Tag Archives: family

Fire!

Posted on by
Reply

We knew we would soon be moving from Ohio to California.

Our dad was an avid Cincinnati Reds fan, but had never attended a game in person. My brother played on a team, the worst team in the league. I was the better player, but back in the 60’s, girls weren’t permitted on boys’ teams, and there were no teams for girls. This irked me, to say the least.

Since my brother and I loved the sport, and we knew this was our last chance to see our beloved Reds play, we decided to earn enough money to take our family to a game.

Our neighbor, Mrs. Riddenhoure, had several fruit trees in her backyard that were overloaded with fruit. With our parent’s permission, Mrs. Riddenhoure allowed us to pick as much fruit as we could, knowing we intended to sell everything.

Our mother gave us a basket of tomatoes and another of green bell peppers.

We put everything in our rusty wagon and headed up the gravel road, knocking on doors. Each time we’d sold our load, we’d return home, pick more fruit, then head out once again.

This was hard work. Pulling a full wagon up hill was not easy. It bumped and rattled along, frequently coming to an abrupt halt when stones blocked the wheels. After we’d visited all the neighbors’ homes uphill, we headed downhill.

If you think going down was easy, you’re wrong. Imagine trying to keep a heavy load from crashing into the backs of your legs, or walking while bent over, gripping the and of the wagon, attempting to keep it from breaking loose and taking off, on its own.

We had no concept of how much tickets would cost, but after selling out, we’d return home and count the proceeds. After a couple of days doing this, our dad declared that there was enough to pay for both of my parents, plus my brother and I. Our sister stayed with another family, probably a good decision as she was only seven and held no interest in any sport.

Off we went to Cincinnati, a long drive from our rural home in Beavercreek. At first, we took single-lane country roads, then two-lane roads, then eventually a highway. (This was before freeways had been built.)

Since it took so long, I worried that we would miss the game, but, no, we arrived in plenty of time.

Our seats were on the second deck, along the third base side. I was in awe of the stadium. The lights, the signs, the excitement in the air stimulated me so much that I was trembling from joy.

I was intrigued by the perfectly mowed grass, the smooth infield dirt, the seemingly huge pitchers’ mound, and the umpires in their black uniforms.

On the ride home, my dad talked about our team, how well they played, the fact that they won. I couldn’t recall a single detail, other than the colors of the uniforms.

After we finally got back home, I went straight to bed. I couldn’t sleep because I was over stimulated.

I’m not sure exactly when it happened as I was only a naive fourteen-year-old, but a storm moved in. Later my mom told me that the weather person on the radio (which she had on in the car) had predicted a massive thunderstorm coming our way.

Anyway, as I was comfortable under my covers, a loud crack of thunder shook the house. I was used to thunderstorms as they happened frequently, but nevertheless, each one terrified me. Well, having this one so close, shook me to the core.

Minutes after the crack, my mom opened the bedroom door and told me to get up, get dressed, in that no-nonsense tone of voice. I changed quickly, for I sensed something had gone terribly wrong.

As I entered the front room, my mom handed me the leash, and told me to take the dog to Mrs. Riddenhoure’s house. The neighbor didn’t allow dogs inside, so I sat on the step to her kitchen, unaware of what was happening outside, until daybreak.

I smelled smoke, heard additional bursts of thunder and rain beating the roof of the garage.

My brother came for me, telling me it was okay to come outside.

By that time the excitement was nearly over. Later I learned that the volunteer firemen had arrived within minutes of my dad’s call. Hoses still snaked across our front lawn, now empty and useless. Steam arose from the ashes of our garage and across the fragments of roof still standing.

Before we’d gone to the game, my dad was in the process of installing a new, more powerful, TV antenna. It looked finished to me, but apparently, he had yet to complete the last step, the most important one in a thunderstorm-prone area: grounding the antenna.

Well after the firemen had left, a man from down the hill arrived with a photo he’d taken: an image of a ball of fire descending from the sky/

That’s what had hit the antenna. The firemen, when they saw this, returned. They attempted to follow the path the lightning had taken, as it traveled inside our house.

Every window had aluminum siding. The lightning was attracted to the metal, finding it in every room on the east side of the house. After setting the garage on fire, the lighting had erupted from one side of each window, then created a hole on the opposite side, so as to continue its journey north.

