The Real Thing

There is nothing on this earth better than a cold 16 oz. Coke in a glass bottle. OK, that is an exaggeration but it does taste pretty darn good that way.  Everything about it is good.  The little pieces of ice that form on the surface of the liquid. The sound of the bottle opener as it frees the carbon gas. That first drink that sends fizz up your nose and gives you the hiccups. This is the stuff of my childhood.

At family reunions a huge galvanized tub sat in the shade packed with ice and beneath that ice were frosty bottles of Coke, 7-Up and Orange Crush.  An opener was tied to the tub’s handle but was seldom used. It was much preferred to just yank the bottle across the edge of the tub, dislodging the cap from the bottle. At least that’s what the cool kids did.  It was an art, believe me. You nearly froze your fingers off fishing for that bottle and afterwards you  found your mother and placed your frozen hand on the back of her neck.  Well, some kids might have.  By the end of the afternoon we were so full of Coke we could have floated home - the caps jingling in our pockets the whole way.

At my Grandmother’s house there was always a supply of 16 oz. bottles stored in the door of her refrigerator.  There was an open invitation to have one. No permission needed.  I remember many late Friday nights spent on her living room couch.  She sat at one end painting her fingernails and I sat at the other with a bottle of Coke. We watched Johnny Carson. We talked about the “old days” and sometimes we even talked about boys. 

Saturday was grocery day at our house. It was my job (along with my sister) to gather the empty bottles to return to the store. We each had our own 8-pack of bottles to return for 10 cents each.  My sister usually saved her money but I spent mine immediately.  Five feet from the customer service desk was a display of the weeks top ten 45 rpm records.  That 80 cents never had the chance to warm in my hand. As long as I had my bottle deposit money, I never left the store without a song.

These days, I drink my Coke from a cup.  A 16 oz. glass bottle is just a memory. A wonderful memory from a wonderful childhood. It’s the real thing.

The Kitchen Table

The best kind of kitchen table is an old one. Preferably round and made of solid wood. One that can be made to accommodate a large crowd when needed by adding a board or two. One that creaks when you lean on it.  One that needs refinishing.  

 Things of great importance happen at the kitchen table.  At get togethers in my fathers family the men ate first, the children second and the women ate last. It would be easy to have a feminist fit over this arrangement but I have come to realize that it was their preference.  The women chose to eat last so they could linger at the table.  Sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of sweet tea in hand and a full stomach lends itself to some wonderful things.  It is easier and more comfortable to speak, share, confess, question, laugh, cry, pray and love at this sacred place.  

Growing up our kitchen table was filled every night with my mothers wonderful food and the chairs filled with all four members of our family (and quite often an extra or two).  It was necessary to gather at the end of the day, hold hands, give thanks and share a meal together. There was no reading at the table, no arguing at the table and much to my dismay no singing at the table. It was a time for talking, connecting and most often a place of great laughter.

In the early morning our table was the place where my parents came together and talked about plans for the day. I seldom ate breakfast without my father's open bible on the table across from me. Although I was never privy to these meetings, I know they always included prayer.

During the day and often late at night our table was the place where my father wrote sermons, journaled his thoughts and prayers, or graded papers.  When my mother was a child, she did her homework on that very same table when it lived at her grandparents house.

When the table came to live with me, its corners were chewed on by my boys as they were teething.  Spelling words were learned and forts were built beneath its shelter.  Hands were held and prayers were said. When we moved to a different house, the table was sent to the basement where it was used to feed teenagers and hold the Thanksgiving overflow of family and friends. It is now a holder of pizza boxes, jackets, guitars, picks and notebooks filled with song lyrics.  All in all, not a bad life.  I am hoping that it will live with my grandchildren some day and their teeth marks will be added to the edges and their laughter and prayers will be soaked into its grain.

The Memory of Smell

I was sitting in Panera  having some lunch and minding my own business when all of a sudden a very familiar smell enveloped me.  I looked up to see an elderly lady sitting at a table beside me. She was eating her bowl of soup and minding her own business but I was no longer able to mind mine.  She smelled just like my Grandmother.  Isn’t it funny how something as simple as a smell can instantly transport you to another place, another time?

White Shoulders Perfume & Dusting Powder. Pink containers in a pink box. It was my Grandmother’s signature scent for as long as I can remember.  For her birthday every year, it gave me great joy to go to the fragrance counter at McAlpin’s Department Store and pick out a gift set containing a bottle of perfume and a box of dusting powder.  The case was just my height and I searched until my eyes landed on the pink prize. She always seemed surprised and immediately sprayed herself generously.

The powder puff with its pink satin ribbon seemed as big as my face and I was entranced with its feel as well as its smell.  I sprayed and puffed each time I went into her bathroom (which was also pink in every way).  I wonder if we had to drive home with the windows down just so my mother could breathe? 

 I am grateful. Grateful for a Grandmother who loved me and accepted my gifts with love.  Grateful for her life spent working hard for her family. Grateful for the things I was allowed to do with her that I was not allowed to do at home.  I am grateful for the memory of smell and for the dear lady at Panera who reminded me. I hope she has a granddaughter.

The Picture Box

     I have always loved photographs.  One of my favorite childhood memories is sitting with my grandmother and going through her picture box.  I would sit beside my grandmother with the box in my lap and we would look at every picture while my grandmother told its story.  If I was really lucky my mother and her youngest sister would be there to chime in and sometimes argue over details forgotten by one of them.  I felt included in a life that existed before I did.  To know my grandmother as a young woman and my mother and her siblings as children was a wonder to me. I cherished those pictures with all of my heart.  

     When my grandmother died I am not sure what became of the picture box (a bedspread box from Sears & Roebuck with yellowed masking tape on the corners).  I can only assume that the pictures were somehow divided among my aunts and uncle because most of them are still among family. Even without the photographs, the memories are clear - theirs and mine.  I hope one day in the future, I will sit with my grandchildren as I hold photograph after photograph and tell them the stories that make up our family.

Life Is Just So Daily

I am not certain where this phrase originated but it has been living in my head for a long time. Some people experience this statement as a negative one, feeling that life is monotonous and without joy. I think it means that real life is in the everyday things we do and experience. The sunset. Noisy family breakfasts with everyone talking at once. Late night talks with your teenager. The feel of sand on your feet. Pancakes shaped like Yoda. The rhythmic breath of a sleeping baby. The sound of pen on paper.  Everyday things. Extraordinary things. This is the good stuff, folks. Let’s pay attention.

Waiting

Who says teenagers don't love their Mama's? Every morning at 8:00 my youngest and I meet on the bottom step and wait for the bus.  This has been our habit since he was about 10 years old. Now that he is 15 (can that possibly be true?) he doesn't need me to wait with him but I still do. It is comfortable. It is calming. It has become a necessary part of our day. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we don't. It's all ok. It is a daily reminder of how important we are to one another. It simply makes us happy.

Why in the world would I write a blog? First of all, who in the world would want to read it? I have an ordinary life and write ordinary sentences. There is nothing to look at here, folks... but I am intrigued. I follow several bloggers and read them nearly every day. They claim to have ordinary lives too, but day after day I am drawn to their lives & their words. Perhaps our lives are only ordinary to us because we are in them every day and cannot step outside of ourselves to see the big picture. I don’t know. Will people care if I have a bushel basket full of unmatched socks and would rather read a book than match them? I think part of the allure of blog-following is being able to peek into the lives of others without getting caught. We measure ourselves against others and when we find someone who is like us we are relieved that we are not alone. When we find someone who is not like us we can perhaps learn something of ourselves from the differences.