So, a few years back, my husband and I scanned a ton of old slides for my parents. We watched as each tray-full revealed painfully young, gangly versions of the people I call Mom and Dad. We saw faraway places (my dad did a stint in the Navy during the Korean War), we saw nattily dressed youngsters who turned out to be elderly aunts and uncles and family friends, and we marveled at how America had gotten a lot more big and full of itself in the past twenty or thirty years. It was a sentimental journey because we knew some of the travelers. It was nostalgic. It was mostly fun and light.
More recently, we scanned a bunch of slides for some of my parents' neighbors. They, too, are family friends, but not quite on the same level of familiarity as many of that first bunch of images we handled years ago. To add heft to the occasion, these slides were being scanned for an upcoming sober family occasion, when family was gathering around a very ill, fading member. These films were full of many strangers, at least to me. Over and over, I popped the slim cardboard squares into position, hit some buttons, and waited while the pictures contained therein were magically transformed into digital images. The act was performed quickly, because the task was somewhat urgent, and yet I found myself staring at the pictures that appeared on my computer screen. Children, dressed in past clothing styles, sporting old-fashioned hair cuts; yards and homes now mostly gone, or changed beyond recognition. People in a small town, riding ponies on the street (my goodness, when was the last time you saw that around these parts?) Men working on and posing with their cars, showing off, hamming it up for the camera. Women in swimsuits and pretty dresses, smiling at the viewfinder.
My husband and I scanned slide after slide, marveling at the likely correct assumption that many of the featured faces had departed this earth, that the children we studied in the pictures were now older than we are. We grew quiet and thoughtful. At one point, he turned to me and said, "What do you want out of life? What do you want to accomplish?"
And I lazily replied, "I don't know." I didn't want to think about it, the impermanence of my time here, the fact that we are all just passing through. Even as a believer, even while I consider myself a citizen of Heaven, I still want my time here on this little blue planet to matter. I don't want to end up a 2-D image so removed from this moment that it seems fictional. What do I want to do? To be? To accomplish?
I still don't know. I should probably say that I want to lead others to our Creator, and I do. Is that enough? Does any of it really matter? We're just blips on a radar, really. Dust. Not to God, but to this world. It's a sobering thought, yet also refreshing in the same way that realizing no one is watching my show was liberating. We're all going to be pictures on a screen someday, and likely not the Big Screen that many in this media-saturated culture are shooting for.
Let's just live, and be kind, and give our best, and bite back the things that maim others. Ours is but a fleeting moment on Earth, after all. A snapshot, if you will.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Kids and creeks
Water and children—they go together like peas and carrots.
The home where I grew up had a seasonal stream in the back yard, small and friendly, that flowed down from a natural spring on the hill behind the yard. My parents still live in that same house; we go southward to visit them, and once there, I often end up losing track of my young son. When I seek him? Inevitably, I locate the kid hunkered down on the edges of that little creek; it still flows there when rains are plentiful.
He has to keep his balance because it's a deep-set trickle, with a grassy slope on either side that descends to the tinkling sparkle. Sometimes he has found a rock to settle on, and sometimes he's just folded his legs on themselves; I find him gazing at the water's bright surface, listening and watching the flow. More often, though, he is hard at work on some small, strange, water-related task: giving an ant a ride on a leaf boat, or building a waterfall, or trying to create a dam for the tiny swimmers in the water. It's very serious work, this water world re-design; I am reminded of a quote by kid expert Maria Montessori, about how "play is the work of the child." It is absolute truth to me, as I watch my little dude build, excavate, place and replace rock ledges, set various insects adrift, toss in sticks to see them float, and rock back on his haunches with satisfaction as he directs the diminutive cascade in his desired direction.
I remember doing the same thing at his age, even when I was older. I could sit by that water and lose myself in the musical sound, in the endless flow to points known and unknown. Toys made their way to the creek, visiting children got muddy there and loved it, and even my fashionable, wasp-waisted Barbie dolls took a few wild rafting rides after heavy storms.
I watch my son staring in that running water, how the sun reflected on its surface also makes light dance across his serious yet delighted face; the creek is alive, still drawing life to it after all these years.
The home where I grew up had a seasonal stream in the back yard, small and friendly, that flowed down from a natural spring on the hill behind the yard. My parents still live in that same house; we go southward to visit them, and once there, I often end up losing track of my young son. When I seek him? Inevitably, I locate the kid hunkered down on the edges of that little creek; it still flows there when rains are plentiful.
He has to keep his balance because it's a deep-set trickle, with a grassy slope on either side that descends to the tinkling sparkle. Sometimes he has found a rock to settle on, and sometimes he's just folded his legs on themselves; I find him gazing at the water's bright surface, listening and watching the flow. More often, though, he is hard at work on some small, strange, water-related task: giving an ant a ride on a leaf boat, or building a waterfall, or trying to create a dam for the tiny swimmers in the water. It's very serious work, this water world re-design; I am reminded of a quote by kid expert Maria Montessori, about how "play is the work of the child." It is absolute truth to me, as I watch my little dude build, excavate, place and replace rock ledges, set various insects adrift, toss in sticks to see them float, and rock back on his haunches with satisfaction as he directs the diminutive cascade in his desired direction.
I remember doing the same thing at his age, even when I was older. I could sit by that water and lose myself in the musical sound, in the endless flow to points known and unknown. Toys made their way to the creek, visiting children got muddy there and loved it, and even my fashionable, wasp-waisted Barbie dolls took a few wild rafting rides after heavy storms.
I watch my son staring in that running water, how the sun reflected on its surface also makes light dance across his serious yet delighted face; the creek is alive, still drawing life to it after all these years.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Piney*
A rare, quiet, calm Saturday morning—a chance to ponder one of God's amazing gifts:
Heavy, pink, with sweet perfume
Must be the wondrous peony bloom,
My very favorite petal bearer.
Its heady, old-world scent steals out
To every ant that lurks about
And lures them to that flower fair.
They try to peek in, as do I—
When will its brilliance greet the sky?
We watch, wait on appointed time,
And then, a pale magenta shade!
The very sight for which I'd prayed:
I lean in close, inhale—it's fine.
*My mom tells me this was the preferred pronunciation of my grandmother. She loved them, too.
Heavy, pink, with sweet perfume
Must be the wondrous peony bloom,
My very favorite petal bearer.
Its heady, old-world scent steals out
To every ant that lurks about
And lures them to that flower fair.
They try to peek in, as do I—
When will its brilliance greet the sky?
We watch, wait on appointed time,
And then, a pale magenta shade!
The very sight for which I'd prayed:
I lean in close, inhale—it's fine.
*My mom tells me this was the preferred pronunciation of my grandmother. She loved them, too.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Art, and life
So. I love female cardinals, and this little gal was so alert. She looked sort of like a gossip, not necessarily a mean-spirited type, but the bird who simply loves to share news of the neighborhood. Our pal Tom takes the best photos; this image was inspired from one of his beautiful works. It's for sale in the Etsy shop.
In unrelated news, my little guy is getting big. Filling out, solid limbs, visible muscle definition in legs now... It's freaking me out. As most parents do in times such as these, I suppose, I am recalling with fondness and nostalgia (and teary eyes) memories from his very early childhood.
