Posts Tagged ‘Writing Home’
Cindy on October 3rd, 2010
October is a symphony of permanence and change.” — Bonaro W. Overstreet
The following short essay began as a journal entry after my father died. I recently rediscovered the notebook in which I’d written it longhand. First published in the October 1998 edition of Mary Engelbreit’s Home Companion, it’s also included in my book, Writing Home.
October Memories
Lately I’ve been thinking of these lines from Anne Mary Lawler’s poem about the seasons: October dresses in flame and gold, Like a woman afraid of growing old.
This is a potent month for memories. Yesterday I watched while my son and the children next door tumbled like acrobats in the fallen leaves. (Is there a kid in the Midwest who hasn’t done this?) And later in the evening, I sniffed the familiar aroma of wood-burning fires, another indisputable sign that winter is on its way.
For me, the smoky scents of October always evoke a favorite memory of my father raking leaves in the small backyard of our first home. The memory is more than three decades old, but it glows as vividly as the logs crackling in the grate tonight.
When I was growing up — before environmental laws — everyone in my neighborhood raked leaves into neat brown piles, then burned them near the curb or in backyard bonfires. Dry and brittle as bones, the leaves and twigs snapped furiously when introduced to a match. Back then, October weekends seemed to drift in mysterious clouds of gray-blue smoke — the perfect prelude to Houdini’s Halloween.
Like most fathers, mine worked on weekdays, and often spent his weekends doing yard work. Long before the term “quality time” was coined by childcare experts, Dad would enlist my help raking leaves on Sunday after church. I offered very little assistance, preferring to toss his neatly piled leaves back into the air, or to roll in what remained of his handiwork. Regardless, he seemed to enjoy my reckless company — and I enjoyed the novelty of helping him. Unlike my mom, who would have seized the opportunity for “girl talk,” my dad didn’t always communicate with words. On those brisk autumn afternoons, with the sun glinting through bare branches of oak and maple, it was enough for us to be together. He raked, I rolled, and nothing of dire importance was ever said.
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October weekends seemed to drift in mysterious clouds of gray-blue smoke — the perfect prelude to Houdini’s Halloween.
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Still, young as I was, I felt the ancient ache and pull of October.
By then, I understood the seasons were cyclical; that the easy days of summer would return as surely as apples had ripened every fall. But I’d also begun to grasp the concept that time trudges ahead in a straight line, like it or not, ruffling the smooth texture of our days as it marches forward. I couldn’t have explained it quite this way, but suddenly I knew I’d have to “yield with a grace,” as Robert Frost once wrote, “the end of a love or a season.”
I recall watching my handsome young father in his plaid flannel shirt while he whistled and tended his banks of smoldering leaves, their acrid smoke filling my nostrils and forcing tears. I remember wishing that everything could stay the same — that I wouldn’t have to grow up or grow old; that autumn afternoons wouldn’t bleed to winter.
It was as if I had glimpsed the distant future and seen my father’s empty chair at our Thanksgiving table.
Of course, Dad had no idea that I had stumbled on a vast, disturbing truth and was forever changed by it. He worked contentedly, pausing only to watch me or to loosen the dried leaves from the long teeth of his rake. And that is the way I like to remember him: arrested in time on that October afternoon, living in the moment, always whistling. – Cindy La Ferle
– Top photo of a maple tree in my Vinsetta Park neighborhood. (copyright Cindy La Ferle) –
Cindy on September 11th, 2010
This piece is included in 09/11 8:48 AM: Documenting America’s Greatest Tragedy, an anthology of raw, immediate accounts published across the nation after the tragedy of 9/11, edited by Ethan Casey with the New York University School of Journalism.
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The Long Way Home
By Cindy La Ferle
September 20, 2001, Royal Oak, Michigan
A little more than a week has passed since our country was attacked and brought to its knees. A friend of mine says she is trying to wake up from what she calls Stephen King’s worst nightmare. The rest of us still feel as though we’ve been wandering in a fog, unable to find our way home. Home, it seems, has been completely redesigned by horrific acts of terrorism. Ever since last Tuesday, everything is different. Everything.
