Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Simmering Down the Alphabet Soup

It was devolving fast.

There was a clipboard, a pencil and a spelling list, with a nine-year old squirming on the couch in frustration, responding to my words, “Close, but not quite correct.”

“Ugh! This is hard.”

Yes, although is tough (as is, tough).

“I know, this one’s tricky. You’ve just got to memorize it. Let’s see if we can find a way to help you remember it.”

“That’s not how we do it at school, mom…”

Jeb is tired and so am I. The pressure of tomorrow’s spelling test is upon us both and I’ve been in this alphabet soup with him before. I glance up to the Bohemian, who meets my gaze from across the room. He knows this recipe, too. Soon, we could be boiling in a cauldron of melt down.

“I would like to try,” he says casually.

Jeb’s squirms subside. “Ok.”

Soon, the Bohemian has his own clipboard and a pencil, and Jeb has a newfound leg-up on the one adult in the room that spells worse than he does. This is, of course, because the Czech-born Bohemian was never very exposed to English until he came to the States. And it’s only in the last two years that he’s been immersed in the language, having learned it all by ear.

For Jeb, what was drudgery moments ago, has now turned to a healthy competition he wants to win.

“Ok, mom, next word.”

As we work our way through the list, I see letter combinations I take for granted, revealed in new ways.

The Bohemian tries, “b-e-t…w-e…” He looks to me. “n-e?”

“Ah…good try. I can see why you put the ‘e’ at the end. But that’s not it.”

“I’ve got it. I’ve got it!” Jeb’s muscles squirm with fresh force now.

“Ok, Jeb.”

“B-e-t-w-e-e-n.”

“Yep, you got it.”

“Ahhh…” sighs the Bohemian, as he edits his word on his clipboard.

Our exercise culminates with the challenge of different. It’s a doozey with double consonants and it’s one of those words that are spoken differently than it’s spelled. Often, I hear “difrent” rather than “differ-ent.”

Jeb wants to do this one spelling bee-style. No writing down. And for every misspelling, he does not want a hint, trying multiple letter combinations again and again.

I’m rounding up stray papers, wrapping up the night’s study session, while Jeb lies on his back still spelling to the air.

“Ok, ok. I’ve got it this time…D-i-f-f-r-e-n-t.”

“Not quite.”

“You have to wrote it down,” says the Bohemian.

“Write it down,” I say quietly. He’s asked me to correct him when he’s wrong, but I don’t like to. The poet in me actually loves to hear the English language filtered through his Czech brain.

“Write it down,” he repeats.

“No. Here. I’ve got it. D-i-f-f-e-r…e-n-t!”

“Yes! That’s it!”

There I am with my nine-year old and my husband, doing fourth grade spelling.

But the Bohemian’s no dummy. He saw Jeb and I in our soupy homework slop, and came to the rescue to help avert a boil over.

Yep, we’ve got it. Our little family is different.

Sometimes I’ve got to see it all spelled out.

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Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Of Whistles and Folds and Saints

Two years ago, it was paper airplanes, ginger tea, and butterflies in my stomach. I was falling in love fast with the man making precise origami folds at my kitchen table, while whistling “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

Over the course of a month, I’d been quietly spending time with the Bohemian. In the rare free moments I had away from seven-year old, Jeb, I wandered in the bamboo and swam in the ocean, with this free-spirited soul who had a foreign name and the warmest hugs. Each time he exited my door, leaving his cornucopia offering of guavas, avocados, and lilikois, I braced myself to never see him again. I’d been broken before. I readied myself for the inevitable goodbye by weaving it into our hellos. Hence, I told no one of the Bohemian, especially Jeb.

Until the paper airplanes (see “In the Fold”).

I don’t know what changed. Jeb and I were fresh from Halloween costume shopping, the ritual I’d done with him, alone, for years. He had his wand and glasses, all set for Harry Potter magic. We were home and and I was at the kitchen sink, readying for dinner. Oh, how I wanted to see the kind face of the Bohemian again. And oh, how I feared that the love that was blossoming in my heart would swiftly destroy me in its eventual leaving.

Surges of raw tenderness coursed through my every heartbeat, pumping fresh feeling to the limbs that sliced cheese for Jeb’s snack, took the trash to the curb. I was under the influence, but couldn’t say it. A woman in love, who was petrified. But just brave enough (or foolishly wild from the love drug) to chance it.

Looking back, the only thing that changed was my willingness to risk. I had already surrendered to my own demise. I was prepared to suffer the consequences of my heart’s undoing. But I had been standing guard when it came to Jeb. Introducing my son to the Bohemian meant the gates were opening. And that was definitely scary.

So I kept it all quite casual, of course. Rinsing dishes there at the sink. Talking on the phone with the Bohemian.

Yes, we got a costume. No, I’m not sure what I’ll be for Halloween. Yes, it is a beautiful afternoon. No, we don’t have any more plans for today.

“Hey, would you like to come over for dinner at our house tonight?”

