I received the phone call in the middle of a meeting. It was one of those meetings that dragged on forever. Clients could not decide on small minute details, things like the eaves were a millimeter off from the original design. Or they really had wanted a building that looked like I.M Pei was the architect, not my partners and I. In the middle of some argument about the sewer pipes my secretary sent me a text. Ms. Holmes your mother is on line two, it seems it is urgent. A cold chill ran down the middle of my back. You know that center point where anxiety has a tendency to hang out during certain moments. My palms suddenly were clammy and they trembled just a bit. Mom never called unless it was urgent. My parents were old school. They had fought it out on the prairies of Idaho; the weather, wheat, and the government. My dad and mom were strong. They never needed me, this job or my money.
A
sense of dejavu settled into my bones, as I scanned the glass windows and walls
that surrounded me. I was in a cocoon from the raw, visceral reality that my
parents faced every day on their wheat farm.
There they were one with the land and it could bite hard. Really hard if
one was not careful. I sent a quick text back, that I would take it in my
office. I walked down a steel and glass
hallway. Sharp surfaces threatened for a fraction of time; a beautiful monument
to the power of man and metal, a design I had dreamed one cold and lonely
night.
I stared
at the phone. I knew I should pick up. Say hello mom and how are you. If the
phone were a snake it would bite me. Quickly I grab it up and say harshly, I am
busy mom, call me back later. All I hear
is a broken woman. I hear a sobbing woman, not my mother. My blood runs cold. I
can no longer hear, see or feel.
Your
dad is dying honey. Please come home.
I am driving a rental car. It is a huge SUV, the
only car left on the lot. I don’t care, really. Caring left me the moment my
mother called. My partners were sympathetic. Take all the time that you need,
they said. I walked out of glass and into the rolling plains of the Palouse.
The
Fields spread out like quilts; blankets that a huge giant put together. There are long seams of barbed wire and
ancient tree groves that sparkle in the sunlight. A
yellow and brown blur as I whiz by, my heart in my throat and dread in my
lungs.
My mind travels back to
summer days. I was a little girl and my dad. We went to Spokane once a month
for supplies. We went in our big Ford
truck, painted bright blue with rust as accents along the sides. I loved our Bessie,
as she took me to places away from the rigors of farm life. But wait, I was a kid. What did I care?
I remember this road in my dreams; sitting
next to my dad listening to Hank Williams Sr. playing on the old radio. I still
can hear the whine and roar of the tires rolling over black asphalt all the way
to Spokane. In my dream I feel safe. I
always felt safe with my dad.
I
bring myself back to reality. The road runs ahead of the new SUV. The GPS is
complaining that I am not using it. I have no need for GPS. I know this road
like the back of my hand. I can smell the wheat, the ripe heads almost ready to
burst. Dad used to share stories and bits of trivia about ranching, wheat
fields and other farmers in the large Palouse valley. He would light up, just a
bit. I knew in my young heart that he loved what he did. He pointed out interesting things; he must have
known that I loved a good story.
My
dad, I sigh as I pull into a small gas station for fuel. The station is small;
a payphone sits slightly detached from the corner, next to the ice box. I have
to pee and ask for the key. The restroom is tiny. It is a closet with an
ancient toilet and a sink that does not work well. The clerk is nice, chatty and wants to know
where I am from. I have forgotten how friendly people are. New York is not a friendly town. I nod and
smile. She looks at me, really studies me and say’s your Mr. Holmes daughter. I
want to cry. It is here that people still know who you are. I smile and try not
to shed tears. Tell your parent’s hello she says. I say that I will. I hand her
a hundred for a fill up. She kind of stares at my money; I hope the bill is not
too large. She waves me out, and I pump my gas. The gas fumes dance and flicker
in the sunlight.
I grab a
soda, some chips and a candy bar. She asks me more questions, starts in on
family history and how her grandfather knew my family. He has passed, bless his
soul. I smile more and nod, thanking her for everything and bolt.
I
have another fifty plus miles to go. The terrain has not changed much. It used to bore me as a teenager. I was
impatient then, a young colt ready to bolt. My dad had hung on as best as he
could. I hated him for it. I thought he was so old fashioned. I was embarrassed
to be seen anywhere near him and what used to be fun trips to town, now became
torture. He would try to engage me, by
telling me stories of the Camas flowers that the native people so readily
relied upon for food. I could give a hoot, and would shrug my half bare
shoulders; light reflecting off my skin.
