The Wind Beneath My Wings

By: aromaproductions on 6:38 PM

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The Wind Beneath My Wings

 (for those I have loved and lost)

“Did you ever know that you're my hero,
And everything I would like to be?
I can fly higher than an eagle,
For you are the wind beneath my wings”

Bette Midler

http://www.realestateinnevis.com/images/istock_000008527340small.jpg

Nevisian-Born Long Distance Runners, No Loneliness

(To aunt Agnes and aunt Ismay of the Willet-Hendrikson clan who passed in 2016)

My aunties died while running towards one hundred.

Both were born on the island of Nevis.

The volcanic island pushed out after hard labor,

broke from ocean with fire, lava, ash,—

93 square kilometers of land came to life.

Its sand, white, brown, black, its freshwater and hot springs,

remind inhabitants of the nature and origin of its birth.

My aunties died while racing towards one hundred.

Great aunt, Ismay a lifetime tiller of soil,

knew only land and earth,

hands black from digging,

hoeing, raking, planting and harvesting.

My aunties died while racing towards one hundred.

Aunt Agnes, too, raised on the land,

but travelled with her mom

who sought to widen her horizon on nearby St. Kitts,

and Agnes was drawn further away to the Virgin Islands

by the death of her husband

which left her alone with six children.

Great aunt, Ismay, thriving in Nevis on what the earth gave,

and aunt Agnes, lured to California by her children,

kept their faith in the healing miracles of bushes—

great aunty Ismay planted her cure-alls in a nearby plot,

aunty Agnes grew medicines in her back garden.

Great aunt, Ismay, lived for the land— lemon grass,

fever-tea, leaf, aloe, sour-sap,

cassava, sweet potato, yam, pigeon peas, mango…

In addition to a daughter and two sons,

bushes were the children of her heart.

Agnes lived with her six children and the memory of the land

and the secret bushes she tended

next to her herbs, eggplants, peppers…

My aunties died while racing towards one hundred.

Aunt Agnes shy of her 96^th, aunt Ismay shy of her 97^th.

There was no loneliness during their life-long race.

If we did not ask, if we did not watch and learn

they  would have died taking the secrets of distance running with them?

© Althea Romeo-Mark 14.10.2016

Agnes Daniel, my aunt. 

Nevis /ˈniːvɪs/ is a small island in the Caribbean Sea that forms part of the inner arc of the Leeward Islands chain of the West Indies. Nevis and the neighboring island of Saint Kitts constitute one country: the Federation of Saint Kitts and Nevis. Nevis is located near the northern end of the Lesser Antilles archipelago, about 350 km east-southeast of Puerto Rico and 80 km west of Antigua. Its area is 93 square kilometers (36 sq. mi) and the capital is Charlestown. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nevis

.

Joy DaCosta Neumann

Saying Goodbye

(for Joy Neumann (1948-2016), from our Stammtisch, Gloria, Sylvia, Paula, and Althea)

“Take Care, see you next week.”

This is what we say

at the end of every Tuesday

when we meet.

But it is not always so.

When we said goodbye to you, dear friend,

we did not know it would be the last,

did not know your sleep

would be the endless one.

We will place an empty teacup

at the table where you sat

and told us about your adventures,

some of which we shared,

and told us stories about your family,

some of whom we have met.

With you, we were never lost

for things to chat about.

You were petite but brought us

enormous joys of laughter.

You left on a solo journey

on a Sunday night,

a journey from which

you will never return.

So we are sending

Our goodbyes and take cares,

by our messenger, the wind,

that will take them to you,

knowing that we will not see you next week.

© Althea Romeo-Mark, 2016

Lena Mark Andall, Emmanuel Mark, Althea Mark-Romeo

The Final Crossing

(for Lena Mark Andall sunrise 1934- sunset 1916)

There is no canoe,

no ceremonial death ship

to take body and soul

across the river of life.

No corpse is laid in a creek

to ensure a quick return

to the arms of nature.

The vessel is not that

of our ancient ancestors.

There is a coffin and a river of tears

and the rasps of mourning voices

drowning in the waterfall of song

that carry the dead to a new life

waiting across the river.

The dead will not envy us,

will never desire to

cross back over the river.

© Althea Romeo-Mark 06.04.14

Cookbook

(to my mom, Daisy Valborg Marsh Romeo and those who came before her)

I

My mother never used one,

she learned to cook

the way her mother taught her.

Recipes, like folktales, and

the secrets of garden bush,

carrying cures for colds,

high blood pressure, diabetes,

sleeplessness, nightmares,

and measures against restless spirits,

were passed from mouth to mouth.

Mother shared her knowledge,

the only way she knew.

Summoned to the kitchen,

I stood, watched, listened to instructions,

“Come, see how I tun’ de fungi.”

It seemed like hard work,

all that turning with a wooden stick.

Nobody should have to work so hard to make a meal.

I began to sweat before the process even started.

“Bring de water to a boil. Add salt.

Chop the okras, drop dem in de pot.

cook ‘til tender. Sprinkle in de cornmeal. Slowly!”

I stood round the kerosene stove,

shifting from foot to foot.

“See how I tun’ de fungi?”

