Saturday, March 26, 2011

Truths

I remember waking up, a smokey dawn coming through translucent light in the kitchen. My grandmother- Mimi we called her- sitting at the bar, her gin-legged breakfast cocktail near the ashtray that already held three Marlborough butts smoked to the quick,. She sat perched on her bar stool in her flowing morning dressing gown, her nails perfectly sculpted and varnished, her jewelry sparkling in the smokey haze. She wore slippers, one with a lift for her shorter leg, a result of her childhood polio - the disease that didn't keep her from dancing. In complete silence, I ate my cinnamon toast beside her as we watched "our show", thinking it a privilege to have not been shooed out of the house like my irritating cousin who was ironically named Shadrach by my whisky-stained, rattle snake wielding uncle. Mimi was beautiful to my unassuming eyes. I sat with her in silence, drinking skim milk - her kind of milk - not that awful whole milk that the boys liked. I never told her that I liked whole milk better. I wanted her to think I was just like her. She died several years ago, but I think of her often, this memory of a morning kitchen imprinted in my mind. Recently my mother, in a gushing moment of sincerity, said of Mimi, "You made her sweet, Ginger." "Did I?" I wondered. "My unemotional, solid-as-steel Mimi. I made her sweet?" Maybe I did.

2 comments:

rainbow said...

In the time I have had the privilege of knowing you, I do not see anyone being with you two minutes and not be the BETTER for it, and I am sure it is your Mimi and your Mom shining through you. YOU ARE ONE VERY SPECIAL PERSON AND I AM LUCKY YOU ARE NOW IN OUR FAMILY. Thanks Rich for being so SMART. HOPE YOU HAVE A REALLY GOOD WEEKEND, AND SUMMER IS ALMOST HERE, if you can survive April and May to get to June. LOVE YOU BUNCHES!!

Christine said...

You know how on those rare occasions that you'll admit to another living, breathing human being that, yes, you sometimes write a little bit, you almost always follow that with a demure look to the floor and say something self-effacing that sounds like 'it's just a hobby' but really means 'I think I'm only good enough for it to be just a hobby'? You know that moment? The next time you have one of those, you need to read this post.

'cause damn. You're good.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Truths

I remember waking up, a smokey dawn coming through translucent light in the kitchen. My grandmother- Mimi we called her- sitting at the bar, her gin-legged breakfast cocktail near the ashtray that already held three Marlborough butts smoked to the quick,. She sat perched on her bar stool in her flowing morning dressing gown, her nails perfectly sculpted and varnished, her jewelry sparkling in the smokey haze. She wore slippers, one with a lift for her shorter leg, a result of her childhood polio - the disease that didn't keep her from dancing. In complete silence, I ate my cinnamon toast beside her as we watched "our show", thinking it a privilege to have not been shooed out of the house like my irritating cousin who was ironically named Shadrach by my whisky-stained, rattle snake wielding uncle. Mimi was beautiful to my unassuming eyes. I sat with her in silence, drinking skim milk - her kind of milk - not that awful whole milk that the boys liked. I never told her that I liked whole milk better. I wanted her to think I was just like her. She died several years ago, but I think of her often, this memory of a morning kitchen imprinted in my mind. Recently my mother, in a gushing moment of sincerity, said of Mimi, "You made her sweet, Ginger." "Did I?" I wondered. "My unemotional, solid-as-steel Mimi. I made her sweet?" Maybe I did.

2 comments:

rainbow said...

In the time I have had the privilege of knowing you, I do not see anyone being with you two minutes and not be the BETTER for it, and I am sure it is your Mimi and your Mom shining through you. YOU ARE ONE VERY SPECIAL PERSON AND I AM LUCKY YOU ARE NOW IN OUR FAMILY. Thanks Rich for being so SMART. HOPE YOU HAVE A REALLY GOOD WEEKEND, AND SUMMER IS ALMOST HERE, if you can survive April and May to get to June. LOVE YOU BUNCHES!!

Christine said...

You know how on those rare occasions that you'll admit to another living, breathing human being that, yes, you sometimes write a little bit, you almost always follow that with a demure look to the floor and say something self-effacing that sounds like 'it's just a hobby' but really means 'I think I'm only good enough for it to be just a hobby'? You know that moment? The next time you have one of those, you need to read this post.

'cause damn. You're good.