Alison McGhee

On the first 60-degree day in six months, while walking with the black dog on the red leash and the black and brown and tan and white dog on the green leash, the following sights were duly noted:

A small sign stuck into the ground by a large, low stone-rimmed planter: “Please.”

A Corona beer bottle slowly emerging headfirst from an ice prison on a front lawn.

A blue plastic bag containing what appeared to be dog turds, knotted and emerging slowly from a melting pool of ice on a sidewalk.

A swingset so long buried in snow that only now can its bright red plastic seats be glimpsed, darkly, under murky, thawing ice.

A homemade Santa sign stuck into the ground next to an evergreen, with “Ho Ho Ho” painted onto Santa’s oddly slender belly.

In a scene reminiscent of Moses parting the Red Sea, a heavyset woman slowly pushes an extra-wide shovel down the sidewalk in front of her house to rid it of its six inches of meltwater, while an enormous plastic blow-up Christmas carousel next to her on the front lawn circles round and round.

A man in shorts and t-shirt, walking down the street and tossing a baseball into the air and catching it, and tossing a baseball into the air and catching it, and tossing a baseball into the air and. . . wait. . . yes, catching it.

An elderly woman in a dark overcoat, moon boots, gloves, and scarf knotted over her curly blue hair, knocking gently on the window of a car which appears to be empty, peering in, then shading her eyes and looking up and down the street.

The black dog and the black and brown and tan and white dog peeing simultaneously on either side of the same mulberry tree.

Under a park bench, emerging from a thawing patch of ice, a photograph of a woman holding a child wearing an “It’s my 1st Birthday!” crown.

The rounded toes of the long-broken-in hiking boots of a woman walking a dog on a red leash and another dog on a green leash,  soaked through and covered with mud.

Who is this child? He is a colander-headed boy.

He came into this world naked, but naked he did not stay. No, soon he was garbed in the raiment of his people, Those of Colanderness.

Through the rain and snow they saunter, heads semi-protected from the elements but with plenty of holes, the better to experience the primal nature of nature itself.

Through the lightning they also walk, because Those of Colanderness know not the fear of electrocution so often experienced by lesser beings.

Those who wear colanders have never read the Harry Potter books. They do not play basketball, nor do they golf. They will look at you with bemusement, if not bewilderment, if you mention the words “par” and “tee” in their presence.

“Birdie” is another matter, because although they do not know its meaning with regard to golf, those who wear colanders are known for their love of birds. They are at one with the avian world, perhaps because in an alternate universe, birds and colanders fly through the skies in peace and harmony, wishing no ill will to any animate or inanimate being.

Those who wear colanders worship the gods of pasta and tin. They do not wear suspenders. They dip their artichokes in Hellmann’s mayonnaise, and they can be found in the early mornings sitting on porch swings, praying that the brokenhearted of the world will know themselves beloved.

The $11 that fell out of your pocket when you were in the movie theater with PG + the $20 bill found on top of the “sanitary disposal” container at the Kayuta Drive-In – $7.25 in quarters left in various gum machines around the country so as to make little children happy + $1.50 found in gum machines in the Utica/Rome area of upstate New York when you yourself were a child – $775 which was deposited into your Wells Fargo checking account but never made it there + the $500 Target gift card your parents gave you when you were down on your luck – the $20 bill given to your youngest to bulk up her school lunch account but which never made it there + $3.79 found in and around washing machine and dryer over two years’ of laundry – $300 deposit forfeited to northwoods resort when you had to cancel trip + ten $5 bills folded in half and tucked into birthday cards by your grandmother for birthdays 5-15 + $10 bill folded in half and tucked into birthday cards for birthdays 15-39 – $25 expired gift card to local restaurant at which you once ate a blue-cheese-laden pizza that makes you feel full just to think of + three wrinkled $1 dollar bills found in back pocket of old jeans – $.10 that fell through the gutter + $25 Electric Fetus gift card given to you by brother – $7 in now-unusable T tokens + three $100 dollar bills given to you over three successive Christmases – $2 bill you gave to the nice waitress at Rainbow as a bonus tip on top of her tip – six shiny 2009 pennies you left face up on the pavement to make six strangers happy because Find a Penny Pick It Up All the Day You’ll Have Good Luck but only, in your personal variation, if the penny is heads-up = O. And there we have it.

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle.

– Philo of Alexandria

She is thinking today of the brokenhearted. She is thinking of them as they go about their days and the strength it took them to rise on a gray morning. She is thinking of Stanley Kunitz, who said that in a murderous time the heart breaks and breaks and lives by breaking, and of Marie Howe, who said of his work that she didn’t know then that the heart might eventually break open.  She is about to leave her house and head into the sidewalks and streets filled with people, each of them making their way in the rain, none of whose stories she knows. She will first close her eyes and say a prayer for the brokenhearted, and then she will look about her at these familiar strangers and be kind, because everyone is fighting a great battle.

