Summer Writing

School will start next week. I'm starting to get excited. But summer didn't last near long enough. The hot weather lasted way too long but it's finally cooled off. During the summer I took an online writing class. It was based on place-based writing which means writing based on places, like places I've been, places I'm from, places that have shaped me. I thought I'd share some of my pieces here. The first piece is based on a photo of my kids when we lived in West Mountain, Utah. It's a poem.

Focus

Snapshot: three figures in focus

One, dark, four-legged, tongue hanging out

Framed by two blindlingly blonde offspring

Tanned legs, faces peaking around their protector

All three on a velvet island of Kentucky Blue Grass

Lazy summer days spent

        swinging

        jumping

        exploring

Faithfully followed by their tail wagging companion

Herded back to safety if exploration led afar

Simple times when outdoor adventures and a loyal companion were their focus

Snapshot: two figures in focus

Protector long buried, sorely missed

They: still tan but hair darkened over time

Now digital devices, dating, and driving dominate

Oh, to have them herded back as in carefree days

      to make it better with a kiss and a band-aid

      to see the same trust and love in their faces

I keep that first snapshot

    when life overwhelms

I glance at that photo

     to keep my focus.

The second piece is where I'm from using places.

I Am From

Brussels, Belgium

I don't have a lot of travel experience or many souvenirs. But I do have one small token from Brussels: a statue of a small naked boy peeing. From Wikipedia, "Manneken Pis (literally Little Man Pee), is a famous Brussels landmark. It is a small bronze fountain sculpture depicting a naked little boy urinating into the fountain's basin.”
I traveled to Holland, Belgium, Paris, and England in 1990. I had heard of the Manneken Pis statue from my husband. He spent 18 months in Belgium/Holland on a mission for our church. Supposedly Manneken put out a fire with his "water." The statue is approximately 3 feet high with fountain water flowing from. . .well you get the picture! I had my picture taken in front of the statue and of course had to purchase a mini version to take back to America. I planned to give the small statue to my five year old son. I thought he would get a kick out of it. This was the boy who went up to teenage girls asking them if they wanted to see his penis! Alas! He was beyond mortified and embarrassed that his mother would bring such a thing home to him. I'm still not really sure why he was so horrified by the little statue. At the ripe age of 25, he doesn't know what the big deal was either.
When my husband left us a little over a year ago, he left everything and only wanted a few sentimental things from his past. I boxed the Delft Blou from Belgium and the beer stein from Holland. Ah but, Manneken, the little naked boy, has stayed firmly entrenched on my piano.

Donner Lake, California was the location of my favorite uncle’s cabin in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. It was a grand cabin with two bedrooms and large kitchen on the main floor and a huge loft upstairs. Picture windows in the living room framed the stone fireplace and provided gorgeous views. The gigantic deck overlooked the pristine, clear lake named for the ill-fated group of pioneers.  We had several family reunions at the cabin. Being the tag-tail child of my parents, I was the youngest cousin in the family and very doted on by all the adults. My love of pine and snow covered mountains was fostered at that cabin. Years later I was able to take my own son to the cabin. I sat freezing on the dock while he repeatedly and unsuccessfully cast his fishing pole into the lake.

Emery County, Utah at the Orangeville Cemetery is where my mother is buried. I grew up hearing stories of life in Emery County. My mother was born there, coming from Mormon pioneer stock who settled the area. She left Utah in 1960 to marry my father—a blended family brought together by the birth of their one child together-me. My mother never lived in Utah again but every year we made the pilgrimage to visit grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and other distant relations. We also made the annual visit to the area cemeteries to decorate the graves—a morbid practice to a youngster. I only enjoyed the picnics, time with cousins and playing hide and seek among the graves (if my mother didn’t forbid it). My mother always longed for life in Utah—California was never really her home—so it only seemed fitting that when she died six weeks after my father, we lay her to rest in Emery County.

Golden Gate Cemetery, San Mateo, California is where my father is buried. A World War II veteran, he earned the right to be buried in a military cemetery. His first wife was also buried there. He became a widower with two young boys and then married my mother with her three children. I grew up hearing stories of my father’s twenty-year adventures in the Navy. He fought in the Battle of Midway in the Pacific and met President Roosevelt during the war. The January he died was a very wet one for Northern California. We tramped through soggy grass and around puddles for the burial. The upturned dirt had turned to mud. I tried to keep my five children from getting muddy during the service. After the service we left while the workers completed their task. As we returned later my five year old son walked up to the mound and placed his little hands firmly in the mud leaving his prints as a tribute to Grandpa Alger. Before long we were all placing our hands in the mud over the grave—our final act of honor to a great man.

Mountains—Sierra Nevada Mountains, Wasatch Mountains, any mountains pull me as an actual force of gravity. I grew up surrounded by foothills in California but went to college where each morning I looked out my window at granite majesty rising two thousand feet from the valley floor. The valley was surrounded by mountains and literary provided direction to my compass-deficient self. The close mountains were east; the far ones were west. That college town was laid out by Mormon pioneers on a grid system so knowing one’s directions was essential in finding anything. The mountains also provided spiritual direction to my soul. Who could question God surrounded by such a spectacular example of his handiwork? I knew who I was when surrounded by the protection of those monoliths. In fact, as I reflect on my life, a turning point came when I left those mountains. I lost my bearings so to speak without those obvious anchors in my life. I seemed to lose a sense of who I really was, what was most important to me and how to obtain what was important. My literal sense of direction was also impaired by removal from the mountains; I am often literally lost as I drive somewhere.

West Mountain, Utah is the location where we built our first house. My husband and I had always been told that if we survive building a house together, our marriage could withstand anything. Ironically it survived the house building only to disintegrate within ten years. Maybe we should have stayed in the house! We did put a lot of time and thought into the building of the house. It had oodles of storage. I also brought home child numbers four and five to that house. But what I really loved about that house was the location. It was set on five acres nestled right next to a mountain on the west side of Utah valley. The sun went down 30 minutes sooner for us up against the mountain adding a pleasant shade to outdoor activities. We had a huge vegetable garden, raised several beef and pigs, and even raised bummer lambs (lambs left motherless). My youngest daughter started kindergarten in the area and being the good mother I took 15 lambs to school to bottle feed for show and tell. My daughter still mentions that as one of her favorite memories of growing up. I also remember lying in bed at night watching the moon rise over the mountain. In that house, I felt safe, protected, and isolated from all problems. I have liked other houses I’ve lived in better than that one but no location better.

I'll save the third piece for another blog.