Sunday Morning ~ On The Road Again

Bwenzi ndi mtanthira, mlamba udaolotsa khoswe. ~ Friendship is a bridge; the fish helped the mouse to cross.

~ Chewa proverb

June 20, 2021

Hi Everyone,

It feels strange to sleep in a strange bed. After the year and a half of staying put, roaming from room to room in my own house, waking next to the same lamp and pile of books on my bedside table, performing the rote morning routine, my sense of adventure has been muted. I’ve had the most consistent year of my life: same house, same bed, same cat asking for her breakfast. I haven’t been bored, which honestly, surprised me. I slid in to the routine and created a full day, working on long neglected projects like they were exciting new friends. I found I settled into solitude more easily than I imagined. Opening up again is taking some consideration.

We planned this road trip months ago when Kathy said she was auditioning for the play. From our little zoom corners we said we should do a road trip to see her on stage. Yes! That would be fun! Our first trip in a long time! That was before we knew the vaccinations would be so efficiently distributed. We smugly thought we’d have our own little vaccinated bubble. I’d even planned to make matching masks. And here we are, six months later, trying to remember how to carry on a fully dressed conversation with eye contact. 

I was anxious leaving my nest! That was a new feeling for me. Usually I can’t wait to get onto the road, never fearing the place would collapse without me. But with the every day attention, minute by minute observations of details to attend to, I started thinking it couldn’t survive a day without my fussing. I have created a monster, for sure. Those peonies don’t stake themselves, and what if the clematis blooms when I am away? Who will tell those blossoms they love them? The cat might get depressed. I was feeling rather self-important. Not enough to make me miss a trip with friends, but I can’t deny the anxiety was there. But soon the grand kids will be on my lap and that’s a strong pull.

The first stop is a visit with an old friend where I spent last night. We met when I was just shy of my fourth birthday when I moved into the house on Pomiciticut Ave, a shady dead end road with a yard and a best friend across the street. Her daughter got married yesterday in Oregon and I am in New Hampshire with Barbara, her mom, who was unable to make the long trip out there. We watched the wedding via zoom then had our own little dinner celebration. I’m so grateful for this blessing of long-time friends. This trip will be full of them. We reminisced about growing up in Maynard, We talked about the history of the town and how the mill shaped it’s prosperity and decline. Barbara said she remembered skating on the mill pond as a kid and wondering each time what color the ice would be. I wondered aloud how much that had to do with the high rates of cancer in town. Tuesday I’ll go back for a visit there and enter the mill building for the first time in my life. I walked by there every day growing up, a mysterious chain of enormous brick structures, the iconic clock tower rising from the center. I never appreciated the architecture or the enormity, nor how it shaped so many careers of my friends.

Barbara and I talked about the celebration of Juneteenth and how little racial diversity we had in our town of immigrants: Italian, Polish, and Finnish were the ones I could recall. I knew of only two Jewish families, but Barbara said there were four. There were no black families and only one small group of Puerto Ricans. We had two Finnish steam baths in town! We had two Catholic churches, one just for the Polish, and in a town covering only one square mile, this amazes me now.  We had three dress shops, two men’s clothing stores, a Woolworths, three grocery stores, and a drug store with a real soda fountain in our little downtown area. We were known for being the town with the most bars per capita. 

I’m looking forward to our long car trip to Tennessee. Kathy, (voted most dramatic for senior superlatives) is still at it and I can’t wait to see her on stage. We’ll probably not stop talking for the whole fifteen hours. It’ll be an extended version of our teenage trips to Hampton Beach, but safer since we’ll only have the legal limit of passengers. We’ll have our postponed reunion of the solid bonds created in this town. 

It feels like so many good things are happening now. While still miles to go, our new holiday of Juneteenth makes me joyful. I keep thinking we are not going back to not knowing. I want to follow where this new road leads and discover truths unburied along the way. Learning  is not scary anymore. The guilt and shame is giving way to a more powerful feeling of recognizing how much better we can be. We’re talking about it.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ New Growth

Usamswere thanga m’licero. ~ Do not break the pumpkin in the basket.

