Mixed up

Now is the time of mixed-up things. I am in Washington, on a clear, cool evening. My sister, her husband, Martin and the children chat, clink silverware, laugh and raise their voices in a political discussion of some kind. Today was so brilliant that Mt. Rainer shone brightly on the horizon; we could even see Mt. Hood behind its peak.

Back at home, in her familiar green house with the garden full of tomatoes and the herb bed that I know so well, with its climbing rose by the porch--in a place where I often chatted on the steps with my dear friend, Nancy, after pushing the stroller down the road or parking and letting her daughter climb out--here in this house my friend Nancy talked to me on the phone today from her hospital bed, and told me, somewhat lightly and humorously, "I've got hospice!"

And I, in my mind, had all the things I wanted to tell her so clear, in paragraphs. But over the phone I was choked, emotional beyond my own expectation, full of sadness, and all that I wanted to say tumbled out. I am unclear as to how all this works, losing a friend I love. It is hard to be so far away. I am comforted that Nancy is surrounded by good people, her community and family; I was able to talk with her though it was over the phone when I long to be with her and touch her arm, hand, lean over and give her a hug.

Mostly I am comforted by the knowledge that God is with her, beyond my own understanding, full in her, speaking in voices that flow through her like warm, comforting waters. When she can't hear her own family, she will hear God, and the voice will be sweet, as familiar as her own breath, the arms of her mother, the singing of her children. God will never leave her alone, nor will God leave her family alone, and this I hold to even in my deepest sadness.

Then there is waking and sleeping and laughing and crying for the rest of us, and that is good, too, though under it all these days, flows always a current of loss, a sense that something that should not have occurred happens now in spite of our longing, and in this brokenness God is there, too.

Beatrix, running on mountains overlooking Missoula, Montana
Photo snapped by Elspeth

I just finished a small mountain of spanikopita (did I spell that right? I'd check but dinner is imminent) and a glass of Riesling. We are waiting for dinner to brown sufficiently; today I bought two fabulous salwar kameez (one ridiculously pink) from a local and splendidly stocked thrift store. I wonder where I might wear these in our little southwestern PA town? Perhaps at the local grocery with the farming and coal mining clientle (mixed with neighbors I know): me in my sequins and poofy pink pants, selecting corn on the cob. I think dinner parties are in order.

I miss home but I am enjoying myself immensely. Not reading as much as I should. Today I began rereading "Woman Warrior" for a class I'll teach in the fall.

Ah, I hear my mother clinking silverware, which means my time at this keyboard is limited. For more complete thoughts on home, a glimpse into our travels in the south, and a bit of sentimentality, read my O-R column from last week by clicking on the geranium at right.

And in personal news: rejections continue but silver linings include an award of distinction from Midwest Literary Magazine for my story, "Birds in Snow" and an upcoming publication in the children's magazine, "Ladybug." Hurrah. Children's stories are such lovely fun.

Summer Tomato Girl

Taken by godmother Kara
Missoula Farmer's Market
Elspeth with luscious yellow tomato

It was a very bad day. . .

We're back in Edmonds, Washington, on a warm day so clear you can see the craggy, snow-capped peaks of Mt. Baker. The Puget Sound reaches sparkling to the foot of the Olympic mountains. We spent the day sitting on driftwood, watching the children wading deeper and deeper into the cold water and eating tart cherries from my sister's garden.

Now we're back in my parent's lovely little apartment, enjoying the breeze through the open door. Martin's doing the Sunday crossword, my Dad is snoozing with the Economist open and limp on his lap, and Merry's eating chips and chatting up a storm with my mother, who is making tea.

Mom just told us a funny little story about my sister's youngest little girl, Eliora, who is three. On a trip to Germany recently to visit her other grandparents, she surprised my sister when, late into the flight, she looked up into my sister's face, and said, "Let me tell you something. When we land, the plane will break into a hundred little pieces."

"Why would you think that?" my sister asked.

"Because," Eliora explained calmly, "The plane has no wheels."

"Yes, it does," Heather reassured her. "They'll come down soon, with a big thumping sound."

"No." Eliora extracted the safety information from the seat pocket. "The plane has no wheels and when we land, it will break into a hundred little pieces. See?"

