Yellow Bear

          My bedroom was painted purple now and my sister and I slept in our separate twin beds.  The sun was starting to set and I could feel the tendrils of anticipation begin to tickle my tummy. I was prepared.  One by one, I had found them and put them into the basket next to my bed.  Mommy had told me that the Pacifier Fairy was going to visit me. She said that the fairy would give my pacifiers to little girls who needed them more than me. I knew it was time.  After all, I was already three.  I was a big girl. Besides, Mommy also told me the fairy would give me something in return, and I liked that.   The next morning, I looked in my basket.  All my friends were gone, but the fairy had left another companion in their stead.  I believe in Yellow Bear.  He was fat and yellow.  He had brown eyes and fit perfectly in my arms. His fur wasn’t very soft and he smelled like cotton, but nobody is perfect.  Already we knew that we were going to be good friends.  Each night I would hug him tightly and every morning I would carefully tuck him into my bed.  

            My room was painted pink now and I had my own room.  It was time to pack them all up.  I was in junior in high school now and I needed to say goodbye to my stuffed animals and dolls. They were taking up too much space and I needed to make room for my desk.  My mom had given me one of her unused bins to use in my farewell ceremony.  One by one, I packed my friends into a box giving them each a personal ‘goodbye’.  They all left, everyone but Yellow Bear.  Besides, he wanted to be in my school photo this year, and I can never say no to him. He was still fat, but a little misshapen from years of hugs.  If you looked at his paw, you would see crude stitches where I had patched a tear.  And on the back of his head was a bald spot where I had impulsively decided to give him a haircut.  It was a mistake, but he forgave me.  No.  Yellow Bear was staying. 

            My room is painted navy blue now and I have a queen size bed.   I have to take down all my posters and memories off the wall to make room for my new décor.  I told my mom that I wanted a mature, ‘adult’ styled room now that I was in college.  No more fair wristbands and school dance tickets taped to the wall.  Goodbye Irish flag, dollar bill I won in a bet and academic medals.  One by one, relics of my adolescence are placed carefully in the box labeled “Ruby’s Childhood”.  I close the first box and put it in my closet.  When I look up, I see him.  Sitting on the shelf, with his graying fur and dulled eyes, he looks at me. I smile. Everything was going. Well, everything except Yellow Bear.  

Reflections

In light of my new-found love of family history, 

This is a letter I wrote to my great aunt of whom I never knew. 

October 2012 

Dear Great Aunt Nellie,

               Sitting on the top of the piano in the parlor room we rarely use, is a picture of my mother’s father’s mother’s family.  It’s very old.  At least, it looks old to my eyes.   There are a handful of dapper gentlemen, barely smiling, in suit coats.  One, either the rebel or just the suave-type, is wearing a turtle neck. Standing in the back, like all older children must, is a woman, maybe in her mid-20s.  She is no beauty, but rather handsome.  She is tall, taller than some of her brothers to which I assume was embarrassing to them, thin and wearing a plain dress which neither looked terribly expensive or terribly comfortable.   She is my grandfather’s mother, my great-grandmother.  Sitting on either side of this large family is a grown man.  The father I’m assuming.  He looks like the proud sort.  Perfectly coiffed hair, clean suit but wear and difficulty have left their mark.  Nonetheless, I’m sure he was just as successful as he wanted to be.  On the other side is an older woman.   She is big-bosomed and big-boned.  I’m sure she was a very beautiful woman in her younger years.   Now her hair is white and piled on her head in one Victorian bun and her collar is pinned with a broach.   A no-nonsense woman, I’m sure.  As my eyes scale to the bottom, I see two young girls, no more than 16.  They could be twins because of their closeness in age.   Untraditionally, my eyes scan from left to right, resting on a beautiful young lady.  Her features are big, eyes wide with amusement despite the obvious boredom of the situation and a mouth very full and assuredly deep blushing rouge (the picture is sepia, but you can tell).  There was something so familiar about this girl.  I had seen her image before somewhere. Suddenly, I knew why I had such an eerie feeling about her.  Turning towards the mirror on the opposite wall, I saw you Aunt Nellie.   My face is an almost exact replica of yours.   Funny how these things happen, genetics and all. 

My whole life, I felt out of place, at least visually, in my family.   My mother has a lot of shared features with her father, who shared a lot of features with your sister, Mabel.  Likewise, my brother resembles her.  My father also has very strong family resemblances, which were passed down to my sisters.  I, on the other hand, resemble neither.   Sure, I have the coloring, dark eyes and hair from the Cox line.  And the stature (short) from the Higgins line.  But my face, its features never reflected them.    Even though I know it’s not possible, I often wondered if I was adopted.  These ideas were floaty, airy even.  I just wanted to think them.   However, seeing your face, I was brought back to the ground.  I belong here.  I am blood. 

