Happy Halloween!
Monday, November 1, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Recollections
Craig decided, some years ago, that we would take up tennis. I am reminded of this because of an obnoxious blue that emanates from the warm, transitional colors of autumn in the park across the street. The tennis courts, as a result of the city's recent resurfacing project, traded its worn, innocuous green for magic marker blue. A child's rendering of a swimming pool comes to mind each time I walk down the driveway, glance out of the living room windows or attempt to bask in the seasonal colors on the front porch. The day-glo view is blinding and I end up watching the casual tennis that gets played on these courts, reducing the matches to comical displays much like Boise State football games.
All of Craig's hobbies start out the same way. He decides to take something on and then inundates himself with knowledge, gear and persistence until he becomes the model fly-fisherman, backpacker, carpenter. My track record with competitive sports was no secret. The time spent debating which team would be stuck with me at family gatherings did not cease when Craig came around. He even participated (more than once) in the gentle ejections that siblings and in-laws alike subjected me to. Craig played racket ball once a week for a couple of years with friends and long ago dabbled at tennis but he insisted that we would learn together.
Santa brought tennis rackets and multiple containers of tennis balls that year and Craig brought home videos from the library for us to watch and mimic. The girls, at the top and the bottom rungs of toddler hood at the time, excitedly wheeled around on primary-colored bikes and riding toys on the empty side of the gated courts while Craig and I, in the dead of winter, took up tennis. My abilities did not advance with Craig's. They did not advance at all. The girls began hanging out behind me to collect all of the missed balls.
The session that killed our tennis phase also confirmed the limits of Craig's patience. He stood in position to serve as he tried to go through the motions of actual tennis. My only objective was to hit the ball over the net (with the racket). Sometimes, when the ball came my way at an unexpected angle or my racket sent the ball up rather than out, I covered my head with my hands, afraid I might get struck. This may seem irrational and un-tennis like. It drove Craig insane (temporarily). Craig served the ball and I swung the racket, incorrectly. Even I could tell. I suspected that the ball flew straight up and waited, head covered, for a few seconds for the ball to crash down on me. Nothing. I looked up. No ball. I looked over at Craig.
"Did you see where it went?" I asked, still expecting the ball to drop at any second, anywhere. Craig stared at me, frustration filling out his narrow face.
"Did you?" I asked again. Maybe we'd have to scour the treetops to find the landing spot.
"Look at your racket!" Craig ordered, unamused.
The ball sat wedged between the racket face and the handle of the racket in my hand. The discovery was too much for me and I fell onto the court in helpless laughter. Tears found their way to the corner of my eyes and reminded me of the chill temperatures that even a mild day in mid-winter can bring. Craig didn't laugh. Maybe he did, a little, later, after a glass of wine, but I found the debauchery a wonderful summary of my foray into competitive sports.
No one else thought the story very funny (so don't feel bad if you don't find this at all humorous). So I stopped telling the story. Only my sister, Kami, recognized the same hilarity of the moment as I did, laughing with zeal when I recounted the events over the phone for the first time. Every now and then, deep into the night and a bottle of wine on a summer evening at our parents' home, Kami will beg me to tell her the tennis tale or the big ass lamp anecdote and together we laugh with a shared sense of humor that appears to be ours exclusively. She will recall a mishap with a boyfriend or her part in Jonathan Livingston Seagull and we will fall deeper into our laughter sending anyone that tried to linger through our bout of goofiness away. The tears and loss of speech usually climax with the shared memory of inappropriate behavior through a long ago holiday mass.
We are two sisters quite unlike each other. She, full of beauty and adventure, free-spirited and unreserved, continuously expressing herself and her art, unmindful of the outcome. I am more domestic, reserved. We do, though, share a love of many things. We connect through books and writing. And laughter.
All of Craig's hobbies start out the same way. He decides to take something on and then inundates himself with knowledge, gear and persistence until he becomes the model fly-fisherman, backpacker, carpenter. My track record with competitive sports was no secret. The time spent debating which team would be stuck with me at family gatherings did not cease when Craig came around. He even participated (more than once) in the gentle ejections that siblings and in-laws alike subjected me to. Craig played racket ball once a week for a couple of years with friends and long ago dabbled at tennis but he insisted that we would learn together.
