Birch Symphony

Her twigs whistle softly
Woodwinds not yet silenced
Still merry with seasonal change

Rustling leaves offer a hint of song
High notes and low ones
Orchestrated by the wind

Clever of the skies
To solicit mid-air composition
A subtle gift to my ears

Music for the heavens
And those who fly high
Above swooning branches

Melodies that dance forever
Join tiny voices of sparrows
And rouse cackling blackbirds

She gently touches her cloak
Slowly, then with vigor, she
Plunges through each chord

Mighty wind at her back
A gust arrives in D Minor
Blows her instrument awry

Her tempo changes,
Each prelude starts anew
A scorching endless song

Percussion at the ready
Clashing arms mere zest
To flute-like singing bees

That hum, dance and
Swirl to the sound
Of life in the making

Her symphony foretells
Desire, yet alas, quiet
When winter will silence her song

—Victoria Emmons, 2018

A Prayer for Cold Feet

Do not set foot
into a black limousine.
A ride through empty streets
makes the dream real.

No pretend toe tag,
coroner’s signature required.
Son rescues a wedding ring
from a burial far too deep.

Well-placed calls to
sisters, brothers and daughters.
Search for an American flag
to drape across a wooden coffin.

Images of sixty-some years
pasted to a display board
filled with silly grins
at milestone occasions.

Give me a handkerchief,
please. Be there for me,
you, a witness to
love, family, legacy.

Write your name in a book
to remember celebrants
for a friend, father, grandpa,
brother, husband, lover.

Shoe pinches my toe
with each step toward
sympathetic arms outstretched,
pinches my heart.

If the shoe hurts
I don’t have to wear it.
Allow me, dear Lord,
to live with cold feet.

—Victoria Emmons, © 2017
For Karen

The Gray Envelope

A short story by Victoria Emmons (the writer)

The walk up my steep driveway to the row of mail boxes at the top of the hill left me winded. I pulled open the small, black door for box number 9044, expecting free circulars and a telephone or energy bill. A curious, gray envelope dominated the stack of mail awaiting my attention.

I lingered in front of the mailbox and stared at the business size envelope. My name was imprinted on the return address. My name was also neatly handwritten as addressee. Only one important word differentiated the two: catering.

Ever since I adopted my husband’s surname, people confused me with another person of the same name. Victoria Emmons is not a common name. Nor is it shared by anyone famous, or so I thought. Yet the likeness created a strange, new relationship for me.

The first mistaken identity occurred at an alumni reunion in Palo Alto for my husband’s alma mater. I was adjusting to my new last name having worn it only a week. At the registration table, I wrote “Victoria Emmons” in large, bold print on a name tag and stuck it on my jacket. Within seconds, someone asked me if I was a caterer.

My husband and I lived on the east side of the San Francisco Bay. Unbeknownst to me, a rather famous caterer sporting my new name managed a business on the other side of the Bay. Victoria Emmons Catering was well known there. The company had served Queen Elizabeth when she toured the Bay Area some years earlier. The caterer’s stellar reputation brought her a wealth of business. Trucks bearing her corporate logo — and my name — scooted all around town.

That night at the reunion, I thought it humorous that someone mistook me for the famous caterer. I brushed it off, explaining that I was a hospital administrator and never gave it another thought. Until it happened again.

For the next 15 years, I experienced countless mistaken identity moments. There was the mother at a Castilleja School parent gathering who struck up a friendly conversation about our daughters, eventually asking for my favorite recipes. Or the parent who was far less subtle, nearly accosting me with hand outstretched while shouting, “Victoria Emmons! I just have to shake your hand!” She was disappointed to learn I was not the caterer.

Once at a volunteer awards luncheon in Los Altos, a woman checking in guests noticed my name tag.

“Victoria Emmons! I want to thank you for doing such a wonderful job on my husband’s funeral,” she said, her eyes beginning to moisten. I gently squeezed her hand.

“Thank you,” I said. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

I was now becoming a caterer.

