I know that Veterans Day is about the men and women who have served our country and not about the men and women who have sent them into hostile territory. But those who serve and those who send them are always inextricably connected. And those of us who sit back and enjoy our day-to-day lives without the life-altering interruptions of military service are connected as well.
All of us who are in a position to benefit or lose from our country’s involvement in war—in other words, all of us—should be honoring our soldiers—past, present and future—by asking difficult questions and not accepting the face value answers that are given by those in power. History tells us that the true motives for war are rarely the motives that the American people have been ushered toward believing.
Shouldn’t we demand that our present and future soldiers only be sent into harm’s way for noble purposes? How do we even go about doing this when the ears of those in power seem so out of our reach? How do we define what is noble when the truth is not made available for our weighing? I guess we start by doing what we can, by educating ourselves about our government’s interests in the region at stake. We ask who is calling the shots. Are they sending our people to wars in order to protect America’s freedoms or are they sending them to grow the profits of huge corporations? Are we being led to believe that our freedom is in jeopardy from outside forces when in fact the greatest threats to our freedom are here, inside our borders?
If we find that we don’t like the reasons our soldiers are being sent to war, then what?
I will not pretend to understand the complicated military systems or the reasons behind every action that is taken in the name of national security, but I do know that behind those gigantic decisions are everyday people—people who are willing to put their lives on the line for a country that they love.
Absolutely and without doubt, I respect and honor the men and women who have signed up to serve our country. But the skeptic in me wonders if America is a better place as a result of our recent wars. Have the injuries, the deaths, the difficulties of returning to civilian life been worth it? What about the terrible memories, the PTSD, the high number of suicides among veterans? In reality, have the American people benefitted from these wars? Have the benefits outweighed the losses? If the American people have not benefitted, then who has? Our military men and women signed up to serve our country. Are the recent wars being fought for our security, for our way of life, for our freedom? Or do these wars go on and on and on because a few are reaping an incredible profit?
I celebrate our nation’s veterans. I respect the commitment they’ve made to this country. But honoring them fully requires asking difficult questions–not of the veterans themselves, but of those who send them into war. And I have to ask myself a few difficult questions as well. When I believe the motives for war are wrong, when I believe the means for carrying out the missions are wrong, what am I to do? It’s easiest to set those thoughts aside, to defer to the experts. It’s easiest to be thankful that the wars are in distant lands. But today, as I’m considering our nations veterans and the true sacrifices they have made, I am thinking of the letters I have not written, the phone calls I have not made. I am struck by how easy it is to pretend that war is other people’s problem.
Photo by John P. O’Grady
* * *
I grew up in a house on the edge of town in Craig, Colorado. It sits next to a sagebrush and scrub grass covered hill. A short ways away to the west, Fortification Creek runs high and muddy in the springtime; as summer progresses, it hardly runs at all. The house is within city limits, but when our family moved in, it was well beyond the paved streets and groomed sidewalks part of town. It had untamed space around it and a few neighbors that were equally as untamed.
Our house also had a ghost. Of course I have no definitive proof of such a claim, but I have stories. The stories have been told enough times that it’s possible they’ve changed a little, or that a little color has been added for effect. But I believe them just the same.
The house we shared with a ghost was patched together from two buildings that had originated in Mount Harris, an old coal company town further up the Yampa River valley.
Cruising by at 55 mph, it’s easy to forget that a hundred years ago the company town of Mount Harris was once the biggest town in Routt County. It boasted a population of over 1200 people and was home to businesses, churches, schools and pool halls. In 1942 it made national headlines when an explosion in one of the coal mines killed 34 men.
Today not much remains of Mount Harris — just a few old foundations and an historical marker commemorating it and the mines that were once there. As far as towns go, it was a short-lived. Its first structures went up in 1914 but by 1958 all the bits and pieces of it were sold off and hauled away. Parts of it live on, though, scattered around northwestern Colorado in the buildings that were sold off and moved to new locations.
My parent’s home is its own home, but contained in it are relics from an earlier time, a different place . Did our ghost originate in Mount Harris? She might have. But maybe her ghost-life started on site. There’s no way to know.