Santa brought tennis rackets and multiple containers of tennis balls that year and Craig brought home videos from the library for us to watch and mimic. The girls, at the top and the bottom rungs of toddler hood at the time, excitedly wheeled around on primary-colored bikes and riding toys on the empty side of the gated courts while Craig and I, in the dead of winter, took up tennis. My abilities did not advance with Craig's. They did not advance at all. The girls began hanging out behind me to collect all of the missed balls.
The session that killed our tennis phase also confirmed the limits of Craig's patience. He stood in position to serve as he tried to go through the motions of actual tennis. My only objective was to hit the ball over the net (with the racket). Sometimes, when the ball came my way at an unexpected angle or my racket sent the ball up rather than out, I covered my head with my hands, afraid I might get struck. This may seem irrational and un-tennis like. It drove Craig insane (temporarily). Craig served the ball and I swung the racket, incorrectly. Even I could tell. I suspected that the ball flew straight up and waited, head covered, for a few seconds for the ball to crash down on me. Nothing. I looked up. No ball. I looked over at Craig.
"Did you see where it went?" I asked, still expecting the ball to drop at any second, anywhere. Craig stared at me, frustration filling out his narrow face.
"Did you?" I asked again. Maybe we'd have to scour the treetops to find the landing spot.
"Look at your racket!" Craig ordered, unamused.
The ball sat wedged between the racket face and the handle of the racket in my hand. The discovery was too much for me and I fell onto the court in helpless laughter. Tears found their way to the corner of my eyes and reminded me of the chill temperatures that even a mild day in mid-winter can bring. Craig didn't laugh. Maybe he did, a little, later, after a glass of wine, but I found the debauchery a wonderful summary of my foray into competitive sports.
No one else thought the story very funny (so don't feel bad if you don't find this at all humorous). So I stopped telling the story. Only my sister, Kami, recognized the same hilarity of the moment as I did, laughing with zeal when I recounted the events over the phone for the first time. Every now and then, deep into the night and a bottle of wine on a summer evening at our parents' home, Kami will beg me to tell her the tennis tale or the big ass lamp anecdote and together we laugh with a shared sense of humor that appears to be ours exclusively. She will recall a mishap with a boyfriend or her part in Jonathan Livingston Seagull and we will fall deeper into our laughter sending anyone that tried to linger through our bout of goofiness away. The tears and loss of speech usually climax with the shared memory of inappropriate behavior through a long ago holiday mass.
We are two sisters quite unlike each other. She, full of beauty and adventure, free-spirited and unreserved, continuously expressing herself and her art, unmindful of the outcome. I am more domestic, reserved. We do, though, share a love of many things. We connect through books and writing. And laughter.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Autumn Flights
Autumn is dipping its toes in the water, not quite ready for a full plunge but satisfyingly wet in Asheville. The sourwoods’ burgeoning reds and the creeping yellow emerging on the tulips poplars dot the mountainsides and neighborhoods with color. Our park, too, blushes among the green. I love October and its characteristic blue skies that beckon to be faced full on and I find myself on my back along a bench, against the leaf-littered grass, on soccer turf, my face yielding completely to sky and sun. The intermittent clouds seem to sit against a glass floor, pressed flat into the same plane below and typically cumulus above. They gather in small groups, if at all, and my teenager find this curious, “as though,” she remarks, “they’ve all been invited to the same party.” (My teenager, while accommodatingly miserable and angst ridden on facebook is surprisingly charming and enjoyable at home.)
Even the night skies seem especially clear and star-laden despite the electricity-infused glow from the earth. As the kids prepared to camp together at my brother’s home, I found myself gazing toward the heavens from the Atlanta backyard and following the busy traffic that moved among the stars. I grew envious of the travelers shooting across the wide, sparkling sky over the world below with its vast expanse of dark and over bustling pockets of artificial glimmer. The girls settled into sleeping bags, searching for another bite of favorite family camping trips that age like wine over time into rich, full-bodied memories of togetherness and the outdoors, unmarred by recollections of unceasing rain and leaking tents or bug-obstructed views. Although the day had been warm enough for the kids to swim in the creek where we picnicked for Miren’s birthday, the night quickly turned cold and I left Lise, Lauren and Miren for the warmer house.
