One Year Ago Today
Originally uploaded by Chris-trode
Already a year has passed since we went to Great Britain. I hope we can go back there soon.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Saturday, January 5, 2008
I've Moved!
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Coffee Filters Can Trigger Memories
One of the things I catch myself doing now that's just like him is blowing on coffee filters to separate them. We use the same coffeemaker, and although we should be using French presses or reuseable filters by now, we both use the soft, white, papery filters that come in plastic-wrapped packs of hundreds. He would grab a bunch with his strong fingers, and then hold it up to his lips and blow on the edges. The filters would flutter like butterflies in a summer breeze until the one at the edge would separate enough for him to grasp it with his finger and thumb.
So this morning I get up and decide to make coffee, and I reach for the filters, take out a few, and blow on them. He never told me that this is how you do it - although he's given his opinion unsolicited on many subjects in his time. I learned this way by just watching him. Maybe I watched him more than I realize. Now that I'm grown and married I'm starting to notice all the little ways I've turned out like him. Once I would have done anything to turn out as anything but like him. But now I'm finding that I don't mind as much as I thought I would.
For example, we are both early risers. We've been similar in this way since I was little. Some of my earliest memories of sleeping over at friends' houses are of me, awake at 7 a.m., lying on my back and memorizing my friends' rooms during the long morning hours before they would wake up. I was usually the first awake at slumber parties, lifting my head to find a floor full of sleeping girls still working off their exhaustion from activities the night before, namely, sneaking each other's bras into the freezer and going by groups of twos and threes into the bathroom to say "Bloody Mary" and doing makeovers. In eighth grade, my dad was stationed at Hickam Air Force Base in Oahu, and my parents decided to enroll me in Sacred Hearts Academy, an all-girls Catholic school that seemed practically on the other side of the island, in Honolulu. My mother got a job there, and I could go for free. For every school day that year, I was up at 5:45, pulling on my sailor blouse and pleated skirt, eating my Cheerios quietly in the dark kitchen while my little sister slept and my dad practiced T'ai Chi to the instructional video in the living room. My mom and I had to pull out of the driveway in our maroon Volvo station wagon by something like 6:30 to make the drive from the Air Force Base to Honolulu along the Eisenhower Interstate, where morning traffic sometimes crawled and I passed the time looking out at the sparkling blue ocean and imagining I would be spending the day at the beach instead of in my classes. My mom had an office at the edge of Sacred Heart Academy's beautiful campus, with concrete steps leading up to it and an iron railing surrounding her deck. While she unlocked the door with her keys, I would always look out towards the tall buildings downtown, gleaming in the everyday morning sun, imagining I could see dolphins playing in the blue surf just beyond. Inevitably I would have to look away and head for the courtyard, where we began the day by standing in lines of classes and saying the pledge of allegiance and then morning prayers. I always wished that just one day, I could skip school and start walking towards those gleaming buildings and that shimmering blue surf, spend the day in the sunshine among the people downtown, people who were so lucky to be done with school.
Another time, I did what ordinary school kids would never do: I spent the entire summer rising before dawn, as did my sister, so we could go to summer swim practice at the elementary school. Girls' swim season was in the fall, and I had decided to join my little sister, who was part fish, on the swim team instead of playing soccer that year. Our soccer team had been 0-1-14 the previous fall, and I didn't want to experience that heartache again.
I had never really learned to swim until I was 11 years old. My dad decided, while we were stationed in England, that it was time for us girls to learn. He took us, one at a time, beginning with me, to the local pool a few nights a week. He would disappear into the men's locker room, and I would have to navigate the women's locker room all by myself: find a spot and change, while trying not to gape at the fleshy bodies of other women or listen to their conversations. I would dance through the showers that we were required to take before entering the pool, and meet up with my dad in the pool facility. He taught me how to float on my back, and how to tread water, and finally he managed to get some resemblance to swim strokes out of my gangly 11 year old body. I wasn't a great swimmer, but I was out of danger of drowning now.
However, I still had a vague fear of the water. And then I decided one day that I would join the swim team, and conquer that fear. This is actually one of the only truly independent decisions I remember making in high school. The swim team at our school was very good, with an excellent coach who was also our youth group leader. I had spent the guys' swim season as the manager of the swim team, charting times and announcing events and riding the bus with forty-something shaved boys all over the Southern Tier to swim meets, with April as the only other girl to keep me company. April was a pretty girl in my class who had potential but got pregnant too soon. That happened to a lot of girls at my high school.
