I composed and recomposed this one several times in my head while I walked Bela tonight. Here are two of them.
#30
We must remember:
at the end of this tunnel,
there are daffodils.
#31
January grey.
I brighten at the thought of
daffodils waking.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
My most popular blog post
I was amused to see that this is my most popular blog post ever, when reviewing my site stats the other day. I suspect most people stumble upon it when they are actually looking for advice about taking multiple birth control pills at the same time.
I have to say, re-reading it, I'm rather intrigued about what happens next.
I have to say, re-reading it, I'm rather intrigued about what happens next.
100 haiku challenge, 29
I have no idea why this one showed up. But here it is.
#29
Babar goes to space.
His bed: pillows in a pool.
Still my fantasy.
#29
Babar goes to space.
His bed: pillows in a pool.
Still my fantasy.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
Rearranging the furniture (part 2)
I thought everyone rearranged the furniture frequently until I met Tony, the man who is now my husband. His experience growing up could not have been more different.
When his mom and dad moved into their first (and only) house, they picked out their furniture, moved it into place and there it stayed. They chose a heavy Spanish-style living room set, a low couch in olive green chenille, which faced two squat chairs upholstered in blue stripes.
The first time I visited Tony’s childhood home, I noticed they were in mint condition despite the fact they were more than 30 years old. “That’s because no one was allowed to sit on them,” he told me.
“Not even your mom and dad?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“Not even when company came over?” I couldn’t believe it.
“We didn’t have company,” he said.
It wasn’t just the living room. The family room still had orange shag carpet, and you could see the deep impressions the ancient plaid sofa had left from years of pressing down the pile. Tony and his younger brother’s bedrooms were both decked in orange and brown—twin beds, a small wooden desk for doing homework, a dresser each. The only difference was that his brother had a few posters tacked to the wall. Charles Barkley. Shaquille O’Neil. “He got away with more than I did,” Tony explained.
I think it’s this difference in how we grew up—the fact that in his house, nothing ever moved, and in mine, everything was always in motion—that explains how we react to change. Tony is immediately suspicious, on alert for risk, while I am thinking of the possibilities. I am a daydreamer, ready to fantasize about a month’s vacation in Italy or Australia, and Tony rarely plans a long weekend away.
Once, I told him, “Tone, I want to quit my job and write a book!” That didn’t go over well.
I have learned that any change, even something as insignificant as rearranging the furniture (you can always put it back, after all) will take serious convincing on my part. Perhaps this is why for more than three years, my living room was configured in a such a way that it annoyed me every time I set foot in there.
I was four months pregnant when we moved in, and I can only guess that I was tired, or distracted, but I must have left the living room set up in Tony’s hands and taken a nap instead. True to his techno-geek, audiophile nature, he chose to place the stereo where any reasonable person would put the couch. Oh, he had his reasons. Acoustics, room resonance modes, blah, blah. But the result was that the couch had to be pushed to one side of the room or the other, totally off balance and not taking advantage of the fire place as the room’s focal point. You cannot, as you know, sit on the stereo and gaze at the fire.
Three years of sitting in that room wondering “Why the hell is stereo in the middle of the room?” feeling like every time we had friends over, they would sit on the couch at one end of the room, and we’d shout at them all the way from the chairs at other end.
So today, I just couldn’t stand it, and announced that we’d be moving the furniture into a configuration that works for me, either with his help and agreement, or if not—I’d just do it myself one day when he was out. And I must have had a little bit of crazy in my eyes because he didn’t even try to resist.
And now, with the couch across from the fireplace, a comfortable, yet close cluster of chairs to encourage conversation, and the stereo in a more appropriate place, I am satisfied, in fact, gleeful with the change. It is like a weight has been lifted from my soul and I wonder if this is how my mom felt after she’d reordered the living room furniture again.
Light.
Free.
Like the change had suddenly opened possibilities that had never been there before. She could see them now and she could go after her dreams, with the couch pointed in the right direction.
