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Hearts and Ashes on Brighton Beach
A memorial shrine to my birthmother set up in my suite at the A.G. Thomson House Bed and Breakfast where I stayed while in Duluth
Two weeks ago when I was lamenting not graduating in May from my MFA Program in Creative Writing and Environment because of three missing credits, I was in a serious funk. If I wasn’t graduating, should I procrastinate writing the end of my memoir for my thesis committee? Wait till fall to defend it? With ten chapters to write and edit, I also needed an ending. What to do?
That day two weeks ago was Friday the 12th, and while sad-stewing I suddenly realized that I was coming up on a triple-decker-sandwich-grief-remembrance week. A best-chum from college had died of cancer in our late 40s on the 14th, my beau before Ed crashed and burned in his plane on the 17th, and my birthmother had died three hours after I introduced myself to her on the 21st in 1999. Maybe the grief pile was contributing to my glum? I spun around and glanced at the calendar. Every day leading up to my birthmother’s death was the same day and date as it had been in 1999. Could I parallel time travel to Duluth where she died, where I was conceived? Get some closure? An ending for the book? Then I wondered as I have for twenty-two years, what happened to her ashes? The last time I’d seen the box containing my mother’s ashes had been in June 1999 in the basement of my mother’s husband’s store in downtown Duluth.
Circa 1970s. My mother’s house has been replaced by another.
Long story short, I tracked down my birthmother’s husband, called him and learned he’d released the ashes on my mother’s property before he sold it. Her house had once sat on the banks of Lake Superior on London Road.
Then I found online the email of the current property owner and asked for access to the lake front to conduct my own ash-release ceremony on Sunday, February 21st at 4 pm, the time of my mother’s death. He happily and graciously granted me access.
Before I left Ames for Duluth, I made a gratitude box covered in photos of my biological parents, helpful angels, family I’ve gained because I searched, and photos of both sets of my parents (adopted and biological). And I made photo copies of some documents from my search to burn for ashes. One was a hand-written copy of the letter my mother wrote to the maternity home in Los Angeles where I was born, and the other a page from redacted documents chronicling my mother’s stay at the maternity home and my birth.
On Sunday, February 21st, I drove to the beach at Park Point in Duluth in the early afternoon and conducted my document-burning ceremony in my dog’s water bowl to the sound of ice moaning on Lake Superior.
Before leaving the beach at Park Point, I placed the ashes in my gratitude box.
When time neared to get settled on my mother’s former property, I drove to the address. But the driveway is a difficult turn off from London Road, and I drove by the address several times as snow fell and time ticked onward towards 4 o’clock. Finally at 3:50 pm, I pulled in to the narrow icy snow-covered driveway. It looked nothing to me like the owner had described in his email. So I backed out remembering Brighton Beach farther down London Road.
Three minutes to spare, I yanked ice cleats (yes, I travel with ice cleats) over the soles of my boots, and headed towards the icy shore not sure which way to turn. Left or right? Glancing down to the left, I spied a heart-shaped rock amongst all the pebbles and beach rocks not covered with ice or snow. Dropping the heart rock in my pocket, I walked towards the left, and soon noticed rocks placed in a heart shape in a bank of snow.
Thirty seconds to 4 pm, I set my gratitude box inside the heart on the snow, and stared out at Lake Superior covered in ice and gave thanks to my birthmother. I wished her well beyond the veil of fog, and told her I love her.
Then I picked up the box and with a flip of my left hand released the ashes. I watched as they fluttered onto the snow. In the near distance, kids gleefully squealed, dogs barked, footsteps crunched upon ice and snow, and fishermen fished concealed in colorful huts. I can come to this spot and pay my respects to my mother anytime, I thought.
And so I stood and stared and walked around for over an hour delighting in my calm joy, all the while brushing snow from my eyelashes, tip-toeing on and off the seven-inch thick ice, and from time to time I rubbed my freezing hands together to warm my finger tips. I felt so alive as winter-enthusiasts bustled around me. Clearly, I thought, I hail from this winter-wonderland, Duluth.
What I’ve Been Reading
Reading for a masters degree is wildly different than reading for fun. It leaves me no time to read the latest and greatest novel or memoir? Well,… I do make exceptions for memoirs. A slow reader, one of the most valuable pieces of advise I’ve been given studying for my MFA in Creative Writing and Environment at Iowa State is this:
Gut the Book!
