Sunday, November 4, 2018

Household Vanished

There comes a time in many people's lives when they must bid farewell to their childhood homes. Often, it's a painful process of letting go. Four years ago when my childhood home was emptied and sold to new owners, it was like grieving a death. I could no longer consider it the family headquarters, and it would no longer be there to come home to, especially on holidays.

Once it was sold to a new family, I marveled at how households--everything that characterized them and defined them--could simply vanish into mere memories. I found a way to convey this in a poem I've been working on for the last several months. I have finally finished it and thought I would share it here.



Household Vanished

Vintage ringtone in a shadowy basement
Heavy black rotary phone sits on an orange homemade shelf
Beneath ancient college science textbooks and discarded novels
Countless hours of TV viewing, stereo listening, quilting…sleepy Christmas mornings
Mom whistles cheerfully through wooden saloon doors
Sweet clean scent of soap in the air amid mountains of laundry
Shaking, snapping, folding, smoothing the linens and towels and clothing
That will soon hang neatly in closets filled with hand-me-downs and school uniforms
Stuffed animals, artwork, boxes of keepsakes, and the growing collections
Of belongings that were the culmination of each young life…incubating dreams of future days
Flowery twin beds in tidy rooms of a cozy upstairs…golden hardwood floors covered with rugs, dolls, guitar music…
Sun shining through light green leaves on tree branches just outside the window
Curtains rising and falling on the breeze…offering a framed view of a sloping yard of grass, wildflowers, gardens and towering trees
Through the attic door – children’s playthings, suitcases, old paperbacks, mouse traps smeared with petrified peanut butter, dust, cobwebs, and boxes of mementos from another era...
Time capsule carefully packed away for young grandling hands to discover years later

Down the carpeted steps where crawling babies race each other to the top
Where generations of children sit peeking through banister spindles into the living room
From which emanates hours and hours of music, three-part harmonies, lively conversations, raucous parlor games, laughter, crying, arguments, solemn rosary prayers
The quiet of reading and studying, and peaceful sunbeam silences
Creaking elegant vintage couch, chairs, and lamps…
Stately Parlor Grand Steinway…green Asian relief art and worn ivory keys
Playing a wide assortment of tunes by many young hands…filling the entire house with its music
Wooden secretary bookshelf keeping finances organized…reflecting a history of literary intelligence
Thick wooden cross above hallway entrance announces great faith in Jesus, beseeching His presence in times of fear, dysfunction, addiction, powerlessness…and all the memories begging to be flung off and forgotten
Living room where delicious smells waft in from the tiny narrow ship’s galley kitchen
Practical dishes, glasses, and flatware purchased for thousands of uses…
Home-cooked meals on the stove and in the oven day after day…aromas of sautéing onion and garlic…chicken with a hint of rosemary…pasta boiling, soup swirling around wooden spoon, Italian bread baking…dishwasher churning, late-night milkshakes with sisters at the round table…
Dad’s smoke hanging like a toxic cloud
Pantry and refrigerator filled with bounty…always enough, always plentiful

Wood-paneled dining room, converted breezeway
Long table of polished wood covered with padding and table cloths…
Everyday fabric and stainless steel
Until holiday adornment transforms it into antique linen and lace, shining silver and china, Advent wreath and ornate candlesticks
Room bringing a family together for thousands of meals, thousands of conversations, welcoming guests and visitors...Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts….
Rainbow of color across windowsills where a collection of assorted bottles present lovely views beyond
Sprawling green lawn, passing deer, falling leaves, puffy snowdrifts, rising and setting sun
Sunbeams through honey-brown glasses of iced tea or blood red wine
Silver bowl piled high with summer corn-on-the-cob
Framed “O Thou Who Clothest the Lillies” prayer hangs behind Mom’s chair

Mom
The glue holding it all together…household planning, appointments, the living of daily lives
Her sanctuary – bed surrounded by walls of powdery blue, white curtains of lace
Dressing table filled with modest jewelry, makeup, and perfume for those rare occasions
Window looking out on her beloved back yard, cracked just enough to let in fresh air as she sleeps
Small closet full of practical yet tasteful clothes and shoes
This week’s novel on the night stand
A good night’s sleep
This was all that was needed

Front yard
Concrete flower urns teeming with petunias or impatiens…wooden bench in the shade of tall trees
Long sloped driveway overflowing with cars on holidays, a skateboarders’ slalom, a Moon Rock game drawn in chalk…an endless, back-breaking snow shoveling job in winter
Brass bell rings at the side door announcing company
Black iron eagle spreads its wings protectively over the garage
Garage full of old fishing rods, tool boxes, bicycles, stilts, ladders, gardening tools, lawn mowers, nesting mice, and the trusty family car
Worn, outdated sun deck once built by capable son’s hands, lost rock garden and concrete patio beneath
Gathering place on fair weather days…peaceful bird choruses overhead or flying in for landings at the birdfeeder
Wind in the evergreen boughs and all other guardian trees swaying above

