My Cardboard Refrigerator Box

Assignment: write a short piece, a poem or fictional or autobiographical story, that comes from your ancestral memories, as far back as you can remember (as a child or adult). Tell us a story that gives us one or more specific ways of being you have inherited from your ancestors, and its effect on you. Look at this as an exercise in circling the universe you have grown up within, and try to express the largest circle of your life. Note what was strange, odd, weird, or bewildering - our ancestral memories, recovered – transform them into the richness of narrative

My Cardboard Refrigerator Box

     The year was probably 1955, so I was five years old. My home was a farm house set alone on a half section of family farm passed to my father from his father. It was dry farm land in central Texas and we were in the middle of a ten year drought. At the beginning of yet another thirsty summer, winds stirred up dust devils on the acreage between where the cotton was planted and where the maize was struggling to sprout. The most prolific crop that grew on our land was tumbleweeds. They were carried over and across the fields by wind that blew relentlessly. Howling winds also brought colorless grit into the house that settled on the window sills like a membrane of dust and sneaked into the cracked linoleum kitchen floor.

     About fifty feet east of the chicken coop was what I thought of as my play area. It was perhaps twenty feet north of the area where my mother vainly tried to grow purple iris, carefully carrying jugs of water to encourage their growth. From this vantage point, within sight of the kitchen window, the pecking chickens and the iris blades, I liked to sit and play on the packed dirt. I would create imaginary Lilliputian animals from limestone rocks and use paper dolls as characters in stories. It was a fantasy play world that my two older brothers did not share. They thought it not an active enough place for their world of playing cowboys and hunters. They ventured further away from the house where they could hide in scrub brush and mesquite trees that gave scant coverage for their war games.

     In my place among the rocks, tumbleweeds and hard packed dirt, I had laboriously cleared off a space where I could sit more comfortably on the ground without intrusion of goathead weeds and burr stickers that dominated my parched earth playground. Those thorns were a pesky part of outdoors, as were the cactus prickly pears sporting larger needles that also flourished within a few feet of my area. It was almost impossible to move around without some vicious sticker finding a way to burrow under skin.

     There were no trees to provide shade from the relentless, burning hot sun, so I chose to be in my area only in the early mornings or just before supper when the sun was low on the horizon. That was also a time when the wind slowed down just a bit, and the sizzling temperatures abated. When the wind quieted from its fearsome whistling at those morning and evening hours, the sandy dust would not blow into eyes so readily. Those were my times for playing outside, for make-believe and thinking of the future.

     I don't recall the purchase of a new refrigerator that year, but I clearly remember how excited I was that the corrugated box that crated the appliance was given to me after my brothers were through using it for target practice with their home made bows and arrows. The big target practice box then became mine and was dragged over to my area for a playhouse.

     Drawing pictures with crayons on school lined Big Chief tablet paper, I began to decorate the inside of the refrigerator box, making it my fantasy home. Someone (my older brother?) cut a hole in its side after laying the box horizontally, so I had a “real” window in my rectangular box. Inside, it offered shade from the bright sun and protection from the tumbleweeds and stickers. On my cardboard floor, I would lie on my stomach and look out, and claimed the box as my very own house.

     It is hard to believe that at the age of five, I worried about where I would live when I grew up. I had a sense of knowing that I would not live with my parents in the future, yet I worried how I could afford to live in my own house. I knew in the depths of my heart and soul that all the grown ups had paying jobs, and that there would be no more jobs in the future. I was absolutely sure that when I grew up, there would not be an occupation for me because all the jobs in the entire world were already taken.

     I envisioned forever living in this box, and how it would be to live without running water, how cold it would be during the wintertime. I had seen “bums” on the trains, the term used by both my grandparents and my parents who grew up in the Depression years, and I suppose I thought I might be like one of them, living in a box, without a job.

     My dad worked all the time, during the days farming and even at night when he taught, and we did not have much money. I knew life was hard and money was scarce. It must have been at this point in my distress when I finally brought up these concerns to mother.

