Things

Things.  We aren’t supposed to love things.  Let’s just say that there are a few things I really, really appreciate.

Like my lawn tractor for instance.  My husband laughs every time I come in from doing the yard work and declare “I love my tractor.”

I’m the grounds person in this house.  Every one else has horrible allergies to the smell of freshly cut grass.  I close up all the windows and joyously ride around in circles on my new red machine.  It sucks up grass and leaves like a vacuum.  I dump it all in the woods.

I appreciate my tractor especially at this time of year.  The bees go underground to escape the cooling temperatures.  They’ve gotten angry at me in past years when I pushed a small mower.  I have bad reactions to bug bites.  One sting on my ankle gets me a week on the couch watching Netflix.  The swelling eventually leaves my leg.  But, only after I’ve power watched three seasons of some television show that I’ve become hooked on.

My husband gifted me with a shiny red rider mower after the last bee sting.  I hopped for joy as I still only had one good leg at the moment.  I screeched “I love it!  I love my tractor!”.  I meant it.

I turn that key and I zoom around.  Doesn’t matter how hot it is.  Doesn’t matter if the insects get irked at me.  I outrun them.  But, I still do it wearing winter boots almost up to my knees.  I’m hoping that I’ve received the last bee sting ever.

I’m not supposed to love things.  I look around and there isn’t much I couldn’t do without.  Or, that I’d really miss.  The family photos are important of course.  There is a blue glass bowl next to me.  I gifted it to my mother with money I made delivering papers when I was a little girl.  She gave it back to me as a housewarming gift when this house was new.

She did that often.  She’d look around her own house before she came to visit me in mine.  She’d take an item off a shelf or a side table.  “This makes me happy.  I want you to have it and maybe it’ll make you happy too.” she’d say.

My daughter and her husband had to find a new apartment a few years back.  They downsized their “stuff” as the place was smaller.  I noticed her childhood Cabbage Patch doll Suzie sitting on a shelf in her new place.  She said goodbye to a lot of things.  Suzie got to stay because; well………….Suzie isn’t a thing.  She’s a loved one. She makes my daughter happy.

A few years back we emptied my parents house to sell it.  Only a few things accompanied me home.  My mother’s best dishes.  I have no room for them but I squeezed them in.  She collected them and they made her happy to use them.  I couldn’t make myself put them in the yard sale pile.  So, into the trunk of my car they went.

A large oval photo of my father as a one year old baby came home with me wrapped in an old blanket.  It’s a beautiful antique now.  But, that’s not why I wanted it.  It looks lovely on the wall next to the antique vanity my mother gave me when I turned thirteen.  The wood in the frame matches that piece of furniture perfectly.  That’s not why I wanted it.

I wanted it because it hung in a corner of my parent’s house.  It always made me happy to look upon it.  I can gaze at that photo in my own house and be whisked back to the corner of my childhood home in an instant.  I can look into my father’s eyes in that photo.  I’m always surprised that I’m not standing next to their floral sofa when I break his gaze.  I’m a little bereft that my mother’s white lace curtains aren’t in the window next to the photo.

But, it makes me remember.  Those memories are happy ones.

I can go to a craft fair.  I am surrounded by beautiful hand made things.  I can come home empty handed.

I have enough things.  I didn’t buy anything because nothing made me “happy” just to gaze upon it.

I can do without diamond earrings.  I could afford them but they would never make me happy.  I’m that kind of girl.  I’d rather have a blue glass bowl that my mother and I exchanged back and forth.  I’d rather have an old photo that I cherish on the wall.

I like my house.  I only love it because of the people that live or grew up within it’s walls.  I like my car.  But, I’d like any car that starts when I turn the key.  I like my furniture.  But, you could take it away in a van tomorrow.  I’d only tackle a moving man over the aforementioned vanity and my grand mother’s dining room hutch.

I love those pieces of furniture because of who owned and loved them first.  Sentimentality is why I love them.

I’m not sentimental about my lawn tractor.  But, I appreciate it intensely.  My husband bought it for me so I wouldn’t get hurt again.  I’m thinking that’s the main reason I love my tractor.

 

 

Columbus Street Kissy Christmas

A Columbus Street Christmas was wonderful.  My parents didn’t go overboard.  Some lights decorated the bushes outside of the house.  The tree was put up in the living room about ten days before the holiday.  We all took part in decorating it.  The village was placed under the tree. The manger and all it’s inhabitants went near the fireplace.  Everything had it’s place.

My mother and I baked.  My father and my brothers ate. We visited with extended family.

Our letters to Santa weren’t long.  We inquired after his health.  We hoped the reindeer were all set to fly.  We were encouraged to add a paragraph listing a few things that we’d like Santa to leave under the tree.  Puppies and ponies were discouraged.

My list usually consisted of dolls and toy kitchen equipment.  Santa never let me down.

All I wanted for Christmas one year was a Kissy Doll.  She was a big blonde toddler that wore a red gingham dress and red patent leather shoes. She had short course blonde hair and a sweet expression.  You pressed her arms together and she pursed her lips for a kiss.  Yeah, I know.  What?  But, for some reason she caught my heart and my imagination.

Christmas morning brought us a living room overflowing with gifts.  They were piled high.  I ignored the blue and white girl’s bike against the wall.  I had little interest in the little black and white television set showing “It’s A Wonderful Life” in the corner with my name on it.

I flew across the room in search of Kissy.  And, there she sat in a state of the art baby carriage. The new red and white carriage was a miniature version of the real thing.  It was built to last.  And, the doll of my dreams sat inside waiting to be loved.

My father worked for Pratt and Whitney.  He told me years later that he had gotten a substantial bonus right before Christmas that year.  The company paid employees for good ideas.

My father had stopped at a rest stop on the Mass Pike.  He had dried his hands for the first time with a machine.  You pressed a button and hot air dried you hands.  No more need for paper towels.  Or, those disgusting metal contraptions that had a roll of real toweling that you pulled in a perpetual circle of dirty flannel.  He’d rather wipe his hands on his pants Daddy said.

He wrote a suggestion and dropped it into the box at work.  The company stopped buying paper towels.  The company installed machines that blew hot air in the bathrooms.  They cut my father a check for 1% of the first year’s savings.

It was the biggest check anyone had ever handed him.

He must have called Santa and told him to pull out all the stops. I should have asked for a pony that year.  But, how was I to know?

I had a large collection of dolls.  But, only a few of them were my babies.  My collection of doll paraphernalia had taken over the house.  That’s when my father lost his garage workshop.  The “dollhouse” was born in the garage to house me, my babies and my toy kitchen.  Daddy didn’t seem to mind.

Kissy and I were inseparable.  If my own children ever say out loud that they had a wonderful mother……………they have Kissy to thank.  I fed and burped her.  I sang to her.  Kissy loved being read to.  She loved bathing with me in the tub.  She repaid me with lots and lots of kisses.

Kissy and I strolled Columbus Street together.  She sat up in her doll carriage so she wouldn’t miss anything.  I was her mother so I pretended to be grown up.

I stopped and waved to all the neighborhood ladies at their kitchen windows.  The front doors would fly open and they’d ask to see my baby.  A few even asked to hold her.  I was asked in for tea just like a real grown up.  Sometimes I accepted.

I’ll never forget those grown women that played little girl games with me.  They treated me as one of their own.  I often left with gifts for Kissy.  Hand crocheted caps and sweaters were made just for her.  Baby blankets were dug out of cedar chests and tucked in around my doll.

I realize now as an adult…………..that it was the mother of boys………….that fell in love with me and my Kissy.

My mother made phone calls upon my arrival home.  “Are you sure you want to give her that hand crocheted blanket?  It’s gorgeous.  She’ll take good care of it.  But, are you sure?”  she was heard to say.

They always meant it. They were sure.

We went to a big church picnic one day.  It was at my grandparent’s parish out in Glastonbury.  The Protestants made pretty good potato salad I thought.  Their hotdogs tasted the same as Catholic hotdogs. But, I must say that us Catholics made much better Strawberry Shortcake.  St. Bridget’s had their very own Strawberry Festival after all.  It ranked right up there with the holy days.

We were almost home from that picnic when I realized I had forgotten Kissy.  She was still sitting at a picnic table alongside the small white church with it’s steeple.  I started wailing in the back seat.

My mother turned towards the back seat to find out what the heck was the matter with me.  I hiccuped and finally got it out.  What kind of mother was I?  I had gotten in the car and had totally forgotten my baby.  I had left Kissy behind.

I was horrified.  I was bereft.  I questioned my calling in life.

We were almost home.

“Turn this car around, Ralph.” my mother ordered.

“Oh, dear God.  Ellie.  We’re almost home.  Someone will have picked up her doll.  We’ll call my parents.  We’ll pick it up next Sunday when we go to visit them.” my father said.  He was being reasonable.

He wasn’t a mother.

“Turn this car around right now.  Kissy isn’t a doll. Kissy is her baby.  She can’t be worried about her baby all week.  I’m not screwing around here, Ralph.  Turn this station wagon around right now.” my mother ordered.

My father turned the car around.

The Christmas that Kissy waited for me in the living room lives on in my memory.  It is the memory of my wants and needs and wishes and hopes being met.  There was no disappointment.  Kissy was everything I thought she’d be.  I’ll never forget the sweet perfumed scent of my first whiff of her.

Christmases of course have changed.  I grew up.  I tried to make Christmas a magical time for my own children.  I keep up a lot of the traditions even though they’ve grown up.  I think the only thing I’ve cut back on is the baking.

Christmas has lost a lot of it’s magic for me.

Last year I was thinking that. I was on the computer while I was thinking that.  I remembered back to my most perfect Christmas moment.  It wasn’t the towering pile of gifts that Christmas when my father could afford to buy me anything.  It wasn’t the new glittering bike or my very own television set.

I remembered my first sight of Kissy and I went in search of her again on my computer.

I found her on Ebay.  I stared at her and touched the photo on my large screen monitor.  I imagined the smell of her when she was new.  Imagine!  There are still Kissy dolls from the 1960’s complete in their boxes for sale on Ebay.

How sad.  That they were never taken out of that box and loved.  Those poor Kissys.

I could have bid on that doll.  I could have owned her.  In time for Christmas.  But, I didn’t.  It wouldn’t be the same.  My Kissy was brought to me by Santa.  On my Daddy’s orders.  My mother helped me care for that Kissy.  The neighborhood ladies provided for that Kissy.  This Ebay Kissy wouldn’t be the same and my grown up self knew it.

I closed down the Ebay page with tears in my eyes.  I had said no to myself just as I was about to hit the Buy It Now button.  I can’t go back I realized.  I can’t relive days gone by.  Not even the best days.

Months later I was at the grocery store.  I smiled at the tall metal cage holding big colorful bouncing balls for children.  I picked one up and put it to my nose.  I took a big whiff.  I smiled again as I returned it to it’s place.

There’s nothing like the smell of a new toy!

Only a few check out lines were open.  Hanaford really should do something about that.  I got into a line and started emptying my cart.  That’s when I noticed the sign. “Cashier in Training” it said.

I looked up at the young female cashier.  She was brand new.  First day on the job and dressed in a new red company polo shirt.  I could still see the creases where it had been folded into a block.  Her name tag was new also.  It was a “My Name Is” sticker.  She was too new to have an employee name tag yet.

For some reason I wanted to reach out and hug her.

“I’m pretty slow.  If you’re in a hurry you’d be better off over there.” she said as she pointed to the check out next door.

“I’m not in a hurry.” I replied.  “Everyone has a first day, right?  Take your time.  There is no rush.”

Her trainer stood at the end of the conveyor belt with a bag in his hand.  His eyes were glazed over in boredom.  This was the store I frequent all the time.  I’ve always thought he was a poor choice to train new people.  He’s hardly home up there because he’s so bored by his job.

Oh, well.  Forget him.

The girl in the new red shirt beeped many items across her scanner.  I noticed she was saving all the produce for last.  She’s the type to save the hardest for last.  I’m the type to get it out of the way first.

I found myself staring at her.  I knew her from somewhere.  I don’t know all that many sixteen year old people anymore.  She caught me staring.  She stared back between scanning the cookies and the yogurt.

She glanced at her trainer to make sure he was still asleep with his eyes open.

“Do we know each other?” she asked.  I don’t know if she really recognized me or if it was only that she recognized my wondering gaze.

“I think we might.” I said in return  “You’re too young to be friends with my children. But, you look very familiar to me.”

“Are you an actress?” she asked.  “I see lots of theater.  I think you look like someone in Drowsy Chaperone but you don’t have orange hair.”

“Yes!  That was me!  You’ve got a good eye.  I look very different in that big red wig.” I laughed in answer.

“And, that huge old fashioned dress.” she laughed in return.  “You were so funny!”

“Thank you.” I replied to the compliment.

She glanced down at her trainer.  He was still in la la land.

She took a deep breath and started in on the produce.  She punched in a number for bananas and charged me for nectarines.  She fixed her mistake.  Her hands started to tremble.  Her nerves were shot from her first day.

“Take your time.  There is no rush.” I repeated as I still stared at her trying to remember where I knew her from.

She felt victorious after scanning the tomatoes and the cucumbers correctly.

“Do you do theater?” I asked.  “Maybe we did a show together when you were a little kid.” I suggested.

“No, I’ve never acted in my life.  Is this parsley or cilantro?” she asked.

“Parsley.” I said as I noticed her hands shake slightly again.  The useless trainer was staring at the water stain on the ceiling over his head.

I smiled at the sweet girl to give her some confidence.  I took in her bright red shirt and her red and white gingham head band.  The dimple in her left cheek when she smiled.  The pure unblemished paleness of her skin.  The course blondness of her over processed hair held back by the headband.

I laughed out loud.

“Now, I know who you remind of.  And, why when I first saw you I just wanted to reach out and give you a hug.  You look just like the doll I loved with all my heart when I was a little girl.  Her name was Kissy and she looked just like you.” I spilled out.

The girl didn’t even think I was weird.  She just laughed with me.

“Well, I have had one heck of a day.  I guess I could use a hug right about now.” she said.  She was serious as her blue eyes looked into mine.  Even her eyes were the exact shade of blue as Kissy’s.

I reached over the conveyor belt and gave the girl a big hug.  I patted her on the back.  I patted to give her confidence and the strength to make it until 5 p.m.  I used to pat Kissy’s back the same exact way.  Back in the day I think I was looking for a burp in response.

The trainer woke up.

“Did you find everything you were looking for today?” he said to the air over my head.

“Yes, I found everything I was looking for today and more.” I said as I signed the credit card portion of the screen in front of me.

“This young lady is doing a terrific job.” I said as she handed me my receipt with a smile.

That’s when I noticed her name tag said “Krissy”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bed and Breakfast and The Bore

We spent a great week in Oregon this summer.  We chose a Bed and Breakfast close to where we wanted to be in Portland.  It was a hop skip and a jump to our daughter’s place.  It was a short straight shot to the theater where we watched her perform.

We don’t usually go the Bed and Breakfast route.  Our girl’s place is a bit small for company.  The hotels in the area looked bland.  The internet afforded me the chance to check out a B&B.  Photos.  Reviews.

I booked us a week in the Wine Cellar suite in an historic building. And, yes.  For all you wine lovers.  There was a wine cellar.  And, we had the key.  And glasses.  And crackers.  And cheese.

It was a wonderful stay.  The host was gracious and lived off the premises.  My main concern was that there would be an old lady with a cat wrapped around her neck sticking her nose into my business.  That didn’t happen.

I don’t know why………I mean it’s right in the title………….but having to get up and eat breakfast every morning was kind of unexpected to me.

I don’t usually do mornings.

I definitely don’t do breakfast.

Every morning I would hear movement over my head.  The kitchen was right above us because the Wine Cellar is …………in the cellar.  I would identify our host quietly opening kitchen drawers and the ding of the oven.  I would roll over and go back to sleep now that the noise had been identified.

We signed up to eat breakfast at 9 am.  My husband had already been awake with a rumbling empty tummy for hours.  At 9 am I am still in hibernation mode.  I have built a cave out of fluffy pillows and Egyptian cotton sheets.  I didn’t come out of the cave until I smelled my husband in my face.  He smelled like shampoo and toothpaste and he was aggravatingly happy and awake.

“Come on!  Breakfast in ten minutes.  Smell that bacon!  He’s got yogurt with the hugest blackberries you’ve ever seen.  Grand Marnier french toast.  He’s been marinating it for 12 hours. ” he said to me as he bounced on the bed.

I growled and rolled over.

“Honey.  You did pick out a Bed and Breakfast.  The man has been cooking for hours.  He marinated OVER NIGHT!  You have to put some clothes on.  Just wash your face and brush your teeth.  Your pajamas look like clothes now that I come to think of it.” he said as he bounced off the bed.

I stood  up next to the bed.  I stroked the fluffy pillows goodbye.  I was still jet lagged.  I knew I could use that excuse in the mornings for a good six months.  I washed my face.  I brushed my teeth.  I dragged my fingers through my hair.  I threw on a bra and tee shirt over my 3/4 length pajama bottoms.

I came out of the bathroom and headed for the long flight of stairs to the kitchen.

I tried to get in vacation mood.  I mean it’s not my husband’s fault that he is so jolly in the morning.

“Let’s go.  It’s a good thing I’m so naturally beautiful.” I kidded as I felt the back of my hair standing up straight.  My husband snorted and agreed that I do bed head beautifully.

At the head of the stairs I put my fake smile on.  I fake everything in the morning.  I fake being friendly.  I fake having brushed my back teeth.  I fake being hungry.

We’d known the host for a few days now.  He thought my grumpiness in the morning was a hoot compared to my charm in the afternoon and evenings.  He rubbed my back and said things like “Good try.” as he took away my half eaten breakfast.  I mean that handmade sausage was a foot long.  Could feed a family of four with that thing.

Knowing me I probably said it out loud.

The host was the biggest perk of the place.  He laughed in all the right places.  He had a story to add to yours.  He was interested in everything.  If you said you are into Model T cars  he would tell you that he finds antique cars fascinating.  He’d lead you to an Automobile Museum a few miles away.  You’re into calligraphy?  He’d pull out a book from the library in the living room and turn to page 110.  Now, there’s some calligraphy.

I’d had enough conversations with him to know that he was a naturally friendly guy.  I think he found my stories to be entertaining. He remembered names and places the next time they were mentioned.  He seemed sincere.  But, who knows.  He meets new people several times a week.  All year long.  His calendar for July and August on the side of the refrigerator was chock block full.

The host found my quiet ways and half smiles cute at breakfast.  He didn’t eat with us.  He hung out behind the kitchen counter and listened and jumped in with things like more cream for the coffee if needed.  If conversation lagged he might help out.

We joined another couple at the dining table.  They were almost done eating.  They must have signed up for the 8:30 am sausage.  They were all squeaky clean and ready for their day.  Of hiking.  I noticed their boots and tee shirts.  They wanted to Save the Whales.  Save the Earth.

This couple had been there a few days.  They were cheerful and awake at breakfast.  One strike against them.  They plugged their car into an extension cord.  Two strikes.  The husband was a talker in the a.m.  No, not a talker.  He was a lecturer.  Three strikes.

I’ve looked up the definition of “bore”.  He was a bore.  Bore: to fatigue; tire; annoy.  He did that all to me.  At the breakfast table.  When I was still missing my pillow.

I fought the compulsion to punch him in the throat  while I chewed.  I never yawned in his boring face.  I hid that behind a soft and ironed fabric napkin that matched my placemat.  I didn’t point out to the lecturer that he was repeating himself.  His wife of over forty years hadn’t beaten him over the head with the big pepper mill yet.  And, she’d heard all his stories at least a hundred times I bet.

Who was I to take him out over the sausage and fruit salad for being a bore.

I can be entertaining.  I can keep a table full of people laughing for up to a half an hour. I’ve commandeered conversations away from bores at company Christmas parties.  I listen to ten minutes of some mid manager go on and on about the War of 1812.  I look around the table and see people gnawing at their own appendages to get away.

I interrupt.   I pipe up with my loud rendition of the 1812 Overture.  I interrupt with fake orchestration.  I cut in with “Hey, what about that snow storm last week, folks?  My white cat went out into all that snow and I couldn’t find her for hour.”  The table full of people erupt into “What about that snowstorm.” chatter.

But, never in the morning.  I am a mute in the morning.

Until, the bore ignores three days of signs.  Verbal signs.  Visual signs.  That’s what makes a bore a bore really.  The sound of their own voice even mesmerizes themselves.  They don’t notice people’s facial expressions.  They don’t notice eyes rolling into the back of heads.  They ignore their mate coughing little signals.

They just go on and on and on.

The bore was veering away from his dissertation on the dryness and hotness of Arizona.  He was onto a new topic.  This would not do.  He was describing the first three chapters of a book he had written about computer programing.  His wife had read those chapters and deemed it boring.  So, he had turned it into a computer programming mystery.  A computer murder mystery set in the hot, dry, hot, dry climate of you guessed it………….Arizona.

I sucked down a second cup of French pressed coffee on morning three of breakfasting with this man.  I looked at the host pinching himself to stay awake across the buffet table.  I winked at him.

His eyes flew open.  He winked back.  He got a big grin on his face.  He rubbed his hands together.  Really.  It was about to get good.  He knew it.

“So, how hot does it get in Arizona?” I spoke up after three silent breakfasts.

The bore answered.  “Today.  110 in the shade.”

“Is there much shade in Arizona?” I asked as I speared a blackberry .  I was leaving the kiwi  in the shape of a flower for last.

I pointed to the kiwi flower on my plate.  I caught my host/chef’s eye and gave him a thumbs up sign.

“Nope.  No shade.  People are surprised that they don’t even cast a shadow in Arizona.” replied the bore.

Oh, this was really going to be too easy I thought.

“People get off of the airplane in Arizona.  They’ve arrived from England and they’re dressed in sweaters.  And, they’re waiting for a cab and they’re stripping in the parking lot.  And, then you find out that they’re going to Death Valley.  I guess you know how Death Valley got it’s name.” said our lecturer.

“People go there to eat breakfast while reading computer murder mysteries and they die of boredom?” I asked.

Our host snorted into a dish towel and turned to adjust the curtains in the kitchen window.

The bore gave me a strange look.  I had finally awakened.  He’d never heard my voice before.  He wasn’t sure he liked it.

His wife smiled and tucked her hair behind her ears.  She didn’t want to miss this. After all; her husband had tried to talk about his boring book and I had detoured him.

He was all confused. She was amused.

Forgive me.  This was my third breakfast where I had been lectured about how hot Arizona is.  I sure as hell never want to step foot in the place now.  Glasses full of ice don’t sweat in Arizona.  People have a hard time wearing contact lenses in Arizona.  They just dry up on your eye balls.  The cactus run screaming from Arizona.  I know all this because I was lectured.

“So, on to other topics.  As Arizona is definitely on my do not visit list now.” I interjected.  “You’re in Portland to visit your son.  Your son that lives three doors down from this B&B.  The son you call his “Royal Highness”.  “The CEO”.  Oh, no.  I’m quoting you.  You said yesterday that His Royal Highness The CEO had deemed fit to give you an appointment at ten a.m.  So, you’re not staying with your son, because?”  I asked as I decimated the kiwi floral arrangement on my plate.

I’d had enough of this man and his droning voice and his nose hairs and his Arizona weather reports.

The host was now crouched on the kitchen floor pretending to look for something in a cupboard.  I could hear him guffawing from where I sat.  Others probably thought he was dealing with a really noisy mouse in a trap or something.

“Oh, my son and daughter in law have a cat.  I’m deathly allergic to cats.” explained the bore. “It affects my sinuses and my vocal chords.  One day with a cat and I can’t even talk anymore.  I lose my voice.”

“You lose your voice?  You wouldn’t be able to lecture?  That would be freaking awful!” I exclaimed loudly as I swirled real cream into the thick black coffee that had brought me to life so early in the morning.

“So, you arrived on Wednesday…………………  when did they get the cat?  On Tuesday?” I asked.

The wife laughed out loud.  The bore glared at me. He preferred me asleep in my plate I’m thinking. My husband wiggled his eye brows at me.

