Memory Now!

I took these photos a couple days ago, as I was backing out of our driveway to go erranding. The shots aren't great, but the moment held the quality of a vivid dream: a memory in the making. At first, Oyo was grave, but then she waved vigorously, moments before I got my phone in hand. Later on, I was simultaneously dismayed and satisfied by their blurry faces. Two of the most central figures in my life, clearly defined from a distance, surrounded in all directions by light and shadow, at the center of the path. And so tiny, that little being! Next to her father, letting her set the pace; and the three of us together, connected by our gaze.

inevitably twigs and stones win out

In her great memoir Hold Still, photographer Sally Mann charged photography with "impoverish[ing] your memory...sort of take[s] away all other senses"; elsewhere, she positioned her medium as untrustworthy, capable of rewriting the experience. Is it inevitable that great art is equally capable of capturing the essence of people/events in a given moment in time and of manipulation, rewriting? Photography does seem especially suited. Her sentiment certainly goes deeper than the snapshots above, but the odd sensation of...feeling nostalgic for something as it's happening? left me grasping at straws.

On the other end of the spectrum from our continual, casual documentation (/rewriting) with our phones, I hereby offer you some of my recent favorite vintage photos. I picked these up on my first visit to the glorious King's Books in Detroit. The photos were jumbled into boxes, as such items usually are, and it can feel a little depressing that their images have come to this -- did their family branches die off? Or just knowledge of them? My own family history is relatively hazy even a couple generations back, though my sister did a wonderful job researching our genealogy a few years back -- life just continues on, so full, so quickly -- how is their space to keep it all alive? But maybe it's exactly the mystery of these images that is so appealing, paired with the fact that family photography was such a special event.
The first one to suck me into the jumbled boxes:

Proper but spirited! Wry sense of humor?

Award for sweetest baby goes to...

Flouffy collars!

A rarity: name on back -- Billy Galbraith

Bonus

Actually a postcard. Even if staged, I love it.

Always Hang the Golden Apples; Plug in the Pig.

I expected the tree would be a lot smaller, and it was; a happy little table top fiber optic model which sparkled a shifting rainbow of colors through its branch tips. It was duct taped to the side table at its base (to foil human clumsiness rather than any felines, who, friends tell me, feel compelled to scale such things). From my childhood, I remember the annual Wrestling of the Tree Box from attic to third and second floor, to first. It was a frustrated affair, with shouted invectives preceding and following the sound of corners banging into walls; though naturally there was a happy ending. It was understandable when at some point, my parents abandoned the practice of bringing the entire tree down, in favor of erecting only the topmost section of the tree. I'm still sorry that I never actually witnessed this intermediate step, but happy for them that they eventually settled upon a more feasible solution. This shift probably happened years ago, but you know how it is -- when you're not present for the evolution, you tend to freeze things at various stages.

The ornament box naturally also shrank. What surprised me was how delightful it was to rediscover ornaments I grew up with -- shiny baubles from the 50s, small "stained glass" ornaments that my sister baked in the oven (which foretold her stained glass making in college), and tiny little figures which seemed to have always existed.

First and best! Little pine cone elf! With his feather quill!

 

 

The angel, oh my goodness! Can you believe it, people?

Some things remain relatively constant: my father spent most of the time pouring over a transit book, as his preferred manner of interacting is to read nearby, and occasionally insert a statement, pithy remark or rhetorical question. MSNBC was featuring video snippets from a "rogue internet videographer," who chronicled his outrage over police officers parking too close to fire hydrants, alleged prostitute activity, and other various infractions of the law. "Who IS this pain in the ass?" wondered my father, barely lifting his eyes from his book.

Added since I have been gone. Birds are always nice.

One of the best of the old ornament boxes! Always loved the color and shape.

Meanwhile, my Mom was delivering hanging guidelines, with a sense of foregone conclusion, though I had no memory of these preferences. I learned that one of her oldest friends had originally given us the two pine cone elves and that they are always hung together, a practice which I had failed to pick up on. But now that I knew that, it seemed only right. I gestured to various boxes: Should we hang these? Oh, yes. The golden apples have to go on! Oh yes, we always hang the white hearts. The gold pears, too: a must.

I commented on an ornate painted wooden ornament hanging from a nearby lamp:

"That's from Andy*!" my Mom exclaimed: "Don't you remember that??"

"Oh! Really? Nope, I don't remember that at all..." 

Mom shook her head. "I have always loved the drummer, I hang it every year! He fits very nicely into the lamp base. But then you gave Dad those little wooden birds and I like to have them nearby as well."

*An ex boyfriend from -- no exaggeration -- 20 years ago.

