Robert Animikii Horton writes a wonderful column titled “Northern Reflections” for The Times. I am especially fond of his piece “The Quiet Ceremony of Writing.” I cut out that particular column and taped it to the wall in my den, where I write. Every time I glance at this literary gem, another sentence highlights itself, and I nod my head, yes. “The ritual matters…” catches my eye in Horton’s column just now.
This is absolutely true for me, too. When I sit down to write, it begins in ritual. My back comfort is most important, so I jimmy myself with orthopedic pillows and the like. I either have a glass of wine or a cup of apple cinnamon tea. They both have their place at my writing table depending on my mood. My feet rest on an antique footstool that my Aunt Janie gifted me. I always burn a candle, and I always play music. Right now, it’s Alabama Shakes and the like. Something that stirs up my alphabet a little bit.
My writing table has items that serve as inspiration. I have a little Mardi Gras dude with enormous blue eyes, spiked yellow feathers for hair and huge white teeth. I named him Herman. He is fearless. Beside him sits a soapstone figure in contemplation called The Thinker. That’s me all the time. I also have a grey gargoyle in the circle, a Petosky fossil, a small piece of rock foundation from an ancient church in Wales and a piece of stone from where I believe King Arthur is buried (but that’s another story). Close at hand for good luck are The Elements of Style, second and fourth editions, by William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White.
Before I forget, remember when I mentioned in my last column about teaching my cat Earl to open the kitchen door? I didn’t have to. He figured it out all by himself, no word of a lie. I felt like a new mother when the day comes that baby can pick up its own Cheerios. I beamed proudly.
In preparation for this column, I decided to pull out the rest of my diaries. After using a couple of historic excerpts last time I wrote here, I had a feeling there could be at least 712 more things to write about now. A book by that name also sits with my Strunk and White books. It actually has 712 subject ideas with space for writing on each of them. I have only made one entry in it, and I’ve had it for more than 12 years. Seven hundred and 11 more to go.
I found my diaries in an old trunk along with photo albums from the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, when I looked nothing like I do today. No more pink bikini for me. I randomly picked a small diary from 1978.
My late father would have been 100 years old on April 24 this year, so he’s been on my mind a lot lately. I miss him every day. With Dad on my mind, I opened the diary to that date in 1978.
At the top of the page, I had pencilled in that he was turning 52. I was working as a volunteer for a local TV channel called TVO, and I worked until 10 p.m. on Dad’s birthday night. I wrote that my parents and my brother picked me up when I was done, and we all went for pizza and had chocolate cake when we got home.
When I read that, I smiled. It was a fine family memory to record. I ended that day with “I hope dad has lots and lots more birthdays and that I am always around to see him.” I am among those blessed with his long life.
I turned the diary pages to two days later, and in my never-ending quest at the tender age of 16 to be thin, therein was evidence written in pencil. Older me says I was immature, had an unrealistic, poor body image, and every word was true of what I wrote back then. I was in love with Elvis Presley, and I still had a hard case of sorrow seven months after his death.
“Babysat tonight and saw the ‘Elvis in Concert’ repeat. I cried too! Boy, I don’t think I’ll ever get over missing him. I think I’ll get thin for his sake. No one will ever know my motive except you, dear diary. Don’t open your lock to anyone but me, ever.”
What a kid I was.
