martha graham to agnes demille

 

susan alexander | three poems about summer jobs

Making Beds with Cordelia at the Avalon Motel in Osoyoos: Summer 1973                                                                      

She could sing Desperado just like Linda Ronstadt.

I showed her hospital corners and how to 

smooth sheets like my mother taught me. 

She didn’t have one – a mom.

 

Thrown out of the house – for nothing 

according to her and I believed her, 

believed the worst of fathers in general, 

temper tantrums, hard hands and drinking. 

 

She wouldn’t talk about him, not a thing,

but I remember something about two bitchy sisters – 

one with a name like venereal disease 

while Cordelia,           

                          she walked right out of a magazine

with her long legs and sort of private smile – 

smart too though she didn’t show off like I did 

or mouth off either. 

                                 I taught her how to

tuck a bedspread under pillows then curve it 

snug like a tight t-shirt. She had the knack. 

 

When she wasn’t around I tried

to talk and dress and wear my hair like her,

be patient with my little niece, be nicer 

than I was or am. 

                             She lived alone 

in our trailer out back of the motel 

beside the slough we called a lake – 

saving up for university she said. 

 

Sometimes after work we’d lie together 

under the walnut tree. I’d play with her hair 

while she read Tess – rich green leaves 

breaking the heat of an Okanagan afternoon. 

 

I always thought she’d get discovered 

like that dairy queen girl, that she’d marry 

a millionaire. 

                       Strange thing is 

 

I was the one who kind of made it in the end,

the one with the house and European holidays. 

But Cordelia,

 

                       she was making her way for awhile, 

then somehow it went bad again – a man, 

some dark angel, following her.

                              *

The Avalon

 

It was a fast food joint on Highway 3 

where it turned into Main Street. 

Picnic tables in the breezeway, Creedence

screaming up around the bend on the jukebox.

No drive-thru windows like today. 

People had to park, get out of their cars.

 

My father was boss, shape-shifted 

from grease monkey in his own garage

to short order cook.  Short temper cook 

more like it. Hotter than burgers sizzling 

on the grill. Hotter than chips in the deep fat fryer. 

Him and his shout and his bottomless rum 

and coke just inside the cooler door. 

 

Scariest thing for me was making 

chicken dinners when he was crazy 

busy and the grill was packed. I’d crank 

up the flames under the pressure cooker

in the back, drop thighs, legs, breasts,

wings, into popping oil then twist 

the metal top on tight as I could.

 

Timing was critical and I was racing 

up front with customers at windows, 

making change with fingers burnt

from bagging burgers. Milkshakes 

whizzed on metal sticks while I erected

dazzling ziggurats of soft ice cream cones. 

 

All the time at the back the pressure 

built. Always I expected the explosion. 

My father’s holler. Flying metal, boiling oil. 

Fast food shrapnel. Casualties.

 

When the cooker’s valves got flipped up,

they screamed like murder, smeared the air 

with steam and grease. I served up impossible 

crispy gold in a cardboard container. 

 

For years I wore burn scars 

on the soft insides of forearms.

They are faded, almost gone. 

So is my father. 

Nowadays summer never gets that hot.

 

                              * 

 

Sorting Cherries

 

We sat in lines on either side 

of the belt’s endless loop. Across from me, 

a woman in her fifties, black hair dull with dye, 

flanked by cronies. She listed infirmities 

as numerous as the cherries rolling by. 

Her hands darted, deft as a lacemaker, 

picked out the split and the bruised. 

 

Beside me, the tough girls I drank 

with in high school. The ones who still smoked, 

who had sex in the back of Camaros 

belonging to boyfriends who worked 

at the mill. Girls who weren’t headed

to university when summer was over.

 

After eight days, the whistle blew for break 

and the belt stopped. I fell off my stool. 

Mesmerized. The foreman moved me 

up the chain. Alone. I pushed boxes of Bings 

around a corner. When that crop was done,

we all got laid off until the next call came.

I never went back. 

 

Some nights before sleep, I see them glide by, 

a stream of profligate hearts. 

premier league mascots

Fred the Red loves a hug with the manager. 

Buzz and Buzzette, giant furry bees, had a surprise when a 38-year-old on his stag joined them in full kit for their match-day rituals three years ago. Bertie Bee once rugby-tackled a naked streaker, who ended up somersaulting to the ground. Harry the Hornet is a cheerful, drum-bashing, man-sized wasp with a predilection for winding up Crystal Palace managers. He has been labelled "out of order" by Sam Allardyce and "disgraceful" by Roy Hodgson. 

Stamford the Lion has looked much happier since the arrival of his female companion, Bridget. Filbert Fox has been to every home match since 1992 but his two erstwhile sidekicks, Vicky Vixen and Cousin Dennis, disappeared together years ago. Hmmmn.  In 1998 the fan who dressed up as Hercules the Lion to entertain the crowd on match days was relieved of his duties following a half-time kerfuffle with a beauty queen. 

Moonchester and Moonbeam surely hail from a place called Blue Moon as they are, yes, blue and, yes, Blue Moon is the club anthem. Unfunny foam creatures have never caught on at Everton, thankfully, but the tradition of a Toffee Lady throwing sweets to the crowd before kick-off is alive and well.

The death of much-loved mascot Kayla the eagle last year was greeted with an outpouring of emotion from fans. Many made donations to her former home at the Eagle Heights sanctuary near Dartford that have helped it to survive the pandemic. 

Sammy the Saint made a name for himself with some dad-dancing in 2012, performing a half-time rendition of Gangnam Style. 

Captain Canary has been rebooted for the 2021-22 season. Thinner, yellower, smilier, he now comes with massive eyebrows. Chirpy Cockerel was remodelled after a more sinister previous look. Remember the dead eyes?

from The Manchester Guardian pre-season team profiles, 2021.

pictured: Fred The Red embracing The Prince of Darkness, Jose Mourinho. Jose has since been sacked and exiled to Italy, while Fred is still going strong.

Mascots and their Homes

Hercules the Lion, Aston Villa

Buzz and Buzzette, Brentford
Bertie Bee, Burnley
Stamford the Lion, Chelsea
Kayla the Eagle, Crystal Palace

The Toffee Lady, Everton
Filbert Fox, Leicester City
Moonchester and Moonbeam, Manchester City
Fred the Red, Manchester United
Captain Canary, Norwich
Sammy the Saint, Southampton
Chirpy Cockerel, Tottenham Hotspur
Harry the Hornet, Watford

aug 8 | the holy crossing