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The Season of Tea

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I’m sad for the end of October. It’s my favorite month for so many reasons, not the least of which is a burst of productivity that usually follows as the children settle into their routine and I into mine.

But this October was busier than I would have liked. Too many other responsibilities kept me from my usual month of writing furiously. Next year, I need to protect October.

So now November, and the Season of Tea begins (for me anyway).

I love coffee. Anyone who knows me, even online, knows that I love coffee.

I love it with a mostly-uncomplicated devotion. It has been a constant in my life for over 20 years, and I love the taste, the smell, the ritual of grinding and brewing, the swirl of milk, and the first hot sip.

Certainly coffee comes in different incarnations (espresso drinks, Turkish, Thai, café au lait, etc.), but for me it is a spectrum of one similar and familiar flavor. There are some beans I love more than others, and there are definitely bad cups of coffee. But for all the subtle nuances of roast and blend, I rarely attribute a memory to a particular cup of coffee. Instead they fall under the larger category of “memories of coffee and conversation.”

Tea, on the other hand, is more distinct. I have many favorites, and each has a taste and smell that brings me back to specific times in my life:

Lipton tea with honey is a Thanksgiving memory, served in a glass teapot by my mother’s mother with our desserts at the family table.

Maté tea, strong and earthy from Argentina, reminds me of tea with my first love and his parents in their apartment in the Ukrainian Village.

Earl Grey brings to mind black cast iron kettles and tiny cast iron mugs enjoyed during college, usually at the Bourgeois Pig Cafe in Lincoln Park. I was so impressed with their wall of teas from around the world, each in its own large glass canister. I would open each, pick one that suited my mood.

Vanilla rooibus tea evokes Autumn in Frankfurt, Germany, with my friend Al. I need only to open a box, and I can be remember sitting with her, talking about the joy of travel and trials of motherhood.

Loose leaf English Breakfast steeped in a china teapot and sweetened with sugar enjoyed with my Russian friend and her daughter on cozy afternoon teas in their Gurnee kitchen.

The best Indian Chai was savored with my Indian friends in their Frankfurt apartment during our second time in Germany. Such hospitality and delicious food, such beauty in their homes and preparation. The best chai. Ever.

I’ve had a tea cabinet as long as I’ve lived on my own, and it remains well-stocked each year as friends come by for holiday celebrations and bring some new blend as a gift. So many teas, so many cherished moments. It’s nice to think that I can call them up with a pinch of aromatic leaves and boiling water, like magic. A sensual companion to photographs, they are memories accessible in tea bags and tin canisters.

So I wonder, do you have a favorite memory of tea?

November begins on the edge of so many celebrations and the icy darkness of winter. Whether tea or hearth fire or the arms of a loved one, I hope you are surrounded by warmth this upcoming season.

The Things We Hold On To

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I have been fortunate to meet and get to know quite a few writers who have had a profound influence on me and my work. I’m grateful for each and every exchange. (I once received a phone call from poet Louise Glück that left me shaken in the parking lot of the grocery story because I was so taken by surprise to hear her voice.)

I believe in telling the people in my life whom I love and admire how much they mean to me, and I also believe in telling the writers and artists I admire how much their work means to me. Kyle Cassidy has written repeatedly about this in his blog, and I agree with him.

When I am on the receiving end of an email or tweet about my work, I am so appreciative and touched. So much of the time we write alone. To hear from the “audience” is a rare gift.

Photograph: Sophie Bassouls/Sygma/Corbis

I sent Ray Bradbury a fan letter back in 2010. I wanted to thank him for his stories, for the joy and inspiration, for the thrills and magic.  After talking with a friend and fellow-Bradbury fan, I included a copy of my much-loved and tattered copy of Dandelion Wine. I was reluctant to part with it, but excited at the possibility that he might sign it.

The problem was that I forgot to include my self-addressed stamped envelope. I didn’t realize this until I returned from the post office and saw it sitting on my table. I quickly drafted another letter and stuffed the envelope inside.

He never returned my copy. I suppose it was tossed aside due to its lack of SASE. However, a few weeks later, I did receive this:

Although sad to be missing my beloved Dandelion Wine, I was pleased to know that he had read my letter. I hadn’t read his story, “Juggernaut” at the time, and sought it out immediately. (You can read it here.)

I was a little upset when I saw the envelope, however. I thought that my youngest daughter (three-years-old at the time) had scribbled all over it. I nearly threw it in the trash. I’m not sure why I kept it.

I put it aside in the “to be framed someday” pile. I still haven’t gotten around to that large pile, and after Ray died, I went back to it. I looked more closely at the paper, which must have come from his printer. I liked the thought that it came from his working space, from the place where he created his amazing stories.

Reading another essay about Ray at the time, someone mentioned the doodles he often drew to accompany his signature. Curious, I googled and found a few examples. Like this one:

and

and this one:

That’s when I realized it had not been my daughter’s scribble, but Ray’s!

Many who knew Ray Bradbury have written beautiful, heartfelt tributes:

By his biographer and friend, Sam Weller.

By his friend Neil Gaiman.

Mark Evanier, recounting his meeting with Ray as a teen.

My grandmother is dying, and because I cannot yet bring myself to write about her, I’m writing about Ray.

I like that I have this envelope and printer sheet of Ray’s, a small link to him and his work. I need to purchase that paperback of Dandelion Wine again. I’d like to reread it, but I want the same edition. I’ve grown attached to the cover.

