handwritten

Worthy of Mention: episode 1

A small hand bound paper notebook stands on a day-lit window sill. Several pine trees stand blurry in the background, and script in blue ink is on its cover. The words read “Perfection is ever a pursuit. This will not be the destination of these words – but their journey I hope will bring forth wisdom. Less is more.” A tiny smiley sits sideways to these sentences. In the bottom right hand corner, there reads “Radicle ” in print and below that, “Life” in cursive.
The aforementioned notebook is opened to its first white page with black ink script. The window is bright in light. There are two definitions: the first reads: “Radicle: (Noun) Botany: the part of a plant embryo that develops into the primary root. Anatomy: a root like division of a nerve or vein.” The second definition simply reads “Life: (Noun).”
The hand bound note book is opened to another page, titled “Worthy of Mention, episode 1.” The window basks the entire journal in bright light as more blue script etches below.

The month of May has always been a busy one. Full of birthdays, end of school-year preparations, and Memorial day, our family scarce could take a breath. Especially adding in the chores. Spring cleaning, gardening, (Mother’s day flower planting as well), and, for a season, refreshing a chicken coop. This was my summer hearkening. Yet the brightest moments in May which shine to the front of my mind – is helping my momma fill her clothesline.

The notebook is open to its next page, blue script across its face. Afternoon light brushes the entire top edge of the light. The words are below, typos and all.

I have no calendar year to mark my first laundery day. I remember my favorite textile to hang were the sheets. Row upon row of soft cotton polyester blend, some less wet than others – all tenting perfectly across my parents’ back yard,

The clothesline hung north to south on a slightly raised hill. Adult Lydia would define it as a ‘mound.’ But our child hood definition still lingers. Racing down the hill by way or running or rolling was a near-daily occurrence. That is – unless the clothesline was full. Sheets, pants, shirts, it mattered not. A banner was above my head And it would not be ignored.

The next page of the same hand-bound notebook, brown and cream thread peeking at the left side of the screen while sunlight kisses the right. Words in blue script are spelled out below. There is a little sketch of a clothesline strung between two poles and a draped sheet being blown in the wind.

The sunlight, fresh & warm from a long winter sleep, dried the sheets in a series. The thick, damp/possibly dripping season was (a) cave under a war zone. The near-dry but still very much not time was after a storm on the high sea. At last – the final hour or so before they could be harvested, the sheets were castles and woods and starships. How could I resist? I was never alone on these journeys; at least, not for a long long time.

The next page of the notebook is opened with more blue ink script. Light douses the top right corner obscuring some of the words. It is slightly cut off at the bottom for some reason.

Perhaps you, reader, may observer how little hanging the clothes & such on the clothesline has featured in my mentioning. Choosing the right basket size for the load, ensuring minimal breakage of our weathered pins – being less than tall enough to hang items over the line & requiring an older (or younger) sibling to assist – making sure my momma did not need to go downstairs… this ritual is not a precious one to most. But it is a lovely one to me.

Now here I am, with my own clothesline north to south, my own struggles with baskets & running our of clothesline (continued below)

A scrap of paper is layered from the edge of the notebook, not bathed in the afternoon like as the other entries have been, and more blue script. At the end of the cursive is sketched a small flower, perhaps a peony or hydrangea.

(layering is a necessity) & all I can think of is how my mother has loved Spring.

These words are little in the grand scheme of world and men. Yet still i feel the need to bring a light on some memories. As my mother’s birth month branches into June, the simple joys & gratitude she taught me is Worthy of Mention.

A tiny piece of paper leans against a sunny window. It is a sketch depicting window panes, a stretch of telephone lines, and a tiny blue bird perched on them. A row of trees peeks from the bottom of the paper. There is writing on the reverse side back lit by the light, but not decipherable.