One thing that we talk about frequently is the boy's discovery that most people have more than one eye. We were teaching him body parts, pointing to nose, mouth, ears, and eyes. We'd point to the feature, say the name, do it again, ask him to repeat us--you know the drill. At one point, after we'd done this several times in as many days, my sweet child was showing his new awareness to his father. "Daddee, eye." He pointed to his dad's eyeball, bringing the stubby finger close but not poking him (sometimes that happened). Then all of a sudden, the kid looked in amazement at my husband's entire face, and apparently it was the first holistic study he'd done. He said, with awe and amazement, "Daddee, two eyes!"
We still laugh about it to this day.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
A heaping helping of stuffing balls and nostalgia
When I was a teen, Thanksgiving took place at Ma-Ma's home.
Ma-Ma was my paternal grandmother. She shared a gigantic second-floor apartment in my home town, living there until the end of her life with her youngest son and, for awhile, his son—her oldest grandson. The place had to be nearly 3,000 square feet. It had tall ceilings, and a ridiculous staircase at both the front and back entrances (where both doors sported multiple locks, always securely locked). Running down one side of the length of the place was a spacious but dark hallway that could easily have been divided into three or four decent-sized rooms; off this hall there were several bedrooms, and a bath, with another half-bath accessible from the dining room. A cheerful sun porch faced the back parking lot, crammed from top to bottom with the bulk of Ma-Ma's bounteous plant collection. Anchoring the other end of the place was a huge living room complete with decorative fireplace. The living room conveniently faced the street, so you could sit in Ma-Ma's favorite rocker by the middle window—if you were lucky enough to land such a prime seat—and there you could watch the comings and goings of the entire town. You could look up the hill to a nearby park, to the college campus housed there, or you could look down the street toward the middle of Main Street (High Street, as it is named in that small town).
When we arrived, others were almost always there already—aunts, uncles, cousins of various ages, all wandering to and fro and getting in the way at times. The turkey was roasting, the potatoes were being mashed to perfection, the corn pudding and green bean casserole were warming somewhere safe... and the stuffing balls were likely being fussed over by my grandmother. Generously portioned, not too wet and not too dry, she formed them all by hand, and they were never baked to perfection inside a bird's carcass! Absolutely not. They were wonderfully browned on cookie sheets, I think. She was always very concerned about their safety, or at least that's what I recall. Would they dry out? Become too hard? We didn't want to bat them in a sports event, we wanted to savor their crispy-tender wonder. The stuffing balls must be protected. The gravy was very important, too; it was another delicate delight to be nurtured and watched.
The dining room in that apartment was grand, right out of the 20s I suppose, with beautiful woodwork, double glass-paned doors leading in from the grand hallway, and my grandmother's table in the center of the room as its stupendous crowning glory. I seem to remember that the big wooden table was always pulled out to its full length, even when the holidays were done. The room was large, the table almost as large, and we filled it and still required a kids' table; I think that was a card table at the end of the room opposite those swinging double doors.
When the meal was ready, we all took plates and filled them, or had help filling them in the case of little ones. We sat, we usually remembered to say a grace and ponder the things we felt thankful about having, and then we ate like the hungry, fragrance-teased people we were. The food was always fabulous. The whole experience was loud, confusing, a bit crowded, and immense fun.
When the meal was done and the kids long gone from the room, the adults lingered, eating more, talking more. I think I lingered most of the time, perhaps realizing even in my spoiled youth that these were precious moments, that some day I would be penning a memory as I am right now. Talk of family, of the people in town, of political developments, all swirled around the warm room. And then, everyone gathered dishes and carried them to the kitchen, and the great food preservation and dish-washing events began in earnest.
I do remember being expected to help wash or dry dishes. I think I usually dried, probably not yet trusted in my girlish giddiness to handle Ma-Ma's pretty China when fully submerged in soapy suds. I don't recall us ever breaking into song or anything, but the mood even while we worked was festive and upbeat. I've never minded getting up and doing something immediately after a big meal, so the clean-up was a welcome chance to move around and remain standing instead of folding my stuffed belly into a soft chair. (That still just impedes my digestion, truly.)
Then it would all be done, or at least the main meal. Maybe we delayed the pies; I really can't remember. I feel as if we held off on desserts and enjoyed them a bit later, after people had squeezed in a rest. When everyone had eaten, that vast living room was like a morgue, bodies everywhere, the couch and recliner always occupied but also large portions of the floor; people everywhere were flung in the half-joyful, half-suffering poses of the gorged. The room was never silent, though; that was the decade of MTV's birth, those early days when the station actually played music videos. My lucky grandmother had a cable subscription, something that we country folk couldn't even fathom, and a day at Ma-Ma's was one of my only chances to absorb as many videos as possible. I never napped, but I did jockey for a position on the floor in front of the television, so I could stretch out on my stomach and gaze, in my overfed stupor, at the musical mindlessness before me.
Now, I am about the same age that my aunts and uncles were at that gathering. Now, my child is small, and my nieces and nephews are teens and young adults. Now, that apartment is inhabited by someone else. My parents are the grandparents. MTV has become something unrecognizable; indeed, much of this culture is unrecognizable to me—strange and empty. Ungrounded. Shallow.
I am realizing, in my old age, that there are scenes and people that you will never stop missing.
Happy belated Thanksgiving. Remember it all, cherish it. Take photos. Write it down. It will fade, and change, and then suddenly it will be part of the past.
Ma-Ma was my paternal grandmother. She shared a gigantic second-floor apartment in my home town, living there until the end of her life with her youngest son and, for awhile, his son—her oldest grandson. The place had to be nearly 3,000 square feet. It had tall ceilings, and a ridiculous staircase at both the front and back entrances (where both doors sported multiple locks, always securely locked). Running down one side of the length of the place was a spacious but dark hallway that could easily have been divided into three or four decent-sized rooms; off this hall there were several bedrooms, and a bath, with another half-bath accessible from the dining room. A cheerful sun porch faced the back parking lot, crammed from top to bottom with the bulk of Ma-Ma's bounteous plant collection. Anchoring the other end of the place was a huge living room complete with decorative fireplace. The living room conveniently faced the street, so you could sit in Ma-Ma's favorite rocker by the middle window—if you were lucky enough to land such a prime seat—and there you could watch the comings and goings of the entire town. You could look up the hill to a nearby park, to the college campus housed there, or you could look down the street toward the middle of Main Street (High Street, as it is named in that small town).
When we arrived, others were almost always there already—aunts, uncles, cousins of various ages, all wandering to and fro and getting in the way at times. The turkey was roasting, the potatoes were being mashed to perfection, the corn pudding and green bean casserole were warming somewhere safe... and the stuffing balls were likely being fussed over by my grandmother. Generously portioned, not too wet and not too dry, she formed them all by hand, and they were never baked to perfection inside a bird's carcass! Absolutely not. They were wonderfully browned on cookie sheets, I think. She was always very concerned about their safety, or at least that's what I recall. Would they dry out? Become too hard? We didn't want to bat them in a sports event, we wanted to savor their crispy-tender wonder. The stuffing balls must be protected. The gravy was very important, too; it was another delicate delight to be nurtured and watched.
The dining room in that apartment was grand, right out of the 20s I suppose, with beautiful woodwork, double glass-paned doors leading in from the grand hallway, and my grandmother's table in the center of the room as its stupendous crowning glory. I seem to remember that the big wooden table was always pulled out to its full length, even when the holidays were done. The room was large, the table almost as large, and we filled it and still required a kids' table; I think that was a card table at the end of the room opposite those swinging double doors.
