Crooked Door Storytelling

Maybe you know that E.E. Cummings (yes, that e e cummings) once wrote a book of fairy tales. First published in 1950 and dedicated to his daughter, they are four gentle and funny stories, accompanied by fanciful drawings befitting the poet’s often playful way with words.

What you don’t know is that I once made a path in the corner of my backyard, laying out a collection of uneven stones I’d discovered between our garage wall and our wild raspberry patch. I spent a sunny day long ago lugging a number of them into a less-than-linear trail that met the leafy paperbark maple in our deepest corner, a tree whose caramel-colored trunk and branches curl beautifully upward, like a birch or willow sometimes does.

You also don’t know the path became hidden after years of neglect—but that can't be a surprise, can it? I’m sure you’d agree there are so many other things to attend to in one’s work and life. Paths of singular importance and no consequence easily become overgrown and ignored when other duties call.

In fact, the path was almost forgotten until this summer. My youngest child unearthed it so that I see it every day from my kitchen window or when I stand in just the right place on the back porch. Every day the crooked, little, winding way, lost but now found, makes me think of these lines from one of those Cummings fairy tales. It is a conversation between two friends who love each other very much. Who help each other go further and be bolder as they venture together into parts neglected or unknown.

Here's to well-loved friends and family who help make us braver as we find our way forward along the paths we are travelling.

Let’s keep going, shall we?
*******
“…Then the elephant said: ‘I’m so happy. I think we ought to go for a walk together you and I: for now the rain has stopped and the curling road smells beautifully.’

And the butterfly smiled and said: ‘Yes, but where shall you and I go?’

‘Let’s go away down and down the curling road where I’ve never been,’ the elephant said to the little butterfly. And the butterfly smiled and said: ‘I’d love to go with you away and away down the curling road—let’s go out the little door of your house and down the steps together—shall we?’"

https://liferiffs.typepad.com/my_weblog/2020/07/a-curling-path.html

It felt right to rework this piece this week. To paraphrase Robert Frost: one could do worse than be a writer who has sold roses.

Courage.
**********
Space, Light, Water, Air

The roses in my backyard started to bloom this week. I have planted more than a dozen varieties among the native perennials and insect-friendly plants, and am encouraged, in a small way, by their insistence at entering such an anguished world. Like Hope, they belong to a tenacious genus but where Hope arrives feathered and flighty, roses are a contradiction of perfumed petals and sharp thorns. Their presence is fitting for these days.

Once upon a time, my strongest association with roses was that my grandmother hated them. She said they reminded her of Death, returned her to scented Back of the Yards parlor wakes held among Chicago’s Irish immigrant families who did not use funeral homes in the early 20th century. There are multiple stories within that story, but I will not digress. Instead, I’ll share what I discovered while working at my local garden center for two summers, helping customers consider roses.

Those who discuss roses, whether they love them or loathe them, wind up telling stories about lives and living (as my grandmother did). No other flora or fauna offer such opportunity for brief and intimate conversations between strangers. Some of the stories I heard are encapsulated here, along with reflections about the many subjects we talk about—casually, hopefully, perhaps among roses—on long days or warm nights. Moments when it seems we have more time and willingness to reflect on our circumstances and learn from each other.

**********

You are looking for a rose, you say?

A pretty one

A fragrant one

A blooming one

One with thorns

One without thorns

One that can handle shade

One that climbs

One that spreads

One that stays low

One that’s priced right.

One that

is just like the rose you swear bloomed every day, all summer long throughout your childhood, on your aunt and uncle’s farm in Indiana. Sure, I’ll wait while you call your daughter to see if she remembers its name.

Or one that reminds you of

Your grandmother in Greece, who pruned hers back in the fall instead of spring when the forsythia bloom or

Your mother in Mexico, who likes the orange and yellow ones and grows them like no one else does or

Your Italian father (now passed), who skillfully, easily grafted roses. Who taught you how to do the same so now your yard is filled with roses you nurture with a love that echoes his or

Your parents in Oregon, who successfully tended to multiple varieties on an acre of land, year after year, throughout their five decades together.

Hmmm. You’d like one that carries the fragrance of

Your spring in England

Your forest in Bosnia

Your marketplace in Syria

Your garden in Holland

Your countryside in Eritrea

Your backyard in Australia

Your fields in Vietnam

Your roadside in South Africa

Your Indian village at night.

Oh, I see. You aren’t concerned about smell because you don’t get out of the house much at your age, and you want to see it from your spot at the kitchen table where you eat breakfast.