When his mom and dad moved into their first (and only) house, they picked out their furniture, moved it into place and there it stayed. They chose a heavy Spanish-style living room set, a low couch in olive green chenille, which faced two squat chairs upholstered in blue stripes.
The first time I visited Tony’s childhood home, I noticed they were in mint condition despite the fact they were more than 30 years old. “That’s because no one was allowed to sit on them,” he told me.
“Not even your mom and dad?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“Not even when company came over?” I couldn’t believe it.
“We didn’t have company,” he said.
It wasn’t just the living room. The family room still had orange shag carpet, and you could see the deep impressions the ancient plaid sofa had left from years of pressing down the pile. Tony and his younger brother’s bedrooms were both decked in orange and brown—twin beds, a small wooden desk for doing homework, a dresser each. The only difference was that his brother had a few posters tacked to the wall. Charles Barkley. Shaquille O’Neil. “He got away with more than I did,” Tony explained.
I think it’s this difference in how we grew up—the fact that in his house, nothing ever moved, and in mine, everything was always in motion—that explains how we react to change. Tony is immediately suspicious, on alert for risk, while I am thinking of the possibilities. I am a daydreamer, ready to fantasize about a month’s vacation in Italy or Australia, and Tony rarely plans a long weekend away.
Once, I told him, “Tone, I want to quit my job and write a book!” That didn’t go over well.
I have learned that any change, even something as insignificant as rearranging the furniture (you can always put it back, after all) will take serious convincing on my part. Perhaps this is why for more than three years, my living room was configured in a such a way that it annoyed me every time I set foot in there.
I was four months pregnant when we moved in, and I can only guess that I was tired, or distracted, but I must have left the living room set up in Tony’s hands and taken a nap instead. True to his techno-geek, audiophile nature, he chose to place the stereo where any reasonable person would put the couch. Oh, he had his reasons. Acoustics, room resonance modes, blah, blah. But the result was that the couch had to be pushed to one side of the room or the other, totally off balance and not taking advantage of the fire place as the room’s focal point. You cannot, as you know, sit on the stereo and gaze at the fire.
Three years of sitting in that room wondering “Why the hell is stereo in the middle of the room?” feeling like every time we had friends over, they would sit on the couch at one end of the room, and we’d shout at them all the way from the chairs at other end.
So today, I just couldn’t stand it, and announced that we’d be moving the furniture into a configuration that works for me, either with his help and agreement, or if not—I’d just do it myself one day when he was out. And I must have had a little bit of crazy in my eyes because he didn’t even try to resist.
And now, with the couch across from the fireplace, a comfortable, yet close cluster of chairs to encourage conversation, and the stereo in a more appropriate place, I am satisfied, in fact, gleeful with the change. It is like a weight has been lifted from my soul and I wonder if this is how my mom felt after she’d reordered the living room furniture again.
Light.
Free.
Like the change had suddenly opened possibilities that had never been there before. She could see them now and she could go after her dreams, with the couch pointed in the right direction.
Monday, January 02, 2012
Rearranging the furniture
Growing, up, my mother rearranged the furniture at least every six months.
Not every room. The kitchen, for example, was too small for anything but a small table pushed against the one wall without a counter. Or the dining room with windows on two sides and doors on the others meant the glossy, Ethan Allen table must sit in the center of the room.
But the living room provided my mother with a seemingly endless set of combinations. Sometimes, she pushed the couch against the west wall, sometimes the south, or sometimes she pulled it out to the middle of the room to face the two wing-back chairs, forming a seating area that floated away from the walls.
Her bedroom too. She'd push her bed flush against the wall one month, only to pull it out at an angle from the corner the next.
I hated it. Not that she moved the furniture, but that she often enlisted me. "Just help me swing the couch around," she'd say. Which meant then repositioning the coffee table and end tables, which meant clearing them of lamps and knick-knacks first, then giving them a good polish with some Endust and a rag before putting it all back together. But if I didn't help her, my mom--all five-foot four of her--would just end up pushing things around herself and throwing out her back.
