It was dirty, rundown and industrial. A fine layer of red dust covered everything that I could see. Red dust from taconite pellets, iron ore to be loaded on to 1000 foot ore ships and floated east across Lake Superior. In a matter of hours the ships would disappear from view.
It's been years since I thought about the red dust that covered everything, permeated my skin and no doubt played a part in forming who I am.
I was called home by my family to be with my grandmother through the end of her life. So I packed up what I needed and loaded it into my car, a red Toyota corolla with 100,000 miles. No rust but that will be soon coming. Everything else I gave away or stored at one of those storage centers. I optimistically paid for 3 months. But knew that I'd be paying more.
I was coming back, driving into my history.
I chose to drive through Wisconsin bypassing the four lane concrete freeway that would get me home in half the time. I had made the decision to move back and decided on a leisurely drive. Once small town after another each one with its own memories. There are lots of towns with long ago forgotten names. towns so small you can't get lost and finding the local burger spot is easy. There are a myriad of gift shops and local tourist attractions. The worlds largest fish, piece of cheese the worlds largest museum.
I suppose that what I was really doing was delaying the obvious. I was leaving the city and returning to my childhood home.
It was a warm day all of my car windows were down. Fresh air that is not available in the city was flowing through my car. I breathed deeply the beginnings of the city were visible. The fist landmark I came to is the cemetery, the one with out a name, neat and tidy looking. It’s always been a lonely place.
My favorite cemetery is St Francis Cemetery along the Nemadji river, the river that flow red. It was in between my home and the library. as a girl i stopped there often. There was always something new to see feel and touch. Its old and familiar its filled with life and lives lived. All of my life iIve been drawn to the indian graves relocated from Wisconsin Point. Why there were moved was never explained, just presented as fact.
A cold blast of air from Lake Superiorbrings me back and greets me at the top of the hill. The power of the lake and the culture of coldness that comes with it completely envelops me.
I drove on passed the bowling alley and turned right at the Catholic church where I was baptized, and then passed the golf course and over the river that flows red. My car seemed to know where I was going. Everything was the same as I remembered.
I turned into the drive at my grandmother’s house. The driveway was long my car was the only one in the drive. My grandmother’s small house that held my memories had burned down. Everything was gone except the peonies in her garden. Even with the fire they continued to return year after year. For a short time each spring the yard is filled with their intoxicating aroma and her stories.
After the fire my grandmother built a new house, it was a newer version of her old house. This one was set back from the road. She said she needed more room for her flowers.
I was a apprehensive as I climbed the steps and reached to open the door.This deck was finished with handrails and railings. No more worrying about grandbabies getting to close to the edge.
I stood for a moment and then opened the door and walked in just as the old house the kitchen was the largest room in the house. Her enormous table took center stage in the kitchen. That table was always inviting family and friends to come and sit awhile. Share a meal or a story, find solace or enough love to keep you going.
Except for the new TV it looked and smelled exactly as I remembered. My grandmother was sitting at the head of the table, with a cup of coffee, a deck of playing cards and All My Children on the television. I joined her in a card game of her own rules. We talked and talked I answered the same questions over and over again.
Sitting at that table watching my grandmother drinking coffee was a blessing for me. After the card game I looked around at the new house. I found the family photos in a basket in the living room. I always loved looking at the photos and hearing stories about the people in the pictures.
With the ebb and flow of my grandmothers dementia story telling could go in many directions.
Family members grew tired of the constant reminders of times in the past. She always asked them to bring the grandbabies to visit. They were frustrated by her lack of cooperation and her flat out refusal to go see the new doctor.
All of her children were grown, most had moved away and started families of their own. With the bulk of the work falling on my mother she called me and reminded me that I had a way with my grandmother that was calming and I was to come and live in the new house.
I picked up the basket of photos and went back into the kitchen. My favorite photo was on top. It was a picture of my grandmother wearing a skirt and a jacket. She was posing in front of a tree. Every time I look at her eyes in the photo I feel the energy of her soul.
The family stories tell me that my grandmother was born in 1910 on the Fond du lac Indian reservation and I know that my grandfather lived in Chicago. She married him in 1929. With this little bit of information I placed the photo in front of her I wanted to hear a story.
She talked about living in a big city, but she couldn’t remember the name. I asked her if it was Chicago. She very excitedly said yes and told me how much she loved her time in Chicago.
She said they had an apartment that looked out on to Lake Michigan and that the man who lived with her was very handsome. She swooned as the memories came back to her. I assumed that the man was my grandfather. When I asked how long she lived there with grandfather she looked at me with a furrowed brow and said no it wasn’t him. She looked away and then back at me and went on to tell me that they had recently seen Mario Lanza at the opera house.
