My daughter was born on Monday. I'm happy. I'll tell you all about it soon. We can't call her Coppertop Junior because she doesn't have red hair. It's black, like her dad's.
In the meantime, check out my winning contribution on The One-Minute Writer Blog:
http://oneminutewriter.blogspot.com/2010/04/i-choose-one-of-daily-winning-response.html
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Folklore and Fish Tale Friday: Grandmother's Fist
Grandmother's Fist
We call my father's mother Grandmother, because Grammy or Grandma is too casual for her, too informal. Grandmother is five feet tall, 100 pounds, and she cusses every once in a while, just enough to make you cock your head at the words coming from her mouth. She is not a little old lady. I get a lot of my favorite traits from my Grandmother. My temper. My righteous indignation. My sarcasm. My ability to survive on my own. My pure disgust at the sentiment when people offer to help me. Here's the family story, which is different depending on who's telling it.
Papa, my father, and his brother were in the front yard, pulling weeds with their mother. It was a hot sticky day, oppressive heat you can only find in North Carolina where the ocean funk creeps west over the lowlands and hunkers down between the land and the sun, refusing to leave. Papa and his brother were fed up with the work.
It was time to come in, and they ran in the front door and locked their mother out. There they were in the living room, not really giggling, because I can't imagine my father has ever giggled, but surely immensely pleased with their joke.
Grandmother didn't say a word. She punched through the window on the door and glass shattered into the house. Then her hand, like a disembodied appendage out of some horror film, found the doorknob on the inside and unlocked it.
Papa said he had never been more scared in his whole life. Grandmother said her sons never tried another trick on her again.
Folklore and Fish Tale Fridays are all about the way I remember family stories. My father is a true storyteller, so much so that the actual truth of his tales are highly suspect but their spirit and wisdom never come into question. This is my attempt to capture the wisdom unique to my family.
We call my father's mother Grandmother, because Grammy or Grandma is too casual for her, too informal. Grandmother is five feet tall, 100 pounds, and she cusses every once in a while, just enough to make you cock your head at the words coming from her mouth. She is not a little old lady. I get a lot of my favorite traits from my Grandmother. My temper. My righteous indignation. My sarcasm. My ability to survive on my own. My pure disgust at the sentiment when people offer to help me. Here's the family story, which is different depending on who's telling it.
Papa, my father, and his brother were in the front yard, pulling weeds with their mother. It was a hot sticky day, oppressive heat you can only find in North Carolina where the ocean funk creeps west over the lowlands and hunkers down between the land and the sun, refusing to leave. Papa and his brother were fed up with the work.
It was time to come in, and they ran in the front door and locked their mother out. There they were in the living room, not really giggling, because I can't imagine my father has ever giggled, but surely immensely pleased with their joke.
Grandmother didn't say a word. She punched through the window on the door and glass shattered into the house. Then her hand, like a disembodied appendage out of some horror film, found the doorknob on the inside and unlocked it.
Papa said he had never been more scared in his whole life. Grandmother said her sons never tried another trick on her again.
Folklore and Fish Tale Fridays are all about the way I remember family stories. My father is a true storyteller, so much so that the actual truth of his tales are highly suspect but their spirit and wisdom never come into question. This is my attempt to capture the wisdom unique to my family.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Folklore and Fish Tales
It occurred to me last night, as I was telling one of my father's favorite stories to The Old Man, that my dad's stories have less than a 50/50 shot of being entirely true. In fact, when I have heard the same stories from his brother, the essential elements are there, but key and sometimes major details have changed. There's wisdom in these stories though, an effort to preserve what was and amuse and teach the next generation. I highly admire the ability to expand and exaggerate on known quantities, to spin a good story. My father (Papa) is a genius at this. So as I remember them, I'm going to write down some of his stories, the way I remember them told. Realize that now the stories have been through at least two filters, and any resemblance to the truth is irrelevant.
Robert's Pop
Robert (Papa's cousin) was left-handed in school in a time when being left-handed made people suspect you were the devil's minion. This was North Carolina, the south, where superstition was the Bible God's-honest truth. The accents can only be described as slow o's and tongues lazily skipping syllables and hot hound dogs on the front porch softly bellerin' for their supper.
For the most part Robert was a good boy, but every once in a while he acted out in class. One day Robert was sent to the principal's office for punishment and received a leather strap across his backside. He came home bruised and welted.
The next day Robert's Pop visited the principal. He walked into the wood-paneled office, sweltering already in the morning sun slanting in from the tall windows. The principal sat at his desk, and Robert's Pop closed the door behind him. He pulled out his shotgun. "If you ever touch my boy again," he said, while aiming the loaded gun straight at the principal's head, "I will kill you."
No one ever laid a finger on Robert again.
