3. Frost born memories

January 23, 2010

This morning it is freezing cold! We turn the heater off when we go to bed, (a nice cuddle factor) so you have to get moving fast on winter mornings. After I have finished my morning toilet (twah-let, French pronunciation, if you please! I find it a much more engaging word than going to the bathroom and brushing my teeth) I like to look out the kitchen window while I wait for the tea kettle to boil. It always makes me feel glad. It’s 6:00 and there is a thick layer of frosty ice on our beautiful red PT Cruiser. There are bumps in the mixture, so I assume that we had hail, as well. So, I take the binoculars and read the little thermometer on the

front porch. Yikes! It’s 28 degrees!

On rare occasions we have snow. On the Central Coast of California it is a bit of a phenomenon. One Saturday morning last winter Bob woke me up and said, “Honey, wake up! It’s snowing...really snowing! Sure enough, it was snowing and continued to do so for two full hours. Then it became rain and the magic was gone. The memory of that magic makes us keep our fingers crossed that the next storm will bring the same. It is still up-lifting even if it happens only the one time. Good memories have a way of doing that, lifting you up just a little above ground, making you feel warm inside.

Our kitchen window faces the east and gives us the morning sun. That morning sun has has given me some- thing wonderful. African violets! I’ve actually found something that I can grow! Now that puts a zip in my step! My fraternal-grandmother always had a kitchen window full of violets. She always said the morning light was the key. Boy was she right.

My grandmother was a darling, sweet little lady who never started her day without her corset. Oh, how I wish I had one of those corsets. We shared the same birthday, October the 23rd. She always sent me a card and a lovely hankie. I have several in my cedar chest. Of course, I didn’t appreciate them then as I do now.  I never stayed over night there very often, but I remember she had books of children’s stories in the bottom of her closet. They were filled with lovely illustrations and I remember spending many pleasant hours sitting among the shoes reading. I’m not sure why I stayed in the closet, just comforting, I suppose.

She also always had a large bowl of red apples. She would set me down and give me a soft cloth and tell me to polish the apples until I could see my sweet little face smiling back at me.

I remember my grandfather as a kindly jokester, someone I shared tea and saltine crackers with, someone I collected key chains with. His collection was my inheritance along with his dribble glasses and magic magnets. My grandmother was his wife and knew what she thought was her place. When he passed away at 87 my grandmother became Florence. She told jokes and stories, took up quilting and painting her fingernails a lovely plum color. Bob called her Florence from the first day he met her. One day she took him aside and said ”Thank you for calling me Florence. You make me feel young again.”

Sometimes when I’m sitting with nothing to do I catch myself with my hands clasped and twiddling my thumbs. Hmm, my Grandmother Florence always did that.