by Grace Sammon
’Jesper.’ It sounds like a nice name doesn’t it? The magic internet taught me it was the most popular name for a baby boy in Norway when he was born. Yes, Norway, very, very far away. Yes, Jesper, like the name of one of Baby Jesus’ visiting three kings. It means ‘keeper of the treasure,’ or ‘the gift.’
“This is all I know about your brother. I don’t know what to tell him about you. About us. He found me on the internet, but since you have Papa’s last name I don’t know if he knows about you. What would you want him to know? What do you want to know about him? Papa doesn’t know. If I tell you, you will want to tell Papa and I don’t think that’s a good thing. If I tell Jesper, he will want to know about all of you. He has so many questions.”
Saying this out loud makes me stop. I can refer to Jesper as their brother, but it sounds to me like a betrayal of them to call this man my son. They are my children, not this Jesper. Silent. Silent, and selfish, and scared. What if Jesper forms a bond with James and the kids? Can I risk losing the barely found Jesper to them?
He’s not really mine to lose.
It seems too late to be able to control any of this now. The lies and webs are too hard to untangle as I’ve learned with Roy. I continue my story, speaking again to their empty beds, the empty rooms, and the empty house, with them as close to me in spirit as though I could go in and tussle their hair and give them another kiss. I fill in what I think their responses would be.
Gabler finally joins me, meowing into each of their rooms before she settles into my lap. We both yawn.
“I want to go see your brother and talk to him. Is that OK with you? It makes me nervous.
“Do you remember a long, long time ago I told you the story of the beautiful Pandora? According to the Greeks, she was the first woman on Earth.
“Yes, Adam, Pandora is like Eve but that’s in a different story.
“Pandora was created from water and earth at the order of the mighty Zeus. Each of the gods gave her great gifts. At one-point Zeus was mad at, hmmm, I can’t remember who, and he retaliated by giving Pandora away to be married.
“No, Ryn, I am not going to give you away to anyone. Anyway, remember that in the story Pandora opened a box in her husband’s house.
“That’s right, Adam. It was a jar, but most people think it was a box. Anyway, she opened the jar. Do you remember what happened next?
“That’s right, it was filled with many sad and bad things that escaped and couldn’t be put back in the jar, and these bad and sad things filled the earth. Do you remember that there was one thing left at the bottom of the jar that didn’t escape? Hmmm?
“Yes, yes, Adam, it was ‘hope.’ That’s right, too, Ryn, a different translation, but still just right, ‘expectation.’”
Hope, expectation, the keeper of the treasure, the gift. Jesper.
Yawning and getting up, “Good night, my children. Sleep tight, be safe, both the little and big versions of you.”
mother’s day
D
espite my dread, I know I need to be at The Grange for Mother’s Day. All of the Eves, and most of their children and grandchildren, will be there. I’m dreading many parts of today including watching all the happiness between generations of mothers. Wanting to be a good sport, and wanting to participate fully, I pack a Mother’s Day orchid from my collection for each of the Eves. In my mind the group has fully expanded beyond “the oldies” of Jan, Elizabeth, Deirdre, and Margaret Mary. Tia and CC, and even Sydney, are so much of the fabric of the place they also are included in who I think of as the Eves. At my request, Sonia is going to pick up lilac and forsythia bushes for me at Johnson’s Nursery in Wheaton before she drops Erica off with us. Nora, the gardener, promised she’d set some that are in bloom aside for me. A special gift to Tia on this day.
Roy and I tuck the orchids, the just-dropped-off plants, and Erica into the back seat of the car. Erica will spend part of the day with us photographing the festivities. Sonia will join us later after giving a short talk at one of DC’s Latino centers for young mothers.
Roy tries to slide a small gift-wrapped box in the backseat without me noticing. I don’t say anything. Whatever it is, it won’t be from Ryn and Adam. I try to shake this thought from my head before we start out. Roy is just being sweet, knowing today isn’t going to be easy.