The temperatures plunge even deeper in Asheville and the night’s chill lingers in the rooms and settles on the leather couch where Rem and I snuggle under a fleece throw while I sip through a rather large mug of coffee and he, still smelling like sleep, finishes waking. Unlike summer’s bright, glaring illumination of dog hair and dust bunnies, the autumn sunlight casts an amber glow through the house that is diffused and inviting. Inviting also to our winged friends.
Our ambient lighting is killing birds. Doves, orioles, robins. Suddenly, the birds want our dining room door to serve as a portal to the opposite side of the house rather than fuss above or around the back of our home. Alas, the door serves as a portal of death as birds slam into the glass leaving a round smudge like a giant finger print before falling. Broken-necked birds lie on the deck below, the pose unnatural but otherwise the bodies strangely serene and intact. I jump at the quick, staccato thump of the late-morning death flights but Rem rushes excitedly to the door. “No dead birds this time,” he announces, somewhat disappointed, as he returns to play. Not all attempts result in death but enough do to make the three-year old’s shrill description of the lifeless creatures at the back door send a chill up my spine.
Even the night skies seem especially clear and star-laden despite the electricity-infused glow from the earth. As the kids prepared to camp together at my brother’s home, I found myself gazing toward the heavens from the Atlanta backyard and following the busy traffic that moved among the stars. I grew envious of the travelers shooting across the wide, sparkling sky over the world below with its vast expanse of dark and over bustling pockets of artificial glimmer. The girls settled into sleeping bags, searching for another bite of favorite family camping trips that age like wine over time into rich, full-bodied memories of togetherness and the outdoors, unmarred by recollections of unceasing rain and leaking tents or bug-obstructed views. Although the day had been warm enough for the kids to swim in the creek where we picnicked for Miren’s birthday, the night quickly turned cold and I left Lise, Lauren and Miren for the warmer house.
The temperatures plunge even deeper in Asheville and the night’s chill lingers in the rooms and settles on the leather couch where Rem and I snuggle under a fleece throw while I sip through a rather large mug of coffee and he, still smelling like sleep, finishes waking. Unlike summer’s bright, glaring illumination of dog hair and dust bunnies, the autumn sunlight casts an amber glow through the house that is diffused and inviting. Inviting also to our winged friends.
Our ambient lighting is killing birds. Doves, orioles, robins. Suddenly, the birds want our dining room door to serve as a portal to the opposite side of the house rather than fuss above or around the back of our home. Alas, the door serves as a portal of death as birds slam into the glass leaving a round smudge like a giant finger print before falling. Broken-necked birds lie on the deck below, the pose unnatural but otherwise the bodies strangely serene and intact. I jump at the quick, staccato thump of the late-morning death flights but Rem rushes excitedly to the door. “No dead birds this time,” he announces, somewhat disappointed, as he returns to play. Not all attempts result in death but enough do to make the three-year old’s shrill description of the lifeless creatures at the back door send a chill up my spine.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Putting Out Fires
A long standing fixture in Craig’s office accoutrements is an oversized poster of Frank Lloyd Wright standing imperially amid the construction of the Guggenheim. Although near the end of his long life and his hair wispy and white underneath his porkpie hat his figure remains imposing. The photograph, in black and white, lends to the striking representation of architectural genius. I never liked this poster and its prominence in Craig’s workspace. My dislike has nothing to do with the genius. A print of one of Wright’s renderings of Fallingwater has lived harmoniously in my home for years. And I match Craig’s enthusiasm on our explorations of Wright’s Usonian houses. I did my duty to Wright. I read the Natural House. I watched the PBS documentary and poured over a number of biographies and architectural criticisms spanning his long career.
Am I allowed to draw a line?
Perhaps my dislike grew out of the transient nature of the poster. One day Frank Lloyd Wright glared from Craig’s drafting table. Another day he loomed above Craig, sunlight streaming around the edges like an illustration of a saint from a children’s book. Craig loved working under the scrutiny of Wright. He drove him, urged him to reflect on his own work and blocked the sun at key times in the office.
