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Posts Tagged ‘Memoir’

The Kitchen Table

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , , on October 9, 2012| 2 Comments »

Finally, Fall has arrived. Someone once said that a person’s favorite time of year is related to their birthday, which makes sense. Our whole lives we have been celebrating our birthdays, or at least until we’d rather forget them, and so we’ve become conditioned to “like” that time of year. It’s true in our family; the September babies love the Fall and the August babies adore Summer. Thought I would share this little kitten’s morning picture. She was born on a seasonal cusp, but I can already tell she has a preference for furry sweaters.

I wonder, will the Love Bug’s birthday party happen before school starts or after? This is a very big question since school levels the playing field and expands potential invitees. It will most likely depend on which part of the country our children decide to live in, whether school begins before or after Labor Day. I have pictures of birthday parties in 1950s Victory Gardens, they were small affairs with everyone wearing pointy hats, sitting around the kitchen table. Think about your Mother’s kitchen table. You’ve started back in school and the days are getting shorter. You joined a bunch of kids off the school bus, kicking leaves and slowly meandering your way home. You walk into the house and it’s warm, almost too warm compared to that crisp Fall day. But the smell of cooking is the first thing to hit you. It surrounds you and you melt into it.

My foster mother Nell stayed at home. Her generation was almost required to stay home if the husband could provide for the family. She once told me she worked for a short time at a store before she married, but she never learned to drive and so she was marooned in our little house. She seemed happy to me, but I wonder now. Her gift to me is priceless. Taking me in, loving me like I was her own child. And her comfort food can still make a bad day better. She made “Haloopkeys” (I have no idea how to spell it) – a Slavic dish of stuffed cabbage with pork and rice and cooked in sauerkraut, served up on a formica table with chrome legs. Every culture has a stuffed vegetable delicacy. And every person on earth has a memory of their mother’s kitchen table.

My Fall Table

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Summer Color

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , on August 12, 2012| 2 Comments »

Black – searching for rugs:

Let’s do a six-worded color memoir for summer so far. The other day, we awoke to see 2 adolescent foxes playing on our lawn.

Lavender – sometimes at sunset:

They were pouncing, strolling, swatting and scratching. It was parallel play; searching for bugs beneath the grass.

White – butterfly on hydrangea:

I watched them silently, through the French door, wishing to run and get my camera, but rightfully fearing that opening the door would scare them off. .

Pink – peonies at a baby shower:

Their reddish-brown fur gave me this idea

Brown – pup on deck:

Have a sweet Sunday y’all!

Green – an August wedding:

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Mid-Winter Memoirs

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , on January 25, 2012| 2 Comments »

Unlike the previous posts of six worded seasonal memoirs, I’ve decided to make this one just a bit different, thanks to my new friend, Courtney, who asked for a 10 word or less memoir of life. She asks, “How would you sum up your life/ relationships, experiences on the planet in 10 words or less?” My answer to this question is a family joke. Bob’s Grandfather Sam, a Jewish Russian immigrant, sat down towards the end of his life and penned his autobiography, in Yiddish. Its title is, “Better it Couldn’t be,” well at least that was the translation.

My answer to anything that goes wrong has always been, “It Could Have Been Worse.” Is that optimistic? I think so; you skin a knee, hey you didn’t break it. Fender bender, no one was hurt, right? So here is my take on Winter in Six Pictorial Memoirs so far –

It Could Have Been…

1) Another Epic Storm

2) A Holiday Binge

3) A Calvin Klein Underwear Ad

4) Lonelier

5) Bigger

6) Well, maybe it couldn’t be any more serene!

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Transportation Man

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , on June 18, 2011| 2 Comments »

He used to play the spoons in our kitchen to my utter delight. And every Saturday he would wash and wax that kitchen’s floor. The smell of floor wax makes me think of cartoons. Many nights, after cleaning up the dishes, he’d dance with me standing on his shoes to the radio. When he came home from work at four o’clock on the dot, he would always have a surprise – a flower, a small toy, a cookie. Every single day. One summer he made me a doll house out of Popsicle sticks. Almost every night we’d play gin rummy, followed by butterfly kisses and “Don’t let the bedbugs bite” good night. If I was sick in the night, he would stay up with me until I fell back asleep. He was the only father I ever knew, Daddy Jim.

My Dad was my hero. He would never spank me, but he would chase me around the house for a good “paddy wackin,” which meant catching me until I dissolved in giggles. He never raised his voice, unless he was house-training a puppy. We would sing I Wonder who’s Kissing Her Now in the car or maybe Casey’s at the Bat. If we drove under a bridge, we’d duck our heads. My foster Mom, Nell, couldn’t drive, so Daddy took me out into the world – to the butcher, and the bakery on weekends. And to Mass on Sunday, followed by a Rocky Road sundae and the papers at Zanelli’s.

I’m pretty sure he never finished grammar school, because he had to get a job to help support his big Irish family of eighteen children. But he was the sweetest, kindest man in the universe. In the few pictures I have, he is sitting reading a newspaper, with me underneath it; or this one, holding me and a puppy.

He didn’t pose, and only knew how to tell the truth. Too old to fight in WWII, he found a job at Picatinny Arsenal, helping trains navigate their labyrinth of tracks. He would answer the phone, “Transportation Man!” He and my biological father, a pharmacist, were buddies back in PA. Robert Norman Lynn died of a brain tumor when I was a baby, and Daddy Jim drove his wife Nell over the Delaware Water Gap to save me from going into an orphanage. My husband Bob always said, “Your Dad’s a hard act to follow!” Our son’s middle name is James.

He gave me a home, after mine fell apart, and most importantly, the capacity to love.

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