Walmart to Wolf House: Sonoma County Essays

by Rob Loughran

  I made hot chocolate.

  Elisa was sitting on my lap drinking her chocolate when I asked if she wanted to look at some pictures of her mother. She nodded a silent yes. As I rummaged in the closet for photo albums I wondered if I were doing the right thing. At times over the past year it had been comforting to look through the wedding album, peruse old pictures, and re-read poetry I had written to Luanne.

  At other times it was like picking a scab.

  Elisa and I sat down on the kitchen floor and soon—it would’ve been sooner had I not spilled my hot chocolate—pictures were scattered all around us. Elisa latched onto a picture of her mother holding her older sister Rachel. “That’s me, huh dad?” she asked.

  I couldn’t lie. “No Ellie, it’s not.”

  She sat quietly then asked, “Can I have this picture?”

  I said yes. So she walked to the refrigerator, grabbed a magnet and positioned the picture halfway up the door. She returned, kissed me, and skipped off to bed. It did not matter to Elisa that she was not the baby in her mother’s arms. There was something in the image—Luanne’s eyes, her hair, the way she held the child—that resurrected the spirit and memory of her dead mother.

  Elisa was four when her mother died. At the time she was stunned and numb. Like most four-year-olds she had little conception of “forever” and could not understand how unalterable death is. A year later, however, Elisa understood that death is a permanent loss and was upset that she could no longer remember what her mother looked like.

  Elisa’s brother Nathan was six when his mother died and had a different reaction entirely. My wife had been sick for more than two years and the children had been told that her death was imminent. Even so, to Nathan, it came as a complete surprise. On the day of my wife’s death I returned from the hospital just before dawn and sat around waiting for the children to wake up so I could break the news. Nathan was, as usual, the first one up. I told him what it happened and he started yelling, “No, it isn’t true! It isn’t true!” Tears streamed down his face.

  “It is true,” I said.

  He insisted it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. His mom couldn’t die. He cried violently and was soon incapable of speech. He hugged me roughly and thrashed about in my arms gasping in wet, tearful sobs with each inhalation. Then he fell asleep.

  When Nathan awoke later that morning he was different. He was calm. He knew his mother was dead and that was that. He cried at the funeral along with everyone else and at other times over the next few months. To this day he asks me to tell him stories of when he was a baby and the stories seem to assuage his feelings of loss. I can only conclude that Nathan’s initial, incredulous reaction to the death was a catharsis for the pain and poison of this tragedy, for it seems to have helped him work through a good deal of that trauma.

  Contrasting reactions were exhibited by my oldest daughters, Danielle and Rachel. They were ten and eight at the time, had seen their mother in hospitals and wheelchairs and did not need anyone to tell them the cancer was fatal. Immediately following Luanne’s death, I did not know what to say to them. I did not know what I could say to them. I said the simple words, “Your mommy died,” and we all hugged and cried.

  Later in the day when the magnitude of the funeral arrangements was becoming apparent I asked Danielle and Rachel if they wanted to go to the funeral parlor to pick out a casket, a dress, flowers, death announcements and on and on and on. They both said okay.

  I thought the pomp and preparations of the funeral would be an initiation; a way for them to ease into the reality of their mother’s death. For Danielle this was true. She accompanied me and did everything at the funeral parlor except sign the check. Being welcomed into the adult world of arrangements seemed to help her deal with her own burgeoning adult feelings.

  For Rachel, it was different. When we were about to leave for the funeral parlor she decided she did not want to go. I said, “Fine. Whatever you want.” Then just as we began pulling away in the car Rachel waved from the driveway. I stopped. She walked to the driver side and asked, “Dad, is it okay if I ride my bike?” I said, “Sure.”

  Not until two months later did I realize what Rachel was really asking. She was asking for permission to enjoy herself. Even though her mother had died Rachel wanted to be a kid, ride her bike, see her friends. Until I gave me permission to enjoy myself could I understand what riding that bike meant. Despite all that had happened Rachel wanted to be okay.

  Whether it takes six hours, six months, or six years you must pass the hurdle of enjoying yourself without guilt over the death of a loved one. The fact that Rachel passed it so quickly amazed me.

  My daughter Adrienne, at seven, had a response all her own. She was calm and almost surprised that people were making such a fuss over her mother’s death. Days passed, and instead of acting shocked or hurt or angry she became a barometer for my feelings. If I was having a bad day she would spike a fever and stay home from school. If we were at a family outing and I grew sulky or solemn because I missed my wife, she would manage to fall out of a tree or crash her bicycle to distract me. It was as if she were afraid to leave me alone. In effect, she accepted her mother’s death immediately and began taking care of me.

  The only change in Adrienne was, as with Nathan, an insatiable thirst for stories about her mom: tales of picnics, cooking lessons, birthday parties, anything. I do not know why Adrienne responded in this way. Just as some people are better adapted to certain professions and lifestyles, some, perhaps, are better adapted to coping with death.

  About six months after Luanne’s death I was helping Adrienne with her homework. She asked, “Dad?”

  “What?”

  “How come you wear your wedding ring?”

