Recently, I realized that I have all these preconceived opinions of people in my family.
Somehow, when I think about their childhood, I imagine them as they are now rather than how they were. Like my grandmother. When I think about her childhood, I see her in a rocking chair, embroidering a shirt or something. I would never ever see her singing "Chattanooga Shoeshine Boy" in pig-Latin for her school talent show, and winning.
I can't see my Mom sneaking onto the top of a church bus so that when it started, she'd be up there to ride. I can't see my Dad amusing himself by dumping water off a hotel balcony onto the heads of pedestrians.
Recently I found out that my uncle is a potter. A good potter. It was slightly shocking because it just isn't something I would have expected him to do-- he is a 6'4" guy who looks like he played football or something. It shocked me because the picture of him in my mind was different than how it really was. I was talking with him while were visiting at their house and we were sitting at the dinner table waiting for everyone else and I said, "Hey Uncle Randall, did you make that bowl?" "Why, yes I did." "It's a very nice bowl." "Thank-you." I asked about everything on the table individually. He made all of it. He really makes very nice dinner sets.
What it all comes down to, I guess, is that the way the people are now, and the way they used to be, are the same person. Not like, exactly the same, but those characteristics are still there. It's still hard for me to make the connection in my mind, but every once in awhile I get a glimpse of that characteristic from childhood that's still hidden away and it all becomes clear.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
an essay about the nana
I have a great-grandmother. We call her 'Nana'. Of course, this all sounds very ordinary and boring, but Nana is one of the furthest people from boring that I know. Some might go so far as to say that Nana is odd, but I have a word that I reserve for describing Nana. It is eccentric. Nana is the very embodiment of eccentricity...
Nana lives alone in a house on a hill with a cat named Penny. Penny has not had rabies shots in approximately 5 or 6 years, but Nana still insists that we play with her. Nana is a 'fling caution to the wind' kind of person.
When I was younger and would visit Nana with my grandfather, she would say, "Now, Ashlyn, I want to show you my horse." And of course, with all the naivete of a 7 year old, I would follow Nana to her garage where she would point to her Dodge Colt and say, "Yep, there she is." And then she would collapse into hysterical giggles. I was always quite disappointed. She played this joke on me numerous times before I figured out that there would never be a horse in that garage. Nana has a sense of humor.
One of my most vivid memories of Nana occurred several Christmases ago. Nana had just arrived at my grandparents' house. I was waiting for Nana to find me. She has this uncanny ability to find people. Somewhat like a heat-seeking missile. Dad came up to me and said, "Ashlyn, go find Nana and tell her hello. I know you think she is a little bit...um..." and at this moment, my father was cut off in mid-sentence by the Nana herself.
"Oh, Ashlyn, dear-- Merry Christmas!" Nana shouted. She kissed both of my cheeks, and shoved a small container into my hands. I looked down at it. It was a can of microwaveable Chef Boyardee Ravioli. Mission accomplished, Nana swept away leaving my father and me just staring at each other in her wake. My uncle put his hand on my shoulder and said quietly, "Don't feel bad, Ash, when I was your age, she gave me a square dancing kit." Nana is full of surprises.
Last Thanksgiving, Nana (ever the epitome of tact and discretion) visited with family for a full 10 minutes, and then seated herself in a recliner and began to sing (loudly and off-key)-- "I want to go home. I want to go ho-ho-home." Nana also wears bright red lipstick-- you know-- that oil-based kind that stays on you after the wearer kisses you. You will scrub and scrub at it, but you will take the top layer of your skin off before you remove that lipstick. And Nana kisses people on both cheeks. Nana is a bold and outspoken person.
Nana is a skilled oil painter. I don't know if she does it anymore, but we still have some of her pieces: a mountain lake, a pine bough. She also writes poetry. And plays the guitar. Nana is a person of varied talents.
Nana is like a bold colored quilt. When you look too closely, the individual colors seem to clash annoyingly, but when you took at the whole thing, the unique colors work together to create a beautiful quilt.
So yes, Nana has her eccentricities, but that it what has endeared her to me...
Nana lives alone in a house on a hill with a cat named Penny. Penny has not had rabies shots in approximately 5 or 6 years, but Nana still insists that we play with her. Nana is a 'fling caution to the wind' kind of person.
When I was younger and would visit Nana with my grandfather, she would say, "Now, Ashlyn, I want to show you my horse." And of course, with all the naivete of a 7 year old, I would follow Nana to her garage where she would point to her Dodge Colt and say, "Yep, there she is." And then she would collapse into hysterical giggles. I was always quite disappointed. She played this joke on me numerous times before I figured out that there would never be a horse in that garage. Nana has a sense of humor.
