Up Around the Corner

I wanted to get to this sooner but I've been busy - got a job.

I also have gotten published! at Pegleg Publishing. Click here to read me.

Hope you enjoy it, it's actually not one of my best, but I'm getting them out there.

23 Minutes

Timing is Everything!

A cop was patrolling at night in a well-known spot for "parking."

He saw a couple in a car, with the interior light on.

He got closer to the car and saw a young man behind the wheel,
reading a computer magazine and a young woman on the rear seat, knitting.

Puzzled by this surprising situation, the cop walked to the car and knocked on the window.

The young man lowered his window..."Yes, officer?"

"What are you doing?"

"Well, isn't it obvious? I'm reading a magazine."

Pointing toward the young woman, the cop asked, "And what is she doing?"

The young man shrugged. "I believe she's knitting a pullover."

The cop was totally confused. A young couple alone in a car at night... And nothing obscene is happening!

"What's your age, young man?" "I'm 22, sir."

"And her, what's her age?"

The young man looks at his watch and said, "She'll be 18 in 23 minutes."
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Sometimes life is just like this - the timing has to be just right...
Patti

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Grandma's Kitchen - Pt. 4

What ever the reason I had for visiting my grandmother; whether alone or with my entire family, the day's end was signified by a gathering in the kitchen. No one left Grandma's house without a meal or at least dessert.

Though I recognized this custom meant my time with Grandma was nearly finished, I'll not deny it was also a highlight of the day.

After gathering all the berries and other fruit we had so carefully harvested throughout the afternoon, Grandma and I slowly climbed the old wooden stairs that led to the kitchen door. Grandma always paused on the third step as she reached up and twisted the doorknob and then gently pushed the door open. Instantly, ambient light from a small living room lamp washed out, creating a golden glow on the creaky, paint-pealed steps. Warmth from her oversized antiquated stove puffed out around my legs, promising warmth within.

I followed Grandma up the final two steps, watching her skirt bounce and puff as she moved. When we were both inside, I carefully closed the heavy wooden door. There was never a time I performed this loving ritual that I didn't feel like crying because the day was nearly over. Disappointment over leaving Grandma's house was always filtered out, though, by the exhaustion I felt at the end of the day.

Grandma's kitchen was a big as her living room, though neither was large by any standards. Grandma walked the length of it slowly, stopping long enough to unfold her apron and stained bib onto the old oak table, allowing the fruit to bounce and roll out. I loved watching her corral the wayward fruit with her long slender fingers.

Depositing the fruit from my own stained bib onto the old table, I often then just stood there watching my grandmother move about from the sink to her stove and back again. Every step of her heavy black lace-up shoes made clunking noises, causing the cracked green linoleum to respond in tiny snaps, pops, and ticks.

The voice of the linoleum was mesmerizing and soon, I sunk to the floor to hear better the language of age and love that seemed to emanate from everywhere in Grandma's house. Or, maybe it was that I was so tired my child mind could no longer hold reality, exchanging it for fantasy.

Soon, I was sprawled on my tummy, tracing the many cracks of the floor covering with my fingers. I often found them to be in the shape of animals and Grandma took the time to step away from the stove, where she stirred va renya, to comment on whatever picture I pointed out. About the time I began to doze, Grandma announced our supper of light sandwiches and hot tea with va renya was ready.

Going out to Grandmas porch was another perk of being with her. My mother never let me eat outside! Grandma and I sat side by side and after eating our meal, we settled back to have our tea. Grandma's tea was (of course) just tea, however, her va rena was the tops!

Va rena is made by cooking fresh picked cherries with sugar until it becomes a sweet syrupy goo - then it is put by the spoonful into hot tea. I knew that if I were drinking cherries and tea, my parents would soon be coming down the road to take me home. But for now, Grandma and I watched the sun drop below the horizon as we sipped our tea in silence. Afterwards, I snuggled against her warm body to ward off the evening chill and felt safe.

Within minutes, I heard the familiar sound of my parent's old red Hudson rumbling down the road and could see big round headlights bobbing along toward Grandma's driveway. I always pushed in closer to Grandma as if I could hide and my parents would let me stay there with her.

"Grandma, I don't want to go home."

"I love you, too, child."

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I love you, Grandma.
Patti

Grandma's Garden Pt. 3

I grew up on a farm, yet my Grandmother taught me as much about growing plants as did my parents. What my father taught me I learned from atop a tractor or from inside a swiftly moving truck as we drove from one field to another. I learned how to grow plants from Dad, but the things Grandma taught me were more about love and need.

My grandmother lived alone in the same house from her early 40’s until her death at around age 80. She lived two blocks from our small town’s city limits along a paved road but otherwise as much in the country, as the little farm I lived on. My father grew acres of corn, hay, and sugar beets. Grandma grew radishes, sweet corn, apples, cherries, and lots of love, all on three acres known as Grandma’s back yard.

