One on my early forays into the art of cooking on my own was a big batch of vegetable barley soup. Checking over the recipes led me to believe that it wasn’t a big deal. Vegetables, broth and seasonings were all that was needed. I even did the old fashioned way with beef bones slowly simmered for the stock. The wafting aroma carried by the stove vent to the chill outside air must have had the neighborhood hounds chafing at their chains.
Saturday morning chores were completed while the stock cooled. Teaching art full time left the weekends for cleaning and cooking which was normally accomplished by noon. Various pursuits filled the remaining free time, but back to the soup. The cooled broth was skimmed on schedule. Disposal of the fat proceeded to the vegetable preparation. By the time my laundry was retrieved from the basement, the vegetables and quick cooking barley were finished cooking.
This soup was for Sunday dinner so the flavors would have time to season and bloom in the hearty broth. Little of this... a little of that, salt, pepper... something was lacking. Even with the beef broth the soup was bland. A quick call to my mother produced a possible answer. Lea & Perkins Worcestershire Sauce would enhance the beef broth. With a quick grab to the pantry shelf, a judicious tablespoon was added, but considering the amount of soup I decided that two would be better than one.
Free from the list of Saturday chores, I went off to do who remembers what for the rest of the day and most of Sunday. The soup was doing its own thing in the refrigerator. Seasonings seasoned while vegetables soaked the flavors up.
This Sunday dinner with family was the first at my first apartment. A last minute check list clicked off in my mind as I surveyed the tidy apartment. Extra toilet paper roll, special guest hand towels and soaps, flowers in vases, candles lit, table set, muffins cooling, designer salad, soup warming, and desert plates on the sideboard. All the usual stuff to do when trying to show the family how well adjusted to domestic life on your own you were.
Once the guests were made welcome and comfortable, the cheese and crackers were served with wine. Ushered to the table, my family ooo-ed and ahhh-ed over the salad presentation, so artistically arranged at first no one wanted to disturb the masterpiece of my creation. Enticed by the seasoned aroma, all were waiting on the main course as the salad was cleared. Carefully ladled into pre-warmed bowls the vegetables danced in the broth, their bright colors like evening gowns with brown velvet capes of thick broth. Small talk was hushed in anticipation as the last bowl was served. Steam rising from the deep bowls added to the peacefulness of evening as the winter chill settled on the closing day.
“Oh my God that’s hot!” “What did you .... put in this?” Various cries from flaming mouths shattered the serenity as spoons clattered to the plates. Tears rolled down faces as lunges for water glasses created havoc to the pristine table cloth. “More water... please” “This makes the Ellington Fireman’s chili taste bland!”
Sheepishly downing a third glass of water, I went to the pantry to check for the culprit. Pulling out the bottle of Worcestershire Sauce... Tabasco... Oh no I put two heaping tablespoons of Tabasco. The garbage disposal worked wondrously well after ingesting the fiery mix.
After a brief respite of nose blowing, throat clearing, eye dabbing and laughter, we proceeded directly to the desert. Apple pie Ala mode was served with an extremely generous ala mode of soothing vanilla ice cream. My name was entered in the family dietary fiasco logbook under H for Hot too Hot.
EMM 5/12/98
re 5/19/98
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Monday, October 19, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Fate
Spring surrounds me. The lime-aide colored leaves, healthy and vibrant emerge from the dead wood. Lifeless a week before the woods and fields birth the season. Returning birds fill the air with mating calls, territorial warnings, and songs welcome each sunrise.
Strength returns to me as the light increases daily, filling my soul cloaked in winter dark. All my senses soak up the minute changes. Changes perceived through sight, smell, touch and hearing. I can taste spring as I breathe in the awakening life around me. As a seven of Wands page wields his staff against six, I stand steadfast, barring any who would drive me back into despair. Six phases of my life, six sets of choices have brought me to this spring.
Three cups overturned spilling their contents onto the ground while passive handmaidens look out to the future. Three deaths in six years began with my mothers, next my sons, and now my fathers; each death different but alike. My son’s rite of passage to eternity was broken. Pulled back into this life, he struggles to renew his soul residing in his injured body and damaged mind while I look out to the future.
