Monthly Archive

Pistachio ice cream is my favorite. The kind I like may not be the finest, but it is the greenest, has the most almond extract flavoring—way too much, but kind of addictive—and is filled with salty pistachios. Friendly’s pulls off this combination rather well, especially considering that the brand has been on sale for the past couple of weeks.

Remember when you were a kid, and you reached down in the cereal box, all the way to the bottom, to find the prize. My brother and I used to pour ENORMOUS bowls of cereal, professing outrageous hunger. We had a yellow Pyrex bowl that came in a set with smaller ones, red, green, and turquoise. The turquoise was the egg-mixing bowl, and the other two broke before I remember. The yellow one was used only for popcorn and potato salad. We poured the cereal into that bowl. Once when we tried that trick, my mom made us eat what we had poured. From then on, we waited more patiently for our prizes.

Usually it was all for something worthless, too, not unlike a Happy Meal toy. Once in a while, though, a Matchbox car could make it all worthwhile.

Jump forward a few years, and the prize is pistachios. Tonight I am not content to have a regular bowl of ice cream, but am hunting through the box, ignoring ice cream just to get at them.

Of course, picking all the good stuff out is not very adult of me. I do know that when I do that, the rest is more or less spoiled—or, at least, not as special without the most desired contents still inside.

But sometimes, greed gets the better of me, going after the good stuff all at once, leaving the rest to face later. And yes, it is worth it.

Just don’t tell my kids.

I won something!

After the woman read my number, she directed me to an assortment of beautiful glass, blown by the woman’s son. It was all exquisite: pendants and several small vases. But one caught my eye. It has been sitting on the shelf above my writing desk ever since. I look at it often, the way it catches the light.

I wanted to show you, and tried several more normal photos, like this:

and this:

This is a vase.

I do not have flowers in my prize, but find myself more gazing at it, letting my mind wander. Words come more easily to me than images. I pick up my small treasure, and gaze down inside, the smoke and haze and sweetness seducing me into my favorite color.

That’s better. Yes, just like that…

“Heavenly shades of night are falling,” indeed.

I am shivering, holding onto a cup of hot tea on my back step, spoiled after the summer like conditions that woke up the trees this week.

It is quiet here, a different house without movement or voices, but nice for one evening.

Just before I took this picture, the neighborhood was cast in dramatic shadows, as the sun peeked out from behind clouds that have now disappeared. The sun has gone now, too, and this light is all that remains of the day. The leaves of the Japanese maple opened just a little today, promising more.

More. More spring, more warmth, more quiet, more voices, more love, more “rendezvous beneath the blue,” more you, whoever you are, wherever you are, more.

Right now I am standing in my kitchen, watching as thousands of tiny black ants swarm into the crowded coliseum, here to fête the latest craze that has hit the ant kingdom. It’s not Antmania! it’s not Beatlemania! it’s Terro!

Well, it’s not exactly a coliseum: it’s my kitchen, specifically, one corner of it. And as for the ant fever… the ants think the stuff is great right now, and judging from the numbers, they cannot get enough of it. But they are about to get a big surprise when they stagger back home, drunk on that sweet, sweet nectar. They imbibe, run through it, and carry some to their little ant colony on their little ant feet.

Then, they will die, poisoning the friends and family back home right along with them.

In my experience, Terro is a product that delivers the promised results—and has the skull and crossbones on the box to prove it. The kiddos are gone for a few days, and we no longer have cats. As long as I stay away from that tiny corner of the kitchen, I should avoid poisoning myself, and my ant problem will be a memory by the time I get home from my walk.

That’s a little wishful thinking, to be fair, but tomorrow would do.

“She’s so cruel,” you say, thinking of those poor ants clutching their little ant necks as they choke, collapsing at last, only to mutter their last words, in ant-speak, “Why?”

I am cruel; it is true. I am engineering the destruction of thousands of insects as I write, and I am just a wee bit gleeful about the whole affair. There is something of the “them” versus “us” in this enterprise, and I am not at all sure it is healthy in the least. It is certainly not healthy for the ants.

Some bugs seem to live beyond my capacity for this sort of killing, based on some (mis?)conception of value. Spiders are spared, mostly. Bees only die as a last resort, and I cannot even remember the last time. I don’t like to kill any bugs outside, either. It just doesn’t seem right. Well, except mosquitoes. Oh, and I’d never kill a ladybug, or a cricket. Too superstitious.

