She certainly wouldn’t have been considered a dancer, my grandma, but one could make the Ginger Rogers comparison quite easily. It is often said that Ms. Rogers not only did everything that Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in high heels. Yes, my grandpa worked hard, and he had the crops to prove it, but my aproned grandma kept longer hours, with nine children and 27 grandchildren pulling from behind.
The thing is though, as it is with most who are excellent at their craft, the work is hidden. Like a floating Ginger, she moved from stove to sink to table to garden to clothesline to town. And I never caught a glimpse of the struggle. Of course it had to be there, but I never saw her rub her aching toes. I never heard her catch her breath while offering the love and attention we all demanded.
There were no words like self-care then. But she was smart enough to take her personal time. And we were smart enough to know that it was at noon each weekday in front of the tv set to watch NBC’s Days of our Lives. Just as some of the Bohemians on neighboring farms were thought to be relatives, my cousins and I thought the same of the Hortons from Salem. I suppose I loved this time the most because I saw Grandma Elsie from the front. Her welcoming belly was not hidden by a steaming pot or bubbling kitchen sink. No, it was there to climb on, to hug, to rest against. We took our turns dancing with Ginger as Ma and Pa Horton looked on.
Working in my sketchbook, alone in the studio, I know these small paintings won’t sell, or even be seen, but as my hand stumbles through the pages, I know, without pressure, or even promise, it is my time to dance.
We learned pretty quickly on the power of the wave. I thought my Grandma Elsie knew everyone. And on her country road, she probably did know most. Any car that passed got the Elsie wave. I didn’t know of Queens or parades, but she had one that lingered a bit longer than most, accompanied with a slight head bob and smile. Then I saw my grandpa do the same. The smile was a bit tighter, but it was there. I started to mimic them. My favorite time was when summer car windows could be open. It was then you could really make it clear. Arm extended in the breeze with a little more of a shake. I asked my grandma at first if she knew them…she glanced in the rear view mirror…No, she said, but I saw them. I shook my head yes. I saw them too. And I got it.
I suppose it was at school where it became even more clear — the power of this hand extended, sometimes even waving. To be called on when what you had to say felt so important that you had to use your other hand to keep that wave from flying off of your shoulder — this was something to be seen.
We do not live in a waving culture. When I first moved to France and went out for walks, I would give the passersby my best Elsie almost to no response. And if it got any attention at all, it was to stop to see if I was in distress. I suppose a lesser Minnesotan might have abandoned the wave altogether, but I have kept it through the years. And every once in a while I get the return. It was on yesterday’s path, descending down a large hill, I saw her, a woman going up the gravel just inside the trees. I have passed her a few times this spring. We have exchanged smiles and bonjours, but it was yesterday, from afar, knowing our paths wouldn’t cross she waved. And not only with a healthy Elsie open shake, but first! I waved back! I’m still smiling.
I mention it because I guess we all want to be seen. And we can do that for each other. So easily. It takes so little to change someone’s day.
Some mornings these posts come very quickly to the page. The idea shoots from my hand in the air, squealing “ooooooh, oooooh!” Today it feels important to tell you that I see you! I hope you can feel the wave, and pass it on. Share your best “Elsie.”
My first sleepover was in a hospital in Saint Cloud, Minnesota. I was only six years old. They wouldn’t let my mom stay in the room with me that night. I was terrified. I was armed only with my Golden Book — The Little China Pig, and my first baby baby doll, so brand new she was yet to be named. The nurse in white cap, white dress, white nylons and shoes entered the room. She wiped the tears of my mom’s goodbye and said, “I’m Malinda, what’s your baby’s name?” Still stunned from the thought of being alone, I repeated the name Malinda. “Just like me!” She beamed. It was as if she placed her smile onto my face, and connected us, brought me to safety. That’s why I remember my first doll’s name, because of kindness.
The scrubs in the French hospital were flowered pink and blue. The language buzzed around me as I lay on the gurney. It’s not lost on my that my grasp of this language is not a lot more than I had in St. Cloud. And my comfort level was about the same. They wheeled her in next to me, this elderly woman — who was not much bigger than I was then. She was scared, and cried out a little when the man who had just blocked my arm was doing the same to her. In my best Malinda I turned and sent my smile to her. I saw it travel across the sterile room and land on her lips. She smiled back. And we both were saved.
I don’t know her name, but I remember her face. I look at my braced hand and feel myself smiling, in my best Malinda.
It takes so little to give each other the “everything is going to be ok.” I, who have been given so much, hope to pass it on to you. Take my “Malinda,” and pass it on.
