When my grandmother died, a cloud of sadness rested on our house in Hinkletown. She had been ill for a long time with different types of cancer, so it wasn't a surprise. But the finality brought the lightness of our family to a halt temporarily. I was just a young girl, but I remember looking over at our neighbors across two garden plots and seeing them playing and laughing and having a grand old time. And I longed for the heaviness to pass. I wasn't personally grieving that much because my grandmother had been ill most of my life and never very approachable. But I just wanted the world to right itself. I wanted Mother singing and laughter threading through the day. I wanted normal.
Yesterday morning I got an email from a longtime library patron-friend with whom I play on-line Scrabble. I hadn't heard from her in a few days and thought she was on vacation. Instead, the email told me very simply and completely clothed in non-detail, that her daughter had passed away. She thanked me for setting her daughter on a path of a life-time love of books and thanked my husband for being one of her favorite professors. I was completely devastated. I don't know how she died, but I'm guessing it was self-directed in one way or the other. I may never know, but maybe she will want to talk at some point.
But every since those words, "my daughter passed away" her burden has become mine. I have lots of distractions, but every time there is a quiet moment and my mind sweeps the day to the side, her world of hurt comes sliding into my heart. I will keep writing and sending my words of love but I am on the fringes of this abyss. She is in the vortex and will never be able to escape the pull. She will get back to the music of the day at some point. But there is no more normal for her.
Monday, August 1, 2016
Friday, July 29, 2016
enter, the library
If my sister was driving, she had to be 16, which made me 11. So let's say I was 11 when she first drove me into Lancaster to the Free Public Library. All I have is a memory kaleidoscope of marble floors, high elegant ceilings, wide staircases, and heaven. I simply could not conceive of having that many books to peruse, let alone check out. We each got a little square cream-colored card with a metal clasp in the middle and a brown fitted envelope to slip it into for protection. Ticket to paradise.
Now, years later, all my library books are shuttled through technological portals - some by-passing paper and binding all together and it's slick, efficient and lightning speed.
But I will always remember the little girl from the country, who stood and gazed upon her first public library with eyes full of wonder, not believing the world was hers.
The magic lives on.
Now, years later, all my library books are shuttled through technological portals - some by-passing paper and binding all together and it's slick, efficient and lightning speed.
But I will always remember the little girl from the country, who stood and gazed upon her first public library with eyes full of wonder, not believing the world was hers.
The magic lives on.
Written word.
A long-time library patron died a few days ago. She was the most loyal, passionate, enthusiastic lover of books all her life. In years past she was in a political position to help support keeping open the library that I managed - which was no small feat. But beyond that, she'd come in regularly and say, "What good book do have for me today?"
I didn't even know she was ill until last week; it's hard to keep track of everyone. But another friend told me she was very ill and now this week she is gone.
As I stopped in at the visitation before the funeral, on my way to work, I met her only son for the first time in the twenty plus years I had known her. His face was etched with sadness and my name meant nothing to him until I said, "I'm from the library." And where there were tears, a huge grin flashed across his face and he said, "Mom, loved the library!" And I said, "We loved your mom!".... and we were off and running through our stories.
Books. Friends. Tears to joy. Oh, the power.
I didn't even know she was ill until last week; it's hard to keep track of everyone. But another friend told me she was very ill and now this week she is gone.
As I stopped in at the visitation before the funeral, on my way to work, I met her only son for the first time in the twenty plus years I had known her. His face was etched with sadness and my name meant nothing to him until I said, "I'm from the library." And where there were tears, a huge grin flashed across his face and he said, "Mom, loved the library!" And I said, "We loved your mom!".... and we were off and running through our stories.
Books. Friends. Tears to joy. Oh, the power.
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Oh, the sensory bliss of it all
Aunt Jenny's date and nut pudding.
Those six words send saliva into my soul.
Each Christmas we always had a Weaver gathering of some sort, at some part of the holiday, and my mother's brother's wife, Jenny, made this concoction that would make angels blush - it was so slutty with goodness. I don't think it required any special finesse to make - just a mass of sugar, butter, dates, nuts, flour, milk, baking soda, lard, salt - tossed with whipped cream. She always served it in a deeply cut, exquisite glass bowl.
Sometimes it was dessert at the big Christmas dinner at noon but other times, for an early evening supper before folks wandered home, we'd have this exotically rich dessert - with savories on the side like cheese, bologna, celery, etc.. Though it was probably the calorie equivalent of breakfast, lunch, and dinner in regular times, each sumptuous spoonful of that mixture of cream, date, nut and pudding was ecstasy, pure and simple.
My sister recently sent me the recipe. I studied it for a moment and knew I would be feasting on memories alone! At this point in my life, if I made a whole recipe of that I'd be needing to circle the lake ten times daily to fit into my clothes, while begging my arteries not to collapse in horror.
But oh those blessed culinary memories - how deliciously they linger!
Those six words send saliva into my soul.
Each Christmas we always had a Weaver gathering of some sort, at some part of the holiday, and my mother's brother's wife, Jenny, made this concoction that would make angels blush - it was so slutty with goodness. I don't think it required any special finesse to make - just a mass of sugar, butter, dates, nuts, flour, milk, baking soda, lard, salt - tossed with whipped cream. She always served it in a deeply cut, exquisite glass bowl.
Sometimes it was dessert at the big Christmas dinner at noon but other times, for an early evening supper before folks wandered home, we'd have this exotically rich dessert - with savories on the side like cheese, bologna, celery, etc.. Though it was probably the calorie equivalent of breakfast, lunch, and dinner in regular times, each sumptuous spoonful of that mixture of cream, date, nut and pudding was ecstasy, pure and simple.