My Iowa State History of the Great Plains professor, Julie, shared that tidbit when I whined about keeping up with reading in another graduate seminar class.
“Do you really think historians read every word in a book or in research papers? Learn to skim. Gut the book.” A perfectionist, the thought had never occurred to me.
I didn’t gut books Julie assigned. Her passion for the Great Plains is contagious. The spines of my favorites are shown below: Prairie a Natural History by Candace Savage, A Great Plains Reader by P. Jane Hafen and Diane Dufva Quantic, Railroad Empire Across the Heartland by James E. Sherow and John R. Charlton, and Waiting on the Bounty The Dust Bowl Diaries of Mary Dyck by Pamela Riney-Kinberg.
I also snuck into the photograph the Creative Writing Pedagogies for the Twenty-first Century by Alexandria Peary and Tom C. Hunley. This book is chuck full of fabulous workshop and literary center ideas, and helped inform the micro-memoir class I designed and taught this past spring.
And perched at the top is John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. Professor K. L. Cook assigned The Grapes of Wrath for my cohorts’ first semester. Until fall 2018, I had managed to live life without reading The Grapes of Wrath—even though John Steinbeck is one of my favorite authors. It’s a rough read. The Dust. The caravans of people traveling to Bakersfield in search of promised work. The starvation. The flooding. The awareness nothing has really changed since the time of the books’ writing. And then I alighted upon a brilliant idea gleaned from listening to audiobooks. The Grapes accompanied me on a road trip to-and-from Ames, Iowa, to Angel Fire, New Mexico. The paperback sat beside me in the passenger seat as some actor read the book, and when something struck me other than the desperation and unending trials and tribulations, I quickly highlighted the passage. Yes, while driving. And when I wanted to “gut the book,” I hit fast forward. Even though I found the book a painful read, it’s worth revisiting. History repeats itself.
This leads me to audio books I’ve enjoyed on road trips and running errands. I highly recommend these:
Nonfiction
Tell Me More by Kelly Corrigan
Tell Me More, read by Kelly Corrigan, is touching, funny and brought tears to my eyes. It’s a book grappling with the “daily phrases” of life. Kelly has a knack for words. Her “warm, easy storytelling style” earned her praise as “America’s poet laureate of the ordinary” (HuffPost). Corrigan is often hilarious, and self deprecating. Yet she thinks and feels deeply. Hence her meditations on words such as, “I’m wrong,” “I’m sorry,” and “I don’t know.” In Tell Me More, Corrigan is contemplating what words to say in the right moment. My pages are dog-eared, as this book traveled with me on the passenger seat as I listened to Kelly read.
The Library Book by Susan Orleans
I met Susan Orleans at the Des Moines Festival of Books in 2019. She’s engaging. During her interview she spoke about writing this book, and said something I mention whenever I can fit it into a conversation about writing.
“The why is infinitely more interesting than the what.”
Think about it this way. No one cares about a protagonist’s list of: and then I did this, and this, and this. A reader wants to dig into motivation. As in, why did the main suspect light the Los Angeles Public Library on fire? Or did he? In The Library Book, Susan attempts to uncover the why, while sharing the history of the Los Angeles Public Library system. I enjoyed listening as Susan read her book.
Mystery | Crime
Louise Penny | The Entire Inspector Gamache Series
Oh, my God! I’m on the 10th Inspector Gamache book. There’s only five more. What’s not to love about these books? While you can pick up any book in the series and read it as a stand-alone, I highly recommend starting at the beginning. (The Long Way Home is book #10) Story lines always return to the fictitious village of Three Pines where there’s a new and used book store, a bistro and bakery, and a B&B with fluffy-down bedding. Lives intertwine, and the characters are real, vivid and complicated, causing me to care deeply about them. They’ve become people I’d love to befriend. In the Inspector Gamache Series, Louise Penny expertly weaves together crime, heinous bad guys, friendship and betrayal, and history of places—Toronto, Montreal, and Quebec City—enticing you to set off in search of Three Pines. When you get there, be sure to order a warm croissant and a cafe au lait.
