gypsy in my soul

Around Halloween especially, I fondly remember my Grandma Pauline, who always took such great joy in preparing us for this particular holiday, with its pagan roots. She was certainly a colorful character in my life, in stark contrast to my other grandparents who will have a dedicated entry with a photo which should be titled "American Gothic." When I shared this poem with my mother several years ago, she commented, "well, you know, it's all true!"

Last night, as I traveled home on the subway after working late, the car filled with an amazing assortment of creatively costumed New Yorkers of varying ages, I recalled my poem of remembrance and the photo of her shown above, inherited on a recent trip to the Midwest.

Pauline

my father’s mother loved to dress us up as gypsies

traveled with the carnival, hair always permed and red, toenails too
first husband alcoholic, second husband flew hot air balloons
but was killed in a car accident

wore Tabu and costume jewelry with rhinestones and plastic feathers
sewed her own clothes -- I remember that chartreuse polyester blouse
a zipper up the front, a gold metallic fish dangling from the tab

watched religiously The Edge of Night and As the World Turns
barmaid by profession, smoked and drank beer
had a series of Pekinese dogs, each one bad with children
and always named “Ty-Gee”

lived in a trailer surrounded by her garden
philodendrons in donkey-with-cart planters
were trained to grow around the entire inside
of that place

gold plaster elephants up on hind legs trunks curled
matte finish with tiny shiny drops all over them
lived on either side of her couch
a framed print torn from a calendar:
dogs around a table playing poker

she often wore a two-piece bathing suit

once a year we put on the red tiered skirts
with pink and turquoise rickrack trim
draped in scarves, hair flowing free
we became her gypsy band

husky voice, laughed a lot
she lived her gypsy life

and she told me I had rosebud lips
as she painted them bright and deep