Robert's Pop
Robert (Papa's cousin) was left-handed in school in a time when being left-handed made people suspect you were the devil's minion. This was North Carolina, the south, where superstition was the Bible God's-honest truth. The accents can only be described as slow o's and tongues lazily skipping syllables and hot hound dogs on the front porch softly bellerin' for their supper.
For the most part Robert was a good boy, but every once in a while he acted out in class. One day Robert was sent to the principal's office for punishment and received a leather strap across his backside. He came home bruised and welted.
The next day Robert's Pop visited the principal. He walked into the wood-paneled office, sweltering already in the morning sun slanting in from the tall windows. The principal sat at his desk, and Robert's Pop closed the door behind him. He pulled out his shotgun. "If you ever touch my boy again," he said, while aiming the loaded gun straight at the principal's head, "I will kill you."
No one ever laid a finger on Robert again.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Heather
After college I volunteered for Big Brothers, Big Sisters in New Jersey. My Little Sister was Heather, 10 years old, and I was chosen to be her Big Sister because I was in shape and could run pretty fast. The case worker said Heather was very active, and had a tendency to run away.
I was living with Mr. Full-of-Himself, aka College Boyfriend (one of these days I'm going to have to make up some good fake names for all my exes). Heather and I played at the park, hung out at the apartment, went to horse shows in the area. Shortly after, College Boyfriend broke up with me, and I moved an hour east. I drove further every weekend to pick Heather up and be with her. I wasn't about to cut off my relationship with her just because my life was in upheaval.
Heather was tiny, very skinny, with light brown hair. I made her ride in the backseat of my car because I was afraid the front seat airbags would hurt her if I ever got into an accident. She would make me tune to the hip hop stations and we'd sing along to Ride Wit' Me by Nelly, hands pumping up in the air: "Hey, must be da money!". Then she'd ask questions:
"Is there a heaven? Is there a hell? What do people have to do to get into heaven?" Heather asked. "What happens when somebody dies? What happens to their bodies?"
Heather's mother had passed away when she was six. Her father told her that her mother was sick in the hospital and was not coming home. "My mom is sick. We can't see her," Heather would say. She did not attend her mother's funeral. I suppose her father thought he was protecting her and her little brother by spinning this story: that her mother was still alive, but unable to see them. I wanted to tell her the truth, that her mother was dead, and that the best thing Heather could do was to discover the kind of woman her mother was when she was alive. But it wasn't my place to tell her. It was her father's.
I would bring Heather to her house after a Saturday of running in the park or drawing with markers or cooking or watching Spongebob Squarepants. Her father would immediately talk to her in a loud, harsh voice: "Heather, did you get into the iodine and make a mess? What are thinking when you do those stupid things? Have you done your homework yet or am I going to have to take away your movies?"
I wanted to back that fucker in a corner, punch him in the face, and when his butt hit the floor, explain to him that when he talks to his daughter like that she feels like she's been punched in the face. But I didn't.
The whole year I spent with Heather, I never once heard her father give her a positive or encouraging word.
Heather's bedroom was small, the walls painted bubble gum pink and her bedspread a lighter princess pink. She had a pink television in her room where she watched videos. Her little brother, about six years old, also had his own television. I got a glimpse of the family evenings one day when I hung out with Heather in her room. She watched her videos alone, her brother watched his alone, and their father sat in the living room, watching T.V.
Heather's father worked on Saturdays, and so I picked her up from her babysitter's house often. There were six children there in a Jersey tract house. It always smelled of cooking, but not of delicious things like weekend French toast or fresh bread, but of onions and cloying boiled meat.
Heather had a wicked sense of humor, and yes, she did run away. But I was fast enough to catch her and creative enough to plan activities so that eventually she stopped trying to run away. I taught her about bugs and how they are not all icky, but actually pretty cool. She soaked up positive encouragement.
I wasn't a perfect Big Sister. I lost my temper with Heather several times, when she would run from me at the park, or when she would refuse to talk to me because she thought I was making up an unfair rule.
After a year I decided to move to California, to be with my new Post-Doc Boyfriend (which didn't work out either). I felt guilty for abandoning Heather. She was used to it though, and treated my departure in a much more casual manner than I could muster. Before I left, she and I created a poster: WHAT I LOVE ABOUT HEATHER. We listed ten wonderful things about her, like how smart she was, how great her sense of humor was and how creative she was.
I hope she found another Big Sister who hung around longer, who recognized that Heather needed praise and love. I hope she still has the poster. She would be 19 years old now. I hope she holds the men in her life to a higher standard, and doesn't find someone who treated her like her father treats her. I hope she believes in herself, and maybe she's in college studying something that really interests her.