No matter how relaxed I tried to make it sound, we both knew it was more than a dinner invitation.

“Sure. Why not?”

Yeah. Why not?

Why not take a risk?

I had done my mama bear duty. Ascertained that this man was certainly of good will and kind heart. Jeb liked having friends over for dinner. And that was what it would be.

Only a fly on the wall could tell you if it was obvious I was riding out the loopty-loops of turbulence with every paper airplane launched from the Bohemian’s hand that night, post-dinner. Jeb was enamored with his aerodynamic precision. I was in awe of his playfulness.

So when the saints came marching in, via the sweet wind of the Bohemian’s smiling mouth, I thought for sure annihilation was my fate. How could I want something so much and survive the loss if I didn’t get it? Because it was clear. I wanted this.

I wanted the spice of ginger steaming from three hot mugs. I wanted the magic of paper creases fueling flight. I wanted Jeb’s fascinated voice to forever ring, “How did you do that?”

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I wanted to grab that whistling man and my wide-eyed son, wrap my arms around them both and say, “I love this. I want this. I need this.”

I wanted to not be afraid of letting myself feel that wanting. To want it all, completely. Then be strong enough to let it go.

I’m sure the fly on the wall saw it all in me. The fear, the awe, the love. There was some kind of courage there, too. All three of us were brave in our openness. A family in formation, paper airplanes in the living room. Test pilots, creasing, lifting, crashing, landing, creasing and lifting again.

For those that read the Archives, you’ll know I married that Bohemian. Jeb is now nearly ten. We are a family, still lifting and launching (sometimes crashing) and learning everyday.

I took a risk for what I felt I wanted, deeply. And sometimes I still get scared.

That’s when I let myself be buoyed. Held by folds and whistles and saints. Love.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 5 Comments

Fresh Air

It’s true I’ve been thinking about the book. My first, and newly published one. An offering of a year’s chronicles of prose, poetry and photography through a time when I was raising my son on my own, trying to find inspiration as a woman, mother and artist.

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Now that it’s out in the world – those words all collected and compact – the stories simmer, potent, in one spot. They steam in the ether. Find their way to me and swirl around.

Releasing them as as a book is the revisiting of an era. A time, that now, is just a helium ballon left over from last week’s party. Where once it pressed against a bedroom ceiling, filled full to be freed into the yonder, it now barely brushes the floor, hovering and wrinkled. This ballon has served its purpose. New celebrations await, with fresh party favors to be had.

So this weekend was the insertion of the needle into the lingering balloon (and when they’re in this state, sometimes it’s no easy pop, more like a strong insertion). The remaining, stale air from that party-of-the-past came falling out in a final deflation.

Not to say my book is  a dead balloon. Actually, it’s been more like a hot-air balloon ride lifting me to new perspectives. And that’s the beauty (and challenge) of setting stories free. In my experience, part of the power of telling the tale is letting it go. Once words hit air, they drift from our safe-keeping. Stories shared with others take on new forms, released from our control.

It is in the early dark of my house this morning, when all of this is considered. I’m going through my little ritual. The sun is not yet risen. As usual, my son and husband are still sleeping. Moodah the dog, follows me, room by room, with clicking toenails on the wood floor. I am burning incense, listening to the airy hum of the propane flame against my stovetop espresso maker. And then, all goes silent.

Funny, just last night I wondered how much longer our propane tank would last. We’re subletting this current home, so I’m still learning about the inner workings of our practical infrastructure. I know we have two tanks under the house, with the convenient rigging of a system that allows you to flip a switch to the back-up tank when you run out.

This was pointed out to both the Bohemian and I by the homeowner in our walk-through session before moving in. And I’ll admit it, I only halfway paid attention. Why? Because the Bohemian was squatted there, looking more closely at the mechanisms, and I just decided to let him.

The truth is, in life before the Bohemian, I was taking note of every detail and executing each necessity of home for Jeb and I. There was no husband, no man with which to defer. And there were plenty of broken down hot water heaters, faulty washing machines, and leaking pipes. I hauled propane tanks aplenty. This was an era. One that has since passed. And it is the one of which my book offers a snapshot. The one that’s been expelling the last bits of long-past, party air.

So this morning, I ponder my situation. I definitely want coffee. It is just too stereotypical-helpless-wife to wake the Bohemian and ask for a reminder on how to switch the tanks. I dig around my inner resources for gumption. It’s not too far away. Grab a flashlight and head outside.

The tanks are underneath the house, though no rats are encountered, no cobwebs even. The switch is in plain flashlight view. I make the flip with surprising ease, go inside and fire up the stove. Simple. Just that easy.

Well, then. I’ve still got it (resourcefulness and self-sufficiency, that is).

So, let there be flame, anew! Let there be fresh stories. More parties. Surprising gifts.

An upgrade, perhaps. From a single, helium floater to a hot-air balloon ride, revealing fantastic views.

photo courtesy of dfbphotos
photo courtesy of dfbphotos