Easter Burps
As I sat in my kitchen this morning thinking about what to write I recalled something local author, Donovan Kelly, said to a group of young writers not too long ago.
“I write because I have to,” he said.
That’s a truth all writers understand. If we don’t write we’ll explode. That thought led me to my think of my father-in-law who is regularly featured in this blog. He is very down to earth. He doesn’t need or desire finery or frills of any sort and he moves through the world with a childlike innocence.
“People’s bodies make noises,” he will tell you with no sense of unease at all when a loud belch punctuates the end of a meal. “If I don’t let it out I’ll “sussplode,” he says
So as I said, there I was in the kitchen where meals and memories are made in every home, where many of us will gather in a few days to share Easter dinner with family and friends.
In our house the meal will consist of traditional baked ham, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes and gravy, and lasagna in honor of the Italian’s in our midst. Then we’ll add some Polish cookies that the Pittsburgh contingent insists on. They go surprisingly well with an assortment of Easter candy.
Last year saw the introduction of a very strange concoction called Grandma’s gravy. It came into the family along with our new son-in -law and consists of pan drippings, canned gravy, orange juice and lord knows what else. I may never develop a taste for it, but hey, somebody’s Grandma made it and that means it’s welcome on my table.
What we’re guaranteed during a meal like this is the lively sharing of cultures and memories. After dinner we will settle onto sofas and chairs in the family room and before long someone will burp loudly. Through it all I’ll be watching everyone, listening carefully and starting to craft my next round of stories. No one will explode.
On that note, here is one of my literary burps. I hope you like it.
A Time and Place for EverythingMike’s Dad first came to live with us 2002. Frail and with growing memory problems, he keeps us on our toes as he struggles to navigate through a world that refuses to make sense. Routine is vitally important; without it he winds down into confusion so complete all movement comes to a halt. He’s stuck somewhere in time.
Even now, almost six years after moving into the new house, we sometimes find him staring into space, mumbling softly about a missed appointment made fifty years ago or reliving a day in the life of a long ago soldier.
Sometimes with pity, always with patience, we gently bring him back. “Orienting him to time and place,” as the doctors say.
His favorite room is the kitchen. Small and bright with sunshine, it opens onto a view of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Hills he calls them, telling us about the fabulous peaks he once climbed in the mountain ranges of Italy. For a short time his memory is as sharp and clear as the cold mountain air of days gone by.
A charming boyish smile crosses his face as he speaks of his mother making polenta before going to church each day. Of rolling up the rugs and dancing on Saturday night in a kitchen glowing with firelight and youthful dreams.
In the kitchen, with no need of persistent voices orienting him to time and place, he is always able to move. He is home again.