Clearly, rearranging the furniture was something that energized her. She'd stand back to examine the space like a painter inspecting her canvas, then move in with quick, decisive steps. My mom was a master at spatial relationships. She could eyeball any nook, no problem, as tell you if that desk would fit.
For my mom, a single mother of two, who was going to school full time, working a part time job and keeping a house running--I think rearranging the furniture was her version of a vacation. She couldn't afford a week in Hilton Head, but she could change the scenery just by changing the position of the couch. I suppose it was when she was feeling most low--her most lonely, unhappy moments--that was when she got the urge to rearrange.
When I moved out on my own, I carried my mother's restlessness with me. I moved into an old farmhouse that had been converted into apartments. I had one half of the first floor, three rooms all in a row, shotgun-style, from the front to the back of the house. The kitchen was at the rear. I not only moved the furniture around several times during the two years I lived there, but switched my bedroom and living room between the middle and front rooms and back again at least once or twice. No matter how I arranged things, the setup just didn't feel right! It made sense to have the living room in the middle. That way if I had guests they didn't have to tromp through my bedroom to get to the bathroom or kitchen. But having my bedroom in the front was unsettling, since I was sleeping next to the front door.
I thought everyone rearranged the furniture frequently until I met Tony, the man who is now my husband.
(To be continued...)
Not every room. The kitchen, for example, was too small for anything but a small table pushed against the one wall without a counter. Or the dining room with windows on two sides and doors on the others meant the glossy, Ethan Allen table must sit in the center of the room.
But the living room provided my mother with a seemingly endless set of combinations. Sometimes, she pushed the couch against the west wall, sometimes the south, or sometimes she pulled it out to the middle of the room to face the two wing-back chairs, forming a seating area that floated away from the walls.
Her bedroom too. She'd push her bed flush against the wall one month, only to pull it out at an angle from the corner the next.
I hated it. Not that she moved the furniture, but that she often enlisted me. "Just help me swing the couch around," she'd say. Which meant then repositioning the coffee table and end tables, which meant clearing them of lamps and knick-knacks first, then giving them a good polish with some Endust and a rag before putting it all back together. But if I didn't help her, my mom--all five-foot four of her--would just end up pushing things around herself and throwing out her back.
Clearly, rearranging the furniture was something that energized her. She'd stand back to examine the space like a painter inspecting her canvas, then move in with quick, decisive steps. My mom was a master at spatial relationships. She could eyeball any nook, no problem, as tell you if that desk would fit.
For my mom, a single mother of two, who was going to school full time, working a part time job and keeping a house running--I think rearranging the furniture was her version of a vacation. She couldn't afford a week in Hilton Head, but she could change the scenery just by changing the position of the couch. I suppose it was when she was feeling most low--her most lonely, unhappy moments--that was when she got the urge to rearrange.
When I moved out on my own, I carried my mother's restlessness with me. I moved into an old farmhouse that had been converted into apartments. I had one half of the first floor, three rooms all in a row, shotgun-style, from the front to the back of the house. The kitchen was at the rear. I not only moved the furniture around several times during the two years I lived there, but switched my bedroom and living room between the middle and front rooms and back again at least once or twice. No matter how I arranged things, the setup just didn't feel right! It made sense to have the living room in the middle. That way if I had guests they didn't have to tromp through my bedroom to get to the bathroom or kitchen. But having my bedroom in the front was unsettling, since I was sleeping next to the front door.
I thought everyone rearranged the furniture frequently until I met Tony, the man who is now my husband.
(To be continued...)
Saturday, December 31, 2011
100 haiku challenge, 25, 26, 27
#25
Go, Diego, Go!
Vamos Diego, vamos Diego!
Immortal earworm.
#26
It's dark and quiet.
Early morning, New Year's eve.
Much to put to bed.
#27
Christmas lights come down.
Nights are just dark and cold now.
January dull.
Go, Diego, Go!
Vamos Diego, vamos Diego!
Immortal earworm.
#26
It's dark and quiet.
Early morning, New Year's eve.
Much to put to bed.