     Mother came through. She assured me I would not have to live in a cardboard box, and it was not for me to worry about that these adult problems. When I confided my concern that all the jobs in the world were already taken by other people, she told me that those individuals would die by the time I grew to be an adult, and that I could have one of their jobs. Of course! Why had I not thought of this, that there was a job replacement mechanism already in place in God's world. Relief must have flooded through me.

     Mother told me of the Biblical scripture in Matthew that if God cared enough for the birds to feed and clothe them, he would surely care for me. That was the first time I recall that she brought up that message, and one she repeated many times during her life. I was reassured that I would get by when I grew up.
    That beat up, finally discarded corrugated box must have either been burned later when the fields were occasionally cleared by fire, or perhaps it was blown away into another cotton field. Whatever happened to that box, it was not longer my worry place.

Woman With Open Eyes

(revised after critiques from class members on 2/24/15)

Setting: a skilled nursing facility; a visit with Claire, long time resident.

Inside her assigned room that she shared with another women, I walked past Claire’s roommate who was lying in bed.  I said "hello", but as usual, she did not respond, this woman lying in bed with her eyes open.  I walked on past  toward Claire. 

This was my monthly visit to take the Eucharist to Claire, an elderly female church member. I assisted the church in outreach activities and did so by taking communion to those not able to participate during services because they were home bound or in a nursing facility.  For many years, Claire had been a vibrant member of the church and she still wanted to continue with her active faith, although she was now unable to drive. 

Now Claire lived in this nursing home, rooming alongside the woman who did not speak and who often just lay in her bed with her eyes open. Each woman had a single bed lowered to the floor with a thin blue plastic safety mat placed next to the regular foam mattress to prevent serious injury if either rolled over too far on their beds.

At 94, Claire was infirm in body and mind, but was grateful for my visit and a time to talk. On good days, when her mind was sharper than usual and when she was fully awake, she sometimes mumbled along with me as I recited “The Lord's Prayer” prior to administering the bread and wine, symbols of Jesus' blood and body shed for mankind. 

On this day, as I glanced over at Claire's roommate, I noticed once again her unfocused eyes and wondered if she were actually seeing anything, or if she were in a state of wakeful sleep. If she were looking at what was in front of her as she lay on her side in bed, she would have seen only an unadorned white closet metal door.

Did Claire's roommate, the one with the open eyes, have anything personal in that closet? Were there any clothes, nice shoes, or any other clues that might reveal something of the woman's life? A single box of tissues was placed on the bedside table next to the blank closet door, along with some latex gloves and hand wipes. A solitary reading lamp took up space next to the box of tissues, but I had never seen it switched on for illumination. In fact, the harsh fluorescent overhead light was rarely ever on. It was as if no one lived in her half of the room. No personal objects could be seen that proved a personality actually occupied this space.

Juxtaposed next to the rich life of Claire, who had trinkets, piles of cards, opened letters and accumulations of photographs, the open eyed woman had nothing. Claire had snapshots and a “thinking of you” card on her wall space, candy at the bedside, books and pamphlets in stacks on little bedside tables overflowing with abundance. Claire had a wardrobe full of skirts and tops, gowns and shoes. There was so much plenty there; drawers overflowing with objects of significance. An embarrassment of riches in comparison to that of the woman with the open eyes. And Claire could talk your head off about her teaching career in the 1950's or about her family; she was never at a loss for words. Then there was Claire's roommate who said nothing and seemed to have no personal item for personality identification.

On those occasions when I entered the doubly occupied room, not another person had ever been with Claire's roommate except for occasional staff. And even that did not happen except when necessitated by an action made by her instinctive bodily functions. There were no visitors, and no small tokens of friendship were ever left behind for the woman 
with open eyes, not even an artificial flower in a vase. What had been the life of this woman before she was supine, before she had come to this place, before her misfortune had placed her here, I often wondered. There was no one I could ask to tell me about her; no staff member would be allowed to share information about her because of the confidentiality rule. I knew her name because it was on the little plastic room identifier alongside Claire's, two names with the room number printed underneath. Sometimes I would whisper her name in prayer, as if to evoke a primitive blessing on the spirit of the woman with open eyes.

