Heels To Boot

Brushing hair. It’s fluffy. Not my preferred look. Comes from washing it today. Wearing a light purple top, and a pair of loose brown pants. It doesn’t look as bad as I thought.

Dad’s busy moving around, he’s going over after mass. Me too. I’m not a catholic.

Pick my way through the mess in the room. Scrawl down some ideas. Gotta make this one work… nothing else has. Climb into the armchair with the footrest permanently up. Cross legs, hunch forward, sip water.

Look up photos of old TVs, they’re all the ones with the buttons on the side, not the bottom. And I can’t remember what colours they use for those stripes at the end of videos. It’s been so long since I saw it.

Do I have time to put one of the old videos in the player? We still have the old duel player.

Father’s watching TV. He’s in his collared blue polo shirt with his long beige trousers. One leg hooked over the arm of the large leather chair. He wants to watch the end of shortland street. Something about a kid with autism and a girl being an activist. I want to pretend I don’t know who at least one of the characters is. And I’m surprised because I don’t recognise the new girl. Or the kid.

It’s over. I put in the tape. There’s three remotes. The tv is silver, it weighs as much as I do. There’s only one set of batteries. Switch them back and forth, hit the right buttons, swear at the tv. Get the stripes, notice that they include colours i didn’t expect, like pale yellow, two kinds of blue, realise it must be because the TV is so wide, the last one I saw the stripes on was half it’s width. Run to get cellphone to take picture. It’s gone when I get back. Can’t get it back. Stupid thing.

Time to go over. I can hear the voices.

I walk down the steps off the veranda, spot Dad picking grass for the rabbits, then follow the path round the house to the silverbeet patch. I grew it myself, there’s curly kale there too. The rabbits can eat both. Ever since Smooch got sick I’ve been careful. I nursed him for a week… I was so scared.

I pick some silverbeet and kale for them. They come running to the doors of their hutches, and take the food out of my hands. They usually let me pat them if there’s food in it for them. I sit and watch them sometimes. Toby, the tame rabbit who thinks he’s wild, is moulting (I spelt that wrong to begin with. Tom gave me the right spelling). He’s half cinnamon and half white, with tufts coming off everywhere. I close the hutch.

My pony can see me through the fence. He’s whuffling at me. I poke a handful or two of grass through to him. I tell mother that he’s whuffling. We always talk about the animals. I can’t remember a time when we didn’t.

Mother’s coming back through the gate, holding her notebook. She’s making a speech, she’s been practising all day. Part of me wants to edit it, make it… better. Make it sound like those impassioned speeches you hear in movies, or read in essays. I’ve been feeling numb, cynical and cold all day. My mind is like this hard, cold little ball, I can feel it behind my eyes.

The house is right next to the church, and the hall is just down this little hill. The older ones have trouble with the hill. They’re all old, really.

I have a sketch book and pencil with me. I have this image of myself sitting on the grass sketching something, and having somebody notice me, be fascinated, or just want to talk to me.

My Dad spots Mr Roach, he’s about 105 I think. He’s irish, he’s got three relatives with him. He’s sitting on his mobility scooter. Dad reminds him who he is. He shakes his hand. He looks so thin.

The hall is hot. So hot. The kind of hot that makes the air feel thick, like you’re walking through soup, breathing it in. My little sister is there… she’s taller than me. The scar in the middle of her chest is visible above the neckline of her dress. She’s got baby blue on over a beige dress. High heels even.

Outside there’s the smell of smoke. I hate people smoking, makes me feel sick. But inside the heat presses in. There’s not a single thing I can see that’s vegetarian friendly. I’m trying to lose weight anyway. Wish I’d had time to make those banana muffins. I like making those, people tell me how good they are.

I feel awkward, wandering through the people, the only ones even close to my age are my sister’s friends.

I watch a kid I’ve known and thought was awesome since he was knee high, telling another kid how much he’s grown. He’s even showing the other kid where he used to come up to on him. I remember thinking the same thing. I remember people telling it to me. They weren’t 12 at the time, but still. I remember.

