All the Air Goes Out

Posted on November 6, 2004 by cmf

Well, last night all the air went out of my good intentions, out of my determination not to let them get to me, out of my belief that we will, in the long run prevail in our intentions to build a progressive society. Last night I was tired and jittery over our political situation, over my new job at Cisco that I don’t know how to do, over my fears that this administration will wreck terrible havoc in the name of “faith”. But I was having dinner with a friend, and it was good, and we ran into some people I haven’t seen in a long time, and then we wound up dancing to a great little band in my friend Jimmy’s bar.

And then my wallet went missing. We couldn’t find it anywhere. I’ve been carrying Patrick’s old wallet for most of the last year, and while it’s somewhat sentimental, I like that this small object has a continuing life. Every time I pull my wallet out to pay for something — groceries, or gas for the car, I feel a continuity between his life that has ended, and my life that continues on. And his/my wallet was gone. I was beside myself. I’m not much of a cryer, but I burst into tears right there in the bar, and friend my Jim, who keeps Patrick’s picture in the restaurant he runs with his wife, was very sweet about it and let me just cry and cry … I couldn’t believe it was gone. I couldn’t believe I’d lost even this small token. I was heartsick.

But I dried my tears and came home and pulled out the files in which I keep all my bills and called to cancel my credit cards. And then I went to bed, exhausted and heartsick. I cried on and off all morning, just a wreck — and then decided perhaps I was giving up to easily. So I went back over to Jimmy’s bar, and looked around in the light of day. It had lodged beside one of the poker machines. It was there — everything was in it, which I didn’t really care about. Mostly I was just happy to have it back.

I guess that, just as I wasn’t nearly as okay about this election as I’d tried to be, or had hoped to be, I’m also, occasionally, still not as okay with having lost Patrick as I’d like to be. So, along with writing letters and urging our elected officials to keep up the fight, it’s probably important that we all remember to be kind to one another in these difficult times.

“Make Positive Effort For The Good”

Posted on November 4, 2004 by cmf

As the Dalai Lama says. And he’s someone who knows opposition when he sees it. Did the Dalai Lama squeal about how mean the Chinese were? How they overran his country and killed his people and destroyed his cultural heritage? Nope. He spoke truth to power, while continually pointing out that “the Chinese people are good people.” Frankly, these days I’m looking to those folks who have seen real tangible serious oppression. The Dalai Lama. Nelson Mandela. Vaclav Havel.

So what did I do today to make positive effort for the good? I wrote letters. Yup, boring old on-the-ground letter writing. You know, old-fashioned letter writing. Like your mom did. I wrote to Max Baucus, my Democratic senator. I wrote to Hilary Clinton, to Dianne Feinstein and Barbara Boxer — I wrote asking them all to stay the course. To resist the Republican juggernaut that is coming. To stand up for all of us who voted out there. Not to roll over like the last time. I wrote to John Kerry and thanked him for running, and asked him to lead the Senate Democrats, asked him to hold the president to his “promise” to “be a uniter”.

And I wrote to Ted Kennedy. I’ve been thinking of him a lot these past couple of days. I’ve been thinking of what it took to go back out there and run for office after they murdered his brothers. Murdered them! You all know, I’m deeply in touch at the moment with what it means to lose a beloved brother. Did Ted Kennedy give up? No. Ted Kennedy went out there and ran and ran and ran again. He ran in the face of personal humiliation and he ran even after the right turned him into the poster boy for liberal demonization. He ran because there was still work to do. He ran because there were poor people who needed someone to stand up for them. He stayed in the game. He made positive effort for the good.

So I wrote him a little note today to thank him. To tell him I’d been thinking of him. I thought maybe he’d like a nice letter for once (imagine the hate mail he must get). I wrote to ask him to help buoy up his Democratic compatriots in the Senate.

Tomorrow, I’ve got more letters to write. The new minority leader in the Senate, for example. And Nancy Pelosi. I’m going to keep writing, keep encouraging them to stay the course. It’s a small thing, but do you think those right-wingers didn’t get into power by believing that small actions in large numbers will work? Don’t forget, we’re still 50% of the voting public. We still have a voice. We must use it.

