My Cavalry

My spacious Woodstock hotel room with king-sized bed suddenly shrunk to the size of a small forsaken island as I sat writhing in pain. My abdominal cramps started in the morning and only got worse as the day progressed. I knew I could ask at the front desk or call someone from the writers’ festival and find out where the nearest hospital was and realized I’d have to do so soon if the pain didn’t subside, but although I felt worse than awful, I convinced myself that it wasn’t such an emergency that I had to seek outside help. My family wasn’t so easily convinced. I called home to tell them I wasn’t feeling well and my mother said she was sending someone from the front desk to my room. I made her swear that she wouldn’t and tried to wait it out on my own.

Finally, I succumbed and called her back. “I don’t think it’s an emergency exactly, but I need to come home.”

The three-and-a-half hours between home and my hotel seemed infinite as I waited, but at 10:00 p.m., thirteen hours after my ordeal had started, the cavalry arrived: my 65-year-old mother, who cannot see to drive at night and my faithful brother Mark, number two of my three younger siblings. By the time they pulled up, I was doing better. My pain had somewhat subsided and I had managed to get some liquids in me which seemed to revitalize me a bit, although did little to cure the situation. They packed me up, loaded me in my car and then began the endless journey home. I say endless because my cavalry, while full of heart, lacked something in navigational ability. We probably all should have stayed at the hotel and started fresh in the morning, but my Mom, like me, felt more comfortable dealing with the hospital at home, so we set off into the night in the totally wrong direction!

If I hadn’t been so ill, I probably would have realized sooner that we had gotten on the wrong access ramp, headed south toward New York City instead of north toward Vermont. I also should note that I was distracted by my Mom’s driving. Because she has such poor night vision she had to ride the tail of my brother, watching his taillights like a beacon in the darkness. We were at least a half hour out of our way before I noticed that the names of the cities were wrong and called my brother to inform him we needed to turn around. One hour added to the trip.

Mom and I laughed. Why are we following Mark? We asked. He’s the one who got lost in the hood. We were referring to a time many years ago when my brother was working in New Jersey. He was sent out on an errand, but missed his turn and ended up in the bad part of town. It became a family joke, one that was reiterated several times on this long night. I tried to rest, but we had to make frequent stops for me along the way adding 15 minutes here and there to our travel time. Then we missed another turn, ending up on 1-90. It wasn’t until I spotted the sign to Schenectady that we realized we were lost again and had to turn around. Hour two added to the trip.

Mark’s cellphone didn’t seem to care where it directed him as long as it eventually got him there, so we followed its lead down a series of twisted back roads through Schenectady until we finally ended up in Clifton Park, driving more back roads before finally reconnected with I-87. From here we were okay until it came time to take the exit to Rutland.

“Don’t take the first exit,” I warned my brother who informed me that his phone said otherwise. My brother’s one of those people that if directions on a tube of toothpaste say wash-rinse-and-repeat he does just that. No simple wash-and-rinse for him, he’s by the book. So we followed the book or the phone in this case, and once again ended up off the beaten path. When we finally connected with the right route we were so tired we pulled over at a closed McDonald’s restaurant where a cop stopped to make sure we were okay. When he discovered we were, he went on, but not before my Mom put the car in the wrong gear -- drive instead of reverse -- almost taking us over the bank.

Oh, I almost forgot. Somewhere around Schenectady a series of warning lights came on in my brother’s car. Turns out we weren’t driving with all cylinders and probably shouldn’t have been driving at all. The next morning we called AAA and had them tow the car to the repair shop.

At 5:00 a.m. we saw the lights of home, at least doubling our initial e.t.a. A lot of people joke about my reliance on my G.P.S. and apparent lack of direction, but obviously I come by this honestly, no doubt an inherited trait.

In spite of my exhaustion and what had now become a dull pain, I looked at my weary rescuers, my beautiful mother and kindhearted brother and thought two things: one, how rich I was in family, how lucky to be so loved and two, next time, I think I’ll call the ambulance!

