I have been out to some bars in what seems, to me, to be a deep Wisconsin darkness (we are quite far north here you know). The big sky is growing dim. The rain has been pelting down and the wind has again taken branches from trees. This is summer’s last battle and fall’s first win. On nights like this my Grandma Myrtle would tell stories, read tea leaves and light candles. The flickers purred with clouds of pine incense.
Look! She would say.
I cannot resist sharing this with you this windy stormy rascal raven wood-in-the streets filled evening. An "oldie but goodie" as they say, and well worth the joy -- especially if you take a breath, a single breath, and imagine.
Convinced of Everything
for Myrtle and Ruthie
Sweep up the broken dreams of youth!
(The broom to use is utter truth.)
Theodore Roethke
Eating watermelon under the pond tree, Grandma brought to my attention that housing chickens in the barn might be a good idea.
Why I believed this then is not so far beyond me now. This is the very same woman who ushered my friends in a funeral. For my mouse. Which I think had a house dropped on him by me -- and several others grasping the roof. A bird house. Truly. But Grandma, scientist she was, decided that this might be a time to create a Kennedy memorial and teach us all about death.
So, all of us, I remember it now, marched in a kind of vigil. We brought dead mouse in a band-aid can. We formed a line of mourners and off we went. Seemed like miles. But! There was a tattered calico flag waving in the arms of our leader. We dug a grave. A big one! And Grandma said:
“There you have it.”
Of course, she was looking at the barn, me and my friend. Ronnie.
“Now then, what about life? Who will clean up my barn?”
Amazing in a way, as the grass even then had grown as high
as the plum trees. The treasures therein were not seen by many.
The grass glistened as Ronnie and I went into the castle. The dark barn. The place where, well, ghosts once lingered. The place, actually, that once housed chickens.
After the funeral, I reported back:
“Grandma, we need a broom!”
We had one. Almost on the spot. Given a week or two. Most certainly Myrtle ate more watermelon and had a good smile over her marvelous moments with the neighborhood kids.
Meanwhile, I worked with the broom. Ronnie sort of guided me, always wondering why on earth he befriended me at this point in his life.
Didn’t matter to him.
“Clean this up. “ he said.
“We can have chicks in this funny bin -- Jim -- Jim.”
Ronnie walked up the street (was a simple street then) to his home. Ronnie was and always will be a sweetie.
*
How many times have you had Grandparents encourage you to make
Creepy People to keep bugs and birds away from the strawberries?
Well, while I was conjuring the new chicken house, I was also cooking up
mini-scarecrows for various berry patches. I felt then, as I do now, I had a
certain claim on the market.
Grandpa would, sort of, coach me through the placement of the creations. He did not seem worried about lead pencils and poisoned dirt. Mostly he said:
“Here.”
“Here.”
“Like this one!” grin smile
Grandma simply sat and listened. From time to time she would speak:
“Paul -- the grapes. Do not forget the grapes.”
“And Jimmy, do you hear the orchestra -- my own private orchestra -- the wind through the pines, the fish coming up for air, entrancing rainbow bubbles, the willow branches dancing, the flowers simply growing each day? Why, even the weeds have a place. Look, another box elder bug hugging its ground... oh well.”
Suddenly a new day would appear uninvited and we would all get up.
Now -- if ever I was spoiled this was the time. Getting up was easy then.
You know why? There was joy. Heartfelt.
But sleep always started with these three things:
1. The walk upstairs and an ushering to the little room, complete with window, desk, pencils and paper, and a roof-tilted corner filled with pressed, fresh linen readied for me on a boy-sized bed; camphor, a luxury, in my pillow... Wow!
2. The radio. Softly playing music I had never heard before. It sat in the middle of a small alcove that opened to three bedrooms and hid but one. There were flowers in the floor -- cracked roses, stepped on for centuries, holding even more stories.
3. A quiet voice. Grandma. Sleep now. Night now.
After that, who wouldn’t want to get up in the magic of morning!
*
Winter now. Still no chickens. But boy, did Grandpa watch that bus for me.
You see, even then I could be drawn into the soon-to-bloom lilac tree. And that certain Iris flower hiding under the snow.
Paul and I would stand there watching for the yellow and blinking red come over and under the valley (Ronnie lived at the top of this valley [which held a swamp, thousands of frogs, and a will-o’-the-wisp -- still does] ... now no more than a dip in an overly busy road.)
Sometimes I would still miss the bus. I’d run after it, half way down to Vonnie and Kenny’s (other side of the valley, equally blessed) -- then give up, go back to Paul and Myrtle’s, have another cup of hot cocoa, and walk across the street to home. There I would call my dad.
“May I speak to Russ Thompson, please -- in the Heating Plant, if you don’t mind.”
“Hi Jimmy -- have him right here for you.”
“Hello”
“I missed the bus. Take me to school , please.”
“OK.”
I would always see Grandpa walking back up the driveway through the snow and drifted car tracks. He would turn, looking forward, then down. I am sure he chuckled.
*
Have you ever had the chance to blow the whistle? At NOON!
I did.
I would grab hold and tug and pull and off it would go. I was the Heating Plant child. And the Food Service child. My dad’s office looked right into my mom’s office. I could see her doing menus even. They were in love. And my oh my, how grand it was and is to have these people in my world.
I pay attention to my parents. And you know, they pay attention to me. Just difficult times I now know, starting out and what have you. Some day I’ll ring that NOON whistle again.
Meanwhile -- it is rhubarb time. Spring again. And I do have a pet chicken. Talked my pa into that one as Myrtle smiled even more so.
“Let’s plant a pumpkin patch.”
“OK.”
“Behind the barn?”
“Fine.”
Grandpa and I were off through the grass as Grandma made Danish delights (from the rhubarb, dummy).
The barn home for chickens never came to pass (although I must say that the idea fed some delightful chats under the pond tree with Grandma while the pine wind whispered wisdom). I did play Dracula there, several times (wonderful setting) -- and Ronnie and I really did clean it all up. I used a cow feeder bin as my coffin, complete with rotted hay and well, a few unplugged nails that destroyed at least one version of my cape.
*
My family has always allowed, hesitantly but courageously nurtured, enjoyed, and to a certain point (with respect) grown fond of and grown from a certain biochemical and married-into-madness we all share.
So... one final, silly, little thought.
Pumpkins.
We did grow the pumpkins. And we did have rhubarb pie. And we did sit under the pond tree. And, if you haven’t heard, we listened to the wind -- me, and Paul and Myrtle.
One Halloween, I had four pumpkins carved and glowing. At that point in time in our home across the street, we sat in the front room, me my dad and my mom. I heard something. I did. I got up and looked outside.
All four pumpkins were gone!
GONE I tell you! Gone!
I walked across the street to Paul and Myrt’s. I went behind the shadows to our special stash, looking at Iris leftovers and lilac trees in unsummoned snow drifts and car tracks left in the moment of lights in windows and rocking chairs rocking. A smiling house.
A few times after Grandpa died I went to Grandma’s front door --
a door that opened the island lawns of all possible remembrances. Might have even been Halloween -- or maybe New Year’s Eve -- when even then, the lady of mystery would share with me 1/2 a beer and perhaps a touch of sweet wine.
Rocking, reading; rocking... watching...
But that night I had a very special mission. I had more pumpkins. I carved out at least two of the half dozen or so I tugged back, all the while thinking what a cruel joke to play on the world.
I smiled.
Probably made the bus on time the next morning.
And probably convinced everybody that Ronnie and I were housing chickens in a place unknown, kept only by the sweep of a broom and unending bubbles in our hands.
* * *
SJA