It burst free out of the north side of the house, sending the boards flying and leaving behind a gaping hole.

Now my bedroom was on the east side. If I had gotten out of bed to look out the window, the lightning would have hit me, setting me on fire. It was thanks to my mother that the four of us made it safely out of the house.

What remained was piles of ash and molten remnants of bicycles, tools, and all kinds of detritus stored there. Sifting through the ash, my mom discovered that most of her canned foods had survived. We depended upon them to get us through the winter, so that was a blessing.

The only other salvageable item was the manger from the nativity set.

How did that ceramic Jesus survive, intact, with no scorch marks?

When we moved to California, Baby Jesus rode with us in the car, wrapped carefully so as not to be damaged. Once we had a place to live (we were homeless for a bit), every Christmas, it was with awe that we held that manger, placed it inside the creche, and then told everyone why it was so precious to us.

I had two regrets: one, that I had missed all the excitement dur to my confinement in the garage, with the dog, and, two, that many years later, when my parents were both deceased, that my dad’s second wife disposed of the manger without consulting me.

No Regrets

Posted on by
1

            When my mother slipped into the depths of dementia to never return to her former self, I didn’t cry. In fact, I struggled to control my glee, to hold it inside whenever I spoke to my siblings or was around my dad.

            Finally, after years and years of manipulation and emotional abuse, her voice was silent, her disapproving glare gone. Never again would I hear all the ways in which I had disappointed her, how I was not the daughter she wanted. How she never cried when I left for college or when I got my first apartment, never moving back into her house.

            I’d never be chastised for not cleaning my brother’s room, for not wiping down each leaf of every houseplant, for not standing by her side and learning how to cook. For not dressing in the girlie clothes she’d sewn for me. For looking and acting like a boy. For being uppity because I loved learning, reading books. Real books, not the household tips magazines she skimmed through and kept piled up next to her chair.

            She’d never be able to guilt me into calling, having her over for dinner, for taking her “shopping” which was really an excuse to pawn through discount racks while she lectured me about my faults.

            I didn’t cry at her funeral Mass. A friend, sitting near me, commented about that. I shrugged. How do you explain how wonderful it felt to have the black clouds not just lifted, but blown away? How do you tell someone how freeing it is to no longer have to listen to her tales of woe, of all the injustices done to her over the years, of course, by me. Not by my siblings.

            Never by them, for they were perfect and I was not.

            When the Mass ended, my sister yelled at me, accusing me, in front of the few who were in attendance of never loving our mother. I walked away.

            There was a time when I wanted to love my mother, when I yearned to feel her arms around me. A hug. A nice, warm hug to greet me in the morning and to put me to sleep at night.

            My sister knew that love. So did my brother.

            That’s why they cried.

            While my mother was disappearing, my father became a kinder man. He smiled more. Laughed more. Was easier to be around.

            One day as I was leaving after visiting my mother’s body, lying in a hospital bed in their front room, my dad opened his arms wide. I froze, not knowing whether it was some sort of trick.

            I couldn’t tell by his face what his intentions were. Was it a real invitation for a hug? Was it a trap? Since I became a teen and my body changed, he’d looked at me with what I later learned was lust.

            He’d touch me, inappropriately, when I got near. I’d learned to sidestep, to take roundabout ways, to hide in my room until he was somewhere, anywhere else.

            It creeped me out. And it only got worse after I married. By then he knew I had become a sexual being. His looks became more suggestive, his comments more lewd.

            So, when I didn’t want his hug, he asked why. I couldn’t say the words. My feet felt glued to the floor, my brain stopped functioning and my heart thumped so loudly I thought I was going to drop dead right there.

            Only when his arms dropped and a despondent look came on his face did I have room to scoot past and escape.

            I wish I could have told him why. But I’ve never been one to confront others. I was an emotionally and physically abused child. I’d worn the bruises of confrontation. Why would I want to do that to others?

            Not too many years after my mom died, my dad remarried. And then he had a stroke. I visited him in the hospital, out of duty, not of love. I never sat by his bedside. I never touched him. If he was awake, I’d talk to him from the other side of the hospital room. When I left, I’d simply walk out.

            This “new” dad was jovial. He laughed and smiled. He nodded a lot, as if he understood and agreed. His wife placed him in a home, then asked me to visit.

