A Christmas Memory

Memory is a funny thing.

A memory that is  important to me………….may not be important to you.  I will say “Remember when?” as I recall a story.  You were part of it.  You have no memory of it.  You ask me if I’m mistaken and wonder if you were even there.

Oh, you were.

My mother and I would have memory disagreements all of the time.  Mom thought her memory was as good as gold.  She thought mine was lacking.  I thought vice a versa.

“Don’t you remember? …………..the time we couldn’t have Christmas in the living room ……..we had it down in the play room in the basement?” I asked.

“You’re hallucinating.” my mother replied.

“Oh, no, I’m not.  I cleaned that room.  From top to bottom so we could have Christmas down there.  I remember dragging the tree down there branch by branch.  I set it up myself even though I didn’t know what I was doing.  Christmas in the play room.” I declared.

“Didn’t happen.” she replied with a yawn.  “It was Easter.  My brothers were coming with their guitars and I wanted to party in the room with the piano.” she said with conviction.

Memory standoff…………..no one around to break the tie.

Routines make memories.  The things we do over and over.  Routine becomes tradition.  Especially, at holiday time.  But, you know what?  The year everything goes wrong?  That is memorable too.

An ice storm hit our state when I was fifteen years old.  Just in time for Christmas.  We had a little over a week to wrap up our shopping and baking and finish up with school.  The snow started ten days before Christmas.  It turned to ice.  It pelted the windows and covered the sidewalks.  The trees bent with the weight of the shining hard precipitation.

The trees broke and took down every wire around.  The lights flickered and everything became dark.

It stayed that way for a week.

The week that should have been full of invitations and phone calls …………Christmas shopping………….parties…………cookie exchanges…………choir practices……………..wrapping and last minute shopping………..were instead spent in trying to keep warm, clean and fed.

I wasn’t a little girl.  Santa and I had been friends for a long time.  I knew how he worked.  But, still.  I was terribly upset that the lack of electricity was endangering the most magical time of year.

My mother didn’t put up with my moaning.  She was too busy trying to keep her family fed using a camp stove on the back porch.  She was tired from heating pan after pan of water to keep us clean.

She actually looked me in the face when she was drooping with exhaustion and said “Christmas can wait.”

Then that night………….things got worse.

The living room fireplace was being used as our only heat source.  The chimney caught fire.  The house filled with smoke.  The cat awoke us in time to call 911.

The end wall of the house was chopped down by the firemen.  They sprayed everything in the room, including the Christmas tree with white foam.  The cat and the volunteers saved our home.

But, Christmas was pushed even further back into the importance of things.

I was fifteen years old.  I was childish enough still to hope…………but adult enough to know for certain that this was the year…………..that Christmas might not come to Columbus Street.

And then, the power came back on.

The furnace kicked in.  The house buzzed.  We could actually hear cheers out in the street.  We opened the door and joined our neighbors.  They were all gathered around the base of a power pole.  The lineman that came down that pole was greeted by thankful people, cookies and a mug of hot chocolate.

He told us he was from a state far away.  Two more days of this………..and he could finally go home to his own family for Christmas.

Christmas would come on time after all……………but in a much altered state.

Why?  Because, our living room was a wrecked mess.  The end wall was nothing but plywood.  The fireplace was blackened and needed to be replaced.  The tree in the corner had been knocked sideways by the power of the extinguishers.  The room was covered in a congealed white foam.

We said goodbye to the man that had restored our electricity.  My mother and I returned to the house.  Mom put on the tea kettle and scrounged in the cupboards for some crackers and peanut butter.

She sat at the table and waited for the kettle to whistle.  She put her head in her hands and she thought.  I stood with a tea bag in each hand awaiting what she would say.  My mother never used me as a servant girl.  I had always appreciated that…………but I knew that very well might be about to change.

I sort of hoped it would.  She couldn’t save Christmas all by herself.

The water was hot and I poured it into the mugs.  I sat down and warmed my hands on it.  I blew across the top of the mug and waited for her to speak.

Mom lifted her head after drinking half a cup of tea.

“Okay, first things first.  You haven’t had a bath in a week.  The water will be hot in a few minutes.  Get in that bath tub and wash all of that hair.  Why do you have so much hair?  Wash it twice.  That hot bath is going to make you sleepy.  I can’t have that.  Drink another cup of tea.  I need to see what you can achieve in the next four hours.  Then and only then will I decide what is to become of Christmas.” my mother said.

I nodded and added another tea bag to my mug.

I didn’t linger in the bath even though it felt like heaven.

By the time I got out of the bathroom my mother had the kitchen all cleaned up.  All the pots and pans that had heated water for a week were all put away.  The counters gleamed and the refrigerator door stood open.  She had thrown everything away down to the bottles of ketchup and mustard.

