I'm back in Iowa City, Iowa after almost week in New York. Unpacking my experience, reorienting myself to my studio and work, I am taking a slow route back into stories and pictures. Soon a blog post, pictures and words will once again appear on this blog. Till then, youtubes. My very first in this media.
The snow is almost gone. A rapid melt came yesterday when the temperatures soared to almost 70 degrees. Leaving, for some odd reason, a lot of roadkill. Racoons, mostly. Walking last night with a friend and her dog, bicyclists sped by. Everyone everywhere was in a jolly mood. Spring is nearly here.
Earlier this week, the woods were snowy--deep and still. The landcape brushed with whites, grays, browns, and a dash of black. The sky a blue-gray. But on the path that day, in our almost forest park, a lone lost mitten waved me on with hopeful pinkness.
A few weeks ago, a childhood dream was realized. Shoe shoeing the deep snow drifts that blocked the gravel road in, I got my first view of Camp Hochelaga in the winter. With Nancy Patrick, my camp buddy, and her faithful doodle dog, Winkie, we even trekked out the the "Point". Well, almost. The ice was a bit too thin as we approached it. Still, we were at Hochelaga in the winter.
As we passed the new crafts building, Nancy and I could not help but bring up the topic of lanyards. I know I started many of them over my camp summers. I am cerain I never finished one. Never got to put the whistle on the hook. Although I am pretty sure I took a few whistles home with me in my camp stash. This week, when I found this Billy Collin's poem--The Lanyard--I wished had finished one.
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
Note: full moon tonight. And here’s our morning weather report at 9 am CST. Barometer 30.2 inches. Wind 3 mph NW. Dew point -15. Humidity 77%. -4° Snow
In this deep cold, my needles are at work. Called into service to provide warmth and comfort. Two cowls were knit for my youngest daughter. Mittens will be started tomorrow and hopefully finished before she leaves to go back to college on Sunday. A healing shawl and two chemo hats are in the works as well.
In college I took a Chinese calligraphy course. Before our brush touched the paper, there were steps to follow. Feet positioned first, if I remember this right. Firmly on the ground. Posture was important, too. And then, there was the grinding of the ink. A small amount of water was poured into the pool at the end of grinding stone. The ink stick was dipped into the water, pulling a few drops on to the grinding area. Circular movements of the stick against the stone broke down the ink particles while mixing them with water and creating a fluid. Brushes held in a prescribed manner, tips of the thumb and forefinger grasping handle, the middle finger behind and lower on the stem, giving the artist maximum control.
There are weeks when my studio time feels like that grand preparation of ink I did back then. Monday, after I finished my Lion Brand essay and card, I was determined to do a New Year’s sweep: cleaning, organizing, shedding the unnecessary and distracting, preparing for the work I hope to do in the next year. A box of letters turned up the other day, hidden as they were in a messy drawer I usually try to ignore. From 2002, they included a note from my friend Anne Ylvisaker (resolution-learn to spell her name!) who I had just met. Also in the pile were several thank-you notes for healing shawls. And a card I forgot to mail.
Cards remembered, cards forgotten. Mittens knit and lost. Life does go on, imperfectly at times. And with it, each new year I am filled with hope and enthusiasm. Gripped with an eagerness to greet new work and challenges. Feet positioned firmly on the floor in my almost clean studio.
Happy New Year.
Our first snow.
In this early morning state, at 6:30 a.m. my neighbors were already out with their snow blowers. We have one, too. Most days, though, I prefer to strengthen my sword arm. Today, shoveling to the rumble and roar of Hondas and Toros, brought me back the memory of the first time I heard a snow blower. It was in the late 1960’s in Troy, New York. And it belonged to an Englishman, Gordon Leavis. He and his family had just moved a few houses over from us. We hadn’t met them yet, but learning of my young father’s heart attack, Gordon zipped up our walk, and cleared our snow.
A few phone calls were made that day,and later, when Gordon, his wife Valerie, and their daughter Susie were in our living room, they entered our family’s heart and life. Drinks were served for the adults, I’m sure. Maybe my dad even baked his famous cheesecake. Or maybe he whipped up an enormous pot of the mushroom barley soup he loved to make and often distributed to the worthy in cleaned out Hellman’s Mayonnaise jars.
My parents, Gordon, and Valerie died many years ago. School friends and neighborhood kids from my growing years are spread out all over the country and the world. We now meet on on Facebook. Susie Leavis is there, too. She wrote me that she has my father’s soup pot. And when she takes it out, she thinks of him.
Here’s to snow blowers and soup pots and good neighbors.
