For the Love of Dirt: November 2023

Thursday, November 30, 2023

MY PRIZE FIGHTER ( Christmas story 1967)

“A time for Christmas. For Light has come into this world. That is our journey…” – R. Raphe

My father was a resilient person. He’d weathered much. Worked hard. Lived much. He was my hero. I thought he’d always be there. In a way he always has. His never left me.

December 1967 my mother brought him home . For the last time. For the best Christmas ever.

I was only seven, but I remember her chopping wood, late into the night, so the fire would burn long on the hearth. The days were damp and soggy. Cold and unforgiving. And she brought him home for Christmas. It was a wonderful time. Though, to some, it may not have been. But to us, it was.

Christmas Day the stereo played his favourite carols. He sat in the great chair, trying to sing, but the words would not come. But he felt them.

We didn’t have a lot of money. Lived on the small paycheck my mother made by being a seamstress. Nevertheless, she made sure there was Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. I can still smell the pungent scent of sage stuffing wafting through the house. She’d had her hair styled in a huge blonde beehive that stretched into infinity.

My father’s chair was set close to the fire, so he could enjoy the warmth. His eyes watched the flames lick at the dry wood, as we listened to it snap and crackle, like rice Krispies cereal.

My mother spent a huge portion of her earnings on a beautiful dressing gown. She wanted my father to have the best gift ever. Maroon satin, with velvet collar, velvet tie and fabric stitched through with brown velvet lines. He looked like a fancy prize fighter. That’s what my mother said.

She was genuinely happy. She said it was Christmas, no matter what. It would always be Christmas. As it should always be.

I liked to run my hands over the soft collar of his Christmas dressing gown. He would try to smile and hum to the carols. I told him it was okay. I would sing them for him. He wiggled his finger at me, which was our way of communicating. I’d wiggle my finger back at him and giggle. My mother took photos of us that day. Four of them. Ones I keep in a special place.

Our cat lay on the hearth getting toasty warm, as my Mother rattled about in the kitchen. The cat purred. My father dozed, as I sat with him. It was in the quiet that we seemed to best understand each other.

My father didn’t really eat much of dinner. We sat by the fire. My mother had set the table with all of her best antique chine. The china I use, to this day, when friends come over. But he decided to stay in the big chair , so we brought plates over from the table to sit with him.

I caught him looking at my mother. And she at him. Their eyes locked in some silent thought. Something meant just for the two of them.

My mother cleaned up the dishes. The carols played, and the cat purred, and the fire flapped in the darkened room, as night fell.

We must have stayed in the Christmas quiet till the fire burned low. It was the best Christmas ever. I know that sounds strange. But it was.

My father was my hero. He showed me how to be strong. He died three months later. March 26 1968. My mother , strong willed as he was, passed away exactly twenty years later, on March 26, 1988.

It was exactly how they had dreamt of it, I imagined. I found his Christmas dressing gown in the closet , when I cleared out the house. I ran my hands over the velvet lapels. Just for a moment. To remember. He had only worn it that one time.

He taught me about finding great joy. My prize fighter.

“While the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for Joy..” -Job 8:7

Photographs 2023

Tuesday, November 28, 2023

THE TABLE

"Embracing the Light. Collected bits of truth. Shimmering sparks. Shards of light. Merge. Healing. Restoring. Bursting bright. Rising in divine ecstatic flame.." - Leonard Nimoy

The table. It has been beside me forever. Like an old friend. That Jacobean table. One hundred years old. If it could talk. But it never had to. The hundreds. Possibly thousands of people who have gathered round its sides. They talked and the table listened.

Some it knew well. Painted dark, like fig jam. My mother first got the entire set from good friends. It was the 1930's. My parents were newly married . It once used to be a kitchen table. My mother thought it would make a good ironing board. She ironed on it for years.

So much so, for years you could see white scorch patches in the damaged surface. She'd leave her antique flat iron on the surface. It would burn.

At Christmas, it always was the center of attention. My mother would cover it in lace and glass balls and cover the burn patches.

Lace and streamers, delicate cut glass. It bore the weight of years of shortbreads, cakes, candles and weathered spills of champagne, birthdays, parties....

And in between those years, my mother ironed curtains, and underwear . She sewed , cut out patterns, kneaded bread, stirred fruitcakes, arranged jars of jam.

And ironed . Mostly underwear and tea towels. At midnight, watching Perry Mason, labelling Christmas cards, scalding the table surface with bubbling teapots.