When the meal was ready, we all took plates and filled them, or had help filling them in the case of little ones. We sat, we usually remembered to say a grace and ponder the things we felt thankful about having, and then we ate like the hungry, fragrance-teased people we were. The food was always fabulous. The whole experience was loud, confusing, a bit crowded, and immense fun.
When the meal was done and the kids long gone from the room, the adults lingered, eating more, talking more. I think I lingered most of the time, perhaps realizing even in my spoiled youth that these were precious moments, that some day I would be penning a memory as I am right now. Talk of family, of the people in town, of political developments, all swirled around the warm room. And then, everyone gathered dishes and carried them to the kitchen, and the great food preservation and dish-washing events began in earnest.
I do remember being expected to help wash or dry dishes. I think I usually dried, probably not yet trusted in my girlish giddiness to handle Ma-Ma's pretty China when fully submerged in soapy suds. I don't recall us ever breaking into song or anything, but the mood even while we worked was festive and upbeat. I've never minded getting up and doing something immediately after a big meal, so the clean-up was a welcome chance to move around and remain standing instead of folding my stuffed belly into a soft chair. (That still just impedes my digestion, truly.)
Then it would all be done, or at least the main meal. Maybe we delayed the pies; I really can't remember. I feel as if we held off on desserts and enjoyed them a bit later, after people had squeezed in a rest. When everyone had eaten, that vast living room was like a morgue, bodies everywhere, the couch and recliner always occupied but also large portions of the floor; people everywhere were flung in the half-joyful, half-suffering poses of the gorged. The room was never silent, though; that was the decade of MTV's birth, those early days when the station actually played music videos. My lucky grandmother had a cable subscription, something that we country folk couldn't even fathom, and a day at Ma-Ma's was one of my only chances to absorb as many videos as possible. I never napped, but I did jockey for a position on the floor in front of the television, so I could stretch out on my stomach and gaze, in my overfed stupor, at the musical mindlessness before me.
Now, I am about the same age that my aunts and uncles were at that gathering. Now, my child is small, and my nieces and nephews are teens and young adults. Now, that apartment is inhabited by someone else. My parents are the grandparents. MTV has become something unrecognizable; indeed, much of this culture is unrecognizable to me—strange and empty. Ungrounded. Shallow.
I am realizing, in my old age, that there are scenes and people that you will never stop missing.
Happy belated Thanksgiving. Remember it all, cherish it. Take photos. Write it down. It will fade, and change, and then suddenly it will be part of the past.
Monday, June 13, 2011
A "felt" melmoir
I've been absent from the internet for several days, not because I chose to step away, and not because my child and our hectic summer schedule kept me from writing... Nope. I was absent because Verizon stinks. I really can't say quite enough bad things about them right now. I will tell the entire frustrating story some other time, when it's less fresh and I am less tempted to write bad words in this family-friendly venue, but OH will I tell it. V is going D O W N .
This little anecdote, however, has nothing to do with poor customer service or the sad, isolated, out-of-touch existence that has been mine of late. This has to do with pool.
Not the pool. Just pool. As in pool table.
At one point in my youth, I believe when I was in middle school, my parents came to the decision that we could use a pool table in our dining room.
I still can't quite believe this happened, looking back. Right there. In our dining room. In lieu of a dining table. Granted, we never used the dining table except when we had company—meals were always eaten at the kitchen table—but still. I am truly surprised that my mother agreed to it. We must have obtained the table for a steal or for free, and I believe its presence preceded the spacious, old wooden table and chairs that now adorn the dining room. But I am still shocked when I recall the large, green felt reality of that big ol' table.
It was odd, being able to stroll into your own dining room and break up the set. Most of the sticks were frankly too long to use effectively in the room, as I recall; depending on the location of the ball, there was often not enough space to really take the shot properly because the back of your stick banged into the wall behind it. But it mattered not: I was a shrimp, the youngest, and I preferred the short, wimpy stick. I think we all fought over that stick when the shot really mattered, because it was the only stick guaranteed to fit inside the available space.
At any time, my sisters and I could wander in and chalk a stick, break, and start whacking balls into holes. I distinctly remember one snowy day when the morning dawned impassable and school was canceled, but by mid-day it was quite harmless. Family friends of ours came over with their two sons, and we spent the afternoon smacking the cue into stripes and solids alike, having a rip-roaring good time as the frigid wind blew outside. It was a blast. I don't recall being very good, but I was definitely a better pool player then than I am now. If we'd kept the table, I might have actually started applying logic; perhaps geometry could have been useful for something.
Alas, the pool table was a short-lived phenomenon at our home. Perhaps my mother finally demanded that it go. Perhaps my father grew weary of the endless cracking sounds that emanated from the heart of our home. Maybe, just maybe, the novelty wore off and we needed another table to set papers on. For whatever reason, without too much argument as I can recall, the table went away and was replaced by a more appropriate, far more boring table. It's odd; I recall neither the installation of nor the removal of the pool table, even though the room in which it dwelt was not large and the doorways to and from quite narrow and unforgiving. It must have been a battle getting it into and out of there, but in my mind, the table just appeared. And then disappeared. It's funny what a mind chooses to remember.
Oh, well. Just another quirky snapshot from my past. Have any of those yourself?
This little anecdote, however, has nothing to do with poor customer service or the sad, isolated, out-of-touch existence that has been mine of late. This has to do with pool.
Not the pool. Just pool. As in pool table.
At one point in my youth, I believe when I was in middle school, my parents came to the decision that we could use a pool table in our dining room.
I still can't quite believe this happened, looking back. Right there. In our dining room. In lieu of a dining table. Granted, we never used the dining table except when we had company—meals were always eaten at the kitchen table—but still. I am truly surprised that my mother agreed to it. We must have obtained the table for a steal or for free, and I believe its presence preceded the spacious, old wooden table and chairs that now adorn the dining room. But I am still shocked when I recall the large, green felt reality of that big ol' table.
It was odd, being able to stroll into your own dining room and break up the set. Most of the sticks were frankly too long to use effectively in the room, as I recall; depending on the location of the ball, there was often not enough space to really take the shot properly because the back of your stick banged into the wall behind it. But it mattered not: I was a shrimp, the youngest, and I preferred the short, wimpy stick. I think we all fought over that stick when the shot really mattered, because it was the only stick guaranteed to fit inside the available space.
At any time, my sisters and I could wander in and chalk a stick, break, and start whacking balls into holes. I distinctly remember one snowy day when the morning dawned impassable and school was canceled, but by mid-day it was quite harmless. Family friends of ours came over with their two sons, and we spent the afternoon smacking the cue into stripes and solids alike, having a rip-roaring good time as the frigid wind blew outside. It was a blast. I don't recall being very good, but I was definitely a better pool player then than I am now. If we'd kept the table, I might have actually started applying logic; perhaps geometry could have been useful for something.
Alas, the pool table was a short-lived phenomenon at our home. Perhaps my mother finally demanded that it go. Perhaps my father grew weary of the endless cracking sounds that emanated from the heart of our home. Maybe, just maybe, the novelty wore off and we needed another table to set papers on. For whatever reason, without too much argument as I can recall, the table went away and was replaced by a more appropriate, far more boring table. It's odd; I recall neither the installation of nor the removal of the pool table, even though the room in which it dwelt was not large and the doorways to and from quite narrow and unforgiving. It must have been a battle getting it into and out of there, but in my mind, the table just appeared. And then disappeared. It's funny what a mind chooses to remember.
