Finding Fruit

for Everett, my chunky apple

I CAME HOME LIKE A STONE AND I FELL HEAVY INTO YOUR ARMS

-Marcus Mumford, "I Will Wait" 

“Finding Fruit” by Caitlin Connolly, purchased on Cyber Monday 2015 after one glance and a strong personal reaction. I couldn’t put a finger on why I needed it; I just knew if it sold out I would regret it. It arrived and the gazing commenced. I deciphered two obvious connections:

1. Grandpa’s Orchard

Several of my lazy, carefree childhood summers were spent barefooted in Farmington, New Mexico, jumping over irrigation ditches, catching lizards, and make believing amongst ladders and magpies. Wide-eyed on a trampoline full of sleeping cousins I reached out for the Milky Way’s chalky smear. Cans of black cherry Shasta from Grandma’s cellar, original Nintendo, Hostess treats, dirt roads. Old Tom Kerby retired shortly after supper; a flannel work shirt sat folded on the edge of his bed anxious to be worn before the rooster’s call. Apples are my heritage.

2. Back Pain

As one who has had back pain since her early 20s I alternate between alarm and cringing when I view her form. Lift with your legs, Calico Queen! Why are you making life harder than it needs to be? Don’t you see the fruit on the tree? Save your back and pick the easy fruit! Finding fruit shouldn’t be so painful.

Archer’s birth was a double-edged sword. On the one hand he was miraculously here and placed in arms toned from being open for years. On the other hand I felt no baby closure. Archer never felt like the end but I didn’t dare ask for more; how many miracles can one soul ask for? A secret prayer lay hidden in my heart, unspoken because it sounded a lot like an ultimatum and I don’t make it a fashion to give ultimatums to the architect of the universe. Heavenly Father, if there is another baby please send it fast before I’m too old to raise it and while RE has time to know it. Also, I’d really like to not do IVF ever again. Of course, I will if you tell me to but I reeealllly don’t want to. I was stuck, unwilling to ask for more children because I was unwilling to throw punches during IVF’s long rounds if the answer was affirmative. Outgrown baby items piled high and toppled as the prayer sat in my Draft folder, never discussed, never Sent.

A week after Cyber Monday and three days after the print arrived I found out I was pregnant. Talk about life imitating art! The painting, already loved, was becoming near and dear: she had just put apple number two in her basket and was focusing on something on the ground with a baby bump under her dress. Apple core. Baltimore. Who’s your friend? Shock and Awe!

I knew it was a girl and I was considering naming her Betty after my dad’s mother. Greg didn’t even attend the ultrasound…that’s how sure he was it was a girl. But it was a boy. Holy smokes. I hadn’t even looked at boy names. Was there a name as stellar as Archer West? A name that sounded literary yet frontier-ish? Smooth while scruffy? In your face with a hint of mystery? Symbolic but not weird? I doubted it.  

It took me four days to figure out his name would be Everett. Now for the middle name. Archer’s middle name came from a hymn; Everett’s would likewise need musical gospel roots. I began reading the hymn book. When I passed a word I didn’t know I looked it up. The search ended abruptly with Hymn 144.  

"Secret Prayer"

There is an hour of peace and rest unmarred by earthly care;

‘Tis when before the Lord I go and kneel in secret prayer.

May my heart be turned to pray, pray in secret day by day,

That this boon to mortals giv’n may unite my soul with heav’n.

BOON (noun): a favor or request. Synonyms: blessing, godsend, bonus, plus, benefit, help, aid, asset, windfall

WINDFALL (noun): an apple or other fruit blown down from a tree or bush by the wind, a piece of unexpected good fortune. Synonyms: jackpot, manna from heaven

BANG-A-RANG! I added an E to make it less noun more manly. Plus I grew up in Boone County, Missouri (named after Daniel Boone). Small nod to my childhood. Everett Boone. Everett Boone Lawson. (Or Vava Boo Lala, as Archer would soon call him.)

