I remember her making that gift – the one she holds out in presentation and that he accepts with a chubby grin. I remember her finding the red fabric, heart shaped box, that probably once held chocolates, and lining it with wax paper. The chocolaty goodness that had been cooking on the stove all afternoon was then poured in and leveled off and the works was spirited into the refrigerator where we couldn’t get at it so well. Our little arms were not yet strong enough to open the door or reach the top shelf.
Hours later the heart shaped box came out and the thick liquid had hardened into perfect fudge. She got out the frosting kit normally reserved for birthday cakes. With a pointed piece of wood she scratched out the words, “I love you” across the heart. Then, putting the writing tip onto the red frosting tube she scripted the words out properly. Changing tips she added a few rosettes. The wax paper was trimmed, the top was put on, and the works was presented to dad for Valentine’s Day. And that’s this photo. She holds out the opened heart box as she leans over his chair. The sideburns his barber insisted on cutting into his face are lifted with the grin of acceptance. The 3 elements, mom’s face, box of fudge, dad’s face, pose frontally for a shot one of my older sisters must have been trained to take.
It would take a novel and a half to map the faulty, subterranean lands beneath the surface of any relationship. Here, I need not bother. One sentence will do. I knew even then that this photo, this act of chocolate, was a lie.
They lied because the truth was beyond the scope of who they were both brought up to be. They lied because they had both said words investing themselves into a cultural fairy tale of love and marriage without realizing that in their hearts each held very different views of those two words. They lied because it’s easier to pretend and do strange things in chocolate than to admit that a dream had soured; that in fact the ideal held out to them as a possible state of wedded bliss was personally quite destructive. Dreams are best left as such if they prevent one from asking honestly each day what the relationship means. The truth is they didn’t have words for the truth. But it’s easy for me to criticize. I’m not 22. It’s not the early 60’s. The pressures to conform in my life are mere annoyances – like flies floating about a light. ZAP!
I remember Mom’s fudge. Now that lady knew how to cook. People rave about my cooking, now. I make soup. I make stews, I use garlic in intelligent ways, and I’ve been known to even torture chocolate into a mousse to gain crowd approval. I can look at a pile of ingredients and figure out something to do with it provided I have kosher salt and amchur powder (ahhhh! Secret ingredient!). But it’s all very random. Unlike mine, mom’s cooking always had a purpose. The cakes came from a box and the frosting from a tub but the writing on the top and the frosting flowers she made herself. There was a craft. She makes jam with the berries picked in the summer. She focuses yams and pineapples into her famous candied sweet potatoes. There was always some tradition or favorite dish to be upheld. There was a meal to be made that must be different than yesterday or embellish the pleasure of a summer evening. Me? Put a recipe in front of me and I become a cripple in the kitchen. I tried to make potato salad this afternoon. The result is a mix of roasted organic potatoes, crisp organic celery and home made aioli which, though very tasty, would curl the toenails of a potato salad purist. Next time I add bacon, too!!
They were already fighting about money. They had already realized the falsehood of their assumptions regarding how each would continue or support the other’s hobbies. They were tired too soon. But at that point they were still trying. She still thought he’d get a decent job and give up the old cars and marching band. He thought she’d play along with his whims without posing too much opposition. They don’t see the real storm on the horizon.
I still get the horror stories from mom, now that she is the survivor and able to get in the last word. Her “oppressor” is beyond the Lethe. His half of the picture, what it was he received in that heart, has faded to nothing. And nothing is where the works will stay. I can’t waste any more energy contemplating the dynamics of what went wrong for those two. Despite the desire I will never manage the perfect act of mending what they spent 43 yeas tearing apart. I didn’t fall for the dream. I don’t need to contemplate destruction. Not today. My empathy is best spent on the living.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
The lot
There was no special reason for us to be lumped together as such. We were a collective accident of demographics, time, and geography all standing together on paper covered risers in front of the stage during the spring of 1976. Singing "It's a small world after all" with yellow construction paper graduation hats propped on our heads we graduated from kindergarten.
Some of the girls had new dresses, easily spied by that long 70's look with a ruffle along the bottom. Most of us wore something probably a bit older, maybe a hand-me-down from an older sister. Kids grow so fast. And trips to the mall for something new just weren't on the map back then. The dresses are nice, but they have the high high hemlines of a few years earlier. My dress was older still, from before the hemlines went up in the first place. But I loved it. It doesn't come out so well in the photo, but I remember it was a blue chiffon with little pink flowers sprinkled all over it. This was before the years of being teased for wearing clothing about 10 years out of date and it didn't yet occur to me to despise how mom dressed me. Although, now I look at these pictures and realize my dress was perfectly fine. And we did much better than those plaid pants that all the boys wore. (WHAT were they thinking?) I look at the mix of patterns in the fabrics and see the explanation for why I insist on only wearing solids, today.
Some of the kids in this bunch would grow up and thin out. Some wouldn't grow too much taller than they were here. There in the front row is Dan, the kid who loved orange (which he pronounced "ah-nj") and would always hog the orange paint during finger painting. He also stole my pencil case (which, ironically, was orange). Oh look, he's wearing an orange shirt with those blue plaid pants. Yeah, he disappeared after 3rd grade. Behind him stands Justin. I could never figure out how he always managed to do things wrong like piss off the teacher or get bad grades. Now it occurs to me, he was dumb. Right in front of me is Fred, who would go on to be our class valedictorian and who at that age was probably already doing trigonometry in his head.
