Head In The Clouds

August 8, 2017August 8, 2017 / Lisa / 28 Comments

Growing up, I spent a lot of time with my ‘nose in a book’ or my ‘head in the clouds’ while the four siblings were off being kids. Most of the time, the ‘head in the cloud’ phrase meant I was alone with pencil and paper, writing. The siblings were used to that. So much so that I think they forgot sometimes that I lived in the same house. Except for the youngest sister. She remembered me when spiders showed up in her room.

She still hates spiders

There was the day the siblings played basketball while I cried on the bed with a befuddled mother sitting next to me.

‘If they ask you to play you always say no.’

‘But I want to be asked!’

I still remember how I wailed those words, and how even then, I realized how silly that sounded. Because she was right. I would have said no if they’d asked.

There was the time my brother got mad at me for something when we were around nine or ten. I have no idea why. It’s not like I beat him at basketball. But to get back at me, he loosened the bolts on my bicycle’s handlebars and front tire.

The pre-sabotage bike days

The problem was, my nose was always in a book and my head in the clouds. Feet on pedals don’t work in those situations. The days and weeks passed and he forgot. Until one day his bike had a flat tire. He borrowed mine.

See? If that nose hadn’t been in the book, it probably would have been broken.

Then there were words.

‘What were you thinking?’

‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’

‘Didn’t you see me?’

Nope. I was thinking about Prince Caspian. I was hearing Arietty talking to Pod and Homily. I was seeing the wolves of Willoughby Chase running across frozen snow.

‘Look at the camera. Lisa. Lisa! Lisa!!!’

There were the nights with flashlights under the blankets, sneaking a book or whispering a made-up story to the youngest sibling.

There were joyous moments talking and talking and talking with a small group of friends about books we read. Matter of fact, fifty-odd years later I still talk books with those same girls. Oops. Women.

And there were all those times when the story world was a kinder place to be than the real world.

So if you see me smiling while you talk to me, there’s no guarantee I’m actually there.

My head’s probably in the clouds. In the stories.

haybrook road 033

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 / 136 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.