by Mary F. Pols
My father is in the winter sky, in the Winter Hexagon, which, anchored on Orion’s shoulder, reminds me of his poetry and of the last words he heard in this world. I see him in other faces, faces I don’t even know. I saw an old man in a blue blazer on a train platform where I waited with the other passengers, pressed up against the edge, guarding our right to claim seats. He looked anxious. Though he looked nothing like my father, I could suddenly see my father in his blue blazer. He too would be anxious, in that way that the elderly so often look anxious about the complications of moving through the world when you are no longer strong. In the face of a stranger, I see my father’s eyes, his brow, and think of the way he loved our foreheads.
“It’s the most beautiful part of a woman’s face,” he pleaded once, in the midst of an attempt to convince me against bangs. His hand was laid sideways on my forehead, as if he were checking for my temperature. Now that I am a mother, a mother who pushes back her son’s hair to place her whole palm on his forehead, I imagine that he was remembering, in that anti-bang gesture, what it was like to hold that forehead in his hand when I was small. I scoffed and pulled away from him. I was nineteen. I went and got bangs, which never looked right. As I stood on the platform trying not to stare with longing at the old man in the blue blazer, my eyes welled up. All I want is to leave a legacy of love on this earth as true and as deep as the one my parents left.
I fell in love with Dolan unconditionally, and only later did I begin to see pieces of myself in him. That reflection has made it so much easier to love myself. I think the same is true for Matt. I think of my parents, seeing themselves reflected in six young faces over so many years, and I hope that it was true for both of them as well, that their children gave them the gift of self-love.
I put Dolan in the boat first, and then clamber on myself, settling against the warmth of the boat’s white bottom, heated by the sun. Sean has already taken us sailing a couple of times, and Dolan liked it very much. But he almost seems to like sitting at anchor in waist-high water better. He rocks us. Then he pretends to fish off the side, using one of Sean’s ropes.
“Where did water go?” he says suddenly. The rock wall nearby looms above our heads. At high tide, only the top few inches of it will show above the water.
I squint at him. “It went out to the rest of the ocean,” I explain. “It will come back later. This is low tide.”
“I like it,” he says enthusiastically.
“Me too,” I tell him.
Acknowledgments
FIRST AND FOREMOST, the greatest of thanks to Matt, who made everything possible. I aspire to be as loyal and kind to you as you have been to me.
A sincere thank-you to my editor, Lee Boudreaux, whose diligence and intelligence are matched only by her enthusiasm and patience, and to the ever-helpful Abigail Holstein at Ecco. And also to my agent, Henry Dunow, who made me laugh even while delivering merciless editorial comments.
My sister Elizabeth was with me every step of the way and deserves special thanks for fielding and enduring many neurotic phone calls and e-mails. Other thanks go to Adrian and Sean, particularly for refraining (mostly) from big-brother ribbing; Benet, in particular, for his poetry knowledge and photographic skills; Katy for allowing me to call her “an insomniac stoner”; and Alison for her sense and sensibility. And to Beth Pols and Karen Totman for stepping in with advice and help whenever needed. Also, Aunt Elizabeth and Kesiah Scully.
For professional advice, inspiration, and often plain old comfort: Anita Amirrezvani, Sylvia Brownrigg, Sara Catania and Mark Nollinger, Stacy Finz, Heidi Julavits, Peggy Orenstein, Tom McNeely, Kate Moses, Bernard Taper and Gwen Head, Eric Wahlgren and Ayelet Waldman. And Karen Hershenson, who steered me to my title and brainstormed with abandon.
Mary Fernald, friend for twenty-five years, thank you.
Also to: Julie Fields, who is just the kind of reader this book is intended for and therefore had to suffer through a painfully rough first draft; Joe Garofoli, for an evening of drunken artistic advice; and to the best trailer park managers in the West, Kirsten Jones Neff and Sam Neff.
To those who lent me writing spaces, you have no idea how much that meant. April Lynch, Colin Johnson, and Jason Stone, who sent me to hotels. John Bigelow, Leda Olinger, and Tom Fernald, who opened up their homes to me and did not complain when I left their cupboards bare of the sugary and the salty. For Grotto hospitality: Susan Gerhard, Ethan Watters, Xandra Castleton, and David Munro. Also Java Rama in Alameda and the Alameda Free Library. A nod to the late great Johnny Cash, whose version of “Ring of Fire” jumpstarted many a writing session.
At the Contra Costa Times, I owe much to the gracious, forgiving, and talented features staff, particularly Lisa Wrenn, Lynn Carey, and Anne Chalfant. John Armstrong, thank you for being such a movie buff that you continue to employ a local critic during the dark days of journalism.
I owe the astounding gift of time, space, and a life-altering experience to the John S. Knight Fellowship for Professional Journalists at Stanford University, particularly Jim Bettinger and Dawn Garcia.
My Knights, I’m forever grateful for your fellowship, encouragement, and friendship: Jo-Ann Armao, Karen de Sa, Daniel and Maria Cristina Coronell, Artur and Gosia Domoslawski, Inday Espina-Varona, Carola Fuentes and Rafael Valdeavellano, Emily and Collin Harris, Chi-Young and Young-Joo Shin, Guillermo Lopez Portillo and Karla Iberia Sanchez, Allan Au and Tongwa, Pam Maples, Maria Martin, Tom and Gretchen Meyer, Suman and Purnima Pradhan, Ivan and September Penn, Janet Rae-Dupree, Laura Rauch, Mike Swift and Deb Petersen, Martin Turner and Carolyn Gilbey, Gary Wolf and Christa Aboitiz.
Finally, Dols Pols, my little one, when you grow up and are ready for this, know that no one has ever made me as happy as you.
About the Author
A native of Maine, MARY POLS lives with her son, Dolan, in Northern California. A former staff writer for the Los Angeles Times, the Seattle Times, and the Los Angeles Daily News, she was the film critic for the Contra-Costa Times for nearly a decade. She has taught at the University of California–Berkeley and was a Knight Fellow at Stanford. She is working on her second book.
Contact the author at www.maryfpols.com. Book club requests are welcome.
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Credits
Jacket design and Illustrations by Kimberly Glyder Design
Copyright
ACCIDENTALLY ON PURPOSE. Copyright © 2008 by Mary F. Pols. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © APRIL 2008 ISBN: 9780061870859
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