But there are bugs that put up a bigger fight, bring their entire families, invade: earwigs, roaches! (oh my), FLEAS (even worse), and yes, ants. Burglars. How dare they go after that cracker I dropped on the floor? They point out my housecleaning deficiencies. And this, I believe, is why they are here now.

A week ago, a friend called, and in the midst of our conversation, I heard screaming. It was an insect-related problem, and the insect in question was none other than an ant. Or—many ants. I said to myself, “Hmmm. So early, too,” because I had not seen any here, and knew that it would have to be July if I did. “Hmmm. Such a shame,” my thoughts continued, and as my friend went on, talking half to me and half to a distressed teenager about how the ants would not have come if the food had not been left out, I found myself tsk-tsking the entire situation, so glad that it was at their house, and not ours.

And now, just look at me. I am here poisoning ants. This is where that sort of thinking gets you. I should have known: no one ever accused me or any of my children of being too neat. That is all I can say on the matter at this point.

You may ask me if I feel the least bit guilty for this formicide.

The truth is, I do, or I probably would not be here writing this little piece, trying to make the whole thing seem slightly amusing. I really do not like hurting things, even if they are ants covering my countertops in astonishing proportions. Ants do have a useful purpose—for heaven sakes: they make peonies open! Probably a few other things, too. I somehow feel I’m upsetting the universe.

I suppose to the ants I am incomprehensible to them, this destruction to their colony a tragic moment on some level I have no way of understanding, either. But really, the ants should have known something bad would happen for their greed. It kind of makes me wonder.

Spring. Yes, it is here, really here, in full bloom, literally, making me wonder if. If ever.

It is supposed to be just talking, just talking, and then, it is not. We are no longer talking, the room is warm, warmer than before, too warm—and yet, just right—and I know he is going to, think he is going to, want him to, am not sure (can anyone ever be really sure?) that I would want this to stop.

And yes, it would be wondrid and splenderful, and would it be too much like a teenager to say I would never wash again? Yes, of course it would, but it never hurts to think it.

It must be spring.

It was early enough for Target not to be too busy, I found a good parking spot (well, the handicapped placard does help), and all five of us were in a great mood. We were buying some promised new toys for the yard, charcoal, marshmallows, and a few other necessities for the first really warm weekend, the beginning to April vacation.

My son was walking as we entered the store, but we had brought the stroller, just in case, as I always do now in any place that is big and has fluorescent lighting. He strutted in, looked around, then looked back at me and climbed in the chair. We went on our way.

It really was a good day, with everyone in a fantastic frame of mind. Then, something happened. It was not a mean thing, or even a thoughtlessly cruel thing. It even surprises me that I am still thinking about it. Still…

We were in the outdoor toy section when a man (maybe around my age) and his son (probably around five years old) came down the aisle. I saw the boy look at my eleven-year-old son in the stroller, just about to ask the inevitable question, and his dad took his hand and guided him quickly away from us.

Later, looking for marshmallows, we saw them again. By then, my son was bouncing in the chair, laughing, as he often does when he is either excited or overstimulated (and big box stores nearly always do it). He was all right, though, but I could see the boy’s concern. The boy tugged on his dad’s jacket. His dad kept shooshing him, as he quickly navigated his son and himself out of our path.

I noticed, as we made our way to the cash registers, that the dad was staring back at us from a farther line.

Was it that bad?

Well, I sometimes wonder. It was still a glorious day, the type you know was good when night finally comes, and the kids are whispering in the dark, then are suddenly quiet because they are too tired to stay awake longer; when you, adult, fall into bed at night all sore and smiling and snuggling into a bathrobe, warm and exhausted, too, after the kids have fallen asleep; when the laundry basket is full of clothes that are absolutely, positively, filthy and smoky, and covered in grass stains. We had that kind of a day. We went home from Target, turned the music up, laughed, blew bubbles in the yard and played giant Frisbee games. Actually, it was my older son who was having the tougher day, trying to figure out where he could find enough wheels, wood, and a motor to build a go-kart—and frustrated when I was less than encouraging about that particular plan. It was a fine day, a good day, a typical day for nearly all the families around us. And still, that father’s stare stuck with me.

