When I was a little girl my mother used to sing me a song from her Girl Scout years –
“this is the tale of the walla walloooo — wallooo ah, wallooo ah, Listen to me and I will tell it to you.
Walloooo ah, walloooo ah. They sit on the banks of the shore and they shout — but nobody knows what they’re shouting about…”
I honestly have no idea what this song is about.
I especially remember her singing this song in the summertime, in the evenings: when there were fireflies and when we were allowed to stay up a little bit later than usual. It was haunting. It was so beautiful.
I remember specifically that she sang it when we were staying in a small house on a small lake in Avoca, Wisconsin.
Those were the same types of the days when my father would sing a questionable song about a sturgeon’s libido or another song about worms and where they crawl.
Spooky weird songs about worms and sturgeons and magical beings that shout “walla walloooo” — this was the stuff of my childhood.
There have been fabulous, weird grey clouds moving across the sky – and now so much dense fog. And there has been wind. On the wind I hear change.
Times are changing. We are changing.
The last number of weeks has been caramel apples and torn pumpkins – the thinning of the veil between the worlds. The season of the witch was closely followed by thyme and sage and pies.
I painted the walla walloo, a few years’ back.
In the painting there is that Avoca house. And the house is coming apart. And there is a lot of emotion. And everything is all-at-once stable and calm — and also, coming apart.
Because – you know that we need to dive deep when things are coming apart to find that calm.
When I visited my mother last month we sat together for a long time.
We shared trivia and French words and singing. She loves to sing – I get that from her.
At around three o’clock every afternoon the residents of the place she is living are treated to a scenic bus ride. She didn’t want to go but I said: “C’mon, let’s do this…it might be so fun.” And she relented.
So nine residents, two care staff and me – in a little bus. First on a freeway, then past artichokes fields. The bus driver is playing music from a certain era and we are listening to Georgy Girl and Lulu’s To Sir With Love. And we are singing.
We drive through a place where there are horses – just to look at them. This charms her. And it charms me.
“Remember when you were thrown from that horse?”, she asks me?
I nod my head – but that was not me that was thrown from that horse.
Now we are passing through the salt marshes.
“Look at the trees”, she says. “I have always loved the shape of the trees”. She says this several times. It is haunting. But also – it is so beautiful to me that she notices the shapes of the trees.
We are now at the beach.
She has not seen this part of town for a few years, since we had to move her out of her home.
Back when there was a lot of emotion – when things were coming apart – and we had to dive down very deep to find the calm.
But now things have changed – a lot. She is placid these days.
She will not remember that ride we shared.
But I will remember – for as long as I can remember anything. Times are changing.
I will remember the shapes of those days. With the trivia and the sweetness of the other residents. And their vulnerability. The shape of their vulnerability.
I am here to remember the horses. I am here to remember the shape of her loss. Of our loss. Of the trees. And of that Walla walloo.
