Art: Ghost Rain by Briarwood Bohemian

Do-It-Yourself

Death came for my mother three times, and twice she refused to go. It was dangerous to underestimate how fierce she could be. Lying just below that sweet powdered veneer was a wounded animal ready to pounce. Without ever having been told, I knew it was my job to make sure she never had reason to.

During one of those near-death occasions, my Dad and I took turns sitting with her in the hospital. Late one night during his shift, I sat up for a while in their den.

All was quiet, except for the steady ticking of a clock somewhere in the room. The den, like the rest of the house, was decorated with Mom’s arts and crafts projects. She lived to clip do-it-yourself articles out of her Redbook or McCall’s or Good Housekeeping on how to make some god-awful decorative piece that she could proudly display. These outlandish works of art employed items the average housewife had around the house. Plastic bleach bottles, tin cans, a toilet plunger, spare buttons, dental floss.

On the coffee table sat a two-foot high pyramid made of a dozen Styrofoam balls. The surface of each ball was completely covered with row after row of lima beans, glued in place and then spray-painted bright gold.

The T.V. Guide, the daily paper and back issues of her women’s magazines were kept in a 10-gallon ice cream tub, ringed with magazine covers rolled into colorful tubes and then glued to the side of the tub. I was watched over by half a dozen angels on the mantel made from handkerchiefs stuffed with cotton balls, shirt buttons for eyes, supported on stands made of Popsicle sticks.

I don’t remember her being prouder of anything than when the latest item was ready to be displayed. Dad would shrug. She might get a, “Nice honey,” but his eyes stayed glued to the John Wayne movie.

My brothers and I were kinder, but still her finished products were an embarrassment when friends came over, like the frilly toilet paper holder in the bathroom made to look like an ancient Grecian column. I had to finally stop humoring her when she got the notion to make our school clothes. The first item of apparel was a shirt made of glossy fabric with color of marigolds. It that fit like a waist-length choir robe, complete with ballooning sleeves. I “accidently” spilled India ink on the shirt and never again encouraged her sartorial efforts.

I wondered, if she hadn’t been raised dirt poor and had gotten more than a high school education, might she have become a professional artist? She certainty had the inclination.

Poor mother, I thought to myself. You sure got a raw deal. We shouldn’t have belittled her artistic attempts. She and I were very much alike that way. We both would die if we couldn’t create. She was the only one in the family who understood my need to write.

Again, I noticed the ticking of the clock and looked to see that it was three a.m. I’d never seen that particular clock before. Its face seemed to be made out of…what? A phonograph record? I got up to examine it.

It was an old LP fitted with a tiny motor and three golden rotating hands and numbers glued on for the hours. Another arts project. When I looked closer, I recognize the record. It was Bert Kaempfert’s Afrikaan Beat.

Now, sleep deprived, I allowed the memory of a woman who had once been my mother to slowly emerge. She is young and beautiful, full of life. She wears the stylish red sateen dress I would beg her to wear. In my memory, she carefully drops that very record onto the turntable of the new Magnavox. She twirls around to me and smiles. She is holding out both arms. I take her hand with my left and place my right awkwardly her waist. She lays a palm gently on my shoulder. That was the day I asked Barbara Miller out for my first ever date. My mother and Bert Kaempfert patiently teach the bossa nova.

These memories, the softer ones, are stored in a hard-to-get-to place in my heart. I convinced myself  that if I indulged those maverick moments of kindness, that I’d lose my balance. I would be sucked back into familiar arms, not of a loving mother, but of a cold, sinking depression.

Yet, other times, like tonight, I give in. I’m willing to risk the inevitable disappointment just to marvel at those magical moments with my mother.

About the author:

Jonathan Odell is the author of three novels, The View from Delphi (Macadam Cage 2004), The Healing, (Random House 2012), and Miss Hazel and the Rosa Parks League (Maiden Lane Press 2015). His essays appear in various publications, including Commonweal and The Bitter Southerner. Raised in Mississippi, he presently lives in Minnesota with his husband.

In the artist’s words:

Briarwood Bohemian I am a disabled veteran, multimedia artist, photographer and writer. My craft is centered on evoking human empowerment and balance. I am completely self taught in the area of visual art, discovering knowledge about technique from wherever I can find it. I’ll always be a lifelong student, curious about the world around me. This curiosity is where the inspiration for much of my work is drawn from.

My artwork reflects how I interpret the world; I see art everywhere. My camera or sketchbook is always handy. By letting go of societal expectations, I’m able to let my creativity flow.

A percentage of every artwork purchase goes to support charity.