* * *
Aside from noises and bumps around the house, the first strange thing to happen occurred shortly after my family moved in. One day when my mom was baking, her little jar of cloves disappeared. The first time it happened, she didn’t give it much thought, but when a second jar of cloves went missing she began to pay attention. After the third jar of cloves inexplicably vanished, my mom, half serious and half joking, asked out loud for the cloves to be returned. The next morning when she opened the kitchen cabinet door, the three jars of cloves were lined up in front of all the other spices.
I never saw the ghost, but my mom tells me she took part of my Christmas present one year when I was eight or nine years old. I had been given a couple of blue hair combs and I was working on putting them in my hair when one went missing. My mom and sisters and I searched everywhere for the comb, but it could not be found. Eventually we gave up our search, thinking that I had misplaced it and it would eventually turn up. Soon enough we forgot all about it.
Several years later, my parents remodeled the upstairs restroom. Upon its completion my mom said something to the effect of, “I wonder if our ghost will approve of our new bathroom?” The next morning the hair comb that had been missing for years was sitting on the counter next to the new sink.
* * *
My mom, when she was still relatively new to the neighborhood, had tea one afternoon with some of the women who’d lived in the area for a while. After a bit of chitchat, she asked them if they had ever heard stories about unusual happenings at the house. They had.
One year around Halloween, my sister and one of her coworkers were decorating the thrift store where she works. They talked about ghosts and haunted houses. During the conversation my sister’s coworker said she only knew of one haunted house in Craig, and she went on to describe my mom and step-dad’s house.
* * *
It’s nearly impossible to grow up in a house that is reputedly haunted and not feel afraid at times. I remember being home alone as a young teenager and hearing what sounded like someone rummaging around in the basement, and getting ready for school one morning and hearing something akin to an old metal box spring mattress being dropped from the ceiling of our basement to the floor. I was too terrified to go down the stairs to investigate.
My mom always reassured me though, that the ghost was friendly — it meant no harm. To back up her claims, my mom would retell the stories of the ghost looking out for my younger sister, Marla, when she was a baby.
Marla was about six months old when my mom and step-dad bought the house. One night, in the middle of the night that first winter, my mom was startled awake by the timer on the kitchen stove going off. It was the kind of timer that could only be set for an hour at a time. She got out of bed to turn the buzzer off, and while she was up she checked on the baby. In her crib, my little sister was soaked and cold. My mom changed her, put dry pajamas on her and brought her into bed to warm her up. It happened once more a few months later. The buzzer in the middle of the night woke her up again. This time, Marla had a raging fever.
* * *
Being brought up as a Pentecostal, I was not particularly skeptical of supernatural notions. I believed in angels and demons. I believed that the laying on of hands could heal people. I’d witnessed, on numerous occasions, people speaking in tongues. But a ghost in the house was different than anything I’d learned about in church. I had been schooled on the idea of the Holy Ghost, but I had no framework for understanding a simple ghost.
That’s really what was most terrifying about the ghost. Not that I thought it would harm me, but that it represented unknown territory. And in my religion, the spirit world consisted of only things from God or things from Satan. There wasn’t talk of an in-between spirituality. The ghost in our house, however, seemed to be more grounded in earthly things. She was a mystery, but not a particularly divine mystery. As far as I could tell, she was not concerned with our spiritual lives. She had an affinity for spices and pretty things. Sometimes she was noisy. She looked after the baby in the night.
* * *
There was a time when my aunt visited from the west coast and she was awakened by footsteps on gravel just outside the guest bedroom window. Then she heard a door open and close on the back of the garage. My aunt was convinced that a prowler had entered. When she woke my mom and told her what she’d heard, my mom reassured her, explaining that the yard was only grass and soft dirt—no gravel at all. And more importantly, nobody could enter a door on the backside of the garage because no such door existed. My aunt was baffled and embarrassed by the experience and doubted herself, even though she was certain of what she had heard.
A few years later, when my parents removed the old siding from the back wall of the garage, they found a doorway that had been sealed in. It was in the same location my aunt claimed to have heard an intruder open and close a door.
* * *
Of all the stories, the hidden doorway story is the one I find most intriguing. There is no explanation for the footsteps on gravel that my aunt heard and the fact that a hidden doorway was discovered where my aunt claimed to have heard one doesn’t prove anything, but it does suggest that perhaps there was something — something that knew more about the house than we did, something that carried on as if the house had never been changed, something that moved through the world unhindered by the laws of physics.
