A person described as being Wiry would be lean, tough and sinewy. That would be my dad. He was hard as nails, couldn’t have been a fraction over 5’5” with a short fuse and an explosive temper. On the other hand my mother was patient and soft-spoken. I compare my parents to a sailing ship. He would be up there in full view, the mainsail, catching the wind that drove us forward. Mom would be out of sight under the water at the bak of the boat. She was the rudder and the course we followed would be hers to say. She had a way with Dad like nobody else. It wasn’t until after I was grown that I sensed her patient persistence was the taproot of our family magic and that our moral compass had always been in her hands.
My morning ritual takes about twenty minutes of transition from slumber to serviced, dressed and fully engaged. That is when I turn the corner to greet the kitchen and yesterday’s dirty dishes. It’s a good time. My chores as a kid included drying dishes. I was tall enough to reach the back of the counter-top and with a step-stool I could stack plates in the cabinet. After supper that was my inside job. My outside chore was to help hang clothes on the clothesline. I dragged the clothes basket and handed up clothespins from the bag as we moved along.
Nowadays I begin with my morning pill regimen and put coffee on. Then I do dishes, alternating between washing and drying as counter space requires. Every time I run hot water and watch suds boil up in the sink I reflect on drying dishes for Mom. I have a good dishwasher but you don’t throw dirty dishes in the machine without cleaning them off first and I figure; might as well just do it all in one stroke. Besides, the machine is a major drain on both electricity and hot water.
I could dismiss the dish-washing déjà vu as coincidence but there is more. I like to think of growing old, with the accent on ‘Growing’. The word by itself implies a natural progression, something gained and when I stop growing there will be nothing left to appreciate. This will be the second winter with clotheslines stretched wall to wall in the garage. Again, the clothes dryer requires expensive energy while dry air in the garage is already paid for. So I am pinching clothespins again and letting nature air-dry things and I think of it as (still growing). The déjà vu has legs to stand on now. I don’t have a helper to scoot the basket along or hand me clothes pins but it is what it is.
For decades she gently influenced him to stop smoking and curb his cursing. His profane vocabulary only had two phrases: God damn and Son of a bitch that he creatively crafted into angry free verse. He went from smoking two packs a day to a couple of cigars a week and the cursing subsided from impulsive outbursts to mumbling under his breath. On the other hand my cursing vocabulary runs both wide and deep but it never surrenders to impulse or outburst. When I think cursing is called for it comes crafted to its purpose, in a tone that infers some forethought. In truth, not to misrepresent myself; I do have occasional outbursts that escape unedited. But they don’t come framed in civilized language, rather a growling, howling complaint that lasts as long as the feeling prevails.
It’s been nearly two weeks since Winter Solstice. One of my boys came over to help me celebrate the oldest, continuously observed holiday in human history. Christmas was moved by the early Roman church from March or April (when baby Jesus was born) to align with Solstice, the pagan holiday as a ploy to help convert heathens. By now it can be perceived arguably as a secular holiday now that has more economic significance than spiritual. But either way, I want to reach farther back for a touch of prehistoric human history. So we sat on the patio, ran a fire in the chiminea, welcomed the return of the sun from its southern swoop to shorter shadows, to the promise of warmer days and shorter nights. As the fire died down we borrowed from Christian tradition, communion in the spirit of Mother Nature with peach brandy and chocolate. Then we went inside and ate green chili. Our conversation ranged from ancient history to my granddaughters futures. One is in college and the other is on the cusp, soon to stretch her own wings. All things in their own time. We create our own karma, what goes around comes back around and you never know who’s watching so always wear the hat you want to be remembered by.
My morning ritual takes about twenty minutes of transition from slumber to serviced, dressed and fully engaged. That is when I turn the corner to greet the kitchen and yesterday’s dirty dishes. It’s a good time. My chores as a kid included drying dishes. I was tall enough to reach the back of the counter-top and with a step-stool I could stack plates in the cabinet. After supper that was my inside job. My outside chore was to help hang clothes on the clothesline. I dragged the clothes basket and handed up clothespins from the bag as we moved along.
Nowadays I begin with my morning pill regimen and put coffee on. Then I do dishes, alternating between washing and drying as counter space requires. Every time I run hot water and watch suds boil up in the sink I reflect on drying dishes for Mom. I have a good dishwasher but you don’t throw dirty dishes in the machine without cleaning them off first and I figure; might as well just do it all in one stroke. Besides, the machine is a major drain on both electricity and hot water.
I could dismiss the dish-washing déjà vu as coincidence but there is more. I like to think of growing old, with the accent on ‘Growing’. The word by itself implies a natural progression, something gained and when I stop growing there will be nothing left to appreciate. This will be the second winter with clotheslines stretched wall to wall in the garage. Again, the clothes dryer requires expensive energy while dry air in the garage is already paid for. So I am pinching clothespins again and letting nature air-dry things and I think of it as (still growing). The déjà vu has legs to stand on now. I don’t have a helper to scoot the basket along or hand me clothes pins but it is what it is.
For decades she gently influenced him to stop smoking and curb his cursing. His profane vocabulary only had two phrases: God damn and Son of a bitch that he creatively crafted into angry free verse. He went from smoking two packs a day to a couple of cigars a week and the cursing subsided from impulsive outbursts to mumbling under his breath. On the other hand my cursing vocabulary runs both wide and deep but it never surrenders to impulse or outburst. When I think cursing is called for it comes crafted to its purpose, in a tone that infers some forethought. In truth, not to misrepresent myself; I do have occasional outbursts that escape unedited. But they don’t come framed in civilized language, rather a growling, howling complaint that lasts as long as the feeling prevails.
It’s been nearly two weeks since Winter Solstice. One of my boys came over to help me celebrate the oldest, continuously observed holiday in human history. Christmas was moved by the early Roman church from March or April (when baby Jesus was born) to align with Solstice, the pagan holiday as a ploy to help convert heathens. By now it can be perceived arguably as a secular holiday now that has more economic significance than spiritual. But either way, I want to reach farther back for a touch of prehistoric human history. So we sat on the patio, ran a fire in the chiminea, welcomed the return of the sun from its southern swoop to shorter shadows, to the promise of warmer days and shorter nights. As the fire died down we borrowed from Christian tradition, communion in the spirit of Mother Nature with peach brandy and chocolate. Then we went inside and ate green chili. Our conversation ranged from ancient history to my granddaughters futures. One is in college and the other is on the cusp, soon to stretch her own wings. All things in their own time. We create our own karma, what goes around comes back around and you never know who’s watching so always wear the hat you want to be remembered by.
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