The Happy Tree

Some things make us happy.  I’m talking about things.  Collections are born this way.  I was collecting ceramic chickens there for a while.  I didn’t mean to.  I bought a single two inch colorful rooster that made me happy.

I put it on my dining room hutch.  I might have mentioned to a few select people that I bought it just because it “made me happy.”

Yeah.  Should have kept that to myself.  Next thing I know……I’m the chicken lady.

Same thing happened with snowmen.  Now, it’s cardinals.  I’m fine with all of this at this point in my life.  But, I can feel the de-cluttering stage creeping up on me.

Someday I’m going to have one heck of a garage sale.

My Christmas tree makes me happy.  I’m not talking nostalgic.  I don’t handle every ornament and remember when I bought it.  I don’t remember who gave me what.  I like the glow in the corner when it’s dark and gray.  I guess a red and green lamp might do the same thing for me.

I don’t know exactly how the “holiday” tree started.  I believe I left the Christmas tree up so long one long dreary winter…….I threatened to turn it into a Valentine’s Tree.

My husband goaded me into doing it.

This coincided with a “girls day out” trip to the Christmas Tree Store……….or as I like to call it…………..The Crap We Don’t Need Store.

And, the Valentine’s Tree was born.  For some obscure reason it made my husband very happy.

February 15th arrived and I ignored the Valentine’s Day Tree.  I ignored it for a good few weeks.  I wasn’t in the mood to drag the tree pieces down to the corner of the basement where they live during the warmer months of the year.

My husband started to tease me.  “When’s the last time you dusted that tree?” he asked.

I glared at him.

“I’ll give it a good shake before I turn it into an Easter Tree.” I answered hoping to tick him off.

“Oh, Goody!  An Easter Tree!  This is going to be the best one yet.” he said in a smarty pants fashion.

I narrowed my eyes at him from across the dining room table.

“You’re on, Mr. Smartie!” I said as I drained my glass of chardonnay.

The Christmas Tree Store beckoned once again.  Lots of Easter Trees out there among the weird and the quirky………….or the happy….. I thought.  I can’t be the only one filling my cart up with this crap.  Why else would they sell it?  Did they see me coming?  It can’t be just me.

I posted a photo of my Easter Tree on Facebook that first year.  Oh, I got lots of comments.  “Beautiful!”  “Can the baby come over and get a photo under your tree?”  “Do you dress up like the Easter Bunny, too :)”  “God, you are so weird.  That’s why I love you.”  “Crazy!”  “You’re such a nut.”

Comments in good fun I suppose.  A few of them irked me.

What’s so weird about a six foot tree covered in eggs and bunnies and chicks?

Ungrateful brats.  No photos for you next year.

The next year they were begging for photos.

My grown up son invites friends over to watch UFC once a month.   They watch men beating each other into unconsciousness by the glow of my holiday tree.

I think this embarrasses him.  He may even warn them.

“Hey…….so the pre fights start at 8 p.m.  My Dad’s cooking.  Come at six if you want osso bucco.  Yeah, um……..just so you know………..my mother is a bit of a freak when it comes to decorating for holidays.  There will be a six foot Easter Tree in the corner.  Just so you know…………..if you like it you can tell her.  If you don’t like it…………..man………..don’t say a word.  Okay?  She’s the one that pays the cable bill……………” I imagine his warning.

My husband and son are away most of this weekend playing card tournaments.  My husband always imagines that I sit in a corner and weep a little when he’s away so much. After almost forty years………….he still thinks I sit and wail “Why?  Why?  Why? am I alone for ten hours?  Whatever will I do?  Sob.  Sob.  Sob.” when I have the house to myself.

He gave me his weekend schedule and worried about my loneliness.  I assured him that I had outings planned with friends.  One outing was a trip out to lunch and the Christmas Tree Store.

I imagined out loud that I would probably suck up some cat hair.  Do some laundry.  Watch some Netflix.  Oh, and un-decorate that Easter Tree and drag it to the basement.

“Oh, no.  No more tree lit in the corner.  The cat is going to miss her tree ……………I’m going to miss the tree.” he said.

I narrowed my eyes and gave him a deep look.

Was he pulling my leg?  No, he didn’t seem to be.

“Hey!  You’re going to the Christmas Tree Store!  Leave the tree up.  If they have red white and blue lights………….buy them.  And little flags!  And stars!  They must sell this kind of stuff for the Forth of July.  Right?” he said hopefully.

Again, I narrowed my eyes at him.  I’m the quirky one in this house.  I was very surprised that the “Holiday Tree” seriously makes him happy.

“I’ll see what I can do………………..” I said.  Of course, The Crap You Don’t Need store had an end stand with everything he mentioned above.  I paused before putting all this stuff into my cart.  Was he serious?  Would this really make him happy?

I decided it would.

I came home and threw three bags of red white and blue decorations onto a recliner in the living room.  The cat investigated.

My son came into the room to watch his baby cat be so cute diving into the bags.  He noticed that everything was red white and blue.

“Are you planning a Fourth of July party this year?  Memorial Day?  Labor Day?”  he asked.

What I was thinking was “Wow!  One tree!  Three holidays!  These decorations really were a bargain.  And, I just love a bargain!” as the store’s motto goes.

