My dear friend, Fiona Ostler, recently posted a question on Facebook asking friends what helps them find peace and balance in their lives. Up until the last year of my life, I would not have answered, "running." I always thought runners were a little crazy. Running was boring and hard and I never enjoyed it. I don't know what changed. All of the planets must have aligned perfectly at the exact moment to tip me into this new world, but, because I am me, I have to write about it.
Running helps me find peace and balance because it is boring. And I don't get enough of that kind of simplicity in my life very often. So here's a list of reasons I run:
1) It's me time. I don't take the kids running with me. I have a double jogging stroller, but I rarely use it to train, except in the most dire of circumstances. When I run, nobody needs anything from me, and I love that. It's rare and precious and not to be discounted.
2) I get to take a break from thinking about things too much. Once I get my body in motion, my legs keep up the running on their own. For some reason, that continuous movement settles my brain and quiets that voice in my head that is, otherwise, almost constantly churning thoughts. Funny, though, how much more I sense when I'm running. I hear insects, birds, wind, traffic, leaves rustling, water flowing, sirens, people talking. I feel the pavement or dirt beneath my feet, the sun on my back, the wind on my face. I smell the most delicious flowers, fresh-cut grass, car exhaust, dust, but only when I'm running. I am part of the outside world almost without being sentient, and I love losing myself in it.
3) I need the daily sense of accomplishment when I finish the run. It's not just an endorphin rush, although it is that. I feel like I've done something worth doing. I've used my time well.
4) Sometimes it hurts and it's hard. I plan a run that's too far or I get tired halfway through. Sometimes my clothes chaff and I have to pee and I can't swallow because my throat is so dry from running. I still get side aches occasionally, although my friend, Kristy, told me they would go away if I kept at it, and she was right 99% of the time. Sometimes it's too hot or too cold, the wind stings my face and makes my eyes tear up and my nose run. Sometimes I use up all my energy on the way down and then I really struggle to get back up the hill. But just because something is hard doesn't mean it isn't worth doing. Running is a good reminder that the good things in life require a lot of sweat and tears. Well, I sweat a lot. And I cry some, too. And all of that brings me peace.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Baby Steps
She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. At the threshold, she began to worry. The knob felt heavy in her hand. She couldn’t remember it being so difficult to turn. Only by gathering all her courage could she twist it just enough that it popped open.
The mechanism of the door-hinge surprised her. Who could have guessed it would open so willingly? She dropped the handle, and the door swung slowly inward, eased by a gentle wind coming down off the mountain and pushing its way past her into the house. Some papers on the piano rustled, and one sheet fluttered onto the floor.
She froze at the sensation of wind on her face. It was a timid wind -- just strong enough to tease the flyaway strands of her hair into brushing across her forehead and cheeks. It smelled faintly of rain.
The first step was like walking through water, chest-high, the current running against her. At any moment, she expected her feet to slip out from under her; then the wind would carry her away. But the current ebbed as she took another step, and by the time she was out the door and standing on the edge of the front porch, she wasn’t in the river at all.
She was, in fact, out of the house for the first time in twenty years. The sun shone down on her white arms and the smooth skin of her neck above her shirt-collar. She felt she had never known a warm spring sun on her bare skin, or if she had, it must have been someone else in some other lifetime.
Nobody goes inside with the idea of never going back out. But one bad day had led to the next until it was far easier to just stay home. Soon she couldn’t fathom how other people managed the gargantuan tasks of grocery shopping or visiting the laudromat, when, for her, greeting a neighbor required such Herculean efforts. It was better to avoid them all -- until today.
She had picked up a thin, worn paperback lying dusty on her bookshelf for ages. As she opened the front cover, a folded piece of paper slipped out. It was a letter from her mother, written to her father while he was in the war. She would have been six, maybe seven.
“I wish you could see our little Grace,” her mother wrote. “She is always moving -- from the garden to the tree to the sandbox to the porch. She never wants to come inside! I have the hardest time convincing her to eat dinner, take a bath, go to bed. She is insatiably curious.”
