what the camera couldn’t capture:
the red circle of sun just after dawn
rising above the soldiers of the night
the road with fewer than two hands’
worth of cars zipping past me
Riona proclaiming, “It wasn’t me”
though no one else is around
the creek bed lush with shadow
and peace on this early morning ride
the heat that seeps from all corners
of the earth, emanating into our souls
the birdlike chirps of three little girls
as they open their cards from Grandma
the tender bite of medium rare steak
for a special dinner for the five of us
the rare afternoon nap under the fan
of the climate-controlled house
the white half circle of moon just after dusk,
rising above the guardians of the day.
daughters
Questioning Our Citified Life
I have lived in a city or suburb for most of my life. So long that I sometimes forget that my earliest memories, and many of my happiest, are rooted in the small town where I spent the formative years of my youth. My town was so small that it didn’t even have a movie theater, a high school, or any type of museum. It had what every tiny town in America has: a post office the size of a small apartment, a general store, and a café for all the farmers to go when their days in the fields have been too long.
I was reminded today, once again, of small town living. Though Mayfield isn’t quite so tiny, more like the famous Canandaigua, the “big” town of 10,000 where my parents worked, where we had to drive to buy groceries, etc., I am amazed at just how small this town is. On the bike rides in all directions I’ve taken from here, it is no more than two miles from my sister’s house, in the middle of town, until I am surrounded by two lane country roads and cornfields. To me, it is almost like existing in another dimension, so used to the city life I am.
Amazingly, they do have a movie theater here, and having nothing else to do after our daily dose of menu planning, five loads of laundry, bathing the kids and the dog and cleaning the entire house, I decided to take the girls there. I of course didn’t need to consult a map or look at Moviefone online: the marquee for the theater, on the town’s main thoroughfare, is obvious from the road with its two daily shows: one at two, one at seven.
“Where is the theater?” Myhili asked before we left.
“Right by Wal-mart.” Of course every town has a Wal-mart.
“Isabella, the movie theater is right by Wal-mart, so I know where it is already,” being the professional who has gone to Wal-mart both in the car and on the Vittetoe Express.
Leaving the house just ten minutes before two, we pulled into the parking lot of the rundown shopping center with the marquee out front. On my right was a concrete three-story building with Regents Bank written on the outside, and in front was a one-story plaza with an L-shaped line of stores and restaurants and empty plots. “Now where is the theater?” I mumbled, and circled around the bank. “Is it in the same building with the bank?”
“Why are you driving in circles?” Mythili’s finger-sucking grumbling had begun.
“Girls, help me find the theater. Do you see it?”
One of the stores was called Gotham City. I drove towards it, thinking that could be the name of a theater. I don’t know what I was expecting exactly. Perhaps a building with a higher roof, at the very least. But as I came back around from Gotham City, I saw the small blue building. It didn’t look like it could be much bigger than the ranch house where Elizabeth and Zak live.
“That’s it?” was our mutual response.
Running out of time before the show, we rushed inside, paid who I think was the owner our fare, bought popcorn, and stepped inside the tiny, empty theater.
“I think the movie’s over,” Isabella pointed out. “Everyone’s gone.”
“That means we get to sit wherever we want,” I smiled, happy about that. We settled in and all of five people shuffled in after us, but the show didn’t quite start on time.
“I think they’re waiting for all the other people to come before they can start the movie,” logical Mythili.
“Sweetie, I think this is about it.”
“How do they play it anyway?”
“With a projector. It’s a machine that runs the film.”
And before I could even turn my head, all three girls were craning their necks to the portions of the projector that actually existed in this minuscule room they call a theater.
Finally the movie came on and halfway through Shrek 4 Riona announced, “It’s a gigantic TV!”
That pretty much sums up our small town visit. We saw our movie on a gigantic TV in a room not much bigger than my sister’s living room in a town not much bigger than our suburban neighborhood. Was the movie just as good? Yes. The popcorn? Yes. The girls just as happy? Yes. Maybe a citified life isn’t the greatest after all.
