vacation – Are We There Yet?

I just washed an entire load of pajamas. Just pajamas; flannel pants, t-shirts, and even one pair of actual pajamas, the old fashioned kind. They are black fleece and have polka dots. As my friend exclaimed when I unwrapped them, they are “me”.

That’s the kind of week it’s been, a pajamaed week; a week spent, for the most part, inside the flannel-lined cocoon that is my home. I’ve eaten cookies for breakfast. I’ve mastered most levels of my son’s new fishing game. Spear-fishing and bow-fishing are easy. It’s the rod-fishing that’s given me a little trouble.

I’ve watched hours and hours of college football between frequent, sometimes tiny, naps. I love the way that happens. The feeling creeps in like a cozy fog and I realize that if I close my eyes and tilt my head ever so slightly to one side, sleep will come. I’ve learned to embrace the feeling. And, I’m reaping benefits. Yesterday, the face that met me in the bathroom mirror was clearer, less lined, more relaxed, content.

We did go out on Tuesday. We had gift cards to redeem and Christmas money to spend. Shane bought a pair of Sperry Topsiders. Counting out seventy five dollars, he laid it on the counter taking great pains not to touch the hand of the clerk who congratulated him, repeatedly, for being a “good boy” and “saving” his money. I tried, once, to correct her.

“It’s Christmas money.”

She either didn’t hear me or didn’t care, and continued to voice her approval.

Of course, my son believes he and his friends practically invented Sperry Topsiders. He winced just slightly when the clerk called out his total, but I’m sure he would have paid whatever it cost. The only thing of which he was not certain was the color. You see, it’s very important that one’s Topsiders are the proper color. I started to tell him that when I wore them we favored the darker brown. I started to tell him I could show him a photograph that hadn’t even had time to fade. But I didn’t.

While we were out, I was delighted to discover that Sirius radio continues to play Christmas music right up until New Year’s Day. I don’t understand why our local station doesn’t do that. They begin playing carols a week before Thanksgiving when people are mainly just thinking about food, and if they are thinking about Christmas it’s because they’re hoping that this year the family will draw names. Then, at midnight on the day after Christmas, the carols end. Sometimes right in the middle of a song! Okay, so they might not change formats in the middle of a song but it is abrupt. And, it does come before I am ready. It’s good to know Sirius “gets” me.

I take vacation the week after Christmas. I do this for a number of reasons. I do this because Shane’s Dad takes vacation the week before. I do this because I enjoy watching college football. And, as I recently came to realize while sitting in a tub of warm water after an emotional day during which I almost cried while watching a car commercial, I do this because I don’t want my holiday to end in a pile of torn wrapping paper and dirty dishes. Especially this year, I don’t want Christmas to end.

I don’t want to go back out there. I don’t want to work, or pay bills, or worry about children, or plan meals, or work out, or clean the bathroom. I want to wear pajamas and eat cookies for breakfast. I’ve still got one level of that fishing game to conquer. I want to stay up as late as I like, secure in the knowledge that there will be more than enough time for a nap tomorrow.

But there won’t…

So, I will.

I made a yardstick cover once. It was my first, and last, experience working with smelly, scratchy burlap. I might have gone with a nice, polished cotton except I was eight at the time, and I worked with what the Brownie leader gave us. The flowers we glued to the front were nice. They were large, made of felt, and sherbet hued.

My mother hung my gift next to the door in her sewing room. It sheathed her favorite yardstick; the one made of soft, balsa wood with the telephone number of a local hardware store printed on both sides. It stayed there until the flowers’ petals began to curl, just like real petals do. I never left the room without pressing on them.

I made a vest in home economics class. And, then I made a jumper. Remember jumpers? I loved jumpers, especially a simple A-line jumper.

