Turning Back to Her Love Pages (Kelsay Books 2025)
By Judy Lorenzen
by Editor Sharon Waller Knutson
Judy Lorenzen’s first poetry collection, “Turning Back to Her Love Pages” reads like a novel as she tells the love story of her mother and father. Like a good novelist, she creates portraits of her protagonists so we can sympathize with them as individuals as well as together. Her poems are powerful and poignant and her stories heartfelt and heartbreaking as she keeps me on the edge of my seat turning the pages and not wanting the story to end.
Here's what her colleagues have to say:
Turning Back to Her Love Pages glows with the
extraordinary power of love and forgiveness between the ordinary people
entailed in this work. Dressed in nature, Lorenzen’s poems sing with the sounds
of silence in questioning love, with the sorrows for a disabled child, with the
exuberance of watching for the hummingbirds’ arrival. She captures the hardness
and tenderness of every life through the pages of this love
song. Turning Back to Her Love Pages is a pleasure to read
from beginning to end—the life insights, the wisdom, and the sweet thread of
love from her title poem, “Turning Back to Her Love Pages,” on: “he wanted for
her / to turn back to her love pages /and write the end of their story / from
that point on in love / because love, as she taught him, / keeps no records of
wrong and never fails— / and she did
Lora Jones, author of Song of a Wounded Heart
Lorenzen, an astute observer of life, chronicles her parents’ love story in
these heartfelt, imagery-laden, lyrical poems, where love is the central theme.
Her special gift, here, is to show us that love is a choice;
love is powerful, and love is the most
excellent way, and those who choose love and forgiveness and lavish them on
those around them change their worlds. Turning Back to Her Love Pages is
a lovely and deeply moving collection as Lorenzen’s words flow so easily and
gracefully, yet are honest and weighty.
Kathryn Kurz, Assistant Professor, Department of Education,
York University
Judy Lorenzen’s collection of poems is a compelling effort at a wonderfully
impossible task: bringing back, through words, the best features of our
parents. This heartfelt collection reaches across time and memory to offer us
resonant portraits of two very interesting people. Her mother and
father, certainly. But more than that. The couple exemplifies
crucial aspects of our Midwestern life: she, a rural Nebraska woman steeped in nature,
family, and faith; he, a second-generation Greek immigrant, adopting country
music alongside a hard-work ethic, mixed with Greek cuisine. Lorenzen’s poems
reach after generational love, the question of “what is love anyway” when we
try to imagine our elder’s lives with empathy and awe. These poems teach us
about heritage, home, and community–three mainstream place-conscious concepts
that guided Lorenzen’s career as an educator, and now center her poems.
Robert E. Brooke, Emeritus Professor of English, University of Nebraska-Lincoln
I’ll let a few of my favorite poems speak for themselves.
Turning Back to Her Love Pages
How do I honor the memory
of my mother and father,
whose love story began in 1949
when they married after six weeks of meeting,
her, a high school graduate, waiting tables
at the Compass Room in Lincoln,
him, a young WW II vet with a GED,
the cook at the Compass,
both from poor unstable families—
a baby girl nine months later,
with six more girls to follow
throughout the next nine years,
one, Jill, severely disabled?
If love could die from troubles,
the heart-framed mirrors of their hearts
would have shattered.
But she loved him with a rare love that always
reflected back a beautiful image of the one it was set on.
He learned in time how much he loved her.
Her love, he said, was written all over
the pages of his life from 19 on.
And what is love anyway?
A commitment to stay—no matter what?
“Please, Sugar,
turn back to your love pages
that you wrote for me,” he told her
at the breaking point of sorrows.
He wanted her, he wanted her love back,
he wanted the curls back
that she wore around her face just for him,
he wanted to see, again, those truthful blue eyes
that he loved to look into,
to have, again, those sweet lips
talk softly to him, laugh with him,
to have those arms of comfort around him, again,
to have her heart that loved him so deeply,
to be the object of that love,
he wanted for her
to turn back to her love pages
and write the end of their story
from that point on in love
because love, as she taught him,
keeps no records of wrong and never fails—
Dad called her
Sugar or Honey,
because of her attitude and spirit—
and because—
he became addicted to her.
