THE IMPORTANCE OF CHRISTMAS DINNERWARE

I never thought of them as particularly important. Nice to have, certainly, over the holidays. Festive, even. Spode, with the iconic Christmas tree in the center of the plates, bowls, platters. Gaily wrapped presents under the tree. Sprigs of holly scattered about and the green trim along the edges.

The dishes became part of our family Christmas celebrations almost yearly for twenty-eight years. Pulled out of a dark cupboard a week before Christmas, washed and ready to be piled high with roast beef, ham, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and creamy baked mushrooms. After the New Year, the dishes, scrubbed clean with the Christmas tree shining on porcelain, were put back into the dark cupboard.

The dishes remained constant but time changes family traditions. Children grow up, marry and have children of their own. When these children, our grandchildren, are babies and toddlers, everyone came home, over the river and through the woods to Grandma’s house. Grandchildren are content to sleep in pac-and-plays and sit in high chairs for the meals. In those twenty-eight years, not a dish was broken

But change is persistent, more babies are born and the first and second born grow into teen-agers. Easier somehow for two grandparents to go over the river and down the turnpike than for families to load up grandchildren who have grown strangely tall and busy.

So this year, the twenty-ninth year, the dishes came out of the dark cupboard, were lovingly wrapped and packed in boxes to take to my daughter for our family get-together on Christmas Eve.

“Does this mean Nana is never having Christmas again?” asked the beautifully inquisitive  daughter of my son. There was a note of sadness in her voice. I realized then how the Christmas tree plates had become a symbol of what is constant even as things change.

“No,” I answered her. “It means we are a family with traditions that can travel without being broken.

We are the family with very important traveling Christmas plates. Wherever Christmas is, the plates will be there. And everything will be intact, unbroken.

NITROPASTE

A middle aged man presented to the ER with complaints of new onset intermittent chest discomfort.  I explained everything to him. . .the purpose of the EKG, the chest x-ray, the need for blood work, the standard use of O2 in this situation and the purpose of precautionery IV access.  He listened intently to everything I said.

Finally, I prepared one inch of nitropaste to apply to his anterior chest wall. I told him it was the same thing as the little white nitro pills people with angina used when they experienced chest pain.

He frowned and then said: "Please put it on my arm instead of my chest. I can lick my arm but I can't lick my chest."

Just proves you can have a good laugh at work.

REVISING, CRYING, DRINKING COFFEE, CRYING SOME MORE

I would rather write with charcoal on the back of a shovel than deal with the stubborn and uncooperative computer turned she-devil. If any writer is reading my blog, please send me your wisdom, patience and prayers. Or better yet, stop over and help me.  My manuscript looks like a botched autopsy done by a blind and undertrained morgue forensic examiner.

WARM BLANKETS

When there is a death in our emergency department: Before the family is brought to the bedside, we cover the patient with a warm blanket, including the hands.

Death is a cold, cold ending. Soften the grief with some warmth.

If the death occurs to a baby or child: We wrap the child in a warm blanket and a nurse, sitting in a rocking chair, holds the child when the family is brought to the room.

Children should not die, but it they do, they should not be left alone.

Comfort should be continued as long as possible.

Come sit with me in my living room.

Would you like some raspberry tea? It's already brewing, just for you, my friend. I love sitting in this room with my friends because everything here is a memory and I love sharing memories. (And talking!)

See the Queen Anne chairs, colorful crewel embroidery on white wool?  I visited those chairs every time my car needed a 5,000 mile servicing because there was furniture dealer next to the car dealership. Better to wander through a furniture store than sit in the plastic chairs at the dealership! I couldn't afford the chairs until all the kids were done with college (sigh) but as soon as the last tuition check was written it was time to celebrate! I bought the chairs! Okay, an unusual way to celebrate but, whatever. It worked for me.

The colors (green, coral, tan, yellow) of the embroidery on the chairs works perfectly with the Persian carpet on the floor. There's a story about the carpet, also. The carpet came after the chairs.

