One snowy Sunday afternoon a month ago, I spent time in the Joseph Beth bookstore in Crestview, Kentucky and happened across a slim volume of poetry that has been haunting me. It is The Lives We Live in Houses, by Pauletta Hansel, a poet and native of eastern Kentucky, who now lives and practices her art in the Cincinnati area. Hansel's poems in this book are all short enough to be printed on one page, so it is excellent for dipping into whenever there is a free moment. I had read several while standing at the Kentucky authors section of the bookstore. Since then I find myself reading one or two before going to sleep or before starting preparations for a meal, which is when I have contemplative time.
I was attracted initially by the title, for I knew then that I would be moving into a new house in the near future. I had been packing up belongings for weeks and planning where to locate them in my new home, and in that ritual of sorting, selecting, packing, and wondering I was reliving the lives I had lived in the many houses I have occupied during my lifetime.
But it is not houses per se that Hansel writes about; it is the lives lived therein, the various persons that we remember, long for, are, and become. Many poems evoke her childhood and early experiences growing up; "Doppelgänger" posits an unusual and shocking origin; "Class Lessons" shows the long reach of a teacher's thoughtless comment.
In a section titled "Blood Line," she remembers her parents with "My Father's Ghost" and the humorous and touching "Boxes," and "Becoming My Mother." Other intriguing sections called "Dance Lessons" and "The Stepmother in Fact and Fiction" reveal an interesting life made more so by her consideration of it and the word images she creates.
As I now unpack the boxes of things that I have brought from the many lives I have lived in previous houses, I read Pauletta Hansel and gather the courage to contemplate and the acceptance of remembering.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Sunday, February 8, 2015
On the Road to Cincinnati
She lumbered down the block toward me, slowly making her way through Chicago's packed and unshoveled snow on the sidewalk near Union Station. She was the second traveler to be lining up for the MegaBus to Cincinnati; I had dragged my four-wheel suitcase, laden down with books and papers from the library conference, through the slush in the street, and then through the ignored white remnants of the blizzard from two days previously and was now standing, booted feet freezing through the soles from the snow, and hoping that the bus would be on time. That had been a trial, I thought. But I had it easy. This lady did not have a suitcase to pull. In each hand she carried a bright blue WalMart shopping bag, loaded to the top; hanging on to each of those bags was a tiny person hardly higher than the snow through which they were toddling. One of them, a girl, gave me a big grin and I couldn't help but smile back and say to her mother, I presumed, "It doesn't take much to make her happy!"
It was now less than a half hour before the bus was scheduled, and other people began to accumulate around us in the unordered way that happens with MegaBus. In only ten minutes the empty city block had filled with dozens of people. Some were waiting for other buses, we guessed, and sure enough, the Minneapolis bus arrived first. Many of the crowd scrambled to get luggage into the rear compartment prior to boarding to find an unreserved seat, but there were still more than enough balancing on the sidewalk to fill the next coach. The woman next to me had kept up a running banter with her two small charges, telling them "no, please, don't lean over to pick up the candy that you just dropped into the snow," promising that she would give them juice when they got on the bus, and that then they could take their coats off because it was going to be a long trip. "Are you on your way to Cincinnati?" I asked, and she replied no, they were going on to Columbus and should get there around 8:30 that night. They were going to surprise their grandfather, her husband, who had not seen them "in a long while." "And how old are they?" I wondered, thinking they might be twins. "The boy is two; the girl one," their grandmother said. I marveled that the girl was walking as well as she was, and thought that their grandfather must have seen them just after she was born. Th grandmother expressed one small doubt to me, based on her observation of the loading of the first bus: "I hope people don't rush from behind when we try to get on the bus; it's sort of hard for us to move fast."
But I lost track of her when the Cincinnati bus arrived, as I had to scramble to get my way-too-heavy suitcase lifted up to the baggage hold at the back and then stand in line to show my ticket, hoping that an aisle seat on the lower level was still available. So I was not able to see whether people rushed her, let alone try to help. By the time I got on, they had occupied three of four facing seats at the front of the bus, and the fourth place was also filled, so I preceded on a few rows behind them, where there was indeed an aisle seat. By the time the driver put the bus in gear every seat in the bus was taken, and between passengers and helter-skelter carry-on bags, I couldn't even see the little family. But I could hear them.
All the way out of the city and across the interstate to Indiana, Granny, as she referred to herself, spoke to the children about what they were seeing, and reminding them they had a long journey. Her voice was unfailingly patient and cheerful. Soon, of course, one of them had to go to the bathroom. Granny was very polite as she squeezed sideways--barely--through the aisle to the on-board toilet with the two youngsters. "I don't know how we's goin' to all fit in there," she said, and I didn't turn my head to see how they arranged it, for certainly they could not all fit in that tiny space. Later I heard a woman--probably one of the returning librarians--talking with the girl, pointing out in a picture book, I presume, various animals that I doubt the one-year-old had ever seen. Does a one-year-old from inner Chicago know of chicken as a farm animal, or is it just something served at a table or out of a bag?
Through much of the I-65 nightmare road the voices were quiet; presumably the children were sleeping, and I hoped Granny was able to get a nap, too. A large number of people got off at the Indianapolis stop, and I was able to shift over to two seats on the opposite side of the aisle. These seats were raised on a platform, and now I could see through to where Granny and her children were sitting. When we rolled into the rest stop area east of Indianapolis and the driver announced a fifteen-minute break (as opposed to the usual half hour) I wanted to offer to bring them something from the McDonald's, but I wasn't sure that there would be time for me to get something and make my own way through the bathroom line. Not a problem anyway, I realized, as those WalMart bags seemed to be an unending source of food that kept the kids satisfied and uncomplaining.