I walk outside, see my sister sitting down with her friends. I go to tell them about what I’ve just seen. I get the ‘fuck off’ vibe pretty clearly. Fair enough, I still feel lost.

I make a few more circuits through the crowd. They’re all so old. There’s parents with young kids though, somewhere in the crowd.

I wander back up the hill, talk to my pony briefly, my old man. He’s whuffling every time I go past, telling me that dinner is late and he shall complain to the management. He has this deep, throaty sort of a nicker, it sounds a bit like an old man grumbling, but he can somehow put all this meaning into it, it’s got an edge of urgency, and a healthy dose of disapproval, and a sort of hopeful, slightly scared trust, like he wants to believe Mum will bring dinner, but he remembers when I’ve let him down before. His paddock is next to the house. My big horse looks on hopefully.

Mother’s working on her speech. I tell her I’m a bit out of place. She tells me I can hang out with her. Ok, sure…

We go back over. Mother almost immediately detaches, to talk to other people. It’s like building a maze out of people.

Some one spots the pencil behind my ear and asks to borrow it. They’re talking to Sister Joan. The reason we’re all here.

She’s wearing a long blue dress. It’s hard to imagine her without a cardigan. I remember when my pony sneezed green all over her cardigan when I was twelve.

I get water. The hall is so hot. The noise isn’t a drone so much as a roar, echoes bouncing until it’s not a series of sounds but a creature itself. It could be louder, I’ve heard louder.

I wander outside, and spot Fergus, the kid I saw earlier. He’s sitting with my sister. When I sit down he asks me if I liked my Christmas present. He tells me that since I broke my sisters colander he and his family gave her a new one. My sister tells him that my horse broke it. I tell them both that it was broken to begin with, but my horses probably had a hand in it. I think about adding ‘hoof’, but don’t say it. I tell him the last time I saw him he nearly split his skull on an axe. It’s a long story.

Fergus tells me he got a new air rifle. I ask him how many feet per second? 1000? Break barrel or pump? Break? Spring or gas? Spring? Really? for 1000fps? He says maybe it’s compressed air. I say that usually compressed air is pump or it has a canister. My dad comes over, says hello to Fergus. I ask him if a spring can do 1000fps. Fergus says he thinks the spring is about 30lbs. Yeah, that’s do it.

My sister tells me off for talking over Fergus’s head to Dad.

My sisters friends come back, one of them is Fergus’ older sister. He steals a cream puff, and it squirts cream on him. It’s already happened to my sister and another of her friends. We’re sitting at picnic tables outside. People are moving around. It’s dusk. It’s so nice and cool outside.

My sister and her friends go to sit at another table. We’re not cool enough for them. It’s not so hurtful now as a little bit funny.

Somehow Fergus and I get to talk about technology, the ages of man, the development of science, how the winners write the history books, and future tech. When everybody’s called inside for the official part of the evening, we’re discussing atomic structure. He knows more than I do. It makes me think of the comic I just finished, transmetropolitan, with their ‘makers’ that produce goods by shifting atoms around. At the end they say that made never tastes as good as grown.

We find a seat. Fergus teases my mother about practicing her speech. I didn’t tell him, my sister did.

Fergus asks me for the recipe to a salsa I made a few years ago. I write it down for him in my sketchbook.

Somebody I don’t know starts talking into the mic.

Then he calls up my mother to make her speech.

For the first minute I’m still absently writing down the recipe. The hall is silent.

She talks in a slightly too soft voice, the pacing is off, she loses her place a bit. She talks about the history of the Brigidine nuns, how Sister Joan first came to the community. She starts with a greeting in maori. People look at her a bit funny. There aren’t many maori people here. But I think she means it. It sounds trite to me, but I think she means it.

She starts to talk about the things people say about Sister Joan… none of them are epic, or impassioned, or poetic. They’re the awkward, unelegant, and heartfelt truth. They mean every word.