I was so young and stupid. All I cared about was boys and not being on
the farm any more. I did not see the pain in my dad’s eyes on those trips.
I
sipped my coke. I rolled all the windows down and turned on the radio. A new
country station playing the new stuff filled the car. A young woman’s voice
crooned, “There’s not enough rain in Oklahoma, to wash the sins out of this
house, there’s not enough wind in Oklahoma to rip the nails out of the
past.” I turn it off.
I
remember my dad and mother singing for church. He had a beautiful baritone
voice and she sang soprano. I could not sing, for whatever reason I missed out
on the singing gene. He would sing along with the radio as we drove to Spokane.
His voice filling the car, as wind blew through the windows. I had loved those
days, buried those days in my memory.
Then I forgot them. Wiped them clean like a slate board without
chalk. I could not remember why.
The
miles slowly crawled by. I knew my parents would be waiting for me. Mom would
most likely be in her jeans and old blue Navajo print shirt; belt with silver
buckle that she received from her mother on her wedding day. Her hair would be
in braids, falling down her back, her tanned and leathery skin a little more
like paper. Her big brown eyes would be a little less brown and a little more
golden. Her thin frame straight and strong, bones like birds.
My mother; she is a beautiful
compassionate and strong woman. Under her hands everything goes well. She is
organized for an artist. Her paintings sell in high end galleries but she has
refused to leave the farm. A buyer from NY City had courted her, saying that
her native themed paintings would sell like hot cakes in galleries on Fifth
Avenue. She would be a star; a celebrity for all American Indians was how he
put it. She had smiled and turned her back on the agent. Grabbing me by the
hand and walking us out of the small diner/coffee shop. She climbed into old
Bessie, next to dad with me tucked in her lap. Nothing was said that I could
remember, but I know they had held hands when he didn’t have to shift. She had retreated to her small studio; even I
was banned for days. It wasn’t until I was much older did she show me her
masterpiece. I had stood in awe, the
colors so alive, and the contrast of prairie and NY City skyline juxtapositioned
against a blue sky. I saw my face, and the face of my German Scottish father
embraced in the arms of the “Great Chief” and my mother. I understood her point. The land was in our blood.
I
saw the five mile marker that sat on the east edge of my family’s farm. My
heart jumped, blood pumped faster, palms clammy against the leather steering
wheel. I was almost home. I could see the rolling fields that my father had
been so proud of. The wheat was waving in the breeze, their heads fat and ready
for harvest. Who was going to organize and direct the harvest this year? My dad
had always been in charge, his military background excellent for directing
combines and men in the long hours of harvest. God how was I to do this? I
gripped the wheel tighter. Fear crept
around the edges of my soul. How could I do this and not let my parents down.
I
stopped a few miles from the farm. I had to. My anxiety was through the roof. I
was living in a city now. A place where my beautiful mother had said, it takes
the life out of your heart. I lived surrounded by glass, was partner in an
architecture firm and had a life hundreds of miles away. I no longer knew how
to manage farms; I managed people in suits and ties. I traveled the world and
designed pieces of art that were usable, living space. I was not my mother. I
had been offered an internship in a big architecture firm right out of college
and I jumped at the chance. I still remember the feeling of my parent’s
disappointment as I moved away to NY. It seems after all NY still won. I felt ashamed almost, I realized that for my
own centered self-centric dreams I had left not only my parents but the land
that bore me. I half fell out of the
SUV, my white tennis shoes contrasted starkly against the dark loamy soil.
I started walking, out
into my families fields. The wheat was
waist high, as I moved along the edges, touching the dry stalks and listening
to the wind. Tears coursed down my face.
I didn’t bother to wipe them away. It was pointless. They would not stop, not
now and not for a while. I turned my face towards the rolling hill that held my
parents gently in the sweep of land, air and sky. Lifting my arms I cried into the wind. Great Mother I am home.
Driving into the
driveway the big oak tree laden with acorns, I saw my parents. My dad was in
his favorite rocking chair, my mother next to him reading. They both looked up,
as I leapt out of the SUV, rushing onto the porch. I fell to my knees in front
of my parents and wrapped them into my arms. “Mama” I sobbed, “I love you.”
“Daddy I love you too.” I clung to their knees and breathed in their familiar
scent. Smiling through tears my dad and
mom touched my face. Oh little Bird, welcome home, they both whispered. Welcome
home.
