Stockholm, Sweden
Dear Polly (with a future, a.k.a. Grandma Evelyn),
This morning, as I was biking up an incline on my way to work I passed a young mother with a 4-5 year old child on the back of her bike. I smiled at the young girl, whom I heard say to her mother:
“Mamma, an old lady is passing us.”
I heard her mother respond to the young girl:
“It is not an old lady, it is a woman.”
So , not only am I an “old bag”, but an “It”, neutralized of any possible age or erotic power.
I had to laugh as I considered the weight and fate of myself, a fleeting vision.
As I biked on, I recalled an evening – must have been in the sixties, in my teens – when you came to our home for dinner. I remember the fleeting sight of your hand, alongside mom’s and my own, on the dinner table. I recall thinking of the significance of age, how it marks our skin. My own hand was pink and supple, mom’s was drier and more mature, while yours was marked by age spots, elevated veins and distorted form. Now, my hands are like yours:
Pacific rings and Icelandic threads
Sit atop a surface seam in the Earth’s crust
Straddling two of the planet’s
tectonic puzzle pieces.
The last time Eya erupted,
Her angry big sister had yet to awaken.
Thus, as Katla continues to belch
the planet’s unsettled insides
scientists are carefully watching her.
Had you known what I know.
Now. No Never.
You would never
have wanted to know.
How everything would be
Nor would I nor anyone
for that matter
ever want to tell you.
No one ever told you
What I saw
If only someone else had
Seen what I…
Then you would
never ever know
what I knew what you knew
If we had only
known then
We would never.
Their nest is one of the most restless
The Fire is a marvel,
highly coveted Bird,
charmed by the wonder of the pen,
the spring sprite
eventually blames feathers
for all its troubles.
the bird sings by night
and pecks the golden fruit
at the mouth of a nearby crater
and is restored to life
after the destruction
and the forest
is reborn with her.
Forever,
Your granddaughter
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Earthquake and fire
Sunday, April 22, 2006 Kentifield, California
Dear Diary,
I intended to write earlier, but life just hasn’t been the same since last Wednesday morning. I remember that I was dreaming that we were out on the sea to go fishing, swaying back and forth in the swells, when suddenly the deck started to rattle and shake. I woke to the real nightmare of my bed rattling so violently that I was thrown out and heard the big pictures on the wall of my room crash to the floor, along with all else atop my dresser drawer. I thought everything was going to collapse. Daddy called out loud from the 1st floor and told me to get up immediately and into the doorway, but I couldn’t open it. I started to cry and pulled and pulled on the handle, when suddenly it just flew open. I hung onto the jamb with all my might, and could hear that everything was crashing all around. There was such a din of rattles and thuds, and cracking and crashing it was hard to tell just what was happening. When cracking and shattering finally stopped Daddy called again and told me to put on something and come get out into the street as quickly as I could. I could care less how I looked, just wanted to make sure I’d be warm enough…so I put on my riding pants and a wool sweater and my jodhpurs. I remember walked carefully as I could down the stairs, afraid that they would break under the strain of my weight. The back porch had actually collapsed, and there were cracks and dust everywhere and broken windows. There were lots of people on the street...
more later
your Polly
P.S. I am in Kentifield now, because we packed some bags and took the ferry to Marin County on Wednesday afternoon, and are staying with our Grandpa and Grandma Sherbeck. Daddy’s office building on California Street is gone as well as most other downtown buildings. I suppose you could say it is a good thing the earth quaked so early in the morning, because daddy might have been crushed to death otherwise. He is down there now, working with a rescue crew. With all the broken gas lines, fires have been raging out of control in the City ever since. The air, even here in Marin County smells of burnt redwood, and the sky is a haze. I can still see smoke curling up across the bay.
