Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

Last night I put away the china. It took hours because in my years I have accumulated a hefty haul of the good stuff. And I was happy to do this because I found myself a lovely new china cabinet, actually quite old, at an antique auction that, for the first time in my entire adulthood, actually holds every single dish and platter and bowl and egg cup. Every single piece, which is to say that this is one gigantic old cabinet, moved to its new home in the back of a truck (hired via an app recommended by a dear friend who did not, understandably, want to move said cabinet herself) marked in grease paint: For Sale, $600 OBO. I'll dance around the price difference of cabinet and truck and note that I was noticeably nervous during the entire six block journey home (but happy to report that driver and helper were in fact most helpful and that we all arrived home safely scratch free).  But that is another story; this is the story of the contents, and not the cabinet.

My great aunt Margaret's china, a delicate old ivory pattern, fills most of my shelves . I have full place settings for at least 14, plus assorted creamers and soup tureens and finger bowls. My cousin has an equal amount of the same pattern; pooling our resources we could host a formal dinner for an entire classroom of kindergartners. I doubt we will do that, but we could.

Additionally I have 15 place settings of an old English china that I bought years ago at, oh dear, another antique auction (I'm drawn) because I liked it, and it reminded me very much of my grandmothers pattern, Autumn by Lenox. She collected and added to the pieces given to her at her wedding so that when it was time to share she had enough to stock the cabinets of several granddaughters. Many happy family dinners were served, and spilled, on those beautiful old plates. I trust that the tradition continues. My inheritance on the grandmother dining front came in the form of utensil, not dish, and for that I am quite pleased. But the china, and the vast quantity of it, always intrigued me. It was there for Sunday dinner, and Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter, but when else was it dirtied? What would I do with all these dishes? I was barely beyond microwave popcorn for dinner when she explained, "my dear, you have china so that when your husband brings home business associates you can serve a proper meal for them". She was serious, I'm not kidding.

You're thinking about all those last minute phone calls when Darren called Sam to tell her that he and Larry were on their way with very important clients, right? And of course then Endora appeared with Uncle Arthur just as Sam pulled out a pork roast and Tabitha made a circus tent with baby elephants appear on the front lawn, and Mrs. Kravitz ran to tell her husband about all she saw just as Larry and Darren pulled up with their guests and... yes, I know, me too. But Jack has not once called late in the day to tell me that he was on the way with Sean and very important clients, and it turns out that Jack is not the only one with a job so there's that poop in the oatmeal.

Unwrapping years and years of bubble wrap and placing my precious pieces in their new home I made a decision. We will host a last minute but carefully planned dinner. There will be no very important clients (my clients tend to be, average, about 10 years old) nor baby elephants but there will be colleagues and conversation and wine and lovely dishes. Jack is none to certain about this mixing of bankers and teachers but I'm confident we can pull it off. Do you work with either one of us? Want to come to dinner? Mimi would be so pleased.

January 12th, Every Year

If all was right in my world I'd be going to dinner tonight at the club, in the grill room. Jojo would bring a round of cocktails, Mimi would hold hers up in the air and sing out "Jojo, dear, this one is just a tad light" and he'd quickly bring out a wee bit of bourbon to darken things up.

For dinner she'd have liver and onions, I would make a horrible face, and she'd shoosh me off with one hand, her charm bracelet ringing, and say "oh you have never known what's good!". Dinner would be interrupted countless times while she waved at everyone who walked in the grill "hello dear!" and while waving she'd whisper "you know that's a wig" or "that's her third husband" or "don't you think that dress is a bit young for her?". She knew everyone and everyone her, although probably not that she gossiped about each and every one of them.

She'd carefully open her cards, read each word, and tear up about halfway through the Hallmark scribed sentiment. My father would bellow out "MOTHER, please, stop crying, it's a card" and then I'd join her and dad would order another cocktail.

We'd wrap up with her ordering peppermint pie for everyone, with "extra fudge sauce Jojo" and then I'd wheel her through the clubhouse to the front door. Dad would get the car while I got our coats, and lemon drops from the jar on the counter, and then we'd load up the old gal and take her home. And it was always a perfect evening, perfectly predictable, perfectly lovely, and now, perfectly missed.

Happy Birthday my dear old coot, I miss you still.