On the wall of her confined area hung a rather tired, faded picture. It was placed on a nail high above arms' reach on the wall in the space assigned to the woman. The scene in the picture did not have a personal feel to it, and was likely provided by the facility, one found at a second hand store or donated from a family care giver of a previous patient. It did not give color or personality to the woman's personal space. The small, dingy, copied landscape was not even well painted, and was faded from the sun, layered with the accretions of time and grime. It simply filled a negative wall space with its wooden frame. The sun did not reach as far into the room as where the woman lay, so the wood on the 
frame must have been damaged in a prior time and place.

I had some familiarity with this room, as another person whom I had previously known had also been an occupant of this room. This other, different person had been assigned to me in the past when I was an active hospice volunteer with a visiting therapy dog. It had been several years since I had been in this same room, but for a different purpose.

Going back to my prior working life as a mental health counselor, I had learned to observe clients in a rather clinical manner in order to be an objective and helpful therapist. Do not become a friend with the person you are helping; maintain psychological boundaries; be helpful but not intrusive; do not offer advice; do not get too personal; keep your distance. All good advice and necessary guideposts for a constructive relationship between client and worker. And also in this case, now in relationship between volunteer church member and communicant.

Knowing the floor of this room had carpeting of a sturdy nature, I was aware my heavy clog shoes clumped weightily when I walked. The clogs made unfriendly, noisy sounds and besides, the shoes made me unstable, so unsteady that I had to put my feet down precisely, keeping my ankles from wobbling in order not to trip or waver on the short walk into the room to visit Claire. Another reason not to wear these heavy, serviceable shoes were because they had open sides that gave no ankle support. I was beginning to have weak ankles, prone to tripping over my own feet. These were the very shoes I was wearing when I had sustained a hard tumble just this autumn, bruising my leg and wounding my own ego with the knowledge that I myself was getting older and not so sure-footed.

Straightening my back and pulling my shoulders down, I still felt awkward carrying the oblong basket, the wicker scratchy against my arms. Since I knew nothing about Claire's roommate, I hoped I was not imposing our Christian faith on a woman who might have long ago given up on God. Not only did I feel a bit intrusive in this room, but I was also cognizant that wearing my jewelry, a bold sterling silver cross, might somehow offend the woman with the open eyes. Then again, I probably was making unfounded suppositions and tried to dismiss that niggling thought. I would not let that meaningful piece of jewelry be an impediment on this mindful communion journey today.

The woman in the bed had been in this recumbent state for months, a prisoner of thin mattress, lumpy pillow and well worn linens. “A prisoner on a bed” was a phrase that haunted my memory. This was what I thought each time my own daughter was hospitalized, sometimes for months on end, staying in bed and trying to heal physical wounds while the world turned on its axis, day after day.

Was this woman on the bed with her eyes open exiled by self-imposement and why did she not speak? Why did no one ever seem to visit her? Was she loved? Did she have family? Did anyone pray for this woman in a manner that she herself would have desired? I feared the answer would be “no” to all my questions. These questions haunted me. I wondered if my own small communion task trumped that of the purpose of the life behind those opened eyes, now low on the ground, low because the bed had been depressed for reasons of safety.

My visit with Claire now completed, with the liturgy symbols of wine and bread taken, it led me to think about food and water and how this woman was physically sustained. The woman might be out of my sight, but she was still a real presence in my mind.mm

Thinking of nutrition, I recalled my mother, ill with cancer, drinking Ensure, a product with calories and nutritive vitamins so good for a dying body. The hospice nurses were kind, giving dollar saving coupons for the product, as if saving one dollar here or there would actually make any difference to the family budget. Besides, all mother ate was ½ can of creamed soup at noon time, and perhaps the other half in the evening. It did not take more than a dollar a day to feed that shrinking little frame of a body still called “mother.”

There was much more to cost of care than just the commodity that money conveys when caring for an ill family member, for there was a true and almost tangible psychic toll that also had to be paid in terms of stress and grief. Grief has the price of sometimes changing personalities, and often, the price of changing priorities. At the end of mother's life, my psychic resources had been depleted.

