You know Mom,
My roomate's got a friend of his in the room right now. His friend's mother is here, too. From just listening to them talk, it really made me appreciate the environment and family I was raised in. That's a real complement (sic). Appreciate it!
Love,
Jim
Monday, June 25, 2007
Monday, April 16, 2007
Oxygen in Use, No Smoking
The on and off clicking of the breathing machine reassures me as I hurry down the darkened hospital corridor at 10 pm. "Mama's not dead," I tell myself.
I see the darkened visitors' lounge at the end of the hall. In my mind I see Daddy, asking Dr. Porth, "What is the name of her disease?" "Emphysema," she replies. Daddy takes a card from his suit pocket and asks her to spell it. "What was it called in the old days?" he asks. "The grippe," Dr. Porth answers.
The sign on the door, "Oxygen in Use, No Smoking," identifies Mama's room. Cautiously, I push open the slightly ajar door and slip into Mama's room, dreading to see her near-death condition.
The nurse turns from the one light in the room, startled. She addresses me as if I were an intruder. "Who are you?"
"I'm Mrs. Crook's daughter, Lois. I've come to see Mama," I say in a wobbly voice.
"Oh, you're the one from Florida?"
"No, Savannah." Being confused with Mary makes me feel at home in these morbid surroundings. When we were little, Mama called me "Mary, Lois" so often that Ann Martin, who lived up the street, thought my name was "Mary-Lois."
"Where's Florence?" I ask. My eldest sister called me this afternoon to come if I wanted to see Mama before she died.
"She went to settle the bill and smoke a cigarette," the nurse replies. "This has been a long ordeal for your sister."
"The bill?" I question, my wonder of the surreal activities accompanying death increasing since Florence's phone call.
"Dr. Brauner has been by. He said this is definitely your Mother's last night. He's surprised she's hung on so long."
"Mama's good at hanging on," I say to myself. Three years ago, before Daddy died, she was brought to the Emergency Room to get oxygen. The pathologist in charge of the lab thought he was analyzing the blood of a dead person. When another blood sample was sent to him, he became curious, "How can she live with such a high amount of carbon monoxide in her blood?"
He visited her often after she left the Emergency Room to come to this floor in Piedmont Hospital to begin her 60-day recovery. That's when Mama called her morning nurse, "Just One Step More" for her encouragement.
"It's her will to live," the pathologist said after several visits. "That, combined with the fact that her body fought off so many serious diseases in her childhood."
At nine years old she came in from riding a neighbor's horse to lie down on the hall sofa, burning with typhoid fever. She never remembered calling for her oldest and favorite brother Bill, who was away at Business College. But, weeks later, when she opened her eyes, he was by her bed, looking down at her. "Bill, why are you here?" she asked. "Florence, you asked for me. They said you were dying," he replied. She smiled, closed her eyes and slept, holding his hand.
"How is Mama?" I move toward her bed. The machine continues its rhythmic clicking, sending oxygen into her throat. Tubes run into her arms and bruises map where needles have been. She lies very still.
"Her kidneys have stopped functioning. Her heart is holding out. We all thought her heart would take her because of her family history," the nurse responds. Out of seven siblings, Mama and one brother lived past age fifty. Mama turned seventy-one this year.
"Is she in pain?" I look at her still form under the hospital cover. Her wonderful high cheekbones and straight nose give her a commanding presence, even with the machine attached at her throat.
"You can talk to her. Her hearing will go last." The nurse picks up Mama's chart.
"Mama, can you hear me? It's Lois." I remember how often my voice is mistaken for Mary's, so I repeat my name. Florence boasts that she is the only one who can tell our voices apart, especially over the phone. When Mary and I are together, our children say we sound like a stereo.
Mama opens her eyes. Her eyes are glassy.
"Can she see?" I ask the nurse.
The nurse looks up from the chart, shakes her head no. "Speak to her. She can hear."
"Mama, I'm glad to see you. I know this is tiring for you. Keep holding on. You're doing good. Mary will be here soon. I love you."
Her eyes close.
Florence flings wide the door, rushes into the room, sees me, then scowls. "Lois, I hope your boys aren't messing up the house. The maid and I have cleaned it for the funeral. She washed and ironed the big linen dinner napkins." As Florence tells me this, she checks drawers for pajamas and puts "Get Well" cards and toilet articles into Mama's suitcase.
Mary gently knocks on the open door. She walks directly to Mama, smiling. "Hello, Mama," she says in her lilting, debutante-forever voice. "We just got here. Laurie said, 'Tell Ba'mama I love her.'"
Mama frowns from the frustration of being too weak to respond. I can tell she understands and appreciates the message of love from her only granddaughter. She sends her love to her as her weary eyes open and close.
