My grandmother, the impressionist

My grandmother was not a painter but she loved images. Everyday images. Outdoor scenes.

Meeting me at the car door, arm and arm she walked me through her world. Past bordering lamb's ears, past the fenced patch that looked more like a jungle than a place for cultivating vegetables, past her large willow tree that hugged her yard, past her strawberry patch that never had strawberries, to her favorite place, her compost heap. I don't really know if it was her favorite place, but it was always the place we headed for and always the place we stood and shared a few words like "I see eggshells, I see a cantolope rind, lots of grass cuttings." This is how I knew my grandmother, through her compost heap.

It is strange to know someone through a heap. But really, if you think about it, we really know people from all the leftovers, all the scraps in one's life, all the silent work they do to create and build and sustain life. We know others by all that has come before and all that is, but it is a silent sort of knowing. It takes years to unpack, years to fully grow into a deep knowing.

My grandmother died 24 years ago and because I still dream (literally at night) of that compost heap, I am slowly getting to know her. The heap's impression stands in my mind like no other outdoor childhood object. As a child, I prefered her willow tree. The place where I sought refuge in its big arms and cozy lap. But as an adult, I dream of walking one more time to my grandmother's beloved compost heap. And in my dreams it is still there, touchable, smelly, in the humid sun, full of broken eggs and cut hair, turning into something rich and nourishing.

My grandmother's heap looked like one of Monet's haystacks, open and vulnerable to rain, snow, wind, and sun, and to the slow additions of my grandmother's hands and arms. Changing with time and light, it was always becoming something better.

I wish you could see it.