* * *
My mom and step-dad still live in the house on the edge of town that they bought in 1975. The hillside to the north of them is still covered with sagebrush and scrub grass. Now the road in front of them is paved, though, and a few of their more colorful neighbors have been replaced with more conventional ones. The baby that needed attending in the night all those years ago turned forty this year.
Nothing out of the ordinary has happened there for a while. Perhaps the resident ghost has moved on, or maybe she just doesn’t have reason to intervene anymore.
It’s possible, I suppose, that she was never there.
I know that stories on their own don’t amount to proof. But stories are all I’ve got. And doesn’t everything we choose to believe in originate with a story?
The view from my garden on a rainy September evening.
Somewhere, hidden deep within me, perhaps in my genetic code, there is a farmer that would like to emerge. I know she’s in there. I imagine her as an Alaskan/female version of Wendell Berry.
The Wendell Berry version of myself would get up with the sun, feed the animals and work in the garden. In the evenings she would sit contented at her desk, with a bellyful of homegrown food, and write meaningful prose and honest poetry.
I’m not quite there yet, but it’s a dream.
Recently I was inspired by this article http://www.offgridworld.com/6000-lbs-of-food-on-110th-acre/. It’s impressive that so much food can come from such a small space. We live on five acres here, and it’s got the richest soil you can imagine. Someday I’d like to produce 6000 lbs. of food from our property, and every spring it seems like a possibility.
The optimism this past spring was especially bad. My hopefulness came at me from a few different angles. First, I didn’t grow a garden at all in 2013, and I was eager to get my hands dirty. And then we had three weeks of sunshine and hot weather in May. IN MAY! Surely it would be the year to grow all of those things that don’t normally grow in my garden, like zucchini and pumpkins. I also had a thesis to write and a presentation to put together, so spending hours reclaiming the garden space from the weeds that took over last summer seemed like a good idea.
Well now it’s harvest time. Lots of my friends are posting photos of their summertime bounty. They’re making salsa and jam. They’re cellaring their potatoes and carrots and cabbage. They’re freezing things. They’re canning and pickling and generally working like mad to preserve all of their food. I’m harvesting as well, and taking an inventory of this summer’s garden. I’m not in danger of running out of freezer space or canning jars though.
Here’s a rundown of this year’s garden, but before I get to the numbers, here are a few notes on some of the local flora and fauna:
- Cow Parsnip, locally known as Pushki, is a plant that grows to be about ten feet tall. Many people have a reaction to this plant and I am one of those people. If I touch the stuff, especially on a sunny day, I get what is called a Pushki burn. It may not show up for a day or two, but a blister will form. I can wear long pants, rubber boots and leather gloves and still somehow manage to get the stuff on my skin. Our property is covered with this plant.
- Golden-crowned sparrows. These are lovely little migratory birds that return to the area every spring. They have a distinctive three-syllable song and a pretty yellow stripe down the tops of their heads. While I was working to prepare the garden beds, a handful of these birds perched on the surrounding fence posts and sang their little song over and over again. I’m pretty sure they were calling to all the others of their species within a mile radius to let them know I was planting a garden.
- Slugs. These slimy creatures emerge from the soil and eat cabbage, kale, cauliflower, broccoli, lettuce, chard, beet greens, carrots, potato plants and zucchini. I think zucchini is their favorite.
- Dogs. I’m talking about my own dogs here. Ripple and Gypsy of the Sundmark clan. I can’t blame anyone else’s dogs.
Okay, so we had a warm spring, I was hungry for fresh vegetables and I had just read some Wendell Berry poetry. I bought some seeds and some starts from the local gardening supply store. Here’s how it turned out:
- 50 out of the 50 snap peas planted (newly sprouted/not yet covered with bird net) were consumed in their entirety by golden crowned sparrows.
- 9 out of 9 baby zucchini plants were destroyed by slugs before they were big enough to harvest.
- 75 slugs were plucked from three zucchini plants in one evening–(that is when I essentially gave up on this year’s garden)
- 30 out of 30 potato plants survived and are producing beautiful fingerling potatoes!! (Potatoes are magic, by the way.)
- 3 out of 4 broccoli plants were destroyed by slugs
- 5 out of 5 cauliflower plants were destroyed by slugs
- On 4 separate occasions, the Sundmark dogs were spotted grazing on strawberries.
- 6 out of 6 raspberry transplants survived!
- One seed packet’s worth of carrots are still growing. The biggest one pulled so far was the size of my pinky finger.