Wright resembles a disapproving uncle, smug as he is with the hat and cane obviously aware of his own genius and the certainty that no one will quite live up to the bar that he raised. I can hear his voice, the flippant remarks he made over the years to journalists, the condescension to everyone in his stare, the chagrinned smile. Could there be any one more severe than Wright’s intimidating presence in the office?
Perhaps not but his match now has a prominent position in the studio. James Montgomery Flagg’s forest ranger (think of his iconic Uncle Sam but with a full-length body and forest service uniform) points admonishingly at the blazing forest behind him but gazes intently out (at me). The poster’s message only underscores the ranger’s expression: Your Forests - YOUR FAULT – Your Loss! Added to the burden of being without genius of my own is the weight of human carelessness in regard to our natural resources and my uselessness in all of it.
Anyone who knows Craig also knows that he does nothing casually. He does not dabble. He dives in wholly and unequivocally. And his offspring, “Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.” (Pied Piper of Hamelin, Robert Browning)
Currently, under the tutelage of this piper-like parent, my children fanatically seek to prevent forest fires and work fervently to spread the message of fire safety to anyone who will listen. Of course, like their father, they must also look the part. Smokey the Bear tattoos gaze from offspring forearms and full-length miniatures peek, at times, from navel regions. Little Smokey the Bears dangle from key chains on school bags and stickers decorate notebooks warning of every individual’s culpability in forest fires. Even Rem peddles through parks with a cautionary bumper sticker on the back of his bike reminding other tikes that Smokey is counting on them.
Rangers in far-reaching offices around the region unknowingly send my family into a Mardi Gras- like frenzy when they hand Craig a few dated trinkets or a handful of bookmarks and stickers. Craig doles out loot to the new forest service spokespeople and spins tales told to him about the ins and outs of protecting and managing land. Unnoticed, I swipe a tiny Smokey flashlight/keychain and head upstairs.
Am I allowed to draw a line?
Perhaps my dislike grew out of the transient nature of the poster. One day Frank Lloyd Wright glared from Craig’s drafting table. Another day he loomed above Craig, sunlight streaming around the edges like an illustration of a saint from a children’s book. Craig loved working under the scrutiny of Wright. He drove him, urged him to reflect on his own work and blocked the sun at key times in the office.
Wright resembles a disapproving uncle, smug as he is with the hat and cane obviously aware of his own genius and the certainty that no one will quite live up to the bar that he raised. I can hear his voice, the flippant remarks he made over the years to journalists, the condescension to everyone in his stare, the chagrinned smile. Could there be any one more severe than Wright’s intimidating presence in the office?
Perhaps not but his match now has a prominent position in the studio. James Montgomery Flagg’s forest ranger (think of his iconic Uncle Sam but with a full-length body and forest service uniform) points admonishingly at the blazing forest behind him but gazes intently out (at me). The poster’s message only underscores the ranger’s expression: Your Forests - YOUR FAULT – Your Loss! Added to the burden of being without genius of my own is the weight of human carelessness in regard to our natural resources and my uselessness in all of it.
Anyone who knows Craig also knows that he does nothing casually. He does not dabble. He dives in wholly and unequivocally. And his offspring, “Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.” (Pied Piper of Hamelin, Robert Browning)
Currently, under the tutelage of this piper-like parent, my children fanatically seek to prevent forest fires and work fervently to spread the message of fire safety to anyone who will listen. Of course, like their father, they must also look the part. Smokey the Bear tattoos gaze from offspring forearms and full-length miniatures peek, at times, from navel regions. Little Smokey the Bears dangle from key chains on school bags and stickers decorate notebooks warning of every individual’s culpability in forest fires. Even Rem peddles through parks with a cautionary bumper sticker on the back of his bike reminding other tikes that Smokey is counting on them.
Rangers in far-reaching offices around the region unknowingly send my family into a Mardi Gras- like frenzy when they hand Craig a few dated trinkets or a handful of bookmarks and stickers. Craig doles out loot to the new forest service spokespeople and spins tales told to him about the ins and outs of protecting and managing land. Unnoticed, I swipe a tiny Smokey flashlight/keychain and head upstairs.
