Before I met my mother and her cousin, they worked at the phone company. Just out of school, they were best of friends. All giggles and lipstick. Ruffles and elbows. Every ring was filled with possibility.
Lapped and fascinated, I told my mother to tell it again. Having since met her cousin, it just didn’t seem possible. Hadn’t Janet just come from the potato pit? Hadn’t she just saved her husband Joey after being kicked by the cow? I couldn’t imagine her all dressed up under the fluorescent lights of Alexandria’s Telephone Company on Broadway.
“Oh, she was a beauty,” my mother said. “Just like you,” I said. My mother smiled. “I looked up to her,” she continued. I imagined Janet, now 10’ deep in the summer crop chilling for winter and it just seemed so unlikely. My mouth open in wonder, she told me what has remained, “People aren’t just one thing.”
The thing is, we think we know. We think because we see people for ten minutes that we understand their lives. Why they do the things we do. We have to go from potato pit to coffee break. We have to see the full picture. Even then, we can’t be entirely sure. We have to leave room for change. Room for growth. Room for the rings of possibility.
I like to think of them mid-giggle. Nothing lights a person better than joy. I have to allow myself the same grace. We all do. Good morning, my friends! Welcome to the phone company!
It wasn’t long after I realized that everyone didn’t have them, these Tech-ers in the basement, that they were gone. It’s clear now that we needed the money more than the space. We went through at least three cycles of young men from the law enforcement class. I only remember one’s name – Terry Eilers. Maybe because he was also our bus driver, but mostly I think because he was nice to me. And wasn’t that everything? —when there was just one unlocked door at the bottom of the stairs that separated them from our laundry.
Before lessons were learned, I race from upstairs to downstairs without a glance. It was one of the men from the first group of three. (Everyone over 17 seems like a man when you are six.) He was building a canoe in the driveway to our basement. Fascinated by anything being built, I was probably annoying. Watchful. Eager to know the bend of wood. And what was that green stuff? What was he putting on the shell? Certainly he must have my best interests at heart, I thought, he lived with us after all. He was going to enforce the law. He told me to touch the canoe. I poked one hesitant finger out of my sleeve and touched it as if it were a hot pan on the stove. No, really get in there, he said. Rub your arm across it. I don’t why I did. Just like the heat from a hot pan, it took a minute for the tiny shards of glass, the insulation, to reach my brain. And it took longer, I suppose, wondering not why the pain, but more, why did he want to inflict it?
I wasn’t going to let him see me cry. I ran up the browning hill of fall grass. Through the garage door. Down the stairs to the laundry room in the basement. Took off the painful sweater and placed it in a basket. It was the first time I noticed there was no lock on that door. It was the first time I needed one.
I stayed upstairs for the rest of their time. The next group came. They called one “Buzz” I think because of his hair, but I remained at a distance.
When Terry Eilers came the next year, slightly overweight in his tan shirt and brown pants, the new uniform of the students, he smiled at me from behind the big bus wheel. I don’t know how many rides it took before I trusted him, but I did.
It’s no longer a technical school, but a college. They have their own housing now, I guess. Call it whatever you want, I hope we’ve all learned along the way. Kindness is memorable.
Some will try to take it away. Innocence. Curiosity. Joy. Others still will pick you up when you need it most. It only takes one Terry.
It’s one of my favorites in Paris, the Musée d’Orsay. Maybe because it feels most like me.
It didn’t start out as a museum. At one point it was a train station,
even a parking lot, long before it housed the most beautiful impressionists in the world. I suppose I’ve always known it — that I would have to become, and keep becoming.
When I was a kid, I thought I would just figure stuff out, you know, and be something, and that would be it…that would be my life. Because didn’t they always ask, “What are you going to be?” And especially at this time of year, as we prepared to dress up and go from door to door asking for our treat behind the question, “What are you supposed to be?”
At first I was a cowboy, (was this my train station?). Then I was a hobo, (my parking lot?) It took a long time to become an artist. This was me. Who I was supposed to be.
I think that I, we, just have to keep becoming. We change and grow. We are molded by love and trips around the sun. It takes a long time to build a soul. We get older, maybe wiser, (even better, we gain a little grace) but we don’t finish – we don’t have to – we begin, and be, and begin again. I think that’s the gift of living…the joy of being alive!
It’s no spoiler to tell you that men are different from women. I’ve been exposing Dominique to that beautiful truth for many years now.
When she sat at our kitchen table yesterday, an ordinary Tuesday, she began to cry. “I’m just so tired,” she said. For me, completely understandable. Now, men will often look at us like we’re on fire, and something must done. And it makes me laugh, because maybe they’re not so far from the truth after all, it’s just that we are built to put out our own fires, with the gentle flow of tears. Oh, those beautiful drops are always at the ready. With no need for alarms or sirens, they know when it’s time. I can hear them, mid eye-lid, “Are we going? Is it time? I’m ready, let’s go. Here we go.” And down the tears come.
