Oh, Darn

When my mother found something particularly funny or helpful in the newspaper, she would clip it out and post it to the refrigerator where it would remain for family and visitors to read until the paper yellowed and the edges curled and, eventually, the piece's significance would be forgotten. Mom would put up Erma Bombeck columns. Recipes she wanted to try. Comic strips.

One Hi and Lois strip has remained in my memory for thirty-six years: In the first frame, Hi hands his wife a sock and tells her that it needs to be darned. Lois takes the sock in the second frame, and studies it intently. In the final frame, Lois throws the sock into the trash can with the words, "Oh, darn."

My mom laughed out loud when she read the strip. Of course, I didn't understand.

* * *

A thirteen-mile bike trail cuts diagonally through my village, running along an old Conrail track behind houses, between farms and swampland, and through a wooded section, dark and inviting. I can buy eggs on the trail. Organic produce. Local wine.

Deer occasionally pause on the trail, standing stock still and staring. Cardinals flit between branches of the trees. I pass other bikers, dog walkers, joggers, and a man on a recumbent bike who is missing one leg. I pass the pawpaw tree from which I have picked pear-sized fruits. I pass hickory trees, walnut trees, wild apple and crabapple trees, and, yes, I confess to having harvested the fruits from each of these as well.

On the trail, I smell wild grapes as they ripen and fade into autumn. I see the magnificent bald-hornets' nest, all whorls and arches, strength and industry.

Then too, there is the landfill, first detected by the smell, a smell so different and out of place in this arena of flowing water, blooming flowers and fields. The smell is overpowering. I pedal faster just to get past.

I hear the landfill next: the sound of gigantic dump trucks driving in and up a path flattened by too much use while turkey vultures and seagulls perch from cell phone towers surveying the scene below. 

Finally, just as I prepare to cross the street, the landfill comes into view.

It's a massive mountain, made up in part of what I've discarded. Every day as I pass, it reminds me of what I've thrown away; of how much I willingly waste.

I have oh, darned my way through too many things, discarding the worn for something shiny and new, pretending to have regrets when actually feeling relief and pleasure at the anticipation of a replacement. But the sheen wears off and eventually what is new becomes old and I am left to decide: Shall I repair it or shall I throw it away?

* * *

My mother had a darning egg. It was smooth and wooden and full of mystery and purpose. I darn with a rock tucked into the heel of the sock I'm repairing.

People would think I'm crazy if they knew I darned socks: It's simple enough to run to Target to pick up new ones, easy enough to throw away the old socks, mainly in good condition, save the one small hole worn through at the heel.

But every day as I bike, I'm confronted by my wastefulness.

And so I darn.

I darn badly, making mistakes as I go, frustrated with myself because girls as young as six once knew how to handle needle and thread.

But still, I darn.

* * *

Today, I understand that comic strip clipped and posted to the refrigerator. Every year, my mother made wardrobes for four children. Every year still, she makes jelly and jam, puts up peaches and pears, green beans and carrots and corn. My mom refinishes furniture. Braids rugs. Strips wallpaper. Makes quilts and, yes, even dishes. In making a home, my mom is industrious, doing for herself and her family what is too easily outsourced today. There's quite an honor in that, an honor that, for far too long, we've overlooked.

And so I darn.

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Journey

At four o’clock in the morning, we rouse ourselves and pack the car with last-minute things—computers, lunches, cell phones, toiletries—before heading south.  Thinking about the eleven or so hours this trip will take is daunting.  At sixty-five miles per hour, we watch the moon set and the sun rise as one by one the kids drop off to sleep in the back seat.  Nine hours in, we grow tired of the radio—the stations are either too loud or too classical; serious voices of preachers occasionally cutting through static.  Everyone is irritated.  The landscape has become routine.  I find myself thinking can’t we just be there already?

And then I’m reminded of the time over twenty years ago, when I packed up my car and headed to school in Arizona, my twelve-year-old brother my companion.  I was thrilled to get away from home, to begin a life for myself.  Occasionally, my brother would ask to stop.  He wanted to see the Petrified Forest and the Painted Desert.  But I pressed on, eager to get on with my new life, as if by stopping, my future would escape me somehow.

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Christmas Past

Yesterday, our recently-adopted kitten officially became an outdoor cat.  There were a number of factors leading us to this decision: The stash of pooh I found two nights ago beneath the basement stairs two feet from the litter box; the copious amounts of cat urine on V’s mattress; Squint’s allergy flare up; the stealth attacks on the other unsuspecting cat; the jumping on the counters; the stealing of food from dinner plates.  Sometimes I get the feeling that this cat is Destructo back from the dead. 