Would you like more tea?

About the carpet? Well, when visiting my daughter in Turkey, she took me from one carpet dealer after another along the Alley (that's what the locals called it) outside of Incirlik air base. They knew my price range and unrolled carpet after carpet, piling them up, a dizzying array until I was on sensory overload. I learned to drink the tea they offered while holding a sugar cube between my teeth because that's how they do it. (When in Rome and all that except I'm talking Turkey here.) Finally, one dealer showed me a carpet "Just for fun, Madam," because it was out of my price range. But it was the work of an artist. And the colors? Coral, green. tan, yellow. "Yes, madam, an artist. And old, too. Made about 1930 in Persia. See along the edge? He wove his name there." I ran my fingers over the unfamiliar Arabic letters. Touching what someone created with pride in 1930. "No more Persia. Now Iran. I send it back tomorrow to Iran. Nobody buy it here for too long." I asked him not to send it back, to let me think about it. "Yes, madam, I wait." He gave me more tea and a sugar cube. I bought the carpet.

My sister found a glass sculpture of a coral fish suspended on green glass seaweed. She's an artist and knew it was perfect for this room I like how sunlight reflects off of it. I call it my cold glass fish.

The coffee table? Oh, my father made that and he also made the small cabinet in the corner.  Best of all, he made the grandfather clock. The chimes remind me of time passing. Passing in small increments of fifteen minutes, but passing nevertheless. My father passed but left me with his labors of love.

See the bookcase? Jam packed with books, my favorite books. There's a story there, too, of course, because things that have stories give me comfort. My grandfather-in-law was an Irish immigrant who worked as a grounds keeper for the wealthy in Shadyside.  Who did he work for? I don't know and that bit of history is lost. If I  could rewrite history, go back in time, I would ask him more questions but I can't go back. The grandfather clock reminds me of that. But the people he worked for (the Mellons? Carnegie?) gave him furniture they were discarding. The bookcase has a story that can't be told. An untold story is sad. Stories should always be told, written down, shared.

I'm trying to do that now. Thanks for listening.

ANGELS IN MY GARDEN

ANGELS IN MY GARDEN

Harriet Parke

Coming back from a fishing trip in Ireland, we flew over the Twin Towers on 9/9/01.  Two days later, the magnificent towers ceased to exist. Two weeks after that, my husband was diagnosed with renal cell carcinoma. That month both the larger world and our smaller, private world changed. The war in Afghanistan began. Our national soul struggled with the cancer of evil; our family soul struggled with the reality of disease.

            Time passed. My husband had his kidney removed. The nation learned to live with the undercurrent of insecurity and the ongoing war in Afghanistan. We learned to live day to day, praying for our nation and praying for his health. But by 2003, the war had spread to Iraq and the cancer had spread to his liver, adrenal glands and colon. We had our battles ahead of us on all levels.

In a horrific and selfish way, the spread of the war to Iraq in 2003 benefited me. Because of the war, my daughter, Amy, and her two children were evacuated from Incirlik Air Force base in Turkey where her husband was stationed.  They came to stay with us. She was my support, my anchor. The children, innocent and unaware, were my diversion. That was, indeed, a blessing from God.

The wars raged on in Afghanistan and Iraq while the poisonous chemicals of immunotherapy were the battle weapons against cancer. We followed news from the battlegrounds overseas while at home we struggled with an increasingly ill husband, father, grandfather. He appeared to be melting out of our lives as pounds fell from his frame.

After three months, the immunotherapy was completed and conditions in Turkey had stabilized. Amy and her children were permitted to return.  The evening before their departure the children, Jared age six and Anna age two, pretended to be angels. I made halos of paper plates and wings of tissue paper for them and they went outside to play.  Soon they were using butterfly nets to catch frogs in our pond. Little angels catching frogs. I stood alone at the kitchen window watching them, knowing they were leaving in the morning and I felt my heart fill with unshed tears.  I refused to cry because once I started, I would be unable to stop. A river of grief would flow from me for my husband, my family, my nation.

