Rachael

Last year or the year before my mother called on my birthday and got my cell phone. She sang me a message, which I’ve been saving every 21 days as it gets close to expiration in my voice mail.

I’ve been terrified of hearing it. So I listened to it tonight, in my hotel room, a day early. Just to get it over with. I was already crying, what more could it hurt?

Her voice. Her New Zealand accent. She sang, and said she hoped she talked to me later, and told me to have a lovely day.

Her voice was so damn quick on the machine. So bright. So her.

Now that I’ve started typing, I can’t stop crying.

I’ve been doing so WELL. Being up here working the fires has been great. I’m so far from anything I know, anything I love. I’m so busy and working so hard, learning so much, for long hours. It’s driven most other thoughts out of my mind.

My room looks over the Eel River, and the fog is rolling in for the night. I don’t know what to do. I love fireworks, never miss them, but do I want to go chase them tonight? In a strange town? I did hear where there’ll be a show, but do I want to be around that many happy little families? I don’t think I do.

So. Now I’ve been sitting here for long minutes, staring at this post, watching the fog roll in and the parking lot below fill up with firefighters from all over the nation. I keep writing sentences and erasing them. For some reason, whenever I’m sad about Mom and writing about it here, I think about that ugly email I got the night Mom first got sick (don’t go looking for it — all reference has been deleted). Sometimes now, when writing about Mom, my words feel stifled. I don’t want that person to ever read my blog and gloat, reveling that all isn’t perfect in my world. But sitting here, watching the sky, I just decided I’m going to stop thinking like that. All is perfect and just as it is supposed to be in my world, even with the loss of one of my favorite people. Underneath the grief, I am happy, as usual, and it makes me sad that there are people out there in the world, who deliberately try to cause other people pain. She even took her email a little further that same awful week, in something I won’t write about here — she was trying yet again to cause pain, but of course she failed in a big way. I’m glad she failed, because she was just being mean-spirited and small. But it makes me sad that she’s that sad. It has to be sadness, right? That makes people want to be mean for the fun of it, that disguises itself as mad or hot-tempered or aggrievedly self-righteous or just mean? It’s just sadness. It kind of sounds weird, I know, but it makes my heart hurt even more that some people are THIS SAD all the time. That the way I feel tonight is what maybe she feels all the time. I wish that weren’t so. For anyone, ever.

Whew. Now that I’ve thought that out, dealt with the strange feeling that’s been holding back my words sometimes, I feel better. The sky outside my window is GORGEOUS now, all pink fog rising above the steely river, the redwoods slanting into the hills. I’m not going to watch fireworks, and I’m fine with that. This year’s holidays will be hard, and this is no small exception. So I’ve run a bath, and I’m going to read my book, and then I’m going to get into my HUGE high-thread-count nice-hotel sheets and watch more ANTM online, because contrary to what Lala says, America’s Next Top Model is a better grief tool than old kung-fu movies. Any day. Happy fourth. Tomorrow, happy birthday to me (with all this overtime I’m making up here, I’m getting myself a big ole MOM tattoo. See if I won’t). And my birthday wish is peace and joy to all who need it. That’s a good wish. Yes.

[Hi, you sweet things. This is preblogged from the past. Right now I’m
actually up north, at an expanded dispatch near Eureka, working  the
fires that no doubt you’ve heard about. If I may brag about my dispatch
center again: we’re becoming known for having incident dispatchers
qualified in lots of specialties — we get requested across the state
for big fires, and sometimes even other states borrow our dispatchers
to work on their lines. I’ll be up there for as long as two weeks, so
if you don’t hear from me for a while, don’t worry.

In the meantime, pretend like I’m just writing this today:]

I had a one of those La Brainy thrift-store days a few days ago. In one spot (Thrift Town, El Sobrante), I scored a pair of Doc Martens for four bucks, and a pair of cowboy boots for ten.