The breathing machine's clicking measures the intervals.
"Does this lotion belong to the hospital or to us?" Florence asks as she continues packing.
"That's hers," the nurse replies, moving to Mama's side.
"Will we need the 11 o'clock nurse?" Florence wants to know.
My watch shows 10:15 pm.
"I don't think so," the nurse responds. "It's hard to tell when they are hooked to this machine." The nurse lifts the tube out of Mama's throat.
Mama's eyes open wide in astonishment. Her eyelids drop and her face relaxes. Tension seems to flow out of her body.
"She's dead," I hear the nurse say as she reaches over Mama to turn off the machine.
"Would you give me the sheep's skin that's under her?" Florence asks the nurse. "It was so expensive and hard to find." Florence turns toward Mary and me. We still are at Mama's bedside. "Will you stay here while the nurse and I see about the death certificate?"
We nod yes. Florence and the nurse leave the room.
"It's quiet without the clicking, isn't it?" Mary's voice breaks the silence.
The lump in my throat lets out, "That's right, Mary."
I see the darkened visitors' lounge at the end of the hall. In my mind I see Daddy, asking Dr. Porth, "What is the name of her disease?" "Emphysema," she replies. Daddy takes a card from his suit pocket and asks her to spell it. "What was it called in the old days?" he asks. "The grippe," Dr. Porth answers.
The sign on the door, "Oxygen in Use, No Smoking," identifies Mama's room. Cautiously, I push open the slightly ajar door and slip into Mama's room, dreading to see her near-death condition.
The nurse turns from the one light in the room, startled. She addresses me as if I were an intruder. "Who are you?"
"I'm Mrs. Crook's daughter, Lois. I've come to see Mama," I say in a wobbly voice.
"Oh, you're the one from Florida?"
"No, Savannah." Being confused with Mary makes me feel at home in these morbid surroundings. When we were little, Mama called me "Mary, Lois" so often that Ann Martin, who lived up the street, thought my name was "Mary-Lois."
"Where's Florence?" I ask. My eldest sister called me this afternoon to come if I wanted to see Mama before she died.
"She went to settle the bill and smoke a cigarette," the nurse replies. "This has been a long ordeal for your sister."
"The bill?" I question, my wonder of the surreal activities accompanying death increasing since Florence's phone call.
"Dr. Brauner has been by. He said this is definitely your Mother's last night. He's surprised she's hung on so long."
"Mama's good at hanging on," I say to myself. Three years ago, before Daddy died, she was brought to the Emergency Room to get oxygen. The pathologist in charge of the lab thought he was analyzing the blood of a dead person. When another blood sample was sent to him, he became curious, "How can she live with such a high amount of carbon monoxide in her blood?"
He visited her often after she left the Emergency Room to come to this floor in Piedmont Hospital to begin her 60-day recovery. That's when Mama called her morning nurse, "Just One Step More" for her encouragement.
"It's her will to live," the pathologist said after several visits. "That, combined with the fact that her body fought off so many serious diseases in her childhood."
At nine years old she came in from riding a neighbor's horse to lie down on the hall sofa, burning with typhoid fever. She never remembered calling for her oldest and favorite brother Bill, who was away at Business College. But, weeks later, when she opened her eyes, he was by her bed, looking down at her. "Bill, why are you here?" she asked. "Florence, you asked for me. They said you were dying," he replied. She smiled, closed her eyes and slept, holding his hand.
"How is Mama?" I move toward her bed. The machine continues its rhythmic clicking, sending oxygen into her throat. Tubes run into her arms and bruises map where needles have been. She lies very still.
"Her kidneys have stopped functioning. Her heart is holding out. We all thought her heart would take her because of her family history," the nurse responds. Out of seven siblings, Mama and one brother lived past age fifty. Mama turned seventy-one this year.
"Is she in pain?" I look at her still form under the hospital cover. Her wonderful high cheekbones and straight nose give her a commanding presence, even with the machine attached at her throat.
"You can talk to her. Her hearing will go last." The nurse picks up Mama's chart.
"Mama, can you hear me? It's Lois." I remember how often my voice is mistaken for Mary's, so I repeat my name. Florence boasts that she is the only one who can tell our voices apart, especially over the phone. When Mary and I are together, our children say we sound like a stereo.
Mama opens her eyes. Her eyes are glassy.
"Can she see?" I ask the nurse.
The nurse looks up from the chart, shakes her head no. "Speak to her. She can hear."
"Mama, I'm glad to see you. I know this is tiring for you. Keep holding on. You're doing good. Mary will be here soon. I love you."
Her eyes close.
