HURON CALLING

Anna Bella - Timothy - Calvin - Sophie holding baby Joe - Parker and Ruby
Tawas, Michigan August 2012

In the lapping of the waves I hear her calling.  Calling.  Sweetly calling. In from the depths of the darker water, in to the softer sand, where the rhythmic repetition has ground the earth down to tiny grains, soft and supple under their small browned-butter feet. I stand on the deck of the cottage, overlooking Lake Huron, on the sunrise side, the laughter of my grandchildren floating with the Huron breeze up from the beach, through the trees, up to our summer home. I am renewed by the sound, and by the scent of sunshine and sunscreen, mixed with a faint tint of mildew from down in the dampness of the basement, and a waft of Michigan baked beans cooking in the oven. It’s a sacred, holy moment, when the spirit says to me “Be Still”, and I finally listen.  I stand alone, the scents and the sounds and the sunlight casting pure radiance on my posterity, all of them down there on the beach. 

They’ve assembled with a focus, having planned and gathered everything necessary for a Kid’s Olympics; plastic chairs for diving boards, Sophie’s small video game providing classic Olympic type fanfare music; and my iPhone to record it all.  I have very little memory left on my iPhone, the bulk of it being taken up with that Kid’s Olympics recording. Every time I attempt to sync it to my computer and erase it from my phone that same Spirit says to me, leave it there on your phone (though I did put it on my computer for safe keeping).  Timo will sweetly ask to borrow my phone every time he comes to visit.  I know why.  He is not playing games, as most kids would.  He is scrolling through my pictures and replaying that blessed moment in time when he and his cousins are carefree and completely safe in each others’ hearts, and they are being creative and being funny and making delicious unbreakable memories with each other in a place that is sacred to our family.

 

Years before, when there were only Michigan trees on this plot of land and these little grandchildren of ours were peeking over the edges of heaven at us, we spent our vacations up the beach at the cottage of Grandma and Grandpa Roy.  Early on, in my grafting to my husband's family tree, we clustered around a campfire on the beach, me and my new husband and his siblings. The wood fire crackled and spewed, brilliant sparkles of light rising into the late summer evening, a big yellow moon hovered over us, reflecting in the water, the music of the lapping waves creating a beat to the music of my guitar.  I had started writing a song, and the song was titled Huron Calling; an allusion to the lapping of the waves, calling to all of us to come together in this peaceful cottage on the shore. I wanted it to be a family song, so we finished writing the song together on the beach that night. We sang it the next day for Grandma and Grandpa Roy, whose cottage was the place of our summer joy. Years later, when Grandma Roy passed away, they found a piece of paper tucked in her wallet, the edges worn from having been folded and unfolded. It was the lyric to Huron Calling.

Dave’s mom built her own cottage many years later, after both her parents were gone. She named it Huron Calling.  She and her four sisters had grown up visiting Tawas, up north from their hometown of Saginaw MI.  Grandpa Roy had, half a century before, purchased lots along that beautiful beach, south of their lovely old white family cottage. Five lots for five daughters. Helen finally built her dream cottage; a charming, crisply fresh home designed for decades of family memories for her, her kids, and her grand kids, and eventually great-grand kids.  Heartbreakingly, Helen was killed in a car accident on her way home to that cottage after she had dropped us off at the airport, just a couple years after she had finished it. She never knew her great grand kids, or her youngest grandson, Ned. That was nearly twenty years ago.  It was painful at first to return. We feel her there, in that place and that space. With time her presence has made us feel safe and warm and the tears are not as overwhelming as they used to be. I stood last summer on the deck looking down on my grandchildren, hearing their laughter, and whispered, “Oh Helen, you would have loved this.” And she would have.

I suspect she does, in fact.

I wonder how much they see, these women who gave birth to my husband and me.  I wonder if they think of us as much as we think of them.

A few weeks ago Dave and I went over to John and Ashley’s house to drop something off.  It was late and the kids were in bed. Parker came tiptoeing into the family room as we grown ups chatted. 

“Park, you’re going to be so tired tomorrow.  Back to bed, Buddy!”

But Park struggled to get to sleep, his little feet kept padding across the floor.  Finally, he ended up in his parents’ bed.  I could hear him whimper.  I slipped in to find him wrapped in their down comforter.

“Hey buddy, what’s wrong?” 

“I just can’t sleep.  I just want to be where you and Gumpa are.”

“Do you want me to lie down with you for a minute?” I asked.

“Will you?”

And so I lay down with my six year old grandson.  I stroked his eyebrows with my thumb and fingertip; down past his temples, up under his eyes and then over again. 

“I used to do this to your daddy when he was little, when he couldn’t sleep.”

“I know.  My mom does it for me, too.”

We lay in the dark, my hand circling his face, our breathing the only sound.

Suddenly I felt his eyebrows tighten, and my thumb caught a drop of wetness falling from the corner of his eye.  I lifted my head from the pillow and looked at him.

“What’s wrong, Buddy?”

“I just miss Gram.”

“I know.  So do I.”

I kissed the stream of tears as they trickled down his soft, warm cheek.

“She’s probably looking down on us right now, thinking how much she loves us, too.” I said, in my most comforting grandmotherly voice.

“Gummy,” he replied, “there’s something people just don’t understand.  They don’t know that the spirit world is right here.  Just right here, on this very earth!  In fact, Gram is prolly snuggling wif us right now!”

I pulled him closer to me, there in that dark room, thinking I might be able to feel my mother between us.

In just a few minutes the clock will strike midnight and I will be officially one year older.  I wonder if she sees me; my mother.  I wonder if she knows I’m thinking of her, writing about her, remembering her and loving the people who also remember her.  I always think of my mother on my birthday.  She and I both bore daughters on March 5^th. My Sarah came floating down from heaven on my 22^nd birthday. I feel a kind of karma-like peace in the symmetry of our situation, me straddled by two strong women, having been born of one and having given birth to the other on the cusp of spring.

