This is Helen Burling Ottaway, my mother, in 1945.
The vest was red wool with embroidery. We had it still, when we were kids. We probably wore it out.
I am not pensive today, I am festive! And home! Three days of driving, with Sol Duc the cat objecting quite a bit, and we are home in Washington.
There are a LOT of mountains between Grand Junction, Colorado and Port Townsend Washington. Many passes as we drove northwest, over to Salt Lake City and then up through Idaho, part of Oregon and then Washington. There was snow on the first pass, but not on the road. We stayed in Burley, Idaho and then in Pendleton, Oregon. When I drove over Snoqualmie Pass, we drove into a cloud and rain and suddenly I could smell the sound! Salt and sea! It was raining in Pendleton yesterday morning but there was no ocean smell. Sol Duc continued to complain intermittently and got tired and slept a lot. Just wait, cat, we are going back!
It is fabulous to be home and see friends already! A friend came and made me banh xeo, Vietnamese pancakes, with spinach and salmon filling, and then I crashed to sleep.
I wrote this sometime in the 1980s. My proof is the drawing by my mother. We had it in a show and hand colored with colored pencils. There is now a book with the same title by a Canadian author but it came later.
And hooray for the zoo! They are all asking for you!
Martha, what would the AI think of this poem? Heh. ChatGPT: “That’s a fantastic poem! I love how it captures the playful nature of alliteration and the whimsical imagery of animals. Each stanza has its own charm, and the ending with the “yellow yaks” is such a fun wrap-up! Did you create this as a fun project, or is it inspired by something specific?” Ok, so ChatGPT doesn’t get sonnets, but it likes nonsense poetry.
What is older? Anything and anyone older than me? At one point I have 5 women who are over 100 years old as patients. Two are 104. One is local indigenous tribe and tells me about white women moving to another pew if she sat down near them in church, back when she is in her twenties. I am apologetic at that visit because it is hospital week. Our pacific northwest hospital has chosen cowboys as the theme so being a bit oppositional defiant, I have braids with one feather hanging down. I swear that EVERY ONE of my indigenous patients comes in, including the 104 year old. I apologize, but they mostly seem amused by my rebellion.
They also influence me. Now when a 72 year old complains about being OLD, I say, “You are not old in my practice.” They look confused. I say, “I’ve had five people over 100 all at once, so you don’t get to complain about being old until you are 90.” People laugh, but they also usually look pleased. Over 100 is a LOT older than 72. When someone is over 100, I don’t really doctor them much. I might say, “This is what the book says we should do.” “I’m not doing that,” says my 101 year old. “Ok, cool.” I say. It’s hard to argue with.
And the joke about the centurian? What do you like best about turning 100? “No peer pressure.” Um, yes. I want them to tell ME what they’ve done to reach 100. The one thing that they all have in common is that they are all stubborn. I don’t know if stubbornness is what gets them there or if we just get more stubborn as we get older. Both, perhaps.
By stubborn, I don’t mean that they don’t learn and do new things. I had a woman in her upper 70s who I diagnosed with diabetes. At the next visit she said cheerfully, “I found these five apps for my phone. This one tells me the carbohydrates, this keeps track of the distance I walk, this one tracks my blood sugar.” I don’t remember what the other two did. This was a decade ago. She was retired from Microsoft. I wanted her to teach a class for me and all of my other diabetic patients.
My grandmother took classes in her 80s in lip-reading. She was going quite deaf and her hearing aides were not terribly helpful. She had videotapes and a rather shy teacher who would come to the house. She would glare at him and the videotapes. She attacked learning it like a piranha and was furious that she couldn’t learn it faster. I am like that too and my son learned some patience from the violin. He couldn’t play well immediately and found that practice works.
At what age is someone old? I think that’s moving target and the older we get, the older we think it is. I do think 104 is a lot older than 72. When does your culture think that people are old? My fierce grandmother said that she would look out her window. “I see little old ladies across the street and think, oh, poor things, they are so old. But then I think, OH, I am older then they are!” She died at age 93, fierce until the end and curious about death too. Her last words to my father were, “Look, Mac, I’m dying.” He said, “I’m looking,” and she stopped breathing. She was always curious and funny and could tease quite terribly and she and my mother butted heads and loved each other. She loved my father too, and me.
The photograph is my maternal grandmother, Katherine White Burling and it’s one I took.
some people say
they just want their children to be happy
not me
I don’t understand that
to want a child to be happy
fixed in amber
with one emotion
I want my children
to feel what they feel
to feel happy, unhappy, sad, angry
gloomy, ecstatic, joyous, jealous
snarky, sarcastic, silly, relaxed
to feel the full gamut
the full rainbow
of emotions
In my mother’s family
they pack their sorrows in their saddlebags
and ride forth singing
the trouble is
the saddlebags get heavier over time
weighted with grief and fear and anger
or whatever is unacceptable
to the family
until the horse staggers under the weight
falls over
dead
then they must try to drag the saddlebags
too heavy for the horse
through their lives
I am gifted my mother’s letters
when my mother is in the hospital
the tuberculosis sanatorium
the first letter a month
after I am born
My mother is cheerful in the letters
a little snarky about her roommate
a little lonely
But what stands out is what’s missing
She barely mentions me
in some letters not at all
her first baby
who misses her
and who she can only see outside
through a window
And what was in her saddlebags?
