Project Placement 1: Where I'm At

A cup of hot coffee turned ice cold.  I still drink it, dependent on its chilly bite for a few more letters hacked out on the page.

Children's color-coded love notes pinned to the wall, I've waited lifetimes for these.  Even the baby, old enough to tell me she isn't, proclaims her mastery of the arts, "See! See, Mommy, I did that!"  And she did.  Whatever marker scribbles taste like, she did that too with gusto.

I have a corner in a room that for five years has been the undertaker of all things not easily categorized--old journals, maternity clothes, magic cards, wedding paraphernalia, baby shoes, poster frames.  Our basement is at capacity.  Our extra rooms are spoken for.  The attic is questionable.

We did things backward I've been told.  When you buy a house you should take care of the bedroom first, this is where you will be resting, where you will recover and recoup.  We did as most proud new home owners do, take care of the places people see.  It seemed reasonable, the first floor is where the living happens.

Then there were the babies.  We spared nothing on fun and function in their sweet little rooms.

Though the house has little to no curb appeal, (as proof we were ready to walk away before stepping in on that frozen January noon), the inside is warm and inviting, cozy.  A three bedroom Dutch Colonial replete with hip roof and breakfast nook, it's achingly minimal on closet space.  We've had to be inventive.

Finally, after bustling over clothes baskets and baby bibs, we loaded up the donation bags and cleared out the overstock.  Once our room uncluttered I found myself organizing, decorating even.  This isn't to say it's a finished work, not even close.  I can't stand the color of the walls, all robin's egg blue and sea foam green, and our bed (blushing here) doesn't even have a frame.  But there is order, a new openness, a brightness where once there were moving boxes.  It feels hopeful.

And this place, this is where I'm at--a corner of one's own.

Project Placement and a Blogiversary

The river's dam is gorged with flying carp.  I follow the dirty downtown walk way.  I carry a notebook and black ink pen.  It looks like rain.

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It's summer on Sioux Court.  I'm grown and dating.  My boyfriend walks next to me.  I point to the house my father built before I was born and sold when I was 7.  It's gone from red to green.  I wave to Stell.  She doesn't know who I am.

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The railroad bridge is black against a gray sky.  The slightest pink edges the eastern horizon.

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A sparse treeline divides the corn field from the soy.  We find a knotty oak.  We climb rotting slats nailed to the trunk and sit closer than we should.

Places are as important as people.

This is Penny Jar, the blog I started one year ago today with the hope of finding the story inside the life.  I'm realizing that the stories I want to write and have been writing as of late are not memoir.  Oh, they do as most fiction does and careen in and out of reality like so many drunken sailors on shore leave, but they certainly can't fess up to their actions (like so many drunken sailors on shore leave).

That being said, I'm not ready to leave Penny Jar behind.  The examination of past events can be fascinating.  The examination of past places can be even more so, which is what brings me to the slices I have laid out so far.

Place.

You cannot hold a place, it holds you.

Often where you are is insignificant to an event or moment.  Later it may come back to you or you to it.  I'd like to experiment with short meditations on places, similar to the writing exercises from Old Friend from Far Away.

I don't know where they will end up, but it will be some place with a story to tell.

What are some places that call out to you?

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