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[Cleaver] Sunday Afternoon Rocking
by List user
From: Jan, unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
Beneath the Surface (from the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking" series)
For all of my childhood, I remember a small nondescript table placed along
side a wall in the kitchen at Pa's. No one would notice it unless one
needed to use it. It wasn't much to look at, but being a necessary part of
our lives, got a fresh coat of white paint every spring, without the
previous year's coat being removed. Thus one could not tell what shape or
form the legs of it had ever had, if any. The operative word was not
"beauty", but "clean", and this was assured with the annual coat of paint
and the linoleum tacked to the top that it might be scrubbed with a
vengeance. It was the "wash up" table. Not having indoor plumbing, the
table was where bowl and pitcher were kept for the "washing up" before
cooking or meal-taking. It was not a fancy china bowl and pitcher either,
as once again function reigned over beauty, but a simple tin set that
served the purpose. I do not remember that they matched.
When the time of Pa's sale came, his children removed this or that they
thought should go to auction, and this or that they wished for purposes of
nostalgia to keep. And my father asked my mama what she would like. As an
in-law she had the last pick and not that much left. Looking about, she
thought of the days she had spent in that kitchen, sweating over an old
iron stove, cooking meals for family or farm hands. She thought about all
the springs when she and the "girls" came in to attack the old house with
scrub rags and buckets. She remembered stuffing feather pillows anew and
dashing paint on any surface that looked as though it might need it. She
wound up choosing the small nondescript table.
Months later, after a good deal of time had been spent with paint remover,
steel wool and sandpaper, the table was no longer recognizable as the same
one we were all so familiar with, and the family gasped that it was the
same. The tall legs of the table had assumed a shapely form, with spindles
and graceful knobs. Paint peeled and sanded away had revealed a warm and
glowing cherry wood. And the drawer, stuck for years, now opened to reveal
that the beautiful little table was put together not with glue or nails,
but with wooden pegs. How many generations ago the table had been a
beautiful piece, no one knew. Just when it became the "wash up table",
complete with annual layer of fresh white paint and a linoleum top, no one
was quite sure. How and when the table, so old that it had been put
together with wooden pegs, entered the family, no one quite
remembered. The only certainty was that underneath the layers so thick it
had hidden even the shape, was a beautiful graceful little table. Its warm
cherry wood gleamed in reward for the time spent lovingly restoring it.
I think about that table a lot as I do family history. It seems as though
a hundred stories uncovered are a bit like that table, and people too. We
become accustomed to things, and so do our elders. We ask elders about
something of the past and their answers, golden nuggets to us, seem so
familiar and taken for granted by them. "But you never told me that!", I
have exclaimed over and over, and received a surprised reaction in
answer. And I find myself doing the same. One of my adult children asks
me something I have known so long I take for granted, and I hear, "But you
never told me that!" I am surprised. I never thought to mention it.
I think about that table a lot as I live. I wonder how many "wash up
tables" in life I take for granted, because they are so much a part of
things. And I wonder if a warm beautiful treasure might gleam in reward,
if I can only recognize "what is there" beneath the surface of that which I
see every day. For me there is a tangible reminder. The table graces my
own home, and is as meaningful in its symbolism as it is in its beautiful
form. But, if we but consider it, most all of us have such a "table", don't
we?
Just a thought,
jan
Copyright ©2001JanPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be
shared...simply share though e-mail as written without alterations...and in
entirety. If planned for a publication, permission must be granted by the
author. Please forward sufficient information concerning the nature and
intent of the publication.
Thanks, jan)
Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday
Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per
week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to
Sundayrocking-subscribe(a)topica.com
Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to
unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18 years, 11 months
[Cleaver] Sunday Afternoon Rocking
by List user
From: Jan, unicorn(a)sun-spot.com (j)
It Takes a Heap of Living (from the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking" series)
Today my daughter and I pitched in to "be family". As surely as the barn
raisings of the past, so it is when family begins a project, our
traditional framework says it is time to "pitch in". A step-daughter and
her husband have built a new home, and we are helping with wallpaper. They
are excited, this young couple, and rightfully so. Their new home will be
lovely. It sparkles and shines in its crisp newness. It seems poignant
with expectation of good times and family affairs, celebrations and events
a future together promises. And because this couple is young, and standing
in the threshold of life, they stand "looking in" and "ahead", happy with
expectations, but without the framework of one who has lived. And so I
doubt they see what I see, what my husband sees when we look around us at
the sparkling interior.
Somehow our gaze ventures beyond that which is "there", that which is
lovely indeed, and what we "see" simply can only be seen by eyes that have
seen before. I think Edgar Guest said it best when he penned the lines,
"It takes a heap o' living to make a house a home."