This year, for the first time in my life, I will not be kissing my mother on my birthday, thanking her for giving me life.  I will not feel her warm lips against mine, or hear her softly whisper, “Happy Birthday, Doll.”  But if I am very still, and I let the memories rise like bubbles in cool water, I can almost hear it, somewhere deep inside, deeper than the ear. It comes from all that repetition, the sound of her voice saying she loves me.  Like the lapping waves on Huron sands.  Maybe it’s the memory.  Or maybe it’s her, whispering through the veil, right here, on this very earth.  Stroking my head and calling over and over: I love you…I love you…I love you.

MY CHERUBS

Rain is drumming on the broken piece of soffit outside my window.  The rhythm fights against the tapping of my fingers on this computer keyboard.  It sounds like the hallway at the university, over in the music building where the practice rooms are situated like jail cells along a long corridor, students focused and passionate in their own rooms, oblivious to what’s going on in the rooms straddling them.  The pianist in the room next to the cellist and the drummer  create quite a muddled cacophony in the hallway. Those rooms need more acoustic padding.

I woke to the tap, tap, tap of rain this morning.  It was so unfamiliar it took a few seconds to register that it was rain.  We haven’t had rain here in Farmington UT since last year. It’s been a long cold, white and miserable kind of winter.  The snow came at Christmas and overstayed its welcome.  Here’s a picture from my phone as we pulled into our driveway in December.

Snow, when it’s new and fresh and you do not have to travel 2000 miles in it, is such a lovely thing.  It creates a new source of light reflection, and it softens the edges of our architectural world, creating a sort of peace.  But after a long while, when it refuses to melt away for even a minute, it becomes the houseguest that starts to smell.  Down at Station Park the parking lots look like asphalt seas that have been frozen over, with massive icebergs strewn over the perimeter, icy, dirty, larger than life mounds of plowed snow.  My friend said last night that he considered having a contest to guess when the last of the last glacier melts in the parking lot. I predict late August.

We do have the advantage of living in a place what looks rather lovely in snow.  Lots of trees, and a classic red brick house with dark tile roof, and layers of yard against a wash of the Wasatch Mountains. I acknowledge that we are blessed with this.  It’s a lot to shovel though, and my poor shoulder is living proof of that today. We get what we call big dumps that trap us in our garage and doorways occasionally.  The steep pitch on our roof creates a perfect storm of ingredients.  The tile holds onto the snow as it falls, and the good insulation keeps it from melting with the rising heat from inside.  Eventually though, what is up must come down, and there will be an avalanche of massive proportions.  My poor sister Sherry was sitting in the family room a few weeks ago and thought she was in an earthquake.  She’s from California and that’s how it felt. 

Here’s a picture of the snow working its way off the sloped eave of the front of our house.  See, she just does not want to leave.  Ah, Winter!

I have three cement cherubs that keep watch in our front yard.  They’re been guarding our space for 20 years now.  I bought them with my mom when the Hotel Utah was acquired by the LDS church and they remodeled.  Once upon a time, I’m told, 100 of those cherubs lined the perimeter of the building, up high where the peregrine falcons used to nest. In later years they were in the cafeteria.  But I bought them at DI, for far less than they are worth. The church decided to sell the hotel furniture and other pieces at various Deseret Industry stores, and our friend, who managed one of those stores, said we should come take a look. I bought them and two brass chandeliers, one of which graces our entry hall and the other lights the entry of my sister Ann Marie’s house. I also purchased two soft down easy chairs which I keep in my bedroom.  They are situated by the windows and perfect to sit in when I’m folding David’s socks and need the sunlight to tell navy blue from black.

The antiques dealer in me says I should never…ever…put those cherubs out on the ground, exposed to the weather.  I have considered bringing them in for the winter, except they weigh about a million pounds each. I have many really nice old pieces that are stored in the basement because they have “value”.  But my friend Cindy put it best a few weeks ago when we were having dinner at their house.  It was just a regular old day, no special occasion.  We share a lot of meals together.  But she’s been worn weary battling cancer for the second time, and I think she was finally feeling a little more herself and wanted to cook. She’s a fabulous cook, so of course we said we would be right over! She had set the large table in the formal dining room with a beautiful spring colored tablecloth and lovely, happy, pastel colored cloth napkins.

“Gee Cinny,” we said, “What’s the occasion?”

“Life” she responded.  “I’ve learned to use my things.  Use them now, while I can.”
And so I let my cherubs witness the seasons with us.  See them here, nearly buried in the winter? 

You can just barely see the head of one of them, with a high hat made of snow atop his head. 

And, evn though the snow if finally half melted, this one is probably glad for the snow because it has kept his private parts private!

 I may, someday, regret not taking better care of these historic pieces.  I get twinges now and again.  But they bring me joy when I see them, in the winter snow, or with autumn leaves swirling at their feet, or seeming to dance among the impatiens in the summer shade.  And who are we to hide joy from ourselves?  Sometimes joy comes to us, without beckoning, and we embrace that willingly.  But sometimes it is sitting there in our basements, and we forget to pull it out and let it fill the measure of its creation…here…and now.

In the classic movie Out of Africa I love that scene where Karen tells Dennis, “I like my things.”  She’s not apologizing.  She is a storyteller, and her mind is triggered by the beauty of the things she has surrounded herself with. In the end she sells all of them anyway, because she needs to. But while she can, she keeps them, and cherishes them.

It’s been a long hard winter, in many ways.  My cherubs being buried under the snow is somewhat representative.  But look…it’s raining…and they are emerging in their cherubic glory! Welcome back, little men!

RED CARPET

I have a red carpet. It's 50 feet long and 3 feet wide, bound on the edges, heavy to carry and bulky to store.  It's a well made, deep red, never say die piece of woven fibers, and I love it.  Everyone should have a red carpet, or at the very least know someone who has one, so they can appropriately celebrate those red carpet moments in their lives.

 

We all have them; red carpet moments.

 

Two weeks ago Johnny came over to borrow the runner du rouge for Sophie's 9th Birthday party. He unrolled it at his front door, it's long slender stream fit perfectly on his front porch, draping down over the steps and into the driveway. He also borrowed the shepherd crooks too, stabbed them into the ground and strung Christmas lights along the edges of the carpet, turning it into a runway. Sophie's friends arrived in their most glamorous attire, right at dusk when sparkling lights began to twinkle, and each made a grand and glorious entrance to the celebration.

