Sand in My Eyes (21 page)

“Then again, I could use a bag of potting soil,” his mother told him.

“You got it,” he said, “One bag of potting soil.”

She rolled her eyes, and then smiled at us. “My son,” she said. “I do appreciate him.”

I could hardly talk, could hardly remember my words. One would think I had just washed ashore in a boat from another country and could hardly speak a word of English. But it was a good thing. Anything I uttered would give away how enamored I was, and why? I do not know. Why are bulls and hummingbirds drawn to the color red? And sharks attracted to silver at dusk?

If there were a class I could take that might teach me the reasons behind these things, and why women feel the way they do, I would enroll, but I don’t think chemistry, biology, or quantum physics would have the answers for me. My attraction to Fedelina’s son surpassed any textbook explanations. It was more like magic. And,
abracadabra
, he might disappear. Then I could feel my lips again, my tongue would reappear, and I’d be able to talk.

“Would you like some pie?” I finally said in a tone that was way too properly formal, and I saw Gwendolyn reading my face. When she looked full—full of theories—I could tell she was ready to leave, and that she would return to work spitting out mouthfuls of information about me, which made me want to say, “By the way,
me
starts with the letter ‘m’ and is the real reason I quit my job—I did it for me!”

“I do love cherry pie, but I’d better get going,” Liam said, and I was glad when he kissed his mother on the cheek and walked out of my yard, glad he had said nothing about our seeing one another in the boats. Glad for so many things, for having met him, and for knowing that, deep within me, I still have it—that mechanism that makes my heart leap over the moon. I was especially glad, after he left, to have my mind back. And more glad when Gwendolyn left.

My neighbor and I sat there savoring our pie a long time, long enough for the northern cardinal that had been in the tree in my yard to move to the bird feeder filled with sunflower seeds in her yard, and then fly off. She told me that the male northern cardinals are territorial and will attack their own reflections in mirrors, and it got her to talking of Oscar and how possessive he used to be of her when they were dating. We chatted about everything, from garden pests and how to handle difficult people, to water shortages and living on a budget. When she finally got up to leave, she told me to bring the daisies into my house and put them in water. I gave her a look.

“My mother always told me, ‘Fedelina, when life gets ugly, look for daisies.’ They’re all over—in fields littered with trash, behind dumpsters, along highways. They might be mingling with the weeds, but you’ll spot them if you look.”

“I can’t tell you how much I’m enjoying your mother’s letters,” I told her.

“I’m glad,” she said. “I may as well share them with someone. I don’t think she would have minded.”

I credit the daisies. As I brought handfuls of them into my house and filled a pail with water, dropping them in, they and what Cora had said about them got me to thinking about some aspects of my life, and how ugly they had become. My house was a cluttered mess and, as I stood staring down at the floating members of the Asteraceae family, the walls of the tree house that was my home closed in on me, as did my problems, and I knew something drastic had to be done.

“This is the day,” I announced, “the day in which I will clean.”

But as soon as those words left my lips, I was struck with an urge to
write instead, and there was a battle going on in my mind as to whether cleaning was more important than writing. I knew that if a woman lives in a cluttered mess for too long, her mind becomes like a junk drawer, with dusty thoughts and too much in it she doesn’t need. I didn’t want that happening to me and feared it already had.

I knew I should put my rubber gloves on and clean, but instead I grabbed the book
How to Grow Roses
and took it outside with me, sitting at the top of my porch steps, eager to read more of what Cora had written to her daughter. This time, a letter I found tucked and folded within the pages.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

1934

Dear Fedelina
,

We’re still living with relatives, packed like sardines into their small house, but I’m starting to feel more like a hermit crab than a sardine. I’ve said “no” to several social gatherings, and at times feel self-conscious, but after my mornings trying to grow roses, and then a long day out in the field, all I want to do is to get into bed and read a good book, better yet, write something myself—these letters to you! The women in this house tell me I am hard to get to know, and I say they’re right. Both gardeners and writers are difficult people to know because flowers and writing will be their best friends
.

I’m better off hiding in my shell. One of your aunts likes drama. She likes it as much as chocolate. I like chocolate. I do not like drama, and they wonder why I don’t join in, why I don’t react. The truth is I don’t care about conversations from yesterday, or feelings from the past. All I care about is what I’m currently planting in my garden, for what I plant today is what I will reap tomorrow. But these silly women I live with accuse me of not caring, and I’m ready to tell them it’s not that I don’t care, but that I don’t feel a part of it, that I feel more a part of the birds I hear out my window and the crickets as I lie in bed. It is this form of simplicity that makes me feel alive
.

