A Warm Memory
I remember the way the house
would smell during the winter evenings when Mom brought the clothes in
from the line after hanging out all day on wash day. It made the house
smell as crisp and clean as the clothes themselves. She would tell us
not to get too close to them because she did not want us to catch a
chill.
Our jeans, as stiff as a board,
seemed as though the life had been sucked out of them, as she carried
them in legs first and placed them on the radiators to thaw out. The
fresh air fragrance would carry throughout the house and remain well
past bedtime until at last, we had fallen asleep.
Since then, there have been
occasions when I have happened upon that wonderful scent, and a memory
comes forth causing my feelings to wander, and sometimes I can't help
feeling lonely when the house is dark and quiet and my thoughts close in
around me like a cloud about to storm.
Grandpa Johnson
When I was a child, I was a little afraid of my Grandfather Johnson. We called him Grampa Johnson, and now that I think about it, it was strange that we addressed him in that way, especially since he was our only grandfather. I'll have to explore that at a later date. I may have been afraid of him because he was an overpowering man, big and gruff, and when he spoke, his raspy cigar voice denoted authority.
For as long as I knew my grandfather, he was never parted from his sidekick, his crutch that he needed to help him walk and which creaked with every step he took. He had an even gait and you could count the same number of beats with every step and creak. One, two, three, creak. Four, five, six, creak. Seven, eight, nine creak. As a younger man his leg had been burned in a fire that had started in a garage which housed his small machine shop. He had been welding and accidentally started nearby materials on fire. He managed to put out the fire with the help of his sons, but neglected medical treatment for his leg. He didn't believe in seeing a doctor and so he treated his burned leg himself with salves and kept it wrapped in gauze, but his leg never healed properly.
I remember the last time I saw my grandfather. I was thirteen years old and it was in the fall of the year just before he died. I had been out visiting my grandparents and just before I left, he called me into his bedroom. He had been confined to this room since his health failed and his strength weakened. I came into the room cautiously not wanting to disturb any of the room’s contents, including my grandfather. I knew he must be in pain because they told me he had cancer and it had eaten away his leg. What was left they had to amputate. (It seems he conceded to the hospital after all.)
He called me over to his side and looked at me and told me to brush my hair. I thought it was a strange request but obediently, I did. Then he told me I had pretty hair and I should always keep it brushed and neat. I smiled, kissed him on the cheek and told him goodbye. I never saw him again.
Fluffy
My brother George liked to collect all sort of weird things and if one were to peer inside his bedroom, you would find this to be true. His was probably the only bedroom that had a STOP sign in it that said, Property of The City of Troy. But the night he brought Fluffy home was probably the most remembered of all.
He said she had followed him home, though I rather believe he held her inside his jacket and just before he opened the door to come inside, placed her gently on the top stair. She was so frightened that when he did open the door, she tumbled head over end, down the stairs to the first landing. She wasn't much bigger than the palm of my hand, but that cat was destined to live twenty years with our family.
I was determined that she could be trained like a dog and so I proceeded to teach her a trick. Every night I would bring her in the living room, ball up a small wad of paper and from across the room, toss it up in the air in front of her. She would leap high in the air and catch it in her mouth. I found after some time that if I threw it up and over her head she would leap in the air, catch the paper and do one complete back flip and land on all fours. She loved doing this trick and eventually would bring the paper back and drop it in front of me so I would throw it again. You can imagine how I felt when Fluf chose me to sleep with. Every night as I began to turn down my bed covers, she would jump up in my bed and burrow deep within the blankets, then try to bite my hand as I played with her.
Ahhh, but there is a price to pay when one becomes the cats favorite. I was put in charge of cleaning out the well known "throne" of felines, better known as the litter box. Every night I had to clean out the day's collection, while Fluffy looked on in earnest. Her favorite night was when the entire box was cleaned and fresh litter was put in. She would prance around the kitchen, tail straight in the air, rubbing her chin against the refrigerator, butting her head and rubbing her ears on the table legs, purring as she busied herself while she waited. As soon as the clean box was all in order and put in its place, in she would jump, and the collection would begin again.
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