4 Dec 2016

The Iowa Theater Renovation: Interview With The Fons Girls, Part I

by | posted in: Family, The Iowa Theater Winterset | 9
The Iowa Theater, Winterset, IA town square, 1951. Photo: [Checking on it!]
The Iowa Theater, Winterset, IA town square, 1951. Photo: [TBD]

For those with a need for the backstory, it’s right here. For those who know my family is rebuilding the old movie house in my hometown, here’s the first of a two-part interview with the two Fons women in charge. Boy, are they great. There’s Marianne Fons, a.k.a., “Mom,” and my younger and far more talented sister, Rebecca. Enjoy!

PAPERGIRL: So, Mom and Rebecca. How’s the theater buildout going? What’s happening with construction?

REBECCA: It’s kinda like, what isn’t happening? I used to look at this project as a single, long road: Do this, then do this. A to B to C. But now I realize it’s more like a bunch of roads parallel to each other. The foyer is being worked on while the wiring is being figured out. The fundraising is happening while the money is being spent. It’s a huge, living project.

MOM: Contractor Steve Reed and his workers are currently focused on the renovation of the marquee and the adorable ticket foyer. Last week I personally unscrewed hundreds of brass screws to release the old wiring and light bulb sockets from the marquee panels. By the way, “marquee” is my new favorite word.

PG: It’s a good word — and that’s a lot of screws.

M: Despite having been in place out in the weather since 1928, each screw came out with just a few twists of the screwdriver. I listened to that band Alabama Shakes while doing this work. Our electrician will rewire the marquee with 100s of beautiful LED lights.

PG: I love it that you’re getting your hands dirty.

R: When we were doing the clean out early on, Mom and I did a lot of the labor because we wanted just that — and it was work that made sense. If we could lift it and take it to the dump, we did.

PG: This is what I’ve marveled about all along: How are you two even doing this?! You both have a zillion skills and experience in big projects, but neither of you has ever built a movie theater.

R: So much has been a lot of guess, test, and revise — but we really, really know how to throw out trash and clean, so we started there.

PG: When I was in Iowa, we talked over the paint colors of the lobby/vestibule.

M: The foyer ceiling will be a metallic antique gold — very Hollywood — with crimson walls to match the vintage Art Deco one-person ticket booth and coordinate with the terrazzo floor.

PG: Fancy.

M: Rebecca has selected the two small chandeliers that will illuminate the spaces to the right and left of the ticket booth.

R: I never thought I’d be able to pick out chandeliers. It was very fun, and we landed on the right one pretty quickly. I think Mom and I both have a similar aesthetic.

PG: You dress in the same colors!

R: She gives me stuff she doesn’t want anymore and vice versa. It’s been great that we haven’t struggled to land on paint, carpet, etc. We are also both very aware we are just two people, so we’ve tried to get outside opinions from friends, other family, and other theater friends we have made on everything from what kind of candy we should sell — Raisinets for sure! — to what color the ceiling should be in the ticket lobby: gold.

PG: How about all the beautiful wood? What’s going on there?

M: All the original oak trim and the oak doors will be refurbished.

R: It is going to be cozy, elegant, and sturdy.

PG: I cannot wait to go into that place and see a movie.

M: “Refurbished” is one of our favorite words, too.

PG: Rebecca, you amaze me with your talent for managing this huge project.

R: Thank you, sis; that means a lot to me. I have extensive event planning and management experience, but I still feel like I’m about 16 years old most of the time, so the faith the family has had in me and Ma to do this — the support and the faith — has been invaluable.

PG:What has been the most fun for you so far in the process?

R: The most fun thing, honestly, is working with Mom. And coming home to Iowa. When I was a teenager I just wanted to get out of Iowa. I was very self-conscious, I guess, and I feel bad about it because now I look forward to coming home. I love having long talks with Mom about the future, brainstorming about exciting programming ideas, and eating tacos with Mom and Mark.

PG: I totally get it. I loved coming home for TV.

R: I worked at the Chicago International Film Festival for almost ten years, and though that job was often very exciting, it was ultimately a desk job. Being able to be on my feet, interact with new people, and collaborate with Mom, who is truly one of my business/career idols, has been really, really fun.

PG: What’s the hardest part?

R: The most challenging thing is when I’m not there — when I’m back in Chicago. I’m a little OCD and I like to be super involved, so it has been hard being away. I’m essentially a third in Iowa and two-thirds in Chicago, but that will flip starting in 2017.

PG: How has the community of Winterset and beyond responded to The Iowa Theater renovation and renaissance?

M: Winterset and Madison County citizens couldn’t be more excited or supportive. Soon, they will have the opportunity to show their support in a very tangible way. We have applied for 501(c)3 nonprofit status and expect our designation any day. Once that day comes, we can begin accepting donations. The project has so far cost over $350,000. We’re hoping the community will step up and match this amount and there’s no contribution too small or too large! We really, really want to finish the job and open as planned this spring.

R: People. Are. So. Psyched. And it is SO great because, of course people would be happy that any awesome new “thing” is coming to town because it would provide jobs and business, but this is a MOVIE THEATER. Our movie theater! And everyone loves movies! Date night, family night, getting out of the house, warm buttery popcorn, cold soda. It’s America and it’s our childhoods. I loved that movie theater when I was a kid, so when I put myself in the place of myself back then and imagine it being closed and then reopening… I would be counting down the days.

M: Rebecca, what a great idea! When we get closer to opening we should figure out some kind of visual way we actually CAN count down the days to opening!

PG: I love how many ALL CAPS are happening right now.

R: YES! Truly, the support of the community — both in thumbs ups and high fives and Facebook likes keep us going. The thing is, we have something special with The Iowa. The town of Winterset is lovely; there are beautiful hanging baskets of petunias hung all around the square in the spring and summer that the MAYOR and his wife water every night from the back of a truck; there are quality, well-managed, new businesses like the Covered Bridge Winery and longtimers like the Ben Franklin store; there is the incredibly curated John Wayne Birthplace Museum, which expanded in 2015; and there are things like The Iowa Quilt Museum — nice work, Mom! — that have been shaping Winterset into, or back into, a gem.

PG: Set to open in May, right? The Iowa?

M: Yes, May.

R: Gaaaah! Yes. MAAAAAAY. So much to do.

[Second half tomorrow!]
13 Nov 2016

What’s Up With The Quilt Blocks?

by | posted in: Art, Day In The Life, Family, Quilting | 13
Caption.
A Four-Patch Star. Block by Marianne Fons, scan by me.

 

You may have noticed the past few posts offer scanned-in quilt blocks as the featured image. What can it mean?

Quilt blocks are pretty much 100% good. I’ve never met a quilt block that was made in anger, represented anger or resentment, or had an opinion about an election. And there’s so much anger out there, so much resentment, and so many opinions on either side about the long, long, explosive election, I feel like a quilt block is a life raft.

Everyone — on either side, in every corner, everywhere — can use a life raft. Sometimes it looks like we need one less, sometimes it looks like we need one more, but the truth is, we always need one: We just panic and reach for it at different times.

Also, quilt blocks are pretty, and this must never be seen as unimportant.

My mom made that block up there probably 15 years ago. She gave me a few loose blocks for a class I was teaching on color; she used the same blocks when she was out on the road. It’s cool to use some of the same teaching materials she used when she was out on her grind; talk about a legacy.