But these gals are unhappy. Everyone I know is unhappy and I can’t name a single person who is truly happy. And, to be honest, I think they are so comfortable being unhappy that happiness might be uncomfortable for them. Quite frankly, they are crabs, and I fear that being with them too much might turn me into one, too. I say this because when I’m with them too much, I find myself “crabbing” just to fit in. It’s a way of bonding with the clan but it does me no good other than keep me a part of the tribe. And everywhere we go, when we go to town together, we attract, meet and talk with others just like us—crabs bemoaning financial stress, lacking husbands, messy houses, and fieldwork we dislike. I’d rather cry out to the Lord than to the women of this house
.

It’s not that I think friends sharing problems with friends is a bad thing, but I fear too much of it will turn us into one big cluster of crabs, stagnantly stuck in our swamp-like circumstances and which no one will dare crawl out of or walk sideways away from because then they would no longer be a part of the “crab cluster.” They say when two or more people gather in the name of crabbing, it’s considered “commiserating” and that commiserating brings comfort, but there should be rules amongst friends that, if you crab for more than a month about the same situation, then the recipient of your crabbing is allowed to stir up ideas or solutions
.

I wonder sometimes whether numerous grown women are meant to be living in one small house together, but it only has me missing your father. He and I got along well. We complemented one another. Here, there is a second cousin who is always getting hurt by the things I say to her. You have witnessed this yourself and I hope you learn two things from this person. First, avoid unnecessary drama. Just as high winds are disturbing to roses because the flowers cannot easily stand being whipped about, the gusts and gales that go along with gossip and drama can damage you
.

And second, don’t let another person’s perceptions of you change your perspective of the person that you are. She tells the others that I’m always out to hurt her. If your father was still alive, he’d tell me it’s ridiculous. “Cora, you have a sweet tongue and a passive heart. Don’t start thinking you’re a mean person. Instead, beware! Beware of insecure people. It’s not your job to fill them with worth.” Your father was solid like that—practical, and he talked sense into me. There will always be people who accuse you of not liking or loving them enough. But you do not have to prove your love to anyone. Love is not measured by deeds or mannerisms or words. Love is! It just is!

One more thing I’ve learned living amidst all these women. Don’t for a minute think that, by pointing out the weeds in another’s garden, it will make your garden look better. Au contraire! It’ll only make your weeds stand out that much more, dear. I guess what I’m saying is, there are people who like to critique. Criticism has become a sport of the soul. Some hardy climbing roses resent pruning and will not bloom freely if they are rigorously pruned, whereas other varieties demand it. Choose your variety, dear, and stay true
.

There are too many larger things for us to all be thinking about than who hurt who with their words every day. The country’s difficult time, as well as our own daily routine, long and dull, goes on without change. You told me the other day that you feel like a caterpillar stuck in a cocoon, desperately wanting to claw your way out, to become a butterfly. Still, I have to believe, Fede, that the circumstances of our lives might not always make sense at the time, but the meaning behind events will unfurl later, one petal at a time
.

But I myself have started wondering, what happened to the brilliancy of dreams, and where are all the hummingbirds and butterflies when we need them the most
?
We are all doing strenuous labor for which we have no passion or desire. I can’t pull America out from its depression, or find you the love of your life, but I wonder whether it’s true what they say, that we have the power to change our circumstances by changing our internal thoughts, and then by taking action. A few weeks ago I got down on my hands and knees and begged the Lord to give us something beautiful. My wants are not elaborate. I do not wish for a million-dollar mansion or a fancy wardrobe, but that my daughter will see a speck of pure and natural beauty in this depressed, poverty-stricken world
.

The moment I said that prayer I felt a smile form on my face. And the very next morning we were out in the pasture with the cows when a few wandered too far, and it was our responsibility to bring them back. Little did I know as we begrudgingly chased those animals that the mighty forces of Heaven were reacting to my request for beauty, working in my favor. Suddenly we were standing, not in roses, but in a field abundant with an infinite number of daisies. I knew it to be our time for receiving as we spent the morning tying together flower necklaces and crowns to place upon our heads. We felt like children
.

I guess what I’m trying to tell you, Fedelina, no matter how desolate life becomes, always search for beauty. Do whatever you must to find it. Do away with the foolish clutter—in your house and in your mind—and you will find it. I promise
.

Love
,

Mums