An Accumulation of Silences
An Accumulation of Silences

I’m toddling down our road, stumbling my way over the loose rocks and gravel in my light-up Barbie shoes. The journey seems long, arduous, and I am panting from exertion. Our house is still in view, the apple tree in the front yard partially blocking the front door. Shuffling my pants down to my ankles, I squat to pee. I ditch the pants and shoes and patter down the road, more slowly now on the sensitive soles of my chubby feet. I hear my mother’s call from the porch and streak now, as fast as I can, away from the house. A few moments later, I hear her footsteps behind me, and she catches me by the arm. Blushing deeply from embarrassment at my squirming, naked body in her arms, she forces a smile and waves politely at the neighbors. She whispers through gritted teeth, “Where are your clothes?”

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AloneJulia NusbaumComment
Awaking Alone
Awaking Alone

The eldest and only daughter, I had always liked being alone with a book in my hands, and my bedroom door closed. If the chaos of my three younger brothers seeped into my imagination at work, I’d lock the door. My mother called it my retreat from the noise but often would disrupt it herself with chores or babysitting for me since I was the right hand she turned to when she was overwhelmed. Growing up, I heard my mother yell my name from afar more than I heard it any other way.

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AloneJulia Nusbaumgrief, mother daughter, ChildhoodComment
Sandwiches
Sandwiches

It’s been seventy-two days. 

I manage to get the dog out this morning and the kids some breakfast, but then crawl right back under the covers. I don’t have it today. I am exhausted and my body hurts though I have barely moved in days. 

The slight rise and fall of my chest is the only evidence that I am not dead. Long pauses between breaths; my breathing is shallow and slow. Cradled by the foam liner of the mattress, my limbs are heavy and still. Staring at the wall, I barely even blink, hopeful that time will pass around me and leave me overlooked in the safety of our bed.  Maybe if I remain still, the kids will forget that I am here? Maybe they won’t need me for anything?

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AloneJulia NusbaumCovid-19, Motherhood, Death, griefComment
Cooking in Secret
Cooking in Secret

The first recipe I ever attempted was Baked Alaska. I was eleven.

I’m not sure how my mother conveyed that she didn’t want to teach me how to cook. It was more implied than directly stated. I understood her meaning in the same way I understood that I should not ask why, unlike my younger, fair-haired brother and sister, who looked nothing like me, I was born in a town four hours north of our home in Hanford, California.

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FeastKristina Buschfamily, cooking, Food writing Comments
The Midwestern Table
The Midwestern Table

My mother made dinner every single night. We didn’t eat out. Ever. I grew up on sixties Midwestern food, colored by my mother’s aversions and preference. She loved her meals fiercely, but anything could be ruined by a bite of shell, bone, or gristle. No one likes biting down on whatever reminds us of our protein’s genesis, but for Mom it ground the meal to a halt. She preferred everything as processed as possible.

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FeastKristina Buschfamily, Food writing, midwest, recipes Comment
She Feeds
She Feeds

Disclaimer: When I was a kid, Hollywood had me believing that The Typical Grandmother was, among other things, soft-spoken, petite, and cute, with an old-lady name like Alice, Betty, Dottie, or Mildred—Millie for short. She played Bingo or canasta, spoke of the days when a soda cost a nickel, and baked cookies better than Betty Crocker.

Mine was not like that.

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FeastKristina Buschfamily, Food writing, growing up Comment
Resident Aliens
Resident Aliens

Our species had not yet persevered through Y2K, but my time was short for subatomic reasons. My father had imploded, six feet of a Johnny Cash accent spiraling to the carpet in a “cardiac event.” My mother was one hour away, watching Frasier reruns in an apartment with cathedral ceilings. I had just broken the tamper-proof seal on The Best Years Of My Life.

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Julia NusbaumComment
Nothing Much to Offer but a Sky Full of Stars
Nothing Much to Offer but a Sky Full of Stars

Dad and I bushwhacked a north facing slope along Northern California’s Smith River in a swath of forest we hoped contained culinary mushrooms. Pink rhododendrons blossomed in an understory of redwood, cedar and fir. We were hunting for chanterelles, yellow feet or hedgehogs. The mushroom buyer didn’t pay much per pound, but I desperately needed the money to pay for my half of an abortion.

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Julia NusbaumComment
In the Direction of My Heart
In the Direction of My Heart

“Mama, when are we going home?” my son whispers, his eyes glued to the car window.

I grip the steering wheel and glance behind me. His flip-flops and beach towel are strewn across the back seat. His goggles, around his neck. Pinkish popsicle stains skip across his white camp t-shirt. All signs of a good summer, or so I would have thought.

I wish I knew how to answer him. I’m not sure I want to go home.

“You miss being home?” I ask.

“Yes.”

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HomesickJulia NusbaumMotherhood Comments
Physical Education
Physical Education

My personal rules in the girls’ locker room: no talking, listening, or looking. Change clothes very quickly. At the end, dress under the towel. 

I wear my cut-off full slip, as I have every school day for a month or more. I’ve left it long enough to tuck into a skirt and into my gym shorts. The only shape to my chest comes from my bony ribs, but that’s not what concerns me. I wear the thing so I don’t have to expose myself completely during P.E. as The One Girl Without a Bra. 

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Back to SchoolJulia Nusbaum Comment
Letting Go with Love: Launching my (Neurodivergent) Daughter to College
Letting Go with Love: Launching my (Neurodivergent) Daughter to College

I scrape off the half-peeled remnants of a glittery purple manicure, even though it’s my last tangible reminder of my days with my daughter Ellie. Three weeks after dropping her off at college two states away, I’m still fighting tears. Maybe I’ll keep these ugly jagged edges for a little longer, I think as I stare at my hands. With her bedroom cleaned and sterile, the door perpetually open like a mouth that has forgotten to close, I don’t have many other traces of my daughter’s presence in our home. Except for the reality that my phone lights up with her text messages all day long.

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Back to SchoolJulia NusbaumComment
Sub Plan: March 17th
Sub Plan: March 17th

I’m sorry I can’t be in the classroom today. I’m grateful you’re here. I teach three 100 minute blocks of 8th Grade English. I’m available any time for a text or phone call at 503-xxx-xxxx. Don’t hesitate to reach out if you are struggling with a student, or need clarification on anything.

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Back to SchoolJulia Nusbaum Comments
Spectator
Spectator

I laughed when they called to schedule it, when I put it in my calendar over the faint traces of where you’d been. I’m not surprised. This much I’ve learned about grief—that it’s cruel in how it compounds, strata over strata of reddened rock.

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GriefJulia NusbaummotherhoodComment
Hands
Hands

Of all the memories that I have of my great great grandmother from the first thirteen years of my life, the one that I remember most of all occurred in the tiny kitchen of her small home, tucked away in the orchards of Live Oak. I was in sixth grade, and she was teaching me how to sweep the right way, a skillset that my mother had still yet to properly impart upon me; she was too busy smoking weed and sleeping with her latest boyfriend.

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GriefJulia Nusbaumgranddaughter, Great Depression, women writers Comment
Thin Places
Thin Places

I was deceived by the feel of her supple cheek that day after she died. She was like a green limb reaching for the sun, severed at the whim of the wind, the tree’s canopy of little protection. When illicit Oxy’s calming wind blew into her veins did she suddenly realize what she consumed was coated in fentanyl poison? Was it like being in the eye of the hurricane where there is calm for a moment before chaos takes over or was it like floating away on her favorite pair of Nike Airs™?

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GriefJulia NusbaumCamino de Santiago, Spain, Mother daughter, adoption Comment