Green Bay, Birthdays, New Cars

We had a quiet weekend in Green Bay; Monday is my mother-in-law's birthday, so we surprised her with a trip to the wilds of Wisconsin, full of heavy snow and doggy adventures.


And, as always, Penelope is the star of the show, the one who shoes up, fur-laden, thrilled at bounding everywhere she pleases.


I love the way he runs with them, as if he were a part of the pack as well.


The days are sunny, the weekend long and wide open. I love this blue sky. I love the sheer tunneling of the snow. So much, everywhere.


And something I couldn't post about until now: we traded in the minivan. The soccer mom-mobile, as everyone tended to call it, my husband's hand-me-down from his parents, a lovely vehicle for the dogs and for carpooling with friends [only one designated driver], but certainly not very efficient for his hour long commute. We now have a VW Jetta, a diesel manual. I haven't driven stick since I was sixteen, on an old Honda with a nasty shift, but I did take it around my in-laws' block twice, stalling it twice. Sheer ice too, and a sort strip of highway.


I was able to also play with one of my new attachments, the macro, with little plant leaves:


And we celebrated Sue's birthday with cake and plenty of good things wrapped messily:

where life returns to normal and grieving resurfaces

I am back to the simple swing of routine: alarm clocks, the click of the lock to my classroom, the lights pulling on, the smell of gym socks. Back to sooty snow and slick sidewalks, icy driveways and chewed up work shoes (that dog, I tell you--fourth pair this morning).

There are steps to grief, I think. Private ones, ones that aren't listed in health class, or a psychology textbook. My grandfather passed away nearly two months ago, which is both the progression of life and a devouring sorrow in our family. And there are things to remind you, little bits that come in the aftermath, things I hadn't expected: the stacks of books, the old sport coats hanging in the closet, and the inheritance check. It's strange, those two words together: inheritance + check. They're words left out in the cold, tin cans clanging against each other. And I can't help but think--why can't I just trade it in? I mean, I don't know what a life is worth, and I know that eighty some years is a good, long life, and he had that, a good, good life. There are all those words: justify, sorrow, loss, resent, return, etc. What remains, what is left behind. Stupid, ridiculous things, like money, the aftershocks, crying alone by the mailbox.

And it all defines us: what we have survived, what we celebrate, what makes us at peace. When I think of loss, of Yvonne, of my grandfather, I also think of this: how can we live our lives in honor of them. How can we justify. How can we make peace. For me, when I started teaching, I would think of Yvonne: then I'd pass muster, I would cry in the closet and move on. Because I had to be a good teacher--for her. My grandfather was a professor of education. It only makes sense that the same is true.

I will live a good life. I will try. I will be a poet, because poets observe humanity, make life beautiful. I want life to be beautiful. Sorrow is beautiful too. I wish there were some bank, where you could trade inheritance for that person, to keep them a little longer, but I know, instead, I will simply be passionate, be the girl who sees the world, be a girl who loves those boxes we put ourselves into: teacher, poet, observer of the world.

Also: Wicked Alice opens its reading from February 1 - April 30.

so this is christmas

(Yes, that is Husband, when he was young--isn't he adorable?)

Christmas, childhood: our tradition included opening one present the night before. We could pick it, and we delighted in picking the ones for our parents too. We set out cookies and milk, which I am certain my father had no trouble mysteriously devouring for us. We opened presents immediately the next morning, in our pajamas. I remember a cardboard play house we built for my sister; I left a squishy unicorn sticker on the ceiling. I remember the year we got our American dolls, the year they first came out. Can you guess which I requested? Mine was Molly and my sister's was Kirsten, leaving Samantha and no others, at that point. I loved those slick books, the illustrations, the history lessons at the end. We had a late lunch / early dinner--something along the lines of turkey or ham. In middle school, I asked to accompany friends to the candlelight service at the Presbyterian church; I loved the way everything twinkled, the mystery and comfort of the dark, the beauty of the hymns rising up.