Maintaining Happy in Times of Coronavirus—Get Me Some Eggs
This morning, Avy and I had a little drive outing with our dear friend, Dog Gone Park owner, Jacqui Binford-Bell. Adhering to physical distancing, Avy and I followed Jacqui in her SUV to the Arco Farms on the outskirts of Eagle Nest.
There we purchased eggs, butter, honey and some mild-flavored bratwurst. It’s not every day you get to meet the hens that lay your eggs.
Before we left the house Avy reminded me to plug in The Boss, who uplifted my spirits yesterday. Together we sang to Thunder Road:
…Hey what else can we do now?
Except roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair
Well the night’s busting open
These two lanes will take us anywhere
We got one last chance to make it real
To trade in these wings on some wheels…
Avy’s to young to have known me when given the opportunity (few and far between) to drive the red Grand Torino as a teenager, I’d point myself in the direction of cornfields outside of Peoria, Illinois, roll down the windows and sing to whatever song was on the radio.
Driving has always been my escape.
Perhaps if you’re feeling cooped up, take a drive on some lone country road, floor the gas, and sing along with The Boss.
Maintaining Happy in Times of Coronavirus—Having One of Those Days
It’s been days since I’ve
left the property,
my barn garret,
the house for mail.
Driving, felt like a 2004
Maui Flashback.
Two-lane roads. Nowhere to go.
Lord, beam my Mercedes to the
A8, 200 km/h the norm.
US 464
Tom Petty on XM Radio too tame.
Load up The Boss, and I’m gonna
Believe in The Promised Land, over
and over again.
Posted in Blogs, Uncategorized
Tagged #maintaininghappyintimesofcoronavirus, A8, Bruce Springsteen, Mercedes, The Boss, The Promised Land
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Maintaining Happy in Times of Coronavirus—Brief History of Acequia’s
Last night we walked-about to see and follow one of the acequia’s that was opened yesterday on our property. Typically, I am not here in April, so this was an event Ed wanted to share.
A bit of history: An acequia (Spanish: [aˈθekja]) or séquia (Valencian: [ˈsɛkia]) is a community-operated watercourse used in Spain and former Spanish colonies in the Americas for irrigation. Particularly in Spain, the Andes, northern Mexico, and the modern-day American Southwest, acequias are usually historically engineered canals that carry snow runoff or river water to distant fields. It can also refer to the long central pool in a Moorish garden, such as the Generalife in the Alhambra in Southern Iberia.
In 1990, Ed purchased our property from a long-standing Spanish family. Documents that came with the purchase mention the use of acequias on our land for over a 150 years. This is important because it establishes water rights. However, unlike other states where ranchers claim water as their own, acequias in this part of the country have a history of communal use. In many areas of New Mexico, there are acequia organizations where the community comes together on given days each year to clean and open/close acequias. We are not part of an acequia organization, but we do share.
The acequia opened yesterday (there are several on our property) waters a large pasture which produces hay in the fall. We have a neighbor who owns cattle. He and a couple other guys herd the cattle with fanfare on May 1st to graze in the meadow. Eventually the cattle are herded into the Kit Carson Forest abutting our property for summer grazing. In the Fall, this cattle owner harvests the hay to feed his cattle in winter.
One of the benefits of the mountain water feeding our acequia is the wild flower seeds it carries. After the May and June dry period, monsoons will nourish them, the pasture will sprout an abundance of color, and a variety of thistles will abound, providing Ed with a pet summer project. Harvesting thistles.
Recommendation for viewing pleasure: The movie, The Milagro Beanfield War adapted from John Nicols’ book of the same name. The story is about snagging water rights in a small village in New Mexico.
Maintaining Happy in Times of Coronavirus
After an awesome workshop with my fearless OLLI writers, and a Zoom Viva la Vino Iowa State University Women’s Club gathering, I needed a walk. My neck hurt from sitting. Avy, always game, went with me. Serendipitously we walked to the Avy trail, which butts up to the Kit Carson National Forest.
Just the two of us, we were quiet. And because of that, we didn’t scare the look-out Elk who was casing the forest to call coast clear to the elk waiting to hop the fence to hightail it to our pasture.
The elk in my photos are faint, which is to say, I gotta take my Nikon and zoom lense out of their case. Next dusk hike, I’m going to go early, hide in the brush and wait and see if I can catch me some up-close-and-personal elk photos.