My mother always called them tears of tenderness. Because they weren’t there out of anger or sadness, only comfort. The ebb and flow of life’s tide.
So often the things we fear turn out to be gifts. I like thinking that my brain tells my heart, daily, go ahead, set the world on fire, we’ve got you covered.
Being allowed to use the can opener was almost as freeing as learning to ride my bicycle. I went to great lengths to enjoy my five minute lunch alone in Hugo’s summer field behind our house on VanDyke Road. Perhaps it was the responsibility I displayed with my two-wheeler that gave my mother the assurance I could handle the responsibility of staying home alone. She taught me to tear off the label from the Campbell’s can of chicken noodle soup before I brought it anywhere near the burner. I poured the noodles into the pan. Then turned it on — I was only allowed to use the lowest temperature (You have more time than money she would tell me. No need to burn the house down.) I warmed it to luke, then poured it into the styrofoam thermos I had painted in stripes. I Tupperwared a stack of crackers. Filled another thermos of ice water. Put them all in my corduroy book bag that my mother had sewn for me. Placed that into the wicker basket of my bike. Kissed good-bye my dolls and stuffed animals as if going off to war. Then rode the five minute trail along Hugo’s field. Sat down in the smallest clearing just off the edge. Emptied the book bag. Made it into a tablecloth. Drank my soup. Drank my water. Relished in being my summer self. It was only a moment, but it was beautiful.
Here in France, I learned to bake the worshiped bread. Normally I do it in the afternoon. Freeze it for our toast each morning. But once in a while, I have the desire to start the day with fresh break. That means making the special recipe before bed. Getting up early. Then finishing the kneed, the roll and the baking. Washing the dishes while it bakes. Our house becomes a boulangerie. My fingers dance on the crust, as I cut the pieces. The butter melts without urging. Even the honey and jam feel special. It is only for this breakfast. There will be additional bread, but only this one moment, eating in the waft of this happy morning.
Some might say it wouldn’t be worth it. But then they wouldn’t have can-openered their way to magic. I guess that’s for all of us to decide. Me, I hope I will try to make the most of each moment. What else do we have?
It was always so surprising to me — how much people loved picnics or potlucks. In my head, I called them the “p” words, as cursed as any of the other bad names we cut down to one letter in hopes of diffusing. But they remained, and my “p” word turned to panic.
My mother, knowing me, having talked me through all of the other significant choices in my life — books on library day, candy from Ben Franklin — knew how to calm me as I stood dripping of lake water, shouldered in a colorful towel, hair clinging to my face, knees shaking, wishing the “hour after swimming, before eating,” could be extended just a little further. “Focus on what you like,” she said. I had heard it before, so many times, but standing in the warmth of her hands on my shoulders, I could see it more clearly. In this sea of tabled panic, there were good things, still, and I focused on them.
I was struggling on what to say for America’s birthday. Near panic I stand before this spread. So much hatred and fear and unkindness tabled before us, it’s hard to see anything at all. But even still, I am steadied by the hands of love on my shoulders, as she tells me to focus on the good. Be it tear or lake water that drips from my face, I still see the ones I love. The people who sparkle without noise. Who shine a light beyond table and holiday. Who keep gathering in with steady hands and hearts. Who still find a way to giggle and scoot, barefooted in the hour before the feast. Is it the American dream, or the dream inside youth of every age and place, wobbling in knees, not at the expense of choice or of others, but among them, beside them, still waiting, in the dampened hope — toweled on sun burned shoulders… I hear the waves lap against the shore, in time with my heart, and the whispered sounds of someone singing Happy Birthday.
Truth be told, we only went to Bozeman, Montana because my mother heard that Sam Elliot lived on a ranch near the town, and could often be seen wandering the local mercantile. Still reeling high on romance and possibility after both reading The Bridges of Madison County, we set off in the direction of love’s west, knowing full well we would indeed pull open that door handle if given the chance. (If you read the book, or watched the movie screaming for Meryl Streep to open the door, then you know.)
My mother already knew how she could break the ice with Sam Elliot if given the opportunity. She would tell him that while reading the book, he was the only one she pictured, and certainly would have chosen him over Clinton Eastwood any day. We both agreed and grew more and more confident with each passing mile.
It was hard to tell when exactly we entered the town. It did not appear that different from the approaching landscape. I assessed the situation quickly. The Main Street passed quickly, so I turned around and drove it again. There wasn’t Google at the time, so no research had been done. And would we have come had we known? Probably not. I pulled over. Parking was ample. I could feel the excitement slipping from my mother’s face. Something had to be done quickly. We went into the only store that wasn’t hardware related. There was a small rack of dresses. I pulled each one out, like a jester dancing for the queen. And then, I held one that was actually beautiful. I hangered it under my chin. She was smiling, so I went behind the curtained closet and put it on. Black with sublte off white flowers. An empire waist. It fit perfectly. It was no longer us “missing out,” but “they” who had overlooked this beautiful dress.