Originally posted on this date in 2009, my sentiments remain the same. Happy birthday my dear gal.

From My Side of the Gate

This post was inspired by the novel Prayers for the Stolen by Jennifer Clement, the story of one girl, her mother and friends, surviving in rural Mexico. It is a choppy story, reflecting the life lived by these women, so far from the Mexico advertised in the United States. Join From Left to Write on February 18th as we discuss Prayers for the Stolen. As a member I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

There were two girls on the other side of the gate who appeared to be about my age. We stood and looked at each other for a few minutes, smiling and waving. My grandmother appeared behind me and suggested that I come back inside, it was time for dinner. Not at all hungry, I wanted to go out and play with these girls. She waved them on but I held firm, I wanted to be on the other side. At five my Spanish was limited to hello, thank you, please, and a few food items. I tried them all, certainly saying something as interesting as "me gusta el taco", the girls giggled, and said something back, which, having no idea what they were saying, made me giggle. Soon enough all three of us were laughing; Mimi went to find the cook.

Every year my grandparents left in mid January. Knowing I wouldn't see them for weeks, I spent the night before they left at their house, helping pack and leaving little notes in their luggage, the black and white patterned Samsonite with the bright orange lining. A week earlier my grandfather had brought them down from the attic so that, even though she took the exact same clothes each year, Mimi could start the packing and organizing required for a month away from home.

Three weeks later Dad and I went to the grocery store for milk, eggs, bacon, bread and these truly sweet sticky buns my grandfather liked, stocking the refrigerator for their return. The next morning we were on a plane, to be greeted four hours later in sunshine by my grandfather, relaxed and tan, driving the old orange Volkswagen thing that I thought was the most exciting car ever made. Dad took over and drove us home, Bopaw in the front seat smoking a cigarette and filling us in on what had happened in the year that we had been away. Mom and I rode in the back, my hair flying, her screams muffled by the roar of the open air car as it raced along the malecon.

Mona was still alive, and still horribly unpleasant. She patrolled the beautiful jardin, never beyond the fence for fear that she would bite someone. Only Paulino went in, to feed her, and take care of the flowers. The roosters next door had not made it to a stockpot yet and were still the very early morning wake up call for the entire block. Julia was making pork roast tonight, in honor of Dad's arrival, and papas fritas for me. The Testerman's were coming tomorrow for dinner, Mimi was having a party for their Kansas City friends on Saturday.

We bounced along the cobblestones and up the steep hills in town, Mom alternating between screeching in terror and joy as we passed her favorite shops: cute pink sandals outside Letty's competing for attention with a burro who wandered into our path. When we rounded the corner and stopped at the end of the road I could smell the papas fritas; Mimi's face inside the gate settled it, I was home, at least for a short time.

One week to sleep in the mosquito netting, to bury myself in the sand at El Dorado, to drink fresh squeezed orange juice every morning and to beg my Dad to carry me back up the hill after a trip down to Bing's for pineapple ice cream. One week to spend with the four people I loved the most in the world, in the place I waited all year to be, Mexico.

And then, at the end, as I knew would happen each year, I said goodbye to my parents and got on a plane with my grandparents for the trip home. Mom and Dad just at the start of their Mexican time, a month of friends and parties and sunburns in front of them, while I was headed to snow and school and heartache, leaving my parents never easy, and my leaving was never easy for Dad. Waking the next morning to the sticky rolls we bought just a week earlier made him closer, even though I knew he was very far away.

My grandmother returned with Julia who talked to the girls for a minute and then turned to Mimi and me. In the end they allowed me outside, but only for a few minutes, long enough to take a picture and let me run to the end of the street and back. At five I had not yet learned that I wasn't supposed to be friends with the people who stood on the other side of the gate.

Happy Birthday

Cheers!

Lemon Bars for the Soul

One night last week I made lemon bars, not because I really wanted them, or because I am especially good at making them, but because when I am being pulled in too many different directions, and am feeling overwhelmed beyond hope, taking an hour to spend with my girls, and my grandmother, is the right thing to do.