Next to us stands Miss Clear, the most breathtakingly ignorant teacher I have ever suffered in my entire life with the possible exception of Carol Bankherd. First of all, with a poochie belly like that she should have known better than to wear those diagonal stripes (hey, what good is unearthing the family photographic coprolites if you can't be catty about fashion). She put all of the tall kids on the front risers so they neatly block everyone else. And, to boot, she always called me "Carolyn". Thus began the battle of a lifetime. That's not my name.
All kindergarten just seemed like some weird ideas for playing. I had no idea at the time the amount of stress these people were under to quickly assess us and put us into proper boxes of like-level-intelligence kids. I'm convinced they had me all wrong. How dare they assess me by their own boringness?
Well, it's about 32 years after kindergarten graduation and 20 years after high school. Tomorrow I get on a plane to go see what happened, and what's left, of the lot of us. I think it was a bad idea to attend this shindig. They'd do just fine without me, I'm sure. And I'd do just fine without a trip back to "my roots". Roots? please! Roots are something to be ripped up by or something to color correct once a month. I'm told I'll have a chance to gloat, but if that's supposed to be the carrot, I'm not biting.
I should be packed. I haven't started. I'm just getting cold feet on the verge of going back there and waiting for some force to come up from behind and make me jump in.
Some of the girls had new dresses, easily spied by that long 70's look with a ruffle along the bottom. Most of us wore something probably a bit older, maybe a hand-me-down from an older sister. Kids grow so fast. And trips to the mall for something new just weren't on the map back then. The dresses are nice, but they have the high high hemlines of a few years earlier. My dress was older still, from before the hemlines went up in the first place. But I loved it. It doesn't come out so well in the photo, but I remember it was a blue chiffon with little pink flowers sprinkled all over it. This was before the years of being teased for wearing clothing about 10 years out of date and it didn't yet occur to me to despise how mom dressed me. Although, now I look at these pictures and realize my dress was perfectly fine. And we did much better than those plaid pants that all the boys wore. (WHAT were they thinking?) I look at the mix of patterns in the fabrics and see the explanation for why I insist on only wearing solids, today.
Some of the kids in this bunch would grow up and thin out. Some wouldn't grow too much taller than they were here. There in the front row is Dan, the kid who loved orange (which he pronounced "ah-nj") and would always hog the orange paint during finger painting. He also stole my pencil case (which, ironically, was orange). Oh look, he's wearing an orange shirt with those blue plaid pants. Yeah, he disappeared after 3rd grade. Behind him stands Justin. I could never figure out how he always managed to do things wrong like piss off the teacher or get bad grades. Now it occurs to me, he was dumb. Right in front of me is Fred, who would go on to be our class valedictorian and who at that age was probably already doing trigonometry in his head.
Next to us stands Miss Clear, the most breathtakingly ignorant teacher I have ever suffered in my entire life with the possible exception of Carol Bankherd. First of all, with a poochie belly like that she should have known better than to wear those diagonal stripes (hey, what good is unearthing the family photographic coprolites if you can't be catty about fashion). She put all of the tall kids on the front risers so they neatly block everyone else. And, to boot, she always called me "Carolyn". Thus began the battle of a lifetime. That's not my name.
All kindergarten just seemed like some weird ideas for playing. I had no idea at the time the amount of stress these people were under to quickly assess us and put us into proper boxes of like-level-intelligence kids. I'm convinced they had me all wrong. How dare they assess me by their own boringness?
Well, it's about 32 years after kindergarten graduation and 20 years after high school. Tomorrow I get on a plane to go see what happened, and what's left, of the lot of us. I think it was a bad idea to attend this shindig. They'd do just fine without me, I'm sure. And I'd do just fine without a trip back to "my roots". Roots? please! Roots are something to be ripped up by or something to color correct once a month. I'm told I'll have a chance to gloat, but if that's supposed to be the carrot, I'm not biting.
I should be packed. I haven't started. I'm just getting cold feet on the verge of going back there and waiting for some force to come up from behind and make me jump in.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
A friend like Ben
“What’s HE doing here?”
“He lives here.”
“Mm!”
He sat quietly by the back door, like he had on so many afternoons. She’d been letting him in for the better part of two years and it was just her little secret. By mid afternoon she’d see him out there, sometimes looking cold, sometimes he looked as lonely as she felt, so she’d let him in. He was well mannered, stayed quiet, and when he could hear the distinctive rattle of the his old lady’s car as it drove up the hill, he’d get up, letting her know it was time to go.
But not this day. This day he came bounding down the hill and she already had the door open. He came in, sat down, and never left. We all came home from school and noticed him sitting there, unable to break his habit of sitting in the usual spot.
“Why is he in here?”
“He lives with us now.”
We showed much more excitement about this than our dad did. We liked him and would offer him food, play with him, go on walks with him and generally maul him like children do to any unfortunate, gentle natured creature. We all did our best to curry his highest favor, but I look back through these photos and there is no mistaking it. Benji was always Mom’s dog.