When I was very young, my mother sometimes asked Grandma if I could spend the day with her. In the summer time, my grandmother’s garden was like a different planet for me. Grandma would weed the small vegetables and explain to me the difference between a radish sprout and a radish.

"Here, child, see this one, here." Grandma reached toward a cluster of delicate-looking round, flat dark green leaves.

"Grandma, are you going to pull them out?"

"Not all of them."

"Some of them?"

"Yes. See, I pull all of them out, but one."

"Why?"

"Because they’re crowded in too close together. They will all either die, or not give a radish if I let them be that close to each other."

"Why?"

"Because I planted the seeds so I could enjoy eating radishes. If I let them grow to waste, then I have not appreciated what the Lord has given me. They need to grow radishes."

"Oh. Can I pull ‘em out?"

"Come here, child, grab them like this..."

Other conversations such as this repeated through out other parts of my grandmother’s garden. Until we reached the trees.

Grandma had a Japanese plum tree, sour cherry trees, green apple tree, a red apple tree, crab apple tree and a choke cherry tree. Scattered around and among the fruit trees were assorted blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, gooseberries, and wonderberries.*

The protocol in Grandma's fruit garden was different than for the vegetable garden. My mouth watered as she helped me tie a white dishtowel around my neck and after she tied one around her own neck, we entered into a time of wonderment that I believe only she and I shared.

We stopped at whatever fruit we happened to come to first. Unlike the vegetable garden, this area was not formally cultivated into perfect rows with ditches. This part of Grandma’s garden grew wild and free; whatever wanted to grow here Grandma lovingly cared for, including flowers and a bee hive. We were always careful not to step on the smaller plants, such as strawberries and the occasional pansy.

My favorites were always the green apple tree and, when in season, the cherry trees. As we had worked our way around the fruit garden to the apple tree, our white dishtowel bibs became fully stained with the rainbow colors of all the fruit we tasted. (Part of our adventure was a game of wiping our fingers and hands on the bibs and later comparing the rainbow stains.)

If the apples were ripe, we picked enough for Grandma to make into a sweet gooey pie at the end of the day. Of course, the ripest were always at the top of the gnarly branches. Grandma lifted me to the largest branch and then spotted my every move as I climbed up, until I could go no higher without breaking the small branches. I carefully plucked every ripe apple and dropped it down to Grandma. Grandma was always patient and willing to let me eat many of the sun-warmed apples as I lay along the branches looking like a lazy cat. I always got a tummy ache, but it was always worth it.

It was an extra special day when there were cherries needing to be picked because it meant Grandma would cook some fresh va renya for our tea. We used a small stepladder and Grandma picked the cherries, as they were too delicate for my stubby small fingers. Grandma always let me eat the very first one she picked, she ate the second one, and then we held our hunger in check by putting the rest of the cherries into a bowl.

Finally, when the setting sun began transforming the garden into a scary cavern-like wilderness, Grandma and I went to the edge of the lawn where we gathered all the piles of berries into our stained bibs and her apron. We would walk slowly and silently back to the house, following the golden beam of light beckoning us from the kitchen window. Grandma’s kitchen, with its cracked green linoleum, never failed to bring to me a level of comfort I’ve not found anywhere else.

As I sat playing on the floor or dosing on a chair, Grandma baked bread and made va renya.


*Wonderberries resemble gooseberries, but in a wild form. They were brought here from Russia with my grandmother’s family.


Next: Grandma’s kitchen

Grandma: Part 2 Frozen Doughnuts

Alone, without the discerning eye of my parents, Grandma and I would wander from her bedroom through the bathroom and into the guest bedroom. Not often used for sleeping, it was mostly storage. This room was just off of Grandma’s kitchen and though it was not as magical as the other rooms of Grandma’s house, it always held one special delight, intended just for me. Grandma shared my desire for frozen doughnuts.

Grandma and I rarely lingered in the guest bedroom and we never turned on the light. Instead, we used ambient light from the kitchen and carefully made our way across the room to the large chest freezer. That old freezer always hummed with a smug satisfaction sound that reminded me of old men in church.

The lid of the freezer was heavy because of the thick layer of ice lining the inside of it. The lid groaned and cracked when Grandma lifted it and I enjoyed watching the heavy cloud of smoke (condensation) that puffed up and then drifted silently towards the floor.

I jumped up and down waggling my hands as Grandma bent over, one arm stretched up high holding the freezer lid open, while the other reached into the darkness for our treat of frozen doughnuts.

