Coping and Doing My Best

I’ve been thinking lately of the times, in the past, I’ve wished for immobilization. A time in my life I wanted and needed rest and wanted to do nothing but be with my husband and kids.

When a snow-day was called for school we’d all be energized. Even on the weekend when we had no reason to get in a car on the dangerous roads, we’d cuddle-down and enjoy how the day would seem to slow down, like a music box drawing down, slowly, on its last few notes.

On those days, inevitably I’d get the kitchen warm for my bread to rise. I’d plan the stirring and kneading to happen on the kitchen table because each of my children wanted space beside me so they could help. 

When the yeast began to ferment it was time to add more ingredients. I didn’t have to look far for help. 

The kind of help like when kids want to help rake the yard. They do a few sweeps with a rake, which is usually two or three feet taller than them. When they see the piles of leaves form they throw down the rake and jump in.

Weirdly enough both of my kids liked the taste of the dough.(Yuck, I think it’s disgusting) So not only did most of their bodies become white with a dusting of flour, their hands would become sticky messes with dough after digging their fingers in the soft dough and popping it in their mouths.

When they’d had enough of helping, I had to grab them before they headed off for the rest of the house to dust down everything they touched with the coat of flour. It was straight to the warm water in the sink until even their fingernails were rid of dough. 

I loved each tactile experience. Rubbing their little hands and fingers in warm running water, helping them up and down from the chair so they could reach the sink, gently rubbing the dough off the sides of their mouths…

The snow outside swirled around our windows like a movie on mute. We felt more sheltered from the world than isolated. I’ve never seen my Harry sleep so well in his chair, during the day, as he did when he knew the dough was rising.

Now my kids have lives of their own, in other cities. I’m retired from teaching. Ten years have already passed since my husband died. So, I no longer have the same “cuddle-down” image of being immobilized. 

Today being isolated is not so white and swirly. Schools are closed, but there isn’t a warm and fuzzy feeling associated with these days off. I feel more concerned for when things will get back on track.

Fortunately, I have a different kind of “cuddle-down” in this isolation. I’m with my Mom, in the home I grew up in. We have quiet, no-words-time. I think we have interesting conversations. We share laughter and sadness, movies and games, walks and yoga. We also share the purpose of this isolation. 

Mom and Me

Recently (after I was able to buy flour and yeast) I started the yeast fermenting in Mom’s warm kitchen as I did with my children. I have no little ones to help me measure, stir and knead. But as the aroma of baking bread creeps into the kitchen, so do memories.

The Sun Warming the Dough

I remember Holden begging me to let him break pieces of the bread off instead of waiting for it to cool when it came out of the oven. I remember Elizabeth gobbing a piece of bread up with butter until it slid off into her tiny hands. I remember Harry coming behind me in the kitchen, and putting his arms around me, making time stand still.

I wonder if they remember how they loved to make a face in the dough with their child-fingers and pretend to punch the face in? It was a way for them to knead the dough. The dough was too difficult for them to lift, fold and push down. I’d tell them to pretend it was a person they would like to punch.

I’d check the baked bread with a tap on the top of the loaf with my hand, to see if it was done. It gave me such satisfaction to hear the hollow sound a perfect loaf makes when done. It still does.

I think about the inward-drawn thoughts people have in this time of crisis. Maybe it’s entertaining memories of the past. Maybe it’s wishing things for the future. Possibly present time is all some can process right now.  

Coping....

(Copied idea of this poster from one my daughter
sent me recently)

I’m thankful for this time with my mom. If we make it through this tragic-time I hope we have built up more confidence in ourselves and each other. 

Every day I try to consciously store new memories I can draw on some day. I believe if I take a picture in my mind of something I want to remember, I will be able to retrieve it some day.

I just heard the St. Ignace to Mackinac Island, ferry boat’s horn. The rain is tapping on Mom’s stove pipe outside. The seagulls randomly yelp at each other. I hear my fingers click on my laptop and a plop-sound Mom is making on her i-phone.

When I look back someday, I hope the fear, the worry, the unknown, the deaths and the crippling of my country will somehow be filtered with good memories. For right now, coping and doing my best will have to do.

Little Tomato Plant Sprouts
(A way for us to focus on something else)