Christmas Tree

Santa Claus brings our tree, fully decorated, sometime during the night on Christmas Eve. The next morning, the five of us descend the stairs together, making sure we all witness the tree’s glory at the same moment. But at four years old, I didn’t feel like respecting this tradition. I burst from Daddy’s arms, raced down the stairs, through the dining room and the kitchen until I hit the back glass door. The excitement had distracted me from turning into the living room where the tree shined bright. Instead of rerouting to the living room, I slinked back upstairs, guilty.

CVS

The Chester CVS is our go-to place for Rutter’s dark chocolate bars, batteries and peanut butter crackers. Tonight, Libby needs shampoo for her biweekly bathings. Usually I go in with her, our arms locked like good sissybelles, but tonight she goes alone. From the car, we watch her half trotting, half skipping to the automatic doors. As she draws closer, her strides get shorter and, in a less-than-graceful movement, she throws her body at the glass doors with a flying kick. They open. She repeats the attack on her way out, this time while greedily clutching at her new possessions.

L.L. Bean Classic

It’s a faded red sweater, with discreet white snowflakes. Not too showy, just subtly Christmassy. An L.L Bean classic. In essence, perfect for a middle-aged school-teaching woman. Yet something about it grates on most everyone. It’s not the person inside of it. It’s not the knowledge that it has mucked out one too many cow stalls. It’s not the quality, brand, or color. This sweater is offensive purely for its persistence; it’s worn beyond the Christmas season. Beyond winter and into spring. It’s tied around her waist as the early summer sun beats down. And no one knows why.

Albuquerque Turkey

Elementary school teachers don’t celebrate holidays right. At Thanksgiving, we sang Albuquerque Turkey, a song which told us a pet turkey was better than a dog. During that lyric, I’d close my mouth up tight. No one was about to convince me some turkey was better than my basset hound. Christmas was even worse. Mr. A dared to read The Night Before Christmas. Didn’t he understand that this story is only read on Christmas Eve? I closed my ears and pushed his words out of my brain - anything to stop the sound of Mr. A’s voice reading those sacred words.

Ruination

In the dark of night, a fat little groundhog emerges in the feed stall from his underground tunnels. Eyeing the wooden bins which contain an endless supply of sweet feed, he flips open the heavy lid, and, in an explicable feat of athleticism, climbs inside. Without any means of escape, he settles into the dark and gorges himself. In the morning, when unsuspecting little girls come to fetch their ponies’ feed, the fattened groundhog is discovered. But these unwanted rodent invasions ended as Roxy the Patterdale Terrier moved in and brought ruination to the groundhog population at the Essex stables.

Grilled Cheese

Pre-basseting lunch time menus often consisted of grilled cheese and Campbell’s tomato soup - Daddy’s favorite. He made it in bulk for all of us. In the frying pan, slices of cheese were laid against the edge of each sandwich’s long edge. We called them “wings,” and we wouldn’t eat grilled cheese without them. After everything became perfectly browned, Daddy stacked the sandwiches in a towering pile. I remember it being at least two feet tall. It likely wasn’t. Either way, we’d all gather around to watch the glorious moment when Daddy sliced the whole stack diagonally in one great chop.

Lunch Ladies

Elementary schoolers settle into the lunchroom at assigned tables. Above their chatter, lunch ladies rhythmically chant their spells “...eat your lunch before you eat you snack…” Mrs. Moose is the most popular of these mechanical chanters because she holds the power to core and slice assorted fruits. But when she isn’t wielding her apple-corer, she paces the tiled floors in her white moose-embroidered apron, reciting “...eat your lunch before you eat your snack…” At random moments, she and the others silence us by clapping two slows, then three fast claps. An announcement is made before the chatter and chanting resume.

Show and Tell

Paved by the shattered beer bottles of wayward teenagers, the shortcut to town is well traversed. My eyes are cast downward, in search of treasures. A penny will do. For the record, they’re all lucky, not just the Lincoln-face-up ones like some pessimists will tell you. I don’t find any coins, but amongst the infinite shards, I see a beautiful chunk of bluish glass, crudely shaped like a heart. Back at the high school lunchroom, I play show and tell. My fellow twelfth-graders aren’t impressed. They’re the type that’ll argue only Lincoln-face-up pennies are lucky. I’m not one of them.  

Mudpuddle

In the battle of winter and spring, things are not what they seem. A rainy day walk with the foxhounds proved this to us all. We’d gotten as far as the Tillney’s back driveway when there appeared an irresistible mud puddle. Libby got a glimmer in her eye. She leapt high in the air, but upon landing she discovered winter had not gone from this here puddle: beneath the muddy inch of rainwater, a plate of ice lay waiting. Her bottom hit the ground with a resounding splash. And so there she sat, bathing in the mud puddle: absurd, careless.

Centerpiece

The class discussion is moved out into the hallway for better feng shui. We migrate out of the classroom, pushing our orange rollie chairs ahead of us. We circle up, and sit. Today’s topic: achievement gaps. We try to focus on socio-economic status, etc, but what silently holds each of our attentions is the grape. A perfectly oval green grape, sitting perfectly centered in our perfect circle. Our centerpiece. At the discussion’s conclusion, we stand and prepare for our return trip. Unable to take it anymore, we all unravel. The grape dominates conversation for a half-minute. All new learnings disappear.

Bad*ss

Amongst the scatterings of feminists and liberals, I tour the castles of Bryn Mawr College, my best friend Nermeen as my guide. I am introduced to a few of her blonde friends. I approve of these girls; Nermeen has good taste in friends. At the end of our evening, as we pour ourselves her homemade granola, one more friend find us. Apparently Nermeen's told stories about me, because instead of the usual “hello, how do you do,” she looks me in the eye and says “you’re such a bad*ss.” She has happy eyes and a smile. I hug her.

Tea Time

It’s sunday evening and every rabbit within a mile has been hunted. The bassets hang their tails low as they trot at our feet back to the truck. They jump in, and curl up in a solid blanket across the carpeted floor. Mr. Wiley opens up the back of his station wagon and lays out snacks. The sliced cheddar cheese compliments the stale wheat thins beautifully. Kearney comes around, shaking his canister of roasted peanuts. Everyone takes a handful. There’s girl scout cookies and pretzels, too. We eat all of this in the dark and cold, standing in wet sneakers.

Safeway

Late night stop at Safeway in Leesburg. For breakfast: Captain Crunch, Honey Smacks, orange juice. Ham, rolls, port wine cheese and crackers for lunch. Three grapefruits for alone grapefruit time. Sourdough pretzels for munching and crunching. An assorted box of plastic spoons, forks, and knives. We debate if we have dixie cups in the cabin from last time (we do) but get a box anyway. Having forgotten our real cooler, we grab a styrofoam one along with two bags of ice. As we check out, the grey-haired cashier offers assistance in loading our groceries into the car. We can manage.