The last third

I bought water from a machine in the basement of the ice skating rink, but could not open it. My fingers no longer grasp or close. I asked a stocky farm woman to help me out. She twisted the bottle open with ease.

Isabella asked me to lace her skates, really tight, Ma, but I could not. Not only couldn’t I pull the laces snug through the golden eyelets, I struggled to tie a bow at the top. She gently took the task away from me, as I spoke of scouting the room for a person who could do the job for us.

There was a moment when I felt tears surfacing. Is this where I am now? Is this what is next?

I had my astrology chart done today by a woman my age, who kept talking about us being in the last third of our lives. I wanted to say, speak for yourself, I’m only in the middle of mine. I am young with lots of projects stacked on the table, other countries to visit, and dances to dance. But tonight at the skating rink I had a sad moment when I joined her in the last third of my life.

I am told that if I give up chocolate, desserts, tomatoes, citrus fruits and all things wonderful, and replace them with medicine and oils that I might have a chance to get my fingers functioning again. It’s worth a try.

Czechoslovakia and Rome

 Mid-July, 1964, I was traveling with Jesuit Priests to Czechoslovakia with other students from Georgetown University. We boarded an old bus and were given specific instructions about passports and behavior. When we reached the border, we were greeted by three armed guards who stood fingering their rifles as we shifted nervously in our seats. Wooden watchtowers housed two more guards, feet firmly planted, guns aimed in our direction. The border was laced with barbed wire, and signs I couldn’t read which were meant to fortify the landscape. They could have retired for tea with the threat we intended, but they were of a different mind. We were intruders who could be smuggling contraband or planting bombs. They walked up and down the aisles of the bus, examining one person and the next.

When we were officially waved through, we found ourselves in a small town with empty storefronts. The feeling of poverty was tangible. While the priests went about their business, we walked time worn masonry roads, and waited by an ancient circular fountain which marked the center of town. The visit itself was uneventful, it was the coming and going through military zones that captured my attention and imagination. It provided my first experience of the wealth we take for granted in the states.

 School ended in late July, but I was scheduled to remain in Europe until September first. Utterly homesick, I called New York and asked my mother if she could change my ticket for an earlier arrival. I would attend music school in Cambridge shortly after I returned and wanted time to adjust.

Sweetheart, this is the chance of a lifetime.

The phone crackled and buzzed as I pushed my hand against my left ear to shut out exterior noise.

What did you say? I gave the phone my complete attention.

I said, stay where you are. Enjoy it. You’ll be back soon enough.

I knew she was right, but the years at boarding school created a feeling of a being a homeless pilgrim and I had, quite frankly, reached my limit. My heart sank, as I replaced the receiver and prepared to continue to Italy.

 August first I arrived in Rome. I’d been booked into a building run by nuns and shown to an ominous room the size of a train station. Its vast expanse and sparsely furnished interior amplified my feelings of being small and on my own. At one end, a single bed, at the other, a weathered wardrobe, a small desk under street level windows completed the room. Opening outward, the wardrobe revealed a waist length mirror. My image, reflected near a bare ceiling light, provided a startling portrayal of the loneliness I felt.

I examined in detail the sadness in the face I saw before me. Unexpressed feelings took on a life of their own. I felt threatened and powerless to stop them. Was I not privileged and fortunate? How ungrateful of me to be so downcast. I pushed my truth deeper inside and went about the business of distracting myself, which wasn’t difficult as my funds had run out weeks ago.  I was never good with budgets. I blew my money shortly after it arrived on gifts to take back home. To compensate, I made the rounds of expensive hotels and gathered the discarded leftovers that lined the halls on room service trays. I brought them home to fill my cupboard.

I discovered Italian ice cream that summer, “ice” which was the absolute best, ate spaghetti until my waist threatened to spill over the sides of my bikini, wrote at sidewalk cafes, visited the Trevi Fountain, the Colosseum and learned how to say ‘Go Away’ in Italian, to protect myself from the aggressive advances of local men. I traveled on trains to visit out laying areas, and pretended not to understand the language when conductors asked for my ticket, since I had none. Once in awhile, I would meet a diplomat, or a refined stranger who would invite me to their home for dinner. It was a time of being financially creative. When the weeks had passed and I was free to return home, I had acquired too much luggage. I’d bought a black hooded cape in Austria for my mother, lederhosen for my brothers and other gifts I no longer remember. The clerk took pity on my lack of funds and passed me through.

