The wooden tray sat on top of the white Sears refrigerator for as long as I could remember.
Each day, my Dad would come home from work. I could hear the backdoor open. He would walk to the refrigerator and drop his keys into the tray. It was easy for him to do because he was taller than the refrigerator. He would then kiss my Mom, who had been working on dinner. After making a drink, Dad would stop again at the tray before heading to his chair in the den. There were items that my Mom had placed in the tray. They were the items of the day…..letters from relatives in Indiana or Massachusetts, recently developed photographs from a family outing, school report cards, an obituary or perhaps a quote for some home repair. The tray was a snapshot of current events for our household.
We moved into the house in the winter of 1963. I was 4 years old and could only see the edge of the tray when I looked up at the refrigerator. I could only get access to the tray by climbing onto the kitchen counter and then peering down into the tray. This would take place when my parents weren’t nearby. I found that there were other items that I was unaware of……coins, matchbooks, old sticks of cinnamon gum, a house key and an occasional pack of Salem cigarettes. As I grew older and taller, the wooden tray held less interest for me.
About three years ago, my brother, Eric, and I were helping my parents move from their house to an apartment in Asheville, NC. They had downsized on two other occasions in the past twenty years or so. Now, my parents were 80 years old. We were sorting through things making decisions about this or that. Dad picked up the wooden tray. I hadn’t seen it in years. He said it was unusual, in that it had been cut from a single piece of wood. He went on to say that it belonged to my maternal grandfather, who was a carpenter. The tray was in his home in Milton, MA. Dad said “This tray use to sit….” And I stopped him. I said” I know where that tray was’. He said “please take it home with you” and I did.
Note from Allison and Marcia: Objects often hold memories for us just like Andrew's dad's wooden tray. Take the time to find an object that holds a memory for you.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
On Jello and Womanhood ~ by Allison Rhodes, Decatur, Georgia
Memories of food and of the women in my family are closely related. A time honored way to care for loved ones, certain culinary offerings represent to me the temperament and personhood of the women who were the elders in my family. Today is my late mother’s birthday and I suppose I will always miss her. Some of her meals were classics in our family and one in particular set a living example for me.
Mary Martha Rowland Rhodes was a loving mother and a creative woman. In the winter of 1970 she extended an invitation to my boyfriend for Sunday dinner. Mama asked me what he especially liked to eat. The guy, later to become her son in law, was not a “picky eater” I replied. This sort of sets most cooks minds to ease. I knew he would enjoy her roast beef, green beans, squash soufflé and sour cream pound cake which were regular Sunday items. Then I added, “I know he really likes gelatin salads with fruit.”
Gelatin salads were not a menu item at my home but Mama was undaunted. Equipped with her ideas, but without the aid of a recipe, she embarked on her creative process. The lack of a recipe was an earmark of Mama’s creative process. For instance, when sewing she would often say, “Anybody can make it like that” as she added or removed a detail from the frock pictured on the pattern. “This will be different. You won’t see yourself coming and going.” For her this meant the outfit would be special. For me it meant I would indeed not see myself in anything that resembled an off the rack item.
Back to the cooking episode: The dusty jello mold, which had heretofore been only part of the kitchen’s early American wall décor, was taken down and put in the sink for washing. Her thoughts were to fill the gelatin with an array of wonderful fruit and place something whipped in the middle of the wreath- like mold. Planning ahead as good cooks do, the jello salad was made the night before and placed in the refrigerator. It would be bright red and in the center there would be a mound of whipped sinful stuff to slather on top.
Sunday arrived and we girls helped Mama put out the meat platter and the bowls of vegetables. My sister Becky and I were told to have a seat while she unmolded the salad. We waited patiently at the table until she would present us all with the salad extraordinaire. Then we heard, “Dadgummit!”(the closest my mother ever came to cursing) coming from the kitchen. A mélange of pineapple, strawberries and bananas was swimming in a platter of runny jello. Boyfriend and the rest of the family rushed in and laughed heartily. Disappointed, but ever- resourceful (a child of the Great Depression never let food go to waste), Mama set out to redeem the jello. “Go ahead and let’s have the blessing and I’ll be right back.” We began to eat and a few moments later she arrived with the same runny concoction but now it was dressed up with cream cheese she had piped in swirls with the cake decorator. More laughter and the offer of straws ensued. She never missed a beat.
