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Before the tea kettle whistled she was up buzzing around the kitchen. I could hear the slam of the oven door and dishes clattering in the sink.  I watched her through a small glass less window while sitting at the breakfast nook.  Her gray hair was neatly pinned at the top of her head and I could see the outline of her radiant face. Although advanced in years she still appeared like the day I met her, boundless with energy like a kitten in the night.

I was dating her youngest son and already deeply in love. I was terrified how she would react to the fact that I was a single mom of a little boy and not from a Catholic family. My boyfriend still lived at home while attending college. My son Jacob and I were over for a visit when she unexpectedly came home. Jacob was curdled up on the sofa coiled up in a blue blanket when the door opened.

I wondered how long he would sleep before I would have to explain. She was carrying a bagful of groceries. My boyfriend whisked the bag from her arms.

She extended her hand to me and smiled. I relaxed a little and made small talk.  She asked if we had already eaten.  I shook my head.

“Well,  then just give me a moment to put away the cold foods and I’ll  make us some lunch.”

She ran to the kitchen, put the tea kettle on and returned to the table with three small crust less egg salad sandwiches.

“Here this should tide us over for a while.”

When the tea kettle whistled. I nearly forgot that Jacob was sleeping on her sofa, when I turned and saw him stir. Just then my boyfriend’s Mother appeared with a pot of tea.

It was too late to explain. She had already discovered the little blue bundle on the couch.

“Well what do we have here?” She asked, as she made a beeline to the couch.

“ Hi, I’m Jacob. What’s your name?” he said, flashing a playful grin.

“ He’s my son.” I said in an apologetic tone.

“ I see, he’s seems like a clever little boy,” then turned and gave her son a surprised look.

I waited for the barrage of questions to begin about my son and my failed marriage, instead she invited Jacob to the table and served the tea.  My three year old entertained us with his wild adventures at the park with his toy hero the Long Ranger. After the sandwiches, that were simple yet delicious, she returned to the kitchen for dessert. Jacob squirmed at the table. His eyes nearly popped when she returned carrying a ten inch high lemon meringue pie.

My nervousness faded after my first bite. She went on and on about choosing the right lemons.

“You need to find the ones that are bright yellow and a little soft. The smaller lemons often have more juice.”

I wasn’t sure if her comments were intended as a metaphor for her son, and how he needed to choose the right girlfriend. I squelched my nagging insecurity and let the lemon custard dissolve on my tongue. I shared my love of baking with her and that I worked in a Scandinavian bakery. I found out that we both loved marzipan and she was learning to make wedding cakes. I felt I made a connection. The afternoon was lovely. My fears were temporarily quelled.

We finished our tea and pie and Jacob and I said our goodbyes.

Later that evening I got a call from my boyfriend. He was awfully quiet and stumbled for the right words. I knew he was calling to end our relationship.

“ Yes, what is it ?” I asked, already knowing it was over.

“ It’s about my Mom, and well her impression of you.”

I stopped him, “ I know what you’re going to say. She wants you to find a nice Catholic girl that doesn’t have a child.”

“ Well, not exactly. She thought you were delightful and that Jacob was adorable and well behaved. She was concerned if I was prepared enough to take on the responsibility of a young child. ”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and started to cry.

“So, is she okay with us dating?”

“She is, as a matter of fact she invited you and Jacob to Sunday dinner to meet the rest of the family.”

After meeting his Mother and the rest of the family our relationship took off. In a few months we were engaged. My son and I were welcomed with open arms into their large loving family. His eight brothers and sister extended their welcome to Jacob and I.

It did not seem to matter that I was a single Mom or that I didn’t attend their church. His Mother had set the example that I was the perfect “lemon” for her son. The rest of the family followed her welcoming attitude.  We enjoyed meals together, took long walks to the park. We played scrabble weekly and laughed at the silly things that would happen whenever we were together.

I would spend many afternoons in her kitchen over the years trying to perfect my skills. She was at ease when she baked.  I marveled how her pie crusts were always perfect. She would use ice cold butter and crumble it quickly into a mound of flour. In a few short minutes she would create a pie crust that would be flaky and buttery. Her fillings were equally delicious.  On one occasion while teaching me to how to make meringue we experience a minor kitchen disaster. She was describing making meringue, “ as simple as making pie dough.”  I laughed, my attempts tasted more like oily cardboard then pastry. Jacob and I separated two dozen eggs and placed the whites into her mixing bowl.  She turned to us and  said, “ You must beat the whites until large peaks form, before gently spooning the mountain of foam onto the custard.” While explaining the process she lost control of the beater and it sprayed white meringue all over us. It was a joke that we would laugh about for years to come.

As the years went by my life got busier. My family grew. I still managed to visit her weekly often with several children saddled to me on the bus. She always welcomed them and never dissuaded them for being included in our conversation or in any game we might play. She would always have some special treat that she concocted accompanied by a good cup of English tea.

During the years she became more than a mentor in baking.  She was a confidant and an anchor during the many rough storms that I would face.  When it was discovered that I needed brain surgery or lose my sight, she accompanied me to my countless doctor appointments. She would set my mind at ease, and soon I would find myself laughing at one of our shenanigans.

