In my hands I am holding a small green leather bound book that was published in 1929. The title is engraved in gold letters on the front cover. The corners are slightly dented and the front edge is ragged as if each page was carefully torn. I open it up and feel myself tumbling through the sepia pages and into tall prairie grass where four little sisters in pink calico dresses are picnicking with their parents. All at once there is a hint of smoke on the breeze. The father hitches the horses to the wagon, the mother seizes the four corners of a red tablecloth, the children scramble over the wheel and into the wagon box. ‘They race away in grim terror knowing that the roaring fiend in the distance could sweep them out of existence in one moment.’
This is how I met my Great Great Grandmother, Florence Call, who was born 160 years ago. At first she was a name, along with countless others, that I stumbled upon while researching my genealogy. I yearned to know the stories of their lives, these branching paths of ancestors. On many days I lost all sense of time as I burrowed deeper into the family tree. And then I discovered that Florence Call wrote and published a book about her pioneering days in 19th century Iowa. It became a portal for me and I traveled through time to meet my family’s very own Laura Ingalls.
I was seeking an escape from my moment in history which felt particularly dark. Finding my bearings between my ancestors and my children, there was solace in the branches of my family tree. It helped to know that I stood on the shoulders of a dizzying number of ancestors and that all throughout history people have forged their way through pandemics and wars, political strife and existential uncertainty. I imagine they didn’t wait for the storms to let up. Instead they learned how to live their lives in the midst of whatever deluge came along. Similarly my family managed to find a lot to celebrate even while the world went into lockdown and wildfire smoke obscured the sky. The experiences which have torn us up by our roots have also forced us to reinvent ourselves.
When I was twenty I lived for a semester in Florence Italy. I vividly recall seeing a collection of unfinished sculptures by Michelangelo, the Prisoners. It was like walking into the artist’s studio and glimpsing the process by which a block of marble is transformed into a human form. Raw and rough hewn stone remained at the outer edges of these sculptures. Deeper down, smooth sinewy arms, polished and twisted abdomens, angular knees. They will forever wield the weight of rectangular stone where their heads should be, thick unfinished bases at their feet. Michelangelo said that he was simply liberating the figure that already dwelled within the stone, as if draining a full bath tub. As the murky water receded, the human form in the bath was revealed. Stone carving is a subtractive process and it dawns on me all these years later that we humans are being sculpted the very same way. The lessons of impermanence sweep through our lives like wind and rain to chisel away pieces we thought were essential. And we are left with a more authentic version of ourselves time and time again.
Throughout the journey, even in the darkest times, there are glowing moments that rise to the surface like stars:
My daughter: Her hair meanders down into the sound hole of her guitar like unhurried water. The sleeves on her hoodie are too long and cover half her hand as she picks the strings. Her voice is strong and resonant and beautiful. She’s sitting on her bed bare legged and blanket tangled with her guitar on her lap and she’s playing a song from the beloved summer camp we both attended. It transports me to some of my best and youngest memories.
My son: He turns and sprints toward the sun-flecked sea, his toes sinking in the sand, a boogie board under his arm. He lunges into the water unafraid and I’m struck by how self-possessed he is. He rides the waves with joy and ease while deep below the quiet fish dance on invisible currents. He is poised between land and sea, childhood and adulthood. After a while he returns to me with a salty smile and a sandy hug.
My boyfriend: Bright blue inflatable inner tubes carry us down the Yampa River. He’s grinning in the daylight, his sunglasses display twin reflections of the summer sky, emerald trees and bronze meandering water. We are transported together through churning rapids and leisurely serpentine currents. I do a slow spin and reach for his hand which feels cool and steadfast in the exhilarating water. His presence makes the journey so much more worthwhile.
Me: I hike in the blue dawn to a valley surrounded by mountains with a group of photographer companions. We are on a retreat and our instructor’s daughter rides up the trail on horseback, dismounts and stands in the dewy reeds to pose for us. The sun begins to crest in the spot where two mountains touch. Brilliant rays of light reach out radially. The girl nuzzles the horse. The rising sun paints a glowing rim around her hair and her pink dress. I feel the weight of the camera in my hands. I peer through the viewfinder, switch to the smallest aperture setting, crouch down and find my place.
‘And the lives of modest worth among us from the beginning and still with us—those lives that make no great stir but like the dew and the sunshine, contribute most of all to the growth of real character—these remain.’
-Florence Call Cowles, Early Algona