At the end of the summer I moved back home to my childhood house, the one with the wrap-around porch at the end of the street. In my favorite memories I am running circles around the house, chasing rabbits back into their holes as the sun sets through the golden filters of turning leaves. My memories are silent movies on repeat; I'm the only actor on the set, and the dialogue is unwritten.
I returned home to find that my memories had proven imperfect, and in place of white-washed wooden boards, the porch floor was scuffed and sagging. I kicked leaves through the posts and settled into my mother's favorite rocking chair. I folded my hands in my lap and tried to become as small as possible, thinking that if I succeeded I might just evaporate and how delicious would it be to evaporate and be swallowed by the wind?
Neglect had descended on the house in a blanket of dust so thick I could hardly find the way to my bedroom. I did, though. Kneeling on my bed I wondered what I would see out my back window and if the little boy in the backyard across the railroad tracks still wore pants cinched up above his stomach. I hazarded a glance. There was no funny little boy, no big yellow dog, just a gray looking woman raking leaves. The leaves were piled up in mounds of uniform height and circumference and looked like piles of dirt. I fell asleep thinking about groundhogs drinking coffee.
When I woke up, before I remembered where I was, I looked out the window. The piles of leaves had been strewn about by the wind. I thought of the coconut icing on German chocolate cake.
I made coffee for three and drank it all myself, practicing evaporation on the front porch. In the afternoon I returned to the window in my bedroom. She was there again, looking as faded and blurred around the edges as she had the day before. Piles of leaves kept her company in the descending light, nearly as many as before. But already the wind was lifting leaves up and away, swirling and scattering the work of the small lady.
I slept into the afternoon of the next day, and as predictably as rigged presidential elections, my vigilant neighbor was raking up leaves into their piles as she had for the two days before and, I began to assume, for every day since they had been falling. Into their neat piles everyday, all day, until they were stirred by the wind. In her persistence she seemed never to tire, although her appearance was one of pure exhaustion.
I wondered: In the winter would she pile up the snow too? And in the spring when life returned, what would she do then?
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Monday, November 7, 2011
Picture Me
We had lucked out with the weather again, as usual. The leaves were at the peak of their autumn ecstasy and the cool, dry air felt invigorating in the sun, not chilly -- although a jacket did feel nice. This was my first time tagging along with my mom and sister since they'd started the tradition a few years ago. I'd always been jealous of their winery trips on Mom's conference break Fridays, so I was pretty pleased that things were working out.
I hadn't been to Augusta for quite some time, but I had two very clear memories of being there: one was from another fall afternoon when my mom had taken me, my siblings and our cousin Darren on a little jaunt to the idyllic hill town. All I really remember from that day was going to my mother's cousin's house and her not being there. But we got out and looked around Jane's front yard, which felt more like the edge of a cliff in No Man's Land Forest. I have an image -- probably because a photo exists of it -- of Andy and Darren dressed in Adidas casual wear, getting far too close to the edge, the expansive river valley spread out in the background. I remember being afraid they would fall off the top of the hill and hurt themselves. Then we'd gone by the tiny post office to see if maybe she was there. Jane's out delivering mail, they'd told us.
My other memory also involves Jane. The Mudd side of my family had converged on Augusta for the wedding reception of her oldest daughter. My dad didn't come. I imagine he was opposed to the party because of its being held at a winery, he himself being a staunch nondrinker. So when I saw Mom, our driver, drink her one fuzzy navel (a complete rarity reserved for weddings mostly), I began worrying that we were going to crash on those hilly, windy country roads. I was a nervous, conflicted child.
Anyway, what most people remember about that reception -- the people I talk to anyway -- was how disappointing the meal was. I can still picture my plate -- its 12" diameter a cruel joke -- with two little medallions of pork tenderloin, five green beans and one small, red new potato...before I'd eaten anything. Everyone at the table fought over the sugar cookies wrapped up in gift bags on the table, our tummies rumbling.
But I do have a fond vision of that night, one that I've based most of my stylistic aspirations on. Clear as a photograph, I can see Jane sitting at a round table, being pointed out to the room by someone's speech. She's dressed all in black, in a wrap dress with long sleeves, and her hands are cupped in her lap, one under the other. She is gently nodding in agreement, smiling demurely and blinking slowly. Her wavy hair is braided and cascades down one shoulder. She looks like she knows an amusing secret that she knows she can't laugh about.