So, you want a rose in your favorite shade of

Yellow

Red

White

Pink

Orange

Purple

No, there really is no such thing as a Blue rose.

You’d like one to

Mark your anniversary

Block annoying neighbors from view

Grow by the cemetery headstone

Help you win the Garden Show

Fill the empty spot at your new house

Decorate the apartment courtyard

Welcome her new baby

Honor the stillborn child

Calm your stressed-out client

Dissuade drunken revelers from traipsing through your yard

Celebrate his birthday

Punish surreptitious peeping Toms

Thank your doctor

Replace the one(s) that died

Take care of something you’ve never taken care of before.

I am nodding because I can tell you want me to promise this rose will grow easily each year, no matter where you put it or how you handle its planting. That you want it to bend in the right direction, perhaps without a trellis or maybe within a container, and create the romantic effect you dream of. That you do not want your rose beset by bugs, mildew, or disease. By yellow leaves, shriveled buds, or renegade canes.

Here’s a handout with advice on how to address those issues. Note that they need space, light, water, and air. Yes, the handout is double-sided, single-spaced. It’s very helpful. Please read it.

Before we go further, let me also clarify that, despite the time, money, energy, dedication, knowledge, and fervent wishes you give to this rose, the unpredictable often occurs. Of that I am certain.

You must pay attention, and also follow your instincts about doing what is right for them.

Let us discuss planting, regular feeding, pruning and protecting.

Let us factor in rain, cold, heat, humidity, decay.

Let us touch upon USDA zones, strange weather occurrences (climate change, if you seem amenable to the term), destructive humans and other animals, and viruses that lurk in the soil or travel through the air.

But we are talking about so much more. We have been talking about so much more since we started talking.

We are revealing ambition, pride, confidence, ego, insecurity, faith, doubt, appreciation, curiosity, worry.

We are confessing loneliness, competition, disappointment, uncertainty, expectations, happiness.

We are acknowledging changes that are happening in your life, to your body, at your work, within the spaces you call home.

We are exploring joy, beauty, infirmity, jealousy, memory, patience, grief, celebration, effort, commitment.

While you are deciding on a rose to buy, we are uncovering the dynamics of marriage and partnership, friendship, prejudice, freedom, and gender.

We are examining multiple dimensions of geography, children, death, age, business, expression, safety, and education.

We are learning about botany, history, s*x, imagination, family ties, longings, beliefs, community, religion, creativity, and politics.

We are coming to terms with wonderful circumstances you never thought would be part of your existence. Or sharing discomforting narratives you didn’t expect your story to take. Or noting the decisive moments of your journey so far.

May I speak honestly?

Roses are demanding, as most living things are. They may reside briefly on this earth or live for years, their roots deep and strong. I believe you will come to realize they are hardy in ways you do not fully appreciate now.

What I’m saying is: do not be daunted.

Perhaps it is best to remind you what is essential if they are to flourish.

Space

Light

Water

Air.

They need to be able to breathe, you know.

Just like us.

https://liferiffs.typepad.com/my_weblog/2020/06/space-light-water-air.html

Due to complex circumstances, I was “just” a mother for a number of years. It was one of most rewarding and most challenging jobs I’ve ever had, and I excelled at it. Contrary to what acquaintances, some friends and family members, business-related professionals, and potential employers have assumed (whether aware of their assumptions or not), the fact that what I did is not easily defined or monetarily valued does not mean I stopped thinking, learning or nurturing my own goals. Suffice to say, it's been a intense journey for me to process the impact that era of my motherhood has had on my life.

I share the following memory ahead of tomorrow to celebrate all of us who mother, regardless of gender or genetic ties. And to those who “just” mother: I hope our current times continue to increase respect and recognition for the efforts--and costs--of your labors. Never, ever, let anyone diminish your worth, your ambitions, and your work.

Happy Mother's Day.
**********
Hands on Deck

We were on our annual “Downtown Summer Adventure” with one of my friends and her kids, and in the midst of the chaos and frustration that is part of going anywhere in a shopping mall with five young children, we were pulled aside by an overfriendly salon employee. Enthusiastic and eager to sell product to passersby, he began by turning on the charm for my friend.

He pivoted to me, and took my hand.

He asked if I was a nurse, or if I worked in a restaurant, or as a gardener. I mumbled an explanation about “just” mothering three of the children around him. He complimented the ring I was wearing (“I love your ring! Whatkindofstoneisthat? It’sreallybeautiful!”), which won him a brief reprieve from my distaste at his aggressive smiling. But the vibe of this sales encounter quickly shifted as he took a closer look my fingernails.