My sister recently sent me the recipe. I studied it for a moment and knew I would be feasting on memories alone! At this point in my life, if I made a whole recipe of that I'd be needing to circle the lake ten times daily to fit into my clothes, while begging my arteries not to collapse in horror.
But oh those blessed culinary memories - how deliciously they linger!
Saturday, June 11, 2016
Strawberries on a china plate
The strawberries came from the Saturday morning market at the lake.
I put them on a dainty rose-spattered china plate and smiled. The plate was bought for my mother by my dad. One Saturday morning about 34 years ago my dad and I went shopping in a farmers market in PA. There was a side building that hosted an antique/flea market each week. On an impulse we went over to it after getting our market goodies. We found all kinds of treasures! But at one point, Dad came to me with this small oval plate with scalloped edges and said, "Do you think Mama would like this?" I was charmed by it as well as his thoughtfulness and assured him she would indeed.
She did.
A very short time later, Dad died in five minutes of a heart attack. The shopping excursion turned out to be our last time together.
When Mother died, I picked the plate from the pile of dishes.
Now each time I pull it out, I remember the whole history of loving.
And the strawberries melted in my mouth.
Along with my tears.
I put them on a dainty rose-spattered china plate and smiled. The plate was bought for my mother by my dad. One Saturday morning about 34 years ago my dad and I went shopping in a farmers market in PA. There was a side building that hosted an antique/flea market each week. On an impulse we went over to it after getting our market goodies. We found all kinds of treasures! But at one point, Dad came to me with this small oval plate with scalloped edges and said, "Do you think Mama would like this?" I was charmed by it as well as his thoughtfulness and assured him she would indeed.
She did.
A very short time later, Dad died in five minutes of a heart attack. The shopping excursion turned out to be our last time together.
When Mother died, I picked the plate from the pile of dishes.
Now each time I pull it out, I remember the whole history of loving.
And the strawberries melted in my mouth.
Along with my tears.
Friday, May 6, 2016
Hully Gully
sometimes words from a poem just jump off the page and land in your heart.
yesterday was such a day.
Rita Dove was on NPR and I was so inspired by the interview that the minute I hit the library I headed for the 811's and pulled off a volume of her poems called Grace Notes.
This is the last stanza of a poem called "Hully Gully"
"daughters floated above the ranks of bobby socks.
Theirs was a field to lie down in
while fathers worked swing shift and
wives straightened oval photographs
above exhausted chenille
in bedrooms upstairs everywhere...."
"exhausted chenille"! How I cherish/covet those words. I cannot think of a more succinct, panoramic combination.
I remember back to the chenille spreads of my childhood and there wasn't a one that wasn't exhausted! Perhaps it was a concept of softness that should have stayed in its creator's mind because it is synonymous with a world of tackiness in my young mind!
Beyond that, the bobby socks of the fifties, the soft world of the boomers, the hard work of the parents, the generations before looking out through stern oval lens - Rita Dove, you are masterful!
yesterday was such a day.
Rita Dove was on NPR and I was so inspired by the interview that the minute I hit the library I headed for the 811's and pulled off a volume of her poems called Grace Notes.
This is the last stanza of a poem called "Hully Gully"
"daughters floated above the ranks of bobby socks.
Theirs was a field to lie down in
while fathers worked swing shift and
wives straightened oval photographs
above exhausted chenille
in bedrooms upstairs everywhere...."
"exhausted chenille"! How I cherish/covet those words. I cannot think of a more succinct, panoramic combination.
I remember back to the chenille spreads of my childhood and there wasn't a one that wasn't exhausted! Perhaps it was a concept of softness that should have stayed in its creator's mind because it is synonymous with a world of tackiness in my young mind!
Beyond that, the bobby socks of the fifties, the soft world of the boomers, the hard work of the parents, the generations before looking out through stern oval lens - Rita Dove, you are masterful!
Thursday, May 5, 2016
letter perfect
The sun rises, the newspaper, double-bagged lies beyond our front wall, and inside is ---- the crossword puzzle! Oh, sure, the world is aflame with misery on the political, economic, social, environmental levels, but what settles my soul for the day is to do the puzzle.
Why is it delightful to poise above those small squares, pondering the correct letter, the correct definition, the correct nuance of the clues. Some squares I fill in boldly with assurance, almost contempt! Others I niggle. Could it be this? That? This morning there was a clue "Mercedes-Benz category" and I had "ac----". My mind started down the path of accura or something similar and I couldn't divert it! But I shaved nearby letters, and honed the edges and all of a sudden "aclass" popped into being. Voila!
And there it was - a small, satisfying, early victory of mental tumbling! And perhaps ridiculously, I felt ready to begin the day that would hold lots of research, questions, answers, conversation because I had carved out Mercedes Benz into aclass!
But maybe not so ridiculous after all.
Why is it delightful to poise above those small squares, pondering the correct letter, the correct definition, the correct nuance of the clues. Some squares I fill in boldly with assurance, almost contempt! Others I niggle. Could it be this? That? This morning there was a clue "Mercedes-Benz category" and I had "ac----". My mind started down the path of accura or something similar and I couldn't divert it! But I shaved nearby letters, and honed the edges and all of a sudden "aclass" popped into being. Voila!
And there it was - a small, satisfying, early victory of mental tumbling! And perhaps ridiculously, I felt ready to begin the day that would hold lots of research, questions, answers, conversation because I had carved out Mercedes Benz into aclass!
But maybe not so ridiculous after all.
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