Memories of Papa (and childhood, when I was a little girl in Idaho)

I am very small. For whatever reason, I am spending the day with Dad in "the Shop"-- that's what my family called Plants West Floral, the business my parents ran for approximately the first decade of my life. It is lunchtime, and we are in the kitchen part of the shop-- the building was converted from a house my grandparents had once owned, so the part the customers came in is in front, but there is still a fully functioning kitchen in the back. Dad opens a can of ravioli and puts the can in some water in a crockpot, double-boiler style. I ask Dad what the ravioli is-- I'm somewhat unfamiliar with the concept of a food which can be eaten straight from a can (my mother cooks everything from scratch when we are at home.) He explains as best he can; I try it; canned ravioli becomes one of my favorite foods. Not that I got to eat it very often-- I didn't-- but to this day, I LOVE over-cooked pasta, and I'm pretty sure that this warm emotional association has something to do with that fact.

I remember other rooms in the Shop; I remember the huge (probably not that big, but I was little then) bathroom, which had not only a toilet and a sink but a large, claw-footed bathtub, in which at least once, maybe more than once, Dad bedded me down in for a nap. He laid a quilt in the bottom, and then went to help me hop in. Looking back, I'm sure that the other rooms were too loud for a kid to fall asleep in, and this was his solution to that. I am, again, surprised-- you can't sleep in a bathtub! I say-- but he points out that if there is no water in it, you most certainly can, and I do. And yes, I love claw-footed bathtubs now, too.

(Kiiiind of like the tub in this picture, but no curtain or showering apparatus, and the floor was green linoleum. In my memory, the bathroom is always dimly lit, which may have something to do with the fact that my memories seem to mostly have to do with sleeping there.)

Perhaps it was during one of these naps that I noticed some green-and-yellow wallpaper in the corner. Later on, at Christmas, we received a wooden kitchen playset which had been covered in that same paper. I had such a believing heart-- I still do, gets me in trouble sometimes-- that as soon as I had pointed out to my parents that the wallpaper on our new toys was the same I had seen in the bathroom, I immediately came to the conclusion, in wonderment, that somehow Santa had come into our shop in order to get the wallpaper to make our kitchen set nice.

One example of how being such a credulous kid got me into trouble: once I started the first grade (I was a kindergarten dropout-- another story for another day) I would stand outside at recess and look at the sky in wonder, thinking about how strange it was that the sky looked so real, and how much it felt like I really was outside. You see, when I learned the Pledge of Allegiance, I had learned (or thought I had learned) that we were one nation, underground, invisible, with liberty and justice for all. Being as how the Cold War was still on at that time, and my parents had explained a little bit about our enemies and the threat of nuclear war, I assumed that our nation had been moved underground so as to BE invisible, but I was truly astounded by the magnificent paint job which they had done, so very much like a real sky would look.

Last memory. I've always been a bit of an early bird, and this morning, I wake up and find my father messing with his camera in the living room. I ask him about it, and he explains a little bit about aperture, and film speed, and how at this time of day, you can get some nice silhouettes. He asks me if he can take my picture, and I say yes, and that picture is still around, in 2015, in my files. If I get around to it, I'll try to scan it so that I can at least send it to interested parties.

I Love My Job

I really love my job. I would keep it forever, if only they would pay me enough that I didn't have to live with my mother. They would actually be paying me that much if I were a "real teacher" instead of a paraeducator, but the thing is, I kind of love being a paraeducator-- I love not having to write tests, or grade tests, or give homework, or grade homework, or very most of all, turn grades in. OR turn in lesson plans.

Anyway. I hope you get a glimpse of why my job is so fun...

The students described in the exchange below are sixth-graders. Seventh-graders generally find grown-ups to be below their notice unless one does something truly spectacular.

Student: Ms. P, are you savage?
Myself: Am I what?
Student: Savage.
Myself, in slightly exaggerated but not totally fake shock: That is not a polite question!
Several students jump in now, explaining that "savage" means "cool."
Myself: Nope.
Student: But you seem cool.
Myself: It's an illusion.
Student: But--
Myself: It's an illusion.

Eventually I'll stop posting about compliments to myself. Perhaps I should post  just one more first, though, so that there will be an odd number. :)

She Sussed Me Out

Student, turning a book in as he watches me begin to shelve some others: "Sorry I'm making more work for you.

Me: "Oh, no, it's great! We feel so loved when you check more books out."

Student: "I actually think it may mean that we love books."

Librarian: "I think Ms. P is including herself when she talks about books. Her Spirit Animal is a book."

