I have been folding my grandparents' clothing.
This is an intimate task; they died several years ago, but their clothing is still a corporeal presence. We have a closet full of fabric no one wears: Grandma's modest cotton sun-dresses... Grandpa's polyester slacks (some with wear spots at the knees)... a dozen pairs of white long johns (because he was thin and always cold). At the back of the closet: pairs of shoes that still hold imprints of their feet.
There is so much history here: a Christmas photograph from 1955... Grandpa's lunch bucket from the years he worked in the coal mine... Grandma's driver education card -- granted in 1939...
The objects they chose to keep are notable signs of what they valued -- but also interesting is what they didn't keep; neither grandparent wrote a journal, so I have no direct window into their most personal thoughts.
There is such history in this small town as well: the town where my great-grandparents immigrated and raised their families, where my grandparents had lived all their lives, where my father returned to raise his kids (and work with his sister, who has also lived her entire life in this town). My brother and I are the first generation to leave; though we're both home temporarily, he has spent the last decade in Austin, Texas, while I've been away at college and then off working in Toronto and New York.
I am humbled by how often I meet someone here who I don't remember. Often, they are people who knew me as a child... or who know my father or grandparents. Some simply recognize me from articles in the local newspaper, and they congratulate me on my academic and artistic achievements. When I tell them how I've failed -- perhaps not as often as I've "succeeded," but surely more spectacularly -- they dismiss failures instantly. What is most important to them is that I've followed my aspirations and trusted my own dreams.
When I find myself in conversation with old friends (even those I didn't know particularly well), the dialogue is so fulfilling. I am still thinking about my talk with Tom, who has worked at the local newspaper for more than five decades... I am thinking of the joy of running into Angela at the library -- and seeing how happy she is with her spouse and child. I am thinking of the waitress I worked with while I was in high school; her husband recently left her, and despite her obvious pain, she's much better off alone. I'm remembering my grocery store conversation with one of the "girls" (all must have been over 50) who sat at the gossip table at my restaurant, drinking coffee and fawning over the local "heartthrob" (who was also in his 50s). And then there's J.R., my closest high school friend -- who recently reminded me that we made a pact as kids to marry each other if we didn't find other partners by a certain age. (I laughed -- then thought about it -- then revised the age slightly upward -- but agreed that we'd probably do quite well together. So the marriage pact is valid...)
It is a joy to return to this small Midwestern town -- two and a half decades after I was born into it.
I see it differently now; I can appreciate what it is, rather than demeaning it for what it can never be.
For years now, intent on succeeding in the (cannibalistic) arts worlds of major cities, I have neglected my own heritage and the many friends and relatives and teachers who helped me grow into the woman I've become (and am still becoming). Yes, I'm still the urban artist -- but I'm also the Luddite who can read for hours in a clearing in the woods... the girl who -- at dusk last night -- went for my first (spontaneous) swim of the season: stripping off dance clothes and wading into the lake. I'm the same girl (woman) who -- more than 15 years ago -- waded into that same lake to rescue a frightened fawn from our overzealous terrier. As a child, I was so in touch with the rhythm of this land that wild sparrows would land on my fingers to eat birdseed.
Whatever else I do in the next months and years of my life -- regardless of what happens with my novella or the recent job offers from New York -- I want to cultivate this powerful tranquility: to be so serene that birds might choose to perch on me again.
We intersect at Bloor and Yonge: an accident on the corner. We watch medics pull bodies from broken glass. I try not to stare.
When I find myself in conversation with old friends (even those I didn't know particularly well), the dialogue is so fulfilling. I am still thinking about my talk with Tom, who has worked at the local newspaper for more than five decades... I am thinking of the joy of running into Angela at the library -- and seeing how happy she is with her spouse and child. I am thinking of the waitress I worked with while I was in high school; her husband recently left her, and despite her obvious pain, she's much better off alone. I'm remembering my grocery store conversation with one of the "girls" (all must have been over 50) who sat at the gossip table at my restaurant, drinking coffee and fawning over the local "heartthrob" (who was also in his 50s). And then there's J.R., my closest high school friend -- who recently reminded me that we made a pact as kids to marry each other if we didn't find other partners by a certain age. (I laughed -- then thought about it -- then revised the age slightly upward -- but agreed that we'd probably do quite well together. So the marriage pact is valid...)
Whatever else I do in the next months and years of my life -- regardless of what happens with my novella or the recent job offers from New York -- I want to cultivate this powerful tranquility: to be so serene that birds might choose to perch on me again.
I've just posted five chapters of Fragments:
