It functioned, of course, but it took a minute for me to fall in love with our kitchen. I suppose as with any love, I had to show it what I really needed. Not just breakfast in the morning, but a welcome. A real welcome of comfort and possibility — joy in every shade of blue. So I painted it. Just like in the cartoons, I want the scent to make a hook and lure me in — so I make the bread. I want to avoid the fax machine blare of the espresso maker — so I brew the coffee, puff by liquid puff on the stove. I, we, bring it flowers to say we know how lucky we are to be here, together, at this table.
Certainly I learned it from my mother — if you want to be loved, be loving. From my grandma — if you want to receive, give something. And it was from my ninth grade English teacher, Mr. Rolfrud — if you want to be a part of someone’s story, you have to share yours.
I see it more easily now, because of them. In places and people. So I’m able to fall in love with my kitchen, daily. My bathroom. My husband. Myself. My life. I step into the blue of the morning, and think, isn’t it lovely?
Van Dyke Road separated the two worlds. It was so magical how far crossing one small stretch of gravel could take me. The back of our house faced a sea of grain — Hugo’s field. And in a way, it was like swimming, running through the stalks at full chubby- legged-speed, arms stretched to each side, creating a golden wave. Across the road though, behind Weiss’s house, was a lake. Not a big one. Nor a clean one, of the 10,000 our state touted. We didn’t swim in it. So what was the allure? It had to be the dock.
Florence and Alvin had a big yard. Bonnie, the daughter, was so much older, that to me, she was just another adult. So there were no arms of youth waving me over to play. I would sneak along the shrub line. Roll down the manicured slope to the lake’s edge. I could hear the dock before I saw it. The wave rocked wood cracking gently. I took off one bumper tennis shoe and placed my lavender-white toes on the sun warmed plank. It was extraordinary. I have no memory of being a shoeless baby, but I imagine at some point some uncle or boisterous neighbor blew their warm breath on my rounded feet, and I knew, standing there, barefoot on Weiss’s dock, this must be exactly how it felt. I giggled like that infant and took off my other shoe.
I braved each crack to the end. My body craved what my feet already had, so I lay down and let it gather in my arms, legs and back. My fingers danced at my side in the tiny puddles of cool water that gathered in the wood’s unevenness. I don’t know if I saw all the beauty of these imperfections, but I’d like to think I did.
Who knows how long I stayed. Summer afternoons felt eternal. I guess in a way, they are. I can still rest in that warmth.
I have written so many times about swimming – in actual lakes. Lake Latoka was only a bike ride away. But just out my door, front and back, oh, how my heart and imagination swam. Daily. And maybe that’s what home is after all…this ability to dream in the comfort of shore.
It’s not a work of art, this scrap of paper, but it is the picture of kindness. We were going to Pismo Beach. When we got close to shore, we saw that we would have to pay. We didn’t have a lot of time, so sitting in neutral, thought about just going on (the luxury of beaches in California). On his way out, an elderly man drove up next to us, signaling me to roll down my window. I did. He gave me his pass. “Just tape it to your windshield,” he said. The thank you’s rolled out of my smile. It wasn’t about the money. We could have paid, of course. But the thing is, he didn’t know that. And he gave us his pass. I taped my restored faith in humanity to the windshield, and we saw the most beautiful beach I’ve ever seen, because it was lit with kindness.
We are in a period of time where hatred seems to be front and center. You can’t tell me that it’s normal. How? When, did this become OK???? It’s all around. It’s shouted through social media, on t-shirts, and face to face. We have to be better than this. We have to be the knock on the random window that passes along kindness. Please let me be that hand. May we all be that hand.
The tape will fade. The note will drop from the window. But the kindness will last. It is glued to my heart.
They say you never forget your first love. I suppose that’s why in Santa Barbara yesterday, I thought of Cocoa Beach.
My ninth grade was full of firsts. My first plane ride. My first time in Florida. My first time seeing the ocean. My grandparents had rented a condo on Cocoa Beach. It is fitting that I experienced it with them — they had given me a sea of golden grain before that —and now an ocean of blue. Perhaps they were, and are still, the horizon to my every view.
Maybe it’s always about the people. I know it is for us. As we travel the country, the world, the memories we make come down to the people we connect with — some for the first time, some again and again. And maybe it’s because I saw my grandfather’s bare feet for the first time — this midwest farmer who fit so perfectly shoed and working in the dirt — was toe-wiggling in the the open sands of Cocoa Beach — and I thought at that moment, we, I, could go anywhere.
And if I believe it for myself, allow it for myself, I have to do the same for others. We should all be given that opportunity, that privilege, that chance to be open, to be free, to give a little wiggle.
Yesterday we drove to a little seaside village for lunch. The restaurants were still filled with the breakfast crowd, so we strolled the streets. Within steps of the first store, a delicious waft cartooned its way toward us, hooking and reeling us into Monsieur Praline. The roasting of the nuts was simply too much for our wallets to bear, and we purchased a container before finishing the samples in hand. I loved the packaging. The logo. The sack. The taste. Never had a nut been so delicious! With one foot out the door, I broke the seal on the container. Holding and reading the sack, Dominique said, “Oh, we have one of these in Aix.”
I suppose it’s often harder to see what’s right in front of us. Maybe it’s why I paint. Why I write. To try and capture all things so gloriously special. It forces me to keep my eyes and heart open.