I stood before her in an ancient sweat suit.  My wet hair was in a long pony tail.

“I’m going to put tension rods with old curtains at the entry doors to the living room. The insurance man said it will take a week for the workers to show up to do something about the mess.  Christmas is upon us.  We will pretend that room does not exist.  But, we need to save the artificial tree.  Fill up the bath tub.  Take the ornaments and throw them away.  Take each branch.  Wash it in the tub and then throw it out the bathroom window.  When the whole tree is out on the hatchway take each branch and hang it from the clothes line to dry.   When that is done ……………..come and get more instructions.” my mother ordered.

I went into the living room with it’s blackened walls.  I sneezed a good ten times in a row.  I filled a small trash can with ruined satin ball ornaments.  I refused to give up on the angel that stood sentry at the top of the tree.  I dismantled the branches and headed towards the bathroom as my mother started to block off the room with ancient brocade curtains.

I spent hours giving our Christmas tree a bath.

My mother handed me a cup of coffee this time.  And, a cookie from a tin.

“Now, I have never asked you to clean before.  I did enough of that as a child………I promised myself that I wouldn’t ………..I wouldn’t make you into my maid.  You have no cleaning skills……………but, you can figure it out.  You are to clean the play room in the basement.  That is where we are going to have our Christmas.  You clean from top to bottom.  You start with this mop.  And, Murphy’s Oil Soap.  You do the wood ceiling.  You do the  paneled walls.  Then you dust.   And, then you vacuum.  At the very end you may put the Christmas tree up in the corner near the piano. ” my mother said as she handed me a mop and bucket full of scented water.

I had no idea what the heck I was doing.  But, I did my best.  We had a house full of company supposedly coming in a few days time.  I knew if our house minus living room didn’t pass my mother’s inspection………….well, Christmas would happen elsewhere.

Let’s just say I worked hard.  I knocked the dust and dirt out of a room that was seldom used.  I vanquished things that were taking up space in a room that had started to become a warehouse for unwanted things.  I washed.  I dusted.  I shined up my mother’s piano.

I do remember polishing the legs of that piano.  I remember that because as I sat on the floor I rested my head against the edge of the instrument.  I woke up ten minutes later with a dent in my forehead.

I finished the room.  I dragged all the cleaning equipment out and put them in their spaces in the closets throughout the house.  I opened the basement hatchway door and dragged down pieces of Christmas tree.  I erected the greenery in the corner.

I was satisfied with my work.

I just hoped my mother would be.

I went upstairs and found her changing the linen on her bed.

“Come downstairs and see the play room, Mom.  I did my best.  But, if I missed something……I can fix it.  Come and see.” I said through a cloud of exhaustion.

She went down the stairs with me.

She stood and looked around the room.  She sniffed the air.  She looked into corners.

She was satisfied.

“Okay.  This can happen.  We have three days.  I’ll make phone calls.  My sisters will bring food.  My brothers will bring drinks and their guitars.  Santa will come as usual.  You bake your cookies.  Tomorrow, you’re going shopping with me.  Yes, we can make this happen.  Now, go to bed before you fall over.” my mother said as she stomped up the stairs in her sneakers.

Where was my father in all this?  Working.  Doing double shifts covering for men that were home trying to keep their pipes from freezing.  Many parts of our town were still without power.

My mother didn’t drive.  I wasn’t old enough to.  So, we walked to the shopping center the next day.

My mother pushed a cart in my direction.  She had a list in her hand and a glint in her eye.

“Just remember…………whatever we buy……….we have to carry home.” she said.

I do remember…………….for sure…………..carrying home about twenty boxes of Whitman Samplers.  That was my mother’s go to gift for people she had no idea what to buy for.

She stopped at a rack of women’s coats.  I leaned on the cart and closed my eyes to listen to the piped in Christmas music.  I was still exhausted from the fire and cleaning upheaval.  Oh, and delivering my newspapers in a land covered in ice.

“Here, try this on.” my mother said as she handed me an exquisite coat.  It was a brushed corduroy in a chestnut color with a faux fur collar. “The color matches your hair.”

“Mom!  I have a coat!” I exclaimed as I tried it on.  It fit perfectly.

“Well, Santa needs a little help this year. That won’t be under the tree……….you can wear it home so you don’t have to carry it.” she said as she pushed the cart towards the check out stand.

She stopped at a display of Christmas decorations.  She picked up an angel tree topper.  I could tell she wasn’t thrilled with it but it might do to replace the one that was covered in foam at home.

