Grandpa Rueben explained that he had to move the cows or they would keep eating until their stomachs burst. My cousins and I would laugh. What a sight! “The cows bursting in air!” We thought they were so stupid. How could they ever let that happen?And yet, I find myself in the rockets red glare of a dwindling bag of Twizzlers, wondering who will move me to pastures new.
The thing is, we think we know. So certain that if it happened to us we would do it differently. And then… knee deep in the situation, things become a little more clear. Maybe we didn’t know. Maybe we understand a little better. Maybe we judge a little less.
I’d like to think we only had to learn that once. This empathy. But no. I suppose the best we can hope for is a faster journey to pastures new — that we can come to the understanding a little quicker each time. And perhaps in this new field, “they” becomes “we”, and kindness is the only thing that fills us.
I was picking out an avocado when I saw her. Maybe eight or nine years old. Standing in the middle of the grocery aisle. Completely engrossed in her book. It was probably one of her first non-picture books. I remember that thrill. (It’s not lost on me that the name of the store is Fresh.)
I was so proud the day she, our librarian at Washington Elementary, introduced us to the grown-up books. All barriers were down. All worlds open. Books with spines and plots and nothing but words. Books that were entrusted to our care for seven full days. A responsibility I did not take lightly.
Even though library time was just after lunch, I did not put my chosen book into my locker, nor in my desk, but kept it nestled in my corduroy lap. I kept it open on the bus. Devouring each word. Only pulling it to my chest when the teenage boys threw balls or papers or sometimes fits.
Our driveway on VanDyke road was maybe only four car-lengths, but I read my way to the door. Then to the chair by the picture window. Lighting each words with the reverence it deserved.
Nothing has changed for me. Neither time nor country can diminish my love for books. I still let out an audible gasp when the newest release from a favorite author arrives in our local bookstore, or when gifted such a treasure by a friend. I saw that love in this little girl’s eyes as she bumped her way through the aisles to meet her father in the cash line. Never closing the book. Never averting her eyes, ripened with desire. She was one of us now, I thought, and smiled — smiled for her journey, mine, and the future.
The sun is coming through the windows now. Brightening the words I type. A daily responsibility that I never take lightly. My heart tumbles and bumps its way fresh onto the screen, and I smile, for this page ever open.
I had no idea that people in France celebrated their Saint’s day, as commonly as their birthday. To be honest, I didn’t even know I had one. Of course I knew of St. Patrick’s Day — I have walked alongside the green river in Chicago. I even have the medal for St. Catherine – the patron saint of artists, hanging from my desk lamp. But Saint Jodi?
So when Dominique asks me, what would you like for your “fête”, I still am surprised, but I must say, quite willing to go along with the celebration. Is he the only one who knows? Probably. Did he just insert my name into the calendar of saints? Quite possibly. Does it matter? Not at all.
I was pretty young when my friend David told me that it’s all a decision — to love someone, to let them love you. And my youthful heart worried about the magic. The grace. The beauty. But I have come to learn, and agree, that deciding does not take away from any of it. It is in addition to. You have to decide to see it. Allow yourself to feel it. Daily. Sometimes minute to minute. And the magic, in those seconds, are filled with magic. Filled with grace. And so much beauty!!!
So I will celebrate my fête! Because I can hear it call to me. In the lavender honeyed toast. The deep rich coffee. The embrace of my husband. The sun rising over the trees. “Bonne fête!” And my decision is made.
It always amazes me, the power of words. It’s often the most simple, strung together, that makes me want to be a better person. John Prine does this.
I was listening to his song, Hello in there. (If you haven’t heard it, I encourage you to listen.) He sings of the importance of connection, especially to older people. Those that we could so easily avoid. Ignore. And maybe it means so much to me because it’s not the first time that I’ve heard it.
Grandma Elsie phone sat at Petermeier’s Funeral Home. While waiting for the random ring, she would vacuum, dust — all the random chores of a normal household — normal but for the dead body often resting in the parlor. It was exciting to be babysat along with the phone. It was always an adventure. This exotic world. Windows draped in velvet. Organ music on replay. And fears of the unknown faced in every corner. But Grandma Elsie was never afraid. She scooted in and out of every room. At first, I thought she was singing while she vacuumed, but she was in conversation, with the corpse — and she would have never called them that, no, she always called them by name.