Did she know that girl? And if she did, then who was this fifty-year-old woman, creeping around the house all day, startled by her own shadow or the sound of footsteps coming up the walk?
So, in a momentary fit of bravery, Grace had stepped outside her home after two decades of reclusion. She’d pushed past the current of fear wrapping the house like wood siding, ignored the scorching sun on her cheeks and the wind tugging at her hair and clothes. But with each step she took, her feet grew heavier and her ears began to ring.
She made it as far as the mailbox before turning around and scurrying back inside. And for a year and a day afterwards, she could never pass by a window but the ghost of a warm, spring sun rose up to meet her.
The mechanism of the door-hinge surprised her. Who could have guessed it would open so willingly? She dropped the handle, and the door swung slowly inward, eased by a gentle wind coming down off the mountain and pushing its way past her into the house. Some papers on the piano rustled, and one sheet fluttered onto the floor.
She froze at the sensation of wind on her face. It was a timid wind -- just strong enough to tease the flyaway strands of her hair into brushing across her forehead and cheeks. It smelled faintly of rain.
The first step was like walking through water, chest-high, the current running against her. At any moment, she expected her feet to slip out from under her; then the wind would carry her away. But the current ebbed as she took another step, and by the time she was out the door and standing on the edge of the front porch, she wasn’t in the river at all.
She was, in fact, out of the house for the first time in twenty years. The sun shone down on her white arms and the smooth skin of her neck above her shirt-collar. She felt she had never known a warm spring sun on her bare skin, or if she had, it must have been someone else in some other lifetime.
Nobody goes inside with the idea of never going back out. But one bad day had led to the next until it was far easier to just stay home. Soon she couldn’t fathom how other people managed the gargantuan tasks of grocery shopping or visiting the laudromat, when, for her, greeting a neighbor required such Herculean efforts. It was better to avoid them all -- until today.
She had picked up a thin, worn paperback lying dusty on her bookshelf for ages. As she opened the front cover, a folded piece of paper slipped out. It was a letter from her mother, written to her father while he was in the war. She would have been six, maybe seven.
“I wish you could see our little Grace,” her mother wrote. “She is always moving -- from the garden to the tree to the sandbox to the porch. She never wants to come inside! I have the hardest time convincing her to eat dinner, take a bath, go to bed. She is insatiably curious.”
Did she know that girl? And if she did, then who was this fifty-year-old woman, creeping around the house all day, startled by her own shadow or the sound of footsteps coming up the walk?
So, in a momentary fit of bravery, Grace had stepped outside her home after two decades of reclusion. She’d pushed past the current of fear wrapping the house like wood siding, ignored the scorching sun on her cheeks and the wind tugging at her hair and clothes. But with each step she took, her feet grew heavier and her ears began to ring.
She made it as far as the mailbox before turning around and scurrying back inside. And for a year and a day afterwards, she could never pass by a window but the ghost of a warm, spring sun rose up to meet her.
Friday, December 16, 2011
More Reversible Poems
So at this very moment, Janet Reid is hosting a writing contest on her blog using a suggestion I sent her for a reversible poem (plus an example of a poem I wrote). You can check out the contest here for a limited time only. However, I thought it might be fun to read some of the other reversible poems I wrote, so here are a few more:
Shipwreck
LIVE:
She wanted to
send a message to the world.
She bottled it all up.
She took a paper and,
on its side,
listed:
the boat,
the house,
the kids.
She just wanted a vacation from
the dull life.
She had escaped,
that time she came
over,
worked
the vessel so.
She had not thought.
She had not thought
the vessel so
worked
over
that time she came.
She had escaped
the dull life.
She just wanted a vacation from
the kids,
the house.
The boat
listed
on its side.
She took a paper and
she bottled it all up.
Send a message to the world.
She wanted to
live.