So many times I've drawn upon this memory of Jane for inspiration, for guidance. I've attempted her steely magnetism like it's my job.
Jane has always been a relative on my mom's side who has fascinated me. There are musicians, Irish immigrants and a homeopathic doctor. Then there's Jane. She lived in California for a long time with her air traffic controller husband, working for the postal service. At some point they came back to Missouri, got divorced but stayed best friends. She's been delivering mail for years, and about five years ago she and her ex-husband bought a farm that backs up to the Katy trail.
This isn't an exact history, but you get the idea.
On that unreasonably gorgeous day, we had returned to the scene of the meagerly-portioned wedding feast, and after sating ourselves on wine and sandwiches, I mentioned this image of Jane to my mom and sister: the braid, the black dress, the detached yet elegant smile.
She was wearing pink. And she had her hair down. It was so long and pretty, they told me.
Then I remembered an actual picture of Jane as they'd described her. She was bubbly and childlike, an arm up high around someone, the shoulder of her dress bunching up to her ear.
I couldn't believe it. All this time I've been relying on a false memory, a "memory" that I can't attribute to any other person or event. I should have been upset -- unsettled at the very least -- but mostly I was amused. Because I can't for the life of me think of where I got this image of Jane, I know I must have created it myself, for myself. I blame it on a hunger to create, on a mind so full of people to whom I aspire, that it synthesized the best parts into one.
After all, who we become is completely up to us.
I hadn't been to Augusta for quite some time, but I had two very clear memories of being there: one was from another fall afternoon when my mom had taken me, my siblings and our cousin Darren on a little jaunt to the idyllic hill town. All I really remember from that day was going to my mother's cousin's house and her not being there. But we got out and looked around Jane's front yard, which felt more like the edge of a cliff in No Man's Land Forest. I have an image -- probably because a photo exists of it -- of Andy and Darren dressed in Adidas casual wear, getting far too close to the edge, the expansive river valley spread out in the background. I remember being afraid they would fall off the top of the hill and hurt themselves. Then we'd gone by the tiny post office to see if maybe she was there. Jane's out delivering mail, they'd told us.
My other memory also involves Jane. The Mudd side of my family had converged on Augusta for the wedding reception of her oldest daughter. My dad didn't come. I imagine he was opposed to the party because of its being held at a winery, he himself being a staunch nondrinker. So when I saw Mom, our driver, drink her one fuzzy navel (a complete rarity reserved for weddings mostly), I began worrying that we were going to crash on those hilly, windy country roads. I was a nervous, conflicted child.
Anyway, what most people remember about that reception -- the people I talk to anyway -- was how disappointing the meal was. I can still picture my plate -- its 12" diameter a cruel joke -- with two little medallions of pork tenderloin, five green beans and one small, red new potato...before I'd eaten anything. Everyone at the table fought over the sugar cookies wrapped up in gift bags on the table, our tummies rumbling.
But I do have a fond vision of that night, one that I've based most of my stylistic aspirations on. Clear as a photograph, I can see Jane sitting at a round table, being pointed out to the room by someone's speech. She's dressed all in black, in a wrap dress with long sleeves, and her hands are cupped in her lap, one under the other. She is gently nodding in agreement, smiling demurely and blinking slowly. Her wavy hair is braided and cascades down one shoulder. She looks like she knows an amusing secret that she knows she can't laugh about.
So many times I've drawn upon this memory of Jane for inspiration, for guidance. I've attempted her steely magnetism like it's my job.
Jane has always been a relative on my mom's side who has fascinated me. There are musicians, Irish immigrants and a homeopathic doctor. Then there's Jane. She lived in California for a long time with her air traffic controller husband, working for the postal service. At some point they came back to Missouri, got divorced but stayed best friends. She's been delivering mail for years, and about five years ago she and her ex-husband bought a farm that backs up to the Katy trail.
This isn't an exact history, but you get the idea.