Class IV
CLASS IV—April 20
- Opening Poem—TBD
- Discussion—Discuss Reading Assignments: Pick “one thing” that stood out for you in one of the readings. Did something you read help you with your writing process? Were you able to apply a thought to something you wrote? Or something you edited? We’ll briefly discuss your “one things” before launching into our workshop.
- Tiny Masters; An Artful Trick to Writing Personal Essay, by Sherry Simpson
- How to Write a Memoir by Brooke Warner
- Embrace the Lyric from How to Write Short by Roy Peter Clark
- The Five Essential Elements of A Story, by Nancy Krulik. While this is simplistic, it’s a fun read about the elements of story.
- Writers share (~12 minutes each, timed.)
WRITING ASSIGNMENT FOR CLASS IV: Could Have
You can either write from the prompt “Could Have…”, edit a piece from last time, or bring to class something you want to write. The only requirement: your piece is not to exceed 700 words. We are still thinking in terms of “micro-memoirs.” Note regarding the prompt: It might be helpful to make a list of “could haves” before launching into your piece of writing. Your call.
If needed, use this poem, Could Have by Wislawa Szymborska, to inspire your writing.
(How to locate “word count” on your word doc pdf. Word Count Screen Shot.)
Please email your submission to me at anahaysmccracken@gmail.com in a word doc, typed in 12-point Times Roman font, double spaced, with your name on the top, and page numbers on lower right hand side by Sunday evening, 11:59 pm.
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Maintaining Happy in Times of Coronavirus—Vacuum the Carpet
Today my happy was challenged. But I persevered.
First it was my reoccurring-stomach-bug? Always the same symptoms. Nasea and fatigue. I’ve mentioned it to doctors, and they go cross-eyed. So, today after dragging myself through my morning workout on Zoom, getting ready for my OLLI class (The Micro-Memoir), teaching my OLLI class this afternoon, I nursed the nausea-fatigue with a baked potato. I slathered it with butter. Yum. That’s the upside of reoccurring-stomach-bug.
The other was a mishap. Moving furniture around my office this morning to set up my desk for my first OLLI class, my statue of Mary and the baby Jesus fell off a chair and split in half. A clean break, hopefully an easy glue-fix.
You know how people casually discuss what they’d grab if they had to leave their house quick? You never think it will be you. It’s never happened to me. But, out side of my husband and Aussie, Avy, I’d grab my MacBook Pro, my Mary statue, a bust of Kwan Yin (a story for another time), and my jewelry.
My mom used to place the statue of Mary holding baby Jesus next to my bed when I was a child having horrible nightmares. I had two frequently. A room closing in on me. And feeling like I was being encased in a cold smooth surface. Years later, I learned to describe it as the feeling of a cast iron bath tub.
Today after the statue broke, and I sobbed, holding it in my hand, I had a vision of myself laying in a tub without water as an infant. I’m adopted. After I was born, I was placed in a foster home for a month+ giving my birthmother time to change her mind. I’ve often wondered if the frequent nightmares I had as a young child stemmed from that foster home. Who knows?
Holding broken Mary, my mind sifted through all of life’s what ifs. If I’d gone back to Ames a week ago Monday as planned… If I’d hadn’t gotten a bee in my bonnet to move the furniture… If, if, if. Eventually, I got off the couch, set the broken pieces on a pillow, and vacuumed the carpet. Not that my OLLI participants could see the carpet during their class on Zoom. But vacuuming made me feel better, lifted my spirits to teach my class.
I think we’re all having to find ways to make our containment tolerable. Sometimes it takes creativity and fortitude. Other times,… vacuum the carpet.
Posted in Blogs, Uncategorized
Tagged Adoption, Childhood nightmares, Coronavirus, Happy, Maintaining Happy, Micro-Memoir, OLLI
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Maintaining Happy in Times of Coronavirus—Stumbling Upon Wayne Dyer
Today in Angel Fire, it was rainy with wild wind gusts. I ventured only to the post office to mail letters, and to walk from the house to my barn office. What was I going to post tonight in my self-imposed daily Maintaining-Happy missives?