Last month Annie borrowed the carpet for her Young Womens' Evening of Excellence.  She also borrowed the fabric chair covers we use at her wedding. We had stood on that same carpet for Annie's wedding reception, several years and one adorable baby ago.  On a warm August night w stood outdoors, in front of the rose covered lanai, Annie's lovely champagne colored wedding dress glittering against the brilliance of the red. The contrast was striking.

 

We used it also for Gardner family celebrations; for Jason and Erica's lovely garden reception on that perfect summer day, and for Ali's wedding on a brisk autumn afternoon.  Cindy had lined the edges of it with deep green magnolia leaves, and the little ones walked before the stunning bride with colorful autumn leaves dropping on the padded surface. David stood at the end of the carpet, all judicial and loving, and pronounced them husband and wife.

When we arrived home from Hong Kong with our missionary daughter, Kate, my mom and sisters and Kate's siblings had rolled out the trusty red carpet.  The shepherd crooks held oriental lanterns, and the carpet led to the front door of our home.

I think of it now and I wonder why in the world we did not use the red carpet for our mother's funeral. I suppose shock and grief throw us off of our normal trains of thought.  It would have been perfect, don't you think?  Red is best! Maybe God has one and he rolled it out on the other side, welcoming her home like we welcomed our Kate.

I thrill at the thought of other occasions that will call for our good old red carpet.  It's not that big a deal, just a little statement that says "You are special!" Some people use red plates.  We use red rugs.

I do love my red carpet.

On second thought, I guess it's not the carpet I love.  It's the people who walk on it.

EASY ARMS

Here you see the current bookends in our family bookshelf; the blossom and the root on our family tree; the patriarch and the newest born in the Clan Connors as it lives and breathes on the earth.  Baby Joseph David Petersen and Gumpa Dave.
It's a strange thing to realize that the layers above you are scraped away.  Our parents are dead, and we are chronologically next in line.  How I pray that natural order prevails and we are able to skip into heaven ahead of our children and grandchildren.
I love the feeling I get when I look at this snapshot.  It's blurry and all, but it gives me a sense of peace when I look at Joe sleeping in Gumpa's easy arms. All around him are people and noises and lights and frenetic energy; and yet Joe is sound asleep, his tiny body flopped over his grandfather's forearm.  Joe is in the sweet spot, that little space in time when the lips are sealed from conversation because the veil is not yet fully drawn and if they could talk, babies might just give too much away and we'd all want to get back to our heaven homes pronto and skip town before we learned what we needed to learn.
David has easy arms.  I've written about his lovely root beer brown eyes before; how they are blind to things that don't matter and see perfectly well all that is truly important.  But this photo reminds me that his arms are just as beautiful.  They are strong and able, willing and true.  They gather the garbage every Wednesday night; and dip down into a sinkful of water after dinner.  They shovel massive amounts of snow in the winter and chop trees and haul the wood away, and pull wheelbarrows after the snow has melted. They push themselves into black robes at work, and soft wool suits on Sunday. He raises one to the square and makes vows, and raises both to the top of my head where with power and tenderness he pronounces holy blessings on my body and soul.  I love his worthy arms. They are safe and true.  Baby Joe can sense that.
Safe arms are essential in good relationships. I have not always had safe arms around me and the people I love, so I might have a particular bias toward David's dependably trustworthy apendages. The poor guy has had to be a missionary for men to some of us, and he has served well in that role. There is a delicate balance betwn tender and tough that is almost undefinable.  He has found that balance. Lucky me.  Lucky us.
Sometimes, late at night, I roll over in our large king sized bed and reach out in the dark to find his arm.  I don't need to talk, or move, or wake him.  I just need to touch him.  I can feel his good steady energy come straight to my heart and the peace helps me sleep.
I am reminded of a small print I bought for my grandson Timo once.  I'm not sure if I gave it to him.  For all I know it's in the dungeon downstairs and needs to be dug out. It's a replica of a painting of Jesus holding a little lamb.  The photo of Dave and Joe speaks to me like that. Sweet little lamb, safely cradled in happy, able, easy arms. 

 

ELLIE

She has mismatched eyes.  It used to be that one was missing, until Mommy found a dark blue button that was close enough in size and stitched it on.  She has mismatched eyes and her trunk is wimpy and her neck will not hold up her head when she's propped up on the bench at the foot of the bed, next to the ballerina doll and purple horse.  She used to be a very pleasant shade of pink, but with all that life and love smothered on her the past four years, she's a fine example of dusty rose. She is weary and worn and deeply loved.
 

Her name is Ellie, short for elephant, and that little hand holding her by the trunk is Ruby's.  Ru; Ru Ru; Ruby Luby. As you can see, Ruby has her own style.  She knows exactly what she wants.  Well...she's pretty sure that's just exactly what she wants...sort of.  She has the blasted-blessed tenacity that some people call stubbornness.  But she also has this tender heart; the kind that will act like she wants nothing to do with you, but if you can catch her and tickle her just right and then start smothering her with kisses, she will thrust her arms about your neck and squeeze the breath out of you while she declares that she loves you to the moon and back and then past all the stars and you could never love her as much as she loves you - no, not ever!

Ruby is the youngest; little sister to 9 year old Sophie and 6 year old Parker.  She was God's first test sent to Parker.  Once, exasperated and frustrated beyond control, he commented from the back seat of the car:

"I don't like Ruby.  I'm not gonna kill her; but I just don't like her!"

Of course that's not true.  Sort of.  But she does certainly know how to push Parker's buttons.  Their poor parents are forced to mediate more often than their childhood dreams ever forewarned about. "Maybe we should have stopped at two," John will quip.  Ash will hit his arm and tell him to stop it.  Then in the morning Ruby will hang onto John's leg as he's trying to leave for work, her little knees bent around his calf, her feet locked into each other, Ellie in one hand and her Ba Ba in the other, the back of her head looking like the sandman came with his magic comb and ratted it up in the night. He'll drag his leg until he reaches the doorstep, then he'll bend over and snatch her into his arms and tell her he loves her to the moon and back and she'll tell him that she loves him more and is not going to ever let him go to work but instead he has to stay home and play dolls with her until it's tomorrow.