I wonder, sometimes, does it really seem that bad, this life? When other people see an eleven-year-old boy retreating to a stroller (didn’t know they made them his size?) to make it through a store, but unable to tell anyone about it because he can’t talk… when they see the meltdowns, or actually hear of the difficulties, does it really seem that bad? Do the non-staring people feel that way, too?

Sometimes, it’s been the opposite that has stuck with me: the overly helpful people, the ones who are trying, who still don’t know what to do. But they do try; they don’t run away. There are the complete opposite, the ones who look for that moment for their own advantage—a Kodak moment, a charitable act, a momentary kindness that makes a statement but is not so kind—those who seek the shunned, emphasize the difference in some hope of making themselves seem better. I don’t mean people who really help, who really care—only those who think that they seem like good people if they pretend to. That is perhaps the worst.

I realize the difficulties in knowing how to act around a kid with disabilities, much like moving to a new country. What are the customs? What did they say, and did that gesture mean something? Are these people nice? It’s a learning experience, emotional, not always quite right. It’s not within the comfort zone, and yet, it does not have the same thrills of living life that is conventionally adventurous… at least, at first.

I have told the tales of trying to meet these kids’ needs, of being frustrated through various agencies’ incapacities to do the right things, or to be funded enough to do them. I have told of the heartbreaks when tough decisions have to be made, when things fall apart. But somewhere in there, I hope I have conveyed the many joys. If I have failed to express those enough, maybe I should try harder. I fear I have frightened too many people.

Challenging, yes, it is. But isn’t life that way for us all? Not unhappy, not bad, though! The joy of yesterday—that simple day—warms my heart, thrills me. It is difficult to explain why. When things are so wonderful, do we ever think to wonder why?

We were happy, and I suppose that is why the father’s stare stuck with me. The stare, I believe, was one of confusion, one of fear, one of pity. I have indeed seen the look before, even heard the words that tend to go with it. And yet, I rarely have the right response to it, or even know how to deliver that response if I have it.

I sometimes wish for a more forgiving world, for one that didn’t mind difference, for a world where the richness of life accepts the difficult parts, where we can acknowledge that the best things are never simple, and where the fear of facing my family did not prevent people from wanting to get to know any one of us individually.

My family really is like any other. It’s just not so obvious.

A few evenings ago, I heard a story—a funny one, as it was told—about a teenage boy’s mounting anxiety when faced with orders for a bloodletting… er, blood drawing. It could have been my kid.

Anyway, you all know how that routine goes. If you can go directly to the lab, it’s a lucky day! If your doctor is particularly kind and has the nurses in the office do it right then and there, the sun shines a special beam and birds sing. If, however, you have to go to the hospital, be prepared to wait, register, get the little bracelet put on after answering questions that range from your name and insurance company (what they really want to know) to what your preferred religion is. You sign swearing that you understand HIPAA (does anyone understand HIPAA?), and that you’ll pay your bill when all is said and done. They tell you that you are free to go to the lab, usually down several confusingly marked corridors. Then, at the lab, you wait again, probably with a number. If it’s a big hospital on a busy day, you may wait for hours.

Now, try doing that with an anxious kid. No, I don’t mean one who keeps tugging at you saying he’s bored and doesn’t want to be there. I mean one who is in real danger of being admitted because of the stress the whole ordeal is causing. You’ll know by the sweat, then the clammy cold hands and the quick breathing. Add some communication challenges, a little obsession, a little compulsion, and the entire waiting room is apt to have a meltdown right there with you.

So, as I heard the story of one boy’s total and complete breakdown through this ordeal, a thought came to mind. As difficult as the world is to navigate from a wheelchair, most people have some vague notion that places like hospital labs are supposed to be accessible to people who use them. If a lab is up any stairs, there is a ramp, or an elevator. If the rules say that patients have to sit in those chairs with the fold down tables attached so the phlebotomists can find veins more easily, the rules may bend a little so that the patient doesn’t have to move from a wheelchair. Accommodations can be made, and in fact, they have to be made, according to the Americans with Disabilities Act. It’s far from perfect, and it’s true that some people still don’t get it, but most people do at least acknowledge that the world is difficult for anyone who has a physical disability.

So why can’t we accommodate people who experience other sorts of disabilities? Waiting for a potentially painful procedure is traumatic for someone with severe, diagnosed anxiety. Isn’t this an accessibility issue, too?

