hope
Four weddings and a long ago funeral
Tonight was the fourth wedding I’ve attended since Mark died. The first wedding came about eight months after, and I was a wreck.
On your own wedding day, part of your heart opens up and it just gets bigger and bigger until your beloved isn’t there anymore.
Oh, mercy, that expansive, empty space hurts on another couple’s wedding day, no matter how happy you are for them.
When I first saw the date on the invitation, the night before Mark’s birthday, I wondered. But it’s also been nearly five years. Tonight, as we were waiting for the bridal procession, I heard the violinist begin the first few phrases of Ashokan Farewell — one of Mark’s favorites. My eyes couldn’t focus, and I could feel my knees and my heart giving way, but then the string ensemble transitioned to another tune.
Then, I told myself that little bit of music was just Mark’s way of winking and letting us know that they were all there …
Congratulations, Megan and Brandon!
Patron Saint of College Kids
In my faith, if you have a need, we’ve got a saint for that. I’ve got one of those little “guardian angels” hanging from the rear view of the pick-up, but I don’t take much stock in it. Some would say I need a St. Christopher medal, but I got Sam and myself a membership in AAA instead.
If you’ve lost someone close to you, like we have in the Wolfe house, then you probably carry that person with you like a patron saint from time to time.
The year after Mark died, in my own year of magical thinking, I often talked to birds that came close, in case it was him.
Friends would tell me that they would get visits from their loved one. These were the greatest stories, by the way, friends who could see the loved one in a bedroom mirror after dark, or who would see the loved one next to the bed, and carry on a conversation. I was a little jealous. The birds never talked back to me. Once I thought Mark was trying to visit — coming down the hall after all the kids had fallen asleep — but I got so terribly frightened that he never tried again.
Hence the birds.
I digress.
Michael called when I got home from Iowa. He was filled with emotion. He had felt Mark’s presence all through the end of high school and through the first years of college. But now, as he is about to start his senior year, Mark has left his side, Michael says.
“He was trying to get me to be the man he wanted me to be,” Michael said.
Michael realized the message: he was there, the rest was up to him, it was his life to lead now.
Mark’s been gone for nearly five years and he still makes me weak in the knees.
See Sam Run as an e-book
Coming soon. So excited to join the digital revolution.
That is all.
On writing, on reading and The Mayborn
People often ask artists who has influenced their work — musicians, painters, sculptors, filmmakers, writers. It’s a tough question to escape. I’ve asked it, but not too often, because I’ve found that many good artists don’t seem keen on bringing that kind of consciousness to their work.
I write intuitively, too. I try to edit consciously. And editing often seems to be slightly under the influence of whomever I’m reading at the time.
(Except Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Isabel Allende, and Joan Didion. They are always there.)
This year, Paige has left behind collections from University of Iowa students. Home of Iowa Writers Workshop, there comes from Iowa always something fresh, and often ever-so-slightly unworkable in those pages. I enjoy them. And my friend, RunnerSusan, has loaned me a dozen of her favorite works of fiction that have taken me down unexpected paths.
I took a break from reading the authors scheduled for this weekend’s Mayborn conference to pour over essays for a writer’s workshop. My essay, Carrion (see the pages on the left), has been accepted to the workshop, so I am reading the work of others who will be sequestered with me and our workshop leader. More new voices and ideas.
Like a book club, only on steroids, it’s the eighth Mayborn writer’s conference this weekend. It doesn’t seem that long ago that I threw the manuscript for “See Sam Run” into the workshop to see what would happen. There won’t be anything on that scale for me this weekend, but it will be for someone, and there is all that other talk of writing and reading and writing that is so inspiring to us all. I can’t wait to see what this weekend will bring.
Overheard in the Wolfe House #161
Sam (watching Wheel of Fortune): The Talented Cast of Glee!
Don’t Spare the Horses.
When Michael was home visiting for the holidays, we had a shared moment for which the details completely escape me now, but after which my son said, “Wow, Mom. Don’t spare the horses.”