This is not the first story she has told be about that photo. There have been many stories. Each time I get a glimpse of her life.
I put the photos away, we ate our dinner after I tucked her into bed. I sat on the living room couch and looked out the window the peonies were in bloom.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
15 days and a moment
I wrote this about the last 15 days of my brother Scott's life. I was telling a friend this story and she told me I should write about it. So I sat down at my desk and this is what came about.
one---my phone rings
and I hear a voice tell me my brother is in the hospital.
two---i walk into a room and see a man.
My brother?
AIDS is clearly in the area he has that striking look they all seem
to have.
three---the nurses come and go.
The strong man who is my brother takes whatever they bring him.
four---days later. I'm there again.
He is handing my mother money to make his car payment.
I must me in the wrong place.
five---
six---
seven----It's evening I'm with him again.
I hold his hand, he squeezes back.
I sit and talk and ask him why.
He is without words.
eight---It's late again.
the phone has rung and called me to his side.
nine---I'm the first one there.
I look into his doctors eyes. I am seeking reassurance
his deep dark brown eyes fill with tears.
ten---
eleven---
twelve---No words are spoken. I know it is time.
morning comes
the sun rises
shifts change
more people are with me now.
thirteen---The last breaths are smoothe and gentle
deceitfully life giving.
fourteen---weeks pass, grieving, laughing, crying and healing
we gather at my mother's house
I hear great stories of his strength
fifteen---My heart is filled.
the day has arrived - hundreds of people gather
music - stories -
laughs - tears
someone hands me photos
and for a moment the divine is with me.
one---my phone rings
and I hear a voice tell me my brother is in the hospital.
two---i walk into a room and see a man.
My brother?
AIDS is clearly in the area he has that striking look they all seem
to have.
three---the nurses come and go.
The strong man who is my brother takes whatever they bring him.
four---days later. I'm there again.
He is handing my mother money to make his car payment.
I must me in the wrong place.
five---
six---
seven----It's evening I'm with him again.
I hold his hand, he squeezes back.
I sit and talk and ask him why.
He is without words.
eight---It's late again.
the phone has rung and called me to his side.
nine---I'm the first one there.
I look into his doctors eyes. I am seeking reassurance
his deep dark brown eyes fill with tears.
ten---
eleven---
twelve---No words are spoken. I know it is time.
morning comes
the sun rises
shifts change
more people are with me now.
thirteen---The last breaths are smoothe and gentle
deceitfully life giving.
fourteen---weeks pass, grieving, laughing, crying and healing
we gather at my mother's house
I hear great stories of his strength
fifteen---My heart is filled.
the day has arrived - hundreds of people gather
music - stories -
laughs - tears
someone hands me photos
and for a moment the divine is with me.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Stone Steps Leading No Where
birdbaths of stone and stone steps leading no where.
My grandmother's peonies
and
their intoxicating aroma
bring me back to her arms
and
long summer days with sunshine
that stretched from
earliest in the morning
until late in the evening
I remember sitting on the floor looking
out of the window
seeing that bird bath of stone
and
stone steps leading no where
the greyness of the stone punctuated by
pink and white
the petals pink and white
tightly wound together
bound together
slowly opening
to spread that intoxicating
aroma up and around
that bird bath of stone
and
stone steps leading no where
She'd gather us around
and show us her joy
and tell stories of each flower
as we walked those stone steps
that went no where
we would stop at each plant
and she would show us
their beauty
"The ants too are needed"she'd say
With out them the bird bath of stone
and the stone steps leading no where
would be
without color
without joy
without memories of the stone steps that
went no where.
Friday, March 18, 2011
The day my grandfather became her husband
It was dirty, rundown and industrial. A fine layer of red dust covered everything that I could see. Red dust from taconite pellets, iron ore to be loaded on to 1000 foot ore ships and floated east across Lake Superior. In a matter of hours the ships would disappear from view.
It's been years since I thought about the red dust that covered everything, permeated my skin and no doubt played a part in forming who I am.
I was called home by my family to be with my grandmother through the end of her life. So I packed up what I needed and loaded it into my car, a red Toyota corolla with 100,000 miles. No rust but that will be soon coming. Everything else I gave away or stored at one of those storage centers. I optimistically paid for 3 months. But knew that I'd be paying more.
I chose to drive through Wisconsin bypassing the four lane concrete freeway that would get me home in half the time. I had made the decision to move back and thought that a leisurely drive would be the thing to do. I suppose that what I was really doing was delaying the obvious. I was leaving the city and returning to my childhood home.