Even more difficult than writing a letter to a friend, is writing to someone you have never met.   Yet you are family, so this should be a comfortable thing.  And because of our striking resemblance, I almost consider this a letter to myself in a past life.  Aunt Nellie, I am your great-great-niece.  Your nephew Francis is my grandfather.  He’s going on 84 now, but you probably don’t want to hear that.  He grew up well.  And so did his children, and their children (my generation).    I’m doing good things with your face.   I keep our skin as clear as it can be for a person just squeezing out of adolescence.  I’m 19, you know, close to the age my mother was when you passed away.   I’m sorry, is that a sensitive topic…?  Forget I said anything.    My mind is my own, and it is currently begging for more challenges and insights.  My mind drinks in new experiences and knowledge like something less clique then a sponge.    As is turns out, my gift is languages. Learning them, for me, comes so naturally.   I started with French and moved onto Korean.   My love of the language extends to the love of the people and the cultures as well.  I hope to travel and share my culture as I learn about others.

Aunt Nellie, I never knew you.   My mother, who did, has only mentioned you in passing.  Yet I find a strange connection to you.   Thank you for your face, I will take good care of it.   It is very beautiful, and I will treat it right.  

Until we meet,

                Ruby DeLayne Higgins

                Daughter of Sarah Cox 

Ankles, Rain and Trains

The smell of rain depends on where you are.  Here at the bus stop the rain smelled like wet,  uncomfortable, soaked sweaters you couldn’t wait to peel off and the feeling of your socks sloshing in your Mary-Jane’s. The sound of the perpetual rain orchestra on the shingled roof teetered between a comforting lullaby and a tedious drone.  It was cold, it was wet.  I was determined that my fingers had frostbite because they left goose bumps on my face when I reached up to wipe my nose on my sleeve.  But worse than that was the feeling on my ankles.  My pants had already soaked up a few inches of moisture up my pant leg. There is nothing worse to me than the feeling of wet ankles.  If I stepped closer to the road and looked to my right, I could see the groomed entrances of Suburbia Washington.  If I looked even farther, I could see my yellow school bus getting closer and closer to us.  I felt bad for the kids who had to stand out in the rain. They didn’t have a bus stop.  We didn’t have a bus stop either until my dad organized the men in the neighborhood to help him build one.  This bus stop was special.  It was big and protective and had little hooks on the poles where you could hang your backpack if you were so inclined. 

            Soon the bus would come, and we’d all board.  Inside the bus was no better than outside.  It was worse, in fact.  At least outside you could breathe fresh air.  The air was thick and heavy.  The warmness of our bodies semi-dried our clothes and skin, but the newly evaporated water had no place to go.  So it just hung in the air like microscopic ghosts.  Quickly, the windows fogged over and we were free to draw and write notes. The occasional: “EM PLEH” was written as a plea to outsiders.  As if they’d think that we were all being taken somewhere against our will and come to our rescues.  This never happened. 

            The bus route would take us under the overpass. For a moment, the mindless plunking of the rain on the metal roof would be silenced.  We were out of Suburbia and onto Blueberry Lane. My hand wiped the foggy window and I peered through the blurry glass.  The storm-drains were working overtime.  Some of them have been clogged by the leaves of deciduous trees causing a great body of water to form in the street.  These were the best to drive though if you picked up enough speed because they would cause a tidal wave, some high enough to reach our windows.   It was especially good if there was an unsuspecting pedestrian.  They never saw what was coming, but we did.   

Soon we made it to the railroad.  There are some sounds that you never forget.  The whistle of a train is as good a lullaby as any to me.  It doesn’t matter where you are in town, if there is a train coming, you will know.  (A few years ago, I was standing outside my present home in the foothills outside town.  We were miles from town, miles from civilization.  Yet while I was looking at the stars, I heard the familiar sound of the train.  I shivered from the cold and the realization that some things never change).   The bus driver stopped at the tracks and opens the door to listen for an oncoming train.  This was a life or death situation for the driver so we were expected to be absolutely silent.  We obeyed to the best of our ability. 

Monroe was built of the railway and grew with the highway.  Along HW2 businesses popped up frequently here and there.  Some survived, some didn’t.   Eventually, we crossed the tracks and merge onto the highway passing landmarks:  the old Monroe Motel, the international auto garage, Patty’s Egg Nest Breakfast.  We’d continue up the hill to our elementary school.   The forest is thick with evergreens and bushes.   Moss and lichen are everywhere on everything.   In Western Washington nothing stays “not-green” for long. 