Shortly after my daughter and grandchildren flew back to Turkey, my husband had a CT scan to evaluate the efficacy of the immunotherapy. We prayed for a mission accomplished moment.

But that particular prayer was not answered. The tumors had increased in size by fifty percent. The tumors previously deemed too large for surgery were now even bigger. Surgery now was the only option and presented an even bigger risk than before.

            We drove home from that appointment in black silence. Every bump in the road caused him pain; I drove gingerly, trying to avoid potholes and sudden stops.

            Then, for no apparent reason, I asked him if he minded if I stopped at Plumline Nursery.

            Why did I want to stop at Plumline Nursery? I had no idea. I certainly wasn’t going to buy plants. No logical reason, no practical purpose but I felt compelled to stop there. I had to go there.

            He said he didn’t care but he would wait in the car. He made no eye contact; his voice was flat.

            There were no other customers there; the parking lot was empty. As soon as I got out of the car, I saw a statue, about two feet high, of a boy angel standing and looking down at a frog at his feet.

            “How much?” I asked the nursery employee. I gasped when she told me the price.

            “We have others,” she said and walked away. She returned with another angel. This one was a girl angel, crouching down. The employee set it down beside the boy angel in such a way that the girl angel was gazing at the frog. The angels were Anna and Jared, immortal and forever young.

            I had to buy them. God had directed me to this place at that time. He answered my prayers in a way that fortified my faith.

            My husband is now well; surgery was successful. My daughter and her family are back living in the states.

            The wars go on. I bow my head, clasp my hands.

            The angels live in my heart and my garden. May it be forever so.

           

           

           

The Celery Dish

THE CELERY DISH

“I’ll take this,” Emily said, picking a dish from the china closet and blowing on it.  Tiny dust moats, small as no-see-ems, swirled in the sunshine.

The doors of the china closet were opened wide and the three sisters stood looking into it. From behind they resembled three slats of an uneven picket fence.  One tall, one short and one in between and heavier than the others. The glass in the doors was old with the tell-tale bubbles of hand blown glass.

“Oh, but of course that’s what you would choose,” Shirley said. She was the shortest of the three with shoulders that sloped down as though her arms had always held weights that had gotten heavier over the years.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Emily turned the dish over, inspecting the underside of it. Emily was the oldest, the tallest and the thinnest.

“It’s Waterford,” Shirley said, shrugging. “Nothing but the best for our Emily, right Connie?”

“After all, I’m the one who bought it for Mumsy.”  She polished the dish on the sleeve of her sweater and held it up to the light again. “So I should be the one who gets it, right Connie?”

“Well, la-de-dah. So now you have to remind us how rich you are. I bought the Waterford,” Shirley mimicked her older sister. “That’s what you always do. She always does that, doesn’t she, Connie?

“Don’t start. Now’s not the time.” Connie turned away from the other two. Her eyes were red, her face swollen. She sat down at the dining room table and put her head down on her arms. Her hair fanned across her arms, the back of her blouse strained across her broad back and there were half circles of sweat under her arms.

The women fell silent. The only sound was the creaking of the wooden rocking chair where Dorothy, the fourth and youngest, sister sat knitting. She was working on a gray scarf, straight stich back and forth. The length of it coiled on her lap like a bird’s nest. Her fingers were oddly short and she flicked the tip of her tongue between her lips in rhythm with the rocking.

Connie raised her head and pushed her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ears. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Ten o’clock.  We ought to leave in about an hour.” Emily said. She put the celery dish down on the table and turned back to the china cupboard.  “What do you want to keep, either of you?”

“I don’t want anything. We need to sell everything, get as much money as we can. You know, to take care of. . .” Connie’s voice trailed away and she glanced over at Dorothy.   

“Shhh.  No need to upset you know who.” Shirley closed the doors of the china cupboard and sat across the table from Connie. “I just want one piece of Mumsy’s jewelry. The charm bracelet if I can find it. The one with each of our birthstones. Why don’t you want anything, Connie?”

