Random Autobiography: notes from 9 women (Tuesday Circle)

A group of women gathered in my writing studio on Tuesday morning (August 25, 2015) for the first session of the new writing season. During the first 20 minutes we each wrote notes for a "random autobiography." After going around the circle, reading these out loud, some of us decided we'd like to share them more widely. So here they are . . . .

We lived with my grandparents in a railroad apartment until I was two. The reason given was that Mom couldn't boil an egg, let alone be trusted to prepare baby formula.

One summer our extended family stayed at a bungalow colony in the Catskills. There was a parade for the 4th of July and my mother dressed me up as an Indian maiden. One of my aunts kept calling me Princess Potch in Tushie. All day people patted me on the behind but I couldn't figure out why.

I won a Lindy Hop competition, dancing with an older girl who I didn't know before she asked me to be her partner. The whole experience was thrilling. The prize was a bag of pretzels.

In junior high school I played the tuba in music class, except I never actually managed to squeeze a single note out of the instrument, and the band director was so fed up with me he ordered me stay away, to go to the library instead. The school librarian said I was the best volunteer helper they ever had. The band director gave me an "A" for the class.

When I was 14 a counselor at camp called me a hippie and I thought he was being mean about my big hips. But later, when he explained himself, I was flattered.

I remember standing on the back porch with a monarch butterfly poised on the tip of my finger, opening and closing, drying off, readying for flight. 

I remember when the elevator doors opened and we were getting off, and the kids getting in said, "Did you guys hear about Princess Diana?"

I remember when mine was the only bedroom on the first floor and how lonely i felt at bedtime. 

I remember the first lines from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn: "Serene was a word you could put to Brooklyn, New York. Especially in the summer of 1912."

I remember when my parents let me go on vacation to Maine with my high school boyfriend, and how when we got there we went grocery shopping and he bought new shampoo and said that way he would always remember the smell of the trip. 

I remember being surprised by a lemon shark gliding 10 feet beneath us as we snorkeled and how we froze and how all the brightly colored fish scattered so quickly.

I remember how my baby brother called flies "yies" and would say, "Go away, yie!" and how I still find myself thinking the same thing — "Go away, yie!" when there's one bothering me. 

In the mornings sometimes I sit and chat, luxuriating in relaxed togetherness time with my parents, friends, cousins, sister, lover — whoever is there in the living room. I love connections with people.

When I was very young, maybe 5, I had my father promise that once the Grassroots Festival office moved out of our basement he would fix it up for me as a dance studio. I subsequently forgot about that agreement, only to remember it years later and not mind.

I have one sister and we share a middle name. 

I am part of a clan of strong women, my six female cousins are really my six other sisters.

As a child I always figured I'd be in federal prison by the age I am now, 26, because my mother was.

I love salad. Lettuce. Vinegar. Give me a pickle or some sauerkraut any time of day and I'll be happy. You will find a bag of almonds in my purse, backpack, drum case, coat pocket. I love to cook.

It's really no secret that I love shoes. I remember sitting Indian-style (or, now, the more politically correct criss-cross-applesauce) on the floor of my grandmother's closet, completely enveloped by shoes. Glory be to the highest!!

I remember the endless days of summer on the farm in Mecklenburg: the cool, soft carpet of grass under my feet, riding bikes pell mell up and down the lone road in front of our house, unfurling the butterfly blanket with a snap and lying out in the sun, dripping with Bain de Soleil, reading Rich Man, Poor Man.

I remember when embroidered gauze shirts from House of Shalimar were all the rage.

I remember one of the first stories I wrote about a cat who travelled the world and all she saw and did and everyone she met along the way. I sandwiched the written pages between construction paper and bound them together with yarn. I wish I still had that small bundle.

I remember putting Vaseline in my hacked-up hair; I wanted it to look like Keith Richards's. It was weeks before that Vaseline washed out. My mother ranted over ruined pillowcases.

For some strange reason I love to feed people.

I love to read and can tune out just about any noise and focus on a book.

I love dead people, they know more than we do.

I think about my mother every day.

I have learned to have boundaries with people but I'm still open.

I am struggling with grief every day.

I have always loved dogs more than people

I remember the 1960s — dances like the boogaloo and the twist; graduating from college; participating in the Civil Rights Movement and the Peace Movement; having an illegal abortion.

I remember sitting with my mother, in the summer, on our front lawn and no mosquitoes bit us.

I remember standing next to the singer Odetta at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival.

I remember my first car, a two-door red Corvair that was my college graduation present from my parents.

My first apartment in New York — June of 1968 taught me how to live in small spaces. 

I remember being robbed at gunpoint on the first day of 1979 in my feminist bookstore in New York City, and closing the store and going home. 

I remember holding my mother’s hand when she died.

