My Very First Place, Old Tables, and Grandpa

It was a galley kitchen and my first "real" apartment.   My first apartment on my own without a roommate.  The challenge?  Not the rent.  Not the smell of permanent solution for hair that permeated the apartment on Saturday mornings when the women all came and got their perms, but the fact that the door to enter the apartment was blocked by the refrigerator.  This was most assuredly a fire hazard because it literally only opened up about 15 inches.  At this point in my life there is not way I could even enter my own place.  It certainly limited my visitors to those who had small breasts, and were slightly underweight.  You could get in if you shifted your body catty-corner to the fridge, pushed slightly on the back door, all the while inhaling the most you could.

There was no room in the kitchen.  The rest of the apartment was spacious, to say the least.  But the kitchen left much to be desired.  I asked my grandfather, who at the time, was in his 80s to make me some kind of a table for the kitchen.  I don't know why.  Why would I want to sit two people in a four foot alley of  a cooking space?  It made no sense, but since he lived 250 miles away and never saw the apartment, he was glad to be asked to take part in this first step in my "adult" life.

It was, like the kitchen, long and narrow.  The legs were wooden, and the table top was not a beautiful inlaid top, like all the other beautiful pieces he made.  It was durable.  It was sensible.  It was made from left over linoleum with tiny yellow and green spots that he had from the 50s.  Yes, the 1950s and he still had the same linoleum that he had on their own kitchen table, and the counter top in their kitchen.  The legs were stained a funky light mahogany because I believe he mixed two colors of what he had around -- never a waster was he!  So it was my first kitchen table.  In very efficient manner, he had bolted the legs to the table and labeled them "A", B", "C" so I could reassemble them later, when I inevitably and hopefully, in his mind, married and reused the table.  It was, in short, wonderful.  It was wonderful because he made it.  It was funky because it was silly with it's odd top and oddly colored wooden legs.  It was my Grandfather in his sensibility.  The sensibility that got him to this country and kept many a roof over their heads.

The table rarely got used at that apartment.  I brought it to every place I lived afterwards, never leaving it behind, never not storing it lovingly.  It was such an odd shape because it fit the odd shape of that particular kitchen, it never really got used.  I still have it tucked away in my shed, with all it's legs comfortably sitting close by, ready to be assembled at any moment.

When I uncover it, I can recall how many days I sat at that table in their kitchen with the same spotted yellow and green linoleum, having chicken soup and waffles before we watched the "stories".  I can recall when I sat on the funky little step stool chair that had a step stool that you could pull out underneath.  I would rest my hand on the counter top and watch my Grandmother put her Cool Whip on the jello she had lovingly, and expectantly, made with canned fruit cocktail.  Almost always red jello, but every once in a while, she'd throw you for a loop and make green.  I'd trace the spots along the metal edging of the counter top.

I can take out that table now, all these years later, touch it with one finger and taste the jello, hear the soap operas or the "stories" as they were called.  I can remember when my grandfather finished the table I had specifically requested and given him the measurements for -- his eyes were proud.  He was the epitome of reduce, reuse, recycle well before it was cool, or really even critically necessary.  I was thrilled because it fit perfectly.  It fit better than most people who came to see me did as they came to my home.  I kept flowers in a vase on it.  I used it prepare things I made for others and took with me because no one could actually fit in the kitchen but me.  I loved that table then, and I love that table now.  Grandpa has been gone over 14 years and every time I touch that table I'm reminded of all the love and pride that went into making it for me for my very first place.  

The Storm & the Sweetness of Life

Waking up in a full anxiety attack is disturbing, but going to bed at 9 pm was probably not the best of ideas.  So, I sit and watch HGTV in the middle of the night.  My joints ache and I know the rain is coming.  When I crack open the window there is nothing but stale, humid, hot air.  No rain, just the smell of it coming.  I can hear the storm in the distance, and the dog is beside herself in anticipation because she can't get to the back of the closet where she is certain the storm won't get her in any way, shape or form.