  “I don’t know. I just want to.”

  “But,” she said, “you’re not married.”

  “I know. But I’ve worn it for thirteen years.”

  “But you’re not married.”

  I thought about that, and slipped the ring to the third finger of my

  right hand. Sometimes the best way to talk to children about death is not to. You just have to listen.

  * * *

  This piece appeared in the SF Chronicle and incorporates two of my favorite things: plants and Shakespeare:

  WHAT’S IN OPHELIA’S GARLAND?

  “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts,” said Ophelia to her brother Laertes. “There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. You must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.”

  Throughout his plays Shakespeare mentioned over 200 species of plants. Twenty-nine scenes actually take place in groomed gardens and well-tended orchards. Plants—and plant lore—were important sources of metaphors for William Shakespeare. Often, as in Ophelia’s “Garland Speech”, plants served as extended metaphors for the human condition. Here’s what the plants in Ophelia’s garland would have signified for an Elizabethan audience:

  Rosemary has been associated with remembrance since the Golden Age of Greece when garlands of rosemary were worn while studying to strengthen students’ memories. Its name comes from the Latin Rosemarinus; “Dew of the Sea”, referring to its blue flowers and rosemary’s Mediterranean habitat on cliffs above the sea. In Shakespeare’s time it was carried by bridesmaids at weddings and used as a funeral wreath. Robert Herrick, roughly a contemporary of Shakespeare, wrote:

  “Grow it for two ends, it matters not at all,

  Be it for my bridall or buriall.”

  Any man who couldn’t smell the fragrant shrub was considered incapable of loving a woman. Rosemary in front of an English cottage indicated that the woman was master of the household; a folk-belief that caused more than a few uprooted pla
nts. Its special qualities also included the ability to repel plagues and certain types of witches. Sleeping with a sprig beneath your pillow chased away bad dreams. But for Ophelia, distraught and depressed over her father’s death and Hamlet’s odd behavior, the mention of rosemary indicates to her brother and the Elizabethan audience her brittle self-image and lack of confidence: “Pray you love, remember.”

  Pansies, as Ophelia states, are for thoughts. The pansy was also used medicinally to relieve cramps, hysteria, and diarrhea in children. In a “Midsummer’s Night Dream” the Fairy King Oberon utilizes a purported use of the flower’s juice: when applied to the eyelids of a sleeping person they will fall in love with whatever they spy first after waking. This is how Titania, Oberon’s wife, managed to fall in love with a donkey. Caution: The pansy’s aphrodiasical powers may only apply to fairies, nymphs, and woodsprites. Please consult your personal physician before using in this manner. Results may vary.

  Fennel appears often in Shakespeare. Although Falstaff mentioned the herb in “Henry IV, part 2” as a seasoning for conger eels, the plant represented false flattery. Robert Greene wrote in “Quip for an Upstart Courtier”: “Fennel I mean for flatterers.” During the Middle Ages, fasting pilgrims would eat fennel seeds to stave off hunger pains. By providing some satiation, but no real sustenance, fennel came to represent the type of flattery that simply strokes the ego. Ophelia, with this particular reference to fennel, is probably alluding to her sterile love affair with Hamlet.

  The columbine is symbolic of ingratitude and was known as the “Thankless Flower.” Perhaps this name derives from the fact that columbine seeds consumed with wine speeded childbirth and, as a result, brought on labor pains more quickly. A newer, tragic and senseless, association with the word Columbine entered our language on April 20, 1999.

  Rue, for centuries a symbol of sorrow and repentance, is mentioned by the Gardener in “Richard II” after he discovers the Queen weeping in the garden:

  “Here did she fall a tear; here in this place,

  I’ll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace;

  Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,

  In remembrances of a weeping Queen.”

  Rue has a long, fabled history. It’s known as the plant that King Mithridates VI of Pontus imbibed in increasing amounts to protect himself against poisoning. Hippocrates recommended the plant to relieve rheumatic pains, heart palpitations, and menopausal symptoms. The herb’s name is derived from the Greek ruta; “repentance”. Greeks used rue while dining with foreigners to ward off demons, spells, and spirits. Roman artisans ate the herb to improve their eyesight. Weasels were said to munch the bitter herb to strengthen themselves prior to combat against snakes and rats. Its other name, Herb o’ Grace or Herb o’ Sundays, refers to the sorrow and resulting grace one feels following true repentance. The suit of CLUBS in a deck of cards has been modeled after rue’s fleshy, oblong leaves.

  Daisy’s English name is derived from the Anglo-Saxon Daeges eage; “Day’s eye” and refers to the flower’s opening during the day and closing at night. The daisy is associated with innocence and purity; in Roman myth the daisy is the virginal nymph Belides who transformed herself into the flower to escape the sexual advances of the orchard god Vertumnus. The flower was symbolic of the Greco-Roman goddesses Aphrodite and Venus as well as Freya, the Norse goddess of beauty and love for whom Friday is named. Daisies picked between noon and one o’clock, according to folk beliefs, can be dried and carried as a good luck charm. Unlike the other plants in Ophelia’s garland, the daisy seems only to possess only good connotations.

