A Little Happy: Jennafierce Grant and The Wheel

Jennifer Grant (I call her “Jennafierce”) is one of my dearest friends in the whole, wide world.

She is a poet, an author, a journalist, mother of four incredible children, wife of 20-plus years to the magnificent David, and a woman of abiding, deep and profoundly moving faith and a wonderfully goofy sense of humor.

Jen inspires me on so many levels. As an artist and a friend, as a person of faith and new mother (in fact, I would not be a mother now were it not for Jen and David’s taking me by the hand tenderly and waltzing me into parenthood — bless them.)

While she’s not old enough to by my fairy godmother, I already think of her as my son’s fairy godmother. (He calls her Auntie Jen.) She is, simply, magical.

I am so grateful for Jen’s friendship and faith, no less than I am, as a reader, for her beautiful wordsmithery. (You can read more of Jennafierce’s work on her Web siteand her blog, Playing House.

I’d like to share with you a sestina Jen wrote some years ago called “The Wheel.”

It’s based on real events from her adolescence when she would spend time in the English countryside with her mother, Myrna Grant (a professor at our alma mater, Wheaton College), and the British author Malcolm Muggeridge each summer.

I’ll let Jen explain more:

“My mother wrote her dissertation on Malcolm Muggeridge and developed a friendship with him. I was in 8th grade when she started her doctoral program and we spent summers in Europe and the UK where she taught an overseas study program since I was about 8 or 9. (Every summer, we went to Holland. A Dutch connection. It was there I learned to drink strong coffee and love salty licorice and stroop waffles.)

For several years, we visited Malcolm and Kitty Muggeridge at their home in rural England. I was in love with their intelligence, their abiding marriage (which had weathered its rough patches, see the early days and a reportedly randy Malcolm!), and their utter gentleness with guests and with each other. We went on many walks and he pointed out beautiful things in the natural world.

Kitty really did make strawberry sandwiches– cutting thick slices of bread from a fresh loaf, buttering generously, and then layering sliced strawberries on the bread. That and a cup of tea were a perfect match. This was in early, mid 1980s-ish. In 1985, stemming from his friendship with my mom, Malcolm gave his papers to Wheaton College – see .

Several years later, I was asked to come to the opening of the collection and read The Wheel – it was a sweet event, with some of his relatives in attendance. I think that is the last time I read poetry to an audience! 🙂 He died in 1990, bless him. Have you ever read his book on Mother Teresa? If not, you should: Something Beautiful for God.  Lovely.”

THE WHEEL

By Jennifer C. Grant

for Malcolm Muggeridge

I stepped down from the train,

saw you there, old man, bent

next to the tudor station, smiling

and waving to me over the steering wheel.

Your aged blue eyes

saw us through the maze of roads

walled by high corn and close trees, roads

which branch away from the train

station to the cottage, to your wife’s eyes

and worn, wrinkled skin. Her back bent

over the low table. You turn the wheel

and press the horn, she’s smiling,

face tilted up to the window. I smiled

as we chose sticks to sturdy our walk on dirt roads

that circle your farm…the windmill’s wheel

spinning in the moving air, the train’s

cry; muted by distance and wind-bent

corn. Shaded by silk, its small yellow eyes.

I could see in your eyes

the smiling

knowledge that your days are bent

around time, its roads

winding and short, brief as the call of the train,

disappearing with the double-drum beat of its wheels.

A bird perched on the tractor wheel.

Its tiny black eyes

alert and trained

to see the smiling

Orange cat. Wings spread over the road

in beating flight. I’m bent

on being like you in age, bent

on sitting visitors beside the wheel,

driving them to strawberry sandwiches and my roads

to support their journey. Meeting eyes.

I wish to be smiling

as I collect them at the train.

Your brows are bent now, and in your eyes

images spin like a wheel. You’re smiling

out at the roads, not hearing the cry of the train.

(First published The Southeast Review and in the book Poems for a Good and Happy Life [Gramercy, 1997.])