“You want to know what I want?  I want her back.  I didn’t help her enough.”  She pressed her fingers against her eyes.

“Oh, puh-leeze.  You did more than either of us. I lived too far away.  I don’t know what Shirley’s excuse is but I’m sure she has one.”  Emily raised her eyebrows and stared at Shirley.

“What’s the point of all of this?  Who did what, who bought what, all this looking back, looking over our shoulders. So much diarrhea of memories.”  Shirley shook her head impatiently. “The estate sale is in three days. Then the house goes on the market. And we need to take care of, you know, things.”

The sound of Dorothy rocking continued in the background, distant from the three at the table. She was concentrating on binding off the long gray scarf, placing the tip of the right hand needle into the next stitch on the left hand needle, wrapping the yard, slipping the stitch. She rocked, and flicked her tongue in rhythm.

Connie asked again what time it was and they stood in unison, preparing to leave.

“Dorothy, do you want to come with us?” Connie asked loudly.

“For God’s sake, Connie, she’s not deaf!” Shirley said. “Dorothy, do you want to come with us?” She also spoke loudly but Dorothy didn’t look up. She continued binding off the last final row of the long gray scarf.

“Mumsy sometimes left her alone for short periods of time,” Emily whispered. “It won’t take us long to check this place out. She’ll be okay while we’re gone.”

The three sisters left, their purses hanging from their shoulders. Emily’s was Brighton, burgundy leather, Connie’s was hand made in calico and Shirley’s was a straw bag from Wal-Mart.

After they left, Dorothy cut the yarn on the gray scarf and wove the end into the stitches. She lumbered in an awkward gait to a small cabinet near her rocking chair and took out two more gray scarfs. She laid all three scarfs, gray exclamation points, side by side on the old walnut dining room table and picked up the celery dish.

Carrying the celery dish, she left the house and started a long walk down the road to somewhere.

VIEW FROM A GRAY OCTOBER DAY

Leaves lay like toppled tombstones

In the coming cold cemetery of winter.

