The comfort of a countertop
Yesterday evening found me calling New Orleans Boy, even though I had spoken with him at length the night before. Our initial conversation was pleasant, as it always is, until I mentioned the fracas with Shaun one too many times. There was a long pause. New Orleans Boy said "I am saying this because I have deep feelings for you and I care about you. I don't need to hear about that guy ever again." He then went on to tell me that, from my conversations with him, I seemed to be defining my every movement and experience based on my past relationships. My ex husband, my ex Bad News Boy, my ex-whatever. Hell, everyone reading this blog (all four of you, God bless!) probably thinks the same thing. I have heard this before, the last time from Shaun, himself: "Hey, just for me, don't talk about your past relationships anymore, OK? Let me just pretend you were a virgin before you met me." As he talked, I walked into my dark kitchen and crawled up on the counter by my stove. I seem to always do this when I feel like something isn't quite sitting right in my life.
When I was a little girl, I would spend quite a lot of time at my grandparents' apartment. They lived in a two bedroom unit in a building on Main Street of my horribly tiny home town, their front windows looking out on the street, their back windows looking out on the wild river falls below the mill dam. Grandpa was a retired baker/cook/restauranteur/jack of all trades and, though he typically had a slightly abrasive manner to people in general, he demonstrated every day that he thought the sun rose and set according to my whim. Grandpa and I would spend entire days together, trading insults, fishing and hucking rocks into the river. Grandma tried to connect with me, too, but she talked in the language of the girl I hadn't yet become: "Come over here and try on this lipstick! Let me do your hair. Why don't you try on this skirt? Just try it! You'd look so pretty!" I didn't want to be pretty. I wanted to huck rocks and call my Grandpa a crabby ol' rooster.
My young childhood was spent on the river below the dam. I never really understood why, when I'd announce over my bowl of Rice Krispies (they always had them there for me, even though they ate only Grape Nuts) that I wanted to sit on "My Rock" down by the riverside, my Grandpa would leap up and say "I'll go, too." It was only later, when I was a teenager, that my mother told me about two little girls in the 1930s who took off their shoes and went wading in the river below the falls only to get pulled out far into the river and under the waves. Grandpa was one of the first people on the scene, but despite his best efforts, was only able to reach one of the girls and only after she had already given up. He carried her body back to the very spot where "My Rock" was. He never really let go of her, I don't think. Yet, despite this fact, he knew that it would have been wrong to not let me splash in the river myself. He was the picture of perfect watchfulness. He let me have my fun, but he was always there in case I needed him.
Grandpa kept a juice glass filled with sticks of Juicy Fruit gum in a kitchen cabinet that I would have to climb a chair to get to. I'd go from the rickety kitchen chair to kneeling on the counter, to the cabinet and then would sit on the counter and happily chew my gum with cowlike satisfaction and much smacking. Grandpa always had to be nearby when I did that, too. He'd hold me by the waist as I climbed, then lean against the counter next to me until I was tired of sitting there and gently help me down. He knew that you have to let someone try something for themselves -- you had to let them climb or wade in the river or stretch up high to reach something -- but there was no rule saying you couldn't be right there next to them in case they fell.
So last night, I retreated to my countertop. I swung my legs and kicked the fridge as I listened to New Orleans Boy's exasperation with my determination to hold on to all that hurts me. And I wanted my Grandpa.
When I was a little girl, I would spend quite a lot of time at my grandparents' apartment. They lived in a two bedroom unit in a building on Main Street of my horribly tiny home town, their front windows looking out on the street, their back windows looking out on the wild river falls below the mill dam. Grandpa was a retired baker/cook/restauranteur/jack of all trades and, though he typically had a slightly abrasive manner to people in general, he demonstrated every day that he thought the sun rose and set according to my whim. Grandpa and I would spend entire days together, trading insults, fishing and hucking rocks into the river. Grandma tried to connect with me, too, but she talked in the language of the girl I hadn't yet become: "Come over here and try on this lipstick! Let me do your hair. Why don't you try on this skirt? Just try it! You'd look so pretty!" I didn't want to be pretty. I wanted to huck rocks and call my Grandpa a crabby ol' rooster.
My young childhood was spent on the river below the dam. I never really understood why, when I'd announce over my bowl of Rice Krispies (they always had them there for me, even though they ate only Grape Nuts) that I wanted to sit on "My Rock" down by the riverside, my Grandpa would leap up and say "I'll go, too." It was only later, when I was a teenager, that my mother told me about two little girls in the 1930s who took off their shoes and went wading in the river below the falls only to get pulled out far into the river and under the waves. Grandpa was one of the first people on the scene, but despite his best efforts, was only able to reach one of the girls and only after she had already given up. He carried her body back to the very spot where "My Rock" was. He never really let go of her, I don't think. Yet, despite this fact, he knew that it would have been wrong to not let me splash in the river myself. He was the picture of perfect watchfulness. He let me have my fun, but he was always there in case I needed him.
Grandpa kept a juice glass filled with sticks of Juicy Fruit gum in a kitchen cabinet that I would have to climb a chair to get to. I'd go from the rickety kitchen chair to kneeling on the counter, to the cabinet and then would sit on the counter and happily chew my gum with cowlike satisfaction and much smacking. Grandpa always had to be nearby when I did that, too. He'd hold me by the waist as I climbed, then lean against the counter next to me until I was tired of sitting there and gently help me down. He knew that you have to let someone try something for themselves -- you had to let them climb or wade in the river or stretch up high to reach something -- but there was no rule saying you couldn't be right there next to them in case they fell.
So last night, I retreated to my countertop. I swung my legs and kicked the fridge as I listened to New Orleans Boy's exasperation with my determination to hold on to all that hurts me. And I wanted my Grandpa.
posted by Unknown at 11:50 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home