Me: *I laugh so loud that I embarrass myself-- because, I'm in a library*

I don't think the student was very amused, but I felt loved anyway.

Another Poem: Poor Beautiful Delicious

Poor Beautiful Delicious

She sat under the

sea-swept stars she

found great big amazing

and underneath the apple tree

we found her there

and held her hand

and stroked her hair

no children

no children,

there for me

no children dance ‘neath my Christmas tree

and when we left

we found

she wishes-- the magic did not have to end.

She wishes her children would love her.

She dips into the cesspool of humanity

and finds a gem

and another

it is a gem-field

but again

she sleeps

.

Waters ripple and flow

all good things end

eventually

unless a corn of wheat fall to the ground

--------------------

she is launched

and she was never mine to start with

no one is

-------------------------

how I wish

a part of me wishes

though I know it is evil

because it is not right

I did not have to make friends with them.

I have to figure them out.

I want not to.

I am tired.

But it is evil.

So I must.

We must make ourselves different,

And we find ourselves different.

Will I be acceptable now?

Or will I still know myself again?

How I wish

to lie under the starry skies

to see them all

to observe

quiet

alone

to commune with that which

comes out

only under the stars

when one is alone

But it was not made for us to be alone

not permanent.

Happy Day

About a month ago, I thought about doing a post titled "Like a Backwards Country Song," fashioned after a joke my mother told me a couple decades ago: if you play a country song backwards, the dog comes alive, the truck gets fixed, the wife comes back... because, what happened to me was: I found my keys; I found my spare keys; I found my wallet, with my driver's license in it...

I've been less absentminded lately (hallelujah!) although not perfect; just a couple of days ago, I re-instituted the "I am not allowed to turn the stove on without also turning on the kitchen timer" rule, while wondering how it had ever fallen out of disuse in my life in the first place.

But I know why. When I am not scatterbrained, I KNOW I'm not scatterbrained, and I know I don't need the rule; but when I AM scatterbrained (short on sleep, short on food, upset), I tend to be less aware of basically everything, including both my own mental state and the existence of a pot I just put on to boil. Luckily no permanent harm was done, but I'm trying to re-remember that my personal rules are in place not for the times when I'm doing well and know I'm doing well, but for the times when I'm not doing well and am hazy about that fact.

Anyway, not to focus solely on my scatterbrained-ness: this summer has seen not only the triumph of my finishing the first draft of a novel (hooray!) but also, today, of my figuring out how to make the middle interesting enough to read (in case you were curious: add monsters).  Now I just have to decide/ figure out what kind: dragons? Crackens? Harpies? Two-year-olds-in-full-meltdown?

If all goes well, by the end of the summer I will have a slightly-less-rough-draft to pass out to all of the people who said, "Really? A novel? Can I read it, please?" I explained to them that I think it's rude to send out your very first draft. I remember when I was a writing TA, and people would bring in their drafts, and I would tell them to fix a Thing, and they would say, "Oh, I already knew that I should fix it," and my response would be, "Then why DIDN'T you fix it?"

If you would like to be one of those aforementioned readers, leave a comment (OR just email me).

A draft! Huzzah! And I know how to finish it (I think)! Double huzzah!

MORE temple in the fog

I wasn't at the temple on a foggy day again; I just decided that  I liked a couple more of these pictures more than I had realized.

An Poem

I'm pretty sure I wrote this within the last year. I'll probably put something up above it, so that I don't have to look at it every time I open the blog.

Unglued

when you are unglued
your parts start to trail behind you
like bits of an exploded spacecraft
unloosed
hinges, nuts, bolts
near-- but not-- attached
not functional

Oy

and yet the world still drifts along
and you gather in a basket
the jumbled parts
hobbling along
catching something (probably essential)
again

Yes, yes!
I'm coming
I will attend

But my heart is bleeding out
If I could but find rest
perhaps I could reassemble
     (slightly)

Or

perhaps
if I could but find
someone who could listen

Earth-bound, clockwork man
If I recall-- I don't know if I do--
The clockwork condition
was caused by too many wounds
in the first place.

I will rust if I cry too long.
I may cry forever.

But this much I know:
moving keeps the rust at bay
      for now.

How do you become real again?
When-- how-- will I gain flesh and blood again?
How do I become myself again?

Is it true, what they say?
Is it true that God heals all wounds?
Is it true that He can turn
     try into do
     a stone into flesh
                         or bread?
The unreal into real?

They say
He created man from a clot of blood-- or clay--
a wound, beginning to heal-- a piece of raw material
should I not qualify?