Deidra Alexander's Blog

July 6

Item # 29 – Grandma’s cookbook

Allie,

You should take Grandma’s cookbook and find someone who will actually use it after you. I didn’t give you Grandma’s patterns because; well I’m just a little more shallow than you. Yes, it surprises me too. Now you can have them both.

Love,

Jo

 ***

 Allie brought me Grandma’s old cookbook today. I didn’t even know she had it. I don’t sew and I have her patterns and Allie doesn’t cook and she has her cookbook. Between the red and white cover are standard recipes and Grandma’s family recipes handed down for generations. The lightest, fluffiest biscuits you’ve ever tasted; the best chicken and dumplings; and pies of every type. Except kidney pie I was always grateful that her recipes didn’t include kidney pie. She gave me Grandma’s cookbook saying I’d make better use of it.

I remember Grandma spending days in the kitchen baking at Christmas. Grandma was full of country wisdom doled out over the mixing bowl. One thing she use to say was you don’t have to be the smarter or prettiest or even the kindest, but you have to be willing to stand up for yourself. How long has it been since I believed in myself enough to stand up?

***

Being an “artist” is a lonely path. You paint and work and hope, pouring yourself into your work, with the hope that it is good enough. The only way to know if it’s good enough is by the judgment of other people. In the appreciation they express when they are willing to spend money to possess a little bit of your passion, to share in the glory of your work. Then you are an artist, a real artist, not just a woman who plays with paints, dreaming of her chance.

I had Allie put a few of my smaller paintings in the car so I could take them to the gallery I went to weeks ago. It’s the only one on my way to treatment.

I took two of my lighter works inside. Since I started smoking the cigarettes, my paintings had become less dark. Instead of blacks and grays with the occasional reds and gold undertones, my paintings sang of blues, greens, indigos and violets. Some soaring with color like jewels others more muted like the warm shades of a spring afternoon.

I walked inside with my stomach swirling. My shoes echoed on the floor like I had entered a sacred place where I didn’t really belong. I felt myself shrinking in size and importance. Another black clad young woman approached.

I decided to tell her directly my interest. I didn’t have enough time to play.

“I have a couple of paintings I’d like you to take a look at.”

I started unwrapping them.

“Whose?” she asked.

“Mine.”

“And you are?”

“Jolene Randall.”

“Never heard of you,” she said, turning to walk away.

“I know you’ve never heard of me. I just want you to take a look at these.”

I held them out for her to examine.

“New artists must submit eight by ten glossies of their work. Once we review the work, we’ll contact you if we feel your image is in line with ours,” the clerk recited.

“How long does that take?”

“Eight to ten months.”

“I don’t have that kind of time.”

“No one ever does,” she sighed.

“You don’t understand. Can’t you just look at them and tell me if I’m wasting my time?”

“You don’t understand. We have hundreds of inquiries. If I took the time to look at everyone’s work, I wouldn’t have time for anything else.”

“I’m just asking for a few minutes.”

“The name on the door isn’t yours. The owner decides what we do and don’t do here. And we don’t review artists’ works in the lobby. If you want any hope of ever showing in this or any other gallery, you’ll learn to follow the rules,” the pale clerk said.

As I started to leave, she continued, “And I don’t have to take a look at your work, I can look at you and tell you’re wasting your time here. You aren’t the kind of artist we’re looking for.”

When Allie heard the results, she wanted to kick some skinny, black clad, snooty butt, which wouldn’t have helped my cause.

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July 5

Item # 25 – Plans for my studio

Allie,

I had the plans for my studio framed. I’d like you to have them. They really are a work of art.

 ***

 I remember when I was a child, my Mother use to forget her birthday. I never did understand that. How can you forget your birthday? That and she use to say chocolate was too sweet. When I was a kid I was completely baffled. How can chocolate be too sweet? I confess I’m still baffled over that one. I’ve never found chocolate too sweet.

