After an unusually mild August, some of September’s early days were so miserably hot and humid that I stopped looking at normal weather gauges and began to judge the weather by how quickly condensation formed on the outside of my drinking glasses. I was not avoiding science for the sake of avoiding science; I just thought the use of observation rather than tools designed for the task would be a more engaging means of measurement. I am nothing if not creative in the ways that I amuse myself.
During those steamy late summer days and nights, every drinking vessel I used became beaded with sweat that glistened in sunlight, starlight, and the light of the reading lamp. In the blink of an eye, those bejeweled drops could become meditative portals to a cold mountain lake or a bed of grass high on top of a mountain. However, these past few days have presented a more pleasant clime from which I needed no escape. The sky has been sometimes sunny, sometimes overcast, and both day and nighttime temperatures have been decidedly cooler as summer leans more deeply into autumn.
Mae Curtis Barker with her husband Raymond Barker, Sr. [courtesy]
Last night the nearly full Harvest Moon was calling to me and I wanted to be in her presence. The temperature was cold enough that I needed a sweater to be comfortable outside. Lately, I have been dressing in the colors of autumn, more by intuition than by active thought. Lightweight, long-sleeved shirts are back in the wardrobe rotation; even so, I chuckled when I pulled my oversized, over-fluffy brown fleece hoodie out of the closet. Snuggly and warm as a hug, wearing it makes me feel like a nicely rounded teddy bear.
Thinking that if I were lucky my teddy bear presence might summon some actual bears, I took my non-sweating glass of water out onto the front porch when I went to sing to the Moon. However, it seems I unintentionally called in the spirit of my paternal grandmother instead of calling in the bears. The glass I was using is one of the only remaining pieces of her vintage Marcrest Swiss Chalet Alpine dinner service for twelve. She was fond of those clear glasses and ivory dishes with their floral design in various shades of blue and olive green.
I smelled her before I heard her first. Lily of the valley perfume, cigarette smoke, and pocket mints; comfort and quiet love mixed with aloofness. A breeze stirred as she moved in front of me. Then I heard her run her finger along the rim of the glass just as a set of nearby wind chimes danced with a stronger gust of wind, making a sound that was like ice clinking around in my drink.
I wondered how Gram must feel, touching that material object, connecting to a beloved piece of her life in this realm after being 32 years on the other side. I was amused that she touched the object, not the granddaughter. How true to herself she remains.
As I grew older my relationship with Gram grew awkward, but before I knew things a child should not know about the troubles between adults, I adored her. She moved into a duplex around the corner from my childhood home when I was four. Spending time with her was a treat. She knew about things that were mysteries to me. She could crochet and sew, she had special Christmas magic, and when she was willing to talk, she shared interesting stories about herself, her family, and local history. Her house was filled with fascinating, fragile objects that I was not allowed to touch. What better way to draw a young seeker’s attention?
We lived on East Walnut Street, and our route on those close-to-home walks included some version of walking around the block made up by the intersections of Walnut, Wilbur, Grove, and Elizabeth streets. By the time I was five years old, I was allowed to walk around that block by myself. I was familiar with some points of interest: certain gardens, trees that were particularly pretty, two mean dogs, slate sidewalks, and the magical stone pillars that sat one on each corner and in pairs on Walnut and Grove.
A stone pillar in Oneida, New York [S. Barker]
Some of my fondest memories of her are of the times we walked together, especially during autumn days. Trips to the grocery store, the hairdresser, or the bank took us away from our neighborhood, but when walking to church, the mailbox, and the annual Madison County Craft Days we were never more than one-half a mile away from home. It was on a Sunday morning church walk that I first learned one of the secrets of Gram’s mysteries and began to know, if not yet understand, the power of shared connections to land and place.
That morning I skipped ahead, stopping to wait whenever Gram called out to me. There had recently appeared a tiny crack in her reserve, and I remember thinking that I might be able to Nancy Drew some answers out of her. I deeply admired Nancy Drew and wanted to be a girl detective.
Skipping ahead once more, I stopped when I reached the first stone pillar. Placing my hands flat on the stones, I felt the rough texture and cool temperature at the same moment I felt the odd little surge of power that was present when I touched any of the pillars. I turned and looked at Gram, who was ten feet away from me.
“What are these pillars, Gramma? Why do they feel so strange?” I kept my hands on the stones and my eyes on her face after I asked my questions.
She stopped on the sidewalk and looked at me over the top of her glasses and said, “You ask strange questions, Sheri Ann.”
That was the same thing she said the first time she answered a question for me. I felt hopeful but also held my breath. I had never told anyone else about the magic I felt in the pillars. There was nobody else I could trust with that kind of information.
We were late for church that morning. She did not answer my second question right away. Instead, she told me that those pillars were there when she was a little girl. That most of the inside of the block had been one big property and the pillars marked the entrances. Cars and horse-drawn carriages passed through them, as did people walking. She said the sidewalks were all made of slate then, smooth and sometimes slippery; and she would roller skate around the block with her friends and sisters.
“You roller skated?” I was dumbfounded.