He gravitated toward sitting next to her. Even at meal times, when the rest of us would happily drop him some lima beans or bits of hot dog, he’d park by her feet. When he got up to investigate she knew we were feeding the dog at the table and yell at us. I see him next to her as she poses in a pair of shorts and remember that this fluffy little mutt was her “white shadow”. Up the hill with the laundry, room to room with the cleaning, whining at her door in the morning when it was time for her to get up, parking himself next to the couch when she sat down to watch the news and accidentally fell asleep (which happened often) and growling when anyone came near her, he had picked her. Mom was alpha.
El would grab him and pick him up insisting “he’s my dog!”
Rocco would grab him into his room at night and insist he sleep at the foot of his bed: “he’s my dog!”
Alice and Rita had the sense to not get into that game. Although Rita did use him in a photo project for the fair that went on to earn a blue ribbon at the state level. She took pictures of him after he rolled in manure (and suffered a subsequent bathing) and wrote a narrative verse that went with it. Very cute.
I used to eat lunch with him, sharing generously the bits of sandwich mom had left for me to eat. We all wanted to think we had a special talent for talking to the animals, I guess. We all just wanted to be the most special to someone and a dog is the easiest, most transparent source of such a thing being possible. But that’s where our first lesson in affection fell through. You don’t force it, you don’t earn it, it’s given. It’s like the futility of going out and looking for a lover and forgetting to grow that love in your own heart.
In 1980 we all sat out in the back yard under a canopy of trees enjoying a cookout and toasting marshmallows. Must have been a bit chilly, we’re all in sweaters despite the season. We’re on the ground, circled around the hibachi and holding sticks with toastables over the embers.
I look around the circle of us and, well, just let myself react. I still look like a kid, with my hair done up in the loop that mom would use to keep the long locks out of my face (and whatever cruddy thing I was playing in). Rocco is wearing plaid pants and for the first time I see his overbite. Rita is only, maybe 13, but she looks absolutely beautiful with the wind going through her hair. Alice had learned not to smile because of her front teeth. After about 13 she started looking serious in pictures to hide them. El, well she just looks like El, big smile and big boobs.
And there’s mom. She’s sitting there comfortably. I look at her feet and notice that her bones aren’t poking holes in her shoes. Her hands look worked but not warped as they do now. And propped up right next to her close, turning to give his best smile to the camera, is Benji.
In the background is the wood pile that would, 8 years later, be the spot where we would bury him. He went out for his constitutional one winter morning like he always did. Sure he was aging. But like any old codger he wouldn’t give up those things he always did. He got turned around in the snow, ended up in the road, and the rest he’ll fill me in on when I see him again, I guess. Mom stood at the back door calling and calling for him, making herself late for work. Finally she had to go. We were home from school for Martin Luther King day (a new holiday back then). A few minutes after leaving she was back. I hadn’t left my room yet but could hear it her voice. She found him, pulled the furry body with purpling flesh into her car, never minding any mess, brought him home and sat him by the back door.
“He lives here.”
“Mm!”
He sat quietly by the back door, like he had on so many afternoons. She’d been letting him in for the better part of two years and it was just her little secret. By mid afternoon she’d see him out there, sometimes looking cold, sometimes he looked as lonely as she felt, so she’d let him in. He was well mannered, stayed quiet, and when he could hear the distinctive rattle of the his old lady’s car as it drove up the hill, he’d get up, letting her know it was time to go.
But not this day. This day he came bounding down the hill and she already had the door open. He came in, sat down, and never left. We all came home from school and noticed him sitting there, unable to break his habit of sitting in the usual spot.
“Why is he in here?”
“He lives with us now.”
We showed much more excitement about this than our dad did. We liked him and would offer him food, play with him, go on walks with him and generally maul him like children do to any unfortunate, gentle natured creature. We all did our best to curry his highest favor, but I look back through these photos and there is no mistaking it. Benji was always Mom’s dog.
He gravitated toward sitting next to her. Even at meal times, when the rest of us would happily drop him some lima beans or bits of hot dog, he’d park by her feet. When he got up to investigate she knew we were feeding the dog at the table and yell at us. I see him next to her as she poses in a pair of shorts and remember that this fluffy little mutt was her “white shadow”. Up the hill with the laundry, room to room with the cleaning, whining at her door in the morning when it was time for her to get up, parking himself next to the couch when she sat down to watch the news and accidentally fell asleep (which happened often) and growling when anyone came near her, he had picked her. Mom was alpha.
El would grab him and pick him up insisting “he’s my dog!”
Rocco would grab him into his room at night and insist he sleep at the foot of his bed: “he’s my dog!”
Alice and Rita had the sense to not get into that game. Although Rita did use him in a photo project for the fair that went on to earn a blue ribbon at the state level. She took pictures of him after he rolled in manure (and suffered a subsequent bathing) and wrote a narrative verse that went with it. Very cute.
I used to eat lunch with him, sharing generously the bits of sandwich mom had left for me to eat. We all wanted to think we had a special talent for talking to the animals, I guess. We all just wanted to be the most special to someone and a dog is the easiest, most transparent source of such a thing being possible. But that’s where our first lesson in affection fell through. You don’t force it, you don’t earn it, it’s given. It’s like the futility of going out and looking for a lover and forgetting to grow that love in your own heart.
In 1980 we all sat out in the back yard under a canopy of trees enjoying a cookout and toasting marshmallows. Must have been a bit chilly, we’re all in sweaters despite the season. We’re on the ground, circled around the hibachi and holding sticks with toastables over the embers.
