Memory Flash: Autumn

 

In the heat I’m struggling to hold up my end of our twosome. At least I was able to win my serve, setting up my partner at the net for overhead smashes and touch volleys. We change ends and I tip my H2O bottle, guzzling water mixed with Diet Gatorade. Liquid resembling iced tea drips down my chin and spills onto the clay. I may need some cases when I hit the grocery store.

Did I put apples on my shopping list? “This humidity is brutal,” one of our opponents says on the change-over. “We really need a cold snap to break it.”

What else is on my shopping list? Water, Gatorade, and apples. The apple tree in our yard was cut too harshly by the arborist and this season won't bear any of the Delicious variety we love. We could always go to the orchard in Rhode Island, where we took one of our granddaughters.

It was hot then, too.  I had worn a sweatshirt and had to wrap it around my waist. My forehead dripped onto my sneakers, which began to resemble tie-dyed patterns of fallen apple residue and sweat. Yellowjackets swarmed over the saccharine remains, and trying to escape them made me glisten more. 

The orchard owner had pointed out on a map where the different varieties were growing. Eight-year-old Arden and I balanced the bright orange metal picker vertically between us, her auburn curls bobbing up and down with each step. The ten-foot picker rocked like a metronome to her bobbing. We took off down row three for the Delicious variety, with their deep red heart shape and bumps on the bottom.

“Grandma, I can’t reach,” Arden said, looking up at the tree we selected. The lowest apple was about ten feet above her head.

“Don’t worry. I’ll lift you."

I got behind her, while Arden lifted the orange basket with its long metal prongs into the air. The picker began to swing back and forth like a flag in a soft breeze. “Aim for that big one in front. Sit the apple in the basket, then pull down. The prongs will grab it.”

I lifted her hips and heaved upward. “I can’t reach it,” Arden yelled. “I’ve got to let go!”

“Hold on! I’ll lift you higher." My thighs started to shake. The long orange shaft waved right and left like a flag caught in a storm. 

A thud and then another resounded in front of us, as the bright metal shaft hit the ground and bounced under our tree. Arden, wrapped in my arms, landed on top of me, facing the hanging apples. We lay together in the middle of the cidery, gelatinous mash.

"You okay, granny?" she shrieked.

I pulled a dented, brown Delicious from my twisted sweatshirt and tumbled over her, alternating laughter with kisses in her neck. 

“Five-four,” Shelly says from the other end of the court. "First serve."

My Father's Voice

This guest post is by pharmacist, author of murder mysteries, and friend, Don Weiss. 

My father died on August 8^th, 1982.  I was 30 years old.  The day of his funeral dawned hot and sunny. I was amazed at the number of people who showed up at the cemetery. People whom I knew and people who were perfect strangers. The common denominator, my father had touched these people’s lives in some way. Enough so that they wanted to honor the man they knew in life.

My dad was a member of Tom Brokaw’s “greatest generation.” He served honorably in World War II as a combat field medic, earning a purple heart and a bronze star at the age of 24. 

What I remember about my dad was his sense of humor, his humility, and how he had the ability to make you feel safe when he was around. He was completely dedicated to his sons and his wife, and worked twelve hours a day for as long as I can remember. I can still remember the sound of his car pulling into the driveway and how good that felt.

Going with dad to see the Phillies play at old Connie Mack Stadium and going with him to watch the Eagles play, and the day he took my brother and me to the zoo (to give my mother a break). Trips to the Franklin Institute and the Academy of Natural Sciences and never protesting when my mother would plan a family outing on my dad’s only day off.

When I was a rebellious fifteen year-old, I mouthed off to my father. He smacked me across the face at something faster than the speed of light. It wasn’t a hard slap; it was more for the shock value, but boy did it get my attention. It was the first and last time it happened and with the exception of a brief spanking when I was little, it was the only other time that my father laid a hand on me.

My dad would never come to the table unless he was showered, shaved and dressed and I never saw him get something from the kitchen without asking my mother if he could get her anything.

When I was seventeen and still rebellious, my dad suffered his first of three heart attacks. Two years earlier he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. Both began to rob dad of his vitality and I had to grow up fast to help my mother care for him.