Heather perused the safety pamphlet and Eliora was right: in every picture depicting the plane, there were no wheels. Apparently Eliora had been studying this pamphlet a good part of the long flight and had come serenely to the conclusion that it would crash when it hit the tarmac.

"Let me tell you a story," Eliora said. "Once there was a family who went on a plane. The plane flew and flew and then it landed and broke into a hundred pieces. The family landed in the mud. It was a very bad day."

Thankfully, Eliora's research, though thorough, did not yield the conclusion she believed it would, and Heather and the children landed safe and sound in Germany. And in the end, it was a very good day.

sentimental postcard from missoula

I'm sitting in bed beside Martin, who is hunched over a Richard Russo book. Behind me a cool breeze moves through the window; beside me, two cups of chamomile tea on a trunk. A kanga covers the trunk, on which three African violets reach their fuzzy green leaves toward the light from the lamp. On the opposite wall, a row of wraps and scarves.

The children finally sleep, the dryer knocks and clicks, and Chopin plays eternally. My head echoes with the voices of dear friends who deeply rooted in my being: Kara, my constant friend since our childhood in Kenya, who is now content in love with a good man; Lindsay and Tim and their children, who we have laughed with now for eleven years since that time when Martin and I were first making our way as young newlyweds and then as new parents. Tim and Lindsay are godparents to Merry; we are godparents to their son, Corin, and Kara is Elspeth's godmother. I even got to spend time with Kara's brother, Nathaniel, who used to be a gangly little brother and now is a strapping, handsome man with a beard. And we were able to meet Tim and Lindsay's precious and beautiful new adopted daughter, Birdie, who just arrived with them from Ethiopia.

And all in Missoula, happiest of cities with its broad rivers and sweeping paths, mountains and enormous sky.

And here I close, because I have too much to write, about wonderful adventures in Washington and so many faces and voices that I wrap in joy, joy that is steeped in gratitude and marked by sadness that these precious ones must often be far away.

And too I remember the love and joy that waits for me in so many places: here; with my family in Washington; with Martin's family in Texas; at home in Pennsylvania. I am blessed with this embarrassment of love, for places contoured and mapped by the voices and open hands of all these dear ones.

Elvis waz here

We're in Mississippi, tucked up in bed in a lovely old hotel built on the edge of the bayou. We may be sleeping in the same room Elvis slept in--who knows? I do know that he frequented this hotel from 1951-1957. He had a girlfriend down in Biloxi who "was a knockout in her black suit" as the hotel manager told me (she worked here in the 50's). Elvis played gigs at the same restaurant where we ate a pile of fried seafood tonight.

The hotel was built with mob money and appears in PBS specials about Al Capone. It seems to have quieted down quite a bit now, and the fabulous old pool that looks like it's right out of a Poirot set was filled with laughing children this afternoon.

We visited downtown Ocean Springs and explored an art museum full of pieces by a man named Walter Anderson. Some of his watercolors had been damaged in Katrina. Martin talked to his cousin about the hurricane, which was even more devastating than anything we could have imagined up in the east where we watched the coverage on TV. He has a scar on his arm from a flying piece of roof--he ducked out to try to move his truck and the air was full of debris, like mattresses. His friend actually floated for hours and then swam about a mile to reach his mother's house, where, three days later, he died from water contamination--and Martin's cousin says these stories are common. He describes it as seeming like the end of the world.

Martin, his sister and husband, and I wandered around a neighborhood this afternoon looking for Martin's cousin's old house, and we noticed that the streets, so shaded in Martin's memory, were flooded with hot sunlight; and then we noted the roofs of the houses were all new and the trees were almost all small. Evidence of Katrina is everywhere, not in debris or mess, but in small attentions, like the single red line drawn on the wall of the seafood restaurant we ate at the first evening we were here: Katrina, a red pen had noted, about eight feet up the wall.