Mama’s successes were punctuated with the occasional flop….but that seems to be the price you pay for being creative. Some crafts may have looked a bit weird, but she could help them evolve into an interesting creation. Each flop was merely a challenge to do it differently or better. She saw promise in odd junk. There was the year she used a drawer full of tops from little concentrated orange juice cans and fashioned an award winning Christmas display around our front door. We all thought her idea a bit wacky and yearned for a simple wreath or a Santa on the roof until we saw the final product.
Mama left us almost 6 years ago. I miss her terribly. I miss her cooking, her gentle loving and her beautiful crafty hands. But one legacy she left me is represented by that jello salad. She taught me I could live life without a recipe. Sometimes it would fail, sometimes it would fly. I could be different and that would be special. When I hurt I could trust the genetic resiliency represented by that jello episode to make something good out of what seems a flop. Thanks, Mama.
Mary Martha Rowland Rhodes was a loving mother and a creative woman. In the winter of 1970 she extended an invitation to my boyfriend for Sunday dinner. Mama asked me what he especially liked to eat. The guy, later to become her son in law, was not a “picky eater” I replied. This sort of sets most cooks minds to ease. I knew he would enjoy her roast beef, green beans, squash soufflé and sour cream pound cake which were regular Sunday items. Then I added, “I know he really likes gelatin salads with fruit.”
Gelatin salads were not a menu item at my home but Mama was undaunted. Equipped with her ideas, but without the aid of a recipe, she embarked on her creative process. The lack of a recipe was an earmark of Mama’s creative process. For instance, when sewing she would often say, “Anybody can make it like that” as she added or removed a detail from the frock pictured on the pattern. “This will be different. You won’t see yourself coming and going.” For her this meant the outfit would be special. For me it meant I would indeed not see myself in anything that resembled an off the rack item.
Back to the cooking episode: The dusty jello mold, which had heretofore been only part of the kitchen’s early American wall décor, was taken down and put in the sink for washing. Her thoughts were to fill the gelatin with an array of wonderful fruit and place something whipped in the middle of the wreath- like mold. Planning ahead as good cooks do, the jello salad was made the night before and placed in the refrigerator. It would be bright red and in the center there would be a mound of whipped sinful stuff to slather on top.
Sunday arrived and we girls helped Mama put out the meat platter and the bowls of vegetables. My sister Becky and I were told to have a seat while she unmolded the salad. We waited patiently at the table until she would present us all with the salad extraordinaire. Then we heard, “Dadgummit!”(the closest my mother ever came to cursing) coming from the kitchen. A mélange of pineapple, strawberries and bananas was swimming in a platter of runny jello. Boyfriend and the rest of the family rushed in and laughed heartily. Disappointed, but ever- resourceful (a child of the Great Depression never let food go to waste), Mama set out to redeem the jello. “Go ahead and let’s have the blessing and I’ll be right back.” We began to eat and a few moments later she arrived with the same runny concoction but now it was dressed up with cream cheese she had piped in swirls with the cake decorator. More laughter and the offer of straws ensued. She never missed a beat.
Mama’s successes were punctuated with the occasional flop….but that seems to be the price you pay for being creative. Some crafts may have looked a bit weird, but she could help them evolve into an interesting creation. Each flop was merely a challenge to do it differently or better. She saw promise in odd junk. There was the year she used a drawer full of tops from little concentrated orange juice cans and fashioned an award winning Christmas display around our front door. We all thought her idea a bit wacky and yearned for a simple wreath or a Santa on the roof until we saw the final product.
Mama left us almost 6 years ago. I miss her terribly. I miss her cooking, her gentle loving and her beautiful crafty hands. But one legacy she left me is represented by that jello salad. She taught me I could live life without a recipe. Sometimes it would fail, sometimes it would fly. I could be different and that would be special. When I hurt I could trust the genetic resiliency represented by that jello episode to make something good out of what seems a flop. Thanks, Mama.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Ouch! Another topic we'll examine during our Spring Workshop Series: Life's Exclamations!
