Bean there (I know... groan)

     I was happy to see that John brought in some string beans just before lunch today.  I immediately rinsed them in a colander, got out a bowl, and began snipping them.  And just as quickly a familiar memory came to mind, the same one I have every time I snip beans.  I'm sitting on our neighbor’s front porch steps next to to Mrs. P. who is snipping the beans that the vegetable man had just weighed out for her on one of those swinging scales on the back of his truck. 
    I’d already watched that happen from our own porch and then I saw her go inside and come back out.  Now she was aproned and prepared to work.  She squatted her plump self down on those steps, spread out the skirt of her housedress to cradle a large bowl, and began.  By that time I was there at her side.  Eager as always — no doubt, too eager, as usual — but at the same time, abnormally quiet, a learned mannerism.  One learned from her as much as anyone else.  She was of the “seen, but not heard” mindset for children.  But I settled for that readily.  Because — and here’s the climax of the story — every now and then, at an unexpected moment, without skipping a beat or losing her place in whatever she was saying, she would flip one of those pared beans toward me.  Being “seen” still holds a crunchy satisfaction for me!   
    She spoke like a Dutch woman; “broken English” they called it in our neighborhood. Didn’t give that much thought, because it worked fine for me.  Her youngest daughter read my Golden Books to me on our porch on warm summer evenings.  I remember that I had a stack too high and heavy to haul outside all at once while trying to hold the screen door open at the same time so I either had to prop it open or make a few trips back and forth.  Seriously, Golden Books can add up.  She was really, really patient to read and re-read all of those!
    I told all of this to John after Grace.  Probably for the umpteenth time.  “What did the dad do?” he asked.  I had to think hard to picture him.  He was a smaller man, intense, worked for the railroad, I think.  Maybe not.  They moved out after a while.  Afterward the house was rented again and again.  Like most in the neighborhood.  “Where did they move?” A little farther out.  All of us in the neighborhood were planning to move a little farther out when we could manage it.  They landed in a ranch-style, red brick house across from a park.  I had seen it when my mom pointed it out to my dad on a Sunday drive-by some time later.  No porch though.  
    “Renters?” John was asking now.  Yup.  Both sides of us after that.  And up the block too.  Last names rushed to mind.  Then the names of kids, mostly nicknames because no one called anyone Harold.  A mom might call out “Harry” when it was dinner time, but we probably called him Slim or Buster.  Skip was good with a stone on the gravel pit.  Once he threw a rotten tomato at me from the roof of his garage when I was cutting through the alley.  I honestly don’t think he thought it would hit me.  Not that kind of guy.  
    Yes, renters.  The alcoholic dad whose wife and kids came over in for shelter the middle of the night.  The twins that weren’t identical.  Who knew that was a thing until then?  Not me.  The boy with a crossed eye and bottle-bottom thick glasses who, no doubt, became the object lesson for not teasing at several supper tables.  Then there was a woman whose parents had lived in the same house before she did.  She and her husband came with two or three kids littler than me.  I waved at the toddler on their screened in porch so many mornings when I left for school that I think I taught her to wave back.  She always turned her hand toward herself and moved it like she was opening a jar, but I figured that’s what my wave must have looked like to her.  Her mom taught me to knit.  Neither my mom nor Gram were knitters.  She was left-handed so I learned backwards, but still, it worked out pretty well.  Then there was the preacher and his wife who gave their children cod-liver oil.  Eeeww.  He moved to a different state, I think.  I could google their name.  Unusual one.  It doesn’t matter.  Nice people.   
    There were more.  Some of the stories weren’t so average.  Or so good.  So, not for today.  You can only have so much riding on a bean. 