A house simply isn't a home until it is inhabited not just by people, but
by memories. There have to be some walls echoing laughter, some floors
paced with worries, a window one has stared out of in pain. There have to
be some worn spots and some scratches and some scars. There have to be
some things less than perfect to make a place "perfectly a home". If "it
takes a heap of living to make a house a home", it is because it "takes a
heap of living to make a life a life". Somehow a house, once it has become
a home, is the badge of honor that proves a life has been lived and still
stands proudly bearing the scars of having lived it. The very fact that
the house still stands is proof of the firm foundations upon which it was
built, and that in as symbolic a way as a physical one.
I peer at a door frame and see tiny pencil marks matching a yet unborn
child's growth. I glance at a place a patio might be poured and imagine a
child's handprints in the concrete, preserved forever that an older child
or adult will gaze one day and say, "Those were mine". I peek into at a
proposed nursery and see tiny finger smudges on a wall, a crayon mark or
two that a mother finds it difficult to paint over, both in reality and in
emotion. I imagine a gang of noisy young folks merrily clamoring in a
basement room. I see bright eyes dancing as they peer over a counter top
at freshly made cookies, and I imagine squeals of delight out on the lawn
as a child holds up a brightly colored Easter egg. I think that one day
this young couple will be where my husband and I are now, and a young lady
will bring a young man through that wide front door one day to meet her
folks…and their lives will change forever…again.
Perhaps my step-daughter will one day hear tradition calling, "It is time
to pitch in", and she too will be there for her young adult children,
delighting in their youth, their expectations on the thresh hold of
life. And I suspect…she will see in the newness of their life together the
portent of all the things to come that she will by that time have
known. She will smile at their delight in life, she will enjoy knowing the
pleasures they will find as adults carving a place for a family, and she
will sadly know in her life all the pain they will face as they begin
theirs. She will come armed with a paint brush or a roll of wall paper,
and the hands that she puts to work helping this youthful couple will be a
bit roughened, but adept. The heart that she uses for eyes will be a bit
weary, perhaps a bit toughened, and yet in some curious way, a bit more
tender. She will glance at a door frame of a new home, and see tiny pencil
marks matching a yet unborn child's growth…
"It takes a heap o' living to make a house a home." And isn't that a large
part of what life is all about? We bear the scars and the scratches and
the worn spots, and our "house becomes a home". We stand as proof that
foundations made it possible to survive the storms of life and our house is
even more beautiful than the day it was shining in its newness. How
wonderful.
Just a thought,
jan
Copyright ©2001JanPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be
shared...simply share though e-mail as written without alterations...and in
entirety. If planned for a publication, permission must be granted by the
author. Please forward sufficient information concerning the nature and
intent of the publication.
Thanks, jan)
Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday
Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per
week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to
Sundayrocking-subscribe(a)topica.com
Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to
unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18 years, 11 months
[Cleaver] Sunday Afternoon Rocking
by List user
From: Jan, unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
Déjà vu (from the Sunday Afternoon Rocking series)
My husband and I sat in a restaurant casually enjoying an evening meal…when
I saw him. My thoughts connected with those of thirty years past, and I
stared in amazement at the back of the elderly gentleman passing me. He sat
at a booth within my line of vision. A lady who was probably his daughter,
another more than likely a granddaughter, sat with him. I fought with
myself, wanting both to take a casual trip by the booth and look him in the
eye, and wanting at the same time to maintain the illusion presented to me
from the back of this man's head in passing, from his profile at the booth.
The thin white hair was the same, the shape of the head the same. The build
of the body almost exact, and the soft shuffling of feet past my table as I
had so often heard it a lifetime ago.
He was my grandfather…or he could so well be. When I saw him pause to
publicly but quietly pray before his meal, I lowered my eyes in respect,
both to his prayer and to a memory. When I saw him push a napkin into his
collar before eating, tears flooded my eyes. Yes, he was indeed my
grandfather, or could so well be.
When we left the restaurant, I could not stand it…I had to look. No, he was
not my grandfather. His eyes were brown but not the same. His smile was
kind, but it was not my grandfather. I resisted an impulse to hug him, and
thank him…for just a moment giving me the illusion that a long ago time had
returned and a special person in my life was there again. I returned his
smile, and went on my way.
It has happened to me before. I have seen my "father" sitting in a hotel
lobby of Chicago, glimpsed my "grandmother" strolling down a
street…shamefully lowered my eyes when caught staring at "an uncle". For
just a moment sometimes, strangers can unwittingly give us a glimpse of
memories past and never realize that they are in fact, a mirror image in
passing of a memory buried long ago in all but our hearts and minds.
It has happened to me before. I have driven down a strange road, done a
double take, and driven a bit more slowly past a house that reminds me of a
long ago home place. For just a few moments, I could imagine I was in the
same place of long ago, a place that no longer exists except in a heart.