Walt Disney World, I hear, has a special entrance to rides for kids with special needs, so they don’t have to wait through long lines that would make it impossible for them to be there otherwise. If you have ever waited in a line with a child who has autism, this service makes so much sense. It’s not favoritism anymore than a ramp is. It really is an issue of accessibility, and it really is the law. Amazing that Disney gets it, but a hospital doesn’t.

And besides, when someone is obviously struggling a lot, how much nicer would the world be if we could just bend rules enough—even when it’s not a legal matter—and think beyond our own experiences? How much better off would we all be, if only we could try to be kind just a little more often?

I love walking in the woods. I hesitate to call it hiking, because I’m rarely in search of a summit, or conquering some trail. I hesitate to call it birding, because I feel none of the obsession or competitive spirit that I associate with that particular pastime. My fascination is neither botanical in nature, even if I like trees and other plants, know some of their names. I just like the woods, and I always have. It started before I even remember, way back in the wilds near Route 66 as it winds through St. Louis.

Route 66 was a wondrous thing when I was younger, but its true appeal was not a Target, or a strip mall, or a subdivision—which is apparently what people (or a market survey group) wanted, or at least did not argue. It is largely that whole thought process—the apathy for special things—that made me leave St. Louis when I did. Not that it is really different in other places, but it felt so personal twenty years ago. The drive-in movie theater—the first movie I saw was there—gone to build a huge grocery store. Shopping galore, chain restaurants, anything unique obliterated by the brightly colored coziness of a ubiquitous logo—could we really need more? I hear things about my hometown, and they sound nice. Could it have changed now? Would I like it better now, or would I cringe at the thought of I sometimes wonder, but it is no longer my city.

When I was younger, though, one of the great things about riding a bike down 66, or Laclede Station (which ran next to it) was that in the hot St. Louis summers, there were many areas of shade. Full stretches of land were undeveloped, still wooded. That was my backyard.

The old binoculars were kept on the shelf of the hall closet, often not handy enough to catch a clear view of whatever bird was pecking or perching on the oak tree down the hill. Still, we looked. Birds were important, it was clear from early on, and a sighting of something unusual would often result in an exchange of ringing telephones.

“Look outside! The flickers are back,” our neighbor Jean used to call.

“Did you see the great barred last night?” my mom answered.

“Mama mallard is down in the creek,” we all noticed while out in the backyard.

Our house was set on a hill, an ordinary ranch with a walk-out basement to a small backyard on a terrace, then down the rest of the hill to the creek. Beyond the creek was a large, level wooded area, which we were not supposed to explore—a rule we respected for quite some time—but the creek was open for exploration.

The creek was rarely full of water, though it could fill quickly in a downpour (we were caught a few times on the wrong side of one of those). There were still areas that were usually wet, some great for wading, which was our main pastime before we were allowed to wander farther. There were interesting rocks, sand, fallen branches. It was a great playground, one that grew as we grew older. It wound around forever, it seemed, went under Laclede Station Road at some point, and on to Watson Road, which is Route 66. I once tried to follow it to the River Des Peres, because someone told me that’s where it went.

The woods behind the creek were private property, but it was understood after some time that no one would stop us from being there. A ways down, the creek leveled off, anyway, and wandering was irresistible. A dead tree covered in vines, endless ground cover all around, no houses anywhere in sight: the area invited birds of all sorts. It was a wonderland. I had my favorites. Flickers, wrens, the owl, the occasional pileated woodpecker. I could walk for hours, often did, often found myself heading off instead of doing homework, exploring until late at times, until dinner was ready, or it was getting dark, or until I absolutely had to be back. For some time, my cat came along. She was sort of a wild thing, never warmed up much the way the Siamese kitties always had, but she followed me like a dog through the trails.

For all the time in those woods, I rarely saw another person. Occasionally someone was throwing grass clippings from one of the bordering yards, or a few kids wandered on their own creek adventures, but it was after the era when the high schoolers were avidly seeking that much privacy in wooded areas—maybe the thorns and bugs didn’t go with pink and green. The wildflowers sprouting up in spring, the leaves in fall, the barren cold brush where birds still hid, my own dreams—they were a private oasis.

