a travers les larmes....

   A few years ago, L'Architecte and I spent the day in Liberty, NC, at the large flee market there.  For those who have never been it is a giant production.  A vast, grassy pasture, with row upon row of tents and tables, vendors selling treasures and junk, antiques or crafts.  He loved the place.  He was constantly searching for old carpentry and building tools to add to his collection.

I remember this day was particularly clear and warm.  He was meticulous in this search.  Every tool he came upon he gingerly picked up in his shaking hands and studied, often trying to explain to me why it was designed in such a way, and how each piece's form lent to its function.  My uncle's passion was contagious.  One couldn't help but be enthralled when he began to speak about all that a tool could create!  He was so passionate about precision, the fine line, the perfect angle.  In his mind's eye he saw the potential for beauty.  At his fingertips he saw the possibilities were endless.  And at his fingertips, they truly were endless....

Working with him in F, I was lucky enough to see firsthand the passion breathing life into house after house after house.  He loved the farm animals in this place and the tall trees and the high ceilings and the fine lines angled perfectly in order to bring in the most sunlight.

He loved sharing his vision to create a place of rest and of pleasure, to create refuge at once functional and comfortable for the countless folks he designed for.  He loved to create a home.

But it wasn't only the architect driven by his life's task that I knew, but a gentle man.  A man who molded beautiful, creative pieces such as the gorgeous wooden frames that would house his beloved wife's paintings or a graceful rocker in the shape of a lone swan meant to gently sway a grandchild to sleep.  He poured his soul into so many fantastic projects he never spoke of.  He designed so many buildings with a humble yet insatiable yearning for precision and the accurate reach.

I knew him to live his personal day to day life in this way also.  Never to complain or to be slowed by imperfection, but to forge ahead to create, and to produce the beauty he was always seeing in his thoughts, in the project yet to build, in the house yet to live in.  Unwavering in his devotion to his craft and to an ethical, straight line.

No doubt, if it had been left up to him, his body would have been of a sturdier design, more rigidly strong and impervious to disease.  But it was not meant to be.  And as his health declined and his body haulted him, his mind grew with more and more ideas, only to fade away, as he stumbled over them time and again, no longer able to give them life, he shed each one and it was a gracious and slow letting go.

Coming home from that afternoon in Liberty, I still remember him.  The windows of his little, grey pick-up truck are open and his black hair is desheveled in the passing breezes.  Both hands on the steering wheel, he drives quickly home, staring straight ahead..."I have an idea" he tells me and I can barely hear the words as they bounce into the wind.

8/8/10 - le dimanche dernier, pleint de chagrin, et malgre tout, de lumiere aussi.....

BellNa colloquiallism # 73

"There ain't no birds up in here!"

Because one day we will all be old and forgetful. 

Staring up into a very blue winter sky with the big North Carolina crows CAW-ing! CAW -ing!   I wonder out loud about the melancholy their sound produces within my heart on this particular day.  Belle reflects, "will these memories come back to us vividly one day?"  One day when we struggle to remember our youthful thoughts, blowing in the breeze of our minds like fabric shredded in the wind, a piece of something impossible to grasp.....

Yes, Belle and I think: we will be sitting, hunched over in a cushioned chair, in some sort of stark building - I will cry out - "Look at the birds, so many of them in this sky, piercing my heart with their cry!?"

Prompting the care givers to exclaim "Missy!  There ain't no birds up in here!"

But there are, there are, there are.....

Cappy's story

There once was an orange tabby cat.  His name was Cappy and he lived in the downtown streets of Raleigh.  He could be seen zigging and zagging through the parked cars that lined the residences there, he seemed to look both ways before crossing the road, cause he was savvy that way.  Staying away from the tall buildings where there was more traffic and danger, he walked the sidewalks with a relaxed saunter, cause he owned the world.

Cappy spent many cold winter nights balled up in a dark crawl space or huddled under someone's porch furniture.  In the darkest hours of the night he would sometimes see a taxi drop off two lovers, too engaged in an argument as they walked up and into their house, to see his hopeful gaze.   He didn't bother to make a sound, he was rarely noticed anyway.  But, other times, older ladies draped in a lonely sorrow only he could see, would call him to them, give him bits of tuna and a stroke on the head.

With the coldest, most bitter rain, he would sit by a vehicle's tire, a warmth would still be lingering around it from a long commute home, it would give it up to him kindly and the wheel comforted him.  As the rain turned to snow he would watch other cats called into their homes where they might roll by a fire.  He resigned himself to vague memories where he might have stretched himself on a soft rug for a moment.

Just before dawn he would witness the awakenings of a busy world.  Car doors slamming, sometimes children yelling out, the quiet monstrous buzzing of the trash trucks approaching.  The birds starting to rustle.  The birds calling.  The fog of night would begin to shift and sway like strange spirits come to play in the breeze.  It would dance in his olfactory sense and he would feel a deep yearning instinct.

Spring!  Enduring a winter alone, warmer days descended upon him like the warmest of blankets. These were the days when his soul was so satiated he was content to just sit and watch the birds rejoice.  Twisting himself on the warm brick walkways, he joined a clear blue sky and it joined him.  After cooling rains he would walk through the steaming grass between houses, the smell of promised heat and musk rising, a cat or two watching from inside window frames, wishing for his freedom.   He purred softly, low, low, low in his head, humming sweetly. 

Such is life for all of us.  Winter comes in all sorts of ways, settles in our heart far longer than we think we can bear.  But a Spring is always ours for the taking, should we also choose to hum it into our veins it will warm us....

Cappy was captured!  Taken out of the City and plunked down into the Country.  More to follow....