When I got off my university shuttle bus yesterday morning, the campus sun-vibrant, I was overcome with an enormous feeling of gratitude. I was grateful for my ability to learn and change. I had a supportive family. I got to travel through San Francisco a few days a week and lived in a city where my values were valued.
So what that I’d started my one-credit Monday evening class that week, which got me home after 8:00 p.m., only ten hours before I left the next morning? Or that I might have acquired two more clients despite the fact that there are only five weeks left at my placement? Or that my careful, somewhat obsessive preparation for my girls’ groups had been overrun by their need to really talk about bullying and the ways they have been left out, frozen out, or singled out? The class seems doable, the potential clients need someone to listen to them, and I love that these girls feel comfortable sharing, that I am giving them a space to talk about things that are often kept on the down low.
That grateful feeling, lovely and expansive, matched the uncomplicated beauty of the morning. However, days wear on. Clouds sidle in and block the sun. Storms blow through and soak the scenery, and there you are without an umbrella. Some days, no matter how fine the morning, how luscious the afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a bar at five minutes to midnight, fumbling for cash to pay for that fifth cocktail, the sky on a sob-fest just outside the door.
Not that yesterday exactly turned into one of those days. I admired the morning, did the academic thing, traveled the rails back home, and picked up the boy, whose outdoor after-school program is closed this week. We hung out. I made a nice family dinner. But the persistent demons of self-doubt still came a-knocking. They rattled me from the inside, told me I said and thought stupid things, that I was slow and clueless and should keep my mouth shut. (I had participated in class more than usual yesterday, always a trigger.) The demons took the best parts of me and obscured them with cape and smoke and obfuscating lies, grabbed my strengths and shoved them into heavy black leather satchels, the worn bags scratched and nicked by claw and tooth and time.
Until I had had enough. I upended those satchels and kicked the demons out of the overpacked rooms of my mind. Ignore them and keep marching forward, I told myself. After all, I was capable and smart. I’d come this far. I could do it.
Today has been harder. I am tired and ineffectual. The second girls’ group of the week turned into a gossip fest that was difficult to manage. My last client was as eager as I to leave, and I was not as attentive as I could have been. Despite the Bay Area’s blue skies, my internal weather has been partly cloudy. But it’s also Holy Thursday, which holds special meaning for me this year. As of 12:30 (or earlier, if you don’t count the Mass), my placement site is on Easter break. Hallelujah! A week without the 6:00 a.m. commutes, the 39L, or the three hours of supervision. A week to breathe, to air out my head. To sleep. To clean. To be. Even if I do still have to go to class.
The weather report is looking up.
Image from here.
We had crab cakes for dinner last night and roasted salmon with a dilled potato chip crust, along with baked potatoes and lemon butter broccoli. I unearthed the crab meat from our freezer on Saturday while making room for popsicles. No one could remember how long it had been there -- maybe 2012, from one of my mother’s summer visits? Leaving it in the freezer seemed like a waste, so I added the crab to an already seafood-heavy meal. And we ate most of it. Even the boy had a cake or two.
I am heavy with nostalgia this month, for parts of my life long over, for worlds that were intact when I was born but have now crumbled into anachronism. So when a friend posted an article to Facebook about a house for sale in Toronto, the place a period piece of 1960s decor, I felt a stab of recognition. Reader, I knew those rooms and that furniture. They were as familiar as family Polaroids.
My past is becoming a museum of styles now enshrined in dystopian Mad Men sets and houses decorated in the gap between Sputnik and the Bicentennial (and let’s not even get into the checkerboard patterns of the 1980s). Still, though I can remember using rotary phones and watching UHF channels on heavy wooden console televisions, I am not yet a dinosaur. I am an early mammal, still connected to the here and now, but ultimately an insignificant creature, scrappy enough, but doomed to be overtaken by evolution. It is best to get used to my fate. Time does not go in reverse.
In this wistful, slightly melancholy mood (which, to be honest, maybe I am in all the time), silly and not so silly things bring tears, music in particular. “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor (the upheaval of 1978/79). “Would I Lie to You?” by the Eurhythmics (waiting in line at my high school snack bar during a basketball game halftime). The Oakland sunshine and me all in black (punk lives). Herons perched on the roof of a fast food joint, hunched over like old men (DC and the herons fishing in Rock Creek). The boy’s combination of savvy humor and kid imagination (a temporary mix).
Life unfurls all around us, each moment slipping away into the next. So I defrosted the crab meat. I mixed it with mayonnaise, Dijon mustard, Worcestershire sauce, an egg, breadcrumbs, and parsley. I formed the patties with my hands and set them in the over to bake until they were lightly browned. We ate them alongside tender salmon, fluffy potatoes plied with butter and sour cream, and bright green stalks of lemony broccoli. The dinner was a small, good thing, tangible, another piece of life lived and stored up for later.
Image of living room furniture circa 1976, almost all of which resembles my grandparents’ early seventies living room suite, from Retro Renovation.
