by jphilo | Mar 11, 2013 | Reflections on the Past
The man of steel and I are on a roll. Not only are we making progress on the sexiest remodeling project ever, but we also finished recovering the table and chair set last used eons ago during my childhood. Never mind how many eons ago that might be.
The important thing is that the original cracked and moldy red vinyl (circa 1957) has finally been replaced. The table top and chairs are all spiffed up and looking good thanks to:
- My mom’s refusal to let the sibs and me “play rough” with table and chairs or take them outside, which explains why the original white paint is in excellent shape.
- Mom’s decision in the 1980s to replace the vinyl on the table top and seats, but quitting halfway through the job. (She recovered the table top, but shoved the original chair covers and the remaining vinyl in a plastic bag.) So the set never was banged or dinged by her five grandchildren.
- The birth of our grandson, which prompted my decision to haul the set out of our attic, where they’d been mouldering since Mom gave up housekeeping in 2009.
- The man of steel, who helped with the project, doing all the stuff that made Mom abandon the project. (As I would have done had the man of steel not been around. Fitting the vinyl around those itty bitty corners and stapling them in place was a two person job!)
The table and chairs set look so good, they’re already in use as an end table in our living room and easily accessible to the pint-sized crowd. In fact, a two-year-old visitor to our house took them on a test drive. He discovered that the same piece of apple pie his mommy tried to feed him as he sat on her lap is magically tastier when feeding oneself seated at a kid-sized table.
This child-sized table is magic, a discovery I made eons ago as a child–still no need to disclose how many eons ago that might be–a discovery that skipped my children’s generation, and one we want our little grandson make during visits to grandma and grandpa’s house.
Because childhood should be full of magic, and grandparents are tasked with making sure it happens. Which means it’s time for me to stop blogging and start searching for fairy dust. It’s in the attic somewhere…
by jphilo | Mar 4, 2013 | Family
Sixteen years ago this day, my father died.
He was born almost 68 years earlier, the long-awaited and only child of his doting parents, Cyril and Fern Stratton. Maybe because he was an only his parents, who raised him on an Iowa farm during the Great Depression, could afford to take so many pictures of their little boy. Maybe caring for only one child gave his mom time to glue the photos on the black pages of an album and label them in her careful handwriting with a white-inked pen–page after page of quaint photos in which little Harlan looks like a member of the Little Rascals gang.
It’s hard to reconcile the blond-haired toddler in the pictures with my dark-haired dad until I see my father’s smile and joyful spirit shining on the child’s face. Then the resemblance is startling, striking, because throughout his life, Dad was a child–even a rascal–at heart.
When we were young, he was our kindred spirit. My brother, sister, and I loved to be near him. We snuggled close to him on the couch, though we learned to keep a wary eye out for his finger pokes and tickles. He taught us silly songs, showed us how to make goofy faces, and laughed until he cried at the television shows that made us laugh until we cried, too.
On summer days, when Dad wheeled his chair outside and parked in the driveway, the neighborhood kids came running. Children swarmed around him as he told jokes, handed out nicknames like candy, and–until Mom put a stop to it–gave wheelchair rides to those daring enough to climb into his lap.
As the years went by and multiple sclerosis stripped away Dad’s physical abilities, his speech, and finally, his memories, when all he could do was lay in a bed or sit propped up in a wheelchair, the presence of little children stirred him to life. His eyes followed the movement of his grandchildren. His head turned to the sound of the high, piping voices of his grand-nieces and nephews. A grin spread across his face and he snorted with laughter.
In the presence of children, his spirit broke through the walls of his ravaged body. For a moment, the man we missed so much returned. For a moment we saw, that despite a long struggle against a cruel and devastating disease, our father was still a child–and even a rascal–at heart.
Oh, Dad, I miss your smile.
In memory of Harlan John Stratton: May 11, 1929–March 4, 1997
by jphilo | Jan 3, 2013 | Three Thoughts for Thursday
- This year, I’m relaxing my long-standing, never-make-new-year-resolutions stance because I finally came up with one I’m sure to keep: find more sources of dairy-free chocolate.
- In childhood, I spent New Year’s morning waiting for the Rose Bowl Parade to start and then watching starry-eyed as princesses glided down the street on floats covered with flower petals. This New Year, I spent the morning getting business stuff ready for tax season. Oh, to be a kid again!
- The man of steel and I took Mom out to New Year’s lunch at a family-owned Mexican restaurant with delicious food and had a good time. How about you?
photo credit: wwwfreedigitalphotos.net
by jphilo | Apr 9, 2012 | Family, Reflections on the Past
The lilacs are blooming,
Blossoms purple against deep green leaves.
Their scent rises in greeting this morning
As I walk down the lane.
I welcome these old friends,
Who visit briefly each spring,
Then wave good-bye in the wind,
With never a backward glance at the branches that bore them.
My daughter loved their circle of branches,
A fairy ring just big enough
For one small girl and her dolls
To hold a tea party on summer afternoons.
I look for my sweet, shy daughter
And the circle of branches
In the lilacs,
But both are gone.
The fairy ring is overgrown,
Filled with tender, new lilac shoots.
My daughter is grown,
Filled with tender love for her new husband.
Still, the lilacs blossoms
Return each spring.
My daughter and her husband
Return when they can.
When they turn into our lane,
The lonely branches wave
To greet the shy, sweet girl
Who once nestled in the safety
Of a fairy ring.
