Four

As I sit in the coffee shop a large, multi-generational and multi-ethnic family arrives and chaotically settles itself onto the outside patio. The family is mostly white but there is an Asian girl of about 10 with long black hair and thick glasses, and a beautiful Afro-American girl of about four with warm brown skin and bright eyes. She and her white sister about the same age hold hands as they find their seats; they are utterly adorable. I admire this family for giving these children a home and being open to diversity; they seem like a family worth knowing. All the children seem to get lots of hugs and attention.

The four year old is picked up by the older sister and held briefly, and I’m reminded of my sister Nell, seven years younger than I am. When she was that age, whenever she was asked any question she always responded by holding up four fingers and saying, “Four,” her age. So for quite awhile we all called her “Four.” She was the youngest of four children in the family, very cute with a pixie haircut and big brown eyes. She loved to ride piggy back and I would often carry her long distances on my back.

Four is a magical age. When Nell was four and I was eleven we were still living on Dewey Drive in Ellettsville and hadn’t yet moved to Sugar Lane. The three girls in the family shared a single bedroom, and there was only one bathroom in the little house.

In summer bands of kids freely roamed the little town with less to fear from strangers back then. We spent a large part of one summer digging deep holes under the gigantic sycamore in the back yard, and even dug recesses into their walls for little fireplaces, wisps of smoke rising from their separate earthen chimneys. Summer rains were bathwater warm. The water mixed with soil to form a rich brown soup that a child could convince herself was chocolate. Mud pies and thick concoctions of chocolate pudding and cake batter were poured from one container into another and baked in the sun.

The men in the neighborhood pooled their money and built a simple cement block swimming pool a few blocks away called the Turtleback Swim Club, and on many a hot summer evening my father could be persuaded to take us night swimming, the underwater pool lights shining mysteriously from the water’s depths. On cooler nights we would cling to the edge in the water near the lights for the small amount of heat they emitted. Back then, sometimes the chemicals weren’t right in the pool, but we swam in it anyway despite coffee colored water that turned our blonde hair a slightly green tinge. A four-year old could ride on her father’s shoulders and be tossed high into the air—could also pretend to be terrified at the bullet form of the father swimming swiftly underwater, grabbing her to toss her again high into the air or side with her in a splashing battle with the big boys.

Those summers, the creek nearby hosted minnows and crawdads which to their misfortune were sometimes captured and made into pets for awhile. A four year old was sometimes sent out with iced tea for the gardening father and rewarded with a taste of a lightly salted, sun-warmed tomato or green pepper.

Those were some of the good parts of being four. But don’t be fooled; there were terrors as well—a menacing older brother of ten who could spin out of control and other big boys rumored to kill baby birds and commit other acts of cruelty. The truth was, even then the world could be a complicated and scary place and nothing was quite what it seemed.

M

Each year the entry on my calendar says simply “M.” This morning I go to the hospital and change into one of the thin pink (they are always pink) gowns, place my clothes in the locker (I always try to get #7 but it is never free) and wear the key on its stretch band around my wrist. I sit in the waiting room filling out a form on a clipboard. Next to me this year is a very old lady with a lovely, well-lined face and snowy white hair, in a pink gown much like mine. We commiserate on the meager two-snap closing in the front of the gown, and then she blinks in dismay through thick glasses at her own clipboard.

“They want me to fill this out and I can’t see,” says she. “My daughter usually helps me, but she left for Alaska this morning.”

I don’t want to presume, but I want to help if I can. “I could help you if you like,” I say.

“Would you?” She seems genuinely relieved, so I scoot over to the chair next to hers and we work together on the form. I learn that her name is Marilyn. She was born in 1918 and is 91 years old.

She has had two different kinds of cancer and two different operations for it, one for each breast. “What bad luck,” I say, “But you sure are a survivor!” She smiles gamely.

She tells me she is very glad her daughter lives nearby and can’t imagine how it would be to not have family close at hand. She is wonderful, and positive, and still quite spry. I feel a surge of grief for my own mother, gone for 11 years now.

“See you later, and good luck,” I say when they call me in for the strange imaging process that involves mashing my breasts into various painful configurations.

I ask the technician how this test is done for women who have had double mastectomies and remark on how positive the woman waiting outside seems to be. “Oh, she probably had lumpectomies and we can still do tests in those cases. Yes, it sounds like she hasn’t allowed breast cancer to define her. For some women, it ends up defining them forever. For others, it defines them for a short while of course, but then they live through the experience with grace and strength. Seeing that happen is one of the best parts of my job.”

