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Nancy Hofmann is a member of the Wednesday morning writing practice group. She often writes in the early morning hours when the house is quiet and the day is new. Her writing has moved from focusing on poetry to gliding easily into prose. Here is one of her recent pieces in response to the prompt, "Tell me about an object that you associate with another person.”
All her life, my husband’s mother wore a feather in her hair. She had a crock on her bedroom dresser, a tall glass vase on the antique desk that sat in the living room, and another bowl in the kitchen – all filled with birds’ feathers – gifts from beach-walking friends of sea gull feathers, the long brown-striped quills from pheasants, the brilliant green-and-blue fringed tail plumage with their mysterious “eyes” from large peacocks, the soft darkened blue from the breasts of bold marauding male blue-jays in her garden, the whole white wing of a snowy owl that lay open on her window sill.
From all these, daily, her morning ritual toilette always ended with choosing the “feather-du-jour”, and then, and only then, did she feel finished and completely dressed for the events of that day.
She loved birds of every kind (except caged ones, of course ), and her art work displayed sea gulls in mid-catch or a flock of geese over dark blue waters. She collected abandoned and discarded nests of all kinds and the eggs that filled them were of all types of materials: cold eggs carved in smooth white and pale green jade and deep-hued malachite, beaded eggs with the face of Jesus embedded in colorful lines, finely hand- painted eggs from Russia, and shiny lacquered eggs from China. She loved the soft pastels of the green Aracauna eggs from my chickens in Texas, the mauve and tan eggs from the organic, free-range fed chickens from the local grocery store that sat in a ceramic bowl in her refridgerator, the tiny blue quail eggs available only during certain times of the year, and the huge thick ostrich eggshell I brought her back from my travels in Australia one year.
Over our more than 30 years as loving and intentional family, her house filled with nests and feathers and eggs, vying for her eye-space, filling her heart with pleasure. She was always easy to shop for!
When, finally at 94, she was confined to her hospital bed in a nursing home in San Diego, unable to walk any longer, I’d visit her often and we’d sit outside and watch the sunsets over the ocean nearby turn from pale fuchsia-pink to a deeper scarlet to blunt black, or the afternoon sparkle on the waves as they curled toward us and the beach, with the shadows of birds winging across the water, darkening it in streaks. We’d count the types and notice their span of wings, the different shades of colors, the passing of each season. And still, she wore her signature feather every day.
“When you turn 100 years old, on August 3rd of 2011, I will throw you a huge birthday bash, invite everyone you love, and take you to celebrate at Black’s Beach - the nude beach - not far from here!” I told her one day, smiling into her face, while we sat together.
She glowed with delight. “…naked??” she asked me, her eyes widening, giggling like a shy 12 year-old, intrigued and still adventurous.
“Sure. Naked.” I repeated back to her, but added “…clothing optional,” as I realized that I was unsure about her catheter and diaper, and did not want to ruin her excitement.
“May I wear my feather?” she asked coyly, already imagining the scene playing before her inward-turning eyes: the years rolling backwards to when she was young and lithe, blonde, and slender, ready to dive headlong into the approaching foam of azure-green waters.
“Oh, yes! Definitely wear your feather!” I agreed. “Maybe we shall ALL wear feathers that day! You certainly have enough!”
“Then, I’ll go!” she crowed with delight, satisfied that THAT at least was settled, her warm vision secure into the future, powering her along toward happier memories yet to be made, among those whom she loved.
“I’ll go!” she repeated, nodding her tight white-curls and reached for my hand across the arm of the wheelchair, her lovely long blue-veined fingers clasping mine, and our eyes both focused now on that beautiful panorama ahead, of the bright afternoon sun and moist warm sand on that nearby beach on her special day when she would become 100 years old.
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