A Fitting Memory

Folding fitted sheets is a mundane task: put one rounded corner inverted into the other. As I recently folded our non-iron queen size sheets, I had a flashback. In 1966 Paul and I were newlywed parents and graduate students at the University of Illinois. Non-iron, as well as, fitted sheets were quite an innovation, and I was quite grateful that I wasn't spending time at the ironing board, like my mother had. But I struggled to make a neatly folded sheet for the linen closet.

We did our laundry at a laundromat, where we tried to study, as soap suds added a fascinating slosh of bubbles to swirling clothing, towels and sheets. Why I was mesmerized by the TV-esque window of the washing machine, I leave to a psychologist. 

But back to the flashback recall.  One day I stayed home with our baby, while Paul went to the laudromat.
I doubt that a woman at the laundromat would have been as helpful to me, but there was my handsome husband, fumbling with fitted corners, and she jumped right in. He had a learning moment, and then a 

teaching moment with me when he came home.

Paul carried the freshly laundered bedding to our bedroom and taught me what to do with these new-fangled sheets (can I even remember how to fold hospital corners for flat sheets now)?  Fifty-seven years later, just one type of bottom sheets are now in our linen closet. And I don't have to iron them.

Lights in Our World

The Lights of Chanukah are ephemeral and the candles quickly burn low.
This is a photo I took of my mother’s electric menorah, a gift given to her
when she was in Robison Nursing home and real flames were not allowed.
The flames in this image are reflected in my upstairs window. 

I think of my mother who is with me every time I light all of my menorahs. I find myself feeling she’s eternally with me and a definite light in my heart. We humans are also ephemeral, but our love for each other is eternal. 

I too will fade into darkenss. My love for my children, grandchildren, family and friends  will shine from within me with my last breath. I know the next generations will carry forward and will continue celebrating holidays of lights. 

In the darkest season when the sky is clear, we see those tiny specks of light, the stars. I find comfort in this. I know I am a part of this vast Universe. That sense of being of Life quiets me into acceptance of this moment I’m experiencing, as if it is every moment. My short life in the infinite is a continuum.

We light memorial candles, candles when praying for others, to honor their spirits and share our hopes for them; we want to bring light. 

Some who hate carry torches of hatred, as they did in South Carolina, or when they burn crosses to threaten and intimidate. But then those who are in support of our diversity and our democracy held, and hold candlelight vigils. Their spirits are life-supporting and in synchronicity with goodness. We often lump the words goodness and light. 

The very word light begins to riff in my brain.

Light is emanating from fireflies in my memory and fills me with delight. Light shafts from beneath clouds create the “God Sky” when Moses is depicted receiving the Ten Commandments. Dawn sheds light  in the sky, sometimes aflame in rose golden tones. 

The amazing solar eclipse, which Paul and I viewed from our back deck, astonished us as we watched day become night, and then, eery light cast shadows, as the sun again took the sky. It awed us.  It made real that we are of, and need light.  There is only beauty in the word light. 

Myriads of songs are about light. One of my favorite lines from Chelsea Morning (Joni Mitchell) is:  “And the light poured in like honey casting shadows in the room.” We call someone we love, “The Light of My Life.” We use a light touch to sooth someone. Butterflies alight on something, or someone, instead of landing. 

In the 18th Century,The Age of Reason, or Enlightenment, was a highlight in our Western Culture, with Emmanuel Kant saying: “Dare to know! Have Courage to use your own reason.” Both the American and French Revolution came of that age. So did the harnessing of electricity. Lights sparkle all over the world and we see our nights aglow from way above.

Scientific discoveries shed light on things we need to understand, in order to remedy them. In Northern climates, Seasonal Affective Disorder (S.A.D.) is due to lack of natural light. If our bodies can’t produce Vit. D, which we acquire when we’re in sunlight, we must swallow our sunshine Vitamin D. Good medical research by the late great Oliver Sacks shed light on this.

