January 2004 Issue - Essay # 4
Linda
Is Her Name
By
Amy Eastburn
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Her
family members have come to visit one by one; first her mother, her
daughter, and then her sister. I’ve watched the faces come and go--all
with a familiar stain. I am merely an onlooker; one of the house cleaners.
Linda
is her name. All I know of her, really, are the shards of her life that
decorate her home. We have all peeked into her life through tidbits
offered up. She is a piano teacher, a writer, she likes to travel, quilt
and, by all accounts, has a loving and supportive family. I
have helped clean her home for three years now. We all look forward to
seeing her. There is a quiet charm to her that puts you at ease and makes
you immediately want to throw down the mop and grab a cup of tea to join
her on the couch for some jovial banter. She regularly inquires of our
lives and interests and routinely punctuates her sentences with whimsical
thoughts or humorous anecdotes. It’s funny how one can look forward to
that. Bantering about the odds and ends of a day. In a job like this you
grow to look forward to the details: a friendly client, a kind word, a
joke. Linda, without fail, has made the particular day we see her a better
one. In all honesty there are few clients we can say that about. Linda
is her name. She has winning contest plaques on the wall in her writing
room. I used to walk in that room and feel so intimidated by her talent. I
continue to be impressed by her accomplishments, but the more I have
spoken with her over the years, the more I’ve felt that intimidation shift into
inspiring awe. At one time I thought, “My God, look at what she’s
done. I can’t do that.” And through getting to know her I have somehow
found myself saying, “My God, look at what she’s done. It’s
possible.” How did that happen? I don’t have a clue. Why question
inspiration? It simply is. Maybe that’s enough? Cleaning
homes isn’t a glamorous job. We momentarily marinate in other people’s
surroundings until our work is done. Sometimes, at night, I will close my
eyes and see snapshots of rooms in people’s homes. I will find myself in
a daze about a photograph on a wall, or a particularly comfortable looking
couch. Sometimes I can see these things more clearly than the things in my
own personal residence. Occupational hazard I imagine. While my job does
not define me, it has most definitely left its mark. I
have not written anything in awhile. Every time I try, I stop. Fear works
its way in and stays for the duration. The words abandon me, and I abandon
the page. A double betrayal of sorts. We’re both playing hookie. I am no
stranger to rejection letters. I have put in my time and done my damnedest
to learn from the adventure and better each attempt. I have found the
humor in the paper-thin response, which undoubtedly holds a no thank-you.
The last place I submitted to was for a contest. I put all my eggs
in one basket and then went down to the store to purchase more eggs, for
the basket runneth over. The end result was familiar and stinging.
Scrambled eggs--and lots of 'em. The submission’s theme was an
essay/letter to my mother. I honestly thought then (and still do) that
that work was the best I had in me. The rejection rattled my toenails. My
quill felt permanently bent. Linda
is her name. It was her snapshot that found it’s way into my brain and
behind my eyelids. And in the next blink came her family’s faces. All
with 25,000-word stories carved into each puffy eye and facial curve. I
then realized my luxury of being able to blink to the next image. Pass it
by, let it lie, come back to it. I didn’t want to blink this by. So,
instead I reached for the bent quill. Wouldn’t
it be something if we really had the power to write our own lives down to
the detail? Kind of like choose your own adventure books? We could write
the details in accordingly. Change the bad stuff and put just enough
roadblocks in our way to keep it interesting and challenging. Would we
appreciate what we have as much? Who is to say? I’d be willing to risk
it for the option. I would write the worry out of the brows of Linda’s
family. I would do some earthly good with this wielded pen. No one said
that life was fair. But what if we could write it so that it always was? In
the next chapter I would write the heroine with a Joan of Arc magic.
Suited up in armor with the easy and painless ability to conquer the
villain. CancerAdo is the bloody, dark nemesis. The tendrils of this
monster are no match for our invincible heroine. She raises her sword to
conquer and does so with a mighty vengeance. CancerAdo is dismembered in
the battle. Our heroine emerges victorious and not only that, but also
frees other villages from ever being overtaken by this bullying terror. A
statue is erected in her honor. Our heroine is revered. The war is over. Who’s
to say it can’t happen? Not I. Even in my cynical realism I’ve watched
heroines win the mightiest of battles. I have seen no tougher armor
against villains than the sturdy quilt of kindness and good. Linda
is her name. Her strong armor has been formed over the years with threads
of kindness and wit, humor and experience. It is not difficult to see
this. One must simply look. And as I go about my days with snapshots
shooting past my mind’s eye, I am reminded of the things I simply cannot
fix. I cannot give the heroine the power of victory simply by writing it.
I wish more than anything I could. But in reaching for my once bent quill
I have realized this; Linda inspired me to sit down and write.
Extraordinary things happen everyday. Inspiration engulfs us if we choose
to look up occasionally from our routine lives. Someone
has helped me look up and around, delay my blinking, look a bit harder and
longer, and want to give something-anything back. Cleaning people’s
homes provides the ability of filling in the blanks (albeit some blanks
are better off not filled in). But with Linda it continues to be an
inspiring pleasure. She has already proven to be the heroine in the
fairytale who will always win in the end--simply because of the person that
she is. Linda is her name.
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Author's Biography Still cursing and hugging the power of the pen. An Oregon resident with a sailor's mouth and quiet demeanor. Age 28 and steadily climbing. E-mail
Amy at Ifairygal26@hotmail.com
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Essay
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