by Emma Redmer
Another one I wrote in 2012 that's based after a prompt from Helium. I still use the small, slender twinkling lights, though different ones now - the ones from college that I mention in the essay finally died about two years ago. It also still takes me a while for me to wrap them around the tree on my own, which is partly why I always invite a friend over to help decorate the rest of it.
“Ouch!”
I rub my foot. I just stepped on one of the lights that are supposed to go on my Christmas tree. I pull out the rope to inspect it. Nope, nothing broken. All the lights are as they should be. To be honest, I really need to replace this strand. I’ve used the same lights since college, and that was over ten years ago.
I can’t help thinking that putting the lights on the tree looked so much easier when Mom and Dad did it. They always had a big tree, with many strands of beautiful white lights that twinkled among Mom’s vintage glass balls. The lights were the same slender models I have now throughout my childhood and into the 90s. Sometime after 2000, Mom decided that the new lights with the larger bulbs were more practical and economical, not to mention much easier to thread onto the tree. Oh, they’re still pretty, but they glow a little differently than those tiny, twinkling lights.
My family wouldn’t decorate the outside of the house with lights until the late 90s. I don’t know why we never bothered. Maybe it was too much for Mom to handle on her own. My stepfather is a commercial fisherman, and he’d spend a lot of the holiday season on the ocean, making enough money for gifts for a family of six people. Maybe she just thought decorating the house inside from the bathroom to the den was more than enough.
At any rate, my father finally caved into pressure from my brother and his own desire to compete with the neighbors and started doing “exterior illumination” on his days between work trips. Thank heavens he had my brother and mother with him to assure that he never got as carried away as Clark Grizwauld. I have fond memories of coming home from college to a split-level house outlined in lights, with a netting of lights on the bushes, and the beautiful (then) new icicle strands hanging off the roof like dripping glitter. The effect was marvelous and elegant, especially in a New Jersey neighborhood where other houses went the Grizwauld route and covered themselves in every lighting effect known to man.
Christmas lights mean more to me than just good memories. For someone who works late and relies on her bike for transportation, they have a practical use. It’s a lot less scary riding home after a late work shift when every house in the neighborhood is lit up like the Fourth of July. It’s like a beacon leading you home after a hard day of dealing with frantic holiday customers.
The lights were especially beautiful about a week before Christmas 2009. On December 19th, the East Coast was hit by a massive blizzard. I live close to work anyway, so I just walked there and back. I worked from 10 until 5 that day. Despite the weather being even worse when I walked home, it was exhilarating to be out in it. When I arrived at the street just off the ramp into town, I literally gasped at the sight. It looked like an old-fashioned Christmas card or a Thomas Kinkade painting. The lights shown against the softly falling snow and the navy-blue night. Coupled with the Christmas party we’d had at work and the presents waiting for me at home from a friend, it felt like the most Christmassy day of my entire life.
No matter how much of a pain they may be to wind around the tree, staple onto the roof, or even plug into the wall, holiday lights are a reminder that there is always a little warmth in our hearts and minds, even during the darkest of seasons.
And that you should never step on a small colored light while barefoot.
Showing posts with label non-fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label non-fiction. Show all posts
Saturday, December 15, 2018
Thursday, November 8, 2018
Family Dinners - Original Essay
Yet another product of my writing for the Heilum Network when I was stuck at home with a broken ankle during the fall of 2012. Dinners with my entire family during my childhood could be nothing short of chaotic, but I remember them with fondness, especially given I live alone now. With my stepfather's passing, I thought it was time to re-post this one.
Family Dinners
By Emma Redmer
Dinner together was important in my family. I guess it had to do with Dad not being home all the time. Dad was a commercial fisherman. Still is. His job takes him out to sea for weeks at a time. The rare times we were all home to eat together were precious. It was the one time we could all do something together.
I grew up in a big family. There were six of us - my mom and stepdad, two younger sisters, and younger brother. Before dinner, while Mom worked in the kitchen, we’d play a game in the living room. Something simple, like Go Fish, Uno, or Candy Land. If my sisters were really full of energy, they might wrestle. I generally stayed out of that. I knew Mom didn’t like it. I thought they were completely nuts. Sometimes my little brother would join them. Other times, he’d go downstairs and watch the news with Dad, or toddle into the kitchen to help Mom mash the potatoes or add shortening to the biscuits.
