small things

remembered

Once you reach a certain age you notice that you stand more on the outside. It’s not that it’s maliciously so, it is simply preparation for departure. Those who love you don’t want to treat you any differently but they do. A teenager that becomes a thorn in his parents side makes it easier for them to let him strike out on his own. Old people are gradually set aside so it doesn’t hurt so much when they leave. Not everyone treats you differently, young children treat old people just like they treat everyone because they don’t understand age, or death. This is why grandparents and grandchildren get on so well. That plus the fact is, they both distrust the parents.

This gradual alienation is part of why we, the elderly, start looking back and reviewing. We often seem preocuppied with the past. The phrase, ‘when, I was young…’ is apt to enter many conversations. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time that…?’ is another. The honest answer is usually, ‘Yes, you have, many, many, many times’ If you care, you never say that, you simply listen. If you are busy and have only a little free time, you try to visit or call when you aren’t, it takes so much time to listen. This only feeds the cycle. Reminiscing is a way to evaluate yourself to see if you mattered; to see what does matter. It’s simply a part of the preperation for death whether you are actively realizing that or not. A natural inclination put in place to make you less afraid of that which you know certainly is much nearer. It’s a slowed down version of the phenomena of your life flashing before your eyes that so many report after experiencing an unexpected and dire accident. It’s like reading a prequel to an adventure, the best kind of adventure, a small soul taking the first step into a vast unknown land. Memories give you solice and courage.

I’m old now. I feel the change. It’s hard to write these words because inside I am still a three year old, tall for her age walking across the street and around the corner to The Royal Blue, a small neighborhood grocery with one dollar and a list. I give it to the grocer.

“Let’s see little lady,” he says “bread, a hershey’s bar, and a pack of Pall Mall That right?

I nod that is what the note said, I am tall and an early reader.

“I can’t sell you the cigarettes without a note from your mother.”

“She wrote the list. I can’t write yet.” I protest.

“I gotta have a signed note.” He knew what I said made sense but he insisted.

“OK”

I walk home.

It’s two in the afternoon. I run upstairs to my parents bedroom. Mom is where she was at two o’clock every day I can remember. She was taking her afternoon nap. Semi reclined, propped up on pillows, reading a novel with a partially eaten apple wedged between her chin and chest so her hands were free to turn the pages, she looked up clearly annoyed. We weren’t supposed to bother her unless someone was bleeding.

I told her the grocer needed a signed note for the cigarettes. She closed her book, took another bite of her apple, got up and wrote the note.

Back to the store for my mother’s smokes and candy I went. This time no problem. The grocer got the bread, the candy bar, and the pack of Pall Mall’s

I got them home before my mother got up to make dinner.

Am I capable enough to complete challenging tasks on my own? Hell yeah! Could you do that at 3?

“We’re drawing flowers today and I want you to be careful and do the best that you can.” Mrs Wolfe had called for an art break without the art teacher. What was up? She continued. “There is a city wide art contest for all grades. Second graders will draw flowers. You can make any type of flower you want but please do your best. Not every school will have a winner from every grade. Let’s win one for Snowhill!”

I knew what I’d draw right away. It was early spring and we always had dozens of daffodils growing scattered around our back yard. So many we were free to pick them without punishment. I loved daffodils. I’d drawn them before at home, lots of times. I drew three. One leaned way over to the left, it’s skinny stalk almost bent in half from the weight, one stood tall facing forward, and the third was bent only slightly to the right. They were very nice. That was the best I could do.

a quick colored pencil sketch of what they looked looked like by me

I won the contest. First in the city for the second grade. My daffodils had dimension the horns protruded like they do in real life with the petals behind or partially in front depending on the angle.

Does it feel good to succeed? You’d better believe it.

