From Ashes to Butterflies: a Dancing Good Bye

I wish I had some photos to add, but for now, I don't. I lived in the moment and let someone else worry about pictures.  Last week I was in northernmost New Hampshire for three days to scatter the last of my dear sister's ashes.  I know, I know. That hardly sounds like a happy thing, but it has been a long, long time in coming.

During the last weeks of my sister's life, while she was in hospice, she thought long and hard about what she wanted. One day she said, "Jetty, I don't want some burial spot. I want my ashes scattered in Lake Winnipesaukee, near the Teddy Bear Inn in Vermont, Pemaquid Point in Maine, off the rock's at the beach near Gail's, and in the source lakes in New Hampshire. And Paris would be good."

I looked at her a moment and said, "Jean Ellen, I love you but not that much. Let's just say that I'll get to some of those spots, okay?"

She laughed and said, "You are so fussy. FINE. Deny a dying woman her last wish." Of course, then she saw my face and my eyes and said, "No, honey! That's a joke! It really is a joke. I forget--for you, my dying is hard. For me, you know it's what I want. You know I have felt DONE with my business in this life for a long time. I'm so sorry. The only point is that I really don't want to be any part of a cemetery. I want to be part of the flow. Water, mostly, just the way I feel I flowed through this life from another and am flowing INTO another."

It was, of course, too late. I was crying, but we had a close hour together then. Well, my health went south before I could do too much, but I decided that when I was strong enough, her best friend (my other big sister of my heart) and I would trek up to the Connecticut River source lakes up near Canada.

Finally, this, the week before my sixtieth birthday, which is today, I was well enough to go. It was a wonderful trip and I took many inspiration pictures, fully replenishing the creativity well. Nancy found the very beach on the third Connecticut Lake where JE took one of my favorite photos--pebbles through water, just ten minutes south of Canada. (I have no passport, but I waved to you Canadian friends.)

This is just a quick picture of someone else's--Robert Knapp. Remember, this is not for commercial use!

It was about ninety degrees, even there. I picked my way through a shore trail, about twenty feet up-current and up wind of the little beach. When you dump ashes, they do not disperse; they remain in a beautiful water-born cloud for quite some time as they drift. I think that doing this six years later made me better able to connect with all the love I feel for her--most of the grief is gone, as is the somber mourning. I miss her living spirit, but I feel her spirit lives through me as I paint. I am surrounded by her--pen and inks, gifts, family treasures, treasured belongings that were hers.

So I looked at the transluscent silver cloud of what were physical remains of a spirit long gone and said, "There. Okay. Fine. It took me six years, but are you happy now? Fly!"

I called to Nancy that I was done, as I watched the cloud drifting toward the beach, and I heard her suddenly go, "Jeannette! LOOK!"

A swirling chaos of pale yellow butterflies flew up, fluttering in a spiral above the ground. They did not leave; they hovered in that one area, dancing in a space no more than five feet square. They lit on a damp patch of earth, I guess doing the butterfly version of drinking water, but then lifted, dancing in and out among one another for the ten minutes we stood there. Nancy's camera was clicking nonstop, but I simply watched, smiling.

Do not speak of science; I am aware of the logical explanations and of coincidence and all.

I don't care.

She sent the energy to hatch the butterflies to dance for us.

Don't bother to tell us differently; we were there.

When we left, the cloud was by the beach and the butterflies were still dancing.

***
If you care to know more about my sister and me, this is an early entry "Flying into Dawn: Memories of My Sister."

Runaways to Redbank Part III: Whiffle Ball and Pictures of Dirt

 Lest you think that yesterday's  entry indicated some inner loneliness or sliding into a funk, here's Runaway III. I love traveling alone, and this is partly why--the northern Jersey shore. And I am afraid there will be a Runaways to Redbank IV, because, well, there is my fiftieth birthday trip and the guy on the beach. And, did I ever get to Redbank for more than a pit stop? We'll see... I mean, there was the internationally know rock star, but where? And if I lump them all into one trip, oh well. Tough....

Please note, once again, any photos are included for fun here--they are from various easily accessible websites I found from googling the kind of pictures I wanted.  Except the patterns in the sand... those are mine. MINE I tell ya!

If you are new to my blog and have no clue what I'm talking about, and want to have a clue,  see  Runaway I  , and Rnaway II. This is  continuation of my two days ... (You may also find why I love traveling alone if you root around and find Deliverance I and II)

(And with this entry, I'll be on hiatus for a little while--and I do mean a little--to start a painting or two that have been haunting me for a week.)

Which Way Will She Wander?

I headed back north toward Red Bank from West Long Branch, NJ.  My dear, dear friend David (a professional drummer and brilliant computer scientist I'd known since I was 22) had told me about an old-fashioned music store called Jack's, that famous musicians from all over frequented. And there were what looked to be a wonderful natural foods place and a couple of artisan type shops...

Only there was also Sandy Hook. And it was a blustery, perfect day to walk another beach. Really. I mean, music store .... miniature Cape Cod.  Food store ...  marvelous sand bar formations. Gee. What won? And, of course, West Long Branch had offered such interesting characters, I felt as if I were on a roll. Sandy Hook it was.

