Tag Archives: Essay about an event

Deadlines

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            Over forty years ago a good friend taught me how to make various flowers for decorating cakes. Hers were always perfect: mine not so much. What made it special was working side-by-side as she demonstrated, then talked me through it.

            After every session I’d go home with containers of different kinds and different colors of flowers, plus tips and bags and even spare icing so I could make some more. When my kids’ birthdays arrived, I experimented with cartoon characters, truck shapes, and even a swimming pool since our older son was doing well on his swim team.

            From a distance, my flowers and vines and leaves looked pretty good. Only someone like my friend, who was quite talented, would see the flaws.

            My younger sister had been in and out of quite a few relationships. She’d married one older man, but he was looking for in-house babysitting. After a few months, that marriage ended.

            There was a second marriage to a seemingly nice guy, but apparently when no one was around he was violent and abusive. That marriage also fell apart, and for good reasons.

            By the time she married for the third time, I was pretty experienced at cake decorating. My mom volunteered my services, at no cost, of course. My family failed to tell me what flavor of cake and filling, nor what color scheme for flowers. Or even if there were to be flowers.

            The only instruction I had was to make a three-tiered cake. I thought that was interesting, as my parents had few friends and no relatives other than myself and my brother lived nearby.

            A week before the ceremony, I baked the three cake layers. Once they had cooled, I covered them and stored them in the freezer, as my friend had taught me to do.

            At that time, my kids were in elementary school, plus I was teaching part time. So, in between my real job and caring for my family, I spent evenings making flower after flower. Since I had no idea how many I’d need, I made tons.

            Two days before the wedding I removed the cakes from the freezer to thaw in the refrigerator.

            I made a buttercream frosting, white, then stored it in the fridge as well.

            The day before I covered each layer with the frosting, making sure the middle layers were thick.

            I covered the bottom layer with green vines and leaves. I stacked on the second layer and covered it with vines and leaves, then did the same with the third.

            I still had tons to do and was panicking about not finishing in time, when someone knocked on my door. I was expecting company, so I was surprised, and truthfully, annoyed, to see my pastor on the front step.

            He claimed he was dropping by for “a visit.” As he’s talking, I’m trying to listen, but mentally all I’m seeing are the ticking hands of a clock.

            He finally got to the real point of his visit. I’d half-heartedly applied to be on the new-to-be-formed Parish Council. I really didn’t want the position, but church friends thought I was a good candidate.

            He said that I wasn’t a “good candidate” and that I wasn’t approved. I thanked him, then stood and headed toward the front door. Of course he followed, talking all the way, piling on one excuse after another.

            Truth be told, I was relieved even though it hurt to be rejected.

The most important thing, at the point in my day, was to get him out of the house so I could finish the cake before I had to pick up my kids from school.

I might have been a bit rude, but he’d made his point. It should have been obvious that I had an unfinished cake on the dining room table. How could you miss a three-layer cake?

I was up against a deadline.

As soon as he stepped out of the door, I told him goodbye, shut and locked the door, then returned to work.

It wasn’t until after dinner that the cake was complete. To me, it looked pretty good. I had used the best flowers which I arranged in a pleasing design. A happy couple was imbedded in the top layer.

It wasn’t my responsibility to get it to the reception, which was important as I had no intention of going.

The most important details were complete: a finished cake sat on the table, and despite my fears, it looked beautiful.

I never heard from my sister if she was pleased, but that’s another story.

Missing Gift

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            We didn’t have a lot of money when our family was growing up. We’d skimp and save in order to replace a broken washer, or purchase off-brand foods that were usually bits and pieces of canned fruit, broken noodles, dented cans. We only bought what was essential and always, always on sale.

            When our oldest son was about to graduate from eighth grade, we thought he should have a reliable watch to see him through high school. I checked every ad, looking for the best deal on a good watch.

            I finally found one during the pre-Christmas sales. It wasn’t too expensive, it was a well-known brand, and better yet, it was on sale at a price we could afford.

            My husband entertained the kids while I supposedly went out shopping. In actuality, I snuck around the side of the house, past a large sliding glass door, then crawled in through a window in our bedroom. I had to stay completely silent, so no radio blaring, and keeping the cutting of wrapping paper and the application of scotch tape as quiet as possible.

            We heated the house with a wood-burning stove in the family room instead of using the furnace, so it was quite cold in the bedroom. I wore a heavy coat, stocking cap, and long-sleeved sweatshirts.

            At the end of a specified period of time, I’d hide the gifts in our closets, climb out through the window, slink around the side of the house and open the garage door. I’d always have packages to carry in, items I’d left in the trunk of the car for just that purpose.

            After the kids had fallen asleep, my husband and I carried all the wrapped gifts out from our bedroom and place them under the tree.

            According to tradition, the kids couldn’t get out of bed until my husband went into the front room, turned on all the lights and pronounced that Santa had been there.

