Pruning Part II

I’m guilty of forging weak friendships. I’ve made friends to slough off in the name of freedom—so I could leave a place without feeling guilty. I’ve recently come to a place to stay for awhile. I work in the office of an orchard. It’s less than a mile from my hometown.  I spend the days with friends I’ve known all my life, though at one point I forgot they were friends. Every time they ask about my family or my dog, or request that I babysit a son or daughter, I feel as a thread in a tapestry. Every gesture and familiarity sews me in a little tighter. This has shaken my definition of freedom.  It’s creating a beauty I’ve never known. 

I watch the workers in the apple orchards. They prune their trees in the winter. When January and its lake effect snow howl through western Michigan, the workers bundle up, climb their ladders, and prune with vigor. I s’pose falling from a  ladder hurts less in the snow. For years, I’ve been copying the the commercial apple growers, trudging out while the trees sleep to cut their limbs. The idea is to prune while the trees lie dormant so they’re energized for regrowth in the spring. This year, I spoke to an apple grower like me, a backyard grower, so to speak. “What’s wrong with my trees? They concentrate all wrong—producing excess bark and shoots rather than apples.”  Sometimes I get mad. Sometimes I kick one.

My fellow backyard grower squints as though reading tiny print. “Prune when your trees are most alive. It’s okay for big orchards to prune the trees while they sleep—they have the time and labor to continue pruning when necessary. You and I, we need to stop the trees from producing extra shoots during growing season. Rid the tree of the shoots at its liveliest and the shoots will stay away in January. Catch up, at least for a few years.”

So I prune the trees before they go to sleep. Maybe they’ll concentrate on producing fruit next year instead of producing what is useless.  I babysit when I need to babysit. I stop and pet my neighbor’s dog. I answer questions honestly and ask questions honestly. “My father is still sick. Is your husband’s shoulder healing?” The sewing continues and sometimes I struggle, longing to grow in a thousand different directions. Isolation and freedom collide. 

So I prune the trees before they go to sleep. 

Maybe they’ll concentrate on producing fruit next year instead of producing what is useless. 

Expecting A Book

I'm expecting a book. Namely, For the Time Being by Annie Dillard.
I'm expecting more than a book. She will, of course, answer all unanswerable questions.

The mailman holds a key to the apartment complex.
If expecting a note from my sister, Emma, or from my grandmother, I meet him in the hallway.
I asked him once if he loved his job-- delivering snail-mail-- time travel shooting him back to the romanticism of Samuel Clemens.
He answered by handing me an issue of Kiplinger's Magazine, a practical, if relentless, Christmas present.
The cover read, "Sell Your Stocks!* *but not all of them" and, "Practical Investing: The Impact of Dividends!" [No, the exclamation marks are not added by me for emphasis. ]
Upon seeing my crinkled nose, he laughed, "Honey, I deliver lots of bills."

I thought that vintage clothing and philosophical thoughts came with a barista position- until I became one.  Now I smell like ham and caramel.

There's a cocker spaniel in East Grand Rapids. She's chained to a fence and, if she pulls the chain taught, can make it to the sidewalk. She's nice if you bend down and talk to her, though her fur will cover your hand in a thick film. Be weary, though, if you must leave. She bites Deserters. It's best to sit in a comfortable long-term position-- where one can retreat quickly. She's worth a visit. I'd give you her address but for her owners.

For the Time Being should arrive at any moment. Annie Dillard will, of course, answer all unanswerable questions and I'll probably skip out into the sunshine and serenade a bird.
Well, either that or she won't answer the unanswerable questions. In that case, I'll probably skip out into the sunshine and serenade a bird.

To the Pear Tree Out Back

To the Pear Tree Out Back

Will you never learn? We went over this last year. I climbed you --sawed, clipped and trimmed you for hours.

And didn’t you feel better?

Didn’t you have more energy?

Energy to put towards your creative endeavors?

Beginning with the fabrication of buds from which

Emerge white blooms-- easily smelled from the vegetable garden.

Finally finishing with

The Pear.

How inspired you are, my Dear Tree-- a spectacle.

I’d carry you to a studio and share your artistry.

Yet you insist on wasting ener-I’ll call you Hydra. 

Where I trimmed a branch last year, you generate five miniatures this year. Shoots protrude from amputated limbs where phantoms would be better.

So once again, the saw rests against you. The clippers extend from me as I sever the parasites you’ve constructed. 

Why do you exert yourself so?

Why not utilize the energy you claim from sun from rain

And produce flowers fruits and such?

Add strength to your trunk--mass to fruitful limbs?

Why waste your vitality on fruitless endeavors? 

Please, Wouldn’t you rather create a Pear?

Emma

Emma and I trudge through the snow. That year the snow began in late January and lasted until the middle of March. Winter started late. It wouldn’t let go.  We two sisters walk regardless; our boots fatten cross-country ski tracks.

We don’t talk. 

We don’t need to. 

We trudge.

Eventually, we come to the bridge, our turn-around point.  We’re tired and lay down in the snow.

We don’t talk. 

We don’t need to.