Joseph of Egypt, one of my heroes, named two of his sons Ephraim and Manassah in the midst of all the turmoil he lived through. Favoritism and a colorful coat ended abruptly with slavery, temptation, prison, butlers, bakers, and leadership. Years of Egyptian endurance passed before the silver cup series finale of forgiveness and tears aired. Ephraim means "fruitful" and Manassah means “forgetting.” In my own life, after all I had been through, I was given one son to feel fruitful again and a second who caused me to forget I ever battled for babies. How quickly I forgot what 12 years of infertility felt like. I believe the words Christ told Joseph Smith: these things shall be but a moment.

My life has had odd growing seasons and rare harvests but fruit is fruit and apples remain my heritage. Fruit is fruit because it has seeds. My fruit is my seed and from fruit I have learned the Lord has varying ways of bestowing bounty on each of us.

RE was what I wanted when I wanted it. First fruit. Easy fruit.

ARCHER was what I wanted after years of No and Not Yet. Fruit at the tippy top of the tree. Rare fruit. Cherished fruit.

EVERETT was what I wanted without ever asking for it. Perfect, shiny apple that fell out of the sky and landed at my feet. Fruit fortune.

In a grove of poetic justice I stand corrected, or rather, I stoop corrected. I am Calico Queen and my basket is sacred. Finding fruit was holy work; the fruit deserved a holy basket. Straight reeds submitted to a thousand uncomfortable corrections as the Great Artisan wove his designs. It also took a brain, a heart, joints and sinews, logistics, chocolate, a savings account, graph paper, space planning, Dreft, hand-me-downs, and roundtable prayer councils to construct a basket capable of cradling excess fruit.

I am Calico Queen in my sonny yellow dress. My back does hurt but not because I went out of my way to ache; I was aching to pick up Windfall because I’d already plucked Easy and Rare. It was news to me the path of abundance doubled as a path of difficulty. The weather reinforced an uneasy truth: baskets overflow with blessings because of opposing strong winds. Seeking after my lovely things of good report was frequently painful and unexpectedly awkward as the painting suggests, however, the best of times are because of the worst of times.

Cheers to 2016: a year of opposition, a year of plenty, and the year I found the last of my fruit.

BUT LET PATIENCE HAVE HER PERFECT WORK, 

THAT YE MAY BE PERFECT AND ENTIRE,

WANTING NOTHING. 

-James 1:4

Print shown with artist's permission. I love how she paints hands.

Ironically, Everett's worst color is red. He must be a golden delicious!

Figgy Pudding

Present

If happiness were string I'd be red and white bakers twine. What a December.

I finished an 8-week health challenge AND found a great ab workout. To hit your abs deep down in a place the plank can't touch just be a passenger when Greg turns left out of Costco at rush hour. Greg a.k.a. Jason Bourne in the Moscow Chase brought us safely home with bulk chicken, bulk toilet paper, bald tires, and sore obliques.

I ate the kids' stocking candy in bed and watched The Empire Strikes Back for the first time since I was six. Archer is now officially obsessed with Chewbacca and even prayed for him two nights ago. I'm soaking up the bread crumbs my blonde boy child leaves behind; wrapping paper tube lightsabers, a Hot Wheel next to the nativity manger, a stegosaurus in my purse.

Everett is in his "cooing like a dove" phase and chews on his feet while wobbling back and forth like a Higglytown Hero. His laugh births fairies. I want to cryogenically preserve him at this age. I'll say it again: I had no idea how sweet little boys could be. Kim P was right when she told me I'd love my boys differently than I loved my girl.

I didn't send Christmas cards because I'm saving my efforts and postage for a "We've Moved" card, bought jeans for the first time in four years, ate out a bunch because I didn't feel like cooking, and lit the world with small acts of service. I also mustered the bravery to try mint hot chocolate. It didn't taste like toothpaste one bit. It was rather delicious.