After moving away, our holidays have changed. Each year is slightly varied--but much of the changing relates to the expansion of our family--now I have in-laws, and those in-laws have babies, and Kelly is having a baby, and everywhere little ones are sprouting up. Mandy is a new-mom, Jen is twenty weeks and apparently the baby is already bumping around in there.

The holidays are now about growing families, about new traditions. I have now spent Christmas morning with my husband's family for three years, last year even attending the late night mass at his parents' Catholic church, and this year, I slept at their house, woke up to a Christmas of pancakes and coffee cake, music playing and the shudder of four dogs barreling through the house.


We made gingerbread, and though it was sticky and frustrating and our shapes resembled some monstrosity, I think it was nice, this kneading and shaping, this renaming of the holidays. This way that our homes have many components, many places--making Minnesota gingerbread cookies in Wisconsin, as we thought about our siblings in California, Texas, New Jersey, as I thought about all the places my graduate school applications are being sent to (California, Texas... New York, etc.). Thinking about the way we make our homes into a refuge.


The way I am so grateful for the family I have--the little one in Minnesota, with our four dependent creatures, with Penelope pressed against my side, with Zephyr snuffling through the pile of blankets, with Gatsby snoring at my feet, with Libby snarling from the window.

With my husband, who I feel giddy about, whose hand I always want to hold, whose smile makes my heart burst, whose companionship I would be lost without. The gifts we are given that don't come in packages--the love that I have for the people in my life, my husband, my best friend, my family, my friends.

happy birthday :: chelsea

Today my baby sister turns twenty four, a year that was, for me, frustrating and frightening. It was the year I returned to graduate school, the year I began working my way toward a teaching license. (The year I left poetry.)

In honor of her birthday, I will give you twenty four things I know about her:

She was born two days before Christmas, and my mother had to have surgery for gall stones the next day. Before she was born, I confessed all I wanted was a baby sister and a kitty, and a year after Chelsea was born, we had both, though Tiger did not stay with us long, after biting Chelsea on the cheek. She was a nasty cat, but Chelsea now has two not-so-nasty cats, Picasso and Maggie Mae. She didn't like playing games with me when we were young because she hated losing, but she would always watch if I played with our dad. We have video of her in a pink tutu; she wanted to be a ballerina but didn't take dance lessons. She's only slightly taller than I am now, but when she was younger, she was long and stick thin. We used to play Bobbsey Twins together, solving mysteries in our backyard. She was Flossie and I was Nan. When she was really young, her skin was white as paper, so I thought, and her blonde hair was wispy and nearly-white too. I used to be afraid when we took her outside, that she would burn up and disappear like smoke. We were very close when we were younger, even though we're four years apart; we used to play constantly outdoors in the summer in Tennessee. When I was a teenager, and then when I moved out, we grew apart, which was always very sad for me, and we had a hard time finding things to say to one another. But we are close now, incredibly so, and I would fly to Austin in a heartbeat, if she needed me. I love her fiercely. And she is deserving of fierce love, because she's got a good heart and a good soul. She is going to school for social work now, but I'll always think of her as primarily an artist. She's particularly a talented photographer, but she's also had art shows in painting as well. She works at the bookstore chain where I worked for six years. She was in a particularly bad car accident when she was fifteen, where she broke her leg and another person died. She was actually "supposed" to be sitting in the front seat, but the boy switched places with her. That boy crashed into the windshield, leaving him permanently brain damaged. Chelsea spent some time in intensive care; they discovered she stops breathing when she's on morphine. That car accident was a frightening time for our family; my husband (boyfriend, of only a few months then) was so kind, driving me to the hospital before the sun rose when I found out. We used to fight over the leftover mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving. Now I wish we were able to see each other over the holiday, so we could share. She loves spanikopita and hummus. (And so do I.) When we were really young and living in Tennessee, we dressed up and did an entire rendition of Cats, and it's on videotape somewhere. I hope she achieves every one of her goals for this year, and I hope to actually visit her in Austin in 2008.

winter storm 2

We are spending the holidays at the Husband's parents' house--four dogs romping about, cookies in the oven, holiday music. I am excited about gingerbread; I've been thinking about it ever since I read this post. I think I will try this recipe.