Monday, September 6, 2010
A Week-end Away
We allowed the three-year old to set our pace for the week-end and after some exploration around the campground we found ourselves drawn to Cosby Creek and joined the sun already at play with the water and boulders. Lise moved quickly up the creek, overturning rocks in a hunt for salamanders while Miren followed with the camera, rock-hopping and searching for photo ops. Rem, stick in hand, soon clamored to the top of a boulder and loudly challenged each of us to a duel as the water swirled below him. Craig tried to oblige them all as he wielded a stick towards Rem, assisted Miren in composing photographs and exclaimed over Lise's successes. I found a comfortable rock near Rem and, moving a sycamore leaf so that I might sit, searched for the tree that the leaf had once belonged to.
In the afternoons the campground grows quiet. Only the occasional rustle of leaves where a squirrel or a bird searches the ground and the faint, constant drone of insects penetrate the stillness that settles in the shady dense woods of loop B. Earlier, in the morning, the place buzzed with activity. Rem and I walked the road soon after waking and watched as people loaded cars and set off to continue journeys while others revived fires and settled around them with mugs and plates piled with eggs and bacon. We followed a group searching for the Low Gap trail head, ready for a day's hike, their full water bottles bulging from side pockets of packs. Someone snored loudly from an orange tent.
The campground activity dispersed along trails and creek beds, even into the nearby towns and a comfortable quiet settled onto the empty tents and smoky fire rings. We returned from exploring an old cemetery and playing in the creek for a leisure lunch. Before long, Craig took the girls off on another hike while I read read Hemingway to a sleepy toddler until he fell asleep. The tent zipper noisily pierced the air as I left Rem snug in a sleeping bag to return to a chair under the maples and oaks. I continued with Hemingway under a magnificent blue sky that drew my gaze often from the stories of Nick Adams, Africa and war. The filtered sun cast shadows over the book and marked the passing of time along with the turning of pages.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Summer Bounty
The stalls that I frequent at the farmer's market near my home burst with color and abundance typical at this time of year. Bushels of ripe peaches, not quite ready to make way for apples, line the paths of the market floor. The intoxicating scent boasts a mix of sweet fruits, pungent onions and the distinct garden smell of vegetables newly released from plants. Yesterday, I found a pretty pile of bright green okra that looked both supple and tender. While I gathered enough for a favorite summer dinner of smothered okra, Rem quietly bagged enough peaches for a dozen pies. With some encouragement, he relinquished much of his harvest and helped pick out tomatoes to accompany the okra.
"Soon," I explained to Rem, "all of the open-air stalls will be filled with pumpkins and apples." Rem took my hand and peered to where I motioned. The mountains, still thick with green, rose above the market toward the bright blue sky.
"And I will be a spooky ghost!" Already excited about Halloween, Rem teeters between wanting to be a ghost and a beautiful butterfly with wings. Everyone in our household encourages him to embrace the ghost. We like our Halloweens scary.
A battle also wages in my head with this place that for now marks difficulty and uncertainty. I wake up done with it, wishing to make a fresh start somewhere else and then, on long morning walks with Rem and Tam, as the smoky fog gives way to clear blue skies and the day's initial chill lingers I am once again struck by the beauty of this place. The neighborhood rises and falls beneath canopies of hardwoods that will soon transform into brilliant yellow and red umbrellas before giving way, bare-branched to glimpses of the mountains beyond. Beyond the sidewalks, the last colors of summer, highlighted by morning glories and black-eyed susans rise above the grassy yards and the spent blossoms that bowed to August's heat.
Rem shouts from his cushy stroller seat an enthusiastic good morning to everyone we meet on our walks. His greetings are returned with equal enthusiasm from neighbors, other dog-walkers, even construction workers (many homes that rested on generous lots now sit squeezed between new construction that seems to rise instantly on the over-divided green spaces). Dogs bark from houses and back yards and Rem fusses Tam for not wishing her friends a good-morning in return.