Anyway, I decided to go out for the girls' swim team, and I had made my decision by the end of my sophomore year. So I had a long summer of early morning swim practice ahead of me. Joanne and I would get up early and grab our gym bags, and our dad would drive us down to the elementary school while our mom still slept. We live about two and a half miles out of town on a hill, and I remember how beautiful some of those mornings were, with the early morning sun shining up on the hill, and a thick white blanket of summer fog hovering over the valley that we descended into. He usually brought a cup of coffee along with him for the short drive down and back, and I remember he didn't use a lidded cup, just one of his many mugs, set into the cup holder, and the coffee swirled around and sometimes splashed out a bit.
After a few hours of grueling morning swim practice, we would drag our tired bodies out of the pool and shower and change, one of us inevitably waiting for the other to finish dressing so we could leave together. We would walk out the front doors of the elementary school into the full sunshine and busyness of the late morning, when the rest of the world was up and enjoying the summer day. It wasn't a far walk down North Academy to our grandmother's house on Cherry Street. It was our grandmother who would drive us back up the hill after summer swim practice every day, since both of our parents would be at work. We'd get home and make huge breakfast-brunches: eggs, cinnamon toast, orange juice, cereal. After we ate, I would go back into my bedroom and sleep until one o'clock. Joanne would stay in the living room and watch t.v. One o'clock was when our soap opera, Days of Our Lives, came on. It was the most popular soap opera amongst our circle of friends in that small town. That entire summer consisted of getting up early, riding down to the school with Dad, swimming our hearts out, walking to Grandma's, and making breakfasts and sleeping until the middle of the day. As it turns out, I was never a great swimmer. I was usually put in the "exhibition lane," i.e., the lane for those of us who will not earn the swim team any points whatsoever, but the coaches needed to put us in somewhere.
When I was in my second semester of college, I had a Biology class that met on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings. It was "Baby Bio," for non-majors who were fulfilling general education requirements. This was actually the last semester that the college had Saturday classes before they decided to do away with them. However, I managed to land an includes-Saturdays class before they stopped. I remember attending class in the science building at 8a.m. on Saturday mornings, with most of my classmates rolling in in their pajamas (I was too self-conscious to participate in that) and trying to learn about cell structures and plant life. I was never really bothered about that early Saturday morning class, while it seemed everyone else couldn't stand losing their chance to sleep in one day a week (Sundays were church).
Now, as a woman who hasn't been married that long, I've noticed that I cherish my time in the mornings. While Ryan continues to sleep in bed, I climb out and head for the living room, usually with some book and my journal, to sip coffee or tea and write, read or pray. Sometimes I just sit quietly. In the summer I would have the glass door to the deck open and let the breezes come in through the screen after a rainy night, water droplets clinging to my plants on the back deck and birds singing their songs as the early dawn turned into day. In the winter, I'm sneaking a blanket off the bed to take with me and curl up under, and I'm more likely to fix myself a hot cup of something or heat up my rice buddy to put on my lap under my books. No matter the season though, I cherish this quiet time to myself in the early morning. And one morning it dawned on me, how much this is like Dad. For as long as I can remember, he has been up before the rest of us, sipping his coffee, meditating on the couch, practicing T'ai Chi in the living room. I think he also needs that quiet time to himself before the day begins. And now look at me: sitting on the couch, sipping coffee, just like my dad. I'm even interested in T'ai Chi now (he got me the same instructional video on DVD for Christmas) and maybe meditation. He is even a writer like me, I realize, although he fills his journals more with philosophical musings and insights he has about the books on Eastern Wisdom that he loves to read so much.
As I was unwrapping the T'ai Chi dvd for Christmas, I remarked laughingly on how much I'm turning out like him to the family. Christmas is a lot easier for our family now that Joanne and I are grown and on our own; somehow it has mellowed out. When I said this, and pointed out how I'm up before my husband and having my coffee in the morning, etc., Dad seemed pleased and said, "I remember when you were younger and it used to be scary, how much you sounded like me in the way you thought things out," and his tone of voice and face said just the opposite, that it wasn't scary at all, but delightful to him that I sometimes was a miniature version of him as I was growing up.
So this morning I get up and decide to make coffee, and I reach for the filters, take out a few, and blow on them. He never told me that this is how you do it - although he's given his opinion unsolicited on many subjects in his time. I learned this way by just watching him. Maybe I watched him more than I realize. Now that I'm grown and married I'm starting to notice all the little ways I've turned out like him. Once I would have done anything to turn out as anything but like him. But now I'm finding that I don't mind as much as I thought I would.
