8. PIPE

The late summer moon is brilliant! It hovers up there in the Idaho night sky, so massive and crisp edged. It’s like someone took a giant biscuit cutter to the dough of our existence. The eternities, so packed with light it blinds us to details, lay exposed in a glorious circle against the indigo sky. Beautiful, sparkling August sky, sealing in the heat of the dry Idaho air, aromatic with the scent of someone’s freshly mown hay; silent against the padding of our flip flops as we walk the road out toward Tucker’s farm. The further we get from town, the deeper the darkness, and the brighter the shimmer of the swirl of stars that peek out at us. 

We are rebel souls, our hips have grown into curves that swing when we walk. Sleeping out on the lawn at Aunt Becky’s house in Ucon, Idaho, we have waited until the last light goes out in the house, then we slip from our sleeping bags and tiptoe through the grass to the road, whispering as we move through the quiet night. When we get half way up the road to Tucker’s the air changes. Dry heat gives way to sudden soft coolness. The pipes that stretch across the fields have filled with water. They belch as they spew. Cool streams of water shoot across dark fields, like fly balls hit into deep center field. The pressured streams shatter the dry air, leaving shards of moisture that cling to the hairs on our forearms. The contrast makes me shudder, but I think it divine. It takes a little moisture released from rigid pipes to remind this Pennsylvania girl that she is far from home. Home, where the flora is so thick that there is never, even when there has not been rain for weeks, a dry day.

7. DEED

This little word game works best if you read it out loud.
If you're stumped, or want to check your skills,
the translation is in the comments below.

Deed yew sea duh crewel hand-off thyme leaf hits mar con meet is weak? Eye ham hold! Fifth tea nigh yen! Gall lee! An die um she ring king, two! Eye yum awl must uh hole lynch shore turd den eye you stew bee. Hyundai sore tough wan two taken app peach date who. Am eye fay sis rank old an does kins pay purry. Eyes up pose disses awl butter dandy altar native, dough! Eye cold bead head, ewe no!

Eye use stool of bird haze. Eye wan tad two ghetto elder. Knot hen knee moor! Know weigh! Two mane knee can dulls under bird ache ache.

Whale, eye guest hit wood bee awl rite fie jest sell a bray tad gate ting two lift is lung. Dots duh weight who locket hit, know? 

End deed!

6. SUIT

“Do I HAVE to wear it?”

“Yes.”

“But it itches, and it smells funny.”

“I know.”

“And the arms are way too long.  Who made this anyway?”

“I did.”

He held the suit by its collar, lifting it in front of me while he looked straight into my eyes, nodding slightly.

“I’ve already tried it on and I don’t like it. I think maybe it’s somebody else’s. Can’t you make me another one?”

He smiled, lifted it a few more inches into the air, gently reassuring me,

“You’ll be fine. You’ll grow into it. I made it just for you, and it won’t work for anybody else.”

I turned my back to him, raising my right arm to the square.  He slipped the sleeve over my hand. I shifted, raising my other arm, and the suit dropped its woolen weight onto my hunched back. I shivered and shook until it fell into place.

The heavy suit hung awkwardly, the shoulders poking out inches past my own, my fingertips barely showing under the cuffs. It had deep, deep pockets, and buttons that, though rather beautiful, were hard to push through the buttonholes. Its blood red pant lining left a tint on my foot tops, and stained my undergarments.

When I turned to say something more, the Tailor was gone. He left behind only a small repair kit, tucked into a soft white cotton envelope.

I walked out into the street. The sunlight stung my eyes and the cacophony of sounds confused me, until I found my mother and she took my hand, pushing the cuff of the suit up to my elbows.

“Nice suit!” she said, kissing me on my forehead.

I don’t remember at what point I finally came to accept the suit. On good day’s I forgot I was wearing it. And on really good days I was able to easily button it up; could even dance in it. And it became strangely more supple when I sang.