I compare my time with her to raising The Kid now. I see how The Kid flourishes under praise, and how discipline is so much easier when you tell a kid what to do, rather than what not to do. I wish all parents would recognize this, especially Heather's father. Last night while I rested my exploding elephant pregnant feet, my husband played with The Kid outside in the sunshine, making up one of his games where a Viking protected the cheese from fire-breathing dragons. The Kid is confident, loved.
Heather, I hope you have found confidence and love, wherever you are.
I was living with Mr. Full-of-Himself, aka College Boyfriend (one of these days I'm going to have to make up some good fake names for all my exes). Heather and I played at the park, hung out at the apartment, went to horse shows in the area. Shortly after, College Boyfriend broke up with me, and I moved an hour east. I drove further every weekend to pick Heather up and be with her. I wasn't about to cut off my relationship with her just because my life was in upheaval.
Heather was tiny, very skinny, with light brown hair. I made her ride in the backseat of my car because I was afraid the front seat airbags would hurt her if I ever got into an accident. She would make me tune to the hip hop stations and we'd sing along to Ride Wit' Me by Nelly, hands pumping up in the air: "Hey, must be da money!". Then she'd ask questions:
"Is there a heaven? Is there a hell? What do people have to do to get into heaven?" Heather asked. "What happens when somebody dies? What happens to their bodies?"
Heather's mother had passed away when she was six. Her father told her that her mother was sick in the hospital and was not coming home. "My mom is sick. We can't see her," Heather would say. She did not attend her mother's funeral. I suppose her father thought he was protecting her and her little brother by spinning this story: that her mother was still alive, but unable to see them. I wanted to tell her the truth, that her mother was dead, and that the best thing Heather could do was to discover the kind of woman her mother was when she was alive. But it wasn't my place to tell her. It was her father's.
I would bring Heather to her house after a Saturday of running in the park or drawing with markers or cooking or watching Spongebob Squarepants. Her father would immediately talk to her in a loud, harsh voice: "Heather, did you get into the iodine and make a mess? What are thinking when you do those stupid things? Have you done your homework yet or am I going to have to take away your movies?"
I wanted to back that fucker in a corner, punch him in the face, and when his butt hit the floor, explain to him that when he talks to his daughter like that she feels like she's been punched in the face. But I didn't.
The whole year I spent with Heather, I never once heard her father give her a positive or encouraging word.
Heather's bedroom was small, the walls painted bubble gum pink and her bedspread a lighter princess pink. She had a pink television in her room where she watched videos. Her little brother, about six years old, also had his own television. I got a glimpse of the family evenings one day when I hung out with Heather in her room. She watched her videos alone, her brother watched his alone, and their father sat in the living room, watching T.V.
Heather's father worked on Saturdays, and so I picked her up from her babysitter's house often. There were six children there in a Jersey tract house. It always smelled of cooking, but not of delicious things like weekend French toast or fresh bread, but of onions and cloying boiled meat.
Heather had a wicked sense of humor, and yes, she did run away. But I was fast enough to catch her and creative enough to plan activities so that eventually she stopped trying to run away. I taught her about bugs and how they are not all icky, but actually pretty cool. She soaked up positive encouragement.
I wasn't a perfect Big Sister. I lost my temper with Heather several times, when she would run from me at the park, or when she would refuse to talk to me because she thought I was making up an unfair rule.
After a year I decided to move to California, to be with my new Post-Doc Boyfriend (which didn't work out either). I felt guilty for abandoning Heather. She was used to it though, and treated my departure in a much more casual manner than I could muster. Before I left, she and I created a poster: WHAT I LOVE ABOUT HEATHER. We listed ten wonderful things about her, like how smart she was, how great her sense of humor was and how creative she was.
I hope she found another Big Sister who hung around longer, who recognized that Heather needed praise and love. I hope she still has the poster. She would be 19 years old now. I hope she holds the men in her life to a higher standard, and doesn't find someone who treated her like her father treats her. I hope she believes in herself, and maybe she's in college studying something that really interests her.
I compare my time with her to raising The Kid now. I see how The Kid flourishes under praise, and how discipline is so much easier when you tell a kid what to do, rather than what not to do. I wish all parents would recognize this, especially Heather's father. Last night while I rested my exploding elephant pregnant feet, my husband played with The Kid outside in the sunshine, making up one of his games where a Viking protected the cheese from fire-breathing dragons. The Kid is confident, loved.
Heather, I hope you have found confidence and love, wherever you are.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Insomnia
His hand is tangled in my hair
his thumb strokes my forehead
I am afraid to move
if I move we'll lose the connection
his thumb strokes my forehead
I am afraid to move
if I move we'll lose the connection
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Kids and Chickens
She must have felt completely satisfied to be growing so many things at once: babies, swiss chard, rhubarb, corn, peas, carrots and beans. Her dream was to live in the country and raise kids and chickens. I grew up knowing that when my mother was pregnant, she chopped wood and hauled water. My parents' house at the time had no running water, no solar power - just a pump about 100 yards from the house and gas lamps. My ma banked the fires and used them to heat the water for baths and to cook every meal. And to hear her talk about it, she was radiant the whole time.