Knitting calms me, and slowly, and expectedly the storm builds overhead.  Knit, knit, knit, yarn over, purl, purl, yarn over. The repetitive stitches take away my anxiety.  Too bad the dog doesn't have thumbs or perhaps she too would find peace in this simple, yet calming task.

When I was a child I remember storms brought this wonderful sense of adventure, and peace to my mother.  I would be terrified that the lightening would somehow come into our home and strike us all to pieces, and she would be dragging her kitchen chair to the front door, opening the door, and propping open the door, if the screen wasn't in yet.  It didn't matter what season, when the storm came you could count on my mother being there, perched, enjoying the howling windows, the drips from the roof on the steps.  She'd urge us to sit right there on the stairs going up to our room so that we too could enjoy all of natures wonders.  At night, the crickets would sing, regardless of the rain, and she would watch out the door.  She stayed at that door until the very last bit of the storm, and then back to the kitchen she would go with her chair and resume whatever she had been doing.

Sometimes at night, when I had a bad dream or there might be a storm I'd go to the top of the stairs, gazing down to see if the faint glow of the light in the family room was on.  Then I would know she was awake too.  I'd slowly walk down, and find her, with the television muted, at her quilting stand, making minuscule stitches with the window behind her open so she could hear the rain hit the deck outside, and feel the stale air that brought her, and now I, so much peace.  Her concentration was intense when she worked on her quilts as she did every last stitch on the project completely by hand.  They were works of art.  My knitting is something to calm my nerves, occasionally with the advantage of being a gift for someone thrown in.  She always welcomed me, never questioned why I was awake unless I looked disturbed.  Sometimes we'd sit and chat, but mostly we'd sit and listen, feel the air, and just be.

Tonight my breaths are deeper, the air is cooler after the intensity of the storm, and only the casual falling of a drizzle continues.  I am calm, and I can feel her so closely, almost as if she sits in this room, this chair, with me.  If I sit perfectly still, holding a breath in, I can almost feel her reading over my shoulder.  As if to confirm this feeling, at the same moment of writing that sentence I hear a roar of thunder that goes on for thirty seconds.  "Yes, babe.  I'm here.  I'm here."

I know you are, Mommy.  Tonight, I know you are.

Knit, knit, yarn over, purl, purl, yarn over.  The peace continues and my breathing comes back deeper, calmer, as I know I'm not alone tonight.  Again, the thunder rolls in the background.  Life is so sweet.

Mother's Day and Clean Sheets

Yesterday, Mother's Day, I spent it doing exactly as I wanted.  Mostly alone.  One daughter was away with her boyfriend, arriving later on in the day.  Two daughters slept late -- after noon.  The youngest went on a boat with her dad.  I folded the laundry that had become my nemesis.  I am not convinced that when my time comes and I pass that they will not find me buried under the mountains of laundry.  If, for any reason, I should disappear -- look under the laundry.  Chances are high that you'll find me, or at the very least, a clue as to whose room I might be buried under.

I puttered around the house.  I ran to Wal-Mart and the grocery store without children.  You're getting the point, probably shaking your head, wondering how I finagled this.  I make it known that the only thing I wanted for Mother's Day was that we all make a large salad together for dinner, after six o'clock.

Then, I did my most favorite thing that I do for my children, though it may not be their favorite thing that I do.  I washed all their sheets and comforters and I made their beds.  Yes, the can and do periodically, though rarely, do this themselves, I love doing it for them.  It's almost like the last way I can tuck them in bed.  The older they get the more joy I get.  I can't tuck my 20 year old in bed.  Can't pull her into my lap before bed, though I occasionally try.  I can't "chew" on my 18 year olds chin to make her giggle, though I have been known to do this as well.  Goodness knows, I cannot get close enough to my 14 year old to do anything, though every once in a while I'll feel lanky arms around my body, and a chin on my chest.  Then the six year old, who will cuddle, but usually has guinea pig shavings in her bed.  She's willing to sleep among the lovely pieces of the loves of her life, but it makes it kind of itchy for us to lay down.