We were shopping for pajama's once, Ruby and Sophie and I.  All through Target, at Christmas time, when the selection was grand.  Ruby wanted one of every style, even when it didn't come in her size.  Finally Sophie pulled me aside, back behind one of the rounders of nightgowns at the Target store.  "Gummy, you just have to tell Ruby that she can get one for today and then tell her that we can come get the others on another day. She'll forget, so don't worry about having to buy all those pajama's Gummy."  She smiled and peeked around the gowns to make sure her little sister was safe behind us.  So Ruby picked one set of pj's for that day, and one for Sunday, and Monday and Thursday and Tuesday. We put them on a rack for later. Thanks for the tip, Soph.

I get to spend every Monday morning with Ruby.  We color pictures, and make up stories, and I pretend to be one dolly and she pretends to be the other.  If you try to call me on Monday morning there's a good chance the phone will have to ring because we are focused.  One of our favorite games is when I sit on the couch and pretend to be sleeping, my head in my hands as I sit, my mouth and nose making my best snoring sounds.  Ru will sneak up on the couch, climb behind my back, and grab me around the neck.  I will pretend to be so surprised that I thrust my back, with her attached, back into the cushions of the couch, smashing her until she loses her breath with laughter and begs for mercy.  I'll reach up and pull her in front of me and smother her with loves until she cries uncle.  Then we start all over again. 

One of the best things to happen for Ruby is that she got cousins who are younger than her.  She can show Calvin and Charlotte how to do things.  She can cuddle and coddle them and yet still play with them.  Every littlest kid needs to be bigger than somebody.  It diverts their attention and keeps them from being murdered by their big brothers.

Some Mondays, after we have played and cooked and read and sometimes had a bath, Gumpa will come home for lunch.  We'll have a bowl of soup and maybe a pear and Ruby will put her boots on twice, once on the wrong feet and once again on the right, then Gump will strap her into her car seat, her backpack on the floor in front of her little dangling feet, and drive her down to preschool.  He will park the car, open her door, unbuckle her seat belt and take her hand.  He'll walk with her, hand in hand, through the halls of Knowlton Elementary, back to the preschool room.  The halls are familiar to this grandpa.  He walked once, not so long ago, those same halls with our children who grew into parents.

We try not to bring Ellie to our house.  Ellie is happier in her own house, because if she ever gets lost the world will lose her balance and fall off her axis and we will all go spinning into space and gravity won't hold us on any more and...well, how will we ever find Ellie then? Ruby finally understands that now.  Only if Ruby is very sick will Ellie journey away from home, and that's only if we promise to put Ellie in the backpack for positively absolutely sure. 

The other day when I went to pick up Sophie for piano Ruby was swinging Ellie like those toys that have a button on a string.  Round and round, as if her arms were going to twist off her.  She threw her up in the air and she landed on the cherry wood floor. I picked poor Ellie up and held her to my shoulder, patting her back, telling her it would be OK.  I held her up and gazed at her. 

"Look Ru!  Her eyes are blue, like yours!"

"Only one is blue, Gummy.  They don't match."

"Yup, you're right.  But it's a good thing she has two eyes again, so she can see you."

"It's a button, Gum.  It can't see."

That's Ru.

MARY POPPINS

On Valentines day my honey and I walked hand in hand through the chilly New York wind, over to the New Amsterdam Theatre on 42^nd Street, where we gobbled up a delicious theatrical treat; Mary Poppins.  It was Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious! The show is closing next week, so we seized the moment while we were in town. It made me feel like a kid again, though the sweet little lullaby Stay Awake was not in the stage version and I missed it. But there was Bert on the chimney tops dancing with his fellow chimney sweeps, steppin’ in time; and Mary turning everything into magic; the Banks family; and the blind woman feeding the birds at the steps of the cathedral.

During intermission we moved back to the concession stand and I snapped this picture to send to my sister:

“Does AM still have her Mary Poppins Barbie?” I asked Lib.  If she didn’t, then I was going to buy it for her.  By the time I got a response the show had ended and we had left the theatre, but we went back a few days later and picked one up.

When we were small my mom put three little dolls under the Christmas tree one year.  The controversial dolls were not the typical baby dolls people were used to.  These ones had figures – thus, the controversy.  How we loved our Barbie’s! Mom’s three little girls had the same hair colors as the dolls: I had the blond Barbie with the Camelot outfit.  And Libby’s was the red head, of course, with a sleek black glittery dress you might see in White Christmas.  Ann Marie had the brunette, and she got the Mary Poppins outfit, complete with the hat, carpet bag, and the parrot topped umbrella. Of course we had many outfits for our Barbie’s, some of them hand knitted by people I can’t recall.  We loved them all: the people and the dresses.  And the Barbie’s.  Little girls have a lot of love to give and dolls are so accommodating. I was reminded, when I looked at the tiny brimmed hat she wore, with the flowers on the side, of the first time I ever saw the movie Mary Poppins.

We had moved from our small town in Idaho to the bustling metropolis of Pittsburgh, PA.  Though we lived in the suburbs, we went into the city to shop, and to visit museums.  Shopping at Gimbles' or Kaufman's or Horne’s in downtown Pittsburgh was a cultural treat, and rather rare for us.  We mostly wore hand-me-downs, but Mom did love fashion, and I’m sure there were plenty of arguments between Mom and Dad about…well, that’s not the object of my writing today, so I’ll leave it there. Suffice it to say that going out to shop or eat was quite unusual for us. Museums in those days were free, blessedly.