Image of wooden console TV, similar to the one that dominated my grandparents’ family room (theirs had a channel dial), from A Girl and A Puppy.
11 April 2014 06:30 PM Categories: Memoir
Return to the river’s clamshell-strewn edge. The sun hangs across the water, considering its commitments on the other side of the earth. Walk in slowly, feel the sand turn to mud. Shallow dive to avoid touching bottom, and swim out to the rope. Tread water. Float on your back. Splash your cousin. Make the slowpoke swim back to shore, keeping your body submerged as long as possible. When you finally step out, shivering, the sun melting into the trees on the opposite bank, grab a gritty towel from the bench. The river has left its trace upon you, your skin dusked in a brown film, an earthy mustache just visible above your lips. Wipe it away.
Lie under the shade of maples, and dip a wiffle ball bat into the mystery pipe, fragrant with muck, that emerges out of the lawn. The bat makes a tantalizing squish in the ferment of water and dirt. Nauseated by spring’s rich, heady earth, you do nothing but tap the bat against the edges of the pipe and listen for the squelch below. Soon, still sick with spring, you will sit on the circular plastic swing and push against the rough trunk and the hard dirt below to fling yourself into a canopy of branches, holding your breath as long as possible to keep from breathing in.
The old couple that is no longer a couple, with their separate rooms and long-dead love, each work at their tasks. In the shop, the man angles a two-by-four into the jaw of a circular saw, filling the air with the fresh-cut aroma of wood recently violated. Sunlight angles through a window, showing up the sawdust, which gathers in drifts on the floor, while curls of wood surround the dormant lathe. Meanwhile, sitting in the main house, in your room, the woman, solid in a striped muumuu, croakily sings “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” as she presses her foot against the pedal of a humming sewing machine, stitching a length of bric a brac into the hem of a summer dress.
If someone had told you how thoroughly this world would disappear, the seven-year-old you would not have believed it. Even at nine and ten, disillusioned and angry, you thought the backdrop to your childhood was eternal, that the scarred man would always limp through the house to his wood shop on his way to make Canada geese and mallards out of wood and tin. The Slaughter’s farm stand on 213 would exist in perpetuity, and his whirligig waterfowl, their metal wings made to turn in the wind, would be permanent fixtures, available for sale, hanging amongst the fresh corn, cantaloupe, and tomatoes. Your grandmother might have died before the seventies bled away, but the mildew hidden behind the paneling in her house, intermingled with the remains of Pall Mall smoke, would aggravate your asthma until the end of time, and Ming, Nicky, Frank, and Liz would live forever.
It doesn’t work like that. But the memories live as long as you do, so you write what you know. You return to the moment and fill in the blanks. You bring them back to life.
Image from Exit Realty.
It’s only Wednesday, the halfway point of the week, but I’m feeling good. I’ve gotten a lot of work done, have one successful (and fun!) girls’ group under my belt, and feel OK enough about the case consultation I have prepared for tomorrow’s supervision group. I started some paperwork. I finished some paperwork. I made an appointment with my advisor to discuss the fall semester and I made reservations at a B&B on the Eastern Shore for early July.
And I submitted two “stories” to Glimmer Train’s very short fiction contest. The pieces, The thin line and The voyeurs, are well under the 3000-word limit. As blog posts, they do not necessarily have a traditional story feel. My expectations of either being selected are low, with a golden thread of hope glimmering on the edge of my peripheral vision. Submitting my work, even the unrevised, un-revisited stuff is a start, a small step toward getting more concrete about my writing, though I probably need to put more effort into it to be successful.
Back in the pre-MFT days, when I thought seriously about becoming a writer, I always focused on the things I could not do, like come up with viable, non-autobiographical story ideas, extend a narrative beyond a few pages, or slow the pace of my stories down. I am an amateur who has much to learn about craft. I also have a distinctive voice, though I often move too quickly in my haste to express it.
My stories are like rushing creeks fed by off-season downpours. As the rain falls, silver water obscures and then tumbles the rocks. One of those creeks could sweep me in with it and hurl my frail form from bank to bank along with the leaves and dead branches and bits of trash. When the sky clears, the water recedes. The rocks dull as they dry. Over time, the earthen creek bed breaks into a thousand desiccated pieces. It feels like the water will never rush again. But the clouds return eventually, heavily laden and ready to pour.
I might as well accept it. I might as well accept myself.
So, at 5:01 p.m. on Wednesday, April 9, 2014, all is well. I fully occupy my contentment, knowing things could go downhill tomorrow with six clients, another girls’ group, and my case consultation. And there are things I am avoiding that will haunt me more intently over the coming weeks. But for now, I will sit back, contemplate the beer I will soon be opening, and let Phranc’s 1989 campy, ironic version of I Enjoy Being a Girl continue to spin through my head. If only I could play it for my girls’ groups . . . .
Instead, I offer it to you.
Image of Doris Day from Color My Bliss.