Poems Are Stories, Too

I intend to tell easy stories

     by The Author

     (Everyone in my family knows about my         
      shortcomings, the stuff of hard stories.)

That I’m impatient, disinterested in money and so lacking in a certain kind of ambition comforting to a family, possessive of the females in my family, easily moved to jealousy, quick to apologize, much too quick to apologize, verbally hating lies but myself living with a great deal of secrecy, being temperamental, somehow unable to be a good father, especially in the sense of attending sports games the children play in school, not steadily eyeing the kids’ learning in school, and not attending to their every physical and mental need because I am always focussed on my achievements, my intellectual achievements. More. Many more. Many more lamentables.
     For that reason, because my children know all this about me, and know my sins so well, I intend not any longer to write about them but to focus on good memories, memories without sad recollection in them of bad qualities. Memories such as finding Chester, calling cows “pussy cows” that say “mooeow,” stories about my dad shaking in a canoe with me, my dad fishing on Horseshoe Lake with us young ones, my dad taking us to Highway Inn for ice cream on Saturdays, my mom with the green thumb and her greenhouse, my mom and the story of Jack Toews forgetting Low German after two weeks in the city, my mom making excellent fried potatoes and fried smoked ham, my mom being scared out of her wits when I came home all bloody, my white T-shirt soaked red from neck to bellybutton, and so on. Jim winning a roll of quarters in Las Vegas, Jim successfully helping me to get rid of stuttering by reading the Bible, by having me read the Bible to him, Jim leading the church choir, Gwen and her athletic abilities, Gwen and her great kindness to me, Lois and her astonishing acceptance of me always, especially these last years when I’ve had my most aching troubles, the preciousness of Sofia and her clear desire to keep me from losing faith in myself, the blessing of Russell and his quiet, uncomplicated way of relating to Marty and myself and everyone, Jonathan and Matthew and their continuing friendship and oneness with each other, memories of Jessica and me in a bluegrass band and making music and me on her porch on Alloway at 9 in the evening most weekdays to sing and talk and help her get over her sadness at being a single mom. Such I intend to be the focus of my memoir, for the sake of pleasantness of experience for the reader, and for the sake of newness of style because my style has always been so satirical and inclusive of the blackness of life. Let my stories shine with light.