We all have times in our life when we were hurt or when we hurt others. Many of those times turn into learning experiences, path corrections, or at least experiences that made us stronger and who we are today. Join us as we gently explore those Ouch! times in our lives and figure out how to express our memories in order to learn more about ourselves and others.
We still have openings for the Our Story Connection Spring Workshop Series: Life's Exclamations, the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, which will be held on Thursday evenings: March 31st, and April 14th, 21st, and 28th, from 6:30-8 PM at 16A. Lenox Pointe, Atlanta 30324. The cost is $15.00 per workshop or $50.00 for all four, paid in full at the first session. Email us at ourstoryconnections@gmail.com to make reservations. We would love to have you join us!
We still have openings for the Our Story Connection Spring Workshop Series: Life's Exclamations, the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, which will be held on Thursday evenings: March 31st, and April 14th, 21st, and 28th, from 6:30-8 PM at 16A. Lenox Pointe, Atlanta 30324. The cost is $15.00 per workshop or $50.00 for all four, paid in full at the first session. Email us at ourstoryconnections@gmail.com to make reservations. We would love to have you join us!
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
All My Loving ~ by Marcia Mayo, Atlanta, GA
I became a woman on February 9, 1964. No, this metamorphosis wasn’t based on the purchase of my first bra at Belks, nor was it that messy surprise necessitating a special talk between my mother and me. In fact, it had nothing to do with underwear or the organs south of my bellybutton. Instead, it had everything to do with my heart.
February 9, 1964 was my 14th birthday, and, although my birth certificate doesn’t indicate the exact hour I made my initial entrance into this world, I think it was some time in early morning. But it’s not what happened early in the day of my 14th birthday that was so momentous, it’s what happened that evening. And that’s because that evening was when I realized that, yes, I could love a man - and the man I knew I could love was none other than Paul McCartney.
The Beatles made their American debut on the Ed Sullivan Show on February 9, 1964, a fact known by about 99.9% of those of us who are currently either circling middle age or people, like me, who’ve somehow overshot it.
But back to 1964. That next summer, my best friend, Ann, and I wrote a secret story about the Beatles and how George was her boyfriend and Paul was mine. Ann’s little sister, Nancy, had to make do with Ringo because John was obviously off limits, being married to Cynthia.
Many years later, my other best friend, Allison, offered up the good news that Paul and I were both finally available at the same time, after my divorce and Linda McCartney’s death. But alas, by then, it was too late for us.
I’m pretty sure that Paul will be sad when he reads this.
What rites of passage do you remember from your youth? Are there songs or places or smells that bring it all back to you?
February 9, 1964 was my 14th birthday, and, although my birth certificate doesn’t indicate the exact hour I made my initial entrance into this world, I think it was some time in early morning. But it’s not what happened early in the day of my 14th birthday that was so momentous, it’s what happened that evening. And that’s because that evening was when I realized that, yes, I could love a man - and the man I knew I could love was none other than Paul McCartney.
The Beatles made their American debut on the Ed Sullivan Show on February 9, 1964, a fact known by about 99.9% of those of us who are currently either circling middle age or people, like me, who’ve somehow overshot it.
But back to 1964. That next summer, my best friend, Ann, and I wrote a secret story about the Beatles and how George was her boyfriend and Paul was mine. Ann’s little sister, Nancy, had to make do with Ringo because John was obviously off limits, being married to Cynthia.
Many years later, my other best friend, Allison, offered up the good news that Paul and I were both finally available at the same time, after my divorce and Linda McCartney’s death. But alas, by then, it was too late for us.
I’m pretty sure that Paul will be sad when he reads this.
What rites of passage do you remember from your youth? Are there songs or places or smells that bring it all back to you?
