After a very confusing day in the library at Washington Elementary, I went home for some much needed clarification from my mother. Hovering between fiction and non-fiction, I asked her if Grandma Dynda, (who lived two lots down on Van Dyke Road) was real. “She’s a real person, of course, but not your real grandma.” So is she fiction or non-fiction? Eyebrows up, and mouth partly open, the words didn’t come, so she just smiled at me. I think we both know we would spent much of our lives hovering in this magical place.
My brain would come to understand most of the difference, but it’s my heart that’s still bouncing around the in-between.
When we first got our cherry tree, and I was searching for a name, (because that’s what I do, name our trees and plants), something worthy and pure and sweet, I hopped the whitewash fence of Mark Twain and found Little Becky Thatcher. In bloom now in the spring of our front yard, she’s as real to me as any written word. As real as any love given two lots down.
It will be a race between us and the magpies when the cherries come. And I like not knowing. Being mid-page. Hovering daily in the smile of this magical place.
When it comes to reading, I suppose I am a bit of a magpie – chasing after the words – grabbing, feeding off of them like shiny objects. They are all so beautiful. I want to gather them in my little nest of daily stories.
There was a woman in our home town. She picked through the garbage cans of main street. This was long – long before it was cool. Long before people made Youtube videos of treasures found. She was alone in her picking, and we made fun of her. Not to her face, but I can see now that doesn’t really matter. I can blame youth. Inexperience. But now that I see… I have no more excuses.
When you first look at a Magpie, you think you know, well, of course – it’s black and white. But when you really look – I mean really – you see the blacks are not just black, but so many shades of blue – maybe brown eyes – maybe a hint of green in the changing light. I paint them now and discover all that I haven’t seen.
Her name was Bernice — this woman who had the courage to search for treasures in our home town. I see her now, so black she is blue – such a beautiful blue. And I thank her for giving me a chance to really see. A chance to wonder about what else I am missing. A chance to search for the shiny objects, hidden in plain sight. And so I read, and I write, and I paint, and I fly! Singing thanks to the Magpies, thanks to Bernice.