Florence flings wide the door, rushes into the room, sees me, then scowls. "Lois, I hope your boys aren't messing up the house. The maid and I have cleaned it for the funeral. She washed and ironed the big linen dinner napkins." As Florence tells me this, she checks drawers for pajamas and puts "Get Well" cards and toilet articles into Mama's suitcase.
Mary gently knocks on the open door. She walks directly to Mama, smiling. "Hello, Mama," she says in her lilting, debutante-forever voice. "We just got here. Laurie said, 'Tell Ba'mama I love her.'"
Mama frowns from the frustration of being too weak to respond. I can tell she understands and appreciates the message of love from her only granddaughter. She sends her love to her as her weary eyes open and close.
The breathing machine's clicking measures the intervals.
"Does this lotion belong to the hospital or to us?" Florence asks as she continues packing.
"That's hers," the nurse replies, moving to Mama's side.
"Will we need the 11 o'clock nurse?" Florence wants to know.
My watch shows 10:15 pm.
"I don't think so," the nurse responds. "It's hard to tell when they are hooked to this machine." The nurse lifts the tube out of Mama's throat.
Mama's eyes open wide in astonishment. Her eyelids drop and her face relaxes. Tension seems to flow out of her body.
"She's dead," I hear the nurse say as she reaches over Mama to turn off the machine.
"Would you give me the sheep's skin that's under her?" Florence asks the nurse. "It was so expensive and hard to find." Florence turns toward Mary and me. We still are at Mama's bedside. "Will you stay here while the nurse and I see about the death certificate?"
We nod yes. Florence and the nurse leave the room.
"It's quiet without the clicking, isn't it?" Mary's voice breaks the silence.
The lump in my throat lets out, "That's right, Mary."
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Dinosaurs for Breakfast
Today, dinosaurs came for breakfast. They arrived in yesterday's unopened junk mail in an envelope marked "DINOSAURS INSIDE." A page of bright dinosaur stickers were part of the promotional material to entice me to order Highlights for Children magazine.
Forty red, blue, orange, green and purple color combinations of different sizes of dinosaurs cover the slick page. Some have wings, some horns, some claws and feelers. I save this cheerful page and put the rest of the mailer on top of the egg shells in the kitchen garbage.
Since my three sons are college grads, I have no need for a children's magazine. Yet, as I look over this fascinating collection of creatures, I tell myself, "What we need are dinosaurs for breakfast," and I place the page on the breakfast table above my youngest son's plate.
Sam, newly graduated from college, is job hunting. Today he has an 8 am appointment to take a test to qualify for an opening. He's in the shower now. Dinosaurs may ease his nerves.
As a child, Sam was cautious of new situations. In his three-year-old nursery school class, he refused to paint at an easel when his group's turn came. Only after he acted out with me painting-at-an-easel-and-carrying-a-wet-picture-to-dry-on-the-floor-in-the-hall did Sam have the confidence to join this new activity. "At least," I reassure myself, "he's seen where he'll take the test and he's met the man who will give it."
A good breakfast is the best way to start a day. Especially today Sam's needs a good start. He requested an omelet for breakfast. When I make an omelet I pretend that I make the world's most perfect omelet. Today I have a problem. No cheese. Bacon, onions, bell pepper, mushrooms and tomatoes are chopped and waiting. Still, no cheese. "Perhaps a few extra pieces of tomato will substitute for the missing cheese," I try to reassure myself.
When the sound of Sam's shower stops, I melt the butter in the pan. "Maybe the dinosaurs will distract Sam's attention from this no-cheese world's most perfect omelet try," I sincerely hope.
As I add the ingredients and cover the pan, I recall how my sister Mary and I made a game out of any situation. One Christmas morning when we still slept in the downstairs nursery, Mary convinced me that the wet spot on her pillow was melted snow from Santa's beard. "See the wet spot," Mary explained, "Santa's beard brushed my pillow when he leaned down to kiss me, and not you." Years later I realized Mary's drool wet her pillow, not snow from Santa's beard.
Sam enters the kitchen in a new suit and sits down before yet another of my world's most perfect omelet attempts. Buttered toast and orange juice are in place. I settle across from Sam with my bowl of cereal, hoping the lack of cheese won't spoil his breakfast this important day.
"Too many tomatoes," Sam says after his first bite. I bow my head before this harsh judge of omelet quality. "Cheese," I say, before he mentions that the cheese is missing, as I write "cheese" on a nearby tablet, beginning my grocery list. "I promised you an omelet, but we're out of cheese," I confess, praying my confession will gain pardon for this less than world's most perfect omelet.
Sam's silence seems forgiving. "Where did you get these dinosaurs?" he asks, taking my bait. I tell him they came in the junk mail. We eat in silence, our eyes on the dinosaurs.