I look around the circle of us and, well, just let myself react. I still look like a kid, with my hair done up in the loop that mom would use to keep the long locks out of my face (and whatever cruddy thing I was playing in). Rocco is wearing plaid pants and for the first time I see his overbite. Rita is only, maybe 13, but she looks absolutely beautiful with the wind going through her hair. Alice had learned not to smile because of her front teeth. After about 13 she started looking serious in pictures to hide them. El, well she just looks like El, big smile and big boobs.
And there’s mom. She’s sitting there comfortably. I look at her feet and notice that her bones aren’t poking holes in her shoes. Her hands look worked but not warped as they do now. And propped up right next to her close, turning to give his best smile to the camera, is Benji.
In the background is the wood pile that would, 8 years later, be the spot where we would bury him. He went out for his constitutional one winter morning like he always did. Sure he was aging. But like any old codger he wouldn’t give up those things he always did. He got turned around in the snow, ended up in the road, and the rest he’ll fill me in on when I see him again, I guess. Mom stood at the back door calling and calling for him, making herself late for work. Finally she had to go. We were home from school for Martin Luther King day (a new holiday back then). A few minutes after leaving she was back. I hadn’t left my room yet but could hear it her voice. She found him, pulled the furry body with purpling flesh into her car, never minding any mess, brought him home and sat him by the back door.
Monday, July 14, 2008
the chain
On Sundays there would be old films or shorts on TV. They would be black and whites. “Laurel and Hardy”, “The Little Rascals”, all the Bing Crosby movies where he was still young and slim, were colorless images sculpted only from luminosity. I thought the world was black and white, back then, and used to ask my dad when color was invented. “Why did people only live in black and white back then?” He’d just chuckle.
They must have missed out on a lot with that kind of photography. You couldn’t be permitted the luxury of how blue your mother’s eyes were that day. The odd detail of three strangers at a bus stop all wearing red t-shirts would be lost on the black and white photograph. It’s all grey going to black. But then, no image printed on paper can capture the smell of the flowers or the sound of your mom’s call. Some things just stay lost.
I found two photographs today. I had scanned them at separate times, put them into separate folders, but now realize that my categorization was a mistake. Sure, they’ve obviously been shot with different cameras and in different seasons. But they’re both dated the same year. Both taken as the sun plays a similar angle across the north east side of grampa’s white painted, wooden clap board house. Both show someone I know myself to be related to as they pose, casting light onto the film and a shadow across the yard. All this time I’ve had the images separated. They must have been taken within a few months of each other, some time in 1946.
In one my grandmother, unknowingly just 7 years from her transition out of this world and who was to become my older sister’s namesake, stands in her kitchen frock holding a treat out to an anxious black and white (of course) dog. The pleased smile making its way across her face has moved across that of my dad and sisters, too. Her hand blurs a bit as she dangles the treat to the pet who smiles back. Behind her the branches on the shrubs are empty, although it must have been a warm day as her arms are bare. Well, even as late as May some plants aren’t coming back yet. But the only flowers here are on her dress.
From the background in the next photo, I can see it was quite a garden. Sure, the leaves are a dark grey in the photo. But the plants shout their green. The phlox and obedience are growing well, the climbing shrub has nice, thick leaves, and the lilies are preparing to bloom. It’s late June or early July and my dad stands in the same spot, before bushes whose branches have bloomed decadently. In front of such floral richness my father looks gawky and strange as if his body desperately needed the fattening up mom’s cooking would provide. He wears his band uniform. At 17 in 1946 he wouldn’t be going into the military and go to war, so this was his one chance to wear something crisp, formal and obedient. Although, I imagine that really his dream would have been to go into the military and play with a military band. Wait, Early July. Of course. He was going to play for the 4th of July and his mother took his picture in uniform. The aspect ratio of the photo is more shoe box – that’s how I know it was her box camera. That same box camera was responsible for the wonderful photos of my dad and uncles growing up. I know it was her eye that took this photo as she was much more careful to frame her subject against the backdrop of the garden rather that dead on against the clap board house. Maybe grand dad took the picture of her and the dog. He was proud of his house. She was proud of her garden.
Some of the earliest questions about myself that I remember asking of my parents were not the supposed “where did I come from?” I don’t recall ever giving a shit about that, actually. Storks? Cabbage patch? I knew the truth was not coming on that subject. My questions regarded those things about me that connected me to them and to those people before me. Who did I get my eyes from? Who do I resemble? Where did I get this from? I look at that woman and know I have bits of her in me: funny colored eyes, long fingers, high cheekbones, dimple in the chin. As I’ve gone through her photos and seen how she saw as well as her subjects I know that from her came the photography and art. From her came the Saturday mornings in the flower garden. I wish I could sit down with her, talk for a bit. Would we get along?
These family photos play an abnormally large part in my art work. I write about them, and I spend unhealthy amounts of time with these bits of ether and light. Truth is, they are my rope back as far as I can reach through the human chain to something bigger, older, & purer - to the seat of the many gifts we are all given to share.
They must have missed out on a lot with that kind of photography. You couldn’t be permitted the luxury of how blue your mother’s eyes were that day. The odd detail of three strangers at a bus stop all wearing red t-shirts would be lost on the black and white photograph. It’s all grey going to black. But then, no image printed on paper can capture the smell of the flowers or the sound of your mom’s call. Some things just stay lost.