I stood at the parlor entry. Not wanting to get too close. I thought my Grandma was the bravest person that I knew. “Do you think she can hear you?” I shouted over the vacuum motor. “What?” She laughed. She turned off the vacuum, pulled in the cord, and wheeled it towards me in the safety zone. “I don’t need to be sure,” she said and smiled. “Go say hello,” she said, and went to put away the vacuum. I inched my way around the walls to the front of the room. My head didn’t yet reach above the casket. I put my hand on the side. My chubby, shaking hand. Grandma said her name was Gladys. I stood beside her wooden box. I loved my grandma. I thought in the doorway that I wanted to be brave just like her, but standing next to Gladys, I knew it was more than that, I wanted to be kind. Without the need for certainty or favor, Grandma was kind. I gave a tiny knock to the side of the casket and whispered, “Hello in there,” and ran upstairs to the comfort of the apron that turned no one away.
I suppose we always want what we can’t have. So when she asked me if she could bring me anything from the US, I said red licorice. We don’t have it in France. Nor jelly beans. This shouldn’t be a surprise when you know that Hershey chocolate bars are in the exotic aisle of the grocery store, along with the peanut butter.
I kind of forgot about it. They had been here for hours, my American friends, before she brought out the gift bag. As she placed it in front of me, I saw the tip of red sticking out. Twizzlers! A two pound bag! I said, “If there are jelly beans in there as well, I might just pass out.” There were, and I didn’t. And then he said, “I brought some too. It’s my go-to travel candy.” He went to his suitcase and brought out at least another pound. “The bag is resealable,” he said, both thinking that seems highly unnecessary, and I knew I was with my tribe.
If we remembered the countless things that connect us, maybe our country, our countries, wouldn’t feel so divided.
My mother loved jelly beans. Red were her favorite (mine as well). Then yellow. Orange. Green sometimes. White in desperation. Purple, never. She gave purple to the birds and sometimes her mother in the back seat on long car journeys. Driving, I would never have to wonder or even ask what color she passed back to my grandma, be it jelly bean or Tootsie pop. Before her hand even reached over the seat, we would begin to laugh. It’s not like she didn’t know. Even Helen Keller would have seen the lack of randomness in candy choice. It didn’t take many miles for her to join in. Cupping her hands around the sugared treat, she said, “You know I like purple.” I’m still laughing.
What a thing it is to know someone. Without labels. Only by experience. To know my mother needed narrow shoes. My grandma, wide. Yet, their hands were surprisingly similar. Maybe no one “needs” three pounds of Twizzlers, but as the weight dwindles day by day, I am reminded where I come from. My joyful red heart beats wide open, never to be resealed.
When giving directions to the nearest Home Depot in Minneapolis, I would have used exits and freeways, but points of reference change, and here, living in France, our favorite lumber yard is just across from where Mary Magdalene is buried. It’s funny how easily that became my new “just off of 494.”
Our points of reference change constantly. And life can become pretty difficult when we cling to the old normals. And that’s not to say we don’t hold things dear. Everything with my mother I hold dear. Everything. But there is always room for more. I have had to trust a new woman to be my first view as I create a painting. Another to Wordle with. To share a book. A tear. Sweet, sweet laughter. And while 494 is still there, I travel new paths. Create new normals, new what-ifs, new wanders. I get lost for sure, but then something takes hold, and I am in a new pageant, led by Mary to the wood I need to frame my creations.
The first time my mother and I went to a Home Depot, it was to look for shelving for an upcoming art show. We had just been to the Anthropologie nearby. Still getting high on our own fashion supply, we stood in front of the seemingly endless racks of choice. Fork lift fumes and backward beeps sent us spinning in circles. She looked at me and said, “We’re leaving, aren’t we.” (It wasn’t a question.) Overwhelmed, we sat in the parking lot, and she told me the same thing as when I came home from the children’s Bethesda Christmas pageant practice, once again to play the part of not Mary, but Mary Magdalene — “aaaaah, you’re still in the pageant!” It became our slogan whenever we were feeling lost. We laughed. Hard. I smile now when I think about how overwhelming it seemed and how easy it became. She is still navigating me through all of my new normals, with a pageantry of love and laughter.
Daughters have been losing their mothers for thousands of years. Yet, when it happens to you, it feels like this must be the first time. The only time. Surely no one has felt this pain and survived. No one has felt this pain and gotten up the next day to a sun that says you have to keep going, and did that, in the clear of all that light, kept going…but they have and they did, and they do. And I want to tell her that I am one of them, just as she is now. And I want to tell her – this sister-in-law of mine – that it gets better, but does it? What is this better? I’m not sure what that even means. And it’s hard to make sense of anything… and certainly if I could make sense, how could she even hear it? Because nothing makes sense when the one that gave you life, and not just on one day, but again and again, is no longer living. The woman that dabbed skinned knees with a touch that no one else could master…who will now touch that heart that feels scraped raw? And I want to tell her you get stronger, and you do, but even typing the words I have to take my fingers from the keyboard and hold my own heart. And I am not even a thousand days away from this, what women have been doing for thousands of years, what she has been doing now for thousands of minutes.