The peninsula juts up quite a few miles  toward the city. You can park the car to the right of the road, to stand and facet the ocean, then simply turn around to see the bay. Remains of WWII missile sites hide in among dunes so old that they were more pure white hills with alien dwarfed forests laced by pure white paths to guide the way.  Unlike Cape Cod,Sandy Hook is too small for towns--there is just a military base at the tip. So for miles, all there was to see were bay, ocean, dunes and sky.

And living things, of course, including people.This time around, once again, the Jersey spirits had come out to play.

Barefoot Navigation...
It took perhaps ten minutes to get past the initial cluster of people. I do not move easily over dry sand. One little boy, perhaps ten, saw me lose my footing a little, cane notwithstanding, and offered me his arm, gentleman style. Just his open-faced smile steadied me. You know that kind of look they offer when the world has given them no reason to expect less in return? Well, I could not disappoint him and accepted his arm. When we reached packed sand, he bolted, barely saying good bye, as was right.

An obstacle course lay before me, however, that held potential for decapitation; unmanned fishing poles. The poles stood oh,  between 8 and 47 feet tall, stuck deeply into the sand, with nearly invisible lines angling into the sea. When monsters of the deep pulled, they bent to their own tune, performing a beautiful, if dangerous dance--but only when the fish were running. The dance was wild today, but no one seemed to care but me.

All the men belonging to the poles sat about fifteen feet back, sleeping or drinking their beer, occasionally glancing at the lines, or gawking over mirrored sunglasses at any stray woman who came by.  Let us simply say that today they did not even see me; there was a bikinied trio nearby and rumor had it they were about to turn over. I stared at the chorus line of bodies turned in their chairs, heads turned further still over right shoulders, beers halted in mid-route. They waited, breathless.  The women turned, the men smiled, the poles danced on.

Anyway, the navigation trick was to find the space where one could easily walk along the hardened surface of packed wet sand far enough from the water to avoid the lines, but close enough to the water to find interesting, well, stuff.  I couldn't look down, though, because I had to walk in such a zig zag path that I got a little dizzy.  (No, this was something beyond my normal state.) Finally I gave up, moving to the dry sand, which was far harder for me. Pulling each leg up, loaded with sand at every step very soon caused throbbing pain. Still that beat slicing an eye or worse.
 
I saw a dune and driftwood log and made for it. At this point, I realized the cane was slowing me down, so I pretended it was a baton and I was performing in the circus, and only dropped it four times. When I reached safety, with my accustomed grace, I fell more than sat down. "Ladies and gentleman," I said to my adoring crowd, undoubtedly moved by my twirling,  "with grace, she moves. Nay, verily like a doe doth she walk in the world."

OMG, a Family of Living Elves!
Unfortunately, a laugh from behind some scrub disturbed my soliloquy, and a small curly-headed gnome was giggling at me. I bowed to him and he scampered off toward the protected side of the dune. Through the brush  was a family on which I could spy so easily, it was sinful.  A dad, my 3 or 4-year-old sprite, and another little boy about my internal age--six or seven at most--were getting up from what looked like a feast. Both looked more like Garth Williams' illustrations than real boys, and, since nothing so far that day had felt much like my real life, that seemed just about right.

Dad wore khaki knee-length pants and a tank top,  with wide apart blue eyes on a face that was crowned with unruly, curly light hair. The boys had bright colored, droopy bathing trunks and the same hair. So far, so good. They had piled together the remains of the major food groups: fried chicken, potato salad, chips, cookies, cake, pie, soda, and--what was that? There among the plastic ruins: one Blue Willow china plate, precisely crossed with pistol-handled pewter knife and fork, one cobalt crystal wine glass, a folded sea blue cloth napkin and a silver bucket with a wine bottle in it.

They clearly belonged to Grandma: knee-length skirt, a long-sleeved white blouse with a peter pan color fastened at the neck with some sort of shiny pin. She was barefoot and turned before I quite saw her face, but she, too,  had short curls that could not and would not be tidied into submission.  Wild curls seemed an oxymoron on her. Dad was on his cell phone. Grandma was smoothing her blouse and patting herself as she started to clean up, occasionally seeming to yank her curls into submission. It did not work. The china and curls said Queen of the Fairies, but the clothes? Aha. 'Incognito,' I thought.

The thing about Jersey so far that sang to me, that sang clear down deep in my soul, was that exaggeration was redundant here.  The place was one walking, talking, lounging whopper of a fish story wherever I rested.

Sandy Hook Whiffle World Series Champion
"Grandma, let's play ball! C'mon Grandma, I won't pitch hard. PLLLLEEEEASE." The older elf had the family mass of honey hair that stuck out at all angles like new wood shavings, with one long bit he was perpetually swiping at. Dad snapped the phone, sat back on his heels, and smirked at his mother.

