Salt on My Tail Feathers

by the Scarlet Phoenix (aka Sherry Rentschler)
Originally published July 10, 1998

I’m a tolerant person by nature. I believe that we should let people live their own lives, make their own choices, and learn by their own mistakes (and boy have I learned a few hard lessons!). I try to live and let live in the truest sense. But sometimes people don’t know how to do that for other people. Sometimes people judge you on their lives or their standards or their expectations. Like how I was treated for not having children. That’s the salt on my tail feathers!* 

     When I was in the military, I made a choice not to have children. Even before my first four years were up, I knew that I didn’t want little rug rats. Oh, not that I didn’t like children – in fact, I think they can be very adorable…sometimes. When I was a fresh, young teen, I was in great demand as a baby-sitter. Kids liked me and I was good with them. No, it wasn’t that I didn’t have an affinity for kids; I was too engrossed in my own life. I knew that I was too selfish and self-absorbed to give up any of my time to child rearing. However, when I married at 19, it didn’t take the women around me very long before they felt compelled to “reassure” me that soon I would want a home, and a van, and a dog…and my allotted 2.4 kids. I laughed at them and “reassured” them that I had no such plans. Smiling smugly, as if they carried some secret knowledge about me, I was hugged, patted, and told in time I would change my attitude. It was 1973. The flower children were ready to have children. But not me. 

     The years went on and I began to fulfill my dreams for myself. Travel (the military is good for that), meeting lots of interesting people, writing, and paying my own money for my college education. Somewhere around the fourth year of marriage, my husband began to hint that he thought it was time for “me to have kids.” (Notice the “me” part.). Yeah. Well, he married me knowing how I felt about not having children, but even he thought I would “come around.” No dice. 

     Good thing I didn’t; we got divorced. The women around me were now saying what a blessing it was that I didn’t have kids (those same women who earlier said I would change my mind and pop a bundle of joy). But when the right man came along, they were positive that I would rush right out and buy up all the baby clothes in sight. I kept laughing, amazed at their “faith” in my heretofore unseen and unfelt desire. Nevertheless, they were keeping the baby blankets warm for me anyway.   

     The years came and went and I married again (remember I said that we had to learn from our own mistakes?), and divorced again (I promise this was progress). It was 1984 and the baby boomers were now discovering that they could “have it all.” Well, I’d had enough! Once again, I was amazed at the number of women who felt compelled to tell me that it was “all right,” and that there was still “plenty of time for your babies.” Every time someone brought a baby to the office, the new mother seemed to land in my doorway asking me “don’t you want one just like him/her?” (Hello? Is there anyone listening to me, I wondered?) Somewhere in the middle of all that I got “fixed.” There would be NO children.

     Now came the years just for me. I had a cat, I bought my first home, I had a sports car (a corvette!), and I had plenty of male company if I wanted it. Best of all, no feedings, no carpools, and no day care, no pediatrician, no PTA, no teen angst. My life was my own. I sometimes wondered if there was something “wrong” with me. I mean the ol’ internal “ticking” clock never “tocked.” I liked the silence and never considered regret.

     Just before I retired from the military, I married a wonderful man who had four, early teenage children from a previous marriage and had no desire for more. He understood my not wanting any and never found fault with me for having chosen an office instead of a nursery. Like me, he thinks I’m okay just the way I am. Our best friends were a couple who also didn’t have children. When we have parties, we don’t invite children to come. We like to go to resorts for couples only and prefer not to go to the movies on Saturday matinee because of the little kids and babies. We enjoy this life and it’s a life of our choosing. When I want to stay up until 2 a.m. it’s my choice, and not because a child needs feeding. If I choose, I can sleep in until…whenever…and my choice allows me NOT to be bitter, resentful, neglectful, or abusive. I’d say self-awareness is a good thing (because in my early years I was self-absorbed, short-tempered, and unsettled).

     Okay, so maybe when I’m 88 I’ll be alone with no children to hug me and tell me that they love me or that I can’t drive or that I don’t remember my name. I’ll always have ME, the man I love, limited friends, and I’m comfortable with that. I am not incomplete. I can assure you that I haven’t missed a thing in my life so far. Also, it’s okay if you don’t agree with my life choices because it was/is my life. So, if I’m comfortable with it, shouldn’t people just be glad for me? Am I less of a friend, or a boss, or a writer, or woman because I said “No” to kids? Live and let live…tolerance…a little respect for my womanhood as I define it, please! It’s no less than what I give to you. 