“No,  Daddy requested a red white and blue tree.” I stated as I pulled the cat out of a bag before she suffocated.

“You’re not taking that tree down this weekend?” he muttered in a tiny little voice.

I can imagine his invitation for the May UFC fights.

“So, six pm.  Dad is making chicken parm.  Just bring beer.  Prelims are at 8 pm.  And, just so you know that tree is still in the corner.  Now it’s covered in stars and flags.  The poor angel is holding a flag.  Hey, they’re getting old you know.  Old people get weird.  Strange things make them happy.” he might say.

“Let’s keep in mind who pays the cable bill.”

I also imagine his friend’s responses.

“Hey, Dude!  Your Dad cooks!  Your Mom makes the best popcorn!  They pay sixty bucks so we can watch the fights?  I’m thinking the Halloween tree is going to be spectacular!  And, Thanksgiving!  Pilgrims!  Turkeys!  Man!  I can’t wait for the Thanksgiving Tree!”

“Your tree is growing on me. That tree kind of makes me happy.” says his friend

Party Balloons

I’ve never been great at throwing a party.

Oh, I like parties just fine.  I’m a great guest.  I’m the first to arrive if asked.  I help set up.  I smash bags of ice on the garage floor and fill up ice chests with soda and beer.  I help erect shade canopies over the food table.  I might be talked into blowing up a big new floatie for the pool.  I stay long enough to walk around with a trash bag picking up abandoned red solo cups.

I’ve thrown a few big neighborhood block parties.  I clean the bathrooms.  I call the neighbors and tell them what to bring.  I remember to be home on the day of the event.

The person signed up to bring the paper plates and plastic cutlery is a no show.  I run to the supermarket and back in record time.  I’ve had two bites of potato salad when the kids come screaming from the woods with bees chasing after them.  I run to the supermarket and back in record time with cans of hornet spray.  The lady bringing the sheet cake doesn’t make it.  I realize this after two more bites of potato salad.  My paper plate hits the trash can………..and you guessed it.

A trip to the store for a cake.

I hostessed two of these block parties.  The result was the same.  Every one had a great old time.

Except me.

I figured it was someone else’s turn the next year.

You guessed right again!  This neighborhood never saw another block party.

I get invitations to parties on Facebook.  I check my calendar.  That day should be good.  I look at the number of invited guests.  Wow!  That’s a lot of people.  I wonder what it must be like to actually know that many people.  That many people you actually like and want to come to your party.

I sit and watch the numbers.  How many say no.  How many say maybe.  I watch the maybes grow in number.  What does “maybe” really mean on one of these invitation?

We all know what it means.

“Sure, I’ll be there unless something better comes along in the next two weeks.”

Rude!

I glance down the list of people that have already said yes.  Hmmm.  An interesting mix of people.  Lots of people I actually like.  Lots of people I can enjoy for an hour.  No more than an hour………….but I can grin and bear almost anyone for 59 minutes if the hot dogs are Nathans.

You don’t need a big gang of people to have a fun party.  My family get togethers are good times.  My husband cooks.  We all talk and talk.  Then I bring out the Cranium Game.  Oh, you don’t want to play Cranium?  Too bad.  We’re playing Cranium.

See!  I’m a great hostess.

Then there was the party when we played Cards Against Humanity.  For those of you that aren’t familiar with this particular little black box of cards…………..it can be an absolutely filthy card game.

My sweet sister in law wanted to play.  My even sweeter little mother in law wanted to play.  My thirty year old son was mortified when his Grammy asked him what some sexually explicit terms meant.  He actually blushed and then told her to look it up on the computer.  She gave Google a work out that night with me and my sister in law looking over her shoulder.  We roared when we read the answers.

My son sat at the table downing something strong in a shot glass.  Because?  Because his Grammy patted him on the shoulder and told him that “Your generation didn’t invent sex you know.  How do you think you got here?  We just didn’t have names for that kind of stuff in my day.”

And, then she kept winning.

And, he had a few more shots.

I was about ten years old when I threw my first party.  I didn’t do it alone.  A little girl from one street over planned it with me.  We spent days decorating our covered patio.  We drew posters.  We decorated a plain white paper tablecloth with our art work.  We strung streamers that I found in my mother’s junk drawer.  We had two balloons hanging from the ceiling.  Only two because neither of us could knot the ends.

We pooled our change and got permission to walk to Floyd’s Market.  There we spent every penny on junk food.  Fritos.  Little Debbie cakes.  Snowball cupcakes.  I get indigestion just thinking of the combination of crap we bought that day.

The little girl came over the next afternoon for our party.  We sat and stuffed our faces for a few minutes.  We let out mighty burps.  We looked at each other and realized we’d forgotten something very important.

We had forgotten to invite any one else to our little shindig.

“Do you want to play The Game of Life?”  Nah………  “Do you want to play badminton over the clothesline?”  Nah……  “Do you want to run through the sprinkler?”  Nah……….  “Do you want to color or play with my Barbies?”  Nah…………. “Want to play house in the doll house?”  Nah…………my little friend said with another audacious burp.

This party was nicely decorated but it was a bust.

