My grandfather compiled a little genealogical packet and gave it to some of us at Christmas. It included some color copies of photos.

This is my great grandmother, Alma. She came to the United States from Finland in 1905, when she was recruited to serve as a servant in a household in Berkeley. She worked for them for 13 years and then married my great grandfather, Karl, who was also Finnish.

I never knew before that she actually had 4 children. I only knew about my Aunt Fran and my grandfather. She had 2 more, though. In 1919, she had a stillborn baby girl, and in 1921, her next baby girl, Florence, died in an accident.

This is Karl with Aunt Fran and Grandpa in 1925. He died 3 or 4 months after this picture was taken, but I don't know how he died.

I just found a Post-It note my grandfather wrote about his father: "Born Turku (Abo) Sept. 12, 1886, Finland. Left Hamburg, Germany Nov. arrived San Francisco March 23, 1910 on Finn. sailing ship Marie Cheau. Sailed around the Horn. Killed on the Florence Luckenbach on the SF waterfront April 27, 1925 in an industrial accident under unsafe conditions. I do not believe this. I believe the Finnish Reds got him. His brother was a captain in the Finnish White Army (Jager)."

I wonder if that's true.

My space heater nearly caught on fire a couple of hours ago. I heard something break within its bowels, then I smelled that funny electrical burning smell, and then I saw a sort of glow begin to form in one particular spot in the coils, accompanied by little poofing noises. The up side is that I was here when it happened, and my house did not burn down. It would be ignominious indeed to be slain by one's space heater. The down side is that it's really damn cold in here now.

I am very afraid of accidental fires. A house I used to live in when I was a child was burned down under suspicious circumstances. They told me it was arson, and I thought arson was somebody's name. I used to walk around proclaiming my hate for him. After learning that arson was a crime rather than a person, the field actually narrowed. "Mom says she thinks you burned down the house," I once told dad's (now ex-) wife. I don't know whether or not she actually started the fire, but I do know that she had few redeeming qualities, so remembering the look on her face still makes me chuckle.

My older brother was in a motorcycle accident in which gas leaked and ignited, causing third-degree burns all over his body. He still has scars over most of his body below the neck. Years later, his entire neighborhood burned down. More recently, my husband got some nasty burns in a cooking fire. Aside from the obvious reasons, I find myself haunted with images from Foxe's Book of Martyrs when I think of such burning, and it always makes me shiver.

So, thank you to the forces of protection that helped me to avoid a fiery end this evening.

In other news, I recently remembered that I said I'd have a dissertation proposal in next month. I don't know if I can do it. I still have a shitload of work to do before I can even coherently describe my project and my goals. If I don't get it done by next month, I can't apply for a dissertation fellowship. I must combat my anxiety with productivity.

I do like candles and fireplaces, after all. The key seems to be mastering the art of the controlled burn.

I have old paper journals.
I thought looking at them again
would be embarrassing.
like remembering when I slipped
in front of my fifth grade class.
or was a Methodist.
or waved around crystals and
pretended to be New Age.
or wanted the Girl Scouts to like me.

(And it is OK if you wave around crystals.
It is just that religion does not become me.)

And there are things I will not tell you.
I feel sure you don't want to know.
And if you do, I will tell you it would
feel like fumbling for words when
someone hands you a Bad Poem and asks
what You Think.

(There. Have I squished it?)

And it is embarrassing sometimes.
Mostly when I would like to think
I was young then and didn't know
any better. But that's not always true.
And maybe that is just the place for
inferior poetry rendered in a loopy,
undisciplined hand. Or for naive meditations
on love unrequited and fates undecided
scrawled in a shaky script
over a glass of cheap Merlot.

(Sometimes it was coffee.)

And I read your journals and see that
you have different eyes. And sometimes
you help me see a little more. But I
have to remind myself. Don't ever walk
past that tree without thinking it's
beautiful. Because then you will not
be seeing enough. And some of you talk
about walls and maybe I do want to peek
over a little bit more. So maybe I will
take away a brick or two but I don't
always know why I want to.

(I could say 'Elves' to you, but it's
not elves exactly. Yes, I will borrow
a little bit. It is nice to speak
with someone else's voice.)

Maybe I will call them elves anyway.
Because I'm too tired for precision.
And maybe I'll tell you that sometimes
I want to know where the fuck they're
going with my bricks. Even when I'm alone.
But maybe I will tell you about them
someday if they get the better of me.
And maybe it will not be so bad.