Faith

My cat reminds me of my mother.

No, that’s not as crazy as it sounds.

My cat doesn’t use her voice much. She stares. When she’s hungry……..she sits at her bowl…..she finds me and she ……….stares. I eventually respond. I feel the stare at the back of my neck and I clean and fill her bowl. It’s a silent exchange. But, it works for us.

My mother did the same thing.

Ma didn’t drive. Daddy was working the night shift. I had my license but didn’t find a reason to drive much. I could walk wherever I needed to go.

One night I found my mother sitting at the kitchen table. She was all dressed to go. Every hair was in place and she was wearing perfume and lipstick. She just sat at the kitchen table holding her purse and staring at the wall.

I noticed this as I filled up a glass of orange juice.

“Um, Mom? Where do you think you’re going?” I asked as I put the orange juice back into the refrigerator.

“We’re going to St.Bridget’s. They are doing the Sign of The Cross tonight and that is followed by the rosary. You have ten minutes to get yourself out of those pajamas and drive me up to the church.” my mother replied.

“Oh, Ma! I can’t! I have to write a history report tonight. I don’t have time to chauffeur you around. The paper is due tomorrow.” I whined.

I’d been jerked out of my regular routine often enough. I was starting to regret my decision of knowing how to drive a car and being licensed to do so.

“How long have you had to write this report?” my mother wanted to know.

“Um……..two weeks? But, you know. I write best under pressure. The report is in my head. I just need to type it out.” I answered.

“You will have a sore throat tomorrow morning. You won’t be going to school. You’ll have all day to write out your report. Now, get me up to that church.” my mother responded.

She got up and stood next to the kitchen door.

How can you argue with this kind of stuff?

“Why is it so important to get to church tonight?” I asked on the short ride up the hill.

“My brother is getting operated on. They’ve found a shadow on his lung. I need to get involved. The Blessed Mother needs to know how I feel about this. He’s too young for this kind of stuff. I’m not putting up with it. She needs to know how I feel.” responded my mother.

You ask a question? Be prepared for the answer.

“And, you get on your knees too. You’re still a child. The Blessed Mother listens to children’s pleas. You get specific. Don’t you dare pray “Your will be done.” I know you do that. I’ve listened to your night time prayers since you were three. I didn’t want to interfere. But, you cut that out. You get specific. You tell the Blessed Mother that you want your uncle ……whole….and healed ……and home. Do you understand?” Ma said to me in the darkness of the station wagon.

“Yes, Ma.” I replied.

My mother never asked for much. You couldn’t say no to her.

So I sat in the darkened incensed church. Incense always messes up my sinuses. I sneezed my way through the signs of the cross. My nose dripped through the recitation of the rosary. My ears tingled through my very specific prayer…….to bring my uncle home…….whole and healed.

I went to bed at midnight. My head was a block of wood. Really…….I can not handle perfume. Or scented candles. Or, incense.

I heard the phone ring and I crept down the stairs to find out who was calling in the middle of the night.

“Jesus, be praised.” my mother said into the receiver before she hung up.

Ma noticed me at the doorway of the kitchen.

“The surgeons found nothing really wrong with him. But, he died twice on the table. They brought him back. He’s awake and he’s mad as hell. He says he glimpsed heaven and was called back. He heard our voices calling him back. ” Ma said as she tried to shoo me back to bed.

“He’s alive and he’s mad as hell?” I responded at the bottom of the stairs.

“Oh, we’ll deal with that later.” my mother responded. As if, she’s had to deal with this kind of thing many times in the past.

“Christmas is coming. He loves my stuffing. He loves your Christmas cookies. He loves his family……….he’ll get over it.” she said as she pointed me up the stairs towards my bed.

My uncle got over it. He’d had a glimpse of heaven. He now knew it was real. But, it wasn’t for him yet.

Because? My mother had talked to the Blessed Virgin and had deemed it so.

My mother could be that bossy.

I awoke the next morning. The history report hadn’t been written.

I stayed home from school because I had a terrible sore throat.

For real.

Home Spun Christmas

The road to financial freedom as a kid came with getting a paper route. That was out of reach for me because I was too young. And, besides ……..a girl wandering around with a bag full of papers in suburban darkness might not be achievable with the mother that a had.

But, Christmas was coming.

And, my fifty cents allowance per week wasn’t going to cut it.

I raked leaves. I helped my Daddy clean out the garage. I washed baseboards. I cleaned the wooden stairs that led upstairs until they were so shiny……….well, it was dangerous to go up and down them wearing only socks.

I made enough money to buy trinkets to give to my immediate family.

I wrangled the local Avon lady into selling me Lilac perfume for my mother at cost. I was very determined and cute. I think she really just wanted to get rid of me.

The grocery store provided me with the Old Spice cologne to spice up Daddy on a daily basis.

My brother got two pairs of woolen socks. I didn’t mean to be that generous. But, it was buy one get one free.