“What did you get your mom for Mother’s Day?” Roy asks. When Erica replies, “Nothing,” we both say that’s unacceptable.
“Come on back into the house. We’ll pick her out something from my gifting closet,” I tell her. Erica always has been amazed that I have extra gifts in the closet where I keep the gift wrap. It always seems magical to her that at a moment’s notice I can pull out a present for almost any occasion and for any age group. In truth there are a lot of items to be re-gifted on the shelves, but many are things I just see and pick up for just such occasions. It all began because I always wanted to have little things for the kids if they got sick or stayed home from school on a snow day. Erica picks out an emerald green and gold silk scarf that will look stunning on Sonia. I know because I bought it for her upcoming birthday. Erica decorates a gift bag, tucks the scarf in and we’re off for Mother’s Day at The Grange.
On the way down, we talk about all that will go on today. From all the emails it’s clear that Tia has put her emptiness on the occasion of her first Mother’s Day without Joan into great preparations. There’s a host of activities and two planting projects, one at The Eves for the homeopathic garden and one in the same acre we harvested last October. Is it really just seven months ago?
When we pull up to The Eves, Roy jumps out, opens the door for Erica and reaches into the back seat as she gets out, handing her an orchid. He tells us that he has things to attend to, and so excuses himself. Erica and I get the rest of the orchids and plants out of the car. They are amazingly well received to oohs and ahs by everyone. The orchids make a great centerpiece for the table laden with breads, meats, salads, pies, and cookies. Tia is so pleased at the plants that will surround her herb garden.
Jan has selected a loop of Bob Marley and Simon and Garfunkel music to be played today. Upbeat, fun tempos. She’s singing, “Gee, isn’t it great to be back home, home is where you want to be” and adjusting the tables. She gives us warm hugs, but I notice there is some edginess about her that I can’t put my finger on.
Tia has everything in readiness. Outside tables are lined with gardening gloves and tools of various sizes and hues. Jars of seeds and seedlings are in abundance. There are colorful and cute rubber children’s boots, some with frog’s eyes on the toes, to be chosen at will. Tia’s scheduled the horticulture students from the college to shear the sheep and llamas at two different times during the day using. Art students from the college will be doing face painting in the barn. Elizabeth will be overseeing tile painting on the side porch. There are piles of clay baked tiles, made from this land, and left over from the various bathroom and kitchen backsplash projects. These are now re-purposed for family art commemorating this day, or simply to paint for the sheer fun of it.
The Gentle Ben movers will be running the golf carts about. Food will be available throughout the day. Families can help themselves to the more than ample assortment of food laid out in the kitchen. Beverages are on the porch.
At Sydney’s request, Tia’s arranged for Gene to run the Oliver-led mule cart around the property both for transporting people about and for the pure joy of it. In truth, it’s also to give him a role in the festivities that will allow him to meet and mingle with Sydney’s children and grandkids in a manner that builds rapport between them in preparation for introducing him as the man she’s dating.
Dating. Dating sounds like such a stupid word to describe what this means at our ages. Dating, boyfriend, beau… really, we’re old! What is the appropriate term for the man you trust, look to, enjoy, are sleeping with, rely on, and like a considerable amount? It’s something Sydney and I have discussed often. E
lizabeth points out that the courts use the word “paramour,” but that doesn’t suit us either.
Up at The Eves, Roy has installed the sign that will officially identify the building with its given name. He sweetly designs a little unveiling of it for me. Everyone gathers at the corner of the house. Roy has the sign covered with a drop cloth and he’s already planted a mass of beautiful daises around its base. As if I am launching a ship, he asks that I pull away the cloth and pour the contents of the watering can he hands me over the beautifully hand-crafted sign, and onto the daisies to the applause of all.
“They aren’t daisies, Jessica, it’s Feverfew,” Sydney informs us. “You dry it, turn it into a tea. It’s good for everything from fever to allergies to arthritis to migraines.”
CC of course loves this. I’m getting a little overwhelmed.
