My Mom’s Best Gift

My mom’s been gone just a little over five years now.  A few days ago I put a CD in my computer   She plays. “Beautiful Days”; a song she learned at the tender age of 11.  Her long gray hair is pulled back in a ponytail and as she sways back and forth on the organ bench, her arms pull the bellows in and out as fingers fly over unseen black and white keys, a look of pure joy on her face.  It’s a mesmerizing sight. 

and in a moment, on my screen, is my mother as she sits in front of her Yamaha organ, in a pair of slacks and her signature white short sleeved blouse, accordion strapped to her chest.

It was February 28^th, 2001 and she indulged me in my request to videotape her while she played the accordion and then the organ.  She wasn’t very comfortable about the idea of doing it, but went along with me anyway.   I was honest with her in my reasoning in that I’d listened to her play my whole life and couldn’t imagine that one day I’d never hear her play again. The tape was my insurance policy against that happening.

The day was cold and I’d gone to their house and set up my camcorder on the tripod in their living room.  We chatted for a while and had a bite to eat and a pot of tea.  It was a delightful afternoon. Afterwards, I played the video only once, to insure all had worked and then put it away.  I didn’t think to put it on a CD and share it with family members until after her death in 2009.    

When she started playing, her instructor first taught her the classics, telling her once she mastered those, she’d be able to play anything the rest of her life.  On the screen she moves now through those classics to popular favorites like “Harvest Moon.”  I’m back in elementary school, hearing the notes when I reach the end of the driveway after walking home from school.  Entering the kitchen from the back porch, I’d find her perched on the kitchen table edge, eyes closed, swaying to the music.  Again, that look of pure joy on her face.

I never tire of watching her.   She always played this large and cumbersome instrument with a measure of grace and lightness that defied reason.   The left hand playing chords as the right hand carries the melody.  Knowing she never learned to read music and that it’s all done by ear and memory only adds to her mystique. 

She flows into a song, mentioning it was her parent’s song.  When she’s done I ask her if she remembers the title and her voice breaks…“I Never Knew I Could Love Anybody Like I'm Loving You”, and then continues softly with the main verse…

“I never knew I could love anybody,

Honey, like I'm loving you;
I couldn't realize what a pair of eyes and a baby smile could do.
I can't sleep, I can't eat,
I never knew a single soul could be so sweet,
I never knew I could love anybody,
Honey, like I'm loving you.”

And in a moment, I remember my grandmother never referring to my grandfather as anything but her ‘Honey”, and it all comes together. 

The last song she plays on the accordion is my favorite, “Twilight Time.”  In hindsight, I think it may have been one of her favorites as well.

After a short break, she switches to the organ and the music I remember her playing most, at night, as I lay upstairs in my bed before I fell asleep begins.

Her back is to the recorder now as she flows through “I Get Misty”, “I Don’t Know Why I Love You Like I Do” and “Apple Blossom Time”.  I made a collage of family pictures to scroll as she plays – her and her parents, as a young girl with her brother, through her marriage and us kids growing up and her grandchildren.  It’s bittersweet to listen to her play this lovely background music as a slideshow plays of her life.  My favorite is her standing at a ledge at the Grand Canyon, a lifelong dream of hers and as beautiful as the canyon itself. 

I didn’t know that five short years after making this tape, she would have a traumatic brain injury.  For three years following until she passed, the music was gone as all her efforts were put into rebuilding other areas of her life and maneuvering her injury on a daily basis. 

I didn’t play the tape during those three years, instead waiting until after she passed for the time it was purposed for.  And a few days ago, as every time I play it, it serves the purpose.  Some days I just watch the screen and enjoy the sight and sound of her.  Other days I’ve just put it on while I was cleaning or writing, as background music.  I’ve even found myself walking towards the living room a time or two to request a song before I remember she’s not there.

My mom gave me a lot of gifts over my lifetime, but I've come to cherish that gift of her indulgence that cold February afternoon most of all.  Her music, the memories it holds for me and the joy it gives me each and every time I hear it.  

The Chess Legacy

It was a collaboration of love, for a boy not yet 6 years old.  A custom chess set.

