Monthly Archives: May 2016

Fractured Heart

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African VioletsI woke in the night with a deep sadness and an image that was slowly fading.

Leaning down, I had kissed my grandma. She was sitting on the chair that she always sat on in her kitchen, the one on the left when you came into the room. This seat gave her the best vantage point to greet people, and the large window overlooked her patio and into the neighbor’s back yard. Purple, white, and pink African violets lined her windowsill.

My grandmother and I were close. I stayed with her while I was going to college, roaring my 650 Honda motorcycle up onto her brownstone patio. After parking, I bounded in her house and up the three steps to her kitchen. I slept with her when she was confused to give her comfort and to make sure she didn’t wander away. One afternoon she told me that I should call my mother, see my family. I told her she wouldn’t say that if she knew the truth. She didn’t bring it up again.

I was at her side when she died. Holding her hand, telling her it was okay for her to go. Being with her while she was dying was a gift she gave me. It was me who called my mother and told her that grandma was gone. My mother had left hours earlier after telling me to call her when her mother had passed. Same as I told my siblings when our mother was dying.

I recognized that the deep sadness I woke with comes from not having close ties to familial people. There were a number of aunts and uncles I had felt close to growing up. That is gone. Some, through death. Some by my choice to not remain close.

Since House of Fire has been published, I’ve been unfriended on Facebook by all of my siblings. I have watched them drop away one by one.

I have no regrets. As a writer, if you really want to write about what’s important, meaningful, and to be a change in the world, you have to write what is yours to write. Mine has been to write the unspoken.

I had to be true to myself and to the parts of me that has lived the unspeakable.

This doesn’t mean that there isn’t sadness and a sense of great loss. That is just as real as the telling.

 

What’s in a Nickname?

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In Great Britain, more than 120,000 online voters recently suggested “Boaty McBoatface” as the name for a British polar research ship. The Science Ministry in Britain overruled the popular choice, choosing instead to name the ship after naturalist and broadcaster Sir David Attenborough. Although I loved the silliness of “Boaty McBoatface,” I wasn’t surprised it didn’t make the cut. But it did remind me of the power and persistence of nicknames.

Some nicknames are just plain stupid and annoying like the ones I was given in high school. And no, I’m not giving them new life here! Other nicknames are mocking and hurtful. I never knowingly bestow those names. If I know that someone dislikes one of my nicknames, I try to drop it.

But for me, nicknames are sign of affection—a name I give someone to acknowledge our special connection. Or they can also be a humorous name for a car or pet. For example, my ’67 Chevy BelAir was “the Blue Whale,” because it was enormous. Sometimes we called my collie Tasha, “Slosha,” because of the way she dripped all over the floor when drinking.

When I was growing up, nicknames were common in my family, and my father originated most of them. They were affectionate (or at worst, teasing) and often nonsensical. I don’t know why he called my oldest brother, who certainly wasn’t smelly, “Big Barnsmell.” None of the rest of us called him that, so my brother tolerated the name with good grace. Dad called my next brother, “Sport,” which at least made sense, because that brother was athletic.

Sport called me “Snickersnee” because of my sneezing and allergies. Eventually that was shortened to “Snee” or “Snee Baby.”

After hearing my oldest niece call her younger sister, “Shorty,” I adopted that nickname for my younger sister, because she’s several inches taller than me. Stupid, I know, for a grown woman to call her younger sister “Shorty,” but I’ve done it for years and she’s never smacked me. Lately she’s taken to calling me “Shellen.” Aside from the rhyme, I’m not sure why she’s given me that name, but I’m OK with it.

My siblings and I also had nicknames for my father although we didn’t always say them to his face—“Big D” for Dad or Don (his first name).

It was probably inevitable that I’d have nicknames for my sons. I’ll spare you (and them) the dippiest names, which tended to be variations on their first names. However, during his middle years, I called my youngest, “Larry Bob,” which had nothing to do with his real name, but it sort of went with the goofier side of his personality.

When our sons got muscles and grew half a foot taller than me, I began calling them “Otis” and “The Other Otis”—kind of like calling them, “You big galoot”—a teasing way to acknowledge how much bigger they are than me. So far, they’ve tolerated it pretty well. No doubt they have names for me too.

Do you use nicknames for your family and friends? How about your car? Pets?

The Dead Cat is Out of the Freezer

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IMG_0493Seasons change, and so it is time.

We have a small window to perform our ceremony – in between the comings and goings of teenagers.

A line forms and we sing “Amazing Grace” while walking to the burial place in the corner of the yard. Our daughter and her friend dug the hole earlier. To make sure it was big enough they placed Trouble the dog in the hole but he quickly jumped out.

Seasons have changed for the children as well. A Cub Scout is now a Boy Scout who will be doing his Eagle project on Saturday. A small girl, who was always the first to jump into the swimming pool, is still the first to try most things in our house.

Our procession takes us underneath the flowering crabapple. The sweet scent follows. I lay down the paper bag holding our beloved.

There is a discussion about whether to bury Angel in the shirt that he is wrapped in. I kneel, gently cover his black and white face with the fabric so dirt won’t fall into his eyes. My stomach constricts. I straighten. Jody hands the girl the shovel.

There was a day when the children were ten months old that I thought they would be that age forever. I could not see past that day to this one. Parenting was hard work. Parenting was demanding. It still is, but in a different way. Now I need to stay attuned to who they are, what they are doing. I can’t be any less present. Because I need to be there if only to say, I see you. I am watching you. Give me your phone.

After our ceremony, as they are rushing off, I pull down the branches of the apple tree and smell the white flowers that within days will fall off the branches.

I want to shout to the children’s departing backs that I’ll never give up. No matter how hard parenting may become, I’ll never give up.

Angel our cat is gone. He had a good life. I have a good life. And, you are worth it.

 

Defensive Landscaping

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In late April and early May, my mind is abuzz with gardening and landscaping plans. I research plants, dream up color schemes, make lists, haunt garden centers, and chart the hours of sunlight for my new garden—yep, I’m hardcore. In years past when I had a large suburban lot, my focus was on what to do with all that space.

One of our four large gardens in the suburbs

One of our four large gardens in the suburbs

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now that I live in the city and have a very small yard (intentionally), I focus on defensive landscaping—how to create something attractive to camouflage undesirable views, including those of my much closer neighbors’ yards.

  1. Create an inspiring view for my office window.
My current view

My current view

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What if I had a silver moon clematis growing on a trellis by the garage?

What if I had a silver moon clematis growing on a trellis by the garage?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  1. Cover up my neighbor’s deteriorating garage.
Sigh

Sigh

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe a columnar birch would camouflage the neighbor's garage.

Maybe a columnar birch would camouflage the neighbor’s garage.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  1. Add native grasses to screen the view of the alley.
John's new fence adds some privacy.

John’s new fence adds some privacy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What if we added clumps of feather reed grass along the fence like this?

What if we added clumps of feather reed grass along the fence like this?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In April everything seems possible. By August, it’s all over. But if this year’s plan doesn’t turn out as great I’m picturing, there’s always next year!