I found two photographs today. I had scanned them at separate times, put them into separate folders, but now realize that my categorization was a mistake. Sure, they’ve obviously been shot with different cameras and in different seasons. But they’re both dated the same year. Both taken as the sun plays a similar angle across the north east side of grampa’s white painted, wooden clap board house. Both show someone I know myself to be related to as they pose, casting light onto the film and a shadow across the yard. All this time I’ve had the images separated. They must have been taken within a few months of each other, some time in 1946.
In one my grandmother, unknowingly just 7 years from her transition out of this world and who was to become my older sister’s namesake, stands in her kitchen frock holding a treat out to an anxious black and white (of course) dog. The pleased smile making its way across her face has moved across that of my dad and sisters, too. Her hand blurs a bit as she dangles the treat to the pet who smiles back. Behind her the branches on the shrubs are empty, although it must have been a warm day as her arms are bare. Well, even as late as May some plants aren’t coming back yet. But the only flowers here are on her dress.
From the background in the next photo, I can see it was quite a garden. Sure, the leaves are a dark grey in the photo. But the plants shout their green. The phlox and obedience are growing well, the climbing shrub has nice, thick leaves, and the lilies are preparing to bloom. It’s late June or early July and my dad stands in the same spot, before bushes whose branches have bloomed decadently. In front of such floral richness my father looks gawky and strange as if his body desperately needed the fattening up mom’s cooking would provide. He wears his band uniform. At 17 in 1946 he wouldn’t be going into the military and go to war, so this was his one chance to wear something crisp, formal and obedient. Although, I imagine that really his dream would have been to go into the military and play with a military band. Wait, Early July. Of course. He was going to play for the 4th of July and his mother took his picture in uniform. The aspect ratio of the photo is more shoe box – that’s how I know it was her box camera. That same box camera was responsible for the wonderful photos of my dad and uncles growing up. I know it was her eye that took this photo as she was much more careful to frame her subject against the backdrop of the garden rather that dead on against the clap board house. Maybe grand dad took the picture of her and the dog. He was proud of his house. She was proud of her garden.
Some of the earliest questions about myself that I remember asking of my parents were not the supposed “where did I come from?” I don’t recall ever giving a shit about that, actually. Storks? Cabbage patch? I knew the truth was not coming on that subject. My questions regarded those things about me that connected me to them and to those people before me. Who did I get my eyes from? Who do I resemble? Where did I get this from? I look at that woman and know I have bits of her in me: funny colored eyes, long fingers, high cheekbones, dimple in the chin. As I’ve gone through her photos and seen how she saw as well as her subjects I know that from her came the photography and art. From her came the Saturday mornings in the flower garden. I wish I could sit down with her, talk for a bit. Would we get along?
These family photos play an abnormally large part in my art work. I write about them, and I spend unhealthy amounts of time with these bits of ether and light. Truth is, they are my rope back as far as I can reach through the human chain to something bigger, older, & purer - to the seat of the many gifts we are all given to share.
Friday, July 11, 2008
the love that house built
Already it looks like the place where we would grow up. The living room windows from which we would peek are in place and the interior of that large room is open to the weather. It’s empty of the years of memories – the Christmas trees and posed holiday photographs. Not yet visible are the girls putting their first vinyls on the turn table and disco dancing about the room. The curtains mom would pull back to see who was messing around in “the good room” aren’t hanging there, yet. It doesn’t have the red velveteen wall paper, thick carpet or big couch. It’s just gaping space of a newly constructed house. It’s open to the air like a baby’s mouth, begging to be filled with life.
To the right of the hungry living room are the windows to the “family room” which sits over the garage and overlooks the driveway. So I guess such placement would make that the “family window”. That window would frame the dog’s head as he anxiously watched us leave for the day. From there we’d watch for the bus or waive goodbye to guests just leaving. They, in turn, would flip their lights in acknowledgment just before disappearing down the hill. Or, we’d dash to this spot to see if that little noise we heard was our parents pulling in the driveway and interrupting our miscreant adventures.
Last fall I made two visits during which I cleaned and restored the living room to it’s former, dust free, sense of fancy. I helped mom move the TV out (which involved drilling into the drywall, very exciting) and the dining set in. The family room became a grand dinner room. The dining room became a cozy little nest where mom could watch birds while she ate breakfast, watch tv, or snuggle up on the couch.
But I look at this picture of the house, just new on its foundations and sitting atop as yet still exposed cinder blocks and I realize, it won. All those years of comings and goings, of births, fights, moving upstairs to downstairs, cooking of meals or leaving for weeks at a time on holiday and it was there. The blocks and boards played silent witness, framing our experiences, and still stand like conquerors.
The house, too, has a face. The house, too, has a soul that has aged and tempered under snowstorms, basement floods, and various face lifts. It’s the only faithful member of the family, wrapping its beams around my mother and she hobbles about in there by herself.
The house… the house won the love marathon.
To the right of the hungry living room are the windows to the “family room” which sits over the garage and overlooks the driveway. So I guess such placement would make that the “family window”. That window would frame the dog’s head as he anxiously watched us leave for the day. From there we’d watch for the bus or waive goodbye to guests just leaving. They, in turn, would flip their lights in acknowledgment just before disappearing down the hill. Or, we’d dash to this spot to see if that little noise we heard was our parents pulling in the driveway and interrupting our miscreant adventures.