Harvest Time
For these young ones,
the world is not long --
a midsummer evening.
The rain falls on and on,
flowers blooming
as violent as
the deep, blood-red river,
as heavy as
the fragments of a soul.
In swift strokes,
the reaper cuts them down.
The reaper cuts them down
in swift strokes,
the fragments of a soul,
as heavy as
the deep, blood-red river,
as violent as
flowers blooming.
The rain falls on. And on
a midsummer evening,
the world is not long
for these young ones.
Shipwreck
LIVE:
She wanted to
send a message to the world.
She bottled it all up.
She took a paper and,
on its side,
listed:
the boat,
the house,
the kids.
She just wanted a vacation from
the dull life.
She had escaped,
that time she came
over,
worked
the vessel so.
She had not thought.
She had not thought
the vessel so
worked
over
that time she came.
She had escaped
the dull life.
She just wanted a vacation from
the kids,
the house.
The boat
listed
on its side.
She took a paper and
she bottled it all up.
Send a message to the world.
She wanted to
live.
Harvest Time
For these young ones,
the world is not long --
a midsummer evening.
The rain falls on and on,
flowers blooming
as violent as
the deep, blood-red river,
as heavy as
the fragments of a soul.
In swift strokes,
the reaper cuts them down.
The reaper cuts them down
in swift strokes,
the fragments of a soul,
as heavy as
the deep, blood-red river,
as violent as
flowers blooming.
The rain falls on. And on
a midsummer evening,
the world is not long
for these young ones.
Monday, November 14, 2011
National Talk Like a Pirate Day?
DISCLAIMERS: Sorry about the skipping lines. I wish I could figure out a good way to indent on my blog, but so far, no luck. Also, I am not making fun of people with Turret's Syndrome. Aquatic Turret's doesn't even exist.
Isaac’s vacation ended the moment his tires crossed the city limits. He hadn’t even breached the suburbs when his cell phone rang.
“I’m fifteen minutes away,” he answered, not bothering to check the caller ID.
“I need you here in five,” Strickland said, “because that’s when I’m leaving.”
Isaac sighed and hung up the phone. His boss’s vacations almost always coincided with homicide investigations. Isaac suspected he had a weak constitution.
Ten minutes later, he walked into the office. The chief was talking to Isaac’s partner, but it was clearly not going well.
“I don’t care how you do it,” Strickland said, shutting his briefcase with a loud click, “just get him to talk.”
Steven shrugged. “That’s not the hard part, sir. The hard part’s getting him to make sense.”
“What? Is he an idiot?”
Steven shook his head.
“Crazy?”
No.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“It’s complicated,” Steven explained. “He’s got this obsession with--”
“With what?” Strickland was not generally patient, especially when he was trying to leave town.
“With the sea, sir,” Steven said. “Actually, with everything nautical.”
“What the heck?” Isaac blurted out.
Strickland threw up his hands. “Go on,” he said to Isaac, “have a crack at him. I’m out of town starting now, so make sure you have this report finished and on my desk by Monday.”
“Yes, sir.”
Strickland walked out the door without looking back, and Isaac turned to his partner.
“What’s with him?” he asked.
“Who? Strickland?”
“No, the witness.”
“He’s got SIATS,” Steven explained.
“What?”
“Stress-induced aquatic turrets syndrome.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I wish I was.” Steven sighed. “It’s got to be the only reason he’s still alive. The killer must have known there was no way this guy could squeal.”
Isaac strode over to the interrogation room and opened the door. A thin, slightly balding man wearing blue jeans and a polo sat on the chair. He looked up when Isaac entered.
“Good morning,” Isaac said. “I’m Detective Kramer. How are you?”
“Fine,” the man said.
“I’m just going to ask you a few questions, alright?”
“Sure.”
“First, for the record, what is your full name?”
“Quincy Gerald.”
“And where do you work, Quincy?”
“At the library.”
“Were you working at the library last Friday night?”