So, I wash and wash some more.  Sheets and comforters are the only thing that goes into the washing machine, dryer and then out again and put away immediately.  I stretch the bottom sheet over the mattress, smoothing it out as I go.  If they use a top sheet, I tuck in the bottom, fold down the top.  I wave the quilt out a few times over the bed, and lay it down on the bed just so.  I want it lay down invitingly.  The pillow cases go on the feather bed pillows, and all is propped up.  Stuffed animals are placed back on the bed and I stand back and admire my handiwork.

Then I hope, and I imagine that when they get in bed that night that they feel the coolness of the sheets on their feet, and the pillow envelopes their heads.  I imagine they pull their blankets up to their chin, and quite frankly, I imagine them sighing, feeling like their day was wonderful, and there is more tomorrow.  I hope they know that they are truly loved, merely by the clean, freshly made beds.  That I've managed to tuck them in, even as they grow up.

The Pit Then. The Pit Now.

We've all felt it.  The awkwardness of walking past the cool kids.  I came from a progressive high school where we had a "pit", an orange carpeted area, a few steps down from the hall way, where you could sit between classes.  It, more or less, kept the crowds at bay.  It worked for the most part.  Some of us felt comfortable tumbling down into the steps of the pit, with our friends either behind us, or some in front of us, already hanging out.  We lounged, amongst the supervising eyes of the school aides, between periods to socialize, study, or just be.  The high school drama continued in the "pit".  Actually, truth be told, the "pit" probably made the drama worse because it allowed a viewing point for those passing the rest of us, relaxing, going to class.  Often the ones in the pit were kids that were cutting classes, or the ones that didn't have the heavy class load of some of the other kids.  Yet everyone who passed was scrutinized by those who sat in the "pit".

The funny or odd thing was that anyone, really anyone, could sit in the pit.  There were no boundaries in the pit.  I never felt them, and I definitely was not cool.  But once you were in the pit, you were the Judge and Jury and a pickle too.

I remember hanging out there once in a while.  It was in front of the Earth Science class and it was convenient to the girls restroom.   I could get to choir, band, math and science in the same amount of time and so it was natural for me to find someone who could or would meet me in the pit.  I never thought the pit was a social enigma.  I thought it was where you met your friends.

Then years and years later I found a friend who hated walking by the pit.  Who hated walking down the high school halls.  She remembers the angle of her head as she carried her books to her side.  I remember how funny she was when we hung out together, but when we spoke I do remember how she never did let that guard down at high school. In truth, I sadly now recall how I didn't make more of an effort to include her in my horribly dysfunctional circle at various times throughout our years.  Now, 30 plus years later, we're all at different stages.  Some of us have grown children who have babes of their own, making my comrades grandparents.  Then there are those, like myself, who still have young ones.  We face our reunion with trepidation.  What should we wear?  What we should we say?  Should we say we stayed at home to raise our children or is that not accomplished enough?  Should we try and hide the 50 lbs we've gained since high school  because there is two people in the entire class that didn't gain that weight?

I wonder if those thin people we're so terrified would bring on the same reaction if they were new neighbors that moved in down the street.  Would we turn away because they were thinner than us?  No.  We may be envious.  But most likely, we'd invite them into our homes, our lives and we'd find commonality to laugh about.  They would learn to know us as we are now, at this age, in this stage, and this period of life.  Our kids either driving us nuts, or not, and varying from day to day.  We drive them nuts with the same consistency.  Ultimately, it would be accepting.

Yet walk into a high school reunion and all the insecurities that we had at 16 or 17 come flooding back so strong that we are immobilized.  We fret for months prior to the event.  We shop for dresses that we can't afford, to the Good Will with the great deals that not only look fabulous on, are a great price, but we really will wear again.