“Nah, Mom.  Leave it.  She’s just not pretty enough to go on our tree. “I said as I shook my head no.

Mom left it on the shelf.

Christmas company came.  They went.  We all had a great time.  Food and drink flowed from a kitchen that had been dark and empty a few days before.

Many, many years passed and those days were in our memories.  Memories falter for you and might not for me.  They faltered for my mother.

“No!” she insisted as she sat in my kitchen with my little children running around her chair.  “We cleaned up the play room for Easter.   Because, my brothers were coming to play their music.  Because, that’s where the piano was!”

I am quite capable of letting this stuff go.  I don’t always have to be right.

Even, when I am.

But, I didn’t let this one go.

“Mom!  Christmas.  Ice storm.  No power for a week.  Cans of beans and friend bologna for dinner.  No bath.  No shower.  Living room covered in white foam.  Christmas tree washed in the bath tub.  We walked to the store to finish your Christmas shopping.  Do you remember carrying home twenty pounds of boxed chocolates?”…………….I started her off with.

She stopped and thought about it.  I could tell that my mother was no longer hearing my kids say “Grammy,  Grammy, watch this!”

My mother quieted and looked back.  Far back.

“It wasn’t Easter was it?  I remember now.  I remember what you gave me that Christmas.” she said as her eyes filled with tears.

“You took the ruined angel from the tree.  You cleaned her and fixed her and painted her face again.  You washed her gown and sewed it back onto her.  You made her new wings.” my mother finally remembered.

“The angel my own mother gave to me when I was a newlywed.” she said as she nodded her head as she remembered.

“You gave her back to me.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

First Time For Everything

Firsts………..the first time you’ve ever done something.  Or, the first time you’ve ever seen something.

Most firsts happen when we are young.  We don’t remember the firsts usually.  The first taste of ice cream.  Our own first steps.  First ride in a car.  We know they happened but we have no memory of them.  I think that is probably because everything was happening to us for the first time.  Every day.  I think that’s why little children like routine so much.

Enough learning for one day.  They shut their eyes and fall asleep in the strangest places.

Sensory overload.

My daughter wasn’t quite two years old.  She was in her car seat in the back of the car.  We were going over the Groton New London bridge.  Cars whizzed by us at 70 miles an hour.  We were in no hurry in the middle lane.

I glanced towards the right lane ahead of us.  And, there was quite a sight.

A tractor was pulling a large wagon over this zooming busy bridge.  The wagon was stacked with bales of hay.  It was also full of adults dressed as characters.  They must have been on their way to some parade  in the town across the river.

I slowed the car a little as we passed them.  My toddler stared out the window at the wagon full of brightly dressed characters.  Dorothy, The Tin Man and Scarecrow waved at her as we drove past.

It made absolutely no impression on her.  She glanced and then looked away.  She picked up her blanket and sang a song to herself in the back seat.  How was she to know that she was seeing a once in a lifetime sight?  She was so brand new that everything…………….every day…………..was a new thing to her.

I thought of that today while I was planting some annuals into pots.  I loosened up last years potting soil with my fingers.  I found roots and a few stems from long dead plants and threw them over my shoulder.

The soil was very damp from living outside all year.  I went to flatten the soil when something touched my fingers …………….and gave a wiggle.  An earth worm.

I apologized for disturbing his home…………..and then threw him over my shoulder too.

I flashed to a day when I was a toddler myself.

My father had built a big sand box out of two by fours.  He added little triangles on the corners for seats.  He bought me brightly colored pails and shovels at the department store that smelled like popcorn.  He showed me how to use a tin watering can full of water …………he made mud pies with me.  And, castles with twigs and leaves for flags.

I played out there by myself quite often.  My brothers were quite a bit older and I don’t think I had any playmates yet when I was three years old.  My mother could see me out the kitchen and bedroom windows if she was inside.  Usually she was pegging laundry to the line while I designed in dirt.

One day I was out there by myself.  Mom had gone to the washer for another load of clothing for the line.  I had stolen a spoon from the kitchen table to dig with that day.  I hadn’t asked permission and I knew I probably should have.  But, teaspoons were great for digging into sugar bowls……………..I figured they must be great in sand.

I dug into the sand and deposited my spoonful into a plastic bucket.  The next spoonful wiggled at me.  I reached a finger out and touched.  Whatever the thing was touched me back.

I opened my mouth and screamed and screamed some more ……………………….my mother came flying up the cellar stairs.  She dropped the basket of laundry because she couldn’t run as fast as she wanted to while holding it.  Clean wet laundry spilled all over the green grass.

She grabbed me by the arm pits and swung me up in the air.

“What’s the matter?  Are you hurt?  Are you bleeding?  Did you cut yourself? ” she yelled as she felt me all over.

