Nicole Tasker Woods

My home growing up was in Northwood, NH and it had about 13 acres of land all around it. We had a front yard full of lush, green grass that stretched to the main road and a back yard with a pool that met up with the woods. Summers in New England were always sticky and warm and I would walk everywhere on the soft lawn without shoes while picking blueberries or strawberries from our bushes in the yard. I could venture into the woods and run into the lake, surrounded by lake houses, barking dogs and kids on bikes. I could fall asleep at night on top of the covers with windows wide open in an effort to not overheat in the thick humidity that clogged the nighttime sky.

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A hearty violation of a million
tiny hairs—soft strings in distress
over the plastic teeth of a volatile comb:
raking, exploring and scrutinizing
each cowlick and unadorned lock.
Brisk, piercing sheers snip and clip away
the last 6 months of hard work
to strengthen preservation,
maintain a life without description…
In a matter of hours, it all becomes
the epitome of stunted growth.

In shock and soaking wet,
each wisp stands surprised.
Once mistakenly viewed as strong,
it is now defined by its ever present body
and inability to lie vacant hiding face.
As if energized by the violation,
it revels in not being pulled back
or hung low by its own weight.
Each inch of the scalp fills equally
with anticipation and confusion,
creating stimulation within;
bringing a thrill of restlessness
to the mind, activating the brain…
When the tension is released,
a distinctive persona comes into full bloom
with the union of body, soul and hair.

Copyright © 2008 N.E. Tasker

I got home from work at 5:15 last night. These days that means the sun has not quite set and it is still warm enough for a stroll. I fit the red harness on the bouncing Basenji, hooked on her leash and off we went. There are a few routes we take, but today I wanted to head to the private, fenced-in soccer field that is about a half mile from my house. It is a practice field used by Cal-Lutheran University, which sits right next to our housing complex. I have been able to slip inside the gate a few times this past week because the pad-lock has just been hanging on the chain, unlocked, almost asking to be opened. Cali gets excited as we approach this field and starts to pull on the leash the minute she realizes we are heading in that direction. This is the one place (other than the public dog-park) that she can be unleashed to run free like a wild animal.

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Curled in an over sized comforter, I can feel Cali’s warm body pressed against my back. She’s scooted up from the foot of the bed to lean against me in an upside down spoon, her paws stretched out as far as they can go, as if pushing my husband away from our cuddling moment.

During these sleepy times, Cali will stretch, yawn, run her tongue over her teeth and twitch to the beat of a dream where she’s chasing or being chased. She may even readjust her position a couple of times throughout the night: stand up, turn around in a circle to pat down the covers, then let herself fall down, body-slamming against my legs to ensure she is as close as she can get without being on top of me…or maybe not all the way on top, but just enough overlap of her on me to feel that I won’t leave her while she snoozes.

I do not want to move or even breathe when we are so close. I catch the time with a half-opened eye: 5:43. The bells will ring in 2 minutes, so I breathe in deep, close my eyes and bury my face in the feather pillow to stretch those minutes into the longest amount of time as I possibly can, for both our sakes.

In the still of the dark room, soon to be disrupted by the wake-up call, three warm bodies have sunk into the fluffy mattress and every puzzle piece has its own perfect place.

My Dad and I have a few things in common that we both really love: Elvis, Country music and dogs. Right around my 16th birthday, my Dad and I drove to a breeder’s home to pick out a black lab from a litter of puppies. I remember the day vividly, it was rainy and dreary and I was wearing my favorite T-shirt with a daisy on it. When we walked into the breeder’s home, all we could hear was puppies whimpering and their little paws scampering on the kitchen floor. I sat down amongst the 9 puppies and played with all of them while my Dad talked to the breeders.

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This is my very first entry on my very own blog!

One of my really good friends, Tara, has been blogging on her own page ever since I have known her (When Tara Met Blog) and then my Aunt Lisa started a blog as well (BLOGGing Lisa’s Life). After much urging from my aunt and then seeing another blog from my cousin, Ben, that he created with his wife to keep the family up to date with the building of their new townhome (Cammett Blogspot) I decided to give it a go.

So here I am, blogging to all of you. I plan to use this as a replacement for all those mass-emails I have had to send in the past to my family and friends after a holiday, party, event or just a long weekend when I wanted to keep everyone informed of what I have going on. I hope this will keep us better connected!

I am so glad I actually did this. I love roller coasters and getting the weight-less feeling that comes from riding deep drops and screaming my lungs out. My stomach did summersaults just watching other people landing in the field after paragliding from one of the tall mountains in Switzerland. When I finally got up the nerve to check it out, before I knew it, I was in the van riding up the bumpy road to the jump off point. After getting hooked up to a pilot, he told me to run until the wind picked up the chute. It took half of a step and then we were floating—gliding—slowly falling to the ground. The pilot actually let me take the reins and guide us through the air. We even did a few twists and turns upside down. I can still feel it in my stomach when looking at the pictures.

