Ice Cream Blessing

Dear Lynn,

Hope life is treating you well and that you are managing to stay safe during these pandemic times.  We and our families are all fine, thank goodness. I find myself thinking of my parents and am glad they are not with us anymore because I don't know how they would have managed to wrangle their way through all these restrictions.  It's difficult enough for Ted and I to keep up with it all!

Probably because of so much time on my hands I've been doing a lot of reminiscing lately. Had an ice cream cone yesterday and it took me back to my girlhood. 

Ice cream was a frequent summer treat in our family and I loved it!  It wasn't just the cool creaminess of it melting in my mouth, nor the myriad of flavours, or the hidden nuts, candy or fruit that made this treat special.  It was the way it brought our family together.

Back in the day when the "Sunday evening drive" was popular entertainment, we would often pile into the back of Dad's station wagon to roam the hilly country north of us, frequently ending up at Cloverdale Dairies in Northville.  We would all run in and order a single cone of our favourite flavour and sit outside and slurp and chat and laugh.

One summer weekend in the early 60's, we went to Mama's family reunion in Ohio.  The festivities were finished off by Cousin Merle hand churning ice-cream!  The sun had set, the corn field alight with fireflies and the call of the whippoorwill lulled us into a dream world.

Finally ooooh's and ahhhh's went up as the dasher was pulled from the bucket and each of us got to taste a finger full of the delectable confection!  Needless to say, Dad bought his own ice cream churn shortly there after.

Each Memorial Day, or Fourth of July, or Labour Day, Mama would make up the custard and Dad would crank away.  Often fresh berries or a can of Hershey's chocolate syrup was added. Yum!

After Mama died, Dad was ailing and just wanted to go and be with "the Good Lord, and my Marie".  Ted and I would visit and often take him to his neighbourhood Dairy Queen. We would sit outside at an umbrella-covered table and swap stories and laugh and slurp to catch the drips running down our fingers.

Not too many months later my sister phoned and said, "Come now!"  

I drove quickly the 7 hours with my youngest son.  Dad was surrounded by family when we arrived at the hospital.  He recognized us and smiled and whispered our names.

A nurse brought in a snack for Dad and asked if anyone would like to help him with it.  I volunteered and was privileged to feed Dad his very last meal before he left this earth...a bowl of vanilla ice cream!

What a loving God we have, to know how much this would gratify Dad and bless all of us, watching him enjoy what would be his final creamy treat!

Well, Lynn, time for me to run. Pray this finds you hale and hearty.  Wish we could enjoy a bowl of ice cream together in honour of our life-long friendship but that will have to wait for another day. Bye for now. Take care, good buddy.

Always,

Peggy

Dear Sylvia, 

It's been a long time since I have written and hope you are doing well. Fathers' Day is this weekend and I pray you and all the fathers in your life are prospering.

I have been thinking back to one of the earliest Fathers' Days I remember. It was the first time I saw my mother cry.  It was the Saturday before Fathers’ Day and she had spent all morning slaving over a lemon meringue pie as a sweet surprise for Daddy.

I watched from my seat at the pickled-oak kitchen table in the corner of our tiny kitchen.  Daddy had just finished putting on the last of the knotty pine cupboard doors for Mama.  Chrome handles that matched the trim on the yellow formica countertop were on an angle at the bottom of each door. 

Mama squeezed the ripe oval fruits into a glass measuring cup until just the right amount of juice was had.  Six lemon halves, ready to discard, lay on the counter top.  Mama’s capable hands were shiny with the oily fruit.

She cooked and stirred and cracked eggs and then, “Ding!”  Time for the crust to come out of the oven, all lightly browned, slightly risen and bumpy between its fork pricks.  Mama tilted the bowl of lemon pudding and scooped it into the flaky shell. 

After much beating, the meringue was ready to pile onto her creation.  Then back into the oven it went.  Mama kept as close an eye on the pie as I kept on her.  Mama could do anything with a bowl and a spoon!  Her kitchen was her stage and I was her audience.

Finally the timer went off.  Mama grabbed a potholder in each hand and opened the oven door wide.  The sweet, sticky delight was browned and ready.  Mama lifted it into the air but the pie wobbled in her grasp.  Mama shrieked and tried to catch her creation but it wasn’t to be saved.  This marvellously creamy, sweetly-sour delight lay upside down in the middle of the opened oven door.

Mama knelt down beside her creation as if she were going to say a Hail Mary, but instead, Mama cried.  I had never seen Mama cry before.  It took me by surprise.  This woman who was composed each and every day; this woman who was fastidious about the state of her home; this strong, capable woman crumpled down onto the floor and sobbed.

I wanted to comfort her but I didn’t know how. How does one comfort someone from whom comfort was not received?  I felt like a fish trying to fly.  I knew how to rock my crying baby brother, but had no idea what to do for a crying mother.  