Last fall I made two visits during which I cleaned and restored the living room to it’s former, dust free, sense of fancy. I helped mom move the TV out (which involved drilling into the drywall, very exciting) and the dining set in. The family room became a grand dinner room. The dining room became a cozy little nest where mom could watch birds while she ate breakfast, watch tv, or snuggle up on the couch.
But I look at this picture of the house, just new on its foundations and sitting atop as yet still exposed cinder blocks and I realize, it won. All those years of comings and goings, of births, fights, moving upstairs to downstairs, cooking of meals or leaving for weeks at a time on holiday and it was there. The blocks and boards played silent witness, framing our experiences, and still stand like conquerors.
The house, too, has a face. The house, too, has a soul that has aged and tempered under snowstorms, basement floods, and various face lifts. It’s the only faithful member of the family, wrapping its beams around my mother and she hobbles about in there by herself.
The house… the house won the love marathon.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
baby photo
I used to be so jealous of Eleanor. Being the first baby was wasted on her, considering the resentful ingratitude she manifested in later years. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help but think that, had I been first, we could have stopped there and been perfectly happy. But then perhaps my own recollections of the kind of child I was have become faded into a bucolic shade of rose with time. Perhaps I couldn’t have painted myself as such a good kid without those miscreant older siblings for contrast.
She’s maybe 6 months old, chubby, cute, and sitting naked in a wash basin on the table. Next to the basin lies a little brush that has just been used to put her hair up into a lovely pink satin bow. The table shows evidence of water splashed about, and no one has rushed in with a hurry to wipe up the mess because their attention is so intent on her chubby face. Their every attention rushes in with the fascination of her various wiggles, smiles and passings of gas. With her they posed wearing animated smiles on their faces. With her there was the fascination with this thing they had made. It’s not like it was the last time they ever smiled. Not by a long shot. But this is what they looked like when they didn’t know yet. It’s a beautiful smile at your bathing baby that’s worth being jealous of.
She’s maybe 6 months old, chubby, cute, and sitting naked in a wash basin on the table. Next to the basin lies a little brush that has just been used to put her hair up into a lovely pink satin bow. The table shows evidence of water splashed about, and no one has rushed in with a hurry to wipe up the mess because their attention is so intent on her chubby face. Their every attention rushes in with the fascination of her various wiggles, smiles and passings of gas. With her they posed wearing animated smiles on their faces. With her there was the fascination with this thing they had made. It’s not like it was the last time they ever smiled. Not by a long shot. But this is what they looked like when they didn’t know yet. It’s a beautiful smile at your bathing baby that’s worth being jealous of.
Monday, July 7, 2008
The bride
Even she believed in fairy tales, I think, although she’s since described them as “her plans”. As in: “They knew back then it was cancer but they didn’t want to interrupt my plans. I would have called it off and stayed by dad if I’d known how sick he was.” Her plans included a white satin hoop dress with a chiffon overlay accented with lace and bows enough to make Cinderella herself want to grab some bits off from pure envy. It’s a shame the photos were just black and white. The color fades into memories and only silver remains.
The plan my grandfather didn’t wish to interrupt was his daughter’s chance to walk down the aisle in a beautiful gown. He knew she wanted to be the woman, the most beautiful woman in every photo, who was the great center of attention. And he, knowing how sick he really was, couldn’t spit out a truth that would have deprived him of seeing such a sight. He must have been so happy and proud. She feels guilty to this day, but for him it was a thing to live for.
There’s a photo of the wedding party. My mom stands in the center like a beacon wearing the loveliest of smiles. My dad, by her side, seems almost incidental to the whole event. I know some of the women in the party from having seen them at various functions through the years. In these images their hair is darker and faces a bit fresher. In some cases they are absent the glasses or extra few dozen pounds that I know as familiar. I had trouble picking out my own aunt from the photo.
The grooms men are ciphers. They stand at attention wearing neutral smiles such that they might have to run off after the photo is done to be pall bearers. There is some sort of light colored vest under the tuxedo jackets which peeks out on each of their right-side-breasts. Why? Were they all right handed? Was that some sort of asymetrical thing of the early 60’s? I know one of them is my uncle. I can pick out the high cheekbones and that strong nose (which I mercifully did not inherit) that typify dad’s family. Which uncle? No idea. Maybe the one mom stopped talking to after he divorced his first wife when she fell onto his concrete barn floor under a hay bale and broke her hip. He stuck her in a nursing home and headed off to marry someone younger who could take care of him.
I have the advantage of some backstory behind this shot. Mom made that gown on her own and the fury of all that sewing caused her to loose weight. When she tried on the dress and it no longer fit. Dad made the mistake of laughing. Finding humor in the futility of others efforts was not one of his more pleasant traits. I know that my aunt dieted down to fit into her bride’s maid dress and look nice for that day; weight she quickly picked up again. Sometimes I’d hear mom wish she could take her wedding dress and “just burn it”. I had no idea what she meant or where that was coming from. It wasn’t the dress that needed burning, it was the star white ideal she’d entered marriage with that deserved a proper funeral.