One of my most vivid memories of Nana occurred several Christmases ago. Nana had just arrived at my grandparents' house. I was waiting for Nana to find me. She has this uncanny ability to find people. Somewhat like a heat-seeking missile. Dad came up to me and said, "Ashlyn, go find Nana and tell her hello. I know you think she is a little bit...um..." and at this moment, my father was cut off in mid-sentence by the Nana herself.
"Oh, Ashlyn, dear-- Merry Christmas!" Nana shouted. She kissed both of my cheeks, and shoved a small container into my hands. I looked down at it. It was a can of microwaveable Chef Boyardee Ravioli. Mission accomplished, Nana swept away leaving my father and me just staring at each other in her wake. My uncle put his hand on my shoulder and said quietly, "Don't feel bad, Ash, when I was your age, she gave me a square dancing kit." Nana is full of surprises.
Last Thanksgiving, Nana (ever the epitome of tact and discretion) visited with family for a full 10 minutes, and then seated herself in a recliner and began to sing (loudly and off-key)-- "I want to go home. I want to go ho-ho-home." Nana also wears bright red lipstick-- you know-- that oil-based kind that stays on you after the wearer kisses you. You will scrub and scrub at it, but you will take the top layer of your skin off before you remove that lipstick. And Nana kisses people on both cheeks. Nana is a bold and outspoken person.
Nana is a skilled oil painter. I don't know if she does it anymore, but we still have some of her pieces: a mountain lake, a pine bough. She also writes poetry. And plays the guitar. Nana is a person of varied talents.
Nana is like a bold colored quilt. When you look too closely, the individual colors seem to clash annoyingly, but when you took at the whole thing, the unique colors work together to create a beautiful quilt.
So yes, Nana has her eccentricities, but that it what has endeared her to me...
Monday, February 19, 2007
college mail
I think I'll go to this college, seeing as they took so much time to painstakingly spell my name out leaf by leaf.
I mean if they care enough about me to go through all that trouble, I bet they care about their actual students a whole lot more...
Saturday, February 17, 2007
things that one should not attempt
Not long ago, there was a pulley in our barn. It was suspended from a rafter beneath the hayloft, several feet away from a ladder. It was furnished with a length of green nylon rope. You could tie the rope around your waist and hold the other end, climb up the ladder, and then jump off and launch yourself into space.
Grant and Ansley could amuse themselves for hours on the pulley. They had actual routines worked out. They would each tie an end of rope around their waists, Grant would climb up the ladder and Ansley would wait on the ground. Grant would jump out and drop like a rock and Ansley would rapidly shoot fifteen feet into the air. Once, I believe that they twisted around each other and got stuck. It was amusing to walk into the barn and to see both my brother and my sister hanging ten feet off of the ground, slowly swinging back and forth, and unable to get down.
Whenever my brother and sister had friends over, their friends wanted to try the pulley. I can only imagine what mothers thought when their children returned home with tales of jumping off of ladders, and leaping out of haylofts on our homemade zip-line (it was necessary, on this zipline, to crash face-first into the opposite wall of the barn to stop yourself). It is somewhat amazing that we haven't had anyone go the the hospital.
I had tried the pulley several times, but never quite mastered it as had my siblings. One day, I walked into the barn alone, and the pulley caught my eye. Deep down inside, I think I knew it was a bad idea to try anything on the pulley, but I decided that I would stand in the loop on one end of the rope and hold onto the other end and pull myself up. What happened next is a blur. In less than half a second, my feet were somehow up above my head and I was suspended upside down. Things such as this that happen so quickly and so unexpectedly have a very strange way of disorienting you. I was quite disoriented, so much so that I let go of the end of the rope that I was holding. Of course, doing this caused me to drop straight onto my back.
When I could breathe again, I was very glad that there was no one else in the barn to see what an terribly imbecilic thing that I had just done. I made the mistake of telling my family about this. Now, they all think that there is something wrong with me. I wonder why.
As for now, there is no longer a pulley in our barn.
Grant and Ansley could amuse themselves for hours on the pulley. They had actual routines worked out. They would each tie an end of rope around their waists, Grant would climb up the ladder and Ansley would wait on the ground. Grant would jump out and drop like a rock and Ansley would rapidly shoot fifteen feet into the air. Once, I believe that they twisted around each other and got stuck. It was amusing to walk into the barn and to see both my brother and my sister hanging ten feet off of the ground, slowly swinging back and forth, and unable to get down.
