My husband drives a Pilot, an older model, bulky, squarish, always clean inside. I drive a CRV, fondly called Curvy, squattier than the Pilot, always a bit of a mess. The floorboards are littered with crumpled tinfoil from egg sandwiches eaten en route to school, a dirty soccer sock hides out under the driver's seat, clumps of mud from lacrosse cleats cling to the backseat carpet.
She is, on a good day, disheveled. In order to spare Curvy any shame should an unexpected passenger need a ride, I bark orders at my teenaged sons.
"Quick!" I say, in a panic, "Toss the loose books, water bottles, and gum wrappers into the main back. One of you swipe up the melted Hershey kiss from inside that little compartment by the door handle. Use that old ripped t-shirt in the backseat to wipe down the dashboard."
A few weeks ago, I wrecked Curvy, dashing off half her left rearview mirror against the side of the garage. I've backed that car out thousands of times without incident; but I was running late, and my parents were visiting. I was trying to avoid bumping their vehicle when I heard the sickening crunch of the mirror glass. A lump jumped from my chest to my throat. I knew it was bad without looking. When I did look, her side mirror was hanging akimbo and my reflection was a jigsaw puzzle. For a couple weeks, I drove her around, her mirror a testament to my negligence...like sending the boys to school with bad haircuts or unsigned permission slips. I was relieved when my husband ordered a replacement part and patched Curvy up himself with a little gorilla glue. Not quite good as new, but good...a small scar marking the place where he reattached the severed mirror casing.
Curvy has not had a winter wash in a couple of winters. I feel bad for her; but with kids, and work, and life in general, her cleanliness is not a top priority. She soldiers on...through rain, slush, snow, salt. I wonder if she's embarrassed, parked in the garage beside Pilot. He seems like a take-charge type...the kind who might rub it in just a little that she's always so haphazard. He is like a pilot, well-kempt and wise...a little standoffish.
Curvy, on the other hand, is long-suffering, approachable...on hand every day, carting us without complaint to practice and the mall and church and the grocery store.
Now that my older son has his driver's license, the Pilot will soon be his car. I find some comfort in that. Pilot has proven himself a leader among cars...strong, invincible, reputable, proud. Perhaps Pilot will take issue with the fact that he will no longer warrant garage status and will be parked, instead, in the back driveway...exposed to the elements.
Curvy, humble and serviceable, will not gloat. Instead, she will rumble a sigh of regret. Pilot has been her roommate now for more than five years. Despite his authoritative air, he's been company for her. Curvy forgives his egotism.
My husband is shopping for a replacement vehicle for the Pilot...something newer, shinier, bigger, boxier...
He asks my opinion, touting mileage reports, safety reviews, color, make, model. I'm more concerned with the name.
"What about a Rogue?" I suggest. "Curvy would like sharing close quarters with a Rogue...rakish good looks, a bit of a mischief maker." My husband shakes his head and swipes his tablet.
"Umm...no," he says. He keeps looking. Whomever (I mean whatever) he chooses, I'm sure Curvy, true to form, will make the best of it.
Thursday, March 3, 2016
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
Years from Now
Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to fill the cabinet
under the kitchen sink
with disposable aluminum pans,
and empty butter dishes,
and old saucepans;
so my grandchild
can help herself to
everything she needs
to make mud pies
and fancy grass salads.
I will give her a wooden spoon
so she can stir
invisible soup over the
old grate in the backyard.
Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to make pigs in a blanket
for lunch,
and I will teach my grandchild
how to melt butter until it sizzles
and pop popcorn on the stovetop...
a lost art.
Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to slice cucumbers in neat rounds
to eat before dinner;
and I will have
a small Formica table
where we will have breakfast,
eating grapefruit
with little sharp-edged grapefruit spoons.
Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to keep a cut-glass candy dish
on the end table in the front room.
I will fill it with colorful hard candies
shaped like fruit.
In December, I will make
little green Christmas tree cookies
that taste like almond extract.
Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to set up a quilt frame
in my living room;
so my grandchild
can hide beneath it
and cut paper dolls from catalogs
I saved for her in the magazine rack.
Years from now
If I am a grandma,
I will remember
to gather an extra quilt
from the cedar chifferobe
and tuck the heavy quilt
I stitched myself
on top of the blankets
on the guest bed
where the grandchild sleeps.
I will say, "Good night," and
"I love you," and
"Don't forget to say your prayers."
Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember.
