I was watching Project Runway the other day, in which aspiring clothing designers compete in a reality show competition. Not one of my favorite shows, but I was sitting there all lazy and watching it. And Tim Gunn, whose job it is to make all of the competing designers feel insecure about their work right before they are judged?
He looked at the work of one designer and said this . . .
“It’s like you have a piece of coal stuck up your butt! Make it into a diamond and pull it out!”
That’s cruel poetry, right there.
Snort.
Cruel poetry always makes me think.
There is a version of my childhood that I sometimes tell shallowy friends in which we come off all brave and heroic and Little House in the Big Woods. Cut off from society, fending for ourselves, going back to nature. No phone, no TV, heating our house with wood. Raising chickens and rabbits and living off the land. There was even a pony!
We were all kinds of awesome and independent!
It was like a Laura Ingalls Wilder adventure!
With food stamps.
YAY!
Yeah, that’s one version.
And then?
There was the coal.
At some point? My parents decided that heating our house with wood, as fucked up as that was? Wasn’t quite shitty enough. And so one day, a large truck drove up into our yard and dumped a half ton of coal in a solid shiny ebony pile.
Coal? It burns hot.
But coal? It burns filthy.
I was, quite seriously, never clean again.
The dust and the smoke from the coal? It settled everywhere. It sank its powdery persistent self into every crevice. It settled and stayed and would not be washed away. The smell of it and the residue of it permeated every porous item. Drifted and lingered on every flat surface.
Our house sank beneath the weight of the filth.
My clothing, my bedding, my books, my pets, my hair.
My skin.
There was just no getting clean.
Plus also?
My parents sucked at keeping the house warm, even with the coal.
So every winter our pipes froze. And then just stayed frozen.
In case you were wondering about the toilet? Because I know I would be . . .
It froze as well. Not the wider pipes that took waste away, but the incoming pipes? Frozen. And so every morning? We would have to crack the layer of ice that had formed over the toilet’s water. All of us would use the toilet one after the other, and then we would pour a bucket of water into the toilet from high above to activate the flush mechanism.
That was way fucking fun.
All of this meant that our water? Had to come from elsewhere. So part of our days over the coldest months? Involved heading out in the drifted snow to the houses of people my mother thought judged least. Dragging a sled.
And in that sled? Big buckets.
Which we would fill with water at the least-judgy people’s houses.
And then drag home.
In that fucking sled.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to transport large quantities of water on a fucking plastic yellow sled?
Sigh.
So the water we had was of the freezing cold bucketed sort. Hot water? Was only available if you managed to boil some of the bucketed water over the coal fire.
So really? There was no getting clean.
Ever.
There was grit between my teeth when I woke in the morning. Fine black etchings set into the childish lines around my eyes. Gray at my scalp. The prints of my fingers and palms set off in constant silhouette against my skin. I coughed up blackness. I sneezed blackness.
I lived in blackness.
Good times, people.
Good times.
This morning?
Kallan was forced to shred some cheese for her scrambled eggs with a cheese grater. We tend to buy the pre-shredded cheese, and so Kallan was all pissed off at how much work cheese was turning out to be.
“Why,” she asked me as she waved the cheese grater in the air angrily, “am I being forced to use this olden tool? This is ridiculous! I’m like a pioneer woman of cheese!”
Snort!
She looked down at her hands in disgust, “My hands are all covered with cheese damp! I’m all dirt-attacked by cheese!”
And she went to pump some hand soap into her palm. She turned on the hot water. Washed her hands.
She turned to stare at me, “Buying me shredded cheese? That seems like the least you could do.”
That right there?
Cruel poetry.
My life is filled with cruel poetry.
Sometimes?
It feels like I spend my life with memories stuck up my ass.
Like a lump of coal.
Still working on that diamond thing.
Sigh.
How appropriate that your father was turned into ashes once he died. and I can only imagine the hard life that you had. I know you’re full of forgiveness now, but seriously could you teach me how to be that forgiving b/c I’d still be verbally kicking my mother’s ass and rubbing into her the cruelty of her ways from my childhood.
Also, one of my very favorite wedding shower gifts was a cheese grater (hey, I’m easy to please) b/c it meant that I was all grown up and the fact that I had a pretty expensive one meant that people really thought I’d be cooking….they were wrong.