We found a place to sleep for the night. The next morning we decided (mostly me) to climb the big hill to reach the white rocks that spelled out the name of the town. We got about half way. She stopped, looked around and said, “I can’t even see a mall from here.” We were laughing too hard to finish the climb. We decided if we left immediately, we could be home by bedtime, and be at Ridgedale Mall when it opened the next morning. We could get coffee, while browsing the books at Barnes and Noble. She could look for a new dress. She said the only nature she needed was that of The Banana Republic. Tears of laughter watered the new dream, and we were off again — blooming.
It happened three times on the playground of Washington Elementary. Once falling from the swings. Once from the dragon head of the monkey bars. (Why it didn’t have a monkey head, I’ll never know, nor why we didn’t question it.) And once from the horizontal spinning pole. Each time landing splat on my back, “knocking the wind” right out of me, gasping for air, the breath I took for granted, gone. The solution from the faces that stared down at me was this, “just breathe.” And they were always right, but the thing they never told me, us, these teachers and principals, (and they had to have known, I realize this only now), that this could and would happen again without even falling.
Does anyone ever realize how much “wind” they have been given? I have been writing about it for decades. Painted it. Danced in it. But still, when it is taken away, this breath of love… From grandparents and parents. Children. Friends. It’s hard to imagine that you’ll ever breathe again. But it comes back. And then one day, you find that you did indeed survive, and you are now the one looking down, smiling gently, having captured all the breaths of love that never really left, saying “just breathe…just breathe…”
Returning home after the first Friday of my first week in the first grade, I vowed I would never go back to Washington Elementary. This was a week full of firsts, and I’m not sure which one put me over the edge — the school lunch lady that made me eat a pickle, the enforced afternoon nap followed by the milk I refused to drink, the pulling of my long blonde hair by my thought to be friend David Holte, or the introduction of time that seemed impossible to follow.
I felt exposed. Unprotected. I waited by the garage doors for my mom to return from work. When I told her that my future plans did not include school, she didn’t dispute it. This was Friday night — we had the whole weekend ahead of us. Two days for a six year old could seem like a lifetime, so I helped her in with the groceries and my new life began.
Saturday morning I jumped into the Chevy Impala, beside my mom, seatbeltless and carefree. We parked outside the Ben Franklin and walked to Herberger’s basement. I ran through the racks like Dynda’s clothesline, while she picked out some new hand towels. She pulled me out from under and said she had an idea. We walked over to the “new for school” items. Windbreakers. I ran my hands along the sleeve. So sleek and shiny. They could repel anything, she told me. Anything? I asked. Any storm to be faced, she said. Like wind? Yes. Water? Yes. David Holte? Of course. Milk? It would run off your sleeve like a raindrop. I smiled. But what about if I get lonesome? This was the best part, she said, and opened the zipper around the neck. The love compartment. Just open it up and pull it around your head. Tie the strings, and I’ll be with you. I put my arms in the navy blue windbreaker. They slid in so easily. They felt cool and fast. I pulled up the white zipper. Tucked my hair in the hood and made a bow, just like I had learned with my bumper tennis shoes. I felt all of the power contained. She handed the clerk some of her hard earned cash. Exchanged for a receipt, the woman asked if I wanted to wear it home. I may never take it off, I thought.
I wore it straight through Sunday evening. I couldn’t wait to show Cindy and Jan. I got up Monday morning, dressed and ready. My lunch was prepared in a brown paper sack, along with a note to my teacher that said I didn’t have to drink the afternoon milk. Fully zipped and tucked in the protective love of navy, I walked to the bus stop. I waved and smiled as my mom drove down the gravel road. The breeze rolled past my waving arms. I knew I could face anything.
I wake this morning, dressed in a love I will never take off.
I suppose I already knew it, but it’s good to be reminded. Margaux began a week of summer school theatre classes. I asked to see the end project. It was just a short film clip to show some emotion. I had never really seen her argue before. She was indeed acting. Thinking about it later, of course they would have been directed to this. Anger is always the easiest. The quickest trip. The path cleared with the worded blade. And unfortunately, that remains so true in our day to day lives.
Wielding our knives, we so easily remove the protective sheaths of kindness. The subtle acts of wonder and curiosity, even thinking. I, too, can make the leap far too easily. Aaaaah, patience. I urge it to come walk beside me, even when it has already made the offer, already stood waiting…patiently. I laugh at the irony, me trying to rush patience itself. So I stop. I listen.
Answers don’t come with the speed of bullet, at the cutting of a blade. Anger is not a path. Will there be acting? Of course. Not pretending, but acting, acting like it all matters. Because it does, doesn’t it? Don’t we? Matter? We’re all listening for this reply. I still have to believe the answer is a resounding yes. A yes that waits for us to join its path. Patiently.
