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Discoveries

what in the world

with a phrase from Gregory Orr’s “Untitled [You’re invited to visit]”

to nose around in the attic
is to be nine years old, alone in a space both cramped and unboundaried,
as unfamiliar and shadow-distorted as a dream, a world
foreign, possibly forbidden, secret-laden;
is to lift the lid of a dust-topped shoebox that shelters
creased pages of correspondence tied together with ribbon,
pages written years before the current reader’s own story began;
is to discover that one’s parents
have an inner life.

dotty seiter

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The Friend Who Pickles Her Garden Cucumbers
detail from a larger painting; ink and watercolor pencil
on paper
Let’s Face It With Friends series
2025

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Notes about poem and art:
• One way to write a poem, as suggested by poet Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, is to choose a standout line from a poem, write it down, and begin there, crediting the original poet in your own poem. The phrase to nose around in the attic instantly evoked in me multiple images and sensory memories. I grabbed the tail of one such memory and started writing “what in the world.”
The Friend Who Pickles was stashed away in the metaphorical attic of a neurographic drawing made three years ago, just waiting to be discovered by me!



12 responses to “Discoveries”

  1. Again your poem evokes a special memory of my own. The third floor of my grandmother’s home, which was third floor and attic. I recall crawling under the eaves where there were old books, without many illustrations. I can almost smell the dusky air. Mainly I would look out the small window to the square below where four streets merged.

    How great to discover hidden faces lurking in a maze of a neurographical drawing.

    Like

    1. Carol: YAY! So happy my poem evoked memories of your own! Attics are evocative spaces, methinks : )

      Yes, way fun to find faces in the maze of a neurographical drawing.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Joyful Puttering Avatar
    Joyful Puttering

    Like Carol, your poem took me right back to a couple memories of my own. I remember going into the dank attic space that was accessed in the back of an upstairs closet bedroom. There wasn’t much there….but way in the back dark corner of the attic was a box of Playboy magazines. I had two much older brothers….but I was mystified….and a bit horrified.

    A much better memory is that my grandmother’s whole upstairs felt and smelled like an attic. The stairs creaked as I went up and the air changed and it was always cold. But it was also magical. There was a pedal sewing machine, multiple tins of buttons and boxes old greeting cards to cut up. I was in heaven in grandma’s upstairs attic.

    I couldn’t love this found face more. It absolutely stole my heart and reminds me of my grandmother.

    Wonderful post!

    Like

    1. Attics are just so gosh-darned evocative, aren’t they? They are an alternate world adjacent to but separate from the familiar world. I think of Through the Looking Glass and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Thank you for sharing your stories! Are some of those attic buttons and greeting cards now in your possession?

      LOVE that The Friend Who Pickles Her Garden Cucumbers reminds you of your grandmother! Warms my heart that the friend’s found face stole your heart ❤️

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Joyful Puttering Avatar
        Joyful Puttering

        YES….I have a lot of her buttons and one of her tins. As a matter of fact I am sending a couple to Clarke to audition as pins for a frog she is making for Kelly. I was JUST going through them yesterday.

        Like

  3. Oh! I smiled SO BIG when I saw the friend who pickles! And discovering our parents have/had inner lives…a quagmire for this human, who discovered some parental secrets with far-reaching impact.

    As always, your poetic wizardry transports me. xoxo

    Like

    1. I know when I write or, more precisely, when I share my writing, the writing goes on to have a life of its own, with its interpretation a collaboration between writer and reader/listener. What I most often do not know is exactly what those interpretations might be. Thank you for giving me a tiny window here, Lola. I’m very glad the friend who pickles was on hand to greet you with her quiet unflappability in the quagmire of parental secrets with far-reaching impact.

      Like

  4. Oh this captured my imagination right from the start. I have always loved the idea of a mystery filled attic. Never lived in a house with one. My attic experience is limited to movies and TV. What fun, to sneak up and explore in dusty drawers and boxes.

    Your friends are so spunky and fun! Mrs. Pickles. Mrs. C. Pickles. (There is an actress I always enjoyed, Christine Pickles. LOL)d She is always stylish, but not trendy. She is kind and friendly, but she will put you in your place if you forget your P’s & Q’s. LOL. 😉

    Love!

    Like

    1. Sheila! Thank you for opening my eyes wide to the fact that spending time in an actual physical attic is not a universal experience. Truly, in the writing of this poem, that fact never even crossed my mind. I’m guessing, though, that many of those folks have metaphorical attics where things get stored : )

      Love your characterization of Mrs. Pickles!!!

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Hi Dotty. I just now remembered. There was a house with sort of an attic space. We lived in a house (briefly) that had a garden level basement apartment, where my grandparents lived. To one side of their kitchen, there was a large crawl space with a window looking on to that area. The door to the crawl space was outside of the apartment, underneath the stairs to where we lived on the top floor. Sometimes my cousins and I would sneak in, and spy on the adults, or our older cousins. I was about 7, and the older cousins were in jr. high.

        Because the room had minimal light, we often got caught, when we would trip, or bump into something. If we had been quiet after, we probably would have been undiscovered. But you know kids. We would laugh, and blame each other, and… the gig was up. LOL.

        That old house had all kinds of neat features. Built in bookcases, Niche’s for the telephone, and a milk door for deliveries. It was red brick, and sat high above the street, on the corner.

        Thanks for bringing this memory back, Dotty! xoxo

        Like

        1. Thank you for taking us into the attic with us, Sheila! I’m totally tickled that my poem evoked these memories!!

          Liked by 1 person

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In 2014, I grab an unexpected opportunity to paint.

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In 2015 I start a blog—a diary of my life as an artist.

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