Reversed… I wish his brush with death could be reversed. I requested too late to skip this lesson but there is balance in turmoil. The night moon illuminates our landscape differently. The wild urge to survive is balanced by the domestic drive to have everything be neat and tidy. The primal nesting instinct, the dominant drive to protect one’s young at all cost taught me to fight, to be assertive with his needs, our needs. Moonlight on the water of our consciousness, the concentrated light passes into murky depths showing clearly which way to proceed.
As high priestess I sit enthroned weighing life’s meanings, seeking to unroll the scroll that contains the answers, attempting to put a “why” to life’s burdens. The ancient document is fragile. Unrolling the faded brittle paper might destroy any hope for understanding. So I sit calmly, nesting in the cobalt robes that drape my aging body. Cycles of time reveal glimpses of meaning, threads of light from a sliver of new moon in a star encrusted night sky.
Blindfolded enough to not see the eight two-sided swords that surround us, we make our way through each day, each month, each season reversing what has befallen us as “Fate”.
EMM 5/27/98
Strength returns to me as the light increases daily, filling my soul cloaked in winter dark. All my senses soak up the minute changes. Changes perceived through sight, smell, touch and hearing. I can taste spring as I breathe in the awakening life around me. As a seven of Wands page wields his staff against six, I stand steadfast, barring any who would drive me back into despair. Six phases of my life, six sets of choices have brought me to this spring.
Three cups overturned spilling their contents onto the ground while passive handmaidens look out to the future. Three deaths in six years began with my mothers, next my sons, and now my fathers; each death different but alike. My son’s rite of passage to eternity was broken. Pulled back into this life, he struggles to renew his soul residing in his injured body and damaged mind while I look out to the future.
Reversed… I wish his brush with death could be reversed. I requested too late to skip this lesson but there is balance in turmoil. The night moon illuminates our landscape differently. The wild urge to survive is balanced by the domestic drive to have everything be neat and tidy. The primal nesting instinct, the dominant drive to protect one’s young at all cost taught me to fight, to be assertive with his needs, our needs. Moonlight on the water of our consciousness, the concentrated light passes into murky depths showing clearly which way to proceed.
As high priestess I sit enthroned weighing life’s meanings, seeking to unroll the scroll that contains the answers, attempting to put a “why” to life’s burdens. The ancient document is fragile. Unrolling the faded brittle paper might destroy any hope for understanding. So I sit calmly, nesting in the cobalt robes that drape my aging body. Cycles of time reveal glimpses of meaning, threads of light from a sliver of new moon in a star encrusted night sky.
Blindfolded enough to not see the eight two-sided swords that surround us, we make our way through each day, each month, each season reversing what has befallen us as “Fate”.
EMM 5/27/98
Family Farm
Moonlight almost as bright as day was coating the fields and woods like frosting on a layer cake. Deer worked the shadows cast by trees bordering the field wary of the occasional headlights that washed over them. Returning to their nightly business they kept watch as they looked for succulent morsels among the dried grass.
From a lofty perch in a field oak, a horned owl glided out over the bright night landscape. The air not disturbed by his flight, a silent glide, a stealth glide for hunting. Cruising over the field like a heat seeking missile the owl zoned in on its mark. The field mouse was history. The sycamore tree next to the farmhouse became a temporary all-night dinner as the owl settled in with its prey. The children often discovered owl pellets under the massive tree, reminders of success in the long hours of darkness, of the struggle between life and death, another circle completed.
Their farm life gave them insight about the true nature of life; a living ecology project that was constantly redefining itself with the onset of every season. A new list of chores to fit the current needs, a new set of learning experiences about life around them, wild or domestic, beginnings and endings.
With no close neighbors, the children had to be friends with each other. Alliances switched weekly as the family dynamics were in constant motion, reflections of the cycle of seasons that surrounded them. Constant reminders of how swiftly life changes from one minute to the next, hour by hour, day by day.
