Friday, June 29, 2007

Ode to the Gardenia





To spy between thighs of hibiscus at her drooping petals
she scorches the eye with unshuttered exposure.
Even avocados tilt down and blush mauve
behind dimple-skin envy. She lay
like a platter straddling sky,
as bees swim into petals
behind screens wet with dew, then stumble
like drunks on the moon. Alabaster
folds nudge wings and antennae:
the insect world
swoons in her thickening lap.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Morning Ritual


Your father always helped me make the bed;
his bony hands would snug the sheets up tight.
I know now, how much was left unsaid.

Fluff the pillows and straighten out the spread;
Smooth his side in the morning quiet.
Your father always helped me make the bed.

His memory is a place, I dare not tread.
Eight months I’ve pushed his absence from my sight.
I know now, how much was left unsaid.

I wish I hadn’t lived inside my head;
stubbornly withdrawing, I’d take flight.
Your father always helped me make the bed.

We lay together at night with books we read,
he’d sigh and give me one small kiss good night.
I know now, how much was left unsaid.

I woke today familiar with this dread;
reached for him in the gathering light—
Your father always helped me make the bed;
I’d tell him now the words I left unsaid.

Monday, June 11, 2007


Hello again, Pam.

First of all, I will tell you a little bit about myself, and how it is that I stumbled upon your web site.

I was not a career Navy man- just a four-year enlisted guy serving from 1967 through 1971. Let’s face it, the military life isn’t for everyone, and it wasn’t for me. Pounding ‘a square peg into a round hole’ comes to mind when I think of my Navy years. Nevertheless, I did serve my four years honorably and came away with some great memories. I was trained as a Radarman, and when I reported aboard the Rogers in June of 1968, I was an RDSN (E-3). I left the Navy and the Rogers in February, 1971, as an RD2 (E-5). As I mentioned, I carry good memories from my Navy days and whenever I hit upon a good Navy story on TV, I’ll always stop and watch it, and the memories flood my mind! It was such a story the other day that got me started again - thinking about the Rogers, my shipmates, and of course your dad. I happened to have my laptop with me as I watched the show, and I started thinking about your dad, wondering where he went after his Rogers command, and if he was enjoying a long and happy retirement. With that in mind, I picked up my laptop and Googled “James E Woolway” and immediately found your blog. There I didn’t find the news I was hoping for, but on the other hand I am happy knowing that your dad is remembered lovingly by you and your family and friends.

Your reply about the memorial ride next month in Iowa jogged something from my memory that I had forgotten: your dad was from Iowa. I now remember talking to him about this one night in CIC. (Combat Information Center, the windowless, dark cavern where we Radarmen worked. Since it was only about 3 steps behind the bridge and the “nerve center” of the ship, your dad was in there often!) It seems that we were all talking about where we hailed from (I am from New Hampshire) when someone asked your dad, “Where are you from, Captain?” I remember that we were all amazed that someone from Iowa, sooooo far away from the ocean, would join the Navy. If I remember correctly, your dad’s reply was “It’s because I am from Iowa that I joined the Navy. I wanted to see the ocean for myself.”

I don’t remember exactly when your dad took command of the Rogers, other than I’m sure it had to be sometime in the latter half of 1969. (I’ve got a pretty good memory, Pam, but you have to keep in mind that at the time I was but 21 and I’ll be 60 later this year!) One thing I remember clearly about that day is that we were all a little nervous about the new captain. The man your dad relieved that day was Commander George Hart, who (in my opinion), unlike your dad, wasn’t the kind Old Man who could inspire a crew to sail with him into hell, but nevertheless was mellow enough and reasonably easy to get along with. (the only positive memory I carry of Captain Hart is that he was a fellow New Englander, hailing from Maine) Anyway, your dad was an unknown that day, and since a bad Old Man can easily make each and every crewmember’s life a living hell, we were understandably a bit jumpy. Another thing about that day that I remember clearly: your dad got started on the right foot with the crew – his first official act as captain was to grant liberty for the rest of the day. J (wow, I was just thinking… I wonder if you attended that ceremony?!?!)