Heat alternated with breeze

sneaking in through the kitchen door.

“Stir briskly to prevent lumping.”

Mama’s plump, tanned hand churned,

arms swiftly dispensed of sweat

trickling down her nose from forehead,

threatening to become an ingredient.

It seemed forever, the churning,

and watching  cornmeal’s

sputtering plop, plop,

spitting and spurting

like nature’s hot water geyser.

Once, my eyes strayed out the window

at Mr. Peters straddling his donkey downhill.

A stinging pinch to my ear

brought me back to the lesson on hand.

“See how I tun’ de fungi.”

See how I add de butter? Stir!

Look ‘pon you.

How you goin’ get a husband?

II

I received a cookbook the day I married.

A wedding present from a friend,

it became my kitchen buddy.

Recipes now committed to memory,

cookbooks sit on a shelf with

old English and American classics

I promise to re-read one day.

My daughters watched my cooking in passing,

made quick observations, did some tasting.

On their bookshelves, a book on Caribbean cooking

serves as a bookend to MLA Guide to Writing

and Modern German Literature.

Recipes today are just a mouse-click away.

I have not forgotten to share secrets

of bushes in back gardens,

measures against restless spirits

and things that must remain unwritten.

© Althea Romeo-Mark, 2015

After Supper

(for Gilbert, the story teller)

I

Dinner is done.

There is much laughter

while papa doles out

delicious dessert,

a sweet surprise

we look forward to

in the dark tropical night.

Papa’s words loop into

the melding of a tale.

His tongue is a click-clacking

knitting needle of delight.

He talks about a jumbi whose voice was

like plane crashing against the hillside.

The brazen spirit blocked his path

as he walked home from his farm late one night.

His hands dance,

body jerks back and forth

in showing and telling.

We become his marionettes.

The stitched-up story

is followed by nightmares,

and bed-wetting,

the chamber pot

too far under the bed.

II

Today we, too,

hold our audience captive

in a net of words.

Some of Papa’s stories, read at bedtime,

are found in books of

selected Caribbean folktales—

Once upon a time there was

a clever spider called Bro ‘Nansi,

being a favorite.

© Althea Romeo-Mark, 17.10. 15

Aunt Agnes celebrating one of her 90s birthdays-still running then.

Lena Andall, too, was a woman of the land. Here is an avocado tree on her land.

Visiting Joy Neumann in England in 2011. With fellow teacher Sylvia Greber (subject, German)

To our ancestors who kept the Anansi stories flowing despite being separated from West Africa, their place of origin.  My father was one of those who kept up the oral tradition he inherited from his Antiguan mother.

Why Anansi Has Eight Thin Legs

Once upon a time, a long time ago, there lived a spider named Anansi. Anansi's wife was a very good cook. But always, Anansi loved to taste the food that others in the village made for themselves and for their families.

One day, he stopped by Rabbit's house. Rabbit was his good friend.

"There are greens in your pot," cried Anansi excitedly. Anansi loved greens.

"They are not quite done," said Rabbit. "But they will be soon. Stay and eat with me."

"I would love to, Rabbit, but I have some things to do," Anansi said hurriedly. If he waited at Rabbit's house, Rabbit would certainly give him jobs to do. "I know," said Anansi. "I'll spin a web. I'll tie one end around my leg and one end to your pot. When the greens are done, tug on the web, and I'll come running!"

Rabbit thought that was a great idea. And so it was done.

"I smell beans," Anansi sniffed excitedly as he ambled along. "Delicious beans, cooking in a pot."

"Come eat our beans with us," cried the monkeys. "They are almost done."

"I would love to Father Monkey," said Anansi. And again, Anansi suggested he spin a web, with one end tied around his leg, and one end tied to the big bean pot.

Father Monkey thought that was a great idea. All his children thought so, too. And so it was done.

"I smell sweet potatoes," Anansi sniffed happily as he ambled along. "Sweet potatoes and honey, I do believe!"

"Anansi," called his friend Hog. "My pot is full of sweet potatoes and honey! Come share my food with me."

"I would love to," said Anansi. And again, Anansi suggested he spin a web, with one end tied around his leg, and one end tied to the sweet potato pot.

His friend Hog thought that was a great idea. And so it was done.

By the time Anansi arrived at the river, he had one web tied to each of his eight legs.

"This was a wonderful idea," Anansi told himself proudly. "I wonder whose pot will be ready first?"

Just then, Anansi felt a tug at his leg. "Ah," said Anansi. "That is the web string tied to Rabbit's greens." He felt another. And another. Anansi was pulled three ways at once.

"Oh dear," said Anansi as he felt the fourth web string pull.

Just then, he felt the fifth web string tug. And the sixth. And the seventh. And the eighth. Anansi was pulled this way and that way, as everyone pulled on the web strings at once. His legs were pulled thinner and thinner. Anansi rolled and tugged himself into the river. When all the webs had washed away, Anansi pulled himself painfully up on shore.

"Oh my, oh my," sighed Anansi. "Perhaps that was not such a good idea after all."

To this day, Anansi the Spider has eight very thin legs. And he never got any food that day at all.

http://africa.mrdonn.org/anansi.html

Althea Romeo-Mark