Bone Collards

Images by Bryan Moats.

In the back yard, near the fence, there’s a large patch of bolted collard greens. We’re gardeners, but we didn’t plant them there.  Like so many greens, they just volunteered, the horticultural remnants of someone who lived in this old house long before us. When they first started to flower I left them there because those small, yellow flowers are so beautiful, the butterflies and bees love them, and, besides, I wanted to save some of the seeds.

After they bolted I saved some of the seeds but didn’t have the heart to rip the mature plants from the ground. The boys love to play near them, reaching up to grab the seed pods and talk about all the “baby seeds” inside.  And the tall stalks provide a nice area for the dogs to run through.  (Also they (the dogs) poop on the other side of the collard greens near the fence and I like that the collard separate us from the doggie toilet). And besides, we’re using the area near the house as our gardening space, so I don’t really need that patch of ground and have no real reason to dig them up, other than, I guess, the fact that it’s possibly considered somehow unseemly to let things grow like that in the city. But that’s one of the reasons I love our neighborhood. Folks around here are fine with little bit of disorder. The collards border our neighbor’s equally overgrown fence. It’s not a place for manicured lawns or orderly front porches, thank goodness. The gardens are wild and beautiful; the houses lived in and loved.

So these collards.  They’ve been bleached by the sun, turning an almost  bone color.  Sometimes when the dusk sun hits them just right, they give off a matte sheen, catching your eye the same way you might suddenly notice a little mammal skull in the woods.  They fall under the weight of the heavy seed pods and look tired and weary. Their  roots are jutting from the ground, thick and overgrown like a root crop. But yet there’s something magical about them.

Maybe it’s  something about the lonesome sound they make when the dogs runs through them or when a young child reaches up to shake the percussive seed pods. Sometimes I’ll find myself getting lost just watching them in the breeze, which, by now, only barely stir the heavy pods.  These moments of deep thought are only seconds long.  Toddlers don’t really ‘get’ meditation and it’s not too long before I have to go and break up a fight over a toy car, re-explain the importance of gentleness and patience, and redirect to a new activity.

Often at night when I’m lying in bed, and I have a few minutes in silence, my mind will flash to images of childhood and my mother.  They’re mosaic bits of memory, largely unformed images, little slivers really, snapshots of things like our old gold carpet or a kitchen tablecloth.  Not my mother, but things that remind me of her.  Images safe enough to doze off to.

And sometimes when I’m sitting on the back porch, dirt under my nails from gardening, gathering up a few short second to watch my sons play monster trucks or look for “worms and carpolis (in case you did not know, this is a mix between a caterpillar and worm and a rolly polly) in the mounds of dirt, I’ll stare out at those collards.  And I often wonder if I were to run through them, my arms outstretched and palms open to catch and shake lose all the dried seed pods,  if maybe, just maybe, I’d break through some kind of portal, of sorts.  I’d be able to not only see the gold carpet of my childhood home, but also hear my mother’s feet upon it.  The tablecloth would become more than just a tablecloth.  It would take its place in the motion and smells of a Sunday dinner she prepared.  I wonder if maybe those collards, the long finger-like seed pods, might transform under my callouses and feel like my mother’s hand.

Mary Caroline

My grandmother holding my father.

I’ve been thinking about my grandmother a lot lately.  She was a mysterious woman and remains an engima to me many years after her death.  I love this photo of her and my father taken somewhere in  Sulpher Springs/Harkeys Valley, Arkansas in the mid 1940s.

Grover’s Mommy is a Super Mommy

I was never very good at telling my mother how much I appreciated her.  And I was never  too big on overly sentimental gifts. But every so often I would give my mother a statement present, something blatantly reminding her she was wonderful and loved.  She adored that kind of thing, which, as a mother, I kind of get now.  You give so much and sometimes the reserves run a little low.  You need someone to actually tell you you’re doing a decent job raising humans.

I’m not much for sentimental books or cards, but even as an adult I’ve always appreciated the value of a good children’s book. The message is usually direct and practical, tender but not sappy, funny and sincere without needless flourish.  Sure, I guess they’re sentimental too.  Whatever. We all have our ideas about what that words means.

Not too long ago I found this book in my mother’s things.  According to the inscription in the front, I gave it to her in 1997.  So I would have been around 19, living away from home for the first time.  I knew how hard it was for her to get used to not seeing her only child on a daily basis.  I must have felt a need to remind her of the status she held in my life, even if I was often too busy to call.

