Note: “Soul Sister” belongs to the kids and I. Frank is warming up to it. I am selfishly jealous when I hear it in public; I like to think of the song as just ours. We crank it up and sing along and move with it when it shows up on one of our playlists, wherever we are.
Also note: I wrote most of this blog entry a week ago. School had just started, temperatures had dipped, and I was feeling nostalgic about summer. I said trembly things like “Summer’s variance is a layered delight,” and talked about smelling fall in the light filtering through open windows. Poetic, but a little incoherent. What does that all mean, really? I’m not sure. Suffice it to say, I’m kind of sad that summer is on its way out. I’m eyeing the sweaters stashed high in my closet woefully. So, I’ll invite summer to linger. I’ll talk about it, flatter it into staying. And then I’ll ease inconspicuously and non-chronologically into an epic tale of how we squeezed most of our summer fun into nine summer days.
Summer’s heat can evoke anything from steam cookers and dry ovens to the slow, sweet caress of a lover. And ah, the luxury of bare legs (and even feet) to traverse the stretched-out length of day with (am I waxing poetic again? Well).
Still, on one particularly nice summer’s day, l sat with very, very cold toes in the over-zealously air conditioned cabin of a small plane flying out of Pasco, Washington. I looked through my porthole, down at patches and circles of various crops staked out in the sagebrush and cheatgrass and white hot sun of the arid Northwest, and was amazed at the artistry of farmers. Did they imagine, when they planted a circle of corn in this section and left that one fallow and planted the other in a rectangle of wheat– did they imagine how wonderfully graphic their conglomerate would look from the air? Miles and miles of checkers, bars, and circles. Gold, green, brown.
An hour or so after the flight from Pasco, I waited (shivering–too-ambitious air conditioning again) with Frank in the Salt Lake airport for a flight to Texas. He was on his cell phone, taking care of business, his laptop processing an invoice, and I was his traveling companion. Frank had work in San Antonio. I’d packed gauzy summer dresses for my evenings with him, and my laptop for the quiet days alone in the hotel. I was looking forward to writing wonderful stuff (not yet having encountered the cricket), meeting up with a friend, and exploring the city. I was also wishing that finding my way through airports was as intuitive and natural for me as it is for Frank. I didn’t like constantly looking to him for cues: where to go, whether to put the camera in a separate bucket when our luggage was scanned, whether my little tube of lipgloss qualified as a liquid (or possibly an explosive). My earrings had set off alarms when I went through security. Frank held my ticket for me as we boarded in Pasco; I would rather have held it myself. I thought seriously about running the wrong way up a down escalator in Salt Lake.
(And on the way back from San Antonio, I would forget about my hairspray, and would be pulled conspicuously aside while a security guard rummaged through my bag of still very sweaty workout clothes– thanking his lucky stars that he had latex gloves on. I should have named this blog entry “Sweat”).
Two days before Salt Lake, Frank and Nora and I were at a wedding in Fairview, on the coast of Washington. This is a place where summer is usually at its mildest and gentlest. Paradise. For the wedding, it rained; the ceremony was moved into a ballroom and the wedding supper moved under canopies; the blossoming gardens were vibrant in the drizzle. The bridesmaids cried through the ceremony, and huddled affectionately round their lady during the supper. I was moved. The groomsmen were mildly entertaining in their inebriation. There is so much to take in at weddings. They are always (for me at least) well worth sitting (or eating, or dancing) through. We had left the rest of our children in Oregon with my parents and a bevvy of cousins and aunts and uncles, and a boat. I regret leaving them; they ought to have been at their uncle’s wedding.
Nora was one of the flower girls. She wore a white satin dress that I had sewn in a rush only days before. Sleeveless. I skimped on sleeves to save time; her two cousins had nice puffy ones. But the fabric matched, and the little sashes, and their hair shone as only little girl’s hair does. In a tight clutch, the three flower children shuffled down the aisle ahead of the bride, tossing petals determinedly and at random over their heads and each other’s shoulders. I say tight clutch; I’m not kidding. Their backs and bottoms were pressed firmly against each other in their progression (which meant that one walked backwards and two scooted sideways), a position the Three Musketeers might have wisely chosen in an ambush. It was all lovely, the bride was elegant and beautiful (I’m so excited to have a new sister) and the groom…well, of course he was handsome and all that, but I was particularly struck by how grown up he’s become. I’ve known him since he was twelve. My son’s age. And we’re always noticing how like the two (uncle and nephew) are.
Three days before Pasco (and five days after the art festival and how many days before the wedding I can’t remember), the van was packed. It held enough luggage to last seven people nine days. It also held the seven people (a cousin took Michaelyn’s spot, who was working for my parents on their farm in Oregon this summer). Plants were watered and assigned caretakers (Thank you Richie and Caleb). The house was littered with the aftermath of packing. The refrigerator was nearly empty, except for a still-regretted half pint of cream and a dozen eggs and a few obscure condiments (two partial jars of capers, mustard, etc). I hadn’t shopped all week, which meant the fridge was conveniently empty for our absence, but also that we’d eaten strange things to stay alive.
