memories

#ThrowbackThursday: Nana’s presence, near and dear

I’m missing my Nana something fierce these days, so imagine my delight when my sister found and shared this special photograph. It’s a peaceful, somewhat stable moment in our family history, but you can read the previous chapters in our facial expressions and body language. And yet… When it landed in my Inbox, I was able to sense Nana’s presence, as if she were once again sitting right beside me, and that’s what makes this image a rare and wonderful treasure.

(Left to right: my mom; my sister Sheryll and her infant son, Jason; me, opening a gift; and Nana.)

Nana’s Porch Swing and My New Glider

My Nana’s house was tiny—a “cracker box,” my father called it—with a tar roof and peeling paint, two bedrooms and a single bathroom. She stored her wringer washing machine beside the creaky screen door, and stretched a clothesline between the apricot and fig trees in her grassy backyard.

Cozy enough for two, it was a tight squeeze for ten. But when our car rolled up to the curb, she burst through the front door, apron strings flying, and welcomed all eight of us with open arms.

I loved everything about my Nana’s house, but I have special memories of her front porch swing. It wasn’t fancy at all: just a slatted-wood bench, attached to the rafters with metal chains. But when daylight gave way to moonlit evenings, Grandpa Fred would settle his lanky frame into the swing and pull me into his lap. It was a cherished nightly ritual: I’d snuggle into his flannel shirt, and he’d stuff a wad of cherry tobacco into his pipe, light a match and suck on the pipe stem until the tobacco glowed red. We swayed back and forth in wordless silence, twisting pipe cleaners into clothespin dolls as the tobacco curled itself into smoky ribbons that drifted overhead.

That’s me on the left, standing with two of my sisters in Nana’s driveway.

To this day, I don’t think there’s anything more soothing than the  back-and-forth rhythm of a porch swing, especially when it’s shared with someone you love.  If you’ve ever experienced that, I know you’ll understand why I’ve always wanted a porch swing of my own.

It’s one of those dreams that’s proven more fanciful than practical. My front porch is welcoming, but it’s not big enough to swing your legs wide and far. Our backyard is filled with butterflies and birdsong, and the adjacent hillside is teeming with wildlife—all of which invites us to linger, to make new memories and share our stories. Even so, there’s no place to hang an old-fashioned swing.

But that’s how it goes sometimes, isn’t it? Times change. We adapt. Like this tangerine tree in our backyard, we cling to life’s sweetness — even as we make the inevitable changes, one generation to the next.

When I was a little girl, I vowed that when I eventually had a home of my own, I’d get myself a porch swing like Nana’s.  But when that didn’t work out, for one reason and another, I looked high and low for a suitable alternative.  A stand-alone swing might just work, I told myself, but store-bought options were either too big, too small, too rickety or stiff.

Patience isn’t my strongest virtue, but in this case, it paid off. Because, voilà! Like magic, a classified ad appeared on my NextDoor app: Two slightly-used rocking chairs AND a glider, $50.00 to the first responder.

SOLD, in a blink of an eye! Granted: my lifelong wish!

Yes, they need a good scrubbing. Seat cushions would be nice. The paint is so glossy, so glaringly white, and I much prefer a weathered look. But…$50.00, for the whole set! I couldn’t resist.

No, they’re not what I originally envisioned, but with a little elbow grease, I can transform these cast-offs into something beautiful. If I use my imagination, I can turn their rigid backs into something more rounded, soft and soothing.

Truth be told, I don’t even know where I’ll put them all.  (Shhh! Don’t tell my husband!) But I’ll make room for them somewhere…it’s what we do, for the things (the people and memories) we love and cherish.

Within this pomegranate, tiny seeds of truth

P1170802Pomegranates evoke one of my favorite memories of early autumn. Juicy red temptations, packed with tiny seeds of promise.

And still…September, already?

‘Tis the season for reflection, falling leaves and drifting thoughts.

I’m good with retrospectives. As a memoirist, I probably glance in my rear view mirror more often than most. But I’m trying not to dwell in the past or anchor my dreams to a future date, uncertain. Be here, now, I tell myself. There are gifts in this very moment, ripe for the picking.

 

Old Friends and New Traditions

Martha Stewart, I’m not, but I can turn out a plate of gingerbread cookies that taste pretty decent. Way better than they look. It was a cherished family tradition, in fact…until, that is, two adorable little boys grew into fine young men that ventured out into the world to build exciting lives for themselves and forge their own traditions. As kids are wont to do.

Sniff

I don’t begrudge my boys this birthright. Of course not, don’t be silly! We’re transitioning, too—in fact, this is our first Christmas in our new home! As always, our tree is decorated with family heirlooms, old and newer–delicate ornaments on the highest boughs because Toby’s made himself a cave among its lower branches.

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I’ve also strung twinkling lights along the mantle. Hmmm, where to put my music boxes? I’m still pondering. Oh, and did I tell you? Earlier this week, I baked sugar cookies with my little friend Sara.

I’ve always used Betty Crocker’s recipe, but my sister Sheryll suggested I try this one, instead. Ho ho ho, I’m happy that she did! The cookies were tastier, and the dough was easier to work with. Anyway, let’s not bother ourselves with the how-to’s and what-fors, ingredient lists and steps involved in mixing…you can get all that from the link above, HGTV and the Food Network. We’ll just focus on the fun stuff, shall we? To wit: time spent with Sara.

We sandwiched the dough between two sheets of parchment paper and flattened it with a rolling pin until it formed a rectangle, 1/8” thick resembled the State of California—a topographical marvel that included high deserts and low plains, a rugged coastline, and fault lines that ran the length and breadth of the dough.

Next step: choosing the just-right cookie cutters from a motley collection of shapes. Yes, I got all misty-eyed when I retrieved from the cupboard these talismans of special holidays past. Dinosaurs, sharks, guitars, angels, teddy bears, unicorns, Santa Claus, hearts and stars and moons, oh my! And more! Sara untangled the giant heart from the rest and held it to her chest. (“This is for my Mommy.”) Sorry, saguaro cactus and Halloween cat. You didn’t make the cut.

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Again and again, we dipped cookie molds into flour and pressed them into dough, twisting them ever so slightly before separating the shape from the surrounding scraps. Roll, press, return the scraps to the refrigerator for chilling and re-rolling.

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Look! We’re getting the hang of it!

Before long, the hardwood floors were dusted with snowy-white flour, and the scent of fresh-baked cookies drifted from the cooling racks into the rest of the house.

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Sara spread a thin thick layer of frosting (canned, I confess–don’t hate!), and then let loose with all of her creativity.

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Sugar crystals, pearl candies, edible paint, sparkly red and green sprinkles…apply liberally, give the cookies a shake and then add more, pat everything into place, sprinkle an extra dash of glitter for good measure…no such thing as good enough!

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Hours later, we collapsed on the sofa stood back to admire our handiwork. The kitchen was a mess—sparkles, sprinkles, and crumbs everywhere, but behold, this wondrous plate of cookies! Edible art, a feast for all senses.

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There was a taste test, of course…

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And everyone agreed…

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Best cookies ever!

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Yes, there were imperfections. Some cookies were soft in the middle; others were brittle to the point of being fragile. Dark or pale, broken or flawless, didn’t matter. This plate of cookies, this baking day…love made visible, all of it. I can’t think of a better gift this in the whole wide world, can you?

Here’s hoping the sweet memories of this day will hold a place in our mental scrapbooks, long after the very last cookie crumb gets eaten.

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