Talk about a life raft. Thanks, Mom.

 

12 Oct 2016

Women: A Love Letter.

by | posted in: Family, Luv | 39
I forget the name of this painting... And who's it by, again? Image: Wikipedia.
I forget the name of this painting… And who’s it by, again? Image: Wikipedia.

 

There are male quilters.

But the overwhelming majority of American quilters are female, so in my line of work I spend a lot of time with a lot of women. Today, I feel like going on record to say that I love them. All of them, like sisters, because they are my sisters.

Just let me get this out.

Everywhere I meet these women — in Seattle, Richmond, Omaha, Phoenix, Orlando — I see beauty, grace, brains, compassion, passion, and strength. I love their stories. I love seeing girls of every age not know how to do something then figure it out. I love to see them bring out their favorite colors: This one has a dozen shades of blue from deep navy to snowflake; the lady sitting next to her has a collection of batiks so deep she could open a pop-up shop.

The women I meet and spend time with are kind. Dorie presses a seam ripper into my hand because I have to try it, it’s the best kind. Sarah makes cookies for everyone and laughs because she forgot to put egg in them but really, they’re pretty good, aren’t they? I see friends helping friends with sewing machines and iron settings and emotions too big to shoulder alone; I watch younger members aid older ones and vice versa; daughters and mothers sewing together, or maybe it’s aunts, nieces, granddaughters at the card tables. These are the women I sew with, who I work for. They are all ethnicities. They are 12 or 53 or 76 years old.

Dignified. Talented. Beautiful. Hilarious. Sometimes I look at these classrooms of women and I just shake my head and think, “We hold up the whole world.”

I’ve been sad for several days.

 

2 Oct 2016

Breaking The Bad Bitmoji News.

by | posted in: Art, Day In The Life, Family, Tips, Work | 6
I think I've got it? Bitmoji by me using Bitmoji app.
Close enough. Image: My bitmoji avatar made by using Bitmoji app on my phone.

 

Someone said to me recently, “You’re all over social media!” and I was surprised to hear that because it’s really not the case.

I’ve seen legit social media masters and that ain’t me. Believe me, I see the benefits of being all up in the social media game, posting this video and re-tweeting that, but the only way I can increase my social media reach is to do more social media and I just don’t have it in me.

Being a blogger isn’t the same as being a social media whiz. When I write a blog post, I always let folks know by posting to Facebook and to Google+. And yes, I do enjoy Instagram, but I go in spurts: I’ll be stuck in a coffee line and post a few shots before I get to the register. But I resigned from Twitter because I don’t want to send text messages to the world. I have taken in some light Snapchatting, but I must be too old for Periscope — and I never made a single Vine. I don’t even play games on my phone! By the way, I know Pokemon Go is a game, but is it a social media gamey thing? Like, do you follow people’s games? Probably. I doubt I shall never know.

But it’s time for another confession. I do have a goofy app thing that I love. I love Bitmojis.

Using bitmojis is definitely not using a social media platform, but if I socialize with it via text messages, does that count?

In case you don’t know — you probably do — Bitmoji is an app for your phone that allows you to create a cartoon of yourself and then gives you hundreds of “bitmoji” illustrations to choose from to express hundreds of different emotions in your text messages, from “I love you” to “It’s red wine night!” to “Busted!!” to… Many other strange things, e.g., you, as a unicorn, blasting off a rainbow that kind of looks like a fart. It’s so much fun! I’m amazed at how much my bitmoji looks like me and how much my sisters’ bitmojis look like them. Sophie’s got a good one, too.

But yesterday I had a rather awkward text conversation with a friend of mine who is in his early fifties and made his bitmoji.

My friend’s bitmoji did not look like him. Actually, that’s not true: My friend’s bitmoji looked like him about 30 years ago. There were no lines on his face. He put himself in a polka dot shirt for crying out loud — he’s a t-shirt n’ sweater vest kind of fellow — and the body shape he chose for his bitmoji was rather…optimistic. All of these things I tried to tell him super diplomatically when he asked what I thought, but I when he texted me that he was depressed after hearing the feedback but followed up immediately with an “LOL, jk!!!” I knew we had a problem.

When Sigmund Freud was 63, he wrote about being horrified on the train one day when he realized the elderly gentleman he was observing was his own reflection. When I waited tables at Tweet, I worked for dear Michelle, who told me once, “It’s amazing to me when I give a man a wink and then I remember, “Oh yeah: I’m old. How about that.” My friend’s off-the-mark bitmoji showed me that we stay on intimate terms with younger versions of ourselves. Every once in awhile I see a picture of myself and I think, “How about that.” It’s not that I’m one foot in the grave; it’s that I’m not twenty — even if I feel like it. (I often do.)

Bitmoji did not pay me to write this post, unfortunately, but I do encourage everyone to go make one and enjoy it; but make it true to how you look. It’s more fun that way.

p.s. Were you just thinking, “Hey, I wish I could read a funny, extremely short play”? I gotcher’ play right here!

23 Sep 2016

From The PaperGirl Archives: ‘The Farm, The Weariness.’

by | posted in: Family | 4
My family, c. 1982. Photo credit: Unknown.
My family, c. 1982. Photo credit: Unknown.

I’m in New York City tonight.

Dinner with my amazing, elder, Manhattan-dwelling sister and my mother. Mom and I are here for the Quilters Take Manhattan event this weekend; I’m emceeing the big event tomorrow and Mom’s a special guest.

We start tomorrow at 8:30 a.m., so tonight, there’s only time and energy for a reach into the archives. This summer. Me and Claus. We went to Iowa, to my hometown. I had thoughts about that and you can read them right here.

That picture up there of my family is interesting. It was taken of my mom and dad, my paternal grandparents, and my two sisters and me in 1982 at the christening of my little sister Rebecca.

I’m the one looking right at you.

2 Sep 2016

Culture Spaghetti.

by | posted in: Chicago, Family, Travel | 18
Filed in WikiCommons under "Confusion." Image: Wikipedia.
Filed in WikiCommons under “Confusion.” Image: Wikipedia.

 

Today was a “Guess what happened to me on the train today” day. Citydwellers know what I’m talking about.

I got on the Red Line train around noon and took it north. I had an errand to run: Daniela, a preternaturally talented esthetician finally cleared up my skin last winter and I had to pick up a bottle of her witches’ brew. (If I found out that stuff is made from the tears of baby seals I’m not entirely sure I would stop using it, that’s how effective it is and how grateful I am to this woman.)*

After transferring to the Brown Line, I got off at Montrose. When I was at the stairs to go down to the street, a man stopped me. He was with his family: wife, toddler, and baby, this last in a ginormous stroller. No one in the group spoke English. Zero. I think “Okay” was the one word he got out and “Okay” is a word that exists in 90% of languages on Earth. They might also have been on the mute side because all of them were clearly spooked and sad. They were lost.

The father offered me, astonishment of astonishments: a printout from Google Maps. I smiled and nodded and took a look. They were nowhere near where they needed to be. They’d have to go back south on the Brown, transfer to the Red, then head back north. The mistake had taken them at least 30 minutes and would cost them another 40, depending on train times. As I looked at the sheet of directions, I shook my head in wonder. The numbers, the stops, the directions, the names of the El train lines — I know them backwards and forwards because I speak English and I’ve lived here, more or less, for fifteen years. But to these people? Gibberish. And they’re trying to get someplace. With kids!

