Countdown

Here it is!

We've entered the countdown phase for delivery of my late daughter Laura Jeanne Morefield's poetry chapbook, The Warrior's Stance.

For those who've not been following my nearly two-year odyssey, here is a bit more information. There will be a book publication party in March. If you wish to be invited contact me as below.

Laura Jeanne Morefield’s The Warrior’s Stance

A lifelong poet, Laura Jeanne Morefield showed her work to only a few people, among them her husband, her mother, her sister-in-law and her best friend. When she was diagnosed with stage-four colon cancer in 2008, Laura kept on writing. When it became apparent she was not going to survive, Laura extracted a promise from her mother, writer Charlene Baldridge, to collect and edit her post-diagnosis poetry and make a chapbook.

With its title taken from a line in one of the poems, “The Work at Hand,” the chapbook is titled The Warrior’s Stance.

A warrior keeps her back leg strong, connected

to the earth. She faces her hips forward.

She lifts hands and face skyward as

her front leg leans into the territory of the enemy

as far as, as long as, her breath will take her.

Laura’s poems are filled with a language that bespeaks love, humor, gratitude and courage.

Her assertiveness was apparent early: she writes about “inventing body-surfing” at age 8. Her love of nature, particularly birds, is evident when she writes: “I must be about my winged business today.” She sings along with cherry blossoms in the far reaches of the oncologist’s parking lot. Even though she blows bubbles instead of praying (“Selah”) and scoffs at miracle cures (“Another Day”), her faith shines through all the works, right down to the last handwritten poem, “Me Again,” in which she pulls out the begging bowl, asking God for enough time to see her nephew married.

Charlene Baldridge

Charb81@cox.net

619-296-8044

News of The Warrior's Stance

Well, here it is, an image of the cover of the book I've been working on for quite some time. That's my warrior sketch there. Design is by Patty Kevershan of Kevershan Design. I've known Patty since the 1980s when I worked at the Old Globe. She designed my poetry chapbook titled Winter Roses. Neyenesch is doing the print job. Can't wait! Once the ISBN number is affixed and minor corrections are made, it goes to press! 

What you can't tell is that in the red strip lower left is handwriting from Laura's journal which wraps around from the  back cover. At the top of each page will be a strip of this red with different sections of the journal. In white will be the title of the poem on that page. There's even going to be a matching bookmark! And of course there will be photos of Laura.

The 50-page book will sell for $20 and the entire amount is tax deductible because it goes directly to the non-profit Colon Cancer Alliance in Washington, DC. We're still working out the logistics but we will have a web site, www.thewarriorsstance.com. To reserve your copy, send an email to charb81@cox.net.

The poems contained in the theatre piece titled The Warriors' Duet were selected from this chapbook, which is the result of my promise to Laura that I would collect,  edit and publish her post-diagnosis poems. The Warriors' Duet will be performed in July as part of the San Diego Fringe Festival. 

Laura Jeanne Morefield (10/8/1960-7/17/2011) and her mom, Charlene Baldridge
2008

The family epistolary

Old stuff from plastic boxes 

 Joyous and painful time for me

My son Charlie and I are going through two huge tubs of my late daughter Laura’s memorabilia, photographs, letters, report cards, certificates of commendation. There are even news clippings and photos of Laura in Madison High School drama department productions, as Cornelia Otis Skinner in Our Hearts Were Young and Gay, Mrs. Einsford-Hill in My Fair Lady, and Rebecca Nurse in The Crucible.

Laura as Mrs. Einsford-Hill

 I ran across an excruciatingly funny, undated letter from Laura. If I recall the circa 1978 incident correctly, Laura and our Finnish, American Field Service daughter, Birgitta Kraus, had become stranded after a day of swimming at Pacific Beach. They had spent their bus fare on food, didn’t have even a dime for a pay phone (that was long before the advent of cellphones), and failed to appear at the appointed time.

We were frantic. When the girls finally appeared, we saw them emerge from a ratty looking panel truck down the street. Under parental grilling, they confessed that they had hitchhiked home. We read them the riot act. The letter is in response to our parental terror, our worry over what might have happened, our admonitions and the question of suitable punishment.