Was Ensure the favored drink of the woman with open eyes? Was she ever served sherry in the later afternoons like I sometimes had given my mother? Surely at this place where she now resided, such a treat was never offered. Sometimes the young woman working on her nursing unit who generally wore a brightly colored shirt with a tabbed collar might bring her a popsicle. It always turned into such a mess. It was too cold to eat, too burning with cold to lick, and always served in a paper cup. When the banana popsicle melted just enough to take a sip, down the sticky juice dribbled onto the front of her gown. I felt so very sorry for this woman.

Once I told my husband of the woman's eyes, those orbs that blinked but did not follow motion, and how the woman did not speak. The husband reminded her that even if one might be in a coma, one could still hear and comprehend what might be going on around her. So maybe next time I will see her, I will not be as restrained about my spiritual visit with Claire. Perhaps I will just say “hello” softly to her the next time I walk by her bed. If the woman with open eyes was still there. She likely would be as she had been there for many months already.

Maybe her open eyes were reflecting over her past life, a happy time in which memories were recalled, good times were being relived. Perhaps the woman was taking a much deserved rest from the active process of dying. And maybe this resting time with her eyes being open was a period when she was thinking about her prior years, her successes and maybe a failure or two, making silent amends for previous sins of commission and for sins of omission. And may be she was playing the role of the main actor at the center of a dizzying, spinning world in which she was part of a dance full of life and movement. Hopefully, she was at peace as she lay inert, and just perhaps she wanted to be left alone for a time of intense concentration on her dream life.

I wanted to be honest about my true motives around the nature of my fascination with the woman. I think it was because I she saw a bit of my future self in this woman. After all, I had two prior deceased husbands that often came to mind, along with self recriminations and shades of sorrow. And likely it was my fault that one of my daughters was estranged from me. These were weighty concerns that caused me constant internal turmoil.  I realized I was feeling sorry for myself as well as for the woman with open eyes when I thought about my own future.  A lot of psychological projection was happening here.

 After my next visit to Claire and as I leave, I will lean over the bed with the woman with open eyes who will be lying on her side.  I will look into her eyes.  I will bless her and offer a prayer for her well being. And I will believe that if in the future it is you who might wonder about my being in a similar state, you will also offer a prayer.  I pray my life will be reviewed with some compassion, free of blame, full of forgiveness and love, and ready for a new journey of living with eyes open to expanding possibilities.  This is my prayer for her as well.

Class Notes from Feb. 24

All information given here is attributable to Sandy Dorr (unless prefaced with "My notes").  Dorr is teaching a series of eight writing sessions in Grand Junction, Colorado

Notes: Discussed two poems by Ellen Bass, with emphasis on Irony and Ambiguity

• "Looking at a Diadegma Insulare Wasp Under a Microscope" from Like a Beggar
• "Birdsong from my Patio" from The Human Line. then these authors....
• Annunciation by Meridele Le Sueur (Salute to Spring)
• writings from The Sixth Extinction: An Unnatural History, including the prologue by Elizabeth Kolbert (pp. 148-172) entitled "The Forest and the Trees"

from Dorr's Notes:

Irony...the reader's or audience's awareness of a reality that differs from the reality the characters perceive (dramatic irony) or the literal meaning of the author's words (verbal irony).  In Annunciation, we look at the irony present in a a pregnant woman's narrative during the 1930's, an American writer trying to understand trees and their significance to the world's warming, in a Peruvian forest, and a poet's attempt to understand the beauty of birds eating contaminated food, or a wasp whose head-polishing reminds her of a girl across the alley, brushing her hair

Ambiguity...A situation expressed in such a way as to admit more than one possible interpretation; also, the way of expressing such a situation.  Often writers intend some element of their work to be ambiguous, but sometimes create unintentional ambiguity, vague or confusing to the reader

1)  My notes from "...Wasp Under a Microscope":

Descriptions of the wasp's waist, the breathing of her thorax, brushing her hair almost like a human; all strange ways of describing actions of a wasp, but familiar.  She stirs up more than one emotion as we need differing emotions and feelings to keep us interested.  Oppositional forces make good writings and readings.

