coming in from the shimmering heat of a
dusty summer day...the sidewalk hot enough
to fry an egg or penetrate the soles of our
sandals...we enter a world of dim memories
and the cool dry scent of old quilts and floral
tablecloths in shades of aqua, red and butter
yellow...
our voices lower as we call to one another from
corners filled with someone else's treasures...
sterling soup spoons with generous bowls,
wedding photos of nameless brides and grooms
that make us weep, and wonder: didn't anyone
care enough to save them, or at least write their
names on the back...
then I see it, a battered vintage copy of Julia
Child's "The Art of French Cooking," duct tape
holding its bindings together like something
used again, and again...and cherished long...
I tenderly lift the battered front cover,
and there, on the first page, is this note:
December 25, 1981
Dear Mom -
I hope you enjoy this cookbook as much as
I enjoy your cooking...and contrary to
popular belief -- I do enjoy your cooking.
I hope you'll "share" some recipes with just
us -- your family. And in years to come, I
hope that you'll share them with my family.
Thank you for always giving the best, and
trying your hardest to please all of us.
I love you mom,
katie
oooo
xxxx
I clutched it to my heart and shed a silent tear for
"mom" and "katie"...where are they now? why
did anyone let this treasure, with its
vanilla-stained and flour-dusted pages
filled with comments and notes, out of
their lives...
it is a question I can't stop asking, as I think
of all the cookbooks I have written little notes
in, for my girls..."I baked this cake for the twins'
fifth birthday party...delicious...added an extra
1/4 cup of chocolate powder...frosted it with
butter cream (recipe on page 44) "
she loves to sink her fingers into sun-warmed
rich brown soil...there is something so satisfying
about filling a window box, clear patch of sunlight,
or clay pot, first with something borrowed for drainage
small rocks, or broken shells, or even
the porcupine sweet gum seeds that seem so
pointedly useless when scattered across lawns and
driveways like something that will give birth to
an alien species...
then layers of soil and composted shards of egg shell
and tea leaves...a perfect environment for the tender
seedlings she will carefully nest in holes just deep
enough and wide to welcome young roots...then
ever so gently she tucks them in...pressing the deep
brown quilts and covers, firmly around their shoulders...
water rains like a soft lullaby coaxing them to rest and
grow...grow tall and prosper...grow full and fragrant with
a perfume so perfect it makes men weep...grow thick and
rich with color...gentian blues and the delicate petal pink
of a poppy, the chromium yellow of buttercups and the
lacquer red of a chinese treasure chest...
grow she sings as she kneels before them like a mother
by the side of her child's bed...reach for the sun, and
dig your toes deep in the soil...and grow...
my sister made small pillows from the
empty grain sacks our father left just
outside the barn on saturday mornings
she would sit with her feet dangling out
the hayloft door high above the world below...
cutting and stitching squares of rough cloth
the size of a gentleman's handkerchief
we'd find them tucked beneath the head of
a whelping setter, or lined up along the back
of a porchswing, sitting on a doll's cradle
or clutched in the arms of a weeping child
filled with rosemary, dried alfalfa, sprigs of
lavender, or "borrowed" handfulls of
seed from the songbird feeders by the summer
porch...my sister's pillows, the final seam closed
with her long, running stitches of pale pink
thread...were the perfect spot for weaving
daydreams, watching clouds, and hearing angels....
from the time she was little her dreams
were mine...a dollhouse, a horse, her school
of choice, the dress she imagined...
diaphanous, white, simple and pure...
her dress...
we've walked and talked and window
shopped, always lingering in front of windows
filled with tulle and nothing more...no
sequins or beading, rhinestones or pearls
just acres of ephemera...a billowing cloud of
white on white...
she was the one who slowed her steps,
paused and sighed...I was the one who held
my breath...this was, is, always has been
her dream...dreams that shift and morph and
evolve...as she does...
.walking with her, pausing,
watching her, has always been mine...
ahh, ranunculus, pale cousin of the vibrant
buttercup...you unfold yourself in delicate
layers, papery petals so barely there and
yet so breath-takingly present in your shyness...
such a brief spring and you are gone from
field and garden while your bold relative
languishes in open field and windswept
meadows full of hay and alfalfa drying in
the summer sun...
to capture you when you are neither young
nor old, but mindless of the dawning day or
setting sun, is to know the breath of morning
and feel the cool touch of dew upon the grass
wrap your stems in wide satin ribbon and
you are an honored guest at the wedding
an offering in the quaking hand of a bride,
the something that is both old and new...
your gentle beauty is the blush on a maiden's
cheeks, the first light beyond the dawn, the
rustle of taffeta, the song of a lark, the
whisper of toe shoes....the sound of a kiss....