- Approximately 1 cup of golden raspberries were harvested from plants that were decimated by wild hares a couple of years ago. (So resilient!)
- An unknown number of golden raspberries were consumed by the Sundmark dogs before we realized they were eating them.
- 3 bags of chopped up rhubarb are in the freezer and several rhubarb crisps were eaten throughout the summer. Yay rhubarb!
- 8-12 lettuce and kale plants were rescued from the slugs and transplanted into pots on the deck.
- 4 kale plants were eaten by birds within the first week that they were transplanted into the pots that were placed on the deck.
- 1 fully mature kale plant was eaten from the pot on the deck, in its entirety, by Gypsy. She felt no remorse. (see empty pot on the ground in the photo)
Three slug-free pots of greens.
- 3 beets have been harvested so far. (Our first ones ever!)
- I endured 9 pushki burns. Six on my arms and wrists, three on my face. (These were no big deal. I’m used to them by now.)
- 3 fist-sized cabbages were salvaged before the slugs completely destroyed them.
- 3 cabbages were completely destroyed. (see photo)
Let me disgust you with this slug infested cabbage photo.
Clearly it wasn’t my best gardening year.
I planted a garden and proceeded to neglect it. The yield was low. But what I gained from my time spent within those garden fences last spring can’t be quantified. Putting a figure on fresh air and earthworms and cranes circling overhead is damn near impossible. My baby carrots and fingerling potatoes are like an end of the season bonus. The few deep green kale leaves that survived the sparrows, slugs and Sundmark dogs are more than I had a right to hope for.
Oh yes, my harvest, in all of its insignificance, will be savored.
This photo was taken in the spring, when the world was a hopeful place and slugs were far, far from my mind. I am adding it here, as a way to make up for the slug infested cabbage photo.
So a few days ago, I was minding my own business, scrolling through Facebook to see what’s up. As usual, it was a mix of everything. There were lots of political ads telling me why this or that candidate is sure to ruin this great state of Alaska. There were friends’ status updates of their children heading off to college or various other adventures. There were a ton of beloved pets behaving cutely, and sadly there were a few notices of those beloved pets passing on. As always, there were beautiful photographs of sunsets, sunrises, mountain summits, garden harvests; plenty of inspirational quotes and stunning graphic designs. There were some hilarious, irreverent memes making fun of the ways humans behave, and some more thoughtful memes created for the purpose of urging people to question the system—the man. Twice I watched the clip of a swearing two year old who’d just had water dumped on her head. I admired the smiling face of a woman celebrating her 99th birthday. Of course there were selfies and rants, photos of new tattoos, a few poses with Disney Princesses and in my feed, lots of links to articles about writing—and not writing—and the difficulties of writing—and the things we do to motivate ourselves to keep writing. (Seems as though writers write a lot about writing…).
As it stands, I haven’t written anything for about a month. August was an incredible blur of family, fishing, fish processing, boating, cookouts, working, berry picking—all typical Alaskan summer stuff, and this stretch of (good) madness came just after returning from Anchorage where I presented my thesis colloquium, read a short story of mine aloud to the faculty and my peers in the UAA MFA program and brought to a conclusion my stint as a graduate student.
And so now that it’s Labor Day, and the company has left, and my daughter has returned to school, and the salmon runs are over and my degree is finished, I’m feeling a little unmoored. Borderline lost. At times dispirited. I need to anchor myself again. I need to get back to writing. The busyness of my life was a great excuse to keep me away from my keyboard and notebooks, but now I have no excuses, and yet there is still something inside of me that wants to resist, even though I know, without a doubt, that writing is what I need to do.
I have two big projects in mind—so big that if I spend too much time thinking about them I start to panic. I also have a bunch of stories to revise and expand and send out. And I have the day-to-day writing—the writing I do here and now. It’s what keeps me grounded. It gives me courage. It keeps me noticing the things going on around me. It makes me look at the life I’m living right now without getting bogged down by the past or overwhelmed by the future. It’s always where I need to start.
And this leads me back to where I started this little bit of writing—scrolling through my Facebook feed, minding my own business. Scrolling through Facebook, as unimportant as it may seem sometimes, can be a reminder of what real life looks like. Real life is a mix of funny and sad, irreverent and serious. Real life is beautiful and frustrating. Sometimes Facebook is used to perpetuate narcissism, but sometimes it gets me out of my own head and into the lives of others. Two things brought me out of my anonymous comfort zone of scrolling the other day.