            Once a week I steeled myself and walk into the home, pretending that I really wanted to be there. I only went when I knew his wife would be there. My dad had his own room. Even though he couldn’t use his hands, I still feared his touch. Even though he couldn’t remember what he’d just eaten when the empty dishes sat in front of him, I still worried that he’d hurt me with words.

            His condition worsened. He had more strokes, leaving him more and more disabled. He still terrified me. I was in my fifties, but still impacted by how he’d treated me throughout my childhood and into my twenties.  

            At some point his wife called for a family meeting at the hospital. The Hospice contact was there. She explained that he was near death. Might go that day or in a few months.

            When the meeting ended, she told us to go to Dad’s room and say goodbye.

            I went into the room. I stood by his bed.

            My right hand rose. It neared his arm. It got close enough that I could feel the warmth of his skin.

            And then I started trembling.

            I walked away.

            And I’ve never regretted not telling either of my parents that I loved them, for that would have been a lie.

            I’ve never regretted not crying, for having them truly gone, was such a tremendous relief that there are no words to adequately describe.

            Both have been gone for many years, but what they did to me has never left me. I still carry it in my heart. Writing about it helps.

            So it is with no regrets that I put into words, once more, why I am the way I am. A person who refuses to regret the feelings that I hold even though I’ve tried to excise them from my heart.

            There’s nothing wrong with having no regrets.

Not-so-Clear Lake

Posted on by
Reply

            Prior to moving to California, vacations meant visiting family. Once a year we’d drive to Galipolis to see my mother’s relatives, many of whom lived in small houses without running water and indoor plumbing.

            Sometimes we’d visit my Aunt Lucy who lived, all alone, in a large house with backyard gardens with lush, green grass and more varieties of flowers than I’d ever seen before. There was Aunt Rachel whose home sat at the top of a hill, a wonderful, perfect slope for rolling downhill.

            My Aunt Ginny led the life of a traveler, moving from place to place. The most interesting home was up near Lake Michigan, nestled in the woods. It had no-anything. If I had to pee during the night, it meant walking into the woods to the outhouse where I imagined all kinds of creepy-crawlers. But…the lake!

            They relocated to Tennessee, a large white house with a wraparound porch. They had chickens that laid eggs! I was excited to go to the coup and gather them every morning. It was hot and humid and they didn’t own a single fan. Instead my cousins and I spent time in the shade of the porch. Until I discovered some type of insect sticking halfway into my arm! Boy, did I make a fuss, which caused all the adults to come running.

            Once it was removed, I wanted to leave. Now.

            One time we drove all the way to Kansas to see someone my mother befriended when she was in the Army. I don’t recall the woman’s name, but I will never forget the altars dedicated to Mary all over her house.

            My dad’s parents moved often. I loved the farm where they had a donkey, a gaggle of clucking chickens and a horse that loved to roll around in dirt. But, there were also wasps, and when one stung my finger and I had trouble breathing, I never wanted to go back there.

            Shortly afterward, they sold the farm and moved to Cincinnati. It was a modern house, with air, a bar in the basement stocked with all kinds of sodas, and a pool. The summer before we moved, my grandma invited me to spend a week with her. I had a marvelous time! Until I spent too much time in the pool and got so badly sunburnt that my mom wouldn’t let me return.

            While we had family in Ohio, my dad dreamt of moving to California, and when my mother’s doctor said we should move somewhere less damp due to her severe asthma, my parents wasted no time selling everything, packing up the car and heading west.

            Once we settled in a tiny rental house in South San Francisco, we began Sunday explorations. Using a map from the car insurance company, we drove all over, from up north to the Russian River, to east out to Lake Pinecrest, and south, well past San Jose. My mom would pack a picnic lunch, and off we’d go.

            I had become a temperamental teen. I’d always been sulky, primarily due to what I perceived as my low status in the family.

My mother doted on my older brother, feeling she had to protect him from our father’s ire. While Dad was an athlete, able to confidently play almost any sport, my brother was not. My dad was good with his hands, able to tear apart car engines, fix issues with the house, and build any type of shelving my mother wanted. My brother had not aptitude or interest in those things. To put it mildly, my brother was not the son my dad wanted.

