Notes From The On-ramp or Y’all Not Gone Kill Me

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Welp. I finally have high blood pressure. I went to a walk-in clinic recently what for turned out to be a case of bronchitis. More accurately, I’d decided to stop in there after a physical therapy session for my neck, which causes my back to go out in high stress situations. And for me, it’s been a wild couple of years, stress wise.

Anyway, my blood pressure was really high. High enough to make the nurse go, “huh,” and take it again. Then take it again ten minutes later. And then ask me to come in the following week to take it again, to see if it went down after I stopped taking the prescription she was about to give me for the inflammation.

Both of my parents, all of my grandparents, aunts, uncles… every one of us has dealt with heart disease. My father and one grandmother died of it. My mother had a stroke a couple of years ago.  Another chronic illness impacting African Americans at disproportionate rates; the stress of living in these United States is killing us.

Killing me. My neck, my lungs, my heart.

Funny, the way stress expresses itself in the body. Not ha-ha funny; more like peculiar. And even though it’s peculiar, it is not unusual. I looked them up, the emotional causes of trouble in my physical self,  and sought ways I might give them extra support beyond medicine. This is what I found:

My neck. Lack of emotional support.

My lungs. Inflamed feelings that need to be expressed.

My heart. Longstanding emotional problem not solved.  Hardening of the heart.

Unappreciated, nearly seeing red, hardening by the day. Yup, seemed right on target, ask me. The cold world is certainly taking its’ toll.

And then my phone rang.

My spouse is in California. My mother is in France.

That realization is the only reason I even answered the call. Instead of letting voicemail take a message I could return when my hands weren’t full, I opened the line. My spouse is in California. Power outages, wildfires. My mother in in France. Bombings and I don’t know, too much wine.

Anything at all could be happening.

A melodic, smooth jazz kind of voice said, “Hello, how are you doing?” I held the phone, and got my change from a cashier at a roadside stand, smiling her goodbye.

“May I speak to the Head of The Household?” I stopped dead in my tracks, switched the phone to the other hand.

“What’s that?” I was yelling, because a truck was going by, and another call was coming in and I coulda sworn that Smooth Jazz just called my phone to ask to speak to a grown up.

“I’d like to speak to the head of the household please.”

“Uh, yeah, I don’t use that kind of language. Who’s calling?”

The line went dead. I don’t know what he wanted, but he didn’t want it from me. This man wanted to go straight to my manager.

And just like that, I’m livid. I know it’s some kind of marketing thing but I don’t care. My fury sounded like this inside my head: Hasn’t Smooth Jazz learned yet that he’s out of line? It’s our phone line, our kids, our stuff, our home. Anything that anyone might sell us goes past me, whether my spouse is in California or not.

And another thing, I’m not calling that man my husband any more. He is not my husband. He and I are partners in this marriage game. Husbands are for livestock, and I’m not that. I am a fully functional, adult human, trapped on the On ramp after exiting the regular workforce to get these kids raised, and that does not make me a dependent, it makes me incredible, Asswipe. And don’t even get me started on who is responsible for the entirety of the emotional labor for this family.

And then I stopped myself- If I was mad that a telemarketer won’t deem me important enough to consult with, I was in need of serious affirmation.

My lungs.

My neck.

My heart.

Steps needed to be taken, beyond the usual “don’t smoke, exercise, lose weight, eat healthily” kinds of recommendations, and immediately.  I want to survive my youngest daughter’s childhood, at least. I don’t want her to have to do life without me. And I know she’s got a dad, but he’s not me.

Yoga is the support I’m offering my neck. When I am calm, I’m able to meet my emotional needs more readily, despite what the world tells me about the worth of those needs.

My heart gets a painting class on Sunday afternoons. I want to spend time with color and light and give my heart the space it needs to be soft again.

I’m giving my lungs a therapist. A Black, female therapist who doesn’t have to learn about and validate me and my culture before she’s able to help me process and speak my Black, female, GenX truth.

And finally, I’m going back next week to take my blood pressure, and if they want me to, I’ll take medication to support my wellness.

And then, I plan to merge.

Thanks, amen.

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Mommy Friends. Get Some.

In the spirit of telling-folk-what-you-learned-so-they-don’t-have-to-learn-it-the-hard-way, let me tell you this: You are going to need some support in the day-to-day of being a parent and these are the people who have it: a community of Moms.

– They love your kid the way you’d expect, and expect you to love their kids the same.

– They know why you’re crying at the good part of a performance, and that fact doesn’t wreck it for them.