Turn of Events

Unfortunately, my getaway to the Woodstock Writers' Festival took a sad turn on Saturday when I became violently ill. When I wasn't better six hours later, I succumbed to calling home. I'll write more about that later, but suffice it to say I am home now, rescued by my family who drove the 3.5 hour trip to pick me up and escort me and my car home. I'm still not feeling well, but am much better. As we pulled away from my hotel I saw this loyal pup waiting in the car for its owner. Even though I felt both ill and horrible for missing the majority of the weekend festivities, I had to smile. This little white dog was a good omen I felt, a gentle nod in what had been a trying day.

Snores and Stories

A misty rain showers us with kisses as we file into the home of memoir writer and teacher Abigail Thomas. We are like disciples seeking a guru.  Eleven of us, all women, curl up in sofas and chairs, acting casual and confident as we prepare to share our stories. We are all shapes and sizes, most roughly middle age. Abigail sneaks a smoke on the porch as her dogs volley for a space amidst all the visitors. The chocolate dog, Daphne curls up near her mistress’ feet, chewing the throw rug. Abby grabs a tangerine from a bowl on the counter and tosses it to her as we round the circle of introductions. The hound, Carolina, approaches her sister, sniffing the tangerine. She considers claiming it. Abby grabs a second, pitching it her way to ward off a fight. What do these animals think, so quiet and relaxed at the feet of strangers?

I did an interview on Reiki for animals once. The woman explained it was all about energy. She calmed dogs and cats at the local humane society by sitting in the room and being quiet, exuding the right kind of energy. The restless cats would settle into plush beds and window seats. Are these dogs calm because we are?

I don’t feel calm sharing my story. Most likely few of us do. Each person offers a nervous disclaimer as it comes her turn to read – I did this quickly, I’m not good with prompts, I prefer to revise, I’m tired. The excuses vary slightly, but the message is the same: I’m afraid I’ll be judged. This is more important than I show. Be gentle.

No matter how many times I ask my students to do this, no matter how often I myself write and set out to share, it becomes no easier. I hate wearing the title writer/teacher when it comes my turn. Who wants to say you write for a living, that you teach memoir when you offer yourself raw and naked for judgment?

When my turn comes I read. My face grows hot. I press on. What’s the expression? The only way out is through?

The chocolate dog makes her way to my seat on the sofa. Solid and sure, she nudges me to the edge, claiming her space. My legs cramp with little room to move, but I enjoy the familiarity of her dogginess. I am at home amidst the quiet snorts and dog hair. Carolina approaches her Mom, stretching her neck to rest her head in Abby’s lap. Abby raises her journal to her eyes and tries not to see – “It will get her going,” she explains.

We talk about sex and suicide, longing and love – the gamut of human existence. We compare our stories to one another's like boys in a locker room, but encourage and support nonetheless. The dogs snore beneath our words, a comforting soundtrack. They do not worry what anyone thinks of them. They are dogs and if they are nervous about anything it is whether we will share the tuna and chicken wraps that we’ll be served at lunch.

We read and gradually relax, growing more comfortable with each other. The room exudes the right kind of energy. We settle into our stories like dogs to a comfy couch.

Alone

It might sound strange coming from a 45-year-old single woman, but finding myself alone is almost foreign to me. The only time I have lived alone was my sophomore year of college and even then my best friend lived next door with only a thin wall between us. We could hear each other’s phone conversations and practically talk without picking up the phone. The rest of the time I’ve had either roommates or family sharing my space.

My present house, located in the center of town, has always been a stopping place for family and friends. Its revolving door policy means that typically you can find someone coming or going day and night. Sometimes I’ll be sitting up working at 3:00 a.m. only to find my brother, Paul, has stopped by to grab a snack on his way home from night patrol. In the morning, before I even wake, family may have stopped and used the computer or the bathroom, and I will come downstairs to find traces of their presence. It’s sort of a Goldilocks moment – whose been sitting in my chair, etc. etc.?

Even when I travel it’s usually with someone or at least with the intention of meeting someone. For example, I travel back and forth to Cambridge, NY for my writers’ group, but the other members are always there waiting. When I make the hour-long journey between my house and Joan’s, I know there is someone on both ends to see me off and greet me. Even if my house has gone to bed for the night, my pugs wait patiently for their evening romp and snacks.

