My name is Neal Crook. After retirement, I relocated from hectic Los Angeles to serene Cambria, California. Much of my work is inspired by the beauty of the central coast. Involvement in the Cambria Writers Workshop provides the opportunity to explore my past and generates “memoir” poetry and flash memoirs. The rights and struggles of the GLBTQ community and my journey accepting my queerness, influences many of my poems and memoirs.

I taught high school for 20 years. I live with my husband, Michael, and our big, noisy cat Rufus.

Another Storm

Crows 
fight for position 
atop a pine.

Their blackness
joins approaching clouds, 
blocks the sun.

Harsh screeches,
warnings of danger
echo. 

Wise crows 
seek
higher ground.

Searching 
for safety,
a space to survive.

This storm may
destroy 
their pine dwelling.

The tempest rages,
branches
yield.

Dead
roots 
surrender.

Canopies of
regrowth
submit.

Come spring,
fragile renewal
appears.

Crows 
return to
damaged posts.

Rays of light
penetrate
darkness.

Arrival of death? 
Emergence of life?

Ghost of Christmas Presents

My mother loved Christmas. No, she lived Christmas. Imagine hundreds of Santas inhabiting every room of a one-bedroom mobile home, 365 days a year. Santas: big, little, traditional, comical, standing and sitting. Yes, even in the bathroom, a needlepoint Santa toilet seat cover haunts me to this day. When my husband Michael and I visited, in order to navigate the small trailer, we rearranged her fetishes.

My mother hovered as we found new homes for her precious St. Nicks “Be careful with him. That’s not where he likes to sit.”

“For God’s sake mom, don’t you have enough?”

“You’re to blame; you gave me most of them.”

Not most, but we enabled her obsession. I couldn’t imagine a Christmas without finding a rare Santa and seeing the delight on her face. “But do they need to be out all year?”

“They make me happy.” She cleared room for us to sit.

Who was I to deprive her of joy? Over time, life’s disappointments transformed her, stole her beauty, her happiness.  She lived alone after my father died over twenty-five years ago. His unexpected death mapped her face with bitterness. How could she ever find a new partner with this compulsion? I imagined her dating profile:

 Looking for partner. Must share affections with the hundreds of fat men who inhabit my trailer.

St. Nick, her perfect, silent lover.

The little remaining room in her compact space was filled with Mom’s sewing and craftwork. We also needed to move her projects. Piles sorted by handicraft and degree of completion spilled over every surface. Each Christmas, family, friends and even acquaintances were assured a unique Christmas present handcrafted by my mother.

“Janet, you need to be careful. I almost sat on this.” Michael held-up a pin cushion filled with needles.

“You won’t complain about being poked when you open your present.” She grabbed it from him and tossed it on another chair.

Her generosity and kindness always accompanied by a stab. Lately, she exhausted me.

            As a child, I remember the holiday seasons filled with joy. My mother surrounded by her craftwork. At night, she would pat the space next to her. “Come sit, while we watch Ed Sullivan.”

            Accepting her invitation, I lay my head on her lap while she knitted or continued her needle point. Her breath comforted me as she sang along with the Everly Brothers:

“I love you so and that is why

Whenever I want you

All I have to do is dream…”

“Put your finger here.”  She asked as she tied off a knot.

One year, I requested a scarf. I chose the yarn, two shades of blue, and I wanted stripes that ran the length.

We watched tv as she worked on my present.

“You know how difficult this pattern is? You best appreciate it.” She jabbed me with a knitting needle.

Her kindness wrapped in resentment and tied with strings.

“I will, it’s beautiful.” I hugged her.

            When I was in my thirties, my mother made my sisters, their husbands, and me petit point Christmas stockings. My name, all in caps, stitched in red, sat above a traditional Santa carrying a sack full of presents and a small Christmas tree, a work of art. A few years later, when Michael and I started living together, she made him his own special stocking. Her silent, carefully crafted acceptance of our relationship. She knew he collected frogs, so she stitched a small frog on the toe, under a red robed, gift-bearing, Santa. Every Christmas we looked forward to hanging our presents on the mantle. The first year, I placed items at the bottom of Michael’s stocking that reminded me of my childhood. I wish photos existed of his puzzled face as he fished out a tangerine, a toothbrush and Brazil nuts.

            “Ok, is there some symbolism I’m missing?” He held the fruit and nuts in his hand.

            “No, all through my childhood I would always find those items on Christmas morning. I thought we should carry on the tradition.”

            Each year we displayed and filled our beloved stockings. They overflowed with small, precious gifts. Seeing them brought joy and sadness. The intricate handiwork was a bitter-sweet memory of the complexity of the maker.

            Several Christmases after my mother died, Michael and I sat by the Christmas tree. We always emptied our stockings first. As Michael reached deep inside to get the last Brazil nut, his hand retracted.

            “What the …? I just pricked my finger on something. What’d you put in here?”

            “Nothing sharp. Did one of the ornaments break inside?” I grabbed the stocking from him. Deeply embedded in the lining of the toe of his stocking, a sewing needle.

            “How did that get there?” I asked as I maneuvered it out of the material.

“That’s really weird.” I tossed the needle in the garbage and we thought nothing more of it.

            That evening, we planned to join friends. I went into the hallway to get something to protect me from the cold winter’s night. I stood at the closet, before dozens of scarves. I noticed the blue striped scarf my mother knit for me so many years ago. Having not worn it for a long time, I thought that Christmas day would be perfect. I took it from the stack and went to the mirror to put it on. “Ouch.”

            “What happened?” Michael yelled from the other room.

            “Something poked my neck.”

            “What?” He asked coming into the hallway.

            “I’m not sure.” I took off the scarf and ran my fingers over it. I once again received a sharp jab.  A needle positioned in the yarn, poked out. Michael and I exchanged looks and I dropped the scarf on the floor. The hallway didn’t become cold. No sudden gust of wind blustered past us, but the message rang clear as sleigh bells.

My mother, after all these years. Still needling us.

Don’t you forget me, especially on Christmas.

Wooden Boxes

Two more
redwood boxes
came home today.

Both accompanied
by the rainbow poem 
and an impression.

A stamp 
forever reminding me 
of your impact.

Tiny locks to 
keep you safe.

Small wooden boxes
bursting with memories. 

Through each smooth,
rich-red vein,
I feel your hearts beat,
hear your purrs,
smell your ocean wet fur.

So many chests
line my shelves
filled with precious remains.
Together they help fashion 
the hourglass of
my life.

This latest sorrow
overwhelms me,
kindling past pain.

I’m too old
for this much 
compounded grief.

When I die,
unlock their confinements,
release their souls and
mix their ashes with mine.