There are three things I can bake that are edible: lemon bars, apple pie, and chocolate mayo cake. All three I learned while sitting at the counter in my grandmother's kitchen, watching her fly around in a flurry of flour, waiting to get my just washed fingers in the pie dough, or shortbread crust. Everything got one more pat of butter, one more squeeze of lemon, one more shake of cocoa powder, just the extra ingredient to make it hers, and mine to learn not from the notes in her book but from the time spent together. And now, as an adult with both a parent and children who require my attention, sometimes I need an hour to squeeze some extra lemon and make something that is, almost, all mine.

The last two lemon bars found their way into the lunch boxes on the first day of school, nestled next to a few fresh picked blueberries. Sometimes lemon bars can comfort in being made, and sometimes in being found, on the first day when a reminder of home might be just what you need as you find a seat in the crowded lunchroom.


Mimi's Lemon Bars

Crust
1/2 cup butter, softened a bit but still cold
1/2 cup powdered sugar (plus a bit more for dusting)
1 cup flour

Mix pastry and spread in 8x8 pan, bake at 350 for 15 minutes.

Custard
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
2 T. flour
3 T. lemon juice
1/2 t. baking powder

Mix and pour over baked crust. Bake once again at 350 for 15 minutes (but I find it always takes a bit longer). Sprinkle with powdered sugar and cut once cooled.

*Image courtesy of whatscookingamerica.net, with my thanks. I forgot to take a picture, primarily because most things I bake are just so bad.

Mother's Day

  

Whenever you have a problem,

And at school you are big and bold

Don't worry, your mother's love is around you

Forever she will have a hand to hold.

Mary, 8

Happy Birthday

No greater way to celebrate my dear grandmother today than by making waffles for my family while listening to Frank Sinatra. The addition of one extra child into the madness this morning reminds me that her door was always open; always an extra seat at her table with food and love enough for everyone she knew.

Happy birthday Mimi, with my love.

Face to Face, Hand to Hand

Last week, as I leaned in to inspect what looked to be a newly forming pimple, but rather, turned out to be splotch of red dry skin, I realized that I had been leaning in to look at this same face for a very long time. I know this because my daughter Mary, who is so creepily like me in both looks and demeanor, spends an enormous amount of time looking in at herself. What she sees now is so completely different from what I see, but I know, from pictures, that what she sees is a face that looks very much like what I used to see, 37 years ago.

Frequently we are stopped by complete strangers, "she looks just like you!" they say, and I nod, "yes, we hear that quite a bit", but I don't really see it, not now. Our baby pictures are almost identical, often requiring a second look to be certain. Like Mary I was a complete ham and threw myself in front of every Kodak flip flash I could find. Early on I posed with a hand on hip starlet look, one that she mastered years ago. How did this face I have now once look so much like the one she wears? What happened between seven and forty five?

Several years ago, way back when we actually took film to be processed, I was a regular at our local camera shop. Once the nice photo shop lady asked if the woman in the pictures was my mother because she could certainly see the resemblance, "you look just like her!". It was not my mother, it was my grandmother, and I was complimented because I always thought that my grandmother was beautiful. It was just recently that I realized, while shopping for wrinkle creams and radiance booster serums, that I only met my grandmother when she was 54 years old, much older than I was back when we still developed film. And she was beautiful then, as she was at 87, when we said goodbye.
 
It has always fascinated me, when looking at pictures of my childhood, that the hand waving good-bye to my father from my 3 year old body is the exact same hand waving now, at my children, from my 45 year old body. It's larger, and full of spots; my knuckles are crinkly and skin saggy, but it's the same hand that once was so puffy and tiny. The same hand that used a blue crayon to scribble "Allyson" on the wall in the laundry room now squirts the 409 and tries to remove "Mary" from the wall in the living room. The same hands that wrote their way to a blue ribbon in creative writing now type out story after story on a machine barely conceived of back in those blue ribbon days.

The very same ones that held so tightly to my grandmother's perfectly manicured hands now wrap around Mary's small fingers, trying so hard to never let go. And those same hands hold her, just as they were once held, back when we saw ourselves through the lens of a Kodak Flip Flash.

Chicken Pot Pie

It's chicken pot pie day. It's snowing, it's really cold and it's Mimi's birthday. One twelve twelve just came around again as she would be 100 years old today. She should be 100, she lived like she had that kind of time.

Bakers Two, Part Deux

It's been a very long week, which is not the way I wanted to kick off the holiday season. It happens, but I've lost any inclination to write, or cook, or change my socks. I'm re-posting, from my limited selection of holiday related essays. It might happen again; I'm too busy enjoying the falala and the hohoho to take off my dancing shoes and flex my fingers.