~ Chewa proverb

June 13, 2021

Hi Everyone,

The garden is planted, screens are in, outside bedroom is assembled, and the grass has had it’s first mow. I left patches of wild daisies because they make me happy. There is a six week frenzy of working on this charge into summer, and it’s fun to have it be my full time job. I don’t have to plant a garden. I could still have fresh veggies from the farmers markets filling up around here. There are several of them on the island. But I can’t imagine being here in summer without a garden. My garden is a necessity; if it didn’t exist I would starve––emotionally, anyway. My new summer tenant looked out the bedroom window at my garden. “What do you do with all that food?” she asked, rather surprised at the extent of the enterprise. “I eat it.” I told her, “all year.” I used to feed at least ten people each night when the kids were growing up. We had lots of guests, lots of parties, lots of meals. I’d go out to the garden with a basket and pick supper, one of the most satisfying activities I can think of. As the kids were launched and numbers here dwindled, I kept the same garden footprint, even extending it a little to give the pumpkins more room to roam. There is something so sustaining about opening a jar of something you’ve grown and preserved. The nutrients are only a part of the nourishment. I love every step of the way. I love the shape and size of the seeds and the feel of the potting soil. I love their little white roots dangling down as I transplant them. I love giving each one a word of encouragement as they sink into their new home. I love watching the chickens enjoy their little slug treats. I love going out each morning to see who has bloomed, who has decided to reproduce that day. I love that these plants give so much. I love arranging the vegetables on platters, combining them with other ingredients, experiencing new flavors and textures. I love bringing bouquets inside and placing them on paths I walk when going about my day. So much of my life now is outside of the house. I’m grateful to be able to do this full time without the frenzy of running to work, running to work again, then running to work again. I loved that too at the time but I’m more careful now, more strategic, less impulsive about decisions. I don’t need to have everything done RIGHT NOW! I break fewer pumpkins. I keep my basket cleaner.

Are gardens a lot of work? Sure! Does it seem like work? No! In her interview, Angela Davis said, “Self-care is taking joy in the work you do.” I don’t need yoga or a massage. I need my garden. It is such a joy to be able to spend the time now. I feel like a stay-at-home mom attending to every whim of every plant calling to me. And I love it.

My class is finished and this week I need to do the grades before summer officially begins. This is my least favorite part of teaching. I never thought our grading system was fair or in any way a reflection of what we learned. What a strange system we have of measuring the amount of knowledge someone’s mind has absorbed. We cast a judgement based on a subjective gradient which can make or break someone’s career. It’s a powerful position, really. When I was a student I managed to pass some history courses even though I learned nothing about history only about how to pass the course. As I read now about slavery, about the real history of our country, I feel small and ignorant, indulging myself in self pity for wasted years stumbling along in the dark. I got a solid B in those classes and could tell you almost nothing about the American slavery system except that it existed, they picked cotton, got whipped, and Harriet Tubman was very brave. In the antiracism work I’m doing with my organization I lamented not learning the realities sooner. I wonder what difference it would have made in my career or efforts to care for women. I’m immersing myself in it and the work feels good. I want to open myself up to understanding and see where it brings me. I’m lucky to have this time and happy I’m not being graded. It changes how I approach things when judgment is not looming. I’m reading How The Word Is Passed, a book about the author’s travels around this country learning about the history of slavery from the tour guides who teach it. It’s a beautifully written story, sometimes painful to absorb. It’s compelling. I realize I always felt a little superior coming from the north, imagining myself an abolitionist. But I grew up in a mill town. I had not thought before about the mills contributing to the slave culture. We were all part of it. It was not only slave owners profiting from the evil system. There is so much we must face. But I believe the time is right for the work and even though it’s hard and painful, I’m still finding joy in the fact it is happening. We’re not going back to not knowing and that is good. There is no way forward but forward.  

If you break the pumpkin in the basket, it will ruin the basket. Be careful, have patience, take time to get the whole story.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Adding Salt

Kangaonde kakoma ndi mcere. ~ It may be small, but it is lovely when you add salt.