Writing Memoir

Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?

This is what happens each time I sit to write. I ask myself to look at life straight, without skipping over the shadow places, or pretending I don’t hear what I hear, or see what I see.

I ask my courage to dive deep into dark waters with eyes wide open when my tendency is to turn away, protect or avoid. Warning lights flash in my belly. Sometimes it’s hard to breathe. I tell myself it’s not too late to turn back. But I go there, because if I am successful, I won’t have to live above the swamp. I can drain it, release the power of the underworld and add sunshine.

To look again at what was, is to open my memory to sights and sounds and smells I have masterfully put aside. My mind tells me to cut off the past like a dead limb, because there is simply no point, no useful purpose. Look ahead, it tells me. Plan the future. My mind tries to be nice to me, to do me a favor and keep me out of trouble. I appreciate it, but I can’t move forward as long as there is unfinished business.

I pride myself on having created, against all odds, a body of water that is clear and calm. Why would I stir it up with memories of the past? Not just stir it up, but keep my eyes wide open. My mind directs me to sunny beaches in Mexico, while my emotions direct me to the business of truth telling.

I reach for Hershey’s kisses. Little pieces of chocolate wrapped in shiny golden paper with an almond hidden within. I’m allergic to chocolate, but the almond eases the guilt. If I listen to the language of the heart, it’s telling me that I need some kisses, whether or not I can digest them, and not only do I need them, I need them now. Not after the next paragraph. Kisses can’t wait.

Writing memoir brings up issues of privacy and loyalty. Do I want others to know my history? Will I lose power or gain it by revealing myself?  The past is not the present. Is it fair to portray what was frozen in my personal archives? Surely, everyone experienced our time together differently. Each person is a country in and of themselves. Is it fair in revealing my memories to expose, accurately or inaccurately, the personal landscape of others? Will I be seen as an alien invader? Most certainly, I will. I intend to see with honest eyes, but whose version of the truth is revealed? I commit to write, and ask for forgiveness if my version of the truth offends those living or those already in the spirit world.  Sometimes I hesitate to recall memories for fear it would pull on the spirit of another in a negative way, when what is called for is forgiveness. All these things are considered and felt when we open the door to deep diving.

Be Mine

We did a fund-raiser before we left Alaska. After the theatrical performance I hid behind the set as long as possible, hoping to avoid being social. It had been a long day and I didn’t know if I could smile at any more strangers. Eventually, hunger got the best of me and I ventured toward the food table.

Oh, Miss Banfield, a voice called out, I’ve been waiting for you. Would you join me please? 

I had to. It was my job.

Just one moment, let me get some food and we’ll talk.

I was in the mood for prime rib and potatoes, but settled for the crackers, cheese and bite-sized vegetables offered. I peered back at the circular table that was tucked in the corner, and quietly assessed the gentleman who had spoken; middle-aged, businessman, reliable, somewhat dull. A rapid evaluation, I concluded, and probably unfair.

Balancing an abundant supply of food on a tiny paper plate, I approached his table. He stood to pull out my chair, reached into his briefcase and placed a file on the table. Miss Banfield, I have figures I’d like to show you.

I blanched. Oh dear, I thought, he’s from the Internal Revenue Service. I stopped eating.

Don’t be alarmed. I have a list of assets I want to go over with you, just take a minute.

I slowly began eating and studied him again. He must be the bookkeeper from Pacific University, I thought. They were our financial host. Perhaps he needed me to take figures back to the main office.

I ate and listened, while he spoke of land, houses, machinery and cars. He disclosed his personal income and many of his intimate tastes. When he finished I was completely baffled, without a glimmer of comprehension. I wiped my mouth with a small green napkin and looked blankly into his eyes.

I don’t understand a word you’ve told me. What’s your purpose?

He straightened his back and became very formal.

I was wondering if you would consider marriage. As you see, I am a very stable man, well employed and respected. I own a great deal of land and have been looking for the right person to share it with. There is a shortage of women in Alaska, so I don’t have a bursting selection. Would you consider my proposal?

I was completely taken back, tried to be gentle, wished him luck and made a hasty exit. What a girl has to go through to have a meal in Alaska.

Going inside

I live in a cave.

I retreat.

Aloneness is my oxygen.

I can beat myself up about this.

I can look out my window and see hurry, community and gathering.

I am jealous of people who know their roots and their tribe.

