Deidra Alexander's Blog

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.”

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.

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.