"Yeah, Mom. Show them how it's done," he said as the smirk widened into an outright grin. Suddenly he must have seen me watching and he kind of jerked his head as if to include me in on the joke. I simply smiled, relieved to be accepted, but at this point it would have been moot. I'd come to this theater and dammit, I was gonna see my show!

"Now, Daniel, I have not played ball since I was a child. I don't remember how." Grandma looked down, but she was facing me now and I'm sure her mouth was turned up at the corners. Her hair suddenly seemed to loosen and grow a bit. It had to be a fairy was lurking behind those buttoned down clothes. It showed in the curled toes. Perhaps I am mistaken; she was not that close.

"I'll show you how," the older one said.  "And we won't keep score. Tommy can be the base. Tommy go over there with your shovel and pail so Grandma will know where to run."

"Kay, Danny. I do that. Run to me, Gamma, okay? I have to dig now." And that was almost all we heard from Tommy. He squatted there with his pail and shovel, face focused and body contorted as only a small child can manage. I think he'd found a shell, or perhaps a magic stone.

Danny got an enormous bright red bat and electric blue whiffle ball from a  beach bag the size of Milwaukee. "Okay, now watch me, Grandma. You hold the bat like this and then you swing like this and hit the ball." He was so serious, he almost had a little scowl as he tossed the ball up and swung. He missed the first few times, but then connected. Unconcerned he said, "See? Just like that."

Grandma smiled and nodded. She untucked her blouse and practically glided toward the "playing field," rolling up her sleeves. She shook her head once and the curls grew some more ...  I felt myself sitting forward on my log, and I gripped the straight up stub of a branch beside me.

"Okay, so I won't stand too far away so you can hit the ball," Danny said, and moved perhaps two feet from his grandmother.

"Young man, I will hit YOU with the bat, instead of the ball and I do not think you'd care for that. I might hit YOU clear over the dune," she said, as serious as he. I liked her. I think I liked her a lot. The boys and their dad were clearly in the family of elves with those eyes, so my guess had to be right. This explained the clothes. She had to pass. I wondered at the strain it must have been. She was curiously at home with a bat.

Daniel danced as he backed up, yelling, "Grandma, COME ON."

"The more you yell, the slower I get, so you might as well stop, dear." Something in her voice ... He stopped. Immediately.

She stepped to the sea turtle plate, gently tapped it three times, and she and that bat were one. 'Uh-oh,' I thought. 'Danny, Danny, Danny.'

"Strike one, Grandma," he said. "It's okay. Just keep trying."

I glanced at her son and he was leaning back, smiling broadly. Tommy looked up a moment, but she wasn't running yet, and went back to his shovel, humming tunelessly, but very loud.

After strike two, I held my breath, but no. She gave the ball a tiny tap and trotted -- yes, trotted is the ONLY word -- toward first base. Danny tagged her out. "Too bad, Grandma.  Maybe next time."

He quickly struck out.

When Grandma had her next at bat, she smiled as sweetly as could be. I thought of that poem from childhood, "How doth the little crocodile" ... was that how it started? ... But it ended with " and welcomes little fishes in with gently smiling jaws." She motioned for Danny to move away, but instead he wound up like a pitcher. "Watch THIS one Grandma, then I'll pitch it nice to you, I promise." 

Oh, how Grandma connected. Danny ducked as the ball shot past his ear and it was still headed up when it flew far above Tommy's head. The wind caught it and it danced wildly in the air a moment before the downward arc. I clapped.  I cheered. I couldn't help it.  She turned once toward me, eyes crinkling at the corners, as wide apart as the rest, and gave a slight nod.

Dad was laughing as he went after the ball, Tommy jumped up and down and then ran in circles, Danny stood sort of clueless with lower lip beginning to grow, and Grandma?

She simply trotted to Tommy, picked him up and kissed him, whirling him around a few times, then trotted back toward turtle home, giving  it a little kick with her toe, long before Dad came back. She began to readjust her collar, then stopped, and she left her hair alone. She smiled broadly and opened her arms toward Danny.

He still seemed caught between his ego and pride in his grandma, on the verge of a dramatic pout.  His dad pat him on the head as he passed with the ball, and said, "Most valuable player, girls' softball, 1950-1954. Danny, she had a 310 batting average.  Your grandma is a star, kid."

The boy wheeled and glared at his grandma. "YOU CHEATED Grandma! You really cheated!"

"Yup" was all she said, smiling still.  Then she shrugged and turned to saunter back to the picnic ruins, when Danny ran and threw his arms around her waist from behind, burying his face in her back.

I know my cues; I picked up my stuff and moved on.You can safely spy on the Queen of the Fairies just so long ...

Pictures of Dirt
The fishing lines ended about five minutes further down the beach. I headed toward wet sand, and began to notice bits of interesting things that had been dragged in by the tide which was now receding. Without the poles I could look down, and I came on a formation that intrigued me and I started to snap pictures from every direction.

I loved the patterns in the sand that something else had made, and that lone stone in the middle. I walked all around trying to figure out how the tree pattern had been made when, not too far away, I heard it.