I did some research. I learned that the the caterer with whom I shared a name was much shorter and older than me. She even spoke with a British accent. It was clear that not many people knew what the real caterer looked like. I wondered how long I could get away with being her impostor.

While it was bad enough that strangers mistook me for a caterer, when my own friends did so, it was disheartening. One day over lunch, a friend asked me about my catering business, expecting that I could work two full-time jobs.

Even a computer store salesperson once confused me with the caterer when I tried to buy a new laptop. He was convinced I had a Stanford address since Victoria Emmons was already in their system.

Queries about my catering became commonplace. I began to introduce myself as “Victoria Emmons, not the caterer.” It was my personal disclaimer. After all, I was known in the community in my own right. As spokesperson for El Camino Hospital, my name appeared frequently in the newspapers. I was often interviewed on radio and television. I wondered if the other Victoria Emmons knew about me.

The day the gray envelope arrived, I knew she did.

I was eager to read the letter that Victoria Emmons the caterer had mailed to me. This was the first direct contact with my namesake. My hands shook a little as I pried open the unexpected correspondence.

Inside the business envelope, I found a 4” x 6” envelope addressed to me. It had been mailed to the catering company. I was confused. The smaller envelope contained a lovely handwritten note on embossed stationery from a woman in Princeton, New Jersey, whom I did not know. Tucked inside her note was a newspaper column about me.

The note began, “Dear Victoria, Imagine my surprise when I read about you in the New York Times.” The writer went on to ask how things were going in California. The bizarre communication left me befuddled. No letter from Victoria Emmons the caterer was included in the envelope.

The news clip about me, a brief mention in a daily column about acts of kindness by New Yorkers, had been somewhat of an accident. My sister Anita who lives in Manhattan lost a stamped letter intended for me. The person who found the letter wrote a poem on the reverse side, signing it “vegetable writer” prior to dropping it in a mailbox. When I told Anita about the vegetable writer, she encouraged me to send the heartwarming story to the Times columnist who published the story.

The woman from New Jersey sent the article about me to her friend, the other Victoria Emmons. It was a natural mistake. My namesake forwarded her friend’s note to me without explanation. I wondered how she got my address.

I wrote a response to the woman in New Jersey to set the record straight. I felt certain she was embarrassed by her mistake. I did not share with her that her friend the caterer and I had a 15-year history of mistaken identity.

When the caterer finally retired and sold her business, the name changed and so did my odyssey. People quit asking me for recipes. Although I never met the other Victoria Emmons, I felt like an old friend had died.

Story first published in “Captivate Audiences to Create Loyal Fans” by Julaina Kleist-Corwin © 2017

 

 

Comment on Writing

The first time I entered one of my poems for possible inclusion in an anthology, fear ensued. Would anyone think my poetry was worth reading? I had been writing poems occasionally since I was in my 20s. I had never referred to myself as a poet, of course. My mother had written a few poems in her life, as well, but never called herself a poet, either. I was following in her silent footsteps.

When three of my poems made the City of Oakland’s annual senior anthology, I was elated. Finally my work would see print. I could not attend that year’s awards presentation, but made it to the following year’s event as more of my work was subsequently accepted. Walking up on the stage and reading one of my poems gave my heart a flutter. I was not sure I could do it. I was not sure I could share my deepest feelings through poetry in front of a hundred or so strangers. But I did. The experience only emboldened me. I added “poet” to my business card.

I created a poetry blog — La Vue de rue Sleidan — and started sharing more poems online and in other anthologies. Thus far, my poetry has appeared in five different anthologies published by the City of Oakland and the Tri-Valley Writers’ Association in Pleasanton, CA. Now it is time to venture out on my own.

While my readers may not have seen much published on my blog in recent weeks, it is with good reason. I am organizing my work into a book of poetry all my own. Now and again, I will post a new poem or other idea on the blog. Many other poems remaining in the draft stage or even finalized will appear in my first book. I hope you will enjoy the book. Actually, there are two different poetry books I am working on — one having to do with grief and the other with love. I will keep my readers abreast of a publish date, hopefully later this year.