No.  It's not the same.  My friend who I spoke to tonight about our reunion.  She is brilliant.  She is funnier than hell.  She writes in a way that every teenager would feel truly, and she writes that the middle age woman finding her way around again would feel.  She sees things that others didn't see then.  At the time she felt on the outside, yet now, as I speak to her for hours, I know that she observed so much more than the rest of us did.  The feelings are deeper and more clear.  She can describe a situation in a way that you feel you are truly there in the room.

Tonight we spoke for 2 1/2 hours, and I reluctantly got off because my youngest needed her mama's loving arms, and truly that's what comes first.  My dear friend had her arms around her baby that had fallen asleep on her lap.  So, we both had come to the same point at the same time.  But we view each other so differently.  I see her brilliance.  I see her humor.  I see her ability to view into the soul and dissect and preserve what is truly important and over look what might have been hurtful because at that point, it truly was just about age.  She can remember things for what they were.

She sees her truth.  Now, after hearing her, I see her truth.  But I also see the greatness in the beauty of what she says.  I hear what she says at 48.  I read what she reads, and as the parent of daughters, I know what her writing could bring to the world on their level, and on the level of all those women that are facing the same stages that she struggles with.  She's not alone.  We struggle.  We look to make sure no one sees our tears.  And if we're really lucky someone sees.  A woman sees -- one who knows the secrets.  The secrets that we're not supposed to admit.

We're middle-aged.  We had a miserable high school life, but didn't want to admit it to anyone in case they had a great one.  The reality is we're all in the same  pit.  But this pit isn't about judging people as they pass with the current boyfriend, or clothing.  Or trying to fit in.  Or even trying not to trip into or out of the said pit.  This pit is a gathering of women facing the second, most important, part of their life with their heads held high.

Baby, we've made it!  We're not defined with where we live, or what we do, or when we do it or we where shop.  We're defined by what we do, and how we do it TOGETHER, always.  The message we send to our daughters behind us.

So, fly, my wonderful friend -- fly from the pit, circle it and land again.  Enjoy the trip and enjoy the landing even more.  We've waited a long time to move forward!   Move over, world, we're moving up and onward!

Dear Daddy on your 75th . . . .

All of a sudden I was struck with the reality that tomorrow my father, the young, vibrant, active young dad will turn 75.  He can't be 75 because he travels every where.  Literally.  My girls will often discuss the how many countries Grandpa hasn't' been to.  There aren't that many.

More importantly, when I sat down to write down 75 wonderful things about my dad I was stuck, not because I couldn't come up with them, but because I couldn't stop.  And I couldn't possibly count the people's lives that he's touched throughout his 75 years in a positive manner, whether it just be passing through, or something more permanent.  He's generous to a fault.  He's kind.  I found out many years later that he loaned money to people that we had no clue needed it, not that he had it to lend.  I don't think he ever got it back.  I don't think he wanted it back.  He's just that kind of guy.

Sure, he's an only child -- still at 75 we have to work around schedules because he doesn't quite get the ones that the kids sometimes have days that schedules have to be changed vastly different from the originally planned.  He's not quite sure we're raising his grandchildren the way he would, but he's quick to say that he's going to stay out of it.  And stay out of it he does, until the next time it comes up.  He's diabetic and forgetful.  He adores music of all kinds, and finds wonders in each of his grand children even though he may not always understand their choices.

I remember when Keith Ryan broke up with me in 10th grade.  I'll never forget it.  I was, of course, heart broken because I was convinced we were meant to be together.  I remember it was after dinner and the dishes were done. The light over the kitchen sink was still on.  (It was always practically pitch black in our house.  Once you were out of the room, all the lights went out, except the one over the sink.)  I got off the phone and I began to cry.  I wasn't sure how I truly felt, but I knew crying would always make it better.  My poor father stood there, not sure at all, in deed, if crying was going to solve again.  But before I knew it his arms were around me and I was crying into his shoulder.  He just held me until I could cry no more.  I believe I got over Keith Ryan the next day, and I know it was because I got it all out that night with my Daddy, who is still trying to get me to call him Dad.  As a matter of fact, when I was 14 I wanted to be "different", so I changed the spelling of my name from Kathy to Kathie.  It didn't make me different, it use made it virtual impossible to get anything preprinted with my name on it.  But he still writes my cards to "Kathy" and signs them "Dad".

