On the Forgetting of Names

Two weeks ago I participated in the Iowa Summer Writing Festival and took a class led by Doug Goetsch. We wrote four or five short pieces every day spurred by a variety of prompts. One day he asked us to write a piece based on a title: "On the Forgetting of Names." I immediately thought of the last time I visited my grandfather in the nursing home about a year before his death and wrote this piece based on that visit.


On The Forgetting of Names

     He was laying on his back, on top of the covers, in the middle of the small bed. The black and gold plaid flannel shirt was buttoned over a dark blue t-shirt. Neither coordinated with the brown polyester pants that stopped two inches above his ankles revealing white cotton socks. Black loafers completed an ensemble that no one would have ever seen him wearing in his younger days.

     For most of his adult life he wore the blue-gray uniform and work boots of those who were employed by the Board of Water and Light. He put it on in the morning before he walked to work and he left it on after he got home. Sunday was the only day the uniform changed. On Sunday he would don one of this limited church outfits (although he would never have called them outfits). Polyester pants in a hazy green or a gray (rarely brown), paired with a more brightly colored button shirt and a one of the eight, big, fat-knotted ties that he owned. When he retired the work uniforms were traded for a flannel shirt and jeans.

    Now, at 81, he didn’t dress himself anymore. The pants probably weren’t his own but were, instead, the nearest pair of pants that fit his diminishing body, grabbed hastily by the nursing home orderly charged with getting him dressed for the day.

     He laid on the bed in the middle of the afternoon with his hands entwined across his stomach, elbows tucked neatly at his side. He looked up at the ceiling trying to conceal the frustration of having forgotten another name. This time it was someone who repeatedly called him “Grampa” even though he was sure they were close to the same age. It only compounded the confusion of living in the Navy barracks with all of these old people. He didn’t know why he was here or who this person was or why they were talking to him. He just wanted to leave; to walk through the woods outside his window to his mother’s house. He just wanted to go home.

Silent Stroll

Last week I participated in the Iowa Summer Writing Festival and took a class led by Doug Goetsch. We wrote four or five short pieces every day spurred by a variety of prompts. We could write in any genre so some were poems, some fiction, and some memoir. Late in the week I tried my hand at some poetry after we had been given the prompt, "Whistling."

Some people whistle as they walk past graveyards.

I prefer to stay in stealth mode

when walking among the headstones,

leaving undisturbed whatever spirits lie beneath.

Not because I’m afraid of what may arise.

I imagine they are peaceful enough

even resting in ties and dresses;

clothes they were relieved to shed in life.

I walk among hard etched names and dates

searching for peace myself.

A peace that passes all understanding

keeping heart and mind in one true faith

It’s a peace I cannot find outside of box and vault.

So silently I stroll between clusters and rows

of loved ones gathered in death

who knew as well the joys and longings of this life.

A Visit to the Dentist

Last week I participated in the Iowa Summer Writing Festival and took a class led by Doug Goetsch. We wrote four or five short pieces every day spurred by a variety of prompts. We could write in any genre so some were poems, some fiction, and some memoir  The following piece was written when we were challenged to write about something we dislike from a positive perspective.

A Visit to the Dentist

I have really great teeth.

I inherited them from my grandfather. Not his teeth specifically but the genetics that make for good teeth I suppose. Add that to the five years of braces that accompanied me through adolescence and you’ll find the least embarrassing physical trait on my person. So taking care of my teeth is important and going to the dentist is a semi-annual event that I refuse to miss.

I am fortunate enough to have found a dentist that I like. He is personable without being nosy or trite. His staff is friendly and professional. The waiting room is stocked with current magazines but I never seem to have the time to leaf all the way through one before I am called into an examination room. There, I can choose the style of music that is played during my visit. My personal preference is heavy metal but I worry that it sets the wrong tone for someone wielding sharp metal objects, so I choose the light jazz.

The dental hygienist and her assistant do most of the cleaning. I shut my eyes against the blinding, overhead light and they lean over me to pick at the small bits of plaque that have evaded toothbrush and floss. They chat idly about their children’s gymnastics, concern for aging parents, the price of hay, planning a baby shower and which bakery in town has the best butter cream frosting. I silently wonder at the number of times I have had similar conversations to pass the time or just to hear myself tell a story that I want to hear out loud.

 When it’s time to polish my teeth I am able to choose from a list of designer toothpaste flavors that include cinnamon, grape, strawberry, vanilla-mint. I stick with the classic mint. Not once am I asked to “rinse and spit.” Every stray bit of spittle and toothpaste are vacuumed away with a small suction hose. I never have to sit up once.

At the counter on the way out I can schedule my next appointment and they have my bill already waiting, adjusted for my personal insurance program. Altogether, this visit takes less than 45 minutes. I walk out the door proud to have braved another dental visit and aware that the ache of my jaw and tingle of my gums will keep me mindful of the great gift I carry in my mouth.