~ Chewa proverb

June 6, 2021

Hi Everyone,

It’s opening up more and more around here just when I was thinking I would never socialize again. It felt like I’d forgotten how––like it was some kind of skill one must continually practice, like the piano. I’d started thinking a reclusive life wasn’t all that bad when I was surprised with an impromptu dinner invitation last night and found myself giddy at the thought. I spent the day ruminating about attire. Last year I spent the season in a rotation of three pairs of shorts and four tank tops. Cool evenings I would don a hoody. With this year promising to be a little less isolated, I pulled down the seasonal clothes, vowing to go through the piles and rid my closet of lill fitting, torn, stained, or outdated garments. Never a fashion maven, what to wear has caused some anxiety in the past. In a climate where evenings can be arctic or tropical without warning, one weighs comfort and style equally. The parking limitations in town can require a sizable walk so footwear must also be considered. It’s a fair amount of work! Gazing into the neglected closet, I saw the shelf assigned to Malawian dresses I’d had made there from chitenjes. When packing for my various returns for work I’d simply lift the pile from the shelf into the suitcase and be ready to go. Packing was a breeze. I’ve accepted the fact that I won’t be going back for a while, even though a year ago I thought it might be in a year. Now I am saying the same thing. So the chitenje dresses stay neatly folded waiting for a place to wear them. 

Summer on the Maine coast presents challenges for dressing up. One waits all winter for the chance to show the shoulders and knees only to have to cover the ensemble with a fleece jacket. It really spoils the effect. And shoes! Those sassy little numbers you find for a song at Mardens? The ones from Italy with a price tag of $150 marked down to $7.99? Those little heels will sink into the earth at most gala events which makes taking a step dangerous. I’ve left a shoe behind me many a time, discreetly circling back, slipping my toe in to gently lift and remove the planting without disturbing the roots. It’s another acquired skill. 

The dinner invitation was to meet a newcomer to the Island, someone who comes from Malawi! I’d spoken to her on the phone shortly after she arrived and we’d planned to get together as soon as covid and new work responsibilities allowed. Last evening it came together via a mutual friend and with her sisters visiting here as well, it was a multicultural girls night out on graduation weekend. Challenges included where to park and what to wear, but that aside, I was looking forward to a mask-less meal of my choice served to me on a plate as opposed to my evening “meals” eaten directly from the container while standing at my kitchen counter. Plus, new people! Stories! It seemed like a big adventure.  

I pulled out outfit options. Everything still fits, so that was a good start. The weather prediction was warm and clear but that means nothing around here. It can be eighty degrees at my house and my choice of short skirt, sandals, and flimsy little top seem perfect, only to get to the restaurant near the water with a cold “breeze” making a miserable evening of shivering even with the extra three layers I bring in my bag. You can’t go to dinner with a small purse if you haven’t dressed in layers to begin with. The options are to wear them all and take them off layer by layer, or to wear the outfit you wanted in the first place, then ruin it by adding layer upon layer until you can have a conversation and eat your meal without thinking the whole time about getting home and getting into a hot bath. It’s a full time job. 

Last night I thought I had the perfect number of layers with each one adding a bit of style. I was sure I’d be comfortable in a wide range of temperatures and even wore some jewelry. I was feeling dressed up in my long linen skirt (lined so the extra layer was protection while still looking summery), tank top, cotton summer sweater, jean jacket and tie dyed scarf. I thought I had all the bases covered, and though the shoes were a bit dowdy, they didn’t show much and the walk wouldn’t be an issue. My friend arrived to pick me up in…what’s that?…a convertible?! Are you kidding? Woo hoo! I was set for that ride because, like I said, the night was warm. We drove into town, hair blowing, laughing, happy to be going out. I couldn’t believe I had thought I’d want to give this up! What was I thinking? My friend was decked out in a satin jacket with gorgeous jewelry and bad ass heels. She said the others told her they were going all out and getting dressed up as it was the first night out in over a year. My heart sank a little. I didn’t get that memo. When they arrived at the restaurant, gorgeous in long colorful dresses, walking in smiling, full of life, looking like royalty, I felt like a nun. I did have the perfect dress too but it was sitting on the shelf in my closet!  After hours of laughing, eating, drinking, and storytelling, we closed the place, stopping to take group photos amidst the empty tables. In the photos I look incredibly short and incredibly boring. Time to bust out. Add the salt. Spicy summer here I come.

Love to all,

Linda