Well, the children have fallen asleep, and I'm rather tired myself from swimming and walking and visiting, so I may follow. It's wonderful to be in such a different, fascinating, and beautiful part of the US with such good people. Maybe I'll dream of Elvis tonight.

at the beach.
sitting in bed,
tea at our elbows.
the wind just blew over a rocker on the porch.
several rounds of rummy with my brother and his girlfriend.
brother's rummy name: Mr. Beardsley
martin's rummy name: Mr. Braveray
two days of driving in the blue subaru
three girls
two dvd players (I hate to admit it but it is true)
endless snack bags
a quick but beautiful visit to my auntie and uncle
and their whimsical garden
one stop at Superwalmart--two carts of groceries,
three girls, my mom and I, crammed in the blue Subaru
coasting over the causeway
blue blue blue water, white foam, two pelicans
beatrix running down the sand chanting:
we're at the beach! we're at the beach!

Someday We'll Find the Rainbow Connection

Darkness is falling and Kenny Loggins is singing.

You probably have one of two reactions to Kenny Loggins (not classic, but after he went through his new agey transformation). It's probably a reaction similar to your intense hatred or melting love for the music of Neil Diamond. The girls seem to be calmed by his kid's album. Playing now: a cover of the Willy Wonka song, "Pure Imagination."

Somebody stop me--I'm just blathering on. This is probably because the real me is completely distracted and rather wound up with leaving the house and garden and packing up for the summer. Doubtlessly the summer away will be enchanting and lovely, but the process of leaving is not as much fun, especially when you come from genetic stock that makes you feel that everything must be neat and clean before you leave (just in case:
a. you are tired when you come home (given);
b. you never come home and you don't want the people cleaning out your house to be grossed out;
c. the house just feels happier that way.

I'm still mourning the fact that I will not be able to mulch the rest of garden before I leave after spending endless days weeding. How the wicked weeds will thrive as soon as they see me drive away! And the rabbits seem to be attacking the vegetables--they're even munching the zucchini vine, for heaven's sakes.

Currently Kenny (in a duet with Amy Grant, of all people) is crooning the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band's "Pooh Corner." I know this pains some of you acutely. Ooo. Mellow guitar solo. (Children laughing in background?) It's good stuff.

Schedule for summer is as follows: Drive to beach, NC. Drive to Mississippi, then to Texas. Drive all the way home. Repack and shake head over garden for one day. Fly out to WA the next morning. Drive to MT. Drive back to WA. Return home.

Books I must read/reread: Essays, ed. by Annie Dillard; Flame Trees of Thika, Elspeth Huxley; Woman Warrior, M. H. Kingston. Columns to write from interviews I've already recorded: plenty.

Indeed, we are incredibly lucky folks to be able to visit our wonderful family scattered over the country. Please come and pick the raspberries, those of you who live close. And the flowers. Is it Kenny singing "The Rainbow Connection" that makes me sentimental for you good folk? We'll miss you.

I just got a story, "Birds in Snow" published at Midwest Literary Magazine. You can read the entire issue, including my story, for free at their site by clicking HERE. Then click on "Magazines" for the May 2011 issue.

It's a funny little story, almost a fairy tale, that I wrote after I inexplicably found a child's tooth on one of our area rugs--and nobody would claim it. It remains an unsolved mystery.

Martin and I had the funniest time ever editing this story, especially when he started play-acting the part of the old man to make a point (apparently, a description I'd written was actually ridiculous when performed). That man makes me bust a gut, especially when he's ripping one of my stories apart :).

Who needs GPS?

My mother and I, in the car with three girls. No map. A gut feeling about each turn we should take, according to our recognition of familiar landmarks. Goal: drive from Pittsburgh to Painesville, OH. Expected time for trip: Three scant hours each way, six hours total over two days.

Add all of the above together and you get: several wrong turns, almost a tank and half of gas, and a minimum of nine hours on the road.

Count them. Nine hours.

But the girls were pleasant and happy and even excited every time we told them to get back into the car and buckle up. And the garden was even more beautiful when we finally pulled into the driveway, stained with weariness and smelling like Bea's pee, but giddy with an overdose of silly.

And now we're drinking tea and warming up the TV for some good down time.

O wise bird guru, show us frustrated plebians the way

Beatrix just pushed one button and erased my entire blog post. I feel downcast, especially since I'd paused twice to stand up and help the children with various tasks. Good deeds are not always rewarded. There you have it. Solomon was right all along.