“Yes, I was.” Quincy shifted in his chair, but his expression remained undisturbed.
“And did you see or hear anything unusual that night?”
“Spongy, pants-fouling bilge rat!” Quincy yelled, his face growing red and bits of spittle flocking at the corners of his mouth.
“I beg your pardon?” Isaac asked.
“Up the yardarm, you rogue!”
“I see. Well, have you ever seen this woman?” He slid a picture of the victim across the table toward Quincy.
“Walk the plank!”
He decided to try a different tactic. “Have you ever met me before?” he asked.
“Nope.” Quincy said, his face a picture of tranquility once more.
Steven opened the door and stuck his head in. “Isaac?” he asked.
Isaac nodded in Steven’s direction. “What about him?” he asked Quincy.
“Just today,” Quincy answered.
“Chief Strickland wanted--” Steven began, but Quincy interrupted.
“Scurvy cur!”
Isaac twisted around to stare at Quincy for a moment, then turned back to his partner.
Steven tried again. “Chief Strickland--”
“Your mother was a mayfly and your father smelled of whale blubber!”
“Just gimme a couple a minutes.”
Steven backed out of the room and shut the door. Isaac faced Quincy again.
“Chief?” Isaac said softly.
“Landlubber!”
“Strickland?”
“Dogfish!”
“Murderer?”
“Villain!”
Isaac closed his eyes. He knew, without ever taking the case to trial, his ship was sunk.
Isaac’s vacation ended the moment his tires crossed the city limits. He hadn’t even breached the suburbs when his cell phone rang.
“I’m fifteen minutes away,” he answered, not bothering to check the caller ID.
“I need you here in five,” Strickland said, “because that’s when I’m leaving.”
Isaac sighed and hung up the phone. His boss’s vacations almost always coincided with homicide investigations. Isaac suspected he had a weak constitution.
Ten minutes later, he walked into the office. The chief was talking to Isaac’s partner, but it was clearly not going well.
“I don’t care how you do it,” Strickland said, shutting his briefcase with a loud click, “just get him to talk.”
Steven shrugged. “That’s not the hard part, sir. The hard part’s getting him to make sense.”
“What? Is he an idiot?”
Steven shook his head.
“Crazy?”
No.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“It’s complicated,” Steven explained. “He’s got this obsession with--”
“With what?” Strickland was not generally patient, especially when he was trying to leave town.
“With the sea, sir,” Steven said. “Actually, with everything nautical.”
“What the heck?” Isaac blurted out.
Strickland threw up his hands. “Go on,” he said to Isaac, “have a crack at him. I’m out of town starting now, so make sure you have this report finished and on my desk by Monday.”
“Yes, sir.”
Strickland walked out the door without looking back, and Isaac turned to his partner.
“What’s with him?” he asked.
“Who? Strickland?”
“No, the witness.”
“He’s got SIATS,” Steven explained.
“What?”
“Stress-induced aquatic turrets syndrome.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I wish I was.” Steven sighed. “It’s got to be the only reason he’s still alive. The killer must have known there was no way this guy could squeal.”
Isaac strode over to the interrogation room and opened the door. A thin, slightly balding man wearing blue jeans and a polo sat on the chair. He looked up when Isaac entered.
“Good morning,” Isaac said. “I’m Detective Kramer. How are you?”
“Fine,” the man said.
“I’m just going to ask you a few questions, alright?”
“Sure.”
“First, for the record, what is your full name?”
“Quincy Gerald.”
“And where do you work, Quincy?”
“At the library.”
“Were you working at the library last Friday night?”
“Yes, I was.” Quincy shifted in his chair, but his expression remained undisturbed.
“And did you see or hear anything unusual that night?”
“Spongy, pants-fouling bilge rat!” Quincy yelled, his face growing red and bits of spittle flocking at the corners of his mouth.
“I beg your pardon?” Isaac asked.
“Up the yardarm, you rogue!”
