Emily van Lidth de Jeude

Tripping a little over an unexpectedly-high tuft of moss on the log I was stepping over, I heard shouts from the children, up ahead, and looked up to walk smack into the dangling tips of a soft wet cedar bough. I brushed the water off my face as the shouts were joined by gasps of horror or awe, and then guttural, powerful noises, and a loud “YEAH!!” As a small arm jutted up above the ferns that still stood between me and the kids, holding a rather long piece of deer-spine, that then fell apart in mid air, dropping a piece of itself unceremoniously back to the forest floor. The kid holding it up looked a little disappointed, but continued smiling, as they and their classmates experienced what was, for some, the first sight of a nearly-complete deer skeleton.  Some of the kids gathered as many bones as they could carry; some fought for their perceived rights to the skull; the spine; those amazing paddle-like shoulder-blades that always seem to become useful tools in the hands of t...

This story is also available in audio form, with pictures, on MakerTube . Dear little Emily, Today, when you’re almost ten, my little old self, you’re sitting in the dark sparkly sand by the waves lapping. Barnacled rocks poke up from the sand into your thighs, but you don’t care. You have Pappa’s sweater on over your swimsuit, and you’re fine. You hear Mum’s guitar up on the beach, and she mutters that her fingers are too cold to play, even though the fire is right in front of her. It’s September and the family has gone to the beach, maybe for the last time, this year. It gets dark so early right now that it feels almost like Christmas, even though it’s 8pm, and you haven’t gone home for dinner. The end of the box of Old Dutch crackles between Adrian and his friends as they sit around the fire. The aunties are chatting and you can’t hear what they’re saying, but Pappa’s laugh breaks the night for a moment. You’re waiting for the stars to come out, and your heart sings, Oh watch the st...

  The audio version of this story is now also available on my MakerTube! https://makertube.net/w/4ikHDR1cK3fhjeNB7cxSm8 ~~*~~  Dear Little Emily, When you grow up, you’re going to keep singing with Mum, at the folksong retreats. Mostly the old ballads and work-songs that you usually sing, with all the spirituals that tie your hearts up into warm packaged balls of hope. And also sometimes songs Mum’s written. Like this one: Well I know your Darn Dog done been here, Done been here, neighbour, done been here! I know your Darn Dog done been here, He done blessed my yard and gone. Mum is really never going to stop writing parodies. This one is of “I Know My Good Lord Done Been Here”, and you’ll be mighty glad Daddy will be dead by the time she writes it, because he’d sure not appreciate the vain usage of his Lord’s name! Haha. Pretty sure you would have sung it to him if she was going to write it while he was alive. Sometimes you’ll be so embarrassed, though, and this is no excepti...

Dear Little Emily is a series of letters to my childhood self, exploring loss, love, and personal growth. ~*~  Dear little Emily, Do you remember Mum’s friend Katie? I mean, of course not, because we weren’t born yet. But I know Mum told you, with a sparkle in her eyes. When Mum was a girl, and lived in Mill Valley, Katie’s mother used to take her temperature every morning before school, in the little cookie-cutter house that was just like Mum’s, and sometimes Katie would bite the thermometer in half, and pour out the silver-heavy drop of mercury into her hand, and carry it out to play with. Mum and Katie delighted at the way the mercury rolled over their hands; wondered at the pure and clandestine droplet of magic. Funny to think that it was poison, when everything about it was so curative—the thermometer, the naughtiness, and the friendship. I was thinking of this while taking my temperature, today; looking for the fine line of silver on the old thermometer that has survived for ...

Under the scribbled tentative title of the book I'm writing, on the little magnetic chicken notepad on my fridge, which probably should be used for grocery reminders, but instead is used for... random stuff, there's a quote I just can't let go of:   "In such ugly times, the only true protest is beauty." ~Phil Ochs It's been a long time since I could see beauty. It disappeared last year, while my Mum was undergoing treatment for, and slowly dying of, a brain tumour. Now I look at the whole world she gave me--the flowers and garden; this home that I grew up in, which I raised my kids in and still rent from my father; the rain and snow and sunshine, and the deep, deep love of it all--and it looks grey. An artist friend told me that's just what depression looks like. She said it took four years for her to see colours again after her partner died. I wish I could say I'm angry about that. But I'm not, even. I feel grey about that. Despite this, my garde...

"Did you shuffle off the pavements just to let your betters pass?" Oil and graphite on canvas. Artist Emily van Lidth de Jeude. Thijs’ face remained open and calm as he described his childhood memory of his Jewish neighbours being removed to whatever fate they met: “I remember the SS or Germans going upstairs, kicking them down the stairs, so they rolled right on our sidewalk, in front of our door.” I was interviewing him for an installation about the concept and feeling of ‘home’, and this was part of his response. I think that I, too, looked unphased by this story. We both have lived so long in a society that treats such traumatic experiences as passing news, and turns to chemicals, distraction, or denial to keep from dwelling on the horror.  But it IS horror. It’s horror every time a starving Palestinian child tries to get food and is blown to pieces, but still alive, briefly, to witness the cries of his mother. It’s horror every time a child holds the dead face of hi...