Bakers Two, originally posted in January of 2010.

He was certain, or close to certain, that there were two girls. As I had spent the better part of the previous five months faking excitement while staring at the foggy screen, I had no real means to challenge his opinion, and Jack was passed out on the floor, the words "two girls" having sent him directly under the table, head first. "Really, two girls, really? You are quite sure?", and he was, what he saw, and what I did not, was two girls. And to think, I had been busing around all this time assuming two boys were causing me all this discomfort. I threw water on my husband, dressed and hurled myself towards the door.

Fueled by my relationship with my father, I had assumed, for the years I spent not pregnant and without children, that if in fact I was ever fool enough to throw myself into this madness, I would come out on the other side the mother of boys. To be fair, those spanky little navy blazers at Brooks Brothers figured into my future vision, perhaps my son would be born in that. He was not, in fact he came out naked, two times and in drag.

At some point I realized, once I took control of my pink phobic mind, that really, some of my very best childhood memories were directly related to my being a girl. Days spent at the ballpark with my dad included, as were the hours I amassed sitting at the counter in Mimi's kitchen. Every September we baked apple pies, for Valentine's Day a heart shaped cake and at Christmas, peppermint cookies, sugar cookies and whiskey balls. Of course I could have been a boy, and there were days that my father might have thought that perhaps I was, but there was something to my girl days in the kitchen, and in a quick moment I realized that I could relive those wonderful memories with my girls. And this realization made the tiny blue blazers a thing of the past, red aprons were in my future, I was certain.

The first Christmas rolled around; at three months they were very little help, which I found truly frustrating. Mary slept through most of the Bing Crosby serenaded day while Kate fussed and insisted on sitting in the kitchen.When I then spilled a good amount of powdered sugar directly onto her small head, an indoor winter wonderland covering her small and once happy infant body, she voiced her displeasure accordingly.

Four years later she is content to bathe in powdered sugar, or chocolate, or both. There are few pleasures greater than spilling an entire cup of flour on her sister, who then returns the favor, but with melted butter. Cocoa works especially well for airborne mess, and cookie decorating sugars are best used to enhance the somewhat dull brown and black hair that covers Eleanor Roosevelt. And when we have at last exhausted all our baking efforts, the girls revel in licking all things containing raw eggs which, as we know, was not a problem at all when I was a child. Before raw eggs were exposed as the horrifically dangerous orbs that we now know them to be, I, like many, was encouraged to lick away all remaining raw eggs from toxic plastic bowls. Not so in 2009, uncooked eggs pose every possible danger to children and I scream in horror when their batter covered fingers touch their faces. Once recovered, we all walk down the street to eat raw tuna on rice for dinner.

Valentine's Day is just over a month away. Optimistically I will have the heart shaped cake pan greased and ready, the very same one I used so long ago in that red kitchen with the old gal who had endless patience for what must have been a challenging bake off. My memories, thankfully, do not recount her putting her head on the counter and begging for sanity while loudly pleading for an armed fairy cleaning woman at her beck and call; perhaps my girls can block that out as well.

Treading Water in the Shallow End

Not so many years ago someone said, when referring to me, that I was simple minded. Not her words exactly but the essence was that I was lucky to be able to go through life unencumbered by deep thoughts, and I do know that she used the word deep. Prior to that I had not heard the word deep used, outside of swimming pool references, since junior high when Susie would pass me notes that said "that is so deep!" after quoting lines from her favorite Air Supply song.

The truth is, I can be deep, just like I can be obnoxious, but more often than not, I chose not to be. If deep means that I am so burdened by the challenge of daily living that I cannot be cordial to the cashier at Trader Joe's then I agree, I'm simple. If being deep means that I need to suffer through the agony and angst of motherhood, without allowing myself to be overcome with joy at the deliciousness of children, it's perfectly fine with me to stay in the shallow end.

When my father was in the hospital, when we thought he had just had a major stroke and was certainly dying, the very night that I flew 500 miles to hold him close to me one last time, my aunt greeted me in the hospital hallway with "thank God you're here, we need to laugh a bit", and I felt, while suffocating in scared and lost, appreciated and home.

