The family must have had a matriarchal streak, for I was grandly mothered.
Grandmother had a choir-dominating soprano voice in the native stone church. She knew her way around the hymnal. Could coax some harmony from the ivories of an upright piano. Reveled in a good singin’ in the living room: Rock of Ages, The Old Rugged Cross, Bringing in the Sheaves.
When Elvis reached the West Texas scene, she sniffed that she couldn’t fathom how anyone could find his music pretty. In its way her assessment was accurate. It wasn’t.
Oh, she could curse, and kept a shotgun in her kitchen in the day — it was a wild, lonely place and lean times. But her nature was sweet. She was a placid, benevolent, stalwart, indulgent, inquisitive, supportive, gregarious, voluble presence. A loyal correspondent in a strong cursive hand.
I never knew her as “granny” or “nana” or the like. She was Grandmother.
(c) 2025 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved
EthicalDative 
Lovely evocative drawing and a reassuring thought – especially for today – International Women’s Day!
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Whoa, I didn’t know about the Women’s Day! Glad I was in some kind of synchrony with it.
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Humbuggeration for Myself
Self-Portrait: Acknowledging My Significance
Before I begin, I must acknowledge
that this poem was written
on stolen land—
land that does not belong to me,
though I have lived on it longer
than most people I know.
I say this with the appropriate solemnity,
a deep bow of my inner thoughts,
before moving on to more pressing matters:
myself.
The waves break, relentless,
just as I broke when you—yes, you—
walked away.
A friendship abandoned, not by me,
but by someone
who never truly understood
what I gave,
what I sacrificed,
what I invested
in us.
Ah, return on investment—
that’s what they call it in business, isn’t it?
An expectation of reciprocity,
of appreciation.
And yet, my dividends remain unpaid.
My emotional labor,
my unwavering support,
met with nothing but silence.
The market of our friendship
has crashed,
and I am left holding
the worthless stock.
I watch my dog chew a stick,
mindless, content,
unburdened by the weight
of past betrayals.
Does he remember
which branch he gnawed yesterday?
Does he suffer the pang
of unspoken goodbyes?
I doubt it.
Must be nice.
The waves keep coming.
Endless. Insistent.
Like me, pushing forward,
despite everything,
despite the way history repeats,
despite the absence
of those who could not see
what I was worth.
And so, I sit here,
acknowledging, reflecting,
righteous in my knowing.
Not yet, I whisper to the tide.
Not yet.
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Poignant and memorable, Josie. Your lapidary language flows with transformative grace. You’ve the gift. I love the self-affirming premise you build on, even as it speaks through pain. The ROI metaphor lands wonderfully. Thank you for this.
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Thank you. But you may be taking me too seriously. I am trying to write a poem about poets and humbuggery but I’m not there yet.
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Yikes! I didn’t pick up on your non-serious cues. Still, I liked it for what I thought it said. I wish you continued momentum in your project concerning poets and humbuggery. There’s rich pickings on both fronts.
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I’m working on the humbuggery. But meanwhile am too distracted by more Roy Campbell and now A.E.Housman and his views on the value of learning. (It’s always something.)
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Your somethings are interesting. Keep ’em coming!
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