legacy writing – Page 24 – beckycochrane.com

Legacy Writing 365:193

Have I shared this button before? It’s part of my collection from when it was first issued–I think in 1980.

I well remember the efforts I made to arrange a social life around watching television’s Dallas. Mother, Terri, and I were all addicted to the show. My favorite character was Sue Ellen Ewing.

I didn’t see the last few years of the show, but I did see all the biggest cliffhangers including Who Shot JR, Bobby in the shower, Pam’s exploding car, dead Kristin in the swimming pool, and the big fire at Southfork.

I was finally able to watch the first two hours of the new TNT Dallas and am looking forward to catching up. These days DVRs and Tivos make television a lot easier–even if I don’t have the busy life I once did.

And all these years later, my girl Sue Ellen appears to remain a force to be reckoned with. Where’s my Sue Ellen for Governor button?

ETA: I’m all caught up now, and I like the new Dallas. That JR is such a rascal.

Legacy Writing 365:192

This was taken at Tom’s parents’ house on a weekend when my Mother drove there so we could formalize a bunch of our wedding plans. I’m just betting Tom wouldn’t have been smiling so happily if he’d known Mother was going to end up moving seventeen more times before she died, and most of those moves would involve his taking that damn bed of hers up and down stairs. Dorothy the Nomad With the Zillion-Pound Bed.

Legacy Writing 365:191

Don’t tell me this precious little bunny wasn’t trying to put a fiendish plot into action. Was it not enough that I was kicked out of my bed by his parents; that I didn’t even have a real pillow but was stuck using that tiny accent pillow with its nose-tickling yarny trim; and that someone took a picture of me while I slept?

It’s a good thing it’s not easy to wake me and cause a cardiac event. NICE TRY, DANIEL.

Legacy Writing 365:190

Most of Sunday I tried to bring organization to all these different things that have gotten away from me. Along with bills and correspondence, I’m trying to whip the guest room into shape. It’s been piled high with doll stuff, art stuff, and Christmas gifts to be wrapped (yeah, I know, I know).

With more than 300 dolls, if I don’t keep their whereabouts under control, I might misplace a dog under them or something. We do keep most of the dolls packed in bins in the attic–and some packed away at Tim’s or in the garage, where I’ll have quick access to them if I want them for a photo shoot. Somewhere along the way, I decided to do a kind of Designer’s Look Book to keep up with my models–when I’ve used them, what their model names are, who gave them to me, and technical details about them (face sculpts, for example). I had an extra Moleskine from Marika that I thought would be a good place for this and decorated it accordingly:

When my hard drive died in late 2010, I lost my computer list of all the dolls I have, their photos, and where they’re stored. I had a printed copy, and the photos had been stored on Flickr, so I’ve been re-creating it. Thus my Look Book suddenly turned into a doll inventory book, as well. It’s time-consuming and of course no one could give a flip about it but me, but I do love listing all the dolls’ details, including the ones that were given to me from people’s childhood collections. Those are among the most special dolls of all.

For some reason, all of this made me think about record-keeping in general, and diaries and journals in particular. Groups of people in NYC and London called Cringe have long met and done public readings from their angst-ridden teenage diaries. So here you go.

In other words, I predated Twitter and Facebook by DECADES.

Those names at the end–those are the boys I have crushes on THAT DAY. Because if there’s a week of entries, that list is subject to change daily. Do I remember who these boys were? Oddly, yes. By the way, if any girls from JHS stumble over this, they aren’t your boyfriends. They are some other boys with those same names.

Also, I think y’all should know that when Lynne (and she was “Lynn” then, btw) and I really liked something or someone, our word for it/him was “tuff.”

Legacy Writing 365:189

This bookcase. I think my mother had it custom-made. Maybe my father built it. I don’t know.** It lasted forever, through three children and many moves. I remember it against a wall. Used as a room divider. Painted tan. Painted green. In the den. In the living room. Eventually it was adopted by David and Terri, and I don’t know how long she used it before it went…I don’t know where.

I still have some of the books that are shown on it in this photo. In fact, a couple of them are on the shelves behind me right now. The poor Hummel figurine–no telling how many times that was broken and glued back together before it was unfixable.

The baby is eyeing the bookends. They also endured multiple repairs over their lives. One of them survives.

chipped
cracked
broken
mended
packed
rediscovered
put on a shelf
dust covered
put behind glass
brought out
photographed
examined
treasured
all of the above

** ETA: According to an expert source, my father did build the bookcase.

Legacy Writing 365:188

Sometimes I scan in photos that belonged to my mother just because I can view the scan at much larger sizes than the actual photos. This enables me to see details I can’t discern from the picture. Such was the case with this photo–I wanted to see what was on the shirt I was wearing. Once I saw it–a baseball shirt for the University of Washington Huskies–I recalled that I actually had two of these. I don’t know who gave them to me, because I don’t remember knowing anyone connected to UW. But I liked wearing baseball shirts, so I guess that’s why I took them. If the giver ever sees this, thanks.

Beyond that, I noticed that I’m in my mother’s Northport apartment, I’m wrapping Christmas presents, and Hamlet is sitting next to me. It must have been unseasonably warm–not because I’m barefooted in December–I’m always barefooted unless it’s just absolutely freezing–but because my mother has a window open. Then I noticed there’s a roll of film next to me–reasonable, since it’s coming up on Christmas–and for some inexplicable reason, a bottle of Calamine lotion. I can’t imagine why I’d have needed that in December, so maybe that’s not what it is, but that’s what it looks like.