He called her Hot Rod,
because of her heavy foot on the gas pedal
accidently running over a pet or two,
trying to help her not feel so bad.
He called her Chiquita,
which was a secret name between the two of them.
He had a few other terms
of endearment for her,
but Sugar was his mainstay,
the spoonful of “White Gold” that made any bitter medicine go down.
And she was sweet, terribly sweet,
so sweet that her pancreas could not produce
enough insulin to rid her body of the sugar
that caused her diabetes, heart problems, and eventual blindness and cancer.
After her first heart attack,
her life became shots and pills, every morning,
finger sticks, a shot in the stomach and heart pills by mouth,
yet her joy was not diminished, nor was she discouraged.
She knew life was worth living and love, worth giving,
and she was going to love us until the day she died.
If, as she used to tell us,
we, in our inner being, just
become more and more of what we are
as we get older, than she was honey, as Dad called her—
the sweetest food here on earth,
made by bees from the nectar of flowers.
My sisters and I always find
that when we talk about our mother,
the conversation always goes back to love and goodness.
Sugar was a good nickname for her—
she left us so many sweet memories.
I Remember
watching Mother take care of Jill,
though I was three, and Jill six.
Jill would cry and Mother would hold her,
stroke her hair, talk lovingly to her
until her pain settled down.
Then, I remember, one day,
Jill was gone,
and there was no more crying in the house.
I remember the first time we visited Jill
in the Beatrice State Home,
and I think back to the day Mother told me
that the doctors insisted she place Jill there
because the staff was equipped to give Jill
the kind of care she needed—and after all—
they reminded Mother—she had three younger daughters
than Jill who needed her attention,
and so did the older three.
I remember Mother’s blue eyes crying as she told me
she did not want to give Jill up.
Those days must have been dark, dark days for her—
impossible days with that decision in front of her.
And I think of how she loved Jill with all of her heart,
and when I had my own children,
I thought of what it must have been like for her
to watch six of us grow healthily,
and Jill struggle to breathe and eat.
I remember how Mother’s love and care,
how her sadness and tears,
washed over us like the gentle spring rains—
that she loved so much
that promised new life to the grasses and trees—
how they left seeds of hope in her heart for Jill
who was born into her life with such profound limits
Mother Takes a Poetry Workshop with My Sister and Me
They creep upon us, those times we’ll never forget,
like when I was talking to my mother
about my Fall Poetry Workshop that I was taking—
and she started quoting John Neihardt’s “Easter,”
about the northbound Wonder bringing back the goose and crane
and those majestic words about the geese being
prophetic sons of thunder—apostles of the rain.
The poem was beautiful, and I was astounded
that out of my mother poured this powerful poem
she had memorized in grade school.
Her ability to remember dates of wars and quotable quotes
always impressed me as her memory was photographic.
Then I learned that she remembered all the grammar rules from elementary school
and how to apply them correctly. She could diagram
sentences and identify all the parts of speech.
Not only could she recite Neihardt’s poems,
but all of the poems she had learned in her youth.
She knew writers and poets, their genres and literary periods,
so I invited her to come to the Summer Poetry Workshop—
which happened to be about Neihardt—with my sister and me.
“Yes!” she said, and I picked up our Black Elk Speaks, A Cycle of the West,
and Lyrics and Dramatic Poems of John G. Neihardt.
At 56, she was so excited to attend a poetry class,
and my sister and I were thrilled to attend a class with our mother.
The first day was long and filled with history and readings,
plus, we were up early to drive an hour to the college.
When the poetry reading began in early afternoon,
I saw Mother’s head bobbing up and down—the poems were so rich,
I knew she was nodding, “Yes” to the speaker,
but, no. . . soon, I heard my mother snoring.
My sister looked at me wide-eyed and smiled.
We knew she was tired. . .
All I could think about were those certain students who,
right at the riveting, critical points in literature, fell asleep.