He’s a tomato, but not a zucchini….

Posted on May 19, 2004 by cmf

I transplanted the tomatoes into the garden this afternoon … they’re cozy in their wall o’water cones as are the zucchini, some of the cucumbers, and the eggplants. The peppers are on their own, and I hope they’ll be okay — the temperatures have been in the mid-fifties during the day with intermittent rain, and down into the forties at night. The sides of the cucumber peat pots were growing little tiny oyster mushrooms on them. Interesting. But we’ve had lots of lovely soft rain, perfect rain for transplants, and it’s supposed to keep up for about the next ten days, so, although it’s a little early to put things out, I figured I might as well go for it.

And yes, a wee bit of Patrick went in with the tomatoes, but not the zucchini. He hated zucchini and I didn’t have the heart to send him off on his journey through the food chain in a vegetable he hated.

Planting Patrick

Posted on May 18, 2004 by cmf

A couple of months ago, I ordered two Tess of the D’Urbervilles bare root rosebushes from White Flower Farm. They kindly sent me a note that they couldn’t guarantee them as my zone is too cold, but between global warming, and planting them on the south side of my house, in the tropical perennial bed, well, I think they’ll be fine. They look lovely in the photos, bushy dark-pink roses which should bloom continually and will make a nice contrast to the ancient and wonderful white rugosa roses that were here when I moved in. I’ve also planted a couple of Persian Yellow roses in that bed — they’re a hardy northern rose that blooms early, and only once, but with cascades of clear yellow flowers. There was an enormous bank of Persian Yellow’s alongside my oddball rental apartment in Salt Lake City, and I’m deeply fond of them.

I planted my two new bare-root roses yesterday in the side garden, and I fertilized each one with about a cup and a half of Patrick’s ashes. It was a completely unsentimental experience — the guys had just shown up to take down the chain link fence in front of my house — they’re putting up a picket fence later this week. So there I was, digging holes, filling them with water, wandering out there with the satisfyingly basic cloth bag in which what’s left of my beloved Patrick remains, and my ordinary one-cup measure from the kitchen. Mostly I was just hoping the fence guys wouldn’t ask what was up, since I thought it might really freak them out. I scooped about a cup and a half of Patrick’s slightly scary ashes into each hole (those chunky bits were, after all, his bones which is a little intimate, even for me), and then set the bare-root roses in, and tamped the dirt back in around them.

I’ve been mulling over for months what I should do with Patrick’s ashes, and somehow, the idea of using him as bone meal to fertilize two lovely rosebushes that will grow in that bed beside which that nice man, Mike Fitzpatrick, the assistant coroner for Park County, told me that day in September that Patrick had been in an accident and that he was dead, well, it seems fitting somehow. I’ll never forget standing there with the late-summer cosmos and asters waving in the continuous Livingston breeze as that kind man brought me that terrible news. So now Patrick’s there, in my flower garden, where he can fertilize something beautiful, and keep me company.

Well, part of him’s there anyhow. I haven’t decided what to do with the rest of him, but the thing I really learned opening that package yesterday was that even though that dust and those chips are what’s left of my brother’s body — it’s just bonemeal. He’s so not there. And he liked my garden — he used to tease me when he’d bring the dogs back from the park in the morning “How’s the farm coming along?” he’d ask. I’d remind him that my garden is the most normal thing I’ve ever done, that I have a hobby, like a ordinary person. I think the rest of Patrick’s ashes will probably wind up in the garden as well. I’ve got two other climbing roses I bought last week that need to go in someplace. And the vestigal Catholic in me likes the idea of planting him with the tomatoes — likes the idea that come August when the tomatoes get ripe, some part of Patrick, some molecules that were Patrick will all become part of us, out there in my lovely garden, eating gorgeous tomatoes. I like the idea in general, that Patrick has somehow returned to the cycle of things, that he’s out there loose in the universe, and not frozen underground in some horrible box, preserved with chemicals. He’s a rosebush. He’s a tomato. He’s still out there, somewhere.