The host yelled “Hooo  Hooo!” at the ceiling and walked out the kitchen door.  “Ha! Ha! Oh, my God! Ha! Ha! I knew I’d freaking love her once she woke up!” screeched his voice from the back yard.

That night a complimentary bottle of wine and two pristine wine glasses showed up on a table in our room.  The handwritten note said “This is for you…………just because.”

It had only been three days.  But, I had woken up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Still Miss Them

I’m a strange type of female.  I admit it.  I don’t like to shop.  I have big feet.  I don’t revel in buying fancy shoes that I’ll probably never wear.  All the advertisements for the latest fashions go right over my head.

I just don’t care.

I find a shirt I like?  I buy it in four different colors.  I’m done shopping for the season.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

My husband and I built a house when we were newlyweds.  I had a baby on my hip as I painted black goop onto the outside of the foundation.  I had a baby on my hip while I put up wall paper.  I did all of this dressed in a ripped Mickey Mouse tee shirt and saggy black sweat pants.

My husband had a good job.  He made enough money to buy me pearls I’d never wear for my birthday.  He presented me with fancy lingerie that made me giggle.  I filled the bottom drawer of my bureau with the stuff.

After I was done giggling I put on my favorite black sweat pants.

He sighed in frustration.

The black pants were put on still warm from the dryer.  They were clean but there was no hiding the white paint that had dribbled on me when I had painted the living room ceiling.  There was white paint smeared on my butt that sort of looked like a big happy face if you squinted your eyes correctly.

My husband had had enough.

“Dar.  You have to do me a favor.  It would make me happy.  Will you do something for me?” he requested in all earnestness.

“Sure.  I’d do just about anything for you, honey bunny.  What is it?” I answered as I flipped a large baby onto my other hip.

“Would you please, please, please go shopping and buy yourself some new pants.  Anything.  Anything would be better than those black sweatpants covered in paint and God knows what.” he said with begging in his eyes and voice.

“Huh.  Yeah.  Maybe.  Someday.  It could happen.  I mean don’t hold your breath.  I could find myself in a department store someday and buy myself some new sweat pants if you’re totally disgusted with these.” I murmured as I sat the huge hefty baby into her high chair.

This baby was wearing her fifth brand new outfit of the day.  She had bows in her hair.  Her ruffled bottoms matched her ruffled tops.  Her little socks had lace that matched the laces in her little shoes.

Baby was ready for the runway even though she couldn’t walk yet.  Meanwhile, my favorite black sweatpants got a little saggier in the butt every day.  The happy face wasn’t looking so happy anymore.

I give him credit.  My husband asked me nicely.  Four or five times.  “Please, take the check book.  Leave the baby with me.  Go buy yourself some clothes.  Go wild.  Buy out the store.  Just please!  Throw away those black sweat pants.  I’m starting to see them in my nightmares.  Please, for the love of God.  Please!  Throw out those sweat pants.” he begged.

I took pity on him.

I turned the black sweatpants inside out so he didn’t have to look at the paint stains anymore.

But!  There was no fooling him.  He’s a really smart guy.  That’s one of the reasons he hooked me in the first place.

We only had one window in that house that faced the back yard.  It was a passive solar house so it was earth bermed in the rear.

One day I was about to put the baby in her indoor swing so I could have an half an hour to let the feeling in my arms return.  Like I said………..she was a hefty baby.  There was a knock on our one and only back window.

I put the baby in her swing and cranked her up.  She swung back and forth giggling with glee.  She ripped the designer bow that matched her designer playsuit out of her hair.  She threw it across the room.  I wiped my sweaty hands on my pajamas and wished for my black sweat pants to be done drying in the dryer.

I went to the window and looked out.  I noticed my husband standing in the back yard.  He had a very triumphant look upon his face.  He had dug a deep hole.  He stood next to the hole with a shovel in one hand and my favorite black sweatpants in the other hand.  He waved to me with them.

I waved back.

He swung the pants he hated over his head in a fancy arch.  Then he dropped them ceremoniously into the hole.  He grabbed the shovel and he shoveled.  He buried my favorite pants into a deep dark wet hole in the backyard.

He covered them in dirt.  He stomped on them.  He jumped up and down and did a happy jig on my buried pants.