I thought about stashing the book away in one of the many shoeboxes where I save this scrap or that, endless cardboard containers filled with decades old handwriting and rotting paper.  I’m a hobby archivist.  Not a hoarder. Just saying.

But instead I decided to give the book to my sons.  They’re usually pretty gentle, but I knew even if they tore it up that would be better than letting it sit unnoticed in a deep, dusty box. It’s become one of their favorite books.  ”Read Grover’s Mommy?” they ask me everyday.   Some days I remind them it was Mamma’s book.  Some days I don’t.

Do you see it?

What I love most about the book, and why I think I purchased it in the first place, is because the first picture of Grover’s mother looks strangely like my own, you know, minus the blue furry skin and all that.  That hair, my mom wore a similar coif.  Crisp red blazer?  That was a staple in my mom’s wardrobe, especially when paired with wool pants, much like Grover’s mommy is sporting.   For those of you that knew my mother, don’t you see the resemblance?

Who knows.  Maybe it’s just me and that whole thing about seeing the world through grief glasses or something.  Some days I think I see her everywhere.  Other days I have that empty feeling of having not seen her for years.

But every time I open the book, I think of my mom in her preppy clothes, every hair in place, bright red jacket freshly ironed.  Sure it’s a tender memory, but it’s also hilarious. I mean, look at this picture.  I’m finding my mother in a muppet.

After I recall her polished appearance I’ll think of myself at nineteen, baggy skate jeans, messy hair, always a bit socially awkward and confused.  But my mom was always so social, so polished, like Grover’s mom.

The book goes on to tell us that Grover’s mommy can fix a bike, throw a party, grow vegetables, and design costumes. She’s a “fearless explorer,” and a “math whiz,” riding bicycle paths and helping Grover solve tough equations like 1+2=3.

And, of course, on the last page it’s Grover who wears the cape, the super one, the one she made for him during her stint as an “expert costume designer.”  Oh, the layers. There’s a reason there’s lit crit for kid’s books. What a minefield.

Snail as Mountain Lion Music

That's my dog, Elsie. She's amazing.

Since this is my more personal blog and it’s kind of evolving as I do more writing and what not, I thought I’d put up some my music recordings up here.

Via my work as a oral historian and folklorist, I often write about other’s people’s music. But every so often I play a little (nothing too fancy) and recently started gathering up my older recordings and some new ones, and put them on a Sound Cloud  page.

I used to play with the bands Woods Afire and Early Morning Bourbon Girls, and one of these days I am going to get those recordings up as well.  They’re more polished and have a band.  But these are the messy things I record in my living room, little songs I write about dead animals, people I miss, the moon, stuff like that.  They’re super rough and as lo fi as can be.  I’m not a great guitar player and I don’t practice like I should.  I just like to sometimes write songs.  They’re all works in progress and will hopefully someday be recorded with more layers, like timpanis and a chorus of crickets. There’s some possibility of starting a new band.  We’ll see how that goes.

Here’s one called “Red Flower,” a little bit more straightforward than my usual songs, but I’ve gotten some complements so I’ll put it here. You can listen to the rest here.

https://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F36478896 Red Flower by Snail as Mountain Lion

Another Birthday

From left to right Rosemary's mother, Rosemary, my mother, and her cousin, Steve.

My mom would have been sixty-seven today.  Since her death in 2008 I always write something on her birthday because I always find myself, more than usual, trying to conceptualize what today would be like if she was still alive.

One of the hardest parts of grief—and one I seldom hear people discuss—is how, after a certain point, you start to have a difficult time imagining what it would be like to have the person in your daily life again.  The world they knew before their death—the interactions between people, the relationships, the homes, even the people in the homes—have changed, sometimes drastically.  The world is a different place, partially because of their leaving and partially because of the simple fact that nothing ever stops moving. Every day a tiny change occurs. Put all those changes together and add up the years and the next thing you know we have a hard time imagining the selves we once were.

This constant motion of life is, in my opinion, is equal parts beautiful and absolutely terrifying. It comes with an ache that is hard to name.  How is it that we become so many different versions of ourselves?

If I could talk to my mom, what would I tell her about this life she left?  Maybe I’d tell her about how much her grandsons love to talk, how verbal they are and how much they yearn to describe the world around them. Or maybe I’d tell her about how much they love one another and how she doesn’t have to worry about them growing up a weirdo only child like me.  They have the unique experience of having no idea what it’s like to be alone.

