If the truth has to come at you like a ton of bricks, maybe it really isn’t the truth at all.
Grandpa Rueben didn’t say a lot, but when he did, we believed him. He was one of the hardest working people I ever knew, (other than Grandma Elsie), yet I never saw him labor with the facts. There was a quiet certainty that rose from his overalls. His right elbow raised from the table. His open hand began with the slightest of beats. Like a conductor, his rhythm held our eyes. Chosen carefully, the words, without fuss or fury, slipped into our hearts and minds and filled them.
I suppose that’s why today, if it comes at me too hard, I can’t let it in. It’s only noise. There are some who think if you say it loud enough, repeat it again and again, then it must be true. I still am of the belief that the real work has to remain in the fields. The truth, when balanced on the uneven legs of the kitchen table at day’s end, should come lightly, easily, ever without harm.
It only just occurred to me — they often say before you speak, take a beat. I smile. I see Grandpa’s hand gently keeping time, and my heart knows what’s real.
I suppose it was at my grandparent’s house that I first learned to come in clean. Winter snow or summer dirt was wiped from shoes in the entryway before climbing the couple of steps into the kitchen where grandma wiped her floured hands inside of her apron pockets and brought you in for a loving belly hug. After the apron imprinted your cheek, there was nothing to do but come directly with the truth. The truth of what you had been doing outside. What you touched that maybe you were told not to touch, like the electric fence, or a baby bird from a fallen nest. Maybe it felt safe, because it had been proven safe, time and time again, with wiped shoes and warmed cheeks…so we told all, and she loved us still.
If I come to you with that same truth today, I will tell you that I have battled it throughout the years — love and trust. Maybe we all do. But it has yet to change. The only way any of it seems to work is when I come in clean. When I come clean. When I tell you my truth, and accept the same from you. It’s not as complicated as I, we, often like to make it.
I grab the straw broom from the corner and smile. It has never needed instructions. Nor does my heart — its screen door swings open, and I dare it all again. Safe. Welcomed in the loving arms of home.
I can’t go back to when they played there, these sun-kissed French boys just out of ear-shot of their grandmother, (intentionally or unintentionally). Back to when they played with sticks and sometimes fists, like only brothers and cousins can. They wrestled below and within the smells of tobacco and cut grass and stove pots wafting through open shutters.
But when we gather each year on August 15th, Napoleon’s birthday, (and one young cousin Guillaume’s), if the wind is just right, and the wine has settled, the vine that hangs above and beside the old house whispers to me, “Listen…listen to them play.” And I hear the clinking of the Pétanque balls, and the spirited calls of who is closer, with arms pointing to the ground, pleading cases, just this side of youth’s wrestle. And these now men, very grown men, are still pinkened by the sun, and the thrill of a summer that just might not end.
And for the moment, I belong. Because the language of family is universal. And laughter and hope and joy under summer’s whisper, after the pétanque, rings loud and clear, and needs no translation.
I was so excited when I got the news in my morning email. It started with “congratulations.” A piece of my art has been accepted for a large mural in Pennsylvania. I would tell you more, but as I reached the end of the email, it specifically said, please don’t share this news before the reveal in June. They have no idea what they are doing to me.
Don’t get me wrong, I can keep a secret, if it means someone’s security. If it’s about your truest feelings. Your heart-felt desires — sure. But when it comes to a surprise — a joyful surprise — like a present or great news, this is a definite struggle. In my defense, let me take you back to Ben Franklin in my summer youth, most specifically, Crazy Days with my Grandma Elsie. Ben Franklin, along with so many of the other stores on Main Street, offered what they call grab bags. They were just as you might think — unlabeled brown paper sacks with mystery items inside. They might be priced at a quarter, fifty cents, and usually worth that much or often less. But this game of chance to my Grandma was irresistible. Every year we bought many, but not before feeling each one thoroughly. “Really get your hands around it,” she’d tell me. And sometimes, if the staple was placed right in the middle, my five to six year old chubby fingers could sneak in without ripping the sides and give a full reveal. And so began my life-long journey of racing secrets.
