Untangling Peacocks

I’ve always been fascinated by the story of Abraham Lincoln and his Secretary of War, Edward Staunton, returning one summer’s eve to the Soldiers Home that Lincoln used as a sanctuary from the quagmire of Washington’s summer heat and the strains of waging a war, to find the peacocks that lived on the grounds of the Soldiers Home, trapped in the trees. In an attempt to domesticate the birds, strings had been attached to wooden blocks and tied to the their legs. This, however, did not stop them from flying into the trees and becoming entangled. Lincoln and Staunton worked together untangling the strings that trapped the poor birds. I’ve long thought this was a great metaphor for Lincoln’s work of untangling the complicated threads of a country divided against itself and weaving them into a tapestry of a reunited nation.

And now I find myself faced with the task of untangling my own peacocks and weaving the threads of truths and lies into the tapestry of family stories.  Lately, I’ve been hearing new stories and discovering lies that I had long held as truths. What to do when your foundation starts crumbling, when all along your perspective has been like looking through a fun house mirror?  Distorted.  Looking back at you with crazy eyes and gaping mouths that said how could you not see what was really happening?

So many tangled threads require lots of patience, letting go of that which no longer works for us. Acceptance of sitting with the unknowable.  How do I fill in the gaps?  Some family members squawk like Lincoln’s peacocks as I tug at the strings of lies and misrembered stories as I try to tease out the basics of our lives as a fractured family. Many of us tried to stay afloat in the alcoholic soup that our parents cooked up for daily consumption.  Some of us drowned in it.  Never made it out. Others of us learned my negative example and got way the hell away from all the chaos. We were survivors. Anxious to start our own family stories, hopefully, with happier endings, as we built up and out on our shaky foundations.  The universe brought me this now to untangle the threads of disjointed stories and weave them into our family tapestry.  It may not be pretty, but it will be authentic.

Rebekah for the Poplar Grove Muse

Nate of Las Vegas Part II

I was still there when he came back and handed me the book, “Magic” by William Goldman. 

United World College/Montezuma Castle

“Do you know it?”

“Nope,” I said.

I turned the hard cover book over in between my hands and read a few words, unable to get a clear idea of the story before Nate began to navigate.  He sat back in his seat and pointed out over the dashboard.

“Okay so I think there is a dirt road on the side of town that takes us to the castle, I’ll lead you there.”

I drove, he talked…and talked, and in between words, he pointed to things.

“Jake is training me to be a boxer, been living in my tent there in front of that mountain.  In exchange, for his teaching I get odd jobs in town to make a little money.  But sometimes I don’t make money..or I spend it all…I’d really like to be saving for that cabin.. but Jake…well right now he makes sure my basic needs are taken care of.”

We drove deeper up the dusty moutain pass.

“You know, ever since my car broke down here in Las Vegas I’d always wanted to go to this castle, I’m glad I met you.”

“Thanks… I mean… I couldn’t pass it up.”

I was serious and joking.  I couldn’t pass it up. It was as if it was happening all by itself, besides my driving I wasn’t sure what I was doing.  I let my mind wander, I thought,

How odd that people seem to end up and stay wherever their car breaks down in the southwest.

Nate wasn’t my first encounter on this trip.  I’d also met a young couple in a broken RV who decided to convert it to a semi-permanent camp home.  And I remembered the several families I found living in campers in an Oklahoma.

I thought about this urge to migrate, to be somewhere other than planted.  Images raced through my mind, panning for gold, rushing to California, attempting to make it all the way west and not quite getting there.  I thought about this spark of desire to be free, so much that the only answer is to get in the car and drive.  You follow nothing but the impetus to go and see, and wherever the car stopped, that’s where you were.  And that’s that.  I wondered if that was what was happening to me.  I wondered if I was going to end up marooned in a 500 person town somewhere in the desert.  At least, there’d be others.

The dirt road made way to a narrow paved drive.  We approached the drive and passed through an open gate.  I looked around, suddenly there was green.  We had come from a dusty mountain pass to a landscaped lawn. 

After the gate was a sign,

“Warning, no unauthorized visitors.”   

And then a small placard, 

“Welcome to the World School.”

“Well, let’s go in…park here.”

He pointed to a spot just beyond the warning sign. 

“Do you think we should park somewhere less noticeable?”  I said.

And then added, “did you see the sign?”

“That sign is not for us, it is for other people.”