AND, while I was cruising the store, a customer randomly walked up to me and gave me a clipped coupon for three dollars off.

I found a piece of fabric that was REALLY loud but I liked something about it. It was ninety-nine cents. When I got it home and unbundled it from its masking tape wrapping, it turned out to be about five yards. Dude. For bright red and shiny gold fabric, that was a little much, so I decided to use it as a muslin for testing a dress pattern I wanted to make.

I have never in my life succeeded in making a dress that I would dare to wear out of the house. Many, many skirts, yes. I can make a skirt. I can make a skirt in a half-hour. Out of a pillowcase. But not a dress.

So I decided to use my brain. I would just practice with this fabric. Instead of guessing at my measurements, I would actually take them. And then I made the size THAT WOULD FIT ME. Sewing does have an odd aspect to it: while I fit comfortably in size 10 or 12 jeans at most retailers, I am an 18 in sewing patterns. I’m a person who is comfortable in my skin, so that doesn’t send me into a spin, but it makes me go, "huh." You know?

And in cutting the pattern pieces for this particular pattern (New Look 6375), I had to draft it out a bit, since the bust would work, but the waist was too small. I was so pleased with myself for thinking! For using my head! For realizing that no, my waist is NOT 30 inches, and no matter what I think it is, I need to cut the pattern for what will FIT. I think I am so used to knitting, where we regularly plan for negative ease, that I forget that cotton fabric is, well, a little less forgiving. Positive ease is my friend.

So I cut. And then cut the fabric pieces. Then I sewed. And I basted the bodice and tried it on (another stupid thing I’ve done in the past is just sew-sew-sew till done, try on, and realize I’m a moron for not trying on earlier). It fit! I sewed some more. Tried it on. Raised the hem. It fit even better!

The weird thing is, when it was done the dress looked good. In the practice fabric. The same fabric that Lala had wrinkled her nose at when I’d shown it to her. It did look outrageous in the bolt. And it looked pretty outrageous when made into a dress and lying flat. But on me, it kinda works. What do you think?

I’m so proud of myself! All I want to do is make dresses! Now I want to make one like this:

But if you want to buy this adorable little thing, it’s HERE. I think I’m going to attempt it using Simplicity pattern 3774 (recommended to me by the nice gals at Pattern Review). Maybe I can make another one I can wear out of the house.

In the meantime, today when I went to the county fair I wore this:

It wasn’t until after I put everything on that I realized I’d made the sweater (Bella) and the undertank (Coachella) and the skirt (those are martini glasses in black on the blue and green background). So I took a picture. I’ve come a long way, baby.

(Amy and the bunnies – email me! Thank you! So much!)

I said, "What if we get married at the Oakland City Clerk’s office? I saw a picture of Kira and Rachel’s ceremony they had there yesterday, and there’s a wedding-ring quilt hanging behind them. So it can’t be all that sterile."

Lala said, "Sounds good."

"And then, what if we walk over to Baggy’s? To have a drink-up after with all our friends? You know, nice and circular, the place where we had our first date….."

"That sounds great."

"Really?"

"I always have fun marrying you," she said.

No date set yet, but I’ll keep you posted. Love is good stuff. Happy Pride.

It’s the most watched video on the internet right now (and only went up four days ago), but if you’ve missed it, please go watch Matt dance. I’d embed it here, but you should watch it in high quality (button below the main box on youtube) and in full-screen. I don’t think it’s just because I’m overly emotional that I bawled while watching it.

It’s beautiful. Enjoy.

The memorial for Mom was so hard. But it was pretty great, too. The church was full of people, many of whom I didn’t even recognize. Others I knew by sight, but would never have been able to put a name to. I was way more emotional than I thought I’d be — I thought I’d gone through the range of emotions and had sorted the first bits of stuff out, but I almost wasn’t able to read the Henry Scott Holland piece that I wanted to. I know how to project, but my voice shook, and I hated that. I wanted to be clear and strong. My father closed with his eulogy, and I swear there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. The church was quiet as he started, but the sniffs started to ripple as he spoke about his best friend, his wife.