As I inspect the seedlings and seeds waiting to be planted, I break off one of the Feverfew leaves, roll it in my hand and smell it. Citrus. Most of the plants I either don’t recognize or don’t recognize for their medicinal properties. The exceptions are the pink and purple coneflowers, Echinacea, a pink cousin to the Black-Eyed Susan I’ve grown these for years, almost impossible to kill, drought resistant, showy. I vaguely remember they have an antibacterial or digestive property to them, but I’m sure any tincture I’d make of it could be deadly.
Erica asks all of us to assemble on the ramp leading up to the house so she can capture all of us and the sign in the photo. Me and my other mothers, my friends, and the man I probably love.
Taking it in, I will it to be a good day.
I think about my own mother and miss her today. In fact, I miss her more and more. I worry about the hurts I caused her, the ones I probably can name and the ones I never knew about. How would she have reacted to this rift between me and the kids? I wish I had the counsel and wisdom of her age and the kindness that accompanied it. I remember so many little things about her now. Appreciating them more now than when she was still here. When I was little, she would always urge me to be nice, even in the face of nastiness. “Jessica Marie,” she would say, “be kinder than you need to be. It takes so much less energy than being mean.” Did I learn that? Did I pass it on to my kids?
I’ve told her in my head about Roy and this place. I wonder what she would have thought about this day, what it would be like to be here with her. In my family she always made sure we made such a big deal out of Father’s Day. Mother’s Day itself was downplayed. I should have honored her more. Unfortunately, I carried forward the tradition, teaching Adam and Ryn that it was never important to celebrate Mother’s Day in any special way.
Roy takes me out of my reverie, surprising us all when he asks for permission to make a small presentation. He’s taken the liberty to make another sign. Everyone looks to Tobias and CC and Tia, but they look as in the dark as we are. Roy runs up the steps of the porch and brings forward another drop cloth covered sign and asks Tobias to do the honors. It matches in beauty and craftsmanship the one for The Eves. This one says, “Joan’s Acre.” Multiple sets of eyes fill with tears as Tobias puts his hand on Roy’s shoulder.
“I hope it’s OK,” Roy states. “I thought we could put it down below in the harvesting acre. It deserves a name.”
In reply, Tobias says, “Thank you, son. Thank you.”
Just before the families arrive, Tia goes over assignments. The plantings at The Eves will be supervised by Sydney and Jan, the ones at Joan’s Acre by Tobias and the horticulture students. They are equally important but the one below has to guarantee, to the extent God allows, as Tobias says, a crop worthy of the student harvest in the fall.
As each of the families arrives, Erica poses them on the ramp for an official family photo. She has a great knack for getting the people in the right spot and capturing the right moment. I’ve agreed to help out as she directs me and to take email addresses so we can forward the photos later.
Deirdre and her boys and their wives flank her, the perfect set of four grandchildren in coordinated outfits stand in front holding little wooden cages filled with baby chicks. One of the boys contacted CC asking if he could add chickens to Deirdre’s menagerie. The boys wanted something easy for Deirdre to care for if the sheep and llamas became too much for her. CC happily agreed, noting that it’s been a long time since they’ve added new chickens to the brood. Malcolm and Roy constructed a straw-bale chicken coop behind the house. Once these chicks get to a certain size, they can free-range and will start laying in a few months.
Margaret Mary’s family is large, multi-colored, and spans so many levels of children, grandchildren, and greats. It’s an impressive sight. I never get them straight, but they fill the ramp and each of them seems genuinely happy to be here today. Margaret Mary looks proudly over them.
Jan’s daughter Brenda has come. It’s actually painful to watch. Jan is so thrilled she came, but the rest of us wonder why she has. The tension is so palpable between them. Jan is trying too hard. Brenda is barely answering her eager questions aimed at starting conversation. When it comes time for their photo, it feels so awkward that Jan asks Tia and Tobias and then, belatedly, CC, to join the two of them in their family photo. Somehow all of them look out of place.