As most all of you who have spent any amount of time on Facebook recently know, everyone seems to be posting videos of themselves getting ice water dumped over their heads. And honestly, I hadn’t been paying much attention to the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. Up until a couple of days ago, the only clip I’d watched was the aforementioned video of the two year old girl swearing when the cold water was poured on her. But then I got a notification that I’d been tagged. My nephew Dan (who lives in Phoenix, where a bucket of ice water might be thought of as a less of a challenge and more of a delight) challenged me, and his challenge was creative and funny and as much as I wished to ignore it, I knew it would be lame to pretend that I hadn’t been tagged. That was the first thing that demanded my attention.
And so I was considering this challenge—giving it a lot of thought. But then I saw a second thing come through my newsfeed that hit me on a more personal level. It was a Go Fund Me site that has been set up to help out a cousin of mine who has recently been diagnosed with a brain tumor. Although I am not personally close to her, her life and the difficulties she and her family are facing have been in the forefront of my mind. Knowing of her situation has reminded me that all of life is a gift—spouses, siblings, sons and daughters. Sunrises, sunsets, poetry, paintings. Incessant rain, fog, windstorms, mud. Bugs, flowers, pets, music. Woodstoves, windows, clean water, friends. All of it. The good and the not-so-good.
And so I’m accepting Dan’s challenge, sort of. I’m not going to dump ice water on myself and I’m not going to film myself plunging into the cold waters of Kachemak Bay (although I think that would have been awesome.) Instead I’m going to give thanks for my health, my family, my life that is full to the brim. I’m going to get back to the business of writing, because being able to do so is a gift I shouldn’t squander. I’m going to remind myself that like life, writing doesn’t always have to be perfect. And I’m giving a donation to my cousin and her family instead of to ALS research.
I encourage everyone to donate to a cause or a person or a family that could use your help and I challenge all of you to find love for the life that you’re living. Take a step toward doing that thing you know you’re supposed to be doing. Filter through the myriad of things life throws your direction and find what matters.
And to see the site set up for my cousin and her family, click here: http://www.gofundme.com/dodrz4
Stories in the news this week: A young man kills a group of people, but before doing so he leaves a misogyny-laden Youtube video explaining why he’s going to do what he does. A forest fire burns 183,000 acres on the Kenai Peninsula. And Maya Angelou dies, leaving me to ponder her fearlessly lived life.
These things are unrelated, but I’m a writer and what that means is that these things are winding through my brain, and I’m trying to order them up, make some sort of sense and connection out of them. And ultimately they’re all converging into a story I’ve been meaning to tell, and waiting for the right time to tell it.
A regular hangout space that students of the UAA MFA creative writing program frequent during our summer residency in Anchorage is the Blue Fox Lounge. It’s within walking distance from the dorms and it’s a great place to unwind after long days of literary talks, workshops and readings. On this particular night, a band was playing—a band we’ve made a point of going out for over the last few years. I sat with my friends right in the front, just feet from the trumpet and trombone. The music was fantastic and I was fully enjoying the break from my day-to-day life of working in the library, household responsibilities and going to bed by 10:30pm. For a couple of hours I laughed with my friends, enjoyed a couple of beers and lost myself in the music. A rare, memorable night.
Then, after the band finished playing, we decided to go out for breakfast. In front of the bar while we waited for a cab, we made small talk with the band members as they smoked and packed up their gear. We made a point of thanking them for the music, and for maintaining such a high energy level for so many hours. At that point, the keyboard player, the one who kept the witty banter going throughout the night, asked me my name. Teresa, I told him.
“You know what you are, Teresa?” He said. “You’re a cougar.”
The smoke from the Funny River Horse Trail Fire was dark brown and snaking its way from somewhere up the peninsula down to the head of Kachemak Bay where it hovered over the water and moved toward town last week. As is the case with every fire, it started small. But an unconventionally long stretch of dry weather, a beetle-killed spruce forest, dry grasses and wind conspired to allow one spark to grow and consume a total of 183,000 acres over the next several days. Over the Memorial Day weekend, a fire ban was put in place, which meant no outdoor fires were allowed. No campfires, no cooking fires, no burn barrels. Not even on the beach, not even with a bucket of water and a shovel nearby. Families closer to the fire spent their weekend cutting down trees, making defensible space around their homes.
