Keep My Words

The white paint at the face painting table was a bit chunky.  Ten-year old Lily was in charge of decorating the faces of all Apple Fest attendees brave enough to endure her brush.

Paisley sat before Lily.  “White is the only one that’s messed up?” Paisley asked the child.

“Yes,” confirmed Lily.

“Alright,” said Paisley.  “I want to be a cat.  But don’t use any white.  And just make my whole face like a cat.”

“Okay,” replied Lily.

Lily dipped her brush into the white paint and immediately applied it to Paisley’s cheek.

“No no, I thought you weren’t going to use white!?” Paisley cried out, amused by the little girl’s defiance.

Lily continued by administering white paint to the other cheek.  “I’m just doing the cat’s antics,” she assured her human canvas.

Paisley arched her eyebrow.  “His antics?  You mean his antenna, like his whiskers?”

“Noooooo,” Lily answered as if Paisley’s question were the most nonsensical combination of words ever uttered by a human being.  “Cats don’t have antennas.  It’s his antics.”

Standing behind Lily the entire time, I was watching the highly entertaining scene.  Paisley looked at me.  I began to giggle.  “Don’t make me laugh,” she told me.  Paisley looked back at Lily.  “His antics?”

“Yeah, his antics,” Lily confirmed.  “You know, like his behavior.”

Now Paisley and I were both cracking up.  The young artist was not amused with our lack of sophistication apropos of her work.  Once we calmed down, Lily continued painting.  As I watched her apply black paint for the whiskers, I had a realization.

“No really Paisley, it’s the antics.  It totally looks like the cat’s antics,” I said.  Somehow  at that moment, it made sense to me.  I want to believe that if Lily painting a cat’s antics (which according to her is equivalent to its behavior) is an actual creative possibility, then anything is possible.  Also, I want to believe that all things will make sense to me one day.

Lily painted an apple on my face.  I instructed her to make it the most beautiful, amazing apple she had ever painted.  Lily did just that.

Paisley’s cat antics (above), my apple (below)

Lily’s sign (below)

My grandmother loved poetry.  The fervor and intensity she demonstrated when reciting her best-loved pieces remains unmatched by anyone that I have ever known.

Per her request, the below was read at her funeral.  It was one of her favorites.  I would give anything to hear her recite it to me now.

“Lord of the Dance” words by Sydney Carter

I danced in the morning when the world was young
I danced in the moon and the stars and the sun
I came down from heaven and I danced on the earth
At Bethlehem I had my birth

Dance, dance, wherever you may be
I am the lord of the dance, said he
And I lead you all, wherever you may be
And I lead you all in the dance, said he

I danced for the scribes and the Pharisees
They wouldn’t dance, they wouldn’t follow me
I danced for the fishermen James and John
They came with me so the dance went on

Dance, dance, wherever you may be
I am the lord of the dance, said he
And I lead you all, wherever you may be
And I lead you all in the dance, said he

I danced on the Sabbath and I cured the lame
The holy people said it was a shame
They ripped, they stripped, they hung me high
Left me there on the cross to die

Dance, dance, wherever you may be
I am the lord of the dance, said he
And I lead you all, wherever you may be
And I lead you all in the dance, said he

I danced on a Friday when the world turned black
It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back
They buried my body, they thought I was gone
But I am the dance, and the dance goes on

Dance, dance, wherever you may be
I am the lord of the dance, said he
And I lead you all, wherever you may be
And I lead you all in the dance, said he

They cut me down and I leapt up high
I am the life that will never, never die
I’ll live in you if you’ll live in me
I am the Lord of the dance, said he

Dance, dance, wherever you may be
I am the lord of the dance, said he
And I lead you all, wherever you may be
And I lead you all in the dance, said he

(photos by Dese’Rae Stage)

The last time I saw Gram alive was during my Fourth of July trip to Monmouth, Maine in 2007.  She died on Halloween that same year.  I remember the exact second that I last saw her.  She was walking out of the cabin, and she turned to me and waved goodbye.

During that same trip we were sitting on her back porch smoking.  She was talking about when my Grandfather died unexpectedly in 1983.  “I tried to drink myself to death,” she said, “but that didn’t work, so I got a job.”

I know that after my Grandfather’s death, she eventually got a dog that she loved very, very much.  The dog got hit by a car and died.  She had him cremated and kept the ashes under her bed.  When she died, she was also cremated.  I remember my Aunt Heather standing in Gram’s kitchen with her daughter on the day of Gram’s funeral looking at the dog’s ashes.  “This is what your Gram looks like now.  So sad,” my Aunt said.  We buried the dog’s ashes with Gram’s in her burial plot.

This year I want to drive up for the Apple Fest in Monmouth in September.  I’ll be unemployed by then.  It’s also around my birthday.  I hope I can afford it.