     As I write this, I’m 44 years old. Would you believe that just last week two women my age told me that it’s not too late to adopt? Nope, now I’m sure no one is listening because the moral judgements continue.

~ And that’s the salt on my tail feathers! ~

* * *

Post script:  April 16, 2018 I’m 64 now and I’m a happy grandmother. There are eight grandchildren plus two great-grandchildren and though I don’t see them, I care about them. One in particular, whom I held as a newborn, captured my heart and smooshed it with love. It was an enlightening and joyous experience. Perhaps it was a glimmer of what mothers all over the world feel. I feel honored to know this particular love. But my mommy clock never quivered.

I want to share one thing. People mellow with time and attitudes soften, but fundamentally we are who we are. I find there are many women who experienced the cynosure I knew as a woman who made a choice and felt forced to defend that choice most of her fertile life. Even into my mid-50s, there were women who told me that I could still carry a baby with someone else’s eggs if I wished or said, “don’t give up, adopt!” (and thus proved that no one listened!).

Today, women are waiting until they are older – even in their 60s – to begin a family, adopt or even foster. Women are not condemned for working and juggling families and more and more women are finding ways to have those families and stay at home. A new generation is choosing not to have children at all. I admire each of them beyond words. Moreover, they have societal support and blessing. Thank goodness for changing times. Because women are not condemned for choosing a life without children too. It’s about time.

The best part? A few of today’s women have said to me, “I wish I’d been as honest with myself as you were to you.”

Ah, the breeze has cooled! I’m free to fly, at last.

_________________________________________________________

The moral to this story is when you believe something in your heart and soul, then trust your instincts. Don’t allow doubt or the opinions of others to dictate your life. In the end, no one has to live with the decisions you make but you. Trust yourself and never apologize for the path you choose. Whether you are a mother, hippie, transgender, self-published author, a military member, wannabe artist, student or office geek – whatever path you are on, let honesty and belief be your guides. Do not let social mores or societal judgements cause you to be or do something that you don’t want (and we’re talking about keeping true to the law too). Go forward without fear and regret.

I trusted myself in a time when the pressure was on to be more “stereotypical.” I rebelled though it wasn’t called that back then. I was shamed and shut out by my own gender. And men wondered what was wrong with me. I doubted myself but stuck to my guns.  I’m happy that I did. Let it be that way for you too.

*(reference to being a phoenix with tail feathers, and unable to fly with salt on them).

Thanks for listening,
I remain, Yours Between the Lines,

Sherry

Next time, more on poetry and other goodies!

Spring has sprung
in winter’s grip.
Summer’s begs that
either slip,
as Mother Nature
nurses her fat lip.

~Sherry Rentschler  (c) Apr 2018 in honor of the wacky weather

National Poetry Month arrived April 1 and during the next thirty days I take great pleasure discussing the ins and outs of free verse, making bizarre limericks, giggling over e.e. cummings, immersed in Baudelaire or Yeats, and wishing I was in Paris during the time of the beat poets.

For most folks, Poetry Month is something they hear about on Pubic Television (and therefore avoided) or from school (and therefore avoided), or in passing on the internet or social media sites (and dismissed as done by college kids or rappers). Such perceptions are a shame too, because National Poetry Month is all about discovery and learning, finding pleasure in seeing the world in new ways. 

Because we need to read poetry and let it help us discover our world in ways news and scholars and schools do not.

I heard someone say, “Poetry. Just rhyming words about things over my head.” Such remarks remind me that poetry doesn’t reach “the common man” because we never stressed the common man poems. It was all Iliad, Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Keats. And we groaned, remember? (well, I didn’t, but my friends certainly did).

More, the above comment carries weight because poetry, once the style of telling stories has passed into the background. You don’t find it in Kohl’s or Walgreens or the grocery store. It’s not in the magazines (but once or twice a year) for April and perhaps Christmas. Kids talk about it at school just long enough to get to lunch where they can discuss “real literature” like Hunger Games, Game of Thrones, and Wonder, or discuss the latest comic book/graphic novel that became a blockbuster movie (Marvel, anyone?).