– They’ll bring food to your house if someone is sick.

– Forget something? One of them has it in their car.

– They are never peeved if you have to let the dog out.

– They will make you laugh and laugh.

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These are just a few, caught in my living room, celebrating Sheena getting an MBA. (Did I mention the way they show up? They will turn out in full force, with their kids or without, at the drop of a hat. Just give them a second, they gotta get it in the calendar. Amazing.) Sheena is the only reason that it’s almost nine o’clock, and I am taking my first coffee break. I usually get to writing at around ten.

I said: I’ve been working for the last two hours! I didn’t wake up/exercise/drive a half hour to school/a half hour home/get to work!

Because we’re neighbors this year in the land of no city busses, and we carpool to school.

I can barely believe my good fortune, and the inside of my mind does like this: WHAT?!? You mean you’re gifting me two more working hours a day, and it’s not a big deal? Plus, they’re going camping so you’re going to haul my kid and her stuff? And that’s no. big. deal. I am free.

 

Seriously.

It didn’t take much to form this community: it’s not important what you do for a living, what you’ve come through, or if you started late. What matters is that you show up. I say that realizing it may sound demanding. It’s just that we have been entrusted with these kids… these little darling, goofy, brilliant young souls. They’ve been together since the start of their school days and because of them, so have we.

It seems that each of my Mommy Friends has a specialty; knowing things that I do not, going places where I am unfamiliar.  Tickets to local fun? Health resources?  Potluck brainstorms? (I mean, what the hell are potlucks anyhow and how come, no matter what, there’s always a half bag of buns left on the serving table?) They’ve got all that. And they share these things with me freely.

I am so grateful to them, this little not-related-to-me-but-feels-like-family division of my family.

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#JustThoughtIShouldPassThatOnandOn

 

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A Woman’s Work

This is a quilt of the Underground Railroad that hangs at my mother’s house in Louisiana.

20170210_164740 (1). It is a mystery and a language into itself. Each square tells a story, gives advice, points the way towards freedom.

Scene: two enslaved women sit together making linens for their captors.

First woman: there are five square knots on that quilt every two inches apart. Check on the fifth knot of the 6th pattern.

Second woman: I see it.

If you know anything about quilting, what they just said was total nonsense. An irrelevant word salad. If you don’t, and their captors didn’t, it sounds just like idle quilting chit chat.

Allow me:

First Woman: There’s two opportunities for escape in five weeks. They’ll have to cross water, so that means there’ll be dog patrols. We’ll work on getting them good shoes.

Second Woman: I’ll help.

These women knew the messages in the patterns and their lessons by heart:

The Monkey Wrench turns the Wagon Wheel towards Canada on a Bear Paw trail to Crossroads. Once they got to the crossroads they dug a Log Cabin in the ground. Shoofly told them to dress up in cotton and satin Bow Ties  and to go to the cathedral church, get married and exchange Double Wedding Rings.  Flying Geese stay on the Drunkard’s Path and follow the Stars.

This memorized pattern of handwork patterns has a whole culture stitched into it. It holds an entire encyclopedia of my people, square by square. Stories of how to be prepared, stick to the plan, cover your tracks, harm no one,  take care of each other…

It is a roadmap to getting free.

 

“They” say it’s a myth. They say it’s impossible that an almost invisible network of women created a language of liberation from scraps. They say there is no evidence, ignoring the fact it’s hard to notate when you can’t write. Plus, they persist, in early interviews conducted by Union soldiers, there is no record of a code.  Imagine that. Nobody talks about the SECRET CODE to agents of their opression.

And the very idea! Planning escape routes! Harboring fugitives! Stealing stores! And putting their captors, along with their wives and children to sleep every night under the flags of your liberation. Women don’t do those kinds of things… and a black woman on top of it, well that would be astonishing in addition to impossible.

I’m glad they don’t believe it, we weren’t talking to them anyway. But I believe.

#IfYouCan’tTalkSew

#PassItOnAndOn

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Sometimes, I Faint (or) Is Integration Trauma A Thing?

But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.
– King James Bible

Sometimes, I faint.

And trust me, I don’t want to – it’s embarrassing and can be painful. There are no seizures happening, I’ve had it checked. I’m fine. It’s just that If I don’t practice extreme self care, daily, I will faint dead away. I’ve been like this nearly all my life.