When my hips and back ache at work, when I feel too tired to keep my eyes open at my desk, I think about my mother and how much she did while she gestated. And I'm ashamed to be so focused on the discomfort. I come from wood-chopping, woods-hiking, bad-ass, child-bearing women; what's a little desk job?
And after all, I have so much more to do than she ever had, right? I scratch my head when I think of my mom and the fact that she never wanted to have a career. She was a working mom for most of my childhood, but out of necessity and not by choice. I proudly (arrogantly) hold my career up as a badge of honor. I'm a working mom, I have EVERYTHING on my plate. And I'm doing it while I'm pregnant. How could my mother know what I'm going through? How could she ever understand?
I tell myself these stories, and then the stories justify ignoring her wisdom.
But my little wood-chopping ma had to move in with in-laws when I was itty-bitty, had to go back to work immediately to help pay the bills, had to put up with her aunt-in-law and outlandish advice like "put some clothes on that child and teach her some shame." Only after my parents righted their financial situation to the point where they could move back to their home did my ma take some time off to have my sister, all the while holding up the family emotionally and making sure the daily bread was on the table.
And then back to work she went, again, her heart wanting home the whole time.
I enjoy my job. I enjoy having a space where I don't have to answer to The Kid or The Old Man, where I do work that interests me, where I can navigate the policies and personalities for promotions. Sometimes - briefly - I can see why mom would have wanted to stay home to raise her children. I feel the ache in the morning when I creep out the door and The Kid is still sleeping; I feel the anticipation on the drive home when I know I'll get to see him. But for my mother to feel that ache every day, to wish herself in her garden showing her kids the bugs, to want to be in her kitchen, all six hands wrapped in afternoon cookie dough - for her to feel that ache every single day and still go to work - what would that be like?
It's a reminder that there are all kinds of strong.
When my hips and back ache at work, when I feel too tired to keep my eyes open at my desk, I think about my mother and how much she did while she gestated. And I'm ashamed to be so focused on the discomfort. I come from wood-chopping, woods-hiking, bad-ass, child-bearing women; what's a little desk job?
And after all, I have so much more to do than she ever had, right? I scratch my head when I think of my mom and the fact that she never wanted to have a career. She was a working mom for most of my childhood, but out of necessity and not by choice. I proudly (arrogantly) hold my career up as a badge of honor. I'm a working mom, I have EVERYTHING on my plate. And I'm doing it while I'm pregnant. How could my mother know what I'm going through? How could she ever understand?
I tell myself these stories, and then the stories justify ignoring her wisdom.
But my little wood-chopping ma had to move in with in-laws when I was itty-bitty, had to go back to work immediately to help pay the bills, had to put up with her aunt-in-law and outlandish advice like "put some clothes on that child and teach her some shame." Only after my parents righted their financial situation to the point where they could move back to their home did my ma take some time off to have my sister, all the while holding up the family emotionally and making sure the daily bread was on the table.
And then back to work she went, again, her heart wanting home the whole time.
I enjoy my job. I enjoy having a space where I don't have to answer to The Kid or The Old Man, where I do work that interests me, where I can navigate the policies and personalities for promotions. Sometimes - briefly - I can see why mom would have wanted to stay home to raise her children. I feel the ache in the morning when I creep out the door and The Kid is still sleeping; I feel the anticipation on the drive home when I know I'll get to see him. But for my mother to feel that ache every day, to wish herself in her garden showing her kids the bugs, to want to be in her kitchen, all six hands wrapped in afternoon cookie dough - for her to feel that ache every single day and still go to work - what would that be like?
It's a reminder that there are all kinds of strong.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
My favorite quote ever. So far this week.
Here are two quotes about writing. I believe the first one - believed it from age 10 when I wrote my first word in my first journal. I've never been afraid of death because I feel like whoever discovers my journals and words will know something about me. I won't have faded away.
"Because when we're all dust and teeth and kicked-up bits of skin - when we're dancing with our own skeletons - our words might be all that's left of us."
From Scribbling the Cat by Alexandra Fuller
"Julian once told me that a story is a letter the author writes to himself, to tell himself things that he would be unable to discover otherwise."
From The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon
"Because when we're all dust and teeth and kicked-up bits of skin - when we're dancing with our own skeletons - our words might be all that's left of us."
From Scribbling the Cat by Alexandra Fuller
"Julian once told me that a story is a letter the author writes to himself, to tell himself things that he would be unable to discover otherwise."
From The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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