I have no ownership of it. Still, I feel connected to the Mississippi River. Living in Minneapolis all those years, we got to know each other. Understand each other. The secrets and concerns I told over bridge rails. It promising not to erase them, but carry them down. Easing worry and weight. Turning flounder into flow.
I’d like to think I thanked it, this river, for carrying my precious cargo, but I’m not sure I did. Not well enough. Perhaps it is the way with all those we love. We get used to them sharing the weight beside us. Expect it. Rely on it.
My mother was alive the last time I stood on the banks of the river between Louisiana and Mississippi. Yesterday evening in the setting sun, she still was. The love had been carried, just as promised. Ever flowing.
Some might explain it away, saying it was only the moon…but when I looked up in the sky, there was the smile. My mother’s smile. Telling me she knew. She always knew. I smiled back. The river blushed, telling me the same.
Waking up to the clank of cousins eating cereal from the variety packs grandma bought, I ran down the stairs to the kitchen. There was no need to change from pajamas. Summer shorts and t-shirts were the pajamas we wore straight into the day, and back into the night. Even though we believed our summers would never end, this did save valuable time.
Maybe it was because of the example my grandpa set — he went out to work no matter the weather — or maybe it was our springing youth, but we never asked what it was like outside. Never questioned if we should go. It was expected, from them and us. We wanted to. If it was sunny, we ran until the sweat drained from our t-shirts. In the rain we hopped from barn to coop.
Wearing my smallest pair of bumper tennis shoes from Iverson’s in town, I asked my grandma during a rootbeer break if she was having a good day. “Of course,” she said, “I already decided.” I raised my eyes and shook my head in agreement. So it was like that, I thought. Just decide. I wiped my rootbeer mustache with my shoulder, and went back out into my decision — it was a good day.
The landscape keeps changing as we drive the country. This morning we wake to the white sand beaches. If it’s the beaches, I think, it’s going to be a good day, I already decided.
I read the Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn, in the first bedroom that I remember. It was small. I shared it with my sister. Already a teenager, she didn’t appreciate my still childlike enthusiasm. I suppose it took up too much space. But it WAS big. This love I had for words. This adventure it was taking me on. Books. Stories. It was just so magical. The books didn’t just show you the river, they took you for a ride. And oh, how I wanted the ride. I suppose I still do.
Seeing the Mississippi River, in Mississippi, Louisiana, it’s not the same as in Minnesota, where I grew up. Yes, the water, the banks, I guess they are not that different, but the stories it rolls along… The stories. If you pay attention, you can hear them. And if you really listen, with any luck, (more grace, I suppose) you can feel them. But that takes up space. And only an open heart and mind has room for that.
Our country is divided. You could say by race, or religion, or politics, but maybe it all comes down to understanding — learning —education — seeing the other side of the river.
Tom Sawyer said, “Right is right and wrong is wrong, and a body ain’t got no business doing wrong when he ain’t ignorant and knows better.” I want to do better. I know we have many rivers to cross. But my heart is open. My mind is open. Tell me your story. I’m listening. Let’s ride!
I was wearing my Mona Lisa sweatshirt from the Louvre when we visited the Lauren Rogers Museum in Laurel, Mississippi. Founded in 1923, it was the first art museum in Mississippi. Worlds apart. Same goal.
The Lauren Rogers Museum has an extensive Native American basket collection. Beautiful weaving. The finest detail. Within this collection, it boasts of the smallest woven baskets ever seen – or almost seen. You have to look through a magnifying glass, and still, it is barely visible. I suppose the first question many people ask is, “Why?” Baskets were made to be used. Functional. Carrying the essentials of food. So why the microscopic basket. What could it carry?
I suppose as any artist or creator, I have asked myself the same question. Is it important to make the art? What does it matter? What could my words, my paintings possibly carry? But any of these microscopic doubts are always erased by connections. Connections with you.
I recently spoke to a group of Minnesota teachers at a conference in Brainerd. After speaking, I was selling cards and books and art. As they carried their selections up to me, each person also carried their story. One woman needed the cardinal book, “Here I am,” because her young son had died and this is how he spoke to her. Another needed the lipstick book because, her mother, like mine, always told her to “slap it on.” Each person connected to a different piece in a different way. Bringing with them their stories, taking with them mine — tiny baskets.
I could feel it yesterday. This American girl, now living in France, wearing an Italian masterpiece, standing in a Southern museum, with Native American art, I knew, the importance, the significance of all, even the smallest of us, perhaps especially. And it matters. We are connected. Carried.
In Kindergarten, Mrs. Strand had the audacity to leave us mid year to give birth to twins. In the first grade, Mrs. Bergstrom, hair pulled back in a bun, wore her long pencil skirt and wool sweater all the way until summer break. We knew she would never leave. She taught us the meaning of the word trust, and then taught us how to spell it. She was opening our worlds. Then one day, she lined us up, single file, and quietly led us up the stairs, turned us to the left, opened the big wooden door. All was silent but for the singing of my heart’s choir! The library! All those books. A conversation from wall to wall. Information. Entertainment. Belonging. Yes, most of all the belonging. I knew I would be both comforted and launched — I suppose the perfect definition of home.
And I was home. Here in the words.
Yesterday we arrived in Laurel, Mississippi. Being an HGTV fan, I wanted to see it all. Where they filmed. What they made. The houses they transformed. People have told me, oh, you’ll be disappointed – it’s only make believe.
We pulled into town and the first thing I saw were the giant books painted on the side of the building. I smiled. I have always been one made to believe — the very day I stepped through the big wooden door at Washington Elementary. I know all is not always as it seems. But it is always what you choose to see. Today I choose to see the magic of it all — from the giant books on the side of a building to the promise of a small home town. It’s hard to hear the doubters over the singing of my heart.