I’m fighting not to cry. My throat aches. The speech is nearly ten minutes long. It isn’t riveting, but no one looks away.

I want my mother to talk in words that capture the truth, the kind of truth that reaches out and wraps itself around you and paints a whole reality for every sense, something so fitting and accurate that somehow it could do justice to Sister Joan.

But really… flashy words aren’t my mother. Flashy words aren’t these people. Flashy words aren’t really even me. I just wish they were. I don’t know why.

When the speech is over, they clap.

Sister Joan gets up, slowly. She starts to talk, but the mic isn’t close enough and she speaks so softly. They shift the mic a little. She always talks slowly, and softly, and pauses when she needs to think of the words and catch her breath. She doesn’t do big flashy words either, but she’s the kind of person where a simple “thank you” is better than a flourish of trumpets. She’s the kind of person you can’t help but love, even if you could never appreciate her enough.

They show her the computer desk they bought for her, and two kids roll up the brand new chair. She’s going to write in her new home, in masterton, with the last of the Brigidine sisters. There’s only 14 left. They’re dying. In a few years… there won’t be any. I have a breif moment imagining the last one.

One of the sisters from the Brigidine order makes a speech, thanking us for taking care of Joan, and saying how Joan has always preached without words. And she’s right.

Then it’s over. Fergus’ mother tells him they have to go. I tear out the salsa recipe and hand it to him. I probably won’t see him again for another year. I like that kid. Somehow he’s kept the Zimbabwean accent despite having been in NZ for nearly a decade.

I wander the hall. I want to talk to Sister Joan, but so does everybody else. She’s leaving tomorrow afternoon.

I talk to Mr Roach, he’s so thin… it takes a few minutes before he realises who I am. I’m not sure if he really does, all the same. He’s deaf as a post, got no teeth. But his handshake… that scares me. I’ve never known him not to have a strong handshake. I was frightened I’d break his hand. He’s so frail.

They’re all so frail. The parish is growing older. It’s dying. I look at the photos on the board of Sister Joan, she’s in the background in most of them, doing things with people. She always had time for people, for anyone. She always listened. She always cared.

I’m not a catholic. It shouldn’t matter to me that the church seems to be dying. But it does. It matters to me that something holding these people together, for better or for worse, that has done good, that could produce and take care of people like Sister Joan, is dying.

But there are young people there, kids mostly, none of the people I went to school with are there, none of the ones who went to church every day long after I stopped. Where are they? It would have been awkward to talk to them anyway.

I wander outside. The school is right next to the hall. I went there as a kid. I find the swings. It’s all different now. More gardens, more artwork. I hated this place so much, until just before I left.

I love swings. It’s one of those things you don’t really remember until you do it again. I’m afraid the creaky old chains won’t take my weight, but they complain, and hold. I love the feel of the air rushing past me, playing with my hair.

I imagine some one seeing me, being fascinated by me. I think about sharing this with Tom. Wanting to share it with him, wondering if he’d understand it. I don’t know. But I also think that you can never share all of yourself with some one, you can show it, yes, but to share is a two way thing, and you can’t completely connect on everything. Even if he didn’t understand, it’d still be special to me. He’d still be special. I’d still love him.

I’ve always wanted to jump off the swing at it’s highest point, the way the kids used to at school. I’m too scared to even now.

After dragging my shoes along the ground to slow down I eventually stagger off the swing and wander back to the hall.

I can see Mr Roach getting into a car, his relatives are with him, helping him in. He’s got family all around him. He won’t die alone. What a wonderful thing. In all the photos he always looks so stern, he always wears the stern expression. He has those diamond blue eyes. They remind me of how I read in a book about eyes like that being called gimlets. He’s totally different from Sister Joan, but he’s just the same… the way we all think of him, even if we haven’t seen him for months, or years. God it’s been years… and I’ve been here every week. He’s important, he’s… he’s the foundations. And he’ll keep being the foundations long after his name has been forgotten.

