Twenty-thirteen is my year. Yep, all mine, all about me.
This is no arbitrary, end-of-the-year-hopeful-resolution-filled thought. There is some real logic at work here.
To begin with, my favorite number, or more accurately my lucky number, is 13. I have had many, many lucky Fridays that took place on 13th of the month. Even at the end of a really bad week, if that Friday is a 13th, all the bad stuff falls away and I am left with calm and better luck. Often the one parking spot that is available, and clearly left for me, is numbered 13, and when I return to my car it is always unscathed and un-ticketed. The very few times I have played Keno and won, there was a number thirteen involved. It only follows that an entire year devoted to my lucky number means that the year will be bring me much luck.
Additionally: I have a new writing project that I am excited about, and that I seem to be able to work on. I conceived of the idea on 12/19 and have written over 2100 words thus far. Considering how very, very blocked I have been creatively, this is a fabulous sign.
Even more: Prop 30 passed in California this year. One of the results is an easing, of sorts, in my chosen profession. One of the schools that I am most anxious to work for has a full-time, tenure track opening. And the campus is only 10 minutes (in traffic) from my house. I am quite qualified, and despite the competition (and there is a great deal), this is my year so my shot is better than in the past.
Ever the realist, I expect that while 2013 will follow-through on its promise, 2014 and possibly 2015, will likely be challenging. I am quite ready for the challenges; having lived through some awful stuff (like 2007, the year everyone died), I know I can get through the next round of crap intact and stronger.
I will greet 2013 much the same way that I have greeted the last several years, in front of a fire pit burning in the new and out the old. This year's flames hold great promise.
Lake Mendocino
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Twenty Years
My Gram died on December 19, 1992. Last night we gathered to honor the woman who raised me. She has been gone for twenty years, and in getting ready for the evening I realized how much of her is still with us.
We recreated some of the foods she used to make at the holidays: Sandwich Loaf, Shrimp Cocktail, Stuffed Eggs and Potato Caramel Cake. It wouldn't be a celebration without highballs and Korbel Brandy. About a dozen family members gathered to eat and drink and share space with memories of her.
Her teddy bear and baby doll were on display as well as pictures of her as a very young girl, her wedding photo and several snapshots from various gatherings. A few afghans and potholders, a baby blanket and a needlepoint picture were all around us as is a portion of her spoon collection. The highlight of the evening were her opera dresses.
Beginning in 1967, Gram and Sonny had season tickets to the San Francisco Opera. Each year for ten years, she made one gown to wear on their first night of the season. We put three on dress forms, I wore one, and few other pieces were hung around the house.
The pictures don't do these pieces justice. The black crocheted dress has pearls embedded throughout; another has sequins. Each was a work of art. The hours and hours of work, the absolute attention to the most minute details and her ability to create are truly awe-inspiring.
My husband pointed out that he has spent most of his adult life surrounded by Gram's handiwork, but until the dresses were out, he didn't realize how talented she was. Afghans and potholders are crafts; her dresses are truly art. They are machine quality; each stitch is perfect and exactly like the one before and after. It had not occurred to him that people could create that caliber of work by hand.
I spent a few weeks thinking about what to put out, and a few days gathering items from various parts of the house to display. This morning I thought of several more that I could have included. Gram is everywhere.
I have struggled to write about her. One of the pieces of advice that I was given when she died was to use writing as an outlet for my grief. It was really good advice, but not some that I could follow. I have written about many parts of my life since them, but none has done more than mention my grandmother.
I was waiting for the blessing of distance from the grief. But now the grief has become part of me, as all grief eventually does. I realize now that I live with Gram everyday.
We use her potholders; I pass one needlepoint picture multiple times a day. I am sitting on her favorite living room chair as I write this, her couch is on my left. Her china closets, sewing table, knick-knack table and coffee table are within easy reach. I sit on her dining room chairs to eat dinner. When she died I was living in the house she raised me in. I am wearing her favorite earrings, and I often wear her amethyst ring. At least one painting in my house hung on her wall. Two sweaters that she made, that I will likely never wear, hang in my closet. Hand-me down knick-knacks are all around. And of course, I still hear her voice in my head.
She has been physically present since her death, yet it took me twenty years to see it. I was waiting for perspective; looking back waiting for the haze of tears and grief to clear before I could write about her. I have been looking in the distance for something that is much closer. It's no wonder I haven't been able to focus on a moment of a feeling, I have been looking too far beyond the obvious. I have been straining to see in the distance that which is close at hand.
We recreated some of the foods she used to make at the holidays: Sandwich Loaf, Shrimp Cocktail, Stuffed Eggs and Potato Caramel Cake. It wouldn't be a celebration without highballs and Korbel Brandy. About a dozen family members gathered to eat and drink and share space with memories of her.
Her teddy bear and baby doll were on display as well as pictures of her as a very young girl, her wedding photo and several snapshots from various gatherings. A few afghans and potholders, a baby blanket and a needlepoint picture were all around us as is a portion of her spoon collection. The highlight of the evening were her opera dresses.
Beginning in 1967, Gram and Sonny had season tickets to the San Francisco Opera. Each year for ten years, she made one gown to wear on their first night of the season. We put three on dress forms, I wore one, and few other pieces were hung around the house.
The pictures don't do these pieces justice. The black crocheted dress has pearls embedded throughout; another has sequins. Each was a work of art. The hours and hours of work, the absolute attention to the most minute details and her ability to create are truly awe-inspiring.
My husband pointed out that he has spent most of his adult life surrounded by Gram's handiwork, but until the dresses were out, he didn't realize how talented she was. Afghans and potholders are crafts; her dresses are truly art. They are machine quality; each stitch is perfect and exactly like the one before and after. It had not occurred to him that people could create that caliber of work by hand.
I spent a few weeks thinking about what to put out, and a few days gathering items from various parts of the house to display. This morning I thought of several more that I could have included. Gram is everywhere.
I have struggled to write about her. One of the pieces of advice that I was given when she died was to use writing as an outlet for my grief. It was really good advice, but not some that I could follow. I have written about many parts of my life since them, but none has done more than mention my grandmother.
I was waiting for the blessing of distance from the grief. But now the grief has become part of me, as all grief eventually does. I realize now that I live with Gram everyday.
We use her potholders; I pass one needlepoint picture multiple times a day. I am sitting on her favorite living room chair as I write this, her couch is on my left. Her china closets, sewing table, knick-knack table and coffee table are within easy reach. I sit on her dining room chairs to eat dinner. When she died I was living in the house she raised me in. I am wearing her favorite earrings, and I often wear her amethyst ring. At least one painting in my house hung on her wall. Two sweaters that she made, that I will likely never wear, hang in my closet. Hand-me down knick-knacks are all around. And of course, I still hear her voice in my head.
She has been physically present since her death, yet it took me twenty years to see it. I was waiting for perspective; looking back waiting for the haze of tears and grief to clear before I could write about her. I have been looking in the distance for something that is much closer. It's no wonder I haven't been able to focus on a moment of a feeling, I have been looking too far beyond the obvious. I have been straining to see in the distance that which is close at hand.
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