The pendulum swings.

I go out and do. I smile, brush up against strangers on the sidewalk. I sit in noisy pubs with my husband and eat bar food.

Sometimes I move into the city and offer myself. Most often I move away.

I have had the same clients for thirty-five years. They know me. I come forward to help them. I disappear and don’t list my phone number.

I can not be in the world as others do.

I envy it. I envy their ability to stay ‘out’ focused day after day, year after year.

But I can not be them. My life is inside, behind a closed door.

The outer world makes me empty. I can walk in it for awhile, but tear and break if I linger.

I arrive at this place again and again, at this pulling and pushing, at this going out and coming in.

I must go in and in and in, alone if I hope to endure.

Age has allowed more grace.

I have gentled the part of me that rails against my needs.

She no longer carries a stick to beat me with. She has surrendered.

Now, she puts on the kettle and whispers, its okay, just do what you need to do.

Neptune’s Realm

Swimming is an experience of surrender and allowing. You give yourself to the water and it holds you in return. I used to be an instructor. My lessons were for endurance swimmers, the ones who wanted to go long distances, and find the soul and beauty of the sport.

The most common thing I noticed as a teacher was the way students battled the water. They came at it like an enemy to be conquered. They wanted to fight and win, each stroke becoming a determined fist that sent waves ceiling-high in a great calamity of motion.

No, No! Treat the water like a lover, I would tell them. Be gentle, caress it with your hands, merge, let it hold you. Men would blush at this analogy, taking a step back to assess the sanity of their instructor.

This is not lovemaking, this is a sport, they’d protest.

Oh, but it’s not so very different then entering the bed of a lover. You must give up the idea of fighting. Enter softly, stroke, glide and rest; find a rhythm for your breathing. You can swim for miles that way. Between each effort, after each stroke, rest with equal time. You’ll swim without tiring because rest and work will be equal. Move through the water like the spring equinox, where the day is equal to the night.

My lessons were not for the competitive spirit. If they longed to be first, be the biggest or the best, I was not their girl.

 Swimming is a transcendent sport. It invites you to slip quietly below the surface into a world without corners. If you go tenderly and with acceptance, you can heal emotions, energize the body, cleanse the spirit and come back rested.

Water is a living breathing force deserving respect. If you can think of it that way, if you can enter it that way, then she will nurture you, then you can have a longstanding relationship. If you don’t understand these things, you will burn out quickly. She will spit you out.  Just like life, one must find the quiet gentle places where we can rest and glide, if we are to support our efforts and survive. Thrashing about only brings exhaustion.

Traffic Criminal

Okay. I got a ticket. I had it coming. There are two places in my life where I consistently break the law. The first is waiting for a left turn signal on a country road near my house. If no one is around, I just go for it. I tell myself it’s silly to sit on a quiet road and wait for a light that takes too long to turn.

 The second place is a left hand turn of another sort. This one is in the city and is poorly managed. A motorist can grow old at that light waiting for great waves of traffic to flow through an overcrowded intersection. There is a No U Turn sign posted as clear as day, but that has never stopped me. A simple veering in another direction and I miss the intersection, and arrive promptly at my destination avoiding traffic, two red lights and one stop sign.

More tedious detail than you need to know, but I have to set the stage.

It was Wednesday night at ten o’clock, after an incredibly long day. I had not eaten since three and my belly was making friends with my backbone. Newport Bay had a happy hour that lasted until closing. I couldn’t wait. I made my usual radical U turn at the intersection and noticed overgrown Christmas lights flashing in my rear view mirror. I pulled over before he caught up. I was guilty, caught dead-on, fair and square. Besides, I knew I deserved a hundred tickets for the same weekly maneuver, not one.

The policeman came to my window and introduced himself like a blind date on prom night. The guy was polite, even sweet. He tried to give me an out, but I was too dense to lie.

Do you know why I’m stopping you?

Well, Yeah!

Did you see the No U Turn sign? It was dark; I thought you might have missed it.

Nope, I didn’t miss it. I knew it was there. I was starving and wanted to get to Newport Bay, so I just went for it.

Could I see your driver’s license, insurance and registration, please?

Please, like could I have the next dance if you’re not too busy?

I had no idea where the registration was, had my license in my wallet, and an out of date insurance card.

This one is expired, do you have another?

I searched knowing that I did somewhere.

It’s okay if you don’t, I trust you.