So far each year, despite a few false alarms, the news has been positive. Whatever comes, I hope for grace and strength.

Art Fair on 29th Street

We stroll through another Art Fair at 29th Street, this one with an unusual number of creative, lively, colorful sculptures. And yet you wonder where you would actually place these creations in your small Martin Acres home: Joan of Art's large bronze Humpty Dumpties in various moods and disguises, designed to sit on some designated ledge. Humpty’s various personalities on display. One dyspeptic Humpty with unhappy bags under his eyes smokes a bronze cigarette and holds a bronze martini glass. Another smiling Humpty shrug with palms turned upwards in French c’est la vie fashion. A bronze Buddhist Humpty meditates cross-legged. Even the tiniest bronze Humpties are $90 it turns out, much to Mark’s disgust.

“How much would you pay then, for a small clever bronze Humpty?” I query.

“Nothing,” says he, although he has previously admired them.

“Not much of a supporter of fine art, apparently,” say I.

“Fine art?” he replies darkly.

Jin Powell's booth displays metallic sculptures of lithe figures dancing forward into a strong headwind, wearing colorful strips and drapes of clothing that flow gracefully behind them. Many are female; their uplifted breasts proudly lead the way as they plunge gamely through gale-force air currents, thin wisps of blue/green/purple orange fabric flowing gracefully behind them. Beautiful. Inspiring even, to me anyway. But where to place such art? On the back of the white porcelain toilet allowing tasteful reflection in the bathroom mirror? On the mantel next to the dyspeptic Humpty and the potted plant? Perched on the edge of the outdoor spa to keep us company as we soak?

And what of the hug delicate glass bowls in randomly fluted shapes and shades of orange, purple and blue, matching bowls nested inside them, shining like rainbows in the sunlight? Getting that same shaft of sunlight to shine just so on them in our house would be a challenge.

“We need a larger house,” says he, not really meaning it in the grand scheme of things but offering it as the reason for passing up such beauty. That’s where these pieces will find a home one hopes, in houses where whole rooms, with skylights admitting shafts of purest light are devoted to beautiful art. In a Martin Acres house we look at pictures on the Internet.

At the Community Garden

Yesterday Mark and I walked from Vic’s Espresso Shop north up 13th to the North Boulder Community Garden. As we approached it we both breathed in the wonderful garden fragrances: green vegetation, tomato plants, freshly turned earth, compost, manure. The delicious odor of garlic drying on racks and hanging from the ceiling of a chicken wire enclosure wafted through the warm air. We strolled on narrow paths past many small plots, each reflecting the individuality of the gardener. Some were neatly planted and maintained in careful rows. Others were a riot of vegetables and flowers. One showed mastery of the skill of growing corn as high as an elephant’s eye by July in Colorado, another with cornstalks only up to my knee did not. In one space a tiny Japanese-style paved path wound through elegantly manicured flowers. In another plot, protective purple nylon net was tented over lettuce to shield it from hungry bugs. A smiling scarecrow guarded one plot, and a stuffed parrot guarded another. An arched rainbow sign graced the entrance to the separate children’s garden.

Further north were the long community rows of arugula, garlic, onion and lettuce grown by the Youth Project with instructions on a white board nearby itemizing the next work items: “Arugula needs a haircut to 2 inches—NO WEEDS!”

As is often the case with gardens, my father came to mind, how he would have loved to walk through these gardens and strike up conversations with the people there about what they were growing, what kind of luck they were having this season dealing with the weather and the bugs. He paid us kids a nickel for each of the fat, green, horned, more-than-alarming tomato worms we collected off the plants and brought to him for ultimate disposition.

The daughter and granddaughter of botanists, I somehow never learned to garden and as I have said before, I’m death on houseplants. Nevertheless I have faithfully cared for the small bonsai tree I bought in late May, diligently soaking and spraying it every other day, as a small tribute to the memory of a master gardener. So far it is thriving.

B

Mark and I were talking yesterday about the tattered condition of Shannon’s passport, his only form of id since he lost his driver’s license years ago. Mark said the passport is “like B,” which made me laugh uproariously. B was Shannon’s baby blanket, a gift to him as a newborn. It started out snowy white, with pale green satin edging. But it became baby Shannon’s most reliable solace, accompanying him everywhere, held next to his cheek as he fell asleep each night. Leaving B behind was not done, ever. Triple checks were made to ensure B was securely on board when we took road trips or flew to Indiana to visit Granny and Grandpa. Over time, B became gray and tattered, losing its satin edging. And B dwindled in size, shrinking to the size of a handkerchief, then smaller still to the size of a passport (hah!) and finally to the size of a postage stamp, at which point we convinced Shannon to part with B so we could put it away in a treasure box for safekeeping since it could so easily end up lost. Letting go of B was like Shannon’s passport to eventual independence.