"Bernie. Bernie! Whaddyou think that woman is doing? Bernie, go ask her what she is doing. Bernie, do ya hear me? Guhwan! Ask her."

Now the Jersey accent's not quite Brooklyn, though it's close.  "Ing" ends with a hard 'g.'  And 'er'  is pronounced almost, but not quite like 'ar.' It is harsh, and almost bursts from the mouth." All in all, it is an amalgamation of the most distinctive parts of a New York and Philadelphia twang that jars one into full alert.

I do not believe there is any other sound so harsh as a Jersey woman yelling.

I looked up and there they were, the antithesis of sprites. Sitting in their folding, webbed chairs.  She was in a housecoat. The kind that have those metal snaps, short sleeves and are often in bold floral prints. For some reason, she had two pink rollers on the top of her head, with almost no hair left in them, so they sort of bounced in the breeze. (I bet she also had a bathing cap that had all those little colored bits of rubber sticking out on the top. You know, the kind that flutter with every move and are especially disconcerting in a pool aerobics class.) She also was wearing fuzzy pink mules, not sandals or flip flops. Her hair was bottle-black, which made her skin seem gray. I have no idea how old she was--somewhere between 55 and 93, I'd say.

Bernie was built like a bull. Sitting there, he seemed about as wide as he was tall, from the waist up. He had a very tan, very large and hard belly covered with gray fur, and his head was sort of a tanned bowling ball atop a neck that had tan lines in the creases. He was gripping a beer that was on his left knee. There was some sort of grayish lawn sparsely distributed on his head, with An Oscar the Grouch face--vaguely annoyed with bushy eyebrows that crossed his eyes in an unbroken line.


I tried not to stare because he was also wearing boxer shorts with large hearts that had faces on them. I tried. I really did try. I did not succeed. And I do believe my mouth was hanging open to boot.

"Miss!" he shouted, to appease his wife.

"Yes?" I jumped.

"Waddaya doin?" He did not move.

"I coulda done that, Bernie. Go talk to the woman, fergodsake."

"Shaddup, Gladys." Of COURSE it was Gladys. What else could it be? Gladys and Bernie go to the beach. I should have known.  This was pre-reality shows, or I would have looked for a camera crew.

"I am taking pictures here. There is a beautiful formation in the sand," I said, somewhat lamely.  I just knew the laughing heart shorts would stand up and...yup.  He got up, first bracing a hand on each knee as he straightened. Standing, he still seemed about almost as wide as he was tall. His legs were bowed and he was wearing tennis sneakers with holes so large his big toes stuck out to the knuckle. And the shorts screamed at me. I could hear them.  I looked down and away, but I could feel the giggle well up. I don't think he heard.

His sigh was audible from fifteen feet away. He lumbered to me and looked down.

"See how pretty that is?" I asked.

Bernie looked back up at me, his unibrow unevenly twisted. He was shorter than I.  He glanced down again and up. "You a photographer or something?" Again with the hard 'g."

"Noooo... But I like taking interesting pictures, that's all." He looked down and up again, simply shrugged, Jersey style, bigger than life.

He grunted and turned toward his wife. "Gladys, she's taking pictures of dirt!  She says they're interesting!"  And his arms opened wide and he managed to shrug his entire body. I swear in Jersey, shrugging is a dance form of its own.

"Taking pictures of dirt?"

"Yeah, that's what she's doing. Taking pictures of dirt. Where you from anyway?"

"Connecticut."

"Oh. Well, then, that explains it. Gladys, she's from Connecticut! That's why!"

Gladys nodded, ducked her head as she raised an arm and with a flourish of the hand, said, "There you go!"

He plodded back up toward his chair, silent but with open arms, palms up. She was nodding. I was done.

Character Overload.  (A little known, but somewhat scary syndrome. It involves an immediate need to rock back and forth while mumbling) Red Bank would have to wait. Debriefing time was needed. Besides that night David and I were heading for some place where it was wholly unlikely we'd run into any characters: a bar on open mike night, and he was in the back up band ...

The Existence of elves, Revisited (July, 2009)

My family life was pretty much about living in a rain forest: lush or rotting, with little in between. I've said that on many occasions. Lately, I've been writing about the hard stuff, and I know that both Robin Hood, from yesterday, and When I Awoke to the Notion of Being a Writer from a couple of weeks ago are two such entries. I have been given so much support for them, that it has renewed the impetus as I move forward with my book.

However, I wanted to revisit an early entry here. I had a whole lot of magic in my early life, and when I started writing the blog I began with some of them. I had almost no followers. Not that it's a crowd now, but quantity hasn't been my goal. I simply wanted to work on my writing--the craft, the art, and the notion that one can convey pain without graphically sticking to horrifying detail!  However, more people have decided to stay and perhaps you might be getting a skewed view of what my childhood was!

One commenter felt he could not live my life with all I have gone through.  I put this little piece in here once more, for those who have never read it, to remind you that I LOVE my mom. And that Jack and I had some magical times. That our world held every single color imaginable, and, yes, to lighten up.