Oh, well. Just another quirky snapshot from my past. Have any of those yourself?
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Swingin'
My childhood swing was so simplistic, so very elemental in design, that at first glance it was almost insulting to kids who'd frequented playgrounds and fancy backyard sets. Merely a huge, long strand of woven white synthetic-fiber rope about as thick as a peeled banana, hanging from a tree that happened to perch on the top of a downward slope—that's all it was. There wasn't even a seat, just a large, hand-tied loop at the bottom. To sit in that loop for long was painful; when sporting bare summer legs, one had to keep the rope placed securely underneath the seat of one's shorts or risk severe rope-burn.
Many of my friends looked utterly unimpressed when I'd hurry them out to the swing. "Come on, we'll play on the rope swing!" I'd holler. They'd survey the boring thing with undisguised ennui. And then? I'd show them the ropes, so to speak. I'd do a few practice swings out over that steep precipice, demonstrating the wonders of the rope, how a running start was essential; I'd hurl myself into space and spin madly, all while dangling over the small, grassy cliff that ended in our garden far below. Then, my friend would be hooked. She had to try it. All children did, boys too—family friends, neighbor kids, every one was eager to give the swing a "whirl" after witnessing the awesome acrobatic possibilities hidden therein.
You see, it wasn't just a frontwards/backwards swing. Because of the tree's strategic location by that hillside, and because of the length of the rope and my father's safely hanging it far from the tree base, the arc of the swing covered a huge amount of space. A determined child could start on one side of the tree, some distance from the trunk, and then swing out and away from the hillside's edge before landing clear on the other side of the tree. (That poor tree. It's still there today, and it seems to be making a comeback, but for years the thing looked pitiful and sickly, its roots exposed by hundreds of footsteps pounding across, a permanent scar in the large branch that held the knotted rope through my youth and beyond. Talk about a giving tree...)
At one point, a looooooooong time ago, I distinctly recall managing eight spins as I flew from one side of the tree to the other. That was only after I'd bashed into the tree many times, of course; sticking the landing was quite challenging, especially since the ground was roughed up and uneven and you were usually coming out of dizzying rotation as you attempted to find the earth unseen with your feet.
I couldn't tell you the hours I spent under that tree. What memories: spinning on the swing, lazily riding it out over the garden, climbing the tree, falling out of the tree, watching my sisters try stunts, watching one sister fall gracelessly into the garden when the rope gave way one day without notice... Ah, such fun—especially when injuries are involved. (No worries: my sis and I both came out of our experiences without a broken bone or internal bleeding.)
I learn, more and more, that commonplace pleasures are the finest; the joys they bring are irreplaceable. I'll never remember playing a computer game with the same fondness that I recall hanging onto that rope and flinging my body around the shady boundaries of that old maple. Swinging ropes, Play-doh, crayons, sandboxes, blocks, and the more grown-up versions of those pastimes will always rule in my world.
Many of my friends looked utterly unimpressed when I'd hurry them out to the swing. "Come on, we'll play on the rope swing!" I'd holler. They'd survey the boring thing with undisguised ennui. And then? I'd show them the ropes, so to speak. I'd do a few practice swings out over that steep precipice, demonstrating the wonders of the rope, how a running start was essential; I'd hurl myself into space and spin madly, all while dangling over the small, grassy cliff that ended in our garden far below. Then, my friend would be hooked. She had to try it. All children did, boys too—family friends, neighbor kids, every one was eager to give the swing a "whirl" after witnessing the awesome acrobatic possibilities hidden therein.
You see, it wasn't just a frontwards/backwards swing. Because of the tree's strategic location by that hillside, and because of the length of the rope and my father's safely hanging it far from the tree base, the arc of the swing covered a huge amount of space. A determined child could start on one side of the tree, some distance from the trunk, and then swing out and away from the hillside's edge before landing clear on the other side of the tree. (That poor tree. It's still there today, and it seems to be making a comeback, but for years the thing looked pitiful and sickly, its roots exposed by hundreds of footsteps pounding across, a permanent scar in the large branch that held the knotted rope through my youth and beyond. Talk about a giving tree...)
At one point, a looooooooong time ago, I distinctly recall managing eight spins as I flew from one side of the tree to the other. That was only after I'd bashed into the tree many times, of course; sticking the landing was quite challenging, especially since the ground was roughed up and uneven and you were usually coming out of dizzying rotation as you attempted to find the earth unseen with your feet.
I couldn't tell you the hours I spent under that tree. What memories: spinning on the swing, lazily riding it out over the garden, climbing the tree, falling out of the tree, watching my sisters try stunts, watching one sister fall gracelessly into the garden when the rope gave way one day without notice... Ah, such fun—especially when injuries are involved. (No worries: my sis and I both came out of our experiences without a broken bone or internal bleeding.)
I learn, more and more, that commonplace pleasures are the finest; the joys they bring are irreplaceable. I'll never remember playing a computer game with the same fondness that I recall hanging onto that rope and flinging my body around the shady boundaries of that old maple. Swinging ropes, Play-doh, crayons, sandboxes, blocks, and the more grown-up versions of those pastimes will always rule in my world.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Stupid human tricks
Ahhhh, youth.
Foolish youthfulness.
The very silly state that led me, some 20 years ago, to stand teetering on the edge of a bridge, looking down in doubt and trepidation.
No worries, it's not the way it sounds. I dated an ass through most of my college years, but he never drove me to jumping, truly. I'll start at the very beginning--a very good place to start, if I recall correctly the lyrics of a certain song.
Around 20 years ago, I found myself spending a blissful summer in the small, sleepy town of my undergrad alma mater. I had an apartment that I needed to hold for one more school year, and I had a part-time, work-study job that would morph into almost full-time if I wanted to keep working for June, July, and August.
I did want that. I wanted so much to spend my last carefree summer, that pivotal season between my junior and senior years of college, relaxing and seeing friends and reading novels in my own shabby little backyard. The apartment would just be sitting there anyway. I hadn't any really promising aspects of jobs elsewhere. And it was my last chance, as I saw it, to really kick back and just enjoy life. The pressure was not yet on, but it would be soon. This was a great, possibly final, opportunity to be a slacker student. And I wouldn't really even be a student, since I was the only one I knew who wouldn't be taking classes—I didn't need to. I would just work, and then I would play.
The center of all play time that summer, as it is every summer in that town, was the lovely river. It flowed slowly and gently through valley north of town, not even a mile down the hill from my humble rental. I could bike to it easily in 3 or 4 minutes. (Going up the hill afterward? Not so easy. Sigh.) A typical day looked like this: get up early, bike to work, work for most of the day, finish up mid-afternoon, bike home, take off work clothes and put on bathing suit and cutoffs, and scurry down the long slope with a soda and sunscreen in a little tote bag. Destination? The Rock.
As much as I rushed, I was never the first brown body to hit the Rock. This rock was huge, a slab of sandstone or shale or something native; it was impressed into and parallel with the slope of a hill leading down to the river's edge. The giant rock clung to the incline, embedded into it and yet still seeming to float upon the surface. It was relatively smooth and tilted at a navigable angle, not a perfect surface but quite serviceable for holding several blankets and towels and a bevy of young people. The more timid folks stayed near the top, where the rock was more flat; the braver souls traipsed further down, closer to the water's edge, where the slope of the thing became more steep and treacherous. Wrong steps here resulted in splashes and curses, scrapes on shins and the like. (I stayed near the top, unless I planned to sit on the edge and dangle feet in the water--always a bit nerve-wracking, since snakes also loved that spot.)
