I only knew a small part of Harmony. I didn’t know him as a child when he answered to a different name and hadn’t found his true one yet. I didn’t know him as a teenager or young man or before he lost his short-term memory.
I only knew him as the person who came into my sister’s life and never left.
He was the one who apologized when I first met him, telling me he wouldn’t remember me the next time we met. But that eventually, when I had been in his life long enough, I would enter his long-term memory. That was a wonderful day. It felt like becoming family.
I didn’t know Harmony as a father, and have only recently met his sons. But I knew him as the music in my sister’s life.
She and I would be visiting, non-stop sister words and laughter and stories. Harmony would pull out a guitar or dulcimer and there would be soft music flowing behind our stories.
I knew Harmony as a person of giving. But like his music, softly, unobtrusive, in the background. When a visit was over and I’d go to the car, there would be a little paper bag of homemade soap tucked between the seats. Once there was a box of apricots. And of course there was the repurposed cardboard orange juice container with soil and worms for my fledgling compost bin, inspired by his.
I knew Harmony as a reader, a storyteller, a person who could talk about experiences hitchhiking across the United States (twice), about world religions, about music, about books, about peace, and of course, about harmony and balance.
I only saw him angry once. And that was towards the end of the story – or maybe the beginning – when he was mad at himself and blaming himself for what my sister was going to face in the weeks and months ahead as his transition began.
The same thing those of us who knew him face today. The loss of music. The loss of stories. And most of all, the loss of Harmony. I hope one day we’ll meet again out there somewhere and hear his music. And I hope he’ll remember me. It will feel like family.
As some of you know, I used to journal but several years ago, I burned them in a giant bonfire. Why, you might ask? Because I was burning my mother’s diaries at the time, and I was horrified by the realization that someone I cared for might read mine and my words might break their heart.
Do I have regrets? Only one. That I didn’t give my sisters or my brother a chance to be part of that decision.
Anyway, since then I’ve never journaled. I love the idea of it but shy away from the reality.
Instead, I’ve found a way to keep a diary of sorts without the deep intimacy of one.
For some time now I’ve been jotting things down in a little brown book. Bits of advice and lessons on the craft of writing I come across. Quotes. Poems I find. Song lyrics. And wow, I had a thought the other day that made me laugh.
I kind of want to keep this non-journal a secret in the hopes that some day I can haunt those I love and watch them trying to figure out my diary.
There are things in this little book that I write down because it triggers a fantastic story idea. Or a poem that an amazing character can be built from. There’s writing advice I want to share with my son. There are snippets I want to remember to share with a poet friend, or something that makes me laugh that I really want to pass on.
Then there are words that make me cry. That reach down into my soul and breathe out ‘this is who you are’.
Which is which?
Well, I know, obviously. But it will be so much fun to haunt those loved ones as they read the non-journal and wonder if I was crazy, or depressed, or a closet witch.
That is, if they can read my handwriting. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with this little poem from the non-journal and you can wonder about why I might have chosen it. This is by Lauren Oliver.
“It’s amazing how words can do that, just shred your insides apart. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me – such bullshit.”
Five siblings; four of them girls. Don’t have sympathy for that lone boy. He did just fine harassing his sisters. For example, hiding under our beds at night to grab our ankles.
I thought I’d interview the youngest sister. The baby of the family. You know, the one who got away with everything. Probably because she was so dang cute.
Did you really, from your perspective, get away with everything? Remember now, I had to wait until high school to wear nylons and you didn’t, so be honest.
Did I get away with everything? Absolutely not. The only boy of the family did. He could skip school. Smoke. Drink. Drive earlier. I think the parents were more strict with me after things he did. But I did get to do things sooner than you did. Like wear nylons or pants or makeup.
(An aside: I believe she wore pants even sooner than she had permission to, by smuggling jeans to school.)
Who was the most perfect sibling? Remember now, I’d get up in the middle of the night to take care spiders for you.
Most perfect? You. Duh. Never got in trouble. Never disobeyed or swore or talked back. Was the perfect child. Read all the time. Didn’t stay out late. Didn’t cause any drama or anger for parents. Lived at home the longest. Definitely the favorite child.
(An aside: geez, I was boring.)
Can you overcome childhood trauma to tell us of your experiences with liver and onions?
I think this is what started my food OCD. I was forced to eat liver and onions. Literally. I hated it. Would take me hours to be able to eat it. Gagging. Our sister Beth would sit with me giving suggestions on how to get it down. I couldn’t leave the table until I was finished and mom discovered early on that the dog was the recipient so that option didn’t last. Hiding it in a napkin was also discovered. To this day the smell makes me sick and brings back traumatic memories.
(An aside: it really was that bad. It would be time for bed and she’d still be in tears, gagging and barfing at the table.)
Have you ever forced your favorite sister into a life of crime? Remember now, you made me stop the car so you could uproot a political sign. Might be time to confess.
Did not force my sister into a life of crime. Ever. She was goody two shoes and never did anything wrong. Yes, other than stealing the political sign that I hung in my room that made me feel like I was married to Woody. And, it was her idea!
(An aside again: This was the era of the Bay City Rollers and her favorite was Woody. The political sign was a local politician running for re-election with the last name of Woody. We took the sign and the post and everything. But she never did marry Woody. His loss.)
Can you respond to allegations that you were actually the one who wet the bed and let your favorite sister take the blame for years?
I plead the 5th.
Get your brother in trouble all over again by telling us about the time you were sitting on the hood of his car, or about the rope swing.
Too much to list. But the highlight was when he thought he was being funny and going to scare me. So I am sitting on the hood of his car. After all, why not? All of a sudden he steps on the gas and I flew off. Sprained my wrist which was very painful but not as painful as telling mom. Than the rope swing. In all honesty not his fault but his idea. Swinging out over a slope on a rope tied to tree branch. When it was my turn the rope breaks. Landed on the tree trunk and pulled ligaments in my ankle. We got in a lot of trouble over that one. Was on crutches for a long time. Dad made me a shoe for that foot because mine wouldn’t fit. Cut toes off one of his shoes. I was so embarrassed wearing it. But I got super good using crutches and could even run. When I didn’t need them anymore Dad literally had to teach me to walk again. I’m still not coordinated.
Did you, or did you not, live with a tumbleweed?
Ah, the tumbleweed. I was fascinated by them. They would blow in the wind like a ball. I finally got my very own on a trip and displayed it proudly in my room. Ironically ended up living where they were in abundance and I could watch them out my windows.
Please take a moment to double check the accuracy of your answer to the second question. (Unless of course, you answered it correctly.)
Can’t remember what that question was.
What do you wish I’d asked you?
How it was all those years sharing a bedroom and how it felt growing up the youngest and always having a houseful of people, to being one of the last to leave the herd.
(A final aside: how it was sharing a room? She had to tape a line on the floor that all my junk couldn’t cross.)
Lisa Stowe - The Story River Blog 