NOTE: I have scattered a few Garth Williams illustrations because THIS is the image of elves I had as a child, from the book Elves and Fairies.  I just thought it might evoke memories for boomers, and give others a feel for the fifties, when my memories were the living events.  At one time I asked my mom whether I could grow up to be Garth Williams and she told me that I would have to work on growing up to be Jetty.  I sulked for easily a whole fifteen minutes.

Enough intro  ... Onward... From July, 2009--moved to today

... [There] were moments of pure joy and absolute beauty in my childhood. In fact, they took up more time and space, and as I explore this art form of memoir in my blog, I think I would rather start here. I would rather begin with the magic that was my mom, Jean Margaret. We'll leave the darkness for other times...
***

Me, around 2
in ecstasy over a feather

Flying Lessons: Proof of the Existence of Elves

Spirituality is a strange thing in the heart of a child. It has wings sometimes; it flies up from the leaves, the grass, through water, from everywhere at once. More than half a century later, I feel it and taste it, hear the echoes of that day. Grown ups call what children feel so deeply “magic,” then try to teach them it’s God. They don’t seem to ever get it; children need no teaching. We know it is all the same, whatever name we give It. The Keeper of all Magic is God.

On the other hand, when I was not yet four and my brother was already six, for us, the Keeper of the Magic was Mommy.

Especially on sunny mornings, when the light threw rainbows all over the kitchen, and she'd wipe her hands on her apron, not even finishing the breakfast dishes, turn to us and whisper, "picnic!" Out would come the hard-boiled eggs ever-ready in the fridge, for deviling. Jacky would make the chocolate milk. I would rinse the grapes. Before you knew it, Jack's enormous red wagon appeared, the thermos was full, picnic packed, and we were gone.

This particular day, Mommy had said to me, "Always remember, Jetty, there is always something more compelling in life than housework."

***

We always stopped on the dirt road beside the hole in the bridge. She’d let us look down at the water rushing miles below. It was on our picnic that particular day that we learned about elves.

“Lie on your backs and don’t make a sound,” said Mommy, doing this herself. “Just look at the clouds and listen.”

At first I didn’t hear much, but gradually I heard it. Soft rustlings, small feet, rushing sounds that had no familiarity.

“Now look at where you hear the sounds,” she said. “You can’t see anything, can you, except a few ants. They are much too small to make such sounds.”

We were stumped. We waited, looking at our mother with full confidence that some new axiom was about to be shared.

“Elves,” she said. “Well, and fairies, too, but primarily elves because fairies tend to fly. It’s the only explanation. They are invisible to us, but they make sounds. What else could it be? If it were birds or animals, we’d have seen them. We have them all around here.” She waved her arms, encompassing the whole woods, it seemed. “And we have them outside the kitchen window, too. Jean Ellen saw them yesterday. We decided you two should know about it, because we want you to help us make them some furniture.”

“In the window box, Mom?” asked Jacky.

“Precisely.”

We sat up and opened our sandwich cookies in solemn wonder. Elves. At our house. First a picnic, now this. Lunchtime drifted lazily into early afternoon, as we named cloud shapes, studied three ants trying to move one large crumb to their home. Mommy wouldn’t let us squash it.

“Only in the house. Outside, this is their spot and we’re guests.”

And so it came to pass that Daddy came home for dinner to find four of his family painting folded paper furniture, and stringing twig bows for a family of window box-elves with whom he wasn’t even formally acquainted. My older brother Jim was watching T.V. He was nine and too old for this “junk.” Jean Ellen was twelve and it didn’t phase her in the least. It was all right, though, because Jim wasn’t much into anything Jacky and I cared about.

Daddy said, “Elves. I see. I’ll go read the paper for a while.” He didn’t even grump about dinner. Just got a beer from the fridge and wandered, chuckling, into the living room. We put the furniture and three bows into the window box and tried not to look for signs of life more than ten times before bed.

I was in the kitchen by 6:00 the next morning, when Mom was putting the water on for hers and Daddy’s tea. I dragged a chair to the window, knocking into washing machine and the mop bucket.

“Hold your horses, Jetty, just hold your horses,” Daddy’s voice was his laughing voice as his hands lifted me onto the chair.

The furniture had been moved and the bows were gone.

“Jacky!” I shrieked. Fortunately, he was on his way down the stairs.

A small, bumpy blue bag was on the edge of the box by the house, in the left corner, the spot most accessible from the kitchen. I let Jacky pick it up and he let me unfold the small note inside, as he emptied out a small mound of marbles of every description. In the tiniest printing that ever was, Daddy read, 'Thank you for the furniture. It’s very comfortable. And the bows work great. Yours truly, the window box elves.'

Later that summer, when I was four, Mommy said we were moving to a new house in someplace called Manchester a whole twenty minutes away. I started crying because there would be no elves.

The very first thing she did, when she got me out of the car at the new house, was take me to our side yard. There was a tree with twisty branches and giant leaves, as big as plates.

“This is a catalpa tree, Jetty. I prefer to call it an elf’s tree.”

