Beautiful Eau Sauvage…

08 Wednesday Jul 2026

Posted by in Aging, beautiful, Father, Poetry, Reflections

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , ,

© Joan Currie – My father’s aftershave


Eau Sauvage by Joan Currie

On a trip to Paris,
after a college year abroad,
I bought my father
a bottle of
Eau Sauvage aftershave.

I don’t know why.
Perhaps I was seduced by the
elegant Christian Dior
fragrance counter.
Or was it a friend’s urging?

He wasn’t a man
who wore cologne.

But after receiving that gift,
he wore its fresh lemon scent
for the rest of his life.

Even in hospice,
after my brother handed me
my father’s shaving kit,
a daily ritual
became a final sacrament.

I drew the razor
across his three-day stubble.

He always said
I had healing hands.

I ran tepid water
into a stainless steel bowl,
rinsed his face clean,
and dried it gently
with his well-worn terry-cloth towel.

The final act
was pouring a few drops
of Eau Sauvage
into my palms

and patting his smooth cheeks
just as he had done
a thousand times before.

I felt he knew
I was there,

in communion with him

one last time.

Amen.

Beautiful Blue Velvet Ribbons…

30 Tuesday Jun 2026

Posted by in Art, Drawing, Painting, Reflections, watercolor

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , ,

© Joan Currie – Art from my camp truck.


Blue Velvet Ribbons by Joan Currie

I came across
my old summer camp trunk
in the attic.

Inside were thick folders,
tied with sky-blue velvet ribbons.

I knew what lay within:

pencil crayon drawings
of my blond cocker spaniel,
seagulls at the beach,
ducks on the pond,
and my younger brother
in his Mountie costume.

But my favorites
were the paper doll fashions–

wedding gowns
painted in soft watercolor,
headdresses
with sunbursts and roses,
crowns and tiaras,
and Della Robbia wreaths
laden with flowers and fruit.

I made them
on rainy Sunday afternoons.

They were shown
to no one.

I wasn’t waiting
for praise or advice.

The making
was enough.

Each dress
belonged to an imagined life
I carried quietly,
as tenderly
as a child carries
a small secret.

Years later
I showed them
to my daughters.

Already,
they were better artists
than I had ever been.

They smiled,
admired them,
but declined
to add another dress
to the collection.

Perhaps,
one day,
a grandchild
will untie
the blue ribbons,

lift out the folders,

and begin again.

Beautiful Low Tide…

15 Monday Jun 2026

Posted by in beautiful, Photography, Poetry, Sea

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , ,

© Joan Currie – My sea glass treasures found at low tide.


Low Tide by Joan Currie

At full tide,

my view of the Sound
was postcard perfect–

deep ultramarine water dotted with
sailboats and kayaks,
a seaplane landing,
the Olympics in the distance.

But at low tide,
the water recedes
some thirteen feet.

Now a broad beach face
dominates the seascape.

I climb down from the seawall
and begin picking my way
through the sea’s offerings:

timber and polished driftwood,
acorn barnacles perched atop rocks
like gnome caps,
kelp blades,
shucked oyster shells,
and harbor jellyfish.

Walking north,
I search the beach ridges
for treasures hidden
among the dense pebbles.

Seeing none, I turn back.

Then suddenly,
a flash between the stones–

a frosted pale-blue shard of
sea glass,
then another,
this one pale emerald green.

With each step,
another tiny treasure appears–

even a coveted piece
of cobalt blue.

I slip them into my pockets
and scan the beach for more gifts
until I reach the wall
and the tide has turned.

The show is over.

Not so Beautiful Bastard Cabbages…

12 Friday Jun 2026

Posted by in Flowers, Garden, Poetry, Reflections

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , ,

© Joan Currie – Daisies at sunrise.


Bastard Cabbages by Joan Currie

I pulled out the last of them
with the point of a
rock climbing pick.

The dirt was hard–
their stems thick as rhubarb.

Then it rained
for five days straight.

Bastard Cabbages returned,
invading my sweet garden,

their leaves spreading wide
like skirts of French court gowns.

But such extravagance
left little room
for daisies, snapdragons, and
sweet peas
started from seed.

I carved out a space
around the tiny flowers.
They, too, needed
light and air.

Could I keep
such a place?

Beautiful View From the Deck…

02 Tuesday Jun 2026

Posted by in Aging, Art, beautiful, Father, Grief, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , ,

© Joan Currie – Cargo ship on the Burrard Inlet, Vancouver. My father and I loved to watch these ships together.


View From the Deck by Joan Currie

I grieved for my father
most

when he and my mother
left their beloved home
for a care facility.

It came gradually.

The accumulation
of small difficulties,
increasing in severity
day after day.

The tremor in his hand
that spilled food down
the front of his shirt.

The scrapes on his face
from crashing into a wall
when he could no longer
stop his forward gait.

A fractured collarbone
the surgeon refused to pin.

Nightmares
that haunted his sleep.

Bottles and bottles
of expired medication
in the medicine chest.

An unbalanced checkbook
and papers strewn across his desk.

He was such a gentle man–
rarely complaining.

Perhaps it was a mercy,
not fully knowing
how far the disease
had progressed.

I wanted him to remain at home,
surrounded by the things he loved:

the view from the deck,
giant container ships
forging their way inland,

vivid sunsets,

blue hydrangeas,

art books opened
in his favorite wingback chair
beside the fire.

In the end,
he left the house quietly.

Who knows
how much he understood–

of his illness,

or where he stood
in the world.

