Keep Writing

This has nothing to do with this old old house, except that I just found these quick poems that I wrote way way back in February 2013, and am posting them here, if for no other reason that to remind myself to keep writing.

Mendo Headlands
It is raining hard enough to
remind me to look outside.
To stop.
I wait.

The rain is almost as loud as
that place, that space, that time
when everything was finally ok. That time
when everything was going to be ok.

It wasn’t, you know.

I imagine how it is there.
How the ocean beats, the wind sings.
How my nose gets cold,
but never ever my inside.

How different things feel there.

How the earth springs
under my feet.
How the salty air
staves my hunger.

How soft the absence of being needed.


Progress
I wanted to talk to you
without being interrupted by
dog, cat, child, kitchen timer.
But I don’t know where to start
and I start at all the wrong places.

TV sounds good.

I keep feeding the fish.
Not sure what I expect from them.
Endless poop hangs from their butts.
They keep eating and I make myself busy at work.
My heart pounds. My toes are cold.

I get nothing done.

I want to feed the fish again.
Open the jar, pinch the dead powdered fish between my fingers.
Drop it in the water.
The stupid fucks don’t stop eating.
They’ll die if I let them.

It feels like progress.

Blue Lake: A Last Resort

I read this to a packed house at Dell’Arte on Saturday night for the event called Blue Lake: A Last Resort. It was written to be read aloud by me; hopefully you can hear my voice.

It’s a strange thing – buying someone’s home. Not just buying a house that’s on the market, but buying somebody’s home — their home that has to be sold, a short sale, a death in the family. The remaining family still living in the house, still very much living in the house. It’s a small town, so we know the owners, we know their kids, their relatives, their story.

It’s a strange thing – looking at their home, and thinking of all the history there, and how much we plan on changing it once it’s finally ours. Being in escrow, walking by their dumpsters and having to stop myself from peeking in there to see all the history they’re throwing out. They are so exposed on all of the walk-throughs, inspections. People poking in their attic.

It’s a strange thing to be making small talk while planning to tear out their layers of carpet, all the while piecing together their juicy story. Their four generations who lived here.

It’s a strange thing to convince myself that this seemingly ramshackle house has good bones, and that it will make a sturdy home to raise the kids in, as the previous owners’ family is falling apart.
—————

Before I became a mother, I did as some young people do, sometimes making small decisions and sometimes making no decision, passive in most things, floating along and finding myself here or there or where ever.

I found myself in a lot of places.

In some ways, I moved so much because I was searching for home. In some ways, I was still running away from home. In June 2000, I brought my baby to Humboldt to visit my sister and her husband. They drove us out 299 to go to a river spot out near Willow Creek. When passing by Blue Lake, a town I had never heard of, my sister pointed and said, “That is where you want to live.” I had no way of knowing she was right.
———-

This old old house that we bought was built in 1893 or 1903 – no one knows for sure — but it doesn’t have much historical importance. There isn’t a plaque on the door declaring the building a historical landmark. The architecture of the house is insignificant — a late Victorian, with much of the original accents lost in a fire or removed when they put on the vinyl siding. Yes, vinyl siding. And there is very little character in the property — enclosed by a chain link fence and not even a tree to speak of. The only claim to fame is that the Worthingtons lived in the house for a time in the early 20th century.

But the house, like any old house in a small town, has so many stories buried in the walls, speaking from the attic, and hidden in the weeds outside.
—————-

After escrow closed and we were madly working to make the house livable for us, I stood on a ladder in the old man’s bedroom, scrubbing the walls. There was sadness in that room, so much that it made my eyes sting and my knees weak.

I stepped off the ladder. I don’t know much about spirits or ghosts, but I knew his energy was there. And I knew how much he loved his wife, who had passed years before. I whispered, “Mr. Caywood — this is going to be a happy room. We’re painting it yellow and filling it with the kids’ toys. This will be their place to play.”

Maybe the sun moved, or maybe a cloud passed by — whatever it was, it brightened the room, and I got back on that ladder and kept scrubbing the walls.
———————

This house… the families that lived here… I know secrets. Stories that I could tell.

But I won’t.

Because it’s a big responsibility to own an old house in a small town. A big responsibility, not because it will need a new roof as it invariably will, and not because of the rats in the compost or the bats that find their way in through the walls and under the baseboards and maybe they’re rabid and are biting my children while we sleep… but a big responsibility because of the grand extended family that has now become a part of ours — connected through the history of the house.
————-

Last year I posted an ad on Craigslist to give away some of the rose bushes. 27 rose bushes proved to be too much for me to maintain. One of the people that came to dig up some bushes (he happened to play softball with my husband on an opposing team) is married to the granddaughter of the previous-previous owner before us. These roots go deep and spread far.
————

When I prune the rose bushes, I often think of Mr. Caywood. I don’t really know what I’m doing with the clippers, so I pretend he’s helping me along. I met him once at his house, years ago, when my son was friends with his great-grandson. I think of him like an extra grandpa, and ask for his blessing when we make any changes to the garden. I thank the old man for planting all the flowers and bulbs around the yard. He loved the garden.

I don’t remember any flowers here that summer we were in escrow. But every year since, it seems that new types flowers bloom in the yard. Spanish bluebells, snapdragons, white and purple calla lilies, lilacs, peonies, more snapdragons, scarlet pimpernel, star of bethlehem, irises, naked ladies. The dahlias bloomed last summer. They came up out of nowhere.
—————-

We had planned to tear down the garage. It seemed it was falling down anyway, and it was full of junk. But you know… there are Chris’s handwritten notes on the garage wall. Phone numbers he jotted down while repairing bikes at the workbench. Just last week we found an old faded picture of his wife when she was young.