I looked hard at the tree, expecting to see a tiny pair of eyes look back.

“Elves use these leaves for clothing, for their bows and arrows, to make their homes, and they use the catalpa beans for food and the pods for boats. It’s the perfect tree for them. Just last week, I believe your father saw an elf or two right on our back porch. Next week, we’ll have to make some gifts as a sort of housewarming, okay?”

Years later, I found her talking to my soon-to-be stepdaughter at the picnic table beneath that tree. All I heard were the words “What else could those sounds be? Catalpa trees are elf trees, actually…” and I went back into the house. Jessie started calling my mother grandma that very day.

***

That was one type of punctuation to bracket regular life. Most days we told her we were bored and had nothing to do, to which she would absently pat our heads, kiss us, and say, “That’s too bad. I’m not.” And she’d leave us to find something to do, not knowing how to be mad at her exactly. She yelled at us when we were bad, shooed us when she was busy, was impatient more than was probably right at times. She was the rule-maker and the sun at the center of our lives, like most Moms. She also held a terrible darkness that could block out the brightest day.

Most of our days, though, as small children, were the stuff of everyone’s childhood in the 1950s and early 60s. The difference was the magic of a Mom who would drop everything to give us pure joy, to find the adventure in an ordinary moment. We had elves. We had rainbows. And we had lazy, deviled-egg picnics that supplanted housework on the priority list for living.

This morning I saw a dust rhino gallop across the living room floor. I thought I'd best vacuum. The sun hit the prism in my window and I went out into the garden instead. I am not sure, but I may have seen an elf leap off the six foot tall lily by my front door.

Small Addendum

How many people got a mom like that? Or ever really KNEW about elves and fairies? Or knew there was something more important, more compelling than housework. Like blogging, for instance?  I miss my mom. On the other hand, I DID teach Claire and Adam all about Santa Claus and how I knew about him through my dad. Yes, and of course, they did not have an elf TREE, but they had a birdhouse with a magic garden around it, and ultimately the elves found that... There is no garden or catalpa tree. I guess next spring, I'll have to make an elf planter because I am really  not sure I want to live somewhere they cannot be, you know?

Setting the Stage for the Reign of Terror of the Terrible Tweens: Pickle-lily Dinah-Sewer

 I just found this poem, and it just sort of seemed to fit with the last entry. 

I first saw what we always called "One House Island" on Squam Lake (Golden Pond), back when I was about ten and Jude's family was taking us to ride the Cog Railway on Mt. Washington. We pulled off the road to simply look. There was room barely to walk the rocks around the island, and the dock must have been on the far side. There was simply a long tree that snaked out over the water to the left, and a giant, many-gabled house among the trees. Years later, I wrote this poem. But as  child, I would fall asleep, and dream stories of being the Good Witch of New Hampshire, guarding children in all the lakes, flying off on adventures far greater than the Pan, more sleepsending than any sandman...
 
Dream Witch of Holderness
In the mist, a castle-cottage
Rising silent from the water
Like the Loch Ness Monster --
You startle.

Un-turreted, but towering;
Alone, on small island nestled,
Where no safe harbor welcomes --
Only rocks.

Does your dock draw up at night?

Does your long-necked, pine-crowned bough
(So still and silent serpent
Over now day-misted lake)
Snake further still in the dark?

Turning gently to its queen,
"Dear Sorceress within,"
Does it whispering to you ask
"Where do we wander tonight?"

Then silent as owl's flight,
Does my Innisfree arise,
Unfurling gold-scaled dragon wings,
And vanish?

Do you color these worlds I dream?




***
We did not need summer camp, the terrible four. We had lakes and islands. Freedom. We had a seventeenth century graveyard and the remains of the Governor's Summer Castle from the 17th and 18th centuries.  We had imaginations and parents who thought it was perfectly understandable that islands take flight and fairies were born on water and there might just be a black panther somwhere among the ruins. And perhaps the cast iron train on the mantle ran when  no one watched, and we knew Grandpa's soldiers had bowling matches on the weekends we were away.

But there was one summer when we terrorized Heaven, were grounded for life and banned from every kitchen we knew. There was the summer of the worms, deep sea diving, poisoning our parents, and barely missing the Witch Rocks for our over-enthusiastic rendition of "Oh. Sweet Pea." People had DIED on the Witches and everyone knew that.  We were banned from all power boats, but there was always a rowboat.

Yes, there was that summer when we were out of the summer before our teens with a police escort, for sheer stupidity...


But that's for another day.

Birthing Fairies, Rebirthing Me: The Lake Again

 Draft One...

Birthing Fairies

I remember the day I discovered that fairies are, in fact, born on sunny calm mornings on lakes.  I had spent the night at Judy's and awoke with the sun, as was my custom.  Jude's family seldom arose before 8:00, so I knew I had to be quiet.