For example, we are both early risers. We've been similar in this way since I was little. Some of my earliest memories of sleeping over at friends' houses are of me, awake at 7 a.m., lying on my back and memorizing my friends' rooms during the long morning hours before they would wake up. I was usually the first awake at slumber parties, lifting my head to find a floor full of sleeping girls still working off their exhaustion from activities the night before, namely, sneaking each other's bras into the freezer and going by groups of twos and threes into the bathroom to say "Bloody Mary" and doing makeovers. In eighth grade, my dad was stationed at Hickam Air Force Base in Oahu, and my parents decided to enroll me in Sacred Hearts Academy, an all-girls Catholic school that seemed practically on the other side of the island, in Honolulu. My mother got a job there, and I could go for free. For every school day that year, I was up at 5:45, pulling on my sailor blouse and pleated skirt, eating my Cheerios quietly in the dark kitchen while my little sister slept and my dad practiced T'ai Chi to the instructional video in the living room. My mom and I had to pull out of the driveway in our maroon Volvo station wagon by something like 6:30 to make the drive from the Air Force Base to Honolulu along the Eisenhower Interstate, where morning traffic sometimes crawled and I passed the time looking out at the sparkling blue ocean and imagining I would be spending the day at the beach instead of in my classes. My mom had an office at the edge of Sacred Heart Academy's beautiful campus, with concrete steps leading up to it and an iron railing surrounding her deck. While she unlocked the door with her keys, I would always look out towards the tall buildings downtown, gleaming in the everyday morning sun, imagining I could see dolphins playing in the blue surf just beyond. Inevitably I would have to look away and head for the courtyard, where we began the day by standing in lines of classes and saying the pledge of allegiance and then morning prayers. I always wished that just one day, I could skip school and start walking towards those gleaming buildings and that shimmering blue surf, spend the day in the sunshine among the people downtown, people who were so lucky to be done with school.
Another time, I did what ordinary school kids would never do: I spent the entire summer rising before dawn, as did my sister, so we could go to summer swim practice at the elementary school. Girls' swim season was in the fall, and I had decided to join my little sister, who was part fish, on the swim team instead of playing soccer that year. Our soccer team had been 0-1-14 the previous fall, and I didn't want to experience that heartache again.
I had never really learned to swim until I was 11 years old. My dad decided, while we were stationed in England, that it was time for us girls to learn. He took us, one at a time, beginning with me, to the local pool a few nights a week. He would disappear into the men's locker room, and I would have to navigate the women's locker room all by myself: find a spot and change, while trying not to gape at the fleshy bodies of other women or listen to their conversations. I would dance through the showers that we were required to take before entering the pool, and meet up with my dad in the pool facility. He taught me how to float on my back, and how to tread water, and finally he managed to get some resemblance to swim strokes out of my gangly 11 year old body. I wasn't a great swimmer, but I was out of danger of drowning now.
However, I still had a vague fear of the water. And then I decided one day that I would join the swim team, and conquer that fear. This is actually one of the only truly independent decisions I remember making in high school. The swim team at our school was very good, with an excellent coach who was also our youth group leader. I had spent the guys' swim season as the manager of the swim team, charting times and announcing events and riding the bus with forty-something shaved boys all over the Southern Tier to swim meets, with April as the only other girl to keep me company. April was a pretty girl in my class who had potential but got pregnant too soon. That happened to a lot of girls at my high school.
Anyway, I decided to go out for the girls' swim team, and I had made my decision by the end of my sophomore year. So I had a long summer of early morning swim practice ahead of me. Joanne and I would get up early and grab our gym bags, and our dad would drive us down to the elementary school while our mom still slept. We live about two and a half miles out of town on a hill, and I remember how beautiful some of those mornings were, with the early morning sun shining up on the hill, and a thick white blanket of summer fog hovering over the valley that we descended into. He usually brought a cup of coffee along with him for the short drive down and back, and I remember he didn't use a lidded cup, just one of his many mugs, set into the cup holder, and the coffee swirled around and sometimes splashed out a bit.
After a few hours of grueling morning swim practice, we would drag our tired bodies out of the pool and shower and change, one of us inevitably waiting for the other to finish dressing so we could leave together. We would walk out the front doors of the elementary school into the full sunshine and busyness of the late morning, when the rest of the world was up and enjoying the summer day. It wasn't a far walk down North Academy to our grandmother's house on Cherry Street. It was our grandmother who would drive us back up the hill after summer swim practice every day, since both of our parents would be at work. We'd get home and make huge breakfast-brunches: eggs, cinnamon toast, orange juice, cereal. After we ate, I would go back into my bedroom and sleep until one o'clock. Joanne would stay in the living room and watch t.v. One o'clock was when our soap opera, Days of Our Lives, came on. It was the most popular soap opera amongst our circle of friends in that small town. That entire summer consisted of getting up early, riding down to the school with Dad, swimming our hearts out, walking to Grandma's, and making breakfasts and sleeping until the middle of the day. As it turns out, I was never a great swimmer. I was usually put in the "exhibition lane," i.e., the lane for those of us who will not earn the swim team any points whatsoever, but the coaches needed to put us in somewhere.
