Seven

Today Sue at Random Ramblings tagged me to name seven things I love (she thought it would make me feel better and already my heart is a little warmer). Thanks for thinking of me, Sue!

In no particular order, here are seven things I love (not most, just love):

• Obviously I love my family, especially the memories we have shared, from my mother removing her sunglasses and handing me a can of beer in order to retrieve our dog Skeeter from the murky depths of the Blackfoot Reservoir, to Casey singing songs we made up while riding in our camper on weekend getaways when we were young. I love Kevin's laugh and his dislike for mushrooms and chocolate.
• My kids, Winnie, Pip, Olive, and, of course, Duncan.
  
• Idaho in the early summer, when the mountains are still green and the smell of sage and Russian Olive trees rise up all around.
• I love my best friends in the whole world: Ruth, who spends her time super-heroing with me in our off-hours; Kevi, whose stories of food poisoning in foreign locations remind me to never take myself too seriously; David, for being my Jewish mama; Jen, for being able to harmonize to anything, including a fart; and Kelly, my "Good Friend."
  
• My Illinois restaurants, The Hoagie Hut in Highwood, where it's best to order a cheese-steak, bacon hoagie and a medium root beer, and Salutos, where everything is good, especially the salad.
• The magic of words, making my own, as well as those of others, such as Tom Spanbauer, Mary Oliver, Tim Muskat, Phil Simmons, Michael Cunningham, Jonathan Franzen, Michael Chabon, Geoffrey Eugenides and John Irving.
• Ken, with all my heart.

And because seven is simply too small a number I've also thrown in some random loves: peanut sauce, new socks, clean sheets, Orion and Venus, tres leches, butterflies and dragonflies, the music of Patty Griffin, the quiet moment of darkness before the sun rises when all the world is holding its breath, Egg Foo Yung, the Grand Canyon, riding my bike down a hill in the sunshine, a brand new pack of Sharpie markers, how much Duncan loves Brady, writing about, campaigning door to door and voting for Barack Obama, the French Quarter, Devil's Tower, Miss Katie's Diner in Milwaukee, acupuncture, and more things than I could name.

And now to pick seven other blogs to tag. You know the drill: once you've been tagged you have to pass it along to seven others.

Property of Kelly
Fermented Fur
The Midnight Garden
Charlie!
Mackenzie Speaks!
A Red Dog in the Red Rocks
Life is Golden


Thank you, Sue, for including me and making me think of the things I love most. It's easy to forget when life does that thing it occasionally does.

When Ya Gotta Go: Two Roads

"I see my path, but I don't know where it leads. Not knowing where I'm going is what inspires me to travel it." (Rosalia de Castro)

Funny, the way we set off in a direction with only a vague idea of destination, and eventually, when we're not even looking really, reach that place we didn't quite know existed. One year ago Duncan walked me across the park and led me to that momentary encounter which changed our walks forever. Prior to that they'd been private affairs and most of what occurred remained in my head, only occasionally surfacing in dreams or perhaps journal entries or conversations with Ken; the vast majority, though, are lost, little more than flashes of experience which flit across my sense memory and then fade away again.

Let me tell you.

When I was six and shortly after my mother and sister and I moved from Nampa, Idaho to Pocatello, I remember asking my mother to sit down at our kitchen table and take dictation. There was a story about a monkey and a pig and a walk through the jungle that wasn't going to tell itself and so Mom sat patiently and filled in the words I was unable to commit to paper. She may still have them even now.

By the time I was ten and able to scratch words out on my own, I was the star of creative writing in the fourth grade. Mrs. Coons, an army sergeant of a woman who I feared first and loved later, encouraged my writing, and my voice. That summer I began writing plays which all the kids in the neighborhood performed for our parents in my backyard.

At thirteen I began an epic story, a soap opera really, which I wrote for the next ten years, filling more than twenty enormous volumes. It had an unfortunate title, Love Affair, but to give you some idea of how long it was, if it had been on television and you were to watch one episode a week, thirty weeks of the year, it would take you fourteen years to reach the end.

At twenty-one I awoke from a sound sleep, a voice speaking in my ear, deep and omnipotent––one of those voices you do not ignore, like Kevin Costner's character in "Field of Dreams,"––telling me, "If you go, it will happen." My gut told me I needed to move to Lake Forest, Illinois to study creative writing. And so I did, without much explanation, and with little warning. While there I composed three books, one for each year, made only ten copies and gave them to those friends and family I was closest to. I graduated with many honors from my department and with the aid of my words was fully expected to make something of myself.

And then, by the time I reached thirty, the words seemed to have dried up and left as suddenly as they appeared. One morning not long after my mentor, Phil Simmons––author of Learning to Fall––, had died, I awoke, Ken asleep next to me, to find Phil sitting at the foot of my bed, his hand firmly planted on my calf, shaking me awake.

"Curt," he said in that high-pitched and unsure quivering voice of his. "You are not doing what you are supposed to be doing."

I actually argued with him––which was not an entirely new thing to occur between us––tried to convince him there were more important people he should be sitting with, his wife and two young children that I did not matter, than the words were gone.

