While living in Mexico, I learned what the rainy season really is. We’re talking rain so thick, so heavy, so hard that it comes through the roof.
We’re talking thunder so loud and that lasts so long that I swore that it alone could kill me.
And the lightening. Lightening that lights up the world every bit as bright as daylight.
We’re talking the jungle itself being torn away and swept into the streets… torrents of water carrying trees, and plants that wash down from the hillsides, into the streets and into the ocean turning it into a swirling brown mass of debris.
The only thing to do was to climb onto the bed, open the balcony doors and watch the show. Sometimes the storms would last so long that my nerves would shatter.
Geckos and insects would come in to shelter on the walls and take cover in the corners of the ceiling.
And then it would be over as quickly as it started. The heat persisted because the rainy season happens in summer… 100° and 100% humidity. Was it refreshing? No.
Always sweating, always wet. It was too hot and wet for hair, for jewelry, for underwear. Earrings would heat up and burn my neck. I cut off my hair to the scalp. And underwear? What for?
My roof leaked. Not leak like I could catch water in buckets, but water that stood inches deep that I sloshed out and off the balcony and into the street with a broom.
I’d had enough: I called Juan Manuel to fix my roof.
Juan Manuel sent Juan Manuel and Manuel to fix my roof. Meanwhile, Juan came. I thought Juan was sent by Juan Manuel but he wasn’t. I had to send Juan away. So Juan Manuel and Manuel fixed my roof. Sorry Juan for the confusion.
I guess each and every one of us has our own experience and perspective. My perspective is one of myth and fairytale. Drawing names for gift giving and putting heart and soul into creating handmade gifts of wood, clay, wax, paints and pencils and wool threads, paper and fabric, each item made with a particular person in mind.
We’re grateful for a warm place to bake and for creating special foods. We invite family and friends to sit at our table and around the cozy fire. We read books and share stories and warming drinks.
During the season we gather evergreen boughs and leaves and branches with berries from parks to make wreaths and garlands to decorate the house and to give away. We hide small gifts and candy to fill the stockings for Jul morning and pretend the elves have visited through the night.
We’ve spent hours creating our special gifts, hiding them behind our backs if someone passes by unexpectedly. We don’t even share who’s name we’ve drawn… so there’s an air of anticipation… if John drew my name, I might get a painting or something sculpted of wood. If it’s Ivan, I might get a bonsai, if it’s Laura, maybe a knitted scarf or small bottles of homemade bitters. If it’s Joannah, there’s a million possibilities, and from Jerald, handmade candles or a handbraided dog leash or something of leather. From me, someone will get something knitted or a hand-made book.
We use hand decorated brown paper for wrappings and jute ribbons or recycled papers and ribbons from last year and hand cut paper snowflakes. Cards are made from John’s lino-cut designs, or made from recycled cards I recieved last year, repurposed for this year. This year I bought some from UNICEF.
I’m an anti-theist, if a label is required. God doesn’t play into the season, for me. I love the magic of stringing lights and singing and bringing a tree in the house… a tradition that pre-dates what we now call Christmas, Xmas, etc.
I dont care what other people do. If they want to celebrate as they’re told by media advertisements and to go into debt and to get stressed during October, November and December, they can go ahead. I don’t care. We’ll be over here creating and welcoming the darker, colder days with good cheer. This is how we welcome the ending of this year and the beginning of the new with family and friends.
I understand the bah humbug spirit pervasive in society. There’s good reason, of course, but for me it’s deeper and richer and full of meaning. There is the harvest, then the darker and colder season that engulfs us all as we turn away from the sun for some months.
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that I also know that there are the less fortunate who don’t have the ability to create such warmth and good cheer, and for that I lament. We’ll do what we can.
Two things occurred to me tonight that made me wonder just how underdeveloped my frontal lobe was as a teenager, or whether I was in possession of one at all.
Memory #1
When I was a teenager, maybe 14, my very smart but reckless brother, Steve, and I were supposed to be at a teen church group meeting. It’s the only reason that Dad would let Steve take the car.
Instead, because of the rebels that we were, we decided to go for a joyride. So, we took off over the St. Johns bridge that crossed the Willamette river. I think Steve had the bright idea to go to visit his girlfriend, Kathy, who hadn’t shown up for the group meeting, either.
St. Johns Bridge
At the South end of the bridge, one must make a sharp right turn or a sharp left turn or opt to run headlong into the rock mountain at the end of the bridge.
As we approached the intersection, Steve asked casually, “which direction should I go, left or right?” I didn’t answer quick enough so Steve stupidly ran head long into the mountain, totaling Dad’s car. (This was just the first of many car accidents Steve would have.)
Steve at least had the sense to throw himself across the seat but it didn’t hinder me from sliding down onto the floor. It did stop me, however, from crashing through the windshield or cracking my face on the dashboard. I’m sure that we were speeding since Steve had a tendency to speed and a predilection for danger.
He broke the rear view mirror with his body but he saved me from certain death or at least serious injury. We came to a sudden halt with a loud crash.
