December 2014

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Baby Tess, with my Great Aunt Mary in 1923

June 1946

She and my Grandpa will marry the following year.

They will have one miscarriage, one still birth, and raise four fine children.

That’s me!

Thanksgiving

50th Wedding Anniversary

2013

Our final photo together

My Grandma Tess died the day after Christmas, a blessedly quick death, free of complications and suffering, save the ravages of old age. I have yet to conjure a world without her. Her voice, our final, “I love you,” still rings clear. My heart has yet to fully fathom the weight of the inability to pick up the phone for a leisurely conversation; to hear the litany of her ailments; the news of neighbors and relatives; the comings and goings of the skies; her booming at my Grandpa to pick up the phone, to hurry, to perform some task; to make her erupt with laughter; to hear her utter my name.

I am grateful to have had so much time; the parties, the towering stack of buffet plates, everything perfectly laid out: the ice cream loaf with holiday patterns, the relish plate and cheese bell. There I am, running, jumping, screaming around the yard and the house, having the time of my life. Sleepovers as a child, I cuddled on the sofa in the rosy pink nightgown she made, opened the linen closet to inhale the scent of starched linen and cotton, lounged on the back porch to hear the world pass by.  The sleepovers as an adult, visiting from Oregon; there we are at the kitchen table: playing games, chatting of everything and nothing at all, her youth, my youth, clothes, what to make for dinner, you paid how much?! There I am, digging through photographs, closets, and drawers, asking so many questions, where and when and how?

Forty-three years, it is all in the past now, nearly two whole days, and, should I have the privilege of living as long as she, it will be fifty years. Fifty years without my beloved grandmother. Oh life, you are strange.

 Post script, some of what I want to remember:

Her eye for detail: setting a table, decorating the house, folding the clothes.

Her love of ironing, in particular, my Grandpa’s handkerchiefs.

How she, when nearly a septuagenarian, became an avid Colorado Rockies and Denver Broncos fan, watching every televised game and listening to the others on the radio, reading the sports section to pore over stats, memorizing the names of every player and coach. Her reasoning, she told me, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em!”

The way she would go out of her way to right a wrong. Barely twenty-four hours into our honeymoon, the straps on the backpacks the hubster and I bought tore. We were in London and thousands of miles from the Eddie Bauer where we purchased them. Without much choice, we ditched them and spent a precious lot of our savings on new packs. Grandma caught wind of it and decided something needed to be done. I can picture her long fingers, nails filed to a point, scanning the yellow pages for the phone number. I can hear her fiery voice discussing quality customer service and two disappointed kids thousands of miles away on their honeymoon until she got what she wanted – a full refund upon our return, some two months later, without so much as a receipt. A force to be reckoned with. I got that from her.

How she taught me to sew and gave me my first sewing machine. The hubster and I, fresh from our honeymoon and eager to decorate our bare apartment, had little money to spare. She helped me make tab topped curtains like the ones in the Pottery Barn catalog for the dining room. They looked terrific at a fraction of the price!

There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humor.

Charles Dickens

 

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Holiday Lights

Our sweet borough decorations, strung along Lincoln Avenue, our main street. I love their charm and earnestness, their infectious cheer. Cheer that I, at various moments, need desperately. Moving is difficult, dear reader, more than I recalled. Not just the labor of it, the unpacking and sorting and organizing, the literal learning of territory, but the fiddly feeling of discombobulation, of being at a crossroads. I remain untethered, yet duty bound. This house is mine, ours, Milo’s, yet it is so much someone else’s. Whose, I do not know. It’s own, perhaps, biding it’s time, waiting patiently for our stamp, for pictures on the wall, a washer, a dryer, herbs in the garden. Singing. A clothesline strung in summer sun.

Then there is the greater, more complicated question of self. Me. Colleen Sohn. I do not wish to be the person I was in Portland, not wholly anyway. I am eager to shed the skin that held me back, that made friends with malcontents, drama queens, mile takers. And do what, you ask? Write more. Submit stories, poems, drawings, paintings. Be myself. Make friends and lose them when necessary. Rise to meet the sun, the clouds, the stars. Recognize my own value. Make money. Read more. Cook more. Exercise more. Love more. Stare fear in the eye and not blink.

Be the merry mighty light…

Progression

Saturday night’s supper, beginning to end: super soft sharp cheddar polenta and roasted green beans with almonds and orange balsamic vinaigrette. Tasty.

The living room, entirely unpacked and cozy, though not entirely finished. The walls need fresh paint, some shade of white, and the foot stool needs to be recovered, maybe the chairs, too? The jury, for the time being, is still out.

The local laundromat, the nicest we’ve ever seen, our every other week hangout until our washer and dryer arrive in mid-January. Who knew there would be such a run on them at holiday time.

I am reminded of how life is a progression – idea or thought, need or desire, the steps to attainment, so very many beginnings. I am hoping to have more endings soon, the end of boxes and disorder, the end of being in transition. Which brings me to this last photo, the Andrew Bayne Memorial Library, my beautiful local branch. I am pleased as punch to announce that I got my library card today. And, wonder of wonders, they had a copy of A Christmas Story, the holy grail of holiday films. Beginner’s luck, maybe, but I’ll take it!

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Whimsy

Those who shun the whimsy of things will experience rigor mortis before death.

Tom Robbins

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