Watched: It's a Wonderful Life, White Christmas, Barbie's A Christmas Carol, The Grinch, Berenstain Bears Christmas Tree, The Family Man, Polar Express

Left to Watch: Little Women, Christmas in Connecticut, George C. Scott's A Christmas Carol, Narnia, All I Want For Christmas

What I love about life is despite my best laid plans and calendaring skills a Moment (capital M moment...the kind you'll remember forever) happens when I least expect it. I picked RE up from a party at 11 and decided to put my life in her hands and let her drive us home. Yes, she wore her permit in her pocket to a party. I've only driven with RE once and it was a near death experience that included me screaming GUN IT! GUN IT! GUN IT! while she screamed back WHAT DOES GUN IT MEAN? The streets were deserted so she cruised Main Street, squealing all the way because it's been her life's dream to do so. We glided under the tinsel HAPPY HOLIDAYS and SEASONS GREETINGS and practiced left turns until we were dizzy from making squares. An impromptu midnight photo shoot at Robinson Park's Dr. Seuss tree trunks topped off our Stars Hollow hour. Back home there was some snacking from the hoards of neighbor goodies and then my sugar crash/adrenaline rush (the adrenaline overrode the sugar) kicked in at 2 am. At that point I saw the light at the end of the Christmas tunnel and glittered and typed my last few projects. I only slept three hours before Everett woke up but my personal satisfaction made it feel like eight.

All month I've been thinking of something my friend Carly posted on her IG account in November. She said I STILL REMEMBER THE DAYS I PRAYED FOR THE THINGS I HAVE NOW. I remember those days like they were yesterday. I am ever aware I have the things I prayed for...and then some! I have learned to acknowledge by praying for children I technically also prayed for small tornados to whiz through my home and leave rainbow IKEA silverware, blankies, bristle blocks, and backpacks in their wakes. I prayed to buy fruit snacks and diapers for two at Costco. I prayed for perpetually puffy-yet-sunken eyes that reject concealer. I prayed to be stretched out and worn thin in my brain and on my skin.

My old roommate Heater, who never lacks for wisdom, passed on a great quote in her Christmas card: GRATITUDE TURNS WHAT WE HAVE INTO ENOUGH. I love this, like LOVE to the 88th power. I'm thankful we're still at 680 West where things are familiar and timeworn. The Draney's gingerbread lights glow through our bedroom window and the ducks quack from the cattails. I'm thankful for friends who give offerings that show they know the real me. I'm thankful I'm young enough to change but old enough to have a bit of wisdom. I'm thankful for Greg: the only man on earth who could tame this shrew. Most of all, I am thankful for my Heavenly Father, the Giver of All Things Good, and his Son, my Savior Jesus Christ who made All Things Bad bearable, All Things Wrong fixable, All Things Priceless keepable (made that word up), and All Things In Store receivable.

It is a wonderful life.

Oxford Student

"Greg, what did your dad teach you to do?"

"How to catch a fish, clean a fish, fix vacuums, sell vacuums, drive, watch wrestling, and make steak sandwiches. What did your dad teach you to do?"

"Polish shoes."

Evening time, basement storage room, Dad perched on a bucket with knees above his hips, me sitting at his feet. Smears of black or brown or cordovan (a favorite color to this day; just bought a turtleneck in cordovan) clouded the shiny leather, the wide horsehair brush rhythmically swish-swashed back and forth over each section. I stepped in the empty shoe to keep it still as Dad zig zagged a rag as fast as a blur for the final "spit shine". Just the two of us.

Dad, what is saddle soap?

Dad, how old are your shoes? What were you before you were a dentist?

Dad, how do they put on a new sole?

Dad, what if the leather gets gouged? How do you get scuffs off patent leather?

Dad, what are the tiny dots poked all over your work shoes called?

Dad, what do you do if your skinny waxed lace breaks?

Dad, will you polish my shoes if I bring them down?

Dad, can I polish my shoes?

Surprise, Dad. I polished your shoes.

First by watching and then by doing I learned how to resurrect leather and restore it to glory.

I learned you resole a shoe not to save money but to save the shoe, the beautiful leather upper who stood faithfully beside your bones and callouses all those years until you were “an item.”

I learned because genuine leather is expensive pleather will tempt your pocketbook. Don't take the fake. Invest in things that are real and don't doubt your strategy. Pleather can't go the distance. If tragedy strikes pleather it can be doctored a temporary time or two but you’d better start shoe shopping. Cheap and Fake are besties that will stab Eternal in the back.

