First off, let me say that this blog has not been what I expected it to be. I thought I'd blog about art--which I've done little of, but maybe I will--and thought I'd blog very little about my mom. I certainly didn't expect so many grief blogs and yet that's what I seem to write about most. All I can say is that she heavily influenced my life and still does. I guess that's part of it, too...when I'm not missing her like crazy, I'm caught up in the magic of still feeling connected to her.
A few days ago, I was sorting through books, looking for the next volume in a mystery series. While I kept most of her book collection, Mom would be quick to point out that I have not kept them in good order. She went to a lot of trouble to sort by author and subject. With me, well, books are lucky if they get back on a shelf and not just in a stack on the floor or, worse, under my bed. (I think that's where my copy of Quiet: The Power of Introversion is, though I haven't been brave enough to look for it just yet.)
Anyway, I was looking for the next book in a mystery series, and came across The Grass Dancer by Susan Power. What struck me was how worn it was. Granted, it's a paperback, but to be that worn, she must have read it a dozen times. And actually I remember seeing it on her bed, or in her hand, or on the shelf, but I don't remember us ever discussing it. Maybe we did and maybe she encouraged me to read it, but....I just don't remember it.
So I started reading it and fell in love with this novel set on the Sioux reservation with multiple points of view, including several generations of women in one family, and laced with magic.
I admit it's been bittersweet. I keep wishing I had read it years ago, so I could have discussed it with her. On the other hand, mostly I feel like I've stumbled upon a gift.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Sunday, October 14, 2012
October 15th: Then and Now
When I was very little, October was about cool nights, falling leaves, and the countdown to Halloween. The year I was eight, October exploded, and echoed for years to come.
On the morning of October 15 1985, a man named Steve Christensen picked up a package outside his office and a woman named Kathy Sheets picked one up outside her garage. Neither could have expected that they were holding pipe bombs which would kill them instantly.
At the time, my mom was a reporter for the Deseret News in Salt Lake. My dad, a historian, worked at Weber State University in Ogden. Neither knew Steve or Kathy, though they knew people who did. I'm driving myself crazy trying to piece together that day for them, but....I keep reminding myself not to, just to stay on my part of the story.
The only thing I remember clearly, was the warning--I think from my mom, calling from a loud and chaotic newsroom--that my siblings and I should not pick up or go near any boxes. We heard it again the next day, when another bomb exploded, seriously injuring Mark Hofmann, a dealer in Mormon historical documents.
My memory of the days and weeks later are a blur of news reports, phone calls, and conversations (which sometimes interested me and sometimes didn't) as apparently-normal Mark Hofmann turned out to be the bomber as well as a forger. An energy--an odd mixture of stress and adrenaline--settled in our house and changed things in big and little ways. My mom left her job at the Deseret News to co-author a book about the case and for years wherever she went it seemed someone wanted to ask her about it of tell her about their connection to it.
In little ways, long after the warning was lifted, I remained hesitant to pick up boxes. I also learned to hate the song "My Favorite Things." (While the bombs were not tied up in strings, they were most definitely brown paper packages.) In fact, I learned to hate--or at least dread--pretty much anything to do with the case. And for decades, I had nightmares about Mark Hofmann, even after I learned to decipher those dreams and saw they had nothing to do with him. He was just the face my unconscious slapped on anything stressful or frightening.
Some years as October 15th rolled around, I was aware of it, and some I wasn't. Sometimes, when a story or conference about the case was announced, I'd roll my eyes and wonder what was left to say. Any time, I heard about a new historical document being found, I'd wonder if it was a Hofmann. And I'd feel anxiety swell in my gut.
My therapist--come on, you had to know there was some therapy here--assured me I could desensitize myself to it. I sort of believed her, but put that off into the future and dealt with more practical things. And somehow doing that, I undid the dark energy I'd carried so long. I didn't even realize it until I found myself watching an episode of "Who The Bleep Did I Marry" (a most excellent show) featuring Hofmann's ex-wife. They went to file footage and there was Hofmann himself. I looked at the boogeyman of my childhood and felt nothing, except mild curiosity.
Nothing is a hundred percent, I guess, because a few days later, I walked down the driveway to get the mail. I stopped and glanced up at the sky and mountains and thought "What a gorgeous day." And as I bent to pick up the package under the mailbox, I shivered, wondering if that had been Steve's or Kathy's last thought.
On the morning of October 15 1985, a man named Steve Christensen picked up a package outside his office and a woman named Kathy Sheets picked one up outside her garage. Neither could have expected that they were holding pipe bombs which would kill them instantly.
At the time, my mom was a reporter for the Deseret News in Salt Lake. My dad, a historian, worked at Weber State University in Ogden. Neither knew Steve or Kathy, though they knew people who did. I'm driving myself crazy trying to piece together that day for them, but....I keep reminding myself not to, just to stay on my part of the story.
The only thing I remember clearly, was the warning--I think from my mom, calling from a loud and chaotic newsroom--that my siblings and I should not pick up or go near any boxes. We heard it again the next day, when another bomb exploded, seriously injuring Mark Hofmann, a dealer in Mormon historical documents.
My memory of the days and weeks later are a blur of news reports, phone calls, and conversations (which sometimes interested me and sometimes didn't) as apparently-normal Mark Hofmann turned out to be the bomber as well as a forger. An energy--an odd mixture of stress and adrenaline--settled in our house and changed things in big and little ways. My mom left her job at the Deseret News to co-author a book about the case and for years wherever she went it seemed someone wanted to ask her about it of tell her about their connection to it.