My mother must have been listening to all of this through the kitchen window.

She came out to the patio and stood over us.  She poked at the sweaty Little Debbie cakes left on the plate.  She ate a few of the Fritos that were starting to wilt in the humid heat of the day.

“So, you two having fun?  Can’t think of anything to do?  Why don’t you fill that bag of balloons up with water from the spigot and have a water balloon fight?  That would be fun on such a hot day.” she suggested.

My friend and I perked up at the idea.  Hitting each other in the face with balloons filled with cold water sounded like something fun and different to do.  But, we had one little problem.  Neither of us could tie a knot in the end of a balloon filled with air.  Never mind one weighted down with water.

We sighed and put our chins into our hands in defeat.

“I know how to tie knots on the ends of balloons.” my mother said.  “It’s all in the twirl at the end.  Come on.  I’ll teach you.”

And, she did.  And, she found two buckets to hold our ammo.  And, she tipped the picnic table over onto it’s side as a balloon barricade.  And, she stayed and played with us.

She didn’t have a bucket of balloons to herself.  So, she’d run like mad and steal a few of ours.  She got soaking wet.  We all got wet because it turns out my mother had wicked good aim with a water balloon.

That was one of the best parties I ever threw.

 

 

 

Great Escape

There were a lot of similarities between my husband and his father.

My father in law has passed on.  But, I may go from present to past tense for the rest of this story.  Because, it’s just easier on me.  As a writer and as a daughter in law that misses him very much.

They are both very smart.  A lot of their knowledge comes from their insatiable curiosity.  Something catches their attention?  They will go to the library and take out books.  Later on, the computer made their quest for knowledge much easier.

They are both very hard to say no to.  They get a tilt to their head.  It’s like they’ve never heard that word before. What language is this?  Before they get a chance to get into it with you……………you find yourself changing your answer to “maybe” or “we’ll see” or come on ……………let’s make it easy on all of us………………..”okay”.

My in-laws lived in Florida for years.  Upstate NY gets nice and hot in July.  They’d wait until then to come and spend a week with us.

My husband would over feed us.

We’d go for walks around the neighborhood to make room for dessert.  That’s when you’d notice the similarities in their build.

They walked too fast for my mother in law and myself.

We’d walk behind and notice that the men’s stance was the same.  The length of their stride matched exactly.  The stubborn set of their shoulders was alike.  From the back they looked like twins.  Except, my father in law always kept a little more hair on top than my husband did.

Did you see what I just did there?  I made that sound like it was a choice.  That one is for you, honey.

My in laws were ten years younger than my own parents.  So, during their visits I’d plan outings.  Outings that included lots of walking that my own mother could no longer handle.

Camping trips.  My in-laws pretended to love our pop up camper as long as we kept it a one night thing.  Out door museums.  Indoor museums.  The ladies would chase after the kids because they always wanted to be in the next display.  If you looked at enough old stuff you’d eventually get to the gift store and it’s corner of candy they figured.

The men would be a half hour behind us.  Because, each of them would pause at every display.  They’d read every sign in front of every case.  They were actually learning something.

Again, my mother in law and I would smile at the sight of them.  They both leaned down to read with their hands clasped behind their backs.  They read every word.  Twinsies.

Both of these men got married at a young age.  They have great love and respect for their wives.  They put their ladies first.  They both enjoy the company of women.

One hot summer day found a car load of us at The Great Escape in Lake George.  It’s now a Six Flags.  Four adults and two kids.  Lots of spinning rides that I won’t go on.  I sat on the bench with all the bags.  Lots of roller coasters that my mother in law won’t go on.  She sat on the bench with the bags.

One of the last rides left both of the guys looking pretty green.  They sat on the bench with the bags while we took the kids to the bathroom to change into their swimming suits.

We came back to find the guys sharing the bench with a group of young women.  The gals were stripping off their tee shirts and sharing sun lotion in preparation of going down the big water slide.

Our men faced forward.  They were being very respectful of the half naked beauties that had commandeered their bench.  Mom and I both burst out laughing as we watched.  First the men’s eyes swiveled left.  Then they swiveled right.  They didn’t miss a thing without moving their heads.

When did they ever get a chance to practice this move together?  It was so synchronized!  It must just be in the genes.

I turned to my mother in law and asked if she’d noticed anything out of the ordinary that day.

She cocked her head and waited for me to give her the answer even though she thought she had it.

“I think it’s big boobie day at The Great Escape.  Do you think all these girls got ten percent off at the gate? ” I joked.

She burst out laughing because she’d noticed too.  And, it was exactly what she thought I was about to say.

We watched the swiveling eyes for a moment longer.  The men then noticed us standing there.  They jumped up from the bench as if they were actually relieved.

I looked down at my little mother in law.  She looked at me.

“Well, if it’s big boobie day……………….I don’t know how we got in.” I exclaimed.

 

 

 

 

The Greatest Generation

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It’s kind of amazing.  You have kids.  And, they’re like little chameleons.  One day you see yourself in their faces.  Their mannerisms.  You say this one looks like me.  That one looks like you.  And, then the day changes and so do they.

It’s always been easy to figure out where my daughter got her looks.  She shimmers between both of her grandmothers.  They’re both beautiful ladies.  So, my daughter lucked out there.  Her singing voice was bestowed on her by generations of O’Brien women.  She lucked out there also.

My son spent most of his life confused.  He doesn’t look like me.  He doesn’t look like my husband.  He is nothing like his sister.  I always told him I thought he looked like his Grampy Ralph.  My father had the same square jaw.  The same blonde Swedish beauty in his visage.

My son only knew old Grampy Ralph.  He thought I was blowing smoke at him.  He probably wondered when I’d get the nerve up to tell him he was really adopted.

And, then he looked over my shoulder when I was scanning a photograph.

I was scanning a photo of my father.  In the picture Daddy was 21 years old.  He was beaming at the camera.  He had just finished Marine basic training.  He had been given his WWII orders.  He would remain stateside and become a drill sergeant.

The young man in the photo wore a Marine’s dress blues.

My son stared at the photograph.  His face was overcome with surprise.  He recognized his own features in the sepia toned photo.

“Is that Grampy?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“Yes.  Remind you of someone you know?” I asked.

“It’s like a mirror.” said my 30 year old son.  “How old is he there?”

“21.”

“21!  A drill sergeant in the Marines.  At 21!” he declared.

“He was a child of the Depression.  He came of age during a great World War.  He had already picked out Grammy to be his wife when this photo was taken.” I said to him over my shoulder. “People became adults very quickly back then.  Childhoods were short.”

“Thinking back on that…………..that is why my parents fought so hard for my own childhood.  They would say all the time…………..What’s your rush?  Why do you want to be a grown up?  I was 13 and struggling for a little independence.  Take your time.  You’re only young once…………………..you’re only young once.” I remembered.

“My mother earned a living at age 12.  My father walked twelve miles to high school at that age.  He worked in a different state when he was 18.  All by himself in a boarding house.  My father became a soldier when he was 21 because they wouldn’t take him a day sooner.  But, me?  I lived in a warm house with plenty to eat surrounded by my people.  Pretty clothes.  Vacations at the lake.  Do you know what my father said when he delivered me to my dorm room on my first day of college?” I asked my son.

“He ran his hand over my desk and book case and said “Well, look at all of this!  When I went to college I had to study on the train.  I went from Worcester to Boston and back every day for two years.  And, I studied on the train.” I remembered as I looked at my father’s young face.

I pointed to the photo.

“This was the Greatest Generation.  I’m sure you’ve heard that term before.  What made them great?  Our country was in financial ruin when they were kids.  They had to work instead of play.  If they were over the age of ten they shared their parents worries.  They worked and kept nothing for themselves.  They didn’t ask anything of Santa.  And, then?  Their country went to war.  They saw the United States of America bombed for the first time.  Their president told them their lives were going to change.  That they had to stand up and fight!  They had to fight for our very freedom.  Can you imagine?” I whispered as I touched the screen of my computer that was full of a young Marine proudly wearing brand new dress blues.

“I’ve always known my parents were heroic.  They never said as much.  They never used the word hero.  My mother stopped going to school after eighth grade.  She went to work to help feed her little brothers and sisters.  She was proud that she achieved that.  My father went to High School.  That’s the equivalent of college now a days.  He lived in a strange city and earned a living at the age of 18.  He must have been so lonely……………….he met my mother and that gave him some happiness.  She shared her family with him.  And, then?  The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.  He sat on the recruiters steps on the day of his 21st birthday and he enlisted. ” I explained to my son.

“And, thus……………………….this beautiful photograph.”

“That’s a really sharp uniform.” my son said.   He had to say something because he was being lectured when he least expected it.

“It’s hanging in your closet this very minute.” I replied.

“What?” he gasped.

My father had bestowed some of his belongings to his grandson.  Perhaps, when he was too young to fathom what was being given to him.

“That uniform is in your closet.  Grampy gave it to you when you were about twelve.  Look in the very back of the closet.  It’s there.  He wanted you to have it.” I said as I finished scanning the photo.

I took the original 8X10 from the scanner and went about putting it back into the photo album

“Not every Marine had dress blues you know.  That uniform wasn’t provided to them.  Grampy Ralph was just about to graduate basic training when his commanding officer called a small group into his office.  He handed them slips of papers with appointments to go for fittings.  Grampy was so surprised to get that uniform.  His parents had paid for it.  They were potato farmers in northern Maine.  I remember him saying he wondered what they had gone without to be able to purchase that uniform.  How many Saturdays they stayed home instead of heading to town for an ice cream at the parlor.  How many new dresses his mother went without.  How many times his father resoled his work boots. ”

“Because he had that uniform?  He would often be called into the commanders office.  And, be told that his duties would include going to a funeral the next day.  He was to look spiffy.  Give a 21 gun salute with his rifle shining.  He was to fold our flag and present it to grieving families.  Because?  Because he was one of the few that owned dress blues.” I explained just as my father had explained it to me.

“And, that cool knife in the leather shield that he gave to you?  That isn’t a knife.  That is a bayonet.  That is the bayonet off of Grampy’s rifle.” I told him.

