Waxed Paper

Each morning we sat on your couch as quietly as we could
because you would not tolerate anything else.
We had eaten and dressed and packed our own lunches
as our mother got ready for work.
We came through your back door, through your dining room,
to find our seats on the sofa,
witnesses to the intimacies of your family morning.

You padded softly in slippers and robe
while your husband sipped coffee
and your daughter threw fits
about the color shirt you chose for her,
having to brush her teeth,
that she hated peanut butter and jelly.

I remember the way you wrapped their sandwiches in waxed paper,
sandwich in the center of the sheet,
ends brought up and
once,
twice,
three times folded over
before gently smoothing it flat,
folding the edges like Christmas paper on a box.
I remember you handing the bagged lunch to your husband
and how the two of you shared a kiss each morning.
I remember the gentleness you showed them
and the glares and harsh words my brother and I received
if we giggled or dared to quarrel on your couch.
I remember wishing for Mom and Dad
to be together in the same house
and kissing in the morning.

Our life was not a neat little packet wrapped up
and held in a brown bag,
but we had waxed paper too.
It may not have been used every morning
but on special occasions
Mom would roll out the pie crusts between the translucent sheets
one,
two,
three perfect delicate crusts
given to crumbling easily,
a family recipe
passed through three imperfect generations,
the one thing which elicited praise
from my father.

Memories of Christms Past

I've been struggling to both find time and ideas for posts.  This is a composite vignette of all my favorite memories from going into town for Christmas as a child.  I first published this five years ago.  I hope you don't mind the rerun.

Who among you remembers when shopping was a main street adventure rather than a mall experience? Maybe you grew up in a town with a vibrant downtown. Maybe you were like me and grew up in a smaller place and traveled to town for shopping on High Street. The town we went to was 7 miles away and it was always an event when we drive in, partly because of the the excitement of going to town, partly because we had so many relatives connected to downtown. Of course, in December there was the added fun of seeing all the decorations and visiting Santa's shack.


Often the adventure would start when we arrived in town and went to the newspaper offices to visit Nana, who was telephone switchboard operator there. First of all, it was a thrill to think we could stride right into the offices at such an important place and be ushered around to the desks of so many people to say hello. Second, it was always nice to be greeted excitedly by Nana. There was never a time she didn't squeal with delight to see us. I was also always amazed and impressed by what she did behind her switchboard. It was a huge wall filled with plugs that she'd pull out and push into different spots in order to connect callers to the person they wanted to talk to. She'd be taking calls through her headset and her hands would fly across the board even as she continued to talk to us in between. Between her ability to know where each plug had to go, doing it quickly, keeping up a conversation with us, and knowing how she could whip through a crossword puzzle, the Jumble puzzle, and the Cryptoquip in the paper each day I was sure she was some special kind of genius. On our way out Nana might give us a piece of candy from a bowl on her desk or maybe give my brother and me a little money to spend on a treat when we shopped with Mom.


From the newspaper offices we'd walk the two blocks to where the big action was, High Street. High Street was always an amazing sight to me. Our town's main street was short and narrow, just wide enough for two lanes of traffic and no parking. We had only recently gotten a traffic light at the second end of it. I could easily walk from one end to the other. High Street was longer than I'd want to think of walking as a child and it was wide enough for 3 lanes of cars with parking on both sides. All sorts of stores and shops lines both sides of the street. At one end was the diner. At the other was the library and hospital. My little town had no library or hospital. High Street had to be special to be so big and have so many important sorts of buildings and businesses on it.


Our next stop would be to Mr. Reuben's store where my other grandmother, Mom-mom, worked. It was a small women's clothier. Whether it was Mr. Reuben or Mom-mom who saw us first we'd be greeted warmly. Mom-mom would beam proudly while Mr. Reuben remarked about how my brother and I had grown and ask us how we were doing in school. He always seemed as happy to see us as our grandmother was. Mom-mom would introduce us proudly to anyone else in the shop she knew. Since she had worked in the same shop for 30 years she knew quite a few people. We'd be gathered up in hugs and kisses before heading back onto the street.


A trip to High Street almost always meant a stop at the New York Store. This was a local department store with three whole floors! Now you have to understand to a kid from the country a store that big was most impressive. There was a Sears on High street that was newer and had a bigger floor but even in the Sears customers never left the ground floor. At the New York Store we could explore the ground floor or go down the creaky wooden stairs to the basement or climb to the second floor. The New York Store seemed to have all sorts of things you couldn't find in other places and all sorts of interesting nooks and crannies to explore. Mom would pay for whatever purchases she had there. By then we'd be begging to go to Town Toy.