Waterfront Property
at times it feels like nothing less
than a gigantic pile of work: the
seven sleeping bags, two tents,
four bags of food, two melting-quickly
coolers, dog leashes, rain flies,
camping chairs, shovel, swim bag,
toiletry bag, overnight bag… it sits in
the dirt as we lethargically carry piece
by piece and load up the two cars.
but with one last look through the
glorious green leaves out onto the
cove (waterfront property for a night),
the girls bobbing up and down in
their life jackets, Daddy with his
fishing pole, Uncle Zak dipping the
oars of the kayak into the smooth water,
i can still feel the tingle of it on my skin,
washing away the exhaustion, the work,
and bathing me in memories that will
build up a gigantic pile of love in my heart.
In Your Eyes I See Myself
In your eyes, though they’re hazel
(not deep pools of brown like mine)
I see myself, first when they roll, then
when they lead you into naughtiness,
and as much as I scold you, I know
in my heart I am only scolding myself.
I wish I could take your hand and truly
see the world through those beautiful eyes
of yours, interpreting the truth in a way
I can no longer understand, dancing and
laughing and knowing more than you
(we) should, just so that we could get along,
just so that we can enjoy each other’s company.
In your eyes, though they’re hazel
I see the flecks of brown that come out
darker every day, my lasting mark on you,
the permanence of our colors intertwined
as you dash about, determined (just like I am)
to create your (our) own destiny, letting no one
(even a mother) stop us from getting what we want.
Diaper, Sleep, Eat, Repeat
I have forgotten
Though it hasn’t been long
How demanding they can be
Diaper, sleep, eat, repeat,
The new mother’s mantra
And with three older girls in tow
Whose needs include swimming
Riding scooters and being read to
(not to mention the daily dose of
Laundry, floor cleaning, groceries
And being a professional chef)
I am forever grateful for two things
In Kentucky summer, Week Two:
one, Bruce is here to save the day
And cut the work in half, and two,
Elizabeth comes home to her every
Afternoon and rises with her at night.
Writing (Riding)
the sun is writing on my back
with an early morning marker
(yellow-orange, scented like
moist soil and ripened pollen)
and i am writing on my bike
as I take hill after sloping hill
under my tires, the curves beckoning
me to the end of the road.
there she waits, a giant sloth of
spring-muddy water creeping
toward the gulf, either side lush
with full-leafed hardwoods.
i wait for them here, moisture
writing on my back, as i relive
the momentous views, the perfect
ride that I never thought could be here.
the sun is higher now, writing across
the sky its midday mark of southern heat,
and they pop out of the car with hugs,
smiles that we will ride into the night.
Yes and No
Day of no:
no bike
no hike
no long drive
no dining out
no mosquito bites
no missing cat
no naughty girls
no lakes
Day of yes:
yes, you can fish for the first time
yes, you can catch five
yes, you can take them home
yes, you can cut them up for dinner
yes, you can pour some of my beer in to cook them
yes, you can buy fresh peaches in June
yes, you can make this damn peach pie without losing it
yes, you can have an extra scoop of cherry ice cream
yes, you can climb down the bank to the creek bed
yes, you could live in Kentucky if you really, really tried
Two Bottles of Wine
He is a lonely old man with frayed jeans and two old dogs who look like a combination between Dalmatians and setters. They come up to the girls as they get out of the van and each of them reaches out for them, petting their ever-shedding white and black fur onto the green grass of southern Illinois.
When we arrive at the door, the hours for the adjacent restaurant are posted, and having seen not a soul in the parking lot, and not being within those hours, we are a bit frustrated that we’ve woken the baby for nothing. As we turn to leave, he rushes to the door and in a thick southern accent begs us to come inside.
His black cat moans and meows behind the counter as we look at the half open taster bottles. Before we can begin talking, he asks the girls to come behind the counter and check out his cat named Whine. He spells the name out for them. They look up at him expectantly, not understanding.
“Where y’all from?”
“Colorado!” Isabella pipes up.
His bushy white eyebrows rise up in surprise. “Y’all drove a long way then!” He puts his hand under his chin, only half believing us. “Where in Colorado?” he inquires, somewhat suspiciously.