She was a cowgirl wandering lonely streets of Southern California 
until she was found and delivered to the PetsMart. 
Still skittish from her abandoned past, she had trouble 
finding comfort in a store packed with other discarded creatures. 

Her whimper was muted forever from lacking care, 
which made her quickly become the silent mutt of the bunch. 
But then one day, her rescuers came and slipped her into 
a Louis Vuitton T-shirt to keep her warm from that day on. 

It was difficult for her to adjust to the mansion on Edgecliff Circle… 
there was so much food in her little bowl—so little time to devour it; 
too many rabbit holes and bushes to explore in the vast back yard; 
and an abundance of love disguised as smooches from everyone around her. 

Slowly, she learned to be a tough-dog at the doorbell’s cry, 
but can not help turning scaredy-cat in mere seconds after the door is opened. 
Her biggest triumph of all is fighting for her share of the limelight 
when the pushy Border Collie tries to steal all affection. 

Through many struggles in the past, she has discovered that in these new surroundings, her outward viciousness is only a façade for an inner coyness… 
Deep down inside, she loves to be coddled and scritched, 
appreciated for her cuteness, and to dream under the covers all night long.

The other day I was out on this job where I
had to crawl through the sewer because the
watah lines were mixed up with the leech
field, see? Brian and I, we’re on our knees
in there and then he climbs out. I says,
“What’s your problem?” “I’m getting eaten
alive by those bugs.” There were so many
goddamn deerflies everywhere, and Brian’s
such a pansy ass that he waited outside
while I scooped thru the shit. So after about
an hour, I went into the coola to get
somethin to eat. Brian and the new kid, Jon,
they finished diggin the trench when I was
almost done with my sandwich and Jon
looks at me for a bit and says, “Did you
wash your hands before you started eating?”
Now, he didn’t see me rinse off, so I says,
“Nah, that shit don’t bother me.”

I am an Angelees 
living in New Hampshire, 
choking on nostalgia and a Tanzania Tirade. 
Farewell phone calls 
and sisterly I Love You’s 
linger like the plague. 
With the right-to-left of my ’04 tassel, 
A Wheaties Autobiography 
is finally returned 
with four years worth of late charges. 
I know that 3,000 miles away 
Prince Charming is waiting for me: 
waiting while I fold 
22 years of memories 
in 16 days and then pack them 
perfectly in purple luggage. 
But ever after is on hold, 
paused in freeze frame 
while I float through a million goodbyes 
in three different states, 
dwelling on the fact that there is 
never enough tissue to pull away strong. 
My future’s suspended 
for one last hurrah 
with the ones who mean the most, 
and hurt the worse to leave… 
Aunts who have stepped in 
as extra mothers; 
Uncles who have supported me 
like proud fathers; 
Cousins younger and older 
who have made me laugh until I’ve cried; 
Grammies and Grandpas perpetually present 
to chit and chatter while life zips by; 
My Father, the King, 
my hero and my friend; 
And my Mother 
who is my truest confidant of all. 
But before they let me go 
I’ll ask them all to dance: 
I want to sweep them off their feet- 
promise my steps ahead are paramount, 
and pledge my footprints in New England 
will never lose their luster.

The lights are out, 
but the glow 
from underneath my door 
illuminates select items 
around the room. 
I can’t see it, 
but I know it’s there… 
a Snowball sitting 
tauntingly on my bookshelf. 
It’s begging, 
from the darkness of the far wall, 
to be released 
from its cellophane. 
My eyes forget to blink 
as they focus on the dark, 
and try to envision the sweet dome. 
Racing thoughts of 
beach vacations, 
bikinis and tan lines 
fail to avert me. 

The coconut will be crunchy 
come tomorrow; 
the marshmallow will harden 
overnight; 
the hidden chocolate cake, 
shielded by these 
colorless sugars, 
will take longer to grow stale, 
but why take the chance? 

Junky calories 
resonate from underneath 
fluffy cream filling… 
my ears strain 
to resist what can not be 
muffled by plastic wrap– 
hostess hostess hostess. 
By the invasion of hallway lights, 
my fingers become thumbs 
as they frantically rip the wrapper, 
shoving 6 fat grams 
into my mouth 
with three swift bites.

Rhythmic words 
Flow through my head 
Even when I’m sleeping 
Then when I wake 
My body shakes 
My ears hear words come creeping. 

Haunting all I’ve ever known, 
Rushing like a skipping stone. 
Tearing me apart inside, 
Scurrying they sneak and hide. 

I rush to write, 
Delay the fleeting thought, 
Of rhythmic words 
I once forgot.