It was 1952 she told me as she twirled the heavy
gold signet ring on her right hand...Budd Mitchell
was the President of his fraternity and he asked
me to the spring formal....as a freshman, i'd never been to
a fraternity dance and I didn't know any of the other
boys' girls, but i wanted to go anyway....
the years dropped away, her shoulders lifted, her
soft blue eyes brightened and twinkled with mischief
then she straightened her back a bit before she went on...
i didn't love him, but he was kind and strong and i
knew i would be safe...and then, i did love him
but that's another story...she blushes...
i was walking along lake street after working one saturday at
the bakery and i saw it. it reminded me of the pale pink
frosting I'd been whipping, earlier in the day, for a baby
shower cake...and I knew it was the one. a small bell tinkled
as i entered the shoppe and an older woman with straight pins
between her lips came into the room from behind a curtain
may i help you find something....no, i said, that is the one...and
i pointed to the dress in the window....it took her seamstress
magic to make it fit, and four paychecks to pay for it, but it was
it...i was...and now she blushed the same faded pink of the dress...
beautiful...yes, i know you may not be able to image it now, but
i was beautiful....
he said so...
but why would you give her these old things
my daughter asks me, as I lay the linens on
the chair beside the bed in the guest room...
why not the new sheets with two-tone stripes
in shades of cream, or the blue ones with
cabbage roses...you love those, don't you?
yes, i love them...for you...but this is my friend
and like me, she loves the feel of time-softened
white cotton bearing the monogram of a long
forgotten bride, and pillow slips as delicate
as the cheek of a babe...
okay then, but at least give her the new down
comforter, it's filled with soft feathers, as light
as Colorado snow, and the chenille throw...
the color of the sea on a stormy march day
somewhere along the coast of Maine...
no, i will give her what I know she loves...a patchwork
quilt in the colors of yesterday...frayed in all the right
places and singing a story of favorite dresses saved for
patching, tea towels long-loved, and the remnants of
a baby's blanket oft-repaired and now a memory...
these are the linens she will love to smooth across
her lap as we sit, like girls, on her bed long after
you have gone to sleep, and the house is sighing...
these are the linens we will make up stories about
as we drink our tea, and fend off weariness and sleep,
because we don't want the day to end....
dear annie....your father and i are well
and think of you hourly. it is hard for us
to imagine the adventure you have been on
or the man you will find at the end of that
journey, but we pray for your safety and
happiness each and every moment.
to cross the unknown and begin your
life as the wife of a man you have never
seen is very brave and we hope your courage
is wisely vested. reports of indian raids
and prairie winds return in letters from
those who have gone before you and write
to their parents...
since you were not able to take your wedding
dress, or your trousseau with you, I have sent
along this piece of the veil I've been tatting
since you were a girl. I hope it makes you feel
special and that you will know that each stitch
was made with a mother's love.
please write and let us know that you are well
and that the conditions are not so harsh that
you cannot bear them...my friend Emma's
daughter wrote that she has a canary to keep
her company when her man is gone, and to
break the silence of the prairie when there
is no wind...
we love you...mother and father
she was such a tiny thing, all dark eyes and
hair like a papoose...black and straight....longer
than all the other babies I'd ever seen with
wispy blonde curls, or none at all...
she was so quiet, almost as quiet as a forest
creature, and she was mine...or so I thought...
she came home wrapped in a blue and
pink-striped flannel blanket and her first bed
was the box from our parents' new vacumn
cleaner...a Hoover...and the box was strong and
lined with a blush-colored satin pillowslip...in
it she was the most life-like baby doll I'd ever
seen...and she was mine..or so I thought...
at four, all things were mine...and this was the most
beautiful, delicate, mysteriously quiet gift my
mother had ever given me. I wanted to hold her
all day and stroke her soft black tufts of silky hair
that lay across her pale alabaster forehead and above
her ebony eyes...
as she grew, it became clear that her delicacy and
quiet loveliness radiated from a core beauty within, and
behind her eyes, there was wisdom...and strength...
the strength to find her own path, defend her own
dreams, forge her own bonds of love, and soar on
the thermals of her own living...
today she is a mother herself....and she is lovely,
she is strong, patient, wise....and she is my sister...
as I always knew...
her kitchen was simple, filled with
simple things...ironware, jelly glasses
silver spoons, and red-striped linen
dish towels she draped over the
handle of the oven door and tucked
into the waistband of her apron...
rushing in from the car on our visits
to her home in the country, I would
bury my face in the scent of rising
yeast and cinnammon dust she'd used
her towel to wipe from the soapstone
counters where she kneaded loaves of
crusty bread we'd have with soup for
dinner...
