One time on a winery tour in Sonoma I read that vines that face adversity produce the best wine. I went there with Liam. We had been having a long-distance relationship. He decided to come to San Francisco for a ten-day visit. “Ten days!” my girlfriends cried. “That’s too long.” “What are you going to do with him for ten days?” But I wasn’t worried. Not really. I felt like finding out. We took a trip to Sonoma in my 15-year-old red hatchback. We were happy and tipsy and drawing our dream homes on napkins like fourth graders. A pool. An orangerie. A skate-ramp. A waiter raised a bottle to us and said in a thick accent, “Want some merlot folks”. Liam’s face looked shocked. “Excuse me?” he said. After the waiter walked away he leaned towards me and said, “I thought he said want some merlot fucks”. I laugh almost spitting out my wine.
Archive for February, 2010
want some merlot folks?
Sunday, February 21st, 2010A few thoughts on omission
Tuesday, February 16th, 2010I have recently read and re-read the journals of my great-great-great grandmother, Lucy Hannah. She writes the whole of volume one from the perspective of a 52-year-old woman who has been one-half (one-third?) of a polygamous (plural) marriage for 20 plus years. And yet, there is absolutely no mention of the domestic arrangement. There is no description of how the marriage worked on a day-to-day or weekly basis. There is no analysis of her feelings about the second wife. In fact, there is no mention of the other wife at all. Lucy has completely omitted her. This in and of itself is the most puzzling and mysterious thing about the journals. In short – what they don’t say. There is an absolute denial of this other person in the journals, which of course, is a narrative (the only narrative?) that Lucy has absolute control over.
I find it mystifying, and then I start to think about all the omissions of my own life. What do we tell about ourselves and what do we leave out? What is the name for the act of leaving out what is obvious? How to frame this silence? What meaning do we give it? What are the things we leave out on a regular basis? What am I leaving out right now?
Was she silenced from within? Or, by a sense of restriction, religious or otherwise?
The Pocket
Monday, February 8th, 2010
Fred is my godfather, but he and I didn’t meet until I was 27 years old when I moved to the Bay Area.
This week I attended the funeral of Fred’s mother, 96-year old Carlanthe Turner at the Mt. Olive Missionary Baptist Church in Chandler, AZ.
Liam, my dad, and me walked into the church and scooted into a pew near the back. From where I was sitting I could see the back of Fred’s head. And I can’t tell you how a small-thing like that — seeing the back of Fred’s head — filled me with such positivity and happiness.
The church was small but packed; a pew a few rows in front prominently filled with old women all wearing white dresses and white hats.
When Fred was growing up he was the youngest of seven children. His father was a farmer and then later a cotton contractor. He hired crews and paid them for the number of rows they chopped. Growing up, Fred’s father would take a handful of bills and put them in a coat pocket. Whenever the kids needed money for something they would ‘go to the pocket’. You don’t like what your older sister is making for dinner – go to the pocket. Want some candy from the drugstore – go to the pocket.
When my first marriage hastily ended and I needed a place to go, it was Fred’s door that I walked through.
For a time, I lived with Fred in his house in the Oakland hills. He made it ok to rebuild my life. Through sharing his household and drinking many glasses of wine, he gave me a pocket — a compartment of space to regroup. Need to heal – go to the pocket. Need a place to grow – go to the pocket.
The eulogy given by Pastor T. E. Wiggins was around the theme; It’s a Matter of Time. Be ambitious with our time here and prepare for our own going home. There are no goodbyes in Heaven, said Pastor Wiggins, just See-you-in-a-whiles.
Pastor Wiggins said, “She had a sense of humor. But I don’t know if she was funny.”
I think of a story Fred tells. One time, not so long ago, Mother Turner already in her 90’s was attending church. Her hearing was not what it used to be. As she is leaving the Pastor says to her, “Mother Turner I like your hat.” Mother Turner is testy and indignant. She tells her family that Pastor got fresh with her. She thought he said, “Want to get me some of that”. Fred said, “Well Mamma if that’s what you want, just go ahead”.
And of course Fred losing his mother makes me think about losing mine. About mother loss — how I wish I could pick up the phone and tell my mom about Mother Turner.
There is a Jim Croce song, “Operator” that I remember my mother playing over and over. She was about twenty-five and beautiful and it reminds me of lying in bed with her in the middle of the afternoon, being a very small child and pretending to take a nap. The chorus goes:
Isn’t that the way they say it goes
But let’s forget all that
And give me the number if you can find it
So I can call just to tell them I’m fine and to show
I’ve overcome the blow
I’ve learned to take it well
I only wish my words could just convince myself
But that’s not the way it feels
More about “Mother” Turner here.