The owner of the property lived in the area, but not on it. At one time, my dad entertained the thought of buying part of it, but never did. Instead, the owner eventually sold all of the land to a religious charitable organization—a move that sealed the land’s fate ultimately. It was developed, but despite (or maybe because of) the vehement opposition some residents expressed against the project, the cottages that were built were nowhere near as destructive to the woods as the budget castles and strip malls that popped up as land was clear cut on the other side of Laclede Station. I imagine, actually (and it astounds me to hear myself say this, as much as I disliked the idea of development at all), that those cottages are quite wonderful, surrounded as they still are by the trees and birds.

I am far, far from those days now, but woods still call me, birds do, trees do. I don’t have woods in my backyard now, but I find places, anyway—it is vital!—places to wander, explore, to remember and regenerate: places simply to rejoice the world and all its small and everyday wonders.

It is with utter amazement that I announce my first purchase with an as-yet-unearned paycheck from the new job. Ladies and gentlemen, I have bought myself a leaf blower.

Now, this is no ordinary leaf blower. According to Consumer Reports, it is the top-rated blower/vac system for its size and price range, rated above the gas models (it is electric), and it is mine.

You may be asking yourself, why power tools? Why not something to wear, like a beautiful piece of jewelry? Why not a nice meal with friends? Why not a purchase that would bring great pleasure, like Brad Mehldau’s new CD?

Well, friends, the yard is a mess. We spent about ten hours last week getting to know one another, me and my leaf blower, but in the end, I can say that while things are looking neater, I am only more aware looking around of how much work I have to do to get things in shape around here, and I think I may need to look beyond the leaf blower for help.

If you page back to last August in these little musings, you will find some remarks I made about home repairs. I did indeed start chipping away at paint with a metal scraper, all with the best of intentions. If you read the following few entries, however, you will find that during the two weeks last year that my kids were gone, I rode my bike, took naps, listened to Lou Rawls and June Tabor, went out (don’t recall how much I actually wrote about that), and had a general all-around good time. I did not paint, repair drywall, or build shelves. I could argue that my lack of power tools was standing in the way of progress.

The only problem is that it is not true. I do own a few tools, a drill, a sander. I have not yet found the sander, but it somewhere, behind the stacks of still unpacked boxes that still inhabit my garage. The drill has been handy numerous times. Time to get these things out again, repair, rebuild.

The yard really is beginning to look a little better. Years of dog (the last owners’), sand (some just there, some thrown by the snow plows), and overhead trees make it a bit challenging, but it is a lovely yard, and a lovely house—with no problems that cannot be mended with a little care and love… and a little extra from time to time—hence the power tool purchase. I find myself seeking a restful balcony, an inviting entrance, and a porch to lounge on, room to wonder and a place where I can simply do, or maybe be… and a life that fills that house.

Oh, but I do, and I am, and I rest and invite, and yes, I do wonder. That life is already here. It already is, but sometimes I forget. Perhaps that life is just waiting for the right setting.

Has anyone seen my extension cord?

I love baths. The sound of running water alone delights and relaxes me, makes my day end well—as I rarely go to bed without that one luxury. The bathroom of my 1932 house was remodeled not long before I moved in. It is not my taste, with lots of mauve and grey swirls—I prefer something less distracting, especially in my bath, especially in a 1932 house. Still, I can easily yield to the relaxing aspects of the design when I sink into a tub filled with hot water laced with salts, or bubbles, or something that smells delicious. Depending on my state of mind, I may retreat there with tea, or ice water, or on occasion a glass of wine, or maybe even something even scotch smoky heady entrancing elixir. Oh, rarely that. Usually, the bath alone is plenty to love. Add a candle: Ah. Add music: paradise. Add flowers: wow. All right, now I’m just drifting into dreamland as I imagine that. I have put flowers in my bathroom maybe once, when I had many blooming in my own gardens.

Baths are part of so many cultural rituals, cultures whose baths I have not known. I still imagine the experience of the Roman baths, the Japanese, the mikvah. I have basked in the hot springs of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. I have found hidden springs out west in other places, long ago. But these are more public rituals; my bath is something much more personal. I take showers when I need to clean up, but I take baths to ready my soul for sweet dreams and comfort. Something of washing away the frustrations, the loudness, the many voices—even ones I love—and crawling into bed afterward… It is such a treat, such a necessity.