Just as I was not the daughter. I disliked girly things, preferring pants and sports. I loved being outside, no matter the weather. I didn’t read fashion magazines and paid no attention to what the cool kids wore.

My sister was completely opposite. She was emotional and moody, just like my mom. She cared little about school, preferring the dangerous kids, the ones who sold and did drugs. My mother came to her rescue many times, including getting her out of juvenile hall after she’d been caught passing drugs through the fence of her elementary school.

Moving to California, I hoped, would change my life. I’d make friends. I’d go to movies and school dances. I’d play on sports teams and have a boyfriend. I’d make money, somehow, and buy myself a radio. And, I’d go to college. Anywhere away from home.

Back to vacations.

Sometimes our Sunday trips were short drives down to Woodside Park. We’d find a semi-isolated table, unload our gear, and spend hours lounging about.

My dad heard about Clear Lake, and so one day we drove up there to check it out. I don’t recall how long it took to get there, but by the time we arrived, things were tense in the car.

My parents were fighting, once again. About how long it was taking, about wanting to turn around, about anything and everything. My brother was poking and pinching me and on the other side, my sister was kicking my legs.

When we arrived, we had to find a place to park. It was tough because the folks who knew, had staked out every table and flat piece of ground.

Eventually my dad parked and said get out.

There was a beach, shade, and someone was vacating a table. Perfect.

We changed into our swimsuits, then waded into the water. It was so cold it made it hard for me to breathe. I could almost swim, my strongest stroke being the elementary backstroke. However, when something brushed my legs, I freaked out.

My dad had to rescue me, talking me back to shore.

On a drive around the lake, my dad saw a sign for cabins. They were small, cheap, and right on the lake. He went inside the office and made a reservation.

I loved that cabin! Because the porch hung over the water, it was relatively cool inside. My dad and brother went out fishing in the mornings, meaning I could entertain myself gathering shells, throwing rocks, sitting and enjoying the sounds of the water lapping the small dock that jutted into the lake.

When my brother stayed behind, we were allowed to jump off the dock. The water was shallow, so there was no chance of drowning. We’d jump in, climb out, jump again and again and again until we were exhausted.

My dad caught lots of catfish. Every night we’d eat out on the porch, waving off the aggressive bees that wanted our food. Thankfully I never got stung, for at that time, no one knew how very allergic I was.

We returned the next summer. The lake was not clear. There was a thin veil of green algae covering the part of the lake near our cabin. This was before anyone knew of the dangers of algae bloom.

My parents still let us jump off the dock. Whichever one of us went first would tread water, using our hands to sweep away the algae. The other would jump, then we’d repeat.

By the end of each swimming outing, our suits were covered in green dots. My mom would rinse them in the kitchen sink, then hand them on the porch to dry. After lunch we’d go back, doing the same thing over and over.

That was the last time we vacationed anywhere. I didn’t know a lot about finances, but I understood that my dad was unable to find steady work as a printer. No longer were papers made by moving tiny letters, which was my dad’s skill. Since he didn’t know how to work presses, his talents were no longer needed.

It’s now sixty years later and I still recall the algae, the fun jumping off the dock, the endless meals of catfish, and sharing the bed with my sister who stole the sheet every night.

Clear Lake remains, in my mind, that murky, green waters that entertained me so thoroughly back when I was a teen.

A New Awareness

Posted on by
Reply

            I’ve always moaned about the travails of being stuck in between my siblings. My mother worshiped my older brother, thought he could do no wrong. That was partly due to how disappointed my father was in having a son who was not athletic and had no aptitude for mechanics. My brother was not the child my father would have chosen. Unfortunately, this led to many incidents in which my brother was forced to spend hours in the garage, hands covered in grease, not enjoying what he was doing and getting yelled at for being incompetent.

            My brother took his frustrations out on me. He teased me constantly, called me offensive names, and when no one was looking, pinched or kicked or punched me, leaving huge bruises on my arms, legs and abdomen.

            We had a complicated relationship. I loved sports and would beg my brother to play. Badminton, whiffle ball, sledding, basketball, it made no difference to me. I picked up any sport quite quickly, and so as soon as I was consistently beating him, he found ways to torture me during play. He’d knock me down, through the ball so hard it bruised my palm, dunk me under the water, or let all the air out of my bicycle tires.