When I was in my second semester of college, I had a Biology class that met on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings. It was "Baby Bio," for non-majors who were fulfilling general education requirements. This was actually the last semester that the college had Saturday classes before they decided to do away with them. However, I managed to land an includes-Saturdays class before they stopped. I remember attending class in the science building at 8a.m. on Saturday mornings, with most of my classmates rolling in in their pajamas (I was too self-conscious to participate in that) and trying to learn about cell structures and plant life. I was never really bothered about that early Saturday morning class, while it seemed everyone else couldn't stand losing their chance to sleep in one day a week (Sundays were church).
Now, as a woman who hasn't been married that long, I've noticed that I cherish my time in the mornings. While Ryan continues to sleep in bed, I climb out and head for the living room, usually with some book and my journal, to sip coffee or tea and write, read or pray. Sometimes I just sit quietly. In the summer I would have the glass door to the deck open and let the breezes come in through the screen after a rainy night, water droplets clinging to my plants on the back deck and birds singing their songs as the early dawn turned into day. In the winter, I'm sneaking a blanket off the bed to take with me and curl up under, and I'm more likely to fix myself a hot cup of something or heat up my rice buddy to put on my lap under my books. No matter the season though, I cherish this quiet time to myself in the early morning. And one morning it dawned on me, how much this is like Dad. For as long as I can remember, he has been up before the rest of us, sipping his coffee, meditating on the couch, practicing T'ai Chi in the living room. I think he also needs that quiet time to himself before the day begins. And now look at me: sitting on the couch, sipping coffee, just like my dad. I'm even interested in T'ai Chi now (he got me the same instructional video on DVD for Christmas) and maybe meditation. He is even a writer like me, I realize, although he fills his journals more with philosophical musings and insights he has about the books on Eastern Wisdom that he loves to read so much.
As I was unwrapping the T'ai Chi dvd for Christmas, I remarked laughingly on how much I'm turning out like him to the family. Christmas is a lot easier for our family now that Joanne and I are grown and on our own; somehow it has mellowed out. When I said this, and pointed out how I'm up before my husband and having my coffee in the morning, etc., Dad seemed pleased and said, "I remember when you were younger and it used to be scary, how much you sounded like me in the way you thought things out," and his tone of voice and face said just the opposite, that it wasn't scary at all, but delightful to him that I sometimes was a miniature version of him as I was growing up.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Christmas with Grandma
Grandma came up to my parents' house to share Christmas with us yesterday. She brought the ham and a pumpkin pie, to accompany my mother's green beans, applesauce, mashed potatoes and crescent rolls. We prayed and ate, and then retired to the living room to sit in front of the fire with our coffee and give Grandma her gifts.
Grandma told me a story yesterday about her grandmother Mary Worden, who also made Kuchen, like my husband's grandmother. Mary Rodgers and her brothers and sisters were orphaned as children and separated, sent to live with and work for different families. Mary was sent to a family in Indiana. Eventually she ended up working as a cook in Randolph, NY. She grew up and married, and never knew what became of her brothers and sisters.
When Grandma was preschool age, her family lived in Orchard Park, NY. Her father worked for a man paving sidewalks and driveways. This man's name was Will Rodgers. Noticing that the spelling of Rodgers was the same, Grandma's father asked Will Rodgers if he had any sisters. The two men compared backgrounds and discovered the connection.
Grandma's father was able to bring Will Rodgers to Belmont, NY, where Mary (now Mary Worden) was living, and the long-lost brother and sister were reunited again. Eventually, through Will, Mary discovered the rest of her brothers and sisters were all living in western New York and she got reaquainted with each of them, including Fanny, who sold canaries - birds known for their singing - two for ten dollars, out of a room in her house. It was during the Depression and no one was opening shops.
Grandma also told us of the time when women had recently secured the right to vote, and Grandma's entire family piled in the car so that her father could drive her mother to the town hall in Orchard Park to cast her vote. Grandma remembers her father giving instructions to her mother the entire ride there, on how the process will work, how the machines are used, and exactly who she should vote for.
The third story that Grandma shared with us was after I asked her what her earliest Christmas memory was. It is a sad memory. She doesn't remember much about Christmas at home, but she remembers being in school, and her teacher gave her a poem to recite for the class, titled "A Christmas Dolly." The teacher encouraged Grandma to bring in her favorite doll as a prop for when she gave the recitation. Grandma didn't have a doll. So the teacher had another girl bring hers, and Grandma held onto that doll while reciting the Christmas poem for her class. She remembers holding on so tightly to that doll, she didn't want to ever let go of it.