One day, however, when I was six years old, the stars aligned and Mom’s friend Anne Fasulo drove over to our house and picked us up.  I’m quite sure no one was wearing a seat belt on that trip, since there were many of us, besides Anne and her little daughter Margie. But then again, cars didn’t even have seat belts in those days. We drove down Old Clairton Road and merged onto Route 51, weaving our way through the potholes, down past the belching steel mills across the river, through the Liberty Tubes and over the bridge into the city.  We were dressed in our Sunday best, with knee highs and shiny Mary Jane patented leather shoes.  We followed Anne and our mother across the street like little ducks, waddling into the massive movie house where the brand new movie, (in living Technicolor) MARY POPPINS was playing. I was wide eyed and breathtaken by the majesty of the theatre, with opulent gilding on the columns holding up the cathedral-like ceiling. It smelled of rosewater perfume and cigarette smoke. We sat in velvet cushioned seats that flipped up and down, my knobby knees barely reaching the edge of the seat, the arm rests too high for my arms to comfortably rest upon. I leaned forward then back, forward then back, listening to the chair seat squeak as it shifted up and down beneath me, as if I were on some sort of cultured swing. Suddenly the lights dimmed, and the deep red velvet curtains lining the front of the stage began to part as music swelled.  I felt myself lift onto that stage in my make-believe way, like Mary popped into the pictures Bert painted on the sidewalk. Above us I could hear the click-click-click of the projector and became mesmerized by the colorful specks of dust that floated through the beam of illumination shooting onto the massive screen at the front of the theatre, until my eyes met Mary up there on the stage and I was no longer in Pittsburgh or Idaho or even in my familiar dream world.  I was in London England and I was Jane.  Jane Banks.  And my nanny was Mary.  Mary Poppins.

In those days movies had intermissions.  We waddled, our little flock, behind Mom out to the lobby.  They were selling things in the lobby.  Really wonderful things.  Treats and drinks, and buttons and umbrellas and…oh my goodness…Look at THAT…a Mary Poppins hat! It was straw, and made for little heads, and it had flowers and cherries and a little button with Mary Poppins’ picture on the front. I watched as other moms and dads reached into their clutches and wallets and traded paper for hats, and I wanted one.  A little girl, just my size, shimmied past me as she adjusted her hat on her head, her mother bending over, licking her thumb and wiping her daughter’s cheek, then stepping back to gaze upon her.  She was lovely.  And she was magical.  And oh, how I wanted one of those hats! Of course no one got anything at intermission.

During the rest of the show it sat back there, festering in my six year old brain, the thought of the hat.  I can’t recall the particulars, maybe because I don’t want to, but I ended up in tears as we walked out of the theatre, my head uncovered, my hands empty.  I must have thrown a tantrum of some sort, because even now I ache for my mother.  She was not one to abide misbehavior and I am sure she marched us right out to the car. But I feel so sad that I would be so ungrateful to leave in tears.  There must have been some little discussion between my angels and me, after I had settled down and had a minute to look back on the situation. My angels must have reminded me that my mother did not have a lot of that paper in her purse, and what little she did have she had spent to get us into the movie. It was the first movie I had ever seen in a theatre, and I recall feeling, even at that tender age, a deep sadness and regret at how I had behaved.  

Later that week Libby and Ann Marie and I were playing in the back room of the basement, the place where we had our pretend stove and the cans of lentil beans served as make believe dinner in our make believe apartment where we were make believe roommates. Mom walked in, and behind her was her best friend Ann Fasulo. Ann’s hands were tucked behind her back.  She called my name, and I looked up from my pretending as she brought her hands in front of her, a home made Mary Poppins hat appearing right there before my very eyes.  An old straw hat, covered with artificial flowers and berries, and a bright red ribbon floating down the back.  The hat was a little large, so Ann had added an extra ribbon to tie under my chin.  I don’t know how I reacted.  I truly hope I threw my arms around her neck and covered her with kisses, because if I saw her now that is exactly what I would do.  My heart is cinched to Ann Fasulo, who did not have to love me, but did none-the-less.  I imagine Ann, who may have had money in her purse, allowing my mother to maintain her dignity.   But I also imagine her getting in her car and driving to the Good Will store, and wherever else she may have needed to go, to buy materials to make a silly little hat for a tender little girl. I imagine her hands wiring and gluing and stitching, her artistry evident in her handiwork. 

I wish I still had that hat.  I wish I could place it in a position of honor to remind me of the kindness of so many people in my life.  The memory will have to suffice.

It makes me miss my mom.  And it makes me love her all the more.  And Ann Fasulo…wherever you are…I hope the love you gave has returned to you seventy times seven.

 

WEIGHTY MATTERS

I’ve lost some weight.  A lot of it, as a matter of fact. I finally took the proverbial bull by the horns and with the help of modern medicine I’ve released a sizeable chunk of my former self to the universe.  I’ve always said that this old earth needs to remain balanced and I was trying to counter balance my brothers and sisters in drought devastated Ethiopia.  That comment was not meant to make light of the heart breaking hunger in a place I’ve never even seen. It was meant to make light of…well, to make light of something… heavy: me. I have historically joked about my excessive weight.  I think I wanted people to know that I am perfectly aware of my obvious flaws.  For decades now I’ve analyzed my reasons for carrying so much extra protection. I have thought of my overweightness, strangely, as a passive aggressive friend. The kind who is always there, often friendly and comfortable, but down deep hates you and wants to poke her bony little finger into your fleshy back till it breaks the skin and drips blood down your spine, smiling while she does it. It’s a love/hate relationship.

Looking back, I’m grateful for the beautiful things in my life that seem to be a consequence of fleshy abundance.  For one; I have not been tempted to flirt.  Dave, true and faithful man that he is, has never once made comments about my size and has always been loving.  Since it’s him I love, and never want to be tempted elsewhere, my fatness was a nice shield.

I had to, in an effort to make myself feel worth healthy human attention, develop talents and personality traits that made people take notice in spite of a less than appealing package.

I also wanted to show my community, filled with svelte and beautifully coiffed women, that we do not all have to be the same.  I’ve said for years, that I wanted to be a missionary for diversity; to prove, especially to young women, that you could be friendly and outgoing and approachable, intelligent and respected… and be fat.

I’ve had things to say, and songs to sing, that needed a hefty vehicle to deliver it.  I sang my song Ice Cream the other day, and it was very strange.  People didn’t laugh. I can’t really say why.  But they usually laugh, in that “oh, she sees herself and is willing to laugh about it, so let’s laugh with her” sort of way.  It kind of confuses me now and I’ll have to think on it a bit before I sing it again. 