He shook his head.

I heard a “tsk, tsk.”

From a pocket of his apron, he whipped out what appeared to be a simple buffer and, while extolling its unique abilities and miracle virtues, proceeded in the space of 30 seconds to smooth and polish my nail so that it shone as if I had a fresh coat of clear gloss on it. It was really, really shiny. Beautiful. It made the rest of my fingers look even older and drier and more unkempt than they already looked, and my hands even more wrinkled than I cared to acknowledge.

I walked away without buying the buffer or anything else. Instead, for hours afterward, I fumed at how I’d let this guy make me feel bad about my rough and worn hands. Too late, I realized what I should have said.

“Yes, in fact, I am a nurse. And a cook. And a gardener. I am a budget director, a project manager, a tech expert, an accountant, a financial planner, and a crisis consultant. A skilled negotiator, a sometimes-politician, a detective, a warrior, an occasional spy. A curator, photographer, space organizer, and interior decorator.

“I am a scheduler, a travel agent, a dental assistant, a busgirl, a nutritionist. I use my hands daily as a referee, a crossing guard, a tutor, a chauffeur, a manicurist, a masseuse, and personal dresser. I am a laundress and seamstress and tinker. A carpenter, painter, and mover. I have been a butt-wiper and vomit-cleaner and washcloth-soother and hand-holder and nightmare-comforter longer than you can even fathom. I am a sandcastle-builder and fort-raiser, a pool-tender and bug-finder and lunch note-writer, as well as a pretty good hugger, tear-drier, and bubble-bath maker. I am a head coach and lead counselor and cheerleader captain rolled into one.

“However, my most sacred duties are these, which I will share with you, even though you may not understand their value:

“I am a poet, a singer, an artist, a storyteller. I am a keeper of dreams, a sharer of secrets, a collector of memories. I am versed in unpredicted sorrows, unexpected betrayals, unbridled laughter, and incalculable joys. I am an acolyte of infinite possibilities, unlimited potentials, the power of imagination, and the constancy of love.

"I am a wonder, and you should consider yourself lucky to grasp a hand like mine.”

Then, finished with my answer, I should have raised that nail, attached to the middle finger of my left hand, waved it high in front of him, and walked away.

--edited from liferiffs post, “All Hands on Deck,” August 2011

Oof. I tried to rescue this guy today...tried being the operative word. It breaks my bird-loving heart every time I fail & have to say goodbye, I'm sorry. And it always reminds me what it felt like the first time.

**********
Birding Lessons

A little advice: when the Flower Child of the block comes ringing your doorbell at 8 a.m. the Monday that school resumes from Spring Break, think twice before answering. Know that you are going to be waylaid in some Very Meaningful Way having to do with Nature. It never fails. She is a lovely girl of 12, and creatures great and small think her as marvelous and fascinating as she does them, but her overriding concern for her latest living thing this morning is something you are ill-equipped to handle amid the rush to get healthy children to school and sick ones back to bed.

Give it a go anyway for, after all, you are a Grown-Up. Someone Who Knows What To Do. And when she asks you to save the baby bird she has just rescued from a window pane collision, scurry into your Arts and Crafts supplies bunker and find a child-sized shoebox to contain the little creature. With some air of authority (you hope), toss in wet leaves without thinking. Placate her but opine that the bird should stay out of a child-sized shoebox, righting itself from its collision naturally and perhaps finding its way back to its own mother. Who are either of you to interfere with Nature?

The bird seems to echo this very question, hopping out of the box each time the little girl grabs hold of him and places him in there. But she is a Flower Child Who Loves Nature and she insists with a mature certainty beyond her years that the bird needs care. Oblige, even though rescuing a bird is something you’ve never done before and it’s clear that her rescue effort has become yours now, too.

For rescue is what the Flower Child wants, with conviction. Before she continues her walk to the school bus, she pleads with you to go online and get information about the care of wounded baby birds. She thinks it’s a woodpecker. You think it’s a goldfinch but do not discuss these finer points. Agree to her entreaties, and make a mental note that you will do this when you return from school and errands.

Get home an hour later, peek into the shoebox and learn quickly, with dread, that the little bird is clearly dead. Spindly legs curled under a puffed out breast, a brown-black eye fixed on some point of the cardboard box with a glassy stare, a victim of shock or injury or cold. You will never know.

