Two Poems for Ash Wednesday--one old, one new

First, an old one--thinking about my Mother and her last Ash Wednesday on Earth:

The Last Ash Wednesday (February 2003)

After teaching my classes,

I drive over to Kevin’s house

Where Mom now lives after moving from Euclid

Our family home for fifty-one years.

It’s getting harder for her to go out,

So I come to her house,

Burn last year’s palm fronds in the ash tray

And anoint her forehead with the Sign of the Cross.

I find myself unable to utter the ancient words,

“Remember, Woman, from dust thou art,

And unto dust thou shallt return.”

The words are too painful, too real,

The abiding dust

too close.

Then Mom anoints my own forehead,

Again leaving the words unspoken:

No one can ever know . . . .

After the little ceremony,

We both laugh, and Mom says,

“Let’s drink a beer!”

“Not on Ash Wednesday,” I tease.

“The hell with that!” she retorts.

“I’m old enough now to be above the rules!”

We both laugh, and I pop open two beers.

We drink to Mardi Gras and to Lent,

And to the ashes on our foreheads.

                                                             Bob Coughlin

                                                                        February 21, 2007

                                                                        Ash Wednesday



And this evening, I went to St. Gabe's in Concord Township for mass and ashes. To my astonishment, there were about 400 people there. I thought about how much I love my Church and my fellow Catholics (and, by the way, I love people in other traditions very much too). This poem came to me after mass:

Thou Art Stardust

As a child, Monsignor John Fleming

Made the sign of the cross on my forehead

With the ashes of palm fronds, saying,

“Remember man, from dust thou art,

and unto dust thou shalt return.”

At St. Gabe’s this evening, 400 people came on a Wednesday

For mass and to celebrate this strange ritual of ashes—

Almost astonishing in this year of cruelty, 2018.

I wished I could have spoken different words

While anointing their foreheads with the cross—

Something like, “You, my friend, are stardust! Never forget that!”

Or, “You are my beloved son, daughter,

Mother, father, wife, husband, friend!

Anoint your beloved’s forehead

With your burning love!”

This Ash Wednesday, I think of

All those I love, the dead and the living,

From my Mom and Dad, long in the ground,

To my little grandchildren, one brand new.

You are stardust!

I love you!

                        Bob Coughlin

                        Ash Wednesday / February 14, 2018

[By the way, two inspirations for this poem, besides the reality of being there tonight at St. Gabe's--Chet Raymo's writing; and Joni Mitchell's song "Woodstock." Raymo, an astronomer, once wrote that every molecule in our bodies was forged in a star. We are quite literally stardust.]

A Memory of 9-11

A Recollection of 9-11, written many years ago.

September 11, 2001—A Memory

How I taught that 10 AM class I don’t know. I did mention the tragedy to the class, as if they didn’t know already, and we all prayed in class before the lesson started. Then amazingly, I proceeded with the lesson.

As the class progressed, I grew more and more anxious, until the end, when I practically busted out of the room and ran back to my office. “I have to see if Mom is all right!” I yelled to myself, racing down the hallways from T-Building. I was also worried about my wife Linda and my 3 daughters. Julia was away at college, Miami University. Carolan was at Chardon High School. Em was at St. Mary’s School, where Linda worked. But Mom was 77 years old, blind, and alone at home in Euclid--Dad four years in the grave. I had to go to her right away!

I ran to the faculty-staff lot and cranked up my car—it was almost empty of gas. A thought streaked across my mind: What if the gas pumps go out? What if gigantic lines form at the gas stations? Are the ATM machines working? As usual I had almost no cash in my wallet.

My first step was to get to the Bank One money machine. The machine worked and I withdrew a hundred dollars, a huge amount for me to carry around. Then I headed to Kirtland Road, the back way to Mom’s. I thought maybe the freeways would get jammed up with cars, people fleeing . . . to somewhere, anywhere. We had no idea what was going on yet. So far we knew that both towers of the World Trade Center had been hit; by this time one of the buildings had actually collapsed to the ground, something unheard of! There was a story about a jet crashing into a field southeast of Pittsburgh. The Pentagon had been hit. There were rumors galore flying around. One claimed that Dayton had been hit. My oldest daughter Julia was a freshman at Miami University, not far from Dayton. What was going on? Are we all in danger?