First time, I was helped into the house by the neighbor kid who’d been helping me to learn to ride my bike. I’d had it since Christmas before, but now I was free to ride the neighborhood instead of  apartment hallways. I’d tried all day. The other kids would pass us occasionally calling “No Cars!” as they checked corners. I was hot. Next thing I knew, I was being passed to my grandmother through the patio door, greeted by “You fell out again?”

There are childhood stories in my family that tell how my father would chase chickens when he was a kid. Bored and curious, he wanted to make the chickens his friends and they were not having it. He’d run after one until he either caught it, or the target of the day fell out. One of the chickens learned to just flop over when she saw him coming. They used to tell this one and crack each other up.

Me, I never laughed.

Then one day, I’d had it with them all, and the jokes. We’d just moved in to our new house and my six-year-old self was exhausted.

“It’s not funny.” I announced. Then, I went upstairs to pack. I was going to move away from these people, go back to my old neighborhood, and it didn’t matter if the house was sold, I could stay with Grandpa.

While I was digging around the back of my closet looking for an escape backpack, I wondered if those chickens from the stories about my dad thought they’d make it. Running for maybe your life from a giant who would either pet you uncomfortably or feed you to his family was definitely my nightmare, and I endured it daily in our new neighborhood, my new school, new bike… wasn’t it the same for the chicken?

I headed for a bus stop, the nearest being miles away.

“Where you going, babe?” My mother asked when I came down the stairs.

“I’m moving.  I’m going back to the city!” I announced, and walked off through the front door.

I heard her voice behind me say, “Okay.”

I walked on fuming, thinking that chasing chickens and laughing made us no better than those kid giants who followed me on the playground, who asked me to spell difficult words to prove I deserved a turn at hopscotch. There were giants who’d confer to see if I knew “the difference between a nigger and a black person”. And, my giants had even bigger siblings who’d say things like Jungle Bunny, and some of them had parents who would not allow me inside their homes.

Giants were out there, they were everywhere, and they were hungry.

I only slowed the long march to the bus stop when I heard my three year old brother behind me. He was dragging a cooler and a blanket and said he didn’t want to run away from home. He liked his new room. I told him to go home but he argued that mom had sent him, she said we have to stick together. So we sat on the cooler in the road, and drank the kool-aid our mother had put inside. There were no cars.

***

I have fainted miserably often since then. When life is at peak, it’s as if my body cannot take another ounce of pressure, and calls a full stop.

So, imagine you’re (a person with a fairly good head on your shoulders) in a public space, living your busy life, and you stop walking. The previous few minutes have been harrowing – the police have harassed you for the last 30 minutes, and you run into a discount store to complete you list of errands for the day. Then, the world begins to waver. Your eyes glaze. You look around for a seat because you’re dizzy. You start regulating your breathing because you’re pretty sure you may vomit if you don’t get a grip. Thank goodness you see a guy from work, let’s call him Bill, coming down your aisle. As he approaches you try to raise a hand to hail him, like a cab. Your hand trembles so hard you put it in your pocket, and try to urge him to run, telepathically.

Me, I’m going to come check in if I find you this way. Him? He walked on by. Okay, we weren’t close friends, but some of us (me) come check on even people we hate because it’s just weird to watch someone suffer, and leave them alone. You’ve heard the phrase, “I wouldn’t spit on him/her if he were on fire”? – I was on fire that day, and I know what if feels like when someone won’t even stop to spit.

I reminded myself while I saw Bill pass me in multicolored waves of peripheral vision that I am safe and free until another man, a black man around my father’s age, rounded the aisle where I stood. He told me I looked like I was about to fall out, and helped me to sit down just before I hit the floor. He looked like any one of my dad’s friends slumming through a discount store – like one of the elders who’d decided it was time for my family to escape the redlined area of our city. Those guys who took me from everything I loved and set me out to face the giants. I was overwhelmed with gratitude and resentment.

Our conversation went like this:

Him: Come on and sit down, you look like you’re about to faint.

Me: I know, I was waiting for my friend to come.

Him: Where’s she coming from, home?

I struggled not to cry and I realized that he was helpless too. I also realized that they’d trained me to face giants because it is my only choice. I wasn’t sure how to speak to the whereabouts of my “friend”, who was nowhere in sight. I wonder if he thought I was hallucinating – there was no one in that aisle but us, and he changed the subject.

Him: My mother used to get the vapors all the time. My sisters, too.

Me: Yeah?

Him: Yup. They’re real sensitive.

Me: *quietly* I think it’s racism. Maybe I’m allergic.

He patted my back while he laughed, but I don’t think I was kidding. I know I wasn’t laughing.

