By Liz Snell at http://mygossamerthread.blogspot.com/
The following excerpts from my journal during this last week are dedicated to Aunty Fern, who hosted the Adam clan so graciously and wanted me to write about it here.
September 2nd
It's dark now, and as I sit writing by a low fire, all I hear are the ubiquitous crickets trilling, a few lonely coyotes, and my family's conversation behind the yellow-lit windows of the old brick house. It's lovely here; the land is carved into smooth blond dunes of rolling hills covered in wheat stubble; jack pines, willows, and poplars cluster together here and there around houses and streams. The farm is set in a small, shallow valley, beside a wide creek where you can catch inedible fish or sit in the secret, circular hollow in the bushes on one of the stumps. There are beehives, three goats, and many vegetables in the garden.
There was the most beautiful sunset tonight - flames of pink, yellow and orange. While I was standing in the field taking photos of it, Aunty Fern came running towards me, calling me to help. The three goats - Bucky, Dolly, and Finna - had jumped the fence and escaped up the road. So we ran up after them to catch Bucky by the collar and lead them back; I felt very rustic doing so.
September 3rd
I woke up this morning to an eager wind buffeting itself against the sides of my little tent. I didn't bother with my hair, knowing it'd be windblown in every direction as soon as I stepped outside. Instead, I headed to the kitchen to eat peach oatmeal with Grace, Estelle, and Laurel. After enough people were awake, we took a walk out into the countryside together.
It was a Women's Walk, comprised of Aunty Laryssa, Aunty Grace, Aunty Kathie, Aunty Fern, Aunty Ruth, Laura, Grace and I. We walked out behind the farm, along a broad, graveled trail where a train track once ran, as evidenced by iron spikes rusting here and there along the path. The Palouse, where the small town of Latah lies, was formed when sand blew into dunes then grew grass and soil. Now farmers grow wheat and lentils on the gentle, undulating fields, which just now are covered in pale stubble, with long grass still blowing in a fringe around the edges. The path goes along the creek, past red barns, lazy, hefty cows, twisty willows, and stalk-dry teasel. I started out wearing two sweaters, but the big wind was warm and I'd soon stripped down to just a tank-top. I talked with Aunty Laryssa and Laura; I like how on long walks it's easy to drop back or forwards, to start a conversation with someone else or to continue an old one.
When we returned, Paul had bought two kites, so I joined he and Ben out in the field, and got my kite up so far that when it finally came down, it landed beyond the machinery on the farm across the creek. A few times the wind was so strong it surprised the spool right out of my hands; once it took off the field so that I had to dive for it and got prickles in my pants.
I spent most of the rest of the afternoon making applesauce and three apple pies with the farm's apples. Uncle Grayson peeled apples and Laura wove part of one lattice crust, but my most dedicated helper was Estelle. She mixed spices, rolled pastry, tossed apples, and filled lined pie-plates - she actually was a help, unlike most kids I bake with at work! I've so enjoyed spending more time with Laurel and Estelle. They're both so much fun; although I love talking to my adult relatives too, I often seek out the kids: Estelle, Laurel, Owen, Ben, and now baby Celeste, who doesn't like strangers ("If you're pretty, you don't need a good personality," Aunty Fern remarks of the little diva.) I think it adds a great element to have kids around; people are less selfish when there are little ones to look out for, and it's just more fun to have their energy and laughter.
After I finally got out of the kitchen, it was about 4:30 and I needed a break, so I spread out a blanket on the grass and lay in the sun with Laura and the kids. I love Laura, and in a way I'm glad I don't see her that often, because it makes what time we do have together more special. That's the great thing about family - I may not see them often, but I don't have to worry about losing the relationship because of that - there's always the potential for more closeness, and no potential for complete disconnect. Just now, there's Rook in the living room, Aunty Laryssa tuning her guitar in the kitchen, and a large group out around the firepit. But I'm inside in the warmth, in a small corner by the kitchen door, writing down the day...
September 4th
Horses pass the front window beyond the wide lawn, walking uphill; Laura French braids Estelle's fine hair while Allegra watches Jacklyn knitting a blue dishcloth. One of the four dogs barks. Donal helps Ben balance on a slack line strung between two trees. Someone plays guitar in an upstairs room. Matt helps Jesika write a cover letter for a job leading research expeditions in Patagonia. In the kitchen, women chop vegetables and talk of cake. Uncle Grayson reads his book outside in the fading light. I pilfer trail mix out of a bag on the coffee table - I don't know who it belongs to, but it doesn't matter, because they won't mind.