It just kilt us all.

[An aside – this is my new gift to the environment: Handkerchiefs. I’ve been using them all month, and there have been a LOT of dribbly nose blows. Allergies and grief is an ugly combination. I always thought using a handkerchief would be gross, but as it turns out, it’s comforting in a way that Kleenex never could be. If you think you have to blow a lot, carry two, but one is really enough. I keep one in my pocket, use it when I need it, and I wash the used ones with my clothes. If I forget one in a pocket, no biggee. No Kleenex bits all through the dryer. And I am Kleenex crazy — used to be OBSESSED with always having a box near me. One in every room. Now I’m not. Saving the world, one little piece of paper at a time.] [See? I mitigated that last sad bit with a soapbox bit. Whew.]

Then we went to the parents’ house (I should move that apostrophe, but I don’t want to), where we held a lovely cross between a reception and a wake. It was a potluck musical gathering. People brought food and instruments, and we set up chairs all throughout the huge backyard. Groups of people gathered in small clumps — older men talking about wars they’d fought in, older women talking about church/book matters, the old-time musicians playing serious fiddle tunes in one area, kids smearing themselves with dirt and strawberry juice in another.

Later, we non-serious musicians kicked the serious ones out by joining the music circle with our ukuleles (okay, MY ukulele) and a particular fiddle-tune-killing request. If you know an old-time musician, just try it. Demand a Kingston Trio song. A the mention of the Kingston Trio, it is truly hysterical to watch them remember their pots on their stoves as they scramble backwards like crabs, reaching for their gig bags. So we musicians who like lyrics took over the song-circle and we sang every Kingston Trio, Woody/Arlo Guthrie, John Hartford, Pete Seeger song we could think of, throwing in all the lyrics we could remember, sprinkled with a good dose of "bah-di-bah-blooo-bahs" when words failed us. We sang our family anthem, the Washing Machine song, twice, once in our circle, and once in the room where my sister Christy was lying. She liked that.

Christy’d been feeling really ill the whole day. She was a trouper that morning, vacuuming and cleaning, setting things up, and she made it to the church, and walked around the reception, smiling when people hugged her, even though she felt so sick. Then she took to bed, letting the party swirl out in the main room. And later woke up WITH APPENDICITIS! She had to have her appendix out yesterday morning. Seriously, how much does your day blow, if you memorialize your beloved mother and then have to go for immediate surgery? Dude. She’s due to be released this morning. Our poor thing.

Some pictures. Just because I want them here.

Lala is cute; I might be a little manic here.

Dad’s the one in black, La’s got her back to us.

Gaynelle, part of our family.

One of the more serious circles

Babies and beer!

Father-in-law Tony Hulse (he and mom-in-law Jeannie came all the way out from Boise!) and my Dad. Little sister Bethany sticks out her tongue like Dad does when she’s concentrating.

Lala’s pride and joy: the 1957 Gibson her dad gave her last year for her birthday.

For Mom:

  Death is nothing at all. It does not count. 
   I have only slipped away into the next room. 
      Nothing has happened.
        Everything remains exactly as it was. 
          I am I, and you are you, and the old life
            that we lived so fondly together is untouched,
              unchanged.
           Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
          Call me by the old familiar name.
       Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. 
    Put no difference into your tone.
 Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes
  that we enjoyed together.   
   Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. 
     Let my name be ever the household word 
       that it always was.
        Let it be spoken without an effort, 
          without the ghost of a shadow upon it. 
           Life means all that it ever meant. 
           It is the same as it ever was.
        There is absolute and unbroken continuity. 
      What is this death but a negligible accident? 
    Why should I be out of mind 
   because I am out of sight?
    I am but waiting for you,
      for an interval, 
        somewhere very near,
         just round the corner. 
           All is well.

				Henry Scott Holland