When my mother was going through the hardest time of her life, I noticed it was then that she would often skip to the last page of the book she was reading. I suppose I was too young to understand, understand this need to get control over something, anything. Amid all the chaos and uncertainty, she just needed to know an ending.
When I was a little older, when my mother read books completely in order, we were sitting at the table with my grandma. I asked her if it all seemed so fast. She smiled, and we all knew there would be no jumping to the end. We each had to finish this life book on our own.
I suppose there are moments in all of our lives when we want to skip ahead. But the only way out is through. Step by step. Page by page. I hold it at heart level, this book of mine, and keep reading. What a story!
The light is changing. The cool winter blues are softening into tones of hopeful yellow. Two steps out the back door going down to the studio, I could feel it, see it. Bouncing from the woman at the door who welcomes me onto the back page of my sketchbook. Still a child at heart, I tried to capture it with my phone. Both women smiled gently — the same look Grandma Elsie gave us as we chased summer’s tail around the house.
And why wouldn’t I, we, try to keep in step with all that shines? To keep believing in goodness. Light. To keep understanding that there is no such thing as false hope, only hope. Yellow, gorgeous hope that keeps our legs spinning beneath us, delightfully, nearly off balance, yet always in the race.
I mention it because we don’t all get to see it every day. So I think we have the responsibility to call it out, tell the others of what we’ve seen. Shout it out until it’s their turn to step inside and do the same. I saw it, my friends. The yellow. Still shining. Bright as ever.
I find it thrilling, reading a book and entering a place I’ve already been. Like I’m in on the secret. Like the letters of the words are eyelashes in the wink that says, I see you.
I’m nearly finished with the book, “Geek Love.” It is perhaps the wildest ride I’ve encountered for quite some time. It couldn’t be further from my reality, and yet… yet, there it was, as clear as if I were en route on Highway 7, looking up at the green sign, “Hopkins, Minnesota.” Never have I read a book that mentioned it before. Minnesota, sure. Minneapolis, of course. But never Hopkins. And I was knee deep, no, heart deep, in the word.
Maybe it’s empathy. Validation. Or simply our need to be seen. But it got me thinking. If mere words can do that, simply on a page, couldn’t we do that for each other? Aren’t we supposed to? Having not only traveled through place, but emotion, don’t we have the responsibility to turn back and say, “I’ve been there. And I see you,”? I think so. So I gather the words and arrange them on this page, and maybe you see yourself, and maybe that gets you looking, and maybe you see someone else, and they find comfort in you having been there… and… and they see hope… and someone else…and the story never ends.
My mother never came empty handed. Whether it was for a week’s visit, or a long afternoon, her arms were filled with toilet paper, paper towel, Kleenex, or something frosted from the bakery. It wasn’t that I couldn’t purchase it. It was just another form of connection. And when I poked my finger through the plastic to carry the rolls up the stairs to my apartment, along with her suitcase, I knew that she thought of me, not just here, not just at the events, but on Tuesday afternoons at Cub while picking up some essentials. And I felt loved.
We have a chalkboard in our French kitchen to remind us of those very things. I guess Laetitia saw it when she came for lunch that day. Toilet paper written in white. I walked her out to her car. She opened the trunk. Reached in. Pulled out a multi-pack of toilet paper. I would never refuse a visit from my mother. I held it, her, in my arms at the top of my heart’s stairs. And I am loved.
Just imagining it, I can feel the tension leave my shoulders. My breathing slows. To lie in the folds of my grandma’s apron was as near as I came to where all hopes nested.
She possessed the most remarkable ability, to fall asleep at any given moment. Not narcolepsy. It was as if she stored the sleep beside the Kleenex up her sleeve, and when she needed five minutes, or twenty, she could pull it out and take the needed rest. And I truly mean it could be any time. During a telephone call. A commercial break during Days of Our Lives. Or as you struggled through your turn in a card game of which she neglected to explain to you the rules.
During one such game, I watched her apron fall and rise. I couldn’t take it anymore. I laid down my cards and gently folded myself silently from my chair. I wormed my way back up into her lap, and rode love’s ebb and flow. When I think of it now, I was not all that graceful. Surely my climbing must have awakened her. I looked up to see if an eye opened. I think I saw just the curve of her lip. I rested comfortably in the knowledge that it was still my turn.