I remember sand between my toes as small waves slipped past; writing my name — the "S" backwards — in indelible ink on the bed sheet at hated nap time; a pair of blue corduroy pants with an elastic waist — when they got too short my striped socks showed.

At 5 I picked a Holstein cow from the herd, pretending that she could/would be my 4-H project. 

I remember the smell of baking oatmeal bread coming in through the open school windows.

I had two toddlers when we lived at the Hasbrouck apartments. There was no insulation in the walls; frost on the inside of the windows; wet squeaky toys on the bathroom floor.

I remember my first bike ride on the dirt road in front of my grandmother’s house.

I remember when I knew Darryl liked me, he pushed me off my bike! — age 8.

I remember my first adult bike — a heavy 12-speed Royce Union.

I remember fixing flats, adjusting brakes, and oiling chains.  

Yesterday I wore an old sock on my hand, used the orange cleaning fluid to clean the chain on my Trek hybrid, the bike that I’ve ridden  for the last 15 years.

Just yesterday my husband and I were in the bike shop regaling the mechanic with bike stories.  As customers began to line up behind us we knew it was time to calm down and come down off the mountain of memories.

I remember most of the places where we pitched our tent and spent the night on our 3048 mile ride across the USA. I relive and remember details from that trip as I try to fall asleep on sleepless nights.

I buy an alarm clock only if it has an excellent snooze button.

I like numbers divisible by 3 because they are usually the most curvaceous.

I could swim underwater before I could walk on the ground.

I hope I'm a lot like my sister and will keep a sense of humor even if, someday, I can barely get from my bed to my wheelchair, which will soon be the scope of her mobile reality.

I reason with insects, politely asking them to go away. If they won't, I escort them elsewhere or smash them, if they're especially irritating.

==

THANK YOU to these contributors:

Leah Rose Grady Sayvetz

Linda Keeler

Marty Blue Waters

Paula Culver

Sara Robbins

Sue Perlgut

Sue Norvell

Summer Killian

Zee Zahava

Today, by Nancy Osborn

Today I pulled out my meditation bench, set the timer and prepared for my morning sitting.

Today it was very dark in the room where I sit, storm clouds gathering, ready to release rain.

Today I did not have the blinds open. I could not see the leafy branches just beyond the windows.

Today I kept my eyes closed, which is the way it should be each day, but some days I can't help turning my eyes toward the sky and trees.

Today it was very quiet outside while I sat. Sometimes this is not the case.

Today I heard no bird song, no squirrel chatter, no walkers' conversations, no creek sounds of water flowing over rocks. Perhaps everything was holding its breath before the storm.

Today I wondered, was I holding my breath as well? Or was I remembering to breathe in, pause, breathe out, pause. Sometimes I forget to breathe. Sometimes I forget to pause.

Today I found my sister's face floating in my mind's eye. Perhaps because of yesterday's late afternoon conversation about her upcoming performance piece, Seven Disappearances.

Today I found myself imagining the disappearance of my sister herself. I tried to let the thought come and then flow out of me, but it wouldn't.

Today I thought of disappearances in my life. The easy ones of my meditation breaths every morning. The hard ones of deaths of family and friends.

Today I thought about the disappearances I talked of with my sister. Of mud dissolving in water, of ice melting into the ground, of food chewed and swallowed, of words written in ink gradually becoming invisible, of soap bubbles rising on the breeze and vanishing, of the notes of songs released into the air and fading away.

Today I thought of my mother, whose sense of her self has slowly disappeared into her dementia.

Today all these thoughts came and went in the pauses between my breaths.

Today I wondered where the thoughts actually went. And then I reminded myself not to dwell on thinking, but to just breathe.

Today I could hear echoes from yoga pranayama practice on how to use fingers to keep track of breaths.

Today my fingers felt restless in their usual meditation position.

Today my fingers wanted to grasp at all that was slipping through them, of my life that was disappearing — both during breaths but also during the pauses.

Today I wondered whether the pauses could help me hold on to the moment.

Today I wondered if slowing my breathing, lengthening the pauses, could help me slow down the passing of time.

Today I wondered what of my life I might be missing while I sat and breathed.

Today I wondered what of my life was held suspended in the pauses.

Today I wondered about my father's last breaths, the pauses lengthening until that's all there was.

Today I wondered if it would fall to me to count the last breaths of my sisters, or would they count mine?

Today I wondered if it would help if I could learn to synchronize my breaths with those of my sisters.

Today I remembered the quiet mornings when my cat would lie on my lap, breathing in and breathing out.

Today I wondered where all those breaths had gone: mine, my cat's, my sisters', my father's.

Today I thought about all the pauses, all those moments of not breathing.

Today I wondered if those pauses were a reminder of mortality, of the long pause lying somewhere in my future.