He recovered well enough to go back to work, but he wasn’t the same guy. On the eve of his second heart attack, I was home when it happened. With dad in the backseat, I drove the car to the hospital. Again dad recovered enough to go back to work but three years later at the age of 60, he retired on disability. He cooked meals and did other work around the house as much as his physical condition would allow. On rainy days, he would wait at the bus stop for my mom holding an umbrella. Three years later he succumbed to his third heart attack. Parkinson’s had taken a huge toll on him as well, and he was only a shell of the man that I knew.

My huge regret in life is not spending more time with my dad during those last years. I had moved away seven years earlier and only got to see my folks two or three times a year. I wish that I could have talked with him more. The last words I spoke to him were “Hi dad, how are you?” All he said was “I’m fine; I’ll put your mother on.”

Now that I’m going through my own period of self doubt, I can only guess at what advice father would give me.  All I can hope for is that I’m as good a man.

A Favorite Christmas Memory

My husband comes from a large Irish family in Massachusetts.  To be specific, he is the oldest of five brothers and twin sisters.  Among the next generation are eleven grandchildren (and now twenty-three great-grandchildren).  The clan gathered at Granny’s house for every holiday except July 4^th, when we were all at the beach.        

On Christmas Eve we piled the car with presents for each niece and nephew and Charley’s parents, and then all of us piled in – Charley and me, our two boys, my parents, and sometimes my sister and her husband. On this particular Christmas Eve, Granny and Grandpa were living in a two-story cottage.  It consisted of a kitchen, small dining and living room, and an enclosed sun porch.  Upstairs were two bedrooms and a bathroom.

With the temperature near zero, we spilled out of the van into the kitchen, hugging and kissing whoever was there and spilling their drinks in the process. We dropped our presents under the tree, leaning down to kiss each niece and nephew as we passed.  One nephew weaved a new Big-Wheel among the legs of the adults, screeching like a siren as he went.  A two-year-old pulled the bell on his new fire engine as he made his way to a fire. They’d been unable to wait.

Granny had the buffet set up in the dining room, where smells mingled from baked ham, lasagna, sliced roast beef for sandwich-making, sweet potatoes, and Granny’s famous potato salad.  My sister-in-law Joanne brought her blueberry and pecan pies and one of Charley’s sisters brought a cake.  Sugar cookies decorated with red and green crystals waited for the kids.

The tiny living room bulged with a love seat, a lounger, and folding chairs.  My parents and my sister squeezed together on the love seat.  I headed for a drink in the kitchen. “Time to eat,” Granny announced.

A hungry mob almost ran me over, stampeding toward the dining room.  With drink in hand, I followed and eventually found the arm of the lounger as my place to perch.“Can we open our presents now?” the grandchildren begged who hadn't received riding toys.  They'd only eaten a couple of bites.

The sound of ripping paper and screeches of joy filled the tiny living room, as our sons and their cousins found their gifts under the tree. Parents couldn't keep up with who'd given what to whom.  Torn paper and ribbons soon littered the floor.  Adults who weren't parents pinned themselves against the outer extremities of the walls.  Amid the chaos, a dispute broke out between two cousins.  "Mine!" yelled the little one, trying to dislodge his older cousin from the seat of his Big Wheel.  He used his only defense mechanism - he bit.  Teeth marks drew blood, howls filled the room, and Granny flew upstairs for iodine and a band-aid.


Eventually trash bags appeared amid the mayhem.  Parents stuffed wrapping paper and ribbons in dark green bags and attempted to round up their kids' toys into a family bag.

At midnight we got our gear together and dispersed into the freezing cold.  The inside of our noses stuck together. Charley’s brother's SUV was stuck in front of us and needed a jump start, which Charley provided.  The two of them ran into the warm refuge of the kitchen, where the rest of us waited. 

We arrived home around 2 a.m. to grab a few hours' sleep before Santa’s appearance.  Thankfully, we'd already put together all the gifts with small parts.  My exhausted parents, sister, and brother-in-law pulled themselves upstairs.

The next morning after Christmas breakfast we opened our gifts and retrieved the bag from Grandma’s house.  Anticipating their new hockey gloves and head phones, the boys discovered only wrapping paper, tissue, ribbons, and torn gift cards!  We’d taken home a bag of garbage.

Thirty years later, I remember the laughter more than any of our missing gifts.

Patience Brewster, artist and designer of handmade ornaments and holiday decor (http://www.patiencebrewster.com/ornaments.html), helped inspire this
holiday memory.           

Memories from a Chilly Basement

Courtesy of bing.com

This nostalgia piece is by friend and practicing pharmacist Don Weiss.  Don is the author of three detective/mystery novels, including Picture Perfect.

