Fall Festival

The woman threw her head back, and dark, luxuriant hair wafted down her back, as she gave into her laughter with full abandonment, unaware she was being observed. And, although I was out of earshot, I felt it as a loudly mellow, rolling sound of delight. She stopped walking and cinched up her simple cotton dress, as she wrapped her arms around her waist and looked down at the source of her amusement.

A young girl, maybe three or four years old, was scurrying away from the lake’s edge where a large mallard duck was thrashing about; wings flapping, dark neck arched. Wearing a left-over smile, the woman walked, again, towards the young girl, with a single hand outstretched.

Traffic at this midtown oasis is usually thick with fitness junkies running, young mothers pushing strollers, and older couples sitting on permanently mounted benches, tossing scraps of bread to waiting ducks until the trickling cascades of a large fountain, in the center of the lake, lulls them into reverie of days gone by.

So it was remarkable to realize that, today, there were just two visitors. I watched their interaction; the way the woman approached the girl with bemused compassion, and the tentative way the child turned to look at her. The autumn sun had painted them, and their surroundings, in multi-hued shadows, not visible just a few days before. Dark brown leaves stained the pristine concrete walkway on which they stood and a soft wind left the tops of the trees to swoop down, rippling the water before dancing in the woman’s skirt.

As Autumn blew in…

>Fall Festival

>
The woman threw her head back, and dark, luxuriant hair wafted down her back, as she gave into her laughter with full abandonment, unaware she was being observed. And, although I was out of earshot, I felt it as a loudly mellow, rolling sound of delight. She stopped walking and cinched up her simple cotton dress, as she wrapped her arms around her waist and looked down at the source of her amusement.

As Autumn blew in…

Knitting, through crochet…

We closed the store at noon everyday, for lunch.

As the microwave whirred, Pat hefted a large, bulky, canvas tote onto the formica table, and, in flawless imitation of a magician pulling endless, multi-hued scarves from his sleeve, removed a voluminous afghan, or a bulky sweater, or an impossibly long scarf; each, a work in progress.

Lunchtime conversation was punctuated by the sound of a crochet needle clicking against the precious metal of her wedding band, as she regaled us with stories of her errant children, their benevolent, well-loved, father, or her demanding, octogenarian mother-in-law. Her voice was soft, slow, and deeply, deeply southern, and no matter which direction the conversation took, she never dropped a stitch.

I watched, in fascination, for months, before asking her to teach me her art. As it turned out, she knew only one stitch, but one was better than none, and soon there were two bulging tote bags atop the table.

My first project, an afghan for my daughter, was fashioned from the softest yarn, in a variety of soft pastels. As soon as I had draped all ten feet of it over her modest twin bed, I began again. This time, I worked in primary colors; creating bold stripes. The yarn was thick, and difficult to work with, making the afghan tighter in weave, and much shorter in length. As I tied off the final stitch, I searched frantically for another piece of furniture to drape.

Harking back to my past, when my mother displayed my great-grandmother’s handiwork on the back of our olive-green, vinyl couch, I chose, this time, to work in rusts, and browns, and creams. Final placement on the back of our well-worn, herculon sofa was tricky, given the oblong shape my creation had taken, but, if anyone noticed, they never said a word.

And still, I stitched. My youngest son was graced with my largest effort, to date, in earth-tones of heather, khaki, blue, and white.

Two years later, as we gathered around the large, brilliantly lit, Frasier-fir in my parent’s living room, I watched as each of my family members opened the bulbous, carefully wrapped gift I had provided. One by one, they extracted an identical cream-colored throw. The stitches were perfect, and the size, reasonable, as, time and patience, had provided an opportunity to learn. Each recipient cooed, sweetly, over my efforts, and I absorbed their appreciation with the surety that none of them knew the import of what they held.

Six months later, I stood outside my sister’s apartment in anticipation of meeting my new nephew. As my brother-in-law opened the door, I was assaulted by a chic sea of white, accented by large-paned windows admitting smog-stained light.

My sister sat, indian-style, on a rambling white sectional. My eyes searched her lap for a look at the baby inside her blanket covered legs. Dark circles under weary eyes did nothing to deter the radiance of her smile as she scooped her son up, in offering.

It was when she moved, that I saw it; the only thing of color in the room. As she rose, it fell in waves, replacing her body on the seat. The stitches were perfect, and the size, reasonable, and she did know…

>Knitting, through crochet…

>
We closed the store at noon everyday, for lunch.

And still, I stitched. My youngest son was graced with my largest effort, to date, in earth-tones of heather, khaki, blue, and white.

And, His Name Is Palmer…

He has played football with this group of boys for, at least 3 years, already. And still, no one knows his name.

He is slight, pale, and thin. My son, who shares a huddle with him, has never heard him speak.

Midway through our first game, and carrying a comfortable lead, the boys huddled up in preparation for another drive. The huddle broke, as Moms stood and strained to find the numbered jersey they had taken from the washing machine the night before. Several seconds passed before the ball sailed through the air, forcing every pair of feminine eyes away from the backs of their progeny, and onto the arc of brown leather. The catch was made, “the crowd went wild”, and a quarterback was born.

Now, three games into an eight game season, the situation is vastly different. The Panthers are trailing an unworthy opponent, and the starting quarterback is carrying a decided limp. Enter our nameless, faceless, voiceless hero.

