Clairhaven Street

My mother cut armfuls of lilacs, filling vases and jars in every room of our house. One vase, a blue piece of depression glass ringed by a thin, scalloped collar, held them best, the narrow base restraining their stems, allowing a lavendar and green explosion above--the thick branches pushing the blossoms haphazardly outward.  In the shade of the lilacs and forsythia grew a low forest of lily of the valley, their bell-shaped blossoms rising from leafy pod-like curls. I'd lie on my stomach and pluck them one by one, surprised at the strength of their resistance to my pulling, until I had enough to fill the tiniest of my mother's  crystal vases.

My own lilacs are on my kitchen table as I write, their dank sugar changing my patterns of thought. One of my three bushes burst this year, but still I don't have enough blossoms to fill my house. I left some to scent my yard while I drink cups of coffee on the deck, collecting myself in the dark. After I'd arranged my lilacs in a clear glass vase, I went back out to the shady section of my yard, where a small group of green leaves curved protectively around stems of bell-shaped flowers. I should have planted them when we first bought our house, but, even so, five lily of the valley shoots sit in a tiny vase on my kitchen sink helping me while I remember my mother.

 

 

Today, I'm still a little lost in the scent of the lilacs on my table. I'm writing in the kitchen, the lilacs directly in front of my laptop, and I'm struggling to stay put. The syrupy scent still threatens me, pushing relentlessly into my mind like the haphazard branches, toppling me back to my childhood home on Clairhaven Street.

 

It's like this: writers are pretty much always somewhere else. I know it appears that I'm here now (you can see me, right?), but most of me, the prime cut of me, is sitting on the low concrete wall just beneath the rose bushes on Clairhaven Street. My family will come upon what they think is me, their voices creating a forceful NOW, and I emerge from where I've been, disoriented, blinking furiously to find myself in a different place.

 

"What did you say?" I ask them, peering over my reading glasses.

 

"You aren't even listening!"

 

.Ah, if they only knew where I'd been. All I can do is try to take them back there with my words.

 

Curious about Annie Dillard's writing philosophy? Read The Writing Life.
 

I've been envious of Annie Dillard, another Pittsburgh girl, who jumped with both feet into her writing world. Once working in front of a window with an engaging view, she covered it with brown paper, blocking the invasive NOW with packing tape. What would it feel like to lose control, to give myself over to the world inside my head? I wish I may, I wish I might, but I can't do it. Instead, I am a cheater, sneaking around on both parts of my life. My own dear writing life is surely jealous of my family, but I suspect my famiy doesn't have cause to know about my affair. 

 

This weekend, I'm taking Clairhaven Street to a writing conference in Pittsburgh. I'm hoping that they will be able to smell the lilacs, too. Wish me luck.

 

 

 

The house is quiet today (the NOW momentarily at bay), and I plan to build a tunnel of words to and from Clairhaven Street. I may stay for a lunch of my father's tomatoes.

 

 

Time travel to my childhood inspires a little caprese salad for lunch. I managed to find some decent tomatoes and basil at the market, and with a little fresh mozzarella and good olive oil, you can't go wrong. My mouth waits anxiously for summer tomatoes and my own garden-grown basil, but I don't think I'll ever find tomatoes like those my father grew on Clairhaven Street. I'll probably keep looking, though.

 

If you are still a little hungry, a smattering of Clairhaven Street (in very early versions!) can be found here: Tomato Whispers, Going Home, and Cutting Lilacs.