This is the house I lived in in Poughkeepsie, New York, for 13 years. I sold it in 2000 and moved to Florida that year.

This is the house the poem, This Old House, is based on. See previous posting.

THIS OLD HOUSE

Presently I am compiling poems I have written since 2010 into a second poetry book, called, This Old House and Other Memories. My first poetry book was entitled, Passion's Evidence and was composed of poetry I had written in the 1980's through 2009. It was self-illustrated as this one will be with pictures I took with my camera. Here is the poem based on the title, written a few years, ago.


THIS OLD HOUSE

She stoops among decayed roofs of Poughkeepsie.
Seventy-five years old
Paint peels from cedar shakes
Cracks glare from bay windows
Rain drools through warped shingles
We lived there thirteen years
when streets echoed with laughter
Seniors walked poodles
Neighbors waved "Hello"
as Rog and I drove to work.

But now, few roses climb her walls
or grapes peer at passers-by through rusted fence
Dandelions threaten tomatoes ready for sauce
Grass grows too high for mowing.

Thanksgiving you'd bake ham and I, apple pie
Sausage blackened the grill
Tabbies crawled by and I would toss them tidbits
  and ravens, crumbs
They gobbled on snow like turkeys fighting for corn

We once lived here, you and I --
Garlanding walks with flaming bulbs at Christmas
and stuffed our wood stove with oak
Musty smoke curls rings above the city.

We abandoned her--
Florida beckoned
while with us she grew,
glowed with fresh coats of blue,
Leaded panes sparkled
Pansies nodded from garden boxes
Tulips, hyacinths and sun flowers waved
in the intermittent breezes which gusted off the Hudson.

Our neighbor, Mrs. Coppola, smiled as she shook out rugs
She's since died or gone to a home for seniors
We have left, too, for another city, another state.

But this old house stands, proud in her decay.
She waits for someone to claim her,
nail her roof, paint her walls, grow bulbs, again.
Her rooms once slept little ones
No morre
They moved away to have kids of their own

We all have moved.
She waits, haunted by ghosts of yesteryears--
the singing of carols around a piano
the musk of embers filling nostrils
and heat warming drafty rooms now barren.

Summer comes, and with it, hot winds which dry soggy beams
In my mind, I heave windows up and allow rays to enter.
We are here, again, you and I, in our noble haven by the river.

HOW I MADE PEACE WITH MY FAMILY OF ORIGIN

It wasn't until I was able to assist my family with their medical needs and with getting an assistant living for my father to live in was I able to come to peace with the abuse they showered on me while I was a child. This didn't take place until after my husband retired from his job in New York and we moved to Florida in 2000. Noticing the grief my father experienced after the deaths of my mother and my sister in the year 2004 and losing his home in a move to an assisted living created much compassion in me. I felt it must have been very difficult for this former military officer to have to give up his home, lose his wife and youngest daughter to alcoholism and drugs, and then move to a residential living for seniors. Also, my helping my mother after she moved to two nursing homes before she passed away encouraged me to forgive her as well. She had always been an independent woman, taking care of my sister and me while my father served overseas and went to other states for combat training. His tour overseas in Iran lasted for two full years and sometimes she barely had enough monies to pay for our groceries since she depended on him for support checks. I have also forgiven my sister for all the money she stole from my parents' bank accounts to buy drugs, fancy clothes,  and take vacations with. My sister, Marilyn, had struggled paying bills for years while she was married to her husband, Steve, who couldn't hold a job for more than two years. She probably thought she had a right to steal since her husband and her never took a vacation in the 20 years they were married. I say that tongue in cheek, of course, but it's possibly the reason why. Yet I'll never know. The past is the past and can't be changed. We just have to accept things for what they are.

My mother, sister Marilyn and myself (in the red dress) in 1948, the year my sister was born

My parents in 1954

AUTHOR SPEAKS TO RETIRED MILITARY GENTLEMEN

On April 4th, at noon, I will be giving a talk to some retired military gentlemen and local businessmen in the Daytona Beach area regarding my memoir, Interrupted Journeys: A Memoir of an Army Brat. Hopefully, there will be a good turnout then.

BOOK SIGNING ON SATURDAY, MARCH 11

I will be having a book signing for my memoir, Interrupted Journeys: A Memoir of an Army Brat from 11 am to 2 pm at the Renewals Book Shop in New Smyrna Beach, Florida. There will be refreshments served.

AUTHOR GIVING A BOOK SIGNING AT RENEWALS BOOK STORE, WASHINGTON STREET, NEW SMYRNA BEACH, FLORIDA

I am giving a book signing for my book, Interrupted Journeys: A Memoir of an Army Brat, on Saturday, March 11th, from 11 am to 2 pm at the Renewals Book Store in New Smyrna.

BARBARA FIFIELD GIVING TALK TO VETERANS' ASSOCIATION

On Monday, February 27th at 2 pm, the author will be giving a talk regarding her book, Interrupted Journeys: A Memoir of an Army Brat, to the Father Charles Waters Post 1962 of the Catholic War Veterans at the Emory L. Bennett Veterans Nursing Home on Mason Avenue in Daytona Beach. She will discuss memories of her childhood as an army brat in the service and living in Germany, Japan, and different States of the USA.