My neighbors are clearing their woods today. The downed trees and soggy leaves are heaped together and burning. It’s a good day to do this chore. The bright white clouds and plush blue sky are lying conspicuously against one another like felt cut-outs. I walk down the gravel driveway wearing a sweatshirt, shorts and mud boots because, after an unsympathetic Michigan winter, 39 degrees feels like a vacation and I find myself stretching toward the sun like my son’s leopard gecko. I raise my winter pale nose in the air and smell the rot and the new of spring. They're coming together in a kind of rock-opera for the senses. It’s a textured blend of drama, familiarity and unexpected surprises that keeps me breathing in deeply. The magic smell of wood smoke breezes by me and my memories roll back and forward. They shift sideways down my timeline and come to a jerky stop on my 1976 memories. These are the sweet and awkward and lovely spaces in time that layer over each other and press together to make a 38 year old wife and mom of 3…
I can remember lying on our bellies on the cold rug-covered floor at Gnon and Don's (that's Grandma and Grandpa in our regional dialect). The bottom level of the villa house, because of tradition and culture, is used for mid-day meals, work day gathering and the frequent ringing of chicken necks. Because it’s partially in the ground, it’s getting cold downstairs now and the big fireplace is burning. Gnon is kneading bread at the long table and us kids are spread out on the floors and shabby couches watching a little black and white TV with rabbit ears and tinfoil. We are completely focused on Bo and Luke Duke’s run from the law. We take turns sitting on the hearth stone to warm up, and because there is no grate over the opening, you can only sit still for a few minutes at a time. We switch places when the hot slab burns our little backsides and we jump off itching the seats of our farm-dirt covered pants. It doesn’t matter how filthy we are down here. This area is made for farm people. The big double doors let in the occasional stray goat and chicken and work boots and coats line the wall. The dirt feels good here, and is as perfectly met to the space as flocked wall paper in a fancy hotel.
Lunch will be here soon and we will all meet together at the long table. Gnon already has pots bubbling and bread sliced. Maybe it’s pasta with fresh bread for sopping, or polenta with sauce and hard salami freckled with spicy peppercorns. There will be wine for the adults and a sort of “kiddie wine spritzer” for us. A splash of wine and then filled the rest of the way with “Lime-Up”, the glass-bottled Italian version of the American brand. Lunch is a raucous time where kids can talk and laugh and the adults argue and swear. We know implicitly which words we can repeat and which ones we save to say to each other in secret. Sometimes we are yelled at, but we know that’s just how the people that love you talk. There are cookies after. Sesame cookies and flower shaped cookies with maraschino cherries in the middle. We drink little cups of dark, thick coffee with a splash of cream and mounds of sugar. Finally we are stuffed and warm through and through and the adults break away to go back to work. Today the pigs are being loaded and taken away.
Warmed up again we wander outside and throw pebbles at the chickens. I visit my pet rabbits, Romeo & Juliet. They were a gift last Easter from my city Aunt and Uncle. They have quite a family now and sometimes their off-spring ends up in a stew on Gnon’s table, but so far my long-eared, star-crossed lovers have escaped this fate. We run into the hay storage and rush to lie down on the stepped levels of hay bales. It pokes through our clothes, but keeps us warm. We argue about what to play. I am tired of playing house because I am always the mom and never get to be the teenager. The older boys are bored and they start to pick on us to fill the time. We all start to argue and sides are chosen. We run out and split off from each other, running around the house. I dash up the side stairs to the balcony that runs the length of the top level of the house. My cousin joins me and we press our cold noses against the windows and look in at the all the finery.
The top level is very rarely seen by us from the inside. The couches are creamy colored and covered in plastic. The carpet is thick and there are pretty things made of glass and polished metals everywhere. The dining table is covered in a white cloth with lacey parts and over that, the requisite plastic cover. On the table there are two beautiful demitasse cups decorated with gold, and delicate little spoons rest on the matching saucers. This world is only visited when we are spanking clean and on our best behavior. It’s for the day of rest and quiet visits, and as beautiful as it is, we would rather wear our dirty clothes and roll around down stairs.
From this high vantage point, we can see across the dirt road to the field where the pigs are being loaded into a big red truck with slatted-board sides. The obese pigs bump against each other as they are herded into the back. I feel embarrassed for them that they don’t have any pants to cover their naked pink bottoms as they are pushed and prodded from behind. Their squealing carries across the field to us on the balcony. I know that they are going to give us food, but I think of it more as a voluntary offering. They will give us their bacon and pork chops and then stay all tucked up in their wide piggy beds until they feel better. Sometimes I bring my mom two halves of a gartner snake that my cousin has run over with his bike. I know that if she just puts a band-aid on it, it will be up and slithering through the garden in no time. My parents don’t feel the need to tell me any different and we are all happy with my view of the world.
The pigs are loaded, and the truck is lumbering away down the dirt road past my house, and past my Aunt Pina and Uncle Jim’s, and my Auntie Emma and Uncle Carlo’s and out into the big world beyond that I rarely see. We all wander back downstairs to wait for our parents. It’s time to go home and soak off the day and eat dinner. Gnon slips us a cookie for the walk home and we are all suddenly so tired every step is a chore. My dad and I break off first, and the rest of the group continues down the road. I’m happy to be home and I am immediately directed to the tub. I put on my Holly Hobbie pajamas and come down to eat. My house is warm and scrubbed clean and we sit at the island counter and eat together. Maybe we will watch a little TV afterward or maybe not, but I know tonight I will fall asleep snuggled up with my folks…
I pull the mail out of the box and head back up the driveway to the house. The boys will be home from school soon and dinner has to be started. I am so filled to the brim with emotions that I cry just a little. I am not at all sad, but that’s what I do when I feel too full. I walk and pray and thank God for giving me my life. For allowing all the layers of me, even the ones I would rather cast off. I think of my Grandpa who loved me all out and taught me the value of comedy. I remember my Aunt Pina who I still miss and cry for, and of all the others still here and loved even if we talk infrequently. I tell God I know how blessed I am and that I won’t forget to pass it on. My boys will be that loved, that sure of their place in the world. They will have layers created by their father and me and by all the family and friends that surround them. They will be yelled at in love and snuggled with under the blankets while we watch TV. Their world view will grow with them as they mature and when they are fathers they will be able to run down the timeline of their lives and know that they are blessed.
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