Friday, August 28, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Once you stop dancing, you die a little.
I used to dance all the time. In my early twenties, we were out at honkytonks every Saturday night. I ran around with all of my cousins back then. We never went anywhere without each other. Even when we weren’t at a bar or a club, we’d find a way to dance. If we were in a restaurant that had a jukebox loaded down with good songs, we’d get up and dance. Didn’t matter if there wasn’t a dance-floor. We’d lean our heads back, close our eyes, and listen only to the music. We danced on the lake bank, in our living rooms, on the wide front porches of our youth.
Once I settled down and had children, the only dancing I ever did was with a baby on my hip. Some of my favorite memories are of dancing with my daughters. I’d slow-dance them to sleep, drawing in that scent that can only be found at the nape of your daughter’s neck. When they got older, I fast-danced with them. We used to dance every single night, the music turned up as loud as it would go. I taught them how to clog. I taught them that the best dancing song in the entire world is “Hurts So Good” by Mellencamp. I taught them to not care what anyone thinks when they are dancing, to just listen to the music.
My girls are getting bigger now, so we don’t dance as much as we used to, and nowadays it’s more that they demand that I dance for them and they sit and hold their stomachs laughing as they make me dance to songs they think I probably won’t like. Tonight was like that. They made me dance to “Diva” by Beyonce, which is a song I would most likely never dance to unless someone was making me. But I did, for them. I closed my eyes, leaned my head back, tried my best to listen to the music. There wasn’t the same attachment to the music that I might have gotten from Mellencamp, but I found the beat, and went with it, much to the girls’ delight. They laughed until tears streamed. But I didn’t care.
The only real dancing I ever do these days is at the square dances that pop up occasionally around home, or more often, at writing workshops where I teach. Less than a month ago I was cutting a rug up at the Hindman Settlement School at a big square dance. Some of my best friends were there, so that made it even better. Square dancing is the most communal kind of dancing. You are forced to touch others, to speak to them, to learn the way they move and move with them. Square dancing makes you realize that you are all dancing together, working together, helping one another.
In some strange way, I remember every single person I ever danced with, whether it was at the Moose Lodge, the Maverick Club, the Cumberland Falls Square Dance, the Dixie Café, or any other. Most of them don’t remember me, but I recall them sometimes, all those strangers and lovers, all those people I spent four or five minutes of my life with during a great song. It’s a connecting thing, dancing.
I’m in my late 30s now, so some people might say that’s too old to be out dancing. But I don’t intend to stop anytime soon. In fact, I intend to do it even more. I’ll just close my eyes, listen to the music, not care what anyone thinks, and be a little more alive in the process.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
I love books. I love reading them, but there is even more than that.
Touch. I love how cool the pages are when you first open them in the mornings. Or how warm the pages are if you’ve left it out in the car for awhile in the summer, like something baked the exact right length of time. The endpapers and the spine and the little letters that are sometimes imbedded in the cloth, a kind of Braille for book-lovers.
Smell. The new ones: people talk about a new-car scent all the time, but what I love even more is a new-book scent. They should make little deodorizers of that aroma to go under one’s car seats. And the old ones: they smell like history, and rain, and the skin of all the people who loved them before, and every room wherein they lived.
See. Yes, of course we see them when we read them, but I love seeing them on the bookshelves, too. Or lying about, covering every available surface, stacked on the stairs, on the nightstand, on the kitchen table, on the kitchen counter, on my desk, a haphazard pile beside my desk. I once had a guest room whose walls were completely lined with bookshelves full of my favorite books. My guests all said that they had the best sleep there, and inquired about the mattress. I told them it was the books. Now my dining room table is surrounded on three sides by bookshelves. They make any meal better by their very presence. They are the best décor, and multi-purpose at that.
Hear. Taste. I could go on with the other two senses, but that’s a whole different ballgame (because if you’re a true reader you can hear the stories even long after you’ve finished the book; and sometimes you can taste the tang of the ink, even if you don’t try), and besides, the touching, smelling, and seeing are enough. Books are enough to sustain us, period.
Sunday, the Sabbath, the holiest day of seven holy days, I was in a car with several of my closest friends and my two daughters. Members of my given and chosen family. We had been to the top of the mountain to look out at three states. There, there, and there, we said. “Look at Kentucky, it’s the prettiest,” one of us said, laughing. “No, Virginia is,” said another. “On a clear day you can see North Carolina,” somebody else said, “and none of them can beat it.” Each state was completely the same from up there. Each state was completely different from up there. Each endless and green and lush with more mountains, rolling on and on and on, for ages. We spent a long while up at the pinnacle, talking, climbing rocks, studying trees. There were long bouts of silence. Family—especially the chosen kind—allows that between one another.
Then, coming down the mountain, there was a box turtle in the road. We had all been laughing and carrying on, but then, a silence stretched out in the car before we all said, in unison, as if amazed: “A turtle!”
I was struck by how mesmerized we all seemed by the turtle. It’s a common enough sight in Appalachia, to see them making slow but steady progress across the highway. But always so beautiful, so patient, that no matter how many times you see them, they seem like a holy thing. There he was with his yellow stripes, his blunt head that seemed to sniff at the air, his careful steps. Determined, small, tough. There was something about his curmudgeonly gait that made us all assume he was male.