However, the birthday thing I get. I had completely forgotten it was my birthday. I don’t think it’s that unusual. When you reach a certain age, though it may be different for us all, we start letting ourselves forget the passage of time. But this year was different. I didn’t try to forget it. I didn’t ignore it. Time has started to lose meaning. That happens when you’re spending the majority of your time sleeping.

Charlie, Allie, Logan and Livia came in with a vanilla cupcake singing happy birthday. I’m happy to say I was able to enjoy the cupcake without incident. The four of them insisted that I go outside with them to see my gift.

I thought perhaps they’d gotten me new plants, lawn furniture or a porch swing. We got to the edge of the yard where the old workshop stood.

When Charlie and Allie pulled the doors open light came pouring out. The old beams were still exposed between the soft white walls. My paintings hung from the finished walls. The garden and creek were clearly visible outside the wall of windows. Plumbing had been run to rinse brushes and dilute paints. There must have been ten easels ready for use. The table Bryan sent sat in the center of the room set for a birthday party.

I had a studio.

“When did this happen?” I asked.

How did I miss the construction going on in my own back yard?

“The past few weeks. It was mostly Allie,” Charlie replied. “When she sets her mind to something, nothing and no one is going to get in her way, not even construction workers.”

“An artist needs a studio,” is all she would say.

I don’t know that I’ve loved anything so much. I have my own space, my own studio. I am an artist, well almost.

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July 4

Item # 22 – Button Box

Allie,      I know you thought I was a nut for keeping the strange odds and ends when we had to move.  In my bureau is one of those things. I have an old wooden cigar box covered with buttons. Mom made it for Grandma when she was a little girl. Inside is a tube of glue. Over the years, buttons have fallen off and I glue them back on. Now it’s your turn.

 ***

 My college years were filled with dark, desperate days. I felt like I was born old. I didn’t have time for parties, drinking or smoking. I was busy working during the day, going to school at night and taking care of Allie in between. So when Allie and Charlie told me they had something for the nausea, excuse me if I didn’t quite get it.

Allie came in grinning. Charlie closed the bedroom door.

“Have we got something for you,” she almost sang.

“Shhhh,” Charlie reprimanded, “I don’t want Logan to know.”

“He won’t. We’ll just call them “cigarettes”.”

Allie handed me a homemade cigarette.

“I don’t smoke,” I protested.

What idiots? Here I am puking my guts out and they want me to start smoking.

“These aren’t regular cigarettes. These are special cigarettes. They’ll help with the nausea,” Allie said, pulling a home rolled cigarette out.

At this point I was ready to try anything.

So I sat up, leaning against the headboard, my bowl handy just in case.

“Here, I’ll show you how,” Allie volunteered, grinning.

You couldn’t wipe the grin off of Allie’s face if you wanted to. Charlie looked sheepish and shrugged.

Those little “cigarettes” as we call them have turned out to be a life saver, literally. I was losing fifteen pounds a week and since using them, I only loose a few pounds. I’ve actually had some weeks when I haven’t lost any weight.

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July 3

Item # 17 – Small box in top bureau drawer

Logan,

This box contains a sticker Livia found under her saddle one day. I’m sure you remember the day I’m referring too. Livia knew what you’d done, but played along. She’s a better sport than I imagined.

 ***

 Logan was excited when he came back from his first riding lesson.

“Mom, you should have been there,” his voice rose with each word, until he was practically yelling. “Livia’s horse went wild. He was bucking and started running. You should have seen it. It was so cool.”

“It was nothing an experience horse woman couldn’t handle.”

Livia folded her hands across her lap. She was the picture of gentility, sitting stiff backed, ankles crossed. But today, an extra smile played across her lips.

“She stayed on his back like one of those cowboys at the rodeo,” Logan continued.

I asked what happened.

“I don’t know,” he said.

He sounded a little too innocent for my liking.

“These things happen,” Livia confirmed.