I asked Grandma later while opening presents about quilting. I think that quilting is something I would like to learn to do from her, like caning chairs. I haven't really had the chance to take up caning chairs since I moved 40 minutes away and haven't been having regular visits with her. Also, the materials required to cane chairs are less easily come by. It's not the season for garage and estate sales, where I could easily find old chairs that need seats. However, in the meantime, while I still have hopes of learning to cane chairs from Grandma, I could take up a winter activity - quilting - and learn that from her. So I asked Grandma how she would recommend learning quilting, by machine or by hand? "Oh, as far as I'm concerned," she said, "quilting is done by hand." She has always quilted by hand. She recounted the story of how she learned to quilt. She was in grade school, in a combined fourth-fifth-and-sixth grade class, and one day they were separated by gender and all the boys were told they would learn to build desks, and all the girls were told they would learn to sew a quilt. She went home and practiced, and her aunt saw her quilting without a thimble. Her aunt insisted that she use a thimble, and though at first she felt it was impossible, now she says she can never quilt without one. Grandma has, upstairs in her late-1800s house, a wooden quilting hoop that she has used to make many of her quilts by hand. She said that so many people use machines nowadays, and the results might be more perfect and uniform, but the best quilts have imperfections and are the work of someone's hands. I believe her. I want to learn how to quilt - by hand.
I had picked out a very special Christmas gift for Grandma this year to be from Ryan and me - a hand carved sculpture of Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus, made from solid olive wood, from Bethlehem. Like I've said in previous chapters, I'm not sure where Grandma stands spiritually, and I care deeply about her relationship with the Lord. I picked out this piece because I know she didn't already have a creche, and I know she loves hand crafted works of art. I'm hoping it will cause her to think just a little bit more about the story of Christ's birth. I included a small card with it telling her how much I love her and love spending time with her, and I told her that I was writing a story for her about what Christmas means to me. This story that I will write for her will hopefully communicate God's love and the gospel message in a clear way so that she will at least know where I stand. I've been burdened by never sharing my beliefs with her. How do you witness to your own grandmother, who has lived so much longer than you, who has experienced so much more than you, who is so much wiser than you? I don't hope to "convert" her myself, I know it's God who changes people's hearts and turns them towards Him. But I do feel a responsibility to share the message of Jesus with her.
Grandma told me a story yesterday about her grandmother Mary Worden, who also made Kuchen, like my husband's grandmother. Mary Rodgers and her brothers and sisters were orphaned as children and separated, sent to live with and work for different families. Mary was sent to a family in Indiana. Eventually she ended up working as a cook in Randolph, NY. She grew up and married, and never knew what became of her brothers and sisters.
When Grandma was preschool age, her family lived in Orchard Park, NY. Her father worked for a man paving sidewalks and driveways. This man's name was Will Rodgers. Noticing that the spelling of Rodgers was the same, Grandma's father asked Will Rodgers if he had any sisters. The two men compared backgrounds and discovered the connection.
Grandma's father was able to bring Will Rodgers to Belmont, NY, where Mary (now Mary Worden) was living, and the long-lost brother and sister were reunited again. Eventually, through Will, Mary discovered the rest of her brothers and sisters were all living in western New York and she got reaquainted with each of them, including Fanny, who sold canaries - birds known for their singing - two for ten dollars, out of a room in her house. It was during the Depression and no one was opening shops.
Grandma also told us of the time when women had recently secured the right to vote, and Grandma's entire family piled in the car so that her father could drive her mother to the town hall in Orchard Park to cast her vote. Grandma remembers her father giving instructions to her mother the entire ride there, on how the process will work, how the machines are used, and exactly who she should vote for.
The third story that Grandma shared with us was after I asked her what her earliest Christmas memory was. It is a sad memory. She doesn't remember much about Christmas at home, but she remembers being in school, and her teacher gave her a poem to recite for the class, titled "A Christmas Dolly." The teacher encouraged Grandma to bring in her favorite doll as a prop for when she gave the recitation. Grandma didn't have a doll. So the teacher had another girl bring hers, and Grandma held onto that doll while reciting the Christmas poem for her class. She remembers holding on so tightly to that doll, she didn't want to ever let go of it.
I asked Grandma later while opening presents about quilting. I think that quilting is something I would like to learn to do from her, like caning chairs. I haven't really had the chance to take up caning chairs since I moved 40 minutes away and haven't been having regular visits with her. Also, the materials required to cane chairs are less easily come by. It's not the season for garage and estate sales, where I could easily find old chairs that need seats. However, in the meantime, while I still have hopes of learning to cane chairs from Grandma, I could take up a winter activity - quilting - and learn that from her. So I asked Grandma how she would recommend learning quilting, by machine or by hand? "Oh, as far as I'm concerned," she said, "quilting is done by hand." She has always quilted by hand. She recounted the story of how she learned to quilt. She was in grade school, in a combined fourth-fifth-and-sixth grade class, and one day they were separated by gender and all the boys were told they would learn to build desks, and all the girls were told they would learn to sew a quilt. She went home and practiced, and her aunt saw her quilting without a thimble. Her aunt insisted that she use a thimble, and though at first she felt it was impossible, now she says she can never quilt without one. Grandma has, upstairs in her late-1800s house, a wooden quilting hoop that she has used to make many of her quilts by hand. She said that so many people use machines nowadays, and the results might be more perfect and uniform, but the best quilts have imperfections and are the work of someone's hands. I believe her. I want to learn how to quilt - by hand.
