Carpet

For a long time we lived with a carpet that featured a stain from when our last fluffy black dog died - Tupelo. We're not sure what happened. There was vomiting, drooling, whining, stillness. We buried him in the front garden, the four of us digging spring-cool dirt and replacing the blanket whenever it blew off Tupelo's body. We tossed into the grave Baba's ashes and the two containers of frozen placenta we still had in the freezer. We are not people who take care of things in an expedient manner. We linger. We procrastinate. We let the ashes of a long-dead dog keep a place on the mantel. We rearrange frozen placenta every time we unpack the weekly groceries. We live with obvious stains on our carpet long past an emotionally appropriate moment. Finally, I ripped up the carpet in a fit of pique, knowing a bare, ugly floor might motivate us to put something in its place. I was pregnant with our third child and really leaning towards a nap, but there were these two boys at my knees who needed me conscious. So, for fun and distraction, we ripped up the carpet. And then, over several weekends, replaced it with pine boards. The upstairs floor is also pine, milled here on our land when when we cleared a few acres for the horses. I like the idea of the trees which used to grow here now serving an alternative purpose just a few dozen feet from where they were previously rooted. Just as dead dogs and placenta rot in the soil out front, giving the cosmos an extra dose of nutrients and karma. If it were allowed, I'd be buried there too, my bones mingling with Tupelo's, my skin rubbing up against dirt enriched by the placenta that fed my babies when everything was on the inside. Long after I am earth, our old stained carpet will still be whole, rolled up in a landfill somewhere. Maybe the stain will still be visible to the worms who try their hardest to eat through it, with limited success.
~a



Funny thing about my friends in New England, none of us have carpeting. Sure there are rugs, but mostly it’s bare wood floor; oftentimes hewn from trees that were found right outside the door. You’d think that someplace where the winters are this cold we’d delight in the deep, thick pile of comfort underneath our feet. Not so. Our practicality gets in the way, as does our love for the beauty of the wood. In fact when we visit a house, we bring our own houseshoes. We expect to leave our outside shoes by the door and that the floors may be a bit cold. But if the house we've stepped into is not one we're visiting but rather thinking of buying, our minds start racing. How quick could we rip up this shag remnant and discover what exactly is hiding underneath? Then we imagine ourselves getting out the sanders and polishing the floor to a high shine. We can retire the vacuums, shake and hang the rugs as needed, and then sweep, sweep, sweep: dust, dirt and dog hair. Though we may not approve of carpet inside, outside is another matter. All of my friends still have this innate sense of joy when it comes to falling leaves. This is one carpet that causes us to kick up our heels, take a running start and leap right in. We hear the crunch and crinkle of the vibrant colors, knowing that soon enough we will need to rake, shred and mulch. But thank goodness, it never ever requires the vacuum.
~b

Anger

T was assigned to read a McCullers' short story for English class this week. I was surprised to discover that it was one I had never read before. The pivotal moment in the text happens when the main character finally loses his temper at his young cousin who has always worshiped him. His anger is not read hot, more like the raging white of a heated poker. He even says that if he had been loud things might have been easier to fix; but his tone was quiet and even, his words filled with hatred and the damage irreparable. I have been known to have moments of loud and seething rage, an unfortunate characteristic I inherited from those who came before me. What angers me most are the loss of moments and situations that cannot be fixed or repaired even with the best superglue: deaths, breakups or treasured mementos that accidentally slip to the floor from the hands of a child. I am not one to throw or hurl objects, rather I seethe then weep at their fragile, broken state. When discovering chipped cups and plates that have accidentally jostled too harshly in the sink, the loss of control rears it ugly head. I am blinded, wishing that I could somehow turn back the clock as if the moment hadn't happened.. Though I tell myself sometimes scars and cracks add a layer of beauty. Still my life is not one you would read about in a magazine where everything is placed just so; more like a story in an old used book, the pages dogeared from rereading. Our family's tale is filled with beauty, anger, joy and pain. All of those moments add up to a life, and without one you couldn't appreciate the other. We are not glossy or shiny, hiding our true feelings beneath the surface. Rather our edges are occasionally tattered and torn but we move on, using superglue or the emotional equivalent whenever needed.
~b



