hurling words

As you glanced up—your eyes only

asking the usual questions—

he gave you his first and last name,

the doctor and the reason

for his visit—a follow up.

 

You seemed not to be busy—

not preoccupied in any overt way,

and yet you could not have listened

at all—not at all,

for you asked him again,

this time with your curt voice that

cut across the sterile space the three of us

occupied, asked as if it pained you

to do so, and he, a gentle man,

submitted, as we all do,

to your callous disregard,

for we are—and you know this—powerless

on our side of your important desk,

we who wait.

 

His name was Robert Kelly

and he was 68 years old

and he deserved

better than you.

The sound will be hard for my memory to replicate, though if I could, the memory would bring me back to peace in stressful moments. But if I try, it will sound like a great swoosh of water, the sound lasting as long as the word swooooosh. One dolphin emerges in an arc above the water—swooooosh—and seconds later, another—swooooosh.

We had been out on the Gulf of Mexico, headed toward Seahorse Key, the National Wildlife Refuge, near where we were vacationing. The day was calm and the water so clear that skates and stingrays were easy to spot as they sped by our pontoon. We were witness to the typical ocean wildlife: jumping mullets, soaring pelicans, ospreys nesting, and more. But the visit from the dolphins was a rare treat. We see dolphins each year, but generally through the insufficient lenses of binoculars. That they came that day to us seemed somehow special.

“Look,” I said to my friends. “They’re going all Sea World on us.” There were four adults in one group who circled us for about five minutes, leaping at times in tandem, just a few feet from the boat. Later on, a mother and her calf came too near, and she herded him away, but not before we saw all of the calf, including his tail, as he, too, swoooooshed.

The experience was better than Sea World, where dolphins are trained to please an audience. These kindly mammals were probably just observing us as we observed them, but they paid attention to us and we were the joyful beneficiaries of their attention.

Later on, I reconsidered the comment I had made about Sea World and understood that the language was both too casual for the moment and too limited for the experience. What seemed clever at the time was somewhat foolish after all.

All week, we’d been saying how lucky we were. The weather was perfect, in the low 80s and sunny every day. We even said that maybe it was karma, that since we were all nice people, this weather was what we deserved. We raised our drinks one evening to congratulate ourselves on the fortune of “our” sunset. But of course, we did not deserve these days more than any other human being. We did not deserve a dolphin show. We were simply lucky to have enjoyed both.

I sometimes think about who I am in the vast universe, believing that Stephen Crane was right when he wrote,

A man said to the universe:
“Sir I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”

We are all just one part of something larger, a universe that we are lucky to be alive in, a universe that we share with the sun, with cloudless blue skies, and, on occasion, with dolphins. To delude ourselves that it is more may actually create distance from what we desire, for if we believe we are entitled to beauty and majesty in nature, if we believe that it is there because of us, we will miss out on small miracles. Life happens whether we are there to witness it or not. To take for granted any one single moment of life means we have not lived it.

We measure snow by inches,
Remove it by the shovel full, blow it from our way
We make it into forts, into men, into
Artillery we lob at enemies over low, icy parapets
We brush it from our shoulders,
Let it fall upon our tongues
It sparkles even in moonlight, when each crystal
Seems to exert its independence, begging us to think
Of it alone, as one separate from the rest, as one
Beautiful, as one completely worthy of our
Contemplation, worthy of our wonder.

d.hogue 12/2010

Rebby Lee is a creative nonfiction piece. We lived in Mason City, Iowa at the time.

---

My record collection was meager and consisted mostly of 45′s. I had one Monkees album that I played over and over again, so when I was in Rebby Lee’s bedroom for the first time and saw all of her records, at least twenty, I was impressed.

Rebby Lee’s house was in my neighborhood, down at the end of the block. We lived in a rented house next to a lady with four cats. I shared a bedroom with my sister, but Rebby Lee had her own room. Her own room and a record collection. She also had her own record player. And a guitar. 

 What should we listen to?” she asked, and she seemed comfortable in the role of hostess, though I knew later that she could not have been.

“I don’t know.” I picked up a record by a guy named Hank Williams.

“Who is Hank Williams?” I asked.

Rebby Lee was a tall girl, probably about 5’7″ and somewhat plump, a word that even grandmothers in 1967 thought harmless. But she was. She was a big girl for seventh grade. She had long blond hair that she always wore in thick braids. Her calf length skirts were calico and her blouses were white percale or blue chambray. She always dressed this way, in soft blue hues, which contrasted with her ruddy, pimply complexion. And thicker than her braids were the lenses of her glasses, glasses that were a bit too large for her, big as she was. Even my glasses were too manly, as if no one thought young girls deserved to feel pretty. And my glasses were thick, too. I understood her need to squint to see the tiny print as she looked over the album I had selected.

“Hank Williams?” she said incredulously. “You don’t know who Hank Williams is?”

I will admit that I sometimes felt superior to Rebby Lee. She was a classmate, but I think I was her only friend, and mostly we were just neighbors. She was large, nearly blind, pimply, and, as I was soon to discover, a country music fan. No one listened to country music. No one who was cool anyway. And now I felt somewhat stupid, as I had never heard of Hank Williams.

