Susiej

His ship was arriving in a few days to take him back home. The war was far from over. He had read in a postcard from home that his baby sister had been saving a bucket of snow for him since Christmas – she was keeping it in the barn. Later, when she would take his hand and led him to spot, the mud squishy from the spring thaw, she would say, “Someone must have stolen my snow. It’s gone. All they left me was a bucket of water.”

This is where the story stops.  I add this to the growing pile of mysteries that I left unsolved; the questions I didn’t ask before they all left me. My boys quickly, and efficiently, tucked this enchantingly beautiful currency into the vintage album, without a thought. Free from connection or memory. (At what age will they being to ask those questions?)

If I had the chance I would ask, “what did you sacrifice so that you would have this money to take back home? An egg salad sandwich on rye? A pair of boots to replace the ones you had with holes? Or are these dollars merely the leftovers, a souvenir, from your big-spending party night before you came back home? Tell me the truth, now. The suspense is killing me.”

Bookmark to:

Hide Sites

Filed under: Life, memories by SusieJ - No Comments →

Today my mailbox was filled with two complete polar opposites of emotion. The first was a white envelope that contained the words, “I’m sorry, but…” End of story. I had suspected that if such a letter was coming, they would have held off until after the holidays – now I realize that is simply not the case. “Four days before Christmas, and we’re sending off a letter that will make you feel as if you just got kicked in the stomach.” “And,” I can hear them in my head, “We have no problem doing that, because this is just business.”

Now I’m grinding my teeth during the day too.

There was a second pole of emotion that came in a brown box wrapped in red, white and blue postal priority mail service tape. Inside was a vintage box of angel hair. The $.89 Shopper’s Fair sticker is still attached.

The return address on the package is not one I recognize – although the last name sounds familiar, but I cannot place it. But, the location I clearly do not know. This is a time that it’s difficult not for me to remember those cookies.

There is a passage in the book Julie and Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously where Julie writes on her blog that she can’t afford to buy enough butter to cook Julia Child’s butter-laden recipes. To her surprise, she finds more butter than she needs in her mailbox – from people all over the world.

As I read this, I was struck by the power of words to incite people to care and to reach out. To send cards when there is nothing else that can be done. To motivate someone to send a rare box of vintage angel hair to someone else.

While Julie became known by the mailman as the butter girl, I get angel hair. (I prefer the hair.)

So, whoever you are, I am grateful for this puddle of angel hair to spin magic around the house for the holidays, and for the vintage box to keep it safe year after year. An extra 3.5 ounces of magic where nothing existed before.

Part of me knows that the bad news that arrived in my mailbox today is just another link in the chain to something better. Before X can happen, this Y must happen too. But, it’s still quite a blow; one the angel hair softens. And, thank you my friend, for putting a bit of joy in what otherwise would have been a very, bleak day for my mailbox. Your timing couldn’t have been better.

Bookmark to:

Hide Sites

Filed under: holidays, memories by SusieJ - 2 Comments →

The stores are dressed in holiday style, and in the air there’s a feeling of Christmas.

So, in that spirit, I decided to take each of my boy’s shopping for each other, alone. I wanted them to truly think about what the other person needs; I expected nothing more than a pack of gum, or a toy they just happened to want for themselves. (Here’s an open door for that.)

Four days later, my feet ache. Over the last four nights, I have driven in a circle, spent time walking up and down the aisles of the stores closest to our home, and have completely tired out my legs, feet and eyes.

These were gifts I was going to purchase anyway, so why not share them with the brothers as a way to infuse Christmas Cheer and the spirit of what “giving” is all about.  Plus, if some of my gift stash was put into the hands of the siblings, I would have less gifts to hide. We could put them directly under the tree, and save me the trouble of hiding and finding.

Of course, I also did not anticipate how hard it would be to keep everyone’s gifts straight. I have a “map” scrawled in cryptic code that only I can decipher to guide me down the path of the store aisles, and the writing of the name tags during the wrapping phase; making sure not only “To” is correct, but more importantly, “The From.”

In years past, it has just been easier to do all the shopping myself, because honestly, is it really practical to go back and forth to stores four times in a week? Apparently, it is.

One surprise was the sudden time I had, almost out of thin air, to spend alone with each child, free to talk without interruption. Next, the minutes we spent at the bookstore surprised each of them the most; a place they never associated with gifts. Yet, this spot turned out to be the place of deepest treasure hunting.

Next, when I posed the question, “What do you think your brother needs,” they offered suggestions I had never considered. Under Armour to keep his big brother warm at ski club, a new Calvin & Hobbes book because he’s finished the one we already have, or “he doesn’t even have a wallet.” And, as he chose the wallet, he thought about where his brother normally keeps his quarters – the front pocket. So, we found a font-pocket wallet, that snaps shut with a magnet, around a loop. Each one of them, regardless of age, came up with truly thoughtful gifts.