On my annual trek to the Woodstock Writers’ Festival, it’s true I meet up with other writers, but I know none of them. Although my name is on a checklist of having purchased a festival pass, no one will really pay any mind if I show up or not. There is a freedom in this. I am afloat and without boundaries, unsure how to take best advantage of this. I could go eat pizza or check in at the hotel. I could grab some soup or head to the story slam. There is no one else to consider. There’s just me. It’s a funny feeling. I have to stop and think – what do I want?

Some of my married friends with children look at my life longingly, imagining secret freedoms and independence. It is not a life I’ve known. Seldom has my life been untethered. And, true, it is not really this independence and freedom I crave. Although I always seem to have people around me, I am frequently lonely, craving a family of my own. And, yet, at moments like this, when I find myself truly alone, I can’t help but observe with scientific objectivity that it is an interesting experience. The feeling is alien, but potentially exhilarating as if every action holds the promise of adventure. I wait to see what may happen next.

Writing Prompt: Hopen 4 Peace

Four years ago I stumbled upon information advertising a memoir-focused writing conference in Woodstock, NY. Because I teach memoir, I signed up. I have to admit that I was drawn to the allure of the famous or should I say infamous town, known in name at least for being the home of Woodstock, the 60s music festival. The actual festival took place in Bethel, but it is Woodstock that is forever linked with this cultural milestone.

I fell in love with the town and the festival and have been going back annually ever since. It’s always been a bit of a retreat for me. It was one of the first places that I actually “escaped” to on my own – traveling alone and not really letting anyone know where I was – so that first year, I felt a wee bit of a rebel. I celebrated my freedom and honored the Woodstock mystique by getting a spontaneous tattoo of a peace symbol on my way out of town. I had two other tattoos when I got this one, but both of those had been planned out and held very specific meaning, this one I got on the fly without thinking. And, I was so proud of myself for doing so.

It was at the Woodstock Writers’ Festival that I befriended or was befriended by Maria Wulf and Jon Katz, two people that have become friends and powerful creative influences on this blog and my work. Last year I was sick when the festival rolled around, so I missed the first day. I remember showing up in time for an evening event. It was cold and rainy, but I was excited to be there.

To me one of the joys of the event, in addition to being exposed to a wealth of world-class writers, is wandering the streets taking photographs. Color, light and character fill the streets. I have stumbled upon drumming circles and a  “hippie” parade that made me feel like I had actually traveled back to the sixties. My first year there I visited this eclectic gift shop and bought myself a pink wig. When I am there, I am unfettered and free. The pink wig reflected this somehow.

Shortly after I returned home I attended a class on using the computer to create art. Unfortunately, the class was horrible. Students had so many computer problems just getting started that the teacher never even got a chance to start the class. The good thing was this gave me plenty of time to experiment and I ended up creating my first digital collage, using images I had snapped in Woodstock. It was a self-portrait and looking at it now, I realize I was already doing some of the things that have become my signature such as combining hand drawing with the digital photography. I loved the result both as a work of art and as a self-portrait. I didn’t think much when I was creating this, I just enjoyed myself, but there is something about it that is just me.

The woman in this picture is a free-spirit, she seems to be smiling, happy, energetic, but she is also peering from behind a curtain, lace covers her ace, she is not looking out with her own eyes, but rather those that are bedazzled – you question whether the eyes mask her from you or vice versa. There is a part of me that is out there, open and free, a part that is veiled. Perhaps that is the case with most of us.

The cranberry peace symbol in the upper right corner, by the way, is my actual tattoo. If you look below it the girl in the mirror where’s a different face. Her reflection is more open. It is not veiled. I like the words for which the piece is named, Hopen 4 Peace. These were snapped from a sign on a Woodstock storefront. They speak of something both universal and personal. It is what we all seek.

I leave for the Woodstock Writers’ Festival tomorrow and will return on Monday. I will be bringing my computer and ipad with me and will try to blog as I can, but the days are pretty packed with activity, so bear with me. I’ll post as I can.

Writing Prompt: Where Do You Go to Escape?

Photo Problems

It seems some of the photos and drawings that accompany my posts are missing. I think it may be a server issue and I have contacted my web people. Hopefully, they'll be back up soon, but it is my understanding it is not just my blog but others on the server as well. It is not an issue on your end.