***

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I reminded myself that my wellbeing wasn’t Bill’s responsibility, on the way home. It’s not is job to see that I am sheltered from hate in public. Clearly, I’m not even on his team. It’s just that, when I was feeling most oppressed, I felt expected to consider how Bill may have been uncomfortable. Freeze and hide my trembling hands, ‘less I look weak.

When I’ve tried to speak to Bill since then, he will not engage. It’s okay. His silence makes it clear he can’t appreciate what my feelings might’ve been feeling like. Plus, I have no business tending to his needs ahead of mine. He can talk: And I’ve never been good at subtext. If my experience with him was some kind of silent treatment for another unknown offense, it’s his job to tell me what that is.

I have stood since then, without an episode of growing faint. Could be because I started taking care of my physical self differently on that day. Could be I just needed to make up my mind how I was going to react to violence. Both the aggression of the police officer who’d held me up and the indifference of my colleague felt really violent at that moment. And imagine, in the current political climate, if I hadn’t started to tend to myself!

I would certainly spend twenty hours a day out cold.

Mostly, I came to understand people who live outside this particular pressure will not understand the steady hum of danger that underscores my life, and I found resolve in being connected with this world – good bad, or indifferent.  I will not faint.

 

Thanks, Amen.

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Post notes: Just A Conversation Over Chicken And Dumplings

I changed my email signature last night. For months it had read;

JUST A CONVERSATION OVER CHICKEN AND DUMPLINGS

By Michelle Dobbs

Wilson Theater at Vogel Hall

April 5-7, 2019

I had been waiting for this signature for all of my adult life. This story, one my grandmother told me about Us had waited 25 years to be told. My hands shook when I first created it. Could it be?

And so, I invited my relatives. They’d all read pieces and early drafts of the novel, had looked at the photos and letters of the story in our childhood, and they showed up. They came to find about 100 people to watch with, and I couldn’t have been happier. Book clubs, writer’s cirlces, Mommy friends, quilters and other artists all gathered to hear. My favorite people in my favorite place; the same building where Gregory and I got married, where I’d danced as a little girl with the symphony, where I first listened to Tchaikovsky with my Grandma Lil, where I drop off my daughter for her Nutcracker performances with the rest of her choir. Bliss.

Easily among the happiest moments of my life – it was that good getting picked up in the morning that time we sunk a boat on a deserted island happiness.

But before that, I’d spent hours per night in rehearsals, serving as dramaturge, a sort of backstory builder, by showing pictures of the people the characters had been based on in period clothes, and sharing details about the story. I met the cast and they were delightful; batch of lovely performers who worked hard and had fun.

I felt, sometimes, like I’d fallen into an afterschool special where A 50 year old lady finally gets to tell her story, but only if she works like a whirling dervish because all the cousins are coming. Viola Davis would play me. She would brave all the plot twists with good humor and wisdom and pluck. Because you know all those potholes that always befall tiny theater companies with big hearts in those stories? This show suffered them all; 2 cases of the flu, spare to none budget, bumped from rehearsal spaces, 1 case of strep throat, and a brief but sincere struggle with short term amnesia.

And then came the previews. I had one moment when I walked out to a seat in the balcony, just to see the set. One of the sound guys who came with the venue said, “This is based on real people?” I told him yes, and he said, nodding his head “This is a good show. I like it. Good show.” That moment might have been the best –  I received an affirmation from someone who watches dozens of shows per year from companies around the area, relates to the premise and doesn’t know me from Adam. I sort of smiled, and he turned to the other sound guys, telling them what a good show this was, while they nodded too. When I walked off, I beamed.

And so, we opened. It was time to let go. She was an awkward thing, my new play hoping to take flight -beautiful, but lumpy. The next night, more of the same. The critics came, and asked some questions, we went, some relatives and I, to the cast party at the director’s house. We brought desserts. I sat and ate and laughed with my family, and the actors who played my ancestors. It was wild- and a scene I will never forget. Everyone was there: Papa Jim, Lois and Aunt Maggie were eating Lorelei’s pumpkin cake, patting their feet and humming for that recipe. And those of us on this side really cherished one another on that day. We passed babies and food and loved on each other the way we know the ancestors want us to.

And then, on the last night, the stars aligned. I was physically and emotionally exhausted, having partied and chitchatted myself into a complete and stunned silence.  I sat at the back of the theater with a glass of wine, prepared to watch my baby struggle. My real-life sunny side up baby sat next to me – ready to focus on the good when the play stumbled.