  The violet’s scent, said Hamlet, was “Sweet, not lasting, the perfume and suppliance of a minute, no more” and reinforced the flower’s traditional association with an early death. This tradition arose because the violet blooms early in Spring and fades before Summer and Autumn arrive. This symbolism also explains why Laertes alludes to the Violet and puns on “Spring” in his speech over Ophela’s grave:

  “Lay her I’ the earth:

  And from her fair and unpolluted flesh

  May violets spring.”

  What’s in Ophelia’s garland? In addition to columbines and fennel, daisies, violets, rue, and rosemary there is a world of associations connecting Ophelia with mythology, history, folk beliefs, the echo of her father’s demise, and her doomed relationship with the Prince of Denmark.

  * * *

  More plants, this time for Fine Gardening:

  THE 118 MINUTE BONSAI

  At 12:03 PM on March 10 my wife said, “Rob, we have to be at your mom’s house in two hours.”

  “Oh no, it’s mom’s birthday. I forgot. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.” I needed a present that would impress mom and still leave me enough time for my proper grooming. My solution? Create a bonsai.

  Bonsai aficionados may cringe to read this but these potted miniature trees don’t have to be created only by those who’ve taken years to master the ancient oriental art and tradition. A bonsai is simply a potted plant and like all potted plants–geraniums to lace leaf maples– need water, sunlight, ventilation, fertilization and drainage to survive. What makes a bonsai unique is that it is pruned, then trimmed and potted, to resemble a mature tree in a natural landscape. A bonsai does not have to be old. It just has to look old.

  Can it be that easy? Yes, it can. Using the techniques outlined below I have made hundreds of bonsai. Although simplified, these techniques are in accordance with the rules of classical bonsai and general horticultural principles.

  How do you make a tree look old? The best way to start would be to look at some old trees. Their roots will be exposed. Years of water and wind erosion have swept surface soil away from the roots. There aren’t any branches close to the ground. The leaf canopy is opened up; there’s not a lot of growth in the center of an older tree. The trunk is thick (perhaps scarred) and the tree has a few dead branches. The older tree, in nature, is rarely on a smooth level surface. If you have a potted plant that mimics the qualities listed above, you have a bonsai. If that potted plant is given proper common sense watering, sunlight, ventilation, fertilizer and drainage, you will have a bonsai that will live a long healthy life. We are not, after all making bonsai for international competition or as a set decoration for the latest movie sequel Karate Kid 15: The Geritol Years.

  Ready? Synchronize watches: it’s sub two hour bonsai time.

  12:01

  Okay. Grab some gardening gloves, toss then into the car and drive to a nursery. Plan on visiting at least three nurseries to find the proper Bonsai stock. At the first nursery I buy a bonsai pot and quickly check their five gallon Junipers. Nothing

  Second nursery. Nothing.

  Third nursery, gloves on, rummaging through more junipers. Junipers, especially for beginners, are great. They are cheap and every nursery has them. They have full leaf canopies and they are easy to care for. Very tough plants.

  Remember, you are searching for a tree you can make look old. Check the trunk: Is it thick? Scarred? Any dead branches? The trunk is the bonsai’s most important characteristic. You can brush away dirt to expose roots, prune to open the leaf canopy and landscape a rough and interesting surface, but you can’t fake the trunk. Don your gloves and dig into those trees: pull back branches, examine that trunk. Knotty, thick, gnarled and ugly: that’s great bonsai stock. Also, check out the trees in the corners of the nursery: last year’s overgrown and forgotten junipers that are hidden in the nooks of nurseries are your best bet. That’s exactly where I found mom’s soon to be bonsai: the “Half Off! Must Go!” section. How old is it? I don’t know. I don’t care. But it has the potential to appear old.

  12:57

  Back home. All necessary tools assembled: bonsai pot, five gallon

  Juniper, pruning shears, fishing knife and a Swiss Army knife. Two points to understand before beg
inning: I don’t know what the bonsai will look like, and it doesn’t matter. I’m not shaping the ideal Platonic tree or a work of art. I am making a bonsai for my mom. As almost any tree has the potential for appearing old, I will prune, cut and pot it to reveal that potential. Time for rule #1: “You can’t make a bad bonsai!” Have fun: relax.

  12:59

  Remove the tree from the pot. Don’t be gentle. If you picked a good tree it is most likely root bound. Drop the pot or kick it to loosen up the packed dirt.

  1:00

  Your most important decision: what view of the tree will be the front? The trunk should angle away from the front. If the tree is inclined toward the front, any attempt at perspective (i.e., the illusion of age) simply won’t work. Rotate the tree; look. Rotate; look. Then once again.

  When you make your decision, stick with it.

  1:07

  Haircut time. Slowly but decisively use the shears to trim away branches. For smaller branches I use the retractable scissors on the Swiss Army knife. Remove all branches that grow straight out from the tree’s designated front. Open up the tree’s canopy. What will the tree look like without this branch? Cup the branch in question with your hand and bend it out of sight. Does the tree look bare, sparse and a little worn without it?