handstories

once upon a time...

    I thought this one was going to tell a dark fairy tale, but it turns out it's about story.  That's happening a lot these days.

    Dad was a pretty good storyteller, usually with a deadpan tone and face, ending with a "gotcha!" kind of a punchline.

    So, back to this piece...  While adding details to it this morning, thinking about how each stitch is a continuing of, or in, the story.  That every story comes from another, and reaches toward the next.  

    Of course, that led to my story, and the family of tales that I come from.  Like most, I suppose, it's a weaving of crazy, funny, hard, good, sad, and weary tellings.  (Although, ours may have a few more tangles and knots than most.)

    There was one particularly full piece of time around when I turned twenty, and mom was nearing forty.  The family was going through all kinds of drama.  I'd come home from college on the weekends when I could, and try to help piece things back together.

    Arriving home late one Friday night, I found my mom on the floor, her feet up on the built in desk.  She'd been crying.  "What's happened now?" I asked.  She said.  We sighed.  "It'll be ok... Somehow." I told her us.  Sitting down nearby, my back leaning against our childhood game cupboard, I asked, "Why don't you watch soap operas anymore?"

    "They're too boring now... compared to us."  And we laughed.

    At the time, I had imagined writing a book about it all titled 20/40 Vision, but was sure that none of them would ever talk to me again.

    All the stories, they go on and on... and how the moon was always there.

trees & just being

        More trees.  I like the surprise of making them.  Never knowing how they'll turn out.  Even if they're a bit sketchy with some odd tilts to their lines, it's still clear that they're trees.  Someday I'd like to stitch a forest of them.  These are leaning a bit.  The wind must've been blowing.

    It's been a good weekend.  Yesterday there was a walk with Janie's daughter, she's such a happy kind spirit.  We laughed about some of the pieces of crazy that happened during my Oregon trip.  That felt good.

    Today has been still and quiet, with the guys out and about, and Twinkle sharing my blanket here, while I stitch.

    Finally back to school tomorrow, maybe, they say it may snow again tonight.

making home

    Thinking about...

    Home and community.  How we make them, how they shape us.  

    Grace's comment on the last post, "Back. To the Home You created."  (A very good centering reminder.)

    Talking with a friend last night about the trip, the place, the feelings there.  She asked, "How did you get out?"  I heard myself saying, "I was going to, or die trying."  Which made me laugh, because that was one of Dad's sayings.

    And talking with my sister today about our hometown, and how glad we are to be back in our now homes.

    There are some good memories, too.  Scraps of stories came back while walking down our old street, naming the families that used to live in the houses... Paula's grandma's where I saw my first bleeding heart flower and learned that yogurt was made from live bacteria, and couldn't believe either things were true.  Maxine's, where we watched "The Wizard of Oz" and ate too much salty popcorn one night.  Coach Cook's, who saw me running one day and said I would be joining the cross-country team.  Charlie's with the empty lot next door that we all called "The Field".  Once a year he'd mow it down, in-between we would run, hide and play in the tall tall Queen Anne's lace, grass and weeds that covered it.

    I just keep stirring this pot of self and the past, waiting for it all to come together into something.  I was going to apologize for that, but I'm not.  I'm tired of being sorry.  So, if folks don't mind, I'll just keep whisking and folding the thoughts, and hoping that nothing curdles.

pieces of "Story"

    The last two days have been spent making more squares for the "Story" blanket, while sifting through some thoughts.

    The department showed up for Dad's gathering, parking one of the rigs out front.  He was a volunteer fire fighter with them for 31 years.  Assistant Chief in the last years.  He said he was too ornery and opinionated to ever get elected chief.  

    Folks shared stories about him, fondly calling him "cantankerous", "genuine old western character", "honest", "asshole", "a good friend", "a bear of a man".  They were all true.

    His hunting hat, with a notch for each deer or elk that he brought home.

    His last words were, "It was what it was."

    Wondering when this will all ease... had no idea how big this place called "through" would be.

home

    This was all that was stitched, at the end of that first day, a week ago.

    Home now, arrived last night, drank a bottle of wine and went to bed for ten hours.

    Notes from the first day... "There are no words, twilight zone, home, crazy, comfortable, awful, unbelievable, rabbit hole.  You can't make this shit up."

    It was hard.  Too many days.  Too many people.  Too many memories.  Too, too much... and not enough.

    There was crying while standing over his washing machine, setting out chairs at the community club for the gathering, in the street, talking to a guy from high school (who I barely knew forty years ago), in front of my mom...

    And then there was the first moment when all four of us were in his house together, when all three of them were crying, hugging, and I just watched without any tears at all.

