Cedar, sausage, cigs ... & blueberries

by tess

Memory is an imperfect thing. It’s a prism through which time is refracted imperfectly. But it’s all we have in the end to document our own flawed history. Often too harsh, occasionally too kind, but always imperfect.

When I was very young, my grandparents, Ruth and Haird (aka Howard), lived in a house in rural Ohio. We would arrive there in the pre-dawn hours after my Dad drove straight through from Baltimore to Dayton. It’s strange to think of him then – younger than I am now, not to mention more capable than I of capping off a twelve hour shift with an eight hour drive. Ruth and Haird would be waiting for us, half-asleep and ensconced in the unfamiliar aromas of coffee, cigarettes, Dial, and Listerine. Ripped from my roadtrip coma, there were bear hugs and the ultimate peace of safety among those who love you. The kind of serenity that not every child is fortunate enough to experience in her life.

I remember their house as being very large although I suspect it was not. My room had a cedar armoire with drawers, a hanging rod, and a mirror inside. It was the most magical piece of furniture I’d ever seen and can’t smell cedar to this day without remembering it. That may be why we have three armoires in our house. Sadly both the smell and sense of wonder are missing now. Aside from the single bed, the only remarkable feature of the room was the window that (as I remember it anyway) looked out over a small unpaved road and acres of open fields. Since our suburban townhouse did not overlook anything more noteworthy than a parking pad and alley, I’m guessing that even a tiny plot might have inspired images of Dorothy’s Kansas landscape come to life. Stashed safely in the middle of nowhere, I played on the little road. I don’t remember that there were other children but, as an only child, I’d have eschewed their company in any case, vastly preferring my own.

Along the wall to the right of their bed, Ruth and Haird had a pretty vanity. Dark wood drawers on either side with a large round mirror in the center. I must have seen one on TV and equated it with glamorous Hollywood mommies. I still consider them quite Old Hollywood – a self-indulgent paean to the process of feminine beauty.

There were two large framed photos in that house. One of Haird in his uniform, WWII, I guess. And a profile shot of JFK and RFK. When I look at my own ridiculously stuffed-to-the-gills home in which every wall is covered with mis-matched art, I find this spartan decoration both arresting and significant.

Most of my Ruth-and-Haird memories are kitchen-related. The early morning smell of sausage burning and sound of coffee brewing on the stove. The big table in the eat-in kitchen was where we’d all sit together for hours on end. After all, our schedules had been left behind in Baltimore. Mom’s job, Dad’s jobs, school, activities, the 1,001 meals that are always rushed through in a busy, modern lifestyle full of plans for a brighter tomorrow. So there was an uncharacteristically slow sitting, talking, and eating at that big table.

When I was born, Ruth offered to “help” my young mother by coming to stay at our house. From what I’ve been told, her assistance consisted primarily of sitting on the sofa holding me and telling my mother what she was doing wrong. The pictures of me in Ruth’s arms show a very happy baby (who is a dead wringer for Uncle Fester) lying peacefully in my grandmother’s copious bosom and fleshy arms.

Once when we were visiting Ruth and Haird, my parents went to see Rosemary’s Baby. I’m not sure if I was upset because they had the unmitigated gall to actually leave me for two hours or if I thought they were going to pay attention to a baby other than me – quelle horreur! In any case Ruth placated my temper with love and blueberries.

Through the years, Ruth would always have a stash of canned blueberries for me. She’d buy them on sale at the Kroger’s and hoard them for my visits.

I don’t remember much about Haird except that he seemed to love me in a quiet and distracted sort of way – like he didn’t quite know what to make of me or what to do with me. Perhaps that was due to the cultural gulf that separated a spoiled, suburban female child of the 60s from a hard-working man born deep in the hills at the end of WWI. When he wasn’t smoking and coughing, then he was coughing and smoking. This man had nothing, but he sent me money every single week — sometimes a dollar, sometimes five -- from early childhood through college until his death some twenty years ago.

Haird and Ruth moved to a dismal, one-bedroom, basement apartment. I slept on the folding couch next to the kitchen. She’d tuck me in with a biting bed bug rhyme that’s a far more terrifying admonishment now that I know they exist. I awoke to the same scents of coffee and sausage, brewed in the same pot and burned on the same cast iron skillet as the old house. And of course there were the cans of blueberries. Haird would smoke and cough and read the paper sitting on his end of the couch while I’d watch reruns of Bewitched, Jeannie, Lucy, and F-Troop.

Then I got too old, too involved in my own life to bother with them — these people who loved me with open hearts and to the very best of their ability. And now they’re both gone. To a better place? As a higher life form? Into the great dark unknown. They were flawed people who lived hard lives. And they accepted me unconditionally. I’m grateful to have known them.