I remember the hill in the backyard with the aging grape arbor, where we carried cold cups of lemonade to sit and sip on a hot sunny day. I remember her old white enamel kitchen table with the green stencil design along the edges, drop sides and the drawers where she kept cooking utensils. I spent many an afternoon sitting there talking to her and watching her bake or prepare dinner. I remember the old gas stove and the great toast she made by holding bread on a fork over the flame. I remember a very special afghan that she would drape over me to comfort me when I had a cold and didn't feel well. And I remember her old pedestal style telephone that sat on the little desk at the foot of the stairs . . . did she ever LOVE that telephone! She could talk for what seemed like hours to a little girl waiting for her undivided attention!
I can remember going upstairs to her bedroom -- my favorite spot -- and sitting at her big mahogany vanity. You know the kind I mean, with the big ornate mirror frame and the curvy design vanity top . . . something straight out of a 1930's movie. I would sit there and brush my hair with her beautiful gold hairbrush that always sat on the mirrored golden tray. I would sneak a squeeze of perfume from the perfume atomizers, and was sure she'd never know, although she could probably smell it all the way downstairs, as I wasn't afraid to mix scents! I felt so glamorous sitting there amid my childish thoughts of what I would be like when I grew up.
And then there was my second favorite spot in the house -- the big round claw foot dining room table big enough to seat the whole family for the holidays. How I loved those holiday dinners. I remember watching her at Thanksgiving as she would pluck the remnants of turkey feathers and wash what I was sure had to be the world's largest turkey. I could hardly wait for it to finish cooking! When it was done and placed on a platter on the round table, surrounded by serving dishes piled high with peas, corn, turnips, potatoes, and stuffing, it was like looking at a Norman Rockwell painting. To this day when I see a Rockwell painting I think of my grandmother and our hometown in Massachusetts.
No family is as perfect as a Norman Rockwell painting of course, and ours was no exception. There were the arguments and the pettiness that exist in most families; but I didn't know that then. Kids only see the good in people, and the fun and excitement in situations. And while I am aware that life was not as completely idyllic as my childhood memories play it back to me, I choose not to remember the less-than-perfect things. Why should I? That's the wonder of growing older, I think.
When you finally mature enough to realize what is and isn't important in this earthly life, you find that it rarely has anything to do with what you thought was important in your youth. You fully appreciate the special little things and the kindnesses of people that made you who you are today, and you can forget whatever you choose to forget in your quest for peace and understanding of God's plan for us.
Maybe the "second childhood" we always hear about is actually just a turning point when you stop worrying about the ladder-climbing, keeping up with the Joneses, acquiring "things," becoming "somebody," or being "better" than somebody, and just take a deep breath and enjoy whatever good comes, however it chooses to come to you.
I like to think that's what Norman Rockwell saw when he painted -- all the fleeting little goodnesses in life. Maybe he made a point to watch for them as he made his way through town, and quickly began to paint before he could forget what had grabbed his mind's eye. Maybe he heard a touching story about someone's family and decided to put it down on canvas for everyone to enjoy. Or maybe he savored the happy memories in his own everyday life and painted them so he'd never forget them, or forget to tell his children about them.
I write today with much the same kind of inspiration gleaned from the tiny memorable glimpses of my own early years of living life in a Norman Rockwell painting . . . if only occasionally.
Sadly, I don't know whatever happened to Grandma's vanity that was so special in my young mind, or to the dining room table where my happiest family dinners were spent. I hope someone is truly enjoying them as I would have, if I'd been fortunate enough to have acquired them. The perfume atomizers are long gone, and the afghan, too. But I know those were only material things that couldn't last forever . . . and that's OK because the memory of them and the pleasure they brought lives on in the heart of a little girl now as old as her Grandma was then.
Thanks, Grandma . . . for the memories.
In loving memory of Anna Brazil
© Carol Auclair Daly.2009-2010 All Rights Reserved
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