Precious memories. And, I have them, as I'm sure most everyone reading these words will have. True confession is good for the soul, or so they say. I'm not sure, but if so, with a holiday staring me in the face, I'm in need of all the help I can get, so I'm confessing. And I have some memories that are not so precious, that make my cheeks burn red. Sometimes I'm not a very nice person.
Actually, I can turn into a 5' 2" tyrant.
Thinking back on the past, some 10 years ago, the week before Thanksgiving, with lots to do on my plate, I'd been cruising our home watching for rule infractions. Since husband Willard was the only other person in the house, he was an easy target. Let him turn the TV volume too loud, I pushed in ear plugs and walked through the room sighing. Let the man set a glass down on a table, out came the Windex. Guilt was being dispensed, along with blue spray.
My husband managed to overcome these transgressions, so the ante had to be upped. An assignment list was jotted down, crammed into my pocket and pulled out several times a day. Water the plants. Repair broken commode handle. Chop onions. Run to the grocery store. Scoop the dog poop. And that was just in the morning.
Willard finally smartened up and made his own list: coffee club, golf course and tennis courts.
Still in attack mode, I kept cruising.
Late one afternoon, with Willard on the golf course and no target handy, I went into our hall to spray and dust wall hangings then wipe off baseboards. I had hardly raised my cleaning rag before I saw photos of me and our daughter Pat. There were pictures of her and me skiing together in Colorado, backpacking through Europe. It's tempting to look back at other times and always remember images of joy and happiness.
But that's not always the way life happens. My head buried in the dusting cloth, I sank to the floor and let myself remember what was so painful about this time of year. Two years before, the day after our big family turkey dinner, Pat became critically ill and had to be put in the hospital in ICU, on a respirator. She died of lung cancer a short while later.
I had been in boss mode, but with those painful memories I quit running on fast forward. There are no excuses for bullying and ill temper. Needing personal grief time, I had put on a warm-up and old tennis shoes, and walked the Jackson Country Club golf course with my dog, June Cleaver. And talked. And cried. And blew my nose into the nasty cleaning rag. And cursed.
I grieved.
When I got back home, I tore up my husband's to-do-list.
***
Then, it was Thanksgiving Day. For a short while everything had seemed to be under control. Smoked turkeys and honey-baked ham were sliced and onto a platter. Cornbread dressing, pecan pies, macaroni and cheese, sweet potatoes and marshmallows roasted in the oven. All the other veggies were lined on the counter waiting to be heated.
A carcinoma had been taken off Willard's nose the day before. His nose split from the bridge to the tip was bleeding and he had to keep ice on it. His head thrust back, he was stretched back in his recliner.
Car doors slammed, family and friends arrived, tranquility had flown.
In a matter of minutes, males young and old were outside throwing a football; Willard had eased from his chair and joined them. I looked out the window just in time to see him running for a pass, and taking a fall. Luckily, he didn't split his stitches.
In the laundry room our washing machine and dryer were going nonstop. Someone left the freezer door open and a small puddle of water pooled on the floor. With house guests in residence, I stepped over piles of dirty clothes and pushed softened packages of food toward the back of the freezer.
"No ice," someone called from the kitchen. The icemaker had quit. The disposal ground and stopped. Clogged. Gravy boiled over and spilled on the stove top. The smoke alarm blasted.
Two different TVs were tuned to different ball games. Thirty one to thirty three people talked at once. A small slot machine Willard and I had bought in Monte Carlo for the grandchildren whirred when the lever was pulled then dinged as change spilled onto the floor. All to the background of a rat-a-tat-tat beat--the incessant chatter of three plastic machine guns bought at the "Everything's a Dollar" store and wielded by three little boys, racing through the house and yelling, "Gotcha!"
Time has marched on. Those three little boys are now grown men. We have a large family, so someone is usually in a state of flux or an ongoing crisis of some kind. But, always, there's so much to be thankful for and like skimming fat off the turkey broth, we smooth heart lumps the best we can.
I would like to promise God, I will never be a tyrant again. But that's a lie. And, there'll always be a to-do-list, just as there'll always be goodbyes. Years have come and gone, as have so many of our family members. Thoughts of my loved ones who have gone on have a very special place in my heart, most especially my dear husband Willard and my beloved girls, Tootie, Pat, and granddaughters, Brent and Lindsay Lee. I am so grateful and thankful they were in my life.
Some old harsh words I heard years ago popped into my head, "Love anything and you will be wrung, or possibly broken."
For now though, it's 2022-- time to get Tommy the Turkey out of the oven.
Before I did, cupping my hands under my chin and bowing my head, I whispered, "And dear God. So much has changed, but I have been so blessed. Thank you for our beloveds, resting in your loving embrace."
Raising my head, I pointed my index finger toward the oven. "And, as another old saying goes, 'If you want guarantees, buy a Maytag washing machine.'"
