Tea Time!

It is 4:00 p.m. at my grandmother's house. Apparently, that means we need to have tea.

Maria and Wendy climb up in the cushioned kitchen seats. They cross their legs daintily and look eager to participate. Bill sits in his high chair, smiling at the world, and allowing the women around him to include him in their fun.

I sat dutifully but certainly not daintily.

Grandmother pours tea into very delicate china cups. We have sugar-free cookies and other finger foods.

Maria and Wendy sip very carefully. I slurp.

"Don't slurp, Kara," Grandmother admonishes me as she raises a cookie to her lips. Admiration fills me as I watch her stretch her mouth around that cookie, carefully not messing her lipstick. It was quite a feat. My sisters and brother liked to watch her eat, always waiting for the time when she would smudge her Instant Mocha shade.

Apparently it happened, for she always reapplied using this little mirror attached to the lipstick tube. I never saw her make-up out of place. Not once.

Grandmother seemed like perfection. Everything nice. Everything pleasant. Everything intelligent.

I thought it amazing, and I wondered if I would ever appear as put together.

If it meant no more kick ball games, well, it would probably never happen.

Grandmother's House

I am still eating Cheerio's every morning. Still taking swimming lessons, still conning my way out of naps, and the setting is still "the armpit".

As I've mentioned, my grandmother was a teacher. And an English teacher at that. So, her house was a little....particular.

Everything had a place, and everything was in its place. You NEVER ran out of red checking pencils, and she recycled all her old worksheets by allowing us to write on the back when we played newscaster, or God help me, school. (I was forced into playing it by Maria and Wendy because I couldn't go outside and play with any of the neighborhood kids. I didn't know them.)

Her kitchen was especially organized. Some of her practices I never quite understood. For instance, she put wax paper between her stacked pans. I am seven, and I promise you I'm thinking, "What the ????"

Most people had a tupperware cabinet that when opened, you experienced an avalanche. Not my grandmother. Oh, heck no. She had all tupperware pieces stacked inside cigar boxes. Those cigar boxes had the following labels written on the front: small lids, medium lids, large lids, small bowls, medium bowls, large bowls.....you get the idea.

God help you if you didn't put a lid in the right spot.

All cloth-like items or papers or....well, I never really understood which items deserved this treatment, but she wrapped just about everything in plastic bags and tied them with colored twistie ties.

She also paper-clipped everything. All the bills, letters, etc. she received for the week or month would be on the desk paper-clipped together.

Now let's travel to the living room, music room, and hallway. Her books were neatly displayed in these areas. None bore signs of wear and tear, though she read them. She didn't dare ruin her books by dogearing corners, or laying them spread eagle on the table. And whoa is you if she caught you doing that. Her books were her jewels. They were so precious that if you wanted to read one, you had to check it out.

You read that accurately. We checked out her books like they were from a library. She organized every title, knew precisely where each book was on each shelf, and kept a record of their use on index cards. Her very own card catalog system.

But even more particular than this is the drawer where she kept her playing cards. She had several decks of cards, all different colors. Some of these decks had labels. These labels bore hand written notes. These notes would read, "This deck is missing the 3 of clubs.", "This deck is missing the 10 of diamonds."

Even at the age of seven I thought, why doesn't she just throw the deck away?

I never asked her.


Of course, the scary thing is I am finding I can be just as particular as she was. As I write this, I am a few days away from turning 38, and I promise you, when you open my tupperware cabinet, you will NOT experience an avalanche.

However, I am not so persnickety as to keep AND label my unusable decks of cards.

But...there's still time.

The Armpit Continues to Sweat

After Cheerios and swimming lessons, we had lunch. Granddad would come home from the store and eat with us. We would sit at the table while he came around and kissed the top of our heads. He must've liked his job because he never seemed irritated with it.

How could you be irritated when you served ice cream? Correction...Blue Bell ice cream.

After lunch, we'd take a nap.

As you read this, I am raising one eyebrow communicating the following: Not gonna happen.

But, I didn't argue. I dutifully followed my sisters and brother to our beds. I laid down for around ten minutes. It was all I could take.