“Grampy performed for President Truman with that bayonet.  He was chosen out of all those soldiers on that base to run the obstacle course for the President of the United States.  Did you know that?  And, he gave it to you. ” I said as I struggled to put the photo back into it’s plastic sleeve.

“He should have told you all this when he gave you these things.  But, you were young.  He told me instead.” I told my son.

“You take good care of that uniform.  And, that bayonet.  Grampy could have given those things to my brothers.  But, for some reason he didn’t.  He gave them to you.” I said as I closed the album.

“You’ve always wondered who you look like?  Well, now you know.” I said as I looked at my dear son’s face.

“Obviously, Grampy Ralph always knew.”

 

 

 

The Potato Story

I think of my father quite often when I’m in a grocery store.  There are many reasons for this.  First of all………….I kept him company when he did the big weekly grocery shopping when I was a little girl.  And then, during his later years he kept me company when I did mine.

Daddy would visit for a week.  Going to the grocery store to pick out something to cook for dinner was his daily outing.  He’d grab a cart and hang on for stability.  We’d make the big loop in the store.

He’d poke around the produce department for a bit.  I was his tour guide.

“What the hell is this?” he’d say lifting a piece of fruit up to his nose.

“A pomegranate.” I’d answer.

“In my shopping days it was all apples, oranges and bananas.  Maybe a pineapple if you wanted to go wild.” he’d say as he put the fruit down.

He grew up in a simpler time.  Simpler fruits.  You ate things in season.  Like strawberries.  Blueberries.  You were lucky if your mother was good at canning.

I often think of my father when I buy a bag of potatoes.  Russets.  From Maine.  Don’t give me any Idaho potatoes.  If they’re not from Maine……I do without.

Every time I look at a potato I hear his voice.  I’m sure every single person in my Daddy’s family hears his voice when they look at a potato.

Sounds weird.  But, we have good reason.

“A raw potato.  Dirt and all.” is what we hear in our heads now that he’s gone.

Because that was the first sentence of his story.  Daddy’s potato story.  The story he told over and over like he’d never told it before.  He’d get a certain far off look in his eyes.  He’d smile and grunt out a “huh”……………..and you knew it was coming.

We’d all heard it a hundred times.  Sometimes he’d get cut off at the “huh” by a person close to him ………..a person that just didn’t have it in them to hear that particular story………..even one more time.

“Oh, no.  Here it comes.  The potato story.  Raw potato.  Dirt and all.” might be said by a family wise ass.  It would shut him up.  He’d get quiet.  For a few moments you knew what particular memory was flashing through his head.

We all have a favorite story.  A short one can be told over and over again.  You know your audience has heard it before.  You just don’t care.  Because…………in the telling of it…………..you are reliving it.  You go back in time.  You see people.  You see places.  You get to your happy ending.

I never stopped my Daddy from telling his potato story.  It was a good one after all.  And, sometimes something new would get added.  The story got more in depth.  Another story that was new to me might follow.  I didn’t interrupt the flow of story telling when it was happening.

I could probably recite the potato story right along with my father.  If it was a song…….everyone at the table could at least sing the chorus right along with him.  Instead, I pretended it was new.  I asked questions.  And, sometimes I was rewarded by a new tale.

One night at our dinner table………he went right from potatoes to how he met my mother.  I’ve already written that one down.  (When Ralph Met Ellie)

That potato story usually came when our meal was done.  My dining room would be decorated for whatever holiday we were celebrating.  A final glass of wine was being consumed while we still sat with the dirty dishes in front of us.

He’d get that look in his eye.  He’d smile and say “Huh!” and off he’d go.

My father was born in 1921 in the woods of northern Maine.  He attended school in a one room school house.  Eight grades were taught by one woman.  Not everyone continued on to high school.   The state of Maine only promised you eight years of education.  After that it was up to you.

The high school was a dozen miles away in Caribou.  Children were farmed out to other families that lived there.  Girls would find themselves tending children and dusting furniture in exchange for a room.  My father found himself with a family that owned the only gas station in town.  He pumped gas and learned about automobile engines in his free hours.

He went home on weekends.  He walked the dozen miles.  In the winter…….he put on his cross country skis.  He used the roads and he cut through acres of woodland.  All by himself.  A dozen almost empty miles.

He carried his food for the week every Sunday in a bag on his back. Along with clean clothing.  Potatoes.  A loaf of home made bread.  A few jars of vegetables.  A dollar for the butcher.

He never described his living conditions.  I do picture an out building with a small bed.  A lamp.  A pot bellied stove that he fed with wood to keep from freezing.  These were not deluxe accommodations.  I don’t believe he was treated as one of the family.

The lady of the house would cook his pork chop for him.  He would do the rest.

From the ages of 13-17 he lived like this during the school year.

By Thursday night?  He was always out of food.

Friday afternoons would find him traveling home by foot.  With an empty pack on his back.  Empty except for dirty clothing.

Winters are long in northern Maine.  The black of night time comes in the afternoon.  He traveled alone.  In the dark.  In the snow.  The kind of snow that is fast.  Furious as it hits you in the face.  As it chills your fingers within your woolen mittens.  As it takes all feeling from your toes inside your boots.

And, he was always so so hungry.

This is where the potato comes in.  Raw.  Dirt and all.

About half way home…………he would stop at a railway siding.  He’d let himself into the building where the potatoes awaited loading and shipping.  These potatoes were protected by wood stoves to stop them from freezing.

He wouldn’t stay long.  Just long enough to warm up a little.  He wouldn’t sit down and get drowsy.  He’d stay until his feet started to thaw.  Until his toes started to scream with pain.

He’d eat a few raw potatoes.  Dirt and all.  To give himself the strength to make it home.  To face the fear of the darkness.  The lamps in the front windows of farm houses were his only guidance once he got out of the woods.

Imagine how his mother must have felt!  Looking out the window on a Friday evening.  Ralph is hours late.  The snow is falling so fast she can’t see past the window.  She pushes the lantern as close to the pane of glass as she dares.  And, she prays.  That he’s safe.  That he’s still on his feet.  That he’s not lost.  She prays for the fortitude to last throughout a night of not knowing.  Did he decide to stay in Caribou?  Did he leave before the snow started to fall.  Should she send out the neighboring men in a search party?

And, then she would hear him at the door.  She’d let out a sob and pull him into the warm house.

She’d unwrap him.  She would check out his fingers and toes.  She’d sit him down and put his hands and feet into bowls of cold water.  She’d feed him stew with a spoon.  Like a baby because she was saving his hands from frost bite.

“I never lost a toe.  Because, my mother knew just what to do.” my father might add to his story.

“Huh!” he’d say as he looked at the remnants of our fancy dinner spread before him.  The leftovers still in the bowls.  The big basket of bread that was hardly touched.

He’d poke the skin from his empty potato with a finger.

“My mother would be feeding me stew as my hands and feet thawed out.  God, that hurt.  She’d talk to me and try to keep my mind off of it.  She’d ask me what I learned in school that week.  But…………..she’d always end with ……………”So, did you stop at the siding to warm up? We’ll make sure to reimburse them for those potatoes come spring. Did you eat a few potatoes?”

“Yes, Ma.  Dirt and all.”

I’m a Weirdo

I’m a weirdo.  I admit it.

You are too.  That’s why the title of this story hooked you.

I don’t care what you think of me.  That is freeing.  I am me.  I am confidant in being me.  I have my flaws.  I have my perfections.  I am loved.

That last sentence gives me the power to be me.

I am loved.

I accept me.  I know I am mundane in many different ways.  I am just like you.  I am just like that person over there.  We are all the same.  But, I have grasped and embraced what makes me different.

I come from a long line of people that cared too much about what other people thought.  I sat back and watched the repercussions of this.  I thought there was too big a price to pay.  Voices that got shushed in case some one could hear.  Fireworks that grew old because they might be too loud or bright for someone close by.

I saw joy being stifled.  What will the neighbors think?  I rejected that early on.  Because I knew.  I knew what made others unique is what was respected and embraced.  The time you lost it and howled at the moon?  That was the moment that I knew I loved you.

What brings this diatribe on?

It’s April 7th and I’m taking down my Christmas Village.

Yup.  Fir trees.  Santas.  Reindeer.  Log cabins.  Pine cone people.  Elves.

I’m a weirdo.  And this Santa’s village turned into a “winter” village when December 25th passed us by.  When January 1st flew over our heads.  Valentine’s Day.  St. Patrick’s Day.

In my soul this village made sense being displayed because there was still snow surrounding my house.  My yard almost turned green.  The squirrels frolicked.  The birds swooped.  Then all got quiet.  The sky darkened.  Dark clouds rolled in.

I got the salt washed off of my car.

And, then?  The snow came again.

So, once again I  looked at my village and put off the day when I would put it all away into a big plastic tub.  I’m getting to an age.  I know tomorrow isn’t promised.  I love these little pine cone elves from my childhood.  I put them away and wonder if I’ll ever see them again.

I cherish them.  I hold them in my hand and I remember.  I remember when they belonged to my mother.  I remember where they sat in a corner at Christmas in my childhood home.  They are part of me.  Part of my past.

Once I’m gone?  They’ll sit in a yard sale at the end of the driveway.  If someone doesn’t buy them for a quarter?  They’ll go into the trash can.  Or, if I’m lucky they’ll go to the Salvation Army.  For some other weirdo to buy.

My weirdo heart is thankful that I looked out the window today and found the snow almost gone.  One more sunny day will give way to worn out grass with a touch of green at the edges.

Why am I thankful?

Because I needed the snow to disappear outside my window in time for Easter.  In time for me to replace my Christmas Village with Easter houses.  I replace the fake snow with fake grass.  Pale green and pink houses with bunnies spilling out the door ways.  Porcelain chicks and eggs.  Even a mouse or two.

Yes, I’m a weirdo all year long.

The Mirror

No.  I was never a cheerleader.  I tried turning a somersault once.  I was half way over when my body collapsed into my mother’s big red rose bush.  I pissed off the bees.  I pissed off my mother.  The rosebush forgave me after it had scratched up both of my legs.

Every rose has a thorn.  Or ten.

I had many friends on the cheer leading squad.  I know they worked hard.  I know it wasn’t all about wearing that cute little uniform to school.  It wasn’t all about the pom poms.

