November 2022

If my grief. . .

/ wvfurandroot / Leave a comment

If my grief were a book, it would be Dickens. Large, expansive, serialized.  My grief provokes tears, provokes laughter.  Marvels at the absurdity of life.  Goes on and on.  Driven by words.  And memories.  Little action and lots of description. 

If my grief were a touch, it would be the grip of an infant on his mother’s thumb.  Hanging on, but oblivious to the need to do so. A reflex of sorts. Never wondering why.

If my grief were a bowl, it would be a large ceramic bowl used to make bread.  Something that can hold the small bit of yeast and water and hold the enormous amounts of flour.  Accommodate the dough and air while holding the temperature steady for the rising.

If my grief were a garden, it would be a cottage garden.  English.  Somewhat of a mess, but breathtaking at its peak.

If my grief were a dog, it would be a dachshund.  Stubborn, hard to train, following me everywhere.  Sweet in its devotion. Sincere in its love.

If my grief were a pair of glasses, it would be bifocals with lines, heavy black frames, held together with super glue, and a Band-Aid.

If my grief were a sunset, it would be the opposite of a Hawaiian one.  The sun would not blaze the sky with color and magnificence to slip into a silver ocean turning the sky a vivid dark blue.  Oh no.  It would be the sunset of a blizzard in Maine.  Unnoticed for the misery.

If my grief were a door, it would be a revolving one like at the bank.  With muddy footprints and the fingerprints of mourners on the glass.

If my grief were an elevator, it would be out of order.  The door opening and closing, opening and closing, opening and closing, going nowhere.

If my grief were a sports car, it would be a Camaro – mostly ordinary but with a certain touch of pizzazz –like a custom paint job.

If my grief were a person, it would be Cheri and Donnie, Doug and Daddy, Susan and Debbie and Jes.

If my grief were to leave, I think there would remain a hole where it used to be.

Hawaii (or you can go back)

/ wvfurandroot / 2 Comments

I was gifted with the experience of living in Hawaii for three years.  I was 7 when we moved there and 10 when we left.  I did not then realize what I had been given.  I guess I thought everyone lived in paradise, but simultaneously I also knew I had lived somewhere special. 

We left on January 10, 1970.  It’s funny that I remember that date.  Our last act in Hawaii was to go to the bank and withdraw all our money.  While at the bank, my brother and I got on one another’s nerves.  I poked him.  He kicked me.  And tore a hole in the lace of my very “gourmet” dress.  I was incensed.  I was quite the fan of the Galloping Gourmet, a television cooking show hosted by Graham Kerr who was more often than not drunk.  Gourmet was the highest praise I could give anything. 

Hawaii was gourmet.

We arrived in San Francisco a week later via ocean liner.  The crossing had been rocky and my mother was inflicted with horrific sea sickness.  My brother and I had been left to our own devices for the most part and had the run of the ship.  I remember bits and pieces of that sailing, but the memories are not vivid like some of my memories of Hawaii. My mother describes disembarking in San Francisco as being like the Wizard of Oz in reverse.  We went from technicolor to black and white. 

I always vowed to go back, but not until I could do so with grace and style.  Hawaii is horrifically expensive if one isn’t lucky enough to live in military housing with access to the commissary – the military’s grocery store.

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