Who was this guy? I trust you!

I found it and handed it over, while he returned to his Christmas tree car and wrote me a whopping ticket.

I’m afraid I have to ticket you tonight, he said handing over my copy of a yellow summons, but you can go to court and have it reduced.

Go to court? I’m dead-on guilty. I’m going to go and plead guilty and they’ll reduce my fee?

Unless you’re a repeat offender, which you don’t look like to me.

Oh…if he only knew. I was the Queen of Repeat Offenders, who hadn’t yet been caught.

He handed me the ticket. I said, Crap, I can’t believe this.

Don’t feel bad, he said, in his sweet blind date voice. It happens to all of us.

I thanked him. I actually thanked him for my ticket!

I wanted to invite him to happy hour so we could discuss different career options for him. He was obviously too nice to last long as a policeman, but his car was off and away before I gathered my thoughts.

Feed Yourself Beauty

Robin was a fellow performer from Storefront Theater who taught me to use a loom.  Her weavings, like many of her paintings, looked like she had reached into the sunrise and convinced every shimmering hue to come to life through her hands. Threads sparkled, wools blended, and fuzzy threads adhered to make a radiant representation. Anyone fortunate enough to own one of her winter scarves could plan on being stopped several times on the street, so strangers could touch and admire her work. There has never been an artist who could touch my heart and sense of wonder the way Robin could.

When I first started lessons, I wanted to purchase inexpensive threads because I was a beginner. I reasoned that no one, including myself, would want my products for some time, so why waste money? But Robin stopped me immediately. No, she counseled, buy yourself the most beautiful threads you can find, no matter the cost, because part of weaving is nurturing your senses with what you see and what you touch. Feed yourself beauty. You will handle each thread several times, beginning with the warping board, then while dressing the loom, and finally passing the shuttle back and forth to completion. Everything you feel and think goes into your work. Your products radiate your touch and energy, so it’s important to understand the unique power of each weaving.

A friend knew of a loom stored in a studio space. After several phone calls the owner agreed to let me use it. I had a studio and loom without cost. I’d tune in Oregon Public Radio and fill the space, and my spirit with classical music. It was an uplifting time with Mozart drifting back and forth among the fibers, gently encouraging both inner peace and inspiration.

Weaving was one of the few places that invited my voice into song. I was comforted by sitting alone and filling the space with the years of music I’d learned but rarely sang. It was in one of these precious moods that I reached inside my apron and opened the letter I’d stuffed in my pocket, as I ran from the house in the morning. It was from my mother. She had enclosed an article about brain tumors and strongly suggested that I have a physician look at me. It would explain your behavior, she wrote. You’ve never been quite right.

I was on the verge of tears for a week from the innocence and malevolence of such a letter. My weaving was full of sorrow for days. I couldn’t look at it when I cut it from the loom, and didn’t feel it was fair to place such energy in someone else’s hands, so I walked outside and placed it in the garbage. 

Although never approaching the majesty of Robin’s work, my skill became marketable. I fashioned purses, scarves, table runners and wall hangings. Robin had a tailor’s skill, so her fibers became jackets and dresses displayed in Portland and Seattle galleries. I used my weavings to trade for health care and fire wood.

I took an expensive class at the Oregon School of Arts and Crafts, but never finished. The faculty made weaving business-like and mathematical. I realized that if I had begun with formal instruction, instead of Robin’s loving hand, I would have never become a weaver. I could not follow directions. I could create a free flowing design in my head, but following a pattern laid out on graph paper in tiny blue colored boxes was hopeless. 

I stopped weaving when my allergy to wool became unbearable. Tiny flecks of fibers floated in the air whenever I worked, and wearing a mask felt wrong. I changed to cottons threads, but felt too limited. It was a sad day when I sold the loom I had finally managed to buy, but Robin’s lessons remained. Feed yourself beauty at any cost.

Oh, you animal!

My massage therapist, Jean, recommended a book by Crowley and Lodge called, Younger Next Year.  She said it inspired her to eat well, and set her on a course of regular exercise.

Being inspired to exercise sounded good to me, since I find it difficult to do anything but work, write, cook, see clients and watch some BBC. Jean did not mention, nor did the title, that the book came in two versions, one for men and one for women.

I searched my library and was glad to see the bright yellow book jacket resting happily on the top shelf, waiting for me to tuck it under my arm and take it home, which I did.