She rocked back and forth on her crossed legs, something I could not really do even though I was much thinner than she. She shook her braids slightly from side to side and smiled a smile that said both that she was glad to be able to inform me and glad to know something I did not.

“He’s only the greatest country singer ever.”

“Oh,” I said, not knowing why I should be impressed. I liked Rock and Roll, not Country Western, as we called it then.

“Oh? Well, he’s so great. You wanna listen? You gotta listen.” She put the record on and we listened.

If I had not been 12 years old, if I had been older and understood that Hank Williams was indeed an influential artist whose Blues style crossed over into Rock and Roll, I would have been really impressed that another 12 year old had not one, but several Hank Williams’ albums. But I was not any of those things. He sounded old fashioned and odd to me.

“I can play this one,” she said after the song ended. “I could teach you.”

Now Rebby Lee was not my first choice for a friend, but I knew she knew how to play the guitar and I wanted to learn and I thought–even at 12 years old we can be devious like this–that maybe if I were friends with her, maybe she would teach me. It was how I got invited to her house in the first place. At school we had to give a little speech about our hobbies and she told our class that she played guitar. I got it in my head that maybe I would start walking with her sometimes to or home from school and then as we walked maybe I would ask her.

In our house next to the lady with the four cats where I shared a room with my sister, we had no money for guitars or for more than one record and my mom was having a new baby in a few months and my step dad was in a new job and there was no money for a guitar, but all the cool boys liked guitars. Rock and Roll was about guitars.

“It’s easy,” she assured me. She handed me her guitar, and showed me how to hold it, which felt overwhelming. My moment of emergence was at hand. It was easier for her to sit behind me and guide my hands and fingers. Her warmth radiated into me, her body closer to me than anyone not in my family had ever been, and yet, it felt right, like she wanted only for me to know what gave her joy. She was my teacher.

At night when I lie awake on my side of the room I shared with my sister, I would even hum in my head some of Rebby’s songs instead of the Beatles, instead of the Byrds. But I never told my sister about my new friend. I never talked about Rebby Lee at all.

There were many such afternoons together and Saturday mornings. We’d listen to Hank or Patsy Cline or Loretta Lynn. I learned to play a few chords, but I was a poor student after all. My strumming produced nothing that could ever be considered a song, and we both knew it was useless to go on. Plus, I decided it was more pleasurable to listen to Rebby Lee plunk out her own heartfelt 12 year old versions of her idols’ songs. We would sing “Your Cheatin Heart” really loud and then laugh. She had a true and honest soul. I did not.

That year I learned that I was never going to be a guitar player, and I learned that I could be cruel.

After Algebra class the large, ruddy faced girl with thick blond braids approached me excitedly to tell me that her grandpa had bought her a new Hank Williams album.

“Its a greatest hits,” she almost squealed as she squeezed her books to her chest.

I was with some other girls. They did not wear long skirts or their hair in braids. They did not listen to Hank Williams records. They thought Rebby Lee was odd. Everyone thought Rebby Lee was odd.

“Who’s Hank Williams,” I scoffed, as if I had never known Rebby Lee, as if we were not friends, real friends, not just neighbors, as if she had not trusted me with her heart.

I gave the other girls a knowing look and with them walked down the hall to French class.

June 4, 2008

I have told others of my mother, that in the days when we were poor, she never let us feel poor, and I think that may be the most important thing she ever did for us, her four children. I know it is the most important thing she ever did for me.

She never let us think that we were not special, not smart, not capable of everything we could be. That she made us feel this way in spite of some incredibly rough times after she and my father were divorced is a testament to her strength.

We could have been raggedy kids, but we weren’t. If we were different from other kids in school, I never knew it. We bought our clothes in stores like other kids, or my mother or grandmother sewed for us. We never went without meals, either. Sure, we ate cheaply, but food was fun and made with love. I loved hamburger gravy over mashed potatoes. I even secretly like liver. And who could guess that my favorite meal from those days would become a classic with my son in law: wieners, potatoes, and cheese. I always made that for my own kids. Some things from the need to be frugal simply became part of who I am.

I am not a waster. I am not a frivolous spender. As a teacher, I get angry when I see how kids take for granted all the gadgets and toys their parents buy for them. Not that I always wanted toys. I remember wanting two things growing up: an Easy Bake Oven and a piano. I never got the Easy Bake Oven. Instead, I learned how to use a real one when I was only nine years old. I can still use an oven pretty well on occasion, but the most important thing that I gained from my early experiences with cooking was an enhanced self confidence. I have long felt that I can do anything. I don’t remember my mother ever contradicting that impression. And even this influenced the kind of mother I became. I was not a “mothering” mom, overprotective, having always to do everything for my children. Instead, I expected them to be self reliant.

The hardest thing in those early days for my mother was the long hours she spent working. Her waitress jobs left her physically exhausted. I am sure I never fully appreciated that sacrifice from her. I know she was often tired, and looking back, I cannot fathom how she coped with it all. I wonder if it had been me in her place, would I have been strong enough to keep a nice home for four kids? We lived in no palaces, but our houses were always clean, inside and out.