But for today, it was just a long moment, seven breaths perhaps.

Then came the gentle chimes of my timer and life resumed.

* The phrase "just a long moment, seven breaths perhaps" comes from "The Dam," by John Milton Oliver, and appears in the poetry collection Pine Street Poets, edited by Meg Reynolds and John Milton Oliver

WORDS! (lots and lots of words)

Last week I asked the writers in all the groups to jot down some words: words whose meaning appealed to them; words with good associations; words that sound pleasant when spoken out loud; words that feel good when rolled around on the tongue; words that just happened to pop into their minds in that moment, with pen in hand. 

Here are some of the many words that came up. 

This is a long read! Take your time. Read the list in order. Or jump around. Consider this: what words would you add to this list? 

haiku  today  fluid  gaggle  meow  honeycomb  chickadee  unglued  amaryllis  waves vibrant hedgehog  lark  mulch  calendar  popsicle  gazette  bluebird  solitude  cuss  bodacious  chocolate  twilight  iris  gibberish  marmalade  stamina  chewy  ligularia  chrysalis  kindness  luminous  pyramid  mango  cowgirl  azalea  friend  bold  sanguine  nonsensical  forbearance  buttercup  compassion y'all bedtime  birthday  jalopy  generous  roiling  wrinkle  moonshine  flexible  howdy  delicious  serenity  dill  conundrum  pumpernickel  puddle  magic  owlet  underpants  reincarnate  salacious  hug  sassy  nosh  perchance  ribald  juicy  cherish  rainbow  cusp  genie  thrive  alacrity  mellifluous  prolific  delphinium  heartbeat  resilient  inevitable  lascivious  ruse  serendipity  raunchy  contentment  trickle  formidable 

jocular  rhubarb  heretofore  hiccup  seashell  yammer  penmanship  coffee  surreal  recycle  guffaw  paranormal  water  ancient  jumble  tidbits  generous  chronometer  charismatic  laugh  juxtaposition  frowzy  family  listen  carousel  dare  omnivore  scandal  magpie  hallelujah  whisper  iridescent  daydream  illuminate  precipitous  raspberry kawaii quench  puppies  hilarity  limning  bicycle  cupcake  peace  chickpeas  calendula  balance  persnickety  bud  papaya  galoshes  Buddha  plotz  tango  solace  passion  reverie  onomatopoeia  infinite  scrumdidleeumptious  cuddle  dreamscape  stretch murmur  hootenanny squishy enigmatic  calypso  impeccable  mosaic  shinola  balsamic  pineapple  karaoke  superfluous  souffle  caramel  peony  Crocs  vagina  elf  oy  Amazonian  fantasy  schmutz  seabreeze  capricious  shitake  rambunctious  trellis  bumbershoot  undulate  whirligig  caterwaul  exhale  eccentricity  verdant  ambidextrous  loquacious  auspicious  clairvoyant  toe  bristle  circle  wizardry  wishbone  flagrant  mellow  universe  spritz  dormant  root  pure  hapless slippery  mindful  bonafide  extravagant  celestial  flippant  buttons  forgiveness  sultry  horticulture  firelight  jolly  tacky  doodle  welcome birdsong  unfathomable  foodie  splendiferous  accessorize  wordlessness 

Contributors (thank you all!):

Barbara Cartwright, Blue Waters, Deirdre Silverman, Donna DiCostanzo, Gabrielle Vehar, Grace Celeste, Hannah Utter, Jim Mazza, Linda Keeler, Liz Burns, Louise Vignaux, Mike Schaff, Molly Sutton, Nancy Gabriel, Nancy Osborn, Nina Miller, Priscilla Walker, Rob Sullivan, Sara Robbins, Stacey Murphy, Stacey Payette, Sue Crowley, Sue Perlgut, Susan Lesser, Yvonne Fisher, Zee Zahava

True That: 3 Short Pieces on Weirdness, by Sue Crowley

1. 

My next door neighbor has an old wooden puppet hanging from the ceiling in her pottery studio. She calls it "Mr. Thing." I didn't realize that it was possible to have very powerful reactions to inanimate objects until I met Mr. Thing. He is ominous, scary, even evil. When I visit the studio, I ask her to lock it in a closet. You may think me silly and perhaps I am, but there is something off about Mr. Thing. He carries with him a history, like awful events follow in his trail. It gives me chills every time I see it.

2. 

When I was a little girl at Knapp Creek Elementary School, my best friend, Linda Felmlee, and I would walk to school early so we could sit on the swings and play for awhile before Mrs. Lundgren, the Principal, came out on the steps to clang her cowbell, signaling the village that school was open so get a move on. 