The boy, four years old, fell in love with the game. Mastered the pieces and moves within a few weeks of playing with the “learner edition”, a set his mother needed for at least many months longer.  A boy who devoured the Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess book; memorizing the pictures depicting the moves of the game before he could read the words that explained them.  Who by 5, often allowed his opponents to win so they would continue to play with him, considering the concession all a part of learning the game…

He, his Papa, built the wooden case, lined it with dark green felt.  Measured and installed the slats to create 32 individual pockets for each piece to rest in.  Routered the lid, precisely measured to rest just inside the lip of the case.  The wood shone a regal luster with a dark stain and varnish and was completed with two brass handles and four black pedestal feet for support.  Sixty-four perfect squares created the chess board on the top, displaying its purpose with elegant design. 

     

She, Nana, made the pieces.  Thirty-two in all.  Two teams of 16 pieces; one ivory with a gold band at the bottom and identifying gold accents represented the white team.  The other, done in navy blue with a gold band at the base and gold identifying accents represented the black team.  Each ceramic green ware piece cleaned, meticulously painted, glazed and fired.  A circular green felt piece that matched the inside felt of the case was placed on the bottom of each one, and provided a sliding elegance across the chess board. 

As a boy not yet six, he cherished the gift.  He knew it came with all the love they felt for him.  He loved the largeness of it – the beauty of it and the time it took them to make it.  Yes, he was unique and even at his young age appreciated those things.  What he didn’t know, yet, was the legacy it held.  How it spoke to the validation and respect of their relationship.  You see, they didn’t make a child’s game set.  They made a piece to last a lifetime. A piece that would last past their lifetimes.  

In the twenty years they shared his life, they played all the pieces in his game.  As a very young boy, he often saw them as king and queen of their domain - matriarch and patriarch of the family; providers for all. At times they stood firm as protecting knights, keeping a watchful eye throughout his childhood and teenage years.  Often they slipped into the role of bishop, providing spiritual guidance or standing sentry as rooks, a place of refuge in a storm.  And always, always, as the most underrated of pieces, as pawns, stalwart and loyal, supportive in any way they could be and at the ready to sacrifice themselves for him.

The chess set, after games too numerous to count, sits still today, in the place of honor it's had for the past seventeen years in the living room.  The boy, now a grown man, is working to establish his own domain in the world.  The chess set, and the legacy, wait to follow him to his kingdom.

A Stranger's Love

Here's a little short story I wrote a few years back. 

A Stranger’s Love

             His face is serene. From the bottom of the large window that looks out onto the runway, the sunrise peeks in.  Its rays; broken by the branches of large leafed plant, lay across him at odd angles.  Sunlight settles on his face like a soft blanket and I make out long lashes that rest at the top of his cheeks.  I shift in my seat, clasp my hands in my lap, and swallow against my dry mouth.

I glance beyond him to the newsstand.  Papers and magazines fill racks next to shelves stocked with gum and toiletries and overpriced, dusty souvenirs.  In the quiet morning hour, the clerk applies her mascara as she looks into a small pocket mirror. 

My attention returns to the man.  Faded jeans mold legs that stretch out long and cross at the ankles.  A dark gray flannel shirt, tucked in, lay open at the collar, exposing a stark white undershirt beneath.  An airport identification tag is clipped to a breast pocket and the shirtsleeves are rolled back from his wrists.  His arms, folded across his chest, rise and fall in rhythm to the long, deep breaths he takes.     

           My body softens into the vinyl-cushioned chair beneath me in response to the passive invitation he offers.  In my chest, a small hollow ache forms.  I close my eyes for a moment to indulge in harmless fantasy.  The ache turns to delicate warmth that spreads out from my chest to my arms and legs.  My fingers tingle and I draw my arms tight around me.  To draw something closer or to protect myself I don’t know.   

            The speaker above announces the arriving flight and I open my eyes.  His eyes, blue as a summer sky, look directly into mine.  Surprise and confusion flicker there. I can offer no explanation.  I cannot not look away. 

My face warms as his gaze travels down the bridge of my nose, across my cheeks, resting for a moment on my lips.  It rises to my hair and I find my hand moving the hair back from my face as it follows the path of his gaze. 

