- It started off like most any other day. I was awakened by the baby monitor rather than an alarm clock. I fed others before I fed myself. I silently begged to finish my coffee prior to wiping not just one, but two bottoms. A pallet of blankets littered the living room rug, left over from the night before, remnants from a sleepover with daddy, which is a nightly ritual. They hadn’t gone unnoticed from my probing eye, and I filed it away on my to-do list of morning housekeeping rounds. As I scrambled eggs for breakfast, gulping the last sip of my lukewarm coffee, the three year old called from the other room, “Can I make a clubhouse?” I answered back quickly, “Can’t you go play in your room, and for once stop messing up my living room?!” I turned back to my eggs as the baby beat her hands against her high chair tray eagerly awaiting a bite. I paused in my flipping, spatula poised in anticipation, but my thoughts had gone to her.
- It was a very large house, bigger than any I had ever seen in person for sure. It had four white columns on the porch and a grand set of concrete steps leading to its vastly shaded porch. It certainly seemed out of place across the street from the tiny rental house we were occupying. I was afraid, no doubt, but I was also curious. I had seen the white-haired woman through the kitchen window, and watched while she placed pies on the sill. I didn’t realize it as I crept up those steps, knees knocking, but I was crossing paths with a woman I would never forget.
Her name was Mrs. Lorraine. Mr. Lorraine had passed away years previously, and I was surprised to learn she lived there all alone. We were drawn to each other, her with her big house and only the company of cats, and myself with the desire innate of an eight year old to share company with a grandmother type figure. My own maternal grandmother lived far away, and my paternal grandmother had always been too engrossed in her beer and game shows to teach the likes of me the fine art of baking. I had never heard of a teacake, but loved asking, “May I have another?”, to which she always obliged. I remember the grand rooms, ceilings tall, and furniture so dainty. Above the mantle was a school picture, much like my own, of a little blond girl. I mentioned wishing to play with her once, to which Mrs. Loraine replied, “I’m sure she’s much too old for hide-and-seek now. She’s in her twenties.” “Don’t you have a newer picture?” I asked. It seems she did not. “Her mother and I don’t speak. I haven’t seen my daughter or my grandchild in twenty years.” She kept mixing the batter, but I could see tears in her eyes. My child self asked why, as only children can do. “She told me once that I had never had time for her when she was young. I suppose now she don’t have time for me.” That was all she said, and even my eight year old self knew better than to press her.
That summer we filled each other’s days with baking, laughter, and love. My mom got married at the end of summer. I gained a new dad, and we moved away. I cried when I told her goodbye, but she never let a tear fall. I wonder if maybe she had cried all the tears she had many years before, over a relationship lost, and another never had. I waved as we drove away, clutching my bag of fresh baked cookies, and watched her turn and make her way back up the large steps into her empty house. - As I spooned out eggs onto plates this morning, I thought of her. I thought of her loss, wondering why, if she could have done things differently. I didn’t know her whole story, but I knew enough. I walked into the living room and found my three year old removing all the couch cushions, intent on building her playhouse despite my previous grinchy comments. She looked up at me beaming proudly. I went over a helped drape blankets across the top. We turned over the toy box out into the floor because it’s really the best way to find the toys you want to play with most.
When I was twelve, I convinced my mom to stop on a trip we were making, to detour to our old neighborhood. I recognized Mrs. Lorraine’s house immediately as we pulled into her drive. Another car sat there already, and I glimpsed a man in a suit hammering a sign into her front yard. He came over gleefully and spoke with my mom. I didn’t understand everything they said, but I remembered the words, “no one came.” The house and all its contents had been auctioned and donated to a charity of her choosing. Her small funeral was attended by some ladies in the community, but “no family” he had said. I wondered about the pretty blond girl, and if she would have ever imagined how good those teacakes were, or more importantly, how her grandma’s eyes crinkled at the side and seemed to shine when she knew how much someone enjoyed them.
Today as I sat in the floor playing with a small rubber ball, rolling it back and forth with my child, I knew that was an important moment. I want her first memories to be of making breakfast together, building forts out of cushions and blankets, and playing together in the floor, not of watching me pick up messes, or the top of my head buried in my phone, or of spending time with a babysitter more than me. Watching my baby learn to walk, that’s what is important to me, not working extra hours so I can buy her the best name-brand dresses in town. I want them to know I love them, and never have a doubt where they rank in importance in my life and my daily tasks. Tasks will continue after they move away, but these days will not. I don’t want to look back in regret wishing I had just decided to play and giggle, instead of something superficial I thought was important at the time. I want to bake with them. I want my eyes to crinkle at the corners and shine as I delight in their joy.
That is all 🙂