Straw Bags and Library Books

This morning I picked my mother up as we had appointments to get our dogs groomed. I smiled and shook my head when I saw my mother. She is a very young 70 years old, dressed in a pair of jeans, lime green T shirt, chambray blouse, unbuttoned and huarache sandals. Slung over her arm a gorgeous barrel shaped straw bag that she wore when I was a young girl, one I have been trying to get her to give me for as long as I was carrying a purse.

Having left the two dogs in capable hands I drove us "to town" otherwise known as the downtown area of where I live. There is a lovely department store, a throwback, that I like to visit on occasion. I didn't tell my mother what I had planned and I thought I would surprise her. I thought my mother would enjoy having lunch there and perhaps do a little shopping.

When I was a little girl my mother would take me to town on Saturday mornings. She would put on a pretty dress and heels, dress me similarly but with Mary Janes, and off we would go. We would stop at all of the department stores and specialty shoppes, restaurants and other places that dotted Main Street and the Square at that time. She would buy her stockings at Lady Oris, pairs in individual flat boxes and nestled in tissue paper.

We would go to the Square Record Shop to purchase a 45 rpm record for me, one she approved of, and if I was lucky it would be one by the Beatles on the Apple label. A stop at Woolworth's would produce thread or buttons or whatever odds and ends she needed and then we would pick a restaurant for lunch.

My favorite was The Overbrook Tea Shoppe because they had delicious hot chocolate that they served in a porcelain teapot and I liked the blue patterned dishes they used. My mother liked The Spa for their club sandwiches. Sometimes we ate at the lunch counter at Woolworth's and sometimes in the restaurant in the department store I planned to take her to today.

We already had done some shopping, a pair of shoes for her and two sun dresses for me. We rode the escalator down to the lower level and she saw the restaurant. She smiled when I asked if she wanted a little lunch. We settled in, placed our order and sipped coffee while we talked. I looked at my mother across the table and tried to remember her as she sat there nearly 40 years ago and compare that woman to the one seated across from me today.

My mother is a tough cookie, she ran a tight ship at home. She expected a lot from me, held me to a high standard, demanded my best. I spent the better part of my lifetime trying to please her, to make her proud of me. I was never quite certain I had succeeded. We butted heads a lot. We did not always agree on my direction, my choices, my attitude. There were times that I don't think we could have gotten any further apart emotionally. We are both very stubborn and very private women.

She's mellowed however, softened her stance, let up on letting me know I am capable of more. She eased up on the pushing and prodding. Two summers ago we went through a family crisis that I think made her realize that it didn't matter what any of us were doing, it was enough to just be here with each other. It was a revelation of sorts I think and a relief ...for both of us.

So today, after lunch, we walked past the town library. Tents were set up on the lawn and the annual fundraising book sale in full swing. We picked up our boxes to hold the books we found and walked past table after table making selections. In my box I had a novel about Sally Hemmings, a memoir by Lillian Hellman, Marcia Clark's The People v Simpson and Jimmy Carter's retrospective, Palestine Peace Not Apartheid. My mother looked into my box as we were walking and she fished a book out of her box and plunked it in mine. It was The Bridges of Madison County. She simply said....."you need something romantic in there....now go find something fun".

Still pushing, just a bit, but relaxed. So different than she was once. Now If only she'd part with that straw bag.

Indeed

I Swear

My youngest son and I took a little road trip recently. We drove to the beach for a long weekend, just the two of us.

I put him in charge of music for the road and he made a few CDs for us to listen to. He had everything on them from Boys II Men to The Beastie Boys. We sang along all the way to the beach.

Somewhere along the way the song, I Swear, performed by All 4 One came on the CD player in the car. It's a touching song, the lyric written by Frank Meyers, and recorded earlier by country singer, John Michael Montgomery. The lyric is a sort of vignette of vows and promises made.


I swear by the moon and the stars in the sky
And I swear like the shadow that's by your side

My youngest child (what child he's 15!) loves music, all kinds of music. While his favorite bands are The Foo Fighters and Shinedown and a bunch of others I have never heard of, he also likes the music I listen to. He steals my mp3, lifts CDs from my collection and visits my Imeem page. He has an uncanny knack for memorizing song lyrics quickly and can sing along with most anything.