I was coming back, driving into my history.
It was a warm day. The windows were down. Fresh air that is not available in the city was flowing through my car. I breathed deeply and continued driving. I was driving in from the south the beginnings of the city were visible. The fist landmark I came to is the cemetery, neat and tidy looking. It’s a lonely place.
Up over the hill the cold blast of air from Lake Superior brought me back to reality. The power of the lake and the culture of coldness that comes with it completely enveloped me. I stopped to roll up the windows and continued my drive.
I continued on and drove passed the bowling alley and turned right at the Catholic church where I was baptized, I drove passed the golf course and over the river. My car seemed to know where I was going. Everything was the same as I remembered.
I turned into the drive at my grandmother’s house. The driveway was long my car was the only one in the drive. My grandmother’s small house that held my memories had burned a while ago. Everything was gone except the peonies in her garden. Even with the fire they continued to return year after year. For a short time each spring the yard is filled with their intoxicating aroma and her stories.
After the fire my grandmother built a new house, it was a newer version of her old house. This one was set back from the road. She said she needed more room for her flowers.
I was entering the new house for the first time. I was a little apprehensive as I climbed the steps and reached to open the door.
I opened the door and walked in just as the old house the kitchen was the biggest room in the house. Her enormous table took center stage in the kitchen. That table was always inviting family and friends to come and sit awhile. Share a meal or a story, find solace or enough love to keep you going.
Except for the new TV it looked and smelled exactly as I remembered. My grandmother was sitting at the head of the table, with a cup of coffee, a deck of playing cards and Oprah on the television. I joined her in a card game of her own rules. We talked and talked I answered the same questions over and over again.
Drinking coffee and sitting at that table was a blessing for me. After the card game I looked around at the new house. I found the family photos in a basket in the living room. I always loved looking at the photos and hearing stories about the people in the pictures.
With the ebb and flow of my grandmothers dementia story telling could go in many directions.
Family members grew tired of the constant reminders of times in the past. She always asked them to bring the grandbabies to visit. They were frustrated by her lack of cooperation and her flat out refusal to go see the new doctor.
All of her children were grown, most had moved away and started families of their own. With the bulk of the work falling on my mother she called me and reminded me that I had a way with my grandmother that was calming. Then she told me that I was to come and live with my grandmother.
I picked up the basket of photos and went back into the kitchen. My favorite photo was on top. It was a picture of my grandmother wearing a skirt and a jacket. She was posing in front of a tree. Every time I look at her eyes in the photo I feel the energy of her soul.
I know that my grandmother was born in 1910 on the Fond du lac Indian reservation and I know that my grandfather lived in Chicago. She married him in 1929. With this little bit of information I placed the photo in front of her I wanted to hear a story.
She talked about living in a big city, but she couldn’t remember the name. I asked her if it was Chicago. She very excitedly said yes and told me how much she loved her time in Chicago.
She said they had an apartment that looked out on to Lake Michigan and that the man who lived with her was very handsome. She swooned as the memories came back to her. I assumed that the man was my grandfather. When I asked how long she lived there with grandfather she looked at me with a furrowed brow and said no it wasn’t him. She looked away and then back at me and went on to tell me that they had recently seen Mario Lanza at the opera house.
This is not the first story she has told be about that photo. There have been many stories. Each time I get a glimpse of her life.
I put the photos away, we ate our dinner and I tucked her into bed.
It's been years since I thought about the red dust that covered everything, permeated my skin and no doubt played a part in forming who I am.
I was called home by my family to be with my grandmother through the end of her life. So I packed up what I needed and loaded it into my car, a red Toyota corolla with 100,000 miles. No rust but that will be soon coming. Everything else I gave away or stored at one of those storage centers. I optimistically paid for 3 months. But knew that I'd be paying more.
I chose to drive through Wisconsin bypassing the four lane concrete freeway that would get me home in half the time. I had made the decision to move back and thought that a leisurely drive would be the thing to do. I suppose that what I was really doing was delaying the obvious. I was leaving the city and returning to my childhood home.
I was coming back, driving into my history.
It was a warm day. The windows were down. Fresh air that is not available in the city was flowing through my car. I breathed deeply and continued driving. I was driving in from the south the beginnings of the city were visible. The fist landmark I came to is the cemetery, neat and tidy looking. It’s a lonely place.
Up over the hill the cold blast of air from Lake Superior brought me back to reality. The power of the lake and the culture of coldness that comes with it completely enveloped me. I stopped to roll up the windows and continued my drive.
