The Oldest Son

My last living grandparent, Grandma C, on my mother's side, died early this morning. She hung on long and brave into her 96th year, sweet and cheerful even when she was confined to a bed these last few months.

My mom and her three brothers were devoted in caring for Grandma, determined to allow her to stay in her own home. They kept her active and gave help as she needed it, delighting in her cleverness, the humor that seemed to grow as she aged.

My mother's oldest brother was especially dedicated, spending months that added up to years in the spare bedroom, feeding her prunes and peaches, dragging her out to walk, ever her gruff, faithful companion. I wrote this poem about him in 2012.


The Oldest Son

He, the oldest child,
never knew for sure
his father's approval.

He left and spent
fifty years living hard,
he was tough, talked tough.

He returned - old and
gentler, but still swearing -
to his ninety-year-old mother.

It was years and years
after his father had gone,
after his own near-death.

He took the Greyhound
down from Ohio. Stayed,
coming back, again and again.

Once he swore he'd stay
"until Mother goes or I go."
(He always calls her 'Mother'.)

Like, "Mother, get your damn
coat on! It's time to go!", or
"Finish your applesauce, Mother!"

She, ever the proper young lady,
giggles, and ignores his language,
missing him each time he goes.

where ever you are, there you are

Back in Harrisonburg and opportunities have come and I have rolled with them. Suddenly I'm hanging out with a crazy old innkeeper and three young Belarusians in a big old house built in the 1880s. Ian, Stas, and Kristina are all in their twenties and funny and smart. For the time being, they are my community, and that feels alright.

I have gone back and forth for two weeks about applying for a co-op marketing job that scared the shit out of me. Tonight I decided it's enough to just bake bread for now. To build slowly. Prove to myself first what I'm capable of . . . and then go prove it to others.

I have said goodbye to my grandmother, and shared in her funeral. I have gone hiking . . . snowboarding three times. I have danced to live bands. I have baked. I have shared beer with friends. I have laughed. It's good to be home.

not every day is sunshine

We had to search a bit for a place to stay when the rain stopped us hard. We were a good hour from Lakes Entrance where there'd be shops and hotels. Orbost was a tiny town with barely a supermarket open. We bought instant noodles and a can of soup, dancing to stay warm in the freezing aisles. The little motel we found didn't have microwaves, and the newly installed free wi-fi (a real rarity in Australia) must have been weakened by the rain. We couldn't pick it up at all.

It absolutely poured down all night. I dreamt strong and realistic of driving out the next morning and getting caught in a nearby town by flooded streets. In my dream a local family took us in and we became embroiled (and indebted) in a day of their lives. They owned a small store that sold stockings and hosiery.

This morning was not sunny, but it had stopped raining. Also, I finished a poem that I had started back in June (in my tiny little apartment in the city, with Chloe, the gorgeous Garfield cat).

One Attitude to Have

(started June 3, 2011 - finished December 13, 2011)

Another cockroach scuttles across the tiles and

the cat's sprawled lolling on her back - legs flung out

in two directions. I send her a look. Just now, though

she watched the thing for a whole long minute

even took two slow steps toward it, as if hunting,

before stopping, turning, meowing back at me like,

Now what do I do? the question we all ask, sooner

or later in a cold brick and cement apartment when

it's just us, the spiders, and a few fifteen watt bulbs.

Replace the light bulbs. Scrub hard at the dirty floors

when it's day, and bright. Spray the hell out of the corners

at night sit, knees drawn, in the center of the bed.

Learn to ignore dark corners and jump less often. Let them

crawl on certain walls. Then, remove a slipper from one foot

and cooly smash the ones that come too close. Or

Vow to do no harm. Like another American teacher

friends once whispered, his house was full of bugs. They

were horrified because he refused to kill the spiders. Though

he was no Buddhist. Teacher Li tells us the rat running

up along the shelves in her tea shop usually appears

about this time in the afternoon and once in the morning.

She pours wine-colored tea into our tiny, rounded glass

cups. We watch, wait, drink, listen,

hoping to learn something of her grace.

the long coastal route

On our second day driving South there are still 600 kilometers to Melbourne. It's still overcast and the car proves to be too much for me; I keep insisting we stop. I summon up dreams, aided by glossy travel magazines and the shops that line the two-lane road, of the little side-tracks that will make the trip.