What does a chinchilla have to do with limberness, if limberness is even a word? (limberness, limbericity, limberous, limberical?) Something, no doubt, but something that is beyond my ken at the moment, fixated as I am today on words that keep coming to me, beautiful words rarely used, words that seem from another time.

Limber.

Ken.

Lo.

Anon.

Beloved.

In the middle of the night I woke with limber scrolling its way across the subtitle section of my brain. Around and around it scrolled, much like a duffel bag abandoned on baggage claim carousel #3. Thoughts of limber, and all things limber-related, limned on a mental movie screen.

The man at the Y:  “Are you the woman who was twisting herself into a pretzel up there on that mat?”

Yes, that was me.

Limberlost: part of  a book title I wish I’d come up with myself. That it refers to a swampy area of Indiana does not lessen the enchantment.

Limbs. I have four of them, for which I am forever grateful.

Limb: to go out on one, which can be a good and intense, if exhausting, way to live.

Long-limbed Girl: my favorite Nick Lowe song.

Limbic: A group of interconnected deep brain structures, common to all mammals, and involved in olfaction, emotion, motivation, behavior, and various autonomic functions.

Limn: To describe, or to depict by painting or drawing.

Limb: in astronomy, the circumferential edge of the apparent disc of the sun or moon or a planet, which is something that I – star-ignorant that I am – never knew until this morning.

Limb: any of the main branches arising from the trunk or bough of a tree, like the ones that Fred Anken and I built my treehouse in, lo those many years ago.

Limb: a very rare surname, so rare that in the U.S., it ranks #26355. Another fact I never knew until just now.

What if my name were Alison Limb? All my life I would be spelling it out for people, just the way I spell out McGhee for people now – “It’s M, C, G, H, E, E. Yes, I know, that H is weird, isn’t it.”

If my name were Alison Limb, would I have a chinchilla for my pet?

When they were little they had what they called shoe-boots. They pulled plastic bread bags over their shoe-clad feet and slid them into rubber boots lined with thick felt. Then they zipped the shoe-boots up – there was a central zipper that ran from the toes up to the top of the ankle-high boot. They pulled their snowpants down over the shoe-boots.

Were the shoe-boots warm? Not for her, cold-footed cold person that she is. She liked the bright Wonder Bread circles on the bread bags, though.

Then came what they called moon boots. Giant stomper things that weighed nothing. Were they warm? For everyone but her, they were.

She had a pair of Frye boots in her twenties. She wore them with short dresses, a red one that laced up the back and a black and white polka dot one in particular.

Were the Fryes comfortable? No. They hurt like hell, but she wore them anyway. Up and down the cobblestone streets of the city in which she lived, she tromped in the Frye boots.

One day she was feeling particularly fine, wearing her Frye boots and her black and white polka dot dress, striding through the public garden in the sunshine, whistling no doubt. Then came the bird poop, glooping its way through her hair, down her neck, onto her shoulder. Why, bird? Why me, why now?

Then came a long stretch of post-Frye bootless years, years in which her only boots were the Sorels that she dragged on every endless winter to go slogging out into the snow and ice and bitter wind. Stunningly heavy, those boots. Warm? Of course not.

Now she has a pair of cowboy boots, real ones. Is she a cowgirl? No, but in another life she might be. She puts the cowboy boots on with jeans. She puts them on with dresses. She likes the smell of the tooled leather. She likes the cool warmth of that leather against her bare legs.

Sometimes, in movies, she takes her cowboy boots off in the dark and perches them on the empty seat beside her so that they can watch too.

 They appear in the early summer down the dirt road, low to the ground. Scraggly green, lighter than clover, but the leaves are similar in shape. Take a tin bowl out of the lower cupboard and put your sneakers on in case you run into a snake. You are sore afraid of snakes.

Tell your sisters you’re going, but only if you want company, which you might not. Walk down the dirt road. The heat of the earth is rising in shimmers, and all the smells of early summer are there: sweet grass strewn on the field from the first haying, manure spread on the far pasture, flowers you don’t know the names of.

Crouch down and turn over the light green leaves. See that tiny red ball? That’s a wild strawberry. If you’ve never seen one, you might not recognize it, it’s so much smaller than its laboratory-bred cousin. If it were a human it would be a Little Person. No, it would be a Microscopic Person.

Wild strawberries are so small that sometimes they mush between your fingers when you’re picking them. That’s all right. Go ahead and eat the mushed ones. Put the whole ones, cap and stem and all, into your tin bowl.