“I see. Well, have you ever seen this woman?” He slid a picture of the victim across the table toward Quincy.
“Walk the plank!”
He decided to try a different tactic. “Have you ever met me before?” he asked.
“Nope.” Quincy said, his face a picture of tranquility once more.
Steven opened the door and stuck his head in. “Isaac?” he asked.
Isaac nodded in Steven’s direction. “What about him?” he asked Quincy.
“Just today,” Quincy answered.
“Chief Strickland wanted--” Steven began, but Quincy interrupted.
“Scurvy cur!”
Isaac twisted around to stare at Quincy for a moment, then turned back to his partner.
Steven tried again. “Chief Strickland--”
“Your mother was a mayfly and your father smelled of whale blubber!”
“Just gimme a couple a minutes.”
Steven backed out of the room and shut the door. Isaac faced Quincy again.
“Chief?” Isaac said softly.
“Landlubber!”
“Strickland?”
“Dogfish!”
“Murderer?”
“Villain!”
Isaac closed his eyes. He knew, without ever taking the case to trial, his ship was sunk.
Friday, October 28, 2011
The Problem with the Canon
So I've been thinking a lot about literary fiction lately. It shouldn't be a surprise, I guess, what with my Master's degree in English Literature and all. I guess the surprise comes from my writing genre fiction after having studied literary fiction for that many years. The thing is, I don't want to write literary fiction because I don't think people like to read it.
That's no big insult to the millions of novel readers who keep the publishing industry in business. On the contrary, I don't think the people buying romances and thrillers and young adult novels are less intelligent or less educated than those who buy and read literary fiction -- I think they just like the other stuff better. And I don't blame them. I'm going off that old premise (from my theory class many years ago) that literature is meant to delight and instruct. And I'm further insisting that literature which does not delight cannot possibly instruct.
So here's the problem I see with the canon: it is no longer delightful. Honestly. Maybe it used to be. It seems like, before the rise of the novel, and even during its early romantic period, it was possible to write delightful, entertaining poetry and prose and still find a place in the hallowed halls of revered literary giants. Not that I always found joy in "Paradise Lost," but with the right instruction...anyway, then the novel came along, with the realists and the modernists and the post-modernists and, honestly, it seems like a lot of writers, whether out of snobbery or just fear of selling out, decided to dispense with the time-honored tradition of making their writing delightful altogether.
Take James Joyce, for example. I read every word of Ulysses when I was an undergrad. Every word. I'm lucky I didn't commit suicide at some point during that semester, too. Had I possessed health insurance, I probably would have started on Prozac to help me cope with the mess my life had become just from reading that book.
This is not a tirade against Joyce, however, or any writer in particular, although he does make an easy target, doesn't he? It's just that he's a good example of how many literary writers, in my opinion, try so hard to write something worthy of the canon that they forget what I think is the entire point of writing: so somebody -- hopefully lots of somebodies -- will read their work.
Now I'm sure there must be a balance. We don't all have to write about vampires just because vampires are popular. But can we not, as a collective group of writers, include some happiness in what we write about? some comedy, some good endings, some hope?
I'll be the first to admit that I don't read much literary fiction anymore these days, so I'm not an expert on contemporary trends. But I'm guessing, from having spent more than a decade (as a student and a teacher) in academia, that the canon is not going to be adopting J.K. Rowling's works anytime soon.
And that's too bad, because I don't think we're doing our students or ourselves any favors by creating two mutually exclusive circles of writers and works of fiction. Just because a book sells millions of copies doesn't mean it has no literary value. And just because everyone in the novel battles against and fails to overcome their own particular neuroses doesn't mean we should force freshmen everywhere to read it and write essays on it.
I'm not renouncing my education, and I still love teaching literature (even though I haven't and probably won't for some time, given the four young children and all), but when I grab a precious hour or two here and there throughout the week, I'm definitely going to use it to write something delightful. Chances are, it won't be literary.