I continued on and drove passed the bowling alley and turned right at the Catholic church where I was baptized, I drove passed the golf course and over the river. My car seemed to know where I was going. Everything was the same as I remembered.
I turned into the drive at my grandmother’s house. The driveway was long my car was the only one in the drive. My grandmother’s small house that held my memories had burned a while ago. Everything was gone except the peonies in her garden. Even with the fire they continued to return year after year. For a short time each spring the yard is filled with their intoxicating aroma and her stories.
After the fire my grandmother built a new house, it was a newer version of her old house. This one was set back from the road. She said she needed more room for her flowers.
I was entering the new house for the first time. I was a little apprehensive as I climbed the steps and reached to open the door.
I opened the door and walked in just as the old house the kitchen was the biggest room in the house. Her enormous table took center stage in the kitchen. That table was always inviting family and friends to come and sit awhile. Share a meal or a story, find solace or enough love to keep you going.
Except for the new TV it looked and smelled exactly as I remembered. My grandmother was sitting at the head of the table, with a cup of coffee, a deck of playing cards and Oprah on the television. I joined her in a card game of her own rules. We talked and talked I answered the same questions over and over again.
Drinking coffee and sitting at that table was a blessing for me. After the card game I looked around at the new house. I found the family photos in a basket in the living room. I always loved looking at the photos and hearing stories about the people in the pictures.
With the ebb and flow of my grandmothers dementia story telling could go in many directions.
Family members grew tired of the constant reminders of times in the past. She always asked them to bring the grandbabies to visit. They were frustrated by her lack of cooperation and her flat out refusal to go see the new doctor.
All of her children were grown, most had moved away and started families of their own. With the bulk of the work falling on my mother she called me and reminded me that I had a way with my grandmother that was calming. Then she told me that I was to come and live with my grandmother.
I picked up the basket of photos and went back into the kitchen. My favorite photo was on top. It was a picture of my grandmother wearing a skirt and a jacket. She was posing in front of a tree. Every time I look at her eyes in the photo I feel the energy of her soul.
I know that my grandmother was born in 1910 on the Fond du lac Indian reservation and I know that my grandfather lived in Chicago. She married him in 1929. With this little bit of information I placed the photo in front of her I wanted to hear a story.
She talked about living in a big city, but she couldn’t remember the name. I asked her if it was Chicago. She very excitedly said yes and told me how much she loved her time in Chicago.
She said they had an apartment that looked out on to Lake Michigan and that the man who lived with her was very handsome. She swooned as the memories came back to her. I assumed that the man was my grandfather. When I asked how long she lived there with grandfather she looked at me with a furrowed brow and said no it wasn’t him. She looked away and then back at me and went on to tell me that they had recently seen Mario Lanza at the opera house.
This is not the first story she has told be about that photo. There have been many stories. Each time I get a glimpse of her life.
I put the photos away, we ate our dinner and I tucked her into bed.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
This Motto to Live by
The night is crisp, cold and dark
I am greeted at her door with hugs and tears
As I make my way to her room
Her energy swirls around colored red and blue
Red for heart and heat and companions
Blue for coolness, strength and serenity
I’m wrapped up in love
This motto to live by moves with me as I wander her apartment
I look at her books, read cards and notes
and magnets on her fridge
What stands out is a scrap of paper
It’s worn
Typed letters in blue
Blue for coolness
The blueness swirls as I reach that scrap of paper
Her energy swirls again
Flowing up from the floor swirling
and surrounding my body
Guiding my hands as they move through space
and that swirling energy
This motto to live by - - that scrap of paper with letters
typed in blue
This motto to live by - - I read the words
This motto to live by
The journey
The intention
Arriving safely
With chocolate and wine
This motto to live by - - the swirling ceases
I return the paper to its space
This motto to live by - - as I leave her that evening
I am comforted by the words
and the energy that Swirled up and around me
The blueness of her energy
This motto to live by –
Patricia VanErt 02/14/2007
Monday, February 14, 2011
looking back at closing doors
growing older the years speed by
this last one
the fastest yet
the fastest yet
looking back there are
closing doors
closing doors
from where I have
come from
come from
appear dim
with opening doors
ahead of me
ahead of me
responsibilities to that
left behind life
are with me still
Looking ahead
there are openings
with challenges of a life
being left behind
the closing doors
appear dim
with opening doors
ahead of me
the task
of facing responsibilities
to that life left behind
comes to me
with the doors dimming
is time running out?
Time does not
run out
the task will be before me
looking inward
the answers to the task
are within reach
closing doors
openings
within my reach
Time does not
run out
the task will be before me
looking inward
the answers to the task
are within reach
closing doors
openings
within my reach
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