We were now on my home stretch, from Indiana to the University of Cincinnati stop, and entertainment was provided once more by the children and their granny. She taught them to say hello to the trees as we passed by, and the trees answered back in happy and excited voices. She asked them what color that old house was, or the barn. She pointed out clouds and the grass, which was no longer covered by snow. And she kept talking about what they would do when they got to Grandpa's house and how surprised he would be to see them all, and what a good time they were going to have in the next month on this visit. Someone around them asked Granny if they would be taking the bus back from Columbus at the end of the visit. "I hope not!" Granny said; "I hope there will be a car, or a truck, for that trip." The bus was necessary for the surprise, I guess.
As we approached UC, Granny was still not tired, or not so tired as to be noticeable. She continued speaking gently and calmly, and with humor, to the toddlers. Granny was infinitely patient. She never once raised her voice, except in laughter.
I think it is sad that a one-year-old and even a two-year-old will likely never remember much from this day-long journey across three states, a tedious trip which their granny turned into a magical experience of love and learning for them and for all the passengers on the lower level of the bus. Perhaps there will be other trips, but I hope they will be in that car or truck to make the journey a little easier. And though I know they couldn't have made it to Columbus by 8:30, I hope they made it soon afterwards, and that this inspiring granny enjoyed the great surprise and then slept well that night.
It was now less than a half hour before the bus was scheduled, and other people began to accumulate around us in the unordered way that happens with MegaBus. In only ten minutes the empty city block had filled with dozens of people. Some were waiting for other buses, we guessed, and sure enough, the Minneapolis bus arrived first. Many of the crowd scrambled to get luggage into the rear compartment prior to boarding to find an unreserved seat, but there were still more than enough balancing on the sidewalk to fill the next coach. The woman next to me had kept up a running banter with her two small charges, telling them "no, please, don't lean over to pick up the candy that you just dropped into the snow," promising that she would give them juice when they got on the bus, and that then they could take their coats off because it was going to be a long trip. "Are you on your way to Cincinnati?" I asked, and she replied no, they were going on to Columbus and should get there around 8:30 that night. They were going to surprise their grandfather, her husband, who had not seen them "in a long while." "And how old are they?" I wondered, thinking they might be twins. "The boy is two; the girl one," their grandmother said. I marveled that the girl was walking as well as she was, and thought that their grandfather must have seen them just after she was born. Th grandmother expressed one small doubt to me, based on her observation of the loading of the first bus: "I hope people don't rush from behind when we try to get on the bus; it's sort of hard for us to move fast."
But I lost track of her when the Cincinnati bus arrived, as I had to scramble to get my way-too-heavy suitcase lifted up to the baggage hold at the back and then stand in line to show my ticket, hoping that an aisle seat on the lower level was still available. So I was not able to see whether people rushed her, let alone try to help. By the time I got on, they had occupied three of four facing seats at the front of the bus, and the fourth place was also filled, so I preceded on a few rows behind them, where there was indeed an aisle seat. By the time the driver put the bus in gear every seat in the bus was taken, and between passengers and helter-skelter carry-on bags, I couldn't even see the little family. But I could hear them.
All the way out of the city and across the interstate to Indiana, Granny, as she referred to herself, spoke to the children about what they were seeing, and reminding them they had a long journey. Her voice was unfailingly patient and cheerful. Soon, of course, one of them had to go to the bathroom. Granny was very polite as she squeezed sideways--barely--through the aisle to the on-board toilet with the two youngsters. "I don't know how we's goin' to all fit in there," she said, and I didn't turn my head to see how they arranged it, for certainly they could not all fit in that tiny space. Later I heard a woman--probably one of the returning librarians--talking with the girl, pointing out in a picture book, I presume, various animals that I doubt the one-year-old had ever seen. Does a one-year-old from inner Chicago know of chicken as a farm animal, or is it just something served at a table or out of a bag?
Through much of the I-65 nightmare road the voices were quiet; presumably the children were sleeping, and I hoped Granny was able to get a nap, too. A large number of people got off at the Indianapolis stop, and I was able to shift over to two seats on the opposite side of the aisle. These seats were raised on a platform, and now I could see through to where Granny and her children were sitting. When we rolled into the rest stop area east of Indianapolis and the driver announced a fifteen-minute break (as opposed to the usual half hour) I wanted to offer to bring them something from the McDonald's, but I wasn't sure that there would be time for me to get something and make my own way through the bathroom line. Not a problem anyway, I realized, as those WalMart bags seemed to be an unending source of food that kept the kids satisfied and uncomplaining.
We were now on my home stretch, from Indiana to the University of Cincinnati stop, and entertainment was provided once more by the children and their granny. She taught them to say hello to the trees as we passed by, and the trees answered back in happy and excited voices. She asked them what color that old house was, or the barn. She pointed out clouds and the grass, which was no longer covered by snow. And she kept talking about what they would do when they got to Grandpa's house and how surprised he would be to see them all, and what a good time they were going to have in the next month on this visit. Someone around them asked Granny if they would be taking the bus back from Columbus at the end of the visit. "I hope not!" Granny said; "I hope there will be a car, or a truck, for that trip." The bus was necessary for the surprise, I guess.
As we approached UC, Granny was still not tired, or not so tired as to be noticeable. She continued speaking gently and calmly, and with humor, to the toddlers. Granny was infinitely patient. She never once raised her voice, except in laughter.
I think it is sad that a one-year-old and even a two-year-old will likely never remember much from this day-long journey across three states, a tedious trip which their granny turned into a magical experience of love and learning for them and for all the passengers on the lower level of the bus. Perhaps there will be other trips, but I hope they will be in that car or truck to make the journey a little easier. And though I know they couldn't have made it to Columbus by 8:30, I hope they made it soon afterwards, and that this inspiring granny enjoyed the great surprise and then slept well that night.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)