Squints took him outside and re-introduced him to the great outdoors: He was a wild cat, born in the wild likely to a feral mother.  He took to being outside immediately.  He ran here then there.  He sniffed. 

He chased. 

He meowed. 

He ran away.

“Mom!”  Squints said.

“He’ll be back.”

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Expectations

In the middle of Mass, Squints leaned towards me and whispered.  “Mom, what’s Black Friday?”

I leaned back.  Whispered bullet points.  “Day after Thanksgiving.  Everything goes on sale.”

He chewed on this for awhile before asking,“Is that a Holy Day?”

 I turned towards him.  “Where would you get that idea?”

“Well, at the stores, there are signs on the windows for Christmas and Black Friday so I…”

“It’s not a Holy Day.”

The day after Thanksgiving, we will not hold a vigil outside the store, waiting for gleaming doors to glide open and admit us.   No, we will spend the day after Thanksgiving in our usual manner.  The day after Thanksgiving, we will dip caramels.

My sister has already prepared several batches of caramel: melting copious amounts of sugar and stirring in ingredients I’m not allowed to reveal here.  As I write this, the caramel waits in rectangular baking dishes for warm hands to soften it and remove it from the pan.  The caramel waits for warm hands to shape it into bite-sized pieces.  The caramel waits for its thick shell of chocolate.

We’ve fallen into a pattern: Three or four of us will shape the caramels; Two or three will dip.  A runner will take cookie sheets full of glistening caramels to the dining room to cool and harden.

Cousins, together again at last, will talk and laugh and catch up.  Occasionally, a younger cousin will be recruited to grab a handful of caramels from the dining room and pass them around.  Orthodontist recommendations will be ignored. 

We will work for several hours in this way, dipping and talking and sampling a caramel or two.  When the caramel is gone, we will move on to peanut clusters.  And sometime after noon, my sister will begin cooking the several hundred pierogi (another secret family recipe) she also made in the weeks before Caramel Day.  For the second day in a row, we will overeat, stuffing ourselves with brats and pierogi and caramel, of course.

No, Squints, Black Friday is not a Holy Day.  But Caramel Day is sacred.  We shape our lives around around this day. 

After lunch, we will clean up and pack up the candy and head home to hide the candy from our children.  Because that candy will become Christmas gifts.  Teachers receive candy.  Neighbors receive candy.  Relatives and friends receive that candy.  In late October, past recipients of this treasure begin making their inquiries: “Are you making candy this year?”  People have come to expect it.  And if their box is a bit smaller than last year’s, they will not hesitate to let you know.  That candy has become legendary. 

I do not give it away lightly.

* * *

After Mass, we ate breakfast, and, on this day of rest, Squints and my husband set out to rake leaves.  

An hour later, Squints came in.  “Whew, I’m beat.”  He took out a saucepan and measured out milk.  “Seven bags, Mom.  Well, really only six because we had to fill one twice.  The wind blew it over and everything spilled out.”  He turned on the gas and added cocoa power and too much sugar to the milk.  He stirred.

The woman who lives behind us emerged, rake in hand.  She raked for a few minutes then lifted a small handful of leaves into the bag. 

Squints added his secret ingredient—peppermint sprinkles—to his cocoa.

The woman’s bag blew over.

“Squints,” I said, watching him take a taste of his cocoa and smacking his lips.  “Look there.”  I pointed.   “Wouldn’t it be nice to go help her rake leaves?”

He looked at me.  Frowned.  “I just…”

“Who knows?  Maybe you’ll land a lawn service job.”

He set the spoon down.  “You think she’d pay me?”

“I’ll keep an eye on your cocoa.”

“OK.” 

“Don’t expect any money.”

"I won't.  He shrugged his coat back on and headed outside.  I watched him approach, rake in hand.  I watched her pause, rake poised above the leaves.  I could hear Squint’s voice in my head.  Want some help?

I watched a smile blossom across her face.  I watched my son raking leaves for a woman he’d never met.  I watched two people, separated by half a century come together in a trivial task.  I wondered why it had taken me seven years to figure this out.

Forty-five minutes later, Squints came home, grinning from ear to ear.  “She was so happy, Mom!  You should’ve seen her.”  He raised his voice a notch.  “I never thought I’d get three bags filled today!  I’m so pleased!  And look…”  Squints fished around in his pocket and withdrew a folded bill.  “She paid me!”  He poured out his cocoa and sat down to drink it.