But there was a new, persistent comfort in her life. Mom would do anything for the church. Each spring our little country Catholic church would make a holy huge deal out of crowning a statue of the St. Mary. The first time mom made a veil for crowning Mary, I was in first grade and had been selected as the little girl who would put the crown onto the little statue of the virgin. Mom dug up lace and netting and took me to craft stores to purchase silk flowers and didn’t she just sew a lovely crown. After a couple of years the priest of our parish purchased some new statuary for our church, among them a lovely new figure of Mary, whose 4.5 foot height dominated the altar over the box where they kept the Eucharist. This became the new Mary to crown and it fell to mom to sew the new veil. We were soon back to the craft store picking out bigger silk flowers. Next she bought a cute little white satin hat like structure for holding something onto one’s head. This was put under a fascinating construction of netting and thick bands of lace that were then filled with the silk red roses. I was littler, then, and had to pose a few times with the crown and veil on my head (but only after a bath) to check if the flowers were colorful and flattering enough without being asymmetrical or too numerous and that the length of the veil was right. It shouldn’t cover Mary’s hands. Too long and it would look like another robe. Too short and it would look twerpy and the most high virgin should absolutely not appear as if she’s also prepared for spring flooding. She should look like the bride of God, not some flower girl. We made special trips down to church to check and soon, in mid-May, the new crown was on the new statue. It was lovely. The next year she swapped off the red roses for some blue silk flowers. I was always amazed at my mom’s ability to just go ten or twenty steps further than was requested to make something that she really thought was precisely right. I wished, even as young as ten, that I had some measure of this perseverance. Then I found the wedding photos. Holy Mary’s crown was mom’s wedding veil.
The plan my grandfather didn’t wish to interrupt was his daughter’s chance to walk down the aisle in a beautiful gown. He knew she wanted to be the woman, the most beautiful woman in every photo, who was the great center of attention. And he, knowing how sick he really was, couldn’t spit out a truth that would have deprived him of seeing such a sight. He must have been so happy and proud. She feels guilty to this day, but for him it was a thing to live for.
There’s a photo of the wedding party. My mom stands in the center like a beacon wearing the loveliest of smiles. My dad, by her side, seems almost incidental to the whole event. I know some of the women in the party from having seen them at various functions through the years. In these images their hair is darker and faces a bit fresher. In some cases they are absent the glasses or extra few dozen pounds that I know as familiar. I had trouble picking out my own aunt from the photo.
The grooms men are ciphers. They stand at attention wearing neutral smiles such that they might have to run off after the photo is done to be pall bearers. There is some sort of light colored vest under the tuxedo jackets which peeks out on each of their right-side-breasts. Why? Were they all right handed? Was that some sort of asymetrical thing of the early 60’s? I know one of them is my uncle. I can pick out the high cheekbones and that strong nose (which I mercifully did not inherit) that typify dad’s family. Which uncle? No idea. Maybe the one mom stopped talking to after he divorced his first wife when she fell onto his concrete barn floor under a hay bale and broke her hip. He stuck her in a nursing home and headed off to marry someone younger who could take care of him.
I have the advantage of some backstory behind this shot. Mom made that gown on her own and the fury of all that sewing caused her to loose weight. When she tried on the dress and it no longer fit. Dad made the mistake of laughing. Finding humor in the futility of others efforts was not one of his more pleasant traits. I know that my aunt dieted down to fit into her bride’s maid dress and look nice for that day; weight she quickly picked up again. Sometimes I’d hear mom wish she could take her wedding dress and “just burn it”. I had no idea what she meant or where that was coming from. It wasn’t the dress that needed burning, it was the star white ideal she’d entered marriage with that deserved a proper funeral.
But there was a new, persistent comfort in her life. Mom would do anything for the church. Each spring our little country Catholic church would make a holy huge deal out of crowning a statue of the St. Mary. The first time mom made a veil for crowning Mary, I was in first grade and had been selected as the little girl who would put the crown onto the little statue of the virgin. Mom dug up lace and netting and took me to craft stores to purchase silk flowers and didn’t she just sew a lovely crown. After a couple of years the priest of our parish purchased some new statuary for our church, among them a lovely new figure of Mary, whose 4.5 foot height dominated the altar over the box where they kept the Eucharist. This became the new Mary to crown and it fell to mom to sew the new veil. We were soon back to the craft store picking out bigger silk flowers. Next she bought a cute little white satin hat like structure for holding something onto one’s head. This was put under a fascinating construction of netting and thick bands of lace that were then filled with the silk red roses. I was littler, then, and had to pose a few times with the crown and veil on my head (but only after a bath) to check if the flowers were colorful and flattering enough without being asymmetrical or too numerous and that the length of the veil was right. It shouldn’t cover Mary’s hands. Too long and it would look like another robe. Too short and it would look twerpy and the most high virgin should absolutely not appear as if she’s also prepared for spring flooding. She should look like the bride of God, not some flower girl. We made special trips down to church to check and soon, in mid-May, the new crown was on the new statue. It was lovely. The next year she swapped off the red roses for some blue silk flowers. I was always amazed at my mom’s ability to just go ten or twenty steps further than was requested to make something that she really thought was precisely right. I wished, even as young as ten, that I had some measure of this perseverance. Then I found the wedding photos. Holy Mary’s crown was mom’s wedding veil.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
1963 - the honeymooner
There’s a black and white photograph of mom from their honeymoon. Or, rather, an image of the woman who would eventually be my mother. While I’m sure she knew that children were to be the fruits of their marital activities, children like us were probably the last thing on her mind. Parents to be inevitably envision offspring of incredible fortitude, intelligence and discipline. Our mewling midnight demands for food and poopy diapers are but the first of decades of disappointment. We fight in the backseat of the car, complain of the heat when we should be enjoying the fair, hide makeup in our purses, drop out of school and get pregnant.
