It was early evening. I was very little, shorter than the small desk tucked in the corner of the kitchen that was home the rotary phone. I remember looking up at it as my grandmother spoke on the phone.
I wanted my mother. More like...needed her.
My grandmother had told me she couldn't be there right now. I recall thinking she was sick, or busy, and I understood that in an itellectual way...but I wanted her, in a very primal way. I felt cut off, and I wanted my mother. She was warmth, and safety, and snuggles, and home. As much as I liked my grandmother, it just wasn't the same.
I remember speaking to her on the phone. I think. Or maybe my grandmother spoke to my father. Either way, I knew that the phone was a connection to my mother, and it made me want her more.
I had noticed my mother getting larger, but it made her comfortable. A lot like curling up and laying on a giant, squishy stuffed toy. I liked it.
So now she was busy, unavailable, and I would have to wait. And I didn't like it at all.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
"Say When"
My grandfather loved a good joke. He had wonderful sense of humor, and enjoyed playing around with us kids.
One of his favorite tricks to play?
I would ask for a glass of juice. Or milk in my cereal. I loved the cereal they had...it was some kind of oat or bran in the shape of little 'O's, but I would call it dog food because that's what it looked like to me. So he would pour the milk, and instruct me to "say when" it was full enough.
There'd be that mischievous twinkle in his eye, and his lip would try to twist up despite his attempts to keep a straight face.
"That's enough!"
The milk would get dangerously close to the top of the bowl.
"That's plenty!"
The milk would spill out of the bowl on the kitchen table.
"Stooooop!!"
And still he'd pour. Why? I hadn't said "when."
One of his favorite tricks to play?
I would ask for a glass of juice. Or milk in my cereal. I loved the cereal they had...it was some kind of oat or bran in the shape of little 'O's, but I would call it dog food because that's what it looked like to me. So he would pour the milk, and instruct me to "say when" it was full enough.
There'd be that mischievous twinkle in his eye, and his lip would try to twist up despite his attempts to keep a straight face.
"That's enough!"
The milk would get dangerously close to the top of the bowl.
"That's plenty!"
The milk would spill out of the bowl on the kitchen table.
"Stooooop!!"
And still he'd pour. Why? I hadn't said "when."
One Summer, A Hospital Visit
My mother had gone over seas for eight weeks--not, in fact, two months, as I had corrected my grandmother when she spoke to the checkout lady at the grocery store. To keep my brother and I busy, and less of a hassle for my grandmother, a number of activities had been planned for the entire time.
Except my grandfather had a stroke.
He was in the hospital for months, and every afternoon, my grandmother would call us in from playing outside, and we would get cleaned up to go see him.
I adored seeing my grandfather, but hated going to the hospital. It smelled of obscure chemicals and unwashed people. The creepy quiet was only intermittently interrupted by the squeak of rubbery nursing shoes or the beep of machinery. And everything was too bright.
One particular afternoon, I whined to my grandmother that I didn't want to go. Of course I did, I wanted to see my grandfather, but going to the hospital knotted up my stomach and made me anxious in ways I didn't understand.
My grandmother was an easygoing woman, but this drew a sharp response from her. We were going. My grandfather was sick and lonely. How would I like it if I were all alone all day in the hospital? Wouldn't I want someone to come see me?
So I went and got changed. I felt guilty for having complained about it, when I knew deep down that he enjoyed having us visit. I didn't yet understand that it was my own fear of seeing him in that state that caused my anxiety.
Except my grandfather had a stroke.
He was in the hospital for months, and every afternoon, my grandmother would call us in from playing outside, and we would get cleaned up to go see him.
I adored seeing my grandfather, but hated going to the hospital. It smelled of obscure chemicals and unwashed people. The creepy quiet was only intermittently interrupted by the squeak of rubbery nursing shoes or the beep of machinery. And everything was too bright.
One particular afternoon, I whined to my grandmother that I didn't want to go. Of course I did, I wanted to see my grandfather, but going to the hospital knotted up my stomach and made me anxious in ways I didn't understand.
My grandmother was an easygoing woman, but this drew a sharp response from her. We were going. My grandfather was sick and lonely. How would I like it if I were all alone all day in the hospital? Wouldn't I want someone to come see me?
So I went and got changed. I felt guilty for having complained about it, when I knew deep down that he enjoyed having us visit. I didn't yet understand that it was my own fear of seeing him in that state that caused my anxiety.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Cards and Unconditional Love
It was during that intermediate period of my grandfather's health, where it had started to decline and he was relatively inactive, but yet he was still alert, at home, but able to still get up some on his own.