Emma and I were born a year apart. She’s pale with long, dark hair and glasses. She freckles in the sun, but just across the bridge of her nose. They’re pretty, her freckles; it’s as if she strategically placed each one.  I’m taller than Emma, with blonde curls and dimples.

At the moment, these differences are hidden beneath hats and scarves. We watch the snow fall on and around us.  We start as a skier comes upon us,

“Whew, you moved! I was afraid you were dead.”

We laugh and allow him to pass.

Emma joined the army late last year, looking to use her forensic science degree in the criminal investigation department. Right now she sends letters—letters in which she instructs me to read Phantom of the Opera because it’s dark, and also to read the first paragraph of Moby Dick because (in her words), “it makes you swoon every time.”  

In return I send her excerpts I’ve copied by hand from Walden and The Writing Life to supplement the Army’s allowance of just one book. I also inform her that the Barenaked Ladies’ new album is okay, but they’re sorely missing Steven Page.  We’ll listen to the new album when we see each other next and reminisce about “Be My Yoko Ono.”

 The sky darkens as we pull ourselves out of the snow.  

On the trek back we do talk. 

And I don't remember if I remember what we talked about. 

A Story About A Kinkajou (but not really)

A baggy, leopard-printed woman roams the streets of Broad Ripple. She stores a shopping bag beneath her armpit. It's creases match the wrinkles folded into her neck.
When the weather is hot, make-up cracks and melts off her face.
She keeps talking.
Why won't she stop talking?

 We're in Starbucks now. A girl walks by outside, her pet kinkajou in tow. Leopard-print woman storms the window. "A kinkajou, a kinkajou!" She screams.

She turns to me, "Look, a kinkajou!"

 Lacing a smile with condescension, I offer it to her,
"I'm reading [Steinbeck],"  I say.
"Look! A kinkajou!" I think.


A few days later I ask for her name.
"Grace," she says.
"Me too!" I blurt and look at the ground.
No. I'm Hannah.  But it means grace.
She extends her free hand. Her thick make-up cracks, streams melt down into the creases of her neck,
"It's good to meet you,
Grace"

Chelsea: From the Point of View of Sister #2

Two sisters run down the street. One runs as straight as a Ringer girl can possibly run. She’s the younger of the two. She’s short, but tells people she’s tall and sometimes the confidence with which she speaks forces them to do a double-take. She walks with purpose, like it ain’t nobody’s business.  

The other really is tall and tends to trip when she walks, which makes her more prone to running. She’s often distracted, attempting to catch leaves in her hands, snowflakes on her tongue, or whatever else may be falling from the sky.

Sister #1 feigns frustration:  You’re swerving into the road again. That’s it! I’m doing it! I’m buying you a leash!

Sister #2: Good grief, Lady! I won’t get hit by a car. And, by the way, I’m winning the leaf-catching competition.

Sister #1: You haven’t caught anything. How could you possibly be winning?

Sister #2: I get 50 points just for trying… and then 10 after that for every leaf caught.  You, my dear friend, haven’t even tried!

Sister #1 sticks her hand out. A leaf floats into the open palm.

Sister #2 purses her lips, narrows her eyes and gives sister #1 a harrowing look.

Sister #1 ignores the look and continues to run as straight as a Ringer girl can possibly run.  60 points. Beat that.

And sister #1 doesn’t even crack a smile…though she does know the moment is worth one. And sister #2, though older and taller, looks up to sister #1 and is humbled. She secretly knows she can’t possibly “beat that” and wouldn’t trade that graceful moment to catch 100 leaves of her own. 

Galveston, Texas, in 2014

 I'm here in Galveston, Texas, exactly 119 years after Stephen Crane visited, and acted as its correspondent. He visited in early March and wrote an essay, Galveston, Texas, in 1895. This essay stressed the ordinariness of Galveston. The notes how quickly the west is being "easternized."

From what I've learned, in 1895, people called Galveston the Wall Street of the southwest. It was ordinary in the sense that it was like any other port city at the time. I personally find Stephen Crane's observations fascinating because he recorded his Galveston-inspired thoughts in 1895 and (hang with me here, we're getting morbid) he died in June of 1900. He was only 28 when he died of tuberculosis*. Shortly thereafter, in September of 1900, a hurricane hit Galveston. Known here as "The Great Storm", it killed around 8,000 people and completely devastated the island. So, nutshelling: Crane visits Galveston, a port city, and ironically, is most surprised at its normality ; after making himself famous for naturalism, Crane dies at 28 in June of 1900; the Great Storm takes place in September of 1900.