My truth is that I prefer to laugh, and sometimes I prefer to laugh when it might not be appropriate, when common convention tells us to be somber and morose. I've had my share of opportunities; from a life that was once so easy and fun, people have died, plans have changed, and I have cried.

After my grandmother's funeral, when none of us were ready to step away and let this be over, we moved our horrible day to a favorite restaurant. Late into the evening, after a wonderful meal and countless bottles of wine, the waiter asked what we were celebrating. The laughter that had been nonstop for hours came to an abrupt halt, there was an awkward pause, and I answered, "our grandmother". It was not the answer he expected but it was the best answer we had, and it was just the answer that Mimi would have loved. In the end it was the laughter that allowed us to hold onto each other for just a while longer.

Treading water in the shallow end has served me well.

I wish I could carry your smile in my heart
At times when my life seems so low
It would make me believe what tomorrow could bring
When today doesn't really know.

Now that's deep.

All Out of Love, written by Graham Russell, Clive Davis, and Lewis Martinee

Skipping But Not Screaming

From two aisles away Mary spotted something she liked. She reached in and found the shiniest most turquoise thing on the rack. There were sparkly things all over the front, a tutu around the middle and enormous poofs where sleeves might have been. She held it up for me to see, "Mom!".

"We don't wear clothes that scream dear".

"Who is WE?"

It happened so fast; in that instant I became my grandmother, completely skipping a generation. We did not buy the sparkly turquoise screaming tutu poof, no WE did not.

A Wrinkle In My Time

They stopped, right in the middle of the very congested aisle at Macy's. They stared. "Mom, what is this?", pointing madly at the picture of the woman above. I moved back and explained that this was an advertisement for a face cream, hoping that would allow us to keep moving. "But why does her face look like that?".

We are late, my two children are frozen, mesmerized by this photograph. I look like the pretreated face and I don't want to take the time to explain wrinkles and advertising and vanity.

At a certain age my grandmother considered a face lift as so many of her friends were getting tucked and tugged and tight. She asked my opinion. My response, as retold countless times to anyone willing to listen, "but Mimi, I love your wrinkles", evidence of my young charm and general love for anything having to do with my very wrinkled grandmother.

"Girls, this is a photograph that is here to try and encourage people to buy this cream, " and I took a step forward. "Why does her face look like that?", I backed up. "This company is showing us that their cream can help a person look younger, but they only used this cream on one side of her face, to show us the difference". Nodding, general understanding and finally a willingness to move on.

"MOM! Wait, don't you want to get some of that cream?"

We were indeed late, and I remain wrinkled.

Image courtesy of Origins Skincare

My Funny Valentine

Nine times out of ten I spent Valentine's Day with my grandparents. Not because my parents were out swishing the night away in a love soaked fashion, but because they spent February in Mexico, and that meant that I spent February with Mimi and Bopaw.

As wonderful as this may have been for me I now realize that my presence surely marked the end to those long romantic evenings enjoyed in the Grill with Jojo, sappy cards, and bourbon and soda on the rocks. Although before me there was Teetee and Oohooh, my grandmother's widowed sisters, who spent every holiday with us, so perhaps they were responsible for the zap to romantic candlelight and Glenn Miller. As it was, my Valentine's Day, after the requisite class party, was dinner for five, cocktails for four, chocolate for me and love all around.

The day before Mimi and I made the heart shaped cake. Always chocolate with either pink or red frosting and an inscription that became progressively more legible as the years wore on, it was the only time all year the heart shaped cake pans were dug out from the far corners of the baking cabinet to the left of the stove.


Each year the girls and I make our own heart shaped cake, the pans rescued years ago from the estate sale that followed Mimi and Bopaw's move to the retirement community. The annual baking requires they be dug out now from the disorganized and overflowing baking cabinet over the stove. It's Mimi's chocolate mayo cake recipe, the only cake recipe I don't consistently ruin. It's delicious, illegible and lovely.

Valentine's Day is now four at the table, this year doing homework and opening cards while toasting ourselves over sushi, edamame and eventually, chocolate mayo cake. It's not necessary, a holiday to remind me how much I love these people, but we certainly enjoy the excuse to dig out the cake pans.

First cake, 1981, the second, 2011.

