47. ‘Roid-Writing’ — Part Three
It’s still Saturday.
In a recent blog I mentioned Auntie Fifi — a woman who finagled her own chair in Mary O’Brien’s kitchen. The events surrounding that accomplishment predated me, so I can’t help with the specifics, but it is noteworthy to me that she had her own seat at the table, so I am noting it.
Why is a chair a big deal?
Ten kids + two parents @ three meals a day. Right there, there’s a lot of people sitting around a sizable Farmer’s table day and night. But Mary O’Brien’s kitchen wasn’t only a place for meals, it was The Place for Everything — chit-chatting about nothing serious or delving deep into weighty discussions. It was where cups of tea or coffee and a slice of Irish bread were always at the ready, and an empty pair of hands were always being offered for a fussing baby. It was the heartbeat of the home because a mother of ten made it that way.
Patrick-Terrence-Francis O’Brien was head of that household.
But, Mary O’Brien was head of Her Kitchen.
By the time I entered the picture, six OB kids had taken spouses and the remaining four were about to. Math recap: Ten kids + ten spouses or spouses-to-be + two parents + a healthy smattering of OBs – The Next Generation darted about the first floor at rapid speed while the adults congregated in the kitchen.
I married into this big Irish family and learned firsthand that none of them think anything about the size and scope of their daily life. For me, it was a big deal. I’m the middle kid of three, my family fit around an ordinary-sized table — we didn’t need to fell a mighty Sequoia to build a place to set our nightly dinner plates. Nor did we need to turn conversations into a contact sport.
The dinner table experience at my childhood home was about eating food and partaking in small-talk — when it was your turn to open your flap, you opened your flap. The OBs conversational style was more akin to the chatter one might hear while traversing Grand Central Station with noise coming from all sides of the room — in this scenario, think of words as blasts of water coming from a super-soaker spray gun. Everyone got wet — some were listening well enough to know why. It was years before I knew why.
A little geography lesson before we get back to whatever this blog is about — not to worry, I’m better at geography than I am at math. Tim and I live in 01603. That of course is a zip code, but it is so much more. It’s an area in the south part of Worcester with distinct neighborhoods tucked up and around the three main-drags in that part of the city: Main Street, Park Avenue and Stafford Street. If you were from 01603 you grew up in segmented neighborhoods known as Columbus Park, or Downing Street, or Crystal Park, or Bennett Field, or Hadwen Park or Deadhorse Hill, or Heard Street, on Apricot Hill near The Rez. When you hit puberty, it didn’t matter what neighborhood you were from, EVERYONE knew about The Rez, a small, wooded area that’s perfect for a stroll through the thicket along a babbling stream — or for the underage bending of elbow shenanigans that took place after nightfall.
There were large families in all of the 01603 neighborhoods, but the families associated with Our Lady of the Angel’s parish seemed to have more than their fair share of 6+ kid families. (Disclaimer: I might be off on the number of kids). The O’Briens: 10. The Dowds: 10. The Gaffneys: 10. The other Gaffneys: 7. The Pettys: 6. The McTigues: 6. The Vales: 11. The Pratts: 13. The Gibbons: 7. The McCarthys: 6. I know I’ve missed a few of the gargantuan OLA families. I extend my apologies.
Anyway, I came from Columbus Park. We had a couple of families with 6+ kids, but the average family could be counted on one hand. So, for me, walking into Mary’s kitchen really was like walking into Grand Central Station. It was loud, and active, and fun — and it was a never-ending-game-of-musical-chairs — unless you were Auntie Fifi. Seats were a commodity. So having one designated to you was a big deal. At least in my mind it was.
Alfreda McTigue stood out amongst the O’Brien clan, all of whom were fair of skin and thin of frame. Fifi was of Polish descent, hailed from Buffalo where winters are brutal and family roots run deep — most likely some sort of genetic protection so one doesn’t wither on a vine in the Upstate tundra. Fifi was formidable in frame, had a full, expressive face, and poofy hair the color of a Twinkie. (I know I’m wrong about the color, but that is what popped into my head, so I’m leaving it — absolutely NO offense intended).
From the moment my ass was moved out of Fifi’s chair, she moved into my heart. She took an interest in me — she wanted to know where I came from, where my ancestors came from, how I met Tim, and wanted an immediate answer as to whether we’d ‘stick’ as a couple. Tim and I were twenty-eight when we first started dating, and right out of the gate we knew we were a good fit — so I told her I thought we would.
On several occasions, Fifi invited Tim and me to her home, which was a stone’s throw from the OB house. Sometimes it was the three of us who hung out, and other times one of her children was in town for a visit and we’d be invited up. She told me often that I was good for Tim, especially because she could tell he enjoyed my company, “An important thing for the long haul,” she said.