My oldest son was 2 when Toy Story 2 came out, and he was the expert I consulted as I bought miniature Toy Story figures for his little brothers. He knew exactly which ones to get — “because you can set up a scene with Slinky Dog, and Hamm, and Etch  and Mr. Spell. We already have Buzz and Woody — and we definitely need the get-away car, RC.” His mind was spinning up a scene of his own.

At the checkout, there was a miniature red-stripped sock monkey. “Mom, don’t you think he would love to have one of those?”

Bookmark to:

Hide Sites

Filed under: Life, boy, holidays, memories by SusieJ - 2 Comments →

After the tree was decorated and I went to sleep, my Mom would sneak to the Christmas tree and wrap the lights in angel hair — my entire favorite part of the Christmas tree. Angel hair went out with tinsel icicles, and is very rare to find today. But my Mom saved one last box of angel hair among her Christmas decorations stored in her attic — for me, I’m sure to find someday. She imagined me, as big girl, with children of my own, sneaking down to the tree to swirl the lights with angel hair.

Angel hair looks exactly like an Angel’s hair would look.

Angel hair is spun glass, and the glass fibers can get into your fingers — so she always “fussed with it” after I was in bed. She swirled the angel hair around the lights, so that the tree would glow.

Then she used extra angel hair to tuck around the nativity scene, and her Christmas Village — so that everything looked as if it were sitting in a cloud.

With one box of angel hair left to my name, I use it wisely. Usually, I put it in a glass bowl among the vintage ornaments she left behind, and a few more strands for the tree.

Bookmark to:

Hide Sites

Filed under: holidays, memories by SusieJ - 3 Comments →

Later, she would tell me how relieved she was not to find me greeting her at the door wearing a housecoat, with curlers in my hair and a cigarette hanging out of my mouth.

She found my number from a flier I had posted at the university’s school of education. While she needed and wanted the job, she was unfamiliar with the city; with great trepidation she came to our house for an interview.

My baby was six months old; just old enough to start moving around, sleeping a bit less than a newborn, and making it very difficult for me to write about supply chain transformation and electronic data for my clients. I needed someone to help me take care of the baby downstairs, so that I could work upstairs.

She fit like a dream into our life. My work time was flexible, and each quarter I’d adjust to fit her class schedule. She loved tasking care of our son. Sometimes I would come downstairs to see his stuffed animals lined up, (the audience) while my son put on a show in his bouncy seat. She taught him to do puzzles, and how to put the rings on the pole in exactly the right order. She made him laugh, and I could hear that sound tingle all the way up the stairs while I wrote about those supply chains. She wasn’t just a babysitter; she was like having that  kid sister around that I always longer for, but never had.

This was taken during one of her post-job visits on my son’s birthday after he was older. She always stayed in touch, always remembering his birthdays. Tomorrow, I will find that picture of her leading the puppet show, a non-digital photo, and update this post with that picture. I can see it in my mind, and that picture makes this story.

If she had time, and she always did, she would follow the step-by-step instructions in the cookbook of the recipe I marked. Then she cleaned up the kitchen, after fixing our dinner, while the baby slept.  Then, she’d plump up the pillows, water the plants, and make sure the new diapers I picked up at the store were out of the package and ready to go.

Before she left for her apartment, she’d fill me in with everything that I missed while I worked, and give us the latest campus news, and updates about her family. We’d both swap stories about our favorite parts in the picture books I’d checked out at the library.

I just heard from her, and all day I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind. Writing about the way our simple uncomplicated life used to fall into place every night makes me homesick for her, and for the way things used to be. I once did have it made. Oh how I need someone like her in my life again.

Bookmark to:

Hide Sites

Filed under: boy, memories by SusieJ - 1 Comment →

The boys found this blue parking ticket in the box while they were resurrecting my vintage album. This is from my little town’s Sesqui-Centennial, the town’s 150th Anniversary.

This is the only token from that celebration that happened sometime in the 1960s. No photograph or colorful flier from the celebration could be found.  Yet, the words on this ticket instantly whip up the memory in my head of seeing the streets of my little town lined up with carnival rides. I remember a red one, in particular. Metal-screened rectangular boxes, big enough to hold people, made big Xs in the sky, as if the ride were doing a big jumping jack. Screams from the stringy-haired teenagers inside poured down onto the street below, as the boxes went up and down and around.

There was the smell of roasted peanuts poured into brown paper bags, and the memory of their softness as I put them into my mouth. I was under 4 or 5 years old, and I can distinctly remember where I stood on White Street (or was it Baird?) as the parade came through, where the clowns threw candy onto the street, and my Dad picking up handfuls and handing them to me.

That clown chased me for years and years afterwards, in this recurring dream. The clown wears huge red shoes, and tries to catch me so he can step on my toes. As I run away and  through the park, I loose my parents. Before he catches me, I would wake up screaming, covered in sweat from the chase.

Funny that my Mom only kept this small token of the day — all that she had left. Yet, this ticket could just as well have been a video for all the memories it evokes.

Bookmark to:

Hide Sites

Filed under: Life, memories by SusieJ - 3 Comments →