Mom did what she was supposed to do. She’s comfortably dressed in easy fitting capris and a pullover shirt. It’s easy to tell that she’s petite and in good shape, but she’s not sexy. Sexy was just not part of who she was brought up to be. Her Catholic parents raised a proper young woman who entered her marriage as a virgin. On her wedding night she bled and my father was pleased.
There’s very little about the little woman in this photo that I recognize as mom. She never grew fat but her form went through some warping and mishappening with work and childbearing. Her legs were never curvy, but this woman’s shins don’t show any of the thick veins I remember. She’s wearing a neat little watch on her wrist, which was probably the one I used to see in her bureau drawer. The purse in her arm is surprisingly small. I guess the purses didn’t begin to grow until later. The only feature on this woman I recognize and to this day would identify as truly my mother’s are the hands. They’re large, boney, and ready to do work.
They went to Michigan for their honeymoon. Michigan? Isn’t that the state that people try to leave, now? They came back early because of some parade that dad insisted on playing in. But the woman in this photograph, on her honeymoon, is a good girl. It’s 1963. She’s 23 years old – late for getting married back then. The look on her face is that of a purposeful hope that knows only its dreams of the future. She’s confident in her fairytale. She is a stranger compared to the thin, crooked backed, graying woman I know now as mom. Her comportment bears no resemblance to the woman who would warn me “never get married – you’re life is OVER when you get married!” She doesn’t look like she would be proud of me or much approve of what comes out of my mouth. She doesn’t look like someone who’d be my friend at all as I’m sure she’d have been astonished to think a rebellious artist would possibly come from her loins.
Two weeks after this picture is taken the woman in the photo would sit in her mother’s kitchen and confess “this was a mistake.” Too late. The babies were coming.
Mom did what she was supposed to do. She’s comfortably dressed in easy fitting capris and a pullover shirt. It’s easy to tell that she’s petite and in good shape, but she’s not sexy. Sexy was just not part of who she was brought up to be. Her Catholic parents raised a proper young woman who entered her marriage as a virgin. On her wedding night she bled and my father was pleased.
There’s very little about the little woman in this photo that I recognize as mom. She never grew fat but her form went through some warping and mishappening with work and childbearing. Her legs were never curvy, but this woman’s shins don’t show any of the thick veins I remember. She’s wearing a neat little watch on her wrist, which was probably the one I used to see in her bureau drawer. The purse in her arm is surprisingly small. I guess the purses didn’t begin to grow until later. The only feature on this woman I recognize and to this day would identify as truly my mother’s are the hands. They’re large, boney, and ready to do work.
They went to Michigan for their honeymoon. Michigan? Isn’t that the state that people try to leave, now? They came back early because of some parade that dad insisted on playing in. But the woman in this photograph, on her honeymoon, is a good girl. It’s 1963. She’s 23 years old – late for getting married back then. The look on her face is that of a purposeful hope that knows only its dreams of the future. She’s confident in her fairytale. She is a stranger compared to the thin, crooked backed, graying woman I know now as mom. Her comportment bears no resemblance to the woman who would warn me “never get married – you’re life is OVER when you get married!” She doesn’t look like she would be proud of me or much approve of what comes out of my mouth. She doesn’t look like someone who’d be my friend at all as I’m sure she’d have been astonished to think a rebellious artist would possibly come from her loins.
Two weeks after this picture is taken the woman in the photo would sit in her mother’s kitchen and confess “this was a mistake.” Too late. The babies were coming.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
beats me
Why do they always portray white people like that? They're in these manicured clothes, women with dresses that measure their waists into a tight hourglass and too much makeup on their faces. Their red lips look like a talking tuna steak. All the men wear glasses framing their expressions like permanent parentheses. And the rooms are a wood paneled extension of the manicured lawns outside. No speck of dust or bright colored throw would find safe haven there. Not in those living rooms, not in the 60's.
Is this what my parents were going for? Is that what that velvet furniture, that huge tropical image papered into the living room, the tiles on the floor and wood paneled walls were over? I see that in those photos so old the reds are starting to fade out. The pictures had my parents with dark hair and my older sisters as babies holding brand new toys. I never lived in that decade, not even as a thought. I arrived later, after the walls had marks and scratches, after the velvet faded. After the purity and new smell wore off. After the toys had turned into bedraggled hunks missing half their stuffing, they were handed off to me. Just as good. After the parents had their hair greyed and the love beaten out of them a bit, well I wasn't any bit the wiser.
But don't scratch your heads, sisters. You left me nothing but to be the beatnick.
Is this what my parents were going for? Is that what that velvet furniture, that huge tropical image papered into the living room, the tiles on the floor and wood paneled walls were over? I see that in those photos so old the reds are starting to fade out. The pictures had my parents with dark hair and my older sisters as babies holding brand new toys. I never lived in that decade, not even as a thought. I arrived later, after the walls had marks and scratches, after the velvet faded. After the purity and new smell wore off. After the toys had turned into bedraggled hunks missing half their stuffing, they were handed off to me. Just as good. After the parents had their hair greyed and the love beaten out of them a bit, well I wasn't any bit the wiser.
But don't scratch your heads, sisters. You left me nothing but to be the beatnick.
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