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to fill the cabinet
under the kitchen sink
with disposable aluminum pans,
and empty butter dishes,
and old saucepans;
so my grandchild
can help herself to
everything she needs
to make mud pies
and fancy grass salads.
I will give her a wooden spoon
so she can stir
invisible soup over the
old grate in the backyard.
Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to make pigs in a blanket
for lunch,
and I will teach my grandchild
how to melt butter until it sizzles
and pop popcorn on the stovetop...
a lost art.
Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to slice cucumbers in neat rounds
to eat before dinner;
and I will have
a small Formica table
where we will have breakfast,
eating grapefruit
with little sharp-edged grapefruit spoons.
Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to keep a cut-glass candy dish
on the end table in the front room.
I will fill it with colorful hard candies
shaped like fruit.
In December, I will make
little green Christmas tree cookies
that taste like almond extract.
Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to set up a quilt frame
in my living room;
so my grandchild
can hide beneath it
and cut paper dolls from catalogs
I saved for her in the magazine rack.
Years from now
If I am a grandma,
I will remember
to gather an extra quilt
from the cedar chifferobe
and tuck the heavy quilt
I stitched myself
on top of the blankets
on the guest bed
where the grandchild sleeps.
I will say, "Good night," and
"I love you," and
"Don't forget to say your prayers."
Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember.
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
A First Time for Everything
Recently, I joined our state's chapter of the Audubon Society; and, in early February, I participated in my first bird watching event. Steam curled off my coffee as I made my way from the parking area to the meeting point. I was nervous.
First days are always a little nerve-wracking.
Would I be able to identify any birds? Since Christmas, I had studied my copy of National Geographic Birds of North America; and I had kept a close eye on the song birds visiting the feeders in my backyard; but I was certain I'd be the least experienced in the field that day. The small pack holding my stadium binoculars bumped against my hip. We were supposed to meet at a point just past the entrance to our city's historic cemetery. My 16-year-old son, a history buff, tagged along to enjoy the winter morning.
We spotted the group right away. Five birders clustered near a hedgerow. I touched my binocular case self-consciously.
"My field glasses are too small," I whispered to my son. The other birders wore expensive Eagle Optics or Nikons, secured to their chests by binocular harnesses.
"Don't worry," my son advised. "You'll still be able to spot some birds and have some fun."
I was doubtful. No one likes to feel like a novice.
We introduced ourselves and headed toward the underbrush.
"There," the leader, Bob, aimed his binoculars toward a few birds pecking at the ground near a fallen tree. "A dark-eyed junco," he said confidently. I unpacked my Bushnells, awkwardly balancing my half-empty coffee cup in one hand while holding my tiny binoculars in the other. I could barely make out the shape of the little bird; let alone the species. A dark-eyed junco? Could he really see the bird's eyes with those binoculars, I wondered. The other birders, in an attempt to make me feel like part of the group, gathered around me, pointing out various birds as we snaked our way around the cemetery.
Bob dutifully pulled a folded index card from his pocket and used a stubby golf pencil to record each species we identified...more than 16 total.
As we rounded the bend in the road near the duck pond, the group slowed to a stop.
"Did you just hear that red-tailed hawk?" one of the birders asked. Everyone was silent, straining to listen. A goose honked at us from the pond's edge. Even I recognized his message: "Move along people...nothing to see here." We never saw the hawk; but I made a mental note to listen to some bird calls. I had no idea I was supposed to be skilled in birding by ear as well as eye. I had work to do!
The group said it was a slow day; but I felt invigorated...inspired even. Later that afternoon, using my book as a guide, I spotted a dark-eyed junco, nibbling from the tray on the feeder outside my kitchen window. I didn't need to be close enough to see his bright, black eyes to recognize his plump gray body, pale beak, and white feathered belly.
I was not the best birder that day in February; but I was learning from some of the best. The fun of trying something new conquered the fear of not being good enough.
First days are nerve-wracking; but as day one slides into day two, then three, and suddenly ten...nervousness gives way to joy, fears fade as friendships are forged, skills are honed, and perhaps the red-tailed hawk sails overhead in plain sight, calling out encouragement.
"You've got this!" he shouts, tipping his wings as he circles overhead.
First days are always a little nerve-wracking.
Would I be able to identify any birds? Since Christmas, I had studied my copy of National Geographic Birds of North America; and I had kept a close eye on the song birds visiting the feeders in my backyard; but I was certain I'd be the least experienced in the field that day. The small pack holding my stadium binoculars bumped against my hip. We were supposed to meet at a point just past the entrance to our city's historic cemetery. My 16-year-old son, a history buff, tagged along to enjoy the winter morning.