I tried to imagine what I would do if I was lost on the train system in Beijing, for example. The mere thought made me shudder.

We figured it out. I did something just short of an interpretive dance for the father, communicating they had to go down the stairs (I literally did a “I’m going down stairs” pantomime) and over to the other platform (I flapped my arms to say, “OVER THERE, WAY OVER THERE”) and then I said, “Red train. Red.” I pointed to my fingernail polish and said, “Red?” The man understood, nodding vigorously.

The coolest thing ever is that picking up my unicorn serum took less than five minutes. By the time I was back at the Montrose station, the family was there on the platform, waiting to go the same way! I was able to go all the way to the transfer point with them and I made sure they got on the right side, on the right train. It felt great, and I think the woman just about cried she was so glad I was there.

World travelers often say, “Getting lost is half the fun!” I have never understood this. You get lost. I’ll help you. Deal?

*I’m kidding! Almost!

29 Aug 2016

The Red Robe of My Youth (What Now?)

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 17
Illustration of medieval dressing. Source: Wikipedia.
Illustration of medieval dressing. Source: Wikipedia.

 

 

I’m a robe person. I have to be, because my fantasy of The Perfect Morning has a robe in it.

My Perfect Morning begins with my eyelids fluttering open at the early-bird-but-let’s-not-be-ridiculous hour of seven o’clock. I stretch long in my foofy, all-white bed and I pause mid-yawn because — is someone making bacon? It must be [INSERT BACON GENIUS HERE] come to visit me and make me bacon! I decide I’d better get up and comb my hair except it’s already fabulous. Did someone do my hair in the night?? I guess these things happen.

Now with all this extra time, I scratch my ribs and delight in remembering the witty, witty thing I said at the cocktail party the night before and how I was home and asleep by eleven because I always get eight hours — don’t you? Then I swing my long, long legs over the bed and sink my feet into the plush carpet — I bought the kind that vacuums itself — and I whisk! my robe off the hook nearby, except that I call it “my dressing gown” in the fantasy.

Really it’s just a robe — which brings me back to reality. I have a robe problem.

I presently have two. The white, terry monstrosity is fine, if a little scruffy; it went to New York to D.C. and back again, poor thing.) The other robe is the problem: a berry red, heavy twill L.L. Bean number that used to be my mom’s. I saw that woman drink pots of coffee in that robe every day for years and when I appropriated a couple years ago, aside from a little wear on the cuffs, it was in perfect condition. I found it in the guest bedroom at the house in Iowa. I asked my mother, who was wearing a pajamas and a robe at the time, if I could have it, and she said “That’s weird, sure.”

You know how moms are better at laundry? I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but the red robe has fallen apart in my care. It’s faded. I ripped the sleeve when I was reaching for my tea canister because I didn’t realize I was stepping on the hem. A button on the sash popped off. In general, this once mighty item of loungewear has become droopy and sad. After probably 10 or more years of cumulative use, it’s time to let it go.

But I can’t trash it, yet. It’s such a great red. What should I do with it? Maybe there’s a church nearby who needs a Wise Man costume this year — it is literally the color of a poinsettia. The fabric is far too thick to use in a quilt. I could make a pillow, but I have so many.

I’ll ask Pendennis, but if you think of anything, please let me know. And who was making that bacon, by the way?

 

 

19 Aug 2016

The Fons Sisters’ ‘Natty Gann’ Freestyling.

by | posted in: Family | 0
The girl. The movie. The John Cusak. The dog. The poster. Image: Internet.
The girl. The movie. The John Cusack. The dog. The poster. Image: Internet.

This morning, for no discernible reason except to make us both happy, I suppose, my friend Kristina texted me a picture of Natty Gann from the 1985 Disney film The Journey of Natty Gann. I nearly choked on my tea. What a memory!

My sisters and I loved that film. She was inspiring and tough and a girl. Natty’s ragamuffin style has influenced our sartorial choices at different times in our respective lives. I’ll wager both my sisters have, as I do, a tweed newsboy cap that is perfect for chilly November days in Chicago and New York and I’m 100% we all have at least one pair of fingerless gloves. From The Journey of Natty Gann, my sisters and I got a good role model, fashion advice, and a deep desire to own a wolf and ride the trains like a bum.

Thinking they would get as much pleasure from this out-of-the-blue picture of Natty as I did, I texted it to both Hannah (older sister) and Rebecca (younger sister.) What transpired was so life-affirming and weird, I thought I’d better share it with a wider audience:

They freestyle rapped about Natty Gann. Both of them. For awhile.

“What do you mean, ‘freestyle rapped about Natty Gann?’ you ask. Well, I’m about to show you.

What follows are actual transcripts of the rhymes my sisters made about Natty Gann this morning, totally off the cuff, via text messages. I just watched it all happen. I have no idea how they were doing this so quickly. The first one to the plate was Rebecca.

“This is a rap about Natty Gann; she’s a cool chick who doesn’t need no man.
Looking for her daddy with her new friend Harry; they got some chemistry maybe one day they’ll marry.
Her dad’s a logger workin’ in the rain; Natty’ll find him, just gotta hop this train.
Her best friend’s Wolf a.k.a., a dog; he’s a bada**, you can’t even see him through fog.
Natty’s got style, Natty’s got class; don’t call her girlie, she’ll kick your a**.
Natty Gann!”

Within a matter of minutes, Hannah replied with this:

“Natty Gann got a dope newsboy cap; she wears a lotta tweed and takes no crap.
The Great Depression was no joke; her dad took off cuz er’yone was broke. 
Natty walked da Earth to reunite; she and Wolf were mad brave, and it turned out alright!”

There was apparently time for one more, from Rebecca:

“Natty Gann, Natty Gann, sorry ’bout your momma; them’s the breaks in Depression Era drama.
Look on the bright side, you can hang with a Cusack; and you just got a bindle, a.k.a. a hobo’s pack.
As a kid I remember thinking your dad was real hot; please heat me some beans in your little vagabond pot.”

I love my sisters very, very much. They show me that while I’m weird, there are others like me.

 

 

 

13 Aug 2016

Memento Mori.

by | posted in: Family | 0
The covered bridge in the Winterset City Park. Photo: Wikipedia.
The covered bridge in the Winterset City Park. The memorial today was held in the park. Photo: Wikipedia.

In Winterset, Iowa right now, time is unrecognizable. I’m back in Chicago, but the strange clocks in my hometown are exactly as I left them: not keeping proper time.

While I was home, I’d think it was afternoon and it was well past seven. But time didn’t fly; at other times, the hours felt sluggish and sticky as the heat and every bit as oppressive.

As we walked to the car yesterday to get me to the airport, the sun beat down on me and Mom; there was sweat on my brow the moment we got outside. Mom said it was 108-degrees with the heat index. I had two thoughts: “What is a heat index, anyway?” and I thought how the death of a young person has to be worse in the summer. A cold, hard wind, a forest of sticks; winter fits the grinding bleakness of grief. Sun, cicadas, and flip-flops feel absurd, revolting. Both the young people I have known who died, died in the summertime. Another reason to look forward to cooler weather.

I had to leave before Megann’s memorial today. I know many people were there. There will be another ceremony, I believe, in Olympia, WA, where the girl made much of her adult life, though people from WA and other parts of the U.S. flew or drove many miles this past week, yesterday, and today to pay respects and give love to the family. Times like this, it’s clear to me that people are basically good.

