Jack Mosher Plantin

There were many ways he shared all the gifts he knew

He was always a giver, a father figure,

Project man, loved to work with his hands

Church goer and prayer, smile maker

Wood worker, coffee drinker

Daily walker, dish washer

He was gentle and kind, never did mind

Generous in every way – tried to be every day

Believed in all big or small

Kind and true he will always love you!

by:  Jennifer Stenberg

My sister wrote this poem about our dad. I think she did a great job describing him. He was 75 when he died on October 12, 2016. So, she wrote a 75 word poem. She was nice enough to give me permission to share it on my blog. Thank you Jennifer. She was also assigned the task by dad to write his obituary, which can be found here http://www.glendenilson.com/obituary/Jack-Plantin/Clitherall-MN/1661922

 

My Dog and My Dad

Buried my dog, Lady, yesterday.

She had bone cancer,

ate up her back hip,

part of her spine,

and blocked her colon.

Had to put her down

before she became septic.

My dad has bone cancer

all over his body and in his brain.

Metastasized is what they said.

He lost a lot of weight

and can’t stand.

I flew to visit him.

He was in bed,

skin over bones,

big smile though.

He was wearing a prayer shawl (scarf)

around his neck,

knitted by old ladies at his church,

like I knit with at my church.

Dad was very pleased with his scarf.

He told me how they were praying for him,

and that he knew the lady that knitted it.

All of a sudden, the knitting I’d been doing

for random people I don’t know

became personal.

We reminisced.

He told old stories.

Then asked, and said

he was trying to figure out

when he would see me again,

“Are you coming to the funeral?”

Then he remembered

it’s irrelevant.

It was hard to leave.

My sister, her husband, and son

were with.

They drove.

She lives there.

She’s cried her tears.

I tried to hold mine back

while I walked away

realizing that was the last time

I’d see my dad.

I couldn’t talk.

We drove in silence for a while.

We stopped for burgers.

Mine had peanut butter

(dad liked peanut butter)

and spicy jam.

We had chips and fries.

My sister was good,

she had a salad.

Not me,

I drank Dos Equis.

We did some last minute shopping,

gifts from Minnesota for my kids.

Argued about old times,

she called her mom,

which proved her wrong,

and proved that I was right.

We looked at old pictures.

Her husband cooked us breakfast

to which her mom joined us.

They were nice to visit with,

a gracious host and hostess.

Yesterday, I got a text,

dad had stopped eating.

So as I brought Lady to the vet,

my mind and thoughts were on my dad

dying of bone cancer in his bed.

I cried for the dog.

It was very sad.

But my heart was in Minnesota

crying for dad.

The dog was my son’s.

We cried together

while we watched her die.

Brought Lady home in a box.

Help came to dig the hole,

his sister’s boyfriend,

who brought a shovel.

The two men worked together

in our southern, still hot, autumn sun.

Broke a shovel. Laughed a little.

I took photos

for his dad and other sister

who couldn’t be there.

And the day went on like normal.

Got a text in the evening,

the priest had come to see dad.

My sister was able to be there too.

This morning, I got the news,

“Dad passed away last night

between 10:20 and 10:50.”

He was ready to go.

I’m looking through old photos.

I did my crying yesterday.

I walked for dad when I got back.

I baked his favorite cake.

I checked out a book from the library that he read,

“Dying Wishes, a Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery”

I’m a knitter.

Now it’s time to read.

by:  Paula D. Nevison

To the Most Important Man in my Life

That same old thing

that has become routine,

please don't mistake for boring.

For something perfect

can't be fixed and changed,

or it may become, to us, estranged.

I'm addicted.

I like predicted.

Routine is good.

Without,

withdrawal sets in.

I fall apart.

It is the stitching

that holds together

my broken heart.

So, will you be my valentine

for the twenty-seventh time

in a row?

I don't know

how to express,

this I must confess,

so I stick to the routine,

the same old thing,

hoping

I'm not boring

to the most important man in my life.

I feel lucky to be your wife.

Happy Valentine's Day

by:  Paula D. Nevison

The Dragon and the Ballerina

So...I'm participating in an online writing workshop, and one of the days was telling us that we need experience, observation, and imagination, and to write a short-short story.

Imagination is what I need to work on, so I asked Ava, “What should I write a story about.” She said, “A dragon and a ballerina, but make sure the ballerina was flying on a dragon.” Then she got involved in watching Dora and left the rest to me.

The dragon laid down,

curled his tail around to his side,

so Princess Ava could climb up on his back to ride.

Draco, the night guardian of the sky,

had been watching over the castle for centuries,

ambivalent about people,

his goal was only to keep the peace.

The bangs and crashes of their fighting

disturbed his daytime sleep.

After being alert all night,

into the depths of the castle

where it was quiet and dark,

he would creep.

Little Princess Ava,

having just learned to twirl,

practiced her pirouettes everywhere,

and as she danced she sang.

Today, she bumped into a statue in the hall,

abruptly stopping her.

She noticed a door nob

that she had never seen before.

Squeezing behind the statue,

she turned the nob.

With the latch released,

a once invisible door

opened into a dark hall.

Not afraid, but curious,

she squeezed back out from behind the statue,

and skipped and twirled her way

up to her room to get a flashlight.

On the way she sang

about the invisible door

and the wonderful and pretty things

she might find inside.

Flashlight in hand,

she started down the hall.

It's walls were filled with paintings

of a world she had not seen yet,

as the four year old princess

living in a castle

on top of a mountain in Greenland.

Trompe l'oeil trees up to the ceiling,

green grass covered in brightly colored flowers,

birds, and squirrels,

she found a new wonderland to explore.

As she turned the corner,

she ended up with her little face

to a great big strange face.

She stopped singing.

Draco spoke, in his calm deep voice,

“Don't stop making that noise.”

“What noise?” posed the princess, “I was just singing.”

“The singing. Please continue.”

That's how they met and became best friends,

a little princess, and the great Draco.

He loved to listen to her sing.

As she danced around the castle,

her sweet little voice would lull him to sleep

while he laid in the dark tunnels underneath. 

by:  Paula D. Nevison 

The Man in the Moon

My daughter cannot see the man in the moon.

This is difficult for me to understand.

He's always been such a good friend.

Maybe she's too smart for her own good.

She sees the craters and the mountains for what they are.

The shadows do not speak to her.

Yet art is who she is. It oozes from her being.

She doodles intricate pictures on everything,

including her friends,

their binders, and their hands.

She is an extremely talented artist,

especially good at drawing faces.

Which is why I do not comprehend

how my daughter cannot see my friend.

by:  Paula D. Nevison

Fish into Chicken

Ava and I

were watching TV.

They were catching fish.

She said to me,

“If I catch a fish,

and like, peel the skin off,

and take the bones out.

Then you can cook it,

and turn it into chicken,

and we can eat it.

Would you like that?

You can turn it into chicken,

like, cook it.

If it tastes bad,

you can,

if you got a drink in your refrigerator,

you can,

like,

drink it.

Then it won't taste bad.”

by:  Paula D. Nevison

Leaves on the ground, jump,

playing in the gentle rain

on this sunny day.

by:  Paula D. Nevison