News

When my brother Paul left for boot camp he asked for letters. He warned against drawings, photos or gifts – anything that might make him stand out. He’d heard horror stories about guys who received cookies from their families and were forced to eat all of them at once while the rest of the men did push-ups. I’m not sure if his worries are justified, but we were warned no extras, just news – news of home, news of family. “I’m not sure how much we’ll know about what’s going on in the rest of the world,” he said.

Again, I don’t know if they’ll share with my brother and the other men at boot camp news of the Boston Marathon and the tragedy that occurred there or if they do how it will be presented. I know it won’t be the same as if he heard it here at home.

Boston holds a special place in the heart of our family. My parents, who attended Eastern Nazarene College in Quincy for a time, were engaged on Washington Street. Paul, too spent some time at ENC and to my brother John and I, Boston was the Emerald City – our destination spot. When we crossed the bridge over the Charles and saw the city looming, we knew we weren’t in Kansas anymore or more accurately our rural town of Bethel, Vt.

We went to Boston for concerts and Star Trek conventions, to hear the likes of Prince, U2 and Sting. We went to visit the boy I loved and to tour Newbury Comics and Tower Records for vinyl and to search for specific songs we had heard on TV shows or on the radio as we entered the city. This was in the days before I-tunes and the Internet so finding a song you sought was like embarking on a scavenger hunt. You poured through bins of records in seedy used record stores tucked in basements or back alleys, searching based on a remembered lyric or a phrase that sounded like so and so, and when you scored the coveted item, when you took it home, put it on your record player, heard the first notes and realized you’d hit pay dirt, oh, the feeling was sweet. Then again, everything was. We were young.

Boston was exciting, but safe. For teens that had never ventured far beyond their one-street town, it held promise and possibility and the assurance that you could head out in the world and find your way. I learned to ride the T and where to get on and off for all our favorite haunts. I sometimes still hear the static-y announcement “Ahrlington” cried in its distinct Boston drawl in my dreams.

We would hit Boston in the morning and stay until late at night, speeding home, windows down in my brother’s mustang. We blasted cassettes of our favorite songs, creating our own soundtrack.  We were cool, we were young, we were part of a world larger than ourselves. We might live in Bethel, but Boston held our hearts and it stands frozen in my memory, a time capsule of all that’s right.

These are things my brother Paul understands although he was still too young when we were making these journeys to come along, but he has his own tales of the city to tell. The last time we were there together with his wife Leah, he took us on a tour of some of his college hangouts, ending in a field in the darkness. Leah and I joked as he parked the car that he was taking us out to the woods to kill us, but somehow as we walked the narrow path together we felt safe. The bright lights in the distance looked out over us, keeping a watchful eye. We called home to let my Mom, who was watching their kids, know we would be late, and we stopped for pizza at a greasy Italian sub shop. Paul and I volleyed tidbits of conversation back and forth as we battled to share with Leah all our memories of the city.

If Paul were here he’d likely have called me on his cell to ask if I’d heard the news. He is always the first to inform me of world events. He probably would have made some jibe, as we are likely to throw at each other, turning it into something political. But, it would be half-hearted in light of such tragedy. I don’t know if someone has shared with my brother this horrible event, likely he’ll hear about it before I tell him. There are no real silver linings in tragedies like this, but we cling to those things that bring us hope such as the good in those who tried to help. We offer our memories of marathons and cities that once seemed safe. We pray for a better world. And, in our confusion we turn to each other because it is not news we revel in at times like this, but in our shared humanity. We reach for those we love, seeking safe harbor and nod to everyone else, drawing them too, a little bit closer. The news is, at times like this, we realize everyone's our brother.

Prayers

 

My Brother's Home

The rain falls lightly to the ground as we pull into the mud-lined driveway of my brother’s home. The raw, comforting smell of wood smoke burns my nostrils. The brook gurgles with mirth: spring is here she announces even as the nip in the air tries to deny this inevitable fact. Green grass already pokes up through the brown earth; this and the red shed to my left, the brightest splashes of color against this earth-toned world. Mom and I walk the rain-slicked stones to the porch and knock on the door.

Sophie, my brother’s boxer erupts in a string of raucous roars, leaping up and down against the door. I wonder if she is looking for my brother, away at boot camp. His wife, long and lean in a black-and-white apron, thick, red hair piled high on her head, answers the door.

