THE MOVING FINGER WRITES

The moving finger writes and having writ moves on–and on–and on.

Children always want to know all your secrets; when they’re little, it’s your age, where you met Daddy, why did Daddy yell at you last night? When they reach the teen years they want to know when grandma let you wear lipstick and why can’t they? Or how old were you when you got to go on your first date. The date thing can get pretty personal the older they get.

What they really want to know is your feelings on just about everything you have placed in your mental vault. What you were thinking when you were in high school, or when you got married, or had babies. They want you to revisit your childhood to compare it with their own. They want to know your life.

My mother died over thirty years ago, and several months ago it troubled me that I couldn’t remember if she used cream in her coffee; so you can see how that goes.

Several years ago our daughter gave us each a large book entitled in large letters (so that we could see them) “MY LIFE”, with instructions to fill it out. We set them aside with arbitrary intentions.

A couple of months ago we met the same daughter and her husband for breakfast in San Francisco at the Delancey Street Cafe. I love presents and she gave my husband and I each a large nicely wrapped package. Naturally I ripped the paper off as quick as I could, only to find a familiar book–“MY LIFE”. Some people just don’t give up.

I started to write in it–I truly did. All the amazing ancestral forebears and their birth, marriage and death dates were duly entered with any scandalous information I could glean. Then I realized that it wasn’t that that she wanted, so I am beginning a memoir of sorts which I hope will be of interest to some readers.

Though I think my life has been quite ordinary, it has been long, and I’m counting on a lot more of it.

SHADOWS OF OUR ANCESTORS

“Large porcelain raku pot”

“Shadows of Our Ancestors” watercolor painting by kayti sweetland rasmussen

I’m not sure how I feel about so-called “ancient memory”; the qualities, gifts or understanding we may inherit from a forebear, though it is true that we certainly can inherit appearance, and certain other characteristics and mannerisms from those who have gone before.

To say that we do believe in ‘ancient memory” it would follow that if we happened to have a talent for singing, dancing, art or whatever, that it came from Great-Aunt Harriet, and not from the hours of hard work we put in every day. We could possibly just sit on our duffs and “let it come”. But I have a friend who believes implicitely that somewhere buried deep in our psyche, resides “learned memory” which can emerge with a little deep thought. Personally, I am not that deep a thinker.

The only concession I will grant however, is that the first time I plunged my hands into a pile of nice, gooey clay, I felt right at home. I was in the place I was meant to be.

Two hundred years ago, my ancestors operated a large production pottery in Devonshire, England, where along with everyday tableware, they manufactured the glaze used by the Doulton Company, which with a Royal grant, soon became “Royal Doulton.” Upon their emigration to Canada, they continued in the pottery business for many years.

Now I would never presume to believe that that is where my love of pottery came from, but then again—who knows?

It would be nice to think that through the years, our children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren may somehow “know us” as people just like themselves, people who stayed out too late, ran along the beach with a friend, snuggled with a lover, were funny and silly and made mistakes, and were nice to old ladies and dogs.

The door to the past opens creakingly, but I hope they peek through to the other side now and then.