            A slow smile is mirrored in his eyes.  He cocks his head to the side and raises his eyebrows slightly in both silent acknowledgment and question.  I cannot help a small nod in reply. 

            I could love this man. Maybe I already do.  Without a spoken word, I know I will not tire of his voice.  I know his touch, firm and gentle.  With a steady stare his eyes reach my soul and I feel the promise of forever. 

            Unexpected and unsought emotions that mirror my own cross his face.  Love, desire, chance, and commitment collide and duel around and between us.  He leans forward in his seat, stares across at me, elbows on his knees and hands clasped under his chin.  Impulsively I strike the same pose and our smiles deepen.  Minutes pass.  A lifetime. 

Around us, life continues.  People filter into the waiting area.  Conversations and laughter mingle in the air. 

"Daddy!"  A loud cry pierces the air from a little girl as she runs from the gateway door.  Abruptly his expression changes and he opens his arms to catch the little girl as she flings herself into the air.  A young woman follows, drops her carry-on luggage, and circles her arms around them both in a warm embrace. 

His eyes close, then open and meet mine over her shoulders.  Silently we speak.  Good-bye.  Please understand.  Good-bye.   I do.

We could have talked; could have progressed past harmless fantasy and explored an unexpected love.  But we didn't.  He has a family; a wife and daughter. 

When my flight is called I board the plane.  I smile as I settle into my seat and my thoughts travel to the end of my flight.  To a man who waits there for me.  I love this man.  I never tire of his voice.  His touch is firm and gentle.  His look reaches my soul and promises me forever.  Just as I promise him.

I lean back into the seat and wait to go home.  I know I can love more than once in my life, I just choose to live it one gift at a time.  

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QUILTS (A-Z April Blog Challenge)

The wedding quilt '83

My mother was a quilt maker.  And somehow, she always surprised you.  Most remarkable were the wedding quilts.  Sometime during our wedding receptions, each one of her five children opened up a box to find their velvet quilt inside.  Small 4 x 4 squares of velvet, rich, deep colors of blues, greens, reds and browns.  All hand stitched, large enough to cover a queen bed.  And, amazingly enough, you never saw it coming.  Never saw her place one stitch on the quilt, which had to have taken hundreds of hours to do amongst all the wedding preparations.  Secret time, squirreled away at home, or on breaks at work. 

Quick recall and mathematics (neither my strong point) puts her at a minimum of 25 quilts throughout my lifetime, which most likely really puts the number closer to 35 – 40.  And almost all of them done by hand, not machine.    

The embroidered quilt - circa 1990

And although the velvet ones were beautiful and luxurious, it was the personalized embroidered ones that were the most incredible.  Again, all done in secret, individually embroidered squares, depicting holidays, seasons, and a myriad of details of you and your spouse’s lives, including hobbies, pets, occupations, homes, etc.  These were the quilts that told the story of your lives before you came together as man and wife and the first few years of your marriage. 

Five grandchildren all got smaller versions on the personalized embroidered ones and light throw quilts for their twin beds as they grew up.   

My lap quilt to mom

Following her lead, I have made three quilts, all by hand.  Two of them were large ones, one for my in-laws and one for my parents.  Though I liked them both and they meant a lot to me, my favorite was the third, smaller lap throw that I made for my mom.  In an old hope chest I was storing for my parents, were some articles of clothing.  A favorite party dress of my mom’s from her early 20’s, and outfits from her five children.  I stuck my courage to the sticking post that I wasn’t going to break her heart by cutting them up and made a lap quilt for her.  Fortunately, all went well and it was well received.  She kept it on her chair and many of her letters talked about her placing it over her legs on a cool evening and giving herself over to the memories that came with each square of material she slid her hand over. 

I often lament that I didn’t get my mom’s creativity of her art or music.  However I found through the years that we both shared a love of writing (although no fiction for her) and feel that I connected with the joy she felt in quilt making.  I didn’t realize until I’d made one of my own that you are stitching a part of yourself into the quilt.  I think of the hundreds of thousands of stitches in her quilts; that’s a lot of mom that we all share.