I don’t know if I have achieved complete forgiveness.
But there has been an acceptance and a moving on.
I have other things to do.
Hate is all-consuming.
awesome.
that’s all.
Awwww . . . thanks, you.
Very much.
Ok – first of all, I could almost feel the coal grit in MY teeth as I read that. That stuff does get everywhere and seems impossible to get out of your pores. It’s like evil, black talcum powder.
Second – I think you’ve done a damn fine job of turning your coal into diamonds. In your stories, you turn those coal memories into littly shiny diamonds for your readers. So there.
Third – “olden tool”? “Pioneer woman of cheese”? Hysterical! I’m all giggles and snorts over here.
First, I am glad I was able to communicate with you in that way. Coal is overwhelming and overpowering in its filth.
Second, thank you.
And third? Kallan is awesome.
I’m like a pioneer woman of cheese!
THAT killed me….
Also, your childhood, the telling of it, is sometimes sharp like a knife. I feel I am right there with you, your words seep in to my thoughts later on.
OK, now?
I am left with the vision of my words like pointy knives, stabbing holes into which the memories of those stabbings . . .
. . . later seep.
And that?
Is just awesome.
You are such a brilliant writer, I looked forward to visiting your blog everyday.
And I have to agree with Mandie, ashes. So appropriate.
And also? I hate grated cheese for the “cheese damp” as well. Giggles at Kallan’s wonderful phrasing. But I do have an old school egg grater that I love using!
Kallan has a way with words.
She makes me giggle all the time.
And yes . . . ashes suited my father.
For many reasons.
My husband told me once, in a moment of weakness (he doesn’t like to talk about his childhood), that he and his younger brother used to have to do all the laundry with an actual washing board, circa 1940 or so. There were five kids and two adults. I thought that was pretty awful, but having to live and breathe coal dust? I can’t imagine. It’s amazing that you and your siblings aren’t suffering long term consequences from the coal dust.
Someday?
I will tell you more about the laundry.
Sigh.
Your husband has much in common with some of my siblings.
They find it hard to talk as well.
It’s hard.
You know, my “house with no stove” tale is generally pretty shocking to people nowadays.
But the coal and the pissing to melt the ice and the buckets?
Man, no-stove was NUTHIN’ compared to that.
Yeah, I generally win these sorts of contests.
Yay, me!
early commenter! early commenter!
that means i can be all wordy and bestowing love upon you.
i can’t believe you connected the cheese grating to this, sister.
America’s Got Fucking Talent, people. Right up in here at Pretty All True.
you are brilliant beyond measure.
just like a diamond.
and you are SO creating a diamond here.
beautiful, clear, sparkling. shining. clean.
a jewel. a treasure. pirate booty.
thank you.
I knew you would see that.
I told you that the girls are all in my mind these days.
But sometimes? They help me connect one thing to another in a way I would otherwise not have seen.
And that is magic.
And you?
Are filled with lovely compliments today!
Happy sighs.
girl, i have just been working away here, checking in and back in and in again waiting for you to post, patiently. because i wanted to be an early commenter. and what a bright, shining reward i received for being so patient. xo.
How much do I love you?
Arms all spread wide . . . . this much.
Thank you.
up to the moon and back again.
That’s a weird book, by the way.
That children’s book in which the parent and child compete to see who loves more?
Creepy.
yeah, agreed. but the bunnies are cute.
and i like how the little one falls asleep at the end.
but don’t get me started on that other one, Love You Forever.
with that crazy mother climbing up the ladder into her adult son’s room to rock him in his sleep.
THAT is REALLY creepy.
even though I love some of Munsch’s other books, especially the Paper Bag Princess. “You are a bum.”
OK, now I am thinking of Mem Fox.
Her books? Just awesome.
I used to read one of her books to the girls . . . Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge
And every single time?
My throat would clench and I would have to fight back tears.
Every single time.
Also?
I have never read Paper Bag Princess.
I will have to find that.
MARIAN –
There, now that I have your attention. I am adding to this comment because our comment thread ran out.
The trade? It’s a deal.
You have to read the Mem Fox book out loud.
The rhythm of her words?
Kills me.
huh. i don’t know that one. let’s trade!
i will read the Mem Fox book and you read Paper Bag Princess.
your girls might like it, even if they are a little old for it.