I have so little to write about anger. I could tell a few stories about M's temper and how I learned to laugh at the vibrant shade of red his face reaches at certain key moments of the weekend, but thanks, I'd like to stay married. I could describe how angry I was at the dentist for making me feel bad last week because I was half an hour late for L's appointment when it was all their fault for sending the wrong time in the email confirmation. But that would be embarrassing, because it was actually my bad - apparently I was confirming the correct time for a different appointment on a different day. I could poke self-inflicted fun at the way I got mad at him when M pointed out I had a scratch on my lens when really I was furious at myself for never buying a clear lens cover. I could admit to getting mad at B the other morning when he needed to be held and I needed to make breakfast for humans, dogs and horses; I could describe how loudly I yelled (very) and how hard he cried as he wandered upstairs looking for Daddy, how he scowled at me later on from the comfort of M's arms and said, "Mommy is mean." I could tell you: that judgement broke a little bit off my heart that won't grow back. But that's a bit saccharine and not quite what I was thinking, which was more along the lines: you won't be two forever. "Make an angry face," I told T this afternoon while we waiting for somebody, anybody to buy cub scout popcorn from us outside the local video store. He complied and we laughed. Yes, I get angry sometimes. But mostly it's all terribly entertaining.
~a

Sleep

After stopping in at the Farmer's Market before going to work on Saturday, my eyes travelled over to the community garden. Standing tall with heads bent were several sunflowers. As I walked among them I began to feel as if they were slumbering giants, towering over the flowers and vegetables. I was sure that if I gently nudged them the would awaken. Each seemed to have a different personality: One was an older, bumbling man with a gray mustache who had dozed off on his watch. He didn't even know how loud he was snoring. The other was a tall, willowy woman a bit past her prime, who believed in getting her beauty rest above all else. And then there were the twins pictured here. Awkward, gangly boys who catnapped every spare moment possible in order to offset their rapidly growing bodies. Once asleep their lanky frames falling away from each other as if they had spent too much time in close quarters before they were born; now they needed to take advantage of the space available to them. Teens I find take up a lot of space; though they can occasionally be so helpful, as if to make up for their periods of angst and moodiness. When asked they can rake leaves, walk dogs, or help put the garden to bed. For with Fall upon us, it won't belong before the snow falls and blankets the earth. Flowers, trees and shrubs can stay fast asleep until the spring awakening.
~b



Like most parents, I get too little sleep. Take last night: T is sick and called for me around midnight. He needed a bathroom escort, a glass of juice, another dose of ibuprofen, warm reassurance that illness passes, that no one is sick forever. Which I supplied wholeheartedly with no whisper of falsehood. He knows about sickness that never goes away; in kindergarten his best friend was found to have type I diabetes. His dad has had the storm cloud of type II over his head for the past couple years. But he is eight and cautious and needs no encouragement to fear that which we cannot control, especially not in the tiny hours. After T and I did all we could to appease the gods of nighttime fever we tried to drift off in the big bed, but M is sick, too, which makes his nose loud, so we tried the loft which worked for an hour or so until B cried heartily because he couldn't find me in the big bed, where he'd wandered from his little bed right next door. So I moved again. And was awoken at 5:30 by B who had to pee. Nights are generally more solid now that nobody is breastfeeding. Waking every hour is a thing of the past. And while I'd never wish to return to that level of sleeplessness, there's something about it I miss. The subsequent haze that persisted even after three cups of coffee; the way I never had to worry about insomnia; the intimacy of being the only two (or three) people awake in the entire world. But mostly I prefer the sense of completion I feel when I go to bed these days. I read a few pages, flip to my stomach, stretch my right arm along my side and revel in the idea that I don't have to be on until morning. Usually. Unless sick, lonely boys need me.
~a

