I Like It

"If our life was made into a musical, it would be a Dixie Chicks jukebox musical."

Fabrics of Memory

This morning I trekked myself to the post office to collect the package that was 'too big for the letter box,' expecting it to be one of the graphic novels I've ordered by Ariel Schrag for a paper I want to present. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised to see the handwriting of one, Knits with Carrots.

Inside: Patricia Polacco's The Keeping Quilt. In time for the recent finishing of my first quilt, Knits with Carrots got choked up reading the beautiful picturebook and decided I needed it in my collection; I quite agree.

In the picturebook, the author's Great-Gramma Anna is a Russian Jewish immigrant to New York City and from her childhood and family's clothes, the women of her family and community make a quilt to remember home. Each piece of fabric has a story and the quilt welcomes each new daughter, becomes a table cloth at the Sabbath and special occasions and acts as the wedding huppa through multiple generations.

Reading the book reminded me of the legacy that quilts can have and that just last night, I was telling Alex stories about the fabrics in our quilt. Most of the fabrics were bought specifically for the project, but still, others have stories.

Like, the softer white cotton fabric with the smaller red polka dots was from a tank top of mine. I think I found it in a thrift shop, and it, too, had been made by hand. I wore it on stage the summer before my freshman year of high school in a Talent Competition: me and three other girls did a dance routine to 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' and won 2nd place in the county fair. I kept the tank top long after I stopped wearing it; I thought it was good fabric.

Others are scraps from pillows and aprons I'd made as gifts. The inner circle of pinks were fabrics given to me from Em, my quilting guru, and pieces of those are probably in other quilts of their own.

And from this quilt, I still have more scraps--strawberries, bandanas, endless pinks--which will possibly make their way into other quilts, other projects. It makes me wonder about the depth of one's own fabric stash and the wealth of memories.

Thanks, darling.

Your Cheatin' Heart

I see the blue moon ov'r Kentucky
and go walking after midnight,
falling to pieces each time
I don't stand by my woman.

The only thing different,
the only thing new,
I'll stay back in baby's arms...

Morning Hugs

I don't have many poems
about my mom, but I could
write of morning hugs.

Good morning, Mom.

Care Package

Last week, my love and I received a care package from my aunt filled with the best candy America has to offer, the kind of candy you get special just for the movies and you scarf down before the opening scene even starts:

Junior Mints
Milk Duds
Whoppers
Sour Patch Kids
Red Vines
Baby Ruth
Peanut M&Ms

I can hardly think of an instance where I didn't get one of these for a trip to the movies, sneaking it in under my jacket or paying full price at the theatre for the bigger box.

As if enjoying their taste wasn't enough, I have relished in talking about them. Calling them 'candy' instead of 'sweets' and feeling justified because they're not English sweets, like Wine Gums or Smarties or Maltsers, but an all-American spread of candy. It's like I have some kind of Sandlot mentality when I talk about them being the ones you take to the movies--not the 'cinema'--as if buying a box of Junior Mints for the blockbusters were some nostalgic weekly summer tradition of my childhood.

No such weekly summer tradition existed, and often times the actual chocolate of the candy or sweets is better in Europe (see: Ireland's Cadbury), but it seems I still can't help but be excited when I see the tub of candy on the kitchen counter... I think I miss home.

It's All Connected

She placed her finger on my inner big toe:

'Ow. Owww. It's a deep ache.'

Her face scrunched in pain, but she did not let go. She held it there as the pain diminshed.

'Do you have a juddery feeling?'

Most days.

She let go. Flicked the energy away, pressed into my big toe again.

'Do you get pain behind your eyes?'

Yes.

'Headaches across your forehead, on either side of your temples?'

Yes.

'Does your jaw ache? Do you grind your teeth?'

Yes, but I'm not sure if grind my teeth. It's made this click for years.

'Your left side more than your right.'

Yeah...

'Do you salivate a lot?'

Yes...?

She let go once more, flicking away the energy, but soon resumed her hold on me.

'And your neck and your wrist. I can't find your stomach.

'You said you feel hollow. It's not your stomach. It's your head. Take care of your worry. It's all connected.'

For Sunday

The summer solstice,
I choose what of to let go.
Send them with the tears.