden of my own making

Contented with what I had sown

Though small the harvest

I could not have expected anything at the edge of my night ​

When I am but a shell of the self I was

Yet

Warm against the barren trees

It

Whispers

Along my leafless limbs

At quarter til my midnight

i wait for ​

Aurora Borealis

Winter vacation in Omaha

There’s a comfort in the cold
Winter sets in with a bit of snow
To muffle humanity
No kids screaming on at the corner
As they jump on their trampoline
No three wheelers rumbling in alleys
No lawn mowers endlessly foolishly
Grinding manicured pastures
No cars screeching brakes while
Windows open pounding out bass rap
Dogs inside garages
Make the long freezing nights silent
Far, far in the distance coal train
Horns spilt the cool dark like a acoustic zipper
I open my westerly window to see the sharp bright stars
To listen to humankind hibernating
As the last Canadian geese nosily cross
The fading sunset
I wonder if townsfolk too
have all headed south
To seek comfort.

For me
I would rather vacation in Omaha
I love the sharply painful frigid air
It fills my ipod headache with the calm
That January brings
Where I wait by
Flickering tv light
For sleep that will arrive
Perhaps
On the next train
Or the next

snisuoƆCousins

My thanks to my cousins MAB and MCB who inspired me to writ this bit

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Identical cousins are we
planted within the same year
on this earthbound journey

When north polar express gales
Wail
I tip. I lean precariously
When Chinook pulls on my foliage head
My root arms lift up sod
I have that hollow feeling inside
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Barking beetles boring into my layers
Sloughing off the years
Like cotton would

sighs of cousins fingertips
aspen against poplar
brushing by like dust
bring that welcome
minute relief
just knowing we share each others long history

but 50 years is a mere blink In gods eyes
it is just there I sense it

that hallowed feeling inside

post office complaints

I apologize to my faithful readers but this is a story that I remember every year at this time because of its innocence and simplicity.
Sometimes I just can’t beat an ages old story. And this is one of them.
This is paraphrased from the writings of my Aunt Faye in Blue Glass Plates. it is so sweetly poignant as it provides us a snapshot for a Christmas in the 1940s.

Turkey Tales

My Great Grandma Katherine spent hours every day caring for her flocks of poultry, ever watchful of snakes, stray dogs, and coyotes near her new home, poetically dubbed Rim of the Prairie. In October of 1941, her diary records that Great Grandpa Louis killed a 40 inch rattler on the bunk house step.

In particular, she raised prized turkeys which were capable of short distance escapades. Ageless at 66, Katherine would saddle one of her ponies, Snow White or Pokey, and patiently herd the turkey flock home from their sojourn to the Arkansas River.
The purpose of these fine turkeys were not just for sale, $150 precious 1940 dollars for 80 of the fowl ($1500 in today’s money) but as gifts to her closest family members. Grandpa and Grandma lived in the remote south eastern Colorado town of, yes really, Fowler. So the 1940s answer was simple and straight forward. She prepared ‘dressed’ turkeys by wrapping them first in waxed paper, then in brown paper and tied securely with cotton string.
Then, she mailed them. Parcel post. Mail moved by railway and items were sorted while the train was moving: packages took approximately three days. (Imagine, if you can, the surprise of a postal worker, sorting 5 immense turkeys on board). (Now, imagine the response of such an attempt today at your local post office).
..
Great Grandma’s diary records the mailing of one set of Christmas gifts on December 17, 1946. The Farmer’s Almanac reports that during this week, the daytime temperatures were 47 degrees, night temps 30, with no snow throughout the month. The Almanac further reports that Christmas Day throughout the plains of Colorado was 64 degrees. On December 23, my mother’s family, had not yet received their turkey. A family visit to the Postal Service Annex in Downtown Denver’s Union Railroad Station initiated an all out search in a huge, tin roofed building, appropriately sided by chicken wire. The large, lumpy 12 pound package was fairly visible on the top shelf. Apparently, times they were a’changing as modernization crept in. Clearly written on the side was the correct address with the mail carrier’s note, “City carriers do not deliver large packages to your mail box.”

My mother’s family was thrilled by the prospect of the feast as they were all hungry for the ‘fresh’ turkey. All the trimmings accompanied this fresh turkey, as had been done for the one before and the one before that.

Grandma Katherine’s diary does not provide insight for further Christmas gifts, but she lived past the century mark. Makes one wonder, how long did she battle the mainstream, mailing turkeys parcel post?