Whenever my brother and sister had friends over, their friends wanted to try the pulley. I can only imagine what mothers thought when their children returned home with tales of jumping off of ladders, and leaping out of haylofts on our homemade zip-line (it was necessary, on this zipline, to crash face-first into the opposite wall of the barn to stop yourself). It is somewhat amazing that we haven't had anyone go the the hospital.
I had tried the pulley several times, but never quite mastered it as had my siblings. One day, I walked into the barn alone, and the pulley caught my eye. Deep down inside, I think I knew it was a bad idea to try anything on the pulley, but I decided that I would stand in the loop on one end of the rope and hold onto the other end and pull myself up. What happened next is a blur. In less than half a second, my feet were somehow up above my head and I was suspended upside down. Things such as this that happen so quickly and so unexpectedly have a very strange way of disorienting you. I was quite disoriented, so much so that I let go of the end of the rope that I was holding. Of course, doing this caused me to drop straight onto my back.
When I could breathe again, I was very glad that there was no one else in the barn to see what an terribly imbecilic thing that I had just done. I made the mistake of telling my family about this. Now, they all think that there is something wrong with me. I wonder why.
As for now, there is no longer a pulley in our barn.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
an unnecessary comment
When I was in third grade, I went to a large private school. My teacher was Mrs. Rye.
Mrs. Rye was the kind of older lady who had short, permed hair, and wore floral print dresses with stockings and orthopedic shoes. Words that come to mind when I think of her are, old fashioned, proper, and matronly. Quite honestly, Mrs. Rye would have been right at home in a one-room schoolhouse at the turn of the century where she could have worn bonnets and ankle-length skirts and effectively punished children by smacking them with a ruler. Unfortunately, at our school, she had to content herself with writing our names on her chalkboard, making us have 'silent lunches', and forcing us to write everything in cursive.
Making most third graders write in cursive is a punishment. She might as well have taken away recess and lunch and made us stay in all day having a multiplication bee (we had these everyday after lunch) "In fourth grade, and in college," Mrs. Rye said to us one day,"you will have to do all of your work in cursive." When you are in third grade, you do not truly care about college. Half your class does not even know what it is. And in fourth grade, our teacher let us do our work in print. These facts somehow escaped Mrs. Rye.
Her favorite phrase was,'Unnecessary comment.' I believe my name was on the board several times for 'unnecessary comments'. "Miss Ashlyn," she would say ominously,"that was an unnecessary comment." and she would swish purposefully to the front of the room and put my name on the board, and then I would sink down in my seat while she glared at me. I believe it was somewhat amusing for my mother to ask me how my day was and for me to reply,"I got in trouble." "Why?" "Because I made an unnecessary comment."
The other day, we were in Lowe's. I went to get something for Mom and I turned down the aisle our buggy was on and Mom was talking to this lady. An older lady. In a floral print dress with a starched collar. And orthopedic shoes. I had this overpowereing instinct to hide behind the revolving display of lampshades. But mother saw me. And she called me over. I was not a little shocked when Mrs. Rye greeted me with a pleasant smile on her face. We talked for a few minutes and she asked me things like 'So, where do you want to go to college?' I told her I didn't know. She smiled brightly and said, "Well, if you are as smart as you were in third grade, you shouldn't have any problems." And she hugged me goodbye.
On the car ride home, I thought about how much I owe to Mrs. Rye. I can say my multiplication tables without thinking. And I got lots better at long division because she inspired me by taking away my recess. And I can play the recorder with the best of them. I am sometimes able to refrain from making unnecessary comments. I learned that pictures look better if you use the colored pencil in the same direction rather than scribbling. Oh yes, and today, my cursive is lovely...
Mrs. Rye was the kind of older lady who had short, permed hair, and wore floral print dresses with stockings and orthopedic shoes. Words that come to mind when I think of her are, old fashioned, proper, and matronly. Quite honestly, Mrs. Rye would have been right at home in a one-room schoolhouse at the turn of the century where she could have worn bonnets and ankle-length skirts and effectively punished children by smacking them with a ruler. Unfortunately, at our school, she had to content herself with writing our names on her chalkboard, making us have 'silent lunches', and forcing us to write everything in cursive.
Making most third graders write in cursive is a punishment. She might as well have taken away recess and lunch and made us stay in all day having a multiplication bee (we had these everyday after lunch) "In fourth grade, and in college," Mrs. Rye said to us one day,"you will have to do all of your work in cursive." When you are in third grade, you do not truly care about college. Half your class does not even know what it is. And in fourth grade, our teacher let us do our work in print. These facts somehow escaped Mrs. Rye.
