I’m more haunted by the things that haven’t happened, than I am by the things that have. Half worn radials rumble over the railroad tracks near Winnetka and Bass Lake Road, wipers slap another day of dreary fog and rain; I drudge up the things that haunt me. Porcupine quills in tender skin.
There were no trains in the distance. I thought of Liz’s photographs of mustard engines, rusty graffiti, barrel shaped cabooses. She stopped at a crossing to take a few shots; there were two other men there, shooting the trains. One carried a long tripod, stood firm with his son. The train backdrop blurred behind them.
It’s comforting to me that people still love what is old, what is dying, what has passed.
Nostalgia. I’m haunted by nostalgia. I don’t have many regrets. I’m not a regretful person. I try to make amends. And live with the fact that I made the best decisions I could, for the time and maturity. If I’m going to cut myself that break, I have to cut others the same.
I’m haunted by not knowing. Not knowing what will happen to Mr. Stripeypants. He’s clearly in so much pain and cannot tell us why. Not knowing the right decisions to crucial questions about my future – about money, writing, teaching, art. That haunts me.
There is risk in moving into new territory. It makes me uncomfortable. Do I have the strength and stamina? Or will memories of failure continue to haunt me.
I’m haunted that I didn’t go to my Grandmother Elise’s funeral. That is one regret I do have. I would do things differently now. I would love her, hug her, call her and ask all the questions I never got to ask.
I was 29. Maybe 30. Insecure. I remember when I got the call. No cell phones then. The phone clamored and rang. She’d had another heart attack and passed away. I cried and cried and cried. Sandwiched between Bitterroot Mountains and Big Sky, I drove the cherry red Subaru wagon all the way down to Hamilton, Montana. I cried some more.
I wasn’t thinking about the beauty. And Montana is a beautiful place. I was haunted by everything I had missed. The connections broken. I was grieving my grandmother. I was grieving the past. I wanted to let go. How could I let go of something I had never fully claimed?
I visited her graveside with my mother, Amelia, last June. It’s across the Savannah River on a slightly sloped hill, in a wide open, ancient cemetery, along the border of east central Georgia. A silk lily had flown loose from another grave. I picked it up, thought about placing it on hers. But then I noticed the tipped container near the flat granite stone of a stranger’s grave nearby, and slipped the lily back into the brass vase.
Empty-handed, full-hearted, I sat with Elise for a moment. It was brief, short. Silent. My mother was there. And my step-father, Louis. We visited a lot of gravesites that sweltering day in June. And I taped a lot of memories.
Last week, I started transcribing them. Each day, I stretch out with headphones attached to my laptop and listen to wav files, voices from the past. I laugh. I cry. I type. I rewind to catch obscure snippets of Southern drawl. I think, “This is my life.” I am not haunted. I feel a great relief to know the bits of truth memory has to offer.
I’m haunted by not knowing. By what I have yet to do. Not what I have done. The haunting is fear, I know it. And I use all the tools in my arsenal to work around it, move through it, sit with it, even in it, when that serves me best.
I know I have to go to these places. I’m willing to risk feeling. Deep, intimate feeling. In return, I understand what it means to feel joy. The payoffs are big. The gamble is great. I could fail. I could make a wrong decision, the right one for the time.
Speaking of time, it’s up. Rain pelts the windows near my desk. Billowing gray clouds give me a feeling of longing. Can I live with the past? Or not knowing the future? If I’m present, neither of them matters. My grandmother is with me every day. I can always go home.
-related to post, WRITING TOPIC – HAUNTED
QM,
This brought tears to my eyes. I’m glad you are starting to go through your tapes and notes. It was so great going into the past with you ! I’ve been visiting there a lot lately in my thoughts.
Sometimes I wonder what I could have done differently and why I was so selfesh sometimes . What I could have done different. I know I took so much away from MOther when I moved North. She was such a loving and caring person to everyone, not just family.
It is strange, I was was 29 when we moved North. So much in love, not really wanting to move away but wanting a happy fulfilling life with my husband and children. I try to remember the happy times but the sad ones creep in also.
I know Mother would be very proud of you and as you say she is with us always, watching over us and telling us when we are going the wrong way.