I didn’t even know asparagus grew wild until I moved to France. The first time Dominique pointed it out, I couldn’t see it. I was looking for the grocery store stalks, wrapped in a bundle. Right there, he said. Nothing. He had to finally bend over and pick it. That? I had no idea. Now, each spring, I can’t walk past one.
It feels like they are growing just for me. No one else on the route picks them. Of all the people I see on the path, I’m the only one with a cupped hand full of green. And it makes me feel special.
I suppose it was no accident that the man commissioned me to do the painting. I knew it for sure, after I sent a photo of the completed piece for his review. He loved it, but there was just one more thing he asked. Could you paint a little bird on the back of it, just as a special message to my wife? I smiled from across the sea… could I paint a bird… (If you follow me, you know.). Yes! Of all the painters growing wild across this earth, he picked me for a reason. Amazing!
I returned the wink of the universe with a little yellow flying wink of my own. I’ve said it before, even put it on the cover of a book, “I am amazed. Take a look around, and you will be too.”
It’s still a lovely piece of work, but without strings, this violin plays no music. The sweet sounds lay silent in the wood. I suppose it’s the same for the heart. It needs to connect.
I understand the meaning of the familiar saying — to give without expectation. And that’s a lovely sentiment, but then I think of the beautiful, melodic strings.
It was Grandma Elsie who first taught us the telephone game. When we asked what it was she simply said, “You know, telegram, telephone, tell-a-hvezda.” We laughed and began to string together the two empty tin cans she supplied. We spent the afternoon, through windows and doors, telling our secrets on our home made phones, Hvezda to Hvezda. Even when the sounds weren’t clear, when we got it all mixed up, we were still connected.
It’s true today. We continue to get the messages wrong. Misunderstand. But we’re still connected. Always. Even with the tiniest of strings. This family. And when I remember, when I believe it, when I let my heart whisper the truth, I hear the sweetest music, still.
It’s no secret that I love to go to museums. To see beautiful things, that’s obvious. Of course there is pleasure in that. But there’s more. So much more. Standing in front of a painting is like being in a time capsule. You are transported to the date of creation. You are within the movement of the hands and heart of the artist. You walk in their story. Be it pleasure or pain, calm or turbulent, you are there. They are there. With you. For you. Allowing you the comfort to bring your own story to life.
Yesterday I found the pin that my friend bought for me at the Minneapolis Institute of Art. It reads, “Support your local museum.” Holding it in my hand, it occurred to me that friendship, true friendship, is like a museum. It holds all of your stories. Your most celebrated moments in the brightest of colors. Your deepest thoughts in dark, subtle tones. Your aspirations and dreams. Your fears and triumphs. All without saying a word. The only requirement is simply to walk within it.
So I wear the pin proudly, and encourage us all to do the same. Support those beautiful and glorious works of friendship. The art and heart of our living. I give thanks to them, for them, every day.
It was the first poem I ever wrote. I was six years old. In Mr. Iverson’s music class.
Houses, houses, houses red.
In it is a pretty bed.
Houses, houses, houses green.
In it is a pretty scene.
And so began my search. My fascination. With home. I would go on to paint images of houses and doors. Windows and shutters. I wrote the stories as if they were maps. Each word opening. Letting in a little more light. A welcome breeze. Until one day, one moment, one heart beat, in the warmth of that sun whisking through cracks, it became so clear that there was no “there,” only “here.”
We have been traveling for several months. I have been asked handfuls of times, “Are you excited to go home?” I always smile, in the slight breeze of my answer.
Sitting at the breakfast table, in a friend’s house, a country away, my husband is drinking coffee from one of my cups that reads, “Come in, you and your heart sit down…” I’m already here. I’m always home.
It was exactly one mile from our house on Van Dyke Road to the railroad tracks just before town. When I was 6 years old, I was allowed that far on my own. I walked it, or biked it, every day of summer vacation. The first thing in sight, besides the large Viking statue, was our local museum. Truth be told, I wasn’t that interested in the Runestone. My sunburned cheeks, along with the pink part in my blonde hair, marked a head that was sufficiently filled with everything Washington Elementary had to offer, so I wasn’t hungry for the town’s history.
I earned a quarter each Thursday for cleaning the mirrors and vacuuming. With know stores in my one mile excursions, my collection of pocketed quarters was building, burning like the summer sun. I twirled them in my sweaty fingers at the edge of the tracks. I could see the sign for the gift shop. It was just a few steps more. I made lines in the dirt with the tips of my bumper tennis shoes. Surely a few more steps wouldn’t matter. I was going to be in the first grade in only a month. Please, please, please, I begged my mother when she returned home from work. “I just want to go to the gift shop. It’s only a few more steps.” “You don’t even know what’s inside,” she said. Which was true, but I had quarters, and I knew what the word gift meant. “It’s not toys,” she continued. I said something about needing it, wanting it… I’m sure I through in a “everyone else gets to” — even though I never saw children racing toward it. By the next Thursday, I had worn her down and she agreed with a “fine, go ahead.”