It was a lovely spring morning much like this one.  Suddenly, Linda stopped swinging and pointed skyward. "Look at that," she said. "Look." She was pointing at an oval silver shape that sat motionless in the sky above the houses across the road. We stared at it for several minutes, wondering and in awe. It was quite beautiful really. The object appeared completely still, it made no sound.

   

When we saw Mrs. Lundgren step out, we ran as fast as we could, shouting "Look!  Look!" But when we got to the bottom of the schoolhouse steps and looked up again, the silver egg in the sky was gone. Just gone. Mrs. Lundgren responded to our excited chatter about a flying saucer with a curt, "You girls are just imagining things."  As children, we knew our story would never be believed by grown-ups. 

   

A few years later when I was a teenager, our neighbor and my mother's best friend, Madge, was sitting at our kitchen table. Over coffee, she rather

sheepishly confided to Mother that once, a few years before, early one spring morning she had been outside hanging clothes on the line, when she saw a floating silver oval object suspended in the sky above her house. Back then, her house had been directly across the road from the elementary school. Finally, the grown-ups believed.

3.  

There are mysteries that cannot be solved.

     

I am talking about something that happened in 1957 or '58. Do you remember the kind of terrified that perhaps only a child can feel? Alone in the dark in their bed? I do. When I would wake in the night, the ceiling seemed alive with ominous shapes, shifting in the air above me. Though my big sister was sleeping only a few feet away, I could never bring myself to call out to her. 

Frozen in place, I was convinced that with even the slightest movement or sound those dark shapes would take form and descend upon me in an instant. Just opening my mouth to speak might alert them to my consciousness, my awareness of their being. Slowly, so slowly I would inch my blanket up to cover my eyes. Or just close my eyes and pray they would be gone when I opened them again.

   

One night, something different happened. I woke in the night and saw a man standing at the foot of my bed. He was dressed in robes and had long hair. He stood slender and silent. He was no ordinary man. I thought he was an angel, but was terrified nonetheless. I looked at him for what seemed a very long time. He never moved or spoke, he was a presence only. Eventually, exhausted, I fell asleep.

She Just Wants, by Susan Lesser

She just wants …

To lie in bed eating chocolates, dark chocolates, maybe a few will have nuts. Maybe she will also have an orange, and a cup of tea.

That bed to be a king-size bed with room to sprawl out with books beside and pillows behind, and, of course, the box of chocolates, some with nuts.

The pillows to be covered in silk, blue like the sky silk and green like emeralds silk. If there needs to be pink on the pillows, she just wants it to remind her of the inside of a seashell dredged up from the ocean depths, still feeling shy at finding itself in the sunlight. 

She just wants …

Books strewn over half the bed, books she has never yet read, with gold-edged leaves, that pulse there on the handwoven spread, inviting her to open the cover, and other books with thumb-worn pages and mellow spines that already know she loves them and they will always have a home. She just wants to take her time deciding.

She just wants …

A cat, or maybe two, curled up at the foot of the king-size bed, cats that purr when she wiggles her toes against a rounded feline tummy. 

She just wants …

To have someone else to pay the bills and boil the carrots, to fold the laundry, to call the vet, to send the cards, to sweep the green and white floor clean for today.

To have someone collect all the bits of a day and put them in a basket just outside her closed door, to hold them there for safekeeping, for tomorrow.

She just wants …

Someone else to answer the phone, or as is most likely the case, to check the caller ID and let the phone ring itself out since the caller is, once again, Anonymous — Out of Area.

She just wants … 

To be Anonymous and Out of Area, there behind the closed door on the king-size bed with the box of chocolates, dark and dreamy, and the Books-in-Waiting. 

She’s just wants …

The sky-blue and emerald pillows to cradle her, and the cats to look up and yawn and stretch and go back to sleep.

NOTE: This piece is inspired by a collection of poems called "She Just Wants," by Beverly Rollwagen

Auditory Hallucination, by Stacey Murphy

Willow at the edge of the marsh

wiggles her toe-roots in the cold mud

as the sweet racket

of thousands of peeper frogs

washes through her branchy fingers

and the continuous trilling

gently coaxes the bark from the ends

of buds and their beginnings

with a chorus of

“At long last,

we have made it.

You are safe to grow again.”

Something from Utah, by Carol Miller

I take down the salt glazed teapot from a high shelf,

admiring blue fish patterns brushed on the cream background,

remove the perfectly fitting lid

and spoon a tablespoon of fragrant green tea into the mesh holder.

Tea for two.

I pour the hot water

over the dried leaf fragments,

replace the perfect cover

and brew.

The tea was bought in Salt Lake City, Utah,

carried east on Delta Airlines and gifted to us.

We were thought of in Salt Lake City —

that this selection of green tea flavored with walnuts, 

a dusting of coconut and a whiff of pineapple

would make us happy and content.

===

This poem was inspired by “Bounty," by Robyn Sarah