As a writer, words are my job. I realize they have power. I try to choose them carefully. I want to understand their connotations.
I wasn’t sure how to take that at first. Mostly I was stunned. I mean, who was this guy, and what was he saying about me? As is often the case in uncomfortable situations, I laughed it off. But it didn’t take long for me to start adding up the number of things he was saying about me with that one word.
Before the word was directed toward me that evening last summer, I was hardly aware of the ages of my friends. They were my MFA buddies, people who had read my writing, critiqued it and understood it in a way that few other people had. And I’d read their work. One great thing that happens when you share your work with people is that you connect with them on a deeper lever. Suddenly with this word, I was aware of my age, and of theirs. This one word, at least for a moment, lessened the real relationship I have with my MFA friends, a few of whom are men younger than me.
Before the word was directed toward me, I didn’t feel self-conscious. But in an instant these thoughts went through my head: Should I color my gray hair? Do I look like I’m out to hook up with someone? Should I have gone home early? Maybe I shouldn’t have gone out at all. Eventually, I rationalized my way through these thoughts, but that one word made me doubt myself for a moment.
And then there were the inconsistencies. A few members of the group were women who are younger than me, and men who are older than me. But the keyboard player didn’t feel inclined to shame the older men for hanging out with younger women. And while calling me a cougar was hardly a crime, it was an insult, an insult that was gender specific. What are the insults directed toward women that don’t have a male equivalent? Old maid, hag, slut, whore, tease… cougar. I could make the list longer, I’m sure.
Most baffling of all to me was this: what gave that man the sense that he had to right to define me with that term? He’s a total stranger. All he saw of me that night was that I was out late, I was laughing, I was enjoying a beer or two with my friends, I was tapping my foot to the music. That’s it. And yet he felt entitled—compelled somehow—to belittle my existence in that space in time. I’m sure had he been in line in front of me at the grocery store or had I met him in a more formal setting, he would have made polite conversation. But being out, late at night, with people not my age, gave him license to call me a derogatory name.
And people think that women are too sensitive—that we are uptight about language and names and subtle jokes about our sexuality. But those words are like sparks. They have potential to grow into full-blown misogyny. They have to be extinguished and called out and we have to make people understand their power. It’s not just about being politically correct, it’s about taking preventative action. When we point out an inconsistency or a sexist remark, we’re making defensible space. We’re making sure you understand that we’re not going to allow you to burn us. When we don’t tolerate names or insults at all—even in the context of a joke—we’re banning those campfires, those cooking fires, those burn barrels. It may seem like an extreme measure, but all it takes is reading the news to see that extreme measures are in order. And wouldn’t it be nice if we could move beyond making defensible space? Wouldn’t it be nice to somehow send everyone the message that power and oppression are not mutually exclusive? The band that night had power over its audience in a good way. Everyone in the Blue Fox was smitten with their sound. Too bad the keyboard player didn’t feel that that was enough.
Edith Campbell Ross
When I was in kindergarten, I’d spend afternoons at my Grandma’s house. She’d sit at her kitchen table with me and together we’d drink tea—with lots of sugar—and eat slices of her homemade bread.
She was sixty-nine years old when I was born and had lived a long life before I was ever in the picture, but of course when I was young I didn’t think about the life she’d lived before I was in this world. I didn’t even wonder how she spent her days before I walked through her door every afternoon.
As a young woman, she raised her family in remote country, high up in the hills outside of Telluride, Colorado. She no doubt worked harder in one day than I do in month. But by the time I was in kindergarten she was beyond all of that. When I knew her she had the modern conveniences of indoor plumbing, centralized heat and television. By the time I came along she could do her dishes without having to haul water or boil it first. If she felt chilly, all she had to do was turn up the thermostat. And so when I sat at her table after school on those weekday afternoons, she had time to sit there with me. If she talked about her life at all it was in the form of stories about her and her sister Bessie playing together when they were little girls, and the trouble their very naughty brother Jesse always seemed to bestow on them.
Those afternoons were about tea and bread and childhood stories. She didn’t burden me with anything about the adult world.
If I could sit down with her now, I’d probably ask her too many questions. I’d want to know what it was like to raise a slew of children in a small cabin high up in the mountains. I’d ask about her parents, her brothers and sisters, her marriage to my grandfather. I’d want to know what brought her the most joy and what brought her the most sorrow.
