I know before she does but maybe not maybe she knew that last year
brave front while soliciting money on the internet as the cancer progresses
she describes new treatments I forget how many rounds of chemo she endured
eight years from diagnosis to death
I stop visiting for a year after she bullies 30K more from our father
and he calls me crying
I give myself permission to change to be a physician more than a sister
because as a sister my sister is cruel
she destroys my reputation with my mother's family
or maybe they already don't like me because I think the family rules are ludicrous and stupid
and I won't follow them
I suppose each generation has someone who says wait these rules make no sense
why are we following these?
I think she will die by February 2011 but there is another death unexpected
the death of my hope for a sister who loves me for a sister who treats me well
for a sister who loves me
and I let that hope die and I rise from the ashes and I choose not to visit
and she uses this tells people I won't visit though I don't say I won't
people sent me checks
I sent them back with thanks saying
it is too soon to leave my nascent business
my sister stays in touch this year
at last in February 2012 she calls me
my oncologist referred me to hospice but I am not going
yes, I know you are refusing to go
I don't saybut the cancer is progressing and like it or not
you will go
my sister applies for a clinical trial miles away
and at last her enthralled circle refuses
they say we are so tired we cannot drive you there
daily
I fly down for a long weekend and the hospice interview
I am excluded but ask to step in at the end
I ask the nurse is this like where I live that if there is a stroke
or a blood clot or bleeding or whatever horror
hospice will keep her comfortable
but will not treat it?
yes
says the nurse
my sister stands pushing away from the table NO she says
I AM NOT READY
yes, I knew that
you are not going
I don't say but you will go willing or no
I fly down a second time and as I leave she cries
I am surprised
we have not talked really
there are so many people in and out and I've been portrayed as a villian
there is still time
I fly down a third time
she is angry, angry now in hospice angry that she is dying
I start to sing a lullaby and she says NO
I study her I sing Samuel Hall
To the gallows I must go I must go I must go
To the gallows I must go with my friends all down below saying Sam I told you so
damn their eyes damn their eyes
saying Sam I told you so damn their eyes
she smiles a vicious secret smile
she is in renal failure strange says
I have to take a trip
I say yes you do
I don't know how
You will figure it out
How will I find you?
I am surprised again the connection is still there buried deep
You said I can take the dragon home the one I made in college and gave you
You are born in the year of the dragon you will have wings find the dragon
and you will find me
oh, good she says relieved
she speaks of a bad pig
I say maybe it isn't bad maybe it's done some bad things
she shakes her head
I say shall I take the bad pig away?
she still is not satisfied
I guess: do you want me to keep the bad pig from hurting anyone else
yes she smiles yes
again we are alone
I am Bad she says
You are not bad I say You have done some bad things
Very bad
She is crying
I say I love you anyway
and she blooms like a rose soft in a dark orange blanket with matching lip gloss
forgiven and reconciled
flying home I name the dragon Bad Pig
and gird myself for death
three days later she dies
and then the fallout and the aftermath begins
_____________________
I will attach this to the Ragtag Daily Prompt "escapade", though I think of escapades as fun. The escapade is the photograph. She and I were dancing before my wedding, in 2007. I am the short one and clearly I was teasing her about something.
I dream that my sister has drowned in the ocean. A sailboat went down. There were others on board. Two friends ready me to dive and find her. I don’t want to scuba dive, I am not trained. I don’t know how to use the equipment. I am afraid I will drown too. I see her daughter, who is four. Her daughter knows from my face that her mother is lost. My friends say, “You will be able to find her. You can find your sister.” “But she is dead,” I say. “I don’t want to find her.” I know that they are right, I could find her. But I might be separated and lost, in the depths. I don’t want to die too.
I wake up. The dream sticks. My friends wanting me to wear a borrowed wetsuit and scuba gear and go down untrained. My sister floating in the depths, dead eyes open. But she has been dead for years, I think. And this is the sea of dreams my unconscious the greater unconscious everything. So why isn’t my sister’s body dissolving? Changing to a skeleton. A skeleton coming apart over the years.