There were no influencers at the time. No YouTube. The only thing social, (sans the media) could be found at the Clinque counter in the center of Herberger’s Department store. And so my mother followed her own guts, her own grace, and decided upon the royal blue purse.
I suppose it was the way she carried it, carried herself, but people began to notice. To comment favorably. She was the woman with the blue purse. And I would watch them, watching her — looking away from the three way mirrors to get her reaction. Smiling. Then making their way to the purse section.
What some are calling guts these days is really just shock, pure laziness of spirit. Without the addition of grace, it is simply blather. Most have forgotten the need to carry, and simply shove.
I think about the choices I make. I don’t always get it right. But there is love in the attempt. And I think, I hope, with that alone, I can stand in the shadow of her blue purse, in the glow of guts, in the warmth of grace.
Certainly with nine children, countless grandchildren and a farm, my grandma’s days were filled with purpose. People needed to be fed. Dishes cleaned. Clothes washed. Apples needed to be picked, along with garden weeds. Fruit canned. And the listening was never ending, neighbors, Hortons, party line, Paul Harvey, and the farm report. But somehow, within the din of activity, if you sheepishly whispered that you wanted to place dice, or cards, she wiped her hands briskly on her apron, shoved the Publisher’s Clearing House magazines from the table and sat down to beat you at any requested game with a girlish giggle, because she said, “Some things are just for fun.”
Yesterday was a full day. Two appointments. Two cities. And the usual “Elsie like tasks.” By 5pm, there wasn’t a lot of time to create something of great detail, like a portrait, but there was a little time. Enough time. So I took the decision to take the time, and have a bit of fun. It was only a tiny bird. A tiny French bird. The stripes of its snug t-shirt stretching over an “Elsie” belly made me laugh. Because it’s still supposed to be fun. The noises can be overwhelming, but so can the joy. And it’s usually just a hand wipe away.
Not all of her dreams came true, but she was never sorry she had them.
Maybe it was because we didn’t have much money, but mostly I think it was because my mother knew the difference between trends and fashion. She had the patience to put a piece on layaway, investing her time in quality. Be it blouse or heart, she was in it for the long haul.
I spent my time wisely, simply by watching her.
Within the last week, I have had two requests for some of my original artwork. One dating back a couple of decades. And it warms my heart, not just to still be “in fashion,” but it takes me back to the Viking Plaza, right beside my mother, storefront, watching, learning that the best of things, the best of us, will always last.
I want to keep growing. Try new things. Ever. But I always begin from the same place. The long haul of my mother’s heart.
Before school started, when days were measured in the shaded pink of shoulders, or the sand in shoes, I was friends with the neighbor boy down the road. Armed with only curiosity and imagination, we could spend the length of our day on a dirt pile. He could climb a tree, and more importantly, wanted to. And ever left a leg hanging low for me to climb like a ladder to the nearest branch. (Still my definition of friendship.)
It was only for a few summers before he moved away. But the percentage of that time was nearly the whole of my life. Maybe summers will always seem that way. I hope so. To live in the season of growth, the season of “I wonder if we could fly from there,” is perhaps what carries all of us through the winter.
Sometimes I feel my age, and then I empty my socks and my shoes of the day’s collective rubble, and I think, I know, my heart’s summer will never end.
I like to light candles when I get up. This morning’s illumination put up a fight. The first two matches burned themselves out so quickly, I had to abandon them to save my fingers. Next the wick broke off. Then again. By the fourth match I had to laugh, remembering this is exactly why I never volunteered to be an acolyte at Bethesda Lutheran, and was always more than relieved when Gail Kiltie raised her hand. What’s ironic, the very thing I feared and tried to avoid — their judgement — would eventually come to pass anyway the minute my mother got divorced and we were not pushed out the door, but conveniently shown where it was while being held open.
I don’t know what they expected the lesson to be (that’s the thing, we get to choose that). My take away — people are going to think what they think, do what they do, without your knowledge or permission. And you can decide whether you are going to blow around in all that wind, or simply fly. (I think the birds on the page, tell you what I did. What I do.)
I haven’t thought about them in years. I have no ill will. For didn’t they give me wings? And my faith is strong. My house and heart are well lit. I release myself into the morning flutter.
