When he saw the painting of my grandfather he asked if we still had the farm. I paused, stuck in who the “we” would even be. I started passing it down in my head, from uncle to cousin, to second cousin, (none to whom I felt a collective we). It passed again in my head to I’m not sure, to finally, it didn’t really even matter, because, I told him, “I still have everything.” And I do.
Even a lifetime and country away, I can feel the warmth of the rock at the base of the driveway. The same steady of my grandfather. The gravel beneath my feet. The jolt of an electric fence. The smell of apples, on and off the trees. The sandy feel of a cow’s tongue. The bounce of a screen door. The scent of my grandma’s kitchen. My face against her sticky apron. The ever damp basement. Jesus on the cross upstairs. Prayed to from the kitchen table. The sewing room that stitched all nine children’s lives together. The front stoop that promised the scent of tobacco and hope. My mother laughing in that kitchen. Crying in that kitchen. Hands folded at that table. Driving away from the rock one last time, never really leaving.
So, yes, I still have the farm. And the we is all who listen to the stories. The we is you who remember your own grandmother’s apron. Who read the words and climb upon your grandfather’s lap. We still have it all. We have everthing.
Something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.
Certainly they were attracted to us. Who wouldn’t be? Sitting on my grandparents’ front stoop. Surrounded by flowers and watermelon seeds. Slo-pokes and Sugar Daddies stuck to our hands. Of course the bees hovered around. I suppose it was instinct to wave our chubby arms in the air, to add screaming when that got them all riled up.
Grandma Elsie could easily tune us out. Clanking the dish pans a little louder. Turning up the volume of the Hortons on Days of our Lives. But my grandpa couldn’t bear the piercing sounds. Never could. He walked purposely from the garage. We elbowed each other anticipating the incoming. His speech, unlike the growth around us, was never too floral. We listened. “You know how you sit with bees?” He asked. We shook our sun pink cheeks no. “You sit with bees.” Of course it took us a minute. He was halfway back to the garage before we started smiling quietly. And he turned out to be right. As we sat, no arm flinging, no yelling, the bees calmed in our calm. We sat with bees.
If I could elbow myself I would. I often forget. I can get myself so wound up in the buzz, which always makes it worse. But then on my best days, when I am more like him, I try to be the calm that brings the calm.
Ever sticky with lingering youth, my heart smiles. And I am saved. I gently wave to the wisdom of his overalls.
Other than the birds in the trees, Bud Christianson was the first to demonstrate the pure joy of music. He wasn’t just teaching it, he was living it. He directed the band at Jefferson Senior High. The only faculty member to drop the mister, we called him Christy. It suited his swagger.
This was long before Fame, Glee, and frankly before most of us had cable television. But I, we, knew we were in the presence of something special. So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when he told us before the spring concert that not only were we going to play our instruments, but we were going to sing. But we’re the band, we’re not the choir, some questioned. “But listen to that music,” he said, “how can we help but sing?! And stand up when you do!” His enthusiasm was infectious. It did feel good! So in between puffs on my clarinet, I stood, jumped beside my section (I would have flown if I could have) and I, we, sang with all of our hearts. There was no band. No choir. No audience. No separation whatsoever. Because the music!!!
Have we lost the ability to hear? To celebrate our differences? I’m not ready to let it go. I must stand. We must stand! Can’t you feel it? We have to be in this together. United. What do you have without the music?