This is one habit that I have kept for so long—back to when I decided to stop fighting my parents’ notion that children had to wash up on a regular basis. Once, I vividly remember realizing that the bath felt absolutely wonderful, and I became an enthusiastically clean child. I must have been eight or nine when I started retreating there completely on my own, sometimes with a book. My family never thought they would see me again. We only had one bathroom when I was growing up—my bedroom was the closest to it, and I used to slink in when no one noticed. The hours I spent in there were an escape, a wonderful world of water.

Baths are a habit I would ache to give up… hence my sore disappointment at the times in my life when I have found myself without access to a tub. I can name them: first, going to college. Showers only… except one dorm room in some buildings had their own bathrooms, usually with showers… It seems strange that my boyfriend then managed to get the only dorm room on campus with a tub. But then, he graduated. I quit school.

The year I lived in Normandy, again, no bathtub. The showers were not even terribly pleasant. A button turned them on, always ice cold to start, and then the water turned automatically off after two minutes. It took at least two times hitting those buttons to get warm water, which was only available between 8am and 9pm, anyway.

I was sick for several weeks in France early in the year, and finally bought a ticket for Spain in desperation. Please, I needed sun! It was fabulous, paella on the beach, laughing, singing. A new friend I met through new friends I made on the train let me stay with her family in Barcelona (yes, with tub), and her parents spoiled us all wonderfully. On the way home, I was stopped at the border, just after crossing back into France. My train ticket was not valid in France for four days, so I had to stay in Cerbères. The small pension I found for $10 a night had an enormous bathtub, which the owner said I could use—with hot water!—if I cleaned it. I ate roast chicken, talked to scuba divers and fishermen, wrote, and realized at some point that I was no longer sick. And of course, I took many baths, enough to last until I went home.

Water heals. Wildhaus, a village in Switzerland, has a pond called the Schwendisee, full of minerals. The Thaya River that flows through Drosendorf, Austria, on the Czech border, seems to dispense its own magic, too. I would hesitate to believe the power of these waters unless I had not felt my own bruises, cuts, tired muscle aches disappear in them.

So, now, it has been a long week. So many changes: a new school for my son, a new job for me. So far so good. So, I now say good night. But before I drift off, you all know where I will be. Let’s see. Tonight, with the perfumed bubbles, I’ll pull out the João Gilberto: “Só em teus braços, amor, eu posso ser feliz.”

Letters are beautiful. I have no idea what attracted me so much to them—maybe a love for books, and the words on them. But it was more than that. I loved learning to write. The principal of our elementary school, who as I recall was rarely without a cigarette (and a drink, I learned later) did take time out of his day to teach the second graders handwriting.

He had lovely cursive writing, and I imitated his script, elegant as it was. But typefaces seemed so interesting, too. I wondered why we made letters the way we did. I have no idea why, but I experimented with it. Maybe a lot of kids do.

My mom noticed my interest, and in seventh grade, she bought me an Osmiroid fountain pen with exchangeable nibs, and a book on calligraphy. I tried. Not so great. I tried again. Still not great. I was fairly convinced that I could never figure it out, and put the kit away.

Summers as a kid with absolutely nothing to do are some combination of death and living. Boredom and freedom mix in such a way that after the excitement of not having to get up for school gets old, something has to happen or wars begin. For some reason, the summer after seventh grade, I decided not to fight my brother—maybe he had a lot of friends that year. Instead, I started riding my bike to the pool every night and swimming laps for an hour. I did this every night, and came home and had ice cream and wore sweatshirts in the air conditioning. Something about the chlorine and the monotony of going back and forth underwater was so satisfying. It was the perfect time to get the pens out, and I did.

I kept working at it, and finally found some success. My mom’s friend, who displayed her artwork occasionally, started hiring me to make signs. Other people ordered poems, sayings, documents of various sorts. I decided to be an artist. When I got to high school, we were fortunate enough to have eight separate art studios, and a full-year class of rotations to try out everything. I found that every other medium came as slowly to me as the calligraphy, but if it could be studied, I could usually develop some skill. Still, I always went back to the letters, switched pens, tried new methods, read more books, developed it. The papers I find now are glorious, the pens magnificent, the inks gorgeous. What a treat! It makes me want to buy sealing wax.