The worn path that wound its way through the pasture ending in a turnstile was an important part of their daily routine. Traversed at least once a day by some family member over the years as they trekked to the older generations adjoining farm, the path became more a dry bed of memories. The farms handed down through the family had been worked at first by draft horse then modern equipment as each generation poured their love into the earth. Every walk along the path revealed new information about the microcosm that the farms occupied. Depending on the season, the clues given to the various travelers might be revealed in the mud or snow, observations of sky, seeing of seasonal birds or animals. Living on the farm was a slower way of life but hectic in its own way.
The race to complete each season’s tasks put the whole family under the thumb more than once. The unpredictable weather to unexpected emergencies caused as much stress as any high risk job in the city. The family was attached to the land in a way that regular family could not understand. Like a developing fetus that depends on the umbilical cord attached to the placenta as its life line, so generations of this farm family needed the land to continue its life. Nothing else nurtured them as well as the ritual of the seasons. The cycle of life was spiritual to them. There was no need for a building with a spire to make them feel holy and good.
Year in year out the land was replenished. What was taken out was returned in one form or another. The family graveyard overlooked the pasture and fields. Having worked the land all their lives, the past generations continued their watch from the hill extending from beyond the grave a protection over the beloved land.
Some family members tried to break the tie, this bred in attachment to the tangible. Off they would go with a different set of dreams in their minds, but their hearts always brought them back. Not beaten by the outside life, but with a sense of relief to return to the reassuring rhythmic cycle that seemed to be in their blood and ruled out any other lifestyle. They turned their talents to expanding the operation in a new direction to suite their altered dreams to blend with the old their own energy.
Each generation passed on to the next a firm commitment to the land and to the family. Picture albums and journals denoted the family history. Generation after generation, season after season, from birth to death the lives entertained with the land.
EMM 5/19/98
From a lofty perch in a field oak, a horned owl glided out over the bright night landscape. The air not disturbed by his flight, a silent glide, a stealth glide for hunting. Cruising over the field like a heat seeking missile the owl zoned in on its mark. The field mouse was history. The sycamore tree next to the farmhouse became a temporary all-night dinner as the owl settled in with its prey. The children often discovered owl pellets under the massive tree, reminders of success in the long hours of darkness, of the struggle between life and death, another circle completed.
Their farm life gave them insight about the true nature of life; a living ecology project that was constantly redefining itself with the onset of every season. A new list of chores to fit the current needs, a new set of learning experiences about life around them, wild or domestic, beginnings and endings.
With no close neighbors, the children had to be friends with each other. Alliances switched weekly as the family dynamics were in constant motion, reflections of the cycle of seasons that surrounded them. Constant reminders of how swiftly life changes from one minute to the next, hour by hour, day by day.
The worn path that wound its way through the pasture ending in a turnstile was an important part of their daily routine. Traversed at least once a day by some family member over the years as they trekked to the older generations adjoining farm, the path became more a dry bed of memories. The farms handed down through the family had been worked at first by draft horse then modern equipment as each generation poured their love into the earth. Every walk along the path revealed new information about the microcosm that the farms occupied. Depending on the season, the clues given to the various travelers might be revealed in the mud or snow, observations of sky, seeing of seasonal birds or animals. Living on the farm was a slower way of life but hectic in its own way.
The race to complete each season’s tasks put the whole family under the thumb more than once. The unpredictable weather to unexpected emergencies caused as much stress as any high risk job in the city. The family was attached to the land in a way that regular family could not understand. Like a developing fetus that depends on the umbilical cord attached to the placenta as its life line, so generations of this farm family needed the land to continue its life. Nothing else nurtured them as well as the ritual of the seasons. The cycle of life was spiritual to them. There was no need for a building with a spire to make them feel holy and good.
Year in year out the land was replenished. What was taken out was returned in one form or another. The family graveyard overlooked the pasture and fields. Having worked the land all their lives, the past generations continued their watch from the hill extending from beyond the grave a protection over the beloved land.
Some family members tried to break the tie, this bred in attachment to the tangible. Off they would go with a different set of dreams in their minds, but their hearts always brought them back. Not beaten by the outside life, but with a sense of relief to return to the reassuring rhythmic cycle that seemed to be in their blood and ruled out any other lifestyle. They turned their talents to expanding the operation in a new direction to suite their altered dreams to blend with the old their own energy.