To reach this rock, however, you had to ride across a big, new bridge. The old bridge had been a converted railroad bridge, I believe, and was a giant black metal contraption; it had been dynamited into oblivion a year or two before this particular summer. Now, only the new bridge stood to accommodate all traffic, and the sides on it were low and concrete. The safety railings, if you could call them that, were concrete barriers not more than 3 1/2 feet high. The barriers didn't accomplish much if someone were driving out of control; in the short time I studied there, a beer truck careened off the thing and spilled its entire load into the dark waters. Students are probably still diving for the famed lost kegs to this day.
Anyway. When a couple of stupid kids, some of whom may or may not have imbibed a foamy substance, decide to jump from those concrete barriers, it's highly likely that other kids will see them and follow suit.
Normally, not me. I'm a wimp. I'm feeble. I'm the one who didn't even brave the steep lower part of the big rock, remember? And yet. It genuinely looked fun, watching those others fling themselves off the side. Every one of them came up fine. Most of them went into the water pretty cleanly, feet first, some with arms straight down and others with arms stretched overhead. They all made it look so appealing. And I wasn't tipsy, I was perfectly aware of what I was doing. I was tired of being feeble. By golly, I was going to jump off that bridge into the river.
I walked up to the road, began the long trip to the preferred (supposedly proven safe) jumping spot. Already, I was questioning my decision, my own sanity, the wisdom or lack thereof. But my feet kept taking steps, because others were watching now, and my image was on the line. I'd said to friends moments ago that I was going to jump; I honestly didn't have the nerve to turn around.
Then, I reached the spot. By now, I felt ill. I must have been temporarily insane to even think this deed. I couldn't do it. I simply could not. Yet, there I stood, and some others who were coming back for repeat jumps gave me a hand climbing up on the side. I balanced atop the concrete guardrail, looking down into that unforgiving green water, wondering what awaited beneath the surface. Tree roots that would catch my foot and not let go? A wrecked car or boat from years before, rusted into sharp, jagged edges that would tear my flesh? A nasty creature of some kind, slimy and hungry? Well, I knew that last fear was a bit unfounded, but still... it crossed my fear-addled mind.
I took a breath, listened to the others who'd made jumps as they advised me to keep my feet down, hold my nose if I didn't want a blast of river water in my head, and then--I jumped. I did it.
It took forever to reach the surface. The bridge can't be more than 30 feet above the water, but it felt like much more. I had time to ponder what the impact would feel like, to realize that my feet were trying to creep out to the side as I fell, to try to hold tighter to my nose, to wonder how ridiculous I looked in my clumsy descent...and then WHAM.
People, I wish I could say I entered the water with grace, like an arrow. I did not. I slapped the back side of one leg so hard I thought I would cry. I plunged down, down, deeper than I'd thought I would, and I dared to open my eyes and saw only murky yellowish water all around me. I had to kick up to the surface because I was running out of air. (My lung capacity stinks.) And then, eyes streaming, lungs anxious, I burst into sunshine and gasped a fresh breath.
One of the kids on the bridge must have heard the slap, and realized I was in pain. He asked me if I was okay. Of course, I covered effectively. I was fine, I said. And really, I was, when I considered all the things that might have happened to me, undertaking such a completely mindless attempt. I swam to the side, climbed out, returned to the rock sore but mildly triumphant. Of course, after all my bravery, my friends had become distracted and no one had even been watching my leap. Which was actually a relief, since it had been such a thing of ugliness. And the day went on just as if my act of stupidity had never happened.
Except for the gigantic blue-black bruise that formed on my leg, and stayed there for weeks before turning green, then yellow, then disappearing. I'm lucky I didn't do worse damage, in hindsight.
I never leapt from the bridge again. Not that bridge, nor any other. I've never again tried such a stunt.
I returned to that town a few years ago, drove past the rock and across the bridge, rolling alongside those concrete barriers. It didn't seem so scary at all, from a car; that bridge seemed quite friendly and low-slung. But I don't have to remind myself that the view is quite different when you're standing up on those sides, looking down. If I ever try that again, it'll likely be caused by a life-threatening thing ON the bridge, rushing toward me. I'm hoping that doesn't happen.
Foolish youthfulness.
The very silly state that led me, some 20 years ago, to stand teetering on the edge of a bridge, looking down in doubt and trepidation.
No worries, it's not the way it sounds. I dated an ass through most of my college years, but he never drove me to jumping, truly. I'll start at the very beginning--a very good place to start, if I recall correctly the lyrics of a certain song.
Around 20 years ago, I found myself spending a blissful summer in the small, sleepy town of my undergrad alma mater. I had an apartment that I needed to hold for one more school year, and I had a part-time, work-study job that would morph into almost full-time if I wanted to keep working for June, July, and August.
I did want that. I wanted so much to spend my last carefree summer, that pivotal season between my junior and senior years of college, relaxing and seeing friends and reading novels in my own shabby little backyard. The apartment would just be sitting there anyway. I hadn't any really promising aspects of jobs elsewhere. And it was my last chance, as I saw it, to really kick back and just enjoy life. The pressure was not yet on, but it would be soon. This was a great, possibly final, opportunity to be a slacker student. And I wouldn't really even be a student, since I was the only one I knew who wouldn't be taking classes—I didn't need to. I would just work, and then I would play.
The center of all play time that summer, as it is every summer in that town, was the lovely river. It flowed slowly and gently through valley north of town, not even a mile down the hill from my humble rental. I could bike to it easily in 3 or 4 minutes. (Going up the hill afterward? Not so easy. Sigh.) A typical day looked like this: get up early, bike to work, work for most of the day, finish up mid-afternoon, bike home, take off work clothes and put on bathing suit and cutoffs, and scurry down the long slope with a soda and sunscreen in a little tote bag. Destination? The Rock.
As much as I rushed, I was never the first brown body to hit the Rock. This rock was huge, a slab of sandstone or shale or something native; it was impressed into and parallel with the slope of a hill leading down to the river's edge. The giant rock clung to the incline, embedded into it and yet still seeming to float upon the surface. It was relatively smooth and tilted at a navigable angle, not a perfect surface but quite serviceable for holding several blankets and towels and a bevy of young people. The more timid folks stayed near the top, where the rock was more flat; the braver souls traipsed further down, closer to the water's edge, where the slope of the thing became more steep and treacherous. Wrong steps here resulted in splashes and curses, scrapes on shins and the like. (I stayed near the top, unless I planned to sit on the edge and dangle feet in the water--always a bit nerve-wracking, since snakes also loved that spot.)
To reach this rock, however, you had to ride across a big, new bridge. The old bridge had been a converted railroad bridge, I believe, and was a giant black metal contraption; it had been dynamited into oblivion a year or two before this particular summer. Now, only the new bridge stood to accommodate all traffic, and the sides on it were low and concrete. The safety railings, if you could call them that, were concrete barriers not more than 3 1/2 feet high. The barriers didn't accomplish much if someone were driving out of control; in the short time I studied there, a beer truck careened off the thing and spilled its entire load into the dark waters. Students are probably still diving for the famed lost kegs to this day.
Anyway. When a couple of stupid kids, some of whom may or may not have imbibed a foamy substance, decide to jump from those concrete barriers, it's highly likely that other kids will see them and follow suit.