What made me enjoy calligraphy was not so much the product I made, although I did find great satisfaction in a well-accomplished feat. I loved the practice. I loved the repetition, the concentration that was necessary, but the appreciation for each and every contemplative stroke of the pen. It was something so beautiful, and it calmed me—a nervous preteen, then teenager—as much as the swimming did. I found myself not exactly thinking, mind wandering, when I was doing both these things, but simply present. Indeed, if I let myself think too much, I skipped a line, or a lane. I missed a letter or a word, or ran into a wall or another person. Many occupations have patron saints, but scribes get a demon: Titivillus, there to strike when attention wanders. I have never heard of such a thing for lap swimmers, but maybe it was not considered an occupation when the demons were getting their job assignments.

I tried Chinese calligraphy once, for maybe six classes. I loved it, but was lousy at that first attempt. I bought some brushes, an ink block, rice paper. Sumi-e had its method, bamboo, plum, but was in my twenties and didn’t have time for the requisite state of boredom to learn it well. There is something to be said for not being busy. Still, I enjoyed it, and just recently, I tried t’ai chi. It seemed similar, like drawing characters, moving brush on page, creating, and being.

It had been years since I took out my pens when I finally did. My skills now seem a bit rusty, but retrievable. I had forgotten the place the letters take me, the way things I copied became imprinted on my soul. For years, I pulled books off the shelves to find poems, and there were two I came to love in that time, both by Dylan Thomas. The anthology in the living room had “Fern Hill” and “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night…” Both poems remain, almost word for word, those words, words that in the latter I scarcely understood as I do now. My favorite to copy of the two was “Fern Hill,” with its varying line lengths, and the language, so beautiful. Then, later, when I learned more French, Apollinaire, “Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine/ Et nos amours…” More things I didn’t understand then, but stuck in my mind, still, as the letters still are and always will be.

Coffee is such a pleasure. It sometimes amazes me, the time and effort that go into these sorts of habits, how we spend so much time perfecting them and embellishing them.

I wonder these things as I watch my lovely chrome Expobar extract yet another outstanding espresso with thick, sweet crema. I watch it steam the milk, letting it warm, heat, nearly carmelizing it because I like it sweet, foamy but not bubbly, just sublime.

Who first figured this out? Whose compulsion made the quest for crema the aim of all baristas, including me on a Sunday morning? And then, what of the simple, cream-colored Wedgwood Windsor cup I drink it from? It is a moment I cherish, an anonymous tribute to brilliance shining in my morning. Someone I do not know paved paths to beauty, made moments of my life glorious in small ways, if only because they felt some calling to seek some wonderful, indefinable thing.

In her blog, “Trailer Park Refugee,” Daisyfae recently offered an enlightening account of matrimonial festivities (http://daisyfae.wordpress.com/2008/03/31/eyewitness-report-redneck-wedding-reception/). All the discussion about firearms (should they stay or should they go?), do-it-yourself decoration and cleanup, and dancing ‘til the cows came home made me somewhat nostalgic for bring-your-own get-togethers. The cause for reminiscence is beyond me. Have I blocked memories of celebrations past? Whatever the reasons, I found myself last night listening to Johnny Paycheck while googling the town where my dad grew up. It was out in the country, and the thank you notes I sent for birthday cards and the like only went to roads named Route #1, so finding anything was sort of a challenge.

Now, lest you think me a snob—all right, go ahead and think that—I have to explain a few things. Trips to the country, though dreaded, did have their fun parts. I enjoyed Dixie, the sweet horse who was saddled and ready for a gentle ride whenever we were there. My cousins were nice, and it was a lot of fun to play in the barn when we all were still little. I liked getting to fire off my dad’s Derringer, and walking around the fields and playing with the kittens that always seemed to be around.

But it was not all rosy. The meals were unfamiliar, doughy, greasy, strangely pickled. The adults were loud. I was the fat kid with weird clothes, flat hair, the one who talked too quietly and used the wrong words and looked down when you talked to her. That may have been because of the oinking noises some people made when I actually ate something, or it may have been because nicer people said I had such a pretty smile, if only I’d lose a few pounds. I may have been intimidated by the drinking, or the beehive hairdos. I may have zoned out because of the gossip about people I barely knew, or the rustic beds, or the fact that even though Jefferson City was a mere twenty miles away, we never went there or anywhere else.

