It was summer, 1962
and I was seven years old.
I loved our screen porch where my mother never came
except for meals in the berry-bush cicada evenings.
It was my father's domain, and mine.
He read his newspaper or did crosswords
with a ballgame on the radio.
I loved the march music at the opening and in the beer ads.
Sometimes the weatherproof rug was a dance floor
for my dolls when my brother wasn't there to make fun.
My main thing that summer, though
was my cards spread out on the old
table, retired from the kitchen, now the grand dame of the porch.
I had prayer cards--
Saint Anthony, Saint John Bosco, Theresa of Avila,
colorful as comic books, bright as the light of Heaven.
I had baseball cards--
Rocky Colavito, Cuno Barragan, Orlando Cepeda
with dark woody borders
and early 60's dark caps
they looked as if they played in perpetual shadows.
There was incense
in the form of my father's Dutch Masters cigar.
There were the sacraments
and the sacrifice bunt.
The saints seemed backlit, blessed by Divine Hollywood.
The players cards were sometimes misprinted with a
green-tinted background as if they were undersea.
I liked to mix them, shuffled and fanned out.
Saint Sebastian, patron of athletes, his foot
resting on the top step of the dugout, gesturing
his fielders into position
with a wave of his scorecard,
or by messages brought by angels.
Jim Bunning striking out the devil with a wicked side-arm fastball,
making Old Scratch look foolish
as the vendors call and the fans
cheer. Jim walks off the field in the sunshine, no shadow in sight.
I have forgotten which cards I had, mostly.
Who was the beer sponsor? Schlitz? Blatz?
What had I done that spring?
What did I do that fall? In summer 1962
my father and President Kennedy were alive
and so were the saints and ballplayers
On the table
on the screen porch
in summer, 1962.
_____________
for What's Going On? "Forgetfulness"
Music: Gale Garnett We'll Sing in The Sunshine
And Detroit Tigers march music radio intro
I'm smiling at the images in this poem--the mix of cards, but also the old table, "the grand dame of the porch" and the incense and sacraments. I love the music, the mix of faith and popular culture. What a joy to have this memory, regardless of the few things forgotten--this is a gem of a poem, making me want to remember my own holy spaces.
ReplyDeleteOh this took me back. I could see (and almost feel) it all, the porch, your father, the radio, the cards. Back then, I could write a letter to Hollywood stars like Fabian, Annette Funicello, others whose names, sadly, I forget - and they would send me back an envelope full of autographed photos. That was how communicating with fans and building careers was done back then. Your wonderful poem took me back to the back porch at my grandma's, where I hang my childhood for safekeeping.
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