Famous Blue Rocker

Twenty-three years ago I was large with my first child in the middle of a hot, dry Colorado summer. I lay on the couch in our toasty little Martian Acres home and tried not to moan too loudly; friends stopped by with white chocolate ice cream and words of comfort. The baby had stopped doing somersaults in my womb a few days ago and was now just writing his name on the wall every now and then – it was becoming increasingly apparent that, improbable as it might seem, he would be expecting to emerge soon through a very small aperture somewhere down below and currently out of my direct line of view.

My Mom had flown in from Indiana to lend moral support, and on the official due date of July 4 she, my husband and I drove up to Brainard Lake to allow me to gaze at the cool Arapahoe Peaks and lumber slowly along a path by the water, hoping the baby would be shaken and stirred into action. But the due date seemed destined to come and go with no trip to the hospital. That evening my brother came over to have dinner with all of us and later that night set off some very loud fireworks in the backyard. The sounds startled me into a hopping little tiptoe dance a lot like the dance of the hippos in Fantasia – and this is finally what did it. Later that night my water broke.

I sat quietly in the big blue rocker, waking no one yet, and timing the contractions. When they were 5 minutes apart, I woke up my husband, who blearily drove my Mom and me to the hospital along the previously agreed upon backstreet route, not that there was any traffic at 3 in the morning. In the hospital parking lot my husband and mother got out of the car and strode purposefully toward the ER, belatedly realizing I was moving kind of slow at the junction and hurrying back to hold my elbows and help me inside.


The legendary and fabulous OB-GYN nurses at Boulder Community sized me up, and then gave me a stern talking to – to get to 10 centimeters dilation I would have to walk. And up and down the halls I hobbled to keep the contractions going and get myself to the point where I was ready to deliver the baby. The doctor didn’t come until right before delivery time – but there were lots of jokes about this particular physician and his preference for the “little brown stool” he sat on during delivery. With my husband’s coaching and my mother’s quietly reassuring presence, I did the Lamaze breathing and was able to refuse the drugs. Many long hours later, around noon, our beautiful son was born, his alert little eyes looking right up at us in amazement we surely shared.

I only learned later that my husband had nearly gone into full crisis mode during the delivery. The doctor, ensconced on his little brown stool, had determined that the baby was head down as desired, but facing the wrong way, and had used a suction cup device to help pull our baby through the birth canal. When he pulled the suction cup off my son’s head after delivery, the red goo used to affix it looked like blood and my husband thought the top of the baby’s head had come off. In a few seconds he realized that everybody else in the delivery room was still calm and happy; luckily we had been blessed with a healthy and hungry baby boy.

The next day my son and I returned home tired but triumphant, and I found great comfort in taking our first few naps together in the famous blue rocker. Happy birthday, Shannon!

The Existential Garage Sale Manifesto, Part 2

If you can resist the urge to acquire stuff you had no desire for before you woke up this morning, garage sales (existential and otherwise) can be a good way to simplify; you can unload unnecessary stuff or obtain necessary stuff without feeling you’ve directly contributed to the stuff crisis. In fact, lots of little daily actions give me a small measure of well being in the face of the stuff avalanche: filling the small green biobags with egg shells, vegetable nubbins and coffee grounds and leaving them out in the compost bin for pickup; religiously recycling paper, plastic and glass each week; observing the ever-decreasing amount of actual trash we discard from our house each week as more of it goes into recycling and compost; using the library or buying used books rather than new ones where possible; resisting purchase of plastic crap, or stuff over packaged in plastic crap; reveling in the clean, peaceful look of a room with a few beautiful things in it and no clutter; walking and riding buses instead of driving, and retaining the job with the 7-minute commute.

But of course the guilt trip is alive and well: for two people we use way more electricity than seems humanly possible—no doubt too many devices are on all the time despite their stand-by modes; lights are left on to lend some psychological security at night; juice flows to keep the icebox cold and the hot tub hot (not luxury, but medical necessity to deal with neck and back pain after sitting too long in front of the electricity sucking computers). Always the tradeoffs.