And there was another, similar kind of holiness when someone said, “He’s almost across,” and another chimed in, “Yeah, he’ll make it,” and my daughter leaned forward, making sure. Because all of us knew that sometimes you have to pull over onto the side of the road and help a turtle across, to make sure it doesn’t get crushed, to make sure that a blessed thing stays alive in the world awhile longer. We had all done it at some point, had seen others do it. There are little acts of service and kindness that happen every day.
Not long ago I was on the Daniel Boone Parkway, where coal trucks quake by every five seconds, decorating the road with hard little bits of coal as they sizzle past. Yet a woman had stopped on the narrow shoulder to help a turtle across. A little girl, strapped into a car seat in the back, was crying and throwing her hands into the air. The woman was still wearing her uniform from working—probably a grimy, ten-hour shift—at the Huddle House restaurant over in Manchester. But despite all of this she had taken the time to stop and help the turtle across the road. She bent, picked him up with a cupped hand across his domed shell, scurried to the side of the road as another coal truck--load uncovered, mud flaps swinging--barreled toward her. The wind from the coal truck lifted her hair, caused her to shut her eyes against the grit that came in its wake. But then she put the turtle down--as gently as if she were placing an egg in its nest--and hurried back to her car.
I think acts like this are a kind of holiness. And in that moment with my people, I thought it a kind of holiness that we would all have the same thought, to take care of the turtle. And another kind of holiness that we didn’t have to explain that to one another. And another kind of holiness to live in a world made up of people who are mostly good, mostly trying to do the best they can, mostly trying to just move through this life without hurting others, mostly trying to help others.
A turtle is that way, too, I like to think. Maybe that's why so many of us have a deep attachment to them that we don't quite understand. And who knows what secret little acts of service he (or she) performs out there on the mountain when hidden among all the clandestine cover of the summer woods? Of this one thing I am certain: more holy things happen when we are not noticing than when we are. And that’s a great comfort.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Beauty survives, no matter what.
My grandmother has Alzheimer’s. This evening, she didn’t recognize anyone but me, and then, five minutes after she knew me completely and totally, she was looking at me as if I were a stranger. She was studying me and she wouldn’t admit it, but she had forgotten who I was, too. She didn’t remember anything.
At one point she asked her age. My aunt, Sis, told her she was eighty-two.
“What month was I born?”
“March, honey,” Sis said.
“Yeah, I was. It was March,” Mamaw laughed. She closed her eyes and laughed like music, like a tinking piano. “They used to call me Windy Wanda, because I was born in March and I never hushed talking.”
“Yeah, they did,” Sis said. “I had plumb forgot that.”
Mamaw was lying in bed with the covers pulled up to her neck even though the pulsating heat of a late evening in August breathed against the windows. (Not long ago she would have been hoeing her garden this time of evening, even before the cool settled over the valley.) Her hair—so white it begs to be touched—was spread out all around her head. She looked like a queen.
Her eyes: small, brown. Her strong little Irish nose. The Cherokee cheekbones that belonged to her mother. Her hands: liver-spotted, long-fingered, still strong. All these things beautiful, but the real beauty was all over her, a light.
It wasn’t in her eyes or nose or cheekbones or shiny white hair. Her beauty washed out from her because she had been good to others, had worked like a dog every day of her life, because she had raised not only her own children but had taken in at least three others and treated them as her own, giving them equal amounts of money and adoration. She had once arisen at daylight, cooked a full breakfast, gathered eggs from her hens, canned thirty-two quarts of kraut in one day, loved and loved and loved. And she had been beautiful. She always will be.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
When describing a particularly beautiful green eye we are tempted to come up with some kind of smooth simile, like "green as river water" or "green as a redbud leaf" (both of which I've used in my novels to describe green eyes). But the fact is that there is nothing to compare to the beauty of a green eye because it is the perfection of green, a kind of green that transcends even the most brilliant things in the world such as rivers and leaves.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
What makes summertime the most magical and sets it apart the most from the other seasons is that every single day we are somehow aware of its passing. Every blessed day we have knowledge of the summer slipping away and whether we know it or not our bodies are filled with some strange mix of hope and dread for what lies ahead. As much as I love all the seasons there's something about summer that moves me to the core. I think it’s the way the mist slithers over the mountains like breath, as it did this morning. Or maybe it's having the company of cicadas—I am comforted by them every night as they remind me that someone else, something else, is there. Or fried green tomatoes. Or the freedom of swimming. It's hearing the nostalgic bounce of the basketball where the boys are playing down the road. The beauty of seeing people tap their fingers on the steering wheel to a loud radio while their arms are propped up on their open car windows. Perhaps it’s the way the gloaming stretches out longer and noisier in the summertime. No matter what it is, summer is fleeting, it’s always leaving us, it’s inching closer and closer to fall and winter, those two harbingers of change and death, and all the while the summer is actually the great big reminder of things moving on too quickly, the reminder that nothing gold can stay.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
This is a story I've told many times before: