A COZY RECKONING

I look out at the falling rain and watch as it slides steadily to the ground in uneven wet waves. The garden is a patchwork of slimy mud, silvery shrubs, and the promise of spring weeds. The trees bordering the yard and the brown fence beyond seem hunched against the blitz. The day is solemn, the sky dark and mumbling.

I think of my mother, who once told me to plant tulip bulbs in January to stave off an early bloom. This way, she said, the heavy winter rains will not trounce the delicate petals as they open themselves to a false California spring. Just now I see the green tips of tulips barely peeking out of the soil and I know she was right. By the time these fellows bloom, the heavy rains will have long passed. I wanted to call her and share my excitement. “You were right, Mom…the tulips are safe from this storm.” Then I remember I cannot because she died just three weeks before. Passed away suddenly, passed on to a more beautiful, serene place where she won’t feel any more pain or loneliness, I hoped. Somehow, this thought was comforting to me while I felt filled with sadness.

I look out once again and, though the rain has slowed, the sky is still somber and swollen. The promise of more rain makes me want to build a fire. There is company in a fire on a stormy day. While my cats watch, I crumble newspaper into balls and place them under dry sticks of kindling in the wood stove. Gray Gus and tortoise shell Big Kitty relax and ready themselves for an evening near the warm and reassuring heat. Soon, one will curl up in a basket by the stove, the other in a chair a short distance away.

There is also the dog, the silent, slow-to-react creature that my children ignore and my grandchildren adore. My sons have always preferred bouncing, playful dogs like Labs and spaniels; dogs that will bring back a ball when thrown. LeBrie, which is the name she came with when we adopted her, prefers to watch other dogs run and ‘get it’. Though they may think she is not bright, I find her to be a quiet comfort. So now we sit by the fire, me, Big Kitty, Gus cat, and the silent dog.

As the flames heighten, I watch the firelight dance on the shiny hardwood floor. There is coziness and life in a wood stove fire. Its wide warmth reaches each piece of furniture, every inch of floor, and the furthermost niche of the house. Nestling deeper into the corner of the couch, I again look out at the yard and watch two doves eating at the ground feeder. Their movements are anxious, and it’s clear their intent is to take flight soon…this garden may be their last stop before dark. Suddenly, a blue jay swoops down over the doves, his purpose to separate and drive them off. But the doves are not intimidated, not this time, and the jay lands some distance away, his feathers and spirit dampened. Today he has lost his potency; the storm has diluted his threat, leaving him to wait in line for his dinner.

I think about Nature and the natural workings and struggles of it. It seems we go through Life as does the tide… rushing in and then receding, at once gaining ground, again losing ground. Ultimately, in the very end, we neither gain nor lose, and all purpose seems moot. I think again about my mother, who lived a largely difficult life and yet who struggled stubbornly against those difficulties, winning a pocketful of joy here, losing to a chasm of grief there, but always righting herself and moving forward. Ultimately, she lost the last deluge, as will we all, leaving me to wonder if there is a purposeful worth to life after all.

 Most days are good days and I happily look back in time at the glad and sad events that are the benchmarks in my life’s timeline. I accept those things that are the substance of my being. What would my history be without the wonderful years of inspiration with my parents; or the deadly earthquake that shook me to my feet; or the travels that opened me to a wider understanding; or the sad and untimely death of my sister; or the chin hairs and transformation into manhood of each of my sons; or the relationships that happily began and unhappily ended; or the miraculous birth of each grandchild?

On a down day, and thank God they are few, I say that Life is made up of an accumulation of events that in the end become meaningless. But today, there is the rain, the fire, the birds outdoors and the animals in; and I am blessed with a safe and snug roof over my head. I have a close knit family that is healthy and happy and who are spiritually good people. Old friends are near and dear, and new friendships are always emerging. Moreover, I still find every second thing in the world amazingly interesting. Today…I cannot find any fault with Life and its properties, nor can I find fault with myself. Today, maybe tomorrow, hopefully the rest of the week, but certainly today, I feel as though I have been handed a magnificent gift.

