I’ve yet to capture it on film. (But certainly in the shutter of my heart.) Some call it golden hour. And I suppose, as glorious as it is, it’s not that uncommon, but in this house I live, at this one certain time, I have witnessed this light between rooms, not only shine and illuminate, but bend.
It’s just a small window in the sewing room, Grandma Elsie’s sewing room, but when the hour is golden, the light thrusts through every pane. And you may think thrust is too strong, but wouldn’t it have to in order to bounce off of two doors, across the hallway and land beautifully upon the painting of the children at the beach? It’s almost as if it knows the destination, knows how deserving they are of the light.
It doesn’t last long, but spectacular rarely needs a lot of time to make its point. It’s in these tiny, well lit moments that I remember how lucky we are. How we are given everything we need, and more! How even in our struggles of darkness, in our failed attempts to reach all that shines…with obstacles lining the way — magically, joyfully, light bends. Golden.
From the age of five we began looking to see if things fit.
We got our feet measured at Iverson’s shoes, checking for the length and width in the silver contraption. After wiggling our toes inside the bumper tennies, the man on the triangle seat pinched the ends in search of our toes. If he gave the all clear we raced to the glass windows and back. And we were shoed.
In Herberger’s basement, when it was still on Main Street, we tried on pants. The clerk pulled at our waistbands to check for room. Tugged at the length and estimated the time before they would be too short. Up the stairs, past the billing department, were the dresses. Beautiful dresses that were measured to our knees. Zipped up our backs. Smoothed down the fronts.
Dr. Blanchard checked for space in our mouths. Dr. Perkins took our heights and weights. We stood in lines in the school gymnasium to check our eyes and our hearing. All, I supposed, to see if we actually fit.
I had my own checks and balances. Accompanying my mother to Olson’s Supermarket. I waited for her in front of the book section, right by the check out lines. I would pick out the words I understood. Look at the pictures. Then clutch it to my heart. Somehow my heart always knew. The woman in the red smock asked what I was doing. “Just seeing if it fits,” I said. My mother never had to ask. She knew me.
I suppose I’m still doing that. With everything. People. Places. Time. The only way I have ever been able to tell if something really fits is by clutching it to my heart. Sometimes it still stumbles over the bigger words. The tighter spots. The growing pains. But pulled in close, beat by beat, it always leads me home.
I was so surprised that we could afford them — these golden books. I was only five, but I knew that gold was expensive. The display was just past the shopping carts at Olson’s Supermarket. I stood motionless in front of the golden choices. It was safe in those days to leave a five year old in the book section. My mom reminded me to breathe, and went off to gather the groceries. I knew the routine. When I saw her get in the cash line, I had to make my final decision and come. I held the book in my hand. I wasn’t about to place it on the counter with all that produce. When everything had been priced into the register, I reached the book to the cashier without letting go. She smiled and punched in the 99 cents. The man bagging the groceries said, “You’re gonna wanna carry that yourself.” Yes, I nodded. We all knew the value.
Yesterday we went to Fountaine de Vaucluse, a small village about an hour away. The village of Fontaine de Vaucluse is squeezed into the sharp end of a narrow valley and takes its name from the beautiful and mysterious spring feeding the river Sorgue. This spring comes from deep underground – nobody knows how deep. In the 50s, Jacques Yves Cousteau came with a submersible to explore the depths but did not find the bottom. A paper mill still operates from the rushing water. The paper is beautiful. Each sheet contains this history. The touch of hands. The flow of the water. The strength of the trees.
I stood at the counter to buy, not surprisingly, a small collection of this paper, covered in leather — the color of gold. There was only one of these books. The man searched for the price. Opened one ledger. Then another. There were no scanners. I smiled and traveled back in time. He searched for the price. Dominique checked his watch, keeping track of the parking meter. He eventually found the price. Punched it into the register. Then wrapped the golden book safely.
It’s funny, they say they don’t know how deep this water flows, but I do. Carrying my golden treasure to the car, I am assured, it travels to the very depths of my soul.
