Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul (33 page)

I suspect that, in some strange way, my mother actually enjoyed these arguments. She was supremely confident and utterly convinced that she was right, of course. And perhaps she believed that, if she kept chipping away at my grandfather long enough and hard enough, he would eventually come to his senses and agree with her.

But he never did.

Gradually, my grandmother’s arthritis worsened. Various medications and treatments were tried, but a year or so later, she was in a wheelchair, and by the time I was a teenager, she was completely immobilized. She lay in bed, unable to move anything more than her eyeballs without suffering excruciating pain. I was frightened, afraid of hurting her, uncertain of what to say and how to act. But my mother insisted that we talk to my grandmother. My brothers and I would tiptoe into the bedroom and stand at the foot of the bed so she could see us without having to turn her head.

“Oh,
mein kinderlach
!” she would exclaim, her eyes filling with tears. “Come, come closer!”

We would inch towards the side of the bed, and my grandmother would slowly raise one finger, grimacing with pain as she reached to stroke our hands. Even at our young ages, we somehow knew that it was worth it to her, that no amount of pain could stop her from touching us.

In the living room, my mother would be arguing vociferously with my grandfather over a political candidate or a social issue. But after a while, they would just stop. My grandfather went into the kitchen to prepare my grandmother’s meal. I watched as he fed her lovingly with a spoon, gently wiping the food from her chin and bending the straw so she could drink.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I understood why my mother had insisted on those seemingly endless visits to my grandparents. I realized that, under the cover of those intense political debates, my mother believed in the value of a family, the invisible bonds that hold people together. I learned that politics and money and egos and everything else that family members disagree about were just on the surface, and that underneath this rough exterior were the things that really mattered: Devotion. Faithfulness. Love. Even when those family members were stubborn and argumentative. Even when they were opinionated and rude. Even when they did something stupid and dangerous and almost killed a sleeping baby. Even if they did all of these things, they were still family—still important and still loved.

Phyllis Nutkis

Baked with Loving Hands

Our son, Tobey, has always had a generous spirit, as well as a
very
independent nature. Like many small boys, he liked to show his affection for someone by doing a kind or helpful thing.

“I’m going to make Vanessa’s cake,” he announced proudly at age nine when his sister’s birthday was just a few days away. Somewhat surprised, I was eager to encourage this decision, as well as his interest in cooking. He was tremendously fond of his big sister and wanted to do something very grown-up in honor of her special day.

At the same time, I was a little worried about how he would accomplish this while also accommodating the demands of his twelve-year-old sister’s
very
specific taste. She had big plans for how her birthday would be celebrated with her sixth-grade classmates that year, and was quite specific about exactly what kind of cake she hoped to have for the big day.

Tobey’s food-preparation experience was limited to peanut butter sandwiches and microwave popcorn. However, he insisted that this first baking effort, his gift to Vanessa, was something he wanted to do entirely by himself, “With no help from you, Mom.” (I would, of course, be allowed to drive him to the store and help him find the necessary baking supplies.)

My confidence in this project was a bit shaky not only because of the limits of Tobey’s experience and the size of his sister’s expectations, but because my own cakes are not usually the prettiest things to behold. Fortunately for Tobey—and for me—the cake his sister most desired was available as a boxed cake mix. It included brightly colored sprinkles that baked right into the cake and the instructions certainly didn’t sound too difficult.

Tobey and I made a trip to the store to buy the mix along with the other things we needed for the birthday party. On the eve of Vanessa’s birthday, he raced through his homework and then excitedly began assembling an assortment of bowls and utensils for his project. As if to reassure me, he sat down first and read and reread the instructions on that package until I’m sure he had them memorized. Then he opened the box and got started.

In a game of parental stealth, I tried to monitor the activities of this young chef without appearing to hover over him. I found a dozen reasons to rummage in the kitchen for things as he went about his task.

Brows knit together, lips pursed in concentration, he carried out the list of instructions carefully. He broke eggs into a bowl for the first time and measured out the other ingredients as though he were handling priceless objects. I was impressed by the fact that he made virtually no mess at all. His eyes darted back and forth to check the instructions constantly.

When it came time to use the electric mixer, he granted me permission only to check that all the parts and pieces were connected properly, then thanked and dismissed me as the beaters began to whir away. He mixed the ingredients into a rich, golden batter. He had only to add the sprinkles and then it could all be poured into the baking pan he’d greased laboriously. Soon the smell of baking cake would scent the house.

Encouraged by his progress, I went to answer a phone call and was horrified to return a few minutes later and find him wrist-deep in cake batter, working his hands in the bowl. I wanted to shout, “What in the world are you doing? Are you crazy?” but thankfully, sheer astonishment kept these words tangled up in my throat unable to escape. I’m so glad I choked on my surprise rather than blurt out something I’d have regretted later.

When he saw my contorted expression, he immediately assured me that he’d washed his hands thoroughly—very thoroughly—before taking this highly unusual step.

Then he gestured with his head toward the empty sprinkles packet on the counter beside him and said, “Can you believe it? I thought it seemed kind of goofy myself, but it’s exactly what the instructions said: ‘Add sprinkles and mix by
hand
’!”

I had to agree with him, as I explained the role of spoons in this process, that it might have been helpful for the instructions to mention them. I’m sure that cake tasted even better for the laughter that followed as we waited for it to bake.