The first few steps beyond the tracks felt like I was floating. Maybe all freedom feels this light. I skipped the air to the front door and waited. And waited. I didn’t have a watch. So far I had only learned digital time. I sat twirling the quarters through my fingers. I jumped up with the click of the door. Open — the word felt just for me. I sprang through the door. Still sun blind, I couldn’t see anything on the shelves. It wasn’t what I expected, it was even better. I wandered slowly past the woman seated by the counter, so she could see me seeing. Someone should witness my first outing, I thought, and it was going to be her. She looked up from her paper, not nearly grasping the importance of this moment. And then I saw her. This little Native American doll. (I’m sure I still called her an Indian at the time, but we wouldn’t learn that for a few years.) She had the shiniest black hair. A little leather dress. I wanted her. I needed her. She was glorious. Two dollars. I had eight quarters. It was my miracle of freedom. I placed her on the counter along with my quarters. “That’ll be $2.08,” she said. I smiled, still not realizing, pushing my quarters closer.” “$2.08,” she repeated. “But it says, two dollars. I have two dollars. I Windexed for two months.” (Which wasn’t really true, we only bought off brands, but she didn’t need to know that.) “It’s the tax,” she said. Tax? I didn’t know anything about tax. “You can take from the penny jar,” she said. There were four pennies left on the side of the counter. I was still short. I looked at the doll. I looked at the counter. I looked at the woman. She took the doll and turned around. My heart sank. Gutted, I began to turn toward the door. She placed the sacked doll on the counter along with her purse. She pulled out her coin purse and added four pennies to the cash register. My heart floated again. She handed me the doll. She had seen me after all.
This was our town, I thought. I belonged here. On both sides of the tracks. I smiled in the knowledge. I had so much to learn, but for one brief shining summer moment, I knew everything I needed to know.
My grandma never made apologies for her wide feet. Standing on them for decades, as she did, rubbing her rounded aproned belly, holding a rootbeer float — “it was bound to happen”, she smiled, and sported her men’s Thom McAns proudly. And I loved her all the more.
My mother never made apologies for her long feet. “I’m going to rely on my heart for balance?” She laughed. They lengthened her already long legs, and stabled her heart that bounced and bruised and giggled again. And I loved her all the more.
We have been, I gratefully say, to the finest museums in the world. From Paris, to Rome, London, Amsterdam, New York, Chicago…seeing the finest artists of all time. So it may surprise you when I say we enjoyed our visit to the National Cowboy Museum in Oklahoma. Not because it could compete with a Cezanne or VanGogh, no, but it wasn’t trying to. It was cowboys. From films, to wars, to horses, and cattle, it told a story, their story. And it was beautiful.
Sometimes, when visiting a smaller city, they try to compete, and it never works. But when a place embraces their history, goes all in, wearing their shoes proudly, (or boots as it were), now this is something to see! I hope I do that. Give that. I was taught this, by two of the most different and lovely women that I know.
I hope we all can, step into each and every day, proudly, lovingly. We all have a story to tell.
Two of my mom’s sisters ended up in Texas. Being a child in Minnesota, that seemed about as foreign as it could get. (Little did I know…) When my Aunt Sandy returned on her first visit, she already sounded different. I didn’t have the word for it then, but she definitely had a drawl. How strange, I thought. But I wasn’t that worried, until years later when my mom and I took my grandma down to Texas for a visit. Tired from the drive, I didn’t really notice when we arrived, but the next morning, there she was, my full-on Texas aunt, asking my grandma — the one that her northern children only called “mother” — “Mama, do y’all want to go for biscuits and gravy?” Wait! Mama? Y’all? Biscuits and gravy? What was happening???? Perhaps there was a slight emphasis on the word mother when they returned and my mom asked her, “Did you like the biscuits and gravy, Mother?” I was already smiling when she answered, “Uff-da, y’all…”
I can see now how it happens. Living in France. They say I have an accent. There, of course, and even when I return. We all want to belong. Be a part of something. And we gather ourselves in, word by word, bit by bit, to make ourselves whole, to find a place at the table.
Visiting the Starbuck’s in San Antonio yesterday, they were all out of the butter croissants, so I said “I’ll take the pain au chocolat.” She looked at me so strangely… Uff-da, y’all, I thought. “I mean the chocolate croissant,” I smiled. I am a part of it all.