Steve hadn’t even applied the brakes. He pulled himself into a seated position and I pushed myself up off the floor. I noticed first of all that my pantyhose were destroyed. My reaction was not concern for our well being or for the car or for whether Dad would kill both of us or not, instead I exclaimed, “O, my God, my nylons”.
We’re alive to tell the story, which means that when the police brought us home, Dad slumped down in the doorway and cried… instead of killing us.
Memory #2
As many of you know who follow my blog, I contracted polio when I was 5 years old. Fortunately, I was only permanently affected when the deltoid in my right shoulder atrophied. As time went on, complications arose because of this and I had to have surgery to fuse the humerus (the upper arm bone) to the scapula (shoulder blade). This was long before joint replacements, so my orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Marxer, attached the two bones with what can only be described as a big deck bolt.
By this time I was in high school and was a growing young girl. After the surgery, I was in a cast that covered my torso, my arm, my shoulder and held my right arm out in front of me and a little to the side at a right angle. Needless to say, it weighed a ton, at least it felt like it. It rested on my right hip and to this day I have an indentation where it rested. And worst of all, the cast covered my right breast but not my left breast.
This is a pretty good likeness to the cast that I had except the arm on mine was held out at a right angle from my body and reached down to my hip bone where its weight was completely supported by my hip.
Since I was developing, my biggest concern was whether my left breast would grow larger than my right breast with my right breast being stunted under pounds of cast plaster.
Since my physician put a large bolt in the joint to hold my arm in place and since there wasn’t a deltoid to hold it in, I was in extreme pain as it healed and as the bone grew over the bolt.
Eventually the cast came off. But it wasn’t long before the the new, delicate bone broke and I had to go in for a second surgery. This required another cast. As those who have had bone surgery can attest, bone surgery is extremely painful. But what was my main worry? Why yes. It was, once again, whether my right breast would be able to grow as freely as the left one.
I had to put aside my embarrassment and gather all my courage to ask my doctor if my worries had any validity. To my chagrin, he didn’t have an answer for me. Most likely he didn’t have many teenage girl patients who had one breast in a cast and one breast out.
Like with my worries about my nylons being ruined in the car wreck, there I was having serious bone surgery and I was more concerned with my boobs than the health of my shoulder.
As it turns out, my concern was not baseless. Indeed my left breast is larger than my right. I will never know if it is because my right pectoral muscles were not as strenuously exercised as my left or if my conjecture was accurate… the damned cast inhibited equal opprtunity for growth.
My recorders, an alto and a soprano. Constant companions for 50 years.
I finally have to let the next thing go. I reluctantly give up my recorders as I wonder what will be next. This is the last of my music making. I know without doubt that this is not the final loss.
My life was not governed by my right arm until the last decade. In fact, I never thought of it. It’s just been my right arm. I’ve made do. And no one noticed it.
As a young girl, there were games. There was volley ball, softball and soccer. Bicycle riding, scooters, pogo sticks. Swimming all summer at Pier Park. Mom enrolled me in tap dancing at two. And ballet classes thereafter until high school was over. I played the clarinet and bass clarinet in the band and the orchestra. Then there was spinning and weaving, and teaching aerobics. Riding mountain bikes and camping and hiking in the wilderness. Caring first for babies and then active children. There was laundry and cooking, cleaning, gardening…
Then what happened? When did the losses start happening? When did I notice it? What went first? I don’t remember it was so gradual.
I remember thinking in my 20s what it would be like to raise both hands over my head, but there was nothing lost. It was just a thought.
I wanted to be twirled around by my boyfriend while dancing, most of which is by the right arm. But I couldn’t, so he accommodated without me asking or explaining. We danced at home, at clubs and at house parties. But there was nothing lost.
At aerobic classes, I had to explain to my students to do with both arms, what I was doing with only one. But nothing was lost.
Kristi helped me fasten the back garters on my nylons every school day. But there was nothing lost.
I fell a lot on my bicycle when the handlebars jerked out of my hand and I couldn’t catch myself, so I was bruised and I’d bleed and now I have scars to prove it. But nothing was lost.
Sure, I dreamed of being a dancer or a musician but there was so much more that I wanted to be and do that I never bemoaned my fate. Nothing was lost.
Then what happened? When did it start? I really don’t remember. When did I realize that I was losing? What was the first thing I lost?
I think I first noticed that my arm was no longer serving me at full capacity, when as an archivist, I was struggling to place or retrieve 50 lbs. boxes overhead in storage. As this became more troublesome, I was dropping boxes, while standing on a ladder, pulling them with my left hand onto my chest. I would balance them there while descending the ladder and walking in a back bend to the nearest table where I carefully slid it to safety.
However, I knew that this just wouldn’t do. Fortunately, there was never a disaster. There easily could have been. I could have been injured and I could have destroyed or damaged materials. The collection was comprised of priceless museum artifacts, photographs that included dueguerrotypes, glass lantern slides, and every other type of photographic variants, priceless diaries, 150 years of research documents, books, etc. I’d been caring for these precious items for nearly 16 years, creating the first organized archive at my institution. My pride was hurt. I’d never had to accomodate for my arm before.