I point to a diminutive purple dinosaur in the top corner near me and say, "This one's mine." The game begins. Sam does not acknowledge my ownership claim, but carefully looks over the page of dinosaur stickers. "This one's mine," he declares, picking a large, red dinosaur at the bottom of the page.
Sensing his strategy, I know my next move. A yellow dinosaur with red spots on its back, a blue nose, a green horn near its gapping mouth, with red eyes and claws, brandishing two green feelers, has no equal on the page. I place my finger on its smirking, lurking hulk. "This one's mine," I state.
"No," Sam shouts. "I was going to pick that one next. It's the biggest on the page. If you're going to have him, then this, this, this and this one are mine." He indicates each big dinosaur not taken. "You can have the rest. I can beat you with these," he claims.
I didn't expect Sam to show such resoluteness in our imaginary game. Mary would never choose a dinosaur for its bigness. She's so non-violent, she's a vegetarian. Mary would pick her dinosaurs for their color combinations and apparent character. But, Sam, my youngest and tallest, picks his dinosaurs for their strength to beat me.
During the day I relive our breakfast with the dinosaurs and laugh. At dinner I advise Sam that my next choice is a dinosaur with wings, the green one in the middle of the page.
"Oh, no," he insists, and our game continues. "I get all the big ones and the ones that fly, so I can beat you with muscle on the ground and get you from above. You can have the rest."
I smile, remembering Sam in his high chair, holding his spoon defiantly in his left hand, twisting away from every spoonful of food I offer. Refusing my help, he repeats his first sentence while slinging applesauce on the floor, "I do it myself," over and over."
"Do it yourself, Sam," I muse to myself. "Control every spoonful of your promising life and your first real job. I have all I can handle just remembering the cheese."
Forty red, blue, orange, green and purple color combinations of different sizes of dinosaurs cover the slick page. Some have wings, some horns, some claws and feelers. I save this cheerful page and put the rest of the mailer on top of the egg shells in the kitchen garbage.
Since my three sons are college grads, I have no need for a children's magazine. Yet, as I look over this fascinating collection of creatures, I tell myself, "What we need are dinosaurs for breakfast," and I place the page on the breakfast table above my youngest son's plate.
Sam, newly graduated from college, is job hunting. Today he has an 8 am appointment to take a test to qualify for an opening. He's in the shower now. Dinosaurs may ease his nerves.
As a child, Sam was cautious of new situations. In his three-year-old nursery school class, he refused to paint at an easel when his group's turn came. Only after he acted out with me painting-at-an-easel-and-carrying-a-wet-picture-to-dry-on-the-floor-in-the-hall did Sam have the confidence to join this new activity. "At least," I reassure myself, "he's seen where he'll take the test and he's met the man who will give it."
A good breakfast is the best way to start a day. Especially today Sam's needs a good start. He requested an omelet for breakfast. When I make an omelet I pretend that I make the world's most perfect omelet. Today I have a problem. No cheese. Bacon, onions, bell pepper, mushrooms and tomatoes are chopped and waiting. Still, no cheese. "Perhaps a few extra pieces of tomato will substitute for the missing cheese," I try to reassure myself.
When the sound of Sam's shower stops, I melt the butter in the pan. "Maybe the dinosaurs will distract Sam's attention from this no-cheese world's most perfect omelet try," I sincerely hope.
As I add the ingredients and cover the pan, I recall how my sister Mary and I made a game out of any situation. One Christmas morning when we still slept in the downstairs nursery, Mary convinced me that the wet spot on her pillow was melted snow from Santa's beard. "See the wet spot," Mary explained, "Santa's beard brushed my pillow when he leaned down to kiss me, and not you." Years later I realized Mary's drool wet her pillow, not snow from Santa's beard.
Sam enters the kitchen in a new suit and sits down before yet another of my world's most perfect omelet attempts. Buttered toast and orange juice are in place. I settle across from Sam with my bowl of cereal, hoping the lack of cheese won't spoil his breakfast this important day.
"Too many tomatoes," Sam says after his first bite. I bow my head before this harsh judge of omelet quality. "Cheese," I say, before he mentions that the cheese is missing, as I write "cheese" on a nearby tablet, beginning my grocery list. "I promised you an omelet, but we're out of cheese," I confess, praying my confession will gain pardon for this less than world's most perfect omelet.
Sam's silence seems forgiving. "Where did you get these dinosaurs?" he asks, taking my bait. I tell him they came in the junk mail. We eat in silence, our eyes on the dinosaurs.