Always the arbitrator, Laura offered several options for restrictions, starting with the most severe. I can’t remember how we reacted, but after all these years, the letter is stunning evidence and reminder of the incident.

Laura Jeanne Costales

Birgitta Krause

This morning, it dawns on me how similar the hitchhiking letter is to one written by my sisters Lynn and Jeanne explaining how the black India ink was spilled on mother’s yellow silk chair. Both letters point out the penchant for pragmatism that runs so deep in our family.

Here, for your delectation, are the letters:

Undated letter from Laura:

Dad and Mom,

Yes, we hitchhiked. We bought lunch and forgot to save enough money for the ride home. It didn’t dawn us until just before we left the beach. I didn’t find out what time it was until too late. I’m sorry about this – I think that I should have a punishment – if you feel that it’s fit – 1-2 weeks of restriction, ie: lose of time to go to a friend’s hose, etc. & should lose* 1 week of my already drawn upon allowance. That would be 3 weeks from now. * (or maybe TV & Reading).

I’m sorry I worried you & hope you enjoyed your evening anyway. You’ve had to put up with a lot from me & you deserve to have someone better than me. I’m sorry – really, truly – I’m sorry & I love you both very much. I’m so sorry.

Laura and Birgitta on the day of Birgitta's arrival

            Give me whatever punishment you see fit – love you both, Laura J. Costales.

Two other girls

From my memoir titled Zingers: I did find the missives [from Jeanne and Marilin (which is what she called herself then) written on yellow paper. They were left for mother and dad when the girls spilled ink on mother’s yellow silk chair. The writing was as I recalled it: Lynn’s was ornate and neat, and Jeanne’s was scrawled all over the page.

            Jeanne had also written in crayon all over Lynn’s part of the note: “This is all a lie. Beleive [sic] me — Please.”

            Dear Mother, wrote Lynn, I didn’t mean too [sic] honestly. Don’t blame me about the pen its [sic] mine and I needed it. Jeanne started after it and caught hold of my arms. I threatened to throw it if she didn’t stop. But she paid no heed.

                                                Marilin

            P.S. About the gum [in Jeanne’s hair]. I meant to get it on her forehead but I missed. I then tried to get it out before she would notice but she discovered and put up her hand and got it entangled more deeply.

            Jeanne wrote: Dear Mother & Daddy:

            There were no phone calls, but Marilin put gum in my hair and we can’t get it out. Please wake me up and cut it off. She also said if I tried to get the pen she would toss it some place which she did. It landed on the yellow chair and ink went all over the chair. It was the yellow one. The ink is washable, thank hevens [sic], because it is Blink blue washable ink. She threw the ink first of all, then she put the gum in my hair.

                                                            Jeanne

            P.S. See if you can see the ink.

The Warrior's Stance

Laura Jeanne Morefield
nee Costales
1978

Having received scans of certain pages from Laura's journals and having received typed versions (thank you, Kathryne Kieser) of what had been identified as poetry therein, I have set about comparing poems to be added to my late daughter's chapbook, The Warrior's Stance, to their original handwritten versions.

Laura's handwriting was always, at the least, shall we say, quirky. Due to chemotherapy's neuropathy it grew even more challenging to decipher as time went by. She wrote every day until the month before she died. Her final poem, "Me Again," was dated June 6, 2011. She died July 17. 

As editor of The Warrior's Stance -- Laura gave me the assignment -- I have done all humanly possible to make certain that the later poems extracted from her journals are as accurate as can be. Laura first wrote all her poems longhand and then put them through a meticulous process prior to sharing them with me and a couple of close friends. Because many of these late poems were never put through the usual process, I wrestled with the very idea of publishing them; however, some were added to what I had believed was the finished chapbook. 

Ready for the press, The Warrior's Stance will be published soon. When that process is completed, and I hold the first copy in my hand, I will let you know. 

Happy new year.

