A chair should be there BEFORE I sit,
I should roll down the window BEFORE I spit,
But because I am old,
I am frequently told:
“You know we all think you’re just a HALF-WIT!
As readers of Views from the Edge (VFTE) may know, Steve Shoemaker, my poet colleague on VFTE has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. His sense of humor remains strong. This verse recalls a moment with Steve and four other seminary classmates following a rare Cubs’ win at Wrigley Field in Wrigleyville, Chicago.
BENDING DOWN, LOOKING UP
A towering 69 year-old figure standing
six-feet-eight, Steve saunters slowly
through the post-game crowd outside
“the Friendly Confines” of Wrigleyville
like a watchtower on skates, looking
far and near for who knows what.
A very happy young woman as high
as he is tall pulls on his sleeve, asking
a question only he, bending far down,
can hear. He smiles but shakes his head
to whatever offer threatened to bring
him down to a lower happiness high.
Two years later at 72, he might be
looking again for the Wrigleyville fan
for something to ease the pain, settle
his stomach, give some relief from
the newly diagnosed cancer, a pill
or toke or two to raise him back up
to the watchtower, now six-feet-seven.
We who couldn’t hear the question
now smile, bend down low, and look up
beyond Steve’s lofty height with prayers
for courage, strength, whatever will keep
him tall in the game where everyone wins
and loses, and quite unexpectedly,
feels a gentle tug on an old shirtsleeve.
– Gordon C. Stewart, Dec. 8, 2015
Me: God, Why?
God: No, I ask the questions…
Me: Ok, what are your questions?
God: Don’t ask.
Steve Shoemaker, my poet colleague on Views from the Edge, is at Mayo Clinic here in Rochester getting a second opinion on newly diagnosed pancreatic cancer and silent heart attack. He recently shared the news with his friends, many of whom had applauded his recent advocacy for welcoming Syrian refugees.
Here’s what Steve wrote:
In Mark Twain’s “Huckleberry Finn,” the young rascal lets his family, and the whole small Missouri town, think he was drowned in the Mississippi River & his dead body carried down stream… And then Huck snuck back into town in disguise and attended his own funeral.
The frequent truant was amazed at all the nice things said about him–even by his school teachers.
This has been my experience the last few days as my serious cancer diagnosis became known, along with a surprisingly positive article in our partisan Republican News-Gazette about Democrat me being critical of Illinois’ Republican Governor refusing State aid, public or private, to vetted Syrian refugees.
As I spoke & wrote about welcoming Syrians, the outpouring of support & personal praise has been amazing…some of the positive words coming even from my grown children (who seeing me up close for years could have written very differently.)
Of course I know after bad news, and at a funeral, critics are silent or absent. I am grateful for both the good words, and the silence!
Illness, diagnoses, prognoses and treatments are personal. Some keep them not only from others but from themselves. Not so with Steve. This is typical Steve. What’s not to love about a humble rascal?
Some medicines make pain go away–
My visitors know just what to say.
Most doctors speak in just the right tone–
I see nurses smile, yes, through the phone.
Family and friends recall each good time–
Poets send limericks–some even rhyme!
Greet each new sun–I’m still having fun…
The front page of today’s Champaign-Urbana News-Gazette carries a feature article on Steve Shoemaker, as in Views from the Edge with Gordon and Steve. This photo of “Welcome the Stranger” includes a note from Steve’s daughter, one in which Steve’s friends heartily concur.
Steve Shoemaker: “Welcome the Stranger”
Seven blessings seven prayers,
Leave for now our many cares.
Light a candle, sing a song,
Join with others, do no wrong.
Friends and family, music, art,
Books, food, knowledge–play a part;
Thoughts arrive: thanks, I’m alive.
Verse — A Septet for my 70s
(Late-blooming Stoner)
I was not a ’60s child–
Yes, it’s true I had a beard,
But the Church beat in my head
That at all times choose the good.
Do not drink and do not smoke…
Not to mention, do not toke…
Now the pills for all my ills.
We walk the rows of silent trees,
some smell of resin, some of lime
or lemon–six varieties.
Young families rush, we take our time,
enjoy the shades of green, the feel
of needles, sharp or soft into
our mittens. We will cut the real
tree with the saw, then shake a few
brown needles to the frozen ground.
At home the Christmas tree will light
the room and spread love all around
to neighbors who will catch the sight
of the one tree that spoke to you
and said, “It is for you I grew.”
The pain is constant
How can he hammer a nail
The middle of the stomach
Abdomen hurt first
How can he still care
About the chronic pain of others
Then he noticed his back ached
Why does he still write and give speeches
The aches spread around both his sides
Where will he fly next around the world
Habitats here peacemaking there
When did the CT scan confirm cancer
Pancreatic a quick killer
What will he teach this Sunday
The codeine cuts agony in half
But constipation adds new pain
Is his faith a factor
What is he smiling about
Views from the Edge 