Heavy people are naturally prone to be viewed as jolly, unless they are grumps, and I like that.  I like to think of giving big squishy hugs.  Watermelon hugs, as my friend Jed calls them.  Big soft embracing hugs. The melons, and the patch, are shrinking.

The boys at lunch at the Yale Club. 
(A dignified bachelor's party)

The other night I was talking with Dave about our New York trip.  What a grand time we had.  It was so fun to reconnect with Dave’s friends from his college years.  We had gathered for Peter’s wedding. We had not seen some of them for nearly four decades.  They travelled from Canada and Texas and other places to celebrate, eleven of fourteen men who had shared a brotherhood in a senior society at Yale.  They had brought wives and girlfriends, many of them, and we spent two wonderful days together. In the past I have always…always…been conscious of my size.  I was gifted with a mother who had taught me through word and deed that there was so much more of value in all people than the way their body looks. So I generally have not hid in quiet corners hoping no one would notice me.  I talked, and laughed, and sometimes sang, and felt generally accepted.  But I always felt self conscious about my body.

 

It was interesting as Dave and I talked the other night, that these words came spilling out of my mouth:

“For the first time”, I said, in a rather sad and wistful way, “ I did not feel shame. I didn’t feel pride, either.  I considered that my body was neither attractive nor offensive.  Rather benign, I guess. But, for the first time in a long, long time, I did not feel shame.”

Dave’s response: “You are beautiful to me.  You have always been beautiful to me.”

The realization that shame was not in my physical self-definition any more was a sad awakening.  I’m  not a fan of shame as a tool.  It rarely works in any useful way.  I cringe when protestors hold up signs that begin with the words “SHAME ON….”  As if we had the right to lift a bucket of guilt and sprinkle it on anyone…including ourselves.   It’s a tool of the devil and I am so sad, so very sad, that I notice now that it has been traveling with me all these years.

I think of Jesus bending over in the dusty street, drawing with his finger in the dirt.  I think of him speaking to me, to all of us, “Where are thine accusers?” and following with “Neither do I condemn thee.”

A wise bishop once told me to reserve guilt for sin.  And when the sin is gone, let go of the guilt as well. Fat is not a sin.  It’s a weakness I suppose, as are so many other things that don’t show the way fat does.  It makes me so sad to think of the shame and guilt we all carry for misplaced reasons.  Ah, me.

I’m grateful that there is currently less weight I have to carry around.  I can cross my legs, and tuck my arms around my waist, and last week I fit in the seat belt on the plane and had to tighten it.  Do you have any idea how liberating it is to pull that dark gray strap through the seat belt buckle and feel it cinch across your hips?  You probably don’t even know how lucky you are if you’ve done that all your life. I’m grateful for all of this, and understand that it might be gone tomorrow and I’ll wake up from the dream. 

 

I've lost a lot that I'm glad is lost. But I am conscious of the good energy that was squelched and smothered and also lost under the oppressive invisible weight of shame. Be gone, evil one.  I throw out my arms and refuse to hold you any more.

EMPTY HOLES

I decided to see what the oldest photo I have on this computer might be, so I looked in my picture library and pulled up this shot, which was not taken by me. I’m not even sure why it’s saved in my picture files.  But, since it’s the one that came up as the oldest on this machine, I’ve decided to write about it.

 

I sat on the edge of my bed, still in my pajamas, though it was mid-afternoon.  Exhausted from the emotional treadmill I’d been racing on, I could not pull myself from watching the television coverage of the tragedy in the east; a plane thrust like a dart into the Pentagon; another hurled into the ground in a vacant western Pennsylvania field, and still more, unbelievably shot straight into the massive pillars of steel known as the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York City. I had watched the second plane disappear into the second tower, a scene not wholly unfamiliar on a television screen in an era of dynamic special effects. I had to tell my brain that this was not make believe, that I did not have to pretend to be terrified.

I sat there, my toes curled into the nap of the carpet, my arms folded in front of me as if to shelter my heart.  They were perfectly situated, my arms, for repeated prayer.

The news coverage went frenetically from newsroom to street scene to shots from the sky then back to the studio. I remember calling each member of my family.  I suppose I needed the comfort of hearing their voices.  I worried about my kids in school.  I wanted Dave to come home.  And I would have driven myself over to Mom and Libby’s condo but I couldn’t pull myself from the television. We stitched ourselves together by phone instead.

At one point a reporter was interviewing people waiting in line outside of New York City hospitals.  There was a surreal silence and feeling of order in those lines.  You could almost hear the breathing through the stunned silence.  “I just need to find my daughter.  Someone said my daughter would be here.  I need to find her.”  They did not know then that there were very few people taken to hospitals from the tragic event.  If they did not walk out on their own, they were sent to heaven as little specks of dust.  I imagine the masses of souls at heaven’s gate.  I never imagine sadness there at the front steps of heaven.  There is always just happy.  The sad is held down by gravity.

Every person the reporter interviewed was crying, except for one woman who looked to be in her 40’s or 50’s.  I can still hear her voice, calm and pleasant, like she was talking about the tomatoes she was planning on planting in her garden next year.

“I’m looking for my husband.  I just need to know if he’s OK.  If he’s dead, then I know he’s OK.  If he’s not, then I need to be with him.”
She smiled, and turned back to her place in line. 

I hear her voice a lot; calm, and matter of fact, though not without feeling. I hear her when I get panicky; when I feel like the sky is falling or I will cease to breathe for fear of something happening.  I hear her, and I want to be her. 