"Shut up," he told me. "And listen..." And for the next five minutes I did as he said, never doubting he was really there, awake and as sure of his presence as I was of Ken's, or Winnie, curled up on the pillow where my head had made a nice round, warm impression for her. Phil reminded me that I was a writer and that I was squandering the gift the universe had bestowed on me, that I needed to write because that was what I had always been meant to do. And then he was gone, had slipped from existence, leaving behind a sense of where he'd sat, the warmth of his palm on my leg, the sound of his gravel voice still humming inside my ears. Ken awoke, asked who I'd been talking to, and when I explained, he smiled and pulled me into his arms, not disbelieving my story and told me, "Well then, you should write."

My problem has always been beginnings. They are elusive and I am a perfectionist, and if the words don't hit the right tone, have a perfect rhythm or make the complete and solid sound of a lid sealing a jar, they are no good. Despite having the entirety of my first novel in my head, a novel I know is good, know will be published because Phil told me so, I haven't written it because I've been waiting for the words. And so a year ago I started my first blog, School Daze, which eventually led me to Duncan, who has spent the past year leading me every other place, the most important of which has been back to my words. I have worked hard sharpening my voice and finding confidence in it, rediscovering the joy that can be had in a good story. Walking is a lot like telling a story. There is a place to begin, there is a route which, although not always visible, will lead you, if you persevere, to the place you need to go, or maybe even some place better. Then, last Sunday morning, when I did not expect it and was hardly prepared, I awoke at that place. Words had arranged themselves in a new and surprisingly good order inside my head, and it was only when I jumped out of bed and committed them to paper that I realized I'd been handed the plans to my next journey, which I have been waiting a long time to take. The novel I have waited so patiently to begin writing has finally decided it wants to be written. And so it shall.

I have been faithful and disciplined and there has not been a day since I began this undertaking a year ago that I have not walked Duncan and brought you along for part of it. We will still walk and you are still invited to share it with us, but I must take the new path as well, because, as Phil said, that is what I am meant to do. There are more stories to tell and although Duncan's is far from finished I can no longer tell it every day. It won't be easy; I've fretted over it for a very long time but I wanted to tell you because even this has been part of the journey. From the moment I shared our first walk, I had a plan; I just didn't realize it would come so soon.

Duncan and I will be waiting for you. He is always ready and my legs need to be stretched often. Autumn is nice around these parts and I'd love to tell you all about it. There is a mist out tonight and although most of the sky is clouded, I can see Orion peeking out from behind the clouds. He has had many adventures since last we saw him. Maybe he'll share them with us next time. Whenever that may be. Not too long, I hope.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. (Robert Frost)

*Photo, as usual, "borrowed" from Google Images

Look Up

This is what I think. I think the universe made kites so that every now and then, if only for a few, brief minutes, we have to look up.

I'd completely forgotten about them until a few months ago when I stood on the edge of the park on a cold and windy afternoon watching a child gaze up at the kite, dancing in the wind and tethered to him by a long line. It was a magical moment for me, like discovering a new photograph of a loved one long since gone. A piece of my childhood re-opened to me that night and I've stood transfixed by the kites at the park nearly every afternoon since. Some of them are enormous and cut the sky like a boat leaving a wake behind it. They sizzle as the air catches them and jerks them back and forth. But it's not just the big ones; the little ones, the cheap Wal-Mart variety, are just as magical. Last week Duncan and I stood near the playground watching a toddler, maybe two, hold a line attached to what appeared to be a green plastic Burger King bag which darted and jerked only seven or eight feet above her head.

This afternoon we sat in the soft clover at the top of the park watching a single flier ballet dance his kite above us. For long moments it sat motionless and silent in the air, like a strange jellyfish which has ceased to throb and swim and sits, floating in silence, contemplating nothing. But then he would pull on one of the thick lines and send it careening straight at us, only to veer away a few feet above our heads. I gaped and actually clapped when he finally let it come to a rest on the ground fifty feet away.

"Can I ask you a question?" I asked, climbing to my feet and walking across the field toward him. "What is it about flying kites, about coming out here every afternoon, that you love so much?"

He smiled the kind of smile that told me he'd been asked this question a thousand times and yet, when he answered it didn't seem rehearsed or as though it had been his response on a thousand previous sunny afternoons. It seemed to come from his heart and after he told me, "Because every time is like the first time," I wanted to ask him again and again to see why else he stood at the top of the park each day as the sun drew down close to the mountains, painting them bluer than the sky. Because it's like dancing with my first love. Because it's like fishing for the wind. Because it makes me feel like I don't need to dream about or wish I could fly. Any one of them would've fed me but it was, "Because every time is like the first time," that made me smile.

"I'm Mark," he said, holding out a weather hand.

"Curt," I said. "This is Duncan."

Mark scratched Duncan's head and stared at him a long moment, like he was reading. "Good dog," he finally said. "I see the two of you here every day." And then he handed me the reins. "Would you like to try it?" Before I could even respond he took Duncan's leash. "Don't worry," he told me. "He'll be safe."