The landscape was not the same…but the house could be, and I painted the
landscape around it with memory, and then was on my way. I have stood in an
antique mall and run my hands gently over furniture like that I remember
that beloved place. I have had my vision cloud for a space in time, and
seen it sitting somewhere else, heard echoes of activity around me that
took place long ago, returned to the present to slowly walk away.
Sometimes the reminders are not from strangers at all. I never look at a
cousin without seeing a photograph of a grandmother taken in her youth
nearly one hundred years ago. I wonder sometimes if my cousin notices that
at times I am slow responding to her questions or that I seem to be seeing
someone else. I never see the back of my son's head without thinking of my
father. He does not know I sit and watch sometimes as he crosses a room. A
cousin once said to me, "Jan, you will never die as long as your daughter
is in the world." and I know what they are seeing when they look at her is
a long ago me.
And far from being hurt by such reminders, it seems to bring a bit of comfort.
Déjà vu.
Just a thought,
jan
Copyright ©2001JanPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be
shared...simply share though e-mail as written without alterations...and in
entirety. If planned for a publication, permission must be granted by the
author. Please forward sufficient information concerning the nature and
intent of the publication.
Thanks, jan)
Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday
Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per
week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to
Sundayrocking-subscribe(a)topica.com
Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to
unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18 years, 11 months
[Cleaver] Sunday Afternoon Rocking
by List user
From: jan, unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
Hello Grandpa! (from the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking" series)
Once I was asked to place myself in a hypothetical situation. "If you
could interview anyone, dead or alive, who would it be?"
Forget the famous, dead or alive! If I had the amazing capacity to cross
boundaries of space and time, it would be one of my own ancestors I would
interview. I have tried to imagine how it might go, and of course, like
most of you, I like to imagine a warm "homecoming", a beautiful meeting of
generations…and a lot of information. But I remember that people, after
all, had personalities no matter when in time they might meet, and not all
folks of a family have the same ideas. And so it occurs, that it just as
possibly might go like this…
"Hello. You are not going to believe this. I hardly believe it myself,
but I am your third great granddaughter."
"Hmmm. You don't say? Well you certainly have your nerve, turning up this
time of night. That, young lady, came from your granny's side of the
house. Her ma was the nerviest woman I ever saw. Come to think of it, you
got your nose there too. Yup, look a little like her. 'Horse face', that
is what I called her."
"So sorry Grandpa! I had no way to know what time I might arrive…or even
exactly what year! But…if you don't mind…since I am here, and not likely
to be able to return…may I please ask you some questions?"
"Ummm. Well now, that depends. I want somebody to know something, I tell
it, and I don't much hold with nosey."
"Uh. Well for starters, (and let me get out my charts here), but can you
tell me who third great granny's father is?"
"That is not up for discussion. And polite folks don't talk about it."
"Oh. Well can you tell me please, if your father really was Cherokee?"
"Nor is that. You are worse than that derned census taker."
"Oh. Well could you please tell me the exact year you were born?"
"I will tell you this, I am old enough to know better and young enough to
care."
"Ummm. Could you tell me where you migrated …uh …moved here from?"
"Now that is common knowledge. And if you were a scholar, you could look
it up."
"But can you tell me the EXACT place you moved from?"
"Well now, it was down the road a piece from the Jones and up the road a
piece from the Smiths. Took us mite near two weeks to travel."
"But the town?"
"Weren't no town"
"Oh. Well then…I can't find the death record of your first wife. Could
you please tell me what happened to her?"
"Don't see where that is any of your business, young lady."
"Oh. Well then…I am missing names of your siblings. Can you tell me that?"
"Oh well now…there was Squirrel, and Rabbit, and Jumbo…and…"
"No, I mean their real names…"
"Well you will have to consult the family Bible on that one. That ain't
what we called them."
"YES!!! Where IS that family Bible, Grandpa?"
"Well now, Aileen has it."
"Aileen? Who is Aileen??"
"My mama's sister. Only she up and married that peddler passing through
here and I don't rightly know where she went."
"Who was the peddler, Grandpa?"
"Well now, I don't rightly remember. He weren't much to look at though, I
remember that. Now I got something to ask you."
"Yes sir! Ask anything at all!"
"Don't you have anything better to do? Looks to me like a strapping young
woman like you would have to get up in the morning and do your chores. And
if you ain't got more to you than to be aiming on that one, you ain't no
kin to me anyhow."
And then the door slams. And I am not one bit better off than I was in the
first place… Maybe that is why there is no more to go on than there
is…wasn't anything to go on then either.
Just a thought,
jan
Copyright ©2001JanPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be
shared...simply share though e-mail as written without alterations...and in
entirety. If planned for a publication, permission must be granted by the
author. Please forward sufficient information concerning the nature and
intent of the publication.
Thanks, jan)
Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday
Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per
week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to
Sundayrocking-subscribe(a)topica.com
Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to
unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18 years, 11 months
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