Grandma's Grip

   

This morning I twist my wrist and I think, ‘Ow, that hurts!’  And then, immediately and automatically, I ask myself, ‘How hurt are you?’  I have my Dutch grandma to thank for that.  It was Christmas Eve, 1968.  I was sick.  Consequently, when my Mom, Dad and sister left, I was alone in a big, very quiet house.  It felt unfamiliar to me, but not unwelcomed.  Perhaps for the first Christmas Eve in my life, I wasn’t being transported in the back seat of the family car to Grandma and Grandpa’s house for that-side-of-the-family’s celebration.  I was sick, but I was also free and that was a strange, even heady combination.  So, in my grand emancipation moment, I decided to wrap up in a blanket and shuffle down to the family room to watch astronauts circle the moon on TV, another escape from gravity.  I had my tea.  I had my blanket.  I had my space.  And I had my one and only ever phone call from my grandma.  “Shirley?” she began.  “Hello, uh, yes, Grandma, it’s me.” Silence.  “I’m sorry I can’t be there tonight,” I apologized. “I’m sick,” I added, handing her the pass that surely gave me an excused absence.  Then, distinctly even in her strong Dutch accent, she asked, “How sick are you?”  
    Grandma made her point in four words.  Was she worried?  Maybe.  Did her sharp eye notice my absence in the middle of all the commotion of people arriving?  While others were stomping boots, handing off paper bags full of packages, shaking snow off coats and layering them on the bed in the front bedroom, greeting each other with booming voices, did she make time to phone?  Yes, evidently she did.  Had she asked my mom or my dad that same question before she dialed?  Likely.  
    Although all of the above may have been going on, in that question, I heard something more.  I heard, ‘How self-indulgent are you?’  That, as it turned out, would become a timeless question, launched that night to orbit my life for years.  Self-indulgence is not a good thing.  You can’t come up with a bible excuse for it and that should settle the question, period.  Yet, at the same time, you are the only one who can honestly assess it for yourself.  That’s the tricky part.  Sometimes someone puts it into words for you.  
    She wasn’t mean, my grandma.  She was asking pointedly.  She was like that.  No child-indulgence.  Or young-woman-indulgence.  No nonsense-indulgence.  She was abrupt and direct and yet, not mean about it.  She seldom singled me out so the few times she did were as disconcerting and as loaded with expectancy as a Kiss-Cam finding you in the crowd at today’s baseball games.  One Sunday after church when the family had gathered for coffee, we coincidentally happened to be walking through the dining room at the same time.  She said, “Nice dress.  Did your mother make that for you?”  And without warning, she reached down and took up the hem, circling her arthritic fingers to assess the quality of the fabric.  Me?  I was mortified that my slip might show to my boy cousins or uncles.  When I first wore lipstick, I was noticed.  Or nylons.  Or got a new perm.  
    Once it worked to my favor.  I remember repeatedly making the case with my mother that I wanted to have my ears pierced.  Mom and aunts all around the Sunday coffee table were against the idea.  Why would you want to do something permanent to yourself like that?  Grandma was quiet.  When they turned to her for back up, she said, to their astonishment, that her own ears had been pierced years ago and then, to me, that she had some little silver bells somewhere yet and if I were to have my ears pierced, I could have them.  Have them?  Not Christmas, but close.  Better.  The gift of hearing that what might appear to be final, to be a dead end, isn’t necessarily so.   The future holds possibilities because people are not who you have them pegged to be.  I like that.  I didn’t get my ears pierced until years later and I never asked for or saw those earrings, but I wore the promise well.     
    I noticed her continually.  She twinkled before she teased anyone.  She would get a word in, even if she had to turn it edgewise.  She had beautiful, pink parchment cheeks and whipped cream white hair drooping softly to fill her white hair net.  She was thickened in the center.  Her hands became ever more bent through the years, but, nevertheless, she crocheted.  One Sunday she came into the kitchen with a shallow box full of bookmarks in the shape of a cross for our bibles and said each of the children could choose one.  I think I may have drooled over them as I deliberated.  Finally I chose the one that reminded me of Joseph’s coat of many colors.  I’ve kept it safe in my King James zippered bible ever since.  She continued to crochet small, square red or white bags to fill with 5 silver dollars and hang on the Christmas tree each year for her grandchildren.  I don’t have a single one of those to show for all that handwork.  The cousins would toss them aside and examine the silver dollars, comparing who had the earliest dated ones.  (Afterward, I put the money in a savings account at Old Kent Bank and eventually, along with birthday cash over the years, babysitting income, and payment for good grades, it accrued enough to become half the down payment toward my first car -- a used, 1963 Pontiac Grand Prix.  My dad put in the other half.  I digress.  It runs together.)     
    A story she told: When she was young, in the Netherlands, for a while she would walk past a gypsy each day on her way to and from somewhere she was going.  And also each day the gypsy would call out to her to stop so she could tell her fortune for a fee.  Each day, grandma would pass by without acknowledging this barker because, of course, you can’t come up with a bible excuse for stopping and that should settle the question, period.  She was a woman of faith not superstition.  A woman of predestination, not a gambler.   And although she was tempted, she was stalwart.  She walked by.  She walked by.  She walked by.  I have absolutely no doubts that she was telling the truth when she said she walked by.  This must have frustrated the gypsy because one day as grandma was passing, the gypsy loudly yelled a fortune to her back, free of charge.  Grandma said the gypsy described the man she would marry.  And, then with the twinkle and the gesture toward my grandpa with those deft arthritic hands, she added,  “She described him just right.”  Ha!  We all laughed with her at the fun of it.  That laughter made the indelible impression that we were a family who would keep on walking past temptation, not once but every time.  We were a family who trusted that God would provide in good time and who half expected that at any moment God could slip in an insider’s joke to boot!  
    She would fish intently.  It wasn’t a past-time.  It was supper.  She wore a triangle straw hat out there in the wooden rowboat with Grandpa.  The only other time I ever saw a hat like that was in photos of women in the rice paddies in Viet Nam years later.  It was how we could spot them from the shore when we were sent out to call them for lunch.  That and the willowy bamboo poles they used long after everyone else on the lake had moved on to more modern ones.  Fishing is mostly quiet, except for water lapping and the plopping of a cork onto a new spot now and then.  Often my cousin and I would yell to get their attention so we wouldn’t have to row all the way out to their boat to pass along the message.  That never worked.  At the time I figured they just didn’t hear well, but now I suspect they had other things on their minds, things they kept to themselves most of the time, although I’m sure God was in on it.  Fishing is mostly about what goes on beneath the surface.  They spent a lot of time together on the water. 
    I wonder if my Grandma really knew me.  I watched her a lot, but I wonder if I knew her.  What I do know is that she made the family what it was and along the way, she also shaped some part of me.    
  