I had picked out a very special Christmas gift for Grandma this year to be from Ryan and me - a hand carved sculpture of Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus, made from solid olive wood, from Bethlehem. Like I've said in previous chapters, I'm not sure where Grandma stands spiritually, and I care deeply about her relationship with the Lord. I picked out this piece because I know she didn't already have a creche, and I know she loves hand crafted works of art. I'm hoping it will cause her to think just a little bit more about the story of Christ's birth. I included a small card with it telling her how much I love her and love spending time with her, and I told her that I was writing a story for her about what Christmas means to me. This story that I will write for her will hopefully communicate God's love and the gospel message in a clear way so that she will at least know where I stand. I've been burdened by never sharing my beliefs with her. How do you witness to your own grandmother, who has lived so much longer than you, who has experienced so much more than you, who is so much wiser than you? I don't hope to "convert" her myself, I know it's God who changes people's hearts and turns them towards Him. But I do feel a responsibility to share the message of Jesus with her.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Tea and Fruitcake
It has been about a month since we have visited my grandma. Today on the way home from church, I called to set up a visit with her. I have to call now; she was getting confused and making Sunday dinners for us even when we told her we'd just be coming over for tea in the afternoons. A young voice - my mother's - answered Grandma's phone with "Tanner's", and I was momentarily thrown off by the contrast to the smoker's voice I'd been expecting. She put Grandma on the phone.
"Hi Grandma! How are you?"
"I'm good, how are you?"
"Good! We were wondering if we could set up a tea time with you today."
"A tee time? What was that?"
"We were wondering if we could come visit you today."
We worked out the details and hung up; it was after I hung up that I realized how the phrase "tea time" might have sounded like we were inviting Grandma out for a round of 18 holes on this sunny but cold November afternoon. After a lunch at Ryan's house, of chicken pot pie casserole, pickle relish, leftover cranberry bread from Thanksgiving, and apple sauce, with oatmeal chocolate chip cookies for dessert, and some reading/watching football/snoozing on the couches, we headed back into town to Grandma's house.
I didn't notice the charcoal shutters hung on the windows, but I did notice her new back door. It was white with a double-paned glass window, and looked solid and new and much warmer than the old door. We went in, and she was down in the Keeping Room, watching the football game. She had three teacups and a plate of sliced fruitcake set out on the dining room table for us. We shed our coats, gloves and scarves and sat down to tea with her.
She pointed out the basalm Christmas wreath on her front door. It's made with real branches. Every Christmas her oldest son David and his wife Sandy send her a wreath from the L.L. Bean catalog.
Conversation with Grandma these days is a lot lighter and less reminiscent of the old days now. Ryan is with me, and we're only having tea: two factors that don't lead me into the tell-me-of-the-old-days questioning. But she poured our black tea into the teacups and we took the slices of fruitcake, which was studded with pecans and red and green candied cherries. We chatted about work and our apartment and other things. She has taken to volunteering at the nursing home my grandfather was at, because she had met so many people and made so many friends while he was kept there. Unfortunately, her first assignment as a volunteer worker was in the gift shop, which she doesn't like at all. "I don't want to be up there selling chocolate bars; I want to work with people," she says. Tomorrow she has an interview for a different position at the nursing home, hopefully one that will get her away from the candy bars and into the paths of people.
We talked about caning chairs; her front porch is crammed with chairs of all shapes and sizes, waiting to be restored. She had just finished a beautiful chair downstairs in the Keeping Room, with a delicate cane called carriage cane, so delicate you had to put varnish on the seat when it was finished to give it extra strength. She diluted the varnish with "mineral spirits" - a testament to the amazing things she has lying around her old house. She showed the chair to us, showed us where she took it apart and repaired the broken bits with glue, refinished the wood, and the underside of the caning. The chair is beautiful.
We didn't stay long this time, and as we were standing by the back door getting ready to leave, she pointed out the new door to us and the cool feature it has: blinds that are inside the double-paned windows, which are controlled by a slider to the right and can be lowered and lifted and opened and closed, all within the glass panes. She always has a knack for things that are quite practical and useful, but not without also being aesthetically pleasing, beautiful.
She wanted to know if I was going to "do any baking this year". I'm tickled by that question- by the idea of planning for a year's baking or even a season's baking. To me it seems quaint. She wanted to give me an extra bag of chocolate chips she had got on sale recently and wouldn't be able to use this winter. She couldn't find them, though.