The cake—which turned out beautifully—was a smash! Vanessa, who was as surprised as she was thrilled by Tobey’s loving gesture, gave him a big hug, right in front of all her “Eew—boys are yucky” friends.

A young man now, Tobey has become an accomplished cook who still likes to show his generosity by feeding others good food. But now he knows to approach at least some of life’s instructions with just a grain or two of salt, along with all the other ingredients.

Phyllis Ring

The Intent of the Heart

My grandmother loved her kitchen and hated her house. As a young woman, she and her new husband lived in an old farmhouse near a small town in the Kentucky hills. What fed her unhappiness with the house was the narrow doorways and small windows. Even though the house had been built in that way to conserve heat she felt constrained by the halls and doorways through which she had to constantly move every day doing her work. And because she was a woman who loved light, the awful, tiny windows that made the rooms so dark, distressed her.

She tried not to complain about the house too much because my grandfather had been lucky to find anything livable for them to begin their lives together. It was poor country and people who had houses kept them for their entire lives. My grandfather was a country doctor and had to have enough land to graze his two horses as well as raise enough food for his family.

But although she understood their circumstances, my grandmother began to complain. Eventually, my grandfather would leave the house when she began to vent her feelings. And, as a result, over the next year and a half they began to grow apart. She tended the house she hated, and he did the work he loved as best he could.

Often he would disappear in the evenings with his rifle. He would tell her that he was going to hunt raccoons, but he had only one dog, and she knew it was not good for much except sleeping and begging for food.

He began to be tired quite a lot of the time, and at first she was worried about his health, and then she began to be convinced he was up to something, and no good could come of whatever that might be.

She began to try to stay up until he came home, but after doing her sewing and reading for a time, she would inevitably fall asleep. When she woke she would find him in bed. She looked for the signs of guilt on his face and saw only peace.

So, uncertain of what to do, she tried to stop complaining about the house. But that produced the most peculiar result. If she did not bring up her unhappiness for a week or so, he would bring it up.

My grandfather would ask if she had gotten comfortable with the house or say that she must have grown used to it. That would always provoke what she called a mean face from her and the small noise of disgust that communicated itself so well. To her considerable consternation this often made him smile. And she decided that whatever it was he was doing away from her gave him unacceptable pleasure.

Finally, she could contain her growing anger no longer. At dinner one night she told him that he could not leave her alone in the evenings. She said that she was frightened to stay in that terrible house by herself, that she knew he was up to no good, that she expected him to keep his marriage vows and that she would not put up with his treatment of her any longer.

My grandfather looked at his young bride and said, “Tomorrow will be the end of it. I promise you.”

She went to bed that night inconsolable, certain that her husband had been unfaithful to her. He was telling her as much. She imagined the woman he’d been seeing, she imagined him telling her that he’d decided not to break his marriage, she imagined the tears and the parting. She was not able to sleep that night.

She did not speak to him at breakfast the next morning. The first cool weather had settled in on the mountain valley. The leaves had begun to turn, and she watched from her kitchen window as he saddled his horse and strapped on his two black satchels in which he carried medicine and instruments.

Then he turned back to the house and told her to come with him. When she asked him why, he told her that he expected to have to deliver a baby at the Wakin’s place, and he expected it to be a difficult birth. “I need you,” he said and smiled that wide disarming smile that had won her heart in the first place.

He helped her up on the saddle behind him and she put her arms around his waist. She had not touched him so intimately in quite a while and was surprised by the strength she felt in his body. They rode about four miles though the autumn woods, through the leaf-filtered light. He hummed a song he liked called “In the Gloaming.” She wondered what made him so happy about going to deliver a baby. But he loved children, and she attributed it to that.

At Sandy Creek he pushed his horse into a trot, and as they came to the crest of a gentle rise of land she saw, directly in front of them, the most beautiful house she’d ever seen.

“Oh my,” she said. “Have the Wakin’s built them this place?”

“No,” he said, “my darlin’. I built it. Me and a couple of men from Ashland. We built it. It’s for you.”

He helped her down from the horse, and as she walked she said, “It’s as if I weigh no more than a milkweed seed.”

He led her through her house with its many windows, its light-filled rooms, its lovely veranda and its wide, wide parlor doors. It was in that house they lived all their lives, raised their four children. And it was that house to which the entire family always came for celebrations, partly out of respect, but mostly because everyone had a better time there than any place they’d ever been.

My mother, to whom my grandmother confided this story once, asked her why the house felt so blessed. And my grandmother said, “It’s because he loved me. And because I loved him all of my life. Even when I thought I didn’t.”

My mother never forgot that, and neither have I.

Walker Meade

Mother’s Silver Candlesticks

My mother saw the candlesticks displayed on a shelf in the rear of a secondhand store in the tenement district of New York City. They were approximately ten inches tall and heavily tarnished, but a surreptitious rub revealed their possibility, and a glance at the base showed the magic word “sterling.” How did they get there? What poor soul had hocked them to survive? Mother ached to buy them, but we had come to exchange the shoes I was wearing for another pair to fit my growing feet. First things came first.

New York, where we settled upon entering the United States, and the area where we lived bore little resemblance to the
Goldene Medina,
the golden land that many immigrants had envisioned in their dreams. However, it was a land of opportunities, where all might achieve their aspirations if they worked hard toward their goals.

“We can swim, or we can sink,” declared Mutti, as I called my mother, “and I have always been a strong swimmer.”