Things happened quickly for us as a couple — dating led to a quick engagement and to a quick wedding and to a fun-filled honeymoon year. Shortly after our first anniversary, I learned I was pregnant. Tim and I thought I’d have the baby, put her in daycare and head back to my office located across the street from the Old North Church in Boston where it is said that Paul Revere spoke his famous words, “One if by land, two if by sea,” the signal that preceded the Battles of Lexington and Concord during the American Revolution. I never returned to that job — I became a stay-at-home mom to the utter delight of Auntie Fifi. “She won’t know if you live in an apartment or a house, but she’ll know you’re there to kiss her boo-boo.”
I sold my Datsun 280Z to Kevin Mullaney, ditched my business suits for mom jeans and when I had the energy, I loved every minute of my new life.
When Hannah turned one, we moved to June Street and lived in the 01602 part of Worcester. We were a one-car family and so my relationship with Fifi continued mostly by phone. We chatted about all sorts of things, but we shared a love of crafting and that became our thing.
I’m getting to the point of this blog — I promise.
In the summer of 1999, I bought a stamp-patterned, cross-stitch, red tablecloth that I planned on doing and giving to my mother for Christmas for her dining room table. The tablecloth was really big and rectangular. In the center there was an oval Currier and Ives village scene with a steepled church, barren hardwood and Evergreen trees, and stars and snowflakes everywhere. Along the bottom of the piece were Christmas trees — probably two dozen trees of varying sizes. I remember opening the package, seeing the amount of work, calling Fifi and lamenting that I’d NEVER finish the tablecloth for that Christmas or probably any other Christmas in my lifetime.
“Put the time into it. Eventually you’ll finish.”
I put the time in — and got physically ill sometimes with the repetitive cross-stitch. Oh, did I mention that every stitch was in white. EVERY STITCH WAS IN WHITE. Two years later and a few weeks before Christmas, I was finishing up the border work and the end was in sight. I maybe had a half-dozen trees to go before I finished the tablecloth from HELL.
And. Then. This. Happened.
Scene: Sheryll was sitting in a beautiful recliner in her quiet den of her second-floor walk-up. A lighted Christmas tree was set in a corner near a beautiful pair of pocket doors. On her lap was a draped tablecloth, the part she was stitching was pulled taut in a crochet hoop. A gentle snow was falling outside, and her little ones were tucked in and fast asleep — life was grand.
A second later: A cry was heard from one of her children’s rooms.
She stuck her needle into the cloth, gathered the long material and placed it onto the floor next to her. She lowered the legs of her seat and in the process of getting up she somehow knocked a drinking glass off a side table, the contents of which spilled all over the tablecloth from HELL. She quickly grabbed the material, gave it a few shakes to get the brown soda off, threw it onto her chair, went to her daughter’s room and joined her child in a good cry.
The next day I called Fifi before it was socially appropriate to do so. I was still in tears when I explained what happened.
“Bring it to me.”
“It’s ruined.”
“Bring it to me.”
“Fifi, the tablecloth is red — the stitching is white — there’s nothing that can be done. It’s ruined.”
“Have Tim bring it to me on his way to work.”
Several days later, a knock came upon my front door. There stood Alfreda McTigue — sturdy of frame and standing straight-spined with a sense of accomplishment. She handed off a plastic bag — the kind that zips across the top, “It’s all set. You’ll have to finish the final trees, but it's cleaned, and pressed, and you should be able to give it to your mother for Christmas.”
“But. How?” I stammered, “how did you get the soda off the white stitches without having the red dye run all over the place?”
“It did run in a couple tiny places, but I cut those stitches out, so you’ll need to do that area over.”
I opened the bag, took out the table cloth, laid it across my table and inspected it. Actually, I gawked at it because it was beautiful and it had been lovingly saved by Fifi — the woman who NEVER considered any obstacle too great to overcome, the woman who NEVER gave up.
When I gave my mother the tablecloth for Christmas I told her I NEVER wanted to see the thing for as long as I lived. Then I told her about the two year journey of my work and the almost tragic ending to her gift. My mother never used the tablecloth at mealtime, she would place the cloth somewhere on display and every year we’d reminisce about its creation and salvation.
My elderly mother gave me the tablecloth for Christmas this year. It came tucked inside the zipped plastic bag Alfreda McTigue handed me thirty years ago. As members of my family came into my home, two by two, to spend time with me, the story of Fifi saving the tablecloth was told over and over.
Sitting in the corner of my living room is a chair. I pointed to it and said, “That’s Fifi’s chair. She died on my birthday, you know.”
My mother knew and smiled a smile that said she was so happy I’d had a Fifi in my life.
Gotta love them both. I do.
I stopped writing for a few minutes. I was a bit overcome with emotion, but I’m back and I’m determined to finish this blog. We’re going off that beaten path for a brief period. Many people credit Mark Twain with the quotation, “The only two certainties in life are death and taxes.” The saying originated in a 1789 letter from Benjamin Franklin to Jean-Baptiste Leroy, a prominent French scientist.