Nothing a Chicken Can’t Fix

Posted on April 1, 2004 by cmf

It’s been kind of a rough week around here — six months last week since Patrick died. I thought I was past the worst of the weeping, but it’s been a little soggy here these past few days, and I’ve had a slight relapse on the daytime-tv-on-the-couch-with-dogs front. So tonight, a roasted chicken (I get more hits for the blog entry titled “Roasting a Chicken” than I do for anything else), some kale, and basmati rice. A glass of red wine, and a decent dinner and one of my many Netflix movies … it’s okay. I’m getting through this and it’s getting less awful all the time, but it still sucks. But at least there’s a good dinner.

Spring Comes Around Again

Posted on March 30, 2004 by cmf

I made it back to the gym today. I’ve always been a sporadic gym person at best, but last fall I had been back in the gym about six weeks, and was really enjoying it, when Patrick died. Afterwards, I tried a couple of times, but I just couldn’t do it. The treadmill seemed like a terrible analogy for my life, there were too many people, I couldn’t face having to see people. But, now it’s spring again, and my garden is coming back to life, and I’ve found myself the last few days getting cranky in that way that means you’ve got some energy to burn off. Plus, I lost some weight after Patrick died (the only good side-effect of this all, getting rid of that 10 pounds I’ve been unable to shed for three or four years) and I could feel it creeping back on again. So this monring I dug my gym clothes out of the bottom of the closet, pulled out the iPod my fabulous stepmother, in a fit of excessive, yet deeply appreciated generosity gave me for my birthday, and off I went for an hour. It was good. I liked it. One more thing I’m able to do again.

As for the garden– it’s been in the fifties and sixties here for three weeks, which is totally weird. Global warming, I guess — but I’m going for it. The arugula I foolishly planted has sprouted, as has the kale, and the tomatoes, peppers, eggplants, brussels sprouts and flowers I’ve started in the basement are also sprouting. I’m thinking of putting in the broccoli raab and maybe some chard. I fell in love with chard last summer, and having a freezer full of chard saw me through a long winter. So more chard. And beets — both for the beets and for the greens. What the hell, I’m planting things early. Forget hedging my bets, life’s too short and seeds are cheap. If everything freezes, I’ll start over. If it doesn’t, I’m ahead of the game.

Goodbye Babylon

Posted on March 29, 2004 by cmf

I splurged and bought Goodbye Babylon from Dust to Digital — an outfit who is, as their website says dedicated to re-issuing music from old 78′s. This five-cd set (six if you count the bonus cd of sermons) is SO fabulous — there’s everything from shape-note singing to holiness string bands to jubliee gospel quartets to just wonderful weird singing about Jesus (or as I like to think of him, Jeeee-sus). I slugged all five cds into the player and have been listening to it nonstop for about a week — I don’t know what the deal is — I haven’t been able to step inside a church since Patrick died, but I’ve been listening to almost nothing but old-time American hymns ever since. As they say, He/She works in mysterious ways.

Photos

Posted on February 24, 2004 by cmf

Sunday I built the Patrick Shrine — or, as I alternatively call it — the Wall of Dead Brothers. Right after Patrick died I ordered a set of those crown moulding shelves from Pottery Barn but I haven’t had the energy to figure out how to put them up. My walls are very old, very fragile, very bumpy but wonderful real plaster and so, putting up these moulding shelves was going to involve a lot of measuring, finding studs, and careful use of the drill. Until Sunday, I just didn’t have the energy. It all seemed too complicated. And frankly, it was the kind of thing Patrick would have done for me — I just couldn’t bring myself to do it alone.

But Sunday, after walking the dogs I decided I had to drive to Bozeman to buy a New York Times, since mine hadn’t come in the mail last week. On the way there I got thinking about the shelves, about how I could do this … so after buying a paper, I went to Home Depot in search of a good stud finder. I have a couple of not-good stud finders but my walls here are so funky that I decided to splurge on a decent one. It was between the stud finder that made noise and had a built-in tape measure, or the stud finder that didn’t make noise but had a built-in marking pencil. I took the noise one.