Saturday, February 26, 2011
The Cul-de-Sac ~ by Charlie Simpson, Atlanta, Georgia
During the early part of World War Two we lived on a cul-de-sac in Neosho, Missouri, while I was in the first grade and half of the second. The short cul-de-sac had six houses on it, just like the twelve or so identical cul-de-sacs in the subdivision, which consisted of the main subdivision road with cul-de-sacs coming off each side of the road every 300 feet or so. It was quickly constructed either by or for the Army. All the houses, which had been equally quickly and cheaply built, were occupied by Army officers, who were training at nearby Camp Crowder.
I don’t know whether or not everyone was shipped overseas at the same time because my Mother and I left a day or two after my Dad’s departure.
The cul-de-sac was gravel—no time for paving or curbing.
There were a lot of kids in the neighborhood, almost all older than me by a year or two or three. The cul-de-sacs, particularly the one just up the hill from ours, made good baseball fields. There wasn’t a tree or fence or any other obstacle in the entire subdivision, so access to the other streets was very easy—you just walked through the yards, none of which had grass because there wasn’t time to plant or grow it. Starting my baseball playing days with older kids had some challenges, including the time I was hit square in the eye with a very hard-thrown baseball, but it proved to be valuable, similar to Johnny Cash’s song, “A Boy Named Sue.”
The middle of the cul-de-sac was useful as the location for the can in games of kick-the-can, a challenging game because there was no place to hide except behind one of the houses, which left a long, exposed run trying to kick the can before you were caught.
I don’t remember the names of any of my friends there. I think we all sensed that we would never run across each other again, even if we didn’t really understand all that was going on. We all knew these cul-de-sacs were not home.
A note from Allison and Marcia: Charlie wrote this story for one of our workshops, reminding us all of the importance of home. What are your memories of places you have called home?
Saturday, February 19, 2011
The Hole in My Closet ~ by Allison Rhodes, Decatur, Georgia
My grandmother Nonnie was an incredible woman who happened to be deaf and mute. When I was ages 9-14 I lived with her to be her “ears” and some company at night. My parents and sibs were just down the hill and I was there for much of the time. But evenings, nights and early mornings were spent with Nonnie. My bachelor uncle George came for the weekends but the rest of the time it was Nonnie and me. I am grateful I had that arrangement, but that is another story. This is about the hole in my closet.
Behind the hanging clothes there was a hole about 8 inches wide in the back wall of my closet. I never questioned why it was there; I just knew it would be a great hiding place. The ledge right inside the hole became the secret repository for writings and drawings documenting my early adolescence.
As my body began the transition from girl to young woman, I came face to face with what my culture said a girl should be. It was the early 60’s, the era of the blonde, ponytailed cheerleader, the homecoming queen and Sandra Dee. And we were to all grow up to be the perennially cheerful Donna Reid, cleaning house clad in an ironed shirtwaist dress, wearing pearls and married to a doctor.
This was a far cry from anything I was or could be but my fantasies gave it a whirl. I would write little stories about me wherein I was popular and pretty. I was sought after by the cutest boys and had a wardrobe of the perfect clothes. My mother generally made all my clothes but in my writings they were procured from the finest department stores. I even drew pictures of these fabulous outfits, designed for slim, perky cheerleader to illustrate the life I thought I should have. In my stories I was always going to dances and parties and even got discovered as a movie star.
One Sunday I was returning to Nonnie’s as George was leaving. I hung my clothes in the closet and noticed with horror that the hole was gone. Patched, painted over, gone. George came into my room holding a shoe box filled with my writings. He handed me the box with no comment, just a smile. I was too embarrassed to ask if he had read them but at that point I ceased writing down my make-believe stories. Perhaps it coincided for me with the reality that I was who I was or maybe it was because I didn’t have a secret place anymore. Nonetheless the writing served a purpose as I began the journey to womanhood. It was an outlet for expression and fantasy.
As a woman I have written off and on through the years, but I continue to feel a deep kinship with the chubby, brown haired girl who was a bit quirky, funny, child-like and out of step with cultural stereotypes. Only now I wouldn’t put her in a closet and pretend, even in my writings, to be someone else. I really like her.