I slipped onto the porch and I saw the golden sparkles on the Lake.  I know that it had to be just before or just after kindergarten, because of where the horizontal beams were on the screened in porch.  I was little and I had to tiptoe  to get a good view over, or scrunch down to look through the bottom screen.  I also was little because we were not allowed on docks without parents unless we had on our life preservers.  I used a pole to let one loose off its hook.  I remember, because the pole was very, very long and it was hard for a little girl to manipulate.

I sat silent on the dock, watching the sparkles get bigger and bigger, then disappear entirely after a blinding glitter as they reached the shadow of the shore.  I had lately seen Peter Pan, and had a sudden revelation, "Tinker bell!"

And in my brain I thought that this is where all of them were born, on mornings like these, and I pictured them twinkling all over the world, visible only in the twilight or reflected on the water by the sun.  I wondered what would happen if the sun never shone and no more fairies were born, but that thought would stay only a second, because there was the sun and there were thousands of them born, out there in a golden pool of liquid light, scattering and skimming the surface to the shores.

I ran right into Ted and Janet's room.  I'm not sure where I left the life jacket.  I'm sure they were thrilled.  I ran in and said I had to run home to Mommy and tell her I'd seen the fairies born.  To their credit, they let me go without a lecture.  I can see Ted shaking his head at me, smiling, and his enormous hand reaching out and stroking my hair.

And I ran home to my mother to tell her.  It was a different time, a time when small children could run home, unaccompanied, without fear of strangers. I forgot to shut the screen door as I ran into the house, but I loved the sound of spring and slam. Perhaps the boys in the bunkroom next to the door had a different thought. I heard a groan, but was too focused on my news.

Mom was having tea with Daddy. I was grilled first, of course. I believe the little hand was on the seven, over the stove... "So, dear, you went into Jan and Ted's room to tell them you were coming home?"

"Yes, because they'd worry and we're supposed to tell the grown ups where we are."

They didn't tell me I'd done anything wrong, as soon as they realized I'd put on a life jacket.  I had followed all the rules.  No one had told me I couldn't walk home alone.  Up there, it was a non-issue. But I jumped up and down, alternating feet, until finally Mom asked, "Do you need to go to the bathroom or is there something important you need to say?"

"Mommy, FAIRIES ARE BORN ON THE LAKE! You have to SEE."

They didn't laugh at me. Dad inquired how I knew this to be so, and I explained about how the sparkles got bigger by the shore and we had just SEEN Tinkerbell on TV, so how could it be anything but fairies?

"Of course," he said, and returned to the paper, holding it very high so that I could not see his face. Mommy simply looked at me with that strange stare she always had for me when I had discovered something important.

"Let me finish here, dear, then we'll go explore your theory."

When she finished her cup of tea, She stood slowly, cleared the dishes and put them in the sink, and simply turned to me.
"Go, quickly, now. Into the Plymouth."

Mom took me to the beach in the car!  The little hand still wasn't near the eight.  We stood by the rocks and the gnarled beeches, and the huge white pine that swept the water.  We watched the sun to our right, silently.

Then my mother turned to me and said, "Well, you're absolutely right.  I never saw it before. Trust you to figure it all out for me. I knew all about elves, but, Jetty, this is remarkable."

And we stood there, a small girl leaning against her mother’s still-aproned hip, until the sun was too high and the lake broke up into blue.

***

Years later, for fifty plus more years, I go to Judy's dock. I go to the Bridge. I talk to the mountains. And the fairies are still  born.

Coming Home to Me
I looked to the mountain and its silence filled my heart with a longing that had no sound,
No words,
No music,
No form.

A longing past the loneliness of a woman in this body alone,
    without a lover to venture near, let alone enter.
A longing past a womb, still fertile yet unseeded for forty-plus years.
A longing past opportunities gone or missed.
A longing past mistakes or past, or wounds that never seem to heal.

I looked to the mountain for answers, but heard a question unformed in the wind.

I lowered into water, unburdened by bulk, too little strength or weakened spine.
I played and I jumped and I glided,
Soothed by caresses of a thousand tinkerbells born in a morning sun so bright,
I could not witness their birth wide-eyed.
I squinted,
I laughed,
I sang.

I helicoptered in waves created by Star Wars single-manned vehicles
     from the Dark Side.
I dolphin-dived through white caps and swells,
    oblivious to belying lumps of age.
I was sleek.
I was a child and abandoned the longings and galloping night-rider fears of aging alone.

I emerged, sat still,
shivering on the dock, studying my blue-tinged nails.
I smiled at the grown up who played too long for the joy of beating gravity’s pull.
I fooled myself, and God laughed Its answers to my joy.

In the song of the mourning dove, the splash of a mink.
In the rustle of squirrels, and the dart of the swallows, scooping the dragonflies before they flew.
I heard God whispering the answers I heard long ago,
“Hush.
You are enough as yourself.
Enough, if less than all.
A symphony in yourself.
Hush.
Rest.
Believe.”

And I cried,
Then sang
My Lullabye to Jessica, and
My last love song to Jack.
I sang for the loves I will never have and the only love who felt true,
To the mountain,
To the loon.
I sang my own song of God,
To my sister, to my mother, to my father.
To the loves I had known, to the friends I still knew,
well-weathered or new.
I sang,
for the miracle of answers
Without words,Without form,
But with their clear, soaring tune.