Once, in the dark ages of computers before "Autosave," I was typing an enormous research paper for a college class when the electricity blinked. In one terrible instant my entire paper vanished. All those polished, carefully chosen words--gone. I shook with anger, tears streamed down my face, and I cried the entire time I rewrote the paper. Determined, not broken, but deeply grieved.

Now why would Blogger set things up so that one mislaid finger from a three-year-old whom you've just convinced NOT to sit in your lap so you can read a Richard Scarry book yet again would ruin everything? That's what happens when you're all full of your own rhetoric instead of vacuuming the house before your mother comes to visit.

Well, here's the summary of my last blog post, just the bare bones with no embellishment:
It was hot and humid
It rained
I slept
Martin's in Louisville with thousands of penniless English professionals grading GREs and sampling bourbon
I wish I could sample bourbon
I forget the names of things (such as the Bird Tree and the black and yellow birds)

I think that's it.

O, wow. A beautifully patterned, solitary robin stands calmly on the low porch roof, his black beak in the air. Occasionally he turns his head as if to assess the change in the air after the storm. No feathers ruffle; he is strangely unaffected by the screams of the girls and the rumbling of Bea's ride-on bus as she rattles through the dining room. He looks wise beyond worms or nests, a bird guru. Maybe I'll ask him a question. He will show me the way.

Sweat and Mulch in Your Eyes

Our living room clock permanently reads a quarter to twelve, but I know that it's ten o'clock here at Wazoo Farm, and the night is still and warm. If I could listen over the steady whir of the window fans, I'd hear the sound of rocks clunking and the soft murmur of the radio. Now, the cough of the pick-up's motor--Martin must be packing up for the night.

It's been a terribly hot day, but the garden called us nonetheless. Martin finished his rock wall, and it is beautiful. I planted six rough-leaved verbena and four large yew bushes, which will grow into a lush, brightly-berried hedge between the main garden and the children's garden. As far as evergreens go, the yew is pretty, with finely textured frondy leaves. They've been sitting in our garden ever since we bought them, and I knew the bell tolled tonight as the heat became less intense. The bell tolled for me, because Martin was so wiped out by then that he stopped transplanting trees, stripped down to his boxers, and sat in the kiddie pool with Bea.

The hapless trees Martin began digging up are three ornamental plums, which flower so promisingly in the spring but which we realized would someday grow behemoth and swallow our garden with their glossy purple leaves. I looked up from fighting the earth with the spade to see Martin, entire plum tree shouldered like a fishing pole, striding down the side yard toward our "prettyish bit of wilderness" down at the foot of the hill, where we plant trees that shake our confidence for one reason or the other. (This last paragraph I give to my sister and her husband. Heather and Luke, there are two things here that will please you immensely. What are they?)

Planting in our garden means swearing at the layers of clay, which your shovel hits almost immediately. You must import significantly better soil from elsewhere and then heavily layer newspaper and mulch so roots don't bake like pots in a kiln.

I have almost decimated the load of undyed mulch in the bed of the pick-up truck; now I have to stand at the edge of the bed, shovel in my hands like I'm holding a canoe paddle, and shove the mulch to the end of the bed so I can fill a gargantuan bucket with the utility shovel. Then I carry the load up paths littered with project bits and pieces to my final destination, where I dump it with unbecoming grunts.

Needless to say, it's good exercise. I too joined the girls in the pool today, where I sat as water spread up my shorts, chatting with Merry about our holiday plans this summer and reminiscing of past summers. Elspeth picked us a basket of strawberries and we were very mellow together. And besides the fact that a critter (maybe Grassy Sam the Groundhog?) topped two more tomatoes last night, we're pretty content with garden. Too bad we won't be around to enjoy it; we leave for our sojourns soon. Come by, then, and cut yourself a bouquet of herbs, roses, and yarrow. And the zinnias are up, too.

Spring Harvest

Spring Harvest
photo arranged and captured by Elspeth (subjects picked and eaten by artist)

Merry, after a long afternoon weeding
(I took this one)

Advanced June Cooling System(photo by Elspeth)