If the New York Store was impressive for its wide array of wares Town Toy was kid heaven simply because it was the only place I had ever been that was entirely devoted to toys. I couldn't imagine so many toys and here were piles and piles of them all under one roof. Mom usually made us endure whatever other shopping had to be done before we were allowed to enjoy this particularly favored destination.


We didn't get to High Street often so when we did there was usually a visit to the shoe store in order. How many pairs of Buster Browns did we go through in our childhood? I was especially hard on my shoes because my favorite playground apparatus was the swings. When I needed to stop I'd drag my toes in the dirt on each downswing to slow myself. I went through the toes of shoes so fast my mother threatened to buy me steel-toed shoes. I do recall Mom walking me past the work boots on one trip and asking me if that's what I really wanted to wear instead of my pretty shoes. The salesman would measure my feet and bring out boxes of shoes to try on, carefully preparing them before sliding them gently on my feet and squeezing the sides or pinching the toes to see if my foot rested in them properly. I liked the Brannock device. It fascinated me that someone could use this funny metal thing so deftly to know what size shoe I should wear.


After seeing our grandmothers and walking through the New York Store, the shoe store and Town Toy my brother and I were getting tired but there were more places to go and things to see. Fortunately, there was a bus service in town. This was more evidence to me that we were in a big, important place. No buses ran in my little town. My Uncle Duke drove buses for the city so Mom would find his line and we'd take a ride on "Uncle Duke's bus," as if he personally owned it. We always hoped there were seats near the front so we could sit right behind him and watch him closely. It was very impressive that he could maneuver this huge vehicle all around the streets and know where to go. I was sure I'd get lost or crash into something if I had to do his job. It felt good to rest on the bus before Uncle Duke dropped us near to our next destination, the library.


Aside from the toy store my other favorite place was the library. It was so big. I was just amazed that there were so many books in one place. Of course we had a library at school but this was just so much larger and had so many grown ups coming in and out. It had a lovely little children's section that was bigger than the one at school. It made me feel good to know that this building full of grown up books had a special place for kids. I liked that no one hurried me along too. During library day at school we only had so much time to pick a book before we had to line up and I'd always get lost in the stacks trying to decide what I wanted. At the library on High Street I wasn't being rushed. I could take out a bunch of books and look at them before getting more to look at and finally deciding what I wanted to take home. Oh bliss!


By now it was getting late and we had two more stops to make. We'd trudge back from the library and take a small break part of the way when we stopped at great-great Uncle Lloyd's general store. Uncle Lloyd was a tall, thin man with a long, lean, smiling face. The apron he wore at the store and the broom he carried to keep the worn wooden floors clean seemed to mirror his lankiness. He'd owned and run this little store for decades. He was a kind man and gave many a young person their first job. Unfortunately, by the time I was a child his business was waning quite a lot and he was sliding into senility. He was easily taken advantage of by the people he hired who began stealing from him. I prefer to remember his happy smile and the meticulously kept old fashioned store.


After visiting Uncle Lloyd we'd have renewed vigor as dusk was falling and the Christmas lights flickered on up and down High Street. We knew there was one last stop and this was the one we'd most been waiting for, the one we'd pestered Mom about since we'd arrived in town. Up ahead of the side of the main intersection was a red shack with a Christmas tree, a candy cane fence around it, and a tall red and white striped pole. Santa's Shack! We'd get in line for our turn to sit on Santa's lap and have our picture taken. The earlier visit to Town Toy had allowed my brother and me to refine our wish list. When it was finally our turn to go inside and see Santa we were ready. We'd each have our turn then both sit on his knees for the picture before being given a candy cane to take home.


Our trip to High Street was over and we'd head back to the car carrying the day's purchases, books from the library, and sucking our candy canes. During the drive home my mind would swirl with the images of switchboards, city buses, huge libraries and toy stores, creaky wooden floors, doting shop owners, a wide street, and Santa himself....perhaps a sugarplum fairy or two tiptoed in as well...but High Street was special enough when I was little.


What retro Christmas memories do the rest of you have?

100 Years

On Saturday my grandfather would be 100 if he were still living.  I've struggled to write a fitting tribute to the man I found somewhat inscrutable when I was a child but who I came to realize understood me very well because he was the only adult in my life who suffered similar childhood losses to mine and worse.  He was unschooled but one of the most intelligent men I've ever known.  He loved books and the power of words as well. In the Navy he found a sense of competence and purpose and belonging, feelings I believe he had experienced all to rarely in spite of his wide range of abilities and his sincere kindness.  He loved his family quietly, steadily, and sacrificially...even if it was imperfect by his own rendering...even when those he loved rejected him. When I was a young child I didn't always understand his gentle teasing (truly nothing mean-spirited) was an expression of affection.  My grandmother always said he teased the ones he loved and if the day came that he stopped then I should worry.  When I was older and depression stole his humor I understood what she meant.  He died by his own hand just four months after my grandmother passed.  He was 78.  I still feel his absence but I give thanks for his presence and influence in my life. Today I share something I wrote five years ago in his memory using this poem template.