One can't discuss Stephen Crane without discussing his use of naturalism --his best works depict nature as glorious, even living:

          A singular disadvantage of the sea lies in the fact that after
          successfully surmounting one wave you discover that there is another behind
          it just as important and just as nervously anxious to do something effective
          in the way of swamping boats. In a ten-foot dingey one can get an idea of
          the resources of the sea in the line of waves that is not probable to the
          average experience, which is never at sea in a dingey. As each slaty wall of
          water approached, it shut all else from the view of the men in the boat, and
          it was not difficult to imagine that this particular wave was the final outburst of the ocean, the last
          effort of the grim water.
          There was a terrible grace in the move of the waves, and they came in
          silence, save for the snarling of the crests. -Excerpt from Crane's "The Open Boat"

 Where man can be reasoned with and persuaded, nature is indifferent--most of the time tragically indifferent.  In 1897, he published one of his most famous pieces, "The Open Boat". The short story is based on a shipwreck experienced by Crane himself. He shared a lifeboat with three others-- a cook, a captain, and an oiler. In Crane's portrayal of the wreck, the oiler, Billie, is the only one mentioned by name. Not coincidentally, he's also the only one who ends up dying.

Earlier I mentioned that the Great Storm killed around 8,000 people, as in approximately, as in the numbers range-- from 6,000 to 15,000.  I can't help but think that if Crane had been around to write about Galveston in September of the year he died, he could have figured out how to name the 6,000 to 15,000 (approximately 8,000) people.


Galveston, Texas, in 2014

It's a tourist town--famous for hurricanes, pirates, and birds. After the Great Storm of 1900, the entire city was raised 17 feet. This included over 2,100 buildings. Some people just filled the first floor of buildings with sand. In 1895, Stephen Crane would have had to walk up a flight of stairs. I can just walk in the door.

In addition to raising Galveston's elevation, a seawall, also 17-feet high, was constructed for protection. The city began construction in 1903 and finished in 1911.  Come 1915, a hurricane, similar in size to the "Great Storm of 1900," struck Galveston. 53 people died. Apart from protecting the city, the wall serves other purposes. This past weekend being Mardi Gras, the city hosted a few parades along it. High school marching bands and floats filled with extraordinarily happy people made their way along the wall. The float-mongers throw beads. People are supposed to dive for these beads.  I'm more of a "ducker" or a "get hit in the facer." The city has also placed historical landmarks along the wall where one can learn about Balinese ballrooms and a hotel that used to be there but were turned into a not-so-amusing amusement park. As for me, well,  I use the wall for running.

I often run on the eastern side of the island, which is composed of beaches, pelicans, oil tankers and condos. Wealthy people live in the condos. If these condos were in a Scott Fitzgerald novel they'd be comprised of women who marry men for money and men who wear white shorts and cheat on their wives. Sometimes the wind wafts the oil-tanker's sulfurous smells up to the beach, past where the pelicans gather. Binocular-clad birdwatchers explore the swampy areas of east beach, gathering around Roseate Spoonbills and American Wigeons.

I visited Galveston for the first time in June of 2011, 3 years after Hurricane Ike struck the city. Hurricane Ike didn't hit the seawall directly. If it had, the extent of the damage would have been limited. As it so happens, the hurricane wound itself into the bay side of the island, beating buildings with waves and covering the island with water. Then the storm receded, taking debris and people with it. Ike killed over 40,000 trees. Chainsaw artists have come to Galveston and crafted the tree skeletons into mermaids, birds, and turtles. Someone chiseled the Tin Man. Another chiseled a new tree from the old, filled with wooden birds, flowers, insects.

Today I drank coffee with a man named Rory. He made sound effects to describe 35-foot waves hitting the side of his home. When the roof flipped off his house, he jumped into it and rode the waves, floating 45 nautical miles before landing west of Houston. He said the insects were worse than the alligators: "The red ants were hell."

Rory is 56 but looks about 70. He's tall and skinny. His skin is weathered, feathery around the eyes. As I sat typing, he sat in the chair across from me with a, "What are you typing so fervently about, young lady?" After receiving a swoony, "Stephen Crane," he told me his own story. He grew up in Houston, an artist in a band. After a failed marriage and giving up the band lifestyle, he moved to Galveston for the last third of his life (ages 40-60...he's thinking he'll be "taking a long dirt nap" by 60). At one point, Rory tipped back his chair and closed his eyes, "We here in Galveston live in mañana time. If you want something done by Friday, tell us you want it done by Monday because we'll start tomorrow."

In a couple of days I'm headed back to the mainland, up to the snow-covered Michigan mitten. I'll return to work, attend business classes, and trade summer dresses for sweaters. In Michigan, I'll put away my Stephen Crane novels. I'll turn to Earnest Hemingway, Thoreau, Annie Dillard, and other writers of the northern states. I'll study their lives on my own time and try to figure out why Thoreau, who doesn't seem materialistic, spends so much time writing about clothing or why Annie Dillard uses an entire page to describe an inchworm-- only to end by saying that the darn thing should throw itself off the piece of grass to which it has been clinging.

But that's mañana. 

Right now? Well, I'll study more Crane.  I'll walk 17-feet above where he walked and try to figure out what it means to name a person.

*Fun fact: Sorry to jump on the vampire train, but way back when, people often mistook tuberculosis victims for vampire victims. To test the theory, they'd often exhume the consumption-ridden body a few days after burial. Then (because, honestly, why not?!) they'd drive a stake through the heart. The body, bloated with all sorts of accumulated gases would appear to spring to life and let out a gasp.