Whenever a ship arrives at or leaves a port, or when it replenishes underway, a special “Sea & Anchor” detail is employed in which everyone on the ship has a certain assigned duty. My particular duty was to follow your dad around the bridge wearing a set of sound-powered phones and relay his commands to other stations around the ship. In between commands, he sure had, um, should I say, the ‘gift of gab,’ talking either directly to me or to anyone else who happened to be within earshot. For example, entering Pearl Harbor: “Isn’t this gorgeous? I still can remember the first time I sailed into Pearl.” “What a beautiful day!” “Is this your first time in Hawaii?” Me: “Yes, sir.” “Yes, sir.” “Yes, sir.” I have to admit, your dad always left me smiling after the S & A details. J

As one of the few crewmembers who possessed a military driver’s license, I occasionally was assigned the duty of driving your dad home or picking him up in the morning. I remember (at least I *think* I remember!) that he (you) lived in Chula Vista and I remember being surprised the first time I saw your house. It was a modest house (beige or pale yellow? or am I just imagining that?) and until I saw it for the first time I somehow had imagined that the Old Man must have been living in a palace of some sort. hehehehehe… In any case, it was after that first trip to your house that I viewed your dad in a little different light. Seeing your house made me realize that he had a family of his own, that he was someone’s husband and dad. You know, human. I remember wondering how many kids he had – probably because I had been very close to my own father and had lost him when I was only 19. Anyway, I was always quite nervous when I had driving duty – not only worried about getting into an accident with the Old Man, but also dreading the drive made in total silence. After all, military protocol didn’t exactly allow me to say something like, “So, Captain… do anything interesting last night?” Nevertheless, your dad always did his best to engage in a chat which never failed to make me feel a bit more comfortable.

He was the consummate professional – always ready with kudos for a job well-done and a firm admonition if you screwed up. I remember feeling his heat on two occasions. :o As a Radarman, we usually handled ship-to-ship voice communications. One night when I was on watch in CIC, I was verifying instructions that we had sent to another ship via radio. The other ship read back the instructions to me, to which the proper response on my part should have been “That is correct.” What I said instead was, “That is Charlie.” (“Charlie” being the phonetic word for the letter “C” which was meant to stand for “correct” – it was slang that I had heard other ships use) Unfortunately for me, these voice communications were monitored on the bridge, and most unfortunately for me, your dad was on the bridge. :o I’ll bet he didn’t take the 3 steps from the bridge to CIC. In fact, I’ll bet his feet never touched the deck! In about 2/3 of a second after I uttered the word “Charlie” he was in CIC demanding to know who was talking on the PRI-TAC net. Since I was standing directly in front of him and still holding the phone in my hand, I couldn’t squirm out of that one. Your dad proceeded to “explain” to me in very clear terms to me how our communication procedures must always be professional and beyond reproach since it was representative not only the entire ship, but of him too. Needless to say, I didn’t do it again!

The other occasion was when we were engaged an anti-submarine exercise with other ships and aircraft. By this time I was an E-5 and a watch supervisor (although there was always a junior officer on watch in CIC too). One of the aircraft had dropped some sonar buoys into the water which I dutifully plotted on the chart. At midnight we were relieved from our watch, and I ran thorough all the stuff that was going on with the oncoming watch supervisor and then went below to hit the rack. All the stuff, that is, except the existence of the sonar buoys about which I completely forgot to tell him. About an hour later, around 1 a.m., your dad came into CIC and asked Larry Joiner, the watch supervisor who had relieved me, “Where are the sonar buoys relative to our position?” to which Larry innocently replied, “What sonar buoys?” A few minutes later someone was shaking me from a sound sleep - “Hey Ski. The captain wants to see ya up in Combat.” Not exactly a sweet awakening… When I got up to CIC your dad was standing there next to Larry and he asked me, “Orzechowski, can you tell me why Joiner here can’t tell me where the sonar buoys are located?” Again, he had me dead to rights… My mouth was saying, “I forgot to tell him, sir” but my brain was screaming at me “You’ll be mess-cooking for the remainder of your Navy days, you dumb ass!” In reality, this was a much bigger screw-up than the Charlie incident. I guess your dad could have made me an instant E-4 (or worse) on the spot. Instead, he told me that from then on I should give “great consideration” to making thorough notes to myself about everything that happens during my watch (in addition to the official log we had to keep). Again, needless to say, I followed his “suggestion.”

I should tell you that in both of these incidents, I never once felt that your dad was berating me, or insulting me, or trying to embarrass me in front of my shipmates. He was quite simply trying to make me a better Radarman so that the Rogers would be a better ship, and he made sure that I understood that.

I have a vivid memory of the last time I saw your dad, and I can even remember the exact date and what I was wearing at the time! I was separated from the Navy on Monday, Feb 22, 1971, only an hour or so before the Rogers was due to leave for a one-week training exercise near San Diego. At the time, I was sharing an apartment out on University Ave with a couple of my shipmates, and we had agreed that when the Rogers returned to port on Friday, Feb 26th, I would meet them at the pier and give them a ride back to the apartment. On that day, I drove down to the base and waited for the Rogers to arrive. As was the practice, there were a few sailors from another ship waiting there to handle the lines thrown by the Rogers’ crew to help secure the ship to the pier.