I would give my hair a good shake, messing it up as much as possible. I would walk into the kitchen and in my sleepiest voice say, "I slept."

She would always give a great sigh and then say, "Alright, Kara. Go watch TV."

At this point, I would skip over the divan, plop down, and turn on Nickelodeon. I watched Pinwheel and You Can't Do That On Television while Maria, Wendy, and Bill slept.

I don't know if they were ever irritated that I got out of taking naps. My thought was, if you didn't want to sleep, you too could mess up your hair and fool your grandmother.

The Armpit

As stated earlier, we spent two weeks every summer in a hot, dusty farm town close to the Rio Grande with my mother's parents. The first week without our mother; the second week with.

Grandmother rose at 5:00 a.m. to read the paper and eat poached eggs. Granddad rose a little after that and went to the store he ran with my great uncle. It was your average American drug store complete with soda fountain and counter top seating.

Grandmother was a retired school teacher. She taught English to middle school students for thirty years. Words, books, and the structure of sentences were her hobbies. The gift she wanted from the district to commemorate her retirement was an Oxford English Dictionary. The book was huge. You could tone your arm muscles with it. (But don't let Grandmother catch you at that.)

To continue:

Grandmother rose at 5:00 a.m. and read the paper from beginning to end. She kept a red pencil at her side and carefully edited their mistakes. Then she'd put the corrected paper in the mail and send it to the newspaper office -- "The Valley Morning Star". She entitled it, "The Valley Morning Disappointment".

We rose at 7:00 and went for our Cheerios. She kept the cereal in the largest circular Tupperware I've ever seen. We scooped them out with this little cup, then shook liquid saccharine on top to give our breakfast sweetness.

Grandmother had diabetes. No sugar in her house -- except for emergencies.

We sat at the table, swinging our legs and eating our Cheerios while she patiently underlined misspelled words in her reading material. Her eyebrows were always raised, her glasses always perched on her nose. She wore her satin robe and gown, sipped her coffee, and shook her head at supposedly qualified writers.

If she were reading this, I wonder how many mistakes she would find.

Some Teacher

Learning to swim must be very important. Learning to swim from Mrs. Rife must be extra special important.

My mother sent us all the way to her hometown for swimming lessons. My mother's childhood home, known affectionately by my god sister as "the armpit of the south", is thirty minutes from the border. It takes eight hours to get there. (5 if I am driving.)

You have to drive across King Ranch and you better have at least a half of tank of gas before you do.

So, I was under the impression that Mrs. Rife must be some kind of teacher.

We spent two weeks every summer with my granddad and grandmother. Part of our itinerary (the rest is for a later post) was an hour with Mrs. Rife.

Certainly you are patiently awaiting my opinion on this. By now you know I should enjoy the pool and swimming. You should also be aware that me and my mother's big ideas don't always mix well.

However, Big Idea #6 turned out pretty good.

Maria and I walked to Mrs. Rife's house every day. We spent an hour learning the various techniques for successful and safe swimming. I concentrated hard. This woman was teaching me something quite valuable. I definitely could see a future where I used what she taught. (Multiplication was another thing.)

I can still see her very short hair, her wrinkled face, and her bright red pants swimsuit. Yes, she wore pants when she was in the water. Maybe because she was modest. Maybe because she had a condition. I never could figure that one out.

She taught me well. Soon I was diving off boards and racing boys across the length of the pool without a lick of trouble.

After each lesson she put some kind of medicine in our ears. To keep us from getting a swimmer in our ear. (Like that could happen.) But I didn't argue.

The last day of lessons was the neatest. We had to jump in with all our clothes on, take off our shoes and pants while in the water, then swim to the side. Pretty cool....

My mom's big ideas were starting to gain some ground. Maybe I didn't have to hide anymore whenever she called a family meeting.

The Scourge

We must take a step back. I forgot to mention an important moment in my life.

At the time, it did not seem very important. Of course, it is a small thing, and I'm only capable of understanding its strength now that I am an adult.

Come back with me....

It is the year E.T. came out. A very heartbreaking and heartwarming movie. Maria and I were enthralled. Wendy was instantly in love with E.T. Bill was too young to enjoy it, but eventually he was inspired, too.

