Author: khforsythe

How seasons so swiftly pass.
The cooling nights.
The gathering calls.
The hummingbird’s final flight.

Fall once brimmed with beginnings, with hope.
I donned a starchy, new blouse and wool jumper.
The milk-weed pods launched their fluffy parachutists.
The woolly caterpillars awaited our probing fingers.

Now I grieve the changes.
The children’s empty beds, made up tight.
A knee’s aching stubbornness.
The stillness of the house.

There is comfort in the familiar, a slowing of the routine.
The dog and I watch the stars fade in the morning sky
As my neighbor’s kitchen light warms the yard.
And from the frosted lawn, I heard the timbre of his familiar voice.

My mother carries me to the cabin kitchen,

Where my grandmother waits,

Her apron cinched, her sturdy arms welcoming, her smile firm and determined.

Where I become the main event, the centerpiece of their day.

My little red bathing suit—a miniature Marilyn Monroe,

Full of sand, and grit, and a day’s worth of four-year-old play—

Is gently peeled from my exhausted body,

And shaking and shivering and whimpering

I am submerged in an old galvanized tub full of warm water.

I remember

Their calm reassurances

And the gentle hands touching me, pouring warm water over my tiny frame.

I remember

The light of those women—my women—in that tiny kitchen.

My grandmother—the jam maker, the warbly whistler, the grandchildren snuggler

My mother—the schedule arranger, the ache soother, my eternal encourager

Feeders of the world.

The wood cook stove snaps behind me

And I am lifted and wrapped in the clean towel,

Quickly cocooned in the safety and balm of my grandmother’s ample bosom.

I don’t remember

 

My mother’s youth, her beautiful smile, or how she was—briefly—mine alone

Or my grandmother’s predictably musky scent of onions and rising bread.

All gone to me.

The tub still hangs on the porch of the cabin.

The wood stove now a vintage accent in a cousin’s home.

The rest of the tiny kitchen is unchanged, a museum vignette dedicated to early cabin décor.

And above all, I remember

 

The radiance of their love,

And how at that moment, I was the cherished center of their universe.

Young, enthusiastic, and giddy with a job which offered more than minimum wage AND included benefits, I wound my way on the country roads on my way to work. The sun rose optimistic in my rear view mirror—my 72 Catalina hugged the curves, floating over the bumps and potholes, her old head lights startling the occasional skunk or rabbit. I had landed my first teaching job—unheard of in 1982. My fellow Michigan State University graduates had moved to Texas or the West Coast, and bumper stickers read “The Last One Out of Michigan, Turn Out the Lights.”  I had applied to every school district in a one hour radius of our newly established home. One principal called, I interviewed, and he offered me the job.   I taught high school English in a paint-chipped, leaky classroom in a small, southwest Michigan district. I had five different professional outfits, two pairs of sensible pumps, a faux-leather briefcase, and a twenty-two-year-old’s optimism and innocence. And I struggled, too ashamed to ask for help, willing to take on more and more as the daily assignments and themes piled higher and higher on my desk. But “what a lucky break” and “it’s a great opportunity” and “just keep trying” constantly played in my head, blocking out the threatening clouds, fatigue and despair.

So, I cherished this thirty-minute drive through southwest Michigan, and as the year progressed—and my energy level and enthusiasm sagged—I cranked the AM station higher and savored the sights on the way. The same cars met me every morning, the same deer scavenged in the winter snow, the same trees began to bud, and the same little man waved at me every morning. I think I noticed him in early March—probably after we experienced the “spring forward”– standing by his garage in his little gray work suit, holding his little gray lunchbox, sipping coffee from his little metal coffee cup, his thermos upright on the ground. He tipped his cup at me. And then he was there every morning. I waved—he tipped. I smiled—he smiled. Oh how I loved rural America! Pretty soon I began to roll my window down and extend my hand in friendship, waving wildly as I passed—you see it was too early to sound the horn. If horn sounding had been acceptable, I would have toot-toot-tooted some cheerful tune for him. The smells of early spring, the sounds of the wind passing, all buoyed me as my little, reliable friend cheered me on. I told my co-workers about this little man. I pointed out the house to my husband.  I thought about pulling into my little man’s drive, saying hello, and sharing a morning cup with him.  What a great country!  It couldn’t get any better.