When I'm with my family, I feel more safe than anywhere else - I feel completely at home. I watch people as they come and go, watch them with deep affection, thinking of how I know and relate to each one of them. Each of them is mine in some way - there isn't one of them I don't like and love. I feel this is how I was meant to live, in this security. I let things drop from me here - there's no need to nurse worry, not under the open skies of being loved unconditionally, and of returning that love.
September 5th
The wind was so fierce last night I thought my little tent would collapse. Laura, who'd finally convinced me to share a tent with her, was so frustrated with my flapping, unstaked fly that halfway through the night she gathered up her sleeping bag, muttered, "I'm going to my own tent," and migrated.
When my sleep is disturbed, it's always hard to decide whether I actually want to disturb myself more in an attempt to find peace. But there was no way I was sleeping in that gale, so I collected my things and moved into the back room of the house. I'd just settled into my sleeping bag when I noticed the persistent tick, ticking of the clock. I hate that sound when I'm trying to sleep, so I knew right away I'd have to "pick up my bed and walk." So I moved into the living room, where Aunty Fern had also re-located to the couch. After that, I slept soundly, with not a sound filtering through the brick walls.
It was a gentle day; I had a good, long conversation with Grandma and Aunty Grace, later joined by Aunty Laryssa and Jes. We talked about what defines who we are; how to deal with an addiction to something that, in and of itself, isn't harmful (politics - Grandma; knitting - Aunty Grace; writing - Liz); how to show respect; what stirs our passions, etc. etc.
In the late afternoon, Uncle Daniel, Aunty Fern, Jacklyn, Julian, Ben, Aunty Ruth and I drove up Steptoe Butte, a tall hill covered in jackpine that rises like an island amidst all the soft wheat billows, which stretch out below in an exhilarating glory of shifting shade, as far as the eye's reach. It looks like the sea, which it was once, so long ago. In the old days, there was a hotel atop the Butte, with a veranda all around the top to take in the view. There's no trace of the hotel now, but a road winds all the way up to the flat, paved top.
It took about forty minutes to drive to Steptoe Butte, and on the way there, we passed through a number of small towns - Latah, Tekoa, Oaksdale. These little towns are pure America, straight out of the fifties with their old signs, one-screen cinemas, farm houses, and vintage cars. But there's a sad and resigned air to them - most of the old shops are boarded up now, paint peeling from their facades, citizens mostly swept into the big cities, like nearby Spokane. They're like middle-aged mothers sighing at their empty nests, knowing things have changed but missing the time when all their children were still gathered under their wings.
September 6th
When the car pulls away from wherever the reunion's been, I feel an almost unbearable sense of loss, as if I'm giving up my perfect life. I feel that because it's true - with that family, I don't feel like I'm lacking any type of human connection. I had my computer along to show my India photos, so I could have gone online to check facebook and e-mail, but somehow I had no desire to do so - unless it would be to contact the rest of my family. Although some of my idealism about my family vanishes each year, my love and affection for them only ever grows.
I think what I've been given in my family is so rare and precious I'm not certain any other family has it - I've never heard of it, at least. It's a community of imperfect people, yes - but imperfect together. What is it that draws us each back, after all these years, and despite all our differences? We know that we're most loved here. We know how to laugh together, but also how to share and how to listen. We're intelligent, interesting, adventurous, funny, compassionate, creative, passionate folk - and that's no common thing.
Besides what I learn about other people at the reunions, I also always seem to learn a lot about myself. It's a way to measure how much I've changed since last time - and I always have. I've had a really good chance to process a lot of things that have required time and space to consider, which I haven't been able to give in this whirlwind summer. It helps that people ask me so many questions about myself and my life, but a lot of it is also a personal thing - solitary thought, which I can easily wander into even while I'm in the group. I feel safe within the large space, so I feel safe within the smaller space of myself as well, not afraid of what I'll find. I've had time to think, write, and talk, and this makes me feel more balanced - more myself, which is priceless - just what I need before I go into another crazy year, which is sure to test and tear me in all sorts of ways.
So now, as we drive home, the mountains are all mist and pine, and the leaves are changing to orange under passionate skies, and something about it is so sad and beautiful both at once that tears fuzz at my eyes. Autumn is always the most beautiful - anything bittersweet is. This is our reunion as well - we missed each other last year. We're old friends deeply in love but unsure of just how things will be this time around.
Because things change - yes, our lives change like the seasons (cliche though it is), and sometimes it's hard and painful to let go, whether it's of winter or summer, fall or spring - but it's better that way... and it's all we can do, after all.