I wander up the hill. I want to cry so badly. I go into the horse paddock. And I pat my pony. He’s 28. He’s unsteady on his feet. Every day I worry, and worse, some days I don’t, and I feel guilty.

Sister Joan will be gone tomorrow. I tried to talk to her, but somebody else cut in front, I don’t know what I would have said anyway. So much for fancy words.

I’m crying now. Not for long though. When I’ve given my pony a kiss, much to his disgust. I go to get his cover on the other side of the paddock. My horse is waiting for me. I cuddle him too. I love them both so much. It’s the kind of love that runs in the blood, you don’t notice your heart beat, but you couldn’t live without it.

I start to think. The fear that today is the last day should never destroy today. Otherwise, it robs me of today.

My pony spots me coming with the cover, he puts his ears back, turns his bum on me and stalks away. I start to laugh. I’m crying too. He’s such a prick.

I put his cover on. I love him so much. I start to think about writing this evening down on the blog. I like to write. I like to imagine other people reading, and hearing my voice.

He follows me to the gate, and when I look around he pretends he wasn’t following me. I look at the last of the sunset. It’s beautiful. I think about how in the past few days everything that’s seemed important has overshadowed all this. All this beauty, all this laughter and love. I imagine people seeing me in my nice purple top and brown pants, with mud from my horse’s nose on them, and a black layer of dirt on my fingertips. Somehow… I feel more comfortable like this. Part of me wants to be the glamourous person who can tell others about simplicity. But this… this really is… peaceful. Soak it all up. Breathe it all in. It’s all there. It’s so beautiful. I’m teetering on the edge of tears. It’s a sort of stinging in my eyes and a kind of very mild ache in my head and throat. That ebbs and flows

Then I go into the section.

Lucifer, my sisters lovebird is screaming. You can hear him from outside. He’s so loud. It drives you mad sometimes. But I love him. So much. He’s this little ball of feathers and mischief and vivid, wild colour, and he’ll have your finger off in half a second if the mood strikes him. But he’ll curl up in the hollow of my sisters neck and croon. He adores her. Some people say animals don’t know love. They know it better than we do.

I turn on the hose to the horses’ trough, and get some food for the rabbits. They’re wonderful. Smooch is nearly 10. He’s ancient according to the vet. I think about how to word the blogr rub. She only likes them on her terms, like everything else. She was as black as night once, and glossy, with post, which bits should I include? Should I talk about just the farewell part, or everything? Should I talk about my thoughts and ponderings and conclusions? Or everything?

Spot, my cat is laying on the lawn. I sit down in front of her, and pat her. She wants an ear rub. It’s a special privilege to give her an eathis dense coat that was some kind of hybrid between silk and velvet. She’s tired of me patting her now. I pull up a bit of grass and drag it back and forth in front of her.  She chases it, she rolls on her side, bites and swats. Then I get another piece of grass. She redoubles her efforts, gets bored and wanders under the trailor. I throw some grass at her, trying to get her to play. Nothing doing. She’s 17. I’ve had her since I was 6. I love her. She’s more of a warm brown now, with white whiskers. My eyes are stinging a bit.

I listen to the birdsong. I think about how people look for happiness in so many things… things that, when you’re sitting trying to spot the birds you can hear in the trees, seem kinda distant.

I roll up the windows on my car, I left them open this morning. And I go to mix up the horse feed.

There’s a six foot fence between the second and the paddock, I can just see Nick’s ears over the top. I think about how much I love him and Cracker (my horse). I think about doing a cartoon of a person being able to see just the ears of a horse, pricked up over a fence. Ears tell a lot about a horse.

The sugar beet I forgot to give them yesterday is still soaked. I put a few handfuls in a bucket for the horse and mix the rest in with big handfuls of chaff and coolfeed for the pony. The horse gets a handful or two of each. I think to myself, bent over the bucket with greens and slightly gooey beet halfway to my elbows, I always forget how much I miss the simple, dirty jobs until I do them again. It feels good, in a way that sort of skips my brain and kinda just settles into my limbs.