I mention this because it’s still Saturday and Tim and I are doing the prep work for our taxes which will be taken to our tax preparer the morning of Super Bowl Sunday. We have had our taxes done on that day every year, and then we put the grueling experience behind us and celebrate our version of the SOUPER BOWL, with crocks of French Onion soup and Tim’s souper-de-duper stuffed mushrooms. Trust me, they’re the best EVER!
Tim and Sheryll O’Brien are creatures of habit.
These little things will be hard on Mr. Wonderful when I’m gone.
Our mornings with Mr. Chase and Mr. Sanborn. Our nibbling Figgies before bedtime. Our tradition of putting up the Christmas tree the day after Thanksgiving and taking it down on New Year’s Day. Our Souper Bowl Sundays. Our annual Staycation at home during our anniversary week in June. Our annual vacation in Wells in July. And all of the other little things we did that made us who we are as a couple are going to clang my loss over and over.
So.
I’ve made Tim promise me that he will go places and do things when I’m gone. I really hope he makes a trip to Ireland. It’s really the only place he’s ever wanted to visit — to see. Tim was an art major in college and he’s always wanted to see the greens of Ireland — supposedly there are countless shades of the color. I want him to see them. And I want him to visit relatives throughout America. And I want him to visit Kevin in Albuquerque. And I want him to visit the Lone Star State and meet Mr. and Mrs. Pendleton, and Mr. and Mrs. Flores.
So that is my clarion call to those who know and love me.
Encourage Mr. Wonderful to travel.
Delightful Surprises
When Debbie traipsed back into my life, her daughter skipped back in, too. Amanda was Hannah’s bestie all through grade school. An adorable, always smiling kid, with long, very curly brown hair and big brown eyes. She was a great kid to have around the house — and she was around the house all of the time. The girls were close until they went off to different colleges, and different life experiences, and are now back living in their childhood neighborhood raising their own children.
A few weeks back, I got this text:
Amanda: Good morning Sheryll, this is Amanda. I just wanted you to know I'm thinking about you all the time and reading all your blogs, they are so beautiful and wonderfully written. I’m so happy you were able to enjoy the holidays and your birthday with your family, and I’ll be praying for you for Opening Day.
A few days later.
Amanda: I wanted to mention you used to make a dish for Hannah and me when we were younger and I THINK you used to call it hamburger mush, just letting you know it’s one of Elliot’s favorites and I always think of you when I make it.
A few days later.
Amanda: Hi, I just wanted to check in and let you know I’m thinking of you.
I’d just finished a visit with my hospice nurse when that text came in. I texted Amanda back saying the nurse declared me “stable” that morning and that I decided on the spot that I loved the word.
Rather regularly now, Amanda checks in, always hoping I’m still stable, and when she hears I am, she sends me happy texts.
A week or so ago I received this text.
Amanda: Thank you so much for the copy of Be for Elliot. I’m going to start reading it to him tonight. Hadley is a very lucky little girl to have you as her MammyGrams.
And then came the announcement on Facebook.
Amanda is expecting her second child.
I’d been let in on the secret before the announcement, so when it came, I texted a congratulations and asked if I could mention the happy news in my blog. She enthusiastically consented. I wondered if the baby might make an appearance on Amanda’s August birthday — and I said I had a feeling about the baby’s gender. She texted back immediately wanting to know my thoughts. I told her she’d have to read the following week’s blog to find out.
So, here you go, Sweet Amanda.
I think you’ll be having a girl. Just putting it out there.
No matter the gender, I know the baby will be very loved and very lucky to call Amanda, “Mommy.”
It’s still Saturday.
Tim tucked me in an hour ago. He kissed the top of my head and put his hand onto my left cheek. “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?”
“I’m tired, so I hope so.”
“Do you want me to sit with you so you’re not alone?”
“No thanks.”
He gave me another kiss and touch and went upstairs. I sat in the dark and heard him open the door at the top of the stairs a couple of times. He was checking to see if I was still awake and whether I’d put the television on for company.
I was awake and softly crying because — when I’m alone in the dark now, I’m not afraid. I used to be afraid of what I was leaving and losing. The tears I shed now are about what I’ve had and what I have.
This exercise in ‘Roid-Writing’ was a wonderful reminder of my blessings. It was a thoughtful nudge to Feel and Share the Love. It was an acknowledgment that the people in my life will continue to live wonderful lives and bring new ones into this world.
Feel The Love — it’s all around you.
And for the record, this blog is a very good representation of the hyped-up state of things in my head.
We covered:
Steroids. Wordle. Mr. Thoughtful. Boo-booed toes.
The Green Team. Bed Jumping. Sloths and toilet paper. Medicine reminders. Alfreda McTigue.
Tablecloths from Hell. Death and taxes. Clarion calls.
And delightful surprises.