When we realized we’ve done wrong, we see the light. We equate light with God. Christians depict Jesus and angels with halos of light. Moses saw the burning bush that only seemed to be burning, but heard God talking to him. Moses asked what should I call you? What is your name? “I am that I am.” But in our worlds and faiths we see God as Light. In the Temple, the Hebrew Priests sanctified oil to keep the eternal flame, the metaphoric holy spirit burning, This became the basis for the story of our Chanukah miracle. 

Now we are nearing the end of a great darkness in our country. But just as the Winter Solstice promises more light each day, so does the coming of a new President and Vice-President, who see the light, and will again try to make our country a light to the world. There is light at the end of the tunnel.

My heart is feeling lighter.  Our way is lit towards hope.

Two Summers on Mt. St. Helen’s © Sherry Fishman

Everytime we catch a view of the flat-topped Mt. Saint Helens I see the ghost of that snow cone beauty when we first moved to Portland in 1978. Then May 18th 1980, and half that magnificent volcano blew; today is 41 yeaars since that event; it remains fixed in my memory. Beacause the ash was frequently blowing in Portland during subsequent eruptions, I needed to wear a mask. In fact I used wet bandanas to breathe through so I could protect my lungs. Ash blew across the streets and sidewalks looking like powdered snow, landed on foliage and hardened itself onto the leaves. Beautiful glass objects were made from Mt. St. Helens ash. I have a pair of earrings and a gorgeous glass egg as treasures. But my best treasure is my image of that snow cone mountain next to the crystal clear deep Spirit Lake, and memories of camping there with our sons.

July, 1979 my husband and I drove up to camp beside Spirit Lake on Mt. St. Helens. It began to snow. A ranger advised us that an eccentric gentleman, Harry Truman, might provide us a room at his lodge. Paul knocked on the door; no answer. We were about to head back to Portland, when Harry, a lean 80-ish man, opened the door and beckoned us inside. The dark room littered with empty liquor bottles and reeking of cat urine worried me, but Harry led us to a clean fisherman's cabin near the edge of Spirit Lake. One lightbulb swung from the ceiling; the bed was sans linens or blankets, the bathroom was outside off the porch.

But the cabin was beside the crystal clear lake reflecting the snow-cone mountain top. "I turn off the generator at 10:00 pm," Harry told us. We were so entranced by the beauty of the area, we returned to Spirit Lake the following month with our two sons to canoe and camp. From our canoe. or a floating log we could see down through the water of Spirit Lake and clearly view things at least 30 feet below us. The effect was dizzying as if we were peering down from a great height to a canyon floor, not easy for those of us with a fear of heights. 

On our last morning, before breaking camp, Geoff, then in 7th grade, snagged and lost a favorite fishing lure, given to him by his Grandpa Herman. He could clearly see the lure snagged on a submerged log 30 feet below the canoe. "Dive for it, Dad," Geoff pleaded; but because time was limited, they opted to draw a map and get it the next year. 

On May 18, 1980, Geoff and I were returning from an architectural school field trip to Seattle. Our caravan of kids and mothers had taken an early morning stop in Enumclaw Washington to see a contemporary home belonging to one of the fathers. Looking East the sky was filled with a black heavy spread looking like a thick of coal dust. “What is that?!!!” I exclaimed. “Haven’t you heard? Mt. Saint Helens erupted.” a parent replied. “They’re warning us not to take I-5. Half the mountain blew and it might create a flow of debris across the freeway.”

Barb was driving in the car we shared with her son and my Geoff. We risked the closing of I-5 knowing the Toutle River might flood debris onto the highway, or threaten the bridge. Other parents had cut off to the coastal route. Fortunately, I-5 was passable. Since the ash had blown East, the sky was brilliant blue as we neared the Toutle River. We were awed to see the five mile high mushroom of mountain debris billowing into the sky. 

I remembered that there has been warnings to evacuate and our host Harry had refused. Rest in peace, Harry Truman, I thought, you went the way of the mountain. As Geoff looked at the cloud, he mused: "I guess years from now some archaeologists will find my fishing lure."