family – Page 95 – Lemon Drop Pie

Sol, n. [L.]

1. The sun.
2. (Alchem.) Gold; — so called from its brilliancy, color, and value. –Chaucer.

Today is Shakespeare’s 445th birthday. Here is one of my favorite sonnets written by Shakespeare:

CXXX

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips’ red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, –yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go, —
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground;
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she bely’d with false compare.

Next to this sonnet, I wrote some notes, apparently from a literature class I once took. I wrote: “Starts at top of head to bottom of feet. Satirizes the conventions of describing a lover at the time.”

I never replaced my favorite album from Sting, which I only have on cassette, named Nothing Like the Sun. I should buy the CD one of these days. In the liner notes, Sting describes how he gave this album its name:

I was accosted late one night on Highgate Hill by a staggering drunk…[he] demanded of me threateningly, “How beautiful is the moon?”… Thinking quickly and not wishing for an early toxic death, I fixed him with my eye and declaimed, “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.” Shakespeare is always useful I’ve found for calming down violent drunks if only because it gives them the impression that you’re crazier then they are….

My mother made the picture that hangs on the wall in the photo below. It was in their Houston apartment when they were newly married; many years later it was banned to the basement TV room; now it no longer exists, having made its way to the garbage dump when my parents ruthlessly cleaned house before moving to a new destination. My siblings and I loved this sun; it was so vintage; so…pink! At least it is still preserved in our photo album, and now as part of Funky Foto Flashback!

Bex is hosting Funky Foto Flashback over at Adventures of the Grigg Boys. Go see what funky foto she has this week!

When we were first married, one of our petty arguments was about my fern. Ed claimed that I loved my fern more than him simply because he brushed up against it, and I told him to be careful because ferns don’t like to be touched.

The funny thing is, he waters our plants more than I do, including that fern.

I’m actually on my third fern. The first fern I had died when I lived alone and went on vacation. My fern languished away in my bedroom, forgotten by my plant babysitter. The second fern died because my mom gave me another fern, and Ed refused to let this be a two-fern household. So I put it out on the patio and it froze to death. It was on its deathbed due to neglect anyway.

As you can see, my new fern loves spring.

All three ferns came from one source: a huge fern of my mother’s. Her fern is the offspring of my grandma’s fern, and so when we were visiting them both in Iowa, I asked them about our ferns.

My grandma told me that her mother, my great-grandma, bought the fern at a dime store. She thought it was unusual since both curly leaves and straight leaves grow on the same frond. My Grandma became attached to the fern, and has separated it several times to give ferns to my mom and my aunt. One of her biggest wishes is that our fern survives and stays in the family, especially since the fronds seem to be unique.

I asked my mom about this. Why is this fern so important to my grandma? Mom thinks it could be because Grandma’s mom died when Grandma was six months pregnant with my mom. The fern is a connection between our generations. We don’t have family jewels, or old home movies, or a large estate. Not many people do. But we do have my great-grandmother’s fern, and my grandma’s memory of her mom.

My grandma turned 91 in January, and her memory is slipping away. Sometimes I wish I had talked with my grandma more often when we were both younger. The past seems more important to me now than it used to be; perhaps it is because I have children now, and I want to share their heritage with them.

Ed continues to water my fern for me. Without Ed, my family heirloom, my third fern, may have died months ago. Even though he says he hates my fern.