I love the posts that put you in the holiday spirit. I've felt under the weather and stressed this early December--with my grandfather passing, the fire, applying to graduate schools, and now a cold that is approaching from the back of my head, spreading toward the front--I hadn't felt terribly festive. However, I just have to leave it up to some of my favorite bloggers & flickr folks to make me feel a bit more in the spirit: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

Their dogs: a black lab-mastiff mix named Chance and a yellow lab mix named Sassy (who truly lives up to her name). Two golden dogs, two black dogs, and four humans, chasing them about.


Outside, a windy storm, cutting off power in other areas of the city. It is our second storm of significance, and neither have hit us at home.

I hope you have...

This holiday, I hope you have (these gifts):

- A husband who fills you with such joy, each day, you cannot imagine another day that is better. A husband who tolerates any frenzy or panic, who will hold you close when sorrow feels overwhelming, who will celebrate each accomplishment. The best is his making you laugh, always, and the burrowing feeling you have next to him. And that knowledge, the walking through fire, together.

- A best friend like I do. Someone you can call a sister. Someone whose children you can call your nieces and nephews. Someone you want to be with just as much as your partner, because she is a partner, in many senses. Someone you want to build a house for out of seed packets, grow a home for her across the street, drag her by a rope, keep her close. A friend you miss fiercely in the in-between times.


- A true sister, a sibling who you have connections with. Or someone, who you had hoped to reconnect with, and you have. Because of a wedding or a memorial, or art or reading, or nothing at all. Because of love. Because this is the person you'll always have in your life, and besides, you have more in common than you've ever thought.

- Parents who will always love you, no matter what.

- A set of grandparents to admire. Sixty three years of marriage and contentment. Two people who have lived full lives--not just happy lives, but lives of purpose, of inspiration. Two people, who, you hope, when you look back on your own life, you have inspired as well too. A grandmother, (or grandfather, for that rare male reader of my blog) who is so strong and so passionate that you can only feel blessed to be a part of her life.


- A complete set of friends, who fill you up with joy. And these friends, you miss when they are gone, you feel so good when they are there, and you can only hope you give them something too.

- A smart friend who will instruct you on the minutiae of life, who will strike sparks.
- One of those rare beauties who causes you to want to travel, to explore, to expand your horizons.
- A former colleague, though she ought to be your current colleague, because you think of her every day you show up at work, want to share stories with her, miss her, feel as if you are a little adrift without her.
- A feisty friend, one who challenges you, who shares with you.
- A friend whose talent amazes and surpasses your own, inspires you to try harder.
- A friend whose history is tangled with your own, who can take you back to days when you don't want to admit this is who you are, but she loved you then anyway.
- A few of these friends, because they are good. These friendships that are long and deep.


- A career you don't mind, or a hope for a future that you are passionate about. Hope, in the form of manila envelopes, sliding into the post office at all hours. Poetry. Literature. Linguistics. The shape of words on your tongue.

- A home, warm, perfect. Filled with books, with poems on the walls, with pets that sleep with you at night, that wait for you at the door when they realize it's your car that is pulling up.


- A love of your town. A theatre, a library, an arts center, a small bookshop. A bakery, a favorite restaurant, a small town alliance. Holding hands while walking at night in the snow. Pulling yourself up the bluffs, knowing you can, in fact, hike Barn Bluff. It's not so hard, after all, that daunting hump, and the back side is breathtaking.


I hope you have these things to fill your life. I think of Ben Folds singing "The Luckiest." I think that is true.