Beautiful Nana…

30 Saturday May 2026

Posted by in Aging, Art, beautiful, Fashion, Flowers, Poetry, Reflections, Relationships

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , ,

© Joan Currie – My Nana’s pearls and flower power dress fabric.

My Nana – by Joan Currie

I adored my paternal grandmother,
Nana.

She looked very much
like the Queen Mother–
not only in her coloring
but in the way she dressed.

Heavy silk dresses,
a string of pearls,
a brooch pinned neatly below her neckline.

She was always prim and proper,
her expression composed,
though it softened into a lovely smile
when we sang “Happy Birthday,”
when she beat me at checkers,
and especially when she offered
a slice of lemon meringue
or apple pie,
still warm from the oven.

One day she wore a dress
my mother had sewn for her
from fabric covered
in flowers the color of
those in the flower power
advertisements.

I looked at her in wonder.

“Wild flowers!” I declared.

She giggled then–
a light, girlish sound
I had never heard before.

For an instant,
I caught sight of someone
other than my dutiful Nana:

a young woman
bright with life,
still there beneath
the silk dresses and pearls.

It was enchanting!

The following passage was in a note Nana once wrote to me:

Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
For O! it is not always May!

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It is Not Always May

Beautiful Simplicity 9825…

21 Thursday May 2026

Posted by in Crafts, Fashion, Mother, Poetry, Sewing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

© Joan Currie – My mother’s sewing room with her Elna sewing machine.


Simplicity 9825 by Joan Currie

I taught myself to sew
in my teenage years,
on my mother’s Elna machine
in a corner of our basement.

The sewing room was a hodgepodge
of fabric and notions
left there for the taking.

Abandoned pattern pieces
lay scattered across the big
Formica counter
beside boxes of straight pins,
thimbles, pinking shears,
measuring tapes.

Three deep drawers held
a jumble of thread spools,
button and snap cards, lace,
sequins in narrow tubes,
bits of tailor’s chalk.

The cupboards were crammed
with tweeds from the woolen mills,
velvets, tulle, corduroy,
and raw silk from her travels.

On Saturday afternoons
I slipped downstairs
with a Simplicity pattern
and my transistor radio,

and entered
that pulsing, glorious world
where a flat piece of cloth
became my prom dress.

Beautiful My Aunt’s Buttons…

17 Sunday May 2026

Posted by in Crafts, Poetry, Repurposing, Sewing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

© Joan Currie – Some of my buttons with seam ripper and scissors.


My Aunt’s Buttons by Joan Currie

My maternal aunt
was the eldest child
of Depression parents.

She could make something beautiful
out of very little.

Her father’s worn wool suits
became braided rugs.
Outgrown dresses and shirts
became pieced quilts.
Old sweaters unraveled
for mittens and toques.

When she came to visit,
she gathered up my daughters’
too-small clothes
into her lap with delight,
then sat at the kitchen table
with her small scissors
and seam ripper,
taking each garment apart
with the care of a surgeon.

When she was done,
baby jars of buttons
lined my shelves–
sorted by color and size.

There were neat folds of fabric,
bundles of lace,
zippers saved for later.

Then came sweet afternoons
spent sewing rag dolls beside her,
with little dresses to match.

But when the remnant basket
was empty,
she would begin looking
toward our closets,
imagining what else
might be cut down, remade.

Nothing was entirely safe.

That was usually when
it was time for her to go home.

Now, years later,
I find myself sitting
by the sewing machine
with a seam ripper in hand,
saving buttons from old clothes–

the old baby jars
still full on the shelf,
still being used.

Beautiful Mother’s Day Tulips…

08 Friday May 2026

Posted by in beautiful, Flowers, Love, Mother, Mother-Child, Poetry, Reflections, Relationships

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , ,

© Joan Currie – Watercolor of pale pink tulips in my mother’s Delft vase.


Mother’s Tulips by Joan Currie

My mother loved flowers–
tulips most of all.

I never asked why.
It was in her Dutch blood,
her Calvinistic sense of simplicity–
upright, unadorned.

On Mother’s Day
there were always tulips:
pale pink,
set in her Delft vase,
its blue-and-white surfaces
catching the light,
holding it quietly
beneath the stems.

I tried, sometimes,
to improve upon them–
those lavish arrangements–
variegated tulips,
blue hydrangea, white roses,
small bright globes of yellow–
but she would only smile,
as if to say:
not this.

She wanted the tulips alone.

Now, after many years
and other flowers–
peonies, lilies, anemones,
even the careful making
of paper petals–

I pass a market stall
and stop.

I bring home tulips,
pale pink,
and set them in her vase.

In the quiet of the room
they open,
and she is there.


For my mother.

Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers!

Beautiful First Sip…

23 Thursday Apr 2026

Posted by in Poetry, Relationships

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

© Joan Currie


First Sip by Joan Currie

The train whistle wakes me
at six–
a long, low calling
through the dark.

You are already up,
waiting by the door.

I pull on my coat,
and we step out
into the rain.

It doesn’t feel cold,
not at this hour.

We drive up the hill in silence at first,
then begin–
our small exchange of dreams,
what lingered from sleep,
and what might be.

The barista knows us.
She turns to the machine
before we speak,
tells us softly
of her cabin on the Oregon coast,
the rain there, too.

Back in the car,
the windows misting,
we mean to wait–

but we don’t.

The cups are warm in our hands.
We sip together.

For a moment,
nothing presses in.

Only this–
the bitter, the sweet,
and you beside me.

And already
it is passing.