Down Kirtland Road I drove like a maniac, coming to Rt. 20 in Willoughby. West on 20 to Vine Street. Down Vine to Lakeshore Boulevard. There near the corner of Lakeshore and Vine was a gas station without big lines. I pulled in and filled my tank. Would this be my last chance to get gas?

I zipped out on Vine, then left on Lakeshore down to Lloyd. Down Lloyd to Forestview. Then to East 272, then Farringdon, then East 266 and into Mom’s driveway. I pushed open my car door, one knock on Mom's door, then inside.

There Mom calmly sat on the davenport, drinking a cup of coffee, smoking a cigarette, and watching the television’s grim news. Mom was OK; I was the one who was frantic, anxious, frightened to death. I hugged her. She comforted me like I was a scared 5-year-old again.

Robert M. Coughlin
September 11, 2008

Thinking about Ash Wednesday (with two poems)

 To me Ash Wednesday is a day for serious reflection, a day full of memories. Some of those memories are expressed in the poems below. Both poems are based on my own experiences.

Ash Wednesday at St. William’s School

The immaculate

groomed children

play joyfully on the playground--

but odd

anachronism:

scandalous

ashes of death

in the sign

of the cross

on innocent

foreheads

remember

our mortality

the amazing sacrifice.

The marked innocents

forget the strange rite

with wondrous enthusiasm and energy

play like it’s any other day.

The Last Ash Wednesday (February 2003)

After teaching my classes,

I drive over to Kevin’s house

Where Mom now lives after moving from Euclid

Our family home for fifty-one years.

It’s getting harder for her to go out,

So I come to her house,

Burn last year’s palm fronds in the ash tray

And anoint her forehead with the Sign of the Cross.

I find myself unable to utter the ancient words,

“Remember, Woman, from dust thou art,

And unto dust thou shallt return.”

The words are too painful, too real,

The abiding dust

too close.

Then Mom anoints my own forehead,

Again leaving the words unspoken:

No one can ever know . . . .

After the little ceremony,

We both laugh, and Mom says,

“Let’s drink a beer!”

“Not on Ash Wednesday,” I tease.

“The hell with that!” she retorts.

“I’m old enough now to be above the rules!”

We both laugh, and I pop open two beers.

We drink to Mardi Gras and to Lent,

And to the ashes on our foreheads.

                                                             Bob Coughlin

                                                                        February 21, 2007

                                                                        Ash Wednesday

Remembering My Mom--November 10, 1923-December 8, 2003

Dad and Mom, August 1947. Willoughby, Ohio

The Gift

This chilly, foggy December 8^th morning,

Twelve years after your peaceful passing into a new life . . .

We remember you, Mom.

You our protector, the one who loved us and cared for us

In good times and bad.

I remember your brood, all siting on the davenport

A winter’s night in the early ‘60s,

Dad working the hated second trick at Fisher Body,

We watching some silly tv show, The Real McCoys,

Seventy-Seven Sunset Strip, Lawrence Welk—for God’s sake.

The whole crew snuggling next to you, Bobby, Denny,

Mary Ellen, Kevin, Jimmy.

Denny and Mary Ellen

Brushing your beautiful hair.

Jimmy and Kevin playing with their toys—

Hand-me-downs to hand-me-downs—they didn’t mind a bit.

Bobby making fudge, the great family treat,

You taking a call from "Duty," from Julia, your blood sister,

Sister of your deep heart.

Skip, your beloved brother, dropping by, out of the blue,

Unannounced, perfectly welcome.

By 9:30 or 10, all your brood put to bed,

You wait for Dad to come home from work.

We sleep deeply, the way children do,

Confident in the security and love

You have given us—

Precious gift beyond calculation.

The crew (minus Baby Jimmy). With neighbors Buster and Jackie Zylowski.

Susie Brock and Mom, 1957.

First Communion party, cicrca 1955 or '57.

Skip, Mom, Uncle Don--circa 1940.

Bobby, Denny, Mary Ellen. circa 1954.

Mom, Mary Ellen, Jimmy. Circa 1960.

So many relatives gone! Circa 1980?

Look how happy everyone was!

Poem for My Mother on September 11th

My Mother on September 11^th

We didn’t know if we would live

Beyond that Tuesday.

I rushed from my teaching duties

Thinking not with my brain

But my frightened heart.

Filled the car with gas (what if

the stations ran dry?)

Took $200 out from the ATM (what if

the banks close?)