I have stopped assuming that home will ever be completely safe from disaster. This thought alone makes every wall, every window, every piece of oak, maple, brick, or concrete in my neighborhood, my world, seem all the more precious. I’ve also stopped obsessing over the things I used to obsess about. I’ve stopped worrying about the fact that my refrigerator needs cleaning and the walls in the kitchen need repainting. Things like that don’t matter now. My focus has changed.
It doesn’t matter if my family leaves a mess on the breakfast counter every morning. And so what if I trip over somebody’s shoes in the hallway? I am deeply grateful that there are people living here — eating breakfast and wearing shoes.
I imagine this is all part of the grieving process, and that someday things will seem normal again. Right now, though, I feel a bit like Emily in Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. Emily is the character who, near the end of the play, returns to her hometown as a ghost and realizes how much she took for granted when she was alive. Emily recites a list of the simple things that made her days precious — things like the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the morning.
I know exactly what she meant. This week I’m savoring the taste of summer’s last tomatoes. I’m taking time to watch the sun set behind the maples in our yard, and to listen to the sound of cathedral bells just a few blocks away.
But I can’t think of anyone who is appreciating the comforts of home as much as Norma Gormly of Troy, Michigan.
Norma’s plane was diverted back to London’s Gatwick Airport immediately following the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.
Norma and her daughter, Jan, had been on vacation and ended up stranded at a bed-and-breakfast inn outside London until the airways were cleared for their return to the United States. Theirs was the first Northwest flight to leave last Friday. As Norma told me, it was quite an experience.
“We had to go through four checkpoints and check in all bags,” she recalled. “We were allowed our purses with personal stuff only. Following a body search, we were admitted to the lounge area.”
None of the passengers complained, though, even though their wait was long. Another three hours passed before their flight left Gatwick.
“We felt good that they had done all that they could for our safety,” Norma said. “We had the same flight crew from our diverted plane.”
That crew, Norma recalled, wore black ribbons around the gold wings on their uniforms. Some were fighting tears, “but they all promised to do their best to make our trip as normal as possible. Our captain was informative and soothing.”
Norma and her fellow passengers clapped and cheered loudly as their plane finally took off. They cheered again when the plane passed over Canada. And it was, as Norma remembers, a tremendous relief to arrive back home in America.
“We cheered and clapped, then cheered and clapped again upon landing at Metro Airport. We were home at last!”
No matter what shape it’s in, Norma added, there’s no place like home. Home is a word every American cherishes – more than ever, now. – Cindy La Ferle
– This essay was originally published in The Daily Tribune (Royal Oak, Michigan) and is also included in Writing Home –
Cindy on November 22nd, 2009
He is a wise man who does not grieve for the things which he has not, but rejoices for those which he has.” ~Epictetus
I’m grateful for so much this year. I’m grateful that my family and friends have survived the economic recession, even though some of us have lost jobs, clients, assignments, or enthusiasm. We still have each other. I’m grateful for having enough of everything I need — and for having an abundance of love in my life. But topping my gratitude list right now is the happy thought of my son flying in from Chicago to visit us for the Thanksgiving holiday. He was able to schedule some extra vacation time, so he’ll be here through next weekend.
So I won’t be posting as often this week, here or on Facebook. An essay I posted last month touches on the topic of grown children coming home to visit for the holidays — and the importance of counting our everyday blessings. If you missed it earlier, please click here to read it.
Heartfelt thanks go out to all of you who stop here regularly, leave your comments, and share your own blogs and writings with me. I also want to send a special shout-out to Deb of Talk at the Table, for surprising me this week with one of the loveliest reviews of Writing Home I’ve ever received. While I often write about the fact that the Internet is a cornucopia of mixed or dubious blessings, it has introduced me to many wonderful new friends. I am so thankful for that. — CL
Cindy on January 12th, 2009
“I take rejection as someone blowing in my ear to wake me up and get going, rather than retreat.” — Sylvester Stallone
This week I’m filling out entry forms and taking photos of my work for an art competition. I’m new at submitting my artwork to gallery competitions — and nervous about subjecting myself to a brand-new form of rejection. Here’s a column I wrote a few years ago about learning to deal with rejection as a writer. . . .