Dinner was a merry cacaphony of “Who is sitting where?” and “Where’s MY milk?” and “Darlin’, you forgot my fork.” We’d all fight to be the first ones in line to get the burnt cheese off the top of the macaroni or the seasoned crusts at the end of the roast beef. We’d pull up the ends of the old Formica kitchen table to give us more space. When all was ready, we’d sit down and enjoy the feast.
We didn’t have meals like normal Yankee families. My mother was a southern belle (born in West Virginia), and my father frequently brings seafood home from his job. A typical dinner would include roast beef, mashed potatoes drenched with butter, green beans with bits of real bacon and onion, and Mom’s heavenly, flaky biscuits. My sister Rose always covered hers in honey and butter. I liked strawberry jam on mine. Our little sister Anna preferred just butter. And little Keefe would just eat as many as his small belly could hold!
On other nights, we’d have baked fish fillets with a crispy coating, Italian zucchini and yellow squash sauteed with tomatoes, Mom’s home-made macaroni and cheese, and spoonbread. Spoonbread is a heavenly concoction that is basically cornbread baked in a casserole dish. You load it onto your plate with a spoon, hense the name. We all fought over who would get the browned bits on the side.
In summers, Dad would grill burgers and chicken, and Mom would make all kinds of salads - potato salad with bacon, cole slaw made with thick cabbage slices and mayo, and macaroni salad with vegetables. In the winter, there would be home-made chicken soup and thick, salty ham and cheese soup. There would be chicken baked in the oven (Mom didn’t like frying - too messy) and cornmeal muffins from her mother’s recipe.
With six opinionated people sitting around the table, dinner was never anything less than lively. Dad and Rose argued over politics, local news, and world affairs. Mom and I generally stayed out of it. We knew better than to get between the two of them when they got going. I’m not sure Anna and Keefe understood a word of their arguing. Anna would sometimes inject a tidbit about something that happened at school; in her younger years, she’d make up wild fictions about the kids at school and what she saw there. Her favorite was the one about the dragon who suddenly appeared at school and ate the teacher. When he got old enough, Keefe would talk about the kids at day care.
Keeping an eye on your milk was of paramount importance. Especially since I usually ended up sitting next to Rose. She was always drinking my milk, whether because she genuinely thought it was hers, or because she’d run out of her own. You’d turn to make a comment on something someone else said, and when you turned back, your milk would be about an inch lower than you swore it was two minutes ago. I was about twelve before I finally caught on and moved across the table.
All of the kids had a chore to do after dinner. My job was to wash the dishes. Anna would bring me the dishes and dry them after I washed them. Rose would put the leftover food into plastic containers, load them into the refrigerator, and wipe the table. When he got old enough, Keefe ran the vacuum cleaner on the rug under the table. It was really kind of fun to have so much help. Anna and I used to sing together when we’d do the dishes. I remember singing the 30s hit “All I Do Is Dream of You” after Mom rented the musical “Singin’ In the Rain.”
After dinner, we’d all go in the living room to watch TV. The Pennsylvania Lottery would run the numbers for today’s winning tickets after Channel 6 news. We’d make a game out of it and see who could come closest to guessing today’s winning numbers. After that, we’d play along with “Jeopardy!” and “Wheel of Fortune.” There would be much laughter as everyone would chime in with the questions for Alec Trebek and see who could get the most letters in the phrases of the day.
When the game shows were over, we’d go our separate ways. Keefe would go to bed. We’d go upstairs and play with our toys, or if Dad was watching something we’d like, we’d stay with him. Or we’d go read, or finish working on our homework, or play a few more games of Uno or Go Fish until bedtime.
I live alone now, in my own small apartment. Most of the time, I eat dinner by myself. I usually don’t get lonely, but sometimes, when I find a recipe for spoonbread or make Mom’s biscuit recipe, I remember all the pandemonium and the noise and the laughter. It was crazy, sure, but it was fun. Most of all, it was family.
Family Dinners
By Emma Redmer
Dinner together was important in my family. I guess it had to do with Dad not being home all the time. Dad was a commercial fisherman. Still is. His job takes him out to sea for weeks at a time. The rare times we were all home to eat together were precious. It was the one time we could all do something together.