            Even so, when it was time to play, I’d look toward my brother. For one, we were intellectual equals. We enjoyed complicated strategy games that took days to solve. This meant board games as well as complex was games with dark green army men fighting beneath a sheet tent.

            My relationship with my younger sister was always rocky. My mother clearly felt a need to shelter her. This included making me take the blame for anything my sister did or did not do, such as cleaning her half of the room or making her bed. It was my fault if she made a mess anywhere in the house. This led to some interesting behaviors on my part.

            One time when I was particularly vexed at her, I asked Mom is my sister could have chocolate pudding, knowing that she’d have to eat it outside because she always made a mess of herself. Not satisfied with the low-level mess my sister would make, I helped make it bigger and better.

            I told her to stick her fingers in the container and rub the pudding down her legs and arms. All over her face and neck, and even in her hair. When it was gone, I went into the house to get my mom, expecting my sister to get the beating I would have received.

            Not so. My mom got the Polaroid camera and took a picture, enshrining forever the chocolate-mess that was my sister. And to make things worse, my mom laughed. She praised my sister for being so inventive, then commanded me to give her a bath.

            Over the years I was blamed for many things that I did not do. My brother accused me of flirting with his friends, none of whom had the brains to interest me. My sister said I’d kicked her and pinched her, which I hadn’t done.

            Those were some of the most miserable years of my life.

            The torture ended when I left home for college.

            I had no escaped my brother, however, as my parents would only let me go to the same college he had chosen. And then they empowered him to watch over me, control me, tell me what to do.

            They had not understood how clever I really was and how easily I could fool my brother. I did need his assistance to shop for food and necessities, and I did become a Little Sister to his fraternity, but beyond that, I led my own life. It was my first taste of freedom and I loved it.

            Many years later I learned about middle-child-syndrome. The term defined exactly how I felt. It also helped me understand why I took things to hard and why I kept so much of me locked inside.

            I used to dream of what it would be like to be an only child, and it seemed heavenly.

            Recently I heard a talk-show host talking about how lonely it was being an only child, and that with no siblings to take the brunt of the anger, he was the sole focus of every bit of torture his family could improvise.

            That gave me a new perspective. While I clearly was the target most of the time, my older brother was a bit of a cushion from my dad’s anger and disappointment. Because my mother felt a need to hover over my younger sister, it gave me a certain degree of freedom.

            This was a profound revelation. Only children have no one to blame if something gets broken or a task is left undone. Only children are the sole focus of parental energy. Only children, when not allowed outside as I was, have no where to go to get away from those prying eyes.

            I am now going to have to reevaluate my perspective on being a middle child. Perhaps it wasn’t as awful as I thought, or perhaps being alone could have been substantially worse.

            It’s interesting to ponder.

Blood Red Days

Posted on by
Reply

            Children aren’t supposed to get sick.  Romanticized images picture little darlings running, jumping, climbing, laughing, living life as freely as a butterfly flitting from flower to flower.  Even in prayer, when most solemn, those cherubic faces glow with rosebud color.  So it should be, forever and ever.

            Unfortunately strange diseases invade, causing any possible varieties of illness.  Most we understand.  Tonsillitis, ear infections, colds, cuts, bruises, and even the occasional broken bone fall into that realm.  Kids are susceptible to germs, primarily because they play with “germy” things, and so we expect them to fall ill. But we pray that those times are few and far between.

            When your four-year-old child’s urine turns the color of burgundy wine, however, the only normal reaction is fear.  So it was for my husband and I when it happened for the first time to our six year old daughter. 

            When it occurred, we tried not to panic so as to not alarm our daughter. What we did do was make phone calls followed by tons of doctors’ visits.   We began with our regular pediatrician who thought the bleeding was caused by a bladder infection. The prescribed dose of antibiotics seemed to work.

But then it happened again. More antibiotics were given. And then the same thing, over and over.

 We were referred to a urologist who was used to treating senior citizens who would willingly allow tubes and prodding. He had no experience with a five-year-old.

Our daughter fought him with the strength of an army, clenching shut her legs and refusing to budge. I didn’t blame her. I thought the doctor a little too interested in seeing what was between my child’s legs.