As it is, all I can do is imagine what her life must have been like before I knew her. I can take the experiences of my own life and project what I know about love and hard work and responsibility onto her life as a young wife and mother. But all of that is speculation. What is real and what I don’t have to imagine is the memory of my grandmother’s calm presence. Time with her was soothing to my young soul. It was not about the future or the past. It was just about sitting together in the afternoon sun, drinking sweet hot tea and eating bread still warm from the oven.
The temperature was dropping and a strong wind was blowing when I walked down the driveway after work on Thursday night. I am used to windstorms and cold, so I didn’t think much of it. But the gusts got louder and stronger through the night. Around 2:00am we heard one of the fiberglass panels from our greenhouse dislodge and it began to smack against the side of the house over and over again. An empty rain barrel crashed into the wall of our garage and then found its way from one side of our property to the other. It wasn’t a night for sleeping.
The next morning, the house was cold and outside the wind still blew–30mph sustained with gusts up to 60. We built a fire in the woodstove and when we opened the curtains we could see substantial sparks from the stovepipe flying through the air. The record breaking warm spell from January that had melted all of our snow was over, but the ground remained bare and vulnerable with dry grasses and brittle fireweed husks. Red flag fire warnings, standard fare for May or June, were issued in early February. Thankfully, the sparks fizzled out before they landed.
On my way to work Friday morning, gusts shook the car and blowing grit from early winter road sanding made for moments of no visibility. The pavement was littered with branches and debris. In three places I saw evidence of trees that had fallen and already been removed from the roadway. Halfway to town, a house with its roof torn and folded up on itself made my own sleepless night seem insignificant.
The wind didn’t let up all day. In town, the library and the college lost power. Trees and power lines snapped. Roof shingles sailed through the air. Those of us who ventured out covered our heads to keep from getting dirt in our eyes and mouths. Everywhere it seemed people were on edge after having spent the night mentally holding down their homes and property.
Around noon, although it couldn’t be seen falling from the sky, cold, wispy, dry snow started to appear in the mix of blowing debris. After a few hours it began to accumulate unevenly—still bare ground in exposed places, but a few inches against buildings and in protected places. Finally, before we went to bed on Friday night, the wind stopped as abruptly as it had started the night before. I slept in the comfort of silence and a fresh blanket of snow.
Everything that Friday was—violent, dusty, dark, edgy, uncertain—Saturday was not. The storm had passed, the skies were clear. The voice on the radio reminded me that we’re gaining five minutes of daylight a day.
I drank my coffee and had two productive hours of schoolwork in a sunlit room. Then I dug out my Mardi Gras beads and drove into town to watch the winter carnival parade. The parade doesn’t change much from year to year, but still I go. I love its silliness and its familiarity. It’s the town’s way of not taking itself too seriously. And yesterday, the day after the town felt like it was going to blow to pieces, everyone was relieved and festive and ready to have a good time.
Seeing friends at the parade led to an impromptu get-together of playing old-time fiddle tunes for a couple of hours in the afternoon. Later in the evening, we went to see the Irish band, Lunasa, at the high school. The place was packed and musicians played tirelessly and flawlessly for two solid hours. After the show, we stopped at the Down East Saloon to enjoy Cajun music and one more showing of the Bossy Pants Brass Band that had marched in the parade. People were costumed and sparkly. The dance floor was sweaty and packed.
When we got home at midnight, I sat for a while and looked out the window at the stars. I thought about my day and how many friends I’d seen and caught up with. I thought about the way this town is molded by its crazy weather and its silly traditions. I thought about how I get weary of living here sometimes with the coastal climate, the distance from the rest of the world, the sameness, year after year. But then one sunny, musical day with a parade comes along and any bad thought that’s ever entered my mind about living here is gone as abruptly as the windstorm.
I went to bed with my mind still in motion. I could still see my friends’ children dancing to Lunasa’s hop jigs and reels. I could still hear the old time fiddle tunes I’d played in the cozy living room of my friend’s house. I could still see familiar faces parading through the middle of town—some on bikes, some on floats, some walking alongside their decorated farm animals. I could still feel the rhythm of the Cajun two-step I’d danced with my husband and a hundred other friends. When I finally fell asleep, I was thinking of all of us in this one place, all of us weathering every storm.