Michigan :: memorials & snow

My sister's job: to tote dozens of photographs of my grandfather, his life, in her arms, from Austin, Texas to Hillsdale, Michigan. Dozens of photographs emailed from the corners of his life, especially from our aunt Linda, and given to us by the good people at Kinko's.


My sister and I arranged them on two magnetic boards brought over by the funeral home--one full of black and whites, his babyhood, my father's and uncle's babyhood. The other board--my sister and my childhood. So much in the small parts of life, the beginnings. So little with transitions.


And the white cat of my dreams, my grandfather, so to speak, my grandmother's sweet companion. She didn't want to crawl into my lap, despite my antics, but she adores my grandmother.



And well she should, of course.


My favorite photograph of my grandfather was taken in what appears to be Australia--he's got a pipe clenched in his teeth, his knees bent, an expression of sharing and shock as a kangaroo drinks from his coffee mug. It's adorable and sweet, and I'm sorry I don't have a copy to share here.


So much of my grandfather lingers in this house.


The day I found out my grandfather had his second heart attack, I arranged to have a small pine tree sent to my grandmother. I knew he was going home, and I thought maybe it could be planted in the spring, after he was gone, a symbol of his life and strength. The timing, the holidays, included an angel ornament. The tree arrived the morning of the 4th; my grandfather passed away a dozen hours later. A guardian angel.

And I said my grandfather would appreciate all the quiet calamity surrounding his passing--the snow plowing and late start, the fire in our house, and the day after his memorial, he delivered another snow storm, this one strong enough to cancel church (he just may have appreciated that one!).

If you are reading this from a warm place on the globe, enjoy the snow. We're going to have a white Christmas in these parts:

what I expect

This is what I expect in Michigan: my grandparents reading the newspaper beneath dim lamplight, the view of the lake peaceful behind them. I expect to hear my grandfather come humming down the hall, his great paw of a hand on our shoulder, asking if we'd been good this year, telling us that he has been good and handsome besides. My grandmother offering up a plate of cold cuts, warm mustard, a loaf of bread. The teasing sounds of my sister and I, harassing my patient father to no end. After dinner, the sound of Law and Order blaring from the bedroom, my grandfather hard of hearing for so long. Paperback mysteries. Shortbread cookies. The tock of the grandfather clock in the hall. The creak of sofa cushions as we adjust ourselves, reading.

The landscape has changed without my grandfather.

This morning a snowstorm rolled in, my father getting stuck in the driveway, then the road, trying to get to the store for milk. We were cozy but trapped for the morning, his fingers raw and numb from nearly three hours of shoveling. I couldn't see the line of trees across the lake, the snow was so thick. Churches, shops, everything has closed down.

Yesterday was my grandfather's memorial. When we were in the church basement for the luncheon, I thought I had spotted my grandfather, an old man's silvery hair. But it was just one of the singers in the quartet. My grandfather is gone.

It's so hard to get used to that fact. And I feel like this all could be resolved with a simple question: "Can't we just have him back?" Doesn't that seem logical to you?

If I can't imagine his absence, then I cannot imagine what my grandmother must feel as she faces each level of sorrow: the shoes at the bottom of his closet (the snow boots my father borrowed outdoors, his father's rubber boots), the rows of tweed sport coats in the closet, the shape he left on his side of the bed, his voice in the hallway, the ghost of him in old photographs.

When I return, I will give you pictures--show you the beauty of the snow here in Michigan. I love snowstorms, being trapped indoors, especially with books. I'm reading The Painted Veil; my grandmother Netflix'ed the film, and I would rather read the book first, so it is a marathon reading before dinner, hoping to get Maugham's novel done in time for the showing.

in a winter of bad news, some good

This month has started off with difficulty, I must admit--the fire, the loss of my grandfather. Quietly sad, these things, but there have been some good things recently, too:

- I will be a featured poet, along with Emily Bright, reading with Intermedia Art's Carol Connolly Series. It's slated to be at 7pm at the Banfill Locke Center for the Arts, a lovely farmhouse in Fridley. More information will be put on Intermedia's calendar, so you can watch for that.