Lastly: What is a silver lining?

I looked it up. It originated with Milton, from a poem in 1634. In it, he detailed “a sable cloud…turning her silver lining in the night.” The Victorians worked that into the colloquialism, “Every grey cloud has a silver lining” which means, essentially, “Even a really crappy situation has good things that happen because of it.”

Megann’s mom, K., told me a lady said “this-or-that was ‘a silver lining in all of this.'” The woman who said that meant well; we all do and who knows what to say right now? But K., gracious and caring to absolutely everyone, even in her agony, said to me, quietly, “There is no silver lining.” It certainly seems that way.

It is also true that in the past 10 days, I have had deep, soul-affirming conversations with special people I haven’t seen in years. I’ve remembered the priceless nature of a sibling relationship. I am continually being reminded that no meeting, no delayed flight (I was delayed four hours in St. Louis and arrived home past midnight), no headache, no spot on the carpet matters very much.

It’s people. It’s always only people.

 

11 Aug 2016

Transmission: Iowa

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 3
Girl playing in public fountain/installation in Washington, DC, 2015. Photo: Me.
Girl playing in public fountain/installation in Washington, DC, 2015. Photo: Me.

Why do I write?

Over the past year, a year thick with introspection, I have come up with an answer: I write because writing is how I order reality. It’s not quite that “If I don’t write it down, it didn’t happen”; it’s more that if I don’t write it down, I haven’t got a chance of understanding it.

Reminding myself why I write is a good thing to do when I’m moved to share what’s happening right now. Writing down what is happening in my hometown, with my family and my extended family at the time of this death isn’t happening because I am an exhibitionist. I’m not doing it because it’ll make good copy. I write in my journal, this blog, essays, my column, etc., because if I don’t do that, I’m a goner.

You could take drawing away. You could take quilting away. You could take reading away. But if you kept me from trying to order my life through writing, I wouldn’t make it. Honestly, I couldn’t.

So.

There are colloquialisms everywhere. When something bizarre happens that freaks people out, we might say, “It was like a bomb went off!” We might say, when we enter a room where everyone is bummed out, “Woah, woah: Who died??” We say use these expressions – with no ill intent – and then, when the stakes are as high as they ever, ever get, when a literal bomb detonates or when someone actually ceases to be here way, way before they should cease to be here, we know we can never use those phrases again, not because we’re suddenly possessing of manners – we have always had manners – but because we know too much. Bombs and deaths are real and we figure out different words to use, thankful for all the choices available to us.

Megann’s family’s house is a shell. There are people coming in and out; relatives, friends, neighbors. There’s so much food over there, our house, five blocks away, has become the second freezer, the second refrigerator, the second pantry: We’ve got buns, cheese trays, salads, cookies. All of this will be used at the memorial, which is Saturday afternoon at the city park. There’s so much happening at the family’s house, it resembles a beehive but it’s not a beehive. It’s a grief house. It knocks the wind out of you when you walk in. The air stands still.

I saw Megann’s sister, Sarah, who was my best friend for decades and the first person I met on Earth who was my same age (we were only months old at the time), and we spent good hours together. Her radiant daughter, just three-and-a-half, is the only thing that actually makes anyone around here remember what feeling good feels like. I walked Sarah back over and when she got in the door, her little girl jumped for joy and cried, “Mama!!!!” Sarah scooped her up and buried her head in her daughter’s hair, hugging and kissing her. We all beamed for a solid two seconds and this was a great relief. Children are a gift.

I drank Scotch whiskey earlier. Scotch isn’t my thing, usually. But when I was with Sarah’s brother this afternoon, it just seemed like the thing to do, to ask him if he wanted a stiff drink. He accepted, thank God, and we sat on the front porch tonight as the rain poured down on Jefferson Street and we talked about what it means to be from here, and what it means to be at all.

I thought ground zero was last week. It wasn’t. That wasn’t even negative nine.

7 Aug 2016

On Polka Dots.

by | posted in: Family | 3
Two seconds later, I was crying -- again. Photo: Luke.
Two seconds later, I was crying — again. Photo: Luke (or Sophie?? I literally couldn’t see.)

My birthday, though I didn’t feel much like celebrating the night before, ended up being terrific because of a friend. Actually, several. This means you.

First, the picture:

I look sorta bug-eyed, don’t I? Well, I am, because I am 2 seconds away from losing it because my sweet Sophie made me The Best Birthday Cake I Ever Had. Why? Oh, no reason. Just that she baked colored cupcakes and then put the colored cupcakes inside the pan before she poured in the white batter so that when she cut the cake, there were big, happy polka dots inside the cake. Some people get Funfetti frosting. I got a Funfetti cake. Some people get “friends.” I get Sophie.

Sophie is a polka dot in human form. She erases evil. She is pure good.

The other friends to thank would be you guys.

I hit “Forward”, psychically-speaking, on every encouragement that came my way starting Wednesday — there was so much. I’m not where all that grace must land first, though, so when I get to Iowa (I’ve booked a flight for Wednesday), I’ll be invisibly heaping all of your love, prayers, and compassion on those who need it more than I do. It will be felt.

Goodnight, ya crazy polka dots.

 

 

 

5 Aug 2016

Honestly, Birthday?

by | posted in: Family | 2
Candles n' cake. Image: Wikipedia.
Candles n’ cake. Image: Wikipedia.

I mentioned the other day there’s something I want for my birthday. It’s here, now: in less than an hour, I’ll be 37. I planned on asking for a present. Only you can give it to me, it won’t cost anything and you don’t even have to get up. Sounds easy enough.

But then Megann died and I don’t feel like asking for anything. I don’t want anything.

Unless of course someone can remove the lead weights from the hearts of the people I love who suffer so terribly tonight. How much does that cost? How far must a person travel to do that? I swear, leave the weight with me. I’ll deal with it. Take theirs.

There are diamonds maybe a mile from my front door. Right now, hundreds of millions of dollars worth of diamonds in silk and velvet pouches in the Cartier and the Tiffany shops on Michigan Avenue. Under bulletproof glass, insured for billions, coveted around the world – those jewels are pebbles, worthless, every facet on every stone an insult to a woman who has just lost her child. Take your diamonds and choke the toilet with them. I’ll help you. I’ll help you see what they’re worth tonight.

Yesterday hurt more Wednesday. Today hurts more than yesterday did. I haven’t had the pleasure of grieving for a young person’s death in awhile; I forgot the way it twists and bends back on you, how it ebbs and then breaks all the levees. I keep having these other memories of my cousin and I keep seeing her smile and laugh at Christmas. Stuff I haven’t remembered in years. Oh, god. Oh, honey.

“It’s harder every day because of the permanence,” my sister said.

When someone uses precisely the right word, it clicks in the mind; when Rebecca said “permanence,” an iron door, rusty, old, as high as a castle wall came down in mine. It’s harder every day because of the permanence. I can’t believe I’ll never see her again.

If I don’t tell you about the damned present you’ll think I’m being dramatic. Look, I wanted to make a cute post full of links to various PaperGirl entries that folks seemed to really enjoy and I wanted you to send it to five of your friends. I love you guys much and I figure such lovable people probably know others who would like the blog, too – and I don’t use your reputation lightly and have never asked for referrals before. But I can’t do it. Writing something “cute” would feel like bamboo shoots under my fingernails. And I won’t ask you to recommend your friends meet me like this.

