Category Archives: Good Reads

Hope Chests

01 Friday May 2009

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I’ve been thinking a little about hope chests after reading a short story of Eudora Welty’s last night, titled Lily Daw and the Three Ladies.

Lily is a simple-minded character, not only in the sense that she is unwise in the ways of the world, but in the sense that she’s not ‘all there’. There’s just something ‘not quite right’ about Lily, and while Lily doesn’t seem to know or care about her shortcomings, the entire small Southern town in which she lives does everything it can to protect Lily from the world and from herself.

Especially the ‘three ladies’ who’ve made plans for Lily’s life—and though it’s not said in so many words, it appears they plan to send Lily to some kind of institution, the kind of place that takes care of those unable to care for themselves. And when they discover that Lily is planning to marry some traveling man who they just know has taken advantage of poor Lily’s innocence, who they just know has fed poor Lily a line about marriage to have his way with her, they take off in a conniption fit to save poor Lily from herself.  Like three cruise missiles built in the name of protection, I wondered if Lily’s three protectors wouldn’t instead inflict destruction on their path of salvation.  It takes some convincing to get Lily to finally abandon her own plans to go along with the plan of her three defenders, but go along she does.  With one condition — that her hope chest goes with her.

Well…you’ll just have to read the short story for yourself to find out how it all ends.  But its easy to see why Eudora Welty was considered a master of the short story, with all the lovely and true nuances of everyday life she’s able to pack into eight short pages.  I went to sleep thinking about hope chests.  And woke up remembering my own that I began as a young teenager.  Thinking of my own two daughters, I wonder if  this tradition of young girls sitting aside treasured pieces for a future hasn’t  just shriveled up and died.  But then possessing hope for a good future goes hand in hand with those who are young and have no reason to believe any different, even without a chest.

So then I turned to those who are no longer young, like my daddy, with his own set of launched cruise missiles that call themselves ‘home health.’  With Daddy banging himself up from his many falls, home health has recommended we put Dad into a nursing home.  My sister and I know ‘they’ have the best of intentions, and that maybe these words have to be said  to avoid later threats of medical malpractice, but Daddy would shrivel up and die quicker in a nursing home than if left to his unsafe self in his unsafe home.   

Nursing homes may be safe – more or less– but they’re also sterilized of all hope.   Both my granny and papa died in a nursing home within their first month of calling it home and we’ve no reason to believe it would be any different with Dad.  After all, what sounds good in theory and in intention doesn’t always prove itself  true when it comes to everyday practice and reality.

Even simple-minded Lily knew she couldn’t let go of her hope chest.  And by ignoring the dooms day threats from all the cruise missiles flying around us and Daddy, maybe my sister and I are just tying to offer Daddy a bunker filled with hope and a future.   At least for now, while we can.

I think I’ll keep Eudora’s collection of short stories on my nightstand.   Who knows but that The Collected Stores of Eudora Welty aren’t a treasure chest in their own right.

Quotidian Laundry

08 Wednesday Apr 2009

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My dryer is not working so I’ve turned our upstairs bath into a makeshift dryer.  Everyday I hang a new load of laundry on towel and shower curtain rods, and on the shower head and caddy.  With the sun streaming through the west window, the little room quickly becomes saturated with the lovely scent of clean laundry.

 

As I’ve hung clothes this week, I’ve thought of those old clothes lines that use to be a staple in every backyard, long before backyards became outdoor entertaining spaces.  When we redid our backyard a year ago, we created a small utility area to hold my compost tumbler and two large trash cans.  I expressed hope of making room for a small clothes line as well…. but my husband couldn’t imagine how this would mesh with our landscaping plan. Remembering my granny’s clothes line full of sheets and towels and unmentionables flapping in the wind, I thought it might fit in quite nice, as I am planting a cottage garden rather than one more formal.  