I point to a diminutive purple dinosaur in the top corner near me and say, "This one's mine." The game begins. Sam does not acknowledge my ownership claim, but carefully looks over the page of dinosaur stickers. "This one's mine," he declares, picking a large, red dinosaur at the bottom of the page.
Sensing his strategy, I know my next move. A yellow dinosaur with red spots on its back, a blue nose, a green horn near its gapping mouth, with red eyes and claws, brandishing two green feelers, has no equal on the page. I place my finger on its smirking, lurking hulk. "This one's mine," I state.
"No," Sam shouts. "I was going to pick that one next. It's the biggest on the page. If you're going to have him, then this, this, this and this one are mine." He indicates each big dinosaur not taken. "You can have the rest. I can beat you with these," he claims.
I didn't expect Sam to show such resoluteness in our imaginary game. Mary would never choose a dinosaur for its bigness. She's so non-violent, she's a vegetarian. Mary would pick her dinosaurs for their color combinations and apparent character. But, Sam, my youngest and tallest, picks his dinosaurs for their strength to beat me.
During the day I relive our breakfast with the dinosaurs and laugh. At dinner I advise Sam that my next choice is a dinosaur with wings, the green one in the middle of the page.
"Oh, no," he insists, and our game continues. "I get all the big ones and the ones that fly, so I can beat you with muscle on the ground and get you from above. You can have the rest."
I smile, remembering Sam in his high chair, holding his spoon defiantly in his left hand, twisting away from every spoonful of food I offer. Refusing my help, he repeats his first sentence while slinging applesauce on the floor, "I do it myself," over and over."
"Do it yourself, Sam," I muse to myself. "Control every spoonful of your promising life and your first real job. I have all I can handle just remembering the cheese."
Friday, April 13, 2007
The Money Lady
Mama displayed her figurine collection on glass shelves in the mirrored alcove on the right of our living room fireplace, balancing the window on the left. People who have collections love organization. Daddy designed and built our house in the 12th year of their 40-year marriage which ended with his death in 1968. He also gave Mama 16 closets she could organize. His closet was the smallest, he reminded us time and again.
Three paired figurines, favors from Daddy’s Executive Club’s Christmas dinner dances, stand on the top shelf. Each wigged gentlemen in knee britches, with a sword under his long coat, holds a flower awarded him by his elegantly gowned lady. Each elaborately coiffured lady waits beside her partner with flowers cradled in her arm. Holding a half-opened fan poised near her pouting mouth, each lady tilts her china face demurely away from her courtier. These richly dressed couples seem frozen in a reflected moment, listening for the music before they bow and curtsy to begin their effortless waltz across Mama’s top glass shelf.
The figurines on the glass shelves make a charming display, but my favorite figurine is not among them. She is in my parents’ downstairs bedroom. Sitting alone, on the right side of Mama’s dresser, she wears a low pink china ball gown with puffed sleeves and a billowing gathered skirt that balloons out the sides and back in a plethora of pink ceramic. She sits on a pink cushioned stool that can be seen from the back beneath her ample skirt.
A large yellow woven basket beside her crossed legs abounds with an assortment of colored flowers. Was she gathering these flowers to select her bouquet for the ball? Did she sit down a moment to daydream about her sweetheart’s love for her?
With unconscious seductiveness she leans forward. In her left hand she holds what remains of a flower with red petals around a yellow center. A petal falls down her skirt. Only two petals still cling to the flower. Her wavy, brown hair reminds me of Mama’s.
It is fashioned up off her neck for the sake of coolness. The memory of a kiss lingers on her slightly parted red lips, which almost curve into a smile. Her eyes have ascertained the message of her remaining two petals, “He loves me.”
Mama called her the Money Lady. Since Daddy never allowed money to be in sight, every Friday for forty years he placed Mama’s household allowance under the Money Lady’s bounteous skirt. When Wilson, our laundry man, whistled his arrival, Mama calls while she goes to the door, “Get five dollars from the Money Lady, Lois.” Money for John, our yardman, hides there as well as my own weekly allowance
Today the Money Lady picks her petals into the proliferation of her pink ceramic skirt in my bookcase. Charge cards I have restricted myself from using reside beneath her. Money for my maid, when I had a maid, was there for safekeeping. The Money Lady’s right hand is glued on, but she is just as confident “He loves me” as when she received a regular weekly remittance.
When my sons were home and their craving for pizza great, my pleas of poverty were met with, “Check under the Money Lady, Mama.” Often, a $20.00 bill was hiding under this solitary lady, impatiently waiting to be spent.
Now that the boys are married, months pass without my even glancing towards the Money Lady. Yet, last week my checkbook was low. I chanced to look under the Money Lady and discovered thirty dollars from a more profitable time. As I turned away with my found wealth, the Money Lady’s smile seemed strangely warm and knowing.