I am from Raymond

I am from the cause of a shotgun wedding, whose parents divorced by the time he was 2, in an age and a place where both of those things covered a child in shame.

From the boy whose mother died when he was 13 and whose stepmother drove him away from his father's house.

From wanting a red-haired daughter to name for the grandmother who took him in and taught him to sew and to cook, from naming a son for the uncle who later took him in and taught him mechanics and how to be a man.

I am from dropping out of school so he could support family during the Depression but being a voracious reader and having more sense than many men with PhDs.

I am from hoes and Burpee seeds, from a workshop where every tool was shined and placed back on the peg board in its particular outline and baby food jars of nuts, screws, nails, and bolts were lined up and labelled in meticulous order. I am from Mason canning jars and a stock of jellies, jams, and chow-chow. I am from a heavy Singer sewing machine and finer embroidery than many women can produce.

I am from rounding up excess barn kittens to be drowned but naming the ones spared and sharing a sandwich with them.

I am from faith that makes sacrifice, from true religion that takes care of widows and orphans, from tear-streaked cheeks during 'How Great Thou Art.'

I am from the tiny brick house purchased for $8450 in 1946. From the front porch with the English hapenny pressed into the wet concrete.

I am from the German man who cussed a blue streak in Italian and who went white when a ten year old granddaughter repeated the torrent of profanity. From threats to "cloud up and rain all over you" if the kids misbehaved. From not putting off until tomorrow what can be done today and always keeping your word.

From "If clothes make the man, I am a poor measure of a man." From wearing uniform shirts until they were threadbare and still having a stack of 12 new shirts in the closet on the day he died even though he'd been retired at least 10 years. From gleefully wearing a striped tie with plaid pants to church and cutting hair crew cut short after his wife died "because she's not here to holler at me about it" then weeping...because she was no longer there to holler about it.

I am from raucous laughter over pranks and jokes, from anonymous acts of charitable generosity, from softly spoken words of wisdom, and from soul crushing depression.

I am from headstones scattered through several cemeteries and solemn field trips to them when family lore was handed down as we stood over the graves. I am from a yellowed love letter with a three page poem and Western Union telegrams at the end of the war. I am from a tattered Japanese flag that transformed a peaceful countenance to one of rage.

I am from the man who claimed he was a stern father who lost his temper too easily, who said he was a poor husband who caused his wife too much sorrow, who in his last years wept easily over what his sons had done to their wives and children.

And though my 3 cousins would not acknowledge him while he lived due to perceived slights and the bitterness of their mother,

I will stand without shame,

and proclaim with pride,

I am

from Raymond.

Memories of a House

I drove slowly
past my grandparents' old home
going up the street,
down the back alley,
studying,
remembering.

I missed it on my first pass,
the new closed-in front porch
masked its face.

I wondered how the current residents
would get to know their neighbors
without a front porch
on which to rock
in a summer breeze,
greeting the others
enjoying the evening.

There was no way
to run my fingers over
the now hidden English ha-penny
pressed into the concrete step.
It was a working class man's dated cornerstone
meant to mark a new post-war life
along the row of squat brick houses
built to shelter the families
the men fought to protect.

And how will the cat play with the mailman,
batting through the slot in the door
at the teasing letters
now that there's a box instead?

Since they made
so many other changes
maybe they finished the basement.
It was always dry.
It would make a good rec-room
where kids can play.
That would help erase
the one great sadness
the house witnessed.

If nothing else,
I hope
there is some ice cream
in the freezer
for a late night treat.

I drove home
allowing memories
and thoughts
roll along with the scenery.
I laughed
when I wondered
what color to paint my hallway...
the one a stranger's Uncle Sonny signed
under the wallpaper I stripped.

The Tree in the Park

 

*image found here 

How many families tired from a week of work and school

sat on a blanket to enjoy a picnic in her shade?

How many children climbed her branches

to spy on the world and hide their treasures amongst her leaves?

How many lovers held each other 

beneath her spreading boughs and shared their secrets?

The tree knows.

She whispers each story

when the wind rustles her leaves.

 

Slice of Lime-You Say Corn, I Say Cane

Back to the slides from Trinidad. One afternoon the group I was working with had no real activities planned. We were staying at a camp to do construction projects and help with campers. This was our day off. I was liming (hanging around) with some of the camp counselors and they asked if I wanted my hair cane rowed. Yes, down there they call it cane rowing because they grow a lot more sugar cane than corn. Anyway, since this was my first time out of the USA and I was all about soaking up as many new experiences as I possibly could I accepted.