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Mom, your comment brought tears to my eyes. 8) I hope you know that I don’t regret us moving to the North for a minute. I’ve had a richer life because of it. As I go through all the tapes and listen to the past through your voice and the memories of others, I am filled with joy, too.
I am healing. We are all healing. The sadness I feel is partly that of a young child revisiting a time long past. There was so much going on for me back then, secrets that no one knew, making me unhappy and scared.
I don’t carry the secrets anymore. And I don’t think you were selfish. I think you were 29, in love, and wanting the best life you could have for your children, your husband, and yourself. Those are reasonable dreams. You lived your dreams. We should all be so lucky.
Grandmother would be proud of you, too. You were her daughter. Strong, stubborn, independent, big-hearted, vibrant, sensual, beautiful. You were all those things. And you taught me how to go after what I wanted, even if I was feeling insecure or scared. None of us is perfect.
And I remember us being pretty happy as a family when we first moved to Pennsylvania. The move was difficult. And there was loss and grief. But I remember laughing a lot, too, and buying a new house, and experiencing snow for the first time, and sledding down the hill in the back.
My junior high and high school days in PA are some of my happiest. But I’m not there in my research yet! And remember – Grandmama would never have met Raymond if she had not moved in with us for a while in Pennsylvania! Everything was as it should be.
Hey, I’m realizing as I do the transcribing of the June tapes that I’ll be asking you more detail questions! So stay tuned. Thank you for being my mother. 8)
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Thanks QM I needed that!!
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[…] I’m posting on the writing practice topic for this week from red Ravine. Since I already wrote the basic practice yesterday in the form of a poem, today I attempted a […]
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RECALL:
wipers slap another day of dreary fog and rain
barrel shaped cabooses
The train backdrop blurred behind them.
Nostalgia. I’m haunted by nostalgia.
The phone clamored and rang. (old phones did clamor, didn’t they?)
Sandwiched between Bitterroot Mountains and Big Sky
The connections broken.
I was grieving my grandmother.
I was grieving the past.
I wanted to let go.
How could I let go of something I had never fully claimed?
It’s across the Savannah River on a slightly sloped hill, in a wide open, ancient cemetery, along the border of east central Georgia.
A silk lily had flown loose from another grave. I picked it up, thought about placing it on hers. But then I noticed the tipped container near the flat granite stone of a stranger’s grave nearby, and slipped the lily back into the brass vase.
***Each day, I stretch out with headphones attached to my laptop and listen to wav files, voices from the past. I laugh. I cry. I type. I rewind to catch obscure snippets of Southern drawl. I think, “This is my life.” I am not haunted. ***
Billowing gray clouds give me a feeling of longing.
Can I live with the past? Or not knowing the future?
If I’m present, neither of them matters.
My grandmother is with me every day. I can always go home.
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Wow! Reading your post, and then your mother’s reply blew me away. You are both very feeling people.
The description of visiting your grandmother’s grave, with the silk lilac is very strong. I also like the transcribing of the tapes- it shows optimism, and a lack of fear. The narrator might have been haunted by some failures to act, but the in the present is able to transcend the lapses, and creates something new.
Thanks for this writing prompt. It isn’t easy to write about true hauntings from our own lives. It means admitting our foibles.
C.
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I know the haunted feeling regarding funerals. I didn’t go to my best friend‘s funeral in 4th grade, and I don’t know why. Cuz my mom didn’t take me, I guess, but I still regret the fact that I didn’t go….:(
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Wow, LB, I just read the story of Kristi and the firetruck. So moving. First, your work is incredible anyway, and then to see why certain images, like the firetruck. Yes, I would have been mad, too, that she didn’t make it out the door.
Also, re: not going to the funeral, my husband’s little brother died when Jim was 6 or 7 and David was 5 or 6. They were only 15 months apart. David had leukemia. Jim didn’t get to the go to the funeral. It’s something that affected him the rest of his life. He’s mourned David’s death all these years since, and only recently, I think, is finding peace with that trauma.
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LB, I just got home and read your post. What an amazing story about Kristi and the fire truck. It’s a sad story. And the way you found out…must have been jolting for a 4th grader. It’s also hard to remember a time when a fire truck would pull up and take kids for a ride without fear of suit. Your bead work is exquisite.