One house in Fort Wayne I remember especially well. It was the house I learned to cook in. It was the house I learned to garden in, with a little patch of lima beans by the side of the house that nobody but me would eat. I still love lima beans. And it was the house where I learned that playing with a homemade Barbie house might even be better than a real one. My sister and I not only made our own Barbie Dream House, we made an entire Barbie town out of anything we found around. The expanse of it took up half the floor in the basement. We were queens of our realm. We imagined and learned. Those days were mostly joyful, mostly wonderful.

I think there is a certain pride within me that comes from having had little growing up. I wonder how people who had everything their little whims desired can have matured with values at all. For it is true that when we no longer desire anything either from the world or from ourselves, we have stopped living in the truest sense. I like to think that not ever having an Easy Bake Oven was a gift to my character, and I am proud that my mother never gave in to my whining.

Our life could have been otherwise. My mother, if she were not as strong and self reliant as she was, might have sunk into the despair that captured her from time to time. She could have let us plunk ourselves in front of the TV on Saturday mornings to watch cartoons instead of insisting that it was our part to help clean the house and insisting that cleaning the house was not a negotiable concept. If she were not a woman of humor and joy, we might have grown up to be cynical and sour, expecting the world owed us for our pain. If she were not a woman who knew we were always better than our circumstances, we might have given in to the demands of poverty.

It could have been otherwise. But it wasn’t. We owe this to her, to the lessons she taught us with her life.

My mother will be 73 this year, but in many ways she is younger than ever. I cannot give her the expensive gifts she deserves, but I know that she does not expect them either. This essay is my milk carton covered in a crayon design planted with marigolds. It comes as much from my heart.

A hundred pairs of feet shuffle
in an awkward dance, moving aside,
forward, back or over, moving to
get a closer look, to be out of the way,
to move on in the slow progression
snaking their way through the exhibit.

Her paintings are shown
in a logical sequence: earliest works
to later works, interspersed with displays of
artifacts—as one might call them—personal
items of the family: a silver tea set used daily,
a chicken-skin, painted fan, opera glasses,
and a hat on which lay a grey, stuffed dove,
its feathers swept upward to decorate the
dome, its silver bead-like eyes and beak
still and futile near the band—
things belonging once to the artist
or her family.

Her portraits are of intimacy with domestic life:
Mother in morning dress against a serene
white background reading the newspaper—
her brother with his son, together in a chair,
so close the black of their jackets becomes
one idea, making it impossible to tell where
the father ends or where the son begins—
women with tea, women in gardens,
women in conversation, contemplating
their reflections in water, in the world
around them apart from men—
and portraits of mothers and their children
in moments made of warmth, nursing
and bathing: a child’s feet and mother’s
strong, confident hand submerged
in a lavender basin of clear water.

And there are more, of course—vivid
images of Spanish women and bullfighters—
women at the theatre or opera in a loge,
seen and being seen—
paler, softer prints made from etched
copper plates inked with watery tints—
and pastels in which she captured the sun
as an element like gold, not quite silver,
becoming light that radiates from the eyes.

Connecting with her themes, knowing
about the women, about their needing
to be part of the modern world, we
move on to more gilded frames,
oils that gleam in the light that floods
upon them from high ceilings,
life upon canvas that stands still
upon the walls, all calling
us to reckon with the truth,
and as I round a corner, swept
along by the shuffle, I am not
prepared to see, encased in glass
as were the tea set and the hat and fan,
Cassatt’s pastels—
laid in their boxes, wooden boxes
stamped by the French maker,
covered, as with the spray of
perfume, by the fine lavender
powder of ground pastels—
and upon seeing them,
I am halted,
overwhelmed by the idea
that these are more than
the result of her imagination—
these are the tools to deliver
her imagination—and each
was held firmly or gently in
her hands, each waited to
become what only her eyes
could see, each becoming
not only part of the picture
but part of her fingers, or
flecks in her hair as she pushed
away a fallen strand, or dust upon
her cheek as her hand would
rest there—
brushed upon her skirts, that pale
dust would become part of
everything she touched as
she moved throughout the
house or the town, becoming
forever an element of her universe.

And here they were—some
wrapped in white tissue, others bare,
lined by color, in gradient order,
some large, but some
so small that to use them would
surely mean their end—
all displayed in glass
as if they were in a sacred tomb.

Her pastels—and I,
in the same room:
and for this they charge $14.00—
a bargain of immense proportion.

d. hogue, 12/07/98

She watched him
pull off the old Band-Aid,
not quickly so it wouldn’t hurt,
but slowly, over weeks,
each unavoidable tug
done as she watched
his vulnerability being torn away
with hair and skin.
The wound had needed more care
than he had given it though—
she could see that, and through
her eyes he came to know it, too.
As the gash bled anew,
as the wound reopened to view,
he wanted to cover it again,
he wanted for her to never
have seen into his pain.

As impossible as rewinding time,
as impossible as protection from
arrows in the heart,
nails at the throat,
screams in the ear
when betrayal cuts and trust dies.
As impossible as learning again
to love, to let in the tender,
honest salve of a kind word
when healing demands
time and solitude.

d hogue, 11/20/98