Study Hall

It was the night before the test and she hadn't studied at all. She appealed to her mother; if she would take her out of school the next day, just for an hour, maybe two, she would study and be ready, this would never, ever happen again.

My grandmother begrudgingly agreed and wrote a note asking the school to please excuse my aunt for a dentist appointment. When Mimi arrived at the school the registrar kindly reminded her that Lynda would need a signed note from the doctor to be admitted back to school. "Of course" said my grandmother.

They raced home. Mimi phoned the dentist; if he could see her there would time for a quick, yet unnecessary cleaning, with a small window of time left to actually study. He could not see her, he was on vacation. Mimi explained that it was an urgent matter, was there anyone else? His partner had time, next week, routine cleanings rarely being time sensitive. The next door neighbor's brother was a dentist, he could clean Lynda's teeth, but his office was on the other side of Dallas, at least a 2o minute drive.

A race across Dallas, a 30 minute cleaning with a new dentist, a bill to pay, a slow return trip and an exhausted Lynda returned to school, signed note in hand, teeth glowing, having not spent one minute studying.

Told to me, I would assume, to illustrate the importance of always telling the truth. What I heard, the absolute value of the little white lie when you end up with a wonderful story.

Mary and Mary and Mary

What should have taken about 20 minutes quickly stretched into an hour. The chance to run freely through a dimly light church sanctuary was irresistible, and the task at hand, selecting a gift tag from the altar tree, was sidelined en lieu of exploration.


Mary was immensely curious about all the candles, and the statue of Mary (THE Mary, not my small one) looming over the candle lighting area. We lit a candle and I explained about remembering those who have died, and saying a prayer. For my grandmother, a very old soul Catholic, the Virgin Mary was the mother of all and the one to whom you appealed for help in any situation. My Mary nodded, very focused and interested.

Mary knelt down on the prayer desk and I stepped away, over to the tree but still in hearing distance of her quiet, church appropriate, voice. She blessed herself, "Father, Son, Holy Spirit, amen" crossing her chest from right to left.

"Hello Mary, this is Mary. For Christmas, could Mimi and Grandaddy come back from heaven, just maybe for the day? That would make my mom really happy. Thank you".


She stood quietly, blessed herself again, and then promptly threw one small leg over the top of the kneeler. Wiggling furiously she managed to get her entire body on top before I could grab her and pull her away from landing on row after row of lit candles. I said my own blessing, for this child, for her kindness and her spirit; and for the circle of life that brought her to me. Merry Christmas Mary, Merry Christmas Me.

Fashion Statement

Amongst her things when she died was a pair of gold shell earrings, although they were slightly different, unlike a pair of earrings should be. The fronts were almost identical but the backs looked nothing alike. It took me a few days to remember, to solve the mystery of the mismatched earrings.

Mimi was always generous with her things, even when I was a very curious five year old who loved nothing more than combing through the jewelry drawers that pulled out in the middle of her long dresser. In there I found beautiful and shiny things, pearls and cocktail rings, gold cuff bracelets and shell earrings that I could clip, painfully, onto my small ears. Upstairs, in the attic, was a huge box full of old clothes: the simple blue and white floral dress that she wore at her wartime wedding ceremony, the bright pink and orange floral sheath that had seen numerous cocktail parties on the terrace in Mexico and the old fur stole that, for years, she draped over her glamours shoulders. Rainy days meant the box was dragged out into the guest room and my hours were filled with every possible combination of mismatched dress up imaginable, accessorized fully with diamond bracelets and sapphire pendants, all under the patient and watchful eye of my grandmother.

Mary dreams of such a glamorous life. Her ability to sniff out, from every conceivable hiding place, the awful white shoes I wore at our wedding is commendable. Clomp clomp she marches down the long hallway in an assortment of clothing never before assembled: striped tights, bright pink tutu, diamond encrusted tiara (broken and salvaged from a party goody bag), floral tank top, and a plastic flower lei accessorized with the apron received last Christmas from the uncles. Fashionably she ties it around her neck, the ruffle flapping behind her like a six year old superhero cape. I cringe. In the years between five and thirty I grew into a sensible shoe wearing cardigan loving grown up. Mimi's earrings remind me that once I too loved frump and feathers.