Sadly, the very people discussing the latest blockbusters and listening to their playlists on their phones, are missing some of the best moments in quotable literature. According to CNN, “Fewer than 7% of Americans polled in 2012 had read a work of poetry at least once in the past year — down from 17% in 1992, according to a national survey (PDF) by the U.S. Census Bureau on behalf of the National Endowment for the Arts. That decline in participation was the steepest found in any literary genre.”

What we need to emphasis to our children and each other, is poetry is the short, short, short, story. A poem can define a moment, bring us together in surprise or sorrow, encapsulate a thought, and help us to understand ourselves in brilliant and usually brief ways. Just look at Maya Angelou or Mary Oliver and how easily we come to share their understanding. No, you don’t need to read Dante’s Inferno (though you really would enjoy it), when you can read William Carlos Williams or even Dylan Thomas. Truth is simple. And poetic.

No, poetry isn’t mainstream anymore. But if you hang out on Twitter or Instagram and you search for poetry or poets, you’ll be amazed at the real poems being shared and quotes coming from them. Many don’t even realize the poem that originated a quote but are surprised to realize that poetry made the words quotable. Take the great poet, Alexander Pope in his An Essay on Criticism, Part II , 1711:

Ah ne’er so dire a Thirst of Glory boast,
Nor in the Critick let the Man be lost!
Good-Nature and Good-Sense must ever join;
To err is Humane; to Forgive, Divine.

Poetry is more about us than we realize. Poetry is us. We sing it and the songs we sing become markers of our lives. We quote snappy lines, sometimes not realizing the words are ancient or even Nobel Prize winning. 

Do we need to know that? Nope. What we need to do is read more poetry. We need to not “go gentle into that good night” but rage against poetry’s invisibility. Help others to see the beauty all around them. Start with a child’s poem such as the insightful Shel SIlverstein. Or even Dr Seuss.  But let us dust off our old tomes and read….and celebrate Poetry Month, every month. Let our children become the natural poets of the future. Start now.

 There are so many good poets and poems out there. Sure we need to read the classics to discover the artful phrase, to understand the development of the art form, to hear the triumph in epic verses. But does that matter in the long term? Nope. What we need to do today is introduce each other to the modern poets and create a love for common words defining life in uncommon ways. To restore our wonder and excitement. To show us that we can know profound things and be better for the knowing. Poetry does this and so much more.

Let us read some poetry. Share with a friend. Just one poem. Maybe once a week or, better yet, once a day. Don’t do it with anyone if you are nervous or shy. Read it alone. Think and enjoy.

But read poetry. It will improve you, delight you, surprise and shock you. It can enrich you and prevent the inevitable ennui that comes with time.

Be invited in. See the world through rose colored glasses. Or in the boldest colors of reality.

Poetry matters.  Check out some of the ones mentioned here or ask your friends what they are reading. Go on an adventure and allow yourself to be surprised. See your world through creative, fresh eyes and maybe you’ll be inspired to write a poem or two yourself. Share with children and let’s all be a little more free verse in our lives.

Happy reading!
I remain, Yours Between the Lines,

Sherry

WELCOME TO THE BIRD FEEDER NEIGHBORHOOD

The calendar said it was Spring but this year I’m happy to say Winter has a firm grip and isn’t letting go. We’ve had snow flurries three times this month here, and poor New England is buried after four Nor’easters. I can’t say I’m happy for those up north but I’m delighted to be lingering under a blanket with hot tea, watching cold rain fall while I either read or write. Very satisfying.

My writer’s mind is always working but seems to work overtime during the fall and winter months. I suppose that’s why I enjoy doing National Novel Writing Month in November because it suits the weather and my “spring” fever that only comes in Autumn. When Winter arrives, I write and read like a mad woman, though much of what I write doesn’t ever see the light of day. Still, satisfying.

One thing I can tell you about writing every day is this opens your mind to new ideas and new ideas brings you more prolific moments. You know I like to take real life and turn everything into an opportunity for scene work, character development, or world building. Real life moments are what make me a better writer. Even dark and dank, (ma)lingering Winter ones.