That's no big insult to the millions of novel readers who keep the publishing industry in business. On the contrary, I don't think the people buying romances and thrillers and young adult novels are less intelligent or less educated than those who buy and read literary fiction -- I think they just like the other stuff better. And I don't blame them. I'm going off that old premise (from my theory class many years ago) that literature is meant to delight and instruct. And I'm further insisting that literature which does not delight cannot possibly instruct.
So here's the problem I see with the canon: it is no longer delightful. Honestly. Maybe it used to be. It seems like, before the rise of the novel, and even during its early romantic period, it was possible to write delightful, entertaining poetry and prose and still find a place in the hallowed halls of revered literary giants. Not that I always found joy in "Paradise Lost," but with the right instruction...anyway, then the novel came along, with the realists and the modernists and the post-modernists and, honestly, it seems like a lot of writers, whether out of snobbery or just fear of selling out, decided to dispense with the time-honored tradition of making their writing delightful altogether.
Take James Joyce, for example. I read every word of Ulysses when I was an undergrad. Every word. I'm lucky I didn't commit suicide at some point during that semester, too. Had I possessed health insurance, I probably would have started on Prozac to help me cope with the mess my life had become just from reading that book.
This is not a tirade against Joyce, however, or any writer in particular, although he does make an easy target, doesn't he? It's just that he's a good example of how many literary writers, in my opinion, try so hard to write something worthy of the canon that they forget what I think is the entire point of writing: so somebody -- hopefully lots of somebodies -- will read their work.
Now I'm sure there must be a balance. We don't all have to write about vampires just because vampires are popular. But can we not, as a collective group of writers, include some happiness in what we write about? some comedy, some good endings, some hope?
I'll be the first to admit that I don't read much literary fiction anymore these days, so I'm not an expert on contemporary trends. But I'm guessing, from having spent more than a decade (as a student and a teacher) in academia, that the canon is not going to be adopting J.K. Rowling's works anytime soon.
And that's too bad, because I don't think we're doing our students or ourselves any favors by creating two mutually exclusive circles of writers and works of fiction. Just because a book sells millions of copies doesn't mean it has no literary value. And just because everyone in the novel battles against and fails to overcome their own particular neuroses doesn't mean we should force freshmen everywhere to read it and write essays on it.
I'm not renouncing my education, and I still love teaching literature (even though I haven't and probably won't for some time, given the four young children and all), but when I grab a precious hour or two here and there throughout the week, I'm definitely going to use it to write something delightful. Chances are, it won't be literary.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Leda
*Disclaimer* This is not the entry I submitted for Round 7 of NPRs Three Minute Fiction contest.
This post is the entry that didn't even pass my personal screeners: Fiona Ostler, who blogs at www.fionaostler.com, and my husband, who doesn't blog unless it involves a yearly physical or flu shot. As a prelude to the story, however, I must quote "Leda and the Swan" by W.B. Yeats.
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
Spurred on by that fascinating and masterful poem, and possessed of the knowledge that the ancient Leda had a sister named Althaea, I wrote (and then discarded) the following piece of flash fiction for the NPR contest:
The last time I saw Leda, she was perched on top of her trunk, waiting for the 11:15 train to Troy. She wore a white, organdy dress with a full skirt that fluttered a little in the wind. I thought she might at least stand on the platform next to her luggage, like any normal person would do, but then, Leda never could keep her feet on the ground. She was that kind.
She was only my kid sister, but after she left, life lost all its good colors. Oh, I kept going. I had plenty to do until the end of the tourist season. Even after the busses stopped for the winter, I still had next year's merchandise to order and the holidays ahead of me. But sometime after New Year's, I looked up to find all the greens turned to celery, all the reds to mauve, and everything else to just plain white. Then it was a lot harder to get out of bed in the mornings.