Keep your promise. Look up the information and then spend the day playing a Dr. Frankenstein of sorts, going through what grief experts say is the first stage. Denial. Move the bird, so pretty really, into a new child-sized shoebox (again from the Arts and Crafts bunker), propping it up carefully, gently on facial tissue as instructed and as you should have done in the first place. Wet leaves on a cold, windy day? What were you thinking? Move the box to a quiet, dark place near the space heater turned up to high and wait. Let your own, inner 12-year-old Flower Child believe a miracle could happen.

Realize a miracle is not forthcoming, despite the faint hope that flickers each time you take the top off the box in those first few hours. Resign yourself to the fact that you promised to look up information, not cure or resurrect the bird. But feel guilty anyway that you let Mother Nature down regarding the care of one of her creatures. Think about what to tell the Flower Child when she comes to your door after the school bus ride home, walking to your house to hear news of her (your) winged patient. Think how you have spent the day checking on the bird each time your toddler asks to see it; she knows on some level that the bird is dead but remains fascinated with each viewing of the small, yellow-hued bird that seems to be sleeping in a shoebox in her kitchen.

The Flower Child never stops by after school. Day turns into evening turns into night. Turn the space heater off, but keep the bird on the kitchen chair until tomorrow because the Flower Child will stop by again in the morning as you try to hurry out. Be prepared with your explanations then, and offer her the remains for a memorial. Offer to hold the memorial in your backyard, if she wishes. Above all things and after all this, don't just throw the bird away.

Finally, consider the whims, and the expectations, of children. They once were yours and, sometimes, remain yours still.

April, 2009

https://liferiffs.typepad.com/my_weblog/2009/04/birding-lessons.html

Mr. Raispis died last week.

Surely, O Muse, you must revel in how he sang to us.

**********
Magister Vivas Tempore

I said I’d like to take French.

“Make Latin your only choice,” my father responded as I filled out the form for my high school language class. “That way you’ll be sure to get it.”

Discussion over. Protest was futile. The Jesuits of St. Ignatius College Preparatory had only recently made the radical decision to allow girls into the crumbling halls and onto the bowed stairways of their drafty old Chicago high school to stave off its demise, and my father—although not one to embrace the label of “feminist”—intended his elder daughter to take full benefit of their teaching prowess, the first girl in my family tree to be able to do so. I had no choice in this aspect of my education; when I began my freshman year in 1982, I would study the language of ancient male philosophers and poets, of politicians and priests, of landed gentry and Jesuit-educated Catholic schoolboys as my father had once been.

That first year was uneventful and rote—sum, es, est, sumus, estis, sunt; bonus, bona, bonum, et cetera. I memorized vocabulary, studied tenses, attempted to understand declensions. Veni? Vidi? Yes. Every day. Vici? Not so much.

When my father died two weeks before my freshman final exams, I suspect (and still do) that several teachers gave my test scores sympathetic boosts so that I finished the semester with surprisingly stellar grades, grades that propelled me to seats in sophomore year classes populated with some of the smartest people I’ve ever known. Perhaps in stunned deference to my father, I also chose to not only continue with Latin; I would undertake Ancient Greek.

Enter Mr. Raispis.

For the next three years, I was one of his students, albeit an unremarkable one among the scores he taught. I sat in the back corner of his third-floor classroom, two rows away from the wide and warped window that provided a view of the immigrant-built church we were no longer allowed to attend, as the deteriorating structure had been condemned for being a safety risk to the student body. Among the classmates I remember, Dan and Dan and Jeff and Scott sat nearby; a few rows over were Jen and Mary and Maria and Judy; Robert and Robert and Chris and Tom and another Dan at the front of the room. We were a merry, motley band of discipuli studying with one of the best magistri the school ever had, although I imagine few of us realized it at the time.

Together we commenced to learn classical words and ways. We memorized and recited the first ten lines of The Odyssey; practiced our Greek letters (my handwriting still reflects the influence of their shapes); learned to sing in Latin (Gaudeamus Igitur; Adeste Fideles; Ningiat, Ningiat, Ningiat); undertook our own translation efforts on passages, including those from The Iliad describing Achilles’ war-induced grief and rage.