When Jacob was sent to Iraq she came to my side. She would insist that we bake something together and play a game of scrabble. Our silly rituals brought me peace.

After the children were grown we could linger at the table and finish a scrabble game. We would sip tea and nibble on delicious pies or cookies with no little children under our feet. I can still recall her sweet voice assure me, “These day’s go so quickly, before you know it the children will be grown and all our games will be uninterrupted.” It seemed at times she missed those days as much as I did. We would talk about the early days, when she first met us and how our friendship grew.

She would remind me of how surprised and delighted she was when the little blue bundle on her sofa popped his head out and gave her a big smile. At that very moment she considered him her grandson. She understood my initial apprehension and believed she would have been terrified if the roles had been reversed.

Even when she forgot what day it was after developing dementia, she would recall the day she met Jacob and me the perfect “lemon” for her youngest son.

I for one found the perfect Mother -n -law.

 

 

Another Morning

 

She reaches for her pale pink robe that hangs over the side of the hospital bed. Last year’s birthday gift is all she can remember. She likes how soft it feels on her stiff body, especially on chilly mornings. Every day is cold now. She tries to pull on the robe but no longer remembers how. She slinks back under her covers distracted by a tapping sound at the window. It is the sparrows now that greet her. Her children’s visits are sparse. She misses the warmth of company and familiar faces.  She hears a kind voice in the distance over the chatter of birds. It is the nursing assistant coming for her.

“Good morning Genevie , I’ve come to take you to breakfast.”

The face looks vaguely familiar. She looks at her lapel and reads her name out loud, “Bobbie.” Then mumbles something that sounds like good morning back.

The alarm goes off in the distance. It is time to get ready for work. She wonders where her purse is and what she did with the car keys, when the nursing assistant reaches for her arm and helps her dress. The spell is over. Nothing looks right. The yellow walls and pink roses are not hers. She starts to tremble and curse.

“It’s okay, once you have a little breakfast and your morning tea you will feel better.”

She takes a hold of the walker and starts to move down the hall. She hears someone call her name. A name she knew once upon a time. She was in nursing school and the professor was calling on her during an anatomy lecture. She had stayed up all night with her roommate Bobbie preparing for an exam on the skeletal system. She could identify all two-hundred and six bones.

In the dining room she sips her tea. It is cool on her tongue and sweet. It is not like her English tea, served hot with lemon.

Would you like more sweet tea with your peach cobbler?” The nursing assistant dangles a pitcher of tea over the table.

She grabs the pitcher from the nursing assistant and laughs.

It is near closing time at the college pub. It is the last call for beer, and she is watching Howard from across the bar.

“One more for the team!” she calls out.

The cold tea spills onto her lap and across the table.

“ I think you have had enough,” the nursing assistant’s tone sounds impatient.

“ It’s time we take you back to your room and perhaps a change of clothing is in order.”

She wipes her chin and moves her half -eaten plate away from her.

“I haven’t eaten yet,” she exclaims.

“Would you like to finish?” The nurse scoots her chair closer to the table.

“Where are my keys? Have you seen Bobbie?”

The nursing assistant does not reply.

She passes unfamiliar people sitting in wheelchairs. She wonders if they are all her patients. The nursing assistant walks her back to her room.

“Would you like to watch a little TV? Or sit with the others?”

“I need to go home. My children will be waiting. They will be at the bus stop soon.”

The nursing assistant points to a chair near her room.

“There is the bus stop. You can wait there until your children arrive.”

She sits and thinks of her twins. Joey and Sam are eight and in the second grade. They are a little behind in math. All they talk about is baseball. She has a surprise for them. She has  new bat and ball for their ninth birthday.

“I’m tired,” she says, her hands folded on her lap.

“Do you want to go back home?” The nursing assistant asks.

She whispers and closes her eyes. She is home in her bed. The blue curtains sway in the cool breeze. She is warm under their down comforter. She is wrapped in Howard’s arms and her twins are asleep. When she opens her eyes, it is still morning.

She glances at the yellow walls with pink roses that taunt her. She reaches for her robe. It is not where she put it. She calls in vain for Bobbie.

The nursing assistant finds her. She is curled up on the floor. She doesn’t remember hitting the floor. Her hips hurt. Her mouth is sour. Little drops of blood fall onto her chin. Bobbie gently swabs her lip with gauze and calls for help.

In minutes she is whisked away. Her tired chilled body is draped with warm blankets on the gurney. A worried face looks down at her. She smiles, her beloved has found her. Howard was taking her home.

In the emergency room white coats attend to her. She opens her eyes. She searches for Bobbie.

She cries out in pain when she hears a familiar voice. It is her son Sam.

“Is she going to be alright?”

“We are not sure. She hit her head and broke her hip. She has a concussion and will need to be closely observed.”

“What happened?” Sam asks, searching for a sign that she would be okay.

“She fell out of bed.”

“They should be monitoring her closer.”

“We are doing everything we can for her,” replies the physician.