For example, recently we put up a new bird feeder. This has been a never-ending source of incredible excitement for the local songbirds. For my husband and me too. We watch out our kitchen window as the cardinals and their mates (or potential mates) flitter and fuss over fallen seeds, the bluebirds, wrens, and sparrows becoming regular patrons. Doves rarely came to my yard before and now two pair seem to have moved in. And a gorgeous red-headed woodpecker that I saw once or twice a year is now a daily friend.

The squirrels are like potential shoplifters. We had to grease the bird feeder pole to keep one particular squirrel from climbing and pilfering the seeds. He seemed oblivious to the local bluejay security guard so we solved the problem. Just like a greedy kid, the squirrel will have to manage like everyone else. I’m keeping an eye on him.

I liken this whole moment to opening a new apartment building. Suddenly you get all sorts of people moving in and out, strange and beautiful. Dating and mating and married for life-ers. There are the fussy, the troublemakers, the slow movers, and the ones always in a hurry but going no where.

And just like real life, you get the ugly moments too. A raccoon died in the road out front of the house. A black vulture dragged it to the end of the driveway. Then into the side ditch. Then back onto the driveway. Then UP the driveway. That’s when the friends showed up. For two days, we watched this go on and then when the raccoon ended up in the middle of our drive, hubby loaded it onto a shovel and tossed it into the neighboring pasture (that’s called passing the buck). Now we see the vultures from a distance. Close enough to see them manage their meals but far enough away that the gruesome factor is mitigated. Let those demons attack elsewhere, right?

Same as it would be for my neighborhood apartment building. Death in the streets is a natural occurrence. Robbing and dragging. Gangs showing up for spoils.

The rains are back. The birds are scattering. They too need time in their cozy nests. I hear a redtail hawk overhead. Squirrels run for cover. Like sirens screeching by in the road, these sirens in the sky warn of danger and accidents. Like me, like people, the birds and animals know.

A doe and two young fawns make their way over barbed wire fence (what separates me from the neighboring pasture) and come to feed on unborn tulips and fallen bird seed. The birds scatter at first, then return, realizing the diner is big enough for everyone. It is a peaceful neighborhood and diversity is possible. Deer, dove, large birds and small. Oh look! A bunny. Ah, that was a nibble on the run much like young folks who are too busy to stop and chat.

(Not my pic, but funny)

Like a true diner, the bell over the door is silent but when the diner is open, it serves many and all.

Life is happening outside my window and in my writer’s mind it is a world not dissimilar to the one I live in. Even in the darkness, when I know the “others” come – the fox, the coyote, the possum, and raccoon – the 24-hour diner continues to serve, their world turns and life is a cycle of comings and goings, birth and death. But this “local diner” is now the hub of activity and feels comfortable.

Uh-oh, there’s the black cat that lives somewhere around here. I think of him as the mafia don, always looking for a payment. Everyone has fled and the cat sits atop my firepit surveying the scene. He’s looking mighty plump these days so business must be profitable. From the tail twitch, someone’s going to pay up soon. When he’s gone, the small birds return. Life goes on.

Thrones, anyone?

That’s the way our book series work, too. We build a world, make the lives, stay with them day in and day out, get comfortable with our characters, look for them, get to know them, need them.

Even when Winter has to let go for Spring, life around the diner will be a never-ending story to savor. I’m certain that’s when I’ll finally see the falcon who gives the hawk competition. Of course, the owl who cries “whooooo” as the police on patrol, lets me know all is well in the neighborhood.

Let the life outside your window give your imagination fodder for your characters as mine does. You’ll writing will sparkle with realism because it will reflect the life’s truth in microcosm. And the fun you’ll have is endless.

We’ve put up a hummingbird feeder close to the window. It’ll be like going to ballet. I can’t wait for that show to come to town. When Spring is allowed to arrive, that heralds the butterflies and bats, and finally Summer’s fireflies. It’s like waiting for the circus.

We’re putting in a birdbath soon. My own neighborhood bathhouse.Stay tuned! And keep writing.

I remain, Yours Between the Lines,
Sherry

P.S. Look for my poetry contest!  Rules at the end of this week.