            With a great amount of shrieking and laughter, we gathered around our tree and opened gifts, one-by-one. Mounds of wrapping paper were soon all over the floor, accompanied by ribbons and bows, all of which we’d recycle for next year.

            I kept track, and all gifts but one were accounted for: the watch.

            As the kids built Lego structures or played with new toys, I scoured the house, searching through all my usual hiding spots. The watch was nowhere to be found.

            There was one possible place left, one that I didn’t cherish searching: the large garbage can outside.

            This event took place before formal state-wide recycling took place, which meant that everything would be in the can! Food scraps, greasy food coverings, tin cans, crumpled aluminum foil, newspapers, and even lawn cuttings.

            I put on a pair of my husband’s yard gloves and began sorting, moving things one way, then the other, alternating sides, digging deeper and deeper into the much.

            My heart was pounding, harder and harder, as disappointment took over. I wasn’t going to find the watch, our son wouldn’t have a nice gift to take him into the future.

            Imagine my relief when the rectangular box finally appeared!

            And it was unsoiled, a true miracle.

            I tucked it under my sweatshirt and carried it inside and down the hall. I hastily wrapped it, then hid it behind the tree when no one was looking.

            When our son discovered it, unwrapped it, opened the box, his face lit up!

Walking in Water

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            About ten years ago, rains pounded almost the entire state in what was called a major storm cycle.

            Winds blew down entire trees, blocking roads and bringing down power lines. Branches landed on top of cars, breaking windows, and on roofs, punching huge holes that demolished buildings. Mushy leaves formed a slippery mush and tiny sticks littered the ground.

            It was a great time to stay indoors, but for someone like me, that’s a virtual impossibility. Come rain or shine I go to the gym, usually five days a week, taking time off to hike with a friend or walk the neighborhood with my husband, weather permitting.

            November turned cold and dark skies gave off an eerie gloom.

            We hadn’t seen our youngest son in a long, long time, so when he invited us to drive up to Eureka to visit, we eagerly agreed to go.

            A few days prior to leaving, I headed off to the gym. Our driveway has a slight slant to it, nothing worrisome. But because I knew how slippery it could be, I carefully chose where to plant my feet.

            I did pretty good. Had almost made it to the trunk of my car, when down I went. My right ankle popped, but because I couldn’t sit out there in the rain, I got up and limped back inside. I truly thought it was a slight sprain, so I elevated and iced.

            As the evening progressed, the pain didn’t lesson and it began swelling.

            After dinner, I decided it was time to go to the ER, convinced nothing was broken. Foolishly I walked into the hospital when my husband could have parked under the portico, found a wheelchair, parked the truck, then pushed me inside. But no, I chose to walk across the parking lot, which was quite a distance to the doors.

            As soon as I told the clerk what had happened, she told someone to bring me a wheelchair. The ER, for some reason, wasn’t busy, so within about ten minutes I was rolled inside.

            X-rays showed a fracture close to the ankle. The doctors discussed whether or not I needed surgery, to insert a metal rod into my leg.

            While all this was happening, I lay on a gurney in a hall, on my stomach, with my leg bent, keeping my ankle elevated.

            The swelling was so severe that a cast could not be put on. Instead they wrapped my leg, from my knee down to around my foot, in a thick pad of cotton. I was given crutches, which I’ve never been able to use, and sent home.

            The following week I was to return for x-rays and a cast.

            And I was instructed to stay home.

            No way. Not when a child we seldom get to see invites us. I was going to Arcata, and that was that.

            It rained the entire six-hour trip. When we stopped for lunch and for the restroom, I hobbled as best I could, trying to keep the “cast” from getting wet.

            By the time we parked in front of our son’s house, the gutter was a quick-moving stream.

            My husband’s mom had a wheelchair she wasn’t using, which we borrowed. It worked quite well getting me up the driveway to the porch, but that leg was sticking out, getting wet.

            Prior to our arrival, not knowing about my broken leg, our son had made reservations at a restaurant in old town Eureka. It was an Arts Alive Friday night, a festive evening in which studios were open for exploration.

            There was no parking in front of the building and you weren’t allowed to stop, even to unload passengers. We found an open spot in a lot across the street.

            It was a bumpy ride, the pavement filled with cracks now resembling tiny pools. The vibration was intense and I clung to the handles, hoping not to be thrown out. Down one gutter, which was a stream. Down the alley, which ended in a creek. A dash across the street to what looked like a drive, but when my front wheels hit the edge, I almost toppled out.

            By the time we arrived inside, I was soaked and so was my cast.

            It poured and poured while we ate.

            When the bill had been paid, we stepped outside to a deluge. There was no way I’d be able to go in and out of studios, so the decision was made to go home.

            Our son ran across the street, which was now a river, got the car and parked illegally in front of the restaurant. I switched from chair to crutches to get into the car, but because I can’t swing my legs forward, I had to step down.

            The same when we got to the house.

            The damage had been done. The cast was drenched, but there was nothing I could do until we returned home two days later.

            The ordeal, as that was what it was, resembled walking on water. Or maybe sinking into the muck.