All those big changes we planned on the house — we’ve gotten some of it done, but it turns out that a lot of it doesn’t need to be changed at all. We’re not tearing down Chris’s garage. We’re fixing it up. And when I’m in the garden, I’m always careful when I dig.

The house has changed us so much more than we have changed it. And it is such an honor to own an old house in a small town.

Beautiful Things: Antique Tilt-Top Table

Mom gave me this table from my great-grandma Bessie — her father’s mother.

Table in folded position.

Table in folded position.

I keep it in folded position in my bedroom. I don’t know if this is a table we’d ever use. At least not until we become delicate card-players and long in the tooth.

The table, unfolded.

The table, unfolded.

The art on the table is … interesting. Fascinating. Weird.

The serpent is being attacked by the warriors in the boat on the right.  Mermaids in the background, other soldiers standing at the ready.

The serpent is being attacked by the warriors in the boat on the right. Mermaids in the background, other soldiers standing at the ready.

The whole table isn’t even three feet across. Some of the art is very detailed.

It looks as if the soldiers are standing on a boat of some sort, being steered by the boy sitting in the back.  I'm not sure what that is between them. Another soldier? Another mythical creature?

It looks as if the soldiers are standing on a boat of some sort, being steered by the boy sitting in the back. I’m not sure what that is between them. Another soldier? Another mythical creature?

Europeans, missionaries, Greek mythology, Chinese astrology, Oriental legend, Asian folklore. I have no idea, really.

There is a close-up of the attack on the serpent.  Do you see the couple sitting in the front of the boat?

There is a close-up of the attack on the serpent. Do you see the couple sitting in the front of the boat?

We’d love to learn more about this art. The artist, the time period. We know that Bessie was born in 1894 or so, and that this table is probably 100 years old.

A close-up of the mermaids.

A close-up of the mermaids.

Some of the details are hard to see without the use of photographic close-ups.

The shields have sea creatures on them -- looks like mussel shells, a whelk or conch or some sort of snail, then a lobster, and then a dragon.  Run of the mill sea creatures.

The shields have sea creatures on them — looks like mussel shells, a whelk or conch or some sort of snail, then a lobster, and then a dragon. Run of the mill sea creatures.

Quite dapper.

Quite dapper.

And the people! Really fascinating to me. Who are they?

Just going for a stroll in the park.

Just going for a stroll in the park.

Love the print on the trousers.

See the larger man's lower body in the foeground?  He has women printed on his trousers, and a man's face peeking between his legs.  And then there's that sly man speaking to the woman over his shoulder.

See the larger man’s lower body in the foeground? He has women printed on his trousers, and a man’s face peeking between his legs. And then there’s that sly man speaking to the woman over his shoulder.

Looks like a beautiful estate back there, but also, I think I see a cross on the top of that building.

Looks like a beautiful estate back there, but also, I think I see a cross on the top of that building.

Dancing in the park, musicians on the right.

Dancing in the park, musicians on the right.

Very hard to see, and this is really small on the table, but does this lion have wings?  Is that a goat behind it?

Very hard to see, and this is really small on the table, but does this lion have wings? Is that a goat behind it?

This is some sort of mythical dog creature, I think.  Is this Argos, the dog that Odysseus left behind?

This is some sort of mythical dog creature, I think. Is this Argos, the dog that Odysseus left behind?

More mythical creatures in the border of the table.

More mythical creatures in the border of the table.

According to wikipedia, a hsigo is a creature from Chinese folklore -- a monkey with a human faces, a dog tails and bird wings. They are servents to the people that owned them, much like the wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz.  Elsewhere online, I read that seeing one indicates a coming drought.  Is that cupid behind this one, aiming an arrow?

According to wikipedia, a hsigo is a creature from Chinese folklore — a monkey with a human faces, a dog tails and bird wings. They are servents to the people that owned them, much like the wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz. Elsewhere online, I read that seeing one indicates a coming drought. Is that cupid behind this one, aiming an arrow?

If I could search the internet all day to figure this out, I would. But I only gave myself an hour. (And Sophie complied.)

Another monkey, cupid, and a snake, of course.

Another monkey, cupid, and a snake, of course.

The border of the table is filled with creatures and people and symbols.

Man riding a lion.  I think...?

Man riding a lion. I think…?

Genie from the lamp, perhaps.

Genie from the lamp, perhaps.

More Sophie

Comparing Sam and Sophie at 11 weeks.  Me and Sam on top; Ben and Sophie on the bottom.

Comparing Sam and Sophie at 11 weeks. Me and Sam on top; Ben and Sophie on the bottom.

When I really compare pictures of Sam and Sophie at the same age… I don’t see a lot of similarities.  Definitely some in the eyes and brow, but most of the similarities are in the basic fact that they are both light-skinned babies with blue eyes.

Sophie Sophie Sophie. Sorry -- I go a little crazy with the Picasa collages, just because I can't seem to pick just one picture to post.

Sophie Sophie Sophie. Sorry — I go a little crazy with the Picasa collages, just because I can’t seem to pick just one picture to post.

Belly Laughs

I have many pictures to post, of course, and will start with these.  (I also have many house-related posts to write up, but, ehhhh… can’t quite do it these days.)

She's a doll.

She’s a doll.

Ben was making her laugh.

Ben was making her laugh.

Serious, serious belly laughs.

Serious, serious belly laughs.

Sophie's Amma crocheted the dress.

Sophie’s Amma crocheted the dress.

Super big belly laughs.

Super big belly laughs.

Cuteness.

Cuteness.

Taking it all in.

Taking it all in.