The Slings and Arrows of Rejection
I meet them every time I attend a cocktail party or a business function. They’re the stressed-out professionals who’d love to quit their jobs and try “something more fun.” Most of them want to get published. I was cornered by one of these aspiring authors at a seminar last month. A colleague of my husband’s, the man works as a designer for a high-profile architecture firm, but he really wants to be recognized for his byline.
The colleague said he wrote essays occasionally. He had experienced the fleeting thrill of seeing a couple of his pieces in the local paper — “a real high,” as he put it. He wanted to publish more often in Sunday newspaper magazines, and he wanted to earn some money for his writing. But after receiving several rejection slips, he was ready to give up.
“How do you handle the rejection?” he asked. “I just hate rejection.”
“Well, I deal with it the same way architects do when their designs get shot down,” I told him.
“Oh, no,” he said. “That’s not as personal.”
Rejection and its evil twin, Criticism, are part and parcel of the writing life. I don’t care much for either of them, yet both keep in touch with me periodically. And while it’s true that rejection letters can sting for a few days, eventually you get used to them. You learn to accept that you can’t hit the editorial bull’s-eye every time.
A fellow writer once offered this consolation, and I believe she’s right: If you’re not getting rejection letters, you’re not aiming high enough or sending out enough material. You have to toughen up, get busy, and hold your breath every time you open the mailbox. And you must start the process all over again.
As I reminded the guy from the architecture firm, “personal” rejection is hardly the sole province of publishing. Anything you dearly hope to achieve, including love itself, holds the possibility of loss. That said, I’ll admit that the very word “rejection” dissolves bone marrow and turns warm blood to ice water. On a really bad day, it can make even the most aggressive self-promoter drop her best ideas and run home.
That’s why I often share a favorite story about Madeleine L’Engle, whose award-winning children’s book, A Wrinkle in Time, was rejected by more than forty publishers before it finally went to press. “Every rejection slip was like the rejection of me, myself,” L’Engle wrote. But she believed in her book, believed in its power to inspire children, and absolutely refused to let it die. Today it remains a beloved best-seller for young people.
It also helps to remember that the craft of writing offers second and third chances. As Frank Lloyd Wright said, “A doctor can bury his mistakes, but an architect can only advise his client to plant vines.” Thankfully, redemption is so much easier for writers. We can reorganize, revise, revamp, and send our stuff out into the world again.
But the real secret to coping with rejection — aside from keeping faith in your own abilities — is to enjoy the process, the work itself. You have to fall in love with words and take pleasure in the way you string them together. And it’s essential to remember that publishing, as novelist Anne Lamott once said, is an addictive drug. Your last hit will never feel like enough.
Still, the small victories are sweet. Not long ago, one of my favorite pieces was rejected by a regional magazine. Several postage stamps later, it was accepted by a national publication for more money than I’d expected — and I hadn’t changed a word. That doesn’t happen as often as I’d like, of course. Just often enough to fuel my hopes and make my work more fun than architecture. – Cindy La Ferle
*This piece was first published in The Daily Tribune, Royal Oak, MI, then in my book, Writing Home. Last year it was excerpted in Sixty Candles: Reflections on the Writing Life, published by the American Society of Journalists and Authors.
Cindy on December 27th, 2008
“If all the year were playing holidays, to sport would be as tedious as work.” — William Shakespeare.
I love the small breathing space between Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve. As much as I enjoy shopping and cooking for family and dear friends, I also appreciate the chance to steal some quiet time to reflect on the past year. I’ll be back to share some thoughts for the new year in a couple of days.
P.S. A big thank you to everyone who purchased Writing Home as a holiday gift this year! Earlier this week, the book was sold out again on Amazon. From the proceeds I wrote a check to the Welcome Inn warming shelter hosted at the Unity church here in Royal Oak, and another to the Salvation Army. –CL
This is a potent month for memories. Yesterday I watched while my son and the children next door tumbled like acrobats in the fallen leaves. (Is there a kid in the Midwest who hasn’t done this?) And later in the evening, I sniffed the familiar aroma of wood-burning fires, another indisputable sign that winter is on its way.
Still, young as I was, I felt the ancient ache and pull of October.