The only time Grandma let me get my own doughnut from the freezer, I struggled to break the initial suction of the freezer lit and then shoved with all my might to make the lid swing high enough to stay open on its own. I held my breath in anticipation as it slowly swung upward on its large heavy hinges. As soon as the lid stopped moving, I jumped up, balancing by my tummy on the frozen rim and leaned in to grab one of the doughnuts on the plate - and promptly fell in. Grandma immediately lifted me from the frozen cave and laughing with me, she reached in and got the plate of doughnuts.

Grandma and I then sat at her metal kitchen table to eat our doughnuts. As I slowly breathed on my doughnut to watch the frozen air puff up and away, Grandma poured us each a cup of tea. As she stirred in a spoonful of her famous va renya (German name for sour cherries cooked with sugar to syrup), I contemplated the rest of the day – it was always full of history that I knew simply as Grandma’s love for me.


Next: Grandma's garden

Grandma Part 1: Tatted Memories

Grandma was a wonderful grandmother. When my parents weren’t around, she let me climb the apple tree, play in the lilac bushes, and she braided my waist-length hair.

My father’s mother came with her parents and siblings to the United States from Russia. They weren't wealthy by any means, but very excited to be in the States. Everything they needed to survive by, they grew, raised, built, or canned. In her senior years, my grandmother still grew much of her food, canned what she could spare, and baked her own bread.

At the age of about three, I was devastated to learn I was not the only apple of her eye. I hadn’t realized my cousins were her grandchildren, too! In a very short time, the extra children added to the fun that, along with many aspects of going to visit my grandmother, we simply called, Grandma’s House.

On occasion, I was by myself at Grandma’s house, whenever my mother needed to do what it is mother’s do when they don’t want their children tagging along. I loved those days. After my parents sat with Grandma for a few moments, they would say it was time to go, so she and I would stand solemnly on the porch as their big heavy red Hudson backed out of the narrow driveway and onto the road. As soon as the car disappeared from sight, my stay with Grandma turned into wonderment as we stepped through her doorway and into another time and place.

We always began by sitting on the twin bed in Grandma’s bedroom. There were two twin beds in her bedroom, but we never sat on Grandma’s bed because of the delicate crocheted and tatted bedspread that covered it. Grandma carefully covered her bedspread with a linen tablecloth and then she pulled her trinket drawer from a tall chest and set it atop the cover.

Grandma carefully lifted trinkets of all shapes and sizes from the drawer and as she handed each one to me, she recounted its special history. Much of her words are lost to me now, but I will not forget the look on her face, her voice, or her slightly tear-fill eyes as she spoke to me. The lacy tatted handkerchiefs, old cracked photos, never worn earrings, and the weight of heavy foreign coins also remain securely tatted into my memory, woven there as tightly and as beautiful as the picots and loops of her tatted coverlet.

Next week: Grandma Part 2: Frozen Doughnuts

Pinxter

Christmas 2008

Well, Christmas is over and my daughter and her friend have gone home. Every time they leave my house, I feel the emptiness. I love having them here and this Christmas was the best so far. Ummm, about my previous entry, My Christmas Wish List, I have decided that Wish Lists aren't so bad after all. In fact, I'm glad I had the Amazon Wish Lists to use and before my daughter left, we all decided to keep up with our Wish Lists on Amazon for birthdays, too. We all have the Universal Wish List button so that all through the year, we can add to our list from any web page!

What I learned from this Christmas and Wish Lists is that I had begun to revert to my parent's way of thinking in that I wanted my loved ones to want what I chose for them -- making the Wish List a sort of ratchet twisting control away from me and giving it to them. But I remembered a gift is only a good one when it is desired by the person receiving it. I loved the looks on their faces with each newly unwrapped gift. Priceless.

Wish lists are in!

Pinxter

My Christmas Wish List

I got up early today and intended to drive 45 miles to the city to get the bulk of my Christmas shopping done. My clothes were clean, my shoes were on and I even added mascara to my tired eyes. Then I turned on my computer.

Four hours later, my shopping was finished and I hadn’t yet left my office. Isn’t is a wonderful world I live in? I didn’t have to put up with all the other crazy people out there running around, driving around and shouting all around trying to get their holiday shopping finished.

The only part of Christmas today I think has run amok, is the use of Christmas Lists or Wish Lists that pepper every web site during the holiday season. It leaves nothing to the imagination, and destroys the uninhibited fun of looking for something special for someone special. Wait!... did I just say that? I don't like shopping when everyone else is shopping so this works for me. But...

When I was young (yes, another one of THOSE stories), we rarely asked for anything in particular because anything at all was welcomed. My siblings and I didn’t receive many gifts. We especially didn’t open packages containing something we didn’t absolutely need. I never had a list of items for Santa or my parents to order for me, and rarely did I ask for something special.

Next year, I might once again walk the beat and ignore the Wish Lists.

Pinxter