After Logan ran upstairs, Livia told me the truth.

“That little rapscallion put a cockle under my saddle.”

Livia produced the offending sticker.

“Are you ok? I can’t believe he would do something like that. I’ll have a talk with him.”

I fully intended to ground him to Livia’s care for the remainder of the summer and hard labor during off hours.

“Not necessary. I’m taking care of it,” Livia insisted.

“Are you sure?”

“Oh yes, dear. You just worry about you. I can handle one prepubescent boy.”

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July 2

Item # 11 – Grandma’s Blanket

Allie I want you to keep Grandma’s blanket and think of me. And when I’ve gone, I’d like you to see that it’s passed on to Logan. I’ve spent a lot of time under this blanket lately. Picking out the fabrics from Grandma’s shirts has become a pastime for me these days. I’ve found great comfort in this quilt.

***

I wrapped myself in Grandma’s tattered, old quilt today. The stitching was coming apart, but for once I didn’t worry about trying to repair it. Some of the fabrics were rotting away. The green and white polka dots had disappeared, leaving small holes in their places. I didn’t try to fight the eventual decay and destruction; I just let it be what it was intended to be, warm and comforting.

It’s by no means beautiful, mostly cotton fabrics, truly random, – plaids, solids and florals. I always look for one fabric in particular, an Indian boy paddling down a green river. Every color from pastel blues, pinks and yellows to dark brown, black, grey, and indigo was present, darks and lights, happy and sad, more happy than sad. I took comfort in that.

These squares of once vibrant cottons, now muted with age, were the remnants of Grandma’s shirts. I could see her out in the garden; straw hat, pedal pushers, and a wheelbarrow, wearing a colorful cotton shirt.

We’d cook and can all summer. At Christmas, we’d open a jar of pickled okra, when memories of fried green tomatoes had long since passed and remember summer days all over again. Those memories come back to me now.

The quilt had been lost, tucked away in Grandma’s closet. Its memory lost with it. After Grandma was gone, the house and everything in it was being sold.

“If you want anything, you’d best take it,” the voice on the phone had said.

We went back one more time; Allie and I. Everything of value had been taken. Allie was sentimental to the end. She sat in the middle of Grandma’s sewing room. I suppose she was looking for the Holy Grail. Something that would have special meaning that was quintessentially Grandma. Something she could hold onto.

When Allie was a girl, she was always at Grandma’s side, out in the garden or standing at the edge of her sewing machine. Allie had turned to Grandma when Mom died. So Grandma’s death had hit her particularly hard. After Grandma died, Allie was more drawn into her own world. Allie-land I sometimes called it. Things seemed to be more about Allie and less about everyone else.

That’s when I snagged a box of dress patterns from the nineteen forties and fifties. She had looked at them longingly.

“I’m the one who sews,” she said, implying they would be better off in her hands, perhaps she was right.

“I’ll share them with you.” I reassured her, lying.

To the victor goes the spoils, I thought.

Bored, I moved onto Grandma’s sewing closet. It was like a dimly lit, walk in pantry. The shelves on three sides were loaded with fabrics from floor to ceiling. The strong smell of musty mothballs brought a tickle to the back of my throat.

On a top shelf, I saw an old quilt, falling apart.

I thought someone could make a pillow out of what’s left.

I noticed five or six black smudges on the edge of one corner.

“Tar, I don’t know if I can get that out.”

I looked closer. It wasn’t tar. Jolene was written on one corner in faded black marker. It was my quilt. Grandma must have always meant it for me.

Since that time, I’ve tried to shore it up with stitching to hold the pieces together, but not tonight. Tonight I wrapped myself in Grandma’s quilt.

Logan brought me a book that I read to him when he was younger. He asked me to read it to him again. I started to say no, but then thought what am I doing? When will I get this chance again? So I started to read.

It wasn’t long before he pulled up a stool and sat with his head leaning against my knee. Charlie pulled up a chair and we sat together listening to how Dorothy made her way through Oz.