Maybe tomorrow.

 

4 Aug 2016

At The Table.

by | posted in: Family | 3
Closeup, mini-light. Photo: Wikipedia.
Closeup, mini-light. Photo: Wikipedia.

A Christmas light went out yesterday.

I’m sorry to be cryptic, but the details simply aren’t mine to give, nor would I give them this soon, even if they were. It’s just that someone precious died, and it wasn’t time, and it wasn’t okay, and it won’t ever, ever be. Hearts all over the place are just busted up like you can’t believe because you can’t believe how these things can happen and then they happen and you’ve got busted hearts everywhere.

This post is a request.

Do not delay. Tell the family member, the friend, the lover, the spouse, the pet you love that you love them – today. Make a better choice with a behavior today. We fall short. We are cursed with our own humanity. But all around there are acts of love and kindness and you just have to try to be a part of that. Be a part of that. In the short term or the long, hopefully both.

We cannot lose sight of that. We don’t have that kind of time.

I’ll miss seeing you at the table, sweetheart. I love you.

 

 

 

3 Jul 2016

Julia, Part One.

by | posted in: Art, Day In The Life, Family, Paean, Story | 1
Watercolor painting of a birth room; artist unknown. Image: Wikipedia.
Watercolor painting of a birth room; artist unknown. Image: Wikipedia.

Yesterday, around one o’clock in the afternoon, after a standard-issue (more on that in a moment) labor and delivery, dear, healthy Julia Diane was born to Heather and Sam and to all of us, really; as members of the human race, we can all be happy today that Julia is here.

When Heather asked me to be her second-in-command on the big day, I squeaked. I had no idea what it really meant, though. I had no idea that she was giving me such a gift. In fact, I feel a little embarrassed I didn’t freak out and burst into tears and fawn and do a backflip when she asked me; if I knew then what I know now, I would’ve.

I could fill a book with my impressions from yesterday, there’s so much. This post will be in at least three parts; I like to be sensitive to your time and I also need a shower.

I want to begin by telling you that when I was summoned to the hospital, I brought a book, a snack, and an almost neurotic sense of propriety. I was there to do Heather wanted/needed, but I figured I’d leave the room when things were gettin’ real-real. I had zero intention of being awkwardly there as two people welcome their child into the world; if there ever was a moment not about me, that would be it. Heather did want me there, though, to be present for both of them for the duration — and I think I hit the right note. I sat at the side, helped with ice chips, helped with some washcloths, did some light back patting and arm squeezing. None of the doctors ever glared at me and I’m 100% sure the glasses of water I got Sam and Heather after the whole thing was over were the best glasses of water they have ever had in their life. All I’m saying is that I could possibly do this professionally.

Now, then:

Heather is a strong, brave, beautiful woman. But I had never seen her look like a lion until yesterday. It happened when the baby’s head crowned and pushing had to get really, really intense. With her carnal, ancient task before her, my friend was so powerful and gorgeous, she looked like the strongest animal in the kingdom, doing the bravest thing that can be — must be — done. She was ferocious, focused, and utterly natural. It helped that her loose ponytail was all messed up and her hair was all over the place; Heather’s got awesome red curly hair and it’s generally mane-like, anyway.

But then, just after she’d been a lion, my friend would sink back into the bed in between those major contractions and whimper. She wasn’t crying; these were plaintive sounds of pain and exhaustion. All the strength she had for each round of pushing seemed to entirely vanish when she stopped; then, impossibly, she would find new strength and go again. I thought of the Rudyard Kipling poem, “The Female of the Species Is More Deadly Than The Male.” The poem examines why women will always be more lethal than men because we are the ones who give birth. Look at this:

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same; 
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail, 
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast 
May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest. 
These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells— 
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

Heather did her duty to the generations, if you will, and in witnessing it, I understood Kipling’s poem far better — and I’ve known the whole thing by heart for a long time. As I saw a woman endure childbirth, as I watched “She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast” groan and whimper and gasp, I was deeply moved. I’m just not around this stuff very much. The last time I saw a brand new creature was when one of our cats had kittens. I was six.

Tomorrow: blood and stuff.

28 Jun 2016

Marianne Fons, One Year More Awesome.

by | posted in: Family | 1
Mom, circa 1969. Photo: Not sure. Mom, do you remember?
Mom, circa 1969. Photo: Not sure. Mom, do you remember?

Happy Birthday to Marianne Fons.

Technically, her birthday was yesterday. Don’t worry: I didn’t forget. I sent her a card that arrived on time and she got an absolutely enormous box of notions as a gift. (Even quilt royalty need fresh rotary cutters, you know.)

But when I saw that my sister Rebecca had a copy of this photo of Mom back in the 60’s and posted it to Facebook, I had to pass it along and carry the birthday over a day.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

You are cool.

 

19 Jun 2016

The Baby’s Coming, The Baby’s Coming!

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family, Pendennis | 2
Maternal bliss in The Ladies' Home Journal, 1941. Image: Wikipedia.
Maternal bliss in The Ladies’ Home Journal, 1941. Image: Wikipedia.

There’s a baby on the way! Not mine, silly.

My dear friend Heather has been pregnant for about 8.5 months, which means that she is very pregnant right now. Kin-Kin (I like to call her Kin-Kin) always looks great with her curly red hair and flawless complexion, but she looks amazing pregnant. In fact, Kin-Kin looks so amazing pregnant, she should be pregnant all the time. I can hear every woman who has ever been pregnant, including Kin-Kin, laughing hysterically right now. I’m betting my sweet friend will look even more beautiful when she has that sweet little baby in her arms though, so I can accept if she rejects the suggestion of being pregnant for the rest of her life and goes for just having the kid.

And speaking of having the kid: Kin-Kin asked me if I would be willing to be second in command, if you will, when she goes into labor. My eyes got big and I said yes, yes, absolutely; I was honored she asked me. I signed a paper! On the wee baby’s birth day, I will be serving as the person in the room other than Sam, at the ready for absolutely anything she (or Sam) might need. I like to think of it as I’m Chief of Staff on Baby Day.

Me and Kin-Kin are pretty tight, but I’m also just a great candidate for this job. I’m single, for one thing, so I can take off in the dead of night and head to the hospital if need be — heck, sometimes I do just that for reasons that do not involve babies! But that hospital piece is actually hugely relevant: I have a ton of experience with Northwestern Hospital. I know how the elevators work (not all cars go to all floors), I know the food court, and I have a special way with nurses, which is to say nurses are angels and I treat them as such. What I’m saying is, if you’re going to have a baby in the Chicago Loop, you should probably give me a call. I’m like a midwife, but without any of the medical knowledge whatsoever. I can’t help you push, really, but I can get you a bagel and I can call your mother. I only ask that you name your baby “Mary” if it’s a girl and “Pendennis” if it’s a boy. Not a lot to ask. Do you want poppyseed or plain?

Heather, I’m so happy to help in any way I can when the day comes. Everything is gonna go great. I love you!!

 

29 May 2016

The United States of John Wayne

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family, Paean | 0
Outdoor screening of "The Searchers", Winterset, IA. Photo: Me
People showing up early for the screening of “The Searchers”, Winterset, IA. Photo: Me

Hollywood film legend John Wayne was born in Madison County, in my hometown of Winterset, IA in 1907. Wintersetians take this seriously. If we had to choose between being known for the covered bridges or being known as the spot on the globe where The Duke took his first breath, we’d suck on our collective teeth and shake our collective heads and have to take the latter. Then we’d ask you for your delicious cookie bar recipe and hold the nation’s first presidential caucus.