Funerals…I have not been to very many in my life. I like remembering the person the way they were in life. But my views are changing. The last I attended was the memorial for Liz’s Dad shortly after I met her. We drove to North Dakota in a blizzard. I wasn’t sure we were going to make it. And I won’t forget it.
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M., Ah, you busted us! My mother and I are pretty feeling people. Though I can say I don’t talk about mine a lot. I’m more apt to write them.
And I agree. Writing about hauntings from our lives does admit vulnerability. And choices we wish we might have done differently. I could do a few practices on this Topic. And each would say something different.
Thanks for sharing the link to your post on mariacristina, What Circles My Brain.
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Mom, by the way, I started transcribing the Georgia tapes and going through my notes as part of a commitment to two writing friends. I realized I was having a hard time diving in. So the 3 of us talked about what we were struggling with in our writing and came up with a month commitment to each other to a new practice about our writing projects.
Mine is to take 20 minutes each day (and another 4 hour chunk (minimum), one day a week) to work on some aspect of my book: a writing practice, transcribing tapes, going through notes and maps and research I collected in June. It’s been a catalyst for me. And the feedback from them is that it has helped them as well. I’m happy to have begun working on it!
Continue under all circumstances. Don’t be tossed away. Make positive effort for the good. 8)
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quoinmonkey – this is such a heartfelt, moving writing. it is pretty wonderful how you segue from “it is comforting to me that people still love what is old, what is dying, what has passed away” to your intense feelings for Mr. Stripeypants, your regret at not being at your grandma’s funeral, the balm of the “billowing grey clouds” to “I can always go home”. Your present and past are inextricably linked and in your writing you explore the character of each link in the chain of your life. G
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QM that is great news! I could tell you were having trouble diving in and knew you really wanted to . It’s good you and your friends made that commitment. I’m here for you when you need me. Never hold back any thoughts or writings because of me, write what you feel. Sometimes knowing another is still around can hold back what you really want to say or feel . I don’t want you to feel stiffled. A great writer can only be great writing without any holds.
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You’re a great Mom, Amelia!!
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Mom, thank you. Wise words about writing. You have been one of my greatest supporters since I starting winding down this crazy, unpredictable writing path. I really appreciate that you (and other family members, too) are behind me. It means a lot.
BTW, I got your letter yesterday but have not had a chance to respond. Thanks for writing. I will print it off. And write back sometime this weekend. It’s nice to get a letter. When I saw Ann Patchett last week, she talked a lot about letters and correspondence. And having a few people to write to. Inspiring.
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G, sometimes when I post these practices, I often feel they are sappy or sentimental. But the past and present are so linked for me. And it’s where I go. I sometimes talk to people who don’t much care about the past – theirs or anyone else’s. But I like to draw the past forward through art and writing.
Now that I read your comment and look back, I see that this write is really about loss, fear of death, and the links between that and life. Thanks for your support.
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I know that place, sandwiched between the Bitterroots and Big Sky. It’s a place so incredibly big, you’re bound to feel small. But, I like that feeling. It’s what keeps me going, trail of memories and all.
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Mary, it is an amazing place, the Bitterroot Mountains. Huge space. Dense forests, snow-capped mountains, low valleys…it is easy to feel small. There is nothing like that in the Midwest. And it’s a more closed in feeling than New Mexico mountains and skies. I love how every place has its own feel.
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Your post was excellent… but seeing your relationship with your mom, right here in the comments, brought tears to my eyes. I loved my mom, who has been gone for over 10 years… but even when she was with me, we didn’t talk about the big stuff. You are both fortunate in your open natures.
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pmousse, the relationship has matured over time. It wasn’t always so open when I was in my youth. We didn’t talk as much. And I had a period in my 20’s where I was pretty disconnected from my family. But over time, as I worked on my own stuff, I began to want to open up and reconnect with my family. It’s been healing for me. And a great gift.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw Mom comment on the blog. I was so surprised and pleased. She’s a great writer and adds so much to the experience for me. Same way with my brother. I feel so fortunate to have their support around my writing (and the rest of my life!). It means a lot to me.
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