    

Traveling Abroad

This blog post is my back-up journal to replace the hand-written one I had planned to write in one of those blank books people give you for presents sometimes.  I brought one along.  The marker ribbon was still folded up as neatly as it had been the day I had first opened it.  Every page was perfectly ready and that was the problem.  I don't like to mess things up.  Evidently that kind of character trait travels well inside of me.  I didn't attempt to write at all until our second full day in Scotland and then I only wrote three lines and immediately scratched them out.  I started again the next afternoon, reasoning that since my less-than-perfect beginning was behind me, I would be free from my own expectations.  Then I couldn't decide whether to record where we went and describe the sights or to try to explain their impact on us.  The place was profound.  It came with a rush of connections to a deep DNA past John and I had never personalized before, one we were at a loss to explain, even to one another.   

We had free time late that second afternoon and hoped to walk through Grayfriars Kirk in the Old Town of Edinburgh, but it had closed for the day by the time we got there, so we rambled along the gravel path through the cemetery, each of us pausing at one spot or another and then waiting so we could move on together.  We were quiet.  It was a quiet place.  John noticed some chubby, waddling doves peaking at us from under a bush and took a picture of them with his phone, but they didn't show up well.  He guessed we'd just have to remember them.  One especially prominent headstone had been built stone-upon-stone, carved with cornices and ornate swirls.  Like the others here, it was formal and composed.  Few of these sites had flowers, although planted garden circles did soften the overall landscape.  But here, on this old sober stone, where grief was no longer fresh, lay two twigs, five small stones, and a tiny wild-daisy blossom.  Selected recently and left by whom?  And why?  I don't know.  Yet, here I was, standing for a moment in a green space, in Edinburgh, Scotland, on ground where people had been standing since 1598, according to one sign, and thinking about some other living being who knew something I didn't know.  