Mr Fair, Mr. Fair, MR. FAIR! Mr. Fair finally turns away from the chalkboard and faces the class to acknowledge the growing desperation and volume of my voice. “Yes?”, he points to me since I am the only one waving their hand wildly above their head. “Do you need something?”, he asks. Clearly he wasn’t expecting to be interupted and he has yet to learn my name. He was midway through his explantation of the water distribution cycle on the west coast of the United States. It was Mrs.Anderson’s fifth grade class, but she was sick. Mr. Fair was the substitute teacher and he was a good one. He had been around for three days and rumor was that he would be there for at least another week. I had never had a male teacher and wasn’t comfortable asking him to be excused. I’ll easily make it to recess, I thought. My slight discomfort turned to desperation. I raised my hand. But he didn’t see me. His back was to the class, He was drawing the rain clouds that dumped the water they had gathered from the Pacific on the west side of the mountains. He was explaining why the east side was dry. The clouds in my bladder had gathered too much water from the extra drink I had at lunch, they were bumping up against my mountains. I couldn’t take it any more. I had to go!

The moment he asked what I needed, I jumped up, dancing back and forth,legs crossed just as tightly as I could and blurted. “May I please be excused?”

He could see this was urgent.

“Of course.” he quickly moved to grab the bathroom pass. I took a step towards him and the dam broke. Complete and utter humiliation. My tiny voice mournfully cried out loud enough for everyone to hear.

“It’s too late now!”

Who wets their pants in the fifth grade ffs? I took a lot of teasing. I took it well. I didn’t cry when a certain boy named Scott whined “It’s too late now” every time I walked by just to make the other kids laugh for years. I ignored him, I avoided him. I remember how at our 5th year high school reunion he greeted me with, “Hey Jeanne, It’s too late now!”. I laughed and asked him how he was. It made me happy not because it was funny but because I quickly noticed he was prematurely bald.

I learned I could recover from emotional public humiliation. It wasn’t important to wait for permission either. After that, when it was important, I made the call.

My grandmother called to ask my mother if she could spare me for a week or two the summer I was nearly thirteen. She wanted to clean out her attic and couldn’t easliy get up and down the attic ladder. One of my cousins, Paul would be there too to help with the heavier work. My grandmother didn’t learn to drive until she was over fifty and she never learned to drive over 25 miles an hour. She hated to drive. We hated to ride with her. At fourteen, Paul was small for his age, a full head shorter than me but strong and a hard worker. One afternoon my grandmother handed me a grocery list and some money. Why did all the women in my family think I was a shopping service?. She gave Paul the car keys and asked us to go to the grocery store to stock up. I couldn’t believe it! Paul acted like nothing was out of the ordinary, I figured he knew how to drive. What concerned me was whether or not he could reach the pedals and see out of the windshield at the same time. The nearest large grocery store was in East Liverpool Ohio, about 15 miles away from her little West Virginia town, up and down winding mountain roads then across a bridge over the Ohio river. Not only was I riding with an unlicensed 14 year old, we were crossing state lines. Paul knew how to drive all right. A young Dale Earnhardt, He took great delight in getting slightly airborne whenever we crested a hill and accelerating out of the turns. I was screaming at the beginning but by the time we pulled into the store parking lot, I was was looking forward to the ride back. My grandmother was right, he was a much better driver than she.

Paul was older, but not much bigger

That is my first memory of exhilaration. It started out as fear and when I realized there was no real danger, it was invigorating. Rational fear is fine, but why waste time with irrational fears?

Fear? Rational Fear? Did I ever tell you about the time I was in a hurricane? Talk about fear. Well, maybe another time. I could go on but I’ve kept you long enough. You probably have a lot to do. I know you’re busy. Stop by when you have more time, and please, let me know if you’ve heard this one before.

When I started writing on Substack almost a year or so ago, I wanted to write stories about life that were simple, light, and had a little something underlying left unstated. I wanted to learn how to better communicate some of what I believe to be worthwhile. Small things, the unimportant, the everyday, the moments that make me laugh. I’d never expressed myself in this way before. I’ve learned a lot and I’m growing. I’ve enjoyed it. Thank you for reading

This is dedicated to

Elliot Lessing

. Elliot’s full throttle commitment to all things creative is remarkable. He is a good soul and he inspires me. Thanks Elliot!