This weekend was John Wayne birthday celebration weekend and I was here for a particularly exciting part of it: an outdoor screening of John Ford’s classic The Searchers, starring John Wayne in one of the most important roles of his career. The screening took place on the town square, right on the lawn of the courthouse. This was the first time a movie had ever screened there, birthday weekend or no. Who do you suppose orchestrated the event? My sister and my mother.

My mother, as many of you know, purchased the movie theater in Winterset when it went up for sale some months ago. The restoration project is well underway; seven trips to the dump emptied it of garbage, rusted stuff, rotten boards, etc., and every day that passes more wonder is discovered in that old movie house. One of the treasures is the screen itself. It’s in great shape. And it was the Iowa Theater’s very own screen that was put up by our beloved contractor, Steve, for the movie last night.

Families came. A few teenagers came. Old folks came. There’s a film crew making a movie of the restoration project and they were there. My might-as-well-be-my-cousin cousin Will played his guitar and sang folk songs to the audience as we waited for it to get dark enough to start the movie. The air was sweet. With the music and the sun slowly sinking down the sky — the rain that was predicted never even threatened to fall — an eventide spell was cast. The Chamber of Commerce sold candy, soda, and popcorn from a popcorn cart. I can’t confirm or deny that I had a bottle of Stella Artois in my hoodie pocket, nor can I confirm or deny that anyone else had a go-cup of anything similar, but doesn’t that sound nice? We’ll never know.

My sister Rebecca is the head of the entire Iowa Theater restoration project; she’s writing the grants, touching every logistic from projector to neon marquee rebuild, doing strategic planning — everything. She was the engine behind the outdoor screening, too, and my brother-in-law ran the projector. Before the show began, Mom and Rebecca gave a speech about the future of the theater, how 95% of the work being done is being done by locals, how the goal is to make a space the town loves and uses and grows for a long, long time.

About thirty minutes into watching The Duke search for Debbie, I gave into the desire for popcorn. I went over to the Chamber kiosk.

“Hi! I think I’ll get some popcorn,” I said.

The person who scooped some up for me was a bubbly, attractive woman named Heather. She handed me a modest sack of popcorn and I was surprised at how happy I was it was not a tub as big as my head. Heather shook her head. “This is just amazing. Just amazing. You’re Rebecca’s sister, right?”

I said I was and we talked for a minute, geeking out with happiness at the scene before us: people outside, together, enjoying their town, their town’s history, tasty snacks, and a movie, all on a long Memorial Day weekend. We agreed this needs to happen every year, if not more often.

“It just makes me happy,” Heather said, looking out at the one hundred or so people in lawn chairs. “I guess it’s America, right? It’s good. It’s good that kids can come here and it’s safe. You know?”

That popcorn was a buck.

 

26 May 2016

A Jar of Peanut Butter and a Mouse.

by | posted in: Family, Luv | 0
Peanut butter is love. Image: Wikipedia
I figured an image of peanut butter would be more welcome than one of a mouse. Image: Wikipedia.

I’ve come to Iowa for the America Quilts EXPO show in Des Moines. Usually, when I’m in Iowa for quilt-related business I’m taping TV and I’m here with only Mom, my stepdad Mark, and Scrabble. This time, my sister Rebecca and my brother-in-law Jack are here too! They’ve come to work on the movie theater and host a special screening of the John Wayne classic The Searchers up on the town square on Saturday night. (If you’re in the area, you must come down; I’ll post details on my Facebook page.)

We all crammed ourselves into a booth at the Northside Cafe for dinner tonight. Between spoonfuls of chili and glasses of white wine, we reminisced about how Jack and Rebecca got together because it’s basically their one-year anniversary. We talked about how we have peanut butter and a mouse to thank for their love. Yup: a peanut butter and a mouse.

Jack knew Rebecca from work circles and when they met they connected instantly. They were just friends though, because Rebecca was already seeing someone. They kept everything on the level, but it was plain how excited they were to have met the other and every exchange they had was pure delight and intrigue. Jack began to bring homemade peanut butter to my sister’s office. (If that’s not a genius way to get the girl, you’re gonna have to help me know what is.) When Rebecca told me about her new friend Jack, her eyes sparkled. I didn’t think her boyfriend at the time was the right match at all so I was excited about the peanut butter — okay, I prayed about the peanut butter, if catch my drift.

One night in Chicago, I went to Rebecca’s apartment. She had come from roller derby practice and was real sweaty. We were talking at her dining room table when we saw a mouse run fast across the floor. We jumped ten feet in the air and landed on top of the table, pathetic in our terror. Not long after, we heard a terrible, terrible sound: the mouse was caught in a trap — set by the landlord, apparently — under the stove. But it was not dead. It was alive. The sound was horrible and these two extremely capable young women were somehow incapable of dealing with this dying-mouse-under-the-stove situation ourselves. Women and mice, man: it’s a thing.

Rebecca called her boyfriend to come help. But when she got hi on the line, he said “didn’t think [he] could make it.” It wasn’t that he was busy; he just “wasn’t sure” how he was supposed to help. When Rebecca got off the phone and told me this, I tried very hard to continue to support the relationship, but we were literally huddled on the dining room table in distress. I looked at my sister.

“What if you called Jack?” My sister looked at me. She nodded slowly. And in that moment, she knew what she had to do. She called, and Jack said he’d be over in twenty minutes. I insisted she change out of her sweaty roller derby clothes, comb her hair, and put on some lipstick. She thanks me to this day for that, but that’s just my way and what an older sister ought to do.

Jack arrived and went straight to the kitchen. He got down on the floor, eye-level to the mouse, and pulled that thing out. Then he took it out back and made sure that mouse went up to the big Swiss cheese wedge in the sky real quick. He cleaned up from where he moved the stove, he washed his hands. This was a good guy. This was the kind of guy my sister needed to have in her life and in the months and years that have followed The Night Of The Mouse, she and Jack have grown to be the most inspiring, hilarious, marvelous couple I know.

That was the night it really happened — and that’s the way it happened, too. Happy anniversary, you guys.

22 May 2016

Recipe: Clay-Baked Possum.

by | posted in: Family, Food | 1
Young boy with possums, Blackall district, Queensland (or Louisiana) 1908. Photo: Wikipedia.
Young boy with possums, Blackall district, Queensland (but it could totally be Louisiana, too), c. 1908. Photo: Wikipedia.

My Aunt Leesa had dozens of her own cookbooks and then inherited many from my grandmother. Looking for a praline recipe this morning, we discovered Mary Land’s Louisiana Cookery (1954). Scanning the index, we found something unusual before we hit “Praline.”

There’s sweet intro copy before many dishes and then precious few instructions or measurements in the “recipes”; Louisiana Cookery appears to be a cookbook for those who already know how to make this stuff but need a reminder before they, you know, skin a possum. That’s right. “Possum” comes before “Praline” in Louisiana Cookery. The intro:

“A clear, cold night, baying hounds, and a flash of flambeaux form a picture dear to the Southerner’s heart. Treeing possums has long been a nocturnal sport with country folk of the Deep South. Whether it be the large Virginia possum, the small Gulf possum, or the long-tailed Texas possum, both the hunt and its reward are exciting experiences. If the possum is taken alive, pen and feed him for two weeks on milk, bread, and persimmons.” 