“Who can hold the whole audience after the first 30 minutes or so,”
my sister whispered in my ear, “She can recite all of these poems by heart—let
her sleep.”
I learned more than beautiful poetry and fascinating history that day—
when kids fall asleep in class, it isn’t about how engaging the lesson is,
and, my mother, though sleepy, was an excellent student and received an A.
What the Great Depression Taught My Father
be grateful for the job you have—never assume you’ll always
have it
never assume you will have a home tomorrow
be grateful if you have a roof over your head
shut the lights off when you leave the room
know that all work is honorable
get rid of any pride you have
know you are entitled to nothing
don’t feel bad if you drop out of school to support your mother
be proud of your GED when you get it
don’t be surprised if your life changes drastically in a minute’s time
know how to find edible food in garbage dumpsters by grocery stores and
restaurants
share with the animals that are there scavenging with you
grow your own food
be frugal, never cheap
don’t borrow money
know a good deal when you see one
learn to barter
never trade silk for calico
waste nothing
use everything you have
wash and reuse plastic wrap and utensils
wash and reuse aluminum foil
buy off-brand products when you have the money
buy only what you need
use only what you need
prepare enough for everyone
always serve the best of what you have
be sure the animals are fed
be generous to those in need
love your family—they are all you have
don’t worry—look at the birds that never complain about their daily menu and
soar
never give up
SPAM, not the Fake Email, the Fake Meat
There is a strange phenomenon, a nostalgia,
that happens to most people as they age.
They begin to long for the food of their youth,
no matter how grotesque—
the bologna, Vienna sausage, or canned sardines—
those foods that can only ensure that life is pleasureless.
I watched my dad crave and eat SPAM,
the food of his military service years,
Depression food from WW II.
Stationed in Hawaii, he ate it daily,
and I’m sure it was delicious to a young man,
who as a little boy rarely ever had a good meal—
and never meat.
Decades later, when he hungered for it,
he’d buy a few cans,
fry it, and make SPAM sandwiches.
It was a shiny slimy rubber rectangle—
Something Posing As Meat.
But who am I to criticize this edible brick
that needs no refrigeration
when it was credited as one reason
for winning World War II?
When I see a can of SPAM,
I can see my father, with two SPAM sandwiches
on a plate, green onions extend the bread,
mustard is visible, and he is sitting at the kitchen table
in silence, eating.
It becomes clear to me now,
why this man never ever complained
about anything in his life.
George Jones Really Loved My Father
My father did grow on people—
as he eventually did me.
He nicknamed my sisters and me
(he called me mosquito—
said he couldn’t get rid of me,
and I buzzed in his ear),
my friends who came over,
my sisters’ friends who came over—
anyone visiting the house. . .
I’m sure he became famous, locally,
for his unusual names for people
and for his delivery of what he said to them.
Even the neighborhood animals loved my father
because he fed all of them,
whether they had eaten at their own homes or not.
He didn’t want any person or animal to be hungry.
As he filled his bird and squirrel feeders and the cat dishes,
he'd ask, “Well, what’s on the menu for today?”
Animals knew when feeding hour started at his house.
I screamed late one evening at Mom and Dad’s house
when I saw a creature with a scary white face
staring in at me through the glass-sliding door.
“Don’t frighten George Jones,” Dad said,
“he’s busking again for food. He's here
to eat and then sing his latest song for me.”
My father got up from the table,
put George’s supper together and took it out to him
as George waited patiently, lovingly even, by the door.
“Well, hello, George, how’s that new song comin’—
you gonna sing it for me tonight?”
I heard my father say as he stood there
talking to George Jones as George ate.
Then I heard my father singing honky tonk-like.
Soon Dad said, “Okay, I’ll see ya tomorrow.”
When he came back in, he put George’s dish in the sink,
“Well, his new song is good, but it isn’t quite as good as
‘When the Grass Grows Over Me,’” Dad said
and sat back down at the table to visit.
To buy the book:
Amazon.com: Turning Back to Her Love Pages: 9781639807574: Lorenzen, Judy: Books
Turning Back to Her Love Pages – Kelsay Books
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