“I told her about Destructo.”  He paused, looking out the window.  “She’s a cat person.  She’s been feeding those wild cats.  They live beneath her porch.”

I nodded.

“She told me she’d ring my doorbell the next time she needed help.”  He dipped his spoon into his cocoa.  “She’s really nice, Mom.  And she seems lonely.  I think we should have her over for dinner.”

I paused.  I wanted to help a neighbor, but dinner?  “Well, at least we can make her a box of caramels.”

“Oh, yeah.  I told her all about that.  She’s expecting some this year.”  He patted his pocket to make sure his money was still there and finished his cocoa in silence.

For more about Caramel Day...

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A Lot of Treasure

“It’s too early to pick out pumpkins,” Filibuster groused.  “I’m busy.”

“Yeah,” V added.  “It’s hardly fall, anyway.”

“It’s a nice day,” my husband said.  “Besides, if we go early in the season, we’ll avoid all the crazies.  Let’s go.”

We piled in the car and drove to the patch we went to last year.  I remembered it as a modest patch; hidden away from the crowds with only a few touristy items here and there: a flyer advertising a haunted house somewhere nearby; a goat and a cow you could pet; owners who would talk with you; a field you could actually walk into.

“Form two lines,” I read aloud as my husband pulled into the patch.  “I don’t remember that.”  I continued reading.  “Two dollars to park.” 

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Detachment

I see that the temperature is supposed to go down into the forties tonight.  This morning, I threw open the windows to chase away the heat and the humidity that has hovered in the air since May.  The flies appear to have been listening to the weather forecast: A group of them has taken up residence in the kitchen and I find it fair sport to chase them with a dishtowel.  It’s a battle I often lose.

A couple of days after I lost the War of Tug with Destructo, my eye started flashing—a quick burst of lightning that disappeared immediately.  The flashing began on an inconvenient day: the day of Filibuster’s photo preview: The studio owner greeted us warmly at the door and seated us upon a plush velvet couch before a gigantic movie screen.   She dimmed the lights.

My eye flashed.

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The Gathering Time

Tonight

Night falls gently as my husband and I walk the dogs this evening: The last of the lightning bugs flash lazily.  Clouds gather thick and close.  Water rushes along the sides of the street, but for now, the rain has passed.  From the trees, the katydids sing and respond; sing and respond a harsh percussive three note tune while the crickets offer a gentle lullaby from tall grasses.

Autumn is a time of gathering up: a time for the bringing in of the harvest.  It’s a time for shaking the sand from one’s feet and for folding up the beach towels; a time for exchanging flip flops for sturdy shoes and backpacks. 

Autumn is a time to gather in one’s family; to sit extra long at the dinner table, exchanging stories of the day; a time to see the yellow glow of lights in the windows of other houses and know that they, too, have gathered together.

The sun reels in her arms of gold a bit earlier every day; lazily casts them out a bit later; a bit closer every morning.  But it’s too early in the season to tire of the darkness: the change is welcome; comforting; new.

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Twenty Minutes More

“How many more minutes to the bottom?”  A woman gripped her daughter’s hand.  The girl’s knee was mildly bloodied, the result, I was certain of a fall against rock.

I looked at my husband.  “Twenty minutes?”

He nodded.  “Yeah, about that.”

By all rights, we, too, should’ve been heading down the mountain at that hour.  At three o’clock in the afternoon, we were pointed in the wrong direction.

People climb Cadillac Mountain for a variety of reasons: Some attack the mountain, seemingly wanting to prove something to themselves or the other climbers, running up as fast as they can, stabbing feet and cleats and ski poles into the face of the mountain.  Others leisure their way up; stopping here and there to snap pictures of Bar Harbor posing prettily amid colorful boats in Frenchman’s Bay.  Some people, clearly ill, stagger and huff and crawl up the mountain, refusing the hand of a sister or a son waiting patiently a few steps ahead, and it’s these people who I hope make it to the top. 

But this day, we hurried up the mountain.

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Two Miles and Twenty Cents a Gallon

I saw him behind plate glass as I exited the bank: one-third of the way up the window, a four-inch long praying mantis.  Perhaps he was checking on interest rates.  Or maybe he was just grasping on for dear life, still in shock from the earthquake or in preparation for the upcoming hurricane. 