long after she left the farmhouse for a
room where she could only bring a
few photos and her favortie quilt, I
found a cache of red-striped dish
towels at a flea market one summer day
and knew they were the perfect shade
of home to match the memories
in her heart...and mine...
it is a warm day in June and they are boys
boys without a mission, but with energy to spare
kansas boys, nebraska boys, boys who are as
familiar with seasons of growth and harvest as
others know goal posts from basketball hoops
they walk, run, mander three abreast
through fields of yellow grain and cornstalks as
tall as an elephants eye, and the talk of tractors
and girls and the price of sorghum
they dive naked into a watering hole surrounded
by cattle they have raised, and horses who's bodies...
strong flanks, long necks, silky manes....
are as familiar to the touch as their own....
the old door to the barn promises shade for dreaming,
and straw for napping before the evening chores give way to
clean shirts, sun-washed hair, and the
promise of junebugs fluttering like angels over
their teenage dreams of a young girl's second glance,
outside the tasty freeze on an oklahoma friday night....
he was waiting by the side of the highway,
just beyond Jericho's holy gates, that foolish
Bartimaeus, the son of Timaeus...blind and
foolish, begging...always begging....what will
the master think? a blind beggar his last
memory of our sacred walls...
Jesus, thou son of David, have mercy on me...
"mercy," what is he thinking, he has gone too
far. the Rabbi does not know his sins, or his
parents', that he can judge his failings and
mete out mercy...what insanity, what boldness...
i know what i know...that this is a beggar, that is
what I know...a beggar who bothers our visitors
and annoys our noble men...day after day he
sits on that bench, and asks for more...always more...
what mercy does he deserve...
but wait, he stops...the master stops, and calls him
to come to him...will his rebuke be fierce, will he
finally tell him to stop his begging....it is such an
embarassment to his family...a good family,
I know them well, they don't desrve this...
oh no... now, he is taking off his clothes and
running naked towards the teacher...
"what do you want me to do," the master asks with
such love in his eyes...that it takes my breath away...
"that I might receive my sight," he answers with
a heart full of hope and expectation and dignity...
standing naked...he has honor...and faith...oh, what faith...
and it is this faith, that the master sees beyond my
blindness, it is this faith that opens my own eyes to the
blindness of my heart...it radiates from Bartimaeus
like the sun...he is whole...he is His...and he leaves
it all behind him...the blindness, the begging, the
darkness...and follows his faith...and opens my eyes
to the greatest light of all...
i come from a long line of architects
a grandfather who saw the devastation of
north africa as a waiting canvas, a beautiful
jigsaw puzzle he would put together from
the broken pieces of minerets, and shards
of stained glass that lay in ruins on the
western front...
i grew up with an uncle who collected stories
of taliesen and falling waters, like an
architectural anthropologist...photographs
and artifacts from prairie style houses
that told the story of craftsmen and simplicity
and a man named frank lloyd wright
a mentor he would name his son after....
i grew up fed on their dreams of transom windows
and coffered ceilings made of quarter-sawn
oak, Stickley chairs and leaded glass in
geometric shapes so pure that to see
light pour through them...felt like a
prayer
i come from a long line of architects...who
dream of light and angles, the modest turn of
a spindled balustrade and a time-burnished
newel post carved by artisans, simple cornices
and crown molding,...the sound of
falling water over slate and stone...the way
sun turns wood to gold...
the light is perfect, she says to herself as
she gazes longingly toward the chair in the
corner...her favorite corner of the room
nearest the garden, where mourning doves
coo and the scent of jasmine floats through
an open window...
this is the time of day when there is nothing
but the stillness of this room, and the slow
music of a small mantle clock tapping out the
minutes without her...
and then there is the book of cummings she left
turned over on the table in a pool of sunlight,
filtered by curtains that billow inward with
each breath of midsummer, calling her to savour
one more verse, just another stanza, a sonnet
to feed her heart in this time of hunger
but there are dishes to rinse, and babies
waking from their naps, a quiche to start and
one more section of the garden that needs to
be weeded or they won't have basil when
the tomatoes ripen later in the season...
but the light is perfect and just one verse
will tend the fire of beauty that smolders
in her heart...."i carry your heart with me,
i carry it in my heart..." sated she returns
and rolls out a perfect crust for dinner...
we didn't always agree, she and I,
she wanted him to date others, I wanted
him to love me, and me alone. she wanted
him to travel, I wanted him to stay nearby
and let me be his world. She wanted him
to spread his wings, I wanted him to use
them to shelter me from all that frightened
me and made me feel vulnerable...
we were young, so much younger than we
knew at the time. younger than springtime
in a lifetime measured by a year. we were
moony-eyed optimists in frayed bell-bottoms
and sandals, with flowers in our hair...ideals
as gauzy as the peasant shirt she helped me
embroider with daisies, and peace signs and
the word "imagine" up one sleeve..
