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Victories and Defeats
Our little grandbabies are so precious to us, and we celebrate every tiny new victory, every gained bit of knowledge. He is my whole life, and I mourn as each of those things we celebrate in the children are taken from him: how do you play that game? How do you do a puzzle? When do I take those pills?
Little Yellow Bowl My little yellow bowl broke today, its handle finally succumbing to 34 years of regular use and hot dishwashers. It’s not much of a bowl. Plastic, part of a set long gone. And I was surprised at the rush of emotion I felt. You see, my mother-in-law gave me that bowl. She gave me the whole set as part of a large box of utensils and bowls and dishcloths and other kitchen things her son and I would need as we set up our first home together. While many may not see that as such a big deal, it was. I was most decidedly not her choice for her son. And yet, she still did this thoughtful thing. I use that bowl for nearly everything. It has a little spout, making it perfect for pouring pancake batter on a hot griddle or cake mix into cupcake tins. And every time I used it over the years, I thought about her. The rest of the contents of that box are mostly long gone. But the little yellow bowl hung in there, for 34 years. My mother-in-law and I had what can ta...
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So when he saw the ham in the fridge, he thinks, both to himself and then aloud, “I’d love to have some of that ham with breakfast tomorrow morning.”
“No,” she tells him. “That is for dinner tomorrow. It hasn’t been cooked. We’ll have the leftovers with breakfast the day after.”
“But I want ham with breakfast tomorrow morning,” he demands.
And tempers begin to rise.
Four little sets of eyes watched, four little sets of ears listened....quietly. To have interjected a comment would have meant a possible beating and a certain early bedtime.
The argument ensued. The night passed tensely.
Next morning. She is up before everyone else, as always...working hard in the kitchen, as always.
He stumbles sleepily in to the kitchen with the children, where a hot breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, potatoes and more sits steaming on the kitchen table. He looks around pointedly, and asks, “Where is my ham?”
And she snaps.
She walks to the refrigerator, takes out the platter with the uncooked ham, sticks a fork in it, and slams it down in front of him.
“There’s your ham!”
Then she stalks out of the room, down the hall to her room, and WHAM! the door slams shut. Click. It locks.
Four little sets of eyes look down the hall, then back at him. His face starts to redden, anger building. He looks down the hall, then back at the ham.
Suddenly, he starts to yell, “Aaaagggghhhh!” as he lifts the ham, platter and all, and four little heads duck as he throws it across the room with all his might.
The kitchen window is open, and he is a better shot than he intends to be. The ham flies through the window and bounces down the driveway, as astonished neighbors watch curiously.
The famous flying ham story. He’s chosen to forget it ever happened. Four now adults remember every detail. They tell and retell the story every time they are together. It’s tradition.
Families.
ciao,
Tom