Dear Diary,
I intended to write earlier, but life just hasn’t been the same since last Wednesday morning. I remember that I was dreaming that we were out on the sea to go fishing, swaying back and forth in the swells, when suddenly the deck started to rattle and shake. I woke to the real nightmare of my bed rattling so violently that I was thrown out and heard the big pictures on the wall of my room crash to the floor, along with all else atop my dresser drawer. I thought everything was going to collapse. Daddy called out loud from the 1st floor and told me to get up immediately and into the doorway, but I couldn’t open it. I started to cry and pulled and pulled on the handle, when suddenly it just flew open. I hung onto the jamb with all my might, and could hear that everything was crashing all around. There was such a din of rattles and thuds, and cracking and crashing it was hard to tell just what was happening. When cracking and shattering finally stopped Daddy called again and told me to put on something and come get out into the street as quickly as I could. I could care less how I looked, just wanted to make sure I’d be warm enough…so I put on my riding pants and a wool sweater and my jodhpurs. I remember walked carefully as I could down the stairs, afraid that they would break under the strain of my weight. The back porch had actually collapsed, and there were cracks and dust everywhere and broken windows. There were lots of people on the street...
more later
your Polly
P.S. I am in Kentifield now, because we packed some bags and took the ferry to Marin County on Wednesday afternoon, and are staying with our Grandpa and Grandma Sherbeck. Daddy’s office building on California Street is gone as well as most other downtown buildings. I suppose you could say it is a good thing the earth quaked so early in the morning, because daddy might have been crushed to death otherwise. He is down there now, working with a rescue crew. With all the broken gas lines, fires have been raging out of control in the City ever since. The air, even here in Marin County smells of burnt redwood, and the sky is a haze. I can still see smoke curling up across the bay.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Waiting for Phoenix
Sundsvall, Sweden
Dear Polly,
As I write, a volcano under the Eyafjall glacier on Iceland continues to erupt. While I am not on Iceland to witness diverging (or are they converging?) tectonic plates with my own eyes, I am witness to the steam, the ashes and cancelled airline flights. I hear that never before have so many flights been cancelled by such a catastrophe, natural or otherwise.
Phoenix.
How long did the bird live? In any event, it would build itself a nest of herbal fibers at the end of that time. It would look like an eagle, fan its golden wings and set the nest afire. A small worm would then be found in the ashes. Are you that worm?
This weekend I had the privilege of attending a conference (SFÖ) for trade translators in the lively Swedish lumber trading metropolis of Sundsvall, Sweden, a town that literally rose from the ashes in 1888 ( Nils Johan Tjärnlund, architectural historian from Sundsvall). Mr. Tjärnlund proved to be more than happy to answer all my questions about first impressions of the town where he grew up. I did not tell him about you, nor did we talk about earthquakes, volcanoes, or fires. We talked about train stations and other buildings in Sundsvall, and national romanticism at the turn of the last century, when you were a young girl.
As I return to my typewriter this evening, I can tell that you and I are on a test flight, like Lina S. Berg (see my earlier blog entry, Nov 5, 2009). I sense timelessness of meaning in the redwood fiber, the heat and steam of your dream. A perfect Redwood hatchery, broken egg shells all around, frantic movement, wet feathers and chirps. Easter Sunday in 1906 was on April 15.
I am writing to you on a sunny Sunday in Sundsvall, Sweden
your dear granddaughter,
xxxooo
Dear Polly,
As I write, a volcano under the Eyafjall glacier on Iceland continues to erupt. While I am not on Iceland to witness diverging (or are they converging?) tectonic plates with my own eyes, I am witness to the steam, the ashes and cancelled airline flights. I hear that never before have so many flights been cancelled by such a catastrophe, natural or otherwise.
Phoenix.
How long did the bird live? In any event, it would build itself a nest of herbal fibers at the end of that time. It would look like an eagle, fan its golden wings and set the nest afire. A small worm would then be found in the ashes. Are you that worm?