but we agreed on this...he was smart and good
and deserved to be loved, that raspberries
should be eaten warm from the vine, that
children were our future, and that nothing
beat a perfect baking soda biscuit as the foundation
for strawberry shortcake in early June....
she was feisty, and strong-hearted, and
never gave up...or in...she taught me how to
cut shortening into flour, sprinkle ice
water onto the pea-sized bits, and to
mix it altogether without toughening the dough
by too much handling...i think of her whenever
I bake biscuits and watch the juice from
fresh strawberries infuse a perfect shortcake
with summer...and wonder if she ever knew
how much i longed for her approval...
and acceptance...
when he was just a little boy
my brother didn't like to have his
feet in the hot, dry sand of summer,
he would tiptoe across the beach like
a tiny sea cricket until he reached the
cool wet sand at the water's edge...
and then,
he would let the foamy, brackish surf
curl around his ankles and wash under
his toes and through his arches while
he steadied himself against the push and
pull of the the sea's ebb and flow...
gaze transfixed on the horzon, where
water blended into sky and light...he would
dig his toes in deeper and deeper until
the sand reached above his ankles and the
cold seawater splashed against his calves...
he was not a boy who ran in and out of the
waves, he did not build tall castles out of
sand, or bury his sister in a deep hole until
she wriggled herself free from the softly
smoothed hills and valleys above her small
frame that cracked like a sandy chrysalis...
he knew it could not hold the butterfy
she would become...
but my brother focused steadfastly on the horizon
with his feet in the sand, and his eye on the
edge of the sea, watching for the tallship
with brass fittings, teak decks,
and salt-bleached sheets that snapped in
the wind... waiting patiently for the
life purpose, the dreams, he would sail one day...
a hint of tuberose and vanilla, with just
a touch of jasmine....his words more
fragrant than the scent upon my skin...
there is a top note of orange blossoms,
and then, he sighs, it deepens into
something full of warm nights and
amber...Morroco, I think...mmm, not
that heavy, more like Savanna in June
listening to him describe fragrance
is like visiting a spa...warm word stones,
evocative scent-supported similes,
musky metaphors, large heady bouquets
of lilies and bowls of lavender beside
the bed....
close your eyes, he says, let the scent
unfold to you like scenes from an opera
and he is right, I take in puccini, and
exhale verdi...ahhh, I think, to breathe
the rare colors of venice on a summer's nightBlogThis!Share to FacebookShare to Pinterest
they grew around the fieldstone foundation
of the farmhouse...in every shade from snowy
white to the deepest purple with soft mauvey
pinks and aquas in between...
in march, they were like a promise held in a tightly
fisted hand, small as the early spring hail pelting the
red metal of the barn roof, and turning our mother
into a madwoman who rushed into the garden
with sheets and towels covering tiny plants
she had grown from seed, on the wide stone
windowsills, deep enough to capture sun's warmth
in winter
by april they were like pale green dandelion seeds under
a magnifying glass...almost hidden in the dark green
leaves that grew as large as a giant's hands....
by june we knew, which would bloom in soft hues of
pink and cream, blues and aquas, cobalt and a purple
as rich as a king's coverlet on the royal bed...
we'd cut them in july and august...armloads of heavy headed
blossoms to place in mason jars, and pitchers, and once in the
umbrella stand their long thick stems searching for water,
their droopy necks resting on the rim, peering over edge
like tired children along a fence rail...
in september they'd move to baskets or hang from rafters
where they would dry to muted shades of autumn....
another hydrangea season come and gone...
it is the color of my daughter's baby quilt,
stitched by hand, and carried across the sea
to gather around her...like the African twilight
falling on a landscape teeming with birds, and
eyes that glow golden from the dark corners of
the veld...
it is the color of the wide front door on our
butter yellow cottage, a leaded glass
window to see the world through,
it's casement a perfect framing for the
living, ever-changing and evolving
photograph of morning glories climbing
the porch rail in the summer, and icicles
dripping from the eaves on a blue cold
Colorado morning...
it is the shade of blue that catches in
my throat like a perfect poem, the cool
breeze that breathes off Mt. Harvard, and
lifts my hair on a hot, dry Arkansas Valley
day in July, a lyric so beautifully crafted it
resonates like a tuning fork through the
chambers of my being...
it is the perfect french blue of an oxford
cloth shirt, the checked dishtowel carefully
laid over a rising loaf of bread, the scarf
my daughter knit..in careful rows..
last christmas, the breast feathers of a bunting,
a single hydrangea petal....
it is a rare shell washing up on the sands of my
life...a reminder...
of the serendipity of periwinkle...