Many of them were born cheer leaders.  They saw the best in people.  They could turn your frown upside down.  They were good looking girls with good hearts and lots of friends.

We all go through a certain stage in our early teens.  We check ourselves out in the mirror a lot.  Hair has to be perfect.  Eye lashes need to be darkened and defined.  We compare ourselves to others.

We find ourselves wanting.

My mom noticed.  She’d tease me.  She called me “Mirror Mirror On The Wall”.  She’d listen to me moan about gaining five pounds during Girl Scout Cookie season.

“Wah, wah, wah.  Put down the cookies and go for a freaking walk.” she’d say.

One day she’d had enough of the mirror routine.  If I had been basking in my own glorious beauty she would have gotten sick of it.  She would have brought me down to the ground with her comments.  She’d had enough of me and my mirror for a different reason.

I didn’t like what I saw.

All of a sudden she was standing behind me in the mirror.  She looked pretty serious.  Also seriously pretty.  I glanced at her and wished I looked more like her.

“Get that puss off of your face and listen to me good.” she said to my reflection.

“You’re a beautiful girl.  You’re not the most beautiful girl.  There will always be someone prettier in the room with you.  Also, someone that wishes they looked just like you.  There can be a hundred women in a room.  Each one of them is beautiful in their own way. ” she explained.

“You need to stop looking in the mirror and look around you.  You need to be thankful for every thing you have.  Quit thinking about what you don’t have.  Don’t ever talk bad talk to yourself.  Look in the mirror and say “Yes, I can.  Yes, I can make a difference today.”  You can be the most beautiful you if you’re kind to others.  If you’re kind to someone else today…………they will think you’re beautiful without noticing what you’re wearing.  Or, if your hair is perfect.  Or, if you’re wearing eye shadow or not.” she explained.

“So, get out of that mirror and go be beautiful.”

That was one of the most important speeches my mother ever made to me.  And, believe me she speechified a lot in my general direction.  I’ve always remembered it.  I took it to heart.

I’ve repeated that speech to many, many women over the years.  I hope they listened to me and it took hold.  I hope I helped them to realize how beautiful they are.

That speech has been helpful especially as my reflection in a mirror ages with me.  I used to be thinner.  I used to be prettier.  I used to have naturally auburn hair.  I used to be a lot of things.

But, I don’t say those things to myself in the mirror now.

I’ve got a little bit of cheer leader in me after all.

“Looking good , girlfriend.  You don’t look a day over 58.” I say to my 59 year old self.

I crack myself up.

“Now, go and make someone smile.  Go and be beautiful.”

 

An Easter Lullaby

I got a quick glimpse of the Easter Bunny today.  I was glancing out of my kitchen window.  I was gauging the depth of the snow still left under the shadow of the trees in my back yard.

Spring is slow in coming this year.  But, I can smell it in the air.  I can see it in the scampering of the squirrels.

The red cardinal caught my eye first.  I know it’s just a bird.  But, I always think of my mother when I see that flash of red.  Sometimes the bright red bird will alight some place close by.  And, it stays for a few minutes.  The bird always leaves before I do.  I keep vigil at the window.  I always outlast the bird’s patience.

Because…………every second or special minute looking at that bird?  I’m thinking of my mother.

The big bunny hurdling across the yard was an added extra bonus today.

Just in time for Easter.

When I was a kid in Manchester…………Easter meant spring.  Spring still comes earlier to that part of Ct. in comparison to where I live on the edge of the Adirondack mountains now.  While I still look at mounds of snow here………….my childhood home is surrounded by crocuses.  By the time Easter comes around in Ct. there will be azaleas in spectacular color.  Sometimes I think it’s just the warmth of my memory that brings spring earlier to my first home in Ct.

But, it is real.

The Easters of my childhood involve stiff petticoats under fancy dresses.  Bonnets festooned with silk flowers and styrofoam bumble bees.  Elastic bands holding that hat onto my head digging into the soft skin under my chin.

Saturday night scrubbed in the tub.  Shampoo and conditioner.  My hair wrapped tightly into curlers shaped like tootsie rolls.

The same Saturday night immersed in the smell of boiling eggs and vinegar.  Writing our names in crayon on the eggs before dipping them into glasses filled with beautiful jewel toned dye.  Purple and green and red and orange.  Eating the same eggs the next day after Daddy had warmed them up again.  Along with a frying pan full of crispy bacon.

An Easter candy hunt though out the downstairs of the little Cape Cod house on Columbus Street.  I had an old wicker purse of my mother’s instead of a basket.  It was full of green plastic grass like my brothers multicolored baskets had.  Jelly beans.  Shiny marshmallow eggs.  Chocolate bunnies.  Chocolate coconut cream eggs.

The big boys always collected more candy than I did.  I was little.  And, they used their elbows in the hunt.  I always ended up crying.  But, somehow…………after my mother made us put our full baskets onto the couch………and go eat breakfast……………..the candy evened out.

I realize now…………..that my dear sweet mother…………….counted jelly beans and eggs and made sure we all got the same amount.

It’s amazing.  I just figured that out this very minute.  This is one of the reasons I will continue writing these stories for the rest of my life.