Sam walks over to his Mother’s bed and touches her hand.

It is cold.

 

 

 

 

I am tired, so tired that my eyes stare blankly as the volcano erupts,

and the pot boils over spilling onto my naked feet

too tired to move or curl up on the sofa

or watch mind numbing news

my limbs are flat weights

smooth magnets pulling me to the ground

I want to be awake

Like the bacon sizzling in the pan

and the heavy branch swaying in the breeze

or the cut on my lower lip oozing without thought

But I am tired, oh so tired

the sirens are like lullabies quieting the the noise

closing the wounds

shutting my eyes

suffocating the chatter, the endless chatter

that occupies my mind

the barrage of stranger’s faces

seeping into my skull

taunting the firefly

and the pool of still water beneath me.

We are constantly moving, even when we appear idle. In silence an author weaves a story, defines the plot, envisions a character that will bring the reader to tears. It is the same for an triathlete, before their feet touch pavement, they imagine the course, the way in which they will run, swim, cycle their way to the finish line. Our schemes and plans are imagined before they are realized. Our thought process is the starting gate, are we ready for the race?

Waiting for the first kiss of Spring

The first tulip bloom

Opening it’s soft pink petal

When the mountain tops are no longer white

And my gloves are tucked away

The robins will sing

New love will be discovered

Winter blues will fade, as the dark days close

Revealing a new day, glorious sunshine

The soft pink light of spring

Reawakens our senses

As the gentle breeze carries the last of winter’s breath

We linger in the honey scent

the chorus of new life

basking in warmth

We taste springs first kiss

 

Vanessa Arpin 2/9/17

It has always been a challenge for me to know when to say something, and how to say something. This is especially true when I am confronted with someone grieving or facing a huge decision or major hurdle in their life.  When I write it is a different story, usually I take the time to think before pen hits paper, or fingers tap the keyboard. Otherwise, I am apt to give unsolicited advice. Listening has always been a friend of mine. It has kept me out of trouble, when my words would have escalated any given situation. I believe the old saying ,”the best conversationalists are great listeners and ask questions,” they make a conscious effort to focus on what people say. A great conversationalist speaks clearly and with enthusiasm. If a subject is of interest to me enthusiasm comes naturally,  but unfortunately so does fast talking. It is my foe. I am working on slowing down, articulating what I am trying to say rather than rush through my words, as if they were about to disappear like smoke.  During NaNoWriMo an annual novel writing month, I attempted to write 50,000 words in thirty days. Every day I would plug in my word count, the idea is to write and write without revising, to accomplish the goal. It was an challenging endeavor yet left me inspired. I watched my word count go up a little every day. But as life would have it, the hurdles came, sickness for two weeks, increased stress. At the end of the month I had accomplished only a fraction of what I had set out to do.  I think back to what my husband said when I shared my disappointment with him, he told me it’s not the word count but making the words count. I think there is a lot of truth in that, not only in writing but in everyday speech. It is too easy today to blurt out whatever comes to mind in social media, instead of thinking about the word choice , will it be received as friend or foe. As for me, I hope I will choose wisely the next word I type or say.

While the stars were still sparkling above, we carried our tired bodies into the cold morning air, dreaming of our four day mountain trip, and the ferry boat crossing that magically sailed our family car across the wide sea. My four brothers and I sat with our heads slightly touching the ceiling, uncomfortably squeezed into the back seat of the red paneled station-wagon. Mom had piled our blankets high in the back seat. She first put my eldest brother’s itchy wool green one down, followed by her bright purple paisley comforter on the bench seat, saving my soft blue one for the top. We were headed for our annual trip to Olympic Peninsula. As my father drove, we giggled, shared stories, doing everything we could to keep our heavy eyelids from closing until after we boarded the ferry and had crossed to the other side. The clinking sound the cars made as they drove onto the ferry seemed to make Mom nervous; she would remind us to be calm until Dad was safely parked. Once Mom could see that all the cars were completely stopped, we were allowed to exit our car. My brothers and I slid out of the car, toppling the blankets onto the floor. We then made our escape up the narrow iron stairwell, our shoes squeaked as we ran up the hollow stairs.

 

The first thing we did on board was to make a bee line to the hot cocoa machine. Mom had given us each a shiny dime for the machine. The cocoa steamed as it hit the paper cup, nearly burning my hand. “Careful it’s hot,” yelled Mom. But it was too late; my tongue had touched the blazing hot liquid. She handed me a drink of her water that cooled my scorched mouth. With paper cups in hand we found a booth to sit and drink our piping hot cocoa and eat the sugary covered donuts that Mom had packed in her whale purse. Dad would then point to the white caps and describe the sea mammals that live there, we squealed as a family of seals poked their heads in and out of the water, one of the seals proudly holding a large salmon between its jaws. Before the cocoa had cooled the ferry captain sounded the horn, the captain made the announcement to return to our seats. In no time we were once again squished into the back seat. Our journey had begun, our bellies were full, and the sea crossing complete we fell asleep, dreaming of ferry boats, creamy hot cocoa and a whale purse filled with sugary treats.