I’d never heard that before. But I liked it. I liked it so much I wondered whether it would make a good New Year’s resolution. One I could actually keep.
In a word, yes.
I logged my 500th mile in in training this month and other things in my life are proceeding at that dogged pace.
Last night, I dreamt something was outside my front door. Unlike all the other dreams of monsters and tornadoes and machines and floods and fire and being forced to get control of a runaway vehicle from the backseat of the car, I didn’t hesitate.
Texas has a castle law, you know.
Chisholm Challenge
Before the bull and bronc riders, before the rodeo show and the barrel racers at the Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo, you can see some terrific horsemanship at the Chisholm Challenge for Special Riders.
Thanks to all the volunteers and staff, and sponsors, of the area stables that continue to serve the community in a way no other recreational outlet can.
If you check it out, you’ll never see horses and riders in quite the same way again.
It Takes a Village
Sam didn’t learn to swim the summer this little movie was made. He was 4 1/2 years old. He enjoyed the water very much.
After we moved to Texas, my neighbor, Karol Smith, took all three of my kids into her backyard pool and taught them to swim in a week. She said she’d taught dozens of kids to swim by condensing the way most parks and rec programs did it — sometimes over several years of summers. She guaranteed she’d get it done.
It was the summer Paige turned 6, so Michael would have been 8, and Sam, 11. I was certain she’d have Michael and Paige swimming, but told her Sam might take a little longer.
It didn’t. And, Karol turned Sam into the biggest fish of them all.
It Takes a Village
Sam didn’t learn to swim the summer this little movie was made. He was 4 1/2 years old. He enjoyed the water very much.
After we moved to Texas, my neighbor, Karol Smith, took all three of my kids into her backyard pool and taught them to swim in a week. She said she’d taught dozens of kids to swim by condensing the way most parks and rec programs did it — sometimes over several years of summers. She guaranteed she’d get it done.
It was the summer Paige turned 6, so Michael would have been 8, and Sam, 11. I was certain she’d have Michael and Paige swimming, but told her Sam might take a little longer.
It didn’t. And, Karol turned Sam into the biggest fish of them all.
Bonenkai or not?
There are many things about 2011 that tell me it doesn’t matter how many black-eyed peas I eat, that Southern tradition for good luck isn’t going to work for me.
I loved being a part of many year-end parties in Japan when I was there twenty-five years ago. (Gad, that’s a long time.) Even though 1985 was a good year, everyone acted as if it couldn’t come to an end soon enough so that they could have another shot at it in the New Year. We ate like kings. And then the New Year came — and that’s three full days of resting and eating and being with family and friends.
Now, 1986 was a very good year for me. So I’m thinking Paige’s little project this afternoon of making ramen noodles from scratch (based on a website that has thorough directions, with photos) ought to be our bonenkai. She’s trying to channel her dad, who was an excellent pasta maker (his recipe below — he would have the noodles cut by the time the water was boiling).
Yep, I’m thinking 2012 is going to be a very good year.
Mark’s Perfect Pasta
Two heaping 1/3 cups of semolina flour
1 egg
1 T. water
salt
1 tsp. olive oil
white flour
large pot boiling, salted water
Put all ingredients in a food processor and process til a ball forms, about 3 minutes.
Turn out on a floured board and knead for a minute or two until supple. If it’s too wet, knead flour into it. Divide into parts and put through your pasta machine. You may need to roll it through several times at the wider setting until the dough is supple enough to start rolling it through the thinner settings. Dust with flour on both sides before you roll it through the cutter.
Drop the noodles in the water and cook until slightly swollen, about five to ten minutes. Big noodles take longer.
Drain.
Serve hot with garlic butter and grated Romano cheese; your favorite marinara sauce; room temperature with pesto; or cold over cucumber cut julienne style and peanut sauce poured over all.
I’ve already posted the pesto recipe. I’ll put up the peanut sauce recipe tomorrow.