It was Mr. Rolfsrud who taught us about the flashforward at Central Junior High. He stood tall, polyester suited in front of our class, and took us through the technique with great detail. He neglected to mention that it would also happen in our real lives.
Listening to an audiobook during my walk yesterday, the author lept the characters into the future. And seemingly in that same flash, I was in this other country. It was as if this decade, this epic novel I’m writing, was simply paragraphed. Maybe that is the way with all living.
Not at first I suppose. Summer steps in our youth seem eternal. But then, without our knowledge or permission, the pace quickens. Steps become leaps. Leaps turn into bounds. And finally, mere flashes.
The moment of clarity in the book skipped my heart a little. The moment of clarity in my life did the same. But I wasn’t afraid. More grateful. I simply raised my hand, waited for him to call on me, and thanked him for my love of words. I promised him I would use it all. And kept walking.
After my grandfather spoke, no one ever had to say, “Well, what he meant by that was…” He was perhaps the first to teach me the strength of word economy. When he said something, without flower or hesitation, I believed him.
Even with the wide open nature of youth, the vulnerable cracks of the heart and brain are very small. So it was this simplicity that allowed the love in. Word, by compact word.
When my college professors began to emphasize the point, speaking of editing and being precise, I could only smile. That point had long ago been walked in –firm, straight and overalled. My grandfather’s words built a library inside of me. Cataloged by heart. Endlessly referenced.
And I use it still today. In my writing. My painting. My interactions. If you have to tell someone, “I was only kidding…”; “It was only a joke…”; “What I meant was…”; “The point they were trying to make…” — then there is a problem. There’s no room in the heart for all of that. What a glorious filter it can be.
I’m currently reading the book, “What you are looking for is in the Library.” When my friend recommended it, I accepted quickly. She had long ago made it past the filter. And the title itself walked easily in, wearing overalls.
I suppose that’s where all the love is stored. Here. And I pull from it daily. My grandparents’ shelf. My mother’s shelf. Husband. Friends. Family of all covers, all languages. Those whispering still and again, my heart’s truth.
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.
The first time driving into Houston I was still in my teens. My mom and I were going to see her sister Kay. The approach to the city is a cluster of freeways. I wasn’t yet sure if the rumors were true, but certainly the cars were bigger, mostly being trucks, and they were fast! I sped to keep within the blur of the car in front of me, and out of the one behind me.
The time between then and now feels almost as quick. The memories whir in multiple lanes.
Yesterday I was at the wheel again. This time my husband beside me. We got caught up in the medical district. So many hospitals. One beside the other. Each bigger than the next. I weaved my way through the care, both urgent and long, while Dominique searched for a hotel on his iPad. I could see him swiping out of the corner of my eye. “They’re so expensive,” he said.
I wasn’t surprised. This I had known from being a teenager as well. Being a teenager always in the hospital. My mother by my side until visiting hours were over. Having to drive in the dark. No directions, internal or external. No GPS. No phones. Having to drive beyond the security and nearness that only money could buy. She drove to what we could afford.
Anesthesia wearing off, worry setting in, I had no way to know if she made it. If she dared to close her eyes. Dared the comfort of sleep. Miles apart. Still. Quiet. We waited for morning’s heal.
Time has blurred so much, but not the love. Not the love that I felt as my hospital door opened and my mother’s smiling face entered. What she did for me. Still does.
It’s not a spoiler to say that we made it. Then and now.
Life moves pretty fast. Somehow, slowly, thoughtfully, joyfully, we save each other along the way.
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 suppose it’s always in the delivery. I can see it falling gently outside the window. The lightest snow. And I’m not sure if it’s the “good kind,” – the right kind for building. I never was sure. As a child I would thrust myself in boots and hat and mittens and stumble outside to see if it would stick. That was the true test. Grabbing a handful and cupping woolen mittens about. Pressing forming. Would it hold? Take shape? And if did, hold that is, in a tiny ball, well then, I knew my future was set. I would be making a snow man, a snow village even! The possibilities were endless.
I suppose it’s the same with living. With loving. We can’t know for sure. Will it last? Will it hold?
It never stopped me as child, this not knowing. I won’t let it stop me now. Because we can’t know everything. We can only try. We can only race with warm and wild hopes. We can only reach out our hands and hearts and try to build something. Something that with all certainty will be impermanent, but still so very beautiful.
May our hearts forever waken in woolen red, prepared to grab a handful! To build! To try! Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!
If Herberger’s was ever low on pantyhose, there was a distinct possibility that my mom just restocked her drawers.
She was always prepared. Had she been a scout, and they offered a fashion badge, her sash would have been decorated immediately. Eagle status. Not only did she have the right pair for every outfit, and any future outfit, she kept them in pristine condition. After wearing and washing, she folded them back into their original packaging and filed them neatly, easily visible by color, into her pantyhose drawer. On days when the world just didn’t make sense, I, we, could look to that drawer and find hope.