I'll stand beside you through the years
You'll only cry those happy tears
And though I make mistakes
I'll never break your heart

So as we were singing along to I Swear I'm thinking about what a special kid he is. He's a big kid, athletic, the Center and a Linebacker on his Freshman football team. He plays a lot of playground basketball lately, has a girlfriend and a wicked sense of humor. He's a budding man, growing up right before my eyes and so sweetly sensitive he takes my breath away sometimes.

I'll give you every thing I can
I'll build your dreams with these two hands
We'll hang some memories on the wall

As we sang I started to feel the song, the lyric started to get to me. My voice had a catch in it from the tightness that gathered in my throat. I missed a line, lost my words and couldn't cover so quickly as I would have liked.

And when (and when) just the two of us are there
You won't have to ask if I still care
Cause as the time turns the page
My love won't age at all

He reached over the console and covered my hand with his. A hand now bigger than mine, a hand I held not long ago to cross a street, to walk through a schoolyard, to walk to a playground. A hand that looks suspiciously like a man's, the man he will soon become. He smiled at me and kept on singing. My voice returned and joined his. We kept on going and I kept on thinking, thinking abut this almost man seated next to me.

I swear like the shadow that's by your side
I'll be there
For better or worse
Till death do us part
I'll love you with every beat of my heart

Sometimes he's the tie that binds, he's the bridge over certain of my gaps. Sometimes he's my saving grace. Sometimes he's the reason that a lot of things make sense to me. Sometimes he is the sense in my life. Sometimes he's the reason I am sure of the direction I am going.

I swear.
Indeed.

Speaking Cooking

When I was younger, much younger, I had a sort of Sunday morning ritual. I cooked, cooked big. My husband would be out running his Sunday 10 miles. Two of my children (the last was not yet present) would be peacefully watching television. I would be in the kitchen, Aaron Neville cranking in the background, and me presiding over a pasta machine making that week's Sunday dinner. The spaghetti sauce would be bubbling, I had the freshly made noodles all laid out on the table and I would be working on a dessert. The scene was one of domestic bliss. This was a weekly event for me having learned to cook this way from my mother-in-law. It was my way of giving my husband a part of his childhood he loved so much. It was a way to recreate a happy time for him and create that same existence in our life together.

I was up early this morning, standing at the counter in the kitchen, and my mind went back to those days. I thought about how different my life is now. My husband was out on the deck drinking coffee. He no longer can run with his bad knees. He was out there talking on the phone in preparation for his day of work. He wasn't particularly chatty with me before the phone call, something that seems all to common lately. My two older children are both moved out of the house and my youngest is still at a friend's having spent the night there. The pasta machine is in a closet collecting dust and I am standing in silence, no music is playing anywhere, in a house quiet and still. I pulled out a large pot and started boiling water. I would not be making homemade pasta today but I would be making something nice.


I started boiling lasagna noodles to make a rollentini that I will stuff with ricotta cheese mixed with some egg. parsley, mozzarella & Romano cheese. I chopped some zucchini, red onion and tomatoes and tossed in olive oil & balsamic vinegar, oregano and shredded mozzarella. I sliced some strawberries and drizzled them with Marsala wine. I made a vanilla pudding. I stood back after putting everything back into the refrigerator for later and thought about what I had done. Thought about why I had done it.

While I was cooking my husband went out the door. He had a quick goodbye for me and a kiss on my cheek that was mostly in my hair. I watched him go and studied his face, trying to gauge his expression. He seemed to have a hint of longing on his face. I think he thinks I am going to serve all of this for dinner today and he will miss it as he won't be home until late tonight. He didn't say anything but I suspect his thoughts. That put a wry smile on my face as the door shut behind him. There's no one here to eat all of this food.

I don't cook because I like doing it. I don't feel a passion for it. Cooking is something I could happily give up and not miss. Despite this feeling I cook almost every day and I cook well. I cook with my heart. It's my language, my love language. It's my way of showing love and care for those I love and care about. The passion is not in the cooking but in what I feel for the ones I am cooking for. That's what that wry smile was about as I watched my husband go out of the door. After all of these years and all of that cooking ....I am not entirely sure my husband really understands the language I speak. The language I have spoken all of these years.

I am not entirely sure he even speaks the same language that I do.

Indeed.