"I'm restless," she'd said. "I've been here too long." And, "Everyone knows. I can see it in their eyes." She could have come up with a better excuse -- something original for once -- or told the truth. Because I knew the truth, and that's what kept me from going after her in the first place. Women like her can't put down roots, even with family; it's not in them to stay still. Especially not for Leda; not after what happened.
I thought back to the day I had met her at the train station when she got into town. She'd thrown her arms around me like we were still fifteen, sleeping in the same bed and playing guessing games in the dark, even though we hadn't spoken in years. She had the kind of charm that endeared her to everyone she met, and even though I knew what she was doing, it still worked. Plus, she was the most beautiful creature imaginable, and I'm not speaking out of jealousy. Not even a little. I took her to my house and put her up in the second bedroom.
The first few months, she helped me in the store. The customers all raved about her, and I saw business pick up a little, too. But too soon, the pains came, as I knew they would. Her legs ached from standing all day long. Her feet got swollen and tender. She began to battle a strange lethargy I'd seen before but never could explain. And I thought maybe it was time for her to go.
"I'm not leaving, Althaea," she'd said. "Not this time. I can stand it."
"Good," I'd said. "I've finally got you with me. I'm not letting you go."
But in the end, how could I hold her down? She wasn't mine anymore; she never had been. The bonds of sisterhood only stretch so far, and Leda had known divinity.
When she started to show, she packed her trunk and begged me to buy her a ticket.
"Where?" I'd asked.
"Anywhere but here."
I had a friend in Michigan, a midwife who could take her in and help her when her time came, so I called to ask her a favor, and she said to send Leda on up.
"What's in Troy?" she'd said, a frown etched into her forehead.
"You will be, soon. Besides, what does it matter? It's not here."
It didn't take much convincing. A few days later, she'd climbed onto the train and waved at me through the window until the sun's rays struck the glass and whited out her face.
She wrote me from Troy, after the babies were born. She barely mentioned the boy, but the girl...
'She's the most beautiful girl in the world -- more lovely, even, than me. I've named her Helen.' And that was the last I ever heard from my baby sister.
This post is the entry that didn't even pass my personal screeners: Fiona Ostler, who blogs at www.fionaostler.com, and my husband, who doesn't blog unless it involves a yearly physical or flu shot. As a prelude to the story, however, I must quote "Leda and the Swan" by W.B. Yeats.
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
Spurred on by that fascinating and masterful poem, and possessed of the knowledge that the ancient Leda had a sister named Althaea, I wrote (and then discarded) the following piece of flash fiction for the NPR contest:
The last time I saw Leda, she was perched on top of her trunk, waiting for the 11:15 train to Troy. She wore a white, organdy dress with a full skirt that fluttered a little in the wind. I thought she might at least stand on the platform next to her luggage, like any normal person would do, but then, Leda never could keep her feet on the ground. She was that kind.
She was only my kid sister, but after she left, life lost all its good colors. Oh, I kept going. I had plenty to do until the end of the tourist season. Even after the busses stopped for the winter, I still had next year's merchandise to order and the holidays ahead of me. But sometime after New Year's, I looked up to find all the greens turned to celery, all the reds to mauve, and everything else to just plain white. Then it was a lot harder to get out of bed in the mornings.
"I'm restless," she'd said. "I've been here too long." And, "Everyone knows. I can see it in their eyes." She could have come up with a better excuse -- something original for once -- or told the truth. Because I knew the truth, and that's what kept me from going after her in the first place. Women like her can't put down roots, even with family; it's not in them to stay still. Especially not for Leda; not after what happened.
I thought back to the day I had met her at the train station when she got into town. She'd thrown her arms around me like we were still fifteen, sleeping in the same bed and playing guessing games in the dark, even though we hadn't spoken in years. She had the kind of charm that endeared her to everyone she met, and even though I knew what she was doing, it still worked. Plus, she was the most beautiful creature imaginable, and I'm not speaking out of jealousy. Not even a little. I took her to my house and put her up in the second bedroom.
