Sunday Morning ~ How to Fare on the Trip

Tizisinja kamba, kuyenda kwa ulendo sikudziwika. ~ Let us pound maize as food for our journey, you never know how we will fare on our trip.

~ Chewa proverb

January 30, 2022

Hi Everyone,

My brother has a keen ability to remember facts. This served him well in school, he never failing to bring home perfect report cards. He went to college and continued his streak, making him the poster boy for success. Two years younger, I was expected to live up to this ridiculous standard and I never failed to fall short. This led to never ending conflict and frustration for me and a smug self-satisfaction for him, outwardly anyway. I’m sure it was stressful. My father valued hard work, self-sacrifice, and misery and it was our life work to please him. Rich won. I never got all As. In fact, I got very few. I fluctuated between being proud of Rich and hating him for this. My father insisted if I only applied myself, I could get all As. And I supposed I could have but I just didn’t care what year the Treaty of Nante was signed and who was killing who in which war. Nope. Not worth the A. I settled for Bs and Cs and took the beating. We grew up and lived our lives and this got talked about a lot in our efforts to overcome childhood and we decided who cares anyway about the grades? I got counseling for not being as smart as he was, and we lived our lives. But the niggling competition lived on.  

Our father took us on cross country camping trips that have been fodder for hours of story telling. The fact that we survived those trips always amazed us. Dad set unspoken goals and we were expected divine what they were and achieve them. Discomfort was an understatement.  We kids banded together, necessary for survival. We fought amongst ourselves but we three youngest knew the older boys would win. It didn’t stop us from trying.  We’d mock my father in the back seat and kill ourselves laughing. It was a bonding experience for the five of us and whoa boy did it make us strong. Once into adulthood we took different paths in this regard. Two of us have wanderlust and three hate traveling. Funny how experiences affect everyone differently. Since those childhood voyages we’ve not traveled together, so this road trip with my brother evoked some trepidation. I worried the days on the road would be filled with quizzes. I’d be tested on how many facts I remembered about our childhood trips and, not remembering what year a certain mining town was established, would be the loser again. I prepared for that, not by studying all historic sites along the way, but by practicing indifference and letting him win. I know how important that is to him, I defensively told myself. But as we started our westward journey, it was clear we’d both let so much go. Got a later start than planned? So what? There was cellular memory of a late start being apocalyptic and we’d brace for an hour of demeaning rants, stare at our folded hands, and absorb the blame. But this trip? Forty-five minutes after we’d planned to begin, ah, all set. Here we go. There was some serious skin shedding going on.

We kids worked together as a team on those childhood trips, knowing how to care for each other, get shit done, and avoid outbursts. All these years later, it has come right back. We pack the truck efficiently, hand off the driving similarly, spend as little time as possible at rest stops, don’t buy anything, and assume roles without a word. It’s been really cool. I realize how much respect we have for each other, appreciating this familiarity.

We drove this route in 1965 on our first trip to Yellowstone National Park, and this time we took turns talking about what we remembered in various parts of the journey. Rich rattled off facts about historical sites and I couldn’t have cared less that I didn’t know them. As we watched Iowa pass by I remarked that all I remembered of that stretch of road was being hot. He reconstructed car repair situations while I recited meals we were forced to eat. We laughed. We both appreciated what we learned from those trips. Now, long days of driving were easy. We had food to eat and credit cards. 

We reached Park City, Utah this afternoon, cruising through the snowy foothills of the Rockies on dry roads under sunny skies while home was being battered with a blizzard. It was the opposite of what I expected. I prepared for the trip with emergency blankets and extra water, knowing highways close and storms come in suddenly. But the real preparation was the letting go. Letting win.

It’s beautiful here.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ The Arrow We Look At

Mubvi woyang’anira ulowa m’cikope. ~ The arrow you just look at, hits your eye.

~ Chewa proverb

January 23, 2022

Hi Everyone,

For the first time in a long time, I’ve had writers block. I don’t make a living at this so it doesn’t matter really, but it has been strange. Over the past nine years I’ve been writing every Sunday even when I thought I had nothing to say. I’d sit down to write out of habit and stuff just started coming out. None of it was pulitzer prize material, though some I thought was pretty good, but it’s always been effortless. Two weeks ago I sat to write and nothing came out and I couldn’t figure out why. I did my usual letting my mind go and seeing where the writing went, but it went nowhere. Everything I put on the page seemed trivial and stupid. I had my finger on the delete button longer than on the keys and finally decided to put it away. The next week it happened again even though I wanted to write about the glorious skiing, beautiful landscapes, the weekend with old friends, the bitter cold, the furnace drama. Nothing came out. My news of growing family, ailing relatives, future dreams, and mundane chores all stewed together in the same pot and the longer they cooked, the soggier they became. Nothing shone; it was all a pile of mush. Delete, delete, delete. Trips I’m planning, initiatives I’m working on, unresolved family conflict, all used to be clambering to get out of my brain onto a page. But for the past few weeks they just sat there, rolling around together getting mixed up with menus planned, leaking faucets, slippery roads, and dead batteries. And then I wondered, why do I do this anyway? 