Maybe I’d tell her how I’ve started writing again after years of swearing I was done with that. Or that I learned to knit or that we found a great home for her dog, Spanky, where he now lives the lap of luxury. I would for sure tell her how all her cousins and her friends came together and took me in, showing me that I had a family and letting me get to know each of them. I’ve been cared for by people I’d barely talked to before her death.  And I think that, more than anything, speaks volumes about the kind of woman my mother was. I couldn’t begin to count how many times I’ve had people tell me of the kind things my mother did for them, the countless ways she helped people I didn’t even know she knew.  I don’t know how things work in the afterlife, but I’d like to think my cousin Rosemary, who passed away recently, has already filled her in on how I joined her family and how many wonderful times we had around her kitchen table.

There’s some degree of peacefulness in knowing that if mom were here today she might not recognize much of my life, or my father’s life, or the homes we live in.  That might sound strange at first, but it’s peaceful because it means the stabbing pain of loss has somewhat subsided and because, at least on some level, we’ve done what she would have wanted us to do: keep going.  The stabbing pain has been replaced with a different kind of hurt, a kind of constant longing, a constant wondering about the whys of life.  The reality of grief is that it does not go away.  It just changes. Thankfully, with these changes come some measure of peace and we learn to laugh and truly find joy.  But the ache?  No, that never goes away.

One thing I’ve learned these last few years is that finding peace in loss has nothing whatsoever to do with escaping pain.  This realization that life goes on, well, that’s its own form of grief.  It’s like this: You believe you’ll never be able to function like a normal person again having watched your mother die before what you felt was her time.  But then you do.  Not because you’re strong, but because you don’t have much choice.  The sun goes down, it comes up, you still get hungry, there are bills to pay, you can’t find matching socks in the laundry pile, and emails, there are emails to send. In my case, there are babies to take care of, and to love, and somehow between feeling endlessly jerked back and forth between pure joy and crushing sadness, you realize you wake up one morning and you’re on the other side of the sharpest pain of loss.

Or at least this loss. There will be more, of course. And with each person we lose, we re-grieve all those others. Maybe these losses help us see more layers to life.  You start to realize that whatever exactly happens after we leave this world, there are a lot of people you know on that other side. This realization is sad, of course.  But regardless of what you believe about the afterlife (or lack thereof), I think there’s something potentially grounding about this. They’re adding up over there, all those folks you love and cared for you.  Maybe they’re waving, you know, like waves of grass or something?  I’ll skip the over-arching metaphors.  But there’s something hopeful about the thought of knowing the dead.

Me and my mother, 1986 Blue Springs, Arkansas

Initially you think they’ll be gone, unreachable, beyond comprehension.  But then, somehow, time goes by and on certain days they’re not. You start to find out that they’re around.  In places you never expected.

Now, people will tell you this when you’re first grieving, but it won’t mean much to you and you’ll largely ignore these comments.  When you’re first grieving, it’s not enough to know that your voice sounds like your mother’s or that your children have her eyes. Sure, it’s nice to hear. But you just want the real deal. You can’t tell your laugh that you love it and you can’t ask your baby’s eyes for advice about how to get children to sleep. But after some time goes by it will be magical to hear yourself laughing and hear your mother.  You’ll get actual chills when you see her eyes in your children’s. My friend Sam told me about this.  She was right.

And there are lots of other not-so-literal ways you’ll find the dead hanging around, but I’d just butcher those beautiful images if I tried to put them into words.   It’ll be hard to explain to yourself what you’re seeing and even harder to describe to others. But other people who have lost loved ones will likely understand because they’ll have felt it too. And since we all lose those we love, that’s all of us.

As a Mother of Two Boys, I Love This Story.

A friend of mine posted a link to this story.  I loved it so much I thought I’d pass it on.  I don’t know a thing about this blogger or video games,  but I love the crux of the story and hope we’re raising sons who’ll have similar characteristics:  the bravery to be themselves and the willingness to stand up for others who are being themselves.

Here’s the first part of the blog, with a link to the full story.

Yesterday I had a pair of brothers in my store. One was maybe between 15-17. He was a wrestler at the local high school. Kind of tall, stocky and handsome. He had a younger brother, who was maybe about 10-12 years old. Thy were talking about finding a game for the younger one, and he was absolutely insisting it be one with a female charcter. I don’t know how many of y’all play games, but that isn’t exactly easy. Eventually, I helped the brothers pick a game called Mirror’s Edge. The youngest was pretty excited about the game, and then he specifically asked me.. “Do you have any girl color controllers?”

I directed him to the only colored controllers we have which includes pink and purple ones. He grabbed the purple one, and informed me purple was his FAVORITE.