My children received the most amazing musical gifts this week and I am struck yet again. The beauty of the people within my small circle surpasses the exquisite landscapes that stretch beyond; a bounty as prolific and colorful as the market stalls.
"Soon," I explained to Rem, "all of the open-air stalls will be filled with pumpkins and apples." Rem took my hand and peered to where I motioned. The mountains, still thick with green, rose above the market toward the bright blue sky.
"And I will be a spooky ghost!" Already excited about Halloween, Rem teeters between wanting to be a ghost and a beautiful butterfly with wings. Everyone in our household encourages him to embrace the ghost. We like our Halloweens scary.
A battle also wages in my head with this place that for now marks difficulty and uncertainty. I wake up done with it, wishing to make a fresh start somewhere else and then, on long morning walks with Rem and Tam, as the smoky fog gives way to clear blue skies and the day's initial chill lingers I am once again struck by the beauty of this place. The neighborhood rises and falls beneath canopies of hardwoods that will soon transform into brilliant yellow and red umbrellas before giving way, bare-branched to glimpses of the mountains beyond. Beyond the sidewalks, the last colors of summer, highlighted by morning glories and black-eyed susans rise above the grassy yards and the spent blossoms that bowed to August's heat.
Rem shouts from his cushy stroller seat an enthusiastic good morning to everyone we meet on our walks. His greetings are returned with equal enthusiasm from neighbors, other dog-walkers, even construction workers (many homes that rested on generous lots now sit squeezed between new construction that seems to rise instantly on the over-divided green spaces). Dogs bark from houses and back yards and Rem fusses Tam for not wishing her friends a good-morning in return.
My children received the most amazing musical gifts this week and I am struck yet again. The beauty of the people within my small circle surpasses the exquisite landscapes that stretch beyond; a bounty as prolific and colorful as the market stalls.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Reality Takes a Foothold
Yesterday I dragged out an old computer I had saved with the intention of retrieving the files that marked that particular era of our lives but never got around to actually performing the seemingly simple task. Eager to rid the house of the excess clutter that builds quietly and then looms glaringly from every room, I heaved the heavy, dated monitor onto the dining room table and began plugging the various cords and wires into the components of the computer. Sitting, untouched, for years had little effect as, before long, the family huddled around the unwieldy time capsule and uncovered long lost family moments with the click of the mouse. The girls marveled at carefully crafted birthday invitations and storybooks that they composed for cousins. We laughed at all of the pictures where the two of them appeared in various costumes, enacting the tales.
I spent too much time pouring over the rather large volume of abandoned writings marked with both naiveté and promise and drove the family away as I scrolled through page after page of forgotten ideas. Craig returned later and made valiant attempts to rescue our files without success. The computer could not read a flash drive. Although it could read a CD, it did not have the capability to burn files to a CD. I left Craig trying to connect a portable hard drive to the computer and started dinner in the next room. Overcome by frustration, Craig started perusing his old drawing files. He found his drawings from the very first renovations to our home, the studio design sited in a different location than where it stands and a benched trellis that we never built.
Lise, intrigued by her father’s exclamations as he uncovered each design, joined him and listened as Craig walked her through framing plans and finish schedules. They soon happened upon the design for a doll house that Santa gave the girls many years ago. Lise, at ten, knew about the suspicious nature of Santa Claus. Talk at school and every made for TV Christmas movie plants doubt into the minds of otherwise eager believers in the wonderful idea and generosity of Santa Claus. Lise knew but this was the first time she heard the words spoken unequivocally with clear supporting evidence on the monitor in front of her.
The last vestiges of magical worlds intersecting her own fell in the quiet tears Lise shed as her mind converted all of her memories into the point of view of this spoken truth. I remember Miren’s similar experience with the same pain I felt with Lise. We were in the car and she asked if I was the tooth fairy. Caught off-guard, I looked at her through the rearview mirror and mumbled something about helping the tooth fairy. She didn’t buy it and so I explained my role as tooth taker. I glanced at her again and watched the tears fall as she connected the tooth fairy to the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. A sob escaped as she realized amid the ruins of crumbled fantasy worlds that the notes she often sent to Peter Pan in balloons to Neverland merely drifted through the sky, directionless.