My mother was no better. She couldn’t give me a gift without telling me what it was. Once in a while, we’d make it to the unwrapping, but not often. “Do you want a hint?” she’d ask, weeks before my birthday. “No,” I’d say, knowing it didn’t matter. “How about if you hold it?” “No.” “Maybe just give it a shake…” “No.” “What if I just told you where I bought it?” And this would continue until I was actually wearing the item two weeks before my birthday.
It was all joy. They couldn’t get to it fast enough. And who could blame them? The giggling! I can still hear it! It wriggles inside of me, along with the image of my secret art piece. I’m looking at it now, knowing they’ve already begun their heavenly whispers (very loudly of course — neither mastered the skill of the whisper either).
I won’t post the winning image…yet…but in my heart, oh, the happiness rumbles! I don’t know what the day will bring, but I promise I’m going to really get my chubby hands around it and find the joy! Won’t you join me?
I have know idea how they got them in the house. It never occurred to me to think of those things — the logistics of moving an organ, a clock. And just as I assumed this clock that coo-cooed on the hour was called a Grandfather clock because it was his, I thought it was a Grandma organ, because it was hers.
But it must have been fairly spectacular – this finding of an organ mover, a clock mover, to a farm house just outside of Alexandria, Minnesota. And they must have come through the front door – a door we never used, never even considered. And even if they came through this front door, there would have been a stoop to be navigated. A tiny hall before reaching the living room. But as I said, I didn’t think of it, how they got there. But I did count on it, them being there.
And that was the gift, I suppose. It was all an assurance. One I didn’t ask for, or prayed to keep, I just had it. I knew, without a doubt, what would be found in this house. Coats and overalls hanging in the entry. A kitchen table with uneven legs. Candy in the corner cupboard on the lazy-susan. Sugared cereal beneath the silverware drawer beside the kitchen sink, a kitchen sink that was forever filled with dishes. Something on the stove. Publisher’s Clearing house magazines on the dining room table. The hint of pipe tobacco and baked goods. Television on. A ticking clock. The hum of the organ at the ready. And a love, no matter how many doors or windows were left open, would never leave.
So it continues to be spectacular — this never knowing how it all got in — mostly the love. I just remember always having it. I still have it. And what a thing to move! To carry throughout a lifetime! Enough to make a heart ever coo-coo and hum.
I would have never dreamed of rummaging through my grandma’s purse. But I did admire it, sitting between us on the front bench seat of the car. It weighed nearly as much as I did. We never used our seatbelts then. The two safety measures were the outstretched straight arm of my grandma, (which could surprisingly secure me, along with the purse) and the rule that I wasn’t allowed to stick my body out of the window beyond my shoulders. I had the idea that if I wrapped my foot in the purse handles it would hold me as the wind blew open my pinkening cheeks.
The AM radio, permanently tuned into the farm report, was also blocked by her massive purse. There was a station I had heard of, out of the Twin Cities, KDWB 63. “It won’t come in,” she said, cruising down the country road. “Maybe if I held the antenna,” I pleaded. “I could just bend it through the window.” I knocked off the orange styrofoam ball that was attached to the antenna top before she pulled at my leg and secured my sweaty thighs against the leather seat. “Paul Harvey’s coming on..listen.”
Calmed by his melodic voice and the feel of the golden metal clasp of her purse beneath my fingers, I imagined a day when I would carry the weight of the world beneath white leather straps. I would have make-up and breath mints, I thought, and quarters for the parking meters. And candy and pencils and paper. And perfume and underpants. Yes, and Kleenex. And a checkbook with pictures. The tv guide for planning, of course. And grocery lists and photographs of everyone I loved. A book for reading. Rubber bands for my hair. Band-aids, because something would always happen. And Bazooka Joe gum, for the cartoons. Before I filled my imaginary purse, Paul Harvey was saying, “Good day!” “Wasn’t that good!” my grandma said, not asking. I smiled and shook my head. It was good. I had an open window. My grandma’s attention. An endless summer ahead. Youth’s purse was filled. I had everything I needed, and just enough to wish for. I slipped my hand through the loops and touched her floral dress. It was a good day indeed.