The painful clips proved to be too much and I took off the earrings, or one of the earrings, because one day, only one remained. After a thorough search, and a good amount time spent in my room, the earring was considered officially lost and the remaining gold shell put away. As they were purchased many years before in a Dallas jewelry shop they were declared irreplaceable and some thought was given to making the remaining earring a pendant. Thankfully that never happened. My loving grandfather, in Dallas on business, found a replacement pair, and then there were three gold shell earrings.

My stylish self promptly lost one more, one of the new ones, leaving two similar but slightly mismatched earrings, a perfect pair.

The earrings are now with my aunt who, quite likely, allows her grandchildren to wear them all over her house. My jewelry arsenal is much smaller than Mimi's, as is my stash of old dress up clothing. In my ongoing quest to teach the girls about every color in the rainbow I occasionally forget the sheer joy found in wrapping yourself in clothes that don't fit, sloshing around in shoes that are much too big with over sized gold earrings painfully clamped onto your tiny ears.

The benefits of having learned to be a mom from your grandmother are sometimes disguised. Mary, glorious in her huge cranberry ball gown and coordinating tiara, reminds me how lucky I am to have had such a wonderful teacher.

Smelling Boats and Beds

Jack opened the huge box and I stuck my head in for a peek, but rather than see bunk beds I smelled life jackets. Opening this box was like popping open the cargo space on the front of the boat, the one where we kept ropes and anchors, life preservers and assorted, and rarely used, flotation devices. Mine was multi colored where all the others were orange, and mine was worn all the time, my mother being terrified of water. Why she chose to spend every weekend bobbing around on a boat in a state of panic I still do not understand.


The musty boat smell was the same, and it lingers still, days after the new beds have been assembled and occupied by two very happy five year old sleepers. Opening the door to their room is like stepping onto the boat, the big yellow beast that was my summer home for years. The stretch from the dock was always a bit scary, just longer than my five year old legs could reach, but with a quick push from my dad I was on board, racing away to a weekend of wet lake fun.

Why these beds arrived full of musty boat smell is a mystery, but I'm happy they did. I've been away from that lake for a very long time, the old yellow boat sold years ago. Still, the smells take me back there from time to time: breakfast sausage and cinnamon rolls in a tube, circa 1974 Coppertone, Fritos, dead fish, lighter fluid, damp towels and always the cigar. Landmarks along the way let me know we were getting close, the market in Laurie meant we were minutes from the boat. Windy roads that now would leave me reeling were all that stretched between our car and water, the last 10 minutes by far the longest part of the four hour trip.

Buried somewhere in the family photo archives there is a picture of Mimi and me bobbing along in a huge blow up life boat, me in the multi colored life preserver and pink sunglasses and Mimi with a scarf around her head, cateye sunglasses and a cocktail in her hand dangling over the water. We were tied to a dock, I'm certain, serenaded by Johnny Cash, Simon and Garfunkel, and Neil Diamond. The same sounds that woke me every morning, my father singing "I Walk the Line" as he flipped the sausage patties on the tiny stove.

Our nautical years came to a screeching halt when my grandparents decided
they'd rather spend their summer on the golf course and Dad headed for the mountains; my mother was greatly relieved. Years later, after they divorced, my mother put her sailor suit back on when she married my stepfather, a wonderful man who would have been quite happy living full time at the lake. They built a wonderful cottage with a beautiful view and a deck that hung out over the water. The trip was the same, a different turn at the end to arrive just across from where we used to be, and the smell when you opened the door, much like opening the door to Mary and Kate's room, the intoxicating musty reminder of childhood, living now, for a short time, in my children's room.

Comfortable Memoires

My cousin and her family spent Memorial Day with us, as did my sister, bringing the total to five adults and four children, all inside thanks to a day long rain that halted most, but not all, of our outdoor plans.

Always a nice reminder, the ease of family and the lack of pretense involved when they come to spend the day. I cook, nothing extravagant, in fact yesterday I cooked the entire life out of a pot of potatoes, deciding to pick up the playroom while they steamed. But rather than rush out to buy more I knew that both Katie and Ashley would arrive with delicious food and not be at all bothered by the potato mush I would serve them. The mush, tossed with arugula, stood bravely by as delicious orzo with asparagus and tortellini with feta stepped up to offer a non cooked beyond recognition side dish option.