Craig and I faced another of those moments recently. Even as adults, hearing the words that confirm growing suspicions send us staggering for a moment as we readjust our reality. Craig responds as a stalwart sailor in stormy seas while I struggle to get my sea legs. I am reminded of a book once lent to me about a journey at sea, from Europe to South America. The author describes the journey exquisitely and then excruciatingly as the unrelenting weather elongates the trip and his yearning for the sight of land grows into desperation that is passed onto the reader. I am that passenger. (by the way, if you were the one to lend me this book, know of the title or author please let me know – I’m driving myself crazy trying to remember)
The computer still sits on the table, both accessible and not. Lise continues to play through Christmas memories but with some humor. “Oh I get why you’re bummed when we’re not excited,” she said throwing her arms around me as we passed in the kitchen. “And a play station? Really? That’s so not like you,” she referenced a gift from some years ago. Rem interrupts by insisting that I brush his teeth. He’s been hearing the tooth fairy at night, well the buzzing of her wings, and he knows that she won’t take rotten teeth when the time comes (he doesn’t realize he has years to go before he starts losing his teeth). I’m happy that Rem keeps us connected to the possibilities of other worlds.
I spent too much time pouring over the rather large volume of abandoned writings marked with both naiveté and promise and drove the family away as I scrolled through page after page of forgotten ideas. Craig returned later and made valiant attempts to rescue our files without success. The computer could not read a flash drive. Although it could read a CD, it did not have the capability to burn files to a CD. I left Craig trying to connect a portable hard drive to the computer and started dinner in the next room. Overcome by frustration, Craig started perusing his old drawing files. He found his drawings from the very first renovations to our home, the studio design sited in a different location than where it stands and a benched trellis that we never built.
Lise, intrigued by her father’s exclamations as he uncovered each design, joined him and listened as Craig walked her through framing plans and finish schedules. They soon happened upon the design for a doll house that Santa gave the girls many years ago. Lise, at ten, knew about the suspicious nature of Santa Claus. Talk at school and every made for TV Christmas movie plants doubt into the minds of otherwise eager believers in the wonderful idea and generosity of Santa Claus. Lise knew but this was the first time she heard the words spoken unequivocally with clear supporting evidence on the monitor in front of her.
The last vestiges of magical worlds intersecting her own fell in the quiet tears Lise shed as her mind converted all of her memories into the point of view of this spoken truth. I remember Miren’s similar experience with the same pain I felt with Lise. We were in the car and she asked if I was the tooth fairy. Caught off-guard, I looked at her through the rearview mirror and mumbled something about helping the tooth fairy. She didn’t buy it and so I explained my role as tooth taker. I glanced at her again and watched the tears fall as she connected the tooth fairy to the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. A sob escaped as she realized amid the ruins of crumbled fantasy worlds that the notes she often sent to Peter Pan in balloons to Neverland merely drifted through the sky, directionless.
Craig and I faced another of those moments recently. Even as adults, hearing the words that confirm growing suspicions send us staggering for a moment as we readjust our reality. Craig responds as a stalwart sailor in stormy seas while I struggle to get my sea legs. I am reminded of a book once lent to me about a journey at sea, from Europe to South America. The author describes the journey exquisitely and then excruciatingly as the unrelenting weather elongates the trip and his yearning for the sight of land grows into desperation that is passed onto the reader. I am that passenger. (by the way, if you were the one to lend me this book, know of the title or author please let me know – I’m driving myself crazy trying to remember)
The computer still sits on the table, both accessible and not. Lise continues to play through Christmas memories but with some humor. “Oh I get why you’re bummed when we’re not excited,” she said throwing her arms around me as we passed in the kitchen. “And a play station? Really? That’s so not like you,” she referenced a gift from some years ago. Rem interrupts by insisting that I brush his teeth. He’s been hearing the tooth fairy at night, well the buzzing of her wings, and he knows that she won’t take rotten teeth when the time comes (he doesn’t realize he has years to go before he starts losing his teeth). I’m happy that Rem keeps us connected to the possibilities of other worlds.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
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