#27
Christmas lights come down.
Nights are just dark and cold now.
January dull.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
100 haiku challenge, 23 and 24
#23
We watch the wind blow
puddles into running streams.
A northwest pastime.
#24
Perhaps not, because
of your [dog] friend, she said, but
have you seen my cat?
I like #23 a lot. It came to me one blustery, winter day when D and I headed outside despite the crappy weather and headed to the covered basketball court at the local school. We brought along a basketball and scooter, but found ourselves most entertained by the wind and the water working their way across the blacktop.
What I really enjoy about this challenge, is that it forces me to treat the poems like a photographer treats the photo. Just keep snapping frames, and eventually you'll get a winner. Don't worry about the ones where the composition's not quite right.
We watch the wind blow
puddles into running streams.
A northwest pastime.
#24
Perhaps not, because
of your [dog] friend, she said, but
have you seen my cat?
I like #23 a lot. It came to me one blustery, winter day when D and I headed outside despite the crappy weather and headed to the covered basketball court at the local school. We brought along a basketball and scooter, but found ourselves most entertained by the wind and the water working their way across the blacktop.
What I really enjoy about this challenge, is that it forces me to treat the poems like a photographer treats the photo. Just keep snapping frames, and eventually you'll get a winner. Don't worry about the ones where the composition's not quite right.
Monday, December 26, 2011
100 haiku challenge, 19, 20, 21, 22
Priorities
As long as the cat
is happy, he said. I laughed.
He rolled his eyes, sighed.
I'd rather bike to work
Cross the I-5 bridge.
Red tail-lights blur in an arc
past a man on bike.
Two wheels go faster than three
My little one rides
a blue bicycle, followed by
Dad, scooting fast.
Missing my family
Christmas day makes me
want to do something crazy
like move to Pittsburg.
As long as the cat
is happy, he said. I laughed.
He rolled his eyes, sighed.
I'd rather bike to work
Cross the I-5 bridge.
Red tail-lights blur in an arc
past a man on bike.
Two wheels go faster than three
My little one rides
a blue bicycle, followed by
Dad, scooting fast.
Missing my family
Christmas day makes me
want to do something crazy
like move to Pittsburg.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
100 haiku challenge, 16 , 17, 18
Boys dig fire
My boy pouts and says,
Daddy, can we make fire?
Drags the logs inside.
Hanging out with E.
Drinking hot tea while
talking about coffee is
a fine thing to do.
I'm talking to myself here
Dear friend, exactly
what are you waiting for if
this is all you've got?
My boy pouts and says,
Daddy, can we make fire?
Drags the logs inside.
Hanging out with E.
Drinking hot tea while
talking about coffee is
a fine thing to do.
I'm talking to myself here
Dear friend, exactly
what are you waiting for if
this is all you've got?
Saturday, December 10, 2011
100 haiku challenge, 13, 14, 15
What the neighborhood looks like in December
String of Christmas lights
Glows bright in the winter night.
Glitter, flash, twinkle.
What does my dream mean?
I dreamed of a horse
covered--buried in deep snow
surfacing, dancing.
Repetition
Thank you for the tips
is something my husband says
all the goddamn time.
String of Christmas lights
Glows bright in the winter night.
Glitter, flash, twinkle.
What does my dream mean?
I dreamed of a horse
covered--buried in deep snow
surfacing, dancing.
Repetition
Thank you for the tips
is something my husband says
all the goddamn time.
Sunday, December 04, 2011
100 haiku challenge, 11 and 12
I've enjoyed just listening and finding haikus--as I listen to NPR, to two people talking in the grocery store, or in the case of #10, to something D. was repeating one evening.
Dante's haiku
This is a red light.
This light is a yellow light.
This is a green light.
Shedding season
The dog hair drifts down
falling like an autumn leaf.
I sweep it again.
Dante's haiku
This is a red light.
This light is a yellow light.
This is a green light.
Shedding season
The dog hair drifts down
falling like an autumn leaf.
I sweep it again.