I’m fighting off another head cold, so I got home and thought feh, not today and sat down to read the paper. But then, somehow in the middle of the afternoon, I had a surge of creative energy. Maybe it’s the sunshine. The sun has been shining all week and I finally feel like I’m coming out of the tunnel that has been this winter — I no longer feel like I’m walking around in someone else’s skin. My life without Patrick is starting to feel real, and possible, and not always so terrible — there’s sunshine, and my garden will be blooming soon, and I have nice friends who love me, and although I’ll never get over losing him, I’m not feeling like my life has been blasted apart anymore. So I looked at these little ledges, and the wall, and the pile of photos and tschotchkes that had been collecting in the basket tray underneath the portrait of our paternal grandmother that my Uncle Jack left me when he died of AIDS several years ago. I was tired of that basket. It was messy. It was time to break it up.

So I pulled out the directions for the shelves, and managed to free the stud finder from the impossible plastic packaging. I eyeballed where I wanted the shelves to go, held one up against the wall with the level, and drew a pencil line. Then I measured, and adjusted so the three shelves would be equidistant. Then I had to find studs, and re-adjust. Finally I found two studs that were sixteen inches apart and drilled into the wall. The drill was Patrick’s — a really nice cordless drill that I’d borrowed a lot last spring to build fences for the garden. It’s one of those objects that while I certainly never would have wanted to have acquired it the way I did, I’m still awfully glad to have it. Cordless drills are one of those conveniences like gas stations with card swipers at the pump, once you’ve used one you can’t go back. So I managed to drill level holes at the right distance, and without causing big hunks of plaster to fall off my wall, and when I hooked the moulding shelves on them, miracle of miracles, they were level, and they held.

So then I started hanging photos. There’s the thirty-year old photo of Patrick and our youngest brother Michael, who died at two years old from cancer in 1972, on the beach at the resort we went to in northern Wisconsin. I remember picking that photo up a couple of years ago in California and thinking what a shame it was that when Michael died Patrick lost the opportunity to be a big brother. In the photo, Michael who was about 18 months old, is looking up at Patrick who is wearing long cutoff jean shorts, no shirt and a big floppy felt hat that belonged to one of the big boys. Patrick’s a skinny five-year old hitching up his pants and talking to someone and Michael’s looking up at him with that I-wanna-go-with-him little-kid look. It made me so sad, that day in our dining room, thinking about what a rock Patrick’s love for me had always been, how much of who I am is because I was Patrick’s Big Sister, and how sad it made me for Patrick that he’d lost the opportunity to be the Big Brother. So now they’re hanging there together on my wall — the two of them. Joseph-the-psychic tells me they’ve found one another on the other side, and said, somewhat inexplicably that they’re playing baseball. Patrick wasn’t a baseball guy in life, but who knows? Maybe in the afterlife he’s taken up a new hobby.

There are other pictures — the one of Patrick and I in a golf cart the summer after I graduated from college when I ran that awful horse show. We were both exhausted, and although it’s not a photo I particularly like of myself (which since I’m in the foreground is sort of a problem), it hung on Patrick’s office wall all those years. He liked it, and it’s of the two of us together, so on the wall it goes.

There’s the duck print I bought him from my first job ever, when I worked in a store selling duck and hunting prints. There are a couple of old duck decoys that were always in Patrick’s rooms growing up, and the Navajo duck I bought him in Tucson several years ago that has a sort of blinky expression on its face that reminded Deb and I of Patrick. Pato his Mexican guys called him. “Duck”.

There’s the “Good King Wenceslas” photo of Patrick at Christmas dinner in 1998, the year Deb came to stay with us after her marriage had broken up. She gave him warm wooly socks and he gave her a Mr. Potato Head — she said at his funeral that it was the perfect gift. In the photo Patrick is at the end of the Christmas table, wearing the paper crown from his Christmas cracker, his arms wide open, decalaiming on something to Dillon, who was about five at the time.