He must’ve been reading the papers or listening to the radio: Everywhere, people are being cautioned to ready themselves; to have food and water and travel plans worked out.  I have made no such preparations, although I did fill up the gas tank at the local—expensive—BP yesterday.   My usual trick is to just put a couple of dollars into the tank at the pricier place then limp as quickly as I can into the station two miles and twenty cents a gallon away.  I told myself, watching the dials spin wildly behind the glass, that I ought to fill the tank now, just in case.  But the truth of the matter is I’m too lazy to stop for gas again so soon.

* * *

Thanks to the library book sale, Squints is the proud owner of thirteen cookbooks.  He’s got one on desserts featuring Cool Whip in every recipe; a casserole book that employs Campbell’s Soup on each page.  And, although we have no pot, he picked up a book on fondue.  But there are a couple of promising books: Street Foods shows how to make food popularized on the city’s streets: Philadelphia cheese steaks, corn dogs, pad Thai.  And the sandwich book looks interesting: For lunch yesterday, Squints made me a double-layer banana peanut butter sandwich with cream cheese and an interesting concoction of brown sugar and cinnamon topping.   While I proclaimed it delicious, I decided to split it with V.  Filibuster eschewed it entirely, claiming to be full, despite the fact that she hadn’t yet eaten.

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Eyes in the Clams

Six years ago, on our first trip to Maine, we went to a restaurant that came recommended by the locals.  We like these sorts of places: You know the food and the service will be good.  Plus, we like to act as if we belong; as if we’re in the know; as if we’re, above all, not tourists. 

This restaurant was really more of a shack than a restaurant and it specialized in fried clams.  It was a dive, but sometimes the worst-looking places turn out to be the best, so we remained stalwartly hopeful. 

We went into the dining room and discovered that all eight of the tables were full of the memories of previous diners: stacked plates, empty corncobs, piles of clamshells, a forlorn-looking exoskeleton of a lobster that an hour before had been swimming in a tank labeled: Caution.  Keep hands out. 

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Darla's Back

I see that Darla is back at the Clip Joint.  And that’s good.

That’s real good.

Now, I have no idea who Darla is or where she’s been, but I can imagine that little thrill she gets when she sees her name on the marquee outside the Joint: Darla’s Back!  For a few weeks, I’d wager, people will talk:  “Oh! She’s back! Darla is back!”

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Things You Need

To get to the creek at my parents’ farm, leave the house by the back door.  Stop to admire my mother’s giant pots of herbs and other plants on the wooden deck before heading down the stairs and onto the brick walk.  To your left, you’ll see a perennial bed of, if I remember correctly, white and purple flowers.  And to your right, another smaller bed with shrubs and hosta and a gas lamp permanently lit to welcome visitors.

The gravel driveway will crunch beneath your shoes—and cut bare feet if you’re not careful.  Walk past the garage towards the barn.  To the right, another long and narrow perennial bed.  To the left, the remains of the pasture fence: a small length of wooden sections of posts and rails representing years of farm labor and lessons.  Tall pines on either side of the drive will escort you past the barn to your left.  And to your right, you’ll see the syrup shed, where my father spends late winters turning gallons of sap into the maple syrup that I use to sweeten peaches and strawberries and be reminded of home.  Know that into the concrete floor of that very shed, my children carved their initials with a thick nail. 

But we must go on.

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Moving On

This post was written in respone to an Indie Ink challenge from Jules: My challenge was Moving On.  I challenged Tara Roberts with The College Tour from Hell.

* * *

We gather to celebrate ninety years.  Family members from coast to coast arrive, each bearing a contribution: sandwiches and fruit trays; potato chips and pretzels and pop; even fifty pounds of tomatoes from Marietta, Ohio.

This is my husband’s family.  There are people I haven’t seen in years; people I recognize but whose names I cannot remember. 

We hug one another, how are you-ing down the line of people, reintroducing our children.  We admire the new babies; everyone trying to forge some connection; to claim those children as their own: He reminds me so much of Grandpa.  She’s got her father’s hair.

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Crooked River

We put in at Route 422 near the old Riverside Restaurant.  Squints, my husband and I were in one canoe.  V and Filibuster rode in another.  My sister, my niece and nephew were in a third.  Another nephew rode solo in a kayak.

Our journey was a seven mile ride down the Cuyahoga River—the Crooked River—south towards Akron.  But our boat was put into the water backwards and as we shoved off, we accidentally headed north. 

We couldn’t turn the boat around.  We paddled on one side.  We paddled on the other side.  We paddled on both sides, one left, one right, Squints eagerly and haphazardly slapping the water with his paddle from the center of the boat.  “Hey, I’m good, Mom.  Haven’t I gotten better?” 

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