I watch as this child, easily fifteen pounds lighter than most of the boys he is challenging, stands; steady, strong, and brave. He takes the snap and dances backwards, awkwardly, in a valiant imitation of a poster on his bedroom wall. His rail-thin arm raises, and he flings the leather in full knowledge he will be hit by a force much bigger, much faster, and much more athletic than he can ever hope to be. And he does so, without a flinch, without complaint; standing tall.

Seven times in a row, the play is repeated. Seven times he huddles with boys who won’t know him in school, come Monday. Seven times, they break and he takes his place in the hot seat. He takes seven snaps, and hurls the ball into the air seven times. And, seven times, the receiver fails to make a catch.

Every time the huddle breaks, I watch his thin, spandex covered body assume the position, and my fists clench in hope. This will be the time! This time he will catch it! And every time the ball hits the ground, or another child’s helmet, or a referee’s hands, I flinch, knowing we have to go back in…

And, soon, as the ball leaves his thin, pale fingers, I find myself unable to follow the trajectory, and, instead, seek to find the one who will deliver the blow. And, as I see the crash about to take place, my hand covers my mouth, and my eyes narrow as I hold my breath in sympathy.

This boy is not my child. But, he is someone’s child. And he is brave, and valiant, and unexpected.

After the seventh throw, the ball has bounced off the turf into a waiting referee’s hands. Mercilessly repeated disappointment has silenced the crowd, and it happens before I know to stop it.

“DO WE HAVE A PLAN “B”?” I yell bravely, valiantly, unexpectedly, and, loudly.

>And, His Name Is Palmer…

>
He has played football with this group of boys for, at least 3 years, already. And still, no one knows his name.

He is slight, pale, and thin. My son, who shares a huddle with him, has never heard him speak.

This boy is not my child. But, he is someone’s child. And he is brave, and valiant, and unexpected.

After the seventh throw, the ball has bounced off the turf into a waiting referee’s hands. Mercilessly repeated disappointment has silenced the crowd, and it happens before I know to stop it.

“DO WE HAVE A PLAN “B”?” I yell bravely, valiantly, unexpectedly, and, loudly.

Sunday Best

“So, are you cooking dinner Sunday night?”

The question was random, at best.

“Uh…no. It doesn’t make much sense to do that for just the two of us. I stopped doing that a long time ago, just about the same time you stopped eating it…”

The expected, angled for, and, yet, still uncomfortable silence fell.

“What if I said I would be there? Would you cook dinner?”

It was a tradition I had insisted upon. One of the few. A Sunday night dinner, during which every family member actually sat in a chair at the dinner table until everyone had finished eating.

Good music played, softly, and all manner of utensils were in attendance, from salad forks, to dessert spoons. It was to be served family style, and southern, from it’s menu to the cadence in the conversation.

And, conversation was key. It was a time to catch up on the week and set the tone for the week to come; a bonding time, a loving time, one on one time, with no distractions.

Several different answers compete in my head, ranging from the acidly sarcastic, “Well, why didn’t you SAY so! Of course, I’ll slave over a hot stove for hours, as long as YOU are there.”, to, “Well, I don’t know, I kinda had plans…”, to what eventually stammered from my mouth on a wave of trepidation, “Ok”.

I seasoned the chops, and moved about the kitchen in time to personally chosen music piped in through the tiny speakers in my ears. I peeled potatoes, before chopping them into boiling water, and I searched my pantry for a known favorite; crowder peas.

As the song ended, I realized the telephone was ringing, and danced across stone tiles to answer it.

“Hey, whatcha’ doin’”, my oldest son always insists on knowing what I am doing before stating the purpose of his call.

“Cooking dinner, you?”

“Cooking…I’m frying chicken. I was wondering….do you dunk in the egg first, and then the flour, or the other way around?” Cooking questions are not unusual. All my boys cook. I insisted upon it.

“Wow! You are brave!” I said. “I don’t even fry chicken. Well, I will, after I’ve beaten it to a pulp, so that it’s flat, and I’m sure the inside will cook. And, of course, I spice it up and add a little parmesan. I’ve got that recipe. You want it?”

“No. I’ve got skinless breasts.” We paused to consider his statement. “Why don’t you fry chicken?”

“Because, I never get the inside done. And, besides, you can get good fried chicken most anywhere. It’s just easier to buy it…”

“Oh.”, he paused. “Well, Heather will be home in about an hour, and I have to have supper on the table. What if I cut them in half?”

A picture of my beautiful son, wrapped in an imaginary apron, filled my head. His face shone, like the sun, as his beautiful Native American girlfriend entered the house after a long day of crunching numbers.

And, I felt pride.

I felt success.

I felt that something I had insisted upon, mattered.

Years of Sunday dinners had left my son with an obligation to provide. And, as his love labored, he stayed behind and created an environment of caring and nourishment, with no thoughts to traditional roles, or pride, or selfishness.

Somewhere, there was a football game on television, but my son had shut off his TV, to strap on an apron and carry on a tradition of bonding and loving.

“Dunk once in the flour, then in the egg, and then, again, in the flour.” I said through my smile. “And don’t forget the salt and pepper!”

>Sunday Best