Reflections on Momma Turning 70 (In Absentia)

Presence and Absence.

I've learned and grown as much in the 7 years of her absence as in my 43 years in her presence. The two are light and shadow. I desperately search and evoke and call on her. Our relationship requires so much more work, thought and intention than it did when I could pick up the phone and call her. To find her has been finding pieces of her in me and also to know the pieces of me that are so different from her. The light and the shadow. The richness of who we (she and I) are.

I miss her every day and, also, she is with me every day. I work to hear her voice, touch the soft skin of her hand and remember what her hair, neck and scalp smelled like when we hugged. I loved hugging her because A: She was the right height and B: I never felt a bit of self consciousness when our bodies were close and C: She is my mother.

In the years since she's been gone and I've had to work so hard to settle her ethereal energy with mine I've learned that there is no running away from pain. I don't know if my mother knew this in life but she does now because in the last 7 years we've learned it together. In the last seven years because of her physical absence we've had no choice. We could only find each other and keep each other by stopping in our tracks and in our pain. And now we know that we can survive all the darkness and all the light by staying still.

It's not easy to conjure her every day. Easier in dreams where she visits me to do uncharacteristically brave and reckless things. Adventuring with me, her girl. But because I never want to be without her I DO conjure her, daily. It's my work and I am a better version of me when I am able to gather her up and assemble all our pieces. I walk, talk, work and play with a greater strength and purpose when I've spent the time to put us together. We're so lucky. I love you Momma. Happy Birthday.

By Cynthia Robin Stoddard Gascon Crandlemere

Here's a throwback. You can read all the Camp Essays here:

 

https://stoddardcamp.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2009-06-12T14:38:00-04:00&max-results=7&start=7&by-date=false

 

Reading this and some of the other pieces about Camp is putting me deeply in touch with all the loss and sadness I've been feeling lately. It's helpful and I'm understanding better why I feel the way I feel. The frustration and the alienation. The grief.  I recommend reading the last line of my mom's feelings on Camp. Then read the rest.  We're so lucky. But I miss my mom and Gram. I miss Wayne. I miss Sekou and Scott. I miss my family and I miss Camp.  -ZSG

 

 

Thursday, June 11, 2009

By Cynthia Robin Stoddard Gascon Crandlemere

To me Camp is Camp with a capital “C”.

 

Camp is old memories. 

 

Mr. Winkley, his profile with his pipe, shark’s teeth, seahorses and candy bars.  Nana in the doorway in a thunderstorm, Grampa and his big Mercury.  (They tell me I tried to wash it for him and he wasn’t amused!)  Cutting our pancakes one bite at a time because Grampa Chick said that is good proper manners.  Not slamming the door.  Daddy in his black and white swim trunks.  The Cushman bread truck.  Burying trash in the woods.  Shampooing in the lake.  The Bretton Woods Boy Singers, “It’s a Grand Night for Singing...” truly a thrill.   Where we were when Marilyn Monroe died, when Bill Murdoch died, the 1968 riots.  Trips to Abbotts for Popsicles and comic books.

A real fireplace.  Picking blueberries.  Trips to Storyland.  Trying to get a tan.  Taking the boat out in the lake to read a book.  The sound of “Taps” coming from Robin Hood.

 

Never once in all the years of my childhood realizing how fortunate we were to have a “summer home”.

 

Camp is newer old memories. 

 

Weddings.  Sleeping on the sofa bed in the living room surrounded by a crowd on the floor, staying up late.  The “Who the hell is Linda?” award.  The smell of pine and ferns.  Papa Dick.  The next generation playing, “Ew wanna pay wif fia?”  Is the front the front or the back?  Boogieman path and walks around the loop.  Slamming the door.  New traditions, like the Madison Donation.  Endless possibilities for new traditions.

 

Camp today owns and holds all these memories and so many more.

 

Camp inspires writing like this from Zoë and Donna, the younger generation: “This (photo of Camp) is hard to look at when it's whatever-below outside and the depths of winter.  I like this photo and it makes me think of all the people who aren't in it, but must be just around the corner. There's Tommy with a big pan of food to put on the picnic table...or the kids laughing in the water, Raetha napping in the hammock and David emerging from the bunk house wondering what's smells so good...in come the twins and Shani having just woken up wondering who's around and Ben is full of glee to see them wondering if they'll let him hang with them... Meanwhile Neil is finishing up the last batch of dishes, goddess bless his soul.”

 

Camp is food, from old days to new.  Fresh caught trout with catsup and English muffins.  Pancakes with chocolate ice cream.  A&P spice bar cake for Mom’s birthday.   “Camp spaghetti”.   Boxes of “Seconds” chocolates from Abbott’s.  Tommy’s smoked meat.  Clam dip.  Baked Alaska.  Corn on the cob.  Blueberries. Chewing on Checkerberry leaves.  Camp is where I can cook all day long.

 

Camp is important exactly because it is important to every single person in this family and more.  It is the very essence of what makes us a family, while at the same time gives us a special place to celebrate being a family.  We are Camp and Camp is us.  We will never know how close we all would or would not be if we didn’t have this place to “be” together.

 

Camp is Old Home.  Old Home has so many memories of it’s own.

 

And all the memories are so vivid and alive because Camp is still so alive, the touchstone for us all.  Camp holds the echoes of precious voices that are gone and precious voices still to come.

 

And of course seeing my child and then my grandchildren swimming and playing in the same spot in the same lake where I swam and played is such a tremendous gift.