Each generation passed on to the next a firm commitment to the land and to the family. Picture albums and journals denoted the family history. Generation after generation, season after season, from birth to death the lives entertained with the land.
EMM 5/19/98
Emergency Room
Wringing my hands, I sat frozen in a windowless room. Wringing my hands, they had me locked away from emergency room action: mind numb with images, emotions overloaded by the bombardment of recent events, visual recollections ricocheting around the corners of my mind. The force of thoughts slowed my body to a motionless state. Lips sealed tight against sound. Too filled with apprehension to pace, I sat glued to an arm chair of standard hospital issue. Waiting, waiting an eternity for the word trying to catch a thought, thoughts made slippery from the friction of motion.
“She’s in here” a peering face from partial open door announced to the hall. Crisply stated in my direction, “You can use the phone, bathroom is across the hall.” Mechanical rules delivered without thought. No comfort. No word. The face disappeared. The door shushed a reply.
Coiled like a viper, the phone sat ready to strike. Black, menacing, backed into a corner. Light reflections, fluorescent flickering, illuminated its round edges. The spots of light on the sleek surface drew my hand to the only object for communication. Numbers, trying to pull phone numbers to feed the uncoiled serpent cradled in my hand. Maniacal thoughts raced on, unstoppable. Thoughts set in motion creating a life of their own, perpetuating them by careening off each other: energy begetting energy.
Forcing past the whirling dervish vortex, I located a darkened section where names and phone numbers were scattered. Shaking uncontrollably, my dialing digit spasmodically jumped from number to number. Answering machine, an answering machine… A voice sobbing, I heard a voice sobbing relating the debilitating event to a machine. Totally incoherent babbling to be interpreted by whom... who did I dial? Brigitte... the goat woman... Brigitte, the pragmatic German picked up disconnecting the recording. Picking words from my gibberish, making sense enough to respond with words of courage and strength. Her familiar voice helped in pulling me back from the brink.
Amidst total chaos, another number floated to the surface. A gasping, choking voice passed over wires, electronic impulses invisible to sight, wires to wires to Eileen. I longed to be in her kitchen, a safe haven filled with seasonal scents. Idle chats enhanced by cups of Almond Sunset Tea... mundane moments of sharing. Wired to her sunny yellow kitchen, her calm soothing voice travelled to my blue fluorescent cell. A spot of sun radiating warmth; sobbing, I wait for the word.
“She’s in here” a peering face from partial open door announced to the hall. Crisply stated in my direction, “You can use the phone, bathroom is across the hall.” Mechanical rules delivered without thought. No comfort. No word. The face disappeared. The door shushed a reply.
Coiled like a viper, the phone sat ready to strike. Black, menacing, backed into a corner. Light reflections, fluorescent flickering, illuminated its round edges. The spots of light on the sleek surface drew my hand to the only object for communication. Numbers, trying to pull phone numbers to feed the uncoiled serpent cradled in my hand. Maniacal thoughts raced on, unstoppable. Thoughts set in motion creating a life of their own, perpetuating them by careening off each other: energy begetting energy.
Forcing past the whirling dervish vortex, I located a darkened section where names and phone numbers were scattered. Shaking uncontrollably, my dialing digit spasmodically jumped from number to number. Answering machine, an answering machine… A voice sobbing, I heard a voice sobbing relating the debilitating event to a machine. Totally incoherent babbling to be interpreted by whom... who did I dial? Brigitte... the goat woman... Brigitte, the pragmatic German picked up disconnecting the recording. Picking words from my gibberish, making sense enough to respond with words of courage and strength. Her familiar voice helped in pulling me back from the brink.
Amidst total chaos, another number floated to the surface. A gasping, choking voice passed over wires, electronic impulses invisible to sight, wires to wires to Eileen. I longed to be in her kitchen, a safe haven filled with seasonal scents. Idle chats enhanced by cups of Almond Sunset Tea... mundane moments of sharing. Wired to her sunny yellow kitchen, her calm soothing voice travelled to my blue fluorescent cell. A spot of sun radiating warmth; sobbing, I wait for the word.