At my insistence, our pediatrician referred us to a pediatric urologist/oncologist.  Imagine the fears those words triggered. Oncology. Cancer. Curable or not? We didn’t know or understand what was happening or what the doctor would do. How he was going to make the determination as to the diagnosis? The person setting up the appointment offered no reassurance, but because the bleeding continued, we went to his office.

By the time we finally got to see him, months had passed. The color of her urine had deepened to a deep, dark red. It was frightening, not only to us, but to our daughter. Even a small child understands that urine is not supposed to be that color.

            For my daughter’s sake, we put on happy faces, attempting to disguise our deep-seated fears.  When she was out of visual range, we allowed ourselves to cry.  Of course, we prayed.

            There were days when her urine was a healthy golden color and so we tried to convince ourselves that she was cured. That the newest round of antibiotics had worked. We wept with joy and gave thanks to the Lord.  But the space between those times slowly shrunk until it was pretty much guaranteed that we would see red, and only red.

            Even the strongest antibiotics had proved to be ineffective, and so the pediatric urologist ordered x-rays to search for the still unknown cause.

            We went to Alta Bates Hospital in Berkeley, California, one of the finest hospitals in the Bay Area.  For the exam, our daughter was placed on a cold, metal table.  She was given huge quantities of liquid to drink.  The x-ray machine was lowered until it hovered above her lower abdomen.  She was told to urinate, right there on the table, in front of five total strangers.  She couldn’t do it and I didn’t blame her.

            They inserted a tube to allow the urine to flow.  Pictures were taken.  We went home and waited, impatiently, to hear the results.  When they came, we were terrified and confused. Because of the way her bladder was constructed, it was unable to fully close.  Surgery was recommended to insert a tube to narrow the urethra.

            Shortly after the recommendation we drove to Children’s Hospital in Oakland, arriving just as the sun was beginning to peak over the hills.  It was a peaceful scene which helped to somewhat ease our nervousness. It was short-lived, however, for immediately after completing the required paperwork, our daughter was whisked away by an efficient, yet friendly nurse. 

            My husband paced the floor of the waiting room, talking to himself.  I prayed, placing my daughter’s life in God’s capable hands. 

            This operation was a success. Her bladder would now allow her to control the flow of urine. However, during the surgery, the doctor discovered that her ureters did not enter the bladder at the correct angle.  Not only that, but the flaps that prevented urine from moving into the kidneys were missing.  Another operation was planned.

            Despite the negative news, my husband and I eagerly took our little girl home, hoping that at least there might be some reprieve from the tinged urine.  It was not to be.

            Within hours after getting her settled, her urine had turned from a healthy golden hue to a blood red, bone-chilling liquid.  Several phone calls later, another trip to the doctor’s was scheduled.  She was again put on a regimen of antibiotics, hoping to stem off any invasion of germs that might interfere with the next operation.

            Good Friday found us, once again, in the waiting room of Children’s Hospital.   My husband paced while I pretended to read.  Both of us turned our hearts over to the Lord, begging Him to watch over our daughter. 

            In the midst of one of many recitations of the Our Father, I felt a gentle touch on my right cheek.  A calm washed over me, settling in my heart.  I nodded, and whispered, “Thanks.”  My eyes filled with tears of joy, and a smile burst through.  I knew, then and there, that everything would be fine.

            When the doctor came to us still dressed in his surgical greens, he was smiling. While he was looking inside our daughter’s bladder, he discovered a blood vessel that was weeping, something it was not supposed to do. He cauterized it, forever stopping the flow of blood into her bladder.

            Because of the severity of the operation, however, she had to spend a week in the hospital.  It was scary for us. Imagine how frightening it was for her, spending nights without her parents nearby. Our sons stayed with a relative so that my husband could go to work and I could go to the hospital.

Every day she got stronger and her urine became clearer.  I gave thanks to the Lord for giving my daughter another day of life.

            Those were trying times, for sure.  I had no choice but to rely on my faith, as even the most highly trained, respected pediatric urologist had had no idea what was wrong.

Even years later, I still believe that the Lord stood by, watching, whispering advice in the doctor’s ear.  How else did he find the exposed vessel, the incorrectly seated ureters, the missing flaps, and the enlarged end of the bladder?

            While the likelihood of her bleeding to death had been slim, she could easily have died of kidney failure.  If we had known about this earlier, we could have acted sooner.  For some reason, the Lord kept her alive long enough for medical science to rise to the occasion.