Hobbies

For those of us of a certain vintage, there was nothing better than getting the Lionel or American Flyer catalog right before Christmas. We drooled over the color illustrations of streamliners, steam engines, passenger cars, and accessories.  My big brother had a terrific Flyer set and every year about a month before Christmas, my Dad set up the train table in the basement and a new layout would take shape.

Growing up we didn't have a lot of money, so model trains were a luxury.  I remember going to my friend's house and watching his Lionel trains with more than a touch of envy.  Still, those American Flyer trains beckoned and I could be found in our basement with my brother and father watching that big steam locomotive ply the rails, puffing smoke, and Dad showing me when to push the button for the switch. Heaven was turning off the basement light and watching the locomotive's headlight as the train made its way around the layout, accompanied by the luminous glow of the miniature streetlamps that lined the sidewalks of our Plasticville town.

Like most boys, as my brother and I grew older, model trains were replaced by a growing list of other interests, mainly girls and cars, and the trains were packed away.  After my father passed away in 1982, we rescued the trains from storage before my mother put our house up for sale.  I watched with the same little boy fascination as the big locomotive came to life for the first time in twenty-five years, after some cleaning and lubrication.

Twenty years ago, I was celebrating Christmas at my brother's farm in Waterdown, Ontario, and suggested that we get his old American Flyer trains and set them up around the Christmas tree.  Neither he nor my nephew answered.  "Well, what do you guys think?" I asked.  Then I was told the truth.  All of the trains had been stolen from the storage barn a few years earlier.  My jaw dropped.  The thief who stole the trains took more than he realized.  The basement of our house was always on the chilly
side, but the warmth of the memories of my Dad, my brother, and me on those cold winter evenings, so long ago, will stay with me forever.

50th H.S. Reunion Recap and DON'T Rules

I didn't want it to end! The weekend started Wednesday with six ladies at my home for a "mature" slumber party. Weather perfect for long walks along Buzzard's Bay and sitting on the deck. Didn't count the wine bottles in my recycling! Charley made a smart move - to his sister's for the duration.

The ladies followed each other in a caravan to Greenwich, met up at a private cocktail party (have you gotten the impression that even the tea drinkers were drinking a lot of tea?), followed by the reunion dinner, and brunch on Sunday. Of the 130 attendees (including significant others), I think almost 100 of us were out on the dance floor at one time or another. We grabbed anyone close to the wooden platform and formed big circles. Didn't have to recognize the person we were dancing with - in fact, probably couldn't! The "oldies" kept our hip replacements gyrating and new knees bending. "Primo" and "secondo" platters of Italian food kept coming and coming and I kept taking and taking. Finally I gave up trying to hold my stomach in. Was so wound up, I didn't sleep a wink all night, and neither did my friend who'd driven down with me. Both husbands decided to stay home (wonder why??).

Here's a list of DON'T RULES, if you plan to enjoy yourself at a 50th reunion. I had lots of help putting together. Here goes!

1. Don't assume you can ignore the questionnaires during the year preceding the blessed event. If you don't respond, nobody will care if you come or not by then.

2. Don't refuse invitations to pre-reunion gatherings. You might not recognize people when you get to the actual reunion (you won't!!).

3. Don't lean in to squint at someone's nametag and photo. You will look like the old fart you are, instead of the hipster who sticks out his hand and asserts, "I'm ______________."

4. Don't ask people if they remember you. You might not like the answer!

5. Don't ask someone you've just met, "Are you wife number two or three?"

6. Don't introduce your second wife as "Mary Two" and attempt to explain that she has the same name as your first wife.

7. Don't answer the question, "How are you?" with, "My last surgery was a total failure."

8. Don't answer the question, "How are things?" with a monologue about your bitter divorce, lack of funds for a vacation in the last five years, and necessity to work till hell freezes over!