Sydney’s family arrives. Honestly, each of them is as handsome or as beautiful as she is. Her two sons are strong and athletic looking. Their wives, stunning. Her daughters look just like her and they’ve married handsome men. The gene pool continues to the five grandchildren. I’m meeting too many people right now to figure out which kids go with each of the four couples. They all seem extra celebratory, rejoicing I am sure, the gift of Sydney’s remission this Mother’s Day. As they assemble for their portrait, Gene moves behind Erica to take it all in. Sydney looks so serene, so peacefully happy in the center of her brood. She reminds me of the portraits of Joan. When Erica and I preview the images she’s captured, you can tell that feeling is captured, that and the fact that Sydney’s eyes are fixed squarely on something just beyond the lens. Gene.
I love it.
All this while, Elizabeth is rocking on the porch, taking it all in. As the others move off to the various activities, I go to sit with her, stroking Pavarotti’s ear. “Whatda ya hafta do, eh, Jessica.”
“Hey, you two, look over here.” It’s Erica about to take our picture. Just before she does, Elizabeth reaches and takes my hand. Then Erica runs up the ramp to us, pops on my lap, and leans back, taking a selfie of the three of us. “Gotta go, pictures to take.” She’s gone in a flash, flagging down one of the Gentle Bens for a ride and, undoubtedly, some flirting.
Roy and I have our assigned roles for the day, but Tia has made sure that in each person’s schedule she has built in time for everyone to enjoy and relax throughout the day. Roy and I decided to walk to the shearing of the sheep and llamas. We’re both mesmerized. Roy, of course, wants to try his hand at it. Deirdre is overjoyed on this occasion. She’s like a child on Christmas morning waiting for the fibers to be gathered starting another cycle for her of wool and fleece sheering, gathering, tending, dying, spinning, weaving, and knitting. Sweaters by Christmas she’s promised!
The llamas seem to take it in stride as they are tethered and the hand shears separate blanket-like sections of their fleece from their newly sleek bodies. The sheep go kicking and bleating. Each sheep is placed on a blanket and made to sit squarely on its bottom, feet off the ground. In this position, held in place by one hand of the shearer, the sheep are immobile and look quite indignant. The shearing goes quickly, and in almost one piece each sheep yields its wool.
From here we go to the barn and watch the face painting. The art students are far more capable and creative than I was with Ryn, Adam, and Erica. I simply painted their faces with small designs and animal noses. These students use sponges and textured brushes, turning the kids’ faces into masks worthy of appearing in Cats or Lion King.
“Come upstairs,” Roy beckons me.
I haven’t been
in the loft since the harvest. I’m instantly drawn to the walls, the colors, the handprints that people made here. The gallery lighting isn’t lit but sun beams in through the skylights. You can hear the giggling and happy voices of the students and families below. “This is for you” Roy says. “I hope it’s OK.”
It’s the small box he’s brought with him. It makes me nervous. Thankfully, bigger than a ring box, smaller than a shoe box. Inside there are two small wooden hands. Traced from their handprints, carved into the wood, and painted. One red, one blue.
He takes the look on my face for me not knowing exactly what these are. He begins to explain, but I cut him off, holding them to my heart. “I know. I know exactly what they are. I know every line on their palms. These are perfect. Thank you. How did you know how to do this?”
“Jes, I don’t know how you’ll feel about this, but I made copies of the handprints when you left them on the counter that day. I thought you could hang them here. I’ve put little hooks on the back. I’ve checked with CC, she said it would be fine. It’s up to you to decide.”
“Oh, oh, that’s a tough one. Can I just hold on to them for a while?” I slide them into the side pockets of my jacket, liking the weight of them there. “Come on, cute man. We better get out of here before I get melancholic. I’m doing really well so far today.”
Melancholia at bay, at least for the moment, we head to The Eves for an early lunch and to check in with Tia. Our chores don’t start until about two, so we have time to eat and visit. She’s making Tobias some lunch and an early-in-the-day highball. She offers me something to drink, but I decline.