Closet Reminder

Gifts from an older year of celebrations pleasantly haunt my closet. In the midst of New Year cleaning, I tossed each of the above into a pile on the bed, as I pulled them from the clutter. Remembering the year they arrived, it hit me how the love of my children and husband are reflected in them. Given to me at a time when I especially suffered from anxiety, my family’s support spoke to me in those stress relieving gifts. My children’s and husband’s quiet presence alongside me then, as we lived together and apart, made those fuzzy, massaging, lavender scented aids unnecessary. I’m more grateful today for these gifts. They remind me of my family’s consistency, and their assurance that my health and happiness was worth their time.

Happy New Year  

MARKED MEMORIES

 

Snow packed hard grey along the neighborhood sidewalks. I slid to our house over frozen footprints blurred together into lumps.

Fresh snow had painted the steps to our front porch. Dotted with the outlines of two soles that didn’t match, the steps showed me that one person was home.

I followed the tracks up to the porch, then stopped again at a skid line in a drift, made by the thinner shoe. Glossy ice winked from the slash where Grandma had slipped. The artificial leg that she strapped to her left thigh ended in a false foot. She wore a wider shoe on her right foot, since the shoes were new, but not the legs. No other marks in the snow. Grandma was okay.

Inside, wet spots on our blue carpet led to the cellar where her voice boomed: "Who's there?"

"It's me, Grandma." I shouted with my eyes shut tight, hoping she hadn't started early.

"Come down here."

Something thick inside me moved, like I had swallowed fruit cake I didn't chew too well.

Downstairs, Grandma shone in all her glory beneath the pipes and rafters. Surrounded by boxes, she wore a garland boa and tinsel in her hair. She hummed carols while parting a sea of knobbie wires.

One string glowed. "Ah-ha. That one's good." She unplugged the bright strand from an extention chord. Her tinseled head sparkled in the light of the cellar’s bare bulb dangling above the foot of the stairs as she nodded towards something behind me. "Grab that box and take it upstairs."

I grabbed an oily, wax-coated box that originally encased produce. It held decorations collected before and since I was born. Moisture from winter dampness and gooey summer heat had made the cardboard flimsy without sunlight to keep it healthy. The arthritic flaps folded over breakable and broken ornaments. I pulled on the funky fingers. They flopped over the sides of the box in a freaky fray.

 

"Close that up," Grandma demanded. Christmas was serious business. "Just take it upstairs."

 

The dreaded decorating had begun.

At the top of the stairs I turned, entered the living room, and spotted my brother coming through the front door. He saw me and the box, and turned to run.

"Who came in?" beat the subterranean voice.

"It's Benny," I yelled back, then smirked at my brother.

"Benny Boy! Come down here."

Boy, did Benny shoot me a look of juvenile hate. As he dillydallied with his school bag, I clomped downstairs before Grandma yelled my name again.

On my next trip up the cellar stairs with a box marked "Manger" I heard my sister hiss. "I hate you, Benny."

He ran past me hollering, "Vera's home, Grandma."

"Veronica!"

Vera dropped her schoolbag like a rock, stamping past me as I put down my box in the living room.

Crosses between Munchkins, Oopaloompas and elves, we moved in synch, propelled by anticipated orders.

A box marked "Platform" passed me on my third trip to the cellar. It walked in Benny's Sears sneakers and trumpet-belled pants that swayed about his ankles.

Vera nudged past me with a sawhorse. The other one stood ready for me in the cellar. Did a miniature village really need that much support? 

The second wooden horse rode me up the stairs behind Grandma. I wobbled into the living room, halting as Grandma turned with a breathless order. "Put it down over there and help your sister with the windows."

Vera and I slapped dusty cardboard figures on each window. The fading animation slid between the tape and glass panes before the jolly characters hung by themselves, framed in smudges of grey finger prints. We rested our arms, letting them hang by our sides as we awaited the next leg of our Advent journey.

Grandma sat on the couch squinting into the dining room. Benny, Vera and I turned to spy a piece of plywood sticking out from behind the hutch. We had forgotten that that was as far as it travelled after last year’s un-decorating.

We three shuffled towards it as Grandma said, "Slide it out from behind there." Her unnecessary direction made me pull my own hair. I needed to do something without being told to do it.

While helping Vera lift the wood onto the horses, I rejoiced that I didn’t get a splinter. But then yanked again at a stray lock when Grandma needlessly ordered, “Center it”; we were already peeking under the board readjusting it.

On his back, Benny shimmied, between the sawhorses. He pushed green sockets, one at a time, through the holes our dead dad had drilled. Benny supported the sockets so the wire connecting them stayed taped to the underside of the platform while Grandma screwed bulbs into them. Then she capped each bulb with a bottomless house or store. 