The book started out innocently enough, two men talking about the importance of staying fit, one man a physician, the other a 70 year old attorney, who traversed from aliments and retirement, to trim and energetic.

I did wonder if I wanted to read a book written by two men, since I’m not inclined to take advice from men. I find them a little alien and male for my literary tastes, but I forged ahead.

As I turned the pages, I began to wonder how Jean could have felt so excited about the information, and questioned our compatibility as readers. In one chapter, I was jolted out of all propriety when I read, “Get off the couch and exercise, you lazy son of a bitch.”

In another chapter, I learned that nose hair could become a real problem as I got older, and that I’d better plan to find a way of clipping it before my nostrils looked like a home for wolverines.

That was followed by a piece that said I should never neglect shaving in my later years, lest I start looking like Yasir Arafat. It did not end there.

I read that my ears would need tending as well. They advised finding a barber who was good at that, unless I wanted to look old and furry.

I began to have alarming ideas about age. The last straw was a paragraph that told me that guys in their 50 or 60’s could be surprised by suddenly having a penis that curled up like a chow’s tail when erect. “Imagine,” it said, “straight ahead and true for 50 years. And now, it’s looking ever so slightly up at the sky.”

Must I be warned about the future of my husband’s penis?

I closed the book and reached for the phone. Jean! What were you thinking to recommend such a book to me? I can’t believe you even liked it.

When I told her what I had read she began to laugh her lovely light Jean laugh. You must have the book for men, she said. There is a similar one for women. I’ll lend you mine, if you’d like.  At that point I was nearly finished so I declined. Besides, I had not read the chapter titled:

YOU ARE AN ENDURANCE PREDATOR, ACT LIKE ONE!

Reunion

When I got off the plane everyone hugged. It’s a family ritual. We hug when we meet and when we part. After that, conversation is limited. ‘Did you have a good flight? You must be tired. Are you hungry? Is everything going well at home?’  Curiosity prompts limited inquiries into one another’s lives, after which we settle in like strangers waiting together in a bus station.

When we reached my mother’s house I unpacked and spent the evening in front of the television. My mother’s partner, Joe sat across the room in his recliner, my mom on the sofa and I near her feet. She stretched once, her foot touching my lap. I thought about pulling her slipper off and massaging her foot, but didn’t. Any sign of random affection was against the rules, and the rules were all the stronger for being unspoken. I would be seen as perverted or needy. I lived on the west coast after all. People did all sorts of strange things out there.

We sat together in a small over-warm room and gave our full attention to the television. An audience applauded and smiled. A game show host with too many teeth coaxed contestants to greater heights, and was interrupted at intervals by commercials of Jeep trucks careening down steep terrains, and people eating hamburgers. We watched. No one talked. I had come 3,000 miles and no one talked. We didn’t know how to reach each other. There was no vocabulary. We were inches away, but it could have been a continent. I excused myself and went to bed. 

The next evening, we had a family reunion in a near-by restaurant. We started in the lounge with numerous rounds of drinks and the standard apology to the bartender. This is my daughter, Karen, she doesn’t drink. I was an oddity. Well, how about a coke or something, he would answer. You can’t just sit there with nothing. The evening wore on as I got more and more hungry, and they got more and more social. Grabbing my mother’s arm, I said, do you think we could eat soon? I’m really starving.

Oh yes, dinner. The light of recognition returned. That’s why we’d come. Of course honey, we’ll be right there. There would be twenty minutes more for breaking off conversations with barroom regulars, rounding up drinks and finally the migration to our table.

When the waitress came to take my order the table fell silent, as I inquired about the ingredients of a dish. My oldest sister, having her tongue loosened by alcohol gave me a sharp poisonous look. Don’t be a problem, she yelled from the head of the table. Just order like everyone else. I don’t know why you had to come home anyway.

I waited a few minutes more before excusing myself to sit in the Ladies room. I didn’t want her to have the pleasure of knowing her arrow had reached its target. I breathed deep, closed my eyes and tried once again to compose myself. Her attacks came without warning. I retreated into silence and counted the minutes until my plane left.

Susan picked me up from the airport and spent the night. Her love, words and assurances were like healing suave on freshly opened wounds. I talked most of the night, while she listened and offered compassion and insight. I cried with a child’s voice, while she comforted me like the mother and sister I never knew. I started my period after dropping off to sleep. Blood stains as I woke in the morning seemed a fitting symbol for the wounding of another visit home.