Our stories help us see ourselves and gain perspective on this ongoing journey we call life. What stories do you remember that reflect on your journey?
As my body began the transition from girl to young woman, I came face to face with what my culture said a girl should be. It was the early 60’s, the era of the blonde, ponytailed cheerleader, the homecoming queen and Sandra Dee. And we were to all grow up to be the perennially cheerful Donna Reid, cleaning house clad in an ironed shirtwaist dress, wearing pearls and married to a doctor.
This was a far cry from anything I was or could be but my fantasies gave it a whirl. I would write little stories about me wherein I was popular and pretty. I was sought after by the cutest boys and had a wardrobe of the perfect clothes. My mother generally made all my clothes but in my writings they were procured from the finest department stores. I even drew pictures of these fabulous outfits, designed for slim, perky cheerleader to illustrate the life I thought I should have. In my stories I was always going to dances and parties and even got discovered as a movie star.
One Sunday I was returning to Nonnie’s as George was leaving. I hung my clothes in the closet and noticed with horror that the hole was gone. Patched, painted over, gone. George came into my room holding a shoe box filled with my writings. He handed me the box with no comment, just a smile. I was too embarrassed to ask if he had read them but at that point I ceased writing down my make-believe stories. Perhaps it coincided for me with the reality that I was who I was or maybe it was because I didn’t have a secret place anymore. Nonetheless the writing served a purpose as I began the journey to womanhood. It was an outlet for expression and fantasy.
As a woman I have written off and on through the years, but I continue to feel a deep kinship with the chubby, brown haired girl who was a bit quirky, funny, child-like and out of step with cultural stereotypes. Only now I wouldn’t put her in a closet and pretend, even in my writings, to be someone else. I really like her.
Our stories help us see ourselves and gain perspective on this ongoing journey we call life. What stories do you remember that reflect on your journey?
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Six-Word Memoirs on First Love
An unfathomable light that ne’er faded.
~
Cile, Bellingham, WA
~
sweet innocence, real gentleman... grateful memories
Brandi Diamond, Atlanta, GA
~
Can't keep you outta my dreams!
Nancy Doran, Atlanta, GA
~
kissed a girl on a rainbow
Joanna Michaels, Sarasota, FL
~
glance held too long. slow smile.
Efton, Sarasota, FL
~
Fifteen. French movie. French kiss. Ew.
Anonymous
~
Her bewitching smile between two dimples
Frank Nix, Tucker, GA
~
Blinded, bedded, bloodied, too young, goodbye
Molly Talbert, Warner Robins, GA
~
He still is my first love.
Ann Giles, Tampa
~
Unrequited eye loved, he never could
Jem, Paris, FR
~
A surprise kiss, that changed everything
Anonymous
~
Loneliness, Longing, Lust, Love, Leaving, Longing
Nigel Poole, Oglethorpe, GA
~
Still doing time for sexual assault.
Anonymous
~
Hasn't happened. Can't wait. Tall Please.
Emily Morgan, Decatur, GA
~
Sweet love, unimaginable journey, beautiful passion.
Anne Cox, Atlanta, GA
~
Gave me peanut butter-laden kisses
Charisse Byers, Atlanta, GA
~
13. First kiss. Walking on air.
Cheryl
~
Carolina breeze bringing us Hotel California
Ashley Davis, Warner Robins, GA
~
innocent yet forbidden; intoxicating, never duplicated
Rosemary Longueira, Savannah, GA
~
Sorry I was not a girl.
Bubs, Portland, OR
~
Friend, best friend, love, husband, repeat
Dianne Talbert, Warner Robins, GA
~
Butterflies, excitement, anticipation, uh-oh, diarrhea.
Pizelda, Portland, OR
~
Slowly suave...skipped beat...broke heart!
You were always on my mind.
Faye Lacey, Warner Robins, GA
Gave me peanut butter-laden kisses
Charisse Byers, Atlanta, GA
~
13. First kiss. Walking on air.
Cheryl
~
Carolina breeze bringing us Hotel California
Ashley Davis, Warner Robins, GA
~
innocent yet forbidden; intoxicating, never duplicated
Rosemary Longueira, Savannah, GA
~
Sorry I was not a girl.
