Objects propel creativity. A whale tooth found on the beach. Newly picked sweetcorn piled high in coolers at Mom and Dad’s. My grandma’s tablecloth. Roasted potatoes. Hydrangeas. Yesterday, shimmers of rainbow light dancing on the dining room walls—set off by a crystal rotating in the window, powered by a little solar panel gathering high afternoon rays from a southern fall sun.
I collect objects with muse power. Sometimes just etching the sight in my mind and more often taking a photo, not trusting the etching to hold tight. Sometimes I pick up the “thing” and keep it. Having it nearby keeps the simmer going for what I might one day want to say about it. Trusting that a small glance or a touch will stir the muse energy. As much as I love simple, sparse, streamlined décor, my propensity to collect defies this genre of home decorating. The mind etchings and photos are not as powerful reminders as are things. While someone might see an embroidered garden hanging on the office wall or a quilted typewriter on a little pillow that’s perched on a chair, I see the faces of my friends Deb and Marie—the artists who created these gems—and stories about quilting and mouse capers. I hear women’s laughter around a dinner table, and perhaps even louder, I hear the natural early morning quiet sitting amongst three friends, nestled on a cabin porch by a lake.
Dried hydrangeas flock the mantel and fill vases around the house. I’m fascinated by the science behind drying these multi-petaled flowers, and my mind goes back to a small house in the town where I went to school. Two elderly men lived there; it was on the main drag and next door to the bank where I worked as a teller during high school. Their house smelled of cigars or pipes. And became what I thought of as a smell synonymous with old men. Didn’t they have cigar smoking stands next to their chairs? Were they 50 years old? Or 90? Brothers? I don’t remember who these men were; that will be the topic of conversation when I talk to Mom and Dad later. Few people can follow my threads of childhood inquiry like my mom and dad, with just a few words: “Who were those two old men that lived on 6th Street next to the bank?” I’m guessing they’ll know who I’m talking about, and they’ll have the details to fill in my blanks. On the north side of the men’s house, these enigmatic bushes grew with balls of creamy flowers, touched with a breath of light green. Hydrangeas are prolific in Massachusetts. I don’t remember them growing as abundantly in Iowa. The dichotomy of these hydrangea bushes-–abundant here and not so much there—remind me of the vast differences between Iowa and Massachusetts—the climate, the culture, the people.
So you see, the hydrangea on a shelf to my right, sent me down that little hydrangea packed walk. Those thought journeys are exhilarating to a writer. And the art of writing lies in waiting for the moment when the story is ready to be told. It might take a while to fully develop, like a bubbling sourdough starter sitting on the counter. Or it might take many experiences of the same ilk to finally see clarification of what words need to land on paper. I’m reminded of these as I sit in the cool basement drinking coffee from a cup with a chip in the rim. It was with this cup that the essay from summer to fall with a pocketful of prayer, fell to fruition—a reflection on that annual transition. I remember well where I was and how I felt when I wrote this, so as I searched for it this morning, I was shocked to discover that I wrote it on September 4, 2014. Six years later, I still connect with the sentiment of that refreshing seasonal change.
When an essay stays intact and relevant over time, it’s “evergreen”—a literary term I learned a few years. It’s good to be evergreen in the business of writing non-fiction. I liken it to dressing not in the newest trendy clothes but rather having a solid stash of black tops and comfortable khaki or denim bottoms—and a set of go-to earrings. Consistent. Stable. Unmoving.
For Pete’s sake. I’m miles away from what thought I was writing about today. This. This is the thing that set me on the current path:
I have held onto this little piece of plastic for eight years. In 2012, my son Will was in elementary school and entranced by space exploration. He built rockets out of toilet tube rolls and launched them with black powder that Bill helped him buy at the hobby store. He drew Saturn V’s and taped them to the walls. We couldn’t feed Will enough space knowledge. In the middle of this era, I found the item above in the playroom. I assumed Will had found it on a playground and brought it home. I have kept this little bit of plastic, wondering what “human propulsion” test some scientist named Nathan had been conducting. And thinking how fitting it was that Will had brought something home with those words on it. I envisioned rockets propelling humans into space. I kept this piece of plastic thinking I would some day write the story that goes with it.
In a recent stirring of things in boxes and on shelves, I came across this tag again. I put it on a shelf in plain sight so as to jostle words. This morning, I sat at my table with little thought about what I would write. I glanced at the shelves with the vase of hydrangeas and found this piece of hard plastic. Perhaps today?
Being a non-fiction writer, I started by researching exactly what the company makes. And now, I feel like my high-flying hot air balloon has a gigantic hole in the beautiful nylon. I akin this feeling to going to the Harry Potter studio in England where the magic of flying dissolved at the illumination of how the “magic” of a green screen works.
Will did not prophetically collect this piece of plastic. In 2012, I walked 26 miles in Boston’s Avon Walk. In preparation for the walk, I purchased a “waist pak”—formerly known as a bum bag—with a water bottle on either side of the zippered pouch. And the tag sewn into the seam of the pak has the orange rectangle with three arrows stamped onto it: the logo of Nathan Human Propulsion Laboratories. For eight years, I’ve held onto a plastic hanger that attached my bum bag to a hook on a water bottle display in a store.
Shall I keep this hanger? Tack it to the wall to remind me… of what? That things aren’t always what they seem? That my 8-year-old was an aspiring rocket scientist? That my imagination is healthy?
Now that the essay has been written, the value of this piece of plastic is diminishing, melting away like the wicked witch of the West. It will most likely end up in the recycle bin.
But I’m still drinking from that chipped coffee cup.