Patty Morelli

Boo-boos and Band-aids

When I was a small child, perhaps 3 years old or so, I would walk each morning  from my home to the home of my Nona, just one short block away. She would greet me happily and then fix me a breakfast of warm milk over buttered toast with a sprinkling of sugar overall. She would make herself a cup of coffee by boiling water in a saucepan, then sprinkling in some coffee grounds, stirring it, then pouring it through a strainer into a cup. (I still think of her cozy kitchen and those mornings whenever I get a whiff of fresh made coffee.) Then she would watch me eat while she sipped her coffee. After breakfast, she would brush my very curly hair and manipulate it into two braids. Then it was time to go out and water and weed  her garden. While Nona worked, I chased after butterflies and lizards. One day, while sprinting after a dragonfly, I tripped over the garden hose and down I went, scratching my knee.

“Nona,” I cried out as I ran to my grandmother, dragging my leg in an exaggerated limp. “I fell…ow-w-w-…ow-w-w-....I have a booboo on my leg!” It was a warm day with a light breeze softening the sun’s heat. Nona was bent over rows of carrots and lettuce, weeding and cultivating. Her backyard was made up of a number of raised growing beds that allowed for good drainage and also gave a semblance of visual order. In between the beds lay green roofing paper to discourage the growth of weeds and to provide a dry walkway. It was on that walkway that I had fallen and scratched my knee. The paper was stiff and coarse, much like grainy sandpaper. 

At the sound of my wailing, Nona dropped her hoe and came to my side. Speaking softly in Italian and blowing on the ‘boo-boo’, she made a quick appraisal of my roughed up knee; then she sat me in the curve of a warm canvas chair under the apricot tree and went into the house. I sat there alone, whimpering, with my arms wrapped about both my knees. Looking down at the wound, a salty tear slide off my cheek and onto the raw patch of skin, and I would blow bubbly breaths onto it to lessen the sting.

Nona soon returned with a metal Band-Aid box in one hand and a little bottle of mercurochrome in the other. The sight of the small, brown bottle brought more tears and loud protests.  But the grandmother nurse won out. Murmuring quiet endearments she shook the bottle, then opening the cap, she carefully guided several drops of the metallic orange liquid down the glass wand and onto the boo-boo. More sobbing---more blubbering of “Blow! Blow! Blow!” Nona swelled her chest and emitted stout bursts of warm breath onto the blazing inferno. Slowly, the stinging grew less fierce. After another moment, she resettled me on her lap and reached for the Band-Aid box on the nearby table. Oh, what a marvelous thing, the Band-Aid! She opened the box and slowly pushed her finger around its insides. Wanting to find just the right one, she would glance once or twice at my wound to appraise it. Finally she pulled out a thin strip. She showed it to me and then snapped the box shut. I immediately felt safer. Once that small, filmy thing was stuck on, I knew I’d be fine.

Carefully, Nona tore off one end of the wrapper and then , wetting her thumb and finger, she seized the orange string that dangled from the wrapper and pulled on it. Zip! There it was! My Band-aid! I offered her my knee…..by now my tears and sniffy nose had both dried up. She gently pressed the Band-Aid over my ‘boo-boo’; the tiny perforations of the padded center filled with the fluorescence of the mercurochrome. To test my new badge of courage, I flexed my knee and felt no pain. Then Nona wrapped her smooth sunburned arms around me and tucked me into her large lap. We sat there quietly while she rocked me. There was the faint smell of garlic on her breath and when I looked up at her, the sun shone strongly behind her head forming a fuzzy white halo of hair about her face. At that moment she seemed like an angel to me.

After some moments, Nona and I got up and straightened our cotton skirts. Then Nona looked up into the branches of the apricot tree and picked a large, blushing apricot. She twisted it clean in her apron and gave it to me. I sat back down in the canvas chair and sucked on the soft, darker side of the fruit and watched Nona return to her garden.

Those were days of warmth and companionship and complete security for me. There was never a doubt or mistrust to pass my mind. How trivial were the pleasures, yet, how grand they were….even such a tiny thing as a boo-boo and a Band-aid.