Charlene Baldridge

The silver bell redux

The back steps
101 Garrison Street
Wilmette, Illinois, circa 1936

Long ago, perhaps in midlife, I wrote about mother’s silver dinner bell. Its Zen like tone summoned Florence, who served holiday dinner parties when I was a child. Mother rang the bell when it was time for the next course, and Florence came through the swinging door moist with kitchen heat, the air in her wake bearing hints of wonders yet to come.

I can’t remember the content of that long ago story; perhaps it conveyed nostalgia for the home, the family unit in Wilmette, the visiting aunts, uncles and cousins, and a longing for my mother. When I was growing up, there was warmth like no other in her arms.

I’m certain I purloined the bell the day my two sisters and I sat on mom and dad’s bed after dad died, deciding on the division of stuff, large and small. Henceforward and always, the bell remained in my possession no matter my nomad life.

I say “always,” but that is not exactly true. The bell returned to me the day after Christmas this year, as we packed up things I’d given to my late daughter, things her widower has no connection to, things that will never be passed on because he and Laura were unable to conceive.

We wrapped the Spode dinner service, my sterling silver, and the chocolate set that belonged to one of the great aunts who sat at table in Wilmette. For now, they will reside with my son and his wife in Bellingham, perhaps eventually finding their way to my eldest grandson, who has progeny. The bell remains with me.

“Is this the bell you gave to Laura when she got sick?” Dan asked.

“Yes,” I replied as he carefully swathed it in thick paper towels.

I waited till Laura’s end seemed imminent, when almost all possible treatment options had been exhausted, when it seemed she might become too exhausted to rise. I thought she might spend some time in bed in their big house, might have need of a bell to summon help or at least a glass of water. But I was wrong.

Mostly she headquartered on the sofa in the great room from whence she could watch films and her favorite television series, at least until electronic gadgetry became too complicated. She complained loudly that there was something wrong with all of it, and so she merely held court, and when it was time to retire she hugged everyone and walked up the long, bent staircase on Dan’s arm. It was thus even the night she lapsed into unconsciousness, by then in hospice care. No need for a bell. Ever.

The silver bell, with its luscious reverberations at the ready, sits beside me now, December 27, 2012. I may use it to summon the muse as I strive to write my next assignment, a book about Loo and Moo; or perhaps it will summon mother, Aunt Sophie, my sisters, Jeanne and Lynn, and Laura – all strong women in whose arms I experienced profound comfort.

Laura Morefield and Charlene Baldridge
Christmas 2008

Our stories are legion. Our love, vast.

Good news

Two poets

December 15, 2012

Mother and daughter, one slapdash, the other precise,

mother accustomed to writing quick and dirty,

daughter preferring, even bound to, perfection.

Laura Jeanne Morefield and Charlene Baldridge
June 2008

I have spent the past 19 months laboring over my late daughter’s words, fulfilling my promise to collect and edit her post-diagnosis poems. There are many. They are good. There will be a book.

Other than the words I must produce – criticism and features mostly – my own creative work slowed to a trickle, partly due to anger and then, to grieving. Now that Laura’s collection is almost fait accompli, I’ve begun writing a book about our mother-daughter relationship. And I’ve also opened the desktop folder titled “My Work,” which contains my poems written since Laura's diagnosis and death.

It pleases me to announce that Laura’s poem titled “I Invented Body Surfing” has been selected by renowned poet Steve Kowit for publication in the next Serving House Journal, of which he is poetry editor. It further pleases me to announce that a recent poem of mine, “There Is a Stonehenge in My Heart,” will be published in the forthcoming issue of San Diego Poetry Journal.

These victories and recognition seem to indicate that our time was not wasted.

I have an ongoing relationship with Laura through words and dreams. I think of the children of Newtown with a heavy heart today, and I pity their parents, who were robbed of the richness of ongoing relationship and the privilege of knowing their little ones as adults. In light of their losses, I am ashamed to admit I still feel cheated, even though I had Laura for 50 years. I was fortunate to know my child as an adult woman. They never will have that privilege. May they find comfort.