Thursday, December 01, 2011
100 haiku challenge, 10
The holiday is incidental, part 2
Advent calendar.
We are not even Christian.
We eat the chocolate.
Advent calendar.
We are not even Christian.
We eat the chocolate.
100 haiku challenge, 8 and 9
I composed these while sitting with D in our local pizza place. I had one of those little stubby pencils from IKEA in my purse, and used the back of a deposit slip to write these down. I realize I'm not being very traditional, (or sometimes, very coherent) with these.
Economy versus ecology
The smokestack spews black.
Factory on the river.
Paper, scissors, rock.
Writing haiku at the pizza shop
Number two pencil
scrawls on the back of a check.
Subtotal, nine haikus.
Economy versus ecology
The smokestack spews black.
Factory on the river.
Paper, scissors, rock.
Writing haiku at the pizza shop
Number two pencil
scrawls on the back of a check.
Subtotal, nine haikus.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
100 haiku challenge, 4, 5, 6, 7
The holiday is incidental
Thanksgiving dinner
is now just a precursor
to Black Friday. Thanks.
Wake up
Sunrise. Coffee cup.
Steaming. Lift the cup. Inhale.
Sip. My eyes open.
What I see from my window in fall
Figs cling to branches.
No leaves for hiding green knots.
A bird's autumn feast.
The challenge of writing 100 haiku
Five, seven, five is
both much too long and too short
to say anything.
Thanksgiving dinner
is now just a precursor
to Black Friday. Thanks.
Wake up
Sunrise. Coffee cup.
Steaming. Lift the cup. Inhale.
Sip. My eyes open.
What I see from my window in fall
Figs cling to branches.
No leaves for hiding green knots.
A bird's autumn feast.
The challenge of writing 100 haiku
Five, seven, five is
both much too long and too short
to say anything.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
100 haiku challenge, #2 and #3
Reading Eckhart Tolle
This moment. Right now.
It's the only thing we have.
Raindrops on rooftops.
Should we trust the results?
Tony's MRI
Showed nothing problematic.
He scratches his head.
This moment. Right now.
It's the only thing we have.
Raindrops on rooftops.
Should we trust the results?
Tony's MRI
Showed nothing problematic.
He scratches his head.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
100 haiku challenge, #1
I'm taking the 100 haiku challenge. One hundred haikius in 100 days (more or less). Here's my first.
Sleepless
Insomnia. Fuck.
Four AM and I'm awake.
A cat yeowls outside.
Sleepless
Insomnia. Fuck.
Four AM and I'm awake.
A cat yeowls outside.
Monday, October 24, 2011
What now?
So Friday was cathartic. I left the leadership session feeling cleansed of all my impurities. Clear headed and strong hearted. Saturday was good. But on Sunday, the old anxieties crept back. I felt like the day was not my own. It belonged to D, the house, work that needed to get done before Monday. By 9 am I just wanted to get away. I fled to the shower. Afterward, I sat on the bathroom floor and meditated. Just for like 5 minutes. Did it help? I don't know. Maybe. Or maybe it was getting out of the house and going to the park with D that did it. Either way, I was able to chill out and just take the day as it came.
I'm supposed to do this meditating thing for 30 minutes every day. As I sit there, my mind races. I try to calm it by bringing it back to the now. Tonight, I kept asking, "what now?" and something answered, "go write in your blog." So I did.
If all of this isn't too woo-woo for you, here's something else I've been thinking lately. My house has bad feng shui. It's because of the super tall, skinny house next door. It over-shadows our house and blocks the light. And it's so close (literally about 5 feet away) that it feels oppressive. If my house were a person, it would be unable to turn its head, doomed to look forward forever. Do I need to get over myself, or move?
Perhaps another symptom that I'm on the crazy train (or having a mid-life crisis) is that I ordered two books by Eckhard Tolle.
I'm supposed to do this meditating thing for 30 minutes every day. As I sit there, my mind races. I try to calm it by bringing it back to the now. Tonight, I kept asking, "what now?" and something answered, "go write in your blog." So I did.
