Being a Bixby

Growing up a Bixby never really meant much to me. At a younger age I felt like an outsider being adopted into the  Bixby family by my father. Yes I say father despite the lack of a biological connection because as I've aged I've also educated myself. I can honestly say that NO other man could have done for me what he has. It's not just what he has done for me but who he has been for my family and my mother. She could not have found a better man to stand beside her. It takes one look around at a Bixby reunion to know that I'm the odd one of the bunch. I've lived my life to different beat. Despite all of our differences though I rarely feel like an outsider.
Perhaps I say this now because I see the similarities between my father and I. I also now realize the similarities he and Grandaden share. I see it is a trait or lesson learned or passed down from one to the other, so subtly it could almost be called osmosis. A lesson about trust, respect,  compassion, empathy, humility, and love. About being a family despite differences and disputes.
While I was in high school and after more then 50 years of marriage  Gramma woke Grandaden one night to tell him that she loved him, their family and their life together and then passed in his arms as he waited. She was an amazing women and I wish only that we could have had much more time with her. She taught me the most important key to happiness;  One day she pulled me aside while we were making her super special chocolate chip walnut cookies. Even back then it was noticeable that I was different from the rest of the Bixbys. She told me she didn't care what I did with my life as long as I did the best I could at everything I would do. Grandaden never remarried. Instead when Carl Bixby passed during the winter I spent in Chile he had survived Edith Kenyon by living for more than decade after her passing.
Of all the great lessons Gramma and Grandaden taught me, the greatest was the enormous power that a strong family has to flourish, grow, and support eachother.

Being A Bixby

She rode with the Guachos,
And inspired a passion for persistant perfection.
He dreamed of sailing seas,
And taught dedication to daily duties.
Together their garden bloomed with love,
And cultivated a tree stronder then any storm,
Heartier then any festive feast
That they themselves prepared,
And more bountiful then the falls dire harvest.
For generations that follow
I know I'll swallow
And savor like a fine wine
The love and acceptance of a family divine.
Together afain her, his whole.
Find the tide that takes you back to her ride.
It's meant the world that we yet to unfold.

Thank you Gramma and Grandaden. I'm trying.

adam

The Aids Shack and more

My time in Chile and Argentina was one of the most amazing experiences in my life to date. I could write pages and pages about it. In fact I already have in my traveling journal. Reading back over things my writing journal seems to say things much clearer. 

To Chile, the greatest adventure I've had so far.

Aids Shack

Just a run down red shack

No ice box but a shower and a stove. 

Two simple rooms full of history,

Friendships new and old.

Sideboards pealing, tin roof flapping

On a foundation held aloft by stone and stump.

Tucked in back. Hidden from view

Amongst  Poplars and Willows

That serve as a perch for my nest with a leafy window

To a fantastic dream that resides here

In this dilapidated run down shack on a lake.

Coming home to the Aids shack after a successful mission.

                                                                                                                    

I'm as confused about what I am doing

As to the words, the language coming from 

Your sweet soft lips. That I enjoyed by

the lake this cool afternoon as we

Spoke with our eyes and I tried to 

Roll my Rrrr's and still resorted to a reference.

                                                                                                                      

Second to last night and the rain rolls in.

Blanketing my beach with millions of moist kisses.

My hammock rocks and sways as the rain fly beats,

To the symphonies baritone wind section.

Waves crashing harder and harder. And I wait.

It's early and not quite time to rise up emerging from this chrysalis.

It's warm and cozy. 

And I don't feel ready to fly away so soon.

                                                                                                                        

Because She's Too Good For Words

I really enjoy writing. Sometimes I have a really hard time articulating clearly what I want with my speech but but I can sit down with a pen and my little yellow pad and say exactly what I want. Nobody can take it away from me. I have a hard time writing when I'm happy and things are going well in my life. A year and a half ago I started going through a very trying time in my life and was filling up a notebook every few months and that wasn't including the letters and journaling I was doing also. Some stuff I wrote I think is pretty good and then there was plenty of pretty bad or more appropriately pointless stuff. I have written very little in the last year comparatively.
It took until just recently for some very important things to turn around for me but just over a year ago I met the most amazing person I've ever known. Someone who makes me laugh during the entire adventure, someone who has stood by me through the hardest time I've had, someone that I never thought I'd find in my wandering life. Despite the hardships of late she has always been there for me making me feel stronger and more confident then ever with all her many ways. With this great love that I've been shown I've gotten to know happiness again and humbleness.
I may try for the rest of my life but my words will never be able to describe the wonderful feeling of emotion that this beautiful, beautiful women has given me.





In the distance sipping sweet sake
She sits savoring slippery sushi.
Well.   She sat at one time,
And Yes.   I guess she will sit again someday.

But now I dwell on the dimming Green light
Off in the distance, in the haze
As she flickers and fades as if an
Oil lamp low on fuel in a storm that hasn't fully formed.

Like Labor Day on the lake. Lying awake rambling,
Her cunning curves carving while my loose legs listed.
Or, like loose linen flowing, golden silk blowing, snapping memories
Of royalty, miles of meandering gardens, and topping it off with shiraz.

A 1,000,000 miles I'd go just to feel her smiles.
Holding a hand. Helping through a horrendous highlight.
Embracing my life, my heart with the warmth of a wool wrap
On a winters eve rolled up with her. Waiting out the storm.

Sarcasm Font

The first three stanzas were done over a year ago and yet I always felt like something was not quite right about it. It was as if something was missing or just not completed. Last night I realized why.

Tiger Lilies and Black-Eyed Susans
Simple opposites of a common ground
Faithful service that a common man's
attempt at a clean pilgrimage will abound.

Unkempt and at times in a sense of disarray
A sprout, a bud, a bloom of natures true color
May lead to a chat, a foray, maybe even a soiree.
Perhaps. Even enough to phone for a date with'er.

A long distance road trip back home.
Stopping along the way to tease the soul.
And temp the heart, to inspire poem.
She maybe one to help climb out this hole.

Or will I be teased and loose my voice?
And have my words humbly hidden from me.
Playing for a while.  Enough to put us both at ease.
When we wake will it have been a dream?.