Normally, not me. I'm a wimp. I'm feeble. I'm the one who didn't even brave the steep lower part of the big rock, remember? And yet. It genuinely looked fun, watching those others fling themselves off the side. Every one of them came up fine. Most of them went into the water pretty cleanly, feet first, some with arms straight down and others with arms stretched overhead. They all made it look so appealing. And I wasn't tipsy, I was perfectly aware of what I was doing. I was tired of being feeble. By golly, I was going to jump off that bridge into the river.
I walked up to the road, began the long trip to the preferred (supposedly proven safe) jumping spot. Already, I was questioning my decision, my own sanity, the wisdom or lack thereof. But my feet kept taking steps, because others were watching now, and my image was on the line. I'd said to friends moments ago that I was going to jump; I honestly didn't have the nerve to turn around.
Then, I reached the spot. By now, I felt ill. I must have been temporarily insane to even think this deed. I couldn't do it. I simply could not. Yet, there I stood, and some others who were coming back for repeat jumps gave me a hand climbing up on the side. I balanced atop the concrete guardrail, looking down into that unforgiving green water, wondering what awaited beneath the surface. Tree roots that would catch my foot and not let go? A wrecked car or boat from years before, rusted into sharp, jagged edges that would tear my flesh? A nasty creature of some kind, slimy and hungry? Well, I knew that last fear was a bit unfounded, but still... it crossed my fear-addled mind.
I took a breath, listened to the others who'd made jumps as they advised me to keep my feet down, hold my nose if I didn't want a blast of river water in my head, and then--I jumped. I did it.
It took forever to reach the surface. The bridge can't be more than 30 feet above the water, but it felt like much more. I had time to ponder what the impact would feel like, to realize that my feet were trying to creep out to the side as I fell, to try to hold tighter to my nose, to wonder how ridiculous I looked in my clumsy descent...and then WHAM.
People, I wish I could say I entered the water with grace, like an arrow. I did not. I slapped the back side of one leg so hard I thought I would cry. I plunged down, down, deeper than I'd thought I would, and I dared to open my eyes and saw only murky yellowish water all around me. I had to kick up to the surface because I was running out of air. (My lung capacity stinks.) And then, eyes streaming, lungs anxious, I burst into sunshine and gasped a fresh breath.
One of the kids on the bridge must have heard the slap, and realized I was in pain. He asked me if I was okay. Of course, I covered effectively. I was fine, I said. And really, I was, when I considered all the things that might have happened to me, undertaking such a completely mindless attempt. I swam to the side, climbed out, returned to the rock sore but mildly triumphant. Of course, after all my bravery, my friends had become distracted and no one had even been watching my leap. Which was actually a relief, since it had been such a thing of ugliness. And the day went on just as if my act of stupidity had never happened.
Except for the gigantic blue-black bruise that formed on my leg, and stayed there for weeks before turning green, then yellow, then disappearing. I'm lucky I didn't do worse damage, in hindsight.
I never leapt from the bridge again. Not that bridge, nor any other. I've never again tried such a stunt.
I returned to that town a few years ago, drove past the rock and across the bridge, rolling alongside those concrete barriers. It didn't seem so scary at all, from a car; that bridge seemed quite friendly and low-slung. But I don't have to remind myself that the view is quite different when you're standing up on those sides, looking down. If I ever try that again, it'll likely be caused by a life-threatening thing ON the bridge, rushing toward me. I'm hoping that doesn't happen.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Spring fever recall
Today, I stole a few minutes and reminisced.
My sweet boy and I were outside, minus one fishing Daddy, and we'd been blessed with some unexpected sunshine on a rainy-forecast kind of day. Marcus was playing contentedly in his sodden sandbox, and I moved a patio chair into the sun's rays and sank blissfully into it; I leaned my head back against the top of the chair, and I allowed my eyes to close and my mind to wander.
I'd applied sunscreen earlier today, so that beachy, oily scent wafted up from my own skin as I daydreamed. With that smell, with the warmth of our loving, fire-spitting orb, I thought back to all my sun-loving moments. In a second, I am on the roof of the chicken house at my parents' home with some girlfriends, a heavier coconut scent hanging over us as we try to entice rays onto our pasty winter flesh. A radio plays songs of the hour, and we discuss recently purchased swimsuits for our band trip to Florida, and venture into the premature discussion of prom dresses. The heat of the tin roof blurs my line of vision when I look across it at my nearly naked gal-pal neighbor.
Wait, now I'm in college and we're all on a weedy hill across the road from our dorm, stretched out on blankets and baking our whiteness in the first ultraviolet evidence of spring. This time I recall the exact music: Def Leppard's Hysteria. Remember that one? We are singing along, feeling so hip and cool, talking profs and parties and plans for summer.
Suddenly, I'm a teacher in a high school classroom, and the windows are open for the first time in months and butterflies are fluttering by them and my students are asking, begging: Please, can we go outside for class today? And I tell them, Yes, of course. It's a sin to be inside today. Let's have our sustained silent reading in the school yard. We all troop outside, books in hand, and some of the books will actually be enjoyed by the light of our kind star; other volumes will be held as cover in front of sleepy, dreamy faces that simply absorb and worship. I pretend not to notice either way because, honestly, I will be the latter.
And now I'm a student again, having left my summer class in a rush to hurry to the warm, wondrous beach at Lake Erie. The waves wash ashore, again and again and again, wiping away the horror of the school year, the stifling discussions of authors and styles that take place in graduate English classrooms. I watch the clouds, the water lapping at my feet, I take a cold sip and speak aloud to myself just to hear the words swept away with such absolute insignificance that I am reassured of and by my own smallness.
Then, I'm in one of many apartment yards; I have scurried home at lunchtime from my office job, and I'm sitting in a folding lawn chair, fish-belly flesh exposed, trying to proofread check codes for a catalog while I love love love the sun streaming down on me. The breeze is warm, the birds provide the soundtrack, and I doze before glancing at my watch and rushing inside to don again the garb of professionalism. Such a silly, pointless performance except for the need of income.
Ah, the sun. Provider of warmth, of rays, origin of photosynthesis, encourager of defeated, winter-dead bodies. It has been, and will be, an ever-present wonder for me as long as I grace this globe.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
At the meadow
Christmas memories are always littered with the same mental images for me: crowds of people at my parents' home, the tree in the same corner because that's where it fits best, bags of presents stacked under and around it, my grandma "bellied up" to the dining room table, declaring with nearly every large bite that she just doesn't have much of an appetite any more... But for some reason, one Christmas Day stands out more clearly than the rest.
It was an unseasonably warm day, probably in the 60s, clear and mildly sunny. (I was probably in upper elementary school, perhaps 5th or 6th grade; I'm not sure, and it really doesn't matter.) We'd opened all the gifts hours before, had sifted through them multiple times, tried on the clothes, played with the toys, snacked on unhealthy cookies until we were all half sick. And someone had the idea that we should walk to the meadow.
What is the meadow? It is exactly as it sounds, a vast expanse of verdant lushness that sits high atop the hills behind my parents' house. We walked to it a couple of times each year, as I recall, perhaps not quite so often. Mid- to late-spring was the best time to go. It was a bit of a hike, and as summer progressed, the climb took more and more patience and stamina because of the seasonal (and yearly) increase of weeds and scrubby shrubs on the hillside. The path was steep, not even really defined; the effort required that you avoid the grabbing undergrowth, face-slapping branches, and sticky burrs. Lastly, you crossed a dilapidated barbed-wire fence and walked along the side of the hill on a rudimentary road of sorts.