Finance - Buget
I felt the shift a day before they called. However slight, I knew change was coming. So when offered the job, I took it but I need more money. Sticking the last check into the electric bill envelope, I licked the glue sealing it shut. Glancing at the checkbook balance, I repeated my statement this time aloud. I need more money. How much less could we go without? OK I could cancel cable but John watches TV all the time; he is totally hooked on it. The mind numbing rays sucked dry my ambition, left us lumps, immovable forms every evening until bedtime. That would free up about fifty dollars to stop cable but then the Internet was part of that; a combo deal with a supposed reduced rate. I needed to start paying more on the mortgage principle. It surely wasn’t going to go away by itself. Every month I saw nothing but interest being paid the principle remained static. Immovable, John and I after a long night of TV had become fixtures on the couch just blanking out our lives with an endless array of television pulp.
Maybe it would be good to release cable from our nightly routine. We used to play games for hours although Monopoly and clue are so much better with four players not two. I refuse to play checkers. My cousins always beat me at checkers when I was growing up so I see no point in repeating that habit as an adult. No one likes to loose over and over again especially with the addition of taunts. Kismet is like fate; some games you roll all the dice you need. Other games nothing comes up and the scores are below a hundred. Roll the dice; roll the dice; roll the dice; three tries at achieving the wining combination. Roll the dice and fill in a square. Maybe on the days when the rolls of dice all come in high; combine to fill in all the different Kismet sets, I should rush out and buy a lottery ticket. The roll of the dice luck might run with the lottery too.
Who am I kidding; I don’t mind spending a dollar here or there but it would take a miracle to win at fate. I forgot what the odds are; staggering to say the least. So many people get hooked on the temptation of a lucky win. Would it het old having all that money? Would it cause more problems to have to deal with fortune instead of pinching every penny twice to try to make ends meet? My budget is so tight that a meal out throws off the grocery provision. Renting a movie or going out to an actual first run is nonexistent for us. My son and I are good at being non-consumers. Goodwill is a great place to check when in need of clothing or odd items. Rarely do I look at all those glossy flyers from the large chain stores. People have been so programmed to purchase new and current fads and everyone seems to have a long list of haves let alone impulse purchases. What was extra is now considered a need. What do I need? Do I really need more money? I hate owing the mortgage. If I had not been burdened with that, I would not feel the pressure for money. I could get by just fine on what I earn. I bet I could even save a couple hundred dollars each month but there is the “M” word. Setting me square on my back weighing me down causing me worry of how will make ends meet each month without touching my savings or stocks. Oh yes, I inherited stocks. Something at least for retirement… right. No plans for that at all. Not with the big “M” sitting on me; thirty years, well now 28. Two years will have passed since the purchase in August. Repair list is growing but it will have to wait. Thankful for the benefits, I will have to wait patiently for a position with higher salary. The health benefits were a serious need. Now swimming back upstream with health fairly intact, I think maybe its time to find a second job on the weekends. Do I really want a second job? Falls back on the cable bill doesn’t it; $80 more a month. $80 could pay fifty to the principle of mortgage. Could go to one movie every other week or at least rent four once in awhile. The eternal problem of making survival possible: to provide shelter, food, and creature comfort. All depends on one’s perspective. What is creature comfort to one is unacceptable to someone else. Thanks to the Universe then, thanks for what I have…. Besides getting rid of cable, I need to say – thanks for what I have; put it in perspective… basic creature comforts & shelter.
3/14/01
As I transcribe this eight years later, I did refinance but lost this head start job in May 02… a year and one half on unemployment and no job!!!! went through all my stocks partly because there were two big stock crashes and now in 09 it’s a big recession… we are barely paying bills, use the food bank, house is falling apart… and health – back on thyroid meds and had a hysterectomy.
Maybe it would be good to release cable from our nightly routine. We used to play games for hours although Monopoly and clue are so much better with four players not two. I refuse to play checkers. My cousins always beat me at checkers when I was growing up so I see no point in repeating that habit as an adult. No one likes to loose over and over again especially with the addition of taunts. Kismet is like fate; some games you roll all the dice you need. Other games nothing comes up and the scores are below a hundred. Roll the dice; roll the dice; roll the dice; three tries at achieving the wining combination. Roll the dice and fill in a square. Maybe on the days when the rolls of dice all come in high; combine to fill in all the different Kismet sets, I should rush out and buy a lottery ticket. The roll of the dice luck might run with the lottery too.