They got a kick out of digging into my head of hair and it was a LOT longer then, let me tell you. It took these 3 girls many hours to do my head in cane rows. They were also hampered somewhat by the texture of my hair, which they found surprising. Caucasian hair is a lot more slippery and so it was harder for them to work with since it didn't naturally hold a braid as easily as their coarser hair did. We had a lot of laughs as they'd get some part done and loosen their grip only to have part of it fallout. It was kind of interesting to have my head tugged and pulled at for hours as we all chatted about a wide variety of things. This was my first real experience learning how shared grooming can be a bonding sort of activity. It's not quite the same as a bunch of beauty shop chatter. There's a certain level of intimacy though that allows for people to open up to each other.

After all that time together I gained not only a new hairstyle, but a lot of new insights into their lives and they into mine. We certainly knew each other a lot better and we enjoyed the time spent. I was delighted that they'd want to share with me and I think they were delighted that I'd try something so different. Although I don't think it's my best look it was a fun and memorable experience that was a great learning opportunity too.

Da Count- Wash Lines

This particular story is not intended as a "woe is me" type of post. It's just strong memories that came rushing back to me when I watched Calypso hanging laundry yesterday. I merely share it as a snapshot of particular moments and a somewhat meandering route to Da Count this week.

It's a cool Saturday in October and I have just turned 7. I've carried up the wash basket full of wet clothes from the basement and now I inch along the wash line as I pin up each piece of clothing. It's a chilly day. The wet clothes and cold air make my fingers sting. I have a rhythm. Take a piece from the basket, 2 clothespins from the bag, step up on the wooden box to reach the line, pin the clothes, step down and shuffle the box before retrieving the next wet article. Mommy told me how to do it before I came out here. In between the shuffles I bring my fingers to my mouth so my breath can warm them.

This is all at my new house in town. We just moved here from a big house in the country where we had a vegetable garden as big as this sad excuse for a yard. At my old house I only had to keep my room clean and help in the garden. Helping in the garden was a game not work. My room was only mine. It was pretty. I didn't share it with my brother and it was warm and didn't have graffiti on the walls like my new room. What kind of stupid boys with stupid parents draw all over the walls like they did at this house before we came here? Now my room is cold, there is no electricity or heat in it. I hear the neighbor girl play her loud music on the other side of the wall when I try to sleep. I listen to my brother toss in his bed on the other side of the curtain that divides the room we share.

I hang another shirt as I see the girl who lives across the alley do cartwheels in her yard while her daddy applauds. My mommy is inside the house on the couch. She is not allowed to do any work because she has blood clots in her legs. When I asked if the blood clots meant she would die she said it was a possibility. I need to be a big girl and do more jobs in the house so Mommy can rest and get well. I step off my box again and kick it along the ground to the next spot. Stupid box. The box is about 2 feet long and a foot wide with a divider going lengthwise inside it. It's painted pale green. It's what Daddy built when I asked for a doll house. Only none of my dolls could ever fit into it even when I bent them like they were sitting. He went away not long after he gave it to me. Then we moved. Then Mommy got sick. Now my "doll house" is what I stand on so I can reach the wash line to hang wet clothes in the cold at an ugly house so Mommy can get better and not die while a neighbor girl performs before her adoring father. I hang the last piece, put the box in the basket, and drag it inside.

Months later when it is Spring Daddy picks my brother and me up for a Sunday visit. We go to the new house where he lives with his girlfriend. I am following him up the walk next to the wash line at this new house. There are strange lacy things hanging on the line. I stare at them and try to figure out what they are. Finally I ask. Daddy says they are his girlfriend's panties. I ask why they are ripped and he hustles me along but doesn't answer. I ask her later if she will get new panties soon because the ones on the line are all ripped right up the middle. She giggles and tells me they aren't ripped, they are crotchless. Daddy gets angry. I'm very confused.

Over the years of childhood, adolescence, early marriage and parenthood I hang countless loads of laundry on the line. There is some sort of zen-like serenity in hanging it slowly, filling the line and ordering the clothes from largest to smallest, snapping towels to fluff up the fibers, following the rhythm. It's a peaceful and precise ritual. At night when I slide between fresh sheets that smell of outdoors I inhale the peace. I'd never consider living somewhere that doesn't allow wash lines.

Calypso tells me she needs to do her laundry. I remind her that since the weather is warm and dry we use the wash line instead of the dryer to save the electricity. She says, "Ok." I've gone into my bedroom to put something away. Out of my window I see her slowly fill the line, pants together, then shirts, then undies and socks. I am glad for the peace in our earlier exchange. I am glad for her responsibility. I am glad there are no perplexing garments. I am glad she doesn't need a wooden box and the air is warm.