Bubs, Portland, OR
~
Friend, best friend, love, husband, repeat
Dianne Talbert, Warner Robins, GA
~
Butterflies, excitement, anticipation, uh-oh, diarrhea.
Pizelda, Portland, OR
~
Slowly suave...skipped beat...broke heart!
Jayne Ann Milling, Atlanta, GA
~You were always on my mind.
Faye Lacey, Warner Robins, GA
~
Son of a preacher man, poignant
Rhiannon, Portland
~
Let her go. Regretted it since.
Anonymous
~
Powerful, exciting, scary, intense, funny, missed.
Lanell, Atlanta, GA
~
Next-door neighbor, stole a kiss.
Sue, Alpharetta, GA
~
If I'd known then, what I ............
Anonymous
~
Eyes twinkling, quirky mouth, lost forever
If I'd known then, what I ............
Anonymous
~
Eyes twinkling, quirky mouth, lost forever
Freda Marshall, Scotland
~
He left me breathless and obsessed...
Amy Rubado, Atlanta, GA
~
~
He left me breathless and obsessed...
Amy Rubado, Atlanta, GA
~
Awkwardly passionate but oh the potential!
Jim Boon, Marietta GA
~
Lousy, good for nothing, jerk face
Nicki Young, Eatontown, NJ
~
The whole thing breaks my heart
Mary Lee, Portland, OR
~
Really hot, really hard, short lived
Jake Thompson, Atlanta, GA
~
Too young. Too scared. Lost him!
Chris
~
Treasured my dreams as his own
Lousy, good for nothing, jerk face
Nicki Young, Eatontown, NJ
~
The whole thing breaks my heart
Mary Lee, Portland, OR
~
Really hot, really hard, short lived
Jake Thompson, Atlanta, GA
~
Too young. Too scared. Lost him!
Chris
~
Treasured my dreams as his own
Frances, Portland, OR
~
Daydreaming for hours about holding hands
Courtney Doran, Atlanta, GA
~
Black satin gown....prom excitement abounds!
Wanda Rose Stewart, Atlanta, GA
~
Twin tin lunch boxes with pb&jNancy Cardenuto, Kutztown, PA
~
Curly headed six-year-old neighbor
Curly headed six-year-old neighbor
Ernie Lee, Savannah, GA
~
~
Destined for each other by God!
Judy & Norm Schoch, Stuart, FL
~
Heart Skips Beats, Remember To Breathe
Helen Hawver, Atlanta, GA
~
Molten, silky coating enveloping my senses
Aggie
~
Kissed on playground, got in trouble
Anonymous (so far)
~
The sulfur strike lingers long after
Lee Edward, Macon, GA
~
One eyed, Thumb-sucking-inducing, smelly koala bear
Taylor Mayo, Washington, DC.
~
he had me at bud light
Mary, Decatur, GA
~
He never knew, neither will I
fun, sensitive, safe, my best friend!
Katie Covington, Atlanta, GA
~
Destined for each other by God!
Judy & Norm Schoch, Stuart, FL
~
Heart Skips Beats, Remember To Breathe
Helen Hawver, Atlanta, GA
~
A predestined love, tested by time
Becky Toole, Walhalla, SC
~
Molten, silky coating enveloping my senses
Aggie
~
Kissed on playground, got in trouble
Anonymous (so far)
~
The sulfur strike lingers long after
Lee Edward, Macon, GA
~
One eyed, Thumb-sucking-inducing, smelly koala bear
Taylor Mayo, Washington, DC.
~
he had me at bud light
Mary, Decatur, GA
~
He never knew, neither will I
Anonymous, Atlanta, GA
~
I could tell at first sight!
Richard N Schock
~
laughter for forty-one years and counting
Georgeanne
~
I thought it was a girl!
Anonymous, Atlanta, GA
~
laughter for forty-one years and counting
Georgeanne
~
I thought it was a girl!
Anonymous, Atlanta, GA
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