I learned cobblers use teeny nails, tiny hammerheads, and magnifying spectacles to affix new soles. To save something worth saving you need the right tools and the right mindset. Saving things isn’t the result of talent, it’s the result of concentration. The work of saving is glorious. Sometimes saving means remembering inherent value or focusing on potential.

I learned the patina of a weathered, sound shoe is a beauty you can’t artificially replicate. Some things just take time to possess their true beauty.

If your lace breaks tie the two ends in a knot and keep going. You’d be surprised how far a knotted lace spare tire will go. Shoes trick you into needing laces; they don’t want you to know they work just fine as slip-ons. Plan B often gets you to the same place as Plan A so don’t sweat it if life breaks your laces.

With limited language and plenty of polish my dad lectured about leather and life. 

The last Christmas before I headed off to college yielded a special gift from Dad: my own shoe polishing kit. I may have been the only female freshman in the dorms with a shoe polishing kit. It felt like home to spread a towel out (to catch any rogue polish bits), twist the circular Kiwi tin open, and plunge the bristles in stain. It felt like my dad was still with me, guiding me here and there about avoiding direct contact with laces or double-checking the soles with a rag so I didn’t walk polish all over the carpet. It feels good to have old shoes. RE is anxious to stop growing so she can get a dress from Boden and some kickin' leather shoes.

Breakthrough

Part II of III

It's very important how you work a puzzle, and as far as I'm concerned there's only one way.

First you turn the box upside down so that you're working out of the top. Then you pull out all the edge pieces and put the other ones face up in the bottom of the box. So then you've got the edge on the table and everything else in the bottom of the box. The top is now free so you can work from the picture on it. Then you put together the entire edge. Some edge pieces are always missing at first, but they turn up later as the puzzle takes shape. From that point on, there are different routes.

You can decide to work on one color and then search for that color and put together a chunk of it. Or a pattern, or a subject like a pickle or a doll's face. After a while you've got the edge and several blobs and then you begin to look at the box top and try to reasonably place the sections. Then you fan out and begin to make bridges from one to another. This can take several sessions. That's how you become so intimately involved with your subject.

Whenever two great big blobs are connected, that's a breakthrough. Now this is very important: whether you are alone in the house or someone is there with you, at this point you shout, "A breakthrough! A breakthrough!" Actually it's better to be alone in the house for a breakthrough. Dan always yells in from another room, "What's the matter in there?"

For me there's nothing more relaxing than a half-done puzzle on a card table in the middle of the living room. It's my most calming pastime. When I'm worried and can't concentrate on reading, a good puzzle is just like a tranquilizer.

"Aunt Mary on: Permanent Vacations and Jig-Saw Puzzles", Nancy Westheimer, 1987.

One of the highlights of my small town life was winning the Eric Dowdle Star Mill Puzzle-a-thon with Cristall and Jaime. Three teams showed up. Newlyweds, a girl with her aged parents, and us. The lovebirds canoodled the whole time and didn't even finish their edges. The girl single-handedly did 75% of the puzzle while her parents unintentionally slowed her progress. My team came prepared wearing short sleeves, no jewelry, our hair tied back, chapstick in our pockets, and water bottles filled. We completed the 500-piece puzzle in less than an hour. We won fair and square, although the girl would have beat any of us one on one. If you've ever thought a puzzle was a tranquilizer just have a puzzle race. I think Puzzling should be an Olympic sport. Golf is, and puzzles are leaps and bounds more exciting than golf.

I'm a lifelong puzzle lover. Our house had a 500-piece circular rabbit puzzle which was the rite of passage for any Durko kid wanting to graduate from the oversized Disney puzzle to the next level. Setting the last piece was a trophy we all schemed for by either hiding a piece in a pocket or under the table.

I agree with Aunt Mary's methods. Always do the edges first, followed by the easiest insides, then the solid black sky or the open ocean bit last. For some reason by the time I get to the end of a puzzle the hard parts don't seem as daunting as they did at the beginning. It's like my eyes have gained a spidey sense and can spot specific edges or fractions of a gradient with ease. I quite enjoy being in the thick of it when triumph is palpable. Easy puzzles simply lack triumphant endings.

ANSWER to the puzzle on the previous post: 20. Start at 10 and jump to alternate segments, adding 1, then 2, then 3, and so on.