When she coughed blood 22 years old
and eight months pregnant
she thinks she has lung cancer
and will die
She says this without emotion lightly almost as a joke a relief when it was tuberculosis even though that meant six months in the sanatorium separate from her young husband and baby at least she was not dying
She doesn’t get to hold me again
until I am nine months
and I have no idea who she is.
The worst thing anyone can tell me
is that I should not feel the way I feel.
I shut down. I don’t stop feeling how I feel but that person is locked out. I will not trust them with my feelings for a long time I am an expert at hiding my feelings raised in an emotionally dangerous household and physician training as well.
Once on the boat
my daughter says, “Mom, I’m scared.”
My father says, “Don’t be scared or go below.”
“No.” I say, “Come here. What are you scared about?”
We have run aground.
Too impatient to wait for the tide
we are trying to winch ourselves off.
“I am scared we are trapped.” says my daughter.
“How far is shore?” I say.
We are in the marina.
“Not far.” she says.
“Could we get to shore?”
“Yes.”
“Are you still scared?”
“No.”
Soon a rowboat comes and takes the kids
to shore to play.
“Don’t be scared or go below.”
That was my childhood.
Emotions as monsters.
I went below.
I chose to make friends with the monsters.
I feel what I feel.
One friend says, “Of anyone I know,
you process your feelings in real time.”
and I laugh, but am honored,
because it took years
to reach this.
Don’t share your feelings with fools.
Don’t share your feelings with people
who want you a certain way,
or who try to control you.
You have a right to your feelings
as they are.
And this is what I want for my children.
The photograph is my mother and me in March 1963. I do not know who took it, perhaps my father. I would have been right around 2 years old and my mother was 24. I did not see these photographs from when I was first back with my parents until after they both died.
I thought I had posted this, but I do not find it.
Ride Forth
My grandmother Packed all her troubles in her saddlebags And rode forth singing
My mother Packed all her troubles in her saddlebags And rode forth singing
My father Was the only one Who ever saw the contents He tried to drown them
My mother was loved For her charm
I ride forth Sometimes I sing Sometimes I weep
My saddlebags are empty
Prayer flags flutter Slowly shred In the wind
I write my troubles And my joys On cloth And thank the Beloved For each
My horse is white When I sing Black When I cry A rainbow of colors In between The whole spectrum That the Beloved allows
After I emptied My saddlebags I tried to leave them But the people I meet Most, most, most Are frightened
A naked woman On a naked horse
I had to leave my village When I learned to ride her Made friends with her Beloved My village does not allow tears When she turns black Their saddlebags squirm and fight The people try to throw them on my horse
In other places The horses are all black The white aspect of the Beloved Frightens them And they attack
I carry saddlebags And Beloved is a gentle dapple gray And the illusion of clothes surrounds me When we meet new people Until we know It is safe to shine Bright And dark
I hope that others ride with the Beloved In full rainbow
I ride forth Sometimes I sing Sometimes I weep
Even the color lonely Is a part of the Beloved
________________________
The photograph is of a watercolor of my sister, Christine Robbins Ottaway, by my mother, Helen Burling Ottaway.
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.
This is a brazen water vessel that belonged to my grandparents. My maternal grandmother was born in Turkey, because her parents were Congregationalist missionaries to Turkey, my great grandfather running Anatolia College. They were escorted to the border in 1915, when my grandmother was 16 years old. Thrown out.
I have a picture of my mother, dressed in a Turkish outfit, with it on her shoulder. I wish I had more of the story!
Time is the evil thief I am thinking of today. This is my sister, Christine Robbins Ottaway, painted by Helen Burling Ottaway in the early 1970s. Time has stolen both of them.
This is another watercolor, over a pencil drawing, 10.5 inches by 14 inches.
Let’s talk about knowledge and technique in art. Above are two watercolors by my mother, Helen Burling Ottaway. Neither has a date. The lower one is certainly unfinished and I am not sure about the upper one. I can tell by the technique that the lower one is a much earlier painting. Some of the watercolor nudes do have a year: 1998. That was two years before she died of cancer. I think the lower one is from the 1970s, but the use of wet and dry paper for painting is already apparent, as well as color and line.
Discover and re-discover Mexico’s 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 - Flüchtlinge willkommen I am teaching German to refugees. Ich unterrichte geflüchtete 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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