Three paired figurines, favors from Daddy’s Executive Club’s Christmas dinner dances, stand on the top shelf. Each wigged gentlemen in knee britches, with a sword under his long coat, holds a flower awarded him by his elegantly gowned lady. Each elaborately coiffured lady waits beside her partner with flowers cradled in her arm. Holding a half-opened fan poised near her pouting mouth, each lady tilts her china face demurely away from her courtier. These richly dressed couples seem frozen in a reflected moment, listening for the music before they bow and curtsy to begin their effortless waltz across Mama’s top glass shelf.
The figurines on the glass shelves make a charming display, but my favorite figurine is not among them. She is in my parents’ downstairs bedroom. Sitting alone, on the right side of Mama’s dresser, she wears a low pink china ball gown with puffed sleeves and a billowing gathered skirt that balloons out the sides and back in a plethora of pink ceramic. She sits on a pink cushioned stool that can be seen from the back beneath her ample skirt.
A large yellow woven basket beside her crossed legs abounds with an assortment of colored flowers. Was she gathering these flowers to select her bouquet for the ball? Did she sit down a moment to daydream about her sweetheart’s love for her?
With unconscious seductiveness she leans forward. In her left hand she holds what remains of a flower with red petals around a yellow center. A petal falls down her skirt. Only two petals still cling to the flower. Her wavy, brown hair reminds me of Mama’s.
It is fashioned up off her neck for the sake of coolness. The memory of a kiss lingers on her slightly parted red lips, which almost curve into a smile. Her eyes have ascertained the message of her remaining two petals, “He loves me.”
Mama called her the Money Lady. Since Daddy never allowed money to be in sight, every Friday for forty years he placed Mama’s household allowance under the Money Lady’s bounteous skirt. When Wilson, our laundry man, whistled his arrival, Mama calls while she goes to the door, “Get five dollars from the Money Lady, Lois.” Money for John, our yardman, hides there as well as my own weekly allowance
Today the Money Lady picks her petals into the proliferation of her pink ceramic skirt in my bookcase. Charge cards I have restricted myself from using reside beneath her. Money for my maid, when I had a maid, was there for safekeeping. The Money Lady’s right hand is glued on, but she is just as confident “He loves me” as when she received a regular weekly remittance.
When my sons were home and their craving for pizza great, my pleas of poverty were met with, “Check under the Money Lady, Mama.” Often, a $20.00 bill was hiding under this solitary lady, impatiently waiting to be spent.
Now that the boys are married, months pass without my even glancing towards the Money Lady. Yet, last week my checkbook was low. I chanced to look under the Money Lady and discovered thirty dollars from a more profitable time. As I turned away with my found wealth, the Money Lady’s smile seemed strangely warm and knowing.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Visiting the Library
I love the library. I was able to have my own library card when I was 4 years old. The only requirement was that I write my name. I could and I did. That long ago Carnegie library with its white marble steps and porch with columns in Buckhead is now replaced with a high-rise. But, it remains in my memory in every library I visit.
First, I sit to look through the new magazines. I read my horoscope in “Town & Country.” I glance through “Southern Living” and “Architectural Digest.” Then, I proceed to the books and tapes.”
At the elevator, a lady and a little girl wait to go upstairs. “We’re going to ride the elevator,” the lady tells the little girl.
“Ride an elephant?” the little girl looks up at the lady, asking for clarification. Patiently, the lady slowly repeats in a clear voice, “an elevator.” I’m completely drawn to this conversation. I try to think of child-scale words which demonstrate an elevator. Elevate and lift don’t seem related in English.
“No, Hailey, not an elephant. We’ll ride an elevator. You say it. Elevator,” the lady pronounces the strange word again. “We’ll ride an alligator,” Hailey attempts, selecting a like-sounding word she knows.
Some time later, after they have gone up and down in the (to Hailey) “ele-gator,” they have their books scanned at the checkout counter.
To complete the lesson of the day, the lady directs Hailey, “Tell Mrs. Stanley what we rode.”
With great hesitation that must have conjured up associations of trunks, tusks, sharp teeth and long tails in this little girl’s mind, Hailey carefully says in syllables, “We rode the el-e-va-tor.”
“That’s right, Hailey,” Mrs. Stanley triumphants. The lady smiles a smile that says, “Mission accomplished.” She takes Hailey’s hand and they leave the library and its elevator.
I turn back to my magazine, charmed by a child’s grasp of our shared world.
First, I sit to look through the new magazines. I read my horoscope in “Town & Country.” I glance through “Southern Living” and “Architectural Digest.” Then, I proceed to the books and tapes.”