I write this now because if it were possible to absorb that blend of very old and present moment, to realize that we exist with unknown others who leave puzzling and yet relevant things in plain view, unconcerned that they will be understood or even known, that would be a way to take in this trip.  I've traveled across the US many times since I was a child and discovered land-marks to my delight, but I've never felt the preponderance of the history in breath and rock like this before.  Even in my old age, I'm new at this.  And I marvel.  

So, that's my introduction.  I know, maybe too steep and a lot of steps, but I'm moseying around here for a while.  

  

 

 

Her

I think of her:

the woman,

young in 1913

who almost smirked 

in - what was it - her

high school graduation photo?

Forgotten, but not gone. 

Here on my bookcase now,

kept in a frame too small

and cheap for her.

Purchased for 4.95 to become 

an imaginary, antique friend for me.

A bell had tinkled brightly as the old door

closed behind us or maybe it was me 

cheerfully telling myself that I’d rescued her.

I suppose it never crossed her mind

to sign the back of every print 

near the date stamp

in case one of them would be dislocated 

in a hundred years. 

That’s behind us now.

She smiles.

And I think of her: 

the woman carrying water, 

who is really imaginary,

(I know, because I imagined her

a prototype 

from a colorful, collective story

of those who walk barefoot

on the back paths

of another continent

any dry, dry place,

anonymously photographed

for charity mailings.)

Yet, in a real somewhere, 

no doubt she wraps her body 

in vibrant fabric lengths

and shifts a heavy-laden pot to her head

(or, maybe, in reality, she hauls plastic jugs.)

She moves as if pain and practicality

were beauty products.

Meanwhile, I pull up the hood of my gray,

down-filled jacket against the elements

and walk out into the damp, cold north

of this continent, this time.

And I form a sharp-edged prayer

from my mesh of objections.

I am not that woman.

Not the woman whose superpower

is an expression that dissolves time.

Not the woman gracefully balancing

a heavy life without spilling.

Not her...

To which God quietly replies (again): XX

What does the horse say?

He complained that lots of the young women on his dating website say they love horses.  He explained that he’s not that guy, not the guy who wants to care for horses.  This is discouraging to him. 

I sipped my coffee and didn’t think much about it.  I may have said something inane like “I loved horses once too.”  Truth is that as a child, I would gallop down the sidewalk on my own imaginary white horse named Sugar.  I was riding to Grandma’s house to protect her from thugs. During the day, I checked all the horse books out of the school library and I read them with a flashlight under the covers in bed at night.  Although I don’t have a horse now or ever plan to own one, if I were a young woman today, in my wildest imagination, I still might say I love horses.

I grew up sensibly and left horses behind along with some well-loved dolls and Nancy Drew.  I didn’t recycle those early loves into broader animal rescues or campaigns to save the whales.  I don’t think of pets in the same category as my children.  I have moved on.  And yet, when he asked that quasi-rhetorical question, “Why do all these women seem to love horses?” I thought, for a moment, that I must know the answer, in much the same way that I think I will recall the name of the woman who sat next to me in church last Sunday if I’m given enough time.  I tell myself that I’m sure I’ll recognize it when I hear it again. 

Then this morning, I heard it again, in the thundering hooves of a herd of horses racing freely across the Idaho plains. Horses run like the wind, with heads high, manes free-falling and tangling.  They kick out at danger and heave breath through those equine noses to snort their indignation or warn one another. They are powerful and beautiful and free.    

I heard it in the sound of a Native American flute and the commentary of two filmmakers.  I saw it on Youtube through the lens of a camera.  It’s extraordinary. You can see it here: https://youtu.be/O7kbTaMoJRE

And, ah, I knew.  At one point, the music is silenced as these words come on screen: “Strong Women Wild Horses.”  One strong woman has carried a camera to document the treatment of these horses.  One strong woman describes her art, saying, “I didn’t want to be the one to focus on the dark side of it.  I wanted to show the beauty because I feel like beauty will inspire change.”  The film’s closing statement is, “The most beautiful thing is just seeing them wild.”  This isn’t about the plight of horses, but about what they are when not ‘plighted.’

