Last Wednesday we spent our first night here at Price's, towed in after dark. Now it is Wednesday again and the truck has just delivered our gas tank shipped from Joplin, Missouri. We have a wait before they actually start working on it, but it should be soon. Of course today feels unbearably hot and we're forced out of our air conditioned box with electricity and a bed at hand; jubilation and disbelief should carry us for a while. We'll have our last chicken caesar salad at the Solid Rock Christian coffee house. Meanwhile the chamber maids are busy here at the Holiday Inn, and we've found a shady spot. And the air conditioner works.
I've been especially conscious of the birds here, and their songs, which sound unfamiliar to me. But I am someone who has mastered only the most familiar names of birds, trees and stars. I'm especially bothered that I'm not sure if I'm seeing red-winged blackbirds, or Baltimore oreoles. Although I find both of them thrilling. I remember my older sister, Ann, having a bird book when we were kids. She knew about birds then, and practically everything else; she'd tell me immediately which is which. My sister, Jeanie—in Fayetteville, Arkansas, expecting us since last week and modifying her work plans daily based on our repair progress—knows birds too. And I think of Lana who loves all animals so, and Margaret, together watching the birds on the Deerfield River and Margaret's porch, bird book on the window sill. Then there's Dad. The things he knows. He's a man always studying and learning, who often keeps his mouth shut when people talk politics or criticize others. But if you're walking around the block with him, tree names are released to the air to ride the same wind the leaves do. The things he remembers and shares, and one of the best storytellers around. A listener and a gatherer.
How Mom loved naming. Loved words. Loved the color of them, loved forming them with all the parts of her mouth, enunciating, releasing. Sometimes used the second or third accepted pronunciation accepted by the dictionary, simply because the sounds pleased her so. Like the plural of gladiola. Gla-die-oh-lee. And the red Christmas flower. Poin-sett-cha. Just now I see that some of my rebelliousness, my urge to do something differently, could be inherited from her. Today, I am so grateful for her desire and commitment to be herself despite what others thought. I treasure that legacy, along with many others from her.
But now, we are almost on our way again, to see my sister and her partner. To see my dad. Before we head toward Canada and then Alaska. This is the month of my parents' marriage, June 20, 1942. This is the month of my mother's death. The last time I saw my father, brother, nephew, nieces, sisters and sister-in-law. I look forward to seeing family again, and carry the living spirit of my mother with me.
I've been especially conscious of the birds here, and their songs, which sound unfamiliar to me. But I am someone who has mastered only the most familiar names of birds, trees and stars. I'm especially bothered that I'm not sure if I'm seeing red-winged blackbirds, or Baltimore oreoles. Although I find both of them thrilling. I remember my older sister, Ann, having a bird book when we were kids. She knew about birds then, and practically everything else; she'd tell me immediately which is which. My sister, Jeanie—in Fayetteville, Arkansas, expecting us since last week and modifying her work plans daily based on our repair progress—knows birds too. And I think of Lana who loves all animals so, and Margaret, together watching the birds on the Deerfield River and Margaret's porch, bird book on the window sill. Then there's Dad. The things he knows. He's a man always studying and learning, who often keeps his mouth shut when people talk politics or criticize others. But if you're walking around the block with him, tree names are released to the air to ride the same wind the leaves do. The things he remembers and shares, and one of the best storytellers around. A listener and a gatherer.
How Mom loved naming. Loved words. Loved the color of them, loved forming them with all the parts of her mouth, enunciating, releasing. Sometimes used the second or third accepted pronunciation accepted by the dictionary, simply because the sounds pleased her so. Like the plural of gladiola. Gla-die-oh-lee. And the red Christmas flower. Poin-sett-cha. Just now I see that some of my rebelliousness, my urge to do something differently, could be inherited from her. Today, I am so grateful for her desire and commitment to be herself despite what others thought. I treasure that legacy, along with many others from her.
But now, we are almost on our way again, to see my sister and her partner. To see my dad. Before we head toward Canada and then Alaska. This is the month of my parents' marriage, June 20, 1942. This is the month of my mother's death. The last time I saw my father, brother, nephew, nieces, sisters and sister-in-law. I look forward to seeing family again, and carry the living spirit of my mother with me.
posted by Susan at 12:29 PM
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