DREAMING OUT LOUD

I always wondered what it would be like to live in the same town forever. To know that my parents, grandparents, and all my ancestors had lived in the same town since the town was first born. The cycle was broken with my parents who moved a great deal when we were young, about every two years.

Because my family frequently moved, I never developed any lifelong friendships. I never got to know anyone long enough. As I grew older, I never had girlhood memories to share with anybody over the phone as my children bustled underfoot. I always looked for a friend like that, worked hard to develop one in the short time spent anywhere. A friend with whom I could be my crazy, riotous, unpredictable self. I never managed to find one until George entered my life. No, he was not my husband. He is a ceramic bullfrog on a stump in my yard.

This stump is all that is left of a tree. I do not know what type of tree it was. I just know it is a magnificent stump. Its stubby height, covered with patches of scaly bark, looks more like a child in the last stages of chicken pox than a tree. It is not very big around, all gnarly and twisted. During warm summer rains, this stump explodes with toadstools. These toadstools give it the appearance of some grotesque alien about to declare war on your knees. It is a comforting stump. It has developed character and oneness with its surroundings that I find refreshing.

When George first appeared two years ago, he was sitting silently on this stump. I had gone out to plant tulips when I saw him. Staring straight ahead, with a contented air about him, he seemed to settle in for a spell. George is constant, stationary, always predictable. I would always go and talk to him. Just the other day, I was upset with my boss. “George,” I said, “this man can be so insensitive. He is the biggest eavesdropper I know. He shamelessly listens in on every conversation in my office.” What did George say? Nothing. He sat there silently.

He is the one friend I had searched for. The perfect friend who never tells me what to do. “What should I do about my co-worker’s problem?” I would ask. George would say nothing. He never suggests courses of action. His advice is never wrong because he never gives any.

“What would happen if I quit everything and just disappeared? Do you think anyone would care? Should I tell everyone what I really think?” George, as usual, gave no indication of approval or disapproval. No thought is ever too crazy, too bizarre, to share with George. He never condemns. He is that one friend I have looked for all my life. The one I wanted to share my deepest secrets, my brightest hopes, with.

“Let me tell you what happened,” I would breathlessly whisper to George. I shared with him all those things I dared not tell another human being. Deep, dark secrets. Things that I would never speak about to another person. I knew my secrets would be safe. He could never tell my secrets because he could not speak.

I often wondered about his background. Has he been as restless and rootless as I have been? Had he sat patiently on some store shelf waiting for someone to accept him, take him home? I have asked him these questions. But he never answers. I stare into his incredible hazel eyes and see nothing. It’s as if his only purpose is to become what I need, a friend that will always be there. He has stuck by me in all seasons, from the turbulent springtime through the howling winter winds with the snowflakes coating everything in white deliciousness.

Just as I need a home, need friends, need a base, George needs a stump. I know that wherever my roaming in this world takes me, George will go along. I can’t imagine life without him.

It is funny, you know, but as I was standing at my kitchen sink the other day feeling anger and frustration over some petty thing, I began thinking about the last time I baked bread. I forget the type of bread that it was, but I remember the smell. I remember how the aroma drifted from room to room, searching you out, catching your entire being, and wrapping it in the smell. The smell of bread baking always meant that I was home and that I was angry.

As a young woman, I was coached by my mother and her contemporaries to believe that no matter what it was about or who was at fault, a young lady, never, ever expressed negative emotions. Many things were forbidden in my younger days. All the really great things, you know, like telling someone what you really thought, or throwing a temper tantrum, were not acceptable character traits for a young lady. Along with these taboos, a young woman was subtly taught that men were perfect, men were brilliant. Women were not capable of doing anything other than having children and running a household. Men went to college to be somebody and do great things. Women went to college to get a husband…preferably a doctor.

Fortunately, I did not completely tumble into this deep chasm of ignorance. I teetered on the brink. I partook of the forbidden things. I had a temper. I was difficult. I did not go to college. I found a husband on my own. A cool guy in a ’55 Chevy. During our early married years, I allowed the fantasy to perpetuate that he was the brilliant one. (He did not finish high school.) I finished my senior year with a young son on one arm, a home to keep, a part-time job, and a husband to dote on. I was not intelligent enough to make decisions about our future, but I was ‘bright enough’ to take care of these few simple things.

As I began to mature into my early twenties, I felt that something was wrong, I just didn’t know what it was. I was angry. I was resentful. I could look and see the good things in the world and wonder where they were for us. I worked hard at my job, worked hard at home with my children. I worked harder at keeping my husband happy. I became angrier. I baked bread more often. The more I baked, the happier my husband seemed. He seemed to savor my baking days as much as he savored his time away from home.

In reality, baking bread is a mindless act. It doesn’t take much intelligence or effort to measure, mix, and set to rise the basic ingredients. It doesn’t take much more to knead the dough. One odd thing about bread, the more you knead, the better the loaf. If I were particularly angry, I would bake French bread. This dough required much kneading. It was a ‘tough loaf’ to create. I won blue ribbons for this bread. With all this baking, my husband did not realize that for me this was an exercise in futility. While it allowed me to displace my anger, it also served to nourish him. It allowed him to ‘live another day’ to make me angry, to bake more bread.

There is usually a climactic moment in your life that wakes you up, shakes you up, or tears you down. For me, that moment came during my late twenties. By this time, we had three children. I worked full time outside the home, managed the home, orchestrated our children in their daily activities, and took absolute care of my husband. This prince of princes lacked for nothing. From the time he came home from work until he left the next morning, he did nothing he did not want to do. Struggling financially, I felt our only way out of this morass of poverty was education, I strongly believed that with an education we could do more than survive. We could have a future. I also believed that the perfect job for me would be teaching, allowing me daily contact with our children. They would not be left with substitute mothers. All that stood in my was a husband and four years of college.

While I do not remember the words of the arguments, I’ll never forget his tone and my reaction. He strongly felt that furthering my education was not necessary. I had to remain outwardly less educated than he. As this argument ran its course over several weeks, I continued baking. I do not remember what made me insist on going to college. There was nothing about me that would cause me to rebel in this manner.

A decision was finally reached. I would be ‘allowed’ to go to college. I would be ‘allowed’ to get an education. Things must remain the same at home. For a while, things did. I rose early, baked bread, fed the family, packed lunches, cleaned house, went to classes, worked full-time, came home prepared supper, cleaned house, took care of the children, and doted on my husband. Study time did not begin until 11:00 pm and would last several hours. Angry still, I learned to endure. My anger was the leavening for my endurance. For a time, this was not bad. I was still a lost woman, I was still baking bread, but I was waking up. I was on the path of becoming.

There were many components on this path that helped. Courses such as assertiveness training and psychology, having strangers telling me that I had a brain and could use it for something over than measuring flour and water helped. The more I learned, the less and less I baked bread.

What happened to this woman? Unexpectedly, I found a whole new life on my own, divorced, somewhere between the bleached, refined flour and the robust, full-bodied whole wheat. I found a voice. I found myself. I found no anger left within me. I found no need to bake bread.

I became a Woman of the Lost and Found.