We were scheduled to perform the Saints on the Seas Oratorio I had written with Kurt Bestor at New York’s Madison Square Garden a few weeks later. We had just returned from performances in England a month before, where we saw seven large tall ships set sail from their British ports, planning to meet them when they arrived in the US.  The Seatrek event was commemorating the crossing of LDS converts 150 years before. I had been commissioned to write songs and scripts for the oratorio.  The massive white sails of those ships came quietly into the New York harbor, the air still thick with smoke and debris, so that the setting sun was brilliant and strangely beautiful behind the sheets of billowing white. The concert was cancelled.  But I did visit New York that next spring with my daughter Kate and her high school Madrigals group.  We trekked over to the hole in the ground where the towers once stood.  We saw weathered posters, handmade signs begging for information on people missing after the attack.  We left untouched the small winter-worn stuffed animals tucked into the corners of plywood walls, little shrines of candles burnt down and wickless.  We walked past them slowly, quietly, reverently, soberly. We gathered, two dozen high school seniors and some parents and teachers, at the temporary wooden platform overlooking the haunting gaping hole. Ms. McGuire lifted her chin.  She didn’t need to even raise her hands.  These kids had been following her lead for a full year. She raised her chin, then lowered it on the down beat and their voices rang in perfect four part harmony there at that holy spot:

Oh say can you see by the dawns early light

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming….

I’m glad, despite the tremendous financial loss it represents, that they chose not to replace the twin towers.  Some holes cannot, and should not, be filled.

LEAVING

They say that early morning is the best time for a creator to create. The mind is more free, unencumbered by demands of the day. It is true, for me, that I am not weighed down by daily tasks in the early hours, but I am often heavy with the residue of dreams.

My sisters came to pick me up to run an errand the other day.  I had not been feeling well, and in an attempt to rid myself of a headache I had laid down on the couch before they came.  As usual, I drifted off.  Sad to say I can fall into a fairly deep sleep quicker than any other person I know.  By the time they arrived I had experienced a complete dream, filled with detail.  I cannot recall it at the moment, except that at some point in the storyline I had tried to bargain with a woman to lower the price of something I was buying.  As I discussed the dream with my sisters, I commented that I was saddened that I would try to talk this young woman down on whatever I was buying, because she was obviously in need and I certainly had enough to pay what she was asking.

“I wonder,” I said, “if dreams are just a way of living our lives quicker than reality can offer us?  I wonder if we teach ourselves and train ourselves as much in our dreams as in real life? I wonder if dreams are Book I of the test and real life is Book II?”  I think we got to the store or the post office or wherever we were going before we got it answered. I suppose it’s unanswerable anyway.  At least at this point.

I’m not sure what I dreamt last night.  Can’t even recall the last dream of the morning, the one that often sits in the back of my head, quickly fades into the background, and sometimes starts reappearing as I get sleepy at night. Whatever I dreamed put me in a certain mood, and when I stepped out of the shower and looked out over the wooded hollow outside our bathroom window, the trees all covered with snow and looking like a ruffle of lace tucked into the bosom of the hillsides, I heard that familiar whisper in my head; “Oh, I am going to miss this.”

I am not planning to leave, permanently leave, any time soon.  But I know I will leave.  And knowing that, but not dwelling on it, is important.

One day this will not be my home.  Hopefully someone else will love it and build beautiful memories here.  But for now, it is the place where my memories store themselves; the books on the shelves, the artwork on the walls and marks on the floor.  The little red permanent marker spot imprinted on the wooden refrigerator door.  I love to see it there, because it makes me think of Kate, who was leaving me a note in high school and the ink bled through.  I get to think of Kate often because I go the fridge often, so I love that it’s there.  Someone new would sand and refinish it, but I won’t. There’s a large drawing of an old man holding a lantern behind the armoire in Johnny’s old bedroom.  Someone new will paint it over. But I won’t. I pass by that room and remember my teenage boy, full of passion and adequate angst, lying on his bed with a copy of Leaves of Grass in his hands, the music of Led Zeppelin wafting through the air spinning from the ceiling fan over his bed. There are paintings gracing the walls of this home, crafted by the mind and the heart and the hands of my Sarah.  And in the corner of this very room are photo albums bursting with memories collected and sorted and lovingly preserved by my Nanners. I’ve been to estate sales and garage sales where photo albums are sold for 50 cents, not for the value of the photos but the value of the book.  It breaks my heart.

Sarah has an old dresser we bought from a friend at a garage sale after his wife passed away.  As we were moving the dresser to Kansas City for Sarah’s medical residency, we noticed on the back of the piece, when the drawers were removed, these words painted across the wood: Eric loves Sue. The dresser was painted red, but these words remain.  We treasure the love that imbedded itself in the wood of that physical thing, which will one day be dust as well.  One day God will take those words back to the earth and remove them from all of us.  But we won’t.

I allow myself to think, in small enough bites to digest but not make me sick, the concept that I will leave the things and places and people I love.  I think it’s important to imagine myself leaving.  I try to tell myself that its all good, because change is part of life and I want to be part of life and not just live in fear of it. I imagine myself moving to a smaller place.  I picture a little patch of earth where I can plant just a few flowers and not have to be overwhelmed by a whole big yard.  That’s what I tell myself.  I imagine sweet images. I tell myself this space is better suited for a young family who will create so many good moments here. I allow myself to pack up, to give away, to move on. 

I think to myself…I could leave THIS…

as long as I don’t have to leave THIS…

And yet I know that this is not going to be the case.  And I attempt, with the aid of the Comforter, to tiptoe into that holy spot, without even a whisper.  I cannot even approach that door without the rims of my eyes running over, my chest curving over my heart.  Just imagining it here, blowing a breath of sorrow onto the chilly crusty surface of pretending, I ache to go hold the man I love.  But it would startle him, and make him laugh and then stop and he would draw me in and let me cry and then the moment is gone.  

We were talking to a woman the other day who said she had never been to a funeral.  She was in her late twenties and said that she had not yet lost anyone close enough to attend the funeral. Imagine that! I suppose my present state, which may appear morbidly morose to some, is triggered by the recent loss of my mother. Or perhaps it was the link on Facebook that led to the blog by the young widow whose husband died just after Christmas, during his last year of medical school. I am woefully conscious of the fragility of life, and the temporary nature of our present state. I attempt to process all of it and still function as normal. 

I know I will leave one day.  But I know, just as surely, that every single thing that matters to me…really matters to me…will leave as well.  And from the other side of it, it will feel like this was just a moment, just a tiny breath.  But a life sustaining breath nonetheless. To release myself to the fear of losing would be such a sad thing.  I dive… in my dreams…in my remembering…in my imagining…deep into the realm of potential, of inevitability.  But like the girl I used to be, back in the Jefferson Swim Club, I touch the bottom, bend my legs, and push myself right back up, my nose facing up toward the Son, my arms raising out of the water and my lungs sucking in the warm clean air, my laughter claiming victory over fear.

