Friday, August 21, 2009

Melancholy...


Well, I told you I would rant and cry on here, so here it is. I miss my dead parents...I miss them everyday, I cry- everyday when I think of them, and it has never gotten any better. I am crying now, but I am also a big mushbag with alot of red hair.

Have you ever thought you would give up ten yrs of your lifespan just to have someone back-the way they once were-healthy and happy- for just...one...day?

I want the lovely afternoon teas me Mum would have waiting for me after school in the parlor. Surrounded by the dolls and dollhouses, handmade lace curtains on windows so clean you thought there was no glass, huge family portraits(which I own) and hard victorian furniture we would meticulously dust and polish every Sat. morn after chores and before my beloved cartoons. There she would be, waiting at the front door of our lovely big white farmhouse when I got off the bus-everyday! Waiting for ME! I always felt so special and loved, she saw to it.

Tea would be set on the marbletop table with the finest bone china one could ask for, daintily painted with flowers and garlands, ribbons and lace. Some of it over 145 yrs old, family heirlooms passed from generations to generations. A teapot, two cups and saucers, delicate little silver spoons and of course sugar cubes in a crystal bowl and matching cream pitcher. It would be sitting on delicate handmade doilies-most from little old ladies who would make them for me for birthday gifts or for my hope chest. The home would always smell of love and cookies, antiques and Murphy's oil soap, old books, and the fresh breads and pies from our orchards and bushes. There on the silver tray on two matching china plates would be what she had made for our private little time together, be it peanut butter cookies, blackberry pie, rasberry tarts or whatever was in season. My favorite was her apple pie, with the crust of her own secret recipe-which she went to the grave with. So buttery and flaky, unlike any I have ever had since.

And there we would sit in our lovely parlor, chatting about our day, reveling in long lost music on our Edison cylander machine with glorious black and gold horn. Sometimes reading to each other, discussing the crops and animals, or perhaps playing piano and harpischord together. Having tea, just special for her and me. OUR time. Precious time.

When an hour had passed, we would clean up our messes, change our clothes and head to the barn together to assemble the milkers, clean and bed the stalls and throw grain down as appetizers for the cows to come in to. Life was bliss.

I consider myself to have had the best childhood and upbringing anyone could have ever wished for, and I consider myself very lucky for that.

Not that all was perfect, by any means. There was lots of sickness(my own and others) and much death, hard work, long hours, and being farmers we never had time to go anywhere unless it was raining. And my Mum was my only friend out in the boonies, on a dirt road surrounded by nothing but fields and woods-but it was perfect to me.


Now onto my Daddy...the man NO MAN will EVER add up to in my eyes. He was(is) my hero, the strongest and hardest working man in the world to me. The man who could make something from nothing, grow anything, animals flocked to him and obeyed his commands, and he could fix anything. And EVERYONE liked him.
Each spring he would cut a V branch from a tree and make me a new slingshot from it and a cut up innertube. And each spring we would practice our aim at tincans on fenceposts. Of course he was an excellent shot, and I just sufficient, but he would smile from ear to ear, face lighting up in pride and tell me I was a fine shot, better than most men, he would say with glee. He also taught me to shoot a double barrel shotgun, drive stick, witch for underground streams, drive tractors, and skin roadkills for the hides to sell. All the while I would be in fine dresses and patent leather buckle shoes. Lets just say Mum wasn't happy about that!
This is the man who taught me to do animal autopsies with him, pointed out and named all the plants, flowers and trees for me, brought me flowers and berries each day that were in season, and brought me to the dingy bar with him while we waited for a pizza in our little village, three miles down the road. He would give me quarters to play the arcade games-I liked pinball, or to play on the jukebox. He would have a couple beers, get me a kneehigh orange soda, and he would chat with the locals. Mainly about farming, the cows, crop prices, or mechanics. Then we would head home with the pizza in the 52 chevy pickup that he had restored that was his fathers. How proud I was to be seen with him, so tall, dark and strong, his hair black as night, skin as red as brick, long lean limbs and those work worn, gnarled hands. His hands, my favorite feature. How I would stare at them, memorizing them as to never forget- each scar, lump, oversized broken knuckles, blackened nails with black and white spots where they had been recently smashed for whatever reason that week. And the veins, raised and snakelike. He used to let me touch them to watch the veins shift and move. His hands, his big smashed hands, the hands that held mine as he would lead me safely through crowds and across streets.
He called me his Sleeping Beauty. I was the first child he ever held, yet he had my three brothers many yrs before me. Since then he has held many grandchildren, but I was the first!

There is a picture I treasure, it is of me Mum and Daddy staring adoringly into a pink cradle, set up in our kitchen. My Mum with a kerchief on her head and pin curlers underneath, wearing one of my Daddy's oversized(for her) workshirts. My Daddy leaning on the edge of that pink cradle, a big content smile on his face, and inside that cradle is me, ME! I was soo loved. And how I loved them. and still do.
So, to answer the question I asked at the beginning of this tome...would you give up ten yrs of your lifespan to have someone back-happy and healthy, for...just...one...day, I say yes, in a heartbeat, I would give up twenty.

In memory of Gordon(Leon) Everitt Waldron and Audrey Kateri Richards Waldron, who would have celebrated their 57th wedding anniv on Aug 27. It would also be my Daddy's 82nd birthday. May they rest in peace.

9 comments:

  1. Peace and Blessings to your parents and the daughter who misses them so.
    The heart never forgets.
    Beautiful post, a lovely tribute.

    ReplyDelete
  2. It almost made ME cry reading it. Things being as they were, I didn't know them as well as I would have liked to. Especially the man I'm named after. I have so many questions that I would ask of them both. I think my fondest memory of my Grandpa I have is riding in the tractor with him when I was a little boy. I also feel that Grandma was to blame for my love of books because she would always let me play in her library but would never let me touch the books. I was always so intrigued by those shelves of books. I would wonder what made them so special. To this day I hope to one day have a room like that one, filled with books.

    ReplyDelete
  3. I LOVE how he has one of those camera clickers in his hand!

    ReplyDelete
  4. Many thanks, Martha, Ev and Hyla, you have all given me quite a boost.
    Isn't it a lovely pic? The original has me in it-you can see the hat n such, but I cut it down some yrs ago to just focus on Mum n Daddy. And Ev-your parents were also in the pic- far right! No offense to them, but it is so lovely as just the two, don't you think? I will dig the original out someday. My parents had very few pics taken together, so this means the world to me.
    Ev, that library was such an enchanting world, blame her all you like, she would be proud!!
    I have many more blogs on them to be written, so much to share with you...welcome to the past you never knew...
    Much love

    ReplyDelete
  5. I stumbled across your blog and wanted to say hi.
    Take a minute an check my blog out
    I have lots of great giveaways going on.
    Thanks :)

    ethertonphotography.blogspot.com

    ReplyDelete
  6. Oh my Heart,
    My love,
    To have had a childhood like that must have been such a blessing. To be so loved by your parents ... I can not even imagine what that is like. Thank you so much for sharing these memories; they are uncommonly beautiful.
    Just like the daughter that they raised.

    ~claudette

    ReplyDelete
  7. I would give up ten years of my life, but seven years from now, to be able to grow up with my parents on their farm. Seven years from now, because I would not take back thetime I got to spend getting to really know them and being there for my Dad while my Mom grew frail and passed away. Not just for me, but for them, too. Thanks for a lovely post.

    ReplyDelete