Tuesday Night Club

When the box of Bridge Mix went into the grocery cart, I knew that Tuesday afternoon would mean “crazy time” in my house.  We had only a few hours after school to make the house presentable.  This meant that my mother, sister and brother and I would race through every room, scoop up any excess, unnecessary clutter like magazines and newspapers and throw it into my mother’s room and close the door. The door remained closed.  The vacuum roared through the house.  Dust flew.

Weeks before my mother would sift through her magazines and cookbooks searching for a dessert that would top all desserts.  Likely, my mother would choose a dessert that was not only luscious with fancy restaurant quality presentation, but also something that would not be labor intensive. It had to be prepared quickly-in the late afternoon after work.

This Tuesday meant the whole house was in a tissy.  I don’t remember where my father was during all this frenzy. I think he was either in his room sleeping or out at Doc’s Tavern or the Little Red School House for a few beers.  Tension was high.  We prepared the house for a dozen ladies who liked to gab and cared about one another.  Their knitting and mending came in with them baskets and bags-the primary purpose of the gathering.  Each woman took turns hosting.  My mother’s turn was met with a mix of dread and excitement.  

With a spotless house that smelled fresh and clean, moments before the doorbell rang, heavy with fatigue we sat and admired our labors.  The ladies streamed into the kitchen where there was a flurry of hugs and hellos.  The living room held every chair we had in the house arranged in a large circle.  Little tables held candy dishes of the bridge mix. A punch bowl stood near.  With all the cleaning work behind us, entertaining was exciting and fun.

Unfortunately, for me (and maybe for my mother) my bedtime was shortly after the “party” began. I did not want to miss a thing.   “When it is time for bed.  It’s time.” my mother began.  “You can visit for a little bit, then you have to go to bed.” I nodded.  I had heard everything my mother said.  

In bed, I lay on my back and listened, just barely making out voices.    I was missing out. Sneaking out of my room and down three steps, I could get a view of all the “club ladies.” Peering through the stair balusters I sat motionless. I watched, I listened, and  I learned until it was time for my mother's friends to go home. I never missed anything.

Club met every Tuesday for thirty years or more.  They lived through life together:  births, divorces, illness and death.   With time, it was less about mending and more about  relationship.  

I don’t have a club.  I feel like I am missing out.

Through the Brambles

                                                                       

Lately, I have been thinking about how I handle stress, disappointment and life's surprises-of which I have had many.  Grit?  It is always a question as to how much I have.  It seems that I have more when I have accessed my resources and supports than when my reserves for "curve balls" has been depleted by lack of self-attention.  It has long been my contention that not only do the daily habits of a spiritual being like praying, meditating and engaging in kindnesses support each soul, but for me, creative pursuits contribute greatly to my well-being.  That is why I write.  It sounds corny, but it feeds my soul.

Writing for the purpose of posting to my blog has become a habit.  The hard part is working on other writing projects that require long term effort, persistence and facing the fact that I don't always know what I am doing as I tread on new territory.  My motivation for my current project is to honor a strong woman who became my dear friend, an unlikely pairing. Part of what thwarts me is the fear that my words will not do her justice.  Part of my fear is that my memory of her remains unclear, foggy. When I think of this project there is a mix of excitement, apprehension and pure fear.  It is easier to think plenty about this project than to plunge ahead and give it a go.  I am hopeful that with all my supports at the ready and by creating a plan for persistent effort, I will find my way through the brambles.

The Admission

With this admission, I realized that there was so much more that I didn't know about her.

Everything was red and big. Red lipstick was drawn just passed the natural curve of her lips.   Hair dyed, twisted into a tight bun, morphed by the bow clip  that loomed like wings of a great bird ready for take-off. Earrings made of shiny metals and ribbons rocked at her lobes looking weighty as she shuffled around the halls in shoes that were slightly too big and would not stay on her feet.  All this warned us of her approach. She yelled as she walked.   She never apologized for her booming voice and explained that she was Italian, as if that excused it all.  She always talked over everyone.  Her presence was made known right from the beginning.

"I have to find another job," I confided in my friend, a fellow teacher.  "I can't work with that woman!" I swallowed hard, not really sure what I was going to do.

There was no way of missing her in the halls of school or on the road either.  Her cars through the years were big, large tanks.  She always insisted on driving. Her oversized hands gripped the wheel seconds at a time.  Sometimes both hands were off the steering wheel to emphasize a point.  The tank seemed to drive itself.  "I can't look at the road," she began to explain loudly, "It distracts me!"

"For goodness sake, hang onto the wheel, would ya," I screamed.  My eyes darting left, right and ahead in a futile attempt to control.  Nothing about this woman was controllable, and I often wondered why her husband retired, kept opposite hours.  

Spending time with her at the beginning was out of professional necessity and then over time, it was by choice, I realized that she was often a misunderstood woman with a big big heart.  

"Come to my house for supper, " I offered.

"I can't," she answered without much forethought, then added, "Do you still have cats?"

She knew I had cats.  "Ya, why?" I asked.

"I can't come," she stated firmly.  

"You're not allergic to cats are you?" She had a dog which offered her company and wild chasing when it got loose. She was used to pets.

She didn't answer and there was an uncomfortable silence. I was dumbfounded and couldn't think of why she wouldn't be able come to my house.  I was the one to always visit her at her house. She had never come to my house, although we had been friends for years now.

"I, I am..." oddly she stumbled over the words, "I am afraid of cats.  I can't come."

I thought that I was the one that wrestled with irrational fears.  This fearless woman who I thought I knew so well was afraid.  I couldn't believe it. 

This admission only opened the way for more honest talk.