Soon Mama was up and searching for things to help her dispose of the mess.  I couldn’t help her.  I would just get in the way.  I wanted to say how I felt.  I wanted to hug her and tell her I was sorry and that all would be okay.  But no words formed in my mouth.  I still have difficulty with that; with saying what I have on my mind.  The words get caught in my throat and nothing comes out.  Perhaps that is why I take to writing?

Take care, dear friend. Talk to you again soon!

Love, Peggy

Hello Again!

Hello family and friends,

I am resurrecting the blog that I created some time ago.  This is a trial to see if  I remember how to manage it.   

                    Peggy when locked in the house with Ted!

It will retain the title"Letters Home" and will be in the form of a letter to a friend or family member.  Let me know what you think. 

Thanks, 

Peggy

Buried Treasure

Dear Sylvia,

I have to tell you about a life-changing experience I had a few weeks ago.

A special occasion was coming up and I needed something to wear. I went to a few local boutiques but could find nothing that caught my fancy.  My last try before calling it quits was Rub Of The Green in our neighbouring town of Midland.  I parked my vehicle, slid a few quarters into the meter and walked in.

Christine, the proprietor, was serving someone so I perused her eclectic collection, thinking to myself, “I could never pull any of this off”.  I poked around shuffling clothing back and forth, spying nothing that I felt confident enough to wear.  I had put on more than a few pounds and although I had just recently lost 10, I was not quite ready to face the mirror.  As if she knew my plight, Christine came to my side and I blurted out my story.

“Here, take off that hoodie,” she almost—but not quite—commanded, and then handed me tops, sweaters, dresses, even shoes to slip on.  I was skeptical at first, but Christine encouraged, “Just try it on”, so I did. With each selection she offered I hesitated less.  Slowly I was beginning to see the possibilities that she saw.  

“Do you do scarves?” she asked.  I cringed but allowed Christine to wrap gauzy fabrics around my neck, letting them cascade down in front of me, reviving me with life! 

This exchange went on for an hour or more.  We talked about what I had at home, what I felt comfortable in, all the time Christine was urging me on to break barriers that I had erected for myself.  She pooh-poohed my hesitations and gradually, as she clothed me in her ultra comfortable, easy to wear pieces, I watched as she watched my demeanour change from hopeless, to expectant, to joyful!  As I was leaving with my parcel, Christine gave me some of the best advice I’ve received in years.

“Go home, search your closet and pluck out only the pieces that you truly love, and build your wardrobe around these.”

I was sceptical but later that week I scrounged through my closet and dresser pulling out beautiful pieces that I rarely wore and draped them around the room.  I couldn’t believe my eyes!  By mixing and matching what I owned with what I had purchased at Rub Of The Green I was amazed at the many outfits I had created.

A few days later I pranced back into Rub Of The Green.  Christine spotted me, smiled and said, “Look at you!”

I had to admit I did look like a different person than the one she had met several days earlier.  My closet had given up a pair of nicely fitting jeans, a classy rust coloured sweater and a teal tee shirt.  I topped it off with a luxurious Avoca scarf from Ireland and I was even sporting a hand blown glass necklace I had found at the bottom of my jewelry box.  All pieces I’d had for some time, all pieces that I loved but all that I would not allow myself to wear.  Until now.

“You changed my life, Christine!  Thank you," I said as I hugged her.  

Today, Sylvia, I feel like a different person.  No. Today I feel like the person that I am!  The person I had been burying in sweat pants and hoodies waiting till I had lost the required amount of weight to emerge.  I thought that the clothes buried in my closet were the treasure, but I was wrong.  I am the treasure…imagine that!

Always,

Peggy

Soup Making

Dear Sylvia,

The scent of turkey soup fills our kitchen this cool afternoon in early May.  The savoury aroma reminds me of post-Thanksgiving soup making and the many times Mama and I boiled and peeled and chopped; stirred and spiced and tasted the steaming concoction.  Most often we were at the cottage when these magical episodes took place.  Like dance partners Mama and I maneuvered about the huge kitchen each knowing just which utensil to wield in order to carve and chop and stir.

Today it is a solitary effort, my soup making.  I am alone in a kitchen Mama never knew.  The cottage has been sold and Mama has passed on.  But she lingers.  She lingers in my memory of her love...of Dad, my siblings and of me, my husband, my children...and of life.

Coming home from school was always a treat in Mama's house.  The kitchen was chock full of freshly baked cookies and a wonderful meal simmering on the burner.  Yes, there were times when I wondered if Mama actually loved me.  We would argue; I was a teenager of course.  But as I look back on the life she and Daddy built for us, I know that we were loved in abundance.  Because I have learned that love isn't perfection.  

To love is rather like making soup.  It requires the delicate art of knowing which choice pieces to include and which ones to eliminate...as with memories.  To make soup you need a large pot with room enough for all the ingredients to mix and blend, each one taking on a bit of the flavour of each other... that's what living together can accomplish.  Making soup takes time...just like the building of a family.

I can only pray that now that my children are adults they can say they have fond memories of growing up...and of soup making.

Love,

Peggy