When someone dies, we often want to keep the connection somehow, to remain tethered in some way. We do it with photographs, letter, articles of clothes. We do it with books and art, with songs and videos. We use the tools they used: a wooden spoon, a pen, a guitar pick, a thimble. We put on their perfume or drink their favorite beer. We try to remember. It’s hard to let go.

I guess I’m not just writing about Ray.

Remembering Myron

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Myron at Eagle Cove (Photo by Christine Mandybur Martz)

My friend, Myron Mandybur, died this past weekend.

I hadn’t been online all day, hadn’t seen the facebook messages from Myron’s sister or messages from friends. I was running around getting ready for an out-of-town guest and a friend’s baby blessing. My sister sent me a text that I didn’t see:

Myron died.

So my sister called me, and I was irritated to be interrupted since I was running late, cranky on the phone until she said the words, “Myron died.”

It really was like having the wind knocked out of me: Myron. Died.

I went to his facebook page, and there were the words from his sister (from Saturday, April 28, 2012):

The most beautiful light went out today. He left this world peacefully, in the arms of his sisters and brother, at 5:50am. We love you, Myron. With all of our hearts and souls.

So it was true. Myron died.

Myron.

He became my friend and my sister’s friend when we were all part of the Ukraina Folk Dance Ensemble. Each Tuesday and Friday night we would go to practice with our choreographer Evhen Litvinov. After practice, dancers hung out in Chicago CYM (the Chicago headquarters for the American Ukrainian Youth Association) or grabbed a bite to eat at Tecalitlan or Pepe’s. Many of us spent a large chunk of our adolescence and teen years at CYM, just as our parents had before us.

I can’t remember exactly how we became friends, but Myron was one of my favorite people there. I admired the enthusiasm with which he danced. Myron didn’t care if he wasn’t in the front row center, he was just happy to dance. He had an easy smile and a light in his eyes. Even if he was tired or having a rough day, he smiled and it was sincere.

I was in junior high and later in high school, and I saw many things in Myron that I hoped to cultivate in myself: his passion for his music, the way he made people feel included, and how he seemed to find so much joy in life.

Myron was never one to let someone feel left out or unwelcome. When my sister Nadya, my cousin Larissa, her friend Angie, Zeke and Darian Pasika came up from the younger group, Myron also became their friend as well. His friendship was a gift, and he was unlike anyone else I’ve ever known. There was good-natured teasing and jokes, but it was always in fun. I think that everyone loved Myron.

One of the most positive and grounded people I have ever known, Myron didn’t sweat the small stuff, and he always put things in proper perspective. This was another lesson I learned by watching him. I appreciated his honest opinion when we talked about life, relationships, and dreams for the future. He was always supportive and enthusiastic.

At Paula & John Howe's Wedding.

As we grew older, our paths diverged. We stopped dancing with Ukraina, each moved to different cities at different times, but through it we all kept in touch with an occasional birthday phone call or random email.

In January 2008, when my novel was up on Amazon for the ABNA contest, Myron wrote the following review of the excerpt of The Silence of Trees:

I don’t know if this is a good thing to write in a review but you remind me of my grandmother. Not you personally but the way you tell your story. I remember being a little child and climbing into bed next to Baba and she would paint me a picture with her words that made me see what her life was like way back in the day. You do the same with your writing.

I’ll keep an eye out for your work.

Thanks again.

Myron M.

I was still living in Germany at the time, and I don’t think I remembered to tell him how much that meant to me–how perfect it was.

I was shocked when I heard about Myron’s illness later that year; he had been diagnosed in December 2008 with melanoma, and again in the summer of 2009. If anyone could beat something like that, it was Myron. I had to believe it, and for a while, he did.

My brightest memory of Myron, and there are so many, was a night up in Baraboo, Wisconsin in the early 90s. Our dance group had driven up to the Oselya to perform, and my sister, Myron, and I stayed up all night talking after the concert. We sat outiside, up by the barracks, and watched the sun rise.

It was a perfect moment, and if I close my eyes I can see it. I remember the smell of beer and wet grass, the hint of Myron’s cigarettes. It was cool, and the three of us sat close with Myron in the center. We had been talking for most of the night, and at that time we just sat there quietly, fully present, and watching.

Later, as we walked back to our bunks, Myron put his arm around me and thanked me for listening. He said that moments like that you hold onto no matter how much times passes. He was right, I’ve never forgotten.

In February of this year, the father of our friends Zeke and Darian Pasika passed away suddenly, and my sister and I attended the wake. We saw Myron there, and the three of us sat scrunched together on this little bench inside the funeral home. As he sat next to me, his hat in his lap, I couldn’t help but think of that night in Baraboo as the three of us watched the sun rise. Neither of us had seen Myron in ages.

We hugged and had a few minutes to talk. Myron told us about the latest treatment and how he’d been feeling better. We spoke of getting together soon, and then my sister and I hurried home to our kids. It was the last time either of us saw Myron alive.

The visitation and services for Myron are this Wednesday, May 2, 2012. I think I’m going to stay up all night on Wednesday to watch the sun rise and remember the beautiful, bright spirit that was Myron. I am better for having known him. I am honored that he was my friend, and I will never forget him.

Vichnaya Pamyat. Eternal memory.

What is remembered lives.