inheritance, part 2

                                                

 I have a fuller and deeper understanding of inheritance now.  I’m really overwhelmed by the weight of it, and I feel inadequate to hold it and carry it. It’s just this gift, for no reason other than that I was born and others died. Like it was this sacred gift. I’m grateful and undeserving.

It’s the closest, most literal handing down of grace I have experienced. The feeling of total inadequacy and total thankfulness together. Obviously, I should do something. I should be saying more and responding, but that’s not required. All I can do is say thank you, but in a way, there’s no reason to. I couldn't if I tried.

inheritance, part 1

We dig through photographs and newspaper clippings and scraps of yellowed paper. Everyone looks vaguely like someone else. This nose, that hair. The front page of the newspaper one day in 1934, when Bonnie and Clyde were killed—tucked into a Bible.  I find myself a little in awe of the idea that 100 years ago, none of these people could have imagined that their blood relatives would be sitting in this living room, on their furniture, studying their faces and their handwriting. 100 years from now, who knows who will be looking at our pictures (there will be more to choose from) and wondering about our lives, of which most of the minutae and details have been lost. 

for my family

6/16 - 6/18

 It’s not strange for a tall mustachioed man to walk in, wearing cowboy boots, a belt buckle the size of a dollar bill, and a leather vest, his white cowboy hat in hand to pay his respects. In a way, combining visits for losses ten years apart. “Your mother was a lovely woman. Always a lady. Thought of her when I drove through Arlington Heights once, on a route from Joliet.” I get the sense he might have been too shy to ever have carried on a whole conversation with her when they were young, but maybe admired her from afar.

We’re gathered in the small, square room and it feels like there should be more of us. (Is our family really this small?) There is an American flag draped over the bottom half of the closed casket. I’m glad somebody thought of that.

Grandaddy wears what Dad says he saw him wear to every important event—navy blazer, khakis, bright red tie. His shock of white hair still fuller than you’d expect any 92-year-old man to have. Rachelle shoved a dollar in his hand on the way out, as he was always shoving money in our hands as we left. “I thought a twenty would make him too mad.”

Mr. Crawford came in to town especially to prepare him, and mentioned that his hands were still remarkable, especially when it came to golf: so strong and capable and powerful, and at the same time so delicate and gentle.

His hands were an unforgettable part of him (like his melting-satellite-dish ears)—thick and rough, their backs speckled and textured like the back of a hundred-year-old-whale. (or something equally spotted, hairy, rippled, and multicolored) I don’t remember his young-man-hands, so the old hands are the ones I know. His thumb tips curved out just a little, maybe by nature, maybe fine-tuned for golf.

I still expect half-cigars lying forgotten on any given surface, even though he hasn’t chewed them for years.  Even as he grew quieter lately, I still keep glancing over to his chair because that was where he should be. Expected the white shock of hair, the glint of his glasses, the scuff of worn loafers, the priceless sideways shots of wisdom that lost their spark if repeated in any voice other than his own. There's no point in quoting him if you never knew him, and can't hear his voice in your head, saying it himself.

He did always sign his cards and letters and sweet notes: "Himself."

breaking the silence to say:

My family lost a patriarch nine days ago, and I'm still mulling over what that means, to my heritage and my future.

But I think this poem by Maurice Manning is a small slice of what's running through my head & my heart.

MOONSHINE

The older boy said, Take ye a slash
o' this--hit'll make yore sticker peck out--

which would have been a more profound
effect than putting hair on my chest,

to which I was already accustomed.
Proverbially, of course, he was right.

I took a slash, another, and then
I felt an impassioned swelling, though

between my ears, as they say, a hot
illumination in my brain.

The shine had not been cut; full of
the moon it was for sure. I knew

the mountain county it came from--
my family's section, on Little Goose.

A distant cousin would have been proud
to know another cousin was drinking

what might as well be blood, at least
the bonds that come with blood, the laugh

before the tragic truth, the love
of certain women, the hate for lies,

the knowledge that death can be a mercy,
the vision blurred and burning there

in the mind and in the wounded heart.
This was the first time I heard the story

I was born to tell, the first I knew
that I was in the story, too.

A Summer's empty Room...

It sifts from Leaden Sieves -
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road -

It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain -
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again -

It reaches to the Fence -
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces -
It deals Celestial Vail

To Stump, and Stack - and Stem -
A Summer's empty Room -
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them -

It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen -
Then stills its Artisans - like Ghosts -
Denying they have been -


- Emily Dickinson

from behind the pine curtain

"Soup's on!"

The missing pound cake recipe that is destined to be a family heirloom, as soon as we can find it among countless stashes of newspaper clippings and quickly jotted notes.

A response to my statement that, no, we aren't having kids just yet: "well, that's okay. I was an old mother too." GREAT. THANK YOU.

Collective laughter when my husband asked if anybody wanted "pop" from the grocery store.

Repeated viewings of Grandaddy's second great love: Diana Krall in Rio de Janeiro.

Locating constellations from the living room couch, courtesy of Steve Jobs.

Sharing more connections than differences, as is the case when you are lucky enough to be related to such folks.

another repurposed dress

I'm still tweaking this next project, but when I found this $5 XXL Tall men's sweater in a thrift store, it just had so much potential. At first, the shoulder seams landed just above my elbows, and the sleeves dangled a good eight inches past my wrists and the armpits hung like wings. I did nothing to the neck opening or the length. (Also, please note that in the next two pictures I am busy trying to convince Toby to do... something.)

This first picture shows the color most accurately- a sort of mossy green. It isn't the most attractive color right away, but a colorful scarf, thick belt, statement necklace, or bright tights (maybe orange?) could  make a huge difference.

Please forgive my dirty Peter Pan boots. And like I said, not the most gorgeous color, but compared to these, for example...

$188 from Anthropologie.

$65 from Modcloth.

$79 from Urban Outfitters. 

...five bucks from Salvation Army starts to look pretty good.