It’s way too late to start a blog post, but this is how I
roll. (That’s how the kids are talking these days, right?) This pic of my sweet
McBaby #3 brings back memories of my “Sitsiti” Arabic for
maternal Great-Grandmother.
Something about the white headscarf she is wearing and the dark
eyes. It’s amazing how sweet
memories can immediately open up Pandora’s box though.
Is it just me or does your heart almost immediately pang
with longing for times gone by as soon as you revel in the memory? A longing for things to be, well, different. As they should be and
were originally intended, I suppose.
Not confined by time.
One of the places I long to go very badly is my paternal
Grandmother’s kitchen table. I
yearn to go back to that place almost daily. As I raise my own children around the kitchen table, the
memory stays very fresh, very vivid, and I have the best of memories about
hers.
For starters, it was a drop-leaf table. The perfect table for someone living on
her own, but who could immediately and easily make room for us grandkids to
come visit. I long for that place
because we spent so much time there in the afternoons. “Kings on the Corner”, “Canasta”, and
“Dominoes” were our favorite games - and oh how we played for hours and hours…
or so it seemed as a small child.
There was no hurry. The
only other things on our agenda were playing piano, visiting the forestry, and
baking bread.
The more that I think of this place, the more romanticized
it has become I’m sure. I want to
go there. I want to be a kid. I want to see my grandmother. I want to have time to play cards for
hours on end. I want my brother to
be little again and slide with me at the park. I want my sister to be the
little baby that fit in the drawer/makeshift-crib out of my Grandmother’s
dresser. I want my cousin to be thirteen and make up scavenger hunts and skits with me. I want to smell fresh
bread baking in the background and know that after I fill up on it, I will get
to spend the night at her house. I
want a shiny penny to put on my dominoes.
I want a bite of her homemade jam.
I want her to ask me to practice my hymns on the piano – to play the
instrument “just because” it’s a blessing to do it, hear it, sing it, be
reminded of the Truth. I want to
see her closet full of homemade quilts.
I want to hear the sound of her well-taken-care-of-typewriter for which
she made me use the correct fingering. I want to nearly bust at suppressing laughter at the old man that always fell asleep at her church. I want to sit on her white davenport. I want to drink her sun tea. I want to be introduced to “Anne of Green Gables” for the
first time again and again in her living room. I want to see her long skinny leather walking shoes that she
wore with pantyhose even when we were just hanging out. I want to taste her taco salad. I want to drink out of her red
glasses. I want to have a
peppermint out of her never-ending-peppermint bowl.
But. I. can’t.
And my heart hurts when I think about it. As much as I can dream of it, I can’t go back. As much as I wish Marty McFly and Doc
Brown would show up in my living room, it won’t happen. Wahp. Wahp. Depressing post, eh?
What brings me solace tonight before I put my head on the
pillow though? I looked up the
meaning of the word “canasta” and it means basket (Spanish). I immediately thought of Mary
“treasuring these things in her heart” when she found out she was pregnant with
the Christ child, and I saw that while I can’t go back, I can carry a basket
forward with as many memories as I want.
It can hold whatever I’d like and memories make up my story. I treasure
these things in my heart. They make me who I am. That’s all I got.
No big word or spiritual epiphany, just a tisket, a tasket, a little memory basket… and a blog to share a bunch of things “outloud” (so to
speak/write). Good night.