Paper Bag Princess is awesome. I still have my copy!
Another creepy children’s book… ” The giving tree” the illustrations make it so mucch creepier than it has to be. Seriously.
Agreed.
Apologies for butting in, but I’m SO SO SO glad to hear someone else say that they think those two books are creepy. Although as a general rule, I do like other Robert Munsch books. The non creepy ones.
ack! the giving tree! don’t get me started.
oh, and Kris, yes, i’ll find it and i will read it aloud. there is no other way, over here. can’t wait!
And their names are Big Nutbrown Hair and Little Nutbrown Hair.
We can’t read that book to Ed. we laugh too much.
in related news: living in our house is like living in a middle school.
What I find amazing? Is that you’re not bitter about things when it comes to your kids. I would have a tough time not getting irritated by the “I can’t believe I have to suffer this way” types of comments from my kids. I already get annoyed that they get all entitled with their toys & don’t treat them well (Hub & I didn’t have much in the way of toys).
Perhaps you have just reached a level of maturity that I have not.
OK, it is possible that I am fucking up in serious ways?
And I do not think that my children are spoiled.
But I enjoy seeing them take things for granted. I enjoy that they think grating cheese is a hardship. I love that they have no idea how blessed they are. I want them to take this life and this family for granted, to assume that this is the “least that Mark and I can do.”
The knowledge of the other?
That will come soon enough.
For now?
I want them to be children.
I think I understand. I think what I’m looking for from my kids? Is some occasional gratitude. I enjoy that we can provide them so much more than either of us had. That makes me happy. What doesn’t make me happy? Is the sense of entitlement that (especially my stepdaughter) has. Breaking toys because they just don’t care. She has even been rude to family giving her gifts at Christmas “This sucks. I don’t want this.” I think it’s that kind of stuff that colors my perception.
Hopefully I didn’t sound critical…I wasn’t trying to imply that you were fucking up or that they are spoiled. I just imagine myself with my kids and some of the things they say, & while I don’t think we spoil them either, I just wish they would appreciate how much better they have it than so many other people.
I heard no criticism in your words.
At all.
And I do work to let the girls know that others are not as lucky as they are. What I hope to shield them from, for a bit longer? Is how close that other harder life is, and how easy it is to slip and fall away.
And be invisible.
So I want them to be appreciative of what they have.
But I don’t want them to have an awareness of the short distance I have traveled from my childhood to theirs. How I can still touch that other life from where I sit drinking my coffee here in this house. I want them to see now, and assume that this is how it should be.
And that Mark and I will continue to give them this.
Does that make sense?
now i am butting in. what you said right here is so real and beautiful, Kris. it’s that paying it forward thing we have talked about. it’s the vindication part. i so understand this and love this about you. the diamond? is enormous. it’s here in this writing for us. it’s in your home, in your family, with Mark for your girls and for THEIR children. it’s for everyone who touches you. it’s what you bring. it’s huge and bright and brilliant and gleaming. LOVE.
Sigh.
I am all overwhelmed.
Tomorrow?
I will need orgies of inappropriateness again.
To balance things out.
Love you.
oh yes, balance is important. and you know i really do want to be tied up with you in an attic or basement in Nigel-land with him feeding us, uh, melons i guess. that’s the shit, right there. but kris, your searching and making connections and sharing is the some of the most remarkable writing i have read anywhere. pay it forward, sister.
And this?
Is why I love you more every day that we talk.
Thank you.
xo.
I’m glad I at least didn’t seem to be criticizing. Sometimes when I espouse my personal philosophy for myself? I come off sounding condescending – which is rarely my intent.
I do believe I understand where you’re coming from. I have a similar dream of enjoying my children’s innocence. I’ve gotten angry at Hub’s mother for showing his daughter horror movies that are totally inappropriate for her age. I feel like they’re only innocent for so long & I am in no hurry to spoil that.
I respect what you’re trying to do with your girls. What you guys are doing? *Is* how it is supposed to be.
And I? Also enjoy giving my kids a home with parents who love each other; where no abuse or weirdness is happening; and where we both love them, are honestly devoted to them, and want them.
I am glad you came back!
These talks?
In my comment section?
With thoughtful beautiful women who choose their words carefully because they know the power of language? Who care about me? Who care about our connection?
The best part of this blogging thing.
By far.