Who am I kidding; I don’t mind spending a dollar here or there but it would take a miracle to win at fate. I forgot what the odds are; staggering to say the least. So many people get hooked on the temptation of a lucky win. Would it het old having all that money? Would it cause more problems to have to deal with fortune instead of pinching every penny twice to try to make ends meet? My budget is so tight that a meal out throws off the grocery provision. Renting a movie or going out to an actual first run is nonexistent for us. My son and I are good at being non-consumers. Goodwill is a great place to check when in need of clothing or odd items. Rarely do I look at all those glossy flyers from the large chain stores. People have been so programmed to purchase new and current fads and everyone seems to have a long list of haves let alone impulse purchases. What was extra is now considered a need. What do I need? Do I really need more money? I hate owing the mortgage. If I had not been burdened with that, I would not feel the pressure for money. I could get by just fine on what I earn. I bet I could even save a couple hundred dollars each month but there is the “M” word. Setting me square on my back weighing me down causing me worry of how will make ends meet each month without touching my savings or stocks. Oh yes, I inherited stocks. Something at least for retirement… right. No plans for that at all. Not with the big “M” sitting on me; thirty years, well now 28. Two years will have passed since the purchase in August. Repair list is growing but it will have to wait. Thankful for the benefits, I will have to wait patiently for a position with higher salary. The health benefits were a serious need. Now swimming back upstream with health fairly intact, I think maybe its time to find a second job on the weekends. Do I really want a second job? Falls back on the cable bill doesn’t it; $80 more a month. $80 could pay fifty to the principle of mortgage. Could go to one movie every other week or at least rent four once in awhile. The eternal problem of making survival possible: to provide shelter, food, and creature comfort. All depends on one’s perspective. What is creature comfort to one is unacceptable to someone else. Thanks to the Universe then, thanks for what I have…. Besides getting rid of cable, I need to say – thanks for what I have; put it in perspective… basic creature comforts & shelter.
3/14/01
As I transcribe this eight years later, I did refinance but lost this head start job in May 02… a year and one half on unemployment and no job!!!! went through all my stocks partly because there were two big stock crashes and now in 09 it’s a big recession… we are barely paying bills, use the food bank, house is falling apart… and health – back on thyroid meds and had a hysterectomy.
4 o'clock rituals
Gurgles. Chugs and gurgles in rhythmic patterns announced the afternoon ritual. At precisely quarter to four, the coffee pot began to beat out the time in splunks and glugs. The car door slamming at four o’clock and measured footfalls on the pea stone driveway coincided with the coffeepots final burst. The kitchen scene was set with The Hartford Courant in place, the grey Formica table cleared, and the coffee poured into a mug. Year in year out with few variations, the lunch pail was placed on the sink counter, thermos rinsed, milk added to the steaming mug and with a quick peck on Mom’s cheek Dad would turn to sit down. Silence - Newspaper pages turned, coffee swallowed, and supper prepared quietly through this wind down time.
Caffeine released into a tired body soon brought him back from his work experience. Complaints would spill out, filling the air with punctuations until the available sounding boards had absorbed the trials of his day. Maniacal supervisor, Murphy’s Law in action, or the unbelievable routines of the goof-off crew which included the waste of expensive material tumbled out until the stream ran dry.
Supper was served with small talk about day’s events or idle chatter about friends and family while the television droned out the news from its corner in the living room. A monotone with splashes of commercial volume, neither conversation nor television background was too heavy. Indigestion was to be avoided. Once the meal was eaten, the table was cleared. A shared chore as each of us piled the remains onto the drain board. Unlike other households where the dish washing fell to our friend’s chore list, my brother and I were free to begin homework or catch a TV program.
Gazing out the kitchen window over the double enamel sink, Mom and Dad did the dishes. Every night, side by side with elbows bumping, Dad sloshed the sudsy hot water in the deep white sink washing more than the dishes. Periodically he stopped to spray soap residue away, while Mom dried and put everything away. The quiet murmur of conversation drifted into the living room during lulls in the programming. Summer breezes through winter sleet, they washed and gazed together.
