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.