I found it next to the trash bins on my walk yesterday. A small shelf made out of wooden slats — perfect for making a framing brace behind a painted panel. I walked it home. Took out the screws.. Pulled out the nails. Sanded each piece. And made my first frame for an existing panel.
Maybe it’s silly, but I feel like the wood is alive. Even after being cut. Even after supporting shoes in a French closet. Even after being discarded. Even after sitting by the bins, thinking there was still a chance to be of use. Didn’t it say, just take me home. Knowing that wasn’t back to the closet, or even the forest, but just somewhere to be valued. To be loved.
There has been a world of places where I’ve felt it. A variety of hands and hearts that have reached out, and taken me to places that I’ve never been, but walked me home all the same, with the gift of purpose, the familiar of heart.
We can do this for each other. Let go the forest, and be the pathway home.
Unlike her delicious pastries, most of my grandma’s ideas outside the kitchen were, as one might say, half-baked.
Even the successes that she served were a little hard to understand. They were given names that I didn’t realize were made up until in later years trying to Google a recipe. And if there were in fact recipes, they were never followed. When asked, she would laugh and puff the flour from hand to aproned belly and say, “Oh, I started in the middle.”
Not really understanding, I still found it unconventionally delightful. As were the chinchillas in the basement. The Publisher’s Clearing house magazines spread across the table. The various plots of land underwater or undeveloped purchased from a roadside gas station. The grab bags from Ben Franklin. The constant thrill of simply playing, neither winning nor losing, just in the game.
In front of my newest sketchbook, I understand. I never start at the first page. I always begin somewhere in the middle — where the pressure is off, only the joy of being in it. I’m trying to allow myself more of that freedom in my day to day. Not worrying about what was or what will be, just allowing, just being… aproning up and dancing in the kitchen.
We weren’t allowed to use words like, “But she got…” or “But he gets to…” on my grandparents’ farm. Maybe it wasn’t a rule, but it was certainly ineffective. With 27 grandchildren, Grandma Elsie had neither the time nor inclination to keep track of who got what. So we learned quite early on to not waste our time either, but to celebrate when you did indeed get the last Slo-poke from the Lazy Susan, or the much sought after Sugar Babies. Life wasn’t fair, but it sure was delicious.
When the two women came to my studio yesterday, their beautiful relationship of mother and daughter floated through our open gate. And to my joyful surprise, (I had been taught well), I didn’t feel jealousy or longing (for hadn’t I been given more than my share with my mother), but I felt truly happy for them. So I floated along.
I can’t say the lesson came easily. Last to take the spin in the bottom candy cupboard, there were only Black Cows left. I hadn’t yet developed the attraction to the darker covered caramel. Not one to hide any emotion, even then, I suppose it was clearly written on my face. My grandma called me in with her two open arms. I went reluctantly. Not wanting a hug, but something sweet — I was too young to understand the irony of that. I kicked my bumper tennis shoes against the floor and made my way into her aproned embrace. How could I help but smile? Feeling better and letting go, she pulled me in tighter this time, against her pocket. Something square pressed against my face. A box? Was it? My smile turned to surprise, and she pulled out a box of Sugar Babies.
Last night, in my pocket of something sweet, I spent two glorious dreams with my mother. Life is, in fact, delicious.
It’s more of a joke really, but not untrue. I make the bread so “we’ll feel safe.” There is comfort in the scent that wafts through the house. And I can feel it, like a cartoon hug that wraps around my shoulders. Not to mention the healing power of the toasted breakfast.
My grandma wasn’t a painter, but she did make quilts. And it’s not lost on me, having them here still, I can feel, not just the warmth they provide, but the hug that wraps my wanting shoulders – shoulders that are the conduit for the heart, and I am saved.
I didn’t think about it then, mostly because I was given the gift of not having to, but wasn’t she doing the same thing? When she made the quilts, kept the Lazy Susan stacked with candy, bought the individual cereal packs — it was more than just fun, it was our safety net, our assurance that we could count on her. It was the steady of her Thom McCann’s beneath her aproned belly. And we weren’t just safe, we were saved.
Bread is rather sacred here in France. Just as the quilt would be to a Minnesota winter, I suppose. At the breakfast table, I wrap myself in it, this small taste of blessed assurance, with just a hint of blueberry.
I hadn’t noticed it until the other day. I brought the painting of Charly inside from the studio. I set her beside another painting. It wasn’t until the next day I thought, “Oh, Charly is with Chuck.” And then I realized that Charles was just below them downstairs. These three sharing a name couldn’t be more different — not similar in age, gender, nor hobby, yet they were all connected. (A rose by any other Chuck…)
I was on a painstakingly long phone call with the bank. We went through my account number, my social security number, my PIN number, the code sent to a separate phone, and then finally she asked me, “What’s your mother’s maiden name?” Deep in the annoyance of trying to prove my identity, there I was, still connected to all that I loved the most. My grandparents. My mother. I laughed, and spelled it, nobody ever understands the silent H of Hvezda.