This weekend I had the privilege of attending a conference (SFÖ) for trade translators in the lively Swedish lumber trading metropolis of Sundsvall, Sweden, a town that literally rose from the ashes in 1888 ( Nils Johan Tjärnlund, architectural historian from Sundsvall). Mr. Tjärnlund proved to be more than happy to answer all my questions about first impressions of the town where he grew up. I did not tell him about you, nor did we talk about earthquakes, volcanoes, or fires. We talked about train stations and other buildings in Sundsvall, and national romanticism at the turn of the last century, when you were a young girl.
As I return to my typewriter this evening, I can tell that you and I are on a test flight, like Lina S. Berg (see my earlier blog entry, Nov 5, 2009). I sense timelessness of meaning in the redwood fiber, the heat and steam of your dream. A perfect Redwood hatchery, broken egg shells all around, frantic movement, wet feathers and chirps. Easter Sunday in 1906 was on April 15.
I am writing to you on a sunny Sunday in Sundsvall, Sweden
your dear granddaughter,
xxxooo
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Redwood fibers
San Francisco, April 15, 1906
Dear Diary,
Daddy talks so much lot about redwood lumber and steamships, McPherson and Wetherbee, and Pacific Lumber.
Daddy is so proud of redwood, its insulating properties, its long-lived nature, fire and moisture resistance. He says it’s distasteful to vermin and insects. But what about redwood cones, fibers, fire and steam? Sometimes I think Daddy should get back to the basics.
The bark can be ten inches thick, and Daddy says it is a waste.
In a dream last night I was the bell of the Easter parade, with a gown woven from the fibers of redwood bark. In my dream I was hot and steaming, and under my gown I was hatching Easter eggs. My Easter bonnet was a redwood burl. Little yellow chicks were scurrying underfoot, chirping and pecking all around me...even as the vermin appeared to dance.
Daddy says you can do so many things with redwoods, but he doesn’t seem to be interested in using the fibers to weave a fabric like the one in my dream, an Easter suite, that could be used to insulate me and so many other chicks. Maybe he doesn’t think it gets cold enough around here, or hot enough for that matter, or that we need to worry about varmits and insects, but I do. I think it would be a strong fabric, useful in hats, blankets and so much more, if you mixed it with natural sheep wool. Just a dream. What do I know?
Your,
Polly (with a future)
Dear Diary,
Daddy talks so much lot about redwood lumber and steamships, McPherson and Wetherbee, and Pacific Lumber.
Daddy is so proud of redwood, its insulating properties, its long-lived nature, fire and moisture resistance. He says it’s distasteful to vermin and insects. But what about redwood cones, fibers, fire and steam? Sometimes I think Daddy should get back to the basics.
The bark can be ten inches thick, and Daddy says it is a waste.
In a dream last night I was the bell of the Easter parade, with a gown woven from the fibers of redwood bark. In my dream I was hot and steaming, and under my gown I was hatching Easter eggs. My Easter bonnet was a redwood burl. Little yellow chicks were scurrying underfoot, chirping and pecking all around me...even as the vermin appeared to dance.
Daddy says you can do so many things with redwoods, but he doesn’t seem to be interested in using the fibers to weave a fabric like the one in my dream, an Easter suite, that could be used to insulate me and so many other chicks. Maybe he doesn’t think it gets cold enough around here, or hot enough for that matter, or that we need to worry about varmits and insects, but I do. I think it would be a strong fabric, useful in hats, blankets and so much more, if you mixed it with natural sheep wool. Just a dream. What do I know?
Your,
Polly (with a future)
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Today's pollard
At the Music Concourse in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco 2010
Dear Polly*,
Having been reading your diary, and fallen asleep, I was suddenly awakened to a poem by an Emily Dickinson. Perhaps you have read it before?
One dignity delays for all.
One mitred afternoon.
None can avoid this purple,
None evade this crown.
Coach it insures, and footmen,
Chamber and state and throng;
Bells, also, in the village,
As we ride grand along.
What dignified attendants,
What service when we pause!
How loyally at parting
Their hundred hats they raise!
How pomp surpassing ermine,
When simple you and I
Present our meek escutcheon,
And claim the rank to die.
