I've often thought it strange that I'm unable to recall my
childhood in any sort of detailed chronological order. I'm quite certain I was
a happy child, despite a habit of solitary days spent reading on the porch or
camped out in my hide at the end of the garden. If only I'd known my youth
would become such a mystery to me, I'd have kept a journal from the time I
could write. If only.
Instead of a timeline, I have random but brilliant spots of
recollection, as vivid today as they were at the time. Grandma's kitchen is one
of those spots. I can close my eyes and find myself seated at the long table, legs
dangling beneath a too-big-for me chair as I snack on tinned cherries from a blue
willow bowl. I see Grandma at the sink, her back to me, wearing a yellow,
paisley-patterned apron, its strings tied in a neat bow. The countertop is red,
the walls a buttery cream, and there's bright sunlight streaming through the
window.
Behind me, in the corner, is the cot where I sleep when I
visit overnight. Grandma made the coverlet from swatches of suit fabric, stitched
into cotton-stuffed triangles and knotted together at the corners with bright
strands of red wool. I remember playing with those swatches when they were
still bound into display books, dozens of them, with stiff cardboard covers and
a red needle-and-thread logo. I have no idea where she found them but the
transformation from surplus fabric samples to warm and wonderful blanket was
typical of Grandma's "waste not, want not" philosophy. A patchwork of
blue serge and houndstooth, pinstripes and checkerboards…oh, how I miss that
funny old blanket.
I remember waking in the cot one morning feeling as if my
face and neck were stuffed full of the same cotton wool as my blanket. Grandma
took one look and proclaimed, "Mumps!" Her kitchen doubled as infirmary for the next ten
days and I was stuck there for the duration. I don't remember my confinement
but I vividly recall the day it ended. I was sitting at the table, enjoying that
bowl of tinned cherries, when my Mom and Dad arrived with a big cardboard box. I
thought it must be very heavy and probably fragile because they seemed to be
worried about dropping it, whispering and struggling to balance it between
them. Truthfully, I was more interested in the cherries than whatever boring
thing they'd brought home from their shopping trip. Until the box woofed at me,
that is. If I'd known having the mumps would earn me a puppy, I'd have had the
mumps a whole lot sooner!
|
Cookie Cooke - best dog ever - and me (a few years ago). |
Now that I've started writing them down, memories of
Grandma's house are crowding into my mind, each one calling another into the
light. I haven't found the funny old blanket, but I'm almost certain Grandma's
yellow apron is packed away somewhere with keepsakes from my mother. I'm going
to look for it – imagine the stories it has to tell.
Labels: family story, memories, pets
2 Comments:
What a fantastic story Cheryl. I was already going to ask what happened to the blanket and you answered it further down the story. Cookie Cooke looks adorable and you haven't changed a bit! Memories do come in fragments like that. My memory is quite good from 9 on but the earlier infrequent memories are just glimpses of my life but oh how vivid they are. I have some journals I wrote from my teens on (although I threw most of them out a few years ago - stupid I know) but I wish I had kept a journal when I was young (6-13) because I would love to know my perspective on things at that age. Thank you for sharing this memory and come back and let us know if you find the blanket or the apron. I wish "items" could speak to us and yet, perhaps they already do.
Had a good chuckle at your "haven't changed a bit" comment, Susan. I'm taller, for one thing. And gained a pair of glasses. But otherwise, I'm enjoying the fantasy. Thanks! ;-)
Like you, I've thrown away some journals and deeply regret the loss. If I'd known then, etc., etc.
I'm almost positive I saw that apron recently but have looked in all the likely places and ...no luck. When I do find it, I'll post a photo. Maybe Sam will model it for us. (Scary thought!)
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