When I checked my email this afternoon, I had one from a gal I’ve been corresponding with at the Amherst Writers & Artists. AWA is an organization whose mission is to support the voices of established and emerging writers, to free silence and marginalized voices, and to promote respect for the artist in all writers through the use of the AWA method, developed by Pat Schneider. At one time, I was an AWA Affiliate. And I led workshops out of my home and at WomenCare, a safe haven for women recovering from cancer, in Soquel, California. Basically the AWA method is a writing prompt method of writing. At some point, I let my affiliation lapse.
As part of my MFA in creative writing curriculum at Iowa State, I am taking a pedagogy of creative writing class, and teaching a Micro-Memoir class in the OLLI program this spring. It has caused me to entertain ideas of how I might teach in the future, and prompted me to email the AWA and asked if they’d take me back as an Affiliate. Welcome back. Pay the yearly dues, I was told. Then today, the gal I’ve been corresponding with asked if I could remember where I had taken the training, and with whom? My tax records I thought, and serendipitously I still had receipts in my 2007 tax files.
My American Girl Doll, Kit Kittredge. My husbands’ granddaughters don’t care about their dolls anymore. We’re pictured below on an Easter Sunday.
As I hoisted my tax box on top of the other boxes it has sat upon for three years, I noticed the box under it. That box contains my American Girl Doll clothes for writer/reporter, Kit Kittredge. (When my husbands’ grandkids were into American Girl Dolls, I had to have one. Kit resides on my bookshelf here in New Mexico.) I pulled the box out, and opened it, taking out the boxes with Kit’s dresses, her camera, notebook, and typewriter.
Some of Kit Kittredge’s clothes and reporter tools
But under those boxes, I spied a plastic container containing my Radio Shack tape recorder, and a pile of tiny cassettes. One had the notation: Wayne Dyer, Sept ’07.”
While I lived on Maui from 2002-2004, I had opportunity to organize several events with Dr. Dyer for Unity Church. And while I lived on Maui, I tried several times to interview him for Maui Vision, a holistic magazine I wrote a column for, and edited. Of all the self-help Gurus I met while organizing events for Unity Church, Dr. Dyer was, in my opinion, the most authentic. He was kind and generous with his time, gracious, and “The Whole Enchilada”—a phrase he used during his fundraising campaigns on PBS.
Pictured with Wayne Dyer after his fundraising presentation for Unity Church on Maui, circa 2003.
Slipping the tape into my Radio Shack recorder, I hit play to find the batteries working, and Wayne’s deep voice saying, “I write in the middle of the night when everyone else is sleeping. Around 2 or 3 o’clock in the morning.”
“Wow!” I said.
“And I write that early uninterrupted, because Rumi said, ‘the breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep.’ You are closest to God,” he continued, “when you have the least interference—no noise, or distractions. You know how in your dreams, you can write and write and everything flows perfectly. And then you wake and try to recapture it. And you can’t find that effortless perfection because your mind gets in the way. You have to create a sacred space to write. I have a candle near mine.”
That day I finally got to interview Wayne, he listened to my adoption story, my desire to write a memoir about it, and gave me all sorts of writing advice.
I’d forgotten.
Until today when a request to provide proof I’d taken an AWA training led me back to a box with a tape that contains the voice of Dr. Wayne Dyer.
Posted in Blogs, Uncategorized
Tagged Amherst Writers & Artists, Maui Vision, Rumi, Unity Church of Maui, Wayne Dyer
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Thank You Note Evangelist!
The Thank You Note Evangelists’ Dream Come True:
As I stood in my row on my flight to San Antonio waiting for my row mate to return from the lavatory, I glanced at the bent head of the passenger in front of me. On his tray table lay a stack of large plain-white index-sized cards with what looked like a cursive monogram. Nah, I thought. Have to be notes for a meeting. But then he took out a fresh card, dated it in the right hand corner, and as his hand began to write, I said:
“Excuse me. Are you writing thank you notes?”
He turned and looked up at me and smiled.
“Handwritten notes are still appreciated,” he said.
“Oh my God, dude,” I blurted. “That’s so cool.”
As we debarked, I told him I’d posted about him on Facebook.
He beamed.
Then I asked, “how many did you write?”
Wait for it… S-E-V-E-N-T-Y-F-I-V-E!
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Tagged Etiquette, Thank you note evangelist, Thank you notes
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