*Evelyn (nee Pollard) Hund, my maternal grandmother
Palm Sunday
San Francisco
Sunday, April 8, 1906
Dear Diary,
What a bright and sunny day. We must have looked pretty grand in church today, waving our palms (not open hands, but fronds) in the procession. But next Sunday we’ll be all decked out in our new dresses and Easter bonnets. Florence came by yesterday to do our final fittings and my best dress this year is gorgeous: an oyster pink pleated satin bodice with a bone-white cotton yoke, white satin puff sleeves with smocking and flounces, and a matching pink smocked collar. My hat will be broad-brimmed, pastel green straw, with pink primroses around the sash.
After supper we played hearts and whist for hours. I can stay up late because I don’t have to go to school this week and Daddy has gone up to the Eel River on business. I hope he brings home some fresh salmon for Good Friday, since it is my favorite fish.
Mother, Rachel, Hazel, and Amy and I are going to see the flower show at the Conservatory of Flowers and then to a Concert at the Concourse. Amy and I have yet to decide what to wear.
Your,
Polly (with a future)
Sunday, April 8, 1906
Dear Diary,
What a bright and sunny day. We must have looked pretty grand in church today, waving our palms (not open hands, but fronds) in the procession. But next Sunday we’ll be all decked out in our new dresses and Easter bonnets. Florence came by yesterday to do our final fittings and my best dress this year is gorgeous: an oyster pink pleated satin bodice with a bone-white cotton yoke, white satin puff sleeves with smocking and flounces, and a matching pink smocked collar. My hat will be broad-brimmed, pastel green straw, with pink primroses around the sash.
After supper we played hearts and whist for hours. I can stay up late because I don’t have to go to school this week and Daddy has gone up to the Eel River on business. I hope he brings home some fresh salmon for Good Friday, since it is my favorite fish.
Mother, Rachel, Hazel, and Amy and I are going to see the flower show at the Conservatory of Flowers and then to a Concert at the Concourse. Amy and I have yet to decide what to wear.
Your,
Polly (with a future)
Monday, April 5, 2010
Polly with a future
San Francisco
April 5, 1906
Dear Diary,
My teacher calls me Evelyn P., because there are three other girls in my class by the name Evelyn, but I’m the only Evelyn Pollard. So you can just call me Polly for short. My daddy calls me Evy. When he gives me gifts he writes ‘For Evy’, which I know is short for “ever”. So please don’t call me Evy with a P, because that would sound peevish, and though I may be fretful at times, it might become a pet peeve that would annoy me no end. My best friend Amy already calls me Polly.
My daddy told me that a pollard is a tree that has been cut back as much as possible so that it will use all of its energy for new growth. My daddy is Thomas Pollard, and he owns a redwood lumber and shipping company on 22 California Street so he should know. I like being a Pollard, a part of the Pollard family tree, a Polly with a future. I am 14 years old, relatively tall and more redheaded and freckle-faced than the other Evelyn’s in my class. I live on 19th Avenue in San Francisco and am in the 9th grade. Next year I will be a sophomore, all the wiser.
April 5, 1906
Dear Diary,
My teacher calls me Evelyn P., because there are three other girls in my class by the name Evelyn, but I’m the only Evelyn Pollard. So you can just call me Polly for short. My daddy calls me Evy. When he gives me gifts he writes ‘For Evy’, which I know is short for “ever”. So please don’t call me Evy with a P, because that would sound peevish, and though I may be fretful at times, it might become a pet peeve that would annoy me no end. My best friend Amy already calls me Polly.
My daddy told me that a pollard is a tree that has been cut back as much as possible so that it will use all of its energy for new growth. My daddy is Thomas Pollard, and he owns a redwood lumber and shipping company on 22 California Street so he should know. I like being a Pollard, a part of the Pollard family tree, a Polly with a future. I am 14 years old, relatively tall and more redheaded and freckle-faced than the other Evelyn’s in my class. I live on 19th Avenue in San Francisco and am in the 9th grade. Next year I will be a sophomore, all the wiser.
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