We finished the little tree over a couple sessions, with my sister also adorning it. A much more mellow affair. And on Christmas Eve there was such a nice sweetness to opening my shipping box and distributing presents; and then seeing the folks disappear to their separate hiding places and emerge with variously colored boxes that were then sprinkled around the base. Happens most everywhere, I know; and to all the parents out there, present distribution is old hat -- but somehow, the pooling together of presents, as seen activity, as adults -- struck me as lovely. Christmas afternoon, my sister and her boyfriend easily doubled the present mass with their festive offerings. There was much admiration of thought(fulness) and thing; warmth, affection, and laughter; and confections at every turn. Hope Everyone's holiday season has been as lovely!

Parting note: bonus lights tour, courtesy Sister. Here's a smattering of shots, more of which can be found here. The Tuckers and Valenzas don't fool around!

Tuckers: Firefighting and Cartoon Love, in a Small Front Yard

Valenzas: Lit-Up Winter Wonderland.

Snowman, menacing visitors with his broom.

Rarely seen Porcine Claus, on side street.

Closer to home, but not home. Parents say it grows each year.

I'd Bawl You Out. And I Lied: It's Never Short.

This may be foolish. But it will also be short. Today's art open house was the last small show I'll be doing for the season -- apart from three days at the Rust Belt Market (Sunday, 11/27, Sat. Dec. 10th and Sat. Dec. 17th) -- and part of me is all ready to slump into the couch for a few months, with a cheerier Netflix queue than I normally have. I'm definitely one of those who would gladly hibernate through the cold, dreary months, holidays notwithstanding. Truly, some years, I would also be fine with taking a photoshop eraser icon to the holiday days themselves and walking from one normal calendar page, through a blanked out tunnel of a week or two, to emerge into those still wintery days, but somehow having hopscotched over those days of simultaneous warmth, despondency and heaviness. Here's the foolish part: writing when I'm tapped out and unable to pretend otherwise. But I think in a few, I will indeed park myself before the TV for a chillax. For a few passing moments, I'm here.

What people gravitate to to buy-- and when --  is so mysterious. I made a bunch of commercially printed Christmas cards several years ago, to get more mileage out of a Halloween costume I made (I used to get kind of obsessive with the costumes, but life hasn't really inspired me to step up on this score lately). And while it initially sold, then it fell off, and I have had dribs and drabs hanging around forEVER. Today, however, a woman sought me out. She was holding a ten pack and wondering where all the rest were. Well....hmm. Ideally she wanted 60. Which would have been FABULOUS, had I had them to sell her. I found a whopping three more at my house, but also a wee woodblock I made specifically for holiday cards a couple years ago. Nowhere near 60, but she bought everything I had. And on the strength of that, I'm going to print a bunch more of the dog for Rust Belt -- but as life goes, most likely these will be hanging around my house for the next three years. Wow, do I sound like Eeyore? Possibly. In any case, cool she wanted that many -- and most definitely cool that she was excited about them: "I'm so happy I have something so cool to send to people!" Well, ok, that kind of rocks.

Otherwise, the shopping women were all about the bourbon balls and the Indian nut brittle, to the exclusion of prints. "You could sell these!" Maybe in another life... Used to be much more into the baking. I *am* actually shifting gears into some holiday baking. Pouring through my recipes, deciding on the balance between established favorites and something new and appealing
for me to noodle with. The baking is nowhere near the dozens of cookie boxes I used to send out, but is ramping up slightly from last year, when I was forced to be exceedingly careful with my health. Still need to take care, but it feels a bit less fussy.

I grew up with the very strong sense that one NEVER writes in a book. I don't know when this changed, but I am always commenting in my cookbooks and on recipes: "So-so" "lackluster" "FABulous!" I mean, it's rather necessary, as my memory is inadequate/lazy/wishes to be left alone/I have no idea, and I regularly started trying new recipes back in 1992ish. Some notes are more helpful than others. The note to the left was written to one end of a meringue recipe typed from a (not-my) family recipe book. Well,so. Former baker self, thanks for the note. I can't help but feel you're giving me mixed messages. "You think it's a good idea, but it's not." Sooooo...I should dispense with this recipe? But you have kept it AND emphatically conveyed the need for spearmint over mint. I kind of love its vagueness, paired with an almost ominous air. You think it's a good idea, but it's not.  Brilliant. So true, so much of the time.  No use asking about the stain. My cookbooks don't stay pristine for long. Just as I bruise easily, they stain easily. To wit: I am thinking about chocolate grand marnier balls and pfeffernusse. The rest is up in the air. The meringues, however, are out. They...just don't seem like a good idea.

Bonus Mom quote, said to a plumber who worked on their bathroom in two two-hour sessions: "If it leaks in three days, I'm gonna call you. But I'm not gonna bawl you out, because I know you did your best."