Faith kept me sane.  Faith allowed me to put aside my fears.  Faith was my constant companion. That operation solved the problem which allowed our daughter to grow up into a college graduate, wife and mother.

A Thanksgiving Lesson

Posted on by
1

            I am not a particularly good cook. In fact, I am a pathetic cook because I have no interest in cooking except for the simple act of putting food on the table. I can usually follow a recipe, but there’s no guarantee that the finished product will look or taste as advertised.

            The problem goes back to my teen years when my mom insisted I learn to cook. She’d make me stand next to her and watch every move she made. It was incredibly boring. I needed to study. If I didn’t earn straight As I’d be punished. My allegiance went to books, so I’d stand next to her with book in hand.

            That meant I wasn’t paying attention. So when I was told to replicate her concoction, I couldn’t. My mom cooked from memory, not from books. Unless she wrote it down, there was no way I could produce the item. When she did record her recipes, she often left out an ingredient or a crucial step.

            One year my family decided that my husband and I should host Thanksgiving dinner. Mike is a good cook, so he took charge of the turkey and gravy, leaving me to handle the rest. I pulled out every cookbook I owned to find recipes for dressing, green beans and pumpkin and mince meat pies. I chose the easiest options.

            Things were in the oven or on the stove when my family arrived. Altogether there were fourteen hungry people crowded into our house. Fortunately we had planned snacks of cheese and crackers for that kept the kids happy and held the adults at bay while they downed mixed drinks.

            There was only about thirty minutes to go before the turkey would be done, the gravy could be made, the potatoes mashed and the green bean casserole put in the oven.

            The adults were getting restless. They had arrived with a preconceived notion of when the meal would be ready and we were not meeting their mental deadline. I was anxious. While everything looked okay, what if my concoctions didn’t meet their approval? My family could be obnoxious when disappointed, so as time ticked by and tempers began to flare, I knew things were going horribly wrong.

            Then the power went out. One moment the stove was working, the next it wasn’t. Was the turkey done? The beans? Potatoes? Everything appeared to be mostly done, but what if it wasn’t? You can eat the side dishes even if they aren’t quite finished, but you can’t serve an undercooked turkey.

            We waited for the power to return, but after thirty minutes it was obvious that it wasn’t happening. My dad and brother offered advice laced with sarcasm, almost as if it was something we had done to switch off the power.

            My husband is a calm, easy-going man. He moved the barbeque into the backyard and lit the coals. When it was ready, he placed the turkey outside. Everything else went into the still-warm oven.

            The troops, however, were impatient, frustrated and hungry. They had allotted only a certain amount of time to be at our home and that time was ending. Either food would be served or they would leave. The options were not politely phrased.

            I hung out in the kitchen pretending that I knew what I was doing and that things were in hand. Mike monitored the turkey, which meant he was outside leaving me inside getting the brunt of the criticism.

            When the turkey was finally done, I was able to breathe a tiny sigh of relief. As he cut and placed meat on a platter, I pulled everything out and got it on the table. He made the gravy and poured it into the bowl.

            Dinner was served. People sat. Grace was said. The food was edible even though most things weren’t hot. Tempers settled. A bit of peace entered the house.

            Just as the last of the dishes were being rinsed off, the power returned.

            People left, some bearing leftovers.

            The meal worked out, but never again would I host a family meal. The stakes were too high and I refused to bear the brunt of their anger when the fault lay not in something I had done, but in the failure of the power to stay on.

            Later on Mike helped me understand that things had worked out despite my nervousness and fears. After all, food had been served. No one left hungry unless by choice.

            That Thanksgiving was over thirty years ago, but it left an indelible mark. Never again, I told myself, would I host a family gathering.

            Little did I know that when my mother-in-law died that my husband’s family would decide that we would host a brunch for sixty people. I announced that I would cook nothing. I would take care of paper goods, but that was it. The family would have to prepare every dish and clean up afterwards.

            Guess what? I held to my pronouncement. When cooking was happening, I stayed out of the kitchen. I picked up no dirty dishes, washed not a single thing, refilled no snack bowls and did not monitor the ice chests of drinks. I found myself a quiet place away from the crowds and stayed there for the five hours that people were in my home.