Even when the road ended and you'd gotten to the top, saw the green stretching out before you and thought you'd arrived, you still had some walking to do in order to reach the crest of the highest rounded peak. You trudged along, tired, probably scratched from briars, thirsty if you hadn't remembered to bring some water (I don't recall ever doing so because we knew we could steal a drink from the natural spring on the way back down). You walked some more. You kept your eye on the prize.
Then, you were there. The tip. The pinnacle. The zenith. Boy, was it worth all the trouble.
All the way into the little town you gazed, and you were looking down on the world. There were neighbors' cottages tucked away, more crowded neighborhoods farther away, the big red brick hospital... I think we could even see aspects of the nearby coal mines. You stood atop the world, looking down on creation as the song goes, and you heard nothing. Only the breeze, sometimes rather brisk because you were out of the valley at last. It was heady, to say the least. The descent was more leisurely, of course, being downward-sloping and broken by a cold stream of spring water that spurted from an overflow pipe next to our reservoir.
And that Christmas Day hike was no different. I think I remember it so clearly because it is the only time I recall making the hike in the "off" season. The climb was less taxing because nothing was growing. The view, although more brown, was no less spectacular; in fact, we could see even more of the miniature world that lay far below. There we were, at the end of December, with our light jackets tied around our waists, standing in peace and surrounded by balmy openness. It was as if we'd carried the joy of the day with us, carried it all the way into a misplaced breath of spring. It drifted up from us like a kite, buoyed by light winds and our good spirits, dancing overhead.
Truly a Christmas to cherish.
It was an unseasonably warm day, probably in the 60s, clear and mildly sunny. (I was probably in upper elementary school, perhaps 5th or 6th grade; I'm not sure, and it really doesn't matter.) We'd opened all the gifts hours before, had sifted through them multiple times, tried on the clothes, played with the toys, snacked on unhealthy cookies until we were all half sick. And someone had the idea that we should walk to the meadow.
What is the meadow? It is exactly as it sounds, a vast expanse of verdant lushness that sits high atop the hills behind my parents' house. We walked to it a couple of times each year, as I recall, perhaps not quite so often. Mid- to late-spring was the best time to go. It was a bit of a hike, and as summer progressed, the climb took more and more patience and stamina because of the seasonal (and yearly) increase of weeds and scrubby shrubs on the hillside. The path was steep, not even really defined; the effort required that you avoid the grabbing undergrowth, face-slapping branches, and sticky burrs. Lastly, you crossed a dilapidated barbed-wire fence and walked along the side of the hill on a rudimentary road of sorts.
Even when the road ended and you'd gotten to the top, saw the green stretching out before you and thought you'd arrived, you still had some walking to do in order to reach the crest of the highest rounded peak. You trudged along, tired, probably scratched from briars, thirsty if you hadn't remembered to bring some water (I don't recall ever doing so because we knew we could steal a drink from the natural spring on the way back down). You walked some more. You kept your eye on the prize.
Then, you were there. The tip. The pinnacle. The zenith. Boy, was it worth all the trouble.
All the way into the little town you gazed, and you were looking down on the world. There were neighbors' cottages tucked away, more crowded neighborhoods farther away, the big red brick hospital... I think we could even see aspects of the nearby coal mines. You stood atop the world, looking down on creation as the song goes, and you heard nothing. Only the breeze, sometimes rather brisk because you were out of the valley at last. It was heady, to say the least. The descent was more leisurely, of course, being downward-sloping and broken by a cold stream of spring water that spurted from an overflow pipe next to our reservoir.
And that Christmas Day hike was no different. I think I remember it so clearly because it is the only time I recall making the hike in the "off" season. The climb was less taxing because nothing was growing. The view, although more brown, was no less spectacular; in fact, we could see even more of the miniature world that lay far below. There we were, at the end of December, with our light jackets tied around our waists, standing in peace and surrounded by balmy openness. It was as if we'd carried the joy of the day with us, carried it all the way into a misplaced breath of spring. It drifted up from us like a kite, buoyed by light winds and our good spirits, dancing overhead.
Truly a Christmas to cherish.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Snap, snap
The next-to-last post was officially my 200th on this blog. I missed the momentous occasion, was probably job-searching somewhere and didn't notice the normally note-worthy anniversary. Hence this post, a real, live "melmoir" about—of course—summer.
**********
Summer at my childhood home involved so much wonder and delight. Even picking ticks off each other after a cross-country trek counted as an exciting activity. (The fat, blood-filled ones were the most horrifying and fascinating.) The season seemed to last forever, especially when I was in grade school. One of my fondest memories is napping on my Ma-Ma's old cot, a fold-up metal style with a faded green plaid pattern. I can recall several occasions when I lay upon the cool mesh material, looked up at the dappled sunlight streaming through the tall maple trees, watched the patterns change as a breeze shifted the branches... and woke an hour or so later, befuddled and sporting an odd little pattern on my cheek from the surface of the makeshift bed.
I hoed my big toe once, helping in the garden. That was fun. I had my own little hoe, smaller than all the rest, and I wanted to contribute to the family gardening effort, so I began hacking at the weeds between rows just like my parents and sisters were doing... and then ouch. There was blood, which immediately necessitated a generous application of merthiolate. Does anyone else recall that awful stuff? My father received it for free from his employer, and it was the healing agent of choice at our home. Have a cut or a scrape? Break out the merthiolate! It stained your skin fluorescent orange, and it hurt so much your eyeballs popped a bit. Ours came in tiny double-walled capsules with a cotton swab on one end; you'd break the inner tube, thus releasing the stinging orange compound onto the cotton, where it leaked through to painfully penetrate your injury.
Alas, I digress. I was supposed to be remembering pleasantries. The one that stays with me most clearly is snapping beans. Sure, we shucked corn and threw the husks over the fence for the ponies, and that was fun. And we picked zukes and cukes and tomatoes; even as a child, I loved throwing back a few sun-warmed cherry tomatoes fresh from the vine. But the green beans were an event. We'd descend to the garden, buckets in tow, and pick the beans until we couldn't carry more. Then, up to the patio we'd go.
The patio at our home was, at that time, uncovered; it faced the back yard (and still does), a partly shaded haven looking up at a verdant, tree-covered hillside. We'd sit on metal lawn chairs, big empty pots within tossing distance, and we'd pick the green beans out of our buckets and snap them in preparation for cooking. Snapping beans takes a bit of practice: you have to learn to snap off only the pointy ends, no more, and then break the remaining length of bean into bite-sizes pieces. The trickiest part is keeping the pots straight—one is for finished bean pieces, the other for the discards. My mom was the pro; I watched her sure fingers fly through bean after bean while I struggled with my first. Practice made me better, but I could never touch her for speed and accuracy—she worked quickly and capably, and her bean portions were measured and always went where they should. My older sisters were faster than I was, too. Eventually I caught up, but truth be told, only in the past couple of years have I even come close.
When I snap green beans nowadays, the experience transports me. I am suddenly a child again, with that dappled sun streaming down, the ponies watching curiously from behind shaggy manes, various cats and dogs hanging around us, the fresh green aroma, the bean juice on my fingertips. I'm watching my mom's and sisters' buckets, and trying to keep up; cars are passing out of sight with a whooshing sound, and birds are singing. I snap, and I remember. And when the snapping is done, I'll cook the beans in a big red pot, the very same red pot in fact, with a hunk of pork for salty flavor.