Just a couple of weeks earlier I had to bend my mind around the fact that my grandmother had once been a child who carried her lunch to school in a pail, and that she had a mother. Now the thought that she might have been fun was more astonishing to me than was the magic in the stones.
“Yes,” she said wryly. “I roller skated. I was very good at it. My skates had a special key to make them fit over my shoes. I still have it, hanging on a pink ribbon that my mother gave me.”
Then she kept talking about everything but the magic pillars, and her eyes were looking someplace far away. She told me that she grew up on East Sands Street, just a few blocks from where we were standing. That she shared a room with her sisters, Edith and Marg. That she knew the woods and neighborhood I played in because she had played there too and that was why I should listen when she told me not to go into the woods or the creek. When she started talking again about the big house, her gaze shifted back to where I stood with one hand still on the pillar.
“You do ask the strangest things, Sheri Ann. Take your hand away from there and let’s go.” With that, she reached for my hand and started walking.
My feet would not move even though I knew I was treading on dangerous ground. “You didn’t answer all my questions, Gram. What about the way the pillars feel?”
She kept moving, pulling me along with her. She did not look at me again as she said, “There are some things nice people do not talk about. We will not be talking about those pillars. You stay away from them.”
That was the end of that conversation, but by not answering the question she gave me more of an answer than I expected. That, combined with what she did tell me, unlocked at least one mystery. My grandmother knew things the same way I did. It did not surprise me a couple of years later when she told me about seeing and hearing my grandfather’s ghost in the home they had shared. She wanted to know if I had ever seen him too. I was eight years old at that time.
I often acknowledge that my love of the Adirondacks stems, in part, from the love my ancestors had for the region. On the most recent part of my healing journey, I have come to understand the profound influence just a few childhood conversations with my grandmother had on my sense of belonging and connection to the neighborhood we shared as children living decades apart. She also helped me to understand the importance of remembering, for which I have deep gratitude.
Even more than that, the subconscious awareness of those connections helped to shape my intuitive and spiritual perceptions and ability to relate to space, place, and time in non-linear ways. Why? Perhaps the knowledge that someone else might be like me encouraged me to remain open. Perhaps knowing that she would not talk about what she knew made me more determined to find answers for myself.
I had spent the day of this porch visit adventuring, immersing myself in the in-between summer and autumn places where the world ceases to exist beyond tall stalks in corn fields, rolls of hay, orchards with apples red and green on the trees, golden sunflower heads nodding softly as the breeze went by.
A small farm stand that sells apples, cider, baked goods, and homespun pretties reminded me of the annual Madison County Craft Days which, probably not coincidentally, were happening that very weekend. I left that place with cold cider and hot cider donuts, and a mind full of memories.
Three years in a row my autumn walks with Gram included a visit to the Craft Days, held on the grounds of the historical society where the guardian stone lions reside. I am overcome by nostalgia and sadness as I write this, crying as I remember walking through the crowds and booths with her while she looked at every piece of crochet work and every handcrafted dish towel that had a hanging loop and button. She would buy one or two small items and be content with her purchases. This memory tells me why I seek out those silly towels at every craft show or store I go into these days.
Gram’s glass [E. Gibbs]
For most of my life I was unable to reconcile my own feelings for and memories of my grandmother with the woman who could be harsh, bitter, and unaccepting of my mother. But my own healing work has led me to a place where I can finally offer compassion, understanding, and healing to her.
Sitting on the porch with my beyond-crone grandmother and the harvest moon mother, I thought of the seasons of my own life and how they spiral in and out. How grief and trauma repeatedly pulled me into winter, until at last, I managed to plant myself in spring and return to the regularly scheduled cycles of the Wheel of the Year.
I do not think anyone ever tried to help my grandmother move into a place of healing. I wonder if she was left in winter by herself when she became a widow at the age of 54. I look over to the chair where I think she is sitting and tell her I am sorry if people did not understand her grief and sorrow. I say that I am sorry, too. And that I love her.
And here I am, moving into the Autumn of my soul, knowing that some of my most loved ancestors are with me, sharing strength, wisdom, and love. My favorite part of Craft Day adventures with Gram was the special treat at the end of our day when she would spend what seemed like hours lingering over deciding between fudge and candy. The leaf-shaped pieces of maple sugar candy always won, of course. After she made her purchase, she would find a place for us to sit in the shade, then open the little white cardboard box. Taking out her pocketknife, she would cut two small pieces from the point of a sugar leaf.
People think of autumn as the time of letting go, but it is also a time of savoring and keeping.
“Don’t chew this. Just let it melt in your mouth.”
I can still see her, eyes closed, dreamy smile, leaning back against a sturdy tree. The liminal space leading into autumn is full of that kind of wonder.
I never did stay away from those pillars. They were always a touchstone and safe place, especially for a child running home from a friend’s house after dark.
The Wild Hunt is not responsible for links to external content.
To join a conversation on this post:
Visit our The Wild Hunt subreddit! Point your favorite browser to https://www.reddit.com/r/The_Wild_Hunt_News/, then click “JOIN”. Make sure to click the bell, too, to be notified of new articles posted to our subreddit.