Inheritance

When I worked on my calendar this weekend, I noted that my book club meets in only two weeks, and I have not yet completed our book.

So I read it this afternoon. The book is Inheritance, by Dani Shapiro.

I have nothing in common with the book. I mean, nothing.

Shapiro subscribes to a DNA testing outfit and discovers she is not the biological child of her father. On further investigation, she comes to learn that her parents sought the help of a donor program in order to conceive her. She learns that in the 1960's, when she was conceived, parents were told that the husband's sperm was being "treated," rather than told that his sperm was mixed with the sperm of a healthy medical student just looking for a way to pay for med school.

Shapiro grew up in an Orthodox Jewish family, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl, constantly told she "doesn't look Jewish."

See? I have nothing in common with her.

Yet. I sobbed through it. Sobbed.

I am undeniably the daughter of both of my parents. When I am slender, I unmistakably resemble my mother. At her funeral, people would take a look at me and burst in tears, I looked so much like a young Betty. I have her height, her hooded eyelids, her long face.

When I'm heavier, I look like a female version of my dad. I have his high forehead, his turtle-like posture, his wide fingers.

From both of them, I have their mutual intelligence.

So why did Inheritance make me cry?

I wonder, myself.

I related to Shapiro's images of trolling her neighborhood, watching and envying warm and happy families. She walked her dog around the block, around and around, looking in on other families.

I rode my bicycle.

When she found her biological father, he was at first reluctant to meet her. He had a family and did not want to upset anyone.

Later, he had second thoughts and agreed to meet her. It could have gone any way. Their meeting could have been remote. It could have been lukewarm. Instead, it was love at first sight.

I sobbed and sobbed.

My own parents both lost parents at young ages, and were ill equipped to handle anything emotional. When I reacted to situations and cried, they called me, Sarah Bernhardt. At other times, their silence was deafening; their stoicism icy. While I try to be a warmer person, I have nothing in my background to rely on.

My dad "disowned" me more times than I can recall -- once because my middle-school son was a fan of Bob Dole. I married months before Dad's death. I could not take my husband home to meet dad; he was afraid we would steal from him.

I do not have a biological father, alive, out there in the world. My own father and mother are dead. I do not have the happy and warm family I always fantasized about. Shapiro found hers. My family, my real family, is the same one that I've known, and been rejected by, for decades.

Maybe that's why I cried.

#61 Gratitude

I took the week off from my free-lance work to catch up with my Lyme disease. The symptoms were sneaking back uponst me and I needed some rest to battle it back.

I've spent the week chilling. Today I ran some errands, including getting a surprise gift for some neighbors who, I heard through the grapevine, are getting married.

It's so rewarding to see someone's face when I do something nice; I should do it more often.

Also this week, our Civitans lost another member to death; a local activist died unexpectedly, and my sister went into the hospital. I think the doctors are still trying to figure out what's wrong with her.

On the positive side, our neighbors are getting married, our great grandson has a birthday and it's April. What can be better than April? Strawberry season is my favorite time of year.

I'm awfully thankful for this life. It has its ups and downs but you know, everyone's life does, too. Ours is no worse than most and better than too many. I'm just thankful. Today. Who knows? Tomorrow I might be a complainer again.

#LoveMyLife

#60 Sculpture Show

I live in a small town, 37,000 people.
We have a symphony, three live theatres — four if you count the local college — and a couple of art galleries.
Every spring, our city government hosts a sculpture show. A dozen sculptures are installed all over town, replacing the dozen that have been up the last eleven months.
On the day they’re all installed, we have a party. A hundred or so people are invited to a guy’s house to meet the artists who created this year’s pieces. We all talk and drink wine and eat tiny bites of food. It’s a lovely time and I’m pretty darned proud our little city works to have physical art throughout the town.
Tonight was the eleventh sculpture party.
When I left city council, I had one request : keep me on the list for this party.
#LoveMyLife

#59 Are you an Artist?

The oddest thing happened on Sunday. I met a man and we did the usual, Mike, this is Maggie. Maggie, this is Mike. Then he asked, "Are you an artist?"

It was an unusual first question. As my mind raced through the various possible answers, I simply answered, "No."

But, yes, I am. And so are you. I like to draw. I write for a living. I refinish furniture and sew and do a thousand creative things. Yes, I'm an artist.

And so are you. Everyone I know says, "I can't draw a straight line." I want to scream, "A straight line isn't art!" Wiggly lines are. Curvy lines are. Crisscrossing lines are. But not straight lines.

Do you arrange food on a plate before serving it? Do you hum, sing, whistle? Do you arrange your home in a warm and welcoming way?

We are all artists, some more than others, only because they've opened themselves up to the possibility of being an artist.

Nice to meet you -- are you an artist?

#58 Beacon Hall Concert

A couple of years ago, my dear husband began circling an old dilapidated church in our neighborhood on a regular basis. He'd say things like, "There's got to be a use for that building."