It will take you a long, long time to fill that bowl.  Or maybe not. You wouldn’t know, because in your nine years you’ve never filled one. An hour or so into the search, a half-mile or so down the dirt road, the drowsy stillness of the sun and the fields and the woods overtakes you.

Why am I saving these strawberries? you think. Why shouldn’t I eat them all right now?

There will never be enough wild strawberries for any sort of kitchen magic. They’re too small, too hard-earned. A cupful would barely be enough for a batch of muffins. Who would want to eat wild strawberry muffins anyway? All muffin, no berry.

Go ahead. Sit down in that patch of Indian paintbrush and eat them all. Stain your fingers with that particular kind of red. Lie down in the sun and close your eyes.

You are young. It doesn’t matter. You know you’ll come down here another day, with the same tin bowl. Another summer. You’ll come down this road forever. And everything will be the same – the tiny trembling berries, the shiny tin bowl, your stained and dusty sneakers, your scratched and bitten legs, the sun beating on your long dark hair – until everything changes.

So much hair in this house. A river of shining black. A cascade of curly near-black. Dark brown pigtails. Shorn light brown. Black dredlock dog.  And the eyes framed by the hair: near-black, hazel, bright blue, gray-blue, brown. Hair stroked with a brush in the early morning. Hair tied up with clips and binders. Get your hair out of this sink. Where’s my hairbrush? Who took my hairbinder? Hair, hair everywhere.

The mother of the house remembers her baldheaded babies, and how she wondered what their hair would be like. How she loved to smell their baby heads. How she still leans over them to catch a whiff of their hair: shampoo and conditioner and a scent that is each their own.

First Haircut

She wants to grow it long, and
she wants to go to the barber.
She wants curls floating down her back, and
she wants the barber’s hands on her
skull, tilting her head now this way, now that.
She wants it both ways.
She wants her locks for herself and
she wants to be
shorn, dark petals drifting down.

It’s not possible to do both, I tell her.

She looks into the mirror, picturing herself as
she might look if
she keeps it, imagining what
she might lose if
she doesn’t.
In the end, she can’t resist her own longing.
The hands of the other win out.
Studying herself in the mirror she sees someone new,
a familiar stranger.
The girl she was, gone.

This is where you’ll find her. She’ll be launching her houseboat on the Apalachicola River in northwestern Florida. Her houseboat is very small, just big enough for one, possibly two people. And a dog.

The houseboat has a miniature kitchen with miniature appliances. There’s a tiny bathroom with an envirolet toilet and a solar shower. See that long cushioned bench up front? It unfolds into a double bed. When she goes to bed she’ll read as late as she wants, until sleep overtakes her.

On clear nights, and most nights are clear, you’ll find her on the little aft deck, sitting on the rope-suspended swing. This is where she’ll gaze out and up at the stars, thousands of them. She’ll count the shooting stars until she loses count, and then she’ll find the Big Dipper, and the North Star, and the Milky Way, and Orion. She’ll look for the Seven Sisters, that faint constellation like a sprinkling of freckles on the dark night sky, that her star-knowledgeable traveling companion taught her to see.

During the day she’ll putter along the River, River with a capital R because it is a river from before time. Just under the sepia surface of this old water, hundred-year-old alligators will keep pace with her houseboat. Skeletons of wild hogs and ancient turtles will line the riverbanks.

She’ll pass camps with names like Smith Creek Hunt and Fish Camp, and the KeepOut Camp, and she’ll wave to the old Airstreams and broken-down campers that are the homes of the inhabitants, knowing that they are inside, invisible, and watching her.

No mail down here. No cell phone signal. No landline, no internet, no nothing.  Yes, this is where you’ll find her. Or not.

Black dog on the sand at sunset. Pouncing on sea foam, racing waves, turning to see how far behind are the man and woman on the sand. Clay-colored dog in the glowing coral house risen high in the dunes. Raising his head and sniffing the salt air. Black dog. Black dog on the sand. Clay-colored dog barks and paws. Door of the high glowing house opens. Thunkathunkathunkathunk. Clay-colored dog runs from the house aglow. Black dog folds himself into the sand, ears pinned back. Clay and black in the sun-going-down dunes.Silent feather dogs dance and spin. Into the salt waves and out again. Race the tide line, wet tails streaming, and back again.Black dog’s man and woman wander down the sand. Black dog. . . black dog. . . Clay-colored dog stands still. Far down the beach is an open door in a house aglow. Clay-colored dog turns and runs. Black dog’s woman watches clay-colored dog, puffs of sand rising. Clay-colored dog: a far-off horse galloping through hills behind clouds, into the dunes, onto the boardwalk, toward the house aglow.

To be a clay-colored dog. To be a dog who runs like a horse. To be a dog who leaps like a spinning feather. To be, only to be, no idea how beautiful you are.