Later, I sat warmed,
Looked again to the mountain; it sighed.
I smiled back, and came home at last.
There, by the mountain, by my bridge, by a lake,
My hand before me, holding a mallard feather in my lap.
I smiled down at my hand, fifty-five years later, there.
Just so.
Pinky curled in ecstasy of a feather.
Joy flooding every crack in my soul,
I came home to myself at last.
 And my mountain smiled back at me.

Sleeplessness: friend or foe?

When I was little, on Christmas Eve night, it was undoubtedly foe. I got up once in the middle of the night, out of my mind with excitement, because the reindeer had landed outside my window, first on the roof of Daddy's den below. I heard them and had awakened my sister, never the best of ideas.

Jean Ellen got up, but I do not think she felt my thrill. I was five. She was nearly fourteen. We had different perspectives.

"Jean Ellen, look at the tracks. LOOK!" I shone the flashlight on the snow. It was one of those rare mid-Connecticut years when there was new snow for Christmas. Those movies about Connecticut White Christmases are myths, and they really are about the Northwest corner — part of the Buffalo run. We were more of a slush and ice place for the first month. But there it was. Slightly bluish purple, with a very clear line of tracks of something bounding across.

Jean Ellen might have said many things, having been awakened rudely. What she did say was, "They are awfully small for reindeer, so I really don't know."

Then she looked at my face. "Well, Santa's reindeer change size, you know. They have to. They get really tiny because they cannot be detected that way by all those big radar dishes on t.v." She had me in her hand by now, and she brought me to her bed, and went on. "Plus, they have to shrink all the presents and make the sleigh lighter, for flying. When they shrink the reindeer, they don't lose their strength or get slower. They just get small. You see? So the presents get little and lightweight and so does Santa. I mean, he's a big elf, really, when you think about it."

I remember being absolutely enthralled. They never TELL you the logistics of it all, you know?

"And how would 'eight tiny reindeer' lug around presents for the whole world? I mean, really, Jetty. How? So I think you are right. And Santa's probably HERE, with Dad, and--"

I was out the door and straight into my dad, walking down the hall with a platter about the size of our flying saucer sled, with a giant turkey on it. It was the most gorgeous thing I'd ever seen, but Daddy had SHOWN us all the presents for Mommy already. And it couldn't be for anyone else. I was stunned, there, trying to figure things out. And why was Daddy up anyway? Santa was here. He didn't have a cap, but he was supposed to be asleep.

I said, "Daddy, Santa is HERE. I gotta see him."

"WHOA, there, Jetty. What are you thinking of? You can't do that." I was still eying that platter.

"Is that for Mommy? How come you didn't show me when I asked you? You PROMISED me you'd trust me with the secrets Daddy, and I didn't tell even one, even when I knew you got the pretty combs Mommy wanted, with the blue."

Then I saw he stockings at the top of the stairs, too.

He didn't miss a beat. He said, "Well, This is PRECISELY why you have to go to bed, young lady. Santa is downstairs and he is running behind. So he asked me to help. I have to wrap this from him to your mom, because those elves ran out of time. PLUS, he asked me to bring the stockings up on my way. Now I have to quickly do this and go back down there so Santa can sign the card, so you... better ... skeedaddle... off ... to... bed...."

LONG pause and he looked like he would chase me...

"NOW"

I squealed and ran and jumped into bed, laughing.

Jean Ellen mumbled, "Okay now? Will you PLEASE sleep?"

I hurried up and slept faster than any five year old on the planet.

***

But not tonight. Earlier I wrote a tribute to my ex-husband, but left it posted for about an hour. then I took it down, realizing it was TOO personal. I have never told HIM what he gave me, why I will never consider our marriage a mistake. I decided I should tell him first. Married couples have their own secrets, and though, for once in my life there was nothing but love in it toward him, I felt as if it were sacred. As if I shouldn't share THAT. Isn't that strange, after we've been apart now for longer than we were together? He blew up my life in ways from which I'll never climb back--financially, anyway. Yet it felt disloyal.

And it kept me awake.

I am sleepy and I have work to do, but I am too groggy to work, which is not good. I tried all day to work, but I spent time with my grown son--important time. And that was far more important than money to me. And my constant companion of pain of the last few days was at hand, talking loudly to me all day long.

And that keeps me awake.

But what fun to move from either kind of pain--poignant and loving emotional pain or physical--to this. To pure joy, given to me by a five-year-old's faith in magic, a sister's love that outweighed her own love of sleep, and a Dad's willingness to keep his little girl's faith bright and shining. The same Dad of yesterday's entry. MY daddy.

I want to sleep. Just for a couple of hours. Perhaps now, after remembering the BEST sleepless night EVER, I can go to sleep now really, really fast. I don't know.

But I think, perhaps, I was mistaken at the beginning of this entry! The judgment rendered for tonight is sleeplessness: friend, without a doubt.

Good night all.