He came in and washed his hands.  I ignored him.  He had taken away my very favorite thing.  My comfy soft fits me like a glove who the hell cares what I look like pants.

Damn him to hell and back.

He picked up a perfectly happy baby out of her swing and kissed her belly and got her laughing.  He sung made up songs to her.

“Here’s your check book, Mommy.  There’s no limit.  Go to the mall and fit your butt in it.  Buy some pants, one pair no three!  No more black sweat pants. Baby!  We’re free!”

I went shopping.

 

Connecting The Dots

Connect the dots.

My mother used to scour the coloring books for sale.  She’d buy me the ones with at least some of the pages that you had to connect the dots to make a picture.  You either followed the alphabet or they were numerical.  If you connected the dots incorrectly you didn’t get the picture that was intended.  Some of the most interesting drawings were the ones I did wrong of course.

Remembered dreams in the morning cause me to pause.  I lie in bed and remember the dreams.  Connecting the dots can be frustrating so I don’t try too hard.  Some dreams should be remembered for the colors and the feelings.  I’m old enough now to dream about a lot of people that are no longer part of my waking world.  It’s good to visit them again.  I connect with them just the way I used to.

Sitting on my back deck can be a solitary pursuit.  I don’t bring a book.  I don’t bring the phone.  I just sit.  And, listen to the trees.  Listen to the whirl of the water spinning in the pool.  The birds are active.  The squirrels eat my petunias right in front of me.  Summer is almost over and the frost will come to kill the annuals in their pots.  I let the squirrels have their dessert now while they can.

My memory connects to moments like this in the past.  My father would sit next to me on that deck and listen and watch.  He’d comment about how nice and quiet my neighborhood is.  The next door neighbor would start up his lawn tractor at that exact moment of course.  And, we’d both laugh like hell.

My father would struggle to his feet and point to the edge of the woods.  “What is that?” he’d ask.

“A tree branch on the ground, I think.” I’d reply.

“Nope, it moved.”  he’d say as I stood next to him and followed his pointing finger.

“Oh, Daddy!  That’s a rabbit.  That’s the biggest rabbit I’ve seen around here in a while.” I said as I finally located what he was really pointing at.

The rabbit jumped into the yard to eat some greenery. It was big and brown with a white tail.  It ignored us and put on a show.  We watched until the end.  The bunny had it’s fill and disappeared into the woods.

I was just sitting on my quiet deck a few moments ago.  I shut my eyes and listened to the leaves over my head quake and whisper.  I picked up on the lapping water in the pool.  I smelled the sun on the grass.  My brain immediately connected the dots and took me to a day on Lake Champlain.

Daddy sat on an Adirondack chair.  I went out to find him.  He was husking a great big brown bag full of corn on the cob.  It was an easy job because the corn came from a stand down the dirt road.  It had just been picked.

I asked if I could help.  Daddy handed ear after ear to me.  “Just pick off any silk that I missed.” he said as he husked and looked out over the sparkling water.  I was a little girl that liked to chatter.  Instead I picked up on his mood and remained quiet so he could listen to the trees and the water.

My mind didn’t connect any dots on that day.  I didn’t take a freeze this moment picture in my head.  But, that memory is there.  Complete with my father’s face, the smell of corn husks, sun and the sound of water hitting the shore.

I sat on my deck over fifty years later.  My eyes opened when the back door squeaked.  My husband called out to me.

“I’m making you Beef Wellington.  It’s a pretty fancy dish.  I forgot I bought corn on the cob.  Do you think corn on the cob goes with the beef?  Or, should I just chuck it.  It’ll be no good tomorrow.” he said.

I  smiled because I was just husking corn with my father in a long ago memory.

“I think it goes perfectly.” I said.

The door shut behind me.

My eyes leaked tears because my Daddy died a few years ago.  I miss him every day.

That’s when a big brown bunny with a white tail hopped up to the edge of the deck.  It wiggled it’s nose as it sniffed a decapitated petunia.   It stared me right in the eye.  This was a very bold bunny.

“There’s no need to waste tears over the good memories.  How lucky are we?  That we made so many good memories.” popped into my head.

It was my father’s voice.

I sniffed and dried my face with my hands.  I smiled because I had connected the dots.