At the elevator, a lady and a little girl wait to go upstairs. “We’re going to ride the elevator,” the lady tells the little girl.
“Ride an elephant?” the little girl looks up at the lady, asking for clarification. Patiently, the lady slowly repeats in a clear voice, “an elevator.” I’m completely drawn to this conversation. I try to think of child-scale words which demonstrate an elevator. Elevate and lift don’t seem related in English.
“No, Hailey, not an elephant. We’ll ride an elevator. You say it. Elevator,” the lady pronounces the strange word again. “We’ll ride an alligator,” Hailey attempts, selecting a like-sounding word she knows.
Some time later, after they have gone up and down in the (to Hailey) “ele-gator,” they have their books scanned at the checkout counter.
To complete the lesson of the day, the lady directs Hailey, “Tell Mrs. Stanley what we rode.”
With great hesitation that must have conjured up associations of trunks, tusks, sharp teeth and long tails in this little girl’s mind, Hailey carefully says in syllables, “We rode the el-e-va-tor.”
“That’s right, Hailey,” Mrs. Stanley triumphants. The lady smiles a smile that says, “Mission accomplished.” She takes Hailey’s hand and they leave the library and its elevator.
I turn back to my magazine, charmed by a child’s grasp of our shared world.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Home From College
When my oldest son, Jim, first went away to college, he realized that his friends look forward to the good food they will eat at home at Thanksgiving break. One said, “My Mom makes the best dressing and pecan pie. I can taste it now, just thinking about it.” Another said, “We have fresh vegetables that Mom grows in her garden. Dad makes a big production of standing at the head of the table to slice the turkey, asking each person in turn what they want. White or dark? Leg or wing?”
Jim can only add to his college friends’ Thanksgiving holiday extolations, “I look forward to seeing Mom, playing guitar with my two brothers and going out with my friends to Carey Hilliard’s restaurant. They have the best sweet tea.”
“Jim, your friends love my fall-apart roast beef with yellow rice. And, you always request nachos. Have you forgotten the fried oysters at Thanksgiving and Christmas?” I attempt to take my place beside those parents with their admired culinary skills.
“Your roast and rice are good, but you serve it every occasion. The nachos are good and so are the fried oysters. But, Mom, we’ve never carved a turkey at the table. The turkey always collapses in its own juices in the pan.” Jim speaks the truth.
“Once, Aaron, Sam and I tried to think of something you make that’s good. After a long time Aaron remembered he likes your beef stroganoff. Then, Sam remembered he likes your omelets,” Jim relates. This is Jim’s gracious attempt to salve my hurt feelings.
“And, you like my waiting on you hand and foot when you are home,” I respond, remembering his driving his car to the front door, where it now sits for the holidays.
“That’s what Moms are supposed to do,” Jim smiles. I smile too, picturing him at two, refusing table food, while pointing to the Jr Baby Food jar he wants in the pantry behind his high chair. Until now, I never realized that my firstborn could have been choosing Jr. Baby Food over my home cooking. But, he didn’t know Carey Hilliard’s back then.
Jim can only add to his college friends’ Thanksgiving holiday extolations, “I look forward to seeing Mom, playing guitar with my two brothers and going out with my friends to Carey Hilliard’s restaurant. They have the best sweet tea.”
“Jim, your friends love my fall-apart roast beef with yellow rice. And, you always request nachos. Have you forgotten the fried oysters at Thanksgiving and Christmas?” I attempt to take my place beside those parents with their admired culinary skills.
“Your roast and rice are good, but you serve it every occasion. The nachos are good and so are the fried oysters. But, Mom, we’ve never carved a turkey at the table. The turkey always collapses in its own juices in the pan.” Jim speaks the truth.
“Once, Aaron, Sam and I tried to think of something you make that’s good. After a long time Aaron remembered he likes your beef stroganoff. Then, Sam remembered he likes your omelets,” Jim relates. This is Jim’s gracious attempt to salve my hurt feelings.
“And, you like my waiting on you hand and foot when you are home,” I respond, remembering his driving his car to the front door, where it now sits for the holidays.
“That’s what Moms are supposed to do,” Jim smiles. I smile too, picturing him at two, refusing table food, while pointing to the Jr Baby Food jar he wants in the pantry behind his high chair. Until now, I never realized that my firstborn could have been choosing Jr. Baby Food over my home cooking. But, he didn’t know Carey Hilliard’s back then.
Family Life with R. D. Cole III
“I have three daughters,” Mama said, “But, it would be a lot better if each daughter had three Mamas.” Our family friend, R.D. Cole III, was visiting this afternoon. Mama brought cokes with ice into the living room for R. D. and herself. At 5 years old, I followed Mama with the napkins. The fan on the living room floor stirs the summer air. The drawn curtains at the western window keep out the sun.