I'd barely sputtered before I found myself getting a crash course in power kite flying. "Back is go, forward is the brakes. Pull hard left to go left, right to go right. Make it do lazy infinities," he said and I knew that somewhere in him lurked a poet, someone who sees the world simultaneously for what it is and what it isn't but could be.

And then there I was, fastened to four thick heavy lines, pulling back hard and watching the kite fill with air and rise above me. Almost immediately I felt the tremendous tug, then power of the wind and it rose and rose, then turned on its side. I was pulled forward and had to jog to keep up. My arms trembled and I realized I was holding my breath. With a grin I took a gulp of air and yanked the cord in my left hand, spinning the kite in the other direction, sweeping it down low to the ground, then wrenching the right cord, almost behind me. My elbows were back, my chest forward like some super hero proudly displaying the symbol on his chest. The kite whipped up, turned sharply and headed in the opposite direction. Mark was encouraging me, calling out instructions and I heard Duncan bark as I was pulled sharply to the side. Mark had let go of his leash and Duncan was running circles around me then darting away, chasing the kite's huge shadow in lazy infinities across the grass. Mark laughed and patted me on the shoulder. I don't know how long I stood there guiding the kite back and forth across the sun, the rush of it filling my ears, cutting through my body. It was like fishing with Grandma. It was like dancing to my favorite song. It was like hugging an old friend I haven't seen in a very long time, receiving a note from a secret admirer, climbing the driveway at my mother's house and seeing the Christmas lights up, waking up to sunshine and kisses. It was like the taste of lemon sherbet on a hot day, the feeling of leaning your arm out the car window and undulating your hand up and down in the wind. It was like when Phil Simmons, one of my college writing mentors, compared my junior writing project to Faulkner. It was like the first time I walked the streets of Chicago and looked up at the John Hancock Building and the Sears Tower. It was like being in the fourth grade and standing next to Paul Hunt, my best friend, and watching our two very small and very cheap kites climb into the sky behind Edahow Elementary. I tasted my childhood and could not believe how long it had been since I'd driven a needle into the vein of the sky and rushed its currents.

It was a marvelous thing. I can still feel the shake and throttle and the ground, no longer quite as permanent under my feet. This walk, this day, was good. I'm still flying.

"Throw your dreams into space like a kite,
and you do not know what it will bring back,
a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country." (Anais Nin)

Thank You

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, because it's genuine, and because it doesn't really ask all that much of those celebrating it. No obnoxious lights and ornaments to hang, the universe has spared us Thanksgiving Carolers, people aren't banging at our doors dressed as pilgrims or Indians, or, God forbid, headless turkeys. Our animals aren't startled by the continuous explosion of a million snapping cornucopia crackers or the bright burst of pumpkin-scented bottle rockets. Thanksgiving has remained pure, if only because the retailers use it as the jumping off point for the exploitation of the rest of the holiday season. Its message is not one of consumerism, but rather a quiet time to come together, be it with the family you were born into or the family you've created on your own, and to acknowledge the the blessings of your life.

With that in mind, here are some of the things for which I am grateful (in no particular order, of course)

• The sound of Elijah singing or Jonah cooing while I talk on the phone with their mother.
• The warm bodies and soft weight of Winnie, Pip and Olive, who curl up on my hip, against my chest, on the pillow near my head each night while I sleep.
• The speckled color of cinnamon and allspice added to pumpkin, whipped together and poured into a pie crust
• The sound of a new book as you crack it open for the first time
• The word "skinidinkinaw," which has been used by my family since before I was born. I have no idea what it means, but my grandfather uses it best as an all-purpose curse.
  
• Dill bread fresh from the oven with butter melting on top
  
• The warm, fresh smell of the bathroom after Ken has showered and shaved.
• This American Life on NPR
• The way Ruth calls me, "Sweetie," Kevi calls me, "Curty-Wurty," Casey calls me "Bro" and Jen calls me "Curtle" (which to be fair she got from my father, who called me "Curtle the Turtle," playing off the Dr. Seuss character).
• Squinting into sunshine reflected off of snow
• The short, sing-songy melody my mother makes out of the word "hello" when she answers the telephone.
  
• Duncan's amazing eyebrows, the loose skin of his cheeks and his puppy paws, which aren't as soft as they once were, but I still love to cradle them in my palm when we cuddle.
• Talking with Kelly every night on her way home from work, the way she makes me laugh and how old and comfortable our friendship is.
• Peanut sauce, postcards, Poi Dog Pondering
  
• Finding lost things, especially if they're much loved.
  
• Having a space to write and voice with which to do it.
• Kevin, who loves my mother more than I love dreaming.
• New pens, new journals, and a nice flat place in the sunshine to sprawl out and use them both.
• Working with Phil Simmons before he died and knowing that even now he's encouraging me to do what I do best.
• "Feeling Good" by Nina Simone
  
• A.A. Milne, who wrote, "And by and by Christopher Robin came to the end of things, and he was silent, and he sat there, looking out over the world, just wishing it wouldn't stop."