The bus continued up the hill, winding this way and that, until we reached our destination: Salem Woods Elementary.  I often pass Salem Woods and reminisce of the fine times I had:  the books I read, the games of four-square and tetherball, Ms. Bostrom's 2^rd grade class, and even better Mrs. Alt’s 4^th grade class.  I think about the imaginations shared and the friendships I made, some of which have lasted until today.  Some things haven’t lasted though.  I was driving through Suburbia this summer and stopped by my old neighborhood.   The cherry blossom tree in my old front yard had been trimmed to the trunk and the special bus stop had been destroyed by a crazy drunk a few years back. Patty’s Egg Nest is going out of business because people now are too busy to stop and eat a decent meal.  But the railroad is still there and it still rains 90% of the time leaving enough room for sticky sweaters and wet ankles, much to my dismay. 

Utah rain smells different.  It smells like wet asphalt on a summer day.  It smells even more like wet asphalt with chalk drawings on a summer day.  You know, rain smells different depending on where you are.  And I can’t wait to smell home.  

welcome to the stump house

hello all and welcome to my blog
my goal for this blog is to publish at least one essay a week
preferably on sunday nights

feel free to leave comments and questions

thank you and happy reading

Ruby Higgins

Morning Soap

I think that we sugar coat our memories.  The sun is a little brighter, colors a little more saturated, perhaps the food was a little more delicious and the laughter a little louder.  To say that I was a spoiled child is absolutely correct.  My mother and father gave me all the love and care that I needed and a little more.  I had everything I needed and sometimes even got the stuff I wanted.  My relationship with my extended family was rich and warm. I was spoiled with love, which is the best type of spoiling. 

            They were always so soft, the feeling of the sheets in the spare bedroom at my grandparent’s house.  Wearing my grandpa’s t-shirt, I’d slip into the sheets letting the coolness seep into my skin.  The sheets were tightly tucked under the mattress and were so smooth; smoother than mine at home.  Even the pillows were softer, they were filled with down; luxury at its finest.  I’d scoot down deeper into the comforter and breathe in.  There was always a fresh, soapy smell that enveloped my grandparent’s house.  The smell was strongest in the laundry room, but smelled the best in the linen closet.   The lights were all off, except for the bed side lamp.  It filled the room with warm, golden light.  The night stand still had the book I was reading last time I spent the night.  In fact it was the book that I’d always read while I stayed here:  Boxcar Children.  I was too tired to read it tonight though so when my grandma came to tuck me in and turn the lights out that was it.  I’d quickly fall asleep because this was the safest place, aside from my own home, that I knew.

            Waking up was even more wonderful than falling asleep.  My blankets were warm and cozy and the sun was shining through the blinds heating my face in warm streaks.   I’d want to stay in bed, but the smell of breakfast was too enticing: Eggos.  Oh, sweet waffles of sugary goodness! You warm, crisp, sugary pastry of delight!  Why was I cursed with the inability to eat more than one!?  I’d quickly walk into the kitchen to greet my grandparents, my aunt and my cousins.   Every morning, without fault, my grandmother would greet me with: “Good-Morning Sunshine”.  My grandfather, without a doubt, would be sitting at the table black coffee in one hand and the newspaper in the other.  On the table next to him would be toasted sourdough bread.  The toast would be a little burnt, just the way he liked in, and smothered in butter.  My cousins had already been up for a while, they were early risers, so they had already eaten breakfast, but they remained at the table.  Ellie (the eldest) would read the comics, and Hannah (the younger of the two but my age) would be drawing something, maybe a fairy wonderland.  And my aunt would definitely be sitting on the couch in the living room.  She would be crocheting maybe, or reading a book, sometimes both. 

            As the morning turned to daylight, the summer sun would tease us until we grabbed our bathing suits and ran down to the lake.  Holding our towels above our heads as we ran, we looked like mini-supermen with bright capes as we race to the water: “whoever gets in the water first, wins!”  Our speed made them flap, but our laughter made them dance.  Usually, I won this race to victory, but this year, Hannah won.  But not by much, I assure you.  We’d swim and play and explore until dinnertime or until my mom came, whichever tragedy came first.   Because with either our adventures ended:  the mermaid princesses were forced to grow legs and walk back to the house.  And with my hair freshly dried, I would watch as five silly people would make faces at me until the car was out of site.

            I think that we sugar coat our memories.  But sometimes, our reality is sugar coated.  And this is bliss.