We spotted the group right away. Five birders clustered near a hedgerow. I touched my binocular case self-consciously.
"My field glasses are too small," I whispered to my son. The other birders wore expensive Eagle Optics or Nikons, secured to their chests by binocular harnesses.
"Don't worry," my son advised. "You'll still be able to spot some birds and have some fun."
I was doubtful. No one likes to feel like a novice.
We introduced ourselves and headed toward the underbrush.
"There," the leader, Bob, aimed his binoculars toward a few birds pecking at the ground near a fallen tree. "A dark-eyed junco," he said confidently. I unpacked my Bushnells, awkwardly balancing my half-empty coffee cup in one hand while holding my tiny binoculars in the other. I could barely make out the shape of the little bird; let alone the species. A dark-eyed junco? Could he really see the bird's eyes with those binoculars, I wondered. The other birders, in an attempt to make me feel like part of the group, gathered around me, pointing out various birds as we snaked our way around the cemetery.
Bob dutifully pulled a folded index card from his pocket and used a stubby golf pencil to record each species we identified...more than 16 total.
As we rounded the bend in the road near the duck pond, the group slowed to a stop.
"Did you just hear that red-tailed hawk?" one of the birders asked. Everyone was silent, straining to listen. A goose honked at us from the pond's edge. Even I recognized his message: "Move along people...nothing to see here." We never saw the hawk; but I made a mental note to listen to some bird calls. I had no idea I was supposed to be skilled in birding by ear as well as eye. I had work to do!
The group said it was a slow day; but I felt invigorated...inspired even. Later that afternoon, using my book as a guide, I spotted a dark-eyed junco, nibbling from the tray on the feeder outside my kitchen window. I didn't need to be close enough to see his bright, black eyes to recognize his plump gray body, pale beak, and white feathered belly.
I was not the best birder that day in February; but I was learning from some of the best. The fun of trying something new conquered the fear of not being good enough.
First days are nerve-wracking; but as day one slides into day two, then three, and suddenly ten...nervousness gives way to joy, fears fade as friendships are forged, skills are honed, and perhaps the red-tailed hawk sails overhead in plain sight, calling out encouragement.
"You've got this!" he shouts, tipping his wings as he circles overhead.
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Lost Glove
Someone lost a glove last week...
during the winter storm.
When the snow melted, the glove was there,
black cotton fingers limp, in the mud.
I passed the glove on my way to the park
and thought how sorry someone would be
when he reached into a pocket to find only one,
shaking his chapped hand...
looking behind...
looking down...
patting the other pocket...
Frustrated,
tucking both bare hands
deep in his coat, squeezing the lone glove in his fist.
What good was one
without the other?
The next day someone had moved the lost glove,
sticking it high on a garden stake, marking the spot
where a new tree had been planted last summer.
The glove slumped, its fingers sagging loosely.
Then the wind lifted,
the fingers fluttered,
a half-hearted wave...
hopeful.
That night, I passed the glove once more.
My dog strained against her collar,
pulling me through the fog.
The glove was reaching skyward...
toward the hidden moon.
I dared not look back.
My own hands inside my gloves,
clinging to the leash,
trembling...
but warm.
I'd hate to lose a glove on a foggy winter night.
during the winter storm.
When the snow melted, the glove was there,
black cotton fingers limp, in the mud.
I passed the glove on my way to the park
and thought how sorry someone would be
when he reached into a pocket to find only one,
shaking his chapped hand...
looking behind...
looking down...
patting the other pocket...
Frustrated,
tucking both bare hands
deep in his coat, squeezing the lone glove in his fist.
What good was one
without the other?
The next day someone had moved the lost glove,
sticking it high on a garden stake, marking the spot
where a new tree had been planted last summer.
The glove slumped, its fingers sagging loosely.
Then the wind lifted,
the fingers fluttered,
a half-hearted wave...
hopeful.
That night, I passed the glove once more.
My dog strained against her collar,
pulling me through the fog.
The glove was reaching skyward...
toward the hidden moon.
I dared not look back.
My own hands inside my gloves,
clinging to the leash,
trembling...
but warm.
I'd hate to lose a glove on a foggy winter night.
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Birds of a Feather
"Never stop learning!" I have exclaimed to my students for 22 years.