I don’t know if Charly, Chuck and Charles will ever meet. But I’d like to think they know. I’d like to believe they feel something bigger than themselves. A connection with a silent C, but connected just the same. Perhaps we all are… roses.
At 7:25, I knew she would already be at her desk. Skirt smoothed. Lipstick on. Purse neatly tucked. And I awaited the call. I started each day with my mother.
We went through the usual checklist. What we were wearing. If we slept. Shoes. How we felt. Accessories. Unseen compliments and laughter. There was certainty at 7:25. There was love.
Through her working years, I knew 11:30 was lunch. 4:30, home. I didn’t watch the clock, but sometimes the second hand would wrap itself around my shoulder, because I knew where she was.
Traveling to New York or California, I stayed in the knowledge of her time zone. 7:30 no longer meant the desk, but she was up, “putting on her face.” When I moved to France, her 7:30 awakening became more like 8:00, which was 3pm for me. At 4:00 I would call. The check list varied, but the love never did.
Someone else has her phone number now. But I will always know what time it is in Minnesota.
It wasn’t obvious. Nor was I looking. And I wasn’t supposed to. I only saw what a child needs to see. A root beer float.
There were no visible sharp edges to Grandma Elsie. She was round and approachable. She was the scoop (or two) of Schwan’s vanilla ice cream in her frequent afternoon root beer float. I can see it now — that it could have been more than just a sugar craving. It was simple. An easy decision with a consistent result. There were no maybes or what ifs to it. And didn’t she need that? In her world of uncertainty — all those kids (because even old they were) and grandkids tugging, and the farm, would it rain, would it sell, would he ever make the walk from field to kitchen — all umbrellaed under the certainty of a root beer float.
I never liked the combination. I always no-thank-you-ed out of it. Grabbing a pack of Sugar Babies, or a Black Cow from the Lazy Susan — a whole corner cupboard of my own certainty.
Without my knowlede or permission, I adopted the habit of giving myself an easy decision. Some days I can tackle a whole portrait, others, simply a tomato. Both victories. There is comfort in that. In a world of how could this possibly be, to simply hold something plump and round and sure is a gift. It is the soft edge of an afternoon scoop, the embrace of a grandmother’s plump and generous love that ever holds. Of this I’m certain.
It’s a variety of the beignet, but distinctive to the south of France. More importantly, they are simply delicious! As luck would have it, the best I’ve ever tasted come from the boulangerie nearest our home. I suppose I’ve eaten my share, knowing that when I enter the door, either of the two women working there shout out, “Des oriellettes!” And I must say, it only makes them more delicious!
It’s the equivalent of the coffee shop knowing your order. The butcher your cut of meat. The librarian knowing your last read. The person on the walking path waving with an “it’s great to see you again this morning.” We all want to be seen. And what a simple and glorious gift it is! Names and numbers, status and rank, not required. A little eye contact. A smile. It goes a long way.
Sure, the oriellettes are sweet. What keeps me coming back, what tells them to fill up that sachet, is a little glimpse that they see me, maybe even enjoy it, and I enjoy it too — nothing much sweeter than that! My heart begins to dance.
My mother loved to read by the window. Of course the light was better, but knowing her, always in search of more air to breathe, she no doubt wanted the same for her open book.
I suppose that’s why I crave it too — the crack of a window, or the spine of a book. I think that’s what reading does, opens up everything. Allows more information in, and lets go of preconceived ideas. A refreshing. Simply put, more air to breathe.
The first time I really understood was on the playground of Washington Elementary. I mean really on the playground, after falling from the railings where the teeter totters used to be. Landing flat on my back, my internal wind ran like a rat from a ship and left me gasping. Like a fish flopping on the dock’s edge. That’s all I had, metaphors, no air to breathe. So this is how she felt, my mother, I thought, in those uncomfortable situations that only adults knew. Being judged for status or money or anything else a small town could measure you by. And I knew I would hug her after school. I would take all the air that I had inside of me once again and use it to run from the bus, through the garage door, into her arms, and give her that much needed air.
Empathy. It only comes from being open. I sit by the window with my open book. There is so much more to learn. To love. And so I breathe.
They loved them for different reasons. My grandma’s a bit more practical. She needed her pockets for Kleenex and treats — we needed candy she said, you know, just to be sure. My mother kept her dreams in her pockets, be it skirt, coat or pants, needing a place to coddle them in hand, you know, just to be sure.
So maybe they weren’t that different after all. They just found their way to comfort through different pocketed resources. And after all, didn’t they both love the autumn candy at Walgreen’s.
We have no candy corn in France. No mellowcremes, or Autumn Mix by Brach’s. Yet, my pockets remain full, with the same magic as the heart, I suppose.
We get to decide the magic that we carry. The love we hold on to. The hopes and dreams and comforts that fill our pockets. Sometimes I find myself leaning up against a French wall, and rolling it all between my fingers, you know, just to be sure.