A long mass at church with incense swinging by a chain held by a priest dressed in iridescent robes.  An altar decorated with pot after foiled enclosed pot of Easter Lilies.  Communion on my tongue.  A tiny prayer book with gold edged pages tucked into my patent leather little girl’s purse.

And, then an half hour ride to Glastonbury to have Easter dinner with my grandparents.  Snug as a bug in the back seat of the Mercury station wagon.  Crunched between two big brothers in the back seat.  Cheesy scalloped potatoes in a big iron dutch oven wrapped in foil at our feet.

My clumsy attempt at a bunny cake covered with frosting and coconut riding behind us in the back.  Jelly bean eyes and nose.  Licorice laces for whiskers.  Surrounded by old blankets to keep it from shifting.

I held a potted Easter lily in my hands the whole ride.  I couldn’t put it down.  It might tip over.  Every year I climbed my grandparent’s front stairs.  In my Easter finery.  Holding an Easter plant for my grandmother.

Traditions are made by doing the same things year after year.  Variations on those traditions are remembered as well.  As varying from the norm.

A smell can bring us back.  A whiff of vinegar.  A boiled egg.  Or, the sight of a bunny bouncing across a yard.

Music can too.  I heard a lullaby a few weeks ago.  In a very strange place.  A grocery store.

The seasonal aisle was full of Easter candy.  And baskets.  Bags of fake grass and plastic eggs.  And, a four foot section of little baby dolls.  Wearing bunny eared bunting.  You wind the old fashioned key and Brahm’s Lullaby wafts out into the grocery store.

It stopped me dead and crashed me back to over fifty years ago.

I had such a doll.  It played the same tune.  My mother gave it to me for Easter.  She would put me to bed and wind up the doll.  She’d stay behind and sing along for a few minutes with her beautiful contralto voice.

My daughter has my mother’s voice.  I just realized that this very minute too.

Lullaby and goodnight,
With roses bedight,
With lilies o’er spread
Is baby’s wee bed.
Lay thee down now and rest,
May thy slumber be blessed.

Lullaby and goodnight,
Thy mother’s delight,
Bright angels beside
My darling abide.
They will guard thee at rest,
Thou shalt wake on my breast.

Those are the American lyrics to the song.  I recognize some of the words.  I hear my mother’s voice singing them this very minute even though she’s been gone for many years.  But…………….I don’t think she knew all the real lyrics.  Her song changed every night.  With every winding of that bunny eared doll.  She crafted her lyrics to mean something to me.

Her little girl.

My God.  Was I blessed with a wonderful mother.

I can only imagine the flash of joy that rushed across my face when I wound that doll up the other day in the grocery store.  I was glad that I was the only one interested in bags of jelly beans at that moment.

Because the sound of Brahm’s Lullaby tinkling out of that doll made me weep happy tears of joy.

I recognize these moments in others because I have them myself.

I work in a beautiful little candy store.  I deal daily with people remembering their trips to candy stores as children.  The corner of nostalgia candy gets a lot of attention.  People of a certain age stand in that corner and reminisce.  They sniff deeply and sometimes they buy.

There is a large display of candy for Easter set up right now.  Chocolate bunnies.  Jelly beans.  Malted milk eggs…………..it’s all there.

This Sunday I witnessed a moment of joy.

A lady was poking around.  Wasting time because it was obviously her friend that wanted to come in.  She perused the Easter candy with little interest.

And, then?  She gasped with wonder.

She shouted out loud and bent down to retrieve something from the bottom shelf.  She turned to me and her face was covered in joy.  In that second I could imagine what she looked like when she was five years old.  On Easter morning.  In her footsie pajamas.  Brown hair in tootsie roll curlers.  Scurrying throughout her own little Cape Cod house searching for candy.

She held up a sugar egg.  A panoramic egg.  Spun sugar in many splendid colors.  Hollow with a flowered scene inside.  A hard sugar bunny lives within that hollow egg.

“Oh, my goodness.  My grandparents gave me an egg just like this every year when I was a little girl.  They would drive over to our house after church on Easter.  My grandmother would make all the side dishes and my mother would bake the ham.  Every year.  Every year they brought me one of these eggs.  They never forgot……………” she said.

The joy on her face was followed by a sputtering of tears.  She put the egg back on the shelf.  She composed herself in the corner near the Peppermint Pigs.

I rung out her friend while still keeping an eye on the little woman in the corner.

I thanked them for stopping in.  I told them to come again next time they’re in town.  They promised they would.

As they went to leave the door gave out it’s usual bell like tinkle.  I rushed from behind the service counter and picked up a panoramic egg.  I put it into the little woman’s hands.

“Here.  I want you to have this.  Put it somewhere where you can see it every morning.  Look at it and remember.  Happy Easter.” I said.

“Really?  Oh, thank you so much.  This is my favorite store in the whole world now.” she said in a whisper as she left the building.

I went back to the counter.  I rang in the egg and took off my 30% employee discount.  I had enough cash in my wallet to cover it.

The door opened for the next customer.  The door bell rang again.  It was the first note to my favorite lullaby that will always be tied to Easter in my head.

Lullaby and goodnight

Thy Mother’s delight……………………….