But on bad days, when it was dark and rainy and cold, I just wanted out of it. But it would not come off. It had attached itself to me. Sometimes I could not breathe under its weight, and the heat was stifling. It took years for me to discover that the repair kit had a fan in it, which I could wave before me, allowing the movement of air to evaporate the sweat of struggle.

I have worn this suit for nearly six decades now. I look back and think about how strange it felt when it was new. So strange. But I had no words to explain it at the time. And in the time between then and now I have pretty much forgotten how it felt to be without it.

My hands hang rather thin skinned from the sleeves. The cuffs are worn, but they sit where they are meant to sit now. And the shoulders are situated right where they should be. I have to remind myself to stand up straight. When I do, the vent in the back lays flat. The pockets are filled with all sorts of treasures, some of them I’ve even forgotten. And those button holes have happily given way to the shiny buttons down the front. I’m afraid my inherited thigh structure has necessitated some re-stitching of seams. I have to stop myself from looking jealously at other girls whose legs let light shine between them when they walk.

Sadly, the pocket over my left chest keeps opening up, and the lining pokes out in an uncomely fashion. I try and try to stitch it up, but the threads come loose and my heart peeks through.

I have not seen the Tailor since the day he put this suit on me, though I’ve seen his handiwork and have heard he is still in business. Sometimes I talk to him, thinking that he might be somewhere on the other side of the curtain listening in. I ask him what he was thinking when he designed this custom-fitted suit of mine. I might have preferred a lighter one. And maybe one made of double knit fabric, that would give way more easily.

On the other hand, I have worn it long enough to recognize how amazing it is that he would make a suit just for me, according to measurements only he knows. How did he know which way I would grow? Or which portions needed extra padding? Or that my suit needed many pockets for my stuff?

This custom-fitted suit of mine still itches, but mostly at night. It works out though, because he also gave me someone who will scratch my back every time I ask.

5. STRING

There sits, on a stand in my living room, a sweet old parlor guitar. Her body is slender and petite, with a lustrous patina and a belly full of stories to tell. Scratched into the back are these words:

Thenton A. Chambers

From: T.M. Dillingham

1880

It is light as a whisper, but has a pretty rich sound nonetheless. I had the inside braced so it would hold its tune -- invested a good bit into this dandy little instrument. But there it sits, in the living room, where only short term visitors sit, their hands on their knees as they balance on the outside edge of the couch. 

The poor neglected creature has a broken string, and since the strings I most often use are steel strings, and this one is made for nylon ones, I have not replaced it.  It’s been months, even years, sitting there unused. I feel a twinge of sorrowful regret when I see it, tapping that spot in my brain where I am supposed to remember stuff, reminding myself to go buy new strings. There are songs tucked into that guitar that remain unsung, and unwritten, because it has only 5 strings.

My daughter, Sarah, has gifted hands. Since she was small, pretty much everything they touched became art. Her piano teacher told me when she was nine years old that she could no longer teach her anything new, that I would probably need to take her to the U of U so she could progress. Her hands were made for pianos and pencils and paintbrushes. When there is a paintbrush in her hands, Sarah sees the world differently. She sees it through the eyes of the poet. And yet, because her daily tasks require her hands to change diapers and wash dishes and cook meals… and then examine little children and swab throats and stitch up wounds…because her hands are busy with these tasks, her paints have dried up. Her brushes gather dust, waiting for her to return.

Brene Brown wrote:

“I used to think you were either creative or you weren’t. Now I know we either use our creativity or we don’t. When we don’t use it it isn’t benign, our creativity doesn’t just dissipate, it’s malignant and it turns into rage or grief.”

My Sarah needs her paints. Or her piano. Or some chorus in which to sing her songs.

And I need to stop ditzing around and get myself a new set of strings for this old parlor guitar.

May we, none of us, allow our paints dry up. May our brushes always be supple and damp and our instruments be strung, tuned, and passionately played.