I will one day leave THIS. 

And for a moment… THIS. 

But THIS….  I won’t.

SNAPSHOT

I read somewhere that a famous photographer was asked what kind of camera was best for the average citizen, and his reply was “The iPhone”.  And the reason? Because it was the most accessible.  He contended that anything that captured the moment was better than nothing, and most people have their cell phones with them all the time. It's not necessarily art.  It's a snapshot. But a picture's worth a thousand words. 

Last week, when we were in the Impressionists wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art I came upon this sweet little piece by Claude Monet, along with this explanation next to it:

 

I thought to myself, “It’s a good thing Monet didn’t have a smart phone.”  If he had, he may never have painted this picture of his small son. I love thinking about the Monet’s finally having enough money to move into a little house with a garden. This quickly executed painting is his version of a snapshot. The emotion that compelled a young father to pose his son and capture the image is that same emotion that drives me to plant my grand kids by the back gate, next to the peonies when they are in their spring bloom, and grab my iPhone to preserve the moment.

 Since I’m not Monet, I am grateful to have a smart phone.  That’s how I captured this little dandy of a photo at the tiny gym down the street:

When I made the decision, for the umpteenth time, to do something about my slug of a body last year, I joined this little gym that was open 24 hours. My sisters and husband joined, too. You got a membership to use the equipment, and no one was there at night, so most often we would all trek on down at 11 pm and rotate through the weight machines. Sometimes Mom would come sit and watch us. We could have our own privacy, cuz no one else was ever there.  When you are not a young hip and healthy work-out kind of gal, a little privacy is kinda important.  When my brother John and sister Ann Marie visited last spring we took them with us to show them how do-able exercise was. Here we are all taking turns doing a dozen or so turns on each machine.  We were quite a sight. I wish I had recorded the sounds of us grunting and groaning and giggling and guffawing.  I love my family!

That little gym closed down. Not enough business, I guess. No wonder.  If you had come down and seen this crew working out…and I use the term “working out” loosely…would you have come in?

(As you can see, we wore our best work-out clothing.)

 

THE BURGHERS OF CALAIS

“These steps are perfectly designed,” I commented, as we rose from the bustling streets of New York into the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  I found the steps to be representative.  People who design steps most often make them utilitarian, designed to get us from one place to another without much regard for the comfort level of the ones who will use them.  The steps to the museum hardly feel like steps to me.  They are shallow enough to feel like, when you traverse them, you are effortlessly rising, and all of a sudden you are swept through those heavy doors into the echoing chambers inside. It makes me grateful that forward thinking people took such care in making art accessible to the average human being.

We had one full day to ourselves in our recent trip to New York City, and we chose to spend it in the museum during the day and at a Broadway show that night. We love that museum! I am very lucky that the man I love likes similar things.

One of my favorite exhibits at the Met is by the sculptor Auguste Rodin.  The museum has many of his pieces on display, but my favorite is called The Burghers of Calais. I love it for its artistic mastery and the emotion it evokes.  But I also love it for the story it portrays.

The piece is actually six individually sculpted figures arranged for this installment on a pedestal.  The six figures seem to swirl in a circular motion so that you can walk around and around the arrangement and feel like you are in it.

The story goes that the French port city of Calais was under siege during the Hundred Years War. England’s Edward III basically entrapped the city for over a year, not allowing any trade to come in or go out of the city.  The citizens were starving.  Edward offered to spare the people of the city if any six of its top leaders would surrender themselves, presumably to be executed. He stipulated that they walk out wearing nooses around their necks, and carrying the keys to the city and castle. One of the wealthiest of the town leaders, Eustache de Saint Pierre, volunteered first, and five other prominent citizens (burghers) joined with him. Saint Pierre led this envoy of volunteers to the city gates. It was this moment, with its poignant mix of resignation and heroic self-sacrifice, that Rodin captured in his sculpture.

At one point as I was ingesting the mastery of the piece I saw through the collection of arms and legs and nooses the face of my husband on the other side gazing at the piece.  It stopped me short. 

My husband was the mayor of our city for four years and for eight years before that he served on the city council. I imagined him among these men willing his feet to move under him, requiring himself to not look back.  Then my imagination took over and I saw my children and others who love him watching him go, believing that the steps he took would lead to a point of no return and imminent death. That, I believe, is exactly what Rodin wanted when he created this piece.

Look at these hands.  They are massive.  And these feet…how heavy.  I stood there on that cold marble floor, the whisperings of fellow citizens reverberating in that chamber, and thanked the Lord for Auguste Rodin; for not only his able hands but for his insightful mind and sensitive heart.  And I thanked the Lord for those citizens of Calais who went willingly though not without fear.  And I thanked the Lord that I know and love someone who would so naturally fit in that scene if he had to, though the prospect of it breaks my heart to even ponder .  I realized that my life and every life is enriched by unusual collections of people whose decisions weave together unawares.  The leadership of England and France at battle over things the average citizen would not fret about; the suffering that led to crisis that led to proposals that led to the decision by six families to sacrifice someone they loved for the sake of the town; the act itself…where six men stripped themselves and wrapped their necks in rope and walked away from all they loved; the vision of the people of Calais 500 years later collecting their funds and commissioning a tribute to their forefathers; the inspiration of Rodin in choosing to depict in this way; the wisdom of the stewards at the Metropolitan Museum in acquiring the piece and preserving it so an average girl from a small town in Utah could experience it up close and personal and in the process seal her heart once again to the man she loves and admires. We swirl in our existence like those burghers of Calais, our lives touching each other like the robes of the martyrs.

I wonder if I would have the courage to sacrifice myself like that.  I am not sure what I would do.  I am not sure if I could support my husband doing it.  Or my son, or grandson.

I suppose what matters most is that we are willing to consider it, because in considering we own the possibility, and in owning the possibility we deepen our respect, our devotion, and our understanding.