I'm happiest with people who know where we keep the water glasses, and don't feel the need to ask if they might use one. Help yourself, there is nothing we don't use, no towels only for display.

As Mary ran screaming into the kitchen, her younger cousin Liam in hot pursuit, wildly waving a golf club, Kate announced "MOM! I stepped in goat cheese!", and in that moment I thought just how much our grandmother would enjoy this madness. And that, for me, was the perfect Memorial Day.

Suit No Tie

Minutes before I had been sound asleep, snuggled next to my grandmother while Bopaw snored loudly in the next bed. The piercing sound woke us all, startled us into sitting positions, and my grandfather, his few remaining hairs disheveled, looked around, mumbled something to my grandmother and went right back to sleep. Calmly she reached over, picked up the phone and dialed the front desk. That she understood him was a clear benefit of almost fifty years of marriage, not a full set of teeth between them, garbled noise was the chosen form of communication when awakened by a screeching horn in the middle of the night.

Patiently she waited while the phone rang, although to be clear, not a chance anyone could have understood a word she had to say had someone stayed behind to answer the phone in the middle of what I was certain was a raging fire. In my yellow and brown Pebbles Flintstone pajamas I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway finding a full floor of guests as without teeth and hair as we were, all in various stages of pajama clad confusion. "It's a fire! Get up! Bopaw get up NOW!", my eight year old self near hysteria, jumping like mad at the foot of his bed. He rolled over, raised his eyebrows and thought about throwing me out the window, to facilitate my escape from the burning building.

Preparing me for this dramatic event in my young life, third grade Anxiety Training. In Mrs. Coit's room, where we were subjected to 30 minutes of intimidation and manipulative terror masquerading as education, it was fire safety week. Fire fighters visited our school, pamphlets were distributed and the responsibility to get the family out of the burning building now assigned solely to the eight year old family member. We were to map our exit routes, draw up a plan and run family fire drills weekly. My father had no interest in this, not once did we practice our escape, no emergency fire ladders were purchased. The Fire Film Scare Series culminated in a horror film staring the family who had no plan, the final shot of the dog, the only survivor, on the front lawn, an errant tear in his eye, as his entire family perished in the blazing inferno behind him. I had trouble sleeping.

"Get up now, please!", and shocking, still no answer at the front desk. Bopaw got up, put on his robe and slippers, and stepped into the bathroom to run a comb through his hairs. He then checked the hallway, muttered something and went in to put in his teeth, "well Mother, she's right, everyone does appear to be leaving. Maybe we should head downstairs". At this point I had gathered Theodore and Baby Kelly, my two always travel companions, and was standing, jumping, at the front door, waving my goodbyes to all the survivors en route to a lower floor. Mimi was up, and working furiously to ready herself, while doing her best to calm the now panicked eight year old, still in the Pebbles pajamas.

My dear grandfather went to the closet and selected a suit, a full on gray wool suit to slip into for his descent into the blazing inferno that I knew would find us on the way down. This he wore over his blue, with navy piping, pajamas, monogrammed on the pocket. Once assembled he realized that slippers would never do and so, while Mimi and I stood waiting, he put on socks and shoes before announcing that yes, now he was ready. We stepped into the hallway, the only ones left, and Bopaw walked to the elevator. "Oh no, no no no, we have to walk down, we have to take the stairs in a fire!", their combined 115 year old bodies not at all pleased with this announcement, they followed me to the exit door. In what was surely the longest time ever spent in a stairwell, we descended 10 stories to the street outside the Kahler Hotel, pausing at every landing for air. At these breaks I would run ahead, and then back, utilizing all my fire preparedness training: checking doors for heat, staying low and breathing into the damp washcloth I had somehow found time to prepare. They begged me to go on, to save myself and I cried out, "NO! Never, I'll never leave without you", or maybe they were discussing last week's golf game, Mimi having left her teeth to broil in our upstairs room.

A short hour or so later we reached the ground floor. Throwing open the door, having saved my grandparents, Theodore and Baby Kelly from certain death, I stepped confidently into the lobby, knowing that my well developed fire safety skills were the real heroes. There was not a firefighter to be seen, only far in the distance could we see the front desk clerk, shouting "hello" impatiently into the phone. "Mother, did you leave the phone off the hook?".

We took the elevator back up to the tenth floor, false alarm.