Grandma set the scene with perfect little people, and we made a getaway. Benny followed Vera and I upstairs to our bedrooms. We set up corrugated cardboard trees Grandma had made for us. 

Throughout the season, Grandma presided over her frozen village as holiday visitors admired the plastic cottages, farm animals, and pond mirror with teeny, tiny ducks. I never understood how Benny could realign the train that ran on its rusty track. Every few laps it derailed, and his chubby fingers never disturbed the miniature miles of streets and landscaping that Grandma had poured out in different color sand.

Beyond that, the town was invisible, except when I bumped my hip on its corner moving through our bedecked rowhouse. Only Benny was allowed to retape the red brick waffle paper to the corner of the plywood, since Vera and I had used up a whole roll of tape on the windows.

Santa decorated the tree himself that year when we were sleeping. Thank God for this miracle. The year before, Grandma said, "Don't put it there" each time I targeted a tree limb dangling an ornament between my fingers. Frustrated with figuring out which spot she meant made me tired and want to go to bed early anyway. 

The fake brick wall below Grandma's village hid those moldy boxes with their weepy newsprint that stored all the Christmas treasures.

Until Grandma needed our sure-footed bodies to retrieve the tree's trimmings, and carry down the repacked decorations, we watched holiday cartoons wearing chocolate mustaches and crocheted booties. We tripped over new and old toys. And teased each other, giggling behind Grandma's wide, strong back. 

I threw away the booties after skidding down the stairs wearing them. The boxes and village were gone by then, and so was my bruised hip. But smudged fingerprints dotted the windows' glass the rest of the year. 

           

                      

           

Sustenance Substitutes

                                                  

The eighth person at my family’s dining room table during most of our dating meals, Joe squeezed amongst me, my siblings, Grandma and Mom. The spacious oval table may have been Dad’s last “I’m sorry” gift when Mom got pregnant for the fifth time.  

Mom said I was looking for a father figure in marrying so young. Joe did fit well between me and my brother. And he didn’t notice the dog stains on the carpet or scattering water bugs when I switched on the kitchen light. Toast and tea are basically bread and brown water. We snacked daily on these; an intimate experience.

My fiancé marveling at canned Easter ham, shocked me. I thought this a staple for the holy meal. Mom did serve a real Thanksgiving turkey, defrosted before baking, with boxed stuffing and a cylinder of jellied cranberry sauce, canned yams and olives from a jar. Mixed vegetables of all colors, previously pressure sealed, completed our banquets.

A frozen Salisbury steak entrée bathing in its tub of gravy to dribble over re-hydrated potatoes and canned wax beans, squared out as a typical meal. Cheaper than fast food, and almost as quick, most of the time required is in the cleanup. For our family to eat before bedtime, the race began at 5:30 when Mom came home. Later, the kitchen spigot sang us her lullaby to the tune of clinking glasses, dishes and silverware. 

 Homemade is being home, without a maid, to do-it-yourself. I believe mom’s prayer of gratitude for the miraculous microwave sincerer than a priest’s over communion wafers without intinction.

 Until my future husband arrived at our dinner table, I never thought twice about frozen, freeze dried, dehydrated, vacuum packed meals. We ate like astronauts as Dad looked down on us from beyond the final frontier. His blessings plus one, sharing jokes around his table, gave thanks for ready-made foods from my single mother’s hands.

             

           

             

Sell Out at 3.19

            Fifteen minutes earlier, I said a three day/two night good-bye to my children. Liberation had shone on their faces as our oldest teen closed the front door on me and my casserole of stuffed shells. Their father wouldn't arrive home for hours.

Baggage in the back seat and pocketbook in the front, I had put the dish in the trunk to ensure no saucy casualties. Hours later this would save us a towing fee, and cause a wild goose chase.

            As I drove the New Jersey Turnpike, a hissing started to my left. I focused due north. Should’ve called Mom and told her not to prepare anything for lunch.

That car with the problem was traveling next to me at the same speed. But why bother checking my mirror to see if they needed help? Other than not owning a cell phone, I knew nothing about cars, which released me from any responsibility. I left enough of that behind for a weekend visit with my doting mother.  

            Two drivers waved at me as they passed, pointing to my front end. I held tight to denial. There’s enough time to get to Mom’s apartment and bake the shells if I don’t need a rest stop.

The front of my car dropped and grating replaced the hissing. Crap. Serves me right for wishing ill on others.

Mile marker 3.19 had greeted me when I stopped. So that was what they were for. Roadside assistance probably needed the number to locate my car. Doing what I reprimanded kids not to do, I wrote the decimal down on my hand.