Back yard
Vegetable gardens, fruit trees, roses, birdbath
Fairy homes built by little girl hands at the base of huge trees
Picnic table jams, volleyball, Badminton and Bacci
Sledding to the very bottom where the blackberry bushes lay dormant
Empty field beyond – for wandering and hiding and forts and secret treehouses
Meditative grass-cutting, riding round and round and round until the sun sinks low in the west
Years later grandchildren run down the slope, playing and romping where parents once did
Selling point of an entire dwelling – the magical, spacious back yard
Offering tranquil, pleasing views to aging parents day after day

Household once crammed with family begins to empty…one by one they fly away
Then there are only two
Quiet classical music on the radio and after-dinner Scrabble
The easy golden years of peace and togetherness…
….until she is all that is left

Deafening silence.
The sound of ticking clocks, a lone television, continued classical music on the kitchen radio and crossword puzzles
Dust gathers in unused rooms. Snaps and pops as the house settles.
The eagerly-awaited ring of the telephone…or a motor in the driveway of someone visiting

Then, with great reluctance, she is taken away to live out her years where others can care for her

A tomblike hush falls over the household…which is no longer alive
Piece by piece, it is disassembled…much goes to live on in the houses of children and grandchildren
Other things are sold to strangers
Parlor Grand Steinway ships off, returning full circle to New York
Ashes of a beloved niece are reverently exhumed from the garden
So many things kept in remembrance, but everything else removed. Erased. Deleted.

The house becomes an empty shell, devoid of anything that once gave it life or character
The household is vanished…is now only a collection of memories.

For an entire summer it remains empty
The familiar scents dissipate
The trees continue to watch over it protectively and the wildlife roam the yard

Then a new family arrives with their possessions and their history
…and a new household begins






Tuesday, September 4, 2018

A Tango with Time


In my younger years, I would often hear my mother or some other adult over fifty years of age remarking how strange it is to grow old—when the mind still feels so youthful but the body begins to change…or when the songs, films, artists, and styles of your era become “vintage.” I tried to imagine what it must have felt like for her, but because that time of life was so far off for me it wasn’t easy. I don’t think anyone can truly understand nostalgia until they are old enough to live it.

Now I am suddenly there. The music and styles of my teen years and even my twenties are now considered classic. It’s as far back in the past for kids as forties and swing was for me when I was the kid. I am one of the “old aunts” that sits with the other aunts and uncles at family reunions while the kids run and play. I look in the mirror and see both a face and a body that is vastly different from what it was even seven years ago due to time and gravity having its way with me.

When one of my sisters was scanning a bunch of photos from our family albums for me a couple of years ago, she wrote in an email that it was such a surreal feeling looking back at all the pictures from all the decades and realizing just how much time had passed. “So much life lived,” were her exact words.

A common human tendency is to react to this passing of time with a certain wistfulness and longing to have some of it back—especially one’s younger and more able body. There is a sense that time is accelerating and running out. That there won’t be many more opportunities to do certain things. Bucket lists are reviewed. Long lost friends are sought out to connect with. There is still so much uncertainty about the future. What will the state of the world be as I grow old? Have I planned well enough to have financial security? Who will I survive in my family and social circles? How much longer will certain family and friends be around? Will I get to grow old with my partner?

I’ve contemplated this a lot lately—sometimes during seated meditation (yes, meditation is supposed to be an emptying of the mind, however, certain awarenesses come up as well)—and I have thought of a wonderful analogy. It involves some backstory about Tango.

I am midway through my second year of learning Argentine Tango, and it’s the year in which my teacher is showing us the nuances, refinements, and embellishments of this exquisite and graceful dance. One of the refinements is taking one’s time. Even if the tempo of a song is fast, a leader and partner can always negotiate doing it in half time, or pausing for an embellishment that isn’t necessarily on the beat…before moving on in the line of dance. If a leader is going a little too fast, the follower can always subtly apply a little more resistance in her posture to slow him down. A leader may have big plans for steps he (or she) would like to lead, but spacing on the dance floor suddenly changes and so he has to adjust those plans for the space he has to work with. Instead, a leader may offer his partner a chance to do something inventive and lovely, or lead a turn—beautifully biding the time until he can move his follower forward again.

This is how time is, now. It may seemingly be going by so quickly, but I can always lean in to slow it down, pause to add embellishment, adjust my steps to meet the unexpected with grace, and continue on in the line of dance until the music stops. In Tango, you are committed to your partner for four short songs, and these are called a tanda. If all is going well, you really savor that last song before the tanda is over. You let yourself become the music and move with a timelessness in which there is only the connection between you and your partner in the moment.

In the last decade, I have moved from being constantly driven to meet goals and timelines and making lots of plans to slowing the pace, seeing what wonderful thing might be “led” to me, offering me a chance to create and shine, and staying connected with the present. "Above all else," my Tango teacher always reminds us, “maintain a good connection.”

So instead of feeling uneasy about time and its changes, I have decided to dance with it. I cabeceo, let it lead me onto the dance floor, wrap myself in its close embrace, try to move with as much grace as possible, flow with the line of dance, and maintain connection until the tanda is over.