Red

My boys rarely get new toys. B's trike came from the dump, as you may have guessed from the duct tape on the handle bars and general air of discard. B has never commented on its lack of shine, the way the seat tips all of a sudden despite any amount of bolt tightening, the independence of the handlebars from the front wheel. "I ride my trike!" he asks, so politely, and then someone has to push him around the driveway risking various appendages until the eager red trike can't quite meet its goal of benign usefulness and B falls off in a heap while the poor soul pushing rubs her shin where the sharp back step made fateful contact. B laughs. I pretend to laugh and mutter swears under my breath. "I ride my trike!" B asks again, and off we go. B's red trike reminds me of the red trike I had when I was a kid. I don't think mine came from the dump. I remember riding it in the old barn while wearing too-big tap shoes. Someone once told me if I ever walked in an oil patch I'd never be able to swim again, so I avoided those, even with tap-shoe protection, even though those stains came from cars long since traded in for newer models. Just me and my red trike, travelling miles on the same patch of cement floor. Someday B will be able to provide his own motor and my job as pusher will be done. My shins will be grateful for the reprieve, but for now, I'm glad to share these miles.
~a



When I close my eyes I can conjure up her image; walking from building to building, the green hills her backdrop, or standing on stage reciting her poetry, the black curtains streaming behind. Through it all she wears the the red coat that shapes and defines her. There are also red earrings, red skirts and often a red shirt-- it is obviously her color of choice. The words she reads are exhilarating, the lines of verse practically lifting me out of my seat. The color and sounds of this young woman are what remains in my head weeks after I have returned home from school. Seeing her there reminded me of the cover of a recent booksale find.“Girl in a Red Dress Reading by the Swimming Pool” is the cover image for The Penguin Book of Modern Short Stories. I wonder if the book jacket designers had chosen something by Picasso in his Blue period, would I still have felt compelled to pick up the book and read these stories? I have never been able to wear red in that same way as these two women, instead I have relegated this vibrant hue to shoes, scarves, jewelry and other accessories. Perhaps these accents serve the same dynamic purpose, an edge or a border to my own persona. I find that red has the power to define and divide, drawing your eye as a magnetic compass points north. It is the only color of choice for my varied sizes of notebooks,which are always open and available to receive my own scrawl. Passionate words flowing from pen to the page.
~b

Needle

They say three moves equals a fire; without packing a single box my family can lose most of its earthly possessions as a matter of routine. Like car keys - M is famous for his great, sudden lack of all things necessary for a day at work, including wallet, phone, and keys; they disappear with clever discretion just when he's ready to walk out the morning door. L loses many important items in his own hands. "I can't find my bakugan/pack of gum/vitamin/milk money!" he wails. "What's in your hand?" I ask. "Oh," he says, and bounds away, refuelled with his usual high quota of joy. T gets the most frustrated of the boys, especially when the lost thing is scotch tape and he has six minutes to wrap the present before we have to leave for the birthday party. "I hate this house!" he's been known to shriek. For a while he kept his own stockpile of tape in his loft, but his heart is too sweet and he loaned it to someone and someone lost it. When B loses something, he doesn't quite notice. Something's different, something, but he can't quite put his finger on it. No matter. Let's have a popsicle. Once I lost my wedding ring for three days and resorted to dowsing to get it back. Which didn't work, but doing laundry did - there it was, on the bottom of the basket, waiting for me to save it. Just this morning I pulled on a pair of pants and found a barrette I've been missing since the cool spring weather. I never even looked for it, poor thing. I had as much chance of finding it as finding a needle in a haystack.
~a



Reading one of my knitting blogs this week, I was surprised to see the topic “The Future of Knitting” being discussed. I have often thought about knitting in relation to the past. As a novice knitter of five years, I am often comforted and sometimes overwhelmed by the long history people have with knitting; and with the amazing things that people create out of a ball of yarn and two needles. The variables often astound me--the width of the needle or its length, combined with your choice of fiber (natural or manmade) not to mention color… And then the numerous types of stitches can be charted to create a gazillion different patterns, which often spark many, many more thoughts and ideas. I have books devoted to wool, others to anything but, which includes soy, silk and bamboo. One book features a bag made from plastic grocery bags, and one determined knitter used wire to knit a screen door. The possibilities are endless. On the blog that I was reading, someone commented that in the future we’ll have needles that can tell you when you’ve made a mistake or dropped a stitch. One commenter hoped for needles that would tell you if what you were knitting would turn out ugly. One person wondered if in the future we might be amazed by the materials we would be using, new fibers and substances we hadn’t yet explored. One woman’s post went straight to my heart, she said: “It will always be about sticks and string.” That’s what I love about knitting, it feels like getting back to basics, no matter how nutty the rest of my life may be. Sticks and string are so much more constructive than sticks and stones.
~b