Clunky Old Shoes

The day is cloudy and chilly and I’m not feeling any great inspiration, so will post this poem again. It appeared on my blog back in Jan 2013 and, like the shoe fashion it describes, it can reappear. 🙂

OLD GRANDMA SHOES
Author Unknown

When I was very little
All the Grandmas that I knew
Were wearing the same kind
Of ugly grandma shoes.
You know the kind I mean. . .
Clunky-heeled, black, lace-up kind,

They just looked so very awful
That it weighed upon my mind,
For I knew, when I grew old,
I’d have to wear those shoes.
I’d think of that, from time to time
It seemed like such bad news.

I never was a rebel,
I wore saddle shoes to school,
And next came ballerinas
Then the sandals, pretty cool.
And then came spikes with pointed toes
Then platforms, very tall,

As each new fashion came along
I wore them, one and all.
But always, in the distance,
Looming in my future, there,
Was that awful pair of ugly shoes,
The kind that Grandmas wear.

I eventually got married
And then I became a Mom.
Our kids grew up and left,
And when their children came along,
I knew I was a Grandma
And the time was drawing near

When those clunky, black, old lace up shoes
Was what I’d have to wear.
How would I do my gardening
Or take my morning hike?
I couldn’t even think about
how I would ride my bike!

But fashions kept evolving
And one day I realized
That the shape of things to come
Was changing, right before my eyes.
And now, when I go shopping
What I see fills me with glee.

For, in my socks and Reeboks
I’m as comfy as can be.
And I look at all these little girls
And there, upon their feet
Are clunky, black, old Grandma shoes,
And I really think that’s neat.

Weaving

Weaving Wisdom

The good times and the bad
the ribbons of joy,
the patches of sorrow,
the threads of lessons learned
from the materials of every day;

with these we can weave
the fabric of our lives
into a blanket of sweet memory
that will warm our hearts
in the old times, the cold times.

Micro-Poetry Spree

Good morning Everyone, and welcome to all my new followers!

Seeing as this is my birthday, I’m going to do something different. While I’m a writer of fiction and articles, I feel like I’m primarily a poet. Today I’m going to indulge this side of my nature by posting a number of small poems and haiku I’ve written in the last while.

It’s All In How You Feel

Age is only a number,
a matter of the mind, they say,
“You’re only as old as you feel.”
No one mentions, of course,
that arthritis
might add thirty years.

Oh, Those Big Dreams!

Man reflecting

He used to dream of the things he’d do when grown to be a man,
beguiling boyhood days away with many an idle plan.
And now, when grown to be a man, he knows no greater joy
than dreaming of the things he’d do if still he were a boy.

Thomas Numan *

*This is the name I have as author but Google
can’t find this poem or a poet Thomas Numan.

This Grandma’s Old

Today I did some cleaning up in the spare bedroom, which doubles as my sewing room — and tonight I’m feeling it in my back and one hip. However, I can now see daylight at the end of the tunnel. That is, the spare bed that’s been a “catch-all” for quite awhile has now been unloaded and the closet floor dis-covered and ready to vacuum.

The weatherman is predicting a storm for this weekend, my husband tells me, so this evening I’ll sit awhile and schedule tomorrow’s blog posts, in case the internet goes down overnight. We have satellite internet service and when there’s heavy cloud cover, service is iffy.

Here’s an item I posted a five years back, after a day of babysitting my grandchildren, ages six and two. It’s even more true today than it was then. 🙂

No Tramp-ing for Grandma

The Apostle Paul wrote, “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” 1 Cor. 13:11

When I was a child I played as a child, too, tumbling, twisting, and hopping around as children will. I remember being almost four and jumping down from the hayloft of Grandpa’s old red barn, led by my adventurous brother Jim, eleven months older than I. We’d run into the barn, climb the ladder in the chicken coop fast as our little legs could take us into the hayloft, and jump about twelve feet down to the ground. Then do it all again.

Now my grandchildren can’t understand why Grandma doesn’t want to jump on the trampoline with them.

“All things are lawful for me, but all things are not expedient: all things are lawful for me, but all things edify not.” 1Cor. 10:23

Jumping on the tramp is an okay thing to do if you’re able, but my body doesn’t flex that much anymore. All things are lawful for me, but I will be sore for days after if I try performing acrobatic feats. All things are lawful for me, but my muscles may sprain or tear.

One day, hurrying home from work, I tore the muscle in my leg just stepping off a curb; I couldn’t put weight on that leg for a month after. It’s no fun having to hobble around on crutches for a month!

Yes, it would be okay for Grandma to jump on the trampoline, but the rebound might go on for days as my arthritic joints protest being treated to preschool activities. As it is, my lower back feels a few twinges after from lifting and carrying a chunky little almost-two-year old.

When I was a child I ran after other children all over the playground. Now that I’m old I can see why Grandpas & Grandmas are happiest tending their gardens. Plants may be a lot of work, but at least you don’t have to catch them first.

I love my grandchildren and count it a blessing that I can spend time with them, but they do remind me that I’m not so agile anymore.

Rock-Conner, Teen Idol

Man reading

“Hey, girl!” Angie whispered in her friend’s ear. “See that old geezer in the gray sweater? You’d never guess, but that’s Rock-Conner!”

“Are you sure?” Tammy stared at the broad back of the older man reading a paper. “It can’t be.”

“I’m certain.” Angie squeezed into the booth across from her friend. “I got a good look at him when I came in. That is indeed Rock-Conner, our teen idol.”

“But Rock-Conner was skinny as a string bean! And remember his wild mop of hair?”

Angie snorted. “Thirty-some years ago. I saw an article about him recently; apparently he still sings at charity events.”

Tammy chuckled. “My older sisters always swooned over him. My cousin Janet even vowed she’d marry Rock-Conner someday. And remember his wild psychedelic outfits?” Tammy noted the man’s subdued attire. “Whatever happened?”

“Hey. Remember OUR wild outfits, funky flowers, platform shoes? Back when your hair was naturally red?”

“And I remember when your nickname was Twiggy.”

Angie rubbed her well padded hips. “Before my three babies.” She sighed. “Life is cruel.”

Tammy eyed the elderly gent — her teen idol — now staring out the window. Was he recalling those years, too? “I think I need another latte.”

“Second that. Then maybe I’ll go sign up at Fresco Fitness.”

Dear Readers,
I have a birthday coming up: at the end of this month I turn 65. So you may be seeing more Getting-older type tales and poems in the next few weeks. 🙂