In Tilba, we buy apple box smoked cheese at the ABC Cheese factory, and talk to a cat with a big round face. Tilba is a Trust Village. That means the government helps to keep it cute, we decide. It was one of the gold-mining towns that stayed around, mainly because of the cheese industry.

It's Noomora, however, with the slogan, “The Way Life Should Be”. We find it a little presumptuous and drive on.

In Cobargo we have coffees and scones, which are what I would call biscuits. These are not at all shabby, but melt in your mouth, with whipped cream and strawberry jam. The cafe is part old train car, and run by straight-forward, big-boned women both abrupt and enthusiastic about their service and their food. Grudgingly, they draped colored tinsel garlands across a doorway here, and an electrical box there, joking about being merry hos.

We also buy books there. Christmas presents some, and poetry by an Australian woman poet.

here are a few of my favorite

New Zealand things. Apart from mountains of course, and sheep! and my beautiful friend Catherine.

There are hot water dispensers! 

Just like in China, where every home, every hotel and petrol station, and every workplace provides hot water for drinking, New Zealanders love their hot drinks.

This is teacher's lounge in Catherine's workplace. She's making a cup of tea. Waiting in the lounge for Catherine, I was invited to have a cup of tea by teachers that I hadn't met. I was offered a cup of tea in every house that I visited. A "cuppa" . . . anything really. They show you the pile of choices. Teas, Milo, Coffee. This is part of the reason that for Justin and I, New Zealand, like Australia, feels very British. Much more so than Canada, Justin assures me.

Also, coffee in Australia and New Zealand is rarely drip. It's either espresso based (an Americano is a "short black" while a "flat white" is like a latte. If you want skim milk you ask for a "skinny") if you're out. At home, it's either instant or French press (plunger in New Zealand). Yeah, hot water!

Catherine's flat mate Cynthia has a cat named Ivan. He's the kind of cat that manages both independence and affection without compromising either. He follows Cynthia outside when she goes to garden. He wiggles belly-up in your arms. He disappears for long periods of time on his own adventures.

But as soon as I entered the house for the first time, and every time after, he ran to nose at my knee and demand attention. He slept on the foot of my bed. I loved him.

I was also impressed with his little cat-sized door. Justin claims that North America has them too. I'll believe it when I see it.

Every house also seemed to have these spinning square clotheslines. I'm sure they exist in North America, but not like this. They have lots of sun, so they mostly don't have dryers. A lot of the houses I was in also did not overheat . . . so we wore sweaters inside. I loved it. And the most genius thing of all . . .

the bathroom's heated towel rack. I could live in this country.

scotland for a day

We borrowed the smaller of the McKinlay cars and drove out onto the peninsula. At Catherine's suggestion we took the tiny winding coastal road out and a tiny winding high road (through steep hills with stone fences which, in Catherine's words, is “the closest thing to Scottish highlands outside of Scotland”) back. It was beautiful. I enjoyed driving the little car - my first experience of a manual transmission on the left - and pulled off the road at every patch of gravel I saw so we could take pictures in the wind.

We drove to visit a little ceramics shop that Jen wanted to visit. I had no idea how much I liked ceramics. I cursed baggage weight limits (only 20 kg on the Sydney-Guangzhou leg of my journey) and bought a little apron instead of the plates and pitchers and salt and pepper shakers and tea sets I wanted to buy. I can't wait to have a place of my own to fill with things!

we did not go white water rafting

At the last minute, Justin and I decided not to go on to Queenstown, the hub of tourism in the South Island. We did not go kayaking. We did not go bungee jumping. We didn't even hike to a glacier. We did see a lot of sheep. We did have “hokey pokey” - the icecream flavor that seems to be a national favorite. We did wind through a lot of small towns and villages.

We spent our last two New Zealand days (very happily) in Dunedin, at the McKinlay house with its mismatched gift-hangings evidence of their family's love spread over oceans and races.

Primary-school Catherine didn't understand what her friends' parents meant when they talked about the Asian Invasion. She was excited about the new classmates who would become her friends.

We experienced well the hospitality they've practiced 'til it's part of their family culture.

Come in, it's soooo good to see you again. Would you like a cup of something hot? Biscuits? Where are you staying tonight? (We thought we'd just find a hotel downtown somewhere). Well, why don't you just stay here? We've got plenty of beds. I'll just go make up the beds now. (And when I did go to bed later, a sign on my pillow that read, “Welcome Holly. We're glad you're here.”)