On that unreasonably gorgeous day, we had returned to the scene of the meagerly-portioned wedding feast, and after sating ourselves on wine and sandwiches, I mentioned this image of Jane to my mom and sister: the braid, the black dress, the detached yet elegant smile.
She was wearing pink. And she had her hair down. It was so long and pretty, they told me.
Then I remembered an actual picture of Jane as they'd described her. She was bubbly and childlike, an arm up high around someone, the shoulder of her dress bunching up to her ear.
I couldn't believe it. All this time I've been relying on a false memory, a "memory" that I can't attribute to any other person or event. I should have been upset -- unsettled at the very least -- but mostly I was amused. Because I can't for the life of me think of where I got this image of Jane, I know I must have created it myself, for myself. I blame it on a hunger to create, on a mind so full of people to whom I aspire, that it synthesized the best parts into one.
After all, who we become is completely up to us.
Friday, November 4, 2011
The Joy Is in the Dirt
On my way home I passed Art's produce stand. A sign by the road advertised russet potatoes for such and such a pound. I have no need for russet potatoes right now. My mother has a big plastic bag of them from Idaho languishing in the bottom of our pantry. Besides, right then my mind was crowded with the plethora of squash I have eaten and will eat in the future; there was a fresh carnival squash in my backseat at that precise moment, a variety that bears a suspicious resemblance to its sweet dumpling cousin...
Like I said, russet potatoes were not on my radar. Goat cheese and asparagus, yes. Goat cheese and asparagus together on homemade dough, baked and eaten like a pizza, definitely. In fact, that's dinner tomorrow night. But when I registered those two simple words -- russet, potatoes -- a nearly imperceptible rush of memories captivated me for the rest of the drive home.
When I think of potatoes, I mean, really think about them, my mind first registers their undeniable, glorious smell of dirt. I don't know many scents that can top the aroma of damp earth, a delight intensified by its rich color, one as tied to life as the color green. Beyond that I would probably think of a russet potato's manatee-like skin and the way it peels away like tissue paper when you bake it, but my potato meditation this afternoon didn't make it past that deep, dark, earthen musk.
Simply because of that sign by the road, a sign I only half-looked-at anyway, my collective unconscious cracked open and I started thinking about dirt under my nails and rocky soil passing for farmland. I thought about the wind, about the chill. I pictured perseverance and resourcefulness in the forms of the people who came before me, those Irish strangers I can only imagine. I constructed a vision of myself as a potato farmer, dirty from the shins down in faded jeans and a worn-out t-shirt, devising 40 different ways to prepare potatoes, half of them involving cabbage.
I remembered an Ireland I have never seen. I remembered fires and music and the unending night of winter. I remembered eating potatoes I had helped harvest. I remembered being poor.
Someday I'll get there. Someday I'll go home. Until then, the joy is in the dirt.
Like I said, russet potatoes were not on my radar. Goat cheese and asparagus, yes. Goat cheese and asparagus together on homemade dough, baked and eaten like a pizza, definitely. In fact, that's dinner tomorrow night. But when I registered those two simple words -- russet, potatoes -- a nearly imperceptible rush of memories captivated me for the rest of the drive home.
When I think of potatoes, I mean, really think about them, my mind first registers their undeniable, glorious smell of dirt. I don't know many scents that can top the aroma of damp earth, a delight intensified by its rich color, one as tied to life as the color green. Beyond that I would probably think of a russet potato's manatee-like skin and the way it peels away like tissue paper when you bake it, but my potato meditation this afternoon didn't make it past that deep, dark, earthen musk.
Simply because of that sign by the road, a sign I only half-looked-at anyway, my collective unconscious cracked open and I started thinking about dirt under my nails and rocky soil passing for farmland. I thought about the wind, about the chill. I pictured perseverance and resourcefulness in the forms of the people who came before me, those Irish strangers I can only imagine. I constructed a vision of myself as a potato farmer, dirty from the shins down in faded jeans and a worn-out t-shirt, devising 40 different ways to prepare potatoes, half of them involving cabbage.
I remembered an Ireland I have never seen. I remembered fires and music and the unending night of winter. I remembered eating potatoes I had helped harvest. I remembered being poor.
Someday I'll get there. Someday I'll go home. Until then, the joy is in the dirt.
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