I felt certain my life was a testimony to that directive. I read all the time! Not only did I stay informed on the latest research regarding reading and writing instruction, I also read teetering stacks of middle grades novels every year. I was a lifelong learner...wasn't I?
This year, two of my seventh graders unintentionally challenged me. Both boys are in my first hour language arts class. They don't really run in the same circles, and their only common characteristic seems to be their unfailing dedication to informational nonfiction. Despite my best efforts, neither boy has been inspired by my enthusiastic talks, featuring the latest and greatest in middle grades books. Instead, each insists on combing through some of the oldest books in our school library, checking out hard-backed volumes titled simply Dogs or Viruses or Weather.
I was baffled.
"I can see you really like to read about dogs," I said, interrupting Lucas who peered at me over the top of a large book that featured a picture of a Springer Spaniel on the cover.
"Yep," he said.
Although I had shared wonderful new examples of nonfiction texts and had presented multiple book talks, holding up novels and narrative nonfiction featuring dogs, Lucas doggedly returned to the dustiest corner of the library week after week. After reading his way through all the dog books, he moved on to books about bones and then books about the common cold. Daniel, on the other hand, liked to read about cats.
Every day, the boys dutifully picked up where they'd left off the day before, digesting facts and figures while the rest of us were lost in other worlds and dramatic story lines.
I was intrigued (and some days admittedly frustrated) by Lucas's and Daniel's unfailing interest in books that I couldn't imagine ever legitimately holding anyone's interest. Were they just going through the motions...turning the pages? No, when we shared what we were reading, both boys always offered fascinating snippets about cats or canines.
I love books...all books; so why was I so flustered by the boys' desire to trudge through page after page of information?
Following the old advice, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em," I asked for a book about birds for Christmas. My husband, mother, and sister looked at me the same way I must have looked at Lucas and Daniel.
"You want a book filled with facts on birds? I didn't even know you liked birds," my mother said.
"I never thought you were that interested in nature," my husband confessed.
"Well I am," I said. "I am most definitely just now becoming interested in nature, and more specifically in birds."
On Christmas morning, I unwrapped a paperback volume entitled Backyard Guide to the Birds of North America by Jonathan Alderfer and Paul Hess. That afternoon, I read about the Carolina Chickadee who happened to be nibbling seeds my mother had sprinkled on the back deck. I learned that her call is different when nesting, "...fee bee, fee bay," as compared to her usually chipper, "...chick a dee-dee-dee." Later, I read about a tiny wren who had been known to nest in overturned flower pots or in abandoned winter boots. I immediately felt privileged to be a member of a very small group of people who knew those interesting tidbits of information. Maybe that was why Daniel and Lucas gravitated to straight information.
On our first day back from winter break, I led a different kind of book talk (for me, anyway). I shared all the novels and the biography I'd read over break, but then I held up my new favorite book.
"I am reading this book," I said, showing the class, "because I was inspired by Lucas and Daniel. They always read nonfiction, and I wanted to see what was so great about it; and now I know. I used this book to identify a dark-eyed junco last week! That's pretty great...and listen to this," I said, and I read a particularly interesting part. Lucas and Daniel smiled. Neither talks too much; and neither is very easily impressed. Right away, they returned to their nonfiction books. Lucas was reading a book called Cells, and Daniel was reading Cats...again. I settled into my chair and read about the Downy Woodpecker (pictured below, hanging around outside my kitchen window) who is described as having a "...toy-like quality."
Perhaps, I thought, Daniel and Lucas might venture out of their reading comfort zones one day...but until then, I was happy to validate their choices...to join their little flock for a season.
I felt certain my life was a testimony to that directive. I read all the time! Not only did I stay informed on the latest research regarding reading and writing instruction, I also read teetering stacks of middle grades novels every year. I was a lifelong learner...wasn't I?
This year, two of my seventh graders unintentionally challenged me. Both boys are in my first hour language arts class. They don't really run in the same circles, and their only common characteristic seems to be their unfailing dedication to informational nonfiction. Despite my best efforts, neither boy has been inspired by my enthusiastic talks, featuring the latest and greatest in middle grades books. Instead, each insists on combing through some of the oldest books in our school library, checking out hard-backed volumes titled simply Dogs or Viruses or Weather.
I was baffled.
"I can see you really like to read about dogs," I said, interrupting Lucas who peered at me over the top of a large book that featured a picture of a Springer Spaniel on the cover.
"Yep," he said.