“Denver.” Isabella shoots me an accusatory look, whispering, “We’re from Aurora.” I explain in a similar accusatory whisper, “No one has ever heard of Aurora.”
“I’ve been to Colorado. Boulder. I liked Boulder, all the nice bike trails.” He has already examined the bike rack, trailer, and Bruce tells him of our ride today. “Yep, Boulder is a beautiful place.”
We stand for a moment like old friends who are recently reacquainted, the years and comfort level lost somewhere between then and now.
“Are y’all just looking, or would you like to try some wine?”
Bruce jumps in with a quick yes and I stare out onto the beauty of the vineyard. A small wooden bridge over a stream leads to its presence on the hill, where the grapevines grow as thick as a leafy forest of taste on this early summer day.
We taste three wines and pick two to take home, but before we can even hand him our credit card he says, “You’re in education, aren’t you?”
We hear the story of his math-teaching career, his superintendent position. Even after we have closed the sale, he identifies with perfect accuracy the ages of all three girls, and proudly shows us an aerial view of his wine bottle shaped pond, pointing to its location on the other side of the deck.
I am walking down the steps toward the car, baby in arms as Bruce clutches the bag of wine, but he beckons us to tour the restaurant.
It is a perfect wedding reception. White linen tablecloths, a wraparound deck, a fireplace in the center of the room, vineyards on all sides and the pond in the forefront. He offers us a somewhat grease-stained menu that is filled with random fonts and what I’m sure is a pathetic web site.
“How long are y’all visiting your sister?” because of course by now we’ve explained the whole situation of the four girls instead of three.
“The whole summer.” His eyes light up, eyebrows rising again, this time in hope.
“Let me show you girls a barn swallow nest.” It is built on top of a security camera, the babies’ yellow beaks opening and closing expectantly amidst the typically fluffy black fur. They are mesmerized. He knows them well, my girls, children.
“Maybe we’ll come back sometime for dinner,” Bruce says aloud, partially to me, partially to him.
But I am thinking of the hour and a half drive, of the trip to Tennessee, of camping and swimming and all of Kentucky that we haven’t seen, of the Frost poem, “knowing how way leads on to way…” and even with the imperfectly edited menu that seems to boast some delectable treats at somewhat reasonable prices, I know that we will likely never return.
We finally part ways from the man who perhaps hasn’t spoken to anyone in hours, days. The gravel road leads us back to the miniature highway, absent of cars, and as I look back, I say, “What a perfect, private place for a wedding.”
“I’m going to have my wedding there,” Isabella replies. “He was such a nice man.”
We come to a small chapel, and I smile back, “Sounds good.”
The two bottles of wine dance together in the back seat, waiting for the right moment to be opened and cherished on the tongue, tasting all over again this day on the road not taken, the road that led us here to brighten someone’s day, to brighten our day.
No More Birds
she chirps and coos like
a little bird and laughs
with the touch of an angel,
but when she screams and
won’t go to sleep, and fills
her diaper with a proud giggle,
i am reminded of why, while i
love her, am still happy at the
end of the day to hand her off
to mom, to tell my girls to go
to the bathroom, brush their
teeth and hair, listen to a story,
and go (without crying once in
the night) to bed.
The Vittetoe Express
It’s June first (my mother’s birthday)
ninety degrees with a slight breeze
that makes this uphill ride tolerable,
and as I pedal along I catch sight of
our illustrious three-tiered shadow.
First me, silver helmet casting sparkles
against the cracked black pavement,
then Mythili on the tag-along, her frilly
dress flowing behind her seat like a
butterfly waiting to escape the heat,
and then the round caboose of the trailer
with Riona singing Christmas songs as I
shout, “Pedal!” when we come to the
bottom of another glorious hill.
Before we’ve even made it to the park
(the one with two playgrounds, a creek
where Elizabeth fetched the girls’ pollywogs,
a Frisbee golf course and exercise equipment),
we have turned every driver and pedestrian
with gaping rubbernecks bent in our direction, and
I have thought of a name for this silhouette of
bikes daisy-chained to one another in harmony:
The Vittetoe Express, a perfect train of thought,
a perfect train of happiness on this
perfect Kentucky summer day.
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