What have we have learned, students? “To tree” is a verb, and feed your possums persimmons for two weeks before you slaughter and eat it. Here I thought it was oranges! Oh, you southern cooks. You think of everything. 

Land offers five recipes for your now-persimmoned possum: Clay-Baked, Idle Acres Plantation Possum, Arkansas Style, Louisiana Style, and Possum Dressing a la Gowanloch. Here’s the winner in my view, though this one doesn’t specify what another does, namely, “Scald, dress, and pick hairs off possum.” Take out your notebook, here we go:

CLAY-BAKED POSSUM
Prepare possum as for kitchen baking. Roll in a sheet of moist clay and cover with a bed of coals. Bake from one to four hours, depending on size and age of possum. Break away the clay and eat. (Serves six.)

I do love the idea of baking something in a clay sheet. But if I understand this correctly, when you break off the clay, you’ve got hot possum. That is not okay. But I have to be careful sharing my feelings about the attractiveness of these recipes; I once shared my distaste over another of my grandmother’s recipe books and received a well-that’s-a-bit-harsh note (my first!) from a lady who thought I was being disrespectful and rude, that if “[I] wasn’t grateful enough to appreciate it, I should send it to [her.]” I felt like I was pretty fair. I mean, there was olive jello loaf involved. My grandmother was great.

If anyone makes Clay-Baked Possum and serves it with olive jello loaf and takes a picture and sends it to me, I will… I’ll think of something good. Because you should win something for that.

 

20 May 2016

Love, Overboard.

by | posted in: Art, Family, Luv, Small Wonders, Travel | 2
Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell, goofing off. Photo: Goldie Hawn's Instagram Feed.
Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell, goofing off. Photo: Goldie Hawn’s Instagram feed.

If you counted all the times I’ve seen the movie Overboard, and then added the number of times each of my sisters have seen it, and then added the number of times we’ve all seen it together, you would no longer be surprised as to how it is we can run the lines from Garry Marshall’s 1987 masterpiece from start to finish. You would understand how it is we can (and do) so frequently reference Overboard when we’re together, calling up scripted gems such as: “I just! Ate a bug!” or “Now Billy, when did we date?” or the perfect-for-every-occasion: “Roy?”

The day we learned that Goldie Hawn and co-star Kurt Russell (mercy!) weren’t just “together” in Overboard but “together” in “real life,” we were floored. Really? They’re a couple in real life? It was like Joanna and Dean from the movie were actual people who actually met when Joanna hired Dean to work on her yacht and was mean to him and then she fell off the boat, hit her head and got amnesia, then worked off the money she never paid Dean because Dean pretended she was his wife except things didn’t go according to plan because he was slowly falling in love with Joanna who he pretended was “Annie” but then Annie/Joanna regained her memory and saw she had been tricked and he almost lost everything but then Joanna/Annie realized she loved Dean, too, and she was happier with Dean and the kids than being the old Joanna who was snotty and shallow. And they rode off on a boat together! Into reality!! What?!

In my experience, spending time on celebrity Instagram or Twitter feeds is extremely productive if what you’re looking to produce is post-postmodern anxiety and/or lassitude. But I make an exception for Goldie Hawn’s Instagram account. I love to check up on it. She never posts, for one thing, so right there it’s already a winner: I don’t want Goldie Hawn to be a social media addict. It’s not right for her. Nope, there are just fifty or so pictures of her attractive family, some archival shots from her long career in Hollywood, and a number of pictures of her and her husband, Kurt Russell, clearly in love after all these years. (See photo.)

She’s seventy. He’s in his late sixties. They’ve been together for three decades. I cannot impress upon you how much joy and hope this brings to me. We loved Joanna and Dean in my family. We still do. Joanna (really “Annie”) and Dean are together after all this time, having weathered the storms of fame, of scandal, of tabloid trash, plus the regular ups and downs of parents and two people in a marriage, period, and this calms me. Pictures are only pictures, I know. But Goldie and Kurt are plainly crazy about each other. Am I wrong?

Good job, you guys. Please, please let it be true that you run lines from Overboard sometimes, just for fun. Please. The only thing that makes me happier than your enduring love is the thought that at the breakfast nook every once in awhile you just:

Goldie: “What was I doing out in the ocean?”
Kurt: “That’s something you like to do, go fishing for oysters at night.”
Goldie: “Oysters in a cold ocean at night? That doesn’t sound like me.”

 

8 May 2016

Good Moms.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family, Paean | 1
Marianne and Mary, c. 1981. Photo: My dad.
Me n’ Marianne, Christmas, c. 1981. Photo: My dad.

When I sat down to write this Mother’s Day post, I started it: “I’ve got a good mom.” But what you’re reading now is a second draft.

Around the third paragraph, somewhere between detailing my Mom’s incredible bring-home-the-bacon-fry-it-in-the-pan-single-mom sacrifices and all 627 of her current projects, I decided that though I believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that I have a “good mom,” saying that I have a “good mom” implies that there are not-so-good ones, as well as downright dastardly moms and worse than that.

Before I head into the terrifying wilderness of moral relativism, I want to say that there are bad people who are bad, full stop. If you hurt someone who can’t defend himself or herself, and if you do that on purpose, more than once, that’s bad, and we can stand in judgement of the perpetrator and say, “You cannot do this. This — and you, by extension, sir/madam — are bad.”  Since there’s nothing keeping anyone from having children, if a kid’s got a for-real bad female for a parent, it follows that a person can definitely have “a bad mom.”

But apart from these depressing exceptions, I’d like to suggest there are no “bad moms” in the delivery room. Rare is the woman who holds her 30-second-year-old on her breast and feels anything but wonder, pride, good intentions, love. Things kick off that way and then they go on from there. Sometimes they go pretty good. Sometimes, not so much. Sometimes, not so much at all.

Now, I’ve never made a mistake in my life, of course. All the decisions I’ve ever made have been perfectly-timed and dead-on. I’m constantly delighted by my 100% rightness in every situation; I regret nothing. The plans I lay, they are carried out precisely as I intended from a place of clarity and wisdom. Nothing bothers me. I don’t lose my temper. I love everyone for who they are because I realize holding people to my high expectations is absurd. I laugh at life’s troubles and I have unwavering grace and tact in all my personal and professional relationships.

But I’ve heard there are people who make mistakes — and I have heard that people who are mothers were people first. Contrary to fabric softener commercials and stories about “the good old days,” a woman does necessarily not become a flawless caregiver the instant she gives birth. It’s more likely that she is essentially the same person she was before she had a baby, except now the whole world has changed, which would shake anyone up.

My point is: Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms: good, less-good, and otherwise. It’s a heckuva job, from what I can tell. I’m not a mom, but I could be someday* and I know I will need plenty of grace; this is a Mother’s Day card to the moms out there who need some today.

*Big Mother’s Day ups to Gramma Graham, my mother’s mother; she had my mom and Mom’s twin brother David at age forty, and that was back in the early ’50s. Dorothy was a cougar! That’s hot, Gramma. I’m thirty-six.

 

 

26 Apr 2016

That’s My Dad.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 1
From R-L: Dad, Me. Photo: My Aunt Leesa.
From L-R: Dad, Me. Photo: My Aunt Leesa.