My screeching had turned into sobs……………..with copious amounts of tears spilling down my face.

I didn’t know what I had just seen.  I didn’t like the way that thing felt.  I didn’t like that it touched me back.  I had seen something for the first time………….and I didn’t like it one bit.

I pointed down towards my plastic bucket.

An earthworm pointed back.

The strength went out of my mother’s legs.  She sat us both down in the sand box.  She grabbed me by the shoulders and made me look her in the eye.

“Don’t you ever!  Don’t you ever! Ever scream like that again unless someone is trying to take you……………..or, if you’re bleeding………………next time you scream like that?  I had better see blood………………………………you screamed like that over a worm?  A freaking worm?  Oh.  Dear.  God!” she said in exasperation.

“What’s a worm?” I asked.  “And, why is it in my sand?”

Yeah……………think about it.  If a little kid asked you right now to explain worms………what they are…………..what do they do…………….all about their anatomy…………is that a Mommy worm?  Or, a Daddy worm………………admit it.  You know next to nothing about worms.

My mother knew next to nothing about worms too.  Except…………….you do not scream like you’re being knifed when you see one.

Okay, that was a first for me.

And, why do I remember it?  Because worms are gross?  Because I got back at that particular worm by putting many other worms on hooks while fishing in later years?

Nah!

Because, it was the first time my mother ever yelled at me.

Because, it was the first time I had seen my mother terrified.

Because, it was the first time I saw my mother cry because she was afraid.

Today I saw another first.  It wasn’t a first for me…………….it was a first for my cat; Polar.

Polar was adopted when she was two years old.  I don’t know what her life was like before she came here.  She is beautiful.  She is aloof. She is affectionate but with a disdainful air.  You don’t touch Polar first.  She has to instigate any petting herself.

Polar may be touched for a total of about three minutes a day.

She has dainty manners.  She doesn’t beg for food……………she doesn’t cry at her food dish……………….she just stares me in the eye.  She uses big yellow eyed telepathy to let me know that the gravy in her food is getting old.

Polar was on her perch in the front window this afternoon.  I opened the window so she could catch a breeze.  So she could hear the birds and squirrels instead of just seeing them.

Polar is an indoor cat.

I folded laundry on the dining room table a few feet away from the window.  I could hear that the birds and the squirrels were busy in the trees and bushes.  Polar was enjoying the show.

Then we both heard a strange squawking.  I stopped folding to listen.  Polar stiffened up and chirped in her throat.  Then she stood up on her hind paws and patted the upper window glass.  She got very still and stared at something.

The squawking turned into clucking.  Cluck cluck cluck said something as it dislodged mulch around the bushes out front.  Right under the window.

Polar jumped from the perch to the middle of the laundry basket that sat on the table.  She didn’t stay there long.  She hopped out and walked up to me.  She put her front paws on my chest and she hid her eyes in my shirt.

I picked her up and she hid her face under my chin.

Now, this is very strange behavior for this cat.  She has never once asked me to pick her up before.

“What’s the matter?  What’s got you so scared?” I asked as I felt her tremble a little under my hand.  “Let’s go to the window and see what’s got you so frightened.”

I stood in front of the window and looked out and down.  I saw some movement.  Polar was now brave enough to have another look because I was holding her.

A huge auburn feathered chicken came into view.  The bright red comb on it’s head swayed as it rocked itself into a forward motion.

A chicken?  In my yard?  In Polar’s yard?  What the heck!  That’s the moment I remembered the people across the street had built themselves a hen house.

Polar was terrified because she had never seen a chicken before.  I remembered my mother trying to describe what a worm was to me when I had never seen one before.

I decided I could do better than that as Polar and I watched the chicken make it’s way across our front yard.

“That’s called a chicken, Polar.  Don’t ever get into a fight with a chicken.  They can be mean.  But, since you never go outside that won’t be a problem.  See how pretty?  That’s what is in the cans I feed you.  Chicken and gravy.  Chicken and giblets.  Chicken and liver………….nothing to be afraid of.” I said as I enjoyed petting the cat’s head.

The chicken got to the road.  I don’t know if chickens are stupid or if they’re just entitled.  It started to head bob it’s way across the street without looking out for traffic.

“Why did the chicken cross the road, Polar?” I asked as we watched it go across the street.

Polar didn’t answer.  I think she was over her terror.

She was bored.

“The chicken crossed the road to get to the other side……………..because, that’s where the chicken’s house is.” I answered my own question.

If I could call that a joke…………………..the cat didn’t find it funny.

She stuck her claws into my shoulder and leaped half way across the room.

She made me bleed.

Now, that is not a first.