And drove my car like a maniac

Over the backroads to Euclid (what if

the freeways get jammed?)

To be with my Mother,

Aged, blind, living alone, maybe scared . . . .

When I got there, she was fine,

I was the one terrified.

She had lived through 12 years of the Great Depression,

Four years of The War-To-End-All-Wars,

Followed by The-War-After-That (Korea), and

The War-After-That (Vietnam), and

All the little wars,

All the little and huge deaths.

She was peaceful, strong, hopeful,

Helped her scared oldest son --me--

Face that terrible day

Gave me an idea of what to do

Next.

Robert M. Coughlin

September 11, 2003

Reposting a 9-11 Memory

[This piece was posted 8 years ago today.]

September 11, 2001—A Memory

How I taught that 10 AM class I don’t know. I did mention the tragedy to the class, as if they didn’t know already, and we all prayed in class before the lesson started. Then amazingly, I proceeded with the lesson.

As the class progressed, I grew more and more anxious, until the end, when I practically busted out of the room and ran back to my office. “I have to see if Mom is all right!” I yelled to myself, racing down the hallways from T Building. I was also worried about my wife Linda and my 3 daughters. Julia was away at college, Miami University. Carolan was at Chardon High School. Em was at St. Mary’s School, where Linda worked. But Mom was 77 years old, blind, and alone at home in Euclid--Dad four years in the grave. I had to go to her right away!

I ran to the faculty-staff lot and cranked up my car—it was almost empty of gas. A thought streaked across my mind: What if the gas pumps go out? What if gigantic lines form at the gas stations? Are the ATM machines working? As usual I had almost no cash in my wallet.

My first step was to get to the Bank One money machine. The machine worked and I withdrew a hundred dollars, a huge amount for me to carry around. Then I headed to Kirtland Road, the back way to Mom’s. I thought maybe the freeways would get jammed up with cars, people fleeing . . . to somewhere, anywhere. We had no idea what was going on yet. So far we knew that both towers of the World Trade Center had been hit; by this time one of the buildings had actually collapsed to the ground, something unheard of! There was a story about a jet crashing into a field southeast of Pittsburgh. The Pentagon had been hit. There were rumors galore flying around. One claimed that Dayton had been hit. My oldest daughter Julia was a freshman at Miami University, not far from Dayton. What was going on? Are we all in danger?

Down Kirtland Road I drove like a maniac, coming to Rt. 20 in Willoughby. West on 20 to Vine Street. Down Vine to Lakeshore Boulevard. There near the corner of Lakeshore and Vine was a gas station without big lines. I pulled in and filled my tank. Would this be my last chance to get gas?

I zipped out on Vine, then left on Lakeshore down to Lloyd. Down Lloyd to Forestview. Then to E. 272, then Farringdon, then E.266 and into Mom’s driveway. I pushed open my car door, one knock on Mom's door, then inside.

There Mom calmly sat on the davenport, drinking a cup of coffee, smoking a cigarette, and watching the television’s grim news. Mom was OK; I was the one who was frantic, anxious, frightened to death. I hugged her. She comforted me like I was a scared 5-year-old again.

Robert M. Coughlin
September 11, 2008

Ash Wednesday Poem for My Mother

This is a poem I wrote some years ago, reflecting on the last year of my Mother's life. I think of her every Ash Wednesday.

Ash Wednesday Poem for My Mother

The Last Ash Wednesday (February 2003)

After teaching my classes,

I drive over to Kevin’s house

Where Mom now lives after moving from Euclid

Our family home for fifty-one years.

It’s getting harder for her to go out,

So I come to her house,

Burn last year’s palm fronds in the ash tray

And anoint her forehead with the Sign of the Cross.

I find myself unable to utter the ancient words,

“Remember, Woman, from dust thou art,

And unto dust thou shallt return.”

The words are too painful, too real,

The abiding dust

too close.

Then Mom anoints my own forehead,

Again leaving the words unspoken:

No one can ever know . . . .

After the little ceremony,

We both laugh, and Mom says,

“Let’s drink a beer!”

“Not on Ash Wednesday,” I tease.

“The hell with that!” she retorts.

“I’m old enough now to be above the rules!”

We both laugh, and I pop open two beers.

We drink to Mardi Gras and to Lent,

And to the ashes on our foreheads.

[Bob Coughlin, February 21, 2007, Ash Wednesday]