We said our goodbyes and headed out the nice shiny new back door, crunched the gravel under our feet on our way to the car, and drove off. She waved to us from the window, as usual.
"Hi Grandma! How are you?"
"I'm good, how are you?"
"Good! We were wondering if we could set up a tea time with you today."
"A tee time? What was that?"
"We were wondering if we could come visit you today."
We worked out the details and hung up; it was after I hung up that I realized how the phrase "tea time" might have sounded like we were inviting Grandma out for a round of 18 holes on this sunny but cold November afternoon. After a lunch at Ryan's house, of chicken pot pie casserole, pickle relish, leftover cranberry bread from Thanksgiving, and apple sauce, with oatmeal chocolate chip cookies for dessert, and some reading/watching football/snoozing on the couches, we headed back into town to Grandma's house.
I didn't notice the charcoal shutters hung on the windows, but I did notice her new back door. It was white with a double-paned glass window, and looked solid and new and much warmer than the old door. We went in, and she was down in the Keeping Room, watching the football game. She had three teacups and a plate of sliced fruitcake set out on the dining room table for us. We shed our coats, gloves and scarves and sat down to tea with her.
She pointed out the basalm Christmas wreath on her front door. It's made with real branches. Every Christmas her oldest son David and his wife Sandy send her a wreath from the L.L. Bean catalog.
Conversation with Grandma these days is a lot lighter and less reminiscent of the old days now. Ryan is with me, and we're only having tea: two factors that don't lead me into the tell-me-of-the-old-days questioning. But she poured our black tea into the teacups and we took the slices of fruitcake, which was studded with pecans and red and green candied cherries. We chatted about work and our apartment and other things. She has taken to volunteering at the nursing home my grandfather was at, because she had met so many people and made so many friends while he was kept there. Unfortunately, her first assignment as a volunteer worker was in the gift shop, which she doesn't like at all. "I don't want to be up there selling chocolate bars; I want to work with people," she says. Tomorrow she has an interview for a different position at the nursing home, hopefully one that will get her away from the candy bars and into the paths of people.
We talked about caning chairs; her front porch is crammed with chairs of all shapes and sizes, waiting to be restored. She had just finished a beautiful chair downstairs in the Keeping Room, with a delicate cane called carriage cane, so delicate you had to put varnish on the seat when it was finished to give it extra strength. She diluted the varnish with "mineral spirits" - a testament to the amazing things she has lying around her old house. She showed the chair to us, showed us where she took it apart and repaired the broken bits with glue, refinished the wood, and the underside of the caning. The chair is beautiful.
We didn't stay long this time, and as we were standing by the back door getting ready to leave, she pointed out the new door to us and the cool feature it has: blinds that are inside the double-paned windows, which are controlled by a slider to the right and can be lowered and lifted and opened and closed, all within the glass panes. She always has a knack for things that are quite practical and useful, but not without also being aesthetically pleasing, beautiful.
She wanted to know if I was going to "do any baking this year". I'm tickled by that question- by the idea of planning for a year's baking or even a season's baking. To me it seems quaint. She wanted to give me an extra bag of chocolate chips she had got on sale recently and wouldn't be able to use this winter. She couldn't find them, though.
We said our goodbyes and headed out the nice shiny new back door, crunched the gravel under our feet on our way to the car, and drove off. She waved to us from the window, as usual.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Update for the ten people who are reading this blog
Well hello, readers. I assume that some people have stumbled across this little blog because the last time I checked, I had about 54 profile views and today I have had 101. What a surprise! Still a humble little number, but it pleased me to see that.
Here's the update: after getting married and moving 40 minutes away, my dinners with my grandmother changed into Sunday afternoon tea sessions after church, usually with my husband in attendance as well. A lot has happened in the last several months. My grandfather has passed away, and I've avoided writing about that because it's one of those things where you don't even know how or where to start. But bear with me: I intend to keep up with these "dinners with Grandma" entries, even though they are more "Sunday afternoon tea" entries now, and I hope you will enjoy reading them. She is an amazing person, my grandmother.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Here's the update: after getting married and moving 40 minutes away, my dinners with my grandmother changed into Sunday afternoon tea sessions after church, usually with my husband in attendance as well. A lot has happened in the last several months. My grandfather has passed away, and I've avoided writing about that because it's one of those things where you don't even know how or where to start. But bear with me: I intend to keep up with these "dinners with Grandma" entries, even though they are more "Sunday afternoon tea" entries now, and I hope you will enjoy reading them. She is an amazing person, my grandmother.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Grandma's England Journal - Fifteenth and Final Day
4/14/92: D-Day (Departure Day) Doug was up ready to leave for Upwood and Christie got up to see us off and really touched me that she didn't want to see us leave. I hadn't realized our visit had meant that much to this little girl but it surely did to me. I'm glad to have had those sharing times with them.