I was playing a card game with my grandfather. He was laying on his back on the old green davenport in the living room, and I sat on me knees on the floor beside him. At one point I remember him telling me his chest hurt, which worried me, as I knew his heart issues were a serious matter. I remember how his veins bulged out from his thin arms, dark purple and soft to the touch. I remember how the skin hung loosely down, wrinkled, and marked with large random dark splotches. I remember the rise and fall of his chest, and the white t-shirt he had on.
At the time, I thought I had been terribly clever, surreptitiously (so I believed) sneaking into the hallway closet to stack the deck, so that when I dealt it out for us to play War, we'd continue to match cards over and over. He'd lay down a 3...and...surprise, so would I! I would giggle and act like it was some kind of wondrous coincidence. He would lay down a jack, and so would I. He would lay down a 5, and so would I. The cards would pile up, so high they would tip over, until suddenly I would draw some card much higher than his, and claim the whole stash.
I remember having fits of uncontrollable laughter, and he would just smile, and nod, until at some point I asked him if he were having fun. "No," his genuine reply was. I was startled. I had believed that he must be having fun--otherwise, why play at all? And in my confusion, he explained to me...he thought the game of War was boring, he didn't like it at all, but I liked it, and he knew it would make me happy, so he played even though he didn't really want to.
This was a new idea for me. It tumbled over and over in my young mind, and sank in at a deep level. My grandfather had just gently introduced me to the idea of doing something for someone else, simply because it was important to the other person. It's an idea I still try to take to heart, and I appreciate my grandfather introducing it to me.
I was playing a card game with my grandfather. He was laying on his back on the old green davenport in the living room, and I sat on me knees on the floor beside him. At one point I remember him telling me his chest hurt, which worried me, as I knew his heart issues were a serious matter. I remember how his veins bulged out from his thin arms, dark purple and soft to the touch. I remember how the skin hung loosely down, wrinkled, and marked with large random dark splotches. I remember the rise and fall of his chest, and the white t-shirt he had on.
At the time, I thought I had been terribly clever, surreptitiously (so I believed) sneaking into the hallway closet to stack the deck, so that when I dealt it out for us to play War, we'd continue to match cards over and over. He'd lay down a 3...and...surprise, so would I! I would giggle and act like it was some kind of wondrous coincidence. He would lay down a jack, and so would I. He would lay down a 5, and so would I. The cards would pile up, so high they would tip over, until suddenly I would draw some card much higher than his, and claim the whole stash.
I remember having fits of uncontrollable laughter, and he would just smile, and nod, until at some point I asked him if he were having fun. "No," his genuine reply was. I was startled. I had believed that he must be having fun--otherwise, why play at all? And in my confusion, he explained to me...he thought the game of War was boring, he didn't like it at all, but I liked it, and he knew it would make me happy, so he played even though he didn't really want to.
This was a new idea for me. It tumbled over and over in my young mind, and sank in at a deep level. My grandfather had just gently introduced me to the idea of doing something for someone else, simply because it was important to the other person. It's an idea I still try to take to heart, and I appreciate my grandfather introducing it to me.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Most Mundane of Things (A Memory Evoked)
"Well, get down on the floor and roll then!"
It was his usual response when I would ask for rolls.
These, of course, were not just any rolls. They were my grandmother's fabulous, irresistible, famous, cinnamon rolls. I was a picky eater as a child (and not much has changed as an adult), and the kind to eat around any sort of edge and insist that the crust be cut off my toast. But with mammaw's rolls...well, the ends were a delicacy all their own. Extra masses of the cinnamon gooey goodness would settle at the ends of the pan, and so the end slices then had an extra helping of the crunchy sweet cinnamon goop on them. And I loved it.
Making the rolls was a process. It involved massive preparation, completely taking over the kitchen with pans and bowls and wax paper. She had it down to a technique, and I remember watching in fascination as my mother participated in the ritual on one occasion. Rolls in various stages of the process were strewn around every inch of the table and counter. There was dough in bowls, dough being dipped into butter, dough rolled and twisted, dough in pans, and a few pans in the oven. She would hum to herself, or chatter on with my mom, as they made huge trays of rolls. The event easily engulfed the whole day, and once done, she had trays upon trays that would be taken down to the deep freeze in the basement. Then, on a special occasion...a pitch in at church, Christmas, or even us just spending the night...she would dig out a tray, pop it in the oven, and we'd wait impatiently for them to be ready.
So, at breakfast time, I knew there would be rolls. I laughed at my grandfather's response. He laughed at my laughter.