After I took note of all that, I closed the photo without any plan to use it. Then it kept nagging at me, and I went back to look at it. Upon reflection, it triggered a volley of memories that made me realize it’s the last Christmas my father was alive, and starting in January, I was about to have five of the worst months of my life, months that would change me in ways I couldn’t imagine. I stare at that girl and I wish I could warn her, but that’s not how life works.

Those stories are the ones that’ll never make it to my blog. They may be drastically altered and woven into fiction, but it makes me feel squeamish to think of sharing really private details of my own or anyone else’s life in a public forum. Sometimes, even when I’m reading fiction, I find myself saying to the writer, You put that in because you’re writing from life and calling it fiction, but the story would be better without it.

Recently a writer said to me about a narrator she created, “I don’t know if he’s interesting enough. The other characters seem more engaging.” But I think we learn a lot about a narrator by what he chooses to tell us–and what he leaves out.

I’m not sure what it says about me that I don’t share the gritty stuff. At least I don’t have to worry about too much truth-telling earning me defamation lawsuits.

Legacy Writing 365:187

As an adult many years older looking at this photo of David, I think what a child he was. Just out of high school, joining the Air Force, leaving home for the first time to go to basic training for a country that was at war. And while he was gone, our family moved from South Carolina to the rock house in Alabama, so when he finished basic training, and before he was shipped overseas, he came to a place he’d never lived and never would live. Maybe he thought of it all as one great adventure, but I don’t know how anyone wouldn’t be crazy-scared in the face of all that.

Here’s one of my memories from that time. When he completed basic training, my parents went to get him, I’m guessing at the airport that was a little over an hour away. When he came back, his head was shaved and he was in uniform. It was not the uniform I was used to seeing, and he seemed so different, so grown up, to his eleven-year-old sister. It was night, and there was a light drizzle, so he was wearing a regulation raincoat over his uniform. I remember the raincoat as being grayish and semi-transparent, but I may have that wrong.

After the initial hellos, he and my father went back outside to get David’s things from the trunk. I wanted to tag along. As we stood at the back of the car, he opened his raincoat and held it in such a way that I was protected from the rain. I felt safe and cherished, and I decided maybe having a grownup brother wasn’t such a bad thing.

Legacy Writing 365:186

Not much to write. These photos are from a July 4 during the Proterozoic years.

Here, Mayor Cochrane oversees the setup in the city park.

The First Lady is unloading the Pinto Wagon, one of the most deadly forms of transportation from that eon.

Lynne is taking my brand new puppy Hamlet for a walk through the park. I think all three pounds of him are getting the best of her.

Tim’s dogs are with us tonight. Tom turned the TV up loud, and I did the same in the office with iTunes. We think this blocked some of the fireworks noise, because we have two dogs who don’t handle it well–one barks and paces, the other burrows and pants. But tonight, those two mostly did this:

Good dogs! So after the celebration ended downtown, I made all four dogs a little appetizer plate to celebrate.

Happy Fourth!

Legacy Writing 365:185

I don’t know why when we were growing up we began telling Debby she was left with us by gypsies. Sometimes it was to tease her–you are not one of us–and before you feel sorry for her, she gives as good as she gets. (After all, I’m the one they had to go to Europe to get, making me a probable “not one of us.”)

I did always think she had a pixie quality, with her smallness, her freckles, and her upturned nose. And even though I was the one who drove her crazy talking to my imaginary herd of cows when she was trying to fall asleep, she’s the one who actually had a supernatural communion with animals. They were drawn to her, and with her big heart, if any animal was ever injured or in need, she would go to any length to help.

It was no surprise to me when she texted me about a bird who was blown onto her porch during a recent storm. Of course the bird would pick her house–probably animals have a secret mark they leave, like hobos, when they’ve found a compassionate human. When I saw the bird’s photo, I said, “Is that bird an exotic? Do you think it’s someone’s bird who got out? Or they let it go?”

The bird is, in fact, a cockatoo. She said except for some scrapes on his head, he’s in good shape. She called several rescue organizations without any luck, then she remembered that a neighbor of hers has birds. They talked, and the woman took him in. The neighbor did try to find his family via online resources, but no one claimed him. So now Stormy, as Debby calls him, has a new home, where he’s doing well.

Legacy Writing 365:184

If you faced the rock house we lived in, just to its right was a little clearing encircled by trees and bushes. It’s hard to tell in this snow-covered glimpse, but at the rear of that area was, in summer, the riotous beauty overlooked by my bedroom window. I would awaken earlier than everyone else on those hot mornings, lean on the windowsill, and stare out at a profusion of wildflowers, honeysuckle and other flowering vines, and an array of weeds that all seemed like something out of a storybook. I’d watch the bees and butterflies and dream little girl dreams of fairies, wee folk, and other magical beings.

And then one morning it wasn’t just a dream. Enchantment arrived with a tiny whir of blue and green wings. I ran to get my mother, but when she came to the window with me, it was gone. Instead of merely humoring my fanciful imagination, she asked me to describe it more exactly, and when I did, she knew I’d seen a hummingbird. But it wasn’t only a hummingbird the way she explained it. She let it be the most magical of creatures in my mind, and so it remains to this day.

I feel that I was exceptionally lucky to have parents who, even as they were mired in the practical matters of daily life, were willing to indulge their–and our–imaginations. It was probably on a day like the one pictured here:

when, after my father had cleared out weeds and brush, he dragged it all to a gravelly clearing some distance from the back of the house to burn it. As he stood there keeping a close watch on the fire, he caught sight of a gentleman in his peripheral vision.

“Good afternoon,” my father said and turned toward him.

Except no one was there.

“Probably just the old doctor,” my father said later when he told us about it. “Checking to make sure I was taking good care of things.”

He always did.