A butt joint is the simplest one to make. It’s also the weakest.
You can buy premade panels — completely prepared for painting — and it occurs to me that one might call this “cutting corners,” when actually you are doing nothing of the sort.
It was only through trial and error that I learned how to make panels for painting. It was tempting to just butt the two pieces of wood up against each other. Making the 45 degree angles took time. Patience. Sanding. Sometimes filling the cracks. But I found even with slight errors, these joints were so much stronger. And when I finished the process, the seam almost disappeared — the wood one fluid piece. Painting is then the reward.
We all have acquaintances — these butt joint relationships. And they’re fine… But to have real friends, friends with whom you’ve taken the time…this is something spectacular! The intimacy of error cannot be replaced. It makes us stronger. This melding of corners, sometimes so rough, can be so beautiful. To know someone, really know them, and come together, so close you can barely see the seam — this is true friendship. And the rewards – living color!
Whatever I decide to paint on this panel, I know the corners will hold. May we all have such a friend.
The only possible way for me to let go was to connect to something. I still can’t go to sleep without reading.
My mother read to me. Tucked and nestled. Arms by my side. Hair still a little damp. I was ready for my word bath. Maybe it was because I had just gotten out of the tub, but I think probably more so because the words washed me clean of the day. Released from the worries that can plague a heart and mind in the shade of night. But not left adrift. No. Each word was like a buoy I clung to — a buoy that separated the shallow from the deep, roped off, letter by letter. And I was saved.
Looking back, it was more than just the story. It was time with my mom. She gave to me, not only the gift of reading, the joy of reading, but something to hang on to when she left my bedside curb. Secure in her love, I braved the night.
I suppose I’m still doing that. Each night before letting go, I gather in the words. I gather in the love. Tucked in familiar and new, I let go. Forever connected.
My husband saw a bright yellow parakeet in our yard. I was out walking and I missed it. I wonder what our gaggle of regulars thought. They had to have seen it — the pigeons who waddle in the driveway, almost too heavy for flight; the magpies in constant search of the “other”; the doves in between cooing… Surely the woodpeckers perked their heads with the flash of yellow. Even the little bush hoppers that flit in and out so quickly must have caught a glimpse. Because a yellow would pop! In these spring greens and pinks that cover our yard, yellow will always shine. And if they did see it, this bright yellow bird, it hasn’t stopped them from singing. From flying. From hopping around our driveway. From dancing in the water that collects on the freshly sprinkled grass. They seem just fine. Joyful even.
As humans, it can be hard to follow “the nature of things…” I’m trying to get better. To celebrate those around me. To know their yellow doesn’t take anything away from my beige. To understand there is room for all, hopping, flying, stumbling even.
People often ask, “Do you paint self-portraits?” Daily, I think. Never parakeet- pronounced, but I’m there, in each painting. In each tiny, joyful, unobvious bird, I’m there — waiting, grateful for every glimpse of color that hovers by.
It’s no secret that I love yellow. It is my color of joy. It was my first lesson in brightening up my basement room. And not for the reason you may think. Yes it added more light. But it was more when I had to give up that room. That room that I chose for the first time. Picked the color of carpeting and bedspread. It held my dreams and secrets and heart promises made just before sleep, confirmed at dawn. All in yellow. It wasn’t the bedspread that I worried about losing. What if everything I had dreamed of in that space would also be taken away? I didn’t know.
When my mom and I moved from apartment to apartment, the layouts and colors changed, but to my joyful surprise my heart’s yellow remained. What a comfort it was, is, to know it.
People can take from you a lot of things. But not your heart. Oh, they can bruise it, almost break it at times, dull it, but you get to decide what remains. What is the color of your joy. Your soul.
It has only been a week since my hand surgery. Only, I laugh. I want to paint. Standing in front of my joy in the studio, I know that I will. Soon. My fingers twitch in yellow heart promises, and dream of strokes to come.