There are some things that a recession just can't take away. I pray you will be similarly transported soon.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
The passing of old red
We parted with a table today. A funny old red table, straight out of the 50s or thereabouts, and some chairs as well. We inherited the set indirectly with the purchase of our current home, and a home can only hold so many tables… After some discussion, we decided to sell old red.
I tried to find it a good home; I looked around online for any furniture resale possibilities, and after much fruitless searching, I was hopeful we could unload it with a hip retro-only furniture shop in nearby Homestead. Although the owners found our table quite charming, they had a surplus of such stock and had to say No, thank you. They assured me that we’d find a home for it. I doubted them.
Well, those retro-store gals knew of what they spoke. I finally gave in and listed the set on craigslist. (Why do I bother with any other resale forum? Honestly?) I called it a retro 50s dinette, attached a few photos, wrote a quirky description detailing its good looks, its sturdy and dependable nature, its everlasting style and steadfast appeal…and waited without much expectation.
Lo and behold, within 12 hours I had four intensely interested potential buyers. All female, all willing to buy it on the spot. Only one asked if I’d come down in price; all the rest offered what we’d listed. One wanted to pick it up immediately, still another later in the day, and one poor, doomed latecomer couldn’t take a look until tomorrow…
Needless to say, the table is gone from our lives, less than 24 hours after posting the sale. I am really, really sorry I didn’t charge more money. Mostly, I am amazed at the power of nostalgia. What made all those ladies so desperate for such an item? The woman who successfully bagged the table told me she’d been searching for one and had missed out on a few because they sell so quickly. It reminded her, she said, “of her grandmother’s.” We’d heard that before, from just about anyone who’d ever glimpsed the table in our basement. But what makes that memory so precious? It’s a table, an old, somewhat scarred piece of furniture. It’s not hand-carved of rare wood by Grandpa, it’s not one of a kind, it was probably never an expensive item even when brand new. Yet now, it’s a coveted piece of memorabilia, a sought-after treasure. Why?
I wondered, as the woman and her son-in-law carted the table out of our home and into his truck, just what delighted her so—and she was visibly delighted, smiling and with a spring in her step as she talked aloud about where she’d put it. I wondered if, sitting at that table in her grandmother’s kitchen, this woman had first learned to make cookies. Perhaps they’d shared secrets, told family stories. Perhaps this table was like the one where her family had gathered for holiday meals.
Or maybe it wasn’t the memories of what happened at the table that make her happy; perhaps instead it’s the memories of her own self at such a table that are sweet. Perhaps at a table like old red, this woman had dreamed of all she would be, had wondered about her future husband, had planned her life’s successes and milestones. At such a table, she might have flipped her hair and displayed such cocky self-assurance that she almost convinced herself it was real.
It could be that all those women miss the world that surrounded that table when it was new—a world full of promise, a world where the facts of life were still fuzzy and able to be rewritten. Perhaps that softer, gentler world hadn’t yet established that life isn’t fair, that sometimes the bad guy wins, that even your own heart can be broken. Perhaps at that table when it was new, it was impossible to believe that there are people who are mean, people who hurt children and animals and old folks. There might have been an innocence that was nurtured at a table like this—an innocence that has since been dashed, many times.
For whatever reason, old red spoke to some fellow ‘burghers. Nostalgia in the form of a dining set swept through a few homes; a mere photo was all it took to bring memories sweeping back. Those memories must have been good, or at least bittersweet—an aroma from the past, appealing and heady and almost without equal in the world of marketing.
And now, old red moves onto a new life.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
A great-full day
Well, since the last post was such a controversial topic, I think I’ll go with something a little less touchy this time—maybe politics? Ha ha ha. Kidding. I told you this wasn’t that kind of site.
I’ll go with something safe: Thanksgiving memories. They’ve changed dramatically over the years. When I was a kid, we often went to my paternal grandma’s for the meal. Ma-Ma made her famous stuffing balls, I think we usually brought green bean casserole and corn pudding, the ladies fussed over the turkey as it roasted for hours, and I enjoyed what at that time was the highlight of my holiday: exposure to MTV. My grandmother had it, since she resided in a huge apartment in town, while we lived in the country and had far fewer channels. We tweens and teens would gather in the living room, eyes glued to the screen to catch the latest videos (yes, there actually used to be videos on MTV) and then we’d go stuff ourselves, help clean up, and retire to the living room for more viewing, this time in a semi-comatose state.
When I moved out to go to college, Thanksgiving became a time of sleep, eating real food, and doing laundry. The main meal still happened at my grandma’s, occasionally at my great aunt’s, and my sister brought the first great grandchild into the mix—my nephew Tim. Although, I can’t recall him being there every time, because they lived in Washington, D.C. and the trip (especially with a small child) was probably no picnic.
Years passed, more of my nieces and another nephew followed, and Thanksgiving morphed into a hair-raising trip from the great white north, where I was teaching school. Most years I waited until the big morning to drive home, partly because the traffic was light, and partly because then I could get together with friends the night before the big trip. I can remember a few sunrise journeys where I gripped the steering wheel, stealing frightened glances at my predecessors who’d gone a bit too fast and had slid into no-man’s land in the middle of opposing highway lanes. There the abandoned cars sat, station wagons, little foreign death traps, even some SUVs and trucks, all stranded and helpless on that strip of frosted green. One year was especially bad, and I recall counting 13 cars in a relatively short stretch of what must have been black ice the night before. I don’t miss those drives. Thanksgiving was especially sobering because you knew, with growing certainty at each passing mile, that it was just a warm-up for the real hell to follow: the Christmas commute.
Then I moved back to southwestern PA, and a short time later met Todd. Thanksgivings became a very busy time, gathering with multiple family branches in a 2- or 3-day span. I remember the first time I attended his YiaYia’s Thanksgiving meal, because it was the first time I’d tasted spanakopita and grape leaves. I believe I dropped a grape leaf on the floor, the kind of thing you are wont to do in a gathering of strangers whom you want very much to impress. Alas, they did not kick me out of the meal and here I am, years later, now a member of the family. We ate at Todd’s mom’s and at my parents’ home; nowadays, my sister and her husband usually host the meal for my side of the family.
One year was extra-special because Todd had proposed just a few weeks before. Another year stands out because we’d just purchased and moved into our first house. And a few short years ago, I remember being pregnant with my sweet little guy on Thanksgiving. It’s a good thing I really pigged out when I could; little did I know I’d be counting carbs and pricking my fingers for glucose tests in years to come…
And this year? I’m sitting in my own home, inhaling the delectable scent of turkey that roasts upstairs in my very own oven. We’ve watched some of the big Thanksgiving Day Parade, have built amazing things with Duplos, have basted, have played with cars, have basted again, etc. It’s been nice to just chill—especially since my son puked on me three times in one day earlier this week. Yep, stomach flu. It’s clearing up now, and he actually ate something other than saltines and kept it down today—hurray! So, it’s a real blessing that we opted to dine in this year. (Can anything affect your appetite more adversely than being on the receiving end of partially digested food offerings? I think not.)
Hope the turkey turns out great for every household reading this. I truly pray that we can all feel genuinely appreciative of the many blessings we enjoy every day. Life’s too short to live ungratefully.
And perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a few days, we’ll break out the Christmas music here in our home. Perhaps.
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