The pendulum electric clock buzzed from its perch on the wall. Black metal hands moving time forward as daily rituals began and ended. Late night cups of dark tea consumed while forearms supported weary bodies that leaned into the grey table surface. The table’s chromed legs dulled by wear met glossy polished green linoleum. A few perfect triangles marred the surface from the iron leaping from the rickety ironing board during morning ironing sessions. The tea bag toss with Mom’s load protest splattered gravity defying droplets of tea upward toward the sink window. Midnight found Mom sitting at the table with a warm cup of milk and a Sear’s catalog to slow down her revved up mind. Endless games of solitaire or twenty-one illuminated by the domed ceiling light whiled away winter nights.
In summer with shades pulled to create the illusion of coolness in the half light, sweat ran in rivulets as Mom and I peeled blanched tomatoes before cramming them into sterilized mason jars. The cellar door was left ajar to omit its cooling dampness. The aroma of Bread & Butter Pickles clung to us, the cheap perfume of summer pickling. Dad, Mom and I chopped, sliced and diced bushels of our gardens riches, corn, green and yellow beans, eggplant and peppers. Canning shelves were weighed down by summer’s end with jellies, jams, pickles, canned tomatoes and relish. The freezer full to capacity with summer’s frozen produce.
Life revolved around this 15 by 15 foot space. Our kitchen, unimaginative and under equipped by today’s standards, functioned as an all purpose room for ironing, meal preparation and consuming, bill paying, homework center and more throughout each day and night. The sunny yellow walls, stenciled cabinets, gingham curtains, chrome coffee pot, white enamel electric stove and refrigerator were witness to our families ups and downs. Emotions bounced off the semi-gloss walls and echoed up the stairway. Listening from my bedroom door through the years, the fights my parents had over and with my brother crawled up the stairs to greet me.
My brother, older by five years, preceded me through school. I looked up to him when I was really little despite the “big boy” tricks that were played on me by him and his friends. Their two favorites were running off to leave me alone in the woods or making me test their skill at bridge construction. Crying, I’d stumble home let down by my big brother again. In winter, bloody noses from ice covered snowballs with rocks inside were my bane.
Trouble attracted my brother like a magnet. Whatever his friends or even our cousins suggested to him, he would do. Blame or a guilty sentence was not a burden to either group. All fingers pointed unwavering to my brother, the scapegoat. Escalated from his youth through his teens and beyond, his crimes were not drastic by today’s standards. His petty offenses and misbehavior plagued my parents. I grew more aware during my elementary school years especially with comments from teachers in September of “Oh, your Albert’s sister”. It was the tone of their voice that hurt me; they expected the worst from the onset. More writing on the walls or drawing on the playground with discarded stolen chalk from a waste basket. The weight of remarks as well as my brother’s behavior was too much for my little frame to move out of the way or sidestep around. This shadow loomed over me constantly. My unspoken goal was not to cause my parents or teachers any problems. This no problem and good behavior strategy made me almost invisible as I minced my way through each year but his troubles increased.Information on my brother’s activities came through my friends. Scrubbing away at the dishes, my parents tried to clean up the problem. Active in the Masonic Lodge and Eastern Star, their thorn was visible to everyone. Their problem solving discussions did not include me. Tears, frustration and anger exploded around and at my brother. Unscathed his journey continued. My burden increased.
I became a comedian; a ready quip or a bit of wit to carry me over the rough spots. Hiding behind a smile, I could make my parents or others laugh. This clown just might get them to forget who I was related to.
Caffeine released into a tired body soon brought him back from his work experience. Complaints would spill out, filling the air with punctuations until the available sounding boards had absorbed the trials of his day. Maniacal supervisor, Murphy’s Law in action, or the unbelievable routines of the goof-off crew which included the waste of expensive material tumbled out until the stream ran dry.