And so, the second time you watch it, you 

too might glimpse why many young girls for a time intuitively choose to run as these horses run, pause and pasture as they do, lift their heads and assume a similar strong posture.  Then, as we grow into our own roles and responsibilities, our lives become fenced in. Some find safe pasture.  Some of us, tragically, are left with no alternative other than to accept our plight and even forget what life was like when not-plighted. Eventually, I'm guessing that most of us stop thinking about our infatuation with horses.  

Unless it comes up on a questionnaire, perhaps. 

Yes, I love horses.  

W&F

I lived through the era 

when “warm and fuzzy” 

was a catch-phrase 

to be disdained, 

only to trade it in for a

not-so-warm-but-very-fuzzy
popularized blend
of professional abilities
and personal agendas.
Turns out, that blanket
would bleed like madras
if you ever got it wet!

Screening,
I watched as entertainment 

converged with news,

encroached and

lapped it.
Like watching a waning moon,

facts losing ground

to deep shadow.
And I told myself,
it'll come around.

But all of the above was so-yesterday. 

Today's professional choices 

are bested by political strategizing 

from here to there 

and polentertainment 

has everyone’s rapt, 

if not adoring, attention.

Reminds me that sometimes 

wearing my clear, green sea-glass earrings 

is the best decision of my day.  

Not as a fashion statement, 

(Heaven forbid!)

but to whisper to me, 

like a insistently swishing wave, 

'on the contrary…

on the contrary…'

Where's a Wideness?

Can you love a panoramic view and still meditate? 

Meditators (do they call themselves that?) focus on the little things, discover meaning in details, and evidently, distill that perspective to carry around in their bottles and sip anytime they’re thirsty during the day.  It's restorative to meditate.  

On the other hand, it’s like me to carry a speck of lint on my shoulder undisturbed all day long.  At least it’s not a chip.  (My folks gave me a chisel when I was a child and I was told to work on my chips; I’ve been doing that dutifully ever since.  At some point later, to my surprise, I discovered that not all parents start their children off in life with tools like that.  "Work on yourself, but don’t become what you’re not."  "Shape up; don't become shapeless.")

Sometime along the way, when I wasn’t looking so closely at myself, I made friends with a few fine-tuners who have an ear for clarity, and some eagle-eyed, who can zoom in and grasp their target with precision, or the connoisseurs who sniff around the rim and taste delicately in order to discover that “Ahh!” moment. 

Of course, like every human pursuit, these things can be done badly.  The knit pickers, the know-what-I-likers, the “ah-ha” momenters who plant their personal flags on new discoveries, despite that thousands of people have been there before them. 

I wonder if someone stepped quietly onto Plymouth Rock, glanced downward momentarily for sure-footing’s sake, before lifting her eyes to the treetops where her longing was perched.  So very, so ever green.   Some ancestor of mine. 

What’s over that hill?  The wagon train scout with the fringed leather jacket and the painted pony will know first.  However, he does not come racing in, heart pumping, fists gripping and back arching to pull back the bridle, only to announce soil contents, to announce the length of needles, to announce grains of sand.  No, he will exclaim that the place shines like gold, is vast and full and simply must be seen to be believed!  And the rest will come along and soak it in, sift it out, parse it up.  As well they should. 

I know, I know:  Be thyself.  But I never suspected, until recently, that the near-sightedness of aged eyes would impair some dispositions more greatly than others?  Figuratively.  By that I mean, those who have made a life by looking closely can still look closely after much time passes.  Those who need to climb mountains for the view from the top of things are hindered by details, like the sound of our joints snapping and that stride-limiting pain in one knee.    

So, is there a tool for those who continually seek a panoramic view of life, even this side of heaven?  Did I misplace it?