And I have reread my mother’s emails a thousand times. And reached for the phone as many. And tears have fallen 7 x 1000. And that sun keeps rising. And I keep painting and writing. And hugging and laughing. And walking and loving. And learning. And with these thousands of daughters, and sons, all living with this missing, I, we, have found that it is possible, carrying this hole, to be whole. To love this life a thousand times over.
The first time I met my sister-in-law’s mother, my feet were off the ground. I had just entered the family home. I met her eyes, and before I was introduced, she had me locked in an embrace. Leveraged against her ample – ample everything, chest, belly, heart, spirit, laughter — she within seconds was holding me in the air of the kitchen. As my feet dangled, I understood that Monique was blessed with a mother who knew how to lift with love amplified. And she will still. Find a way to carry Monique. In thousands of ways. Maybe this is what I can tell her. Maybe this is the only thing that makes sense, this constant lifting of each other. Love can do that. For the next thousand years.
We went to the bookstore to pick up the latest release of Elizabeth Strout. She is one of my favorites authors. As I held it to my chest, the woman behind the counter was smiling at me. She loved her too. It wasn’t a competition, but we went through the titles excitedly, until we both ended up nearly moving to Maine (Strout’s home).
I went into the small nook where Dominique was looking for murder and mystery. Soon she was back with us, asking me if I had watched the series made from the books, with Frances McDormand. Of course, I love her too, I said. “You know she was in here last summer,” she said. “No!!!!” I said, not in disbelief, but in why wasn’t I here, clutching a book!!!!! “Tell me everything,” I said. “Oh, yes,” she said, “And I wasn’t sure it was her at first, when I saw her walking up the stairs, because how could it be her, but then I knew it was, and I watched her touch the books, and I hope she used the bathroom, and then she smiled at us, so I followed her all through town!” We laughed and I hugged my book tighter.
It wasn’t until this morning, pulling the book out of the Book In Bar bag, that I noticed the title — “Tell me Everything.” Oh, how I love life! The beauty of how words connect us. Gather us in, letter by letter. I suppose, in my own humble way, that’s what I’m trying to do each day.
I haven’t started the book yet, but I’m sure I’ll give you a report when I’m done. In the meantime, we clutch each other in, just a little closer.
It was my mother who first told me of it. I’m sure Grandma Elsie told her — how we once were physically connected. It was an umbilical cord. I could barely say the word, and hardly could believe it was true, but neither had ever lied to me, so I agreed to it. Right here? I asked, pointing to my own innie that looked just like hers. “Yes,” she said. “That’s how all the love got through.” That made sense, I thought. Because surely we had a connection. “And it never closes?” “Nope,” she exclaimed.” All the joy, the laughter, will forever find its way in.” I have protected my belly button ever since.
The last few days have been filled with laughter. They call it a belly laugh. But it’s more than that really. The kind of laugh that starts from the heart. A shared story that gets more funny over time. And this joy that bends you at the waist, and defies all gravity, rendering your neck useless, and your mouth unable to close — this belly laugh takes your belly button, and and heaves it in so deeply that it rubs the back of your spine, again and again. And she was right. They were right. This is where all the joy gets in. And the glorious thing is, it’s not just from mother to daughter, but from friend to friend. And when they leave, these friends, these little women girls that have filled the house with laughter, and strengthened my spine, my upright being, it will stay with me, walk with me, all this inner (innie) joy.
I suppose I should thank Mrs. Anderson. As our high school volleyball coach, she brought us all together. Today three of those cardinals are in my home, here in France, a lifetime and a country away, yet, not that much has really changed. We are two spikers. Two setters. And even without the uniforms we are in sync. Passing not the ball, but the memories, and a few glasses of wine to make them all a little more clear.
It didn’t take much to make us hopeful then. A clean pair of Nikes, at the beginning of the season. A red swoosh lifted us off the ground and took us from classrooms to gymnasiums. With no regard to what language your grandmother spoke. No thought to how much money your parent (or parents if you were lucky) made. We simply played. Of course we won and lost, but sitting together under a Mediterranean sun, it all feels like winning.
I have made friends through the years. College. Work. Artistic. Good friends. Really good friends. But there’s something about those who knew you, at the beginning. It doesn’t mean they are better than any newer friends. But they are different. Without explanation, they know the smell of the exhaust on a big yellow bus. Assignments flourished and struggled. Teachers. Sleepovers that began with such good intentions, but ones I couldn’t survive because of missing my mom. These are the friends that not only knew where you lived, but were able to take you home. I’m smiling now, because they still have that power.
The sun is rising. In all of our different uniforms, we will walk together again, with all of wildly different high hopes.