9. Don't french-kiss your old boyfriend.

10. Don't put your hand on your old girlfriend's butt.

11. Don't assume the best-looking in the class is still the best-looking.

12. Don't assume the nerds are still the nerds. Or that they are poor.

13. Don't eat garlic bread before dancing.

14. In the event you disregard rule number 11, don't leave your TicTacs at home.

15. Don't ask someone to dance if he/she has a walking stick propped against his/her chair.

16. If you suspect someone had several facelifts, don't stand next to his/her ear, searching for surgical scars.

17. If someone is wearing a hearing aid, don't continue to shout in that ear. Move to the other one, dummy!

18. Don't dance for three hours in a pair of heels you just bought.

19. If you ignore rule #18 and must remove your shoes, don't point out how grotesque your bunions have become.

20. Don't assume that you will look like a dance instructor after a few sippies. It is not a life-altering event, and no-one cares if you make a fool of yourself on the dance floor! Everyone else out there is doing the same thing.

LAUGH TILL YOU CRY, DANCE AS THOUGH NO-ONE'S WATCHING, AND LOVE AS THOUGH YOU'VE NEVER BEEN HURT. That's what our reunion was all about! Any other contributions? Write them under "Comments." Thanks for the memories. Will post following our So. African trip.

Favorite Christmas Memories

We all have some favorite memories of Christmas. Each year seems to add a unique perspective or a new family member. What are yours?

Here are a few memorable ones of mine.

Age 12

As much as I'd like to say that my favorite Christmas growing up revolved around a family gathering, trip, or even a funny mishap, it's not so. It was the Christmas I was twelve and received my first set of 78 LP's! A whole new world opened up - a world in which I could practice dance moves for the Friday night mixers. There was the Platters' "Earth Angel," Fats Domino's "My Blue Heaven," Al Hibbler's "Unchained Melody," Little Richard's "Tutti Frutti," as well as "See You Later Alligator," "Mr. Sandman," and Elvis, of course. Over and over I played each record, never budging from the spot in the living room where I practiced the jitterbug. I had struck gold! I gave up on the singing, though.

A Christmas Eve with Young Sons

While our two sons were growing up, we had a Christmas Eve routine. We would spend time at the home of one of our boys' best friends, Derek Laffey, in Cumberland, R.I. Stepping into the Laffey's home was like stepping into the pages of Architectural Digest. Kiva and Ed welcomed all of our family, including my parents, as part of their own. After that visit we travelled to the coast of Massachusetts to spend the rest of the evening with my husband's family. Since Charley was the oldest of seven children, there were six siblings' families (with ten grandchildren) all opening gifts. It was chaos. Papers flew everywhere and kids grabbed and rode everything, especially if the toy belonged to a cousin! Each family put its gifts in trash bags and kept them separated. On the Christmas I most remember, we arrived home at 1 a.m. with a bag of trash instead of gifts!

My Parents' Visits

After my parents moved to Florida, they would fly up to join Charley, Tim, Todd, and me at our home in Massachusestts for the holiday. Eventually the walls of our house bulged with fiancees, wives, and in-laws. Now we have added the grandchildren.

My parents were troopers, following us on our Christmas Eve trek, as well as to local parties. As they entered their eighties, we hosted the parties at our home so they wouldn't have to leave the house or stay up too late.

However, in 1996, a blizzard wound its way up the coast. It hit Philadelphia first, where my parents were catching their second flight for Providence. They sat aboard their plane on the tarmac while U.S. Air decided whether to proceed. Meanwhile, Charley and I waited in Providence, until the airport closed. U.S. Air officials there claimed my parents' flight might still be coming. All one had to do was look outside to see a complete whiteout! We headed home after midnight in six inches of snow.

Around that time, my parents finally deplaned in Philadelphia. They slept on benches in the airport. The food court had closed, so they had nothing to eat.

The next day, they arrived in Providence bleary-eyed and shaken. "Never again!" they told us. "Please don't ask us to fly up here again, especially in the winter!" They went right to bed at our house, missed Christmas Eve, and after Mom opened her new fur jacket on Christmas morning and posed for a photo in the snow, they went back to bed. They slept a total of seventeen hours.

2010

Charley and I reside in Florida, and it has been several years since we have hosted the family for Christmas in Massachusetts. We have, however, travelled to our sons' homes. And we have slept on airport benches - only it was in Atlanta.

This year, we arrived safely in New Jersey and were able to enjoy not only our twin grandsons born in July, but also their almost-three-year-old sister, and our other two granddaughters visiting from Massachusetts. It was a memorable Christmas, with everyone together. To top it off, we got snowed in with a blizzard for two days! Two more wonderful days sitting by the fire, feeding the twins, playing dress-up, eating pretend concoctions from the pretend kitchen Santa brought. After seven days together, it was time to rebook a flight home and grab some ZZZ's!