But Larry and Alice! What to do with our outlaw kitties? Frank pulled rank, or made an executive decision, or something, and said this is it. We’re finding new homes for them. We added the kitties to the seven people and the luggage and took them to the animal shelter on our way out of town. (I think having a kitty at large in a moving vehicle may be as dangerous as driving while intoxicated. Having two at large in a moving vehicle packed with too much luggage and five children could land us in federal court). The animal shelter promised us (I think they are trained to be non-judgmental and kind, and for that I am thankful) that since Larry and Alice had their shots and were spayed and neutered and healthy and seemed nice that surely they would be adopted. Sooner than later. The ladies behind the counter smiled reassuringly at me. In a panic, Alice dug her claws into my arm, drawing blood. She was maxed out after the drive to the shelter; I was teetering on the edge of tears at the permanence and trauma of giving her up. Frank gently took her from me. I filled out the papers, ignoring the grief and guilt and sense of failure, and my bleeding arm. Frank paid the necessary fees.
The van wouldn’t start when we walked empty-armed back to the parking lot to continue our trek to Oregon. We’d left it running with the air conditioner on for the five kids (Maurya has a driver’s permit), and the battery couldn’t handle the load. Apparently. Which didn’t bode well for a long road trip. In frustration and despair, Frank leaned his head on the steering wheel, while the rest of us held our tongues. Some construction workers noticed our distress and found their jumper cables and helped us start the van again. We were relieved and grateful. Frank is dreaming of new rigs (sometimes, even I am dreaming of new rigs). I have a theory that buying a new car with a spouse must be a transcendent bonding experience (we’ve done it so rarely!)…although I suspect that the subsequent bills could potentially (and ironically) be divisive.
Maurya drove most of the way to Oregon. I sat in a back seat with the kids while Frank stayed in front to advise her. Good advice, like how not to overturn the van with lane changes, and the pros of staying on the road rather than leaving it in favor of the passing scenery. I thought I’d go helplessly crazy as she worked the kinks out of her learning curve. Eventually, I found a way to be grateful that Frank had taken it on, and that he was so calm, and that I had a good book to read (to help me keep my vow of silence, which sadly I broke a couple of times). In time the ride got smoother. Maurya’s confidence blossomed. My gratitude to Frank deepened.
In Oregon, there was a collection of my siblings (half of them) and their entourages at my parent’s house. And a reunion with Michaelyn. My mother had taken good care of her. It is always a chaotic, warm pleasure to congregate with Wilsons. My sister Julia cooked pancakes and tapioca, using non-gluten recipes amidst pithy kitchen conversation and fresh raspberry-snitching. I went running with Leah (and missed the pancakes–somebody dropped the plate). The kids slept on the living room and family room floors, and out on the deck. Some picked berries with my parents. My brother David didn’t shave, made the kids laugh, and said nothing truly shocking. Leah and Mitch brought their boat; Mitch found cool theme music for each of his victims, and cranked it as he pulled them behind the boat on a raft or on a wake board. Euphoria (until Nora fell off the raft—but Maurya and a snug life jacket saved her). My sister Nola’s smile was fresh and lovely as an apple.
We (Frank and I) left all the kids in Oregon once more with Nana and Papa and aunts and uncles and cousins when we flew to San Antonio.
San Antonio was hot and humid. Even at night. I think locals must eventually adjust to the heat and humidity, but we walked around in a sheen of sweat. I might have been mostly solitary since Frank was working, but my getaway became glamorous and social with the help of a friend who had recently moved there. The friend: Shari, one of my dearest. Shari has the most fascinating history, fraught with accident, adventure, setbacks, relocations, bees. And more. I love how she tells her stories; I’ve been begging her to guest blog for me. So I won’t give too much away here, in the hopes that she will give it away later. I will simply say that Shari is one of my favorite self-esteem strategies; I feel good about myself when I think of her as a kindred spirit.
We took in the Japanese Gardens at a deliciously slow pace. A white crane posed for us on a triple-arched stone bridge, looking like yard art in his unbelievable perfection, until he lifted off in graceful flight. Time stood still; we perspired. There were moments I might have found a little chi; the Japanese Gardens, during WWII, were re-named the Chinese Gardens (and sadly the first owners were carried off to a camp; I don’t know if they ever came back, but eventually after the war the gardens were once again recognized as Japanese). We also strolled through the Botanical Gardens, marveling at seed pods and exotic blooms and talking about important things, and sweating. We cooled off in San Antonio’s Museum of Art. We found Mr. Darcy (his gaze both compelling and playful) in a portrait whose title and artist I have forgotten. I could have cried over an elaborate tapestry made by Chinese women; it must have taken years and years of introspective tedium–in needlepoint. We reveled in the museum’s adjacent cafe (grapefruit tart with a pistachio crust!). The Botanical Gardens had a fun cafe too, with divine spinach salad. What was the dressing on it? I’m remembering a sort of nutty, smoky basil vinaigrette, but that may be another San Antonio culinary moment I’m remembering.
And I can’t forget the old Spanish mission (I wrote down the name somewhere but lost the note). I didn’t mind sweating again as we explored it: The ancient, scarred, hand carved wooden doors. The rusticated stone arches and friezes and apertures whose only function (at least to my dazzled eyes) seemed to be Beauty. And especially the lump-in-my-throat stillness of brilliant sunlight flooding into dim chapel interiors, through heavy-framed windows and doors. I’m wondering about the lump in my throat, and I’m thinking that it’s because something registers when I experience that kind of beauty. There’s an ancient recognition, and a wanting to return to something I once knew, and a knowing that I can’t stay long enough to recollect.
I took pictures of Shari walking through one of those doorways. I am going to paint it. I hope I can do it justice.