I was out of money and Christmas was around the corner. I still had a grandmother and grandfather to provide for.

I had to get crafty.

These two people would appreciate a crafty granddaughter. They often hand made me things for Christmas. My grandparents were Swedish. They didn’t fall for the commercialism of an American Christmas.

My grandmother was a great knitter. Hats and mittens and slippers came my way via the Christmas tree. My grandfather made things from wood. Doll beds. Little wooden houses with lights inside. I appreciated it all.

“Mom! I’m out of money and I still need something for Grammy and Grampy for Christmas. I want to make them something but, well, I’m not crafty.” I said to my mother when I was ten years old.

My brother smirked from the kitchen table.

He could smirk because he was fourteen. He had a paper route and he had money. Real money. The kind that bought snuff for Grampy and talcum powder for Grammy from the drugstore.

He was rich. He made like two dollars a week and he got Christmas tips too.

“Well, you could bake them something.” my mother suggested. My mother that couldn’t knit or crochet or sew. She was about as crafty as I was.

Poor thing.

“No, that doesn’t make sense. Grammy is the best baker around. Getting cookies for Christmas won’t be a treat for them.” I said underestimating my lifetime powerful skill of making the most delicious cookies you’ve ever tasted.

Who knew? I didn’t yet.

I looked up to the wall. Over the hallway door a new wreath hung. My mother had made it at the Rosary Society craft and coffee day. It was made out of shell macaroni spray painted a bronze gold. A red velvet bow adorned the bottom right corner.

I thought it was gloriously beautiful.

Remember……..I was ten.

“I want to make something out of macaroni.” I declared.

“Pitiful!” my brother muttered as he left the table. “I already bought Grammy’s favorite talcum powder. You can put your name on the card with mine for only fifty cents.”

“Bite me.” I replied.

“Darlene! That isn’t ladylike! Do not use language like that! Where do you pick up that kind of disgusting language? Do I talk like that? No I do not! Lose it now and lose it quick.” my mother tossed over her shoulder as she did dishes at the kitchen sink.

“What if he actually bit you?” she ended with

Good lord! You should have seen her reaction in the 70’s when the phrase “You suck!” became popular. It wasn’t pretty. I don’t want to talk about it.

“I can help you make something out of macaroni!” said my craft challenged mother.

So, we got down to it after the dinner dishes were one.

A cone made out of thin cardboard. Shell macaroni. A lot of stinky glue. Silver spray paint out in the garage. We only got a little bit on the window. I swear. Jingle bells from old broken ornaments. Pearls from a broken costume necklace. A little paper accordion angel ornament at the top.

I made a glorious silver Christmas tree with my mother. We only got a little dizzy from the glue and she was willing to give me all the credit.

I wrapped it in brown paper when it was completely dried. I placed it into a cardboard box big enough to hold a TV and wrapped it with three different types of Christmas paper.

My brother with a pocket full of paper route money scoffed at me the whole time.

“Well, isn’t that cute.” he said.

“Better than talcum powder.” I replied.

Christmas Eve was always spent at my grandparent’s little bungalow out in the country. A half hour drive through the darkness and snow always put me to sleep. But, Daddy always awakened me in time before we pulled into their long winding driveway.

He knew seeing their Christmas tree sparkling in the front window was my favorite part of the night.

The house smelled of sugar and raspberries and strong coffee. Candy bowls were filled with Canadian mints and chocolates only grownups usually got to eat. Their Christmas tree was laden with small wrapped presents for all of us.

I got to march in. Wipe my boots. And, put a big wrapped box weighing about a half a pound under their tree.

I’ve never been prouder.

Talk was talked. Grown ups do a little too much of that I remember thinking. Snacks were eaten. I drank milked up coffee and felt like one of the grownups.

Time for gift giving.

I received a small glass doll. Her skirt was full of little girl perfume. Mittens and a scarf that Grammy had made. A handmade wooden sleigh that my Grampy made me. I still own that fifty years later.

My grandparent’s oohed and aahed over the pajamas that my parents had bought them. They thanked my brother for the snuff and the talcum powder. They thanked him yet again when they were told that he had bought it with his own money.

Then they got to my present for them. Perhaps, it was saved for last because the box was so big. All I know is the suspense was killing me.

“It’s for the both of you.” I said a little unsure of myself. “It’s for your house at Christmas.”

“I made it for you.” I ended quietly.

My grandfather dove into the box. He wasn’t a paper saver, thank goodness. He came up with the tree in the palm of his big hand.

“You made this for us?” my grandmother said in awe as she took it away from him.

“Yes. I don’t have any money. So, I made you something.” I replied.

My brother rolled his eyes.

“This is so beautiful!” my grandfather said as tears slipped down his face.

He said something in Swedish that I didn’t understand.

“Oh, Pa! Don’t be silly! She’s crazy about you.” my father said for some reason.

My grandmother got up and put that tree made out of macaroni on the top shelf of her china hutch.

And, there it stayed forever.