Nate unbuckled his belt and twisted around to look in the back seat.  He picked up a shirt from the floor and pulled it over his head.   The shirt smelled like body odor and had a smudged charcoal stain on the front.   It’d been worn for several road days in a row.   He sat back down and thought for a second and looked at himself in the side view mirror.

“This won’t do, we’ll need to be more official….we need glasses.”

I leaned over and opened the glove box.  He pulled out a pair of fake reading glasses and gigantic gold glam rock sunglasses.  He put on the sunglasses, and threw the reading glasses to me. 

“Wear these… now, we are ready…come on.”

I stared at Nate.  He looked like a drunk tourist in a woman’s t-shirt.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.

“Come on…let’s goo oo.” He said, looking funny at me.

He added a couple of “o’s” to the end of his sentence and laughed.  He had so much ease in his gesture I was drawn into following him.  What’s the worst that could happen?

Ten steps away from the car, a security jeep pulls up.  The man looks at us up and down once and says simply,

“No.” 

He was a stout, unwaivering middle aged man, with a name tag,

“Roger.”

I wanted to leave, immediately, but I hesitated.  I saw Nate’s upper lip curl into a private smile.  He looked to me and nodded.  It was a movement that kept me quiet and curious, one that said, we’re gonna play.

In an instant, Nate, drew the corners of his mouth down and softened his brow.  His face was fluid and fast.  I took this to mean follow, and like suit I fell disappointed.  I imagined myself as someone who felt confused and hurt.

 “Oh…please…I’ve heard so much about this place and we have traveled so far…”

Roger shook his head, slow and solemnly. 

Nate persisted,

“At least you might reveal more about the new construction on this building…you must understand…we’ve traveled…so far.”

Roger stopped shaking his head, and stared at Nate.  Nate gazed back with pleading, please eyes.

“I’m gonna to ask you two to leave immediately.”

I was ready to go.  I felt my body turning.  My head was back in the car.  Nate was not quite ready to go.

 Allison Distler

Dreams and Determination

I’ll admit it. For many years, I have harbored the fantasy of being a guest on Oprah. I imagine myself sitting on stage in her modern upholstered guest chair, smiling out at the audience, discussing my new book. I feel the glory of applause and gratitude in response to my words. I enjoy the sense of connection, joyful that my creation has touched others. Oprah hugs me, not unlike she hugged Elizabeth Gilbert, and my book, now blessed with her Midas touch, becomes a best-seller.

This story could take on a sarcastic tone at this point. I could exaggerate Oprah’s influence, or poke fun at my fantasy. However, I write this in all earnestness. For many years, Oprah has represented a pinnacle for me, a goal to strive for, a sense of hope for my story being seen and heard by a wide audience.

The ironic thing is that, as of last Wednesday, her show has ended. Yet my dream of writing a book is still alive. My dream didn’t die with the Oprah show.

I believe in my mission, and it seems that universal forces do too. This might sound strange, but I found it necessary to receive the blessing of my maternal ancestors in order to proceed. I come from a lineage of hard-working, salt-of-the-earth women, who gardened for survival rather than enjoyment. I had to confront my guilt around “indulging” in an artistic pursuit when what I really “should” be doing is hoeing the soil to feed my family. But I realized that writing is MY way of working the soil, and my generation is the first in our family to have this option from birth. Once I explained that to my great maternal grandmother, we came to an understanding. No, I’m not a rotten apple on the family tree.

I have carved out time to write beginning June 21. I have divided my word count goals into days. I am not going to let anything stop me. This amount of determination, I’m discovering, is what it takes to write a book. I’ve confronted the “who do you think you are” whispers that have held me back. I’m daring to be more selfish with my time for awhile. I’m ready to roll.

Over the next six months you may find me rolling in self-doubt or reveling in happiness as I pound out a manuscript. I share this with you because good, bad, or ugly, I trust the process of creating something is worth documenting. I’m fully aware how declaring my intentions may be setting myself up for failure. I don’t care. I dare to fail. I'm encouraged by others I've seen do the same, and dammit, I want my daughter to witness me in this process.

So thank you, Oprah, for providing a chair for me to dream into. Thank you creative spark, for sticking around even after that chair has been removed from the stage. Thank you ancestors, for your blessing, and thank you WWFAC for providing me a sense of community to lean on. I’ve got a story to share, and I’m determined.

-- Kim for the Poplar Grove Muse