- My poem "Counting" was accepted by Dislocate magazine and will be published in their Spring 2008 issue. You can order the issue straight from the website, or you can buy it in Twin Cities bookstores.

Last night was a bit of a comedy a la Love and Other Catastrophes. This is what it is, at university, to get anything done--much running about, from department to department, much confusion and signing and paperwork.

In order to apply for MFA programs, you must send in a great amount of paperwork, which is amusing because "they" all say it comes down to your manuscript (which, interestingly enough, did not include "Counting," but will now). There's your transcripts, your GRE scores, applications, your letters of recommendation, a statement of purpose, a fee, and, of course, your poems... sometimes additional essays, a c.v., etc.

Some of this, you simply have to have sent from various agencies, paying fees along the way--the GRE, your official transcripts. And there's the letters of recommendation, which, until recently, had been a source of panic for me. I didn't know who I could possibly ask--my principal? My department head? No professor from such a large university could possibly remember me from years ago in such a large classroom; the only classes I had that were small were taught (and taught well, for the most part) by TAs. Someone with a Master's in progress was, well, the same as me. Or my husband. But the people fell into place, and they're good ones too--my adviser and professor from my M.Ed program, Carolyn Forche, and my amazing peer Eireann Lorsung, who has a book and is in a Ph.D program and is just blazing a trail of accomplishment. Of course, I procrastinated, or just miscalculated the time, and what with me being an idiot, and England (where Eireann is studying) being a bit of a distance, I ended up calling the letters of rec office nearly every day, driving the people in the office nutty, I am certain.

Eireann's letter arrived yesterday. Applications for UC-Irvine and Cornell are due on the 15th. Fortunately, you can give them a FedEx overnight envelope, and they'll send your letters this way; I got the impression from Irvine's website that the 15th was a firm deadline, and I didn't want to muck about with Cornell. (Have you ever bought an overnight envelope for three sheets or so of paper? Eesh, expensive.) Anyway, timing what it was, there was a lot of running, a lot of last minutes, a building with flooding, a cough that wouldn't go away, and me missing some people by three minutes. But I think all is well, I think the letters will arrive on time, and if they don't, I'm hoping the effort of a FedEx package will appease that firm deadline.

If not, oh well. This is the girl who is applying to fourteen schools because she's bad at just one thing. I like to cover my ground.

Tonight, poetry at Intermedia. I'm sad that this experience only has a few more sessions left. I haven't had such good workshopping in quite some time, or possibly ever--they have good eyes, and what is said generally makes sense. I think my poems become much better pieces after they have combed through them.

After, I leave for Green Bay. I should arrive close to two in the morning. I will have to caffeinate myself, and we'll have to get up a scant few hours later to drive to Chicago to pick my sister up at the airport. Fortunately, Husband is lending me his minivan, so I will sleep in the backseat while my parents drive. One of the benefits of being "the kid" in this kind of situation.

Cross your fingers: that this weekend is peaceful for my grandmother. That my friends, who are expecting, have healthy babies. And my selfish crossed fingers: that I get into graduate school. I couldn't imagine a bigger relief than to have that time to spend focused on writing.

elsewhere

My sister wrote an incredibly sweet post about our grandfather; you can read his obituary here.

seasons of love

My sister is putting together a photo tribute of our grandfather and has requested photographs I have handy of him. These are some I've had saved on the computer, and I felt compelled to post them here, a place mark, a reminder of these last years we've had with him.

L to R: Husband, Grandpa, me, my father

my grandfather on a family cruise to Hawaii

L to R: my father, my grandmother, my uncle, my grandfather

my grandparents

L to R: my father, my sister, my grandparents

L to R: my father, my sister, me, my grandfather