If all of this isn't too woo-woo for you, here's something else I've been thinking lately. My house has bad feng shui. It's because of the super tall, skinny house next door. It over-shadows our house and blocks the light. And it's so close (literally about 5 feet away) that it feels oppressive. If my house were a person, it would be unable to turn its head, doomed to look forward forever. Do I need to get over myself, or move?
Perhaps another symptom that I'm on the crazy train (or having a mid-life crisis) is that I ordered two books by Eckhard Tolle.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
So glad I have this blog!
I was just scrolling through old entries, laughing at myself, remembering how it felt to be a new mom, and just generally feeling so glad I took the time to write down some of my thoughts and feelings.
Why don't I write here more often? It's so good for me.
Well, so I don't just leave it at that, I'll talk about today. Or maybe I'll start with yesterday, which was like just about every other work day where I run from meeting to meeting, try to keep up with the dozens of emails I get each day in between, run home to spend a little time with D before he crashes, and then work some more. I'm seriously depleted, friends. If you haven't heard from me, this is why.
I know it's not sustainable. For the first time in my life I've found myself questioning whether I am depressed (I kind of think I am) and need drugs. I've been reading Eat, Pray, Love like it is medicine. I crave silence, stillness, peace, solitude. I've been substituting beer, wine, sugar, and coffee.
But today, I didn't go into the office. Instead I went to the first session of a year-long leadership program. My company is paying for me to go. Normally, a business-y "leadership" thing would sound bad. But this wasn't bad at all. It felt a little like therapy. We meditated. We talked about our hearts. I went in feeling all knotted up on my shoulders and left feeling fairly normal.
Tonight I was searching this blog for a poem or photo that defines the essence of me. It's homework for our second session tomorrow. Here's what I've landed on. What do you think? Is this what you think of, when you think of me?
Why don't I write here more often? It's so good for me.
Well, so I don't just leave it at that, I'll talk about today. Or maybe I'll start with yesterday, which was like just about every other work day where I run from meeting to meeting, try to keep up with the dozens of emails I get each day in between, run home to spend a little time with D before he crashes, and then work some more. I'm seriously depleted, friends. If you haven't heard from me, this is why.
I know it's not sustainable. For the first time in my life I've found myself questioning whether I am depressed (I kind of think I am) and need drugs. I've been reading Eat, Pray, Love like it is medicine. I crave silence, stillness, peace, solitude. I've been substituting beer, wine, sugar, and coffee.
But today, I didn't go into the office. Instead I went to the first session of a year-long leadership program. My company is paying for me to go. Normally, a business-y "leadership" thing would sound bad. But this wasn't bad at all. It felt a little like therapy. We meditated. We talked about our hearts. I went in feeling all knotted up on my shoulders and left feeling fairly normal.
Tonight I was searching this blog for a poem or photo that defines the essence of me. It's homework for our second session tomorrow. Here's what I've landed on. What do you think? Is this what you think of, when you think of me?
Friday, March 26, 2010
Something new
Julie felt the air change as soon as she drove over the fill—the land bridge that separated the mainland from the island. There were the fisherman, casting off its rocky sides. As if she’d gone away all this time and they’d just stayed here fishing.
She made the familiar turns, off the wider unmarked gravel road on to the dirt road where the pines crowded in. There was just enough traffic here to keep the track from growing over. She remembered plenty of times as a child where her father would have to stop the car and drag a fallen tree limb out of the way before they could make their way through. Finally, she turned the car down the long driveway that ended at the cottage. It appeared before she was quite ready—she remembered it taking so much longer.
As she parked the car and turned off the ignition, she found her heart pounding. She was here again, finally. And though she’d tried to prepare herself during long drive for the way things might have changed, she was unnerved to see it largely the same as ever.
The line of trees that used to separate the cottage from the river had been cleared, but other than that, there was the small wooden stoop where she used to leave peanuts for the chipmunks, the outhouse about 20 paces from the back door where the clearing met the woods. Here was the silty earth that absorbed her step underneath her feet.
