Today was the first day of school for the grandkids. Yes, the bigs and their littles still live here with us. Yes, they were initially told they’d be moved to the non-US post they were awarded by now. No, we don’t fully know what’s going on. We hear the government is out of money for Homeland Security law enforcement relocation endeavors. They’ll know more when the new fiscal year is in full swing. This is both terrifying and confusing, likely something that won’t make it into the election battleground fodder for the fall. I digress. We’re here to talk about the first day of school with a 4th grader and a 1st grader and how that affects a lowly grandmother. I’m all up in my feelings today.
Seems like I should be launching into something new today, too. I was up early, sneaking out to the porch swing with my sleptin messy bun, the remnants of too much sun exposure still evident both on my legs and the new age spots I’ve acquired near my temple. I love seeing the first day pictures being taken. My heart explodes a little when I realize how much they’ve grown over the past year. It also humors me to hear all the fussing. “That’s not a proper smile. Get closer – act like you love each other. Those are new pants. Stop doing that to your new pants.” It is hard not to spit out my coffee in a fit of laughter. See, we grandparents remember all too well the days we expelled way too much energy saying the same things. Didn’t work back then. Doesn’t work now. Tee hee. Then, they were gone, along with my summer dreams.
Now I sit here at my new desk. We had friends over one evening, back when summer was fresh and new. Seating is always a struggle with bungalow life. I drug out an old door, popped on the hairpin legs I salvaged from another table that went to that great table resting place in the sky. Voila. An auxiliary dining room table was born. We had such a great evening, it seemed like fate was telling us not to put the old door outside in the elements again. Why, we should have people over more often. So, hostess with the mostest that I am, I pushed the old door up against the bank of windows in the dining room and called it art. Little by little, it has accumulated stacks of books, half-completed projects, an aloe plant that the newest kitten is determined to eat despite its toxicity, a candle, a random upholstery project chair, pictures painted by me, one by my granddaughter, and a single photograph. Though hosting dinner, part deux, hasn’t come to fruition yet, ye olde door has provided me with a beautiful window to the world.
I sit here nearly every day, sometimes in multiple units of time. I keep my laptop at the ready, in case I come up with something I need to tell you. I do my nails here. Toes, too. I eat lunch here. I scroll Pinterest for solutions to the aforementioned unfinished projects. I am routinely held hostage by sleeping lap cats while posted here. I can catch my neighbor’s dog, Bluey, foiling his many escape attempts. I play solitaire here, but only with real cards. I start books. I finish reading some of them. I see both the beauty of the sunrise and the disgrace of the drought blighted soil from this seat. I live here.
Among the stacks of books, there is a definite theme. Writing. There’s Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way – both the instructional book and the accompanying journal. There’s a book titled My Life in Sketches. Another is named like a direct order – 400 Writing Prompts. They were all purchased, whether by me or by my kids, to spur me. They’re all intended for the same purpose. I am supposed to be writing down the stories in my head. There’s the story about the siblings who fell out of contact after misunderstandings surrounding their horrific upbring-ing. There’s the one about a main character named Mercy Goodacre who is infamous for both living in a heavily muraled trailer out by Musser’s Pond and for being the person in town everyone goes to when you’ve lost something that really needs to be found. There’s the one about the woman who accidentally drives her car off a bridge and sees something in the murky water that shakes her soul. There’s even one about the blessings and the curses of moving back into your grandmother’s home. Can you ever bring back a proper English garden that has gone to seed? I don’t know how any of these stories start. I certainly don’t know how they end.
Fear is a complex thing. It’s a beast that lives in the gut somewhere – sort of like bad bacteria. Both are essential to our survival. Both can derail us if misfed. Just behind my laptop screen sits the only photograph on this table/ desk/buffet/workshop/ credenza. I don’t remember placing it here. I don’t remember not placing it here. It’s a photo of my late daughter and my stepson. She is 13. He is 4. She looks a little like me. In fact, I think she’s wearing my shoes. We’re at a wedding. She has one arm looped around him – a cross between a hug and a reprimand. Her other hand is snuggly placed on his shoulder. Her face is saying, “I am the only thing standing in between trouble and you, little brother. Stay close.” Perhaps I’m not scared of writing. Perhaps I’m just scared of how stories sometimes end. Where is Mercy Goodacre when you need her?
- Log in or Subscribe to post comments.