Then there’s the collage of pictures that Paige, Matt’s wife took of the two of us when Patrick had just picked Raymond up from the breeder. Patrick’s couching down, puppy Ray between his knees, and there’s a couple of them I like of myself, which is rare. What I like about those picutres is that they show our life together, we’ve got a new dog, I’m talking, then laughing, Patrick’s leaning down to kiss the puppy. We were happy. Things were going well. We were okay.

And then I hung his strings of credentials from a hook — all those Nascar and drag racing photo IDs — At the wake I was saying to Patrick’s big fire guys, the ones who drove two days from California for the funeral, that I didn’t know what to do with the credentials. John Newcomber told me to hang them on the Christmas tree — which I think is a great idea. “You can’t throw them out,” he said to me. “That’s a NASCAR hard card! Not just anyone gets one of those.” So until next Christmas, when I maybe have a tree again, there they are, hanging on my wall.

The topmost shelf on the wall is other family members — there’s the picture Dad sent us when he left for Europe, an old Christmas photo of Mom and Patrick and I when we lived in Madison, the portrait of us cousins as little kids (plus Randy Baker, who for years was the mystery-kid in the shot. Now he leases our fields). There’s a photo of my mother, my two aunts and my uncle as little kids lined up on the couch that I love. They’re all giggling and Molly has lost it entirely — she’s about three and has her head thrown back and a finger in her mouth.

There it is — the wall of family. My brothers are dead, my father is in Europe, my mother has taken refuge in alcohol and we can’t talk to one another, but they are my people nonetheless. There they are, for everyone to see. And I like it. The portrait Bill took for Patrick’s business, the one we used for the Mass card and the thank you card had become so entwined in my mind with Patrick’s death that I was thinking of it as his death portrait. Having it up on the wall with all those other photos of happier times makes me feel watched over in the best kind of way. It reminds me of our life together, and not just that he’s gone. And besides. I’ve always loved collage. That the walls of my living room are becoming a big collage space feels right to me.

Rivers and Tides

Posted on January 19, 2004 by cmf

Yesterday I went to see the documentary about Andy Goldsworthy, Rivers and Tides. It was extraordinary. I’ve known about Goldsworthy’s work for a long time — when I was a bookseller, I loved Andy Goldsworthy: A Collaboration with Nature, but I’d never seen his work in motion. In the movie, there are these extraordinary images of his art floating out to sea, or a long sinuous chain of bright-green leaves working it’s way out of a pool and flowing downriver.

Goldsworthy himself was also inspiring. I’ve been having a terrible time getting any work done these past weeks — my sorrow has hit the immobilization stage where it seems all I can do is sit on the couch with the dogs and watch daytime reruns of Judging Amy and Law and Order. So seeing Goldsworthy talk about how he goes out and makes something every day really helped. He didn’t say he goes out and makes art every day, just that he goes out and makes something. He was also terribly moving discussing the relation of time to his work, that it’s all ephemeral, as well as talking about his attraction to “black holes” which seem to puncture right into the dark soul of the world. He made one in the base of a tree the day after his sister-in-law died young, and it seemed, on screen, to be the perfect expression of the mute mystery that is grief.

So in order to get off the couch and away from the TV, I drove to town and splurged on a copy of Godlsworthy’s book Time, which discusses many of the works he created during the filming of Rivers and Tides. Here’s a quote I liked:

I often see works — a balanced column of rocks, stacked icicles– looking stronger with each piece that is added, but also know that each addition takes it closer to collapse. Some of my most memorable works have been made in this way, and some of my worst failures could have produced some great pieces. Beauty does not avoid difficulty but hovers dangerously above it — like walking on thin ice.

Solstice

Posted on December 22, 2003 by cmf

Well, it’s going to be getting lighter every day from now on, which is a good thing. This has been a very dark winter solstice here at LivingSmall. Everyone warned me that the holidays would be hard, and they were right. I’m off today for Colorado, to spend the holidays with friends. I’ll be back next week.

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Category Archives: Believing