The first spotlight went up, and it clicked. The songs were well received, and applauded. People laughed at the funny parts and cried at the sad parts and did both for every twist. Maybe it was the letting go, maybe it was the wine. But I felt every sigh the actors created, and when they finished the audience stood to their feet. At first, I thought that maybe they were as overwhelmed as I, and were ready to go. I handed Ole Sunnyside my purse and stood up too, headed downstream to the edge of the stage for a super brief talk back, considering they seemed to want to get out of the theater. And then the director turned to me and said to me with a smirky smile, “An ovation.” My heart stood still.

Cue the Little Rascals double take.

Slap my ass and call me Fanny, they were standing and applauding.

Just when I was sick and tired of wearing makeup, having a hairdo, talking to strangers, and pressing myself way too far for the sake of a piece of art, that happened. And then, I understood why people do this. I let that ovation serve as some kind of message from the viewers that they had allowed my American story to play out in their imaginations, and they got it. The story was told.

Many people since then have contacted me and talked of their own family saga, which has included all kinds of things; Adopting kids within families, Mission Schools and Native American genocide, locomotives and the internet, riding hobo for work and homelessness. There were some little girls teaching the song from the first scene to their friends when I went to pick up my daughter from school on Monday.

You’d think that would be enough for me: I set a goal, I toughed it out, at the expense of everything and everyone I hold dear, and I met that goal.  Nope.

Next show is in October.

Thanks, Amen.

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Mine For Good

“Here she comes… you’d better get your stuff!” I overheard that being said about me, in my house, and the worst part is, they were probably right to say it. If someone’s cup was half full, I filled it or removed it. I cleared tables, fluffed pillows, emptied the trash faster that my loved ones can stand up from where they’d been sitting. I couldn’t even go to sleep at night without picking up my house first. I’ve been working on not being that person, the ever-present butler.

It’s not that I meant to rush folks- I think I wanted to sit down, but couldn’t until everything was picked up. Everything.  Until I started to let that part of me go, I called myself Neat. I would even allow Neat Freak.

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Then, I watched Marie Kondo, started emptying my closets out, and understood the problem with Neat

I found, when I looked at my clothes, that I have a ton of things I love to wear, with the tags still attached. All my favorite labels in my favorite colors and fit await me in the guest room closet. I rarely get dressed from that closet. These are things I’m saving For Good: an event, wedding, shower, a performance of some kind, date night.

The closet I get dressed from has clothes- random, paint stained, hand-me-down clothes. One favored pair of jeans just showed up here a couple of summers ago. I asked all the cousins who’d been around ‘hey, did you leave these jeans?’ for about a month, and then I just started wearing them. They fit me fine, but they are not mine.

I had about forty t-shirts. Most of them were grey, white, or black. If they had color, there was just one; a green t-shirt, a pink t-shirt, several red t-shirts, my butler uniform, probably. While sorting all of these things I uncovered the messages I’d been sending myself (beating myself up about) via my stuff and the storage of it all:

Rules For Being Neat

  • Keep it cotton, so you don’t have to worry about spills.

If you’re mad because you stained it, you had no business wearing it

  • Wear practical shoes

Stay ready to run

  • You’ll need pockets for your keys, cash, a lipstick, ID

Keep your hands free, don’t take up space, be helpful

  • You may have other things; soft things, pretty things, delicate things but they are only for a moment.

As soon as you have worn this for a couple of hours, take it off, clean it and put it away. Save That For Good.

Play clothes and school clothes. And I seemed to be for Play. I also seemed to be a nervous wreck, on top of it- do other women feel that they have to always be ready to defend themselves? I just wasn’t living a very trusting life.

I’d heard that people were selling their clothes, with the tags still on, in consignment shops but I couldn’t do it.  When it comes to my joy being sparked, the school clothes won hands down. Cashmere and angora and trousers and shirts with buttons and hats galore. That was where my joy was found, in the things I’d kept For Good. And so, I ditched everything else. My bags for charity, twelve of them to be exact, were shipped off. I was left with two pairs of new jeans, about a dozen t-shirts and maybe six sweaters in the closet in my room.

But the school clothes! I moved them down the hall and delight in them. I haven’t been this light since I went to that outlet mall and bought myself a maternity wardrobe – and now I know why I missed my maternity clothes after my baby was born, all those years ago. I got them thinking only of taking good care of my body, which was home to my girl. I picked them, I paid for them, I took care of them. Those things were mine.

And the unleashed school clothes are mine in that same way. They’re a random and quirky collection of stuff that makes me feel good, and I wear it no matter who will be around on that particular day. Mine.

