Our "Thanksgiving" Family

We come together each November—and occasionally between— a group of transplants who have found themselves away from the families and places we were raised who have landed together in this small New England town. Some of us have known each other for decades, others not so long. Some have children close in age that go to school together, others are extended family. We are bound by similar values, work ethics, our love of family, and the friendship that we share.

We are college professors, career military, civil servants, healthcare workers, moms, dads, grandparents, children, grandchildren, and friends. We have come from places near and far: from Texas and Oklahoma, New York, and Vermont, a U.S. territory, and a country to our south.  We have crossed state lines, borders, and oceans to arrive here. We are an eclectic mix—Polish and Italian, Irish, Scots, and Scandinavian, Mexican and Puerto Rican, whose families settled here in this country for reasons as diverse as we are—to escape fascism and oppression, to educate and further themselves, to integrate and become a part of this great melting pot called the United Sates; where dreams are possible, differences welcomed, hard work rewarded, and there is freedom to grow and become whomever one believes they can be.

We all bring something different to the table, both literally: turkey with all the fixings, pernil, yellow rice and beans, tamales, Jamoncillo de Leche, pumpkin and apple pies and other deserts; and idealistically with different viewpoints and traditions. The diversity of our backgrounds may have shaped us, but it is our commonalities that bind us; and our mutual respect, fondness and love for each other that makes us family.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

Para

La familia de Madera

La familia Pérez

La familia Natella
The Muse Family

Y todos los de mi familia el Día de Acción de Gracias

Con cariño y agradecimiento

(Think about it: we are all from "someplace else," we are all 'immigrants.' Even the indigenous people, the “Native Americans,” crossed by a land bridge that existed between Siberia and Alaska long before the first Europeans “discovered” this country.)

In The Same Basket

Deep inside the anger rises

Each one standing by their choice,

Perpetrating bad behavior

Letting violence have a voice.

Oh, where have all the sane folk gone?

Rebelling when we disagree…

All of us must work together,

Become the change we want to see.

Let the flames of love unite us;

Erase the hate to make us free.

©Ginny Brannan 2016

The image is Hate graffiti, discovered on Mt. Tom in nearby Holyoke, MA during the week of the presidential election of 2016.  

The Elephant Graveyard

Over well worn pathways,

these weathered pachyderms have come,

unseen forces beckoning.

All seem to find their way here…

ivory long faded yellow,

gray turns white,

dermis folded, sagging.

They walk the walk of the ancients;

all who came before,

those who will come after.

Another rite of passage

among so many they have borne

It’s said they never “forget,”

but memory is subjective:

lost somewhere beyond

hidden plaques and tangles

their lives unravel—

and so they travel this road,

hoping for peace at journey’s end.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

*Plaques and tangles are part of the Alzheimer's puzzle.

Here I go . . . again

I read too much in the silences

the words unsaid between the lines

     Can’t you see the heart worn on this sleeve?

Hanging on this thread from your web of indecision

 while you ponder what to take and what to leave.

There was no “quid pro quo” offered,

— no ‘if; thens’ —

…and only I expected otherwise,

       over-thinking things again.

©   Ginny Brannan 2016 

Clinging

The rain-soaked leaves fall from the trees

to coat the asphalt avenues,

they cling to shingles on the roofs

and track inside stuck to our shoes.

They drop now as the raindrops do—

spinning, skipping in the squall;

muted vestiges of glory

upon the lawns and fields soon sprawl.

Each year the same old fate unfolds

by early frost and chill propelled,

this final blaze of reds and golds

as season bids her last farewell.

And as the colors dissipate

we feel that ever-growing pall;

the long cold winter lies in wait—

for now, we’ll revel in the Fall.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

Off the Wagon

Image: Tom Harty Trapper's Fishcamp and Grill, Oklahoma City

Like a sponge I soak up the rosés  and burgundies,

golden Chambourds, Bourbons and Grand Marniers

the yellow-green Chartreuses and emerald Absinthes

… a sot in need of one. more. shot.

Just a steward in this cabinet of riches,

for six decades imbibing, sampling the goods,

savoring each flavor; knowing that soon

each one sours to brown, 
spilling to ground until gone.

Shaking with chill of withdrawal,

my twelve-step program starts now—

counted by months

until my next binge.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

Image: G.Brannan Laurel Lake in Lee, MA

Seashell (written at 16)

Google Images: Seashell in Mui Ne Vietnam

Little seashell in the sand

uncovered by the lapping wave,

with your home here in Vietnam

I know you have seen better days.

Days when the sun shown bright

not hidden by the dust of war,

and peaceful days without a fight

when people could enjoy this shore.

These days of war will last awhile

while unsuspecting people die,

a war so ugly and so vile

and we who watch still wonder why.

Tiny shell don’t give up hope

because a soldier died today,

someday perhaps we’ll learn to cope

and maybe peace will find it’s way.

© Ginny Brannan written in 1972

The future I envisioned: Children playing on the beach. Nha Trang Vietnam.

What the reality was in 1972, Google Images: Vietnam coastline, 1972

Just a little background on the climate of the era: In 1972 I was just starting my Junior year of High School. For at least a decade and a half, the Vietnam war had been spoon fed to us on the nightly news, excerpts edited for our consumption. By 1972 I was aware of some of the realities, but mostly what was going on here at home, all of the antiwar protests and the fact that people I actually knew were being drafted now. The songs of the era: Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind" and "Masters of War," Creedence's "Fortunate Son", Edwin Starr's "War" ('what is it good for? Absolutely nothin'), Lennon's "Give Peace a Chance" all spoke to the disenchantment of this war that had lingered much too long.

In our Junior year, one of my English subjects was poetry, and one of the assignments was to write a poem. My somewhat sheltered small-town Vermont life left me blissfully ignorant of the realities of the war on the other side of the world.  My poem, above, speaks a lot to my own naiveté.  My teacher panned the poem, part of her notes had to do with me "personifying" an inanimate object (the seashell). I do have to wonder if the underlying factor had more to do with my sympathetic views of that war. Hindsight is always 20-20, you know…

Anyways, for better or worse, first "real"poem I can remember writing.