The class was taught by a large African-American woman who favored chartreuse double knits. She also taught cooking classes. I can’t recall what I cooked, but I do remember her announcement, “There’s no such thing as blue food!”, and my bemusement when I realized she was right. I’d never really thought about it before…

I made an amazing score on the SAT. This has no real significance other than knowing that my sister, the one who made straight A’s for twelve straight years, didn’t.

I made children; four of them, one daughter and three sons. Of course I had help, of both a divine and not so divine nature, but their complete reliance upon the inner workings of MY body suggests “making” to me. And when you make children, you make something more. You make history, and legacy, and hope.

Putting my home economics classes to good use, I made all of my daughter’s clothing until she started elementary school. I made shirts, and shorts, and ruffled panties. I made dresses, and long, cuddly nightgowns. My favorite, of course, was a jumper. I made it of brown corduroy, and embroidered a yellow Care Bear named “Funshine” on one side, close to the hem. Upstairs in my attic, I’ve stored one outfit each of my children wore as babies. I hope to see a granddaughter wear that jumper. Maybe Care Bears will be popular again. It could happen…

I made a lovely counted-cross stitch sampler which I then stuffed and fashioned into a pillow. The design suggested a friend, and I gave it to her. That was over ten years ago, and it still serves as the centerpiece atop her creamy, white chenille bedspread. Some of the stitches have loosened, and synthetic stuffing often peeks through one burst corner. You see, she doesn’t just look at it, she uses it.

I made a different birthday cake for each of my children. My daughter, a “Christmas Baby”, favors red velvet. One year, my friend made her cake. I can’t recall why she did it. Perhaps I was just busy with the other children. My husband might have been in the hospital. Or, rehab. Rehab is more likely. Once in the hospital for surgery, and he came out a new man. Several trips to rehab never had the same affect.

My friend, in her creative wisdom, added crushed candy-cane to the cream cheese frosting covering the cake. We’ve made it that way ever since.

Bruises, especially large, purple, soon-to-be yellow bruises, are hard to ignore. When they are on your face its damn near impossible. Before they healed, I made a home for my children out of a 12’x60’ metal box. In the south, most people refer to them as trailers. If they’re trying to be polite, they might say “mobile home”. But it really was just a metal box. Oh, it had a hitch on one end, but the last time it was mobile was at least thirty years ago.

I felt fortunate to have scored the lot across from the pool. At night, red lights on the Coca-cola machine winked at me, taking me back to my childhood, when all motel rooms were on one level, and a peek through rubber-backed curtains revealed the pool’s glistening surface reflecting off brightly-lit, multi-colored vending machines. Despite what some deem squalor, living there was a perpetual vacation, and it wasn’t just the lights…

I made a field of flowers out of what used to be a lawn before the septic tank was replaced. When it rained, red clay ran in rivulets down the street towards the baseball field behind the pool. I say “baseball field” because my sons played baseball on it. But, whether you call it a trailer park or a mobile home park, diamonds were hard to come by.

I never heard my mother curse until she had cancer.

“I’ve got some heavy shit to tell you.”

She died over five years ago, and I still hear those words at least once a week.

Upon hearing them the first time, I made the decision to return home to Atlanta. We shared a duplex with a young couple expecting their first child. I went back to school, and on a diet. My fitness class instructor partnered me with a more traditional college student. He was cute. He was required to touch me. Matronly just wouldn’t do.

Many nights, I made a bed of the couches in the ICU waiting room. Visits were limited to fifteen minutes out of every hour. I made one when I arrived, and one before leaving. My father couldn’t bear the thought of my mother being alone. I couldn’t bear the thought of my father worrying.

Today, I made pickles. It’s been a banner year for cucumbers. I can’t pickle fast enough. Fortunately, my friends are pickle eaters. My son thinks we should sell them.

We visit our local Farmer’s Market weekly. As we walk the aisle, tasting and touching, he taunts me.

“You should sell your pickles, Mom! I could help you!”

I don’t need to sell them. I don’t even need to taste them. I just need to make them.

Category: vacation

>Cookies for Breakfast

>Making It