Continue reading here: http://mohandasgandhi.tumblr.com/post/15242464246/dear-customer-who-stuck-up-for-his-little-brother

A Christmas Tree.

My mother. 1957.

I love everything about this photo: The haphazardly decorated tree, the frame hanging crooked on the wall, the way my mother is crouched down as if she’s about to leap up and run away, the reflection on the thick glass windows, the fact that she’s wearing jeans…all of it, really.

If my mother were still living she’d probably kick me for posting this.  She liked everything to be polished.  I so much didn’t turn out that way, so it’s kind of nice to see a photo of a tree I can relate to.  Plus, it’s endlessly interesting to think of my mother as a child.  When I look at my kids and wonder how it is that I ever a.) became an adult and b.) became a mother, I remember that she must have felt the same way.  She must have often looked at me (as I do with my own kids) and thought to herself,  ”How did I wind up here?”  Children, generally, have no idea how pleasantly overwhelmed their parents are at their mere existence.  And this is as it should be, I guess.  They’re marveling at the world.  We’re marveling at them marveling at the world.

I think the thing I like best about this photo is the simplicity of the house.  But let me be clear in saying that when I say “simplicity,”I have no desire to romanticize poverty, nor do I want to suggest that things were somehow better back in the days when my mother was a child.  Life has always been complicated, poverty has never been sustainable, and while I am indeed quite a Luddite about many things, I’m happy to be living in this generation with all its beauty and struggles.  I love me some internet, after all.

What I like about the picture is that there are presents under the tree, but not too many.  There are decorations on the tree but it looks like someone had fun decorating that tree and wasn’t these least bit worried about it being perfect. Mostly what I like is thinking about my mother as someone who’s gone through many phases in her life:  baby, a child, a teen, young adult,  young mother, middle-aged woman.    We all wind up being so many different versions of ourselves.  Somehow this helps me accept something of the concept of death and really does bring me some kind of peace.   I also recently lost someone who was very, very dear to me, like a grandmother really.   I remember looking at her childhood photos before the funeral.  There is something magical about remembering that those that die old were once children.

As a mother of twins, I often have strangers come up and  tell me to “enjoy every minute” of my sons’ childhood.  I appreciate this suggestion, but little do they know how often I think about how short our lives are or how I often focus on how important it is to embrace every moment with my growing sons.   I’ve never been much of a holiday decorator.  But my sons are in love with Christmas trees.  Who can blame them?  I’m coming to love them myself, especially the messy kind.

Here’s a photo of them with the tree.  Very blurry but representative of the endless motion of our house these days.

G and E

Language Milestone

You may remember a post a while back about my son’s love for the phrase “all done” and my own fascination with their language-based creativity.  I recorded an audio version of that commentary for KUAF’s Ozarks at Large program, which you can hear by clicking on the link below.

Click here to listen:  http://kuaf.org/content/language-milestone

Most of the work I do for radio tends to be more folklife/oral history based and less personal commentary. (you can find those writings here) but I’m exploring the possibility of doing more published writings about motherhood, simple living, and the fine line between grief and joy.

When I was a young child I wanted to be a writer (and a veterinarian).  I was also fiercely private.  As I got older I swore off writing.  And then somewhere along the way I stopped believing that hiding emotion or vulnerability would somehow save me from life’s unpredictability.  And I started writing again. So here we are.  Thanks for listening/reading.

More to come in the near future.

Graves a Few Days Before Thanksgiving

Graves a few days before Thanksgiving. 2011.

My mother and I both always enjoyed walking around cemeteries.  We loved to read the tombstones, look at the flowers, and enjoy the silence.

I took this photograph of my mother’s grave a few days before Thanksgiving.  I love all the color on her grave and how beautiful the mountain looks in the distance.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted here, partially because toddler hood keeps me running and also because sometimes I don’t have much to say.

I really enjoyed the silence in the cemetery that day, and I am so appreciative of all the flowers friends and family continue to leave at my mother’s grave.

“I’m like that little kid looking out the window”: Garbus men on Storycorp.

Retired New York City sanitation worker Angelo Bruno (L) speaks with his friend and former partner, Eddie Nieves (R). From the Storpcorp page.

In honor of G and E’s birthday my dear friend Kristin Dowell sent me a link to this Storycorp piece with two garbus men in New York.

It’s wonderful.  Take a listen. May we all have such pride in our work and such love for our fellow humans.

Angelo Bruno and Eddie Nieves