Special Gifts

 Jayne Jaudon Ferrer

 

by Sharon Waller Knutson

Jayne Jaudon Ferrer, poet, novelist, journalist, editor and inspiration speaker, shares poems from her poetry collection, Dancing with My Daughter (Loyola Press.)

In her own words, Jayne tells how the book was born:

“I wrote my first book, A New Mother's Prayers during my first son John's first 4 years. I went to my first writer's conference with a proposal for a nonfiction book about military chaplains who had served in war. (My sister Vera's husband was a Navy chaplain.) The agent I talked to said she had no interest in that at all, but she liked my writing and asked me to send her something else. I had nothing else. My husband said, "Send her all those poems you've been writing since John was born." I rolled my eyes and said, "Those are all WAY too personal; nobody would want to read those," to which he said, "Well, since that's all you HAVE, SEND them!" Right time, right place, divine intervention, whatever; that book ended up getting published in three different editions and sold 50,000 copies.

 “I wrote my second book, A Mother of Sons while we were living in a trailer on 20 acres of pine trees, raising three boys under 5, struggling to start a business in a little town in North Florida after my husband Jose took a buy-out offer from IBM. (Slightly different from the cushy life we'd been living in Boca Raton!) That book got published in two editions, with some additional poems in the later edition, since John was a teenager by that time.

“Dancing with My Daughter came about because my publisher insisted that if I wrote a book about having sons, I needed to write a book about having daughters. When I protested that I didn't HAVE any daughters, he said, "Well, YOU'RE a daughter, and you have a MOTHER; surely you can put something together!" It wasn't until after ten years of Alzheimer's with my mother, when we ended up switching roles, that I tackled that one.”

In her introduction, Jayne writes: “As I struggled to come up with an appropriate title for this book, it occurred to me that the mother-daughter relationship—with all its twists and turns, and ups and downs, and diversity and passion and drive—was very much like a dance. We come together—for celebration, support, or commiseration; we back away—in anger or confusion, for privacy or reflection. But in one form or another, the “dance” goes on throughout our lives; we simply vary the rhythm and who gets to lead when.

“With that image in mind, Dancing with My Daughter revolved into five sections: “Waltz,” focusing on those early years when all is tender togetherness; “Jitterbug,” which covers those lively toddler and childhood years; “Tango,” for those breathless preadolescent days; “Samba,” addressing that fiery teenage phase; and “Freestyle,” which deals with the promises and dreams of the future.”

DNA Denouement

If my mother is a rose,
then I am a poppy.
She, dignified, resilient,
dependable.
I carefree, capricious,
more likely to flourish
in a n open field,
then a tended bed.
We are both red,
although she more vibrant than I –
my bright petals no match for
that vermillion charm that oozes,
even now through age and infirmity,
like blood through gauze.

Still, her thorns have
pricked more than a few.
My stems are tender,
I bruise and wilt
when the world comes
shoving past.


Her Father’s (and Mother’s) Daughter

He wanted a football player.
I wanted a little doll.
He wanted a rough-and-tumble tough guy
to romp in the yard with a dog.
I wanted a satin-and-lace sweetheart
to share tea and crumpets in the afternoon.
And so, here you are:
a little doll who loves football,
a rascal of the first degree—
so precious wrapped up
in your pristine, beribboned gown as
you
and Rover
scarf down Oreos
and Milk-Bones
off my finest crystal platter.

The Crush

Believe it or not,
I know how it feels.
For me,
it was Gary Stephens.
6’ 6”, probably all of
a hundred and thirty pounds . . .
I thought he was gorgeous.
I timed all my locker breaks around his.
He didn’t know I was alive.
So I know how it feels,
sweetheart.
When he doesn’t smile back,
when he winks at someone else,
when you think, “This will be the day!”,
but it isn’t.
Today, that boy will not tease you
in the hallway.
Today, that boy will not ask you to
meet him at the mall.
Today that boy will not notice that
you are amazing, and can talk about anything,
and have incredible eyes.
But someday,
some boy
will.

Red Riding Hood Revisited

All the things my grandmother was not,
I will be for your daughter.
I will tease her with sprigs of dandelion
in the springtime,
tempt her with ripe red melons
in the summer sun,
laugh with her in the languid blaze
of autumn,
cherish her warmth in the starkness
of winter’s chill.
We will have secrets,
she and I.
About cookies
and boyfriends,
lipsticks
and lollipops,
late nights,
early mornings,
and love.
I will wipe away her freckles
with the milky mist of twilight;
she will wipe away my age spots
with the dew.
Together, we will
fret about,
forage through, and
feast upon life
from
one end
to the other.

Send-off

I have only two requests:
come home without holes
in your body
(beyond those given you by God),
and keep in mind
that old saying about
nice girls
and newspaper headlines—
you know, weddings
and funerals
and Nobel prizes
only.
(That last one is mine—
I would never want to stifle you.)
The rest, my dear, is up to
you,
‘cause if I haven’t taught it by now,
it won’t sink in
tonight.
You go
with my blessing,
my encouragement,
my respect,
my love,
and my Master Card.
I
will pray for us
both.

Read more about Jayne on this blog:

https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/05/storyteller-of-week_26.html

You can buy the book on Jayne’s website: http://www.jaynejaudonferrer.com/index.jsp