Many years ago, (and I haven’t missed a day) when I first started writing this blog, my mom and I were talking about one of these special days. It was what some might label ordinary, but it meant so much to us. Delighting in this one day, she said, “And just think how many days we’ve been alive — that’s a lot of special!”
A lot of special indeed! And it keeps happening. Oh, I get distracted at times for sure. Blinded by minor problems. But then life, with all of its roasting, shakes me up and gives me a “Look at this! Right here!” And it becomes so clear, never has a day been so delicious!
“If wishes were fishes, we’d all be in the brook.” If she said it once, she said it a million times, enough to fill a brook, I suppose. We’d pull at her apron. Wishing we had this certain candy, when the lazy susan of the corner cupboard was full of sugary treats. Wishing we had the newest game, when an endless adventure waited for us in a yard filled with apple trees and cow gazes. We sucked in our cheeks, breathing like fish, filled our pockets with Sugar Daddies and Sugar Babies and swam out into the summer sun.
Not truly knowing what it meant, I think we wished around her, simply to play our own fish game. As she sent us off with this string of words, we would swim for hours in a wheat field. On a gravel road. And this was one of the greatest gifts we received — the gentle shove out gratitude’s door into all that we had!
It still makes me laugh sometimes. I say under my own breath, puffing my frustrated lips, keeping my teeth clenched, “Well, I wish I had… then, I’d be… and the words puff from my angry mouth, and it sounds something like a fish. I shake my head, and realize how silly, stupid really. Then I swim through my list of everything I have, buoyant once again.
It’s so easy to get caught up in what we don’t have, and the crazy thing is, that only takes us away from the wonders that we do. I can still hear her voice as I head out this morning’s door. I am ever thankful.
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’s impossible to find out right away. We make our friends, from the start, in the most joyous of times. We gravitate to the laughter on summer vacation beaches. Buoyed by the play. And between the giggles and the hands held in the sand that we skip upon, we shout to all the blue above, “This is my friend!!!!” And we can’t, for one second, imagine that the moment is not eternal. Until it isn’t.
Perhaps it is here where real friends are made. When the skies darken and the path can no longer be skipped, but only trudged. When the only sound that can break the noise of wind and wave is the close whisper of “I’m still here…and it’s still beautiful.” Maybe the skies can’t hear it then, and maybe they don’t need to, but my heart shouts with eternal joy, “This is my friend!”
I was reminded of it yesterday while doing a podcast. Something I had written years ago. Words I carry with me — “Now is the time for guts and grace.” Of course the words “guts and grace” are key, but perhaps they are far less important without the word “now.” Now means ever and always.
Some might say, “well, from time to time, sure, but I don’t need guts every day.” I’m not sure I agree. For me, I think if I’m doing it right, living the way that I want to – I DO need them daily. Because if I need them, that means I’m pushing myself to do more, to be more. It means I’m taking risks. Trying to grow. Letting people in. Feeling everything. And all of that takes real courage — real guts! But I don’t want to be bulldozer brave – knocking over everything, everyone in sight. Hence, the grace. And what a delicate balance to stumble through. And I do stumble. I do fumble. So I carry the words with me. Now.
They asked me in the interview yesterday if my mother was an artist. “Well, she made me, didn’t she?” Her openness, her pure love and joy in allowing me to be me, was more of an artistic gift than if she had handed me the paints and brushes and guidebook of Cezanne himself. Her standing tall, shoulders back, bloused in white ruffles, lips rouged above a softened, forgiving jaw, even as her heart dragged behind her size 10.5 Herberger shoes, was the most beautiful, the most artistic example of guts and grace I had ever seen. These words were written long before they settled on paper. I carry them now. She is with me now.
It’s not to say she wasn’t worried about being brave. She often did. Who doesn’t? (I guess to answer that — those not really living.) I don’t know what today will bring, but I do know what I’ll carry with me — what has been passed from my grandmother to mother to me. From their now to mine. Ever. Guts and grace.
It’s easy, I suppose in the heart of the summer to let a day just slip away. I try not to, but it can happen. “Oh, it’s hot – I don’t want to set the table…I’m tired from mowing the lawn…we could just have a pizza…” And the day disappears.
Perhaps one of the greatest gifts of summer is that it ends. I can feel it. It’s not here yet, but it is around the bend, telling me, reminding me, urging me, to enjoy the moment.
Yesterday was some of summer’s finest work. Yellow sun, bouncing off tanned shoulders. Not too hot, just warm enough to welcome the pool. Hair still wet, I gave the white cloth a whip into the tiny breeze, flinging it over the outdoor table. I placed the pool-blue plates with waves, atop the large white chargers. A wine glass next to each. Summer in the south of France calls for a rosé. White napkins. I cut the peppers, green and red, the eggplant – aubergine — and cooked them on the outdoor plancha. Next came the fish — rougets – in my opinion one of the Mediterranean’s finest. We toasted the day as the gift it was given. Not looking ahead. Not looking behind. We always eat slower outside. Gathered in a sea of green, we are still… and ever.
I was having such a good time, I forgot to take a photo. And perhaps that is the best compliment I can give the day. To be in it. Truly in it. Maybe that’s the only way to say thank you – thank you for this beautiful day!
If it never ended, I wonder if I would give it the reverence it deserves? I’m not sure. But I know this — yesterday was a beautiful day, and I, we, enjoyed it. The morning sun is telling me, reminding me, urging me, to do the same today.
