Hallelujah
Posted on May 13, 2008
Filed Under fiction, art, writing, epiphanies, friendship |
Great Scott! Hallelujah! Sweet Jesus! Hot Diggity Dog! I’ve never been so happy to see a damn plug in my entire life. Just imagine me drifting around the house for the past five days lurking in dark hallways, listening at doors, waiting breathlessly for the moment that MBH leaves the computer to fix a cup of coffee, don a pair of socks or visit the bathroom so I could lurch into the office and check my e-mail. I was allowed whole seconds on-line, mere minutes to absorb days and days worth of necessary communication. The return of unlimited access has made me weepy, inordinately thankful to the great Gods of the internet for the access to companionship and the Greyhound’s soccer schedule. What in the world did we do before there was such a thing as on-line? What I’m trying to say is that I really, really missed you all and I thank you for all your subtle and not so subtle urgings for my return.
My Mother’s Day was quiet and nice in the way that a Spring day that remains mostly sunny, hosts the fragrance of lilacs and viburnum and begins with good coffee can be. The kids planned a scavenger hunt complete with hand written clues on white pieces of paper, the edges of which G had treated with the special care of pinking shears. The sweet and loopy scrawl of her six year old hand led me from one plastic bag of gummy frogs found behind a framed photograph of her one year old self enjoying her first lollipop to another plastic bag of chocolate covered gummy bears discovered on the window sill amongst O’s owl figurine collection and back to a last bag of gummy letters tucked beneath the Cabernet colored throw blanket that was tossed carelessly along the back of the couch.
Long before six a.m., I could hear her, busy in her room, cutting and whispering and fluttering with purpose and the pride of being old enough to participate and contribute. She hurried to MBH’s side of the bed just past 6:30 to rouse him and remind him of the importance of the day. I groaned and turned over, trying to be cooperative by feigning sleep for an hour longer so that the three of them could plan and execute their gummy hunt and travel to Starbucks and back to regale me with a giant hot latte and a early a.m. rice crispie treat.
I’d like to say that I spent the rest of day reading and dozing and doing crossword puzzles but it was really just a regular day that involved jogging and laundry and yard work. It wasn’t until this afternoon, during the kids’ piano lessons that I opened The Short Stories of John Cheever for the first time and now believe I may never put it down. It was the perfect spot to find my new favorite writer, the vast and artful space of an old and flaking Victorian, the room with a piano at the back, flanked on one side by a floor to ceiling book case of poetry compilations and volumes on art history, a teasing, wanton sun peeking in and out and momentarily lingering on the east wall hung with portraits and weavings and pen-and-ink nudes - an art teacher’s collection of her favorite students’ work. Each corner, every inch of wall space the host to something visual and arresting. There I ran my hands along the aging spines and rested on the thick orange hard cover of Cheever’s life work. After reading two stories, The Seaside Houses and The Angel of the Bridge, absorbing every bit of brilliance despite the halting pluck of children striking off keys and errant chords, I am lost to his words, so taken with his descriptive aptitude that I worry I may never write again. Who needs my contribution when we’ve already got passages like the following to adore and admire:
“God knows where they all come from or where they go, this host of prosperous and well-dressed hangers-on who, in spite of the atmosphere of fraternity they generate, would not think of speaking to one another. They all have a bottle hidden behind the Literary Guild selections and another in the piano bench. I thought of introducing myself to Greenwood, and then thought better or it. I had taken his beloved house away from him and he was bound to be unfriendly. I couldn’t guess the incidents in his autobiography, but I could guess its atmosphere and drift. Daddy would have died or absconded when he was young. The absence of a male parent is not so hard to discern among the marks life leaves on our faces. He would have been raised by his mother and his aunt, have gone to the state university an have majored (my guess) in general merchandising. He would have been in charge of PX supplies during the war. Nothing had worked out after the war. He had lost his daughter, his house, the love of his wife, and his interest in business, but none of these losses would account for his pain and bewilderment. The real cause would remain concealed from him, concealed from me, concealed from us all…”
I’ll leave you with this, now excuse me while I go and worship this compilation just a little longer,
“…as she grew older her way was strewn with invisible rocks and lions and the eccentric paths she took, as the world seemed to change its boundaries and become less and less comprehensible.”
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