The realtor placed two sheets of paper on the table in front of Arnie and me. He explained, “I’m going to take you to see these two houses this afternoon. Before we leave the office, you might want to look at the spec sheets. You’ll notice both houses are in the countryside, and both have the number of bedrooms, bathrooms and the backyard you want.”
Each sheet bore the picture of a house for sale. Below the picture was information about the house. One had fifteen hundred square feet of living space, the other had two thousand. One house had a new roof and with the other a new water heater. The yearly property taxes listed for either property made my eyes water.
Both houses looked nice, but I had trouble taking my eyes off the brick house. It looked inviting, warm, and friendly. My gut feeling was that it looked like a home…my home. When we toured it, Arnie and I liked what we saw, despite its many faults. The house was built over fifty years before I was born. Some remodeling had been done, some of it very poorly. It was branded with the colors and products of the 1970’s mobile home industry. Most shocking to me, was that the house had two furnaces! One was an oil furnace, and the other was a wood furnace.
The alarm clock buzzed and progressively became louder until I slid out of bed to turn it off. Only the light of a waxing moon and a sprinkle of stars illuminated the darkness outside our bedroom window. Arnie turned on the bedside lamp and quickly slipped on blue jeans and a plaid shirt. He glanced at me, still in my nightgown and standing next to the bed, rubbing my eyes. He urgently advised, “Hurry up! Get dressed. Gene and Thelma will be here in half an hour.”
“Who are you?” I snapped grumpily. “You certainly can’t be my husband. He never gets up without a fight.”
Pinching me playfully, Arnie happily explained, “We’re not getting up for work. We’re getting up to start our vacation!”
Our two-truck caravan, each pulling boats, reached the north shore of Lake Superior just as the sun started to rise above the horizon. I spotted a breakfast diner and sighed, “Breakfast, at last!”
Seven hours later we stopped for lunch at a Canadian café. Poutine was on the menu, so of course we ordered some. Gene dug into the gravy drenched, cheese-curd-dotted, French fries and announced with a shrug, “It’s a weird way to eat French fries, but since we’re in Canada, we should give it a try.”
The next two days, Thelma and Gene fished from their boat while Arnie and I fished from our boat. They often quietly sat with bobbers floating on the water. Arnie preferred trawling through bays and inlets. We all caught fish.
Tammie texted me, “When are you having your hair permed?”
I responded, “My appointment is in half an hour.”
My daughter messaged, “I’ll talk to you later, when you’re a curly-haired lamb.” I chuckled. Tammie liked to compare me to a lamb with curly fleece whenever I get a perm.
Before leaving the house, I peeked into a mirror. What I saw fully displayed what I hate about my hair. Baby-fine strands were lying limp, flat against the forehead, sticking to sweat-beaded skin. I grumbled, “I hate my hair right before a perm, especially when the weather is hot and humid! It’s hard to believe that just yesterday, I washed, moussed, and set my hair.”
At the appointed time, Lisa, my hairdresser, greeted me cheerfully as she ushered me into her salon chair. Looking at our reflections in the mirror, I wanly smiled and admitted, “Not feeling good because you’re having bad hair day is a real thing. For the last two weeks, I’ve been counting the days till my perm. I feel messy and unattractive.”
Lisa professionally examined my flat tresses and commented, “Your hair is thick and healthy, but very fine and has very little body. The ends of your hair show that you had a perm four months ago.”
Shrugging, I said, “I’ve had my hair cut three times since the last perm. I thought all of it was gone. But it doesn’t matter, because today I’m having another perm!” With a chuckle, I confessed, “I like feeling like a curly-haired lamb.”
Expertly wrapping sections of my hair onto permanent rods, Lisa asked, “Aren’t you and Tammie leaving for an Alaskan cruise soon?”
I eagerly responded, “The cruise is in two weeks. I enjoy traveling with Tammie, so I’m looking forward to it.” With all my hair wrapped around the curler rods, Lisa applied the permanent solution. The next step was waiting for nearly half an hour before the hair wrapped curler rods were rinsed and the second solution applied to my hair.
During the wait time, I thought about the cruise, hoping I wouldn’t ruin our fun by being motion sick on the ship. To prevent this, Tammie made sure our cabin was in the middle of the ship, plus I’d asked my doctor for Scopolamine patches.
Why would a person who suffers motion sickness go on a cruise? For me the answer was easy. I want to do normal, fun activities. Once, while on vacation with my daughter, we stayed at a hotel with a water park. I enjoyed floating on the lazy river. Then Tammie suggested, “We should do the water slide.” I glanced up. The entrance to the slide was towering four stories above. Like a lamb being led to slaughter, I meekly agreed, “Okay.”
Placing a box filled with family photos on the floor next to my chair, I assured my daughter, Tammie, “The picture you want will be in this box.” Reaching in, I pulled out an envelope marked “2006”.