I don’t need a wetsuit or scuba gear to dive in the sea of dreams I can breathe in the unconscious I have been to the bottom of the sea many times before.
My niece is four in the dream. She was thirteen when her mother died. I think she was lost to me long before that. The dream knows. Her mother was lost to me when my niece was four. Drowned.
When the dream returns I will say yes to the dive I love the sea and the ocean and going deep I don’t need a wetsuit I don’t need scuba gear I don’t need to find my sister’s body She is gone Dissolved I let my past go.
I have not dreamed of the ocean
since.
__________________________________
I really don’t know where my sister is, because of the family schism after she died. Are her ashes somewhere?
The Ballad of the Shape of Things is one of those songs that I learned very young and from my cousins, so I did not know who recorded it. Another “dead girl song” only this one is a “dead guy song”. I loved the puns: “They say he died of the chickenpox. In part I must agree, one chick too many had he.” I also liked songs with words I didn’t know: transom, in this one. We were fairly bloodthirsty kids and happily learned songs about death, unfaithful lovers, murder, betrayal, noble suicide to save the highwayman, and so forth. My Darling Clementine, another dead girl song. We had a very educational childhood in song.
We needed the triangular “garment thin that fastens on with a safety pin” explained at the end of the song, because the cloth diapers we’d experienced were rectangular. I find memorizing things that rhyme and especially if there is a story and a tune, much easier than memorizing the varied side effects of drugs such as ACE inhibitors. The story behind the side effects escapes me, though maybe there is one! Think of that, a ballad of the ACE inhibitors, with each one having its individual good and bad effects! I am certain that I could make up a story, even if we don’t really understand all the effects.
She gave me this necklace one of the last three times I saw her. She was at home with breast cancer and referred to hospice. I flew down to visit three times in the last three months. I was expecting it before then but she was very very strong and fought it all the way to the end.
We were both born in March, so this has amethysts. She liked silver more than gold and we both liked the irregularly shaped pearls. I am not sure what the dark round beads are. They could be bloodstones, which were the March birthstone before amethyst took over. I like the clasp in the front and that it is not symmetric. My sister died in 2012 and of course I still miss her.
I’ve been seeing some embroidered stories. They are based on a true story, but the details are wrong or exaggerated.
One is an old friend of my sister. He notices a chair in his garage and contacts me. Now, my sister died in 2012. He says the chair is from Grandmother Tessie and that my sister told him “It’s the only thing I have left from my grandmother.” He wants the chair to go to my sister’s daughter and he may be willing to have it recovered for her.
He sends me photographs. Touches your heart, doesn’t it?
Except that Tessie was not our grandmother. She was my maternal grandfather’s mother, so my great grandmother. I have never seen the chair before and it would have to be late 1800s or bought late in her life. It does not look that old, though it looks chewed. Also, we all got boxes of stuff from my maternal grandmother Katherine, to the point where we all agreed it was ok to get rid of some of it. We offered it to each other first. Seven cousins and I got two pitchers. I asked my mother, “Why two pitchers?”
“After your uncles and I picked what we wanted, we lined up seven boxes. Then we went pitcher, pitcher, pitcher, pitcher. There were enough to send everyone two.”
Oh. My grandmother was a serious packrat. I got a silver plate pitcher and sugar bowl that look like they are from the 1930s, art deco. I had never seen them before they came in the box. So they are not attached to my memories of my grandparents at all, but I like them very much.
I send the chair message on and I don’t know if my niece will want the chair. Nor do I know if it was great grandmother Tessie’s chair. I had an enormous box of tablecloths and pulled thread doilies and so forth after my parents died. I would bet money that there was something from Tessie Temple in there. I offered it to both my children and my niece. They each took one tablecloth and napkins. I kept a few and got rid of the rest.
The other day I noticed that one cloth that I kept is signed Margaret White. She was my maternal grandmother’s oldest sister. I have Margaret’s small leather sewing kit as well, made in Germany and stamped with her name. I’ve had that since my teens and used it until the leather corners are wearing down. My mother said that my grandmother found her sister Margaret difficult, but I don’t know if that is true either.