Maria and I especially enjoyed the funny parts. When Elliott tells E.T. to shut up when he keeps saying, "E.T. phone home." when he's in that white coffin-looking thing. When all the boys are flying through the air and Greg says, "Tell me when it's over!"

But we simply adored the following lines:

Greg: "Can't he just beam up?"
Elliott: "This is reality, Greg."

We died laughing. I mean -- that is hilarious.

It is also the scourge of mankind. Sarcasm.

I use it. Maria, Wendy, and Lela can wield it like magicians.

However, Elliott might as well have called Greg an idiot. Let's imagine, for one moment, what Greg felt after Elliott said that. It was Greg's first real glimpse of E.T. How did he know what the alien was capable of? Elliott had several days with E.T. He had the advantage of knowing a lot more about the little guy. And yet, instead of considering all this, the writers choose to treat Greg like he's an idiot. It's not a stupid question. I mean, for crying out loud, E.T. could heal Elliott's wounds with just a touch. He could make plants grow by just being around them. Why can't he beam up?

But sarcasm is funny. We all know Elliott doesn't think Greg is stupid. We all know it doesn't mean that Elliott doesn't like Greg. But....does Greg know that? Was he able to accurately assume Elliott's intent? Was he able to factor in the possibility that Elliott was anxious, nervous, and scared, so he spoke quickly? Was Greg able to forgive Elliott for treating him so callously?

These are things we cope with today. Interpreting sarcasm. It can be seen as bullying.

If someone is usually sarcastic, we can imagine this person might be seen as a bully. For example, it is your second week of school. You and your peers are starting to relax. You walk into math class wearing your favorite shirt. Peer A says to you, "Where'd you get that shirt? Queers 'R Us?"

Everyone laughs.

It's mean isn't it? But just because Peer A said such a thing, doesn't mean he doesn't like you. It means he has a sarcastic mouth.

This is the dilemma, for we can't rid our society of sarcasm. We must cope with it.

And that is the MOST important thing school teaches us -- how to cope. Some of us develop very good coping skills, some not so much.

And before you tell me that the school and the world was better in the 1950s, watch a routine from Bob Hope. He uses sarcasm. I promise.

Unhappy Endings Exist

Light from the bathroom spills onto the floor, offering the perfect chance to ignore bedtime for the more enjoyable task of reading. This is my saving grace from ever being held back a grade -- I like to read.

You might remember my first interaction with our librarian. I searched for books about Rudyard Kipling, and he nearly expired from a heart attack.

Tonight, I lay on the ground in my doorway, using the light from the bathroom to read Riki Tiki Tavi. Wendy and Maria are asleep behind me, hence why the closet light is not on.

This book is very loved. It's been read at least once a week, if not once a day.

I am up late. I know this because the entire house is dark, and my parents are in bed. Of course, my mother understands my habits and is up checking on me. She pads down the hallway. I expect her, so I don't immediately snatch up my book and hurl myself in bed. This is a regular routine for us. She's never gotten mad at me before, so there is no fear of being caught.

However, she surprises me with the following:

"Kara, perhaps it's time you read something else."

I look up at her. "I read lots of books."

She yawns. "Yes, but I think you might enjoy a new one. Go on and go to bed. In the morning, we'll start another book."

I groan inwardly. This means she is going to pick a book for me. That is the WORST. But, I don't argue, and in the morning, as promised, is a new book. Little Women.

She reads it to me. And Maria.

I am enthralled with the characters. These four sisters who love each other so dearly, who make believe, and tear down walls. I love Meg. I love Jo. I adore sweet Beth. I laugh at little Amy.

I decide I am like Jo. She chooses independence over marriage. I think that is a pretty smart idea.

And then...the unspeakable...sweet Beth.

My heart is ripped from my chest, a bloody, pulpy mess lying on the ground. The author is grinding her heel into it and twisting. The pain is excruciating. I stare aghast at my mother.

"What kind of book is this?" I cry.

She just smiles at me.

When the book is done, I walk around in a trance, wondering how my mother and Maria can function. Poor Beth! How can we go on as if nothing happened?

Thus begins my rapture with the lives of fictitious people. Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. They were my first.