Firewood and Words

July 22, 2017 / Lisa / 15 Comments

Stacking firewood is challenging. I look for the right piece, the right shape, so that the whole stack is locked in tight. I get offended by the wood when I can’t make the pieces fit.

I’ll add a few pieces, then pause and stand back, studying the pile. I’ll see one that could be turned a different direction. Or one that would lock in better if placed elsewhere. I’ll swap direction, turning a piece on its end so the fatter part balances the whole.

See the light? Still looking for just the right pieces.

Then I’ll go back to the pile and rummage, looking for a piece that’s the right angle, the right shape.

In the winter, when snow is heavy, I’ll haul in pieces that I stacked in the hot summer sun. I’ll see smoke coming from the chimney and know the stack came out okay in spite of my doubt that all the pieces don’t fit just right.

No smoke yet

Editing is challenging. I look for the right word, the right sound, so that the whole paragraph is locked in tight. I get offended by the story when I can’t make the words fit.

I’ll add a few words, then pause and stand back, studying the paragraph. I’ll see a phrase that could be turned a different direction. Or one that would lock in better if placed elsewhere. I’ll swap direction, turning a sentence on its end so the beginning balances the whole. Then I’ll go back to the story and daydream, looking for a theme that’s the right angle, the right shape.

In the winter, when snow is heavy, I’ll read the book that I worked on in the hot summer sun. I’ll see words and know the story came out okay in spite of my doubt that all the words don’t fit just right.

And so goes this hot sunny day. Stacking firewood and sweating and daydreaming, and then cooling off in the shade with words.

Life Through Stories

July 15, 2017July 15, 2017 / Lisa / 135 Comments

My first dad died when I was almost four. I have a few clear memories of him.

Lisa, Frank, and Lucy

For a while, only one side of him worked with the help of a leg brace. And then neither side did.

The youngest sibling, when one side still worked. The leg brace isn’t visible but the tumor that killed him is just starting to bulge on the side of his head.

The curve of the wheelchair when I’d sit on his lap as he wheeled me back to bed. I’d sneak out to watch television. If dad found me, I’d get that ride in the wheelchair. Plus, he’d sit by the bed and tell me stories until I fell asleep. Mom would just haul me back with no stories. I understand now. He knew his time with us kids was limited, months if he was lucky. Mom was overwhelmed. Three little kids, a dying husband, a bleak future.

The ashtray full of cigarette butts. It was always fuller when the uncles visited.

Barfing. Lots and lots of barfing. Dad and the uncles had been playing poker and drinking beer. And feeding me chocolate ice cream. There wasn’t room on the table for cards and bottles, so bottles went on the floor at their feet. Within reach.

Dad and the uncles found it hilarious. Mom, not so much.

But mainly, what I know of the man is through the stories others told.

The time he and the sheriff’s son shot up the door of a community hall. Well, they technically were shooting at a calendar. Forgot about the door.

All the sports he lettered in. How small he was compared to the uncles. How they’d start a fight and he’d finish it. How fast he could run.

The, probably apocryphal, story about getting drunk, waking up the next day, and being in the Navy.

Getting shore leave, being invited to a party, coming down the sidewalk pulling a tee-shirt over his head. And meeting my mom for the first time.

And then the whole military thing. Like the time he missed the boat. Literally. Too much shore leave. Court martial for that one.

Three days. Some shore leave. I wonder if he remembered it later.

The other shore leave story, in Korea at the end of the war, finding a tiny newborn in the garbage. Smuggling her back on the ship. His plans to keep her, bring her home, raise her. His horror that someone would throw away a child. He was forced to return her.

These snippets of a lifetime make me ponder on how vital stories are. How we keep people, traditions, habits, alive through words. I’ve heard you die twice. First your physical death. And then again, when there’s no one left to tell your story.

I think about the stories I tell. The ones I read. The others I hear. All those words piling up, creating nostalgia and memories, laughter and sadness.

But most of all, building a life.

It’s not such a bad thing, to be remembered in stories.

My memory – sneaking out this window to play when I was supposed to be napping.

The Sunday Drive

July 7, 2017July 7, 2017 / Lisa / 4 Comments

Last Sunday we took our friend Jenny and went for a drive along some nearby logging roads. It brought back so many memories.

Crossing Troublesome Creek on Sunday (using a bridge!)

Growing up, we often went for Sunday drives. If mom chose the location, it most likely would be driving the neighborhoods she grew up in. She’d reminisce and tell us stories about things like her dad getting drunk and throwing bread at her across the table. Or having to learn how to butcher rabbits. Or Aunty and the day she showed up. She saw their chimney fire, stopped to help them, also saw a single dad trying to raise a daughter, and stayed as their housekeeper. And once mom married and moved away, she became our surrogate granny.

Aunty helping me play

Those drives weren’t too boring because I’d sit in the back seat and daydream adventures and my own stories. And if we were lucky, and mom and dad felt flush, we’d all get the treat of burgers.

Mom at the cabin.

When dad picked the Sunday destination, a lot of times we’d end up driving logging roads. Mom would pack a picnic lunch. Dad would bring the stack of gold pans. Us kids would get to sit on the tailgate of the truck as we slowly bounced our way up into the woods and mountains.

Dad surveying flood damage

I daydreamed those drives, too, but the stories were different. They almost always involved me slipping off that tailgate, running away into the woods, finding some long-lost tribe of Native Americans, or some My Side Of The Mountain type, where I would live forever out there in the mountains.

Bridal Veil Falls

So here I am, many years later, driving old logging roads with a mountain-kind-of-guy. At home where I always wanted to be. Still daydreaming through those woods though, making up stories as I bounce along in the truck.