Sure, it may sound silly. And it probably was. But so what. It brought her joy. It brings me joy. Still. When I see the advertisements to “Shop Small,” this holiday season, I think of her drawer. I think of all the little things she gave to me.
I think we can all get caught up in the “it has to be bigger, grander, more expensive,” to mean something. But, I suppose, it’s always the little things. With gifts. In life. In love. It’s the small things that we will carry. That will fill us for our entire lives.
I bought a pair of green pantyhose two days ago. They match perfectly with my green dress. I wore them yesterday, with all of my mother’s pride. And I saved the packaging. My heart is filled with small mercies.
I suppose it all takes time. To see the ordinary. And to appreciate it. Those of you that follow me here, have come, I hope, to know my grandparents, my mother, my schoolmates, and teachers. Some might say “just plain folks.” And that’s probably true. But maybe that’s the real beauty of it all. To find the spectacular in farmers, housewives and receptionists. To see the extraordinary in the daily living.
And in seeing them, it helps me see myself. Helps me find the gratitude of the day given. Of the toast for breakfast. The smell of coffee. The hand that reaches out for mine.
I am reading the book, “Love, Kurt (The Vonnegut Love Letters). I have this book, only because I have a special friend. Last year, together with our husbands, we went to Stillwater, MN. My friend and I stood in the bookstore as if before the Christmas morning tree. So many gifts in front of us, we had a hard time deciding. We each settled on our present. I loved her choice as much as mine. This year, she gave her book to me. Those simple words don’t seem to give it enough meaning, but I will tell you that it fills my heart. It brings me back to a laughter filled day on brisk streets and slow choices. It, for me too, is a love letter.
In the book, Kurt Vonnegut writes with his young pen, to his young wife, “Angel, will you stick by me if it goes backwards and downwards? Holy smokes, Angel: what if I turn out to be just plain folks?” Tears fill my eyes. I imagine we’ve all had the worries. Will I be special enough to be loved?
It’s these memories, of course, that give me that comfort. That give me the yes. My heart is packed full of the love from these glorious and plain folks. And I have loved them. Love them still. And I am one. Proud to be living with these extraordinary people. It is plain to see, they, we, are more than enough to be loved.
I can’t say it was the most comfortable lap, my grandfather’s. If you wanted something soft, you went to my grandma. Her lap was pillowed with sugary treats, and as soft as the toasted marshmallows she loved to eat from Jerry’s Jack and Jill grocery store. You could easily get lost in her folds of love. So what was it that my grandfather had? First of all, I rarely saw him seated. He was skinny. The farm saw to that. He smelled of earth and pipe tobacco. And just where my head would reach, between his chest and shoulders, were the hooks and buttons of his overall straps. The real comfort came, I suppose, straight from the heart. To be let in, this was the magic. To be offered these rare moments of respite. Between the field and the plate wiped clean with a sheet of bread. To be given the time, when time was currency. This was pure love. Perhaps it’s not visible to the naked eye, but I know the button imprint remains on my cheek, and somewhere deep in my heart.
People often ask me, “Do you come from a long line of artists?” My first thought is the quote from Vincent Van Gogh — “There is nothing more artistic than to love people.” My grandmother’s quilts still keep me warm across the sea. The portraits I painted of my grandfather keep me safe. Protected. My mother’s blouses wrap me in a love that will never die. I was loved. I am loved. Still. I walk daily within this gallery given. So, YES! The answer is always yes! I come from a long line of artists. Today, in my most humble of ways, on canvas and paper, I attempt to pass on the line. To pass on the love.
The first set of paper dolls I received was for my 7th birthday from Wendy Schoeneck. My mother had always taught me to smile when receiving a gift. I didn’t know why she had made such a point of it. I suppose up until then, I had always been thrilled with my presents. Wendy was smiling so intently, watching me tear the wrapping paper. So pleased with what was about to be revealed. I scraped the yellowed Scotch tape from the last reluctant piece, only to reveal, to my horror, Buffy and Jody paper dolls. Not only had they spelled my name wrong, but Jody was the boy. I glanced up at my mother. I knew she knew. I guess her constant reminders paid off, because I forced a smile in Wendy’s direction. She couldn’t seem to tell that it was more pain than gratitude.
We played music. Pinned the tail on the donkey. Dropped the clothespins in the bottle. Passed around the presents. Laughed and held sweaty hands in circles. All had been forgotten and forgiven.
One of my presents was a Winnie the Pooh giant story book. We all started to sing the Pooh song, when one of the girls noticed that Winne the Pooh could quickly and easily be translated to Wendy the Pooh. Others joined in. Some giggled. But not Wendy. I knew she felt bad. I opened the box of paper dolls and my mom got out the scissors. We cut out the clothes and quickly forgot about both Poohs. It was a good gift after all. Wendy was smiling. My mom was smiling. And so was I, for real this time.
Sometimes it’s hard to see life’s gifts. They often come ill-wrapped at unwelcomed times. But even the hardest day is kind enough to pass. Find the good. It’s out there.