Supper was served with small talk about day’s events or idle chatter about friends and family while the television droned out the news from its corner in the living room. A monotone with splashes of commercial volume, neither conversation nor television background was too heavy. Indigestion was to be avoided. Once the meal was eaten, the table was cleared. A shared chore as each of us piled the remains onto the drain board. Unlike other households where the dish washing fell to our friend’s chore list, my brother and I were free to begin homework or catch a TV program.
Gazing out the kitchen window over the double enamel sink, Mom and Dad did the dishes. Every night, side by side with elbows bumping, Dad sloshed the sudsy hot water in the deep white sink washing more than the dishes. Periodically he stopped to spray soap residue away, while Mom dried and put everything away. The quiet murmur of conversation drifted into the living room during lulls in the programming. Summer breezes through winter sleet, they washed and gazed together.
The pendulum electric clock buzzed from its perch on the wall. Black metal hands moving time forward as daily rituals began and ended. Late night cups of dark tea consumed while forearms supported weary bodies that leaned into the grey table surface. The table’s chromed legs dulled by wear met glossy polished green linoleum. A few perfect triangles marred the surface from the iron leaping from the rickety ironing board during morning ironing sessions. The tea bag toss with Mom’s load protest splattered gravity defying droplets of tea upward toward the sink window. Midnight found Mom sitting at the table with a warm cup of milk and a Sear’s catalog to slow down her revved up mind. Endless games of solitaire or twenty-one illuminated by the domed ceiling light whiled away winter nights.
In summer with shades pulled to create the illusion of coolness in the half light, sweat ran in rivulets as Mom and I peeled blanched tomatoes before cramming them into sterilized mason jars. The cellar door was left ajar to omit its cooling dampness. The aroma of Bread & Butter Pickles clung to us, the cheap perfume of summer pickling. Dad, Mom and I chopped, sliced and diced bushels of our gardens riches, corn, green and yellow beans, eggplant and peppers. Canning shelves were weighed down by summer’s end with jellies, jams, pickles, canned tomatoes and relish. The freezer full to capacity with summer’s frozen produce.
Life revolved around this 15 by 15 foot space. Our kitchen, unimaginative and under equipped by today’s standards, functioned as an all purpose room for ironing, meal preparation and consuming, bill paying, homework center and more throughout each day and night. The sunny yellow walls, stenciled cabinets, gingham curtains, chrome coffee pot, white enamel electric stove and refrigerator were witness to our families ups and downs. Emotions bounced off the semi-gloss walls and echoed up the stairway. Listening from my bedroom door through the years, the fights my parents had over and with my brother crawled up the stairs to greet me.
My brother, older by five years, preceded me through school. I looked up to him when I was really little despite the “big boy” tricks that were played on me by him and his friends. Their two favorites were running off to leave me alone in the woods or making me test their skill at bridge construction. Crying, I’d stumble home let down by my big brother again. In winter, bloody noses from ice covered snowballs with rocks inside were my bane.
Trouble attracted my brother like a magnet. Whatever his friends or even our cousins suggested to him, he would do. Blame or a guilty sentence was not a burden to either group. All fingers pointed unwavering to my brother, the scapegoat. Escalated from his youth through his teens and beyond, his crimes were not drastic by today’s standards. His petty offenses and misbehavior plagued my parents. I grew more aware during my elementary school years especially with comments from teachers in September of “Oh, your Albert’s sister”. It was the tone of their voice that hurt me; they expected the worst from the onset. More writing on the walls or drawing on the playground with discarded stolen chalk from a waste basket. The weight of remarks as well as my brother’s behavior was too much for my little frame to move out of the way or sidestep around. This shadow loomed over me constantly. My unspoken goal was not to cause my parents or teachers any problems. This no problem and good behavior strategy made me almost invisible as I minced my way through each year but his troubles increased.Information on my brother’s activities came through my friends. Scrubbing away at the dishes, my parents tried to clean up the problem. Active in the Masonic Lodge and Eastern Star, their thorn was visible to everyone. Their problem solving discussions did not include me. Tears, frustration and anger exploded around and at my brother. Unscathed his journey continued. My burden increased.
I became a comedian; a ready quip or a bit of wit to carry me over the rough spots. Hiding behind a smile, I could make my parents or others laugh. This clown just might get them to forget who I was related to.
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