I credit my grandma for my love of climbing. I suppose it was her apple trees that first took me up. Low branches provided an easy first step. Of course it was no problem then to bring my knee to my chin and hoist myself up. My bumper tennis shoes slid up the bark and after arriving on my first branch, one so easily reached by my mother’s long arms, it was still my proudest moment to hand her that beautiful green apple prize.
Each year I could go higher. Even higher than grandma’s basket on a stick that she used to pull down the apples on the tippy-top. And it was a thrill to say, “I’ve got it, Grandma,” — to show her that I could do it, I could go higher. To show her that even though she had rescued me so many times, from dark nights of sleep-overs, from the fear of grandpa’s snoring, from the dark closets of the upstairs bedrooms, from the unwanted covered dishes at the potluck, from the hidden aisles of Jerry’s Jack and Jill, and all the unknowns of Petermeier’s Funeral Home, I could climb higher.
I could fill the paper sacks with apples. I could write Ivy in magic marker on my mother’s and give to her her favorites, the tiny sour ones from the tree near between the electric fence and the road.
The ones who really love you will do that — help you reach higher. Maybe the only way to thank them is to keep climbing. And to help other’s do the same.
I smiled when climbing the rocks at the Joshua Tree National Park. Not because I was getting closer to them, but because they are still lifting me.
She could only read a page a day, the bird at the bookstore. Perhaps had she been able to turn the pages, she could have read more. She came every day and landed, not on, but near the book. She fluffed her feathers as bold as the words she imagined.
The exact day the store owner noticed her, she couldn’t be sure. She had no watch, no phone, no calendar. Just the angle of the sun. It glinted off the sidewalk’s tree, at the same time each morning and lit the way to the unlocking door of the bookstore. She watched him wheel his stack just under the shade. And she rested eager, smiling on the blue cover. He smiled back at her that one day. She was surprised he could see her turned beak, but he had, and he opened the book. Page one.
She returned each day to a new page. Pecked the words. Then nested them home. A month of words. A summer of chapters. They belonged to each other now.
Of course he had known loss. Everyone does. Perhaps that was the main reason he opened the bookstore. To connect.
In those sunny months of bird and book, a young girl was learning to read. She sat at the foot of the store owner. He read the words out loud, slowly, carefully. She followed along, raising her hand. Asking the questions. Eager for story. She noticed everything. Even the bird on the book.
“Is she reading?” She asked. “I think so,” he said. “Did you teach her?” “Not exactly…” he said, “some things we have to learn on our own.” “Then what did you do?” She asked. “Sometimes, you just have to help turn the page.” She smiled. They were all learning.
There is an empty space where the painting hung. It sold yesterday, Lake Agnes. My first thought, of course, was of joy, but my second thought was of Herberger’s. More specifically, the Herberger’s store that used to be in Alexandria, Minnesota.
My mom, served as the unofficial ambassador. She knew every clerk. Every shopper. For her, and a majority of the town, Herberger’s was not just retail, but social.
Carol worked in the shipping department, right next to the office. My mom would see her when she went to pay her bill. They became friends. It was only after a few conversations that my mom was retrieving empty cardboard boxes to bring to me to use for shipping artwork. I was shipping daily to stores and galleries, so my box bill would have been a fortune. They had a need to recycle — it worked out well for everyone. My mom would fill the back of her hatchbacked Ford Focus and drive them to me in Minneapolis. We then took the time for coffee, wine and shopping. By Sunday evening her car was filled with bags from Anthropologie or Sundance or Macy’s, and the joyful cycle continued.
Of course nothing was the exact size. I became an expert at creating boxes. I could score and trim and shrink wrap and tape with the best of them. It might sound odd to say, but I was proud of it. Still am.
Yesterday I went to the garage and found two scraps (I use the term with affection) of cardboard, and a large amount of bubble wrap. The cardboard was from some garden tool that Dominique ordered, and the bubble wrap from a guitar that was given as a gift to the kids. They weren’t dirty, but still I vacuumed and wiped each piece sparkling clean. I wrapped it with precision. The box is square and strong. The painting is, and will be safe.
I smile as it sits beside me. Knowingly part of my story. Even as I live a country away, and Herberger’s is long closed, I know what, who, helped get me here.
The world is changing. Artificial intelligence is nipping at our heels. People are contemplating if it will take over the arts. I don’t think so. I certainly hope not. Sure, I suppose it’s possible to create the painting. But what you can’t manufacture is the story. The lives involved in one piece of art. Carol folding boxes. The Herberger’s store manager helping my mom load the car. My mom. Her love and support. Telling all who would listen. It fills me still.
This painting that I sell today is of Lake Agnes. One of the first lakes I knew in my hometown. It will ship from France and travel to Arkansas, carrying the stories of those who first lifted me.
Is it fear, or anger? Sadness… I don’t know. Is it just the nature of the flight? He couldn’t stay. He told you that. It was hard to believe, but it was true. He had to leave. The agonizing weight on his wings, he couldn’t explain. Not just a pull, a desire, but a life altering weight that he just couldn’t release here, and so he had to go. He found a way. In his mind his only way. And I, you, we, would have done anything to change his mind, but it was his mind, his flight to change. And so now… now? We wonder, we what if?, we cry, and wail, and yes, sometimes anger… and we look, look for answers, reasons. But I am not one that can say everything happens for a reason… some things are beyond reason, beyond our understanding… and so we look again. We look, not to make sense, not to understand, but to cope.
And how do we cope?
My grandfather told me that when it is too hard, looking at your own life, you look to someone else. How can I help them? In helping them, we too, help ourselves. We become aware. Maybe we help them, and they become a little more aware, aware that there is still kindness, and we become aware that we can still care with our broken hearts, and all this awareness leads to a new day, and maybe a few new choices, and maybe, just maybe, the weight is lifted from one, and then another.