When the Rogers arrived, I saw your dad out on the port wing of the bridge, shouting instructions to the helmsman and crew as he, in essence, “parallel parked” the ship. (he was a master at this) I remember feeling quite smug at the time, standing there with my arms folded across my chest, imagining that in the five short days my hair had grown enough to look Beatle-like, and thinking that I was now a civilian and quite beyond taking orders from anyone. (it’s hilarious to think that at age 23 I really believed that since I was out of the military I was though taking orders in life!) When the order was given to heave the lines, the sailors surrounding me on the pier started scrambling to grab the lines and secure the ship. At that moment I heard your dad’s voice: “Hey you! You in the striped shirt! Lend those men a hand!” (this is how I remember what I was wearing – a brown and white horizontally-striped t-shirt – quite cool at the time, just watch any rerun of “Barnaby Jones”)  In shock, I looked up at your dad and pointed to my chest, mouthing the word “Me?” He replied, “Well, you’re the only person on the pier wearing a striped shirt! Now, lend a hand with the lines! Step lively!” Without hesitation, I sprang to the nearest line and grabbed it, helping the other sailors. When we got the line secured around the thingy on the pier (hey, I wasn’t a Boatswain’s Mate!) I looked up and saw your dad grinning from ear to ear. As it happened, my replacement on the Sea & Anchor detail that followed your dad around with the sound-powered phones was not only another Radarman but one of the guys with whom I shared the University Ave apartment. On the way home in the car, he related how the Old Man and the XO (LtCmdr Harrison Sperling – another fine officer) had a good laugh when they watched me jump at the Captain’s command. J And then he told me that your dad told the XO, “I knew he’d jump to it. Ski’s a good man!” which made me feel pretty doggone good.

Pam, these are only a few memories from one old sailor. Think about the hundreds more that your dad touched and carry good memories of him to this day. I’m happy that we were able to make contact here and that I could pass my memories on to you. My only regret is that we didn’t bump into one another here a couple of years ago when you could have told him, “Hey Dad, I met one of your old crewmembers from the Rogers on-line, and he said you were one hell of a great ‘Old Man’ and that he was very proud to sail with you.”

Good luck on your memorial ride!

My sincere best wishes to you and the entire Woolway family.

Joe Orzechowski
Sacramento, CA

Saturday, June 9, 2007

For the Dog Loving Woman



This morning I praise the dog loving woman
walking her beast twice daily; a creature whose
name resembles the Old West: Cowgirl, Jesse,

Annie or Cody. A song to the one who invites
the mud-footed lab to climb between antique
sheets and the hand-quilted spread of her double bed.

Praise to the dog loving woman alone
in her studio apartment with a cup full of moon
mingling with the blue spill of TV across her second-

hand couch. Her floppy eared lab with his dangerous
tail sweeps popcorn and glassware from a mahogany
table, then lifts one giant paw at a time

to lay his head in the crook of her neck as she thumbs
a silken ear. Now I want to say something astonishing: how
our bodies are trapeze artists swinging—

reaching for another pair of loose hands in the blackness;
for the tips of long fingers, the splayed fingers, the open palm
to grip in darkness and pull us from our lonely fall—

no hand, no waist, no shoulder to lean into. Our
separation swirls unleashed by longing. Listening.
We follow a melody through the uncaught air and fall

into the black lap of whoknowswhat. Like the dog loving
woman, we have to learn to wrap our bodies around
the loneliness, make a companion of it. To trust
when we release the rung, to something that will

catch us. We have to learn to come when we are called
and go blindly beneath the canopy where the lights
have sputtered out, where the air is our only embrace.

Tuesday, June 5, 2007

Another Frida Portrait



The superstitious nature of the spoon
thrives on neglect. Drizzle with honey,
lighly crush cumin, toss grated carrots,
golden raisins, orange peel and lemon
juice; adjust the peppery bite of raw cabbage.

Darkness watched the colors explode,
collide, burn away, fade. In a broken
whisper: you like wings? Fistfuls
of cosmos, small dry bunches
that burst into fragrant
star-like blooms fade
with each season.

The moon hardly visible, soaked
in warmth—created from booms
and echoes—tied together with string;
hangs in a dry, dark location, surrounded
by lightning bugs and deep roots.