Actions and formations need to take place, as in there is a beginning, a middle and an end.  The more mysterious the transitions, the more interesting the read.

Looking at Ellen Bass, she goes from known truths and examinations to realizations of sorrow and tragedy. There is something Wrong in Paradise with loss, then at the end of the poem "Birdsong," the
songs impale the air: the opposition of despair, going on to hope

2)  My notes from "The Forest and the Trees"

She describes in a physical way what is happening across the world, giving explanations, theories, all fair and balanced
from page 157: Images: tree plots of 2.5 acres; she compares trees to teenagers running, then more comparisons of growth of trees to growth of children
from page 158: Images and distance: good uses and very playful as she enjoys the use of language
from page 163: imagery of "headlamps like coal miners"
from page 172: she has an "odd sense of pride"
Kolbert steps back, explains, often uses research in her writings for further impact

3)  My notes from "Annunciation"

Imagery is used throughout as in "I feel like a pear"  hanging ripe from the trees,

For next class on March 10: (copied from Sandra Dorr's handout)

• Shawn Lowe (read her piece and respond)
• A short writing exercise naming twelve important events in your life
• Read as background to writing assignment the following "The Lover of Horses" by Tess Gallagher, an autobiographical short story (Sandy will email these)
• First chapters of Books & Islands in Ojibwe Country by Louise Erdrich (Sandy will email this)
• "Veteran's Day" by Sandra Dorr, radio essay from The Milk of Paradise (Sandy provided on 2/24/15 in class)
• All of these stories concern ancestral roots, each writer giving us her sense of struggle, joy and truth in what she has inherited from her family, told with certainty as well as ambiguity and mystery, sincerity as well as irony.    Note that what was strange, odd, weird, or bewildering in writers' lives - our ancestral memories, recovered -- transform into the richness of our narratives.
• Assignment: write a short piece, a poem or fictional or autobiographical story, that comes from your ancestral memories, as far back as you can remember (as a child or adult).  Tell us a story that gives us one or more specific ways of being you have inherited from your ancestors, and its effect on you.  Look at this as an exercise in circling the universe you have grown up within, and try to express the largest circle of your life.

Critiques from my writing of "Woman with Open Eyes"

• Need to use more verbs in writing, set the story as on a stage
• Perhaps use first person throughout
• Tighten up the story
• Say what Nancy is doing sooner in the story, at the very beginning, her current role. what exactly?
• Clarify her earlier role and how she knew to interact with "client" or "patient"
• Why is she a volunteer?  for how long?
• Use more intereaction among characters
• use shorter sentences for tightening up
• if the focus of the story is Nancy's focus, say it early on
• Use more physicality in the bodies of the characters
• Why was Nancy there?  Begin with explanation, don't try to let reader figure it out
• Take out HCFA rules or else explain it; how did I know it was a good facility?
• Too much railing and maybe too many "maybes"
• Too much questioning...distracting
• Write more about my faith that brought me to the woman with open eyes
• Talk more about my visit with the person
• Why did I not talk to the woman with open eyes if I knew her name?? Was that a turning point?
• Why was I there as a Eucharistic minister and what is a Eucharistic minister?
• Why not speak to the woman?  What prevented that?
• Why write the story?  What did I want people to learn or hear?  Go more into motives
• Use more adjectives, use more color; it all seemed grey and it seemed too stark, too cold
• Give more descriptions of the roommate
• Way too much detail of the product Ensure; cut lots of that out
• More about what the woman would have been like if her eyes were opened during her life
• The Post Script might be a prayer at the end for both the woman and Nancy

Sandy Dorr's specifics on "Woman with the Open Eyes" (paraphrased...)
perhaps use first person;  let's see what Nancy does, step by step, give her more to do so that the physicality of the story is more convincing. Her interior monologue is strong but we need a real physical structure and more of it.  The deliberate pacing builds suspense of the story.  In any work, the characters must undergo change.  Nancy needs to gain more insight after her visit.  What else might she recognize?    lots of notes on the pages...save and re-read for revision

Many thanks for all who read and critiqued !