Throughout the years, Mr. Raispis demonstrated not just knowledge of all these things, but love. He wanted us to love the stories and the histories the way he did. He read Homer with a cadence and care I still vividly recall from more than three decades’ distance: we could see each rosy-fingered dawn that split the horizon during Odysseus’ long journey home, hear the boulders of Sisyphyus’ eternal task shudder again and again and again down the mountainside. Mr. Raispis encouraged us to seek the favor of the Gods and Goddesses each spring when we poured our pomegranate juice offerings out of that rattling third-floor window, in view of the condemned church. He celebrated the dioramas we created of Polyphemus, that stupid Cyclops, being tricked by the wily hero soldier. Amid much wailing and gnashing of teeth (in real life and in the texts), we came to understand the long-suffering wait of lonely Penelope, the heartsickness of banished Circe, the ominous clairvoyance of Tiresias.

I remain clumsy with learning languages. This became obvious to me as I attempted to embrace modern offshoots of the Romance tree and discovered I was rooted in Latin. The frustrated, short-tempered Italian teacher at university couldn’t fathom how I clung to Latin endings when I filled in the blanks of his quizzes. Well-meaning Spanish instructors were mystified at the Latin verb tenses that showed up as last-minute answers on their tests.

Nowadays, my education in Latin and Ancient Greek is most often a brief, quirky topic of party conversation from which I quickly move on. However, I have never let go of—can’t, refuse to—the more profound lessons Mr. Raispis conveyed: how to embrace not just the structure but the feel of a language, how to revel in the rhythms of poetry as words course through one’s head and heart. Those lessons have served me well as a reader and as a writer, and I am forever grateful for them.

I remember Mr. Raispis as a scholarly, good-humored gentleman--an even-toned, gentle man, reminiscent of Ray Bolger’s kindly, brilliant Scarecrow in “The Wizard of Oz,” a quiet bard of a not-quite-dead-yet language and diminishing traditions. He was one of the teachers in my life who’s had a lasting effect on my learning, a phenomenon to which I was oblivious while it happened. And like one of the heroes he spent his life elevating and advancing, he deserves a long, loud chorus of praise.

Surely, O Muse, you must revel in how he sang to us.

https://liferiffs.typepad.com/my_weblog/2020/04/magister-vivas-tempore.html

For two seasons not so long ago, I worked with a small and mighty group of women who turn what looks like sticks and stalks into works of art and beauty. The lessons I learned under their tutelage will stay with me forever.

Pruning Lesson The contents inside the large and soggy cardboard box are unimpressive when you peel away the plastic coverings: tightly-stacked, plastic tie-bound bundles of 10 sharp green and thorny sticks, each stick growing out of a muddy, rope-like mass.You try to...

He "'had the courage to write stories with unhappy endings. He didn’t believe that you should try to be good because it pays...but because evil stems from intellectual and emotional stuntedness and is the one form of poverty that should be shunned.'"

The Importance of Being Scared: Polish Nobel Laureate Wisława Szymborska on Fairy Tales and the Necessity of Fear “Andersen had the courage to write stories with unhappy endings. He didn’t believe that you should try to be good because it pays … but because evil stems from intellectual and emotiona…

On March 12, I'll draw deeply from my experiences as a journalist-turned storyteller-turned Narrative Strategist to lead a workshop on Narrative Strategy: What it is, Why it's important and How to develop one that will strengthen your marketing and branding efforts.

Started last year by two smart, creative entrepreneurs, Sunnyside Chats is a monthly breakfast workshop series with personality and substance. As I shift from Arts Education and focus on organizational storytelling with my new firm -- Punctuate -- I've learned so much about running a business and have connected with a dynamic group of fellow small business owners.

Tickets are available now for the Chicago-based event. And if it's your first time treat yourself to the sticker and button swag, and make sure to arrive early to sample the always-yummy offerings. See you in a few weeks!

Sunnyside Chats : Crafting Your Brand Message - March 12 Join us for Sunnyside Chats - Crafting Your Brand Message with Genevieve Waller of Puctuate - part of the monthly breakfast series hosted by Andi Mints Design + Indigo & Violet Studio. We will rotate through business + personal development topics and breakfast and coffee will be served with networki...

I stopped by the drugstore for a grab bag gift today. 'Tis the season for Joyce to come to mind. (repost)

Gift Wrapped I just finished wrapping presents and, as usual during this annual ritual, my mind turned to Joyce. Joyce worked year-round at Bercier-Henning, the local drugstore and our neighborhood’s stalwart contribution to that slice of iconic Americana. Among the employees, Joyce...

Seven years since that day. Two years since I wrote this. And still far too many gone, and gone, and gone.

For Newtown She wore a blue corduroy shift, the color of a winter afternoon sky, and a white turtleneck underneath it that complemented the sparkly snowflake-and-tree applique on the dress, and her pink patent shoes. She caught your eye when she came...