December, 20, 2020
I don’t know which is worse, breaking off part of my nose or splitting my reading glasses in two. For the third night in a row I have gone to sleep with my glasses on and rolling over, whack and waking, what happened? Last time I got hit in the nose was with a rubber tomahawk, I’ll tell you about that when we get to Mardi Gras time. But the glasses weren’t the only thing that disturbed my sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night I realized something was rolling around in my bed, by my legs. I woke with a start, turned on the light, pulled back the covers and there they were, four avocados, still in their little purple net bag. If they’d had on little googlely eyes I would have had a heart attack. What were they doing there, trying to get ripe in the warmth of my winter body? Jeepers, I’d been wondering what happened to them. In a little camper it’s amazing how often a person can misplace things, it’s not like there’s a lot of space in here for things to hide.
Last winter, before my pandemic spring camping trips, after my new hip got into gear, I went to my friends’ farm where Snowball was spending her vacation and thought I’d charge her up and take her for a spin, go out to the flats to look at the snow geese and trumpeter swans. It was a sunny day, cool and not too breezy, perfect for winter birdwatching. As I opened the door, what to my wondering eyes did appear, but tiny little mouse droppings from here to here to here. Oh, dear. So much for my birdwatching afternoon. So, let this be a lesson to you, in campers and motorhomes, RVs stored for the winter: don’t leave your good Hudson’s Bay wool blanket in the cupboard, a box of Triscuits in another one, your favorite fleecy camping fleece unattended, someone will move in and make a nest. Maybe not just someone, but an extended family of friends and relations with tails and little pink ears. They were just trying to get warm.
Three days later, after a bottle of clorox, six loads of laundry and three pairs of rubber gloves the matter was solved, and Snowball clean as a whistle. No more staying at the farm. I should have had a cat in there, maybe. After an educational afternoon spent at Ace Hardware examining the rodent repellant options, I realized preventive measures should have started a lot sooner. I hadn’t anticipated mice, there were all those other things going on, the new hip, the looming Coronavirus. At least I was somewhat prepared, mouse droppings called for a mask.
So when the unidentified-as-yet avocados began rolling around between my ankles, you can’t imagine my panic. Were they back? Something bigger? A squirrel? Moving right along.
The other day I received a packet in the mail from my brother, delivered to my friends’ home in Ocean Springs. I picked it up after a trip to town and brought it back to read by the campfire. In a patch of solstice sun, I opened his “1972 Notes and Reflections.” Gee, I wish I could write like that, so linear and clear, no wild tangents. For someone whose experiences then were wild, reckless and risky, his writing now is tame and completely organized. His old English teachers would be pleased. I called him up to thank him and after we chatted for a while, he told me he’d just read about the artist Francis Bacon who said: Study the history of art; be willing to make a fool of yourself; and paint what you see.
For me, making a fool of myself is the easy part. I just look in the mirror. I haven’t worn any make-up in months and my hair, I cut it myself every time something sticks out, and it looks it, quite uneven and decidedly shaggy. If we’re not painting, maybe we write what we see or photograph. That is one of the joys of travel, the keeping of a journal, the observations and conversations, the things people either ask or tell us.
The woman who works here at the park comes by my camp periodically and says, “I want to be just like you.”
I take off my hat and show her my hair. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she says, not even noticing.
“I want to be able to travel by myself, live simply, and explore this beautiful country, I want to go to
Yellowstone and the Grand Canyon, Craters of the Moon, and the Dry Tortugas.”
“Oh, the Dry Tortugas,” I say, “That’s still on my list.”
Coming away from the Craters of the Moon in Idaho, once, I stopped at a little cafe called Lucky’s. It had been several days since I’d had a hot meal or even a shower, I was traveling in my van, it had been rainy. I was tired of peanut butter and apples; it had been too wet to cook outdoors. I said to the young waitress who came to the table, “I’d needed to get off the road, it’s been a long day. She gave me the eye, her hand on her hip, “What are you driving, a semi-truck?” She turned away and brought me a bowl of popcorn. Later, when I looked in the restroom mirror, I thought presciently, am I taking Francis Bacon’s advice, making a fool of myself?
The avocados are perfectly ripe, I had one for lunch mixed with with a cara-cara orange and a splash of grape-seed oil. I telephone an old friend, my brother’s first wife to whom he’d also sent his Reflections, for they spoke about the summer we’d all lived together. Like the leafy forest floor here, when she responds, all sorts of memories float up, emotions, anecdotes, silliness like these oak leaves spinning into a whirlwind, our phone connection cannot contain the energy. Almost fifty years have gone by, our stories weave and mingle and not one of us remembers the whole. What remains is the love; we laugh now, how young we were, so earnestly foolish. I read her a poem I wrote about a mutual friend from that time. He’d been in the hospital and it was touch and go for a while. It didn’t matter whether it made complete sense to her, or even to me, what mattered was that it was important for me to write, think about our time together.
We write, making fools of ourselves or not, finding the courage to face those avocados rolling about our sleeping bed, like dreams from a distant murky past. But like those thick nut-brown seeds held by toothpicks in jars of water on the kitchen window sill, friendships grow long roots, sprout and grow leafy green, what we have learned from one another.
“I still make bread the way you showed me how,” she said.
“Yes,” I say, and I have mastered your cabbage salad, to say nothing of your calm and steadfast fortitude. You are a good friend, a good friend, indeed.”
“Yes,” she replies, “Yes, we are good friends, and wait ‘til you see my garden, it’s almost as nice as yours.”
“It’s better now,” I tell her, “For all I have now is a red geranium in a clay pot on my summer doorstep.”
Be safe, we say to one another, be safe.
With thanks to brother, Loring Baker, and dear friends, Marilyn Jackson and Charlie Luehmann.
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