Julie smoothed her dirty blond hair with her hand.
“Grandma?” she called through the screen door. She knocked softly, which felt a little odd. As a girl, she would have flung it open and run inside to find her grandparents, no matter whether they were in the bedroom or kitchen.
She saw the woman emerge from around the corner. Her gray hair was still cropped close, she still wore the elegant pendant earrings that most women would wear only on a special occasion.
Julie had to lean down to embrace her. The last time she’d seen her grandmother, she barely reached her shoulder. Now she towered over the woman.
“I move a little slower now, you can see,” her grandmother laughed, her warm voice a little rougher than she recalled.
“It’s been a long time,” Julie said. “But you know, this place looks almost the same.”
Her grandmother showed her around the tiny cottage, pointing out what was new. The floor had been replaced with new, shiny linoleum. There was a new sofa in the sitting room and a different table and chairs, but that was it.
“You can sleep here,” her grandmother said when they entered the bedroom.
“Oh, I wouldn’t feel right about that.”
“No, no.” The woman countered. “Half the time, I just fall asleep on the sofa anyway. It’s pretty comfortable, you know.”
Julie remembered her doing the same for her parents. Her grandma and grandpa would sleep on the pull out couch in the sitting room, which meant that she got to sleep on the floor next to them. She’d often fall asleep to the sound of her grandfather snoring, mixed in with the calling of the frogs outside.
Her grandmother left her alone to unpack. Julie could hear her fixing lunch through the thin curtain that served as a door. She sat on the bed and looked out the window toward the river. As a girl, the first thing she would do was head down to the dock with a crust of bread to feed the seagulls and dip her feet in the water. She’d wait until the second day to swim—like getting reacquainted with river required a slow approach.
She loved that river, and now instead of a vision in her head, it was real and right before her eyes. She realized how many times she’s relied on her memory of it over the years she’d been away. This is the place she’d some in her mind, when she needed to feel calm.
She would often say the names of the places and things here, like a sort of noun therapy. Swimming rock. Puddingstone. Bruce Mines. This was her place, her heritage—the cottage was built by her great grandfather, it was the place where her father had spent his summer boyhood, jumping into the lake, climbing the rocks. It was the place where her parents had honeymooned where they were young and penniless.
It has all been taken from her. She’d spent these past years like an exile from her homeland, thinking of the place, going over the landscape in her memory, daydreaming of the sound of the gulls, the slap of the water against the hull of a boat, the feel of the worn dock underneath her bare feet. In the absence of her parents, this place would have provided a connection, a link.
Julie shook her head. She’d never even been invited. A flicker of anger lept up in her.
As a teenager, her grandmother was prompt with birthday cards and Christmas gifts. She sent the occasional letter. But Julie had learned to stop expecting an invitation to visit here.
Finally, all grown up and out on her own, she stopped waiting and resolved to take matters into her own hands. She smiled to herself, wondering how her grandmother must have reacted to her letter. It was bold, she knew that. But she was tired of waiting for the woman’s permission.
She’d just quit her job—a 70 to 80-hour a week sales job that kept her on the road, away from her fiancé, James. She’d just walked in one day, handed her resignation to her boss, and walked back out, high on the adrenaline she’d needed to be so daring.
That night, she and James cooked a big dinner and opened a bottle of wine to celebrate her new-found freedom. Never mind she was going to be eating away they the money she’d saved for their honeymoon.
“So what are you going to do now?” he asked her.
Before she could even stop herself, the words came falling out.
“What I really want to do is go to Pine Island.” And there it was. So Julie had written her grandmother the next day.
She made the familiar turns, off the wider unmarked gravel road on to the dirt road where the pines crowded in. There was just enough traffic here to keep the track from growing over. She remembered plenty of times as a child where her father would have to stop the car and drag a fallen tree limb out of the way before they could make their way through. Finally, she turned the car down the long driveway that ended at the cottage. It appeared before she was quite ready—she remembered it taking so much longer.