 

My next door neighbor still has one of his vintage clothes line poles.  The big letter ‘T” hangs out near our shared fence and I wonder where its twin has gone.  My daughter Kara’s backyard may also have just one clothes line pole.  I wish I could put one and one together and marry them with wire for use in my own backyard.  Then I could once again sleep on crisp white sheets, bleached by the sun, full of that special scent that can only be described as line-dried sheets.  I fear at least half of North America would not know this smell if it hit them in the face, because unlike me, they’ve never  had the pleasure of being near sheets, anchored by clothes pins, flapping them in the face.  An Oklahoma wind doesn’t always play nice, and rarely does it tumble gently.           

 

These words about laundry remind me of a Kathleen Norris book I read six years ago – “The Quotidian Mysteries – Laundry, Liturgy and “Women’s Work.””  My friend Kathy, who once titled herself, the “diva of the dishwasher,” could write words worth reading if she were so inclined,  like this other Kathy whose book she gave me. 

 

I would like to be a ‘diva of the dryer,’ but the repair shop cannot tell me when my part will be in.  Even in this day of high technology and instant communication, some things remain mysterious.  Is this a quotidian mystery as well?   To answer, I must pull out my partially chewed up Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, Tenth Edition, which is now a little lighter for the hunk Max took off the corner last Sunday.  And there it is:      

 

“Quotidian:  occurring every day; belonging to every day, commonplace, ordinary.”

 

No wonder I am pulled toward reading this old friend again.  Ms. Norris’ everyday mysteries and my own everyday stories make me think of two clothes poles in two separate yards.  What kind of laundry connects them, if any?  And how in the world could an un-everyday word like quotidian mean everyday?  It is a word worth hanging onto, as I hang our freshly washed laundry on my makeshift clothes lines and wait for the quotidian mystery of a dryer part to show itself.

On writing

09 Monday Mar 2009

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I just finished Stephen King’s book On Writing. 

 

This part memoir– part writing advice book was inspiring, but for one scary thought that made me wonder if I’d wandered into one of King’s horror stories: 

 

 “…while it is impossible to make a competent writer out of a bad writer, and while it is equally impossible to make a great writer out of a good one, it is possible, with lots of hard work, dedication, and timely help, to make a good writer out of a merely competent one.” 

 

With brutal honesty, King stripped me of all false hopes.  But I am left with one true hope that I pray in Gregorian-like chant:  Don’t let me be a bad writer, don’t let me be a bad writer, don’t let me be a bad writer….    

 

The book reads quick as King intended.  Though some thoughts are not quick to let go.           

 

Writing with blinds down and door closed for example.  I’d much rather look out a window.  But maybe shut blinds will keep my mind from wandering away…

 

Writers need a dedicated desk, humbly shoved into a corner.  I’ve no more harbored guilt over that recent layaway purchase – that lovely old mustard colored table…soon-to-be writing desk of mine.

 

Writing practice is invaluable.  But it should not seem like practice.  Time stands still when I write.  And when I’m not, I’m drawn to it.  I remember well how I dreaded piano practice as a child.  When forced to sit in front of the ivory keys, I goofed off until my jail sentence was over.  No way writing practice is like piano practice.    

           

No matter what, tell the truth always.  This is why I write.  Writing helps me to discover truth and it keeps me real.  I’ve learned words must speak truth.  Half-truths and lies simply do not hold together, nor lie down in a well-behaved line of words. 

 

Writing is merely transcribing what you see or hear.  My best writing– the words that breathe and come alive on paper–are not my words at all.  They seem to come out of nowhere.  King calls this ‘nowhere’ his muse.  I prefer to credit God.  I hope he or she doesn’t mind.  I liken transcribing to the way Mozart composed.  He heard the music first – only then did he write.  Mozart was great at taking dictation. 

 

“Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous….  In the end, it’s about enriching the lives of those who will read your work and enriching your own life, as well.”  Sounds like King’s benediction to me.   To which I’ll say amen.   

 

But here’s my own benediction.  I bought On Writing for my son Kyle to respond to a birthday gift he’d given me two years before.   That day, Kyle asked me to name my dream – to speak it aloud.  Throwing caution to the wind, I did.  And rather than laughing, he believed.  Then he searched for his trusty list of twenty writing tips he practiced himself and gave them to me.  The gift of On Writing to Kyle was my clumsy poetic way of saying — I believe in dreams.  And I believe in Kyle.  And I believe in Kyle’s dreams on writing.