My sisters and I all have the same first initial -- "K" -- and one year for Valentine's day he bought a old "K" charm with a small diamond chip in it for us to share.  And share we did, because it was thoughtful.  It was silly and my own children now wouldn't get it maybe, but we did.  We laugh about it now because he denies it and so many of our stories when we are together, but he is and always will be my Daddy.

Daddy he will always be, in my mind and in my heart.  He was probably the first person I used an forbidden word to, yet he was the last person I hugged when my mother died and I had to come home to my own family, and had to leave him behind with his grief.  He loved my mother with all his heart and soul and they taught us about love, and forgiveness, and change, and cooperation, and peace.

He's a man who stands up for what he believes, who taught us to do the same.  He can be overbearing, like his daughters at times, but he is generous, and kind, and strong, and endless.  I will never, ever be able to thank my God for all the "extra" years I've had him for so long past when I had my mother.  I'm hoping for at least another fifteen years.  What do you think, Daddy?

Love,
Kathie

It Don't Matter to the Moon

I can listen to Pandora for hours while the girls putter, do what they do late at night, as they wind their days down.  I do what I do.  My husband does the things he does... as my grandfather used to say "My head is asleep before I hit the bed."  Truly he was like that, and still, in my minds eye, I remember him wearing a night cape and snoring within the minutes, or less, it took me at 8 to brush my teeth.  He slept in the extra bedroom when we came to visit my grandparents.  He'd wear his wool night cape, and I'd sleep in the other twin bed that my grandparents had in their bedroom.  My sister slept in the portable crib at the foot of the bed.  I'm sure the crib would have been confiscated by the police now for all it's insufficiencies.  Oh, those days when it was just a bit slower, easier.  There wasn't so many questions.  When your children went to bed at 12 years old, they went to bed, and you weren't worried what was going on with email, instant messages, etc.  Even if you take all those electronics and their heads aren't square, as I tell my children, there's that concern that we never had.

I remember going to bed when the other kids were still up during the summer. My parents were very strict about bedtime.  Right outside my bedroom window was the tree that we used to sit in and play.  We had a basket, tied to a string.  Two of us would climb up and play and the third would put something in the basket, and we would pull it up.    I can't remember what was so important that we had to pull up into the tree.  Perhaps it was the thousands of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches we had for years and years, and water.  Maybe if we were lucky, and it was right after shopping day, there might have been an Oreo or Ring Ding.

We would play for hours in that  tree.  It was outside my parents window, it was outside our bedroom window on the second floor.  Kind of hidden by pachysandras.  It had the perfect split in the trunk.  It was just split enough to climb, to make you feel like you might just be doing something dangerous, but not enough to make you feel like you were really doing anything truly bad.

Then there were the days that our parents let us play outside after we took our bath.  My friend, Joanne, and I would dress in matching baby doll pajamas and make up dance routines.  We spent hours and hours doing this.  I remember my own girls doing the same, though I believe they were younger, and it makes me sad to think that their innocence was gone sooner than my own was.  Sad, because part of it was because we always were so open, the girls and I.  We spoke of things that were deep secrets.  Their souls were opened to things a bit sooner than perhaps they should have been.  It was the thought that if I told them, nothing could happen to them.  Something would protect them.

The moon, it would protect them.  As they ran through the front yard playing soccer in their pajamas, or right before bed.  Their feet would be green from the grass.  We would laugh and laugh.  I would fall, inevitable.  Most of the times our nights didn't end as early as mine did as a child.  The five - or six of us, depending on how many girls were born, would sit on the front porch and watch the moon come over the pistachio tree.  We could barely see the little dipper, but we could almost see the North star.  But it didn't matter to the moon.  The moon hung were she did every night, holding those moments close to our heart.

Wilson, Wilson, I Think We Did It...