Looking over my shoulder, Tammie shook her head and declared, “It’s not in that envelope. Those are from the fishing trip that Daddy, you and I went on after I earned my master’s degree.”
Quickly shuffling through the first few pictures, I slowed down to study ones that were taken while on the boat, right after catching fish. I sighed, “Weren’t those fishing trips to Canada with your Daddy wonderful?”
Sitting on the footstool next to my chair, Tammie agreed, “I loved the fishing vacations I got to go on with you. The place we stayed at was so beautiful, and we always caught fish!”
Chuckling, I pointed out, “I think Arnie took great pride in his fishing guide abilities when his wife and daughter caught fish.”
Studying a picture of herself holding a walleye she’d caught, Tammie asked, “What ever happened to that resort we stayed at?”
I shrugged and admitted, “I don’t know. The man who owned the resort was a bricklayer from Minnesota. Terry worked at home during the winters and then spent the summers in Canada at Moose Tracks Cottages. Around the time your Daddy died, I heard that Terry had sold the place.”
“Wouldn’t it be fun to go fishing again?” Tammie asked wistfully.
I nodded and admitted, “When I was younger, fishing seemed so boring. But the fishing trips we took to Canada were fun once I learned how to fish.”
Seeing Casper stand up to leave the table, Mom suggested, “If you’re going to walk down to the woods this afternoon, check the elderberry bushes for blossoms. They always blossom by the end of June. If they are, pick enough for me to fry for our supper tonight.”
I had already planned on spending that Saturday afternoon tagging after my big brother, but now I certainly didn’t want to miss the chance to help him pick elderberry blossoms! I jumped to my feet and announced, “I’m coming with you.”
Casper gruffly instructed, “Be sure to keep up with me.” As I followed him out the back door of our farmhouse, Mom handed me a brown paper bag to put the blossoms in. I had to run to keep up with Casper’s longer legs. We crossed the cow yard and started down the cow lane towards the woodlot and the small creek that ran through the back forty acres on our farm. I rested whenever Casper stopped to check who was using the birdhouses that were nailed to some of the cow lane fence posts.
Our hurried pace slowed as we came closer to the cow pasture near the creek. Birds I never saw near the house sat on reeds bobbing in the breeze. Butterflies flitted around wildflowers. Casper examined paw tracks in the mud. “Racoon,” he muttered for my benefit.
Mom was right. The elderberries were in full bloom. As we approached the bushes, a slight breeze made the delicate flowers flutter, reminding me of lacy handkerchiefs waved by a flirtatious, medieval damsel. We spent an enjoyable hour or more checking bird houses by the trees, seeing squirrel tracks while we walked through the woods, watching minnows and frogs in the creek. We returned to the elderberry bushes to pick the flowers on our way back home.
Mom brought a cake to the table and set it down. A single unlit birthday candle stood tall and proud in the center of the cake amid chocolate frosting. I clapped my hands with happy anticipation. We were celebrating my nephew David’s first birthday. He was born March 27th, 1960, the year I turned ten. My brother-in-law had enlisted in the army amid the Berlin Crisis, so he and my sister, along with David, had recently moved away to an army base. Even though he wasn’t with us to celebrate his special day, I insisted Mom make a birthday cake for David.
Taking a wooden matchstick from a box, Daddy reached under his chair to drag it across the rough underside to ignite it. Suddenly, with an aggressive roar, flames shot out of the cold air-return grate next to where he was sitting.
Seeing large orange flames coming from inside the wall of my much-loved home, I jumped up from the table and screamed. As a ten-year-old, I figured that everyone was responsible for their own escape from the house. I ran from the kitchen, through the entryway, and out the back door. A few minutes later, my brother Billy found me standing on the sidewalk behind the house, sobbing. He said, “The fire is out. Everything’s okay.”
I returned to our supper table to find Mom had placed a serving of the birthday cake at my place. It was like nothing had happened. I felt confused and as though I needed to run around the block several times to get rid of the residual panic in my system. A few fork loads of frosted cake went a long way towards making me feel better. I hic-upped, “What happened? Why did the house catch fire? It happened so suddenly!”
Mom sat in the front seat of the family car. I and a few of my siblings piled into the back seat. Daddy got in behind the wheel and slammed the car door shut. One of Daddy’s favorite things to do on Sunday afternoons during the summer, was to take slow, meandering drives on country roads. I liked to go along because I always hoped we’d stop for a treat, and occasionally, we did!
As Daddy drove the country roads, he examined our neighbor’s corn field. With an approving nod, he announced, “Mark’s corn looks good. It’s as far along as mine.” With his attention not on the road, the car began to veer towards the left ditch. Mom and the older kids yelled, “Watch the road!” This happened again when Daddy noted that our neighbor Tony had already finished taking in his first crop of hay. Sunday afternoon drives were always exciting during the summer months. My father took his job of inspecting local farm crops then comparing them with his own crops, seriously.