I am the youngest of her three daughters. As I sit beside Mama on the sofa, R.D. says, “Lois, tell your Mama what you want her to do. She has a coke.” He knows that whenever Mama sits down to visit, I think of a request that requires her to get up. Mama’s wish for each of her three girls to have three mothers is her reply to R.D’s observation, after many years of visiting us.
R.D. also believes that Daddy doesn’t appreciate Mama. Therefore, he makes it his duty to be sure Mama gets one compliment a year. He picks Christmas morning to give her this one compliment. When the phone rings Christmas morning, my sister Mary and I yell, “That’s R.D., Mama.” And, it usually is. (However, the Christmas after R.D. died, tears came into her eyes when the phone rang that morning.)
R.D. and Daddy were “Bell House Boys.” The Bell House was a fashionable boarding house for men in downtown Atlanta. Daddy graduated from Tech in 1919 and was an architect. R.D. graduated from Tech as an electrical engineer, but never worked. He said, “It was the Depression. Other people needed the jobs.” (His family owned a cotton mill, north of Atlanta. R.D. lived on this inheritance.)
Mama did R.D.’s income taxes. Instead of charging him, she had him do repairs and improvements around the house. He also bought her things she wanted, like a toaster or a clock radio. He joked that he had two prices for his work. The higher price was when Daddy supervised. R.D. itemized Daddy’s tools at $1.80 and used his own tools.
During World War II, R.D. shared his ration books with Mama. A ration book was needed to buy shoes. Mama took Mary and me to the shoe store. We took turns standing on the x-ray machine to see the bones inside the shoe. Sugar was also rationed. I begged for a bucket of “yuk-yuks,” my word for suckers. I was excited when R.D. came into the living room, holding a little tin sand bucket full of suckers. That candy was hmm-good!
Sometimes R.D. would arrive, holding out a small paper bag. “Just put your hand in, don’t look in,” he’d say. One time I pulled out an antique chain coin purse. Another time I got a pin. Sometimes, R.D. would have Mary and me knot a dime in the corner of his handkerchief for good luck before a poker game. While we knotted, he drank coffee in the cracked cup Mama kept at his request.
R. D. Cole III, a life-long bachelor, enhanced our family life, giving Mary and me another perspective on life. I never read about a man like him in Dick and Jane.
I am the youngest of her three daughters. As I sit beside Mama on the sofa, R.D. says, “Lois, tell your Mama what you want her to do. She has a coke.” He knows that whenever Mama sits down to visit, I think of a request that requires her to get up. Mama’s wish for each of her three girls to have three mothers is her reply to R.D’s observation, after many years of visiting us.
R.D. also believes that Daddy doesn’t appreciate Mama. Therefore, he makes it his duty to be sure Mama gets one compliment a year. He picks Christmas morning to give her this one compliment. When the phone rings Christmas morning, my sister Mary and I yell, “That’s R.D., Mama.” And, it usually is. (However, the Christmas after R.D. died, tears came into her eyes when the phone rang that morning.)
R.D. and Daddy were “Bell House Boys.” The Bell House was a fashionable boarding house for men in downtown Atlanta. Daddy graduated from Tech in 1919 and was an architect. R.D. graduated from Tech as an electrical engineer, but never worked. He said, “It was the Depression. Other people needed the jobs.” (His family owned a cotton mill, north of Atlanta. R.D. lived on this inheritance.)
Mama did R.D.’s income taxes. Instead of charging him, she had him do repairs and improvements around the house. He also bought her things she wanted, like a toaster or a clock radio. He joked that he had two prices for his work. The higher price was when Daddy supervised. R.D. itemized Daddy’s tools at $1.80 and used his own tools.
During World War II, R.D. shared his ration books with Mama. A ration book was needed to buy shoes. Mama took Mary and me to the shoe store. We took turns standing on the x-ray machine to see the bones inside the shoe. Sugar was also rationed. I begged for a bucket of “yuk-yuks,” my word for suckers. I was excited when R.D. came into the living room, holding a little tin sand bucket full of suckers. That candy was hmm-good!
Sometimes R.D. would arrive, holding out a small paper bag. “Just put your hand in, don’t look in,” he’d say. One time I pulled out an antique chain coin purse. Another time I got a pin. Sometimes, R.D. would have Mary and me knot a dime in the corner of his handkerchief for good luck before a poker game. While we knotted, he drank coffee in the cracked cup Mama kept at his request.
R. D. Cole III, a life-long bachelor, enhanced our family life, giving Mary and me another perspective on life. I never read about a man like him in Dick and Jane.
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