Humble dishes

Joan Didion, anticipatory grief, and other items du jour

Salut,

The other day, I was on the phone being interviewed by a contract tracer.

“Occupation?”

“Writer.”

“Oh! Anything I might have read?”

“That depends. Are you one of the 34 subscribers of Disco Diaries?”

What I really said was “Not yet,” which is the corny, optimistic, and friendly answer I usually give to this common question of intrigue. A writer, so mysterious! they might think. Acting as though I will soon be writing the book they’ll have on their dining room table is easier than admitting that I make most of my money doing something much more boring than that.

Because much of my work requires me to write about things that mean nothing to me personally, sometimes I don’t feel like a writer. It seems like instead my occupation should be called “articulate and grammatically correct summarizer of information.” Sometimes I get a kick out of adding a little flair or zest to a sentence, but overall it’s mundane to me. 

What I would rather do is tell stories — journalism features, essays, profiles, all these appeal to me. This year has been the long awaited start to me really sussing out my intentions and personal goals, and it’s nice to know this tiny slice of a broadly defined aspiration. I’ve had some opportunities for this kind of writing lately, and hope there are more to come. 

My goal to become a better story teller has me reaching for books and articles and podcasts for examples and inspiration. I finally got a copy of Slouching Towards Bethlehem from the library’s drive-through service. In it, Joan Didion has an essay “On Keeping a Notebook” in which she explores why it is that some of us are compelled to keep a record of our days, and decides that in her notebook her subjective experience of an event outweighs what actually happens.

“Remember what it was to be me: that is always the point.”

This line and this essay have got me contemplating the role of the ego in writing, and fretting over whether it’s a narcissistic act. Obviously this very personal weekly newsletter is drenched in my experiences, but can I keep my ego out of the way when I’m telling someone else’s story? The limits of my personal experience and understanding will always be present, but I hope with every story I encounter I can learn something new that will help me step aside to reveal worlds outside of myself a little better.

Jake and Joan.

Tomatoes on the sill

Late Sunday evening, with a nearly-empty bag of malted milk balls poised between us in the console of our rented Jeep Compass, Jake and I pulled up to his Grandmother’s cottage on the edge of Lake Ontario. His family has been coming here since he and his brother were little, swimming in these waters and running across these lawns. When I stand in the tiny kitchen, I observe the dishes and decor, imagining these aged plates and bowls serving dinners to this family decades ago, while they looked out on the same view of the lake as we do now each night. 

Thinking of the deep history of these humble dishes reminds me of my own Grandma’s kitchen and the dishes she’s had since who knows when. I remember them as off-white plastic with a simple teal and pink floral design around the edges. She would use them to serve me and my brother white bread slathered with Country Crock margarine, and salads with ranch dressing, having first picked out each piece of purple cabbage for our picky tongues.

Her home is in a much different setting than this upstate New York lake cottage. It’s in the country hills of eastern Indiana, in a house my Grandpa built, with a window over the kitchen sink where my Grandma lays her tomatoes to ripen. She is 91, and the things she can enjoy have slipped away with age, as I suppose they do. She used to love reading Christian romance novels, but now she can’t see well enough. When my Grandpa was alive, I would visit and we would watch Judge Judy together, but now she can’t hear well enough.

Grandma is a social butterfly, and a connoisseur of fresh vegetables and southern cooking. These are two things she can still fill her days with. I and the rest of my family like to bring her pies and treats. She loves visitors, and will host them on the porch when the weather is nice. She goes to her tiny baptist church twice every Sunday and once every Wednesday. She is stubborn about the few things she wants, and could not be stopped from her regular appearances with the congregation, even when COVID-19 showed up. 

We all guessed she would get it eventually, so when she tested positive no one was surprised. What did surprise me was how well her body handled it. Hardly a fever, barely a cough. My mom claims to have never been worried, knowing that Grandma’s stubbornness was strong enough to carry her through a pandemic.

Even though she’s still here on this planet, putting up a fight against the virus and its complications, I’m not at ease. But that’s not entirely her fault. My ill-ease and anxiety has been under construction and development for several years now, built on a foundation of life-threatening illness, scary surgeries, loss of a family structure and home, as well as all the towering political and social issues outside of my personal circle.

A trip away from home is helpful at releasing some of that. During days at the cottage, I am placated by the calm of the lake. The “shh, shh” lapping at the rocky shore puts me in a sleepy, reflective daze. We swim and sail and float and read and nap. I work a little on my lap top, and rest a little in the grass. My biggest challenge is finding the right spot to place my lounge chair. The collection of seats travels around the lawn each day as people move them from shade to sun, from groupings to individual views of the lake. 

At dusk, all of that changes. The weather has been clear here, and each day ends with the most beautiful and tender sunset, so perfect is looks computer generated (and I hate myself for thinking that). Dusk has a tendency to make me sad on any occasion, but this week it’s been personal. I can’t stop myself from looking at its colors and thinking of my Grandma, wondering if this finale in the sky represents the final moments of something else.

The iPhone camera does not do it justice.

Recently I heard someone share this advice on a podcast: “Don’t mourn things before they happen.” That hit hard for me, because it feels like all I do lately. Anxiety wants you to be prepared for the worst case scenario, so it gets you to feel the emotional response way before it’s called for. When you’re bracing for that, you might end up missing the sweetness of a simple sunset on Lake Ontario.

But there’s a bittersweet gratitude in that sunset, too. Life was uncertain well before this pandemic. Every fleeting moment, there’s a chance to take stock of what we have now, and to celebrate that. 

As far as I know, Grandma just started medication for pneumonia-like symptoms, but is still at home with my uncle, her caretaker. I know they haven’t had a chance to go to the farmers market she likes, and I’m hoping that my tomato plants will bear juicy fruits in time for me to bring her some to ripen on her window sill.

Haiku 3.29.20

I have perspectives.
They scatter like butterflies
I, an untrained net.

Thank you, friends. Until next time,

Katya