While getting ready for one of our Sunday drives, Mom told me, “We’re going to stop at a custard stand today.” I wondered what sort of treat a custard was. At ten years of age, I thought a custard was just a pudding. A good treat, for sure, but it seemed to be an odd sort of thing to be selling from a stand.
That day I sat between Mom and Daddy in the front seat, because more of my siblings were coming along. I shrugged and commented, “Okay. I like puddings.”
Mom smiled as she corrected, “It isn’t pudding. It looks and tastes like ice cream, but it’s soft. Instead of being scooped out of a box, it comes out of a machine when a button is pushed. The server puts the custard into an ice cream cone.”
Because the sides of my hoop building garden were open, I could feel a gentle breeze. But the late May sun made everything within the protective confines of its plastic walls feel hot. There were only four more small nursery plants for me to tuck into the garden row, so I doggedly continued. I made a slit in the plastic mulch covering the drip-taped row. Then I scooped a handful of the soft, warm, moist soil out from the opening. After placing the infant plant in the hole, I poured a cup of water over its roots and covered it with soil. I did this three more times before standing up.
Pulling off my gardening gloves, I sat on the steps of my deck. A small, cool breeze swirled around the corner of the house. It felt good, but I wanted a stronger breeze. It occurred to me that by going for a bike ride, I’d cool off. Moments later, I was pedaling my bike away from home.
Having recently retired from the hospital, I felt fit and capable. I tilled and planted my own garden each spring. In late summer, I washed every window in the house. Before winter arrived, I’d buy six tons of wood pellets and throw the 40 pound sacks into the basement and stack at least half of them. My only physical limitation was the distance I could walk, due to arthritic foot joints.
My life became more sedentary as the years passed, especially during the winter. I didn’t work outside the home anymore and the cold and snow kept me mostly indoors. One day I realized that a stationary exercise bike would be the perfect thing for me to buy to get me moving. At the store I picked out a mid-price one that showed how many minutes an exercise session lasted, the speed, calories burned, and distance covered.
Macaroni and Cheese (Mac) playing with his still new banana cat toy!
“Rasp! Rasp! Rasp!” A repetitive sound pulled my attention away from the article I was reading. I glanced around my living room, and then with a frown closed the magazine on my lap. Whatever had made that sound was nearby. The dry scratchy noise made me recall the time my mother scraped a knife across a slice of bread that got too dark in the toaster. After having scraped off the darkly toasted breadcrumbs, she buttered and ate the crisp bread.
Peeking behind my chair, I saw my cat Jerry playing with a cat-toy that my daughter forgot to take home after one of the visits she’d made with her cats. Looking blissful, Jerry rubbed his face against the old, soiled toy. Stopping mid rub, he began to lick the stained canvas. His moist, textured tongue dragged across the dry canvas. This made the rasping sound that I’d heard earlier. My mouth watered and I shivered convulsively.
The toy had started out many years earlier as a bright yellow, plump banana, made of canvas and stuffed with catnip. Tammie’s cat, Mac, loved this toy and often rolled around on it and licked it, just like Jerry was doing. After being played with this way for years, the yellow color faded, and the middle had turned brown, as if it really was an over ripe fruit. The banana was no longer plump, either.
I should have thrown the old cat toy out, especially since Mac is no longer among the living. But I have trouble getting rid of things that can still be used. I’m more like my mother than I care to admit. Just as my mother had scraped off burnt crumbs, buttered and ate the bread, I’m frugal. Besides, Jerry obviously isn’t repulsed by Mac’s dried saliva!
I carried two cups of tea into the dining room and placed one on the table in front of my daughter Tammie. Glancing up at me, she questioned, “Did you put sweetener in mine?”
Sitting down across from her, I admitted, “Your tea might be sweeter than you like.”
Taking a sip, my daughter raised her eyebrows and chuckled, “It is pretty sweet!”
I offered, “Would you like me to get you a fresh cup?”
“No, it’ll be fine.” Tammie assured me. “I want you to stay at the table with me so we can discuss where we will go for our vacation this year.”
Cupping my cold hands around the warm mug of tea, I confidently suggested, “This is the year we should go to Alaska.”
With a broad smile, Tammie commented, “We’ve talked about going to visit Alaska for the last dozen years. Somehow, it just never happened. Why do you suppose that was?”
Nodding, I admitted, “The idea of going there has always appealed to me, but we never could agree on what we wanted to see or do while in Alaska. We talked about going salmon fishing on the ocean, but I felt really reluctant about it. This year I’ve finally realized that fishing would be fun to do if Arnie were still with us, but not for us to do alone. A fishing trip like that was something he would have absolutely loved, but that doesn’t mean we have to do it! We also talked about Alaska’s gold rush history and how much fun it would be to try panning for gold in a stream. We never investigated finding a guide for that.”
Tammie added more reasons why our plans to visit Alaska other years just never worked out, “We never could come to an agreement about which cities to visit, where to stay, nor how long to stay.”
Life Lines 