At one point I emailed with a family member found on Ancestry.com. This is my paternal grandmother’s father’s half-sister’s descendant. She said the family rumor was that they were related to John Philip Sousa. I said, “My great grandfather, Fredrik Bayers, played saxophone in John Philip Sousa’s band.” She said, “Oh, that must be where that story came from.”
Are these stories benign or not? With social media and the ongoing trials of various people from both the government and investment schemes, the stories seem less benign to me. If my niece wants the chair, I think that is very kind of my sister’s friend to make the effort to get it to her, but the story was rather garbled. It makes me want to be careful with the stories I tell.
Peace.
The photograph is from 1965 or 1966, of my grandmother Katherine White Burling, me, and my sister, Christine Robbins Ottaway. I would guess that my grandfather took it.
I grew up with lots of music. My father played guitar and lute and Segovia is engraved in my memory. He and my mother sang in large choruses: the Brahms Requiem, the Mozart Requiem and Bach. We had lots of classical records. I was born in the early 60s when my parents were in college, so they had tons of records. The Band, Bob Dylan, the Loving Spoonful, Joanie Mitchell, Oscar Brand and Jean Richie. I didn’t buy my first record until I was in my early teens and I bought ABBA. My father said, “This is POP!” I said, “I am a 14 year old girl. OF COURSE it’s pop and it’s really good.” He was mildly horrified.
We sang folk songs. My parents were editing them by the time I was three, because I was memorizing the words. They put the naughty folk song records away. They avoided sentimental songs. We learned “dead girl songs”, as my sister called them (Banks of the Ohio, Long Black Veil, Clementine, When I was a Bachelor, there are a lot of educational dead girl songs). We learned lots of comic songs. We also learned work and protest songs and absorbed our parents’ hatred of discrimination.
I set up a recording session for my father and sister and I after my mother died. I have a recording of us singing Long Black Veil and other songs. Here is The Band singing it.
Let’s have a band with women too, and for me that is Sweet Honey in the Rock. Acapella, with a sign language translator, and now they have been singing for ?forty years? They have amazing children’s songs and they are willing to sing about grief and protest. They have sustained me through the loss of my mother, sister and father.
And from one of the children’s albums.
The photograph is of my father at his 70th birthday in 2008. Malcolm K. Ottaway, with Andie Makie and Coke Francis. Andie is playing harmonica, my father on guitar. Malene Robinson took these photographs. The next is me and my sister at that party.
And one more of my sister, Christine Robbins Ottaway.
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: bands. Wait, you said keep this light. Oh, well. Fail on that.
When my (now ex) husband and I were first married, we bought two gold chains. I was just starting medical school. Third year we hit the wards. This meant that I was often running around the hospital wearing scrubs, rings off. I wanted a chain to put my wedding ring on. Some people tied them to their scrub pants, but they can get lost.
I go home from Richmond, Virginia to Alexandria. We show the chains to my parents, both used ones, but gold.
My sister reports to me later. “Our mom said, why are they buying gold chains? That’s dumb. They don’t have any money!”
“Maybe they want them,” says my sister.
“Well, I think it’s a waste.”
“You bought more paper the other day.”
“Oh. Hmmm, yes I did.”
“You aren’t using that paper yet and you have an entire vault of paper.”
“Yes, but I am an artist. I need supplies.”
“Katy wants the chain for work to put her ring on. How is that different?”
“Oh, well. Maybe you’re right.”
I am very pleased that my sister defends me but it also was very funny. My mother had a stack with one by ones with thin 24 by 30 boards, on them, stacked five feet high to put paper in. Cheap shelves, though it would be totally unstable in an earthquake. She bought paper that she loved and used it too. She did watercolors, etchings, carried a sketchbook everywhere, oils, scorned acrylics, woodblocks, clay, colored pencils, chalk pastels, oil pastels and then she loved crafts as well. She was a master of paper mache. Artists need supplies, but everyone has something like that. My daughter did not get the pack rat gene and is a minimalist, but even she has some things she really likes. Real stationary, for one.