Life’s too short not to live it. I may have weeks left or I may have years. Either way, I have a lot I want to do, so I need to stop wasting time. I need to stop wasting time being angry and start doing what matters with the people who matter.

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July

Dreams

July 1

I started painting an abstract that’s been in my head for years, but I’ve never gotten around to painting it, swirls of bright reds and oranges and gold.

I dropped a brown splotch in the middle of the canvas. It wasn’t supposed to be there. The more I tried to wipe it off, the bigger it became.

This wasn’t supposed to happen, not to me.

I tried painting over it. It smeared and ran into the other colors.

I go to church. I pray. I don’t lie, cheat or steal. Not really. I don’t drink or smoke, sure I’m a little overweight, but not cancer. This wasn’t supposed to happen to me. Not now, not ever.

I spritzed the canvas with water. Maybe I could dilute it. The spot got bigger, bleeding into the entire canvas.

I’ve played by the rules and did my duty. I worked hard all my life. I was supposed to have time to do things when I retired.

I plunged my brush through the canvas.

This isn’t fair.

I continued shredding the canvas.

“It’s not fair,” I screamed for the first time letting myself say what I really felt.

I slammed the painting against my easel, knocking it over.

“Not fair.”

I slammed it against the wall. I beat it against the floor until it splintered into pieces.

“You can’t take it away; you can’t let it end. This can’t be all there is to my life.”

I yelled and screamed at God, but God doesn’t listen to me anymore.

Charlie found me on all fours, exhausted from screaming. I had collapsed in a heap, crying.

All I could do was choke out, “Not me.”

I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t stop sobbing. If someone could just explain it, why me? Why not someone else? No one can answer that question. They can answer all the others, but not that one. No one knows.

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June 30

I found Allie sitting on the floor of my room today. She had the Just In Case box. The lid was open, its contents strewn on the floor.

“What’s this?” Allie asked accusations and pain on her face.

“It’s just my legal documents,” I said, trying to sound matter of fact.

“Legal documents?” her voice escalated. “These aren’t legal documents. These are goodbye letters,” she said, throwing the envelopes at me.

I tried to explain to her.

“I know how you felt after Dad died. I know you wanted some last message. I want to be sure you have that, just in case.”

“How can you do this to me?” Allie asked.

Leave it to Allie to make my illness about her.

“Do this to you? The world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“I never said it did.”

“You sure act like it. This is happening to me, not you.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Allie said.

“Then, for once in your life, try to think about me. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Yes you did. You always do. I’m too tired to care right now,” I said, crawling into bed, pulling the covers over my head.

I was glad to escape into exhaustion.

It was dark when I woke up. I don’t know how long I slept. Once I was alone with my thoughts, I knew it wasn’t Allie I was angry at. I’m not even sure it was Bryan any more. I was just angry. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I was suppose to have more time.

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June 29

I tied a ribbon around Grandma’s patterns. They’re mostly for dresses from the forties and fifties. A few patterns for walking shorts, pedal pushers Grandma called them. I guess that’s what they use to call biking shorts.

Each pattern was contained in a yellowing envelope with a line drawing of the outfit inside – smart skirt suits, summer dresses, ruffled blouses, even a poodle skirt, most with matching hats and gloves. All painted with pastel colors.

When I took them, I meant to frame the best of them and display them in my room. But like most of my projects, they were overcome by life’s events, mostly work, stress and exhaustion.

Living wasn’t meant to be so tiring. Had I only started feeling tired recently or was I always this way? It’s hard to remember now.

I slipped a note written on pretty pink paper, under the ribbon.

Dear Allie,

Now these are yours as they always should have been. Please take better care of them than I did. Don’t just shove them in a box in a closet somewhere; find a place where you can see them every day. Grandma would have loved that, just as she loved you, her favorite grandchild, her little Allie.

Love Ya,

Jo

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