Arriving at Huntingdon Station, we purchased our tickets L14.9 and Lynne helped Phyl with her large heavy suitcase albeit it was on rollers. Last hugs for Lynne and she was gone. We got our luggage on and tried to maneuver the cases back by our seat but a young man following said they would be all right by the sliding door.
Phyl and I began discussing the problem soon to be facing us in the underground station with stairs up and down to reach our train for Gatwick. We wondered if there were any redcaps thought neither of us remembered seeing any. Our Good Samaritan told us it would be better to get off at Finsbury Park instead of King's Cross, he said "just follow me", then he proceeded to pick up Phyl's bag, another young man said "let me help" and carried my suitcase thru the station up the stairs and to the automatic barriers. We called our thanks as they hurried about their business. Down some stairs, with frequent stops, then up an escalator, finally the tube for Victoria Station where we would board the BritRail to Gatwick. We were the only ones in our car until our first stop a young man got on. He asked if we were visiting in the city. Phyl told him we'd been visiting and were on our way to Gatwick and home. He asked what part of the States we were from when Phyl said she was living in Florida. he said his parents had retired there. Phyl recognized the place as near her, he took out a card and put their phone number on it for her. He told us he retired from USAF and now was employed by London Transit as a Safety Inspector. In service he was in Health and Safety stationed at Upwood. At Victoria Station he helped Phyl with her bag and we were soon aboard Britrail headed for Gatwick.
Arriving we went thru Customs (long lines) then on into the concourse with shops and a restaurant. Had a nice breakfast buffet and coffee. Boarded the plane, and watched that little patch of green that is England dissolve in mist and fog as we climbed into the clouds and headed West - well, I guess Northwest!
It was late afternoon when we reached Charlotte, N.C. Phyl's plane was soon leaving and I had less than an hour to wait. Landed in Buffalo to be greeted by 'Lanie and Mir. Picked up my luggage, talking non-stop and soon we were toodling down old Route 16. We decided to stop at Nicolo's for coffee and surprise Lisa. Very fitting as she waved goodbye to me from the driveway there as Kevin was driving me in to Buffalo Airport, two weeks before. I left her a tip in English coins.
It was good to get home. Dad had done very well on his own. No dirty dishes- nothing to indicate I'd been away two whole weeks on the trip of a lifetime.
Arriving at Huntingdon Station, we purchased our tickets L14.9 and Lynne helped Phyl with her large heavy suitcase albeit it was on rollers. Last hugs for Lynne and she was gone. We got our luggage on and tried to maneuver the cases back by our seat but a young man following said they would be all right by the sliding door.
Phyl and I began discussing the problem soon to be facing us in the underground station with stairs up and down to reach our train for Gatwick. We wondered if there were any redcaps thought neither of us remembered seeing any. Our Good Samaritan told us it would be better to get off at Finsbury Park instead of King's Cross, he said "just follow me", then he proceeded to pick up Phyl's bag, another young man said "let me help" and carried my suitcase thru the station up the stairs and to the automatic barriers. We called our thanks as they hurried about their business. Down some stairs, with frequent stops, then up an escalator, finally the tube for Victoria Station where we would board the BritRail to Gatwick. We were the only ones in our car until our first stop a young man got on. He asked if we were visiting in the city. Phyl told him we'd been visiting and were on our way to Gatwick and home. He asked what part of the States we were from when Phyl said she was living in Florida. he said his parents had retired there. Phyl recognized the place as near her, he took out a card and put their phone number on it for her. He told us he retired from USAF and now was employed by London Transit as a Safety Inspector. In service he was in Health and Safety stationed at Upwood. At Victoria Station he helped Phyl with her bag and we were soon aboard Britrail headed for Gatwick.
Arriving we went thru Customs (long lines) then on into the concourse with shops and a restaurant. Had a nice breakfast buffet and coffee. Boarded the plane, and watched that little patch of green that is England dissolve in mist and fog as we climbed into the clouds and headed West - well, I guess Northwest!
It was late afternoon when we reached Charlotte, N.C. Phyl's plane was soon leaving and I had less than an hour to wait. Landed in Buffalo to be greeted by 'Lanie and Mir. Picked up my luggage, talking non-stop and soon we were toodling down old Route 16. We decided to stop at Nicolo's for coffee and surprise Lisa. Very fitting as she waved goodbye to me from the driveway there as Kevin was driving me in to Buffalo Airport, two weeks before. I left her a tip in English coins.
It was good to get home. Dad had done very well on his own. No dirty dishes- nothing to indicate I'd been away two whole weeks on the trip of a lifetime.
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