The first few months, she helped me in the store. The customers all raved about her, and I saw business pick up a little, too. But too soon, the pains came, as I knew they would. Her legs ached from standing all day long. Her feet got swollen and tender. She began to battle a strange lethargy I'd seen before but never could explain. And I thought maybe it was time for her to go.
"I'm not leaving, Althaea," she'd said. "Not this time. I can stand it."
"Good," I'd said. "I've finally got you with me. I'm not letting you go."
But in the end, how could I hold her down? She wasn't mine anymore; she never had been. The bonds of sisterhood only stretch so far, and Leda had known divinity.
When she started to show, she packed her trunk and begged me to buy her a ticket.
"Where?" I'd asked.
"Anywhere but here."
I had a friend in Michigan, a midwife who could take her in and help her when her time came, so I called to ask her a favor, and she said to send Leda on up.
"What's in Troy?" she'd said, a frown etched into her forehead.
"You will be, soon. Besides, what does it matter? It's not here."
It didn't take much convincing. A few days later, she'd climbed onto the train and waved at me through the window until the sun's rays struck the glass and whited out her face.
She wrote me from Troy, after the babies were born. She barely mentioned the boy, but the girl...
'She's the most beautiful girl in the world -- more lovely, even, than me. I've named her Helen.' And that was the last I ever heard from my baby sister.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
All Saints' Day
I am throwing away the Halloween candy, feeling, to borrow a well-worn phrase, grim but determined. Grim because I realize, with each step I take toward the garbage can, that I have, once and for all, become my mother. Determined because I now know that she is, and has always been, right.
My children will wake up in the morning and hurry downstairs in anticipation, hoping against hope that some remnant has missed my vendetta against refined sugar, that I will not have discovered all their secret hiding places. But I have. I always do.
It was bad enough that Halloween fell on a Sunday this year. They will never believe that they ate just as much candy and may have had more fun handing it out to underaged beggars than if they had been with the scores of other ninjas, witches and princesses trolling for sugar among the neighbors. And it certainly wouldn't have helped if I had told them that my mother sometimes forbid trick-or-treating when Halloween didn't even fall on a Sunday! I doubt they'd believe me anyway.
Then again, maybe I am worse than my mother. On those years when she did allow us to carry a small pillowcase door to door down our street and around the corner, she always confiscated our loot at the end of the night. It was then combined with everyone else's candy and hidden in a "safe place," to reappear as Christmas approached and she needed something with which to decorate gingerbread houses.
This practice turned the month and a half between Halloween and Christmas into a daily treasure hunt, as her children banded together in search of the hidden candy. The moment she left the house unaccompanied (not often) or turned her back on a room, my older brother deployed teams to distract, stand watch, and search. We knew that if we took too much, she would notice. But even when we were careful and frugal, she always knew. Every day following a successful reconnaissance mission, the candy would disappear again, and the quest would begin anew.
The problem was that by the time Christmas arrived, the good stuff had been devoured, most of the remaining candy was stale (or would be once it had sat on a gingerbread house for a week), and none of it was the kind of candy that looks good on a gingerbread house in the first place. It stretched out the process, but the end result was always the same; the majority of the candy ended up in the trash.
I'm saving my kids the heartache of hoping, of searching all the desperate corners of the house when my back is turned and coming up, most of the time, hungry and empty-handed. I'm pulling off the band-aid in one quick motion rather than dragging it out so the agony lasts that much longer. It isn't fair, and it isn't nice, but I didn't make up Halloween, so it's not really my fault.
I will not say to them, however, when they turn their little, crestfallen faces toward me, that someday they will thank me for it. I know they won't. I have never thanked my mom for taking away my Halloween candy, and I never will. She may be right--I can acknowledge that much--and I am doing the same thing to my kids because it's the right thing to do. But the most I can ever expect from them, now or twenty years from now when they have their own children, is the admission that I was--that we have all been--right.
The Halloween candy has to go. Happy All Saints' Day!
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