I was going through the dumb iPhoto album on this dumb laptop, looking for a dumb picture that apparently is in my old laptop’s dumb iPhoto album, though it’s likely it could be in either my dumb desktop iPhoto album or my old desktop iPhoto album, which is also dumb. I have sworn that when this laptop dies, I am switching to a Windows Surface thing. Seriously, I am doing that. The Mac cloud has failed me too many times and Steve Jobs is dead. These are facts, and I never found that picture I was looking for.

Another fact: that guy up there is my dad, and this was a picture that I didn’t mean to find. There aren’t many pictures of my dad on any of my computers. There are barely any on the Internet; I found two. Now there are three.

Dad and Jane were traveling through California while I was visiting my favorite Auntie in Sacramento some months ago. I got nervous when the prospect of them dropping by came up; I hadn’t seen my dad in over five years. But I agreed. What was I gonna do? Say no? No, because that just isn’t my style, even if my stomach hurt terribly that morning and I bit my thumb cuticle on my left hand till I drew blood.

Aunt Leesa and I made muffins; the meetup was going to be brunch at her house. We made strong coffee. My auntie knows how I feel about my dad (complicated) and she knows the early story of my family (lousy, complicated) but she’s not a Ground Zero Crewmember so she’s about the best person on the planet to sit next to at brunch if you’re me and Dad’s across the table. She also grew up with the guy, so she knows when he’s, you know. Full of muffin. Which he is.

I could write a novel about how that two-hour brunch went, what with all the labyrinthine thought processes running through memory and curiosity at the same time, trying to result in conversation not emotional but still genuine, not slow-burn rage-y but not without bite. You want those who have hurt you to hear a little bite in your voice, don’t you? We all want to punish, even while we eat bacon. Especially while we eat bacon.

You know what’s weird? Writing PaperGirl.

 

22 Apr 2016

It’s a Heckuva Town.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family, New York City | 1
Puppies playing in pet shop window. Note photographer reflected in mirror. Photo: Her
Puppies playing in pet shop window. Note photographer reflected in mirror. Photo: Her

The death of Prince sidelined the follow-up to my trip to NYC. I’m happy to report that I had the most wonderful day.

Well, it was wonderful once I was not in the act of waking up at 3:30am. That was uncomfortable. But once I was vertical, the day glided along like it was on rails. Since I was going to New York City and coming home within a matter of hours, I needed no luggage. I took my Jim Shore patchwork shopper (autographed, because he’s a good pal of mine and you betch’yer buttons I’m name-dropping) which easily held my laptop and all my personal effects; I also carried a modest totebag with a quilt, a book, and some Small Wonders swag for the people at the recording studio. Do you know the glory of walking into an airport and going straight to security with no stop at the ticket counter, no luggage check? It’s intoxicating. And I’m TSA Pre-Check, too, so it was me, an electronic boarding pass and a prayer, baby. Que bella.

When I landed at LaGuardia, I had time before I was to meet my sister for lunch, so I took public transportation into Manhattan. Why not? I had time and I had no luggage. Had that not been the case, I’m sure I’d have taken a taxi. But I was footloose! Fancy! Free! The sun was shining, the temperature was perfect: 69-degrees and all sunshine. I was a woman with time on her hands.

The bus took me to a train; after that train there was to be another to get to my sister’s office. But I bailed on the train transfer and got out at 63rd and Lexington in order to walk the remaining thirty blocks to Hannah. Thirty?! Yeah, sure. City blocks in Manhattan are short and pure entertainment.

I saw puppies playing in the window of a pet shop (see above.) I saw a tiny cemetery, restful and serene, stuck between two buildings; I saw a two different girls wearing tiny hats, so that must be the new thing; there was a man in a suit that I know cost more than most people make in a month or more; bodegas, murals, homeless, worker bees, dogs, babies. Muppets. Ballerinas. Unicorns.

The time I spent with my sister was like, soul good. We needed a good cup of coffee and that’s precisely what we had. If that was the only thing I was in New York to do, that would have been worth every penny. And the guest spot on the Good Life Project podcast went great, I think. I got choked up at the end, so it was certainly something. (The episode I’ll be on won’t air for several months; I’ll let you know when it goes up.) After the show, I headed back to the train and bus combo; I got to the airport with no issue. Walked onto the plane. Back in time for dinner.

New York, you’re all right. Your spring flowers up against all that graffiti looked so good to me yesterday, I came quite close to missing you. Chicago says hi.

 

10 Apr 2016

The Farm, The Weariness.

by | posted in: Family | 3
The bus stop my dad made for me and my sisters so we would have shelter waiting for the school bus each day. Photo: Me
The bus stop my dad made for me and my sisters so we would have shelter waiting for the school bus each day. Photo: Me

Claus came over from Chicago for a visit while I’m here. Aside from the interest he has in seeing where I grew up, it’s objectively great for him to see a quaint Midwestern village. It would be the same for me if I were in Germany; I’d probably travel miles to see a “real life” German village. I’ve shown him the theater; we went to see some covered bridges; we’ve eaten several meals at the local Northside Cafe; we checked out the high school football field.

And this afternoon, we took a drive into the countryside. But it wasn’t just any old Sunday drive; we drove seven miles south-ish and west-ish of town to the farm where I grew up.

Lord Almighty, all our old pains. So precious, so deep, so white-knuckled. Our most blinding pains are woven into us and the older we get, the older the pain gets and don’t you dare pull that thread. It’s the first tragedy of my life, leaving that farm, and the story of it — mythic, epic, now — has been squatting on my heart ever since, despite hours of therapy, true love, art. Despite travels to Chicago, New York City, Washington, DC, to the far reaches of the galaxy, to Florida. I’d love to say it was different, that I’m resolved and actualized and enlightened by age if nothing else, but I see that farm and it all comes back. Blah, blah, blah.

I was little. My sisters were little. My mom and dad were getting divorced. My sisters and I got on the school bus one day. We never went back to the farm. We didn’t know we wouldn’t go back, we just never did. We never slept in our beds again. We never saw our toy box again. We didn’t say goodbye to our cats. We were country kids, then we were not. Cry me a river. Amazon.

Why go out there? I don’t know. One may select from a variety of Sunday afternoon activities and ghost-hunting is an activity one may choose to select when you’re me, in Winterset. It’s all out there, just seven miles out, south-ish and west-ish of this particular and particularly quaint Midwestern village. The acreage looks a lot different from when I was eight, but it’s the same. It is exactly, exactly the same and I would know because I know every inch of that place.

There’s a long drive to the property from the road. It’s not possible to get to the house without making a big production of it: you don’t visit my farm by accident. I don’t know the people who live there, so Claus and just parked the car on the road. That was for the best. I wouldn’t be able to handle touching the yard, the doorknobs. I just know I couldn’t. Squinting at things from far away was plenty.

Claus took pictures of the landscape and of me. Of all the pictures he took, there’s one that truly works. It’s a closeup of me. I’m wearing my Iowa Hawkeyes hooded sweatshirt. The wind is blowing my hair around and I’ve got one hand up to hold it back. My nails are lacquered red because I got a manicure for TV taping tomorrow. The sun is glinting off the gold baby ring I never take off. I’m squinting because the sun is behind the camera. I look every day of my thirty-six years. I’m not smiling. But I’m not crying. The farm is behind me, blurry.

*There’s more about all that right here.

 

 

1 2 3 4 5 6