It's that scene where Tom Hanks is pulling away from the island where he landed after a terrible plane crash.  He was a Fed Express employee, and was there on that island trying to make due for years, I believe.  He had the pocket watch his fiancé gave him.  The one with her picture.  Then one day he made a raft and he left.  He faced the wind, and the unknown, and he left.   I know it's Hollywood.  I can envision 700 people on the sets next to him with fans blowing the water around, yet I am still moved by the music.  I am always moved by the music.  I can still hear it when he realizes that "Wilson" his beloved volleyball, that kept him company for years is lost at sea and he has to go on without the constant companion the he had.


Funny how we place ourselves in positions where we focus on the things that don't perhaps matter, but we think we can't do without.  The things we believe help us go on.  My feet are currently wrapped in the quilt my mother almost finished before her death.  She hand sewed each stitch, and then after she died, when it was obvious she was not going to finish another stitch my father had it bound for me and I sit, with the warmth of this blanket wrapped around my feet, knitting on the side, while on the side, watching a silly Hollywood movie.  Yet despite the absurdity of Tom Hanks finding comfort in a Wilson volleyball, I too find comfort in the absurdity of small things.  


I see piled on top of the window sill, 12 inches deep, the bowls that my daughter bought to take pictures of her baking.  It brings me joy to see them drying on the window sill, knowing that she finds joy in baking, and these simple bowls, that most likely we had in 1st grade, make her delicious treats look scrumptious to others on the internet.  That the baking that started her realizing how amazing she is, truly lead her to a field of social work.  I truly believe that she will make the difference in life that I knew she would on the day that I brought her home, 4 lbs. 8 oz.


I see my 6 year old in her black Fedora and her denim jacket that she wears every single solitary day, and I know that she brings a different kind of laughter to our lives.  When we go outside the house, call her name, and up from high in a tree we hear her call our name.  I can see her challenge whatever she views as unfair.  I can see her putting animals before herself, as she is passionate about every animal that has crossed her path, and not afraid of helping those that are in need of dire care.  It seems at 6 1/2 she understands that we all deserve dignity.


Today I got my hair cut off to barely nothing.  I no longer do it because i think it particularly looks attractive.  I do it because I know that I won't' have to do it again for two or three months.  But I see my 14 year old sit in the chair with her blue hair, knowing that she is thinking exactly as I thought when I was her age -- it wasn't what the picture looked like.  But I know she will get home put her hands through it i her own way, adding her individuality that I adore so much, and it will bring her joy.  The simplicity of a haircut, fixed by her own hands, will bring her joy.  She will bring that same joy to those around her, as she laughs with the older geriatrics with Alzheimer's that we "care" for twice a week.  She will bring them a difference in their life the day they see her, and the days that follow, because she is just that kind of young woman.


Lastly, I get a copy of a 30 minute movie of the horrendous movements of a man named Joseph Kody who murders, rapes, and steals the children of Uganda, posted on Facebook, by my 18 year old.  She is so moved that she posts this on Facebook and I know I too will be moved because we are so similar.  I think, I know, that as she grows she too will make the difference in the world that her sisters will, but differently because they are all so different.  Something I never, ever expected.  I thought they all would be the same.  They all would be exactly as I raised them.  But she will stop others, and make them look, and make them think before they act.  Because she has for me, for almost 18 years.  She is no different from her sisters.


Whatever they do, they act in passion and with truth, with energy.  Yet, their passions will continue, long after I am gone, and I will look down from wherever I am, and know that I really believe that Bob and I did it.  We raised these wonderful, special, amazing, young women to believe in the truth, to climb trees when others may not, to dress as they believe -- to have the courage to stand up for their beliefs.  To speak of the horrible when no one wants to hear the horrible, they will speak the truth, and they will act for those who cannot act.  


I am reminded of all this just from a movie about an island, a lost love, and a volleyball.  


Perhaps this mother, who cannot seem to contain her pride for what she saw today -- a love from her daughters that maybe she had a small hand in instilling in them, whether I am here to see it all come to fruition, or am somewhere off with Wilson.