Although I had shared wonderful new examples of nonfiction texts and had presented multiple book talks, holding up novels and narrative nonfiction featuring dogs, Lucas doggedly returned to the dustiest corner of the library week after week. After reading his way through all the dog books, he moved on to books about bones and then books about the common cold. Daniel, on the other hand, liked to read about cats.
Every day, the boys dutifully picked up where they'd left off the day before, digesting facts and figures while the rest of us were lost in other worlds and dramatic story lines.
I was intrigued (and some days admittedly frustrated) by Lucas's and Daniel's unfailing interest in books that I couldn't imagine ever legitimately holding anyone's interest. Were they just going through the motions...turning the pages? No, when we shared what we were reading, both boys always offered fascinating snippets about cats or canines.
I love books...all books; so why was I so flustered by the boys' desire to trudge through page after page of information?
Following the old advice, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em," I asked for a book about birds for Christmas. My husband, mother, and sister looked at me the same way I must have looked at Lucas and Daniel.
"You want a book filled with facts on birds? I didn't even know you liked birds," my mother said.
"I never thought you were that interested in nature," my husband confessed.
"Well I am," I said. "I am most definitely just now becoming interested in nature, and more specifically in birds."
On Christmas morning, I unwrapped a paperback volume entitled Backyard Guide to the Birds of North America by Jonathan Alderfer and Paul Hess. That afternoon, I read about the Carolina Chickadee who happened to be nibbling seeds my mother had sprinkled on the back deck. I learned that her call is different when nesting, "...fee bee, fee bay," as compared to her usually chipper, "...chick a dee-dee-dee." Later, I read about a tiny wren who had been known to nest in overturned flower pots or in abandoned winter boots. I immediately felt privileged to be a member of a very small group of people who knew those interesting tidbits of information. Maybe that was why Daniel and Lucas gravitated to straight information.
On our first day back from winter break, I led a different kind of book talk (for me, anyway). I shared all the novels and the biography I'd read over break, but then I held up my new favorite book.
"I am reading this book," I said, showing the class, "because I was inspired by Lucas and Daniel. They always read nonfiction, and I wanted to see what was so great about it; and now I know. I used this book to identify a dark-eyed junco last week! That's pretty great...and listen to this," I said, and I read a particularly interesting part. Lucas and Daniel smiled. Neither talks too much; and neither is very easily impressed. Right away, they returned to their nonfiction books. Lucas was reading a book called Cells, and Daniel was reading Cats...again. I settled into my chair and read about the Downy Woodpecker (pictured below, hanging around outside my kitchen window) who is described as having a "...toy-like quality."
Perhaps, I thought, Daniel and Lucas might venture out of their reading comfort zones one day...but until then, I was happy to validate their choices...to join their little flock for a season.
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
The Snow Day That Wasn't
The forecast called for three inches of snow,
and the weatherman said not to doubt it.
Excitement mounted as the big snow approached.
We'd gone weeks into winter without it.
The buses would slide in their morning commute;
their tires would fail to get traction.
Some called off school before one snowflake fell;
Yes, most neighboring districts took action.
Our district did not - no, they waited for proof;
so we soldiered on through the flurries.
A half day perhaps? We just dared to hope;
but the hope only fizzled to worries.
By noon it was clear that the forecast was faulty.
The closed schools had jumped to conclusions.
Anyone hoping for sledding and cocoa
clearly suffered from snow day delusions.
We worked at our desks, feeling grumpy at best.
Our dreams of snowmen were fading.
At least we wouldn't have to make up the day;
so we trudged through assignments and grading.
Like Christmas morning without any gifts,
or the 4th of July with no fireworks show,
a bunny free Easter, a starless night sky...
it was a snow day without any snow!
Snow days are gifts for all to enjoy
and pity the person who doesn't;
but for those at home waiting or those of us working,
today was a miserable snow day that wasn't.
and the weatherman said not to doubt it.
Excitement mounted as the big snow approached.
We'd gone weeks into winter without it.
The buses would slide in their morning commute;
their tires would fail to get traction.
Some called off school before one snowflake fell;
Yes, most neighboring districts took action.
Our district did not - no, they waited for proof;
so we soldiered on through the flurries.
A half day perhaps? We just dared to hope;
but the hope only fizzled to worries.
By noon it was clear that the forecast was faulty.
The closed schools had jumped to conclusions.
Anyone hoping for sledding and cocoa
clearly suffered from snow day delusions.
We worked at our desks, feeling grumpy at best.
Our dreams of snowmen were fading.
