The Journals
The stimulus behind this book are books for keeping a journals. The author’s mother told her just before she died that she had left a collection of journals for her on condition that she only look at them once the mother had died. Upon finding them, the surprising discovery was made which led to the publication of this book:
“On the next full moon I found myself alone in the family home. I kept expecting Mother to appear. Her absence became her presence. It was the right time to read her journals. They were exactly where she said they would be: three shelves of beautiful clothbound books; some floral, some paisley, others in solid colors. The spines of each were perfectly aligned against the lip of the shelves. I opened the first journal. It was empty. I opened the second journal. It was empty. I opened the third. It, too, was empty, as was the fourth, the fifth, the sixth—shelf after shelf after shelf, all my mother’s journals were blank.”
Writing in Pencil
Journals are typically written in ink. In some cases, the ink is encased within a very expensive pen with the intent being that what is written remains forever. In this case, the author has chosen a quite different route. She has decided to compose in pencil with a well-stocked supply of dependable erasers. Imagery explains this thinking process behind this decision:
“Erasure. What every woman knows but rarely discusses. I don’t mind erasure if it is done by my own hand. My choice. Write a word. Not the right word. Turn the pencil upside down, erase. Back and forth on the page. Pencil upright. Begin again. Point on the page. Pause. Find the right word. Write the word. Word by word, the language of women so often begins with a whisper.”
The Father
The book is primarily about the connection between a daughter and mother over the abyss of mortality which is itself enjoined by a tragic family history of breast cancer. The author is sharing her story at the same age that her mother was when she died. Everywhere in the text is this link to the maternal. But mothers alone do not produce offspring. And the author’s father is portrayed in lively imagery that makes him leap right off the page:
“Our father was our action figure: playing catch, hiking mountains, and hunting deer. If there was a robbery in the neighborhood, he formed a posse to solve it. If there was a river to run, he ran it, be it the Green River or the Colorado or the Snake. Those waterways coursed off maps and into our veins, tattooing our father’s love of wilderness into our love for him. If there was a mountain to hike or a trail to walk, I was right behind him as his daughter. The Tetons, the Wasatch, the Rocky Mountains were our collective backbone as a family.”
The Photo
A photograph of the author’s mother—the primary subject aside from herself of this entire narrative—a little past the midway point of the book. It is black and white—really almost but not quite verging into the sphere of sepia—and contains nothing but the human subject from the ribcage upwards with a body of water and coastal land in the background. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but accompany that photo is an imagery-laden description of its contents. It is just one word shy of one-tenth of those thousand words, but the question that hangs heavy in the air is easily enough answered: which tells the reader more, the photo or the ninety-nine words?
“There is a photograph of my mother. She is standing on a boat on Jackson Lake with the Tetons behind her. She is wearing a checkered shirt with pearl buttons and a Levi’s jacket, a bit too large. The wind must have been blowing, because she is wearing a scarf tied beneath her chin. A lock of hair has escaped confinement, creating a curl on her forehead; another flies to the side. Her eyes are searing. Her nose, straight. Her mouth is neither smile nor frown. Mother is strong. She is looking at me. I wonder what she sees.”