He was right. It's a beautiful building, made ugly only by the years of disuse and misuse. The stained glass windows that once graced its facade were sold to a salvage company. Faded plywood filled the cavities. Pigeons -- thousands of 'em -- filled the bell tower. The inside bore the evidence of their presence. Landscaping was missing or overgrown.

A few weeks later we bought that church, taking the full purchase price from our savings. DH had a vision for a music lab of sorts, a place for kids to come for free music lessons, but more. Encouragement, self confidence, help with schoolwork, all these things. We named it Beacon Hall, with "beacon" obviously a metaphor for guidance, but also the name of the theatre in New York City where his favorite band, the Allman Brothers, performed every year.

The building has slowly but surely improved over the past two years. Hubby has resourcefully found windows in just the right sizes to replace the plywood. I marvel at the morning sun beaming in through the eastern windows --- sunshine the churchgoers never got to appreciate with stained glass impeding its beams. Better yet, he found the windows in a building about to be demolished and bargained with its owners to allow him to remove them and keep them for free.

Friends over the past 24 months have donated their time and skills to install the windows. Today the church has thirteen windows installed, fully functional with rope, where plywood once was.

We've developed a board, tasking 10 friends and acquaintances, each with a special skillset, to serve.

We (finally) acquired 501(c)(3) designation, after a long and arduous journey.

We've received our first grant, $1,000, to replace the doors on the church.

We're applying for more and beginning the first steps of a capital campaign to raise the money necessary to redevelop this building into the beauty she can be.

***

Late in November DH noticed on the Internet a blues artist, Scott Ainslie, who would be in our state in January. He had made a comment that he was looking for one more engagement to round out his trip to the state.

My shy, nervous husband reached out to him and shared the mission of Beacon Hall. Scott responded positively and they set a tentative date of January 25 for a concert and 26 for a Master Class in guitar.

Because our building is not (not nearly!) complete, we determined to see if we could hold the concert in the local high school auditorium, a plaster masterpiece from the 1930's that was recently renovated to the tune of $750,000.

The board rallied around and chipped in with tasks and errands. From placing posters to buying water, they all came through.

We hired a young promoter who worked on our website, used social media, designed posters, developed memes -- you name it, she did it. Her work reached into neighboring states and attracted visitors.

A local bed and breakfast agreed to allow the artist to stay "on them" as a gift to Beacon Hall.

One of our board members, incidentally my son, drove down from Washington DC only a day after flying in from a weeks-long stay in China. His wife and son came as well and helped in a million ways over the weekend.

Friends who helped in my political campaign offered to stand at the doors and greet concert-goers as they arrived. The principal of the high school ran the lights and sound, himself.

A local realtor (and friend) sponsored a scholarship so a college student could attend the Master Class.

The board had agreed this concert was for awareness of Beacon Hall and its mission only, and our goal was to provide the concert for free, with donations welcomed.

We set out (borrowed) glass jars and crossed our fingers, hoping to break even-- covering the artist's fee and the money we'd paid the promoter. .

The jars filled over and over. Our daughter in law loaned us her square and we took in hundreds with credit cards.

We're still adding things up but it appears we covered all our expenses and made a healthy extra as well.

Oh, the concert? Well. It blew our socks off. Scott wowed the audience. He shared the legends of blues and its beginnings and played on multiple instruments. People visibly nodded heads or tapped feet to the music. Many iPhones were held aloft to photograph or tape Scott. He gave, and gave and gave. He played and sang from 7:30 to 10, with just a 20 minute break.

Since then we've received calls, texts and emails thanking us for bringing him to town.

The master class the next morning was just as successful. He'd asked us to cap the class at 20 students, but they had some late arrivals and ended up with 24. One student was so impressed he wrote Beacon Hall a check for $100.

****

The weekend is over and all the houseguests have gone home. Sweet husband's car is overloaded with the detritus of the weekend -- folding chairs loaned from his workplace, tools, tables, etc.

We are exhausted and overjoyed with our initial success. I'm in the process of writing thank-you letters, but if you came or helped, or wished us well, THANK YOU.

#LoveMyLife

#57 Who’s Gooder ‘n We Are?

In the fall of 2003 I attended John C. Campbell Folk School in Brasstown, TN for a three-day watercolor workshop. As I recall, the class was comprised mostly, but not all, of middle-aged women. Among us was an older woman from Maggie Valley, NC, who would soon die from liver cancer.

She was very at peace with her situation and had taken the class to help in documenting her memories for her grandchildren.

As we painted, the class sometimes engaged in idle chat. One subject was using one’s good china and crystal at home.

“I use mine every day,” the cancer patient said, “and you should, too. Who’s gooder ‘n we are?”

Little did she know her words would resonate with me. She’s long gone now, and still I carry her words.

I’m trying to draw every day, and today I went through my art supplies looking for a nice portable sketchbook.

I came across a lovely choice, a book my Dear Son #2 found down a dark alley in Vietnam, where he had read about a woman who made her own paper and bound it into sketchbooks.

On one hand, it seems too special to draw in. On the other, what will give my children more pleasure after I die— coming across the book empty, or filled with daily sketches?

I drew my first picture in it this evening, because, of course, who’s gooder than we are?