In little ways, long after the warning was lifted, I remained hesitant to pick up boxes. I also learned to hate the song "My Favorite Things." (While the bombs were not tied up in strings, they were most definitely brown paper packages.) In fact, I learned to hate--or at least dread--pretty much anything to do with the case. And for decades, I had nightmares about Mark Hofmann, even after I learned to decipher those dreams and saw they had nothing to do with him. He was just the face my unconscious slapped on anything stressful or frightening.
Some years as October 15th rolled around, I was aware of it, and some I wasn't. Sometimes, when a story or conference about the case was announced, I'd roll my eyes and wonder what was left to say. Any time, I heard about a new historical document being found, I'd wonder if it was a Hofmann. And I'd feel anxiety swell in my gut.
My therapist--come on, you had to know there was some therapy here--assured me I could desensitize myself to it. I sort of believed her, but put that off into the future and dealt with more practical things. And somehow doing that, I undid the dark energy I'd carried so long. I didn't even realize it until I found myself watching an episode of "Who The Bleep Did I Marry" (a most excellent show) featuring Hofmann's ex-wife. They went to file footage and there was Hofmann himself. I looked at the boogeyman of my childhood and felt nothing, except mild curiosity.
Nothing is a hundred percent, I guess, because a few days later, I walked down the driveway to get the mail. I stopped and glanced up at the sky and mountains and thought "What a gorgeous day." And as I bent to pick up the package under the mailbox, I shivered, wondering if that had been Steve's or Kathy's last thought.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
The Elephant Graveyard
When elephants come across the bones of another elephant, the whole herd stops, reaching out their trunks to smell, then lift each bone, passing them one to another, searching it for identity and memories, rumbling softly. It starts with the matriarch of the herd--for elephants follow the oldest and wisest female--and goes to the youngest calf. Only when each has searched the bones, do they go on.
I do this myself in a way, not with bones, but with memories, fragments of stories, and vibes of loved ones who have died, even if, like tonight/today it's 4 a.m., and I need to sleep, but I'm too busy trying to remember a particular conversation, not just the words, but the inflections of their speech, the expression on their faces, what they said and what went unsaid but heard, and what I might have heard then, but couldn't understand until now.
2010...no, I have to go back to 2009, when a cousin committed suicide, and stunned the family. We reeled into the angry and baffled grief specific to suicide. (One of the lessons I took from Matthew's death was that whole side of the family--myself included-- is way too stoic and stoicism can be deadly. You have to be willing to call out in pain so that the herd can rush to help.) Later in the year, my aunt Susan's cancer went from "we can treat this" to "there's nothing more we can do." At the same time, my mom's illness and chronic pain worsened, leaving us desperate to hold on to her, but wondering how much she would have to endure.
In the last few months of Susan's life, I could barely even process what was happening. I was so focused on caring for my mom, so afraid that this loss would take what strength she had left. My mom and Susan were born fifteen months apart and died less than three months apart. After my mom died, over and over, I'd think "I need to call Susan" and then I remembered I couldn't, and reality hit me so hard that I sank to my knees. Somehow we had lost them both in that short span of time and they took with them so much knowledge and wisdom and history.....the thought of it was unbearable.
In 2012, I feel like maybe I have my feet under me again, and then I'll have a night when I roll over, waking from one dream and before sliding into another, I find myself back in the elephant graveyard, remembering fragments of a conversation, trying to keep the words in order, straining to recall if something unspoken slipped in among them, like an elephant searching for the wisdom of matriarchs who made this journey before me.
I do this myself in a way, not with bones, but with memories, fragments of stories, and vibes of loved ones who have died, even if, like tonight/today it's 4 a.m., and I need to sleep, but I'm too busy trying to remember a particular conversation, not just the words, but the inflections of their speech, the expression on their faces, what they said and what went unsaid but heard, and what I might have heard then, but couldn't understand until now.
2010...no, I have to go back to 2009, when a cousin committed suicide, and stunned the family. We reeled into the angry and baffled grief specific to suicide. (One of the lessons I took from Matthew's death was that whole side of the family--myself included-- is way too stoic and stoicism can be deadly. You have to be willing to call out in pain so that the herd can rush to help.) Later in the year, my aunt Susan's cancer went from "we can treat this" to "there's nothing more we can do." At the same time, my mom's illness and chronic pain worsened, leaving us desperate to hold on to her, but wondering how much she would have to endure.
In the last few months of Susan's life, I could barely even process what was happening. I was so focused on caring for my mom, so afraid that this loss would take what strength she had left. My mom and Susan were born fifteen months apart and died less than three months apart. After my mom died, over and over, I'd think "I need to call Susan" and then I remembered I couldn't, and reality hit me so hard that I sank to my knees. Somehow we had lost them both in that short span of time and they took with them so much knowledge and wisdom and history.....the thought of it was unbearable.
In 2012, I feel like maybe I have my feet under me again, and then I'll have a night when I roll over, waking from one dream and before sliding into another, I find myself back in the elephant graveyard, remembering fragments of a conversation, trying to keep the words in order, straining to recall if something unspoken slipped in among them, like an elephant searching for the wisdom of matriarchs who made this journey before me.
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