Her favorite phrase was,'Unnecessary comment.' I believe my name was on the board several times for 'unnecessary comments'. "Miss Ashlyn," she would say ominously,"that was an unnecessary comment." and she would swish purposefully to the front of the room and put my name on the board, and then I would sink down in my seat while she glared at me. I believe it was somewhat amusing for my mother to ask me how my day was and for me to reply,"I got in trouble." "Why?" "Because I made an unnecessary comment."
The other day, we were in Lowe's. I went to get something for Mom and I turned down the aisle our buggy was on and Mom was talking to this lady. An older lady. In a floral print dress with a starched collar. And orthopedic shoes. I had this overpowereing instinct to hide behind the revolving display of lampshades. But mother saw me. And she called me over. I was not a little shocked when Mrs. Rye greeted me with a pleasant smile on her face. We talked for a few minutes and she asked me things like 'So, where do you want to go to college?' I told her I didn't know. She smiled brightly and said, "Well, if you are as smart as you were in third grade, you shouldn't have any problems." And she hugged me goodbye.
On the car ride home, I thought about how much I owe to Mrs. Rye. I can say my multiplication tables without thinking. And I got lots better at long division because she inspired me by taking away my recess. And I can play the recorder with the best of them. I am sometimes able to refrain from making unnecessary comments. I learned that pictures look better if you use the colored pencil in the same direction rather than scribbling. Oh yes, and today, my cursive is lovely...
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
long roads and horse-drawn buggies
I was driving the other day on the road my house is off of. It's a fairly long road lined with plenty of houses, pastures, and livestock. When we first moved out here, the road was so long that I couldn't remember all of it. It was like driving on a new road every day. Around every turn there was something I felt like I'd never seen before.
I realized just yesterday that I can now see the entire road in my mind's eye. I know what is around each turn. I know where the people who have the two new calves live (I also know that they had another calf that they raised before these two. They ate it.) I know where the little white church with funny stained glass windows is, and I know that they post humorously common-sense things on the sign outside (the last one was 'Get hooked on Jesus, not drugs.') I know where to watch for deer. I know where the people who drive their horses up and down our road every weekend live.
When I thought about the people who drive their horses up and down our road, I started thinking about when people used to drive horse-drawn carriages. I wonder if they could have seen an entire road in their mind's eye. I may think I see the details, but compared to what they would have known about the road, I would have seen a big picture. People who drove horses would have been acquainted with every stone and blade of grass on the road. They might have gone to the church with the funny windows. They probably personally knew the family that ate the cow. Could they see the big picture too, or would the details of the road have been so many that everything else was drowned out? I wonder random things like this...
On a less serious note, I heard my brother and my sister having this conversation today while we were working in the barn:
Grant: Hurry up Ansley. We need to get inside, I have Valentine's Day things to do.
Ansley: Oh yeah, what do you have to do? I have to bake a cake and decorate the table.
(Ansley is good at things like this.)
Grant: Well, I have to take a bath.
Ansley: That isn't Valentine's Day. That's everyday.
Grant: Well then, I guess I just have Valentine's Day every day.
I realized just yesterday that I can now see the entire road in my mind's eye. I know what is around each turn. I know where the people who have the two new calves live (I also know that they had another calf that they raised before these two. They ate it.) I know where the little white church with funny stained glass windows is, and I know that they post humorously common-sense things on the sign outside (the last one was 'Get hooked on Jesus, not drugs.') I know where to watch for deer. I know where the people who drive their horses up and down our road every weekend live.
When I thought about the people who drive their horses up and down our road, I started thinking about when people used to drive horse-drawn carriages. I wonder if they could have seen an entire road in their mind's eye. I may think I see the details, but compared to what they would have known about the road, I would have seen a big picture. People who drove horses would have been acquainted with every stone and blade of grass on the road. They might have gone to the church with the funny windows. They probably personally knew the family that ate the cow. Could they see the big picture too, or would the details of the road have been so many that everything else was drowned out? I wonder random things like this...
On a less serious note, I heard my brother and my sister having this conversation today while we were working in the barn:
Grant: Hurry up Ansley. We need to get inside, I have Valentine's Day things to do.
Ansley: Oh yeah, what do you have to do? I have to bake a cake and decorate the table.
(Ansley is good at things like this.)
Grant: Well, I have to take a bath.
Ansley: That isn't Valentine's Day. That's everyday.
Grant: Well then, I guess I just have Valentine's Day every day.
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