Come to find out years later, I was doomed from the start, because I was my mother’s daughter, and my mother had a college education. It was more than that, I know, knowing my mom. My dad stayed in the city, and she got the blame. To save herself from humiliation or any potential conflict in defending her preferences, she also kept her interest in British mysteries and crossword puzzles hidden beneath the surface, martyred as she was in making these trips regularly. I don’t know how she got herself into that mess, why she kept doing it… perhaps some future windfall of payback was anticipated for some indulgence my dad might otherwise not have agreed to. But maybe not. After all, does anyone actually mean to end up in the mire of cognitive dissonance? How do any of us find ourselves–our oh-so-sophisticated selves–pondering aloud while pumping at the Texaco that we were at that first race at Loudon the day before Davey Allison’s helicopter crashed?

So, in remembrance of my dad’s family, I kept googling, trying to bring back some tangible evidence of the days I remember in the country. There were hints of familiar names, traces of towns, but alas, no mention of the farms or the one building I recall in connection to celebrations in the country: the Trail Riders Association. This building, a large meeting palace, sat off a gravel road—I believe—as nearly everything did there, in a field—I think—as nearly everything did, and had outdoor “facilities,” maybe even with a moon painted on the door. I do remember the grasshoppers jumping into my underwear, and the chigger bites that I got to take home. But the town itself seems to have grown since I went there. The last time I tried to find anything nearby, it was not the same place. There now is a technical college, a golf course, a drug rehab clinic, probably a big grocery store, probably satellite television… but no mention of the Trail Riders Association.

I hardly remember when or why we stopped going so often to the country. It may have been that my aunt told my dad that despite his memories of growing up, it was a bit much when we arrived so many Saturdays at 6am. It may have been that my mom, a perennial night owl, finally refused to give up sleeping in on the one morning that she could. Other things undoubtedly came up as we got older, other things to do.

At one point, for example, we filled a good bit of time when we bought property out in a semi-developed area of St. Louis County, where we had intended to build a house. I think my mom must have tried to delay rather than confront the abomination of actual relocation to a place that featured a scenic drive past Bigfoot the monster truck, to get to it. Why would she want us to move out there when she liked the genteel suburb we lived in? It could be argued that the property had more acreage, and was sort of a consolation for my dad after it became apparent that we were not moving to Wyoming. I can think of no other reason that we would have bought it. We did have a garden, and spent many hours clearing brush and cutting grass, eating Vienna sausages in the shed, building and riding go-karts across the field, and visiting our would-be neighbors and their six kids and grandbaby.

Now, these neighbors were an interesting brood. The youngest child and the grandbaby were the same age, and when we first met them, mother and daughter were pregnant together. Their basement floor was much messier than ours, covered as it was with the dirty clothes of nine to ten people, depending on whether the older daughter had a boyfriend living with them at the time or not. I hate to admit now that the noise level and basement floor of my own house sometimes remind me of all that, but as of yet, my daughters are too young for babies and live-in boyfriends, and by the time they are, about twenty years from now, my fertility clock will surely have stopped.

I don’t think it had anything to do with the neighbors, but something happened to stop us from going to the property, too, and eventually we sold it. I was thankful, and found some added level of safety buried beneath a French book, maybe because it was the farthest thing away from my life that I could imagine at the time. I dreamed, dreamed of how I would leave the Midwest and head east. Head East, raise a little hell, and stay here… so I did.

Amazing how some memories make mush of my brain. Or maybe the mush is direct evidence of the ambivalence I feel about my childhood, when I remember pieces of it that don’t seem to fit the story I tell myself. When I was twenty, my dad died, and that part of my life fell off into space, floating far away, an appendage of experiences that hurt to remember, that I wanted to forget.

Is it any wonder that I was confused, with one parent musing answers to the Texaco quiz (there is that brand name again) during the intermission of grand old opera, while the other blared Grand Ole Opry in another room? Music grew louder as the words themselves could not be spoken. Minnie Pearl, her price tag hanging down, juxtaposed against the image of Luciano Pavarotti: arguments that should have played out, discordance that lingered in the background of a puzzle whose pieces—if I found them—could never fit together, could never show a full picture, could never be complete.

But who is to say what sorts of pictures we carry with us? Do we search for missing pieces, or do our hearts with time melt the edges, let new images fill the spaces? I think this is must be how we grow up, how our lives come to make sense with all the crazy, disjointed pieces they may contain. We grow, and love, and in time, even the pain, the tragedies, become a part of a textured illustration richer than any perfect set of pieces that might have first fit together could ever be. That is life; that is our gift.