 

But most of all Camp is where my Mama is.  Always has been and always will

Ryan Fucking Adams

One of my best friends introduced me to Ryan Adams some 15 years ago. She herself was inculcated by her own brilliant, difficult, complicated lover/partner/friend in to this world of poetry and blues and pop, folk, heartache, joy and pain. She commented to me once about the music, "he's all you need." And it's true. The breadth of his songs; the way they can address every and any emotion and mood, both lyrically and musically...his catalogue has been my go-to ever since I learned. I love this music.

Now we know what we are not shocked to discover: The guy is an abusive, destructive dick in his personal life. The worst part has to do with the voices and talent of women he stifled: whose dreams were quashed and whose poetry and song we may never get to hear. And how can we possibly separate the behavior and the fallout and the harm from the songs, from the music?

I don't know the answer and I'm afraid to even ask the question. I want the guy to be held accountable and I don't want him to profit for another minute or dollar. Because he silenced women, some of whom were likely as or more creative and talented and multifaceted in their art as he. But that's almost irrelevant because even if they were not, silencing any woman is a crime against all of us so how can I possibly keep listening?

And yet...I do.  I don't think I'm going to stop.

So I'm sorry. I believe the women he hurt and I'm grateful for their bravery. Because they are changing the culture and tearing down misogyny and patriarchy by raising their voices. And if I have to stop listening, if turning off this music will help the culture change and those women heal, tell me how and why and I will. Of course I will.

We all have these men in our lives. This blog is dedicated to the most important one in mine. He was not as powerful or broadly destructive as Ryan Adams. But he was also brilliant and complicated, witty and charming. And he caused harm, too. And we loved him until he died and beyond, because we do.

I'm going to go listen to Jason Isbell and Phoebe Bridgers now.

The Grownups

The grownups in my family were so much fun and it was great to be a child in their wild midst. No one was more fun than my Uncle Scott. He was, for a good part of the 1980s, something of the darling of the family. Here are some poor quality videos, but better than nothing. Goodbye Scotty Brown. We love you always. 

Deep Grief continued. Plus gratitude. Plus Joy.

Nearly a year she's been gone. Her face is the one I conjure when I need peace or strength. My whole life, more than 46 years, I was lucky enough to have her be my grandmother. She's still my grandmother and I'm still lucky. But oh, to touch her soft skin and smell her sweet head! To see that look in her eyes when you know she is listening so hard to everything you're saying because no matter what it is it's the most important thing in the world in that moment. To hear her holler our names and scold us. To watch her teach my little cousins and their children how to swim and cook (not well) and knit just like she taught me and my children. Remember that look of astonished joy she'd get if you told her about something great your kid did? Or your friend's kid did? Some little accomplishment? That beautiful smiling face.

And I'm so glad I always knew. I always knew how lucky I was that she was my gram. How lucky I was that she was my role model. How lucky I was to be hers.

She was scared a year ago when she was dying. She was really scared and it was really fucking real and horrible. But then when we knew it was true and the morphine did its thing it was ok. We all got to hold her as she went. Even the ones who couldn't be physically present in the room. We told her we loved her over and over again, stroked her hand, her hair, kissed her sweet, soft cheek. Kali sang to her and to all of us and made a sound-loop of lake sounds. We told stories and jokes; some at her expense. People I had never met came in to kiss her goodbye and tell us what she meant to them and we welcomed them as family and asked them to stay as long as they wished because that's what she does. I watched my daughter say goodbye to her great grandmother. And I missed my mother like I always do but not like you might think.

Henekis said it best with the Gladys Knight song she played at the service for Gram: Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me. I listen to that song and remember what Grammy always said: "We're so lucky." She was almost 95 and we got to say goodbye.

On deep grief and what to do about it

I found a letter that Champ wrote to his mother in 1965, shortly after his father died. I am so moved by his tender understanding of her grief at the loss of her husband and his grief in losing his father.  And comforted by his wisdom; words he wrote before my birth that fill me with love nearly 30 years after his death.

Champ and my mom at camp in 1952

     I want to hear from you exactly as to how your thoughts are moving through your mind though it tears my heart to read them. Still, I need to know, and you know that my feelings are the same.
     All the pleasurable little things in life that you treasure up, you treasure up to tell someone, sometime, who will share that pleasure in the only way you want it shared, and who will appreciate them as much as you.  All the little accomplishments you can't tell someone else because you feel they will think you too proud, you can tell to that special one who will feel as proud as you, and understand.  All the burdens that come to be too much to try to resolve, you bring out to that special one, because he will take the problem over and solve it, or at least fret it through with you.  In so many things in life you find the ever comforting thought that, when you want to, there is a place to turn.  I do understand.  Now that is gone.  The things to tell can't get told.   The problems seem insurmountable.  The joy of life is truly in sharing and knowing that the opportunity to share has been taken away, the joy of things won't seem to come out.  But surely there will be people to love, and people to share with you, and people to understand, some more deeply than you expect, although the high percentage of shallowness and preoccupation and self interest to be found in those around you will be discouraging.  But you don't need many, you need only one, or perhaps I should say one for each interest.  And there need not be a withholding.  That is a thing that will hurt you more and more.  Don't get introverted and withdrawn, but share your appreciations with others and realize that little gifts and attentions and words of praise and other thoughtful "out-goings" will keep you busy and make you happy.  When something has been shared and fallen on sterile ground and failed to take root, don't be discouraged.  Nature isn't that perfect and many seeds are scattered in to Earth's loose graveled mind to wither and fail to come to promise.

Tonight's gratitude

Just the first 5 things that pop up:

--Oh-my-god the Baja evening sky with that badass sun finally setting
--The lessons that badass sun is teaching me every day
--Tubas and accordions
--Oceans and seas
--The breeze. Baja breeze. Bald Hill Pond breeze. Any breeze that gently kisses my cheek and reminds me of love.