As she parked the car and turned off the ignition, she found her heart pounding. She was here again, finally. And though she’d tried to prepare herself during long drive for the way things might have changed, she was unnerved to see it largely the same as ever.
The line of trees that used to separate the cottage from the river had been cleared, but other than that, there was the small wooden stoop where she used to leave peanuts for the chipmunks, the outhouse about 20 paces from the back door where the clearing met the woods. Here was the silty earth that absorbed her step underneath her feet.
Julie smoothed her dirty blond hair with her hand.
“Grandma?” she called through the screen door. She knocked softly, which felt a little odd. As a girl, she would have flung it open and run inside to find her grandparents, no matter whether they were in the bedroom or kitchen.
She saw the woman emerge from around the corner. Her gray hair was still cropped close, she still wore the elegant pendant earrings that most women would wear only on a special occasion.
Julie had to lean down to embrace her. The last time she’d seen her grandmother, she barely reached her shoulder. Now she towered over the woman.
“I move a little slower now, you can see,” her grandmother laughed, her warm voice a little rougher than she recalled.
“It’s been a long time,” Julie said. “But you know, this place looks almost the same.”
Her grandmother showed her around the tiny cottage, pointing out what was new. The floor had been replaced with new, shiny linoleum. There was a new sofa in the sitting room and a different table and chairs, but that was it.
“You can sleep here,” her grandmother said when they entered the bedroom.
“Oh, I wouldn’t feel right about that.”
“No, no.” The woman countered. “Half the time, I just fall asleep on the sofa anyway. It’s pretty comfortable, you know.”
Julie remembered her doing the same for her parents. Her grandma and grandpa would sleep on the pull out couch in the sitting room, which meant that she got to sleep on the floor next to them. She’d often fall asleep to the sound of her grandfather snoring, mixed in with the calling of the frogs outside.
Her grandmother left her alone to unpack. Julie could hear her fixing lunch through the thin curtain that served as a door. She sat on the bed and looked out the window toward the river. As a girl, the first thing she would do was head down to the dock with a crust of bread to feed the seagulls and dip her feet in the water. She’d wait until the second day to swim—like getting reacquainted with river required a slow approach.
She loved that river, and now instead of a vision in her head, it was real and right before her eyes. She realized how many times she’s relied on her memory of it over the years she’d been away. This is the place she’d some in her mind, when she needed to feel calm.
She would often say the names of the places and things here, like a sort of noun therapy. Swimming rock. Puddingstone. Bruce Mines. This was her place, her heritage—the cottage was built by her great grandfather, it was the place where her father had spent his summer boyhood, jumping into the lake, climbing the rocks. It was the place where her parents had honeymooned where they were young and penniless.
It has all been taken from her. She’d spent these past years like an exile from her homeland, thinking of the place, going over the landscape in her memory, daydreaming of the sound of the gulls, the slap of the water against the hull of a boat, the feel of the worn dock underneath her bare feet. In the absence of her parents, this place would have provided a connection, a link.
Julie shook her head. She’d never even been invited. A flicker of anger lept up in her.
As a teenager, her grandmother was prompt with birthday cards and Christmas gifts. She sent the occasional letter. But Julie had learned to stop expecting an invitation to visit here.
Finally, all grown up and out on her own, she stopped waiting and resolved to take matters into her own hands. She smiled to herself, wondering how her grandmother must have reacted to her letter. It was bold, she knew that. But she was tired of waiting for the woman’s permission.
She’d just quit her job—a 70 to 80-hour a week sales job that kept her on the road, away from her fiancé, James. She’d just walked in one day, handed her resignation to her boss, and walked back out, high on the adrenaline she’d needed to be so daring.
That night, she and James cooked a big dinner and opened a bottle of wine to celebrate her new-found freedom. Never mind she was going to be eating away they the money she’d saved for their honeymoon.
“So what are you going to do now?” he asked her.
Before she could even stop herself, the words came falling out.
“What I really want to do is go to Pine Island.” And there it was. So Julie had written her grandmother the next day.
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