Thinking of Ingmar

Strong storms are predicted this morning. I've been folding several loads in my cramped laundry room, peering out at the clouds beyond the patio fence. My laundry room makes me happy, despite the endless nature of the task. Above the door I have the red and blue pieces of hardware that spell out E I E I O, a housewarming gift from my dad. There's a Mexican tin can airplane suspended overhead, and the enameled metal railroad signs I've loved since childhood: B&O, Southern Serves the South, Katy, Lackawanna, Illinois Central, Wabash, Erie, Santa Fe, Reading, Rock Island. They transform the rumble of the dryer into railroad sounds and songs. I used to have a photo of a pioneer woman bent over her washboard, her shoulders fatigued, her bowed head in despair. It got to be too depressing, however true. Now I've got Ingmar's drawing instead.

A few years back I had the honor and delight to teach Ingmar. He didn't speak very much English when he first came to my art class, but he was very eager to please. He concentrated hard, and threw himself into any task he understood. He patiently observed my efforts at teaching by pantomine, and his smile was radiant any time we made a connection. Gradually I learned that Ingmar was a gifted pianist and tap-dancer who worshipped Shirley Temple. Although his smile seemed so blissful, I learned how hard he pushed himself at his studies and practice, and began to sense an existential sadness in him, too.

Ingmar's drawing is of an idyllic place. He used black ink to draw a French country house with a red tile roof, a weather vane, and a black checkerboard chimney straight out of Mary Poppins. Fluffy clouds float in the sky, and the single tree has both a round beehive and a bird's nest. The bird is standing on one leg like a stork. There's a small brown dog with it's own house. "Pilou" is printed neatly over the door. The upstairs windows have lovely pink curtains. Large stone blocks surround the lintel, and a brass bell hangs by the door ready to be rung. My favorite part is the rainbarrel. Although it is a sunny day in the drawing, a curving drain pipe goes across the house, then empties gallons of water into the rainbarrel. A single drop splashes out of the barrel, as it must be very full!

I wish you could see it. The rain has started. I will play Guy Clark's "Step Inside This House" on the way to work.