“Hiii,” she drawls, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m just making dinner, y’all.” She may be a Vermont housewife now, but her Texas roots are showing. My eight-year-old niece and eleven-year-old nephew, Catherine and Adam, tackle me, such a wave of long entangled limps that I can barely make out who is who. “We’re writing letters to Daddy,” my niece declares.

The rich odor of chicken and roasting potatoes fills the air. “I’m making purple potatoes,” my sister-in-law proudly announces. She and I had taken a trip to Hawaii together a couple of years ago and eaten lavender-tinged taro root, so their mention is a nod to me.

“I’ll have to take pictures,” I say.

I glance at the dish-clad counter and notice a stack of letters. My brother has been gone for less than a week, but his wife and kids have been writing daily, stockpiling the letters until he calls with his address.

“We just stopped by to say, hi,” Mom and I announce. “Can I write a letter to Daddy, too?” I ask.

My niece grabs a piece of unlined paper and a pencil, serving me pink lemonade in a fancy glass as I sit down to write. “Everyone misses you,” I write. “I don’t know why! LOL.” Actually I miss him too.  “Maybe I should enlist and see what people think of me,” I note. “This is like faking your death and attending your own funeral just to see what people really think of you. So far so good.”

We finish the letter and as Leah starts dishing out the food to the kids, I snap a photo of the purple potatoes and get ready to leave. The kids’ artwork hangs on the kitchen walls. A colorful self-portrait by Catherine, a wildly colored pastel forest by Adam, and Catherine’s latest an “army guy” in camouflage. Homages to their Daddy are everywhere.

We discuss plans to get together next week, say our goodbyes and walk out the door. “Love you,” we say simultaneously.

Mom and I hop in the Honda and as we get ready to leave the driveway I look off to the hillside and spy two deer grazing in the field. I get out of the car and stroll down the hill toward the open field, trying to get as close to the deer as I can. As I near the crimson shed, they stop their grazing, look up and freeze. Realizing that I am not disappearing, they eventually take off, leaping across obstacles invisible to my naked eye, their white tails flirtatiously waving as they go.

We live in a painting, I think, a portrait of rural Vermont. Damp woodpiles, thick mud, and gray rain surround us. Across the road, my grandparent’s former farm, now my uncles’, looks worn. The farmers who lease it have stockpiled tires around the precariously tilted silo. Photographers have made postcards of the nearby bridge, the farm in its shadows, but today the naked face of the landscape shines through.

My family has lived on this land for 200 years. One of us has wandered from home. I sit in his drive-way, listening to the song of the brook, basking in the smell of burning wood, watching the white-tail deer dance by, hoping they are a sign of good fortune. I wait with his mother, wife and children, expectant like his dog, for the days to fly by and he to return safely home. We are tied to each other like the soil to this land. We are bound by blood and love. We never wander far.

Palette of Possibility

One of the best things about starting this blog has been the opportunity it has afforded me to play. Perhaps I should clarify. It’s allowing me to work at what I love, but in doing so, this work seems a lot more like play than it ever has before.

I’m one of those people who always have to be doing something and I always feel the need to be moving forward, working toward reaching the next goal. Sometimes because things haven’t turned out exactly as I hoped in my life, I feel like I’m racing against a clock with no time to waste. This has often meant forgoing things that I plain find fun like trying out some new art technique. Suddenly I have a forum for these projects and thus, my work has become play.

When I was in high school I was torn between becoming an art major and a writing major. I applied to Rhode Island School of Design and was accepted, but ended up choosing Middlebury College instead. I started as an art major there, but suddenly art stopped being fun. It was all about being critiqued. Throughout the years I have drawn, mostly pastel and pen-and-ink, for Christmas presents and specific projects, but now I find myself creating art to accompany the stories on this blog, trying new techniques and looking forward to what I can experiment with next.

Today, I added color to my picture of Joan and the pug puppy. I used watercolor pencils and a little bit of pen and ink and pastel. I like the result. I learned that they make tinted water-soluble graphite so I’m going to see if I can find some for future projects.

It feels like a palette of possibility has been laid out before me and I am happy to take up the brush of creativity and paint.