In addition to poetry, I am working on two other book projects: (1) an historical non-fiction detailing the life of Tom Davis of Butte, Montana, who served in 1941-1942 as president of Rotary International, and (2) a creative non-fiction on the failures of the California judicial system.

Fiction? Yes, I do write fiction. In one of the many journals sitting on a shelf in my house, there is a list of ideas numbering around 27 for fiction novels. I am wonderful at generating ideas and characters to match. I have written story after story, most of them unfinished. Why do my stories never have an ending? One of my goals is to write the endings.

I did write a short memoir entitled “The Grey Envelope” that appeared in a writers’ book by Julaina Kleist. The true story was one I had told countless times to friends and acquaintances. Finally the print version arrived.

For four years, I wrote a magazine column for the now defunct “Life on Foothill Road.” Another of my book projects is a compilation of all the magazine columns, each of which shares a short vignette about life. Meeting the publication deadlines for all those monthly columns gave me a reason to finish each story. Hurrah!

To those of you who read my posts routinely, I thank you. I also thank those who only stop by the blog now and then. I realize when there is nothing new to read, you might be disappointed. Know that my hands continue to draft new work that will some day be good enough to meet my publication standards. Please keep on reading.

Couples

Cup without a saucer
First name without a last
Activist without a handmade sign
Monkey without a banana to eat
Home without a state
State without a name
Hand without a finger
Nowhere is home
No place is mine
Where a heart resides in peace
Accepted by rulers
who prey upon strangers
and do not tolerate salt
without pepper.

—Victoria Emmons, © 2018

A Different Kind of Playground

Toes have lost all feeling.
Trigger finger feigns sleep
as night approaches for
the fourteenth time.
No relief.
We wait.
Wait for something new.
A stir under a bush,
light in a wet jungle
unwilling to relinquish
its charm,
hidden eyes revealed.
A faraway cough
threatens my dreams
of playgrounds and
laughing children.
A flash of fire
disrupts the cloud of
greenfinches bedding down.
All Hell awakens.

–Victoria Emmons, © 2018

Missing

A missing appendage
Makes it hard to type
Close a button
Pick up a dime

The departed pointer finger
Lost to a sharp buzz saw
Building hearth and home
To keep a family safe

Lost, but found, the finger tip
Still feels, still grows its own claw
Offers refuge for gnawing concerns
That cloud a hectic day

Gone, but not forgotten,
Memories reside in time
Within an absent piece of flesh
Imagined to be whole

Finger the missing edge
Feel it, love it, massage
Its invisible core
Until it reappears

Make it whole again
Make yourself whole
Resume your heartbeat
Nothing missing

–Victoria Emmons, copyright, 2017

Mostly Me

Frankly it was summer
and hot.
Air wouldn’t move
and fences were blocked
so no one could enter
even if you didn’t
want to go inside.

I did. I wanted to see
what his world had been like,
all hundred or more years of it.
There he was, a stone general
frozen in thought
astride a white mount
blackened by time.

The pressure
weighed upon him,
I am sure of it.
Please the family,
children need bread,
a new nation cannot breathe
without a leader.

Easy enough to live
on a peaceful farm,
ignore the critics
and haters,
ones who shame
into leadership
those who might win.

Oh, cousin, why did
we fight to defend
a way of life
gone for the ages,
too radical
for our time,
but not yours.

Conflict need come
to an end, they say,
no war between us
or remains of vast
valleys full of blood,
soldiers no more,
only crosses on a hill.

You watch from atop
your loyal stead
new soldiers who
never learned history,
nor learned from it,
mistakes made and
lives lost, teach anew.

They do not listen,
nor will they know
that you remain a leader
teaching lessons from your day,
remind them of wrongs
gone by, not wiped away,
remembered for a reason.

Dear cousin, show them
from your Traveler’s perch
so no one will forget,
that our battles
from home to home,
brother to brother
must surely end.

–Victoria Emmons, 2017