She ironed on the table for fifty years, till her last moment on earth. Then it got a makeover. Long overdue. The table waited with bated breath. So did I.

It went from black paint to it's original Jacobean golden oak. The burn marks disappeared. It glowed warm and vivid like copper. The table felt new again.

Each Christmas it glimmers and glows and shines. My old friend. New again.

And company still gathers. When the lights are low and the candles waver, in their sweet wisdom.

There have been hundreds. Possibly thousands come to this table. All across this country they have sat here in the magical light.

And the table welcomes them. And it remembers.

All who have been, who have gone on before. And those who still sit within it's beautiful face.

My old friend. Hearing their voices soft and low, in the still quiet of the night.

“They made their way to the dining room, where the air was blossom-scented and gilded with candlelight. The mammoth Jacobean table, with its legs and support rails carved like twisted rope, had been covered with pristine white linen. A row of broad silver baskets filled with billows of June roses rested on a long runner of frothy green maidenhair ferns. The walls had been lined with lush arrangements of palms, hydrangeas, azaleas and peonies, turning the room into an evening garden. Each place at the table had been set with glittering Irish crystal, Sèvres porcelain, and no fewer than twenty-four pieces of antique Georgian silver flatware per guest.”
― Lisa Kleypas

Photographs 2023

Tuesday, November 21, 2023

LIVER 1958 for COUSIN BOB

"Christmas is doing a little extra something for someone..."

- Charles M. Schulz (Creator of Peanuts )

Cousin Bob made a surprise visit to my parents, one day late November 1958. He carried a folding metal chair. He placed it down in the kitchen, dusted it off and sat down. The metal scraped against his long key chain. He was also carrying an accordion case. He slid it into the kitchen. My mother stared at the box. Then looked at my father who hid behind the newspaper.

"I've been taking lessons the past couple of years," boomed Cousin Bob. He was loud. And happy. My mother was at a loss. My father lit two cigarettes and alternated each one. Cousin Bob mopped his head. The chair groaned under him.

He told my mother he brought his own chair this time. Last visit was four years before. Being a large man of substantial proportions he had broken my mother's antique settee chair with the curved back. She spent months gluing it back together. She tried to send him the bill. He sent her a pair of slippers.

Now Cousin Bob was parked in her kitchen, sitting on a folded chair. It didn't look too strong. My mother looked at my father, who purposely smoked furiously and peeked over his newspaper.

My mother offered Cousin Bob a large glass of sherry. His eyes lit up like an owl. He thanked her kindly and sipped at the beverage that was ice cold from living in the fridge.It was her cooking sherry but he enjoyed that sherry like it was the finest vintage.

Cousin Bob unpacked his accordion and harmonica that he attached around his head. He said he would play some tunes while waiting for dinner. He was going to warm up with a glissando. My mother stuck her head in the fridge, trying to figure out what to feed him.

"A glissando is a glide from lower to higher key," said Cousin Bob, oblivious to my mother's rummaging. "It goes like this..." He demonstrated. My mother jumped. My father stamped out a cigarette and started another.

"Liver!" My mother brought out a packet and waved it at Cousin Bob. "Oh how nice," he said in between chords. " I love liver," he bellowed.

That was supposed to be my father's dinner. He scowled. at Cousin Bob. My mother hauled out onions and a jar of homemade pickled beets. Cousin Bob nodded enthusiastically. He played carols . Lots of them. He hummed along over the din. My mother fried up liver and onions. My father scowled some more. But not too fiercely. The tunes were familiar and catchy.

Cousin Bob finished playing twelve Days of Christmas for what seemed like the fifth time. He stashed the accordion under the table. My mother plopped down a huge plate of liver and onions in front of him. He asked for ketchup. He used up whatever was left . My parents watched him eat their dinner.

After Cousin Bob finished everything on his plate, he burped at last twenty times. My mother told me years later, she actually counted his burps. She placed in front of him a small leftover Xmas cake, from a few years ago. Her last one. She kept it in the freezer and hacked off slices as was needed. Cousin Bob drank a huge mug of tea. He ate what was left of the fruitcake, and said it was the best meal ever.

My mother sighed. She asked Cousin Bob to play more carols. She sang along. In her tuneless , offkey voice, drowned out by the instrument. My father tapped his foot. Cousin Bob beamed. He only stopped once to ask what they would be serving Christmas Eve......