Thank you.
Wow, that’s a really lovely comment, might need to put it on my fridge. You have a great perspective on so many thing!
Is this compliment mine?
If so . . . thank you!
If not?
It’s my blog, and I’m taking it anyway.
The good news is that if, for whatever reason, you’re thrust back in time to the pioneer days…you’d totally survive. Dirt cheese hands and all.
of course! that is brilliant! i am SO running to Kris when the apocalypse arrives. isn’t that next year? 2012, soon enough. i feel better now.
Snort!
Yes, dirt-cheese hands and all.
Kallan would have all of our pioneer cheese needs?
Fulfilled.
Snort!
Kris, awesome post today. I’m definitely having one of those coal stuck up my ass days. Your post made me feel a bit more normal.
That?
Is just awesome.
Thank you for telling me that.
I just looked up from the Adirondack chair in which I sit, reading, swept into a life which, in all honestly, makes me want to look away, to see the very hungry hawk that lives near our house drop out of the sky in diving pursuit of some smaller bird.
Did you know that hawks who nest and hunt near interstates are considered by ornithologists to be the outsiders of their kind? Hangers on, scavengers. Weak. Soft from a life of convenience.
You are a wilderness hawk, my friend. That is for certain.
Also? Olden tool? She kills me.
You are all poetry of a lovelier kind than mine.
Wilderness Hawk?
Thanks, you.
And olden tool?
My daughters just drop phrases and blogging material behind them as they walk through this house.
I just have to pick up their messes and type them up.
Snort!
In my very sheltered life, it’s hard for me to believe people lived like that. Even though I know it happens, it’s still hard for me to comprehend.
My mom grew up very poor, and she wanted the same for us that you and Mark want for the girls. She never wanted us to know what it was like to grow up poor.
It’s difficult.
Our lives have changed in the past year, and there is less money than there once was.
It has been more than funny to see the girls adjust to their new budgeted lifestyle.
More than funny.
But, yes . . . we do work to shield them from the realities of the poverty that touched my life.
I speak of it with humor sometimes, and not as though there were tears.
A balancing act.
Kallan would hate my house. That powder coating that comes free with shredded cheese? Freaks me out. There is all sorts of grating going on over here. You however would like it here, as I have a gas furnace and central air. Also, I love that you never (seemingly) let your childhood affect your parenting. My mom would have countered the cheese grater anger with tales of coal filled winters.
I try never to throw my childhood into my children’s faces.
My childhood has determined much of who I am as a mother.
I know that.
But my childhood? Is not my daughters’ experience, and it would be silly to compare the two sets of lives.
And so I do not.
Except in my head, sometimes.
I can’t help that.
This.
This thing you said right here.
This may be the thing I have loved most.
Because this is much of what churns in my head at times.
I did not have to transcend (and yes, I know that is a pretentious word it is still the one that is most true) so far as you, but still pretty damned far…and this is what I try to explain to Himself when my mind is a mess and the past feels taller and bigger than me (which happens so so much less now than it did many moons ago). He says in amazement, how can you be who you are with all that? And I say, but it is because if all that that I am who I am…
And I cannot let it touch my kids – with words or sanctimoniousness or “yeah, well , back when I bought food with pennies…” because then…then what would the point be to having come so far? What would be the damned point of all this work to make sure that my kids did not live that life if I was just going to lord it over them like some sort of pious poverty flag?
I am glad that Kallan’s biggest gripe is non-shredded cheese. I am glad that my son’s biggest gripe is me telling him that I need to see commitment to piano lessons before I buy him an electric keyboard.
We WANTED those to be our kids biggest gripes. What good would it be to make those gripes feel small when we worked so hard to make sure that that was as big as it ever got for them?
And now I am repeating myself so I will shut up.
Your words?
And that you understand my words?
Have made me all teary.
In a good way.
But teary.
Thank you.
When you were a little kid did you walk around saying “If I had a memory book?”
And hey!
I think I saw the Tim Gunn Ass Diamond Collection on QVC
HOW FUCKING AWESOME WOULD THAT BE?
Lady? You are a genius.
I would so buy those fake-ass jewels.
I so would.
You kill me!
Tim Gunn totally stole that line from “Ferris’s Day Off”!
Really?
I saw that movie once a long time ago, but I did not catch that reference.
Thank you!