pressing flowers

When I was young my family would regularly take walks together, usually on Sundays. We would often fight over who got to hold Dad's hand. There were four of us, then five, and six just before he died. His hands were more fun to hold. He was a kid, like us. A gentle jungle gym with an eye for adventure and a tendency toward mischief. He would take us exploring in abandoned houses, catch small wild animals that we would bring home to care for until death or escape, light bottle rockets in city parks and rehearse us in what to say if the cops came, and play kick the can till past dark when all we had was the street lights to reflect our goal and the loud twang of defeat as that light from the can flicked off into the air. Game over.

Mom was the planner. The strict organizer with the busy mind and the stern face. She was very creative. She would make journals for all of us that we would write in or draw pictures for on family nights before bed. She drew sketches of us that I would admire from my bed while I waited for Autumn to turn out the lights. She sewed, and canned, made baskets, taught me about plants and flowers and which berries to eat. She gardened and cleaned, hemmed pants and made quiet books. I felt sorry for her sometimes. One day we were all told to go play outside so She and Dad could talk. That meant they were fighting. As soon as we were out of earshot I informed my siblings and neighbors that they were probably going to get a divorce. I think I had just recently learned about divorce, in fact, they may not have even been fighting after all, maybe they just needed some "Mommy Daddy time." Well, whatever the case, I was convinced their marriage was history and it was time to do some serious thinking about who would live with who. We all insisted that we would live with Dad. I got to thinking about how lonely Mom would be and finally decided that I would stay by her side, she could be fun SOME times. Besides that, Dad only knew how to make popcorn and banana splits.

When we would go for our Sunday walks we would find ourselves negotiating who got to hold Dad's hand. I was always seeking for ways to please my elder siblings, to win their praise and affection. I was often left out of their play, unless they were fighting, then I'd get swindled into the middle of things and sent to do one or the other's dirty work until they made up and pitted their anger against me as if it were all my doing in the first place. Regardless, I saw how much fun they would have together and knew that if I just played my cards right that fun would be mine. So with the promise of playtime or a game of "keep away" (pig in the middle) where I didn't have to be in the middle, my turn on Dad's hand was purchased and my hands were free to pick my nose (as seen above) and gather flowers. Mom would often use these walks as an opportunity to collect willows for her baskets, or flowers for her stationary. She would point out which ones would maintain their beauty when pressed and which ones would bleed out on the pages, which ones could keep color in the heat and which ones would crumble when dried.

When Dad died, leaving six children underfoot and one in the womb, I thought what a twist of fate it was that all of us had ended up with Mom after all. I didn't think she'd make it, shutting herself in her room all day, sobbing in the night. They were hard years, still are sometimes and there have been 19 of them since the day (not exactly, but I believe anniversaries should be reserved for happy occasions). Shamefully, I had despised my Mother. I thought of all the ways she should have made our lives better. I didn't know the full weight of the burden, and even now, with facts previously unknown, I don't. She kept that pain from me, and even in keeping it took from me the pain I offered her in my judgments. In retrospect, I see her now, and with admiration I realize, I couldn't possibly have kept the color and beauty she keeps.

Every day that Jaren leaves me I wonder, sometimes quietly, is that the last time, the last kiss, the last word? My children fight for him, climb and clobber him, explore and capture with him. I now wear the stern look and buzz the busy mind. I try to remember though, to stop and press the flowers.