            One failure was sufficient to keep me from ever cooking for a crowd. Even though I had had not control over the power going out, blame was still laid at my feet. If my husband’s family wanted a party, they would have to shoulder the effort. Never again would I shoulder the mantle of responsibility.

            It’s amazing how liberating it is to refuse, to loudly proclaim that I would not be in charge. If only I had applied that motto to other areas in my life, things might have been different. But that’s another story for another time.

Missing Him

Posted on by
Reply

           

I wonder where my dad is now?

What country or what town?

Do the people even know he’s there?

And care about his men?

I wonder what he’s thinking of?

While I stare at the clouds?

Does he see the same sky that I see?

And smile at the bright sun?

I wonder if he questions

What the war is all about?

Does it make a difference what he does?

And how will it all come out?

I wonder when he does come home

Whom he will smile at first?

Do you think he’ll even recognize me?

And know that I’m his son?

I wonder if he wonders

What I’m thinking of today?

Does he pray for me on bended knee?

And whisper I love you?

Georgia Peach

Posted on by
Reply

Georgia, a peachy little girl

One fine day wandered far from her home.

With mammoth twist and a single twirl,

Lost the dirt path on which she did roam.

 

No worries, though, for this saucy child

Did spot a cottage deep in the wood.

The sun shone down on roses gone wild,

Made Georgia forget to be good.

 

She knocked upon the ancient door,

Then flounced her golden, curly hair:

Listened for footsteps soft on the floor,

Thought of whom might live in tiny lair.

 

When no one came to see her inside,

She turned the small knob with trembling hand,

Opened the door wearing a smile wide.

Alas, no one there to take a stand.

 

Georgia stepped into kitchen small,

Noticed three platters brimming full,

And glasses barely two fingers tall,

In which was liquid brown and dull.

 

She took a taste from the biggest one.

Georgia gagged: fought to keep it down.

“This stuff stinks,” she burbled. “I am done.”

Her face now covered with ugly frown.

 

Next she spied the family’s stuffed chairs

Crimson and gold, with tassels of blue.

Nestled under the circular stairs.

Georgia sat, fell.  “This was not new!”

 

With achy bones, she climbed the first step,

Heard nary a sound from man nor beast.

Up she went; where the family slept.

Miniature beds spaced most to least.

 

Exhausted from her explorations,

Georgia moved them all together.

Soon she forgot all aspirations

And dreamt of sunny, pleasant weather.

 

While adrift on misty isle of cloud,

Georgia snored and tossed all about.

She didn’t hear voices clear and loud.

“Someone’s here,” said Dad, “there is no doubt.”

 

The family of three, with startled eyes,

Noticed empty glass and broken chair.

“Who’s in the house?” said the mother wise.

“I’ll find out,” Father said.  “I’ll take great care.”

 

Father first, Mother and then the Son

Crept up the stairs and looked all around.

“There she is,” said Father. “That’s the one!”

“She must have thought she wouldn’t be found.”

 

“Let the child sleep,” said Mother dear.

“She seems to be sweet and innocent.”

“But Mom,” said young son, “I do but fear

my bed’s broke.  For this she must repent.”

 

Father smiled, “She’s but a girl, no harm done.”

“Now come, let’s go and let her dream on.”

After they ate, outside they did run

And played the silly game, Name That Pun.

 

Georgia awoke, stretched, and then stood,

Fluffed her gold hair and straightened her dress.

Down she walked, and into the big wood.

Thought, I’ll remember this fine address.

 

Found the dirt path on which she did roam.

With a single twist and mammoth twirl,

She luckily found her way home.

Georgia, a peachy little girl.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Commitment

Posted on by
Reply

the story of a marriage

is one of

trials

and

tribulations

forgiveness

and

letting go

of errors made

love

and

anger

compromise

and

patience

walking together

through life

sharing times

good

and

bad

most of all

reveling

in each other’s

company

until death

do us part

Going Home

Posted on by
Reply

Home is beckoning

I long to run my fingers

down my cat’s back

hear his plaintive meow

when he’s hungry

I miss the loud calls

of my birds as they speak

to one another across the room

 

I miss my home

Not just the curtains or the furniture

But the my-ness of home

all the things that make it

uniquely mine

 

memories of my kids that linger

in the air like a fine mist

I can hardly wait to open the

door and step into the world that

my husband and I have created