And I am finished bursting at the seams with stuff I didn’t want, but felt obligated to keep, which leaves no room or time for the stuff I want to cherish.  This butler is permanently retired.

 

Thanks, amen.

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The Good Life.

I have been redecorating my house.

All of it.

Something about turning fifty, and living in an increasingly harsh world and all has me wanting something like that. Something like remodeling my entire life so that the outside matches my insides, I mean. I want our home to be a haven for us and other weary sojourners. I want respite care from daily life – every day. I want plants and lights and whole homemade food and baskets of warm, fluffy towels with cookies. I want to be able to be a light and a resting place, and I am willing to hold that space for as long as it takes. I want no time unspent loving on me and my people.  I made an announcement that sounded like this sometime around Christmas of last year. While the naysayers nayed, I brushed my shoulders off and got to work converting our house into an art gallery and studio. That we live in.

This ambitious goal is complicated by the fact that my parents built this house and raised their children in it. Meaning I run into artifacts from my childhood on the regular; a toboggan, a clock from my mother’s office, a skateboard some cousin left behind. I found this in a basement file cabinet a couple of weeks ago, stacked just this way. It’s a picture of my youngest on the day she finished preschool on top of one of my father’s notebooks. The two of them have never met yet there she is, with my daddy’s smile in the middle of her face.

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And underneath their smile are his notebooks. This one is 95th in a series that would climb into the hundreds. Hundreds of times, that guy sat and planned what would happen in the next season of his life. Deliberate, choose, coordinate, implement, evaluate. As an urban planner and community developer with an undergraduate degree in physical education, he spent his whole career making families and the city stronger using physical fitness and sports. Every season of every year the goal was to have fun, learn things and be a good neighbor. This book, and others like it, served as a map of every coach and play guard in our city, meant to be studied and referred to frequently. Come to think of it; my whole life, his whole notion of parenthood and community growing up was a series of projects- each having their own book.

There was no TV in our house, most times, and when we got one, children were not allowed to watch it on weeknights. And so we turned to our imaginations and made books. That project of the moment engulfed all our free time; we’d talk about it over supper, ask for trips to the library or AAA to research hotels and atlases.  Part scrapbook, part budget, with a good bit of travel guide thrown in, our family books were the road map to the future. See something cool you might need on your adventure in the Sears Catalog? Rip it out, and put it in your book. Coupons for road trip snacks? In the book. A list of people you’re going to need to call for help? The book.

Every one was better than the last:

  • Coaching and winning with the first integrated track club in Wisconsin (this one, dad made alone, but it was the model for all the other books to come)
  • Olympic games in Canada
  • Camping trips for 90 children and our families
  • 101 ways to play with snow closely followed by
  • Could our backyard be a putt putt course/ volleyball court/urban farm?
  • Drive to see the Pacific Ocean for ourselves
  • Family reunions, Backyard festivals and celebrations
  • An outdoor skating rink in our neighborhood park
  • Host family in a global youth exchange program
  • Customized college tours ( 3)
  • Renewed vows 25th anniversary
  • daughter’s wedding, son’s wedding

Books and books and books. And we had so much fun.  Like, we had regularly-splitting-our-sides-enjoying-ourselves kind of lives. And I would dare say it was because of the energy we spent crafting those lives. We were not spared hard times by these projects, but they made the good times so very good. I remember emptying the contents of one binder in a recycling bin, ripping off the cover, and beginning to fill it with the next story without any regrets. In fact, I was excited to trash a book, because I was making space for the next story to begin. The books are not the important part of making a book, it’s the life you get while you’re making the book that matters.

And this moment, this swirl of half finished projects and drying paint had me longing for a book.

I needed a special book and went to dig out one Gregory made me a few years ago.  I’ve never written in it- I found it too beautiful, too rare. He treated the leather and stamped little bees around the edges before tying it closed around the hand sewn pages. The pages are blank as they must be, the paper fairly thick. It will have to hold drawings and paint and glued on pieces of magazines and fabric. I’ll have a place for all the receipts and paint samples that drift around the kitchen, wishing they had a place to be. I can take down the sign I’ve taped to the side of a cabinet in our dining room.

The sign says:

  • Spider plants
  • Epoxy (with four hash tags, I need six)
  • Foyer Rug!

This belongs in my book! Then, it will make sense that I’m spending all my free time on interior design in a perfectly good house. And all my pocket money on paint and hardware store items.

That settles it. I am making a book. This one is called The Good Life.

Thanks, Amen.

 

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