    Last night, arriving back in Seattle, the water and buildings of downtown to the left, taking the exit off towards my neighborhood to the right... Surprised by the sound of the breath I took in, so deep that the coolness of it filled me.  Loud and sharp, as if I'd come up from the bottom of the ocean... and the long slow release of it.

    There is a lot to process, sort out, and self to get back together.  Going to let it rest for a while, and just be for a bit.

    And there is a dead cat in our basement freezer (not Twinkle).  You really can't make this shit up.

ends, ending, endless

    A very big heart-full thank you for all of your lovely supportive thoughts and wishes.  I'm here in Oregon.  The drive yesterday was a little precarious, but to my great relief and joy a very good dear friend, who likes adventures and driving, said she would drive me and then take the train back to Seattle!  Can you believe it?!

    The view and company were beautiful.

    But now I am here.  My brother, who lives here, had to work today, one sister arrived this evening, my Rhode Island sister was delayed by a storm and won't be here until tomorrow.  

    So, I was alone in Dad's house today.  Some of the time was spent packing up the kitchen for donations, some of it was wandering aimless through the rooms learning some things about him.  Overwhelmed by the task, grunge, emotions, I took breaks.  Went to the grocery store for boxes.  Went for a long walk in the rain through my childhood streets.  Stood under the tree next to our old house.  Remembered dad up in it, trimming the branches, one falling on his face and breaking his nose.

    This was my bedroom, there were pink gingham curtains back then.  The house was light blue.  At night, I would crawl out and sit on the roof, looking at the trees and street lights, the park two blocks away, the sky, trying to imagine a bigger world.  One night I wrote a poem about it.  It was in seventh grade.  (I know that because I remember it was in the spiral notebook with a scratch-n-sniff dill pickle on the cover.)  When I showed it to a friend the next day, she didn't believe I wrote it.

    I wonder what it said?

piece & peace (& lack of)

    Yesterday was a pretty and peaceful day.  Our hill was quiet and calm.

    We got about seven inches.  The day was spent stitching and not thinking about Tuesday's trip.  

    Last night anxiety attacked.  Nightmares of Dad and guns, me trying to keep others safe, and another of fragile wombats and premature babies that I was responsible for keeping alive, and failing.  Today there is a headache and stress for the weather, the drive, some of the people to be with there, the task to do, and for the work left to do inside of myself.  

    It's looking like I should leave tomorrow, a day early, between storms.  I don't like driving in good weather.  I don't want to leave home.

    Time to start packing, and searching for some inner peace...

storm watch

    Here we go again...  It started at noon today, ending by four tomorrow, maybe a little more on Monday, and possibly a new storm on Tuesday.   My sisters are flying into Oregon on Tuesday from Rhode Island and California, and I'm supposed to drive down the same day.  We're meeting to empty out Dad's house, and then have the Gathering.  The weather report for Portland is much the same.  I'm not worrying about it all yet.

    Some stitching.  Moving from piece to piece as the stories come.

    I've been to the grocery store, moved the four-wheel drive to the flat main street a block away...the city is shutting down.  

    Now just watching the prettiness, and thinking about the things that we'll find in his house... Pendleton wool shirts, deeply stained coffee mugs, old western paperbacks, and the last of his salmon catches in the freezer.

snow & sense

    Two snow days with no school...what a treat!  Self-indulgence abounded, including hot chocolate.  Yesterday there was knitting, and today one of Jude's moons is becoming a personal talisman.

    Twice I had to go out and deal with foolish drivers.  We live on a steep hill.  If it's snowy and icy, and there are no tracks in the snow, do not try driving up or down it.  It's not rocket science, people.  But, if you do, I will come out with a shovel, roll my car backwards down the hill so you won't hit it, offer guidance to help you get down, and be kind (but I will raise my eyebrows at you).

ghosts & hope

    This morning, in that place in between dreams and waking, there came old feelings and memories, tiny flash-backs of moments.

    The clearest was from thirty years ago, while visiting a friend...

    "What's the hardest part?" she asked me.  

    We were in her backyard, on our backs looking up at the stars.  I can't remember much of the house, or even where it was, but I can still feel the cool grass on the edges of my face and the heaviness of the depression I was struggling with.

    "Waking up and knowing that I have to get up and do it all over again," I said staring into the night.

    

    In the fog of this memory, opening my eyes to the dim light of early morning, I was glad to know that there was plenty of time for a shower, oatmeal and making tea before the sun was all the way up.  That there was a whole morning with cloth, without a wasted bit of light, to look forward to.

  How swell it was to realize things are so different now, that often there are too many ideas, plans and wishes for each day, and that the dark skies usually hold hope and possibilities.

    And now it's snowing!  A tiresome burden for much of the country, I know, but it's a rare treat here in the northwest.

    Wishing you all some peace-filled dreams and days, oxo.