When I first published the book the publisher told me I should write a blog. At that time I didn’t even know what a blog was. I was scared about what I was getting into and felt incredibly vulnerable. But, once I started I found it fun and looked forward to sitting down every Sunday and putting my thoughts out there. So it was uncomfortable to sit there with the whole day in front of me and nothing to say. Or more accurately, to be unable to unscramble the words I did want to say. I started getting worked up about it then laughed because this is a completely optional activity. I could take a week or two off and the world wouldn’t collapse. I may have worried if I missed a week I’d never go back to it. I think that’s why I’m forcing it today. 

This seems like more drivel but I’m sick of whining about current events. My images of staring down arrows and taking action are blurry and undeveloped. Nothing comes into focus so I’m leaving them alone for now. 

I’ve decided to be brave this week and: 

1. Post something. Anything to get out of this rut. 
2. Go on an adventure. I’m leaving this week to meet up with my brother, then do a road trip to Utah for a couple of weeks of skiing. He’s staying there; I’ll take a train home. This should be interesting. I can not remember the last time my brother and I did something together without a whole lot of other people involved (maybe never?). It should make for some good stories for next Sunday. Thank God. I love writing travel stories. For all the wanderlust I’ve harbored, I have not wanted to go anywhere since the pandemic started. It’s given me an appreciation for homebodies and a bit of travel anxiety which I’ve never had before. Ordinarily, I can’t wait to get on the road but my little car has been looking at me wondering what happened. So, vaccinated and boosted with a wide assortment of masks, I’ll finally find out what all the fuss is about skiing out west. I can teach my class from there and am hoping the mountains and hours outside will clear my head.  I have someone to stay at my house and the plumber might be moving in as well for all the time he’s spent here this week. So here goes…

Love to all,

Linda  

Sunday Morning ~ Old Stories, New Year

Tsobola wakale sawawa. ~ Old spice does not burn anymore.

~ Chewa proverb

January 2, 2022

Hi Everyone,

Tossing the calendar seems wrong. It holds a story of the year if only in shorthand notes of meetings and commitments. When the kids were babies I’d write their milestones in the small box of the day on the calendar hanging in our kitchen: Jordan-first tooth, Zack- first step, Jake-ear infection, Rachael- first solid food, Matt- first day of school, etc. knowing I wouldn’t get it into a journal while juggling a young family and graduate school. I then imagined myself on a snowy evening putting their stories together into their baby books, filling in their stories because their birthdates, weights, and parents names couldn’t describe a child. Matt’s book includes a snip of hair from his first haircut, but no subsequent child attained that kind of documentation. It’s all on the calendars though, piled onto a growing heap of years past, now requiring their own cupboard.  

My kids are long past my scrutiny of milestones now only recorded in random photos which are unorganized and copious. I’m staring at shelves of old photo albums with dried glue dropping photos as the book is lifted. These then get shoved inside the cover as if they’ll have their own page ever again. They know they won’t.  Years ago I told a colleague my new years resolution was to get my photos organized. She said, “That’s a great resolution. That means you won’t have to make a new one next year.” I think of that every New Year when I stare at my photo albums, half of them empty.  

I have boxes of old photos passed down from older family members. Unorganized, unidentified, ghostly figures in shades of grey, oddly posed, staring at the camera. I look at the composition and think, someone thought this was a moment to remember. How can I throw them away? I wonder what their stories are; what accomplishments, what trials and successes did they have? How are they related to me? Several are in front of Christmas trees. I smile imagining the awe in the room when the tree was decorated and lit. They wanted to capture the magic, I think. The faces are smiling, the bodies well dressed. I wonder if they changed for the photos or decorated the tree in such garb?  Pencil skirts and blazers, gowns, neckties, pearls and pajamas all a record of an era. With the accomplishment behind them, their anticipation is the foreground. I make up a story of what followed the snapping of the photos: a roast taken from the oven, eggnog poured, a dog disciplined, a child crying. Did they take a whole roll of film or did it sit undeveloped for a time before sent off to see what images were captured? The desire to have a memento of joy, as if we could look back and say, “See? We were happy!”  Boxes wrapped and stacked so perfectly. Where along the lines did I lose that feeling of joy at the sight of those presents? Were the bulging snowsuits and fur collared coats concealed in those wrapped boxes or donned for a holiday visit, the snowscape another image needing to be preserved? 

I put up my tree on Christmas eve and the photos I take never capture my feeling. I delete them and think another generation won’t be piecing together my holiday in images. I love sitting in the soft colorful glow, wondering how many decades these old lights can survive and reflect on the past and coming year. I’m happy to hunker down and embrace the short days. My season seems out of sync with the rest of the economy and I like it that way. I’m looking at this dark and quiet time as a gift, considering which stories to let go and which to keep.

Wishing you all a Happy New Year filled with new spice.  

Love to all,

Linda