But then, the lightning bolts of reality grounded me. The first day of April, I hummed along, anticipating spring break, extra sleep, and a much-needed reprieve from my teenage students. My hourly lesson plans scrolled through my head. Everything seemed in order. I followed the curve, and my little friend’s house was in sight. I extended my hand, turned to smile, and there he was—naked—just standing there, slack-bellied and expressionless against his garage. No coffee cup, no thermos, no little gray uniform.  A fuzzy, electricity slithered down my spine to my toes. I gripped the wheel. I looked straight ahead. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. Not my little friend. Maybe he was wearing a nude colored jumpsuit. Did they make such things? Maybe they changed the color of his work clothes. Did they make flesh colored work clothes?

I think there was— probably still is—something in my face which must invite such behaviors. “You have an open face,” a friend once told me. ”People will tell you things.”  (This friend is a retired psychiatric nurse—that should have been my first clue that this face could result in such behaviors from strange men.) I had been flashed several times while a student in East Lansing. I had lived above a thirty-something flasher when I student taught in Battle Creek. And now I had been flashed by this little man, tarnishing my Mayberry countryside.

I knew that appearances aren’t always what they seem. People can surprise you. It was like the time my brothers and I were part of the Buckaroo Rodeo Show in the sixties.  Sleepy-eyed, we watched the show every Saturday morning in our pajamas. From our couch, we admired Buck’s cowboy accent, his confident smile, the way he spoke to the “Buckaroos” in his audience. One Saturday my mom and dad dropped us off at the television studio in our new cowboy boots and crisp western outfits to be a part of Buck’s young audience. We perched on small bleachers, smiling when the cue card said “SMILE,” clapping when the cue card said “CLAP.” And when the television camera was off, Buck snarled, telling his stunned Buckaroos to “Shut up!” and I heard him say to the woman applying his make-up, “God, I hate kids.” Suddenly Buck’s smile wasn’t quite so sweet—his buckskin costume not quite so genuine. I wrapped a protective arm around my youngest brother, checking to make sure my other brothers were within my reach. So you see, I should have been skeptical of my pastoral drive and the little man. I should have somehow seen the truth coming.  But I didn’t.

I survived my first teaching placement, receiving a glowing evaluation and an invitation for another year of the same. A new suit and boots made their way into my closet, and I changed my morning route. I finished my year traveling different roads, but my new path wasn’t nearly as sweet.  The red-wing blackbirds trilled along the ditch banks, as the spring uncovered the litter decorating the sumacs and cattails. The red barn sported fresh paint and a neat paddock, but behind the white picket fence, the lone farmhouse’s curtains were drawn tight.

Lightening laced the air–the June sky was veiled a deep purple-blue—an eerie nighttime in the late afternoon. The wind whined and whistled, the old maples swayed and curtsied, the thunder growled and menaced.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s okay,” my mother crooned.  “Let’s watch for your dad.”

My dad was working beyond the barn, cultivating the corn fields on our low ground–rich black muck stretching all the way to the far ditch banks and the distant woods. He was trying to finish before the storm. From behind the panes of the front window I could see his tractor, a small red dot inching its way down the rows, working its way towards the gravel road leading home.

Tears welled in my eyes, “Please, hurry, hurry, hurry, Daddy,” I prayed, pressing my hands to the cool glass.

This was my whole five-year-old world: the barns brimming with glossy eyed steers, the fields striped with tender seedlings, the yard shadowed with trees, and our home filled with comfort.

I pressed my nose to the window as the rain drops began, speckling the sidewalk. I heard the sputter of the tractor as my dad rumbled up the ramp and into the barn.

Then the summer storm raged, the water ran in sheets down the front window and the lightening sizzled and snapped. Shaking, I hid my face into my mother’s soft bosom, she held me tight and stroked my hair. We rocked and rocked, waiting for the storm to break , watching for my father to walk across the road from the barn.