            So up for this challenge, I reviewed the problem and its possible repercussions. Forgetting to call Mom before leaving the house was a plus. She lived in the mountains of Pennsylvania, and would have been monitoring my ETA. After two hours and no daughter, she'd worry. I breathed deep with assurance that she‘d remained clueless.

             A state tow truck, which sweeps the turnpike for hazardous vehicles, was sure to arrive. I had seen these many times, stopped or moving at grandma speed, with their flashing yellow lights. If it took my car while I walked to find a phone, my husband would receive the towing bill. And insist I take his cell phone with me on future trips. Old school principle was at stake here.

            I ripped a white paper from the jam-packed glove compartment and stuck it out the driver's side window as a flag. I'd seen other people do this with cloth. I wondered where they had found their alerts. The only light-colored cloth I had, was undergarments in my overnight bag behind me.

Since other vehicles used cloth, I didn't think it necessary to write a note on the paper.

            Taking only my pocketbook, I left my locked car thankful for nice weather, flat shoes and that I blew out only yards from exit five. Then I started power walking to contact roadside assistance and beat the tow truck. The challenge had become an adventure.

            Approaching a toll booth on foot excited me. Not sure of the decorum for getting the person’s attention from atop a cement median, I peeked into the toll collector's booth. I waited until she was done with a customer, so she wasn't startled closing her money drawer.

            "Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you, but I need to call a tow service. I have no phone."

            Evidently this experience was new to the collector too. She scanned me, as if visually patting me down.

            "There's a Best Western across the street." She kept staring at me as she pointed. "You could call for assistance there."

            I thanked her and walked away, but knew she still stared as I crossed the highway. No one traveled without a phone, so I'm sure she was suspicious of my intentions. Her reaction thrilled me, along with the wind in my face, as I targeted the motel for the next leg of my vehicle-challenged adventure. I pretended I stole money from her booth and was on the lamb to hid out in family lodging.

            After using the Best Western's restroom, I called Allstate. "Are you sure you don't want to meet me at my car?" I asked Mel from Allstate. "It'll save time if I walk back. It's not far at all."

            "Don't go to the car. I'm coming to pick you up." How nice, Mel must be concerned for my safety. He didn't know about my adventurous spirit.

            He called several times for directions to the Best Western. The staff talked to him on their service phone while I relaxed on a comfy southwestern style sofa.

            I watched daytime TV, and used the bathroom again while waiting for Mel. Gripping denial again, I kidded myself that the tow truck hadn't hauled my Taurus from marker 3.19 as I watched the beginning of another show.

            Mel arrived. The communication and directional devices in his car impressed me. I seat-belted myself next to him and his noisy gadgets. He used them to supervise other Allstate roadside assisting staff on their missions to stranded motorists like myself. But the adventure really took off when he entered the turnpike overshooting the position of my car.

            "You'll have to exit and re-enter," I said. "You overshot the mile marker." 

            My Allstate rescuer pulled to the side of the turnpike.

            “The police will tow the car by then,” he said.

            It wasn't my fault he took so long finding the Best Western and entered at the wrong place on the turnpike. Amazed his technology didn't help him more, I kept quiet, not knowing what else to suggest.

            As he focused through the windshield, I read determination in his profile to complete the job before the state stole his business. Mel put the car in reverse.

            I childishly hoped his amazing car had flight capabilities as he focused on his rear view mirror. My head bobbed forward as he drove backwards along the shoulder of the New Jersey Turnpike. I had lost control of my adventure, and watched in fear as the mile markers ascend on my side of his vehicle. Crap. Mel backed across the on-ramp. Craaap.

            “Is that your blue car behind us?” he asked, stopping to gauge rear traffic.

            “I don't know,” I answered, afraid to move my neck to check the side view mirror. "But what other blue car would be disabled this close to exit 5 on the northbound side of the turnpike?"

            All I could do was squint at the mile marker in front of me, and do simple math off my hand. My head bobbed again.

            Mel braked in front of a four-door blue Ford Taurus.

            My life stopped flashing before my eyes in reverse.

            "Where's your spare?" Mel asked, as he exited his car to the whoosh of traffic.

            Not wanting to be alone in his fun car, I opened the door and got out, wondering how the vehicle behind could really be mine after all that time.

            Shimmying between the cars and roadside ditch to my trunk, I lifted the shells out and put them on the floor of my passenger's seat.

            Mel dug out the donut spare and rolled it to rest in front of my car. He spread out his gear a fraction of an inch from speeding cars and truck on The New Jersey Turnpike. Squatted among his tools, traffic sucked at his hair and clothing in their drawing draft. As he rose to switch the flat tire for the spare, the mat he knelt on inched into the outer lane.