Again, fortunately, I had volunteers, students and an archival assistant to pull materials for researchers, to shift boxes, to help retrieve collections from departments, schools and individuals. My assistants began to do all of the heavy work that had always been my job. Yes, of course, I had writing to do, research, acquisitions, teaching and training, creating exhibits, committee work and all of the administration duties, management of the archives and workers, but the heavy lifting was over.
My wonderful left arm had been doing double duty all of my life. But now, my shoulder was failing to do everything I had always expected of it. My thumb, my dear poor thumb, had been pulling files, picking up large and small books and everything else throughout my life. Eventually, arthritis has developed in all but my ring finger, while my right hand is as soft and unused and unharmed as a babies.
This degradation was so gradual that I failed to see its progression for years… or did I ignore it, not wanting to admit that my right arm was responsible for the unwanted changes occurring in my life.
I still want to ride bikes, weave and spin, carry in firewood, rake the autumn leaves, carry in groceries two bags at a time, wrap both arms around someone and play my recorders. But I have to acquiesce. If I don’t accept the incapacity of my right arm, I will only do further damage to my left arm and without it, I won’t be able to make my bed, brush my teeth, or do any other kind of self care including eating. Without my precious left arm, I would not have had the adventurous life I have lived. I accept now that there is loss. There has been loss, I just didn’t see it.
I give great credit to my parents who never said, “No, you can’t do that”. I played right along side the neighbor kids. Mom, numerous times had to put my right arm back in the socket, until a bone fusion permanently held it in place. She carried me to the doctor with a broken arm. They bought me a softball mit, a tricycle and a later a bicycle. They sent me off to the pool on my bike to swim all day. I climbed trees and raced up and down sand dunes and mountain trails. When I was in a full torso and arm cast after surgery, they agreed to let me ride on the back of a motorcycle with my boyfriend to go to the races. Because of them, I never told myself that I couldn’t do something. Because of them, my life now is full of joy, contentment and unbelievable memories.
Sure, I couldn’t be a dancer or a musician, but I could dance and play music. And I could and did thousands of other things. So, though I have lost and am losing my ability to do lots of things, I can still do lots of other things.
You might say that I was lucky since there are people who have suffered greater loss than me. I’m painfully aware of that and I know just how lucky I have been. But this is my story. This is my life and I have lived every moment of it. I now take better care of my left arm and I hope it will serve me as faithfully as it always has until the end of my days. However, it deserves a rest, and I’m fine with that.
Postscript: Once while walking down the avenue in Santa Monica, a stranger came up to me and while looking into my eyes said that my right arm would lead me to the light.
As a child, I easily believed that the Santas, whose laps we sat upon, were real.
I didn’t question how such a big guy could fit down our chimney or fly in a sled pulled by reindeer and land on our roof or deliver presents to all the children of the world in one night.
I was a believer.
But then there came a time when I understood that a big Santa couldn’t fit down our chimney. But, I was undaunted when I learned through book learning that Santa was an elf.
Now, it all makes sense. Santa is an elf and an elf is small and magical and unlimited in its powers. Of course, he has a tiny sled and tiny reindeer and he can land on our roof and with no problem, come down our chimney. And elves are not constrained by the limitations of space and time, so children everywhere can wake up to presents under the tree.
You can’t imagine the relief I felt when I had this realization. When there is such evidence that Santa is an elf, there’s no reason to require faith or belief.
And this is why I find such joy in the season. 🤗🌲🎁
It wasn’t until I saw myself as the tree, clinging to the side of the cliff, hanging over a raging sea, that I was finally – finally able to see myself as beautiful.
I saw the tree, twisted and contorted by storms blowing in from a turbulent ocean. Rain, pounding the sandy soil, washing away its only source of life… or so I thought.
Dark days turn repeatedly into black nights of threatening clouds and stormy chaos, determined to wash the tree off the precipice and into the icy and crashing waters, year after year.
The tree, contorted and twisted by harsh weather, would otherwise stand tall and straight if not continually buffeted. It’s branches symmetrical in form and covered with graceful needles.
But the tree, perhaps not beautiful in the eyes of some, had grown strong. Its roots exposed to the chilling elements, had dug ever deeper into the earth, into the rock, drawing its sustenance from what seemed impossible. Its branches nearly naked, stripped of all but tufts of stubborn needles.
The tree had learned not to resist where it had been sown. Instead, it welcomed the pelting sand and the stinging rain and the bleaching rays of the sun when they came. I saw it as beautiful.
The tree gave in to nature’s artist’s hands and in so doing did not die but thrives.
Documentation only sometimes provides consensus and memory rarely provides consensus. Just spent a lovely evening with my siblings, Steve and Kristi. We shared the same family and the same events while growing up but if you had been listening in on our conversaition you would think that we lived in different worlds. Perception is always and only just that. Why are you a skeptic you ask, a post-modernist historian? Do you really have to ask? It’s the completely unreliable evidence of experience that convinces me of nothing.
eyeamdust 