At least we wouldn't have to make up the day;
so we trudged through assignments and grading.
Like Christmas morning without any gifts,
or the 4th of July with no fireworks show,
a bunny free Easter, a starless night sky...
it was a snow day without any snow!
Snow days are gifts for all to enjoy
and pity the person who doesn't;
but for those at home waiting or those of us working,
today was a miserable snow day that wasn't.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Happy Birthday from Galley Street
Granny knew she was not the best cook. She had a few dishes that she had mastered...vegetable soup, soup beans, meatloaf, and gingerbread or jam cake (for something sweet at Christmas). She cycled through her standbys regularly, adding cornbread here, a slice of fried bologna there. She made it clear that she would rather be reading than cooking.
My birthday was the exception...which made it an exceptional day. Granny tried to be the first to wish me a happy birthday, calling long before my alarm clock was set to ring.
"Happy birthday to you," she warbled, singing the whole song enthusiastically off-key. "Happy birthday, dear Lorrrrri. Happy birthday to you!"
For dinner on January 5th (or as close to that date as we could manage), she fixed my favorite...salmon patties. She used canned "Double Q" pink salmon.
"Always pick out the little bones," she advised, as she carefully sorted through the salmon with her fingers. She added flour, egg, cornmeal, salt and pepper; then she patted the fish into round cakes about the size of the palm of her hand.
She set the skillet on the burner and poured in two caps full of Wesson oil. The gas under the burner flared blue.
While she fried the salmon patties, we talked about school and books and TV shows.
Sometimes she told stories about when she was a girl...how she used to pretend she was an opera star while she washed the supper dishes. I could just imagine her looking out her kitchen window, soap bubbles up to her elbows, singing made-up words in a loud vibrato (poor on tone, but rich with emotion).
Grown-up Granny set the salmon patties on a folded paper towel on top of a plate. We served ourselves, two salmon patties each, a heap of fried potatoes, a puddle of ketchup...a birthday feast.
While we ate, we talked. Conversation paused only long enough to chew and swallow. We lingered at the table, plates empty except for the paper towel on the serving dish. It was stamped with rings of golden oil where Granny had set the salmon patties so they wouldn't taste too greasy. Granny thought of everything.
After a while, she capped the ketchup bottle.
My birthday had begun with her song and ended with the two of us side by side. While I washed the dishes and she dried, we talked. Conversation continued, our birthday opera in a language all our own, accompanied by the clink of glasses, the clatter of silverware, and the gurgle of soapy water swirling down the drain.
I was another year older; and thanks to Granny, I was a little wiser. She knew how to make a birthday something special.
My birthday was the exception...which made it an exceptional day. Granny tried to be the first to wish me a happy birthday, calling long before my alarm clock was set to ring.
"Happy birthday to you," she warbled, singing the whole song enthusiastically off-key. "Happy birthday, dear Lorrrrri. Happy birthday to you!"
For dinner on January 5th (or as close to that date as we could manage), she fixed my favorite...salmon patties. She used canned "Double Q" pink salmon.
"Always pick out the little bones," she advised, as she carefully sorted through the salmon with her fingers. She added flour, egg, cornmeal, salt and pepper; then she patted the fish into round cakes about the size of the palm of her hand.
She set the skillet on the burner and poured in two caps full of Wesson oil. The gas under the burner flared blue.
While she fried the salmon patties, we talked about school and books and TV shows.
Sometimes she told stories about when she was a girl...how she used to pretend she was an opera star while she washed the supper dishes. I could just imagine her looking out her kitchen window, soap bubbles up to her elbows, singing made-up words in a loud vibrato (poor on tone, but rich with emotion).
Grown-up Granny set the salmon patties on a folded paper towel on top of a plate. We served ourselves, two salmon patties each, a heap of fried potatoes, a puddle of ketchup...a birthday feast.
While we ate, we talked. Conversation paused only long enough to chew and swallow. We lingered at the table, plates empty except for the paper towel on the serving dish. It was stamped with rings of golden oil where Granny had set the salmon patties so they wouldn't taste too greasy. Granny thought of everything.
After a while, she capped the ketchup bottle.
My birthday had begun with her song and ended with the two of us side by side. While I washed the dishes and she dried, we talked. Conversation continued, our birthday opera in a language all our own, accompanied by the clink of glasses, the clatter of silverware, and the gurgle of soapy water swirling down the drain.
I was another year older; and thanks to Granny, I was a little wiser. She knew how to make a birthday something special.
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