Life With Horace

poetry & essays


Leave a comment

A creative mother, or how I learned to love dance again

My mother once said that one of Martha Graham’s dancers was awful to her husband and little boy, but when one saw her on stage none of that mattered any more. My teenage psyche salted that one away as ammunition for the future.

Originally this was going to be a plaintive piece about my mother, life with a parent whose art was in many ways more important to her than her children, much like the childhood she herself had experienced as the daughter of a composer. Years on the memories don’t have the power to hurt the way they used to, because along with having a fairly self-absorbed modern dancer mother, I’ve come to appreciate an artist mother who painted zoo animals, including a never-forgotten giraffe, all over our Colorado Springs bathroom walls.

I had a mother who continued to learn and grow and create well into her eighties. I had a mother who regained a love life in her sixties after a long drought, meeting a wonderful man who was her partner for almost twenty years, who took photos while she sketched, was her personal “sag wagon” driver on the many Cross Minnesota Bike Rides she did, and with whom she could open up again. I had a mother who morphed from a modern dance teacher and choreographer into a fitness visionary and advocate for homebound seniors in the Twin Cities. I had a mother who loved me, but couldn’t always show it.

No turnaround happens all at once. My friend Susan was a magazine culture writer in Washington, whose perk was tickets to everything, and she loved to take friends along on their birthdays. One year she took me to the Trocks, aka Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo.

We watched this all male dance troupe perform technically brilliant and hilarious parodies of ballet and modern dance. Re-imagining Pavlova’s “dying Swan” with molting feathers. A hysterical Dance of The Little Swans. Side-splitting send ups of Balanchine, Martha Graham, and Doris Humphrey.

Enjoying dance without resentment for the first time in years, I knew exactly what I was watching, understood the finer points of the parody, appreciated the incredible technique and elegance of those men en pointe, all of it a gift from my mother. That night my life began to change.

I became more settled into adulthood, though not to the point of losing wonder and delight as daily companions. More along the lines of coming to terms with a parent’s humanity and limitations, acknowledging her often ill-expressed love, and eventually moving on, setting aside things I now understood better and for the most part no longer mourned.

With emotional dreck hoovered away, my brain cleaner and tidier, it began to fill up again. Clueless until it began to happen, it became obvious that the best new stuff would be things of my own, eventually leading to a creative bender of sorts that shows no sign of slowing down.

A few years ago life took a powerful turn. I joined a virtual creative group, and cannonballed into the deep end with little idea of what direction to take. I still find myself zooming about, trying things that look interesting or challenging. At first it was easy to hang back. Now I know the answer is to do whatever shows up. The wonderful thing about an opened up mind, and its natural partner creativity, is that they take up so much less room, feeding the spirit instead of diminishing it.

Indian Pipes at Rhododendron State Park 2011


2 Comments

learning to see

There is a place that draws my glances on the way into town.

A garden running along the road for two hundred yards or so, grass dotted with sumac, small trees, wildflowers and bird houses, dozens of hand made tin roofed bird houses. Simple, mostly unpainted wooden structures on poles, obviously one person’s brainchild and handiwork.

This morning a bright red car in front of the house caught my eye, and then a small boy of ten or so, mowing the grass around the first bird house. Looking up, really looking. His face under the brim of his baseball cap full of wonder as he took in the faded paint, the entry holes, the bits of grass and droppings.

Who taught that child to look so intently, I wondered. Was it his nature, and someone had nurtured it? Or simply let him be?

I feel very fortunate to have had some wonderful guides in my own journey.

My next to last year at school in England included a Biology Field Course that forever changed what I take in from a car or bus or train. It taught me to notice, pay attention and to link sometimes disparate sightings together. In the coach that took us out for the day to a bog, forest or open hillside and back, we were encouraged to keep track of what we could see of the natural world as we sped by. A blur taking shape in an instant’s focus.

A chance remark by an artist friend a few years ago about seeing light a certain way got me thinking. Seeing the light? What did that mean? Eventually the answers led to awareness of backlighting and shadows and stray rays. I honestly hadn’t thought about light before, at least not so specifically.

Hands down the most powerful lessons I had in how to see happened by example, gentle explanation, and repetition in walks with my Uncle Bruce over the years. He was a constant observer of plants, light, images, and animal happenings in the natural world. I began to remember plant names, look for the color of the setting sun against the rough bark of a Tupelo tree, discover migrant Indian Pipes in late summer, see what was new in familiar places.

Now I carry his awareness into every part of my life, and am thrilled to see his open eyes and curiosity live on in my children and theirs. I’m also positive he’d have noticed that upturned face too.


1 Comment

archibald and the last watch

Thanks to Pop, a good part of my family has the funny bone chromosome.

We’re talking full spectrum mutations ranging from slapstick to suave joke telling. As far as I can tell, it started with my dad who went to college at 16 and discovered the sweet spot in the City College Assembly Hall for delivering hilarious whispered naughtiness that only the speaker at the lectern could hear.

So, when my son and youngest brother get together, there’s always a point where I’ll have to leave the room. They’re not nasty, they don’t fart, spit or scratch unattractively. They are punsters, inveterate, I’ll-one-up-you, let’s see how long we can keep this one going funny guys. Leaving the room is easy. Try walking down a city street with them when they’re on a roll!

When our family gathers the jokes come out. Riffs on the early greats we listened to with Pop (Spike Jones, Stan Freberg, Tom Lehrer or Shelley Berman, and yes, Lenny Bruce) topped only by Mel Brooks or better yet Mel teamed up with Carl Reiner. To this day my take on longevity and grand feats of daring has a lot to do with the nectarine.

Ah, the nectarine you say? An off the cuff bit from The 2000 Year Old Man. Interviewed by Carl Reiner, Mel Brooks’ alter ego gives credit to the nectarine, “half a peach, half a plum” for his longevity, or at least 164 years of it.

Pop also had a thing for watches.

The backstory is that he had an institutional supply business in upstate New York and much of New England, all of it with Catholic parishes and schools. You name the town, he knew the local parish priest or Mother Superior. This meant that Pop could get just about anything wholesale, including watches, which he loved and gave to us at the drop of a hat.

In 2005 at age 89, Pop’s (internal) ticker gave out.

It was July, and very hot. We all converged on my sister Annie’s house and hugged and cried and told Pop Stories, fanned ourselves and took care of the obit, cleaned out his apartment, planned a memorial to be held in the fall, the nuts and bolts stuff.

Someone mentioned the watches.

At which point my nephew Jason told us Pop had sent him a watch on his trip east from Chicago. He flew out very late, so O’Hare was almost deserted. When he got through Security, there, in a plastic bin ahead of the one with his stuff in it, was a watch. Sitting there all by itself.

The TSA guys had no idea where it came from, said it had to be his, no one had been through for over an hour. Jason got the weirdest feeling about that watch. It was from Grandpa, he was certain. So the watch came along, as I guess it was meant to. More laughter and tears, as we looked at the Last Watch.

Well this has been fun, but who the heck is Archibald you ask?

He, or more accurately, it, is an honorary member of our family. For the uninitiated, Archibald Essselbrook is a tour de force joke, a supremely racy tongue twister that Pop mastered many years ago. He always told it perfectly, at breakneck speed. It never failed to leave his listeners helpless with laughter.

So, old Archie was listed in Pop’s obituary as his dear friend Archibald Esselbrook of Hudson, NY. It made perfect sense to all of us, our private In Joke for Pop.

Its delivery seems to be a guy thing, and that’s cool with me. My brothers all know it, and I guess my son will too eventually. That’s one I’ll stick around for.