orphan girl

Yesterday we picked the last of the grapes. Not the table grapes growing over the west-facing deck — we picked those last week, ahead of the raccoons who’ve come since, scrambling over the roof and trellis, a whole family in search of grapes. The ones in the basket are wine grapes, from vines planted more than 30 years ago, Chardonnay and Marechal Foch. I don’t think we ever thought we’d make wine but the garden centre had these varietals and we thought their leaves would keep the south side of the house cool in summer. And they do. Tree frogs love the green leaves and of course raccoons and bears love the fruit. The other morning I stood at a north-facing window at 7 a.m. and saw the big bear who’s been up and down the trails lately, well, I saw him in the crabapple tree, swaying near the top as he feasted on the scabby crabs. I didn’t want him in the grapes.

I juiced about 6 pounds of grapes and I made a batch of wine grape jelly flavoured with port and rosemary. It’s delicious. I like it best with mature cheddar on good bread. It truly distills the flavour of late summer and it seems appropriate to preserve that flavour on the first day of fall.

Mostly today I am thinking about a dream I had early this morning. I’d been awake for hours in the night, coming down to my desk for an hour or so, and then returning to bed. What kept me from sleep was a series of regrets. The usual ones. Not having been a better daughter, a better mother to my children. So my mind was filled with these difficult feelings and when I fell back to sleep, I dreamed I knew I had to tell my mother, who was somehow still alive, about her parents. She was given up at birth and placed in what she called a foster home but the 1931 census lists her as a “boarder”. She was 5 years old. And I’ve learned this was because her biological mother paid for her to be lodged in that household. There are lots of reasons for that particular house though I can’t prove any of my suspicions. But what I do know are the names of her biological parents and some things about them, My mother never knew these things. She knew nothing about them, apart from the fact that she carried both their surnames until she went to school and then one, her mother’s, dropped away and she was known by her father’s name. Her parents continued in their lives. Her father married, had two sons, and a successful life. I’ve been corresponding with one of his family members and will meet her one of these days. Her mother is a different story. She was a widow, with 4 children. She had expectations of the father and those didn’t transpire. She did go on to remarry. And I guess she–they, because the father contributed too–kept my mother in the home where she’d gone as a newborn. Her mother died in 1949 of cervical cancer. (This was the year before my mum met my dad.)

My mother knew none of these things. No one ever tried to find her–she had 3 half-sisters and 3 half-brothers. Many people knew about her, and some didn’t. I was kind of persistent because I wanted to know the hidden history of her origins and now I know but she’s been dead for 14 years next month. I dreamed she was still alive and I was trying to figure out how and what to tell her. Would it change anything, I wondered in the dream? Would it make her sad? I’ve been sad on her behalf. Sad as I pulled grapes off the stems, juiced them in a big stockpot, strained the juice, boiled it with sugar, port, and rosemary.

Here’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance.
Pray you, love, remember.
And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts …
There’s fennel for you, and columbines.
There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me.
We may call it “herb of grace” o’ Sundays.
– Oh, you must wear your rue with a difference.
There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets,
But they withered all when my father died.

No pansies or columbine right now, but fennel, yes, and rosemary, and a little clump of rue among the weeds. As I stirred the jelly, I listened to Gillian Welch sing “Orphan Girl”, a song that made me cry as the jelly boiled, and I thought, we are both orphan girls, on either side of the divide that is this living world. My mother had brothers and sisters, a mother and a father, and a home in which she lived as a lodger. I had her, my father, my brothers. On this first day of fall, too early for light, I was sleeping and dreaming that she is nearby, waiting for the news I have for her, news that never came in her life, and I was anxious in the dream. I wanted her to know that I loved her, love her still, she among the dead– and me, well, I’m stirring jelly in a steamy kitchen. We are orphan girls together. (I wish she was still nearby.)

I am an orphan on God’s highway
But I’ll share my troubles if you go my way
I have no mother no father
No sister no brother
I am an orphan girl