It’s not the exercise part… or maybe it is. It just… it’s not just in my head. I count out the tablespoons of the supplements. 4 tablespoons of yeast, two of dolomite, one of devils claw, four of senior blend, and a teaspoon of liquid seaweed. That’s just for Nick. Cracker gets a teaspoon of seaweed and two tablespoons of dolomite. I mix up the feed some more.

One bucket is heavy, the other is light.

My pony, Nick, follows me along the fenceline till I get to the gate. He whuffles and prances and tosses his head in the air. I dump the food over the fence. Cracker is nickering to me now too. He canters up and down the tape that seperates him and Nick. He’s big, and brown and he’s so gentle I can introduce him to toddlers.

When I tell him to remember his manners he takes a step back, and I give him a handful of the feed, he tosses his head around, impatient. I give him the rest. I stop for a moment. I love them so much. I want to cry, but I love them so much.

As I pass Nick on my way back, I reach out to pat him, he tosses his head and glares at me. How dare I interrupt him. Eventually, with some persistences, I get a goodnight kiss. You can’t escape Mum-kisses, they follow you everywhere.

Spot is laying stretched out on the path now, she doesn’t move as I walk around her. I disconnect the hose and use it to fill the buckets.  The water runs fast, beating at the bucket, but I feel… tranquil. I think about how to write this part. The writer in me wants to capture the frantic movement of the water, the little roar of it, the hiss of the tap. But I feel… slow, calm. I hold my hand under the tap. The water runs off my fingers in four trails. It’s white water, everything but my eyes and ears think it’s a gentle stream. The water’s so deliciously cold on my hands.

The buckets are heavy, I drag them back to the garage. I’m thinking about the post. Present tense. Short sentences. That’s it.  I start to count out the handfuls of sugarbeet to soak for tomorrow. It’s normally four for Nick, and two for Cracker, but I want to feed Nick in the morning now too. So two more.

I’m thinking about the post again, committing every detail to memory.  I think about saying this piece. I want this to be heard. For once… I don’t want people to hear me, I want them to hear this. This is important.

I close the garage, and walk back up the path to the front door. I’m thinking about how when people leave, we get a kind of a kick start, a reminder that life is short, not to worry about the little stuff, to appreciate what’s in front of us. But we forget so easily, we slip back into this… this sort of coma. So… I think about proposing that everyone takes it upon themselves to remind just one other person about the beauty in the world in one way or another, each day. I like that idea.  I have breif images of sending trite texts, and dismiss it. The idea of giving some one a flower for no reason somehow seems… more fitting.

I go inside, walking up the hall, my arms are scritchy and gritty with bits of horsefeed. I idly pick horsefeed out from under my nails. I wash my hands. I rinse my face. The water feels so good. I love splashing water over my face. There’s something so refreshing about it. I look at myself in the mirror for a few seconds. Just my face. I normally inspect my body, turn sideways, suck in my stomach. There’s no towel, so I dry my face on an old shirt.

I pick my way through the debris of my room. I climb into the old armchair. I type in the url, I log in.

I begin to write.

Not big fancy words. Just… everything. Every detail, every vain, selfish thought, every heartbeat and every breath, every sensation. All the sadness and all the joy and the love, the dirt and the water and the cool dusk air. All through this I’ve cried and smiled and laughed and I’ll probably continue to do so. I’ll say goodbye to Sister Joan tomorrow. I don’t know if this will change how I do things… but I hope so. I hope that this is heard, by some one. And I hope it makes a difference. Not the kind that you see in movies. But something awkward, honest, and real.

Tags: Animals, blogging, brain, happiness, musings, Philosophy, pony, taking things for granted, thoughts, Wisdom

This entry was posted on Wednesday, February 3rd, 2010 at 10:37 pm and is filed under Advice, Anecdotes, Philosophy, musings. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.