My two little brothers played happily on the floor, oblivious to the storm, to the noises, to their frightened big sister. They built their block towers and knocked them noisily, their monuments clattering to the floor as the lightning flashed and the thunder rattled our old farm house’s bones. I wrapped my arms around the wonderful softness of my mother, and she rested her cheek on the top of my head.

“Kathy, look.” I turned to the window. My father stood in the barn doorway and waved his hat—he put it back on his head, and raced towards the house, leaping across the puddles, sprinting across the road to the shelter of the front porch, the screen door slapping shut behind him.

“Wow! That sure came up quick!” He stood, dripping, shaking his hat. “What are you boys building?” he asked, bending to touch my brothers’ heads as they pummeled another structure.

He turned to my mother and me. “How are my girls?” He reached down and took my trembling hand and pressed it between his.  He looked at my mother.

“She was worried about you,” my mother prodded.

My dad bent down and looked in my eyes. “Kathleen, it’s okay.”

I wasn’t convinced. I looked up at him, still dripping with rain, still holding my hand.

“Kathleen, it’s always going to be okay.”

And it was. And it is. And it will be.

My parents continued to add to our family–two more baby brothers within the next five years. And our home stretched and adjusted, welcoming the seasons and changes that life eventually brings.  Those years in our childhood home and the many lessons we learned together shaped us and allowed us to understand that this life journey has both ups and downs, joys and sorrows, but that things work out—hard times don’t last.

When we hurt each other, we learned forgiveness.

When we met challenges, we learned persistence.

And as we face the body’s mortality, we learn grace.

Sunshine always comes after the rain.

My life’s anthem.

 

I always—quite smugly—profess my needs to be so simple: family, friends, food, and shelter. My adult kids roll their eyes then smile at me. They understand my marquee message: “Oh yeah, we know, Mom,” they sigh. But when the holidays loom, my satisfaction with our 1960s three-bedroom tri-level dissolves. The space suddenly seems so inadequate. I quickly go from, “I don’t need anything for Christmas except time together” to dreaming on Zillow for a massive home, complete with a commercial-grade kitchen and showplace dining room. I could graciously greet my family at the door, calmly inviting them into House Beautiful. A graceful staircase would lead them to bedrooms staged with fine furniture and sumptuous linens and window coverings, each adjoining bathroom sparkling.

My house would be orderly. Elegant. Lovely. PERFECT.

Most of the year I can beat these feelings down and remember that 95% of the women of the world would be amazed by my home; for most of the year my house is more than enough for the two of us.  But during the holidays, my values are skewed by Hallmark ads and the colorful displays that this year began even before Halloween. Oh, how I secretly covet a huge old Victorian, complete with built-in buffet and resplendent butler’s pantry.

Rockwell’s Thanksgiving painting is imprinted permanently in my brain. The family is so obviously appreciative. The relatives circled around the table are radiant; their freshly scrubbed faces glow. The table so tasteful; all the dishes of the meal exactly timed and on display. But when my turkey comes out of the oven, my serenity is shattered.  The gravy needs to be started and stirred; the turkey needs to be pried from the roaster and sliced; the forgotten relishes need to be opened and arranged; the water needs to be iced and poured. Calgon, Take Me Away.

It’s only when my dear family converges that my galley kitchen and dinette area seem Barbie sized. Yes, I know I could make some things easier. I did some research this year about how to create a stress-free Thanksgiving meal. I even tried a make-ahead gravy for my gluten-free family members. (I obviously added too much corn starch and the gelatinous, disgusting lump never reached the right consistency when I reheated it—even with my daughter’s determined attention with a whisk and serious brow.)

I meticulously set the tables ahead of time, but as the turkey and sides and rolls and beverages were moved to our dining area the buffet table was too small. I didn’t allow enough room for the cornucopia display I so carefully created with colorful fruits and vegetables flowing from the horn of plenty. This year it was voted off the table in the pre-serving rush and plopped on top of our wood burner, the beautiful red pears and glossy apples bouncing to the floor in its transit.

So no, it wasn’t an amazing Martha Meal—but some things made it pretty darn close:

All four of our parents were still able to attend

My husband still smiled at me from across the room

Our adult children still enjoy one another’s company,

and our grandchildren still think I’m the best Nana ever.

Not perfect. Never will be.

But it’s a fine life.