I wore that chain for more than 14 years. We were divorced at 14 years but are still good friends. My ex went on the nursing school and has been a Covid-19 hero, much to some people’s surprise.
My mother was inconsistent, as we all are. She prided herself on being frugal and not spending money, but when it came to art supplies, she wanted them. She still could be frugal but she certainly had the supplies and she would stock up when beautiful paper was on sale! And pencils and pastels and watercolors and oils. My father would quote Ralph Waldo Emerson, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” Both he and my mother would call each other out when one was being inconsistent. They could be very very funny.
The lead photograph is from winter 1991-92. Mark Warren Wilson, Helen Burling Ottaway, Christine Robbins Ottaway, me and Malcolm Kenyon Ottaway. Taken by Joel F., my sister’s first husband, with my camera. This next was taken by my father and there is Joel F. We went to Colorado and all stayed in a condo and skiied. My father found out that he really did not like heights, either driving or the ski lifts. Joel and Mark staged a pretend dramatic argument making fun of Chris and my arguments, and they were right on. We were quite embarassed and annoyed, but not instantly cured. And the skiing was delightful.
My mother, father and sister have all died. I do miss them. Hugs for all the recent losses of people.
Walt Kelly was the master of bargleflooping and he could play with language in such fabulous ways! Once Howland Owl and Churchy were trying to make an A-bomb. They had a yew tree and a geranium and crossed them — by them falling over, two small plants in pots, to make Yew-ranium! Which did not explode, thankfully!
My sister and I grew up reading Pogo comics, old books at my grandparents, and memorizing bits and pieces. I still notice when Friday the thirteenth falls on a different day. This poem is one of my favorite bits.
Many happy returns
Once you were two, dear birthday friend. In spite of purple weather:
But now you are three And near the end As we grew some together.
How fourthful thou, forsooth for you For soon you will be more!
But β βfore one can be three be two; Before be five be four!
_________________________ by Walt Kelly
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: barglefloop. Walt Kelly already is bargleflooping the internet, because I did not remember the correct name of this poem and found it by searching purple weather!
I took the photograph from Marrowstone Island. It’s a bunch of terns enjoying the tern towards purple weather.
In 1995 my mother, Helen Burling Ottaway, makes teapots with the poem on the pot. She gives me one for Christmas.
She dies of cancer in 2000. My sister chooses my poem to read at her memorial.
A friend then reads the poem at my sister’s memorial in 2012 (also cancer), because I missed the California memorial. I was sick at home with pneumonia #2.
After she dies, I am sent a box of a few things from her house. Yarn and a second teapot. My sister had one.
I give the teapot to my niece, my sister’s daughter, telling her her grandmother made it.
My mother signed things with an H inside an O.
Here is the poem:
In my parents’ house love is dispensed in teacups
When they notice you Pacing in some empty mood Or with that blank deserted face Eyes shutters into an empty mind They say, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
The warmth of the cup in your hands And the hot liquid, sweet and milky On your tongue works wonders And binds your soul to your body
When my sister is twelve She embroiders a patch for a quilt In yellow flosses, a cup with steam curling upwards And the words, “Such a comfort. TEA.”
____________________
I think my maternal family still has the quilt, with jeans patches. My grandmother Katy B handed out squares to everyone at the cabins in Ontario and we all made squares. She and my cousin sewed them together and tied the quilt.
Discover and re-discover Mexicoβs cuisine, culture and history through the recipes, backyard stories and other interesting findings of an expatriate in Canada
Engaging in some lyrical athletics whilst painting pictures with words and pounding the pavement. I run; blog; write poetry; chase after my kids & drink coffee.
Refugees welcome - FlΓΌchtlinge willkommen I am teaching German to refugees. Ich unterrichte geflΓΌchtete Menschen in der deutschen Sprache. I am writing this blog in English and German because my friends speak English and German. Ich schreibe auf Deutsch und Englisch, weil meine Freunde Deutsch und Englisch sprechen.
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