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The ten minute artist writing exercise for the
day is set up with a quickly gathered woolen blanket
as inspiration. Time isn’t taken to drape
it over a chair; there it sits rather unceremoniously
placed with a directive to find a spiritual connection.
What is there to say about an old knitted blanket?
It is an afghan with brightly colored and oddly
matched knitted squares. My writing partner takes
up his pen and on this rainy afternoon we each begin
scribbling.
At first glance I think this will be quick, easy
and light. I look over at my friend who appears
lost in thought, contentedly writing away. His demeanor
is one of a writer simply creating the assigned
exercise of finding creative mystery in a lifeless
object.
After writing a page of notes, I feel my eyes well
up with tears and I wonder where these feelings
are coming from. I push the feelings down to a place
where they remain unseen. I feel an edgy wonder;
maybe the blanket was not the best choice for writing
inspiration after all.
When we are done, he calmly holds his notepad and
reads what he has written:
“The wonder of a fourth grade education
when it ends your academic career! My grandmother
grew up wonderful. At least she was wonderful when
I knew her three quarters of a century into her
life. She was a magician. She belonged to those
we now call the working poor. She could make something
out of nothing, well, out of very little. To my
ten year old eyes, she would have been able to pull
a rabbit out of a hat.
"On one of those afternoons, during lazy
dog days of August, she left me at the kitchen table
to solve a peg board puzzle. She disappeared into
the pantry. I knew her secret to the magic. From
somewhere in the icebox she found three well preserved
lemons. From the slowly melting block of yesterday’s
delivered ice, she harvested a few crystal chards.
From the cupboard, she took her tall blue glass
pitcher. Into the pitcher went the ice chips, the
squeezed sliced lemons and an impressive amount
of Domino Sugar along with some water from the tap.
"I imagined incantations as I heard the
old maple wooden spoon dancing with the ice. I imagine
the lemons free floating in a delicious sugary sea.
"Would she or would she not emerge, all
five feet one inch of her, round as a liberty bell,
with a plate of her plain flat sugar cookies? I
had not seen any on the pantry counter nor on the
stove. I had not sniffed them in the forenoon upon
entering the tenement for my one week summer vacation
with her. I had masked my disappointment with a
hug and a smile.
“Come let’s go and have our afternoon
treat on the back porch”, she said, carrying
a tray featuring a pitcher of lemonade, Kraft pimento
cheese glasses and yes, a plate of magical sugar
cookies.
"Grandma did her magic everywhere. She
created multicolored braided rugs out of old rags,
comforters out of sewing remnants and delicious
meals from leftovers; she could even put me back
together when I was falling apart."
With the delivery of these last words, his eyes
filled with tears.
“I didn’t make it to her funeral.
I was too busy at age 18 to take the time.”
I begin to feel better about my emotions over the
blanket as I watch him. I begin to read.
"I remember the day my father dropped
me off at my aunt’s house. I just had my fifth
birthday. My dad carried my suitcase into the house;
under his arm he held my soft pink blanket. I carried
my teddy bear. It took everything I had not to cry
but I needed to be strong for my father. He didn’t
know what to do with me when I cried; and so, around
my dad, I didn’t.
"The night before, my mother had been
taken to the hospital in an ambulance. There was
blood on her bed and dots of it that dripped down
the hall and into the bathroom. My father wiped
it up. I pretended not to see. On the way to my
aunt’s he mentioned that my mother was in
the hospital. I didn’t ask him any questions.
I didn’t want to upset him.
"My aunt had never had children. She and
my uncle had been married a long time and I remember
my mother saying, “What a shame, no babies
of their own.”
"During the weeks at my aunt’s,
my mother was never mentioned, by me or by any adult.
At night I laid on the bed in the guest room, with
my teddy and blanket. I cried alone, sure that my
mother had died.
"On the first day of my visit, auntie
gave me a Toni Home Permanent that turned my straight
blond hair into something that reminded me of a
big yellow sunflower. I remember looking into the
mirror. An unfamiliar child looked back at me.
"Aunty bought me new clothes, including
a blue dress with white a pinafore and a pair of
shiny black patent leather shoes. She called them
“Mary Janes.”
"At night she read me bedtime stories.
Once the light was out, it was me, alone with my
comforters, Teddy and the blanket.
"Weeks passed. The days were pleasant
enough. I sat beside my aunt every afternoon as
we watched “Days of Our Lives.” I remember
the way the man poured out his words, “like
sand through the hour glass, these are the days
of our lives.”
"On weekends my uncle was home. I sat
next to him, with his big white socks propped on
the footstool, watching baseball games. I waited,
wondering if he would keep his promise. “As
soon as this is over, I will take you fishing.”
"Then one morning after my toast and juice,
auntie packed my clothes, dressed me in my blue
dress and tied a ribbon in my hair. I sat on the
floor, pulled on my lacey socks and buckled my shiny
black shoes.
"Without a word about it, she packed my
suitcase and drove me home. It seemed like a miracle
that my mother was there waiting for me. I never
told her that I thought she was dead; life just
went on. Auntie kissed me goodbye, telling my mother,
“She is such a good girl, she never complains
or cries.”
"As soon as the door shut behind my aunt,
my mother sat me on the footstool in front of her.
She watched “As the World Turns” and
cut my hair with her finger nail scissors. My curls
fell in piles of golden ringlets. While her eyes
were still on the television set, I stood on my
tiptoes to see myself in the mirror. I looked like
a boy.
"When I went to bed that night, Teddy
and the blanket was missing; my aunt had forgotten
to pack them. I told my mother. She gave me another
blanket but the soft pink one was the one I needed.
When I visited my aunt, she couldn’t remember
where she had put the blanket or the bear. After
my tenth birthday, I gave up asking.
"Long past my fiftieth birthday, a black
garbage bag appeared on my front steps. There was
no knock on the door; some part of me must have
sensed its presence. As I pulled away the plastic,
I found teddy and my pink blanket. My aunt had found
them in her attic. I took them into my arms, feeling
a numbness envelope my body. I hid them in a closet
as if they were a secret.
"One afternoon, years later, I told a
friend my childhood story. He listened. I could
tell by his eyes he understood. After a while he
gave me his blanket, the same one I used in the
writing exercise. I remember how he laid it out
so that I could see it, told me about the grandmother
who had knitted it for him. He folded it gently,
smoothed it with this hands and with care he placed
it in my arms. I cried all the way home.
"When I need comfort, it is this blanket
that I choose to wrap around me."
From my friend I learned that the spiritual meaning
of things has to do with how they arrive in our
lives. The experience of the Ten Minute Artist gives
the creative part of ourselves a chance to tell
us the stories that have been written in our hearts.
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