            Recovered from southern exposure in the northbound lane, I saw that Mel could be the same age as one of my children. When he swooped his upper body into the right lane of the turnpike, snatching his mat, I thought of my child endangering himself for me. I distracted Mel, increasing his danger: "That's not worth your life, you can always get a new mat but not a new Mel."

            He smiled, whisking a wandering lug nut off the pike before an equipment truck ran it over. CRAP. Once again, he hadn't listened to me. He totally controlled my adventure. I covered my eyes. Visions of us making the twelve o'clock news reeled through my head on old school movie film.           

Mel rolled the flat tire to the rear of my car and heaved it in. It didn't fit in the wheelwell where the donut had rested, and took up most of the trunk. He scooped up the rest of his materials.

            I took a cleansing breath, reality setting in. The car wasn't towed, the flat was fixed, and I could be on my way.

            All business, Mel stood in front of me with a clipboard, clearly wanting to go since the fun was over. 

            "Can I continue to Pennsylvania on the donut?" I still intended to travel another hour and forty-five minutes to the mountains of PA. I had promised Mom the shells. Even with the delay, they'd still be okay to eat. We could have them for dinner.

            Mel explained, "You shouldn't drive over fifty-five miles an hour on the spare."

            I signed my rescuer's paperwork and got into the Taurus, shaking. At 65mph, the turnpike was no place for a lopsided car. My poor mother would have to cook for herself. I had to remain in New Jersey, and return to my responsibilities. 

            Mel manned his command station vehicle in front of mine. I wondered in which direction his next rescue was calling him. Did he plan to drive in reverse again? No way was I going to back up, even the short distance, to exited five. 

            I pulled out and passed Mel. If he wanted to exit south in the northbound lane, what could I do but get out of his way? I waved a 'thank you' with my pen-stained hand. Then signaled with my blinkers that my car was disabled.

            Mel approached my car. He passed me. I'm sure he would've preferred his tip in money and not parental advice. But I had no cash. 

            Other cars and trucks passed me, until a tow truck paralleled my Taurus, steady on my left. I watched for it to signal me to pull over. Maybe I was being paranoid, or still ruffled from my backwards ride, but I thought the vehicle's driver stared into my car too long. But, the tow truck continued its patrolling as I took exit six. He probably wanted to make sure that I exited to clear the roadway.

            In half an hour I was home again, and smirking to myself as I got out of the car. Scheming how to catch my kids off guard, I tip-toed towards our home to surprise them.

            Before I got to the front steps, the door flew open and all three kids hung out of it. “Where were you?” they yelled.

            “What?” I grinned, confused at their odd behavior.

            “The police called. Daddy's looking for you in Pennsylvania,” replied my daughter. “Grandma's worried and is gonna call Uncle Dan to help look for you.”

            CRAP.

            Praying he'd answer his cell, I called my poor husband. He had worked a sixteen-hour shift that day and was searching the PA Turnpike for our dusty-blue Ford Taurus that had never left New Jersey. I thanked God that my husband owned a mobile phone. 

            "Where are you now?" I asked, using our home phone.

            "In Allentown. About forty minutes from your mom," he said when I reached him. "I'm stopping at the rest stop for water and a burger."

            I dialed Mom next. And just in time to keep my brother from joining the police-initiated wild goose chase.

            Listening to my stammering teen, I pieced together that while I lounged at the Best Western waiting for Mel, the police had found my Ford with luggage in the back seat. The car wasn't towed because they thought foul play was involved, and were investigating my disappearance. They tracked the plates to my husband at our home phone number. He was at work when the police called the kids to say they found his car but no occupant. The kids had frantically called their dad's cell phone to make sure he was okay. Then everyone realized it was Mommy‘s car, which is registered in Daddy‘s name. After calling Grandma, panic ensued.

            "Why didn't you call the police back to find out where the Taurus was to let Daddy know where to look?" I asked.

            "I did," accused the teen who had closed our front door on me hours earlier. "But the police said they couldn't release any information at that time."

            My family in two states thought I was abducted, and in Pennsylvania somewhere. All because I had no cell phone for them to contact me to make sure the police were wrong.

            Now when I travel, I borrow someone's cell phone. Not because I may need help, but in case the police, with their modern technology, can't figure out that it's possible a stranded motorist didn't have a cell phone to call for help and had to walk to a nearby Best Western. Or that she needed a lady's room while waiting for road assistance. Granted, the police couldn't have known that I hadn't put my overnight bag in the trunk because of the sloppy tomato sauce. Or that I'd forgotten to hide the bag before walking to a Best Western in which I didn't intend staying.

            And, I'll never take for granted that an Allstate service car, sporting all kinds of bright shiny gadgets, can find a Best Western, or locate mile marker 3.19 on the northbound side of the New Jersey Turnpike.