Decades and two thousand miles away, it's been a long time since that moment. Small knicknacks, a few treasured pieces of kitsch, came along the ride with me from my grandmother's farmhouse. But sometimes it's the most seemingly ordinary of things that can stir a memory.
A fork, an item for daily mundane use, unexceptional except for a bit of detailing at the base. For some reason the etching always reminded me of vines or flowers, but close inspection has lead me to think the design was instead intended as a leaf. This particular set of silverware was always my favorite as a child--and I would insist on using one of these forks when having a cinnamon roll. I can recall one time all of them were dirty, and being disappointed at having to use a fork from a different set. Now, when I hold one in my hand, for just a moment, I am reminded of those cinnamon rolls. The smell wafting from the oven, the crunch of the outside quickly followed a sweet softness, my grandmother humming softly, a pitch in at the church near my grandmother's house...all drift rapidly through my mind. It's a simple thing, really just a fork, but in a way that's what makes it's effect so profound--that such a commonplace item so easily evokes such a deep memory inside me.
It was his usual response when I would ask for rolls.
These, of course, were not just any rolls. They were my grandmother's fabulous, irresistible, famous, cinnamon rolls. I was a picky eater as a child (and not much has changed as an adult), and the kind to eat around any sort of edge and insist that the crust be cut off my toast. But with mammaw's rolls...well, the ends were a delicacy all their own. Extra masses of the cinnamon gooey goodness would settle at the ends of the pan, and so the end slices then had an extra helping of the crunchy sweet cinnamon goop on them. And I loved it.
Making the rolls was a process. It involved massive preparation, completely taking over the kitchen with pans and bowls and wax paper. She had it down to a technique, and I remember watching in fascination as my mother participated in the ritual on one occasion. Rolls in various stages of the process were strewn around every inch of the table and counter. There was dough in bowls, dough being dipped into butter, dough rolled and twisted, dough in pans, and a few pans in the oven. She would hum to herself, or chatter on with my mom, as they made huge trays of rolls. The event easily engulfed the whole day, and once done, she had trays upon trays that would be taken down to the deep freeze in the basement. Then, on a special occasion...a pitch in at church, Christmas, or even us just spending the night...she would dig out a tray, pop it in the oven, and we'd wait impatiently for them to be ready.
So, at breakfast time, I knew there would be rolls. I laughed at my grandfather's response. He laughed at my laughter.
Decades and two thousand miles away, it's been a long time since that moment. Small knicknacks, a few treasured pieces of kitsch, came along the ride with me from my grandmother's farmhouse. But sometimes it's the most seemingly ordinary of things that can stir a memory.
A fork, an item for daily mundane use, unexceptional except for a bit of detailing at the base. For some reason the etching always reminded me of vines or flowers, but close inspection has lead me to think the design was instead intended as a leaf. This particular set of silverware was always my favorite as a child--and I would insist on using one of these forks when having a cinnamon roll. I can recall one time all of them were dirty, and being disappointed at having to use a fork from a different set. Now, when I hold one in my hand, for just a moment, I am reminded of those cinnamon rolls. The smell wafting from the oven, the crunch of the outside quickly followed a sweet softness, my grandmother humming softly, a pitch in at the church near my grandmother's house...all drift rapidly through my mind. It's a simple thing, really just a fork, but in a way that's what makes it's effect so profound--that such a commonplace item so easily evokes such a deep memory inside me.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Murder Mysteries
Both of my grandparents had a favorite chair. In my grandmother's case, it was an old cream faux-leather rocker. I distinctly remember it squeaking when she'd move lazily back and forth in it. Often she would sit in the chair while knitting, humming to herself. The chair was old enough that it had cracked right down the middle of the seat--and my grandmother had "repaired" it by taking cream yarn to stitch the hole mostly closed.
I remember spending time at my grandmother's house...it must have been a week or so one time. Maybe in the summer time. We had thumbed through the TV Guide picking out all the murder mysteries that would be on that week. My grandmother was a fan of Murder, She Wrote, but there were others we would watch together. Late at night we'd watch the mysteries, and I had taken to sitting upside down in the chair, my legs leaned up against the back of it, my head on the floor, watching the movie of the evening. I think this is where my fascination for a good murder mystery comes from.
I remember spending time at my grandmother's house...it must have been a week or so one time. Maybe in the summer time. We had thumbed through the TV Guide picking out all the murder mysteries that would be on that week. My grandmother was a fan of Murder, She Wrote, but there were others we would watch together. Late at night we'd watch the mysteries, and I had taken to sitting upside down in the chair, my legs leaned up against the back of it, my head on the floor, watching the movie of the evening. I think this is where my fascination for a good murder mystery comes from.
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