KNIT ONE, PURL EIGHT

I own an Irish knit dress. About twice a year I see it: in the spring when I put heavy blankets in the cedar chest, and in the fall when I take the same blankets out of the cedar chest. The dress, folded in fragile tissue paper, has become part of my window-washing, season-changing routine.
I turn back the tissue paper and see the intricate pattern of the eggshell white yarn. I touch it, first with one finger, softly tracing the outline of one of the patterns, then I rub the palm of my hand against it. I pick it up and hold it close to me and smell the sheep-smell of the yarn and feel the harsh texture against my skin and feel a pause in the pushing forward of time.
I first saw an Irish knit dress at an ethnic arts and crafts show. The display card said that, for centuries, the wives of Irish fishermen spent the long winter days knitting clothes for their husbands to wear while tending the fishing boats.
Traditional Irish knits of untreated yarn are all the same yellowed white. To offset the monotony of the color, Irish women began knitting patterns in their garments to represent family histories. A diamond pattern symbolizes fishing nets, and the bulky, twisted cable represents the strength of the hand-made ropes used on the boats. The mock cable was formed into a never-ending tree with upturned branches. This signified family: generations of men fishing and women knitting. The dress, and its history, fascinated me, and I decided to knit one.
For about two weeks I worked on the dress. I found the knitting dull and repetitious. The yarn smelled, and no matter how often I washed my hands, the odor of sheep lingered on my fingers. The patterns were intricate, and too often I ruined their symmetry by daydreaming while working on them. I tired of ripping out my work and starting over, so I put the coarse yarn in a corner of my closet and forgot about it. Let the Irish women knit; I had more interesting things to do.
Sometime after I had abandoned my project, our son, who was then 3 and our only child, awoke with severe chest pain. His color was gray, and his skin was clammy. He was apprehensive and restless; his fingers picked at the bedsheet and he cried with pain. He had been born with congenital heart defects, and I knew he was in cardiac trouble. The day kaleidoscoped: contacting doctors, hospitals, airlines, and finally flying to Children's Hospital in Pittsburgh. For some reason, I packed my knitting bag into my suitcase.
The days that followed were measured by crisis and fear. Surgery is necessary, we were told. Without it, he will die. Surgery is a great risk, we were told. With surgery, he may die. I began to knit. The surgery took more than six hours, and my fingers felt cramped and arthritic. Finally, we were allowed to see him in intensive care.
He looked defenseless surrounded by so much lifesaving equipment. Under his eyes were gray, smudgy circles. He had intravenous needles in both arms and a hard, black plastic airway in his mouth. Electrodes were taped on his arms and legs, and a gastric tube was taped in his nostril. A fan was blowing cold air over him, and he was lying on a circulating ice-water mattress.
"Please nurse, just one blanket?" I asked.
"No," she said.
A thin diaper crossed his groin and a huge adhesive bandage dressing covered his chest. The adhesive was stark, sterile white against the mottled marble skin. I could see his ribs, expanding and contracting as he sucked in air.
Back in the waiting room, I began to knit. I didn't want anyone to touch me. I would fall into little Picasso pieces on the antiseptic tile floor if anyone touched me. I couldn't talk because my throat seemed to be swelling shut, and if I tried to talk, I knew I would suffocate. Let me knit. Knit one, purl eight, yarn over. God, don't let him die. Knit one, purl eight. God, I'll finish this dress. Slip two, knit one. If I finish this row, God, let him have a blanket.
The days passed. The dress began to take shape. My fingers were oily, and I smelled of wet sheep. I carried the knitting bag with me to the waiting room, to the motel, to intensive care. He was getting better. Thank you, God. On March 17, St. Patrick's Day, the doctors said he was well enough for my husband to return to his work in Ohio. I would stay in Pittsburgh with our son. I would watch him get better as I knit, the umbilical cord of yarn always with me. He was getting better. The nurses were in a gay mood. The head nurse was named O'Brien; she had a green plastic shamrock pinned on her white uniform and her dark red hair curled close to her head under her stiff white cap. She was allowing us extra time with him to celebrate the Irish holiday.
I sat by his bed and talked to him of how we loved him and wanted to hold him. I ran my fingers across his forehead and he smiled. A very old smile. A very young child. The smile faded and his pupils contracted, dilated, contracted. The very efficient cardiac monitor beeped, beeped, beeped. The very efficient Miss O'Brien sent us out to the Lysol-smelling waiting room. I saw the rush of white uniforms. Everyone was so intense, determined, yet detached. Knit, purl, please God help him. Knit, purl. My fingers were frozen to the needles.
Knit, purl. I couldn't stop knitting. The resident stood before us and talked. Knit, purl. "Cerebral accident ..." Knit, purl. ... "possible brain damage"... Knit, purl. ... "not good ... not good." Finish a row.
Finish another row. I knitted a prayer into that dress. The twisted cable was the will to live. The diamond pattern was a calendar of the days of help and the days of fear, together and overlapping. The never-ending tree with upturned branches was every mother, any mother, reaching up for strength.
I never wear the dress. It's hot, bulky and uncomfortable. Even after years, it smells of sheep. But I keep it because I can't throw it away. It has a history. I can understand the Irish women knitting and praying for the seas to be calm, for the fog to lift, for their men to come home. After our son was discharged, alert and well, I knitted him a sweater with the same patterns as my dress. He wouldn't wear his sweater, either; he said it was too hot and it made him itchy. So the dress and the sweater are stored together in the cedar chest.
When I see the dress twice a year, I pause and remember the mechanical movements of my fingers using thin knitting needles as a rosary against fate. I feel the coarse yarn and smell the heavy smell of wet sheep, and I can understand the Irish women knitting and praying. I understand.

Previously published in Pittsburgh Magazine and the Tribune-Review.

Hello!

I grew up with a rotary party line phone and black and white television with rabbit ears.  And now I have a blogspot?  You gotta be kidding me.