I grew up in a big family. There were six of us - my mom and stepdad, two younger sisters, and younger brother. Before dinner, while Mom worked in the kitchen, we’d play a game in the living room. Something simple, like Go Fish, Uno, or Candy Land. If my sisters were really full of energy, they might wrestle. I generally stayed out of that. I knew Mom didn’t like it. I thought they were completely nuts. Sometimes my little brother would join them. Other times, he’d go downstairs and watch the news with Dad, or toddle into the kitchen to help Mom mash the potatoes or add shortening to the biscuits.
Dinner was a merry cacaphony of “Who is sitting where?” and “Where’s MY milk?” and “Darlin’, you forgot my fork.” We’d all fight to be the first ones in line to get the burnt cheese off the top of the macaroni or the seasoned crusts at the end of the roast beef. We’d pull up the ends of the old Formica kitchen table to give us more space. When all was ready, we’d sit down and enjoy the feast.
We didn’t have meals like normal Yankee families. My mother was a southern belle (born in West Virginia), and my father frequently brings seafood home from his job. A typical dinner would include roast beef, mashed potatoes drenched with butter, green beans with bits of real bacon and onion, and Mom’s heavenly, flaky biscuits. My sister Rose always covered hers in honey and butter. I liked strawberry jam on mine. Our little sister Anna preferred just butter. And little Keefe would just eat as many as his small belly could hold!
On other nights, we’d have baked fish fillets with a crispy coating, Italian zucchini and yellow squash sauteed with tomatoes, Mom’s home-made macaroni and cheese, and spoonbread. Spoonbread is a heavenly concoction that is basically cornbread baked in a casserole dish. You load it onto your plate with a spoon, hense the name. We all fought over who would get the browned bits on the side.
In summers, Dad would grill burgers and chicken, and Mom would make all kinds of salads - potato salad with bacon, cole slaw made with thick cabbage slices and mayo, and macaroni salad with vegetables. In the winter, there would be home-made chicken soup and thick, salty ham and cheese soup. There would be chicken baked in the oven (Mom didn’t like frying - too messy) and cornmeal muffins from her mother’s recipe.
With six opinionated people sitting around the table, dinner was never anything less than lively. Dad and Rose argued over politics, local news, and world affairs. Mom and I generally stayed out of it. We knew better than to get between the two of them when they got going. I’m not sure Anna and Keefe understood a word of their arguing. Anna would sometimes inject a tidbit about something that happened at school; in her younger years, she’d make up wild fictions about the kids at school and what she saw there. Her favorite was the one about the dragon who suddenly appeared at school and ate the teacher. When he got old enough, Keefe would talk about the kids at day care.
Keeping an eye on your milk was of paramount importance. Especially since I usually ended up sitting next to Rose. She was always drinking my milk, whether because she genuinely thought it was hers, or because she’d run out of her own. You’d turn to make a comment on something someone else said, and when you turned back, your milk would be about an inch lower than you swore it was two minutes ago. I was about twelve before I finally caught on and moved across the table.
All of the kids had a chore to do after dinner. My job was to wash the dishes. Anna would bring me the dishes and dry them after I washed them. Rose would put the leftover food into plastic containers, load them into the refrigerator, and wipe the table. When he got old enough, Keefe ran the vacuum cleaner on the rug under the table. It was really kind of fun to have so much help. Anna and I used to sing together when we’d do the dishes. I remember singing the 30s hit “All I Do Is Dream of You” after Mom rented the musical “Singin’ In the Rain.”
After dinner, we’d all go in the living room to watch TV. The Pennsylvania Lottery would run the numbers for today’s winning tickets after Channel 6 news. We’d make a game out of it and see who could come closest to guessing today’s winning numbers. After that, we’d play along with “Jeopardy!” and “Wheel of Fortune.” There would be much laughter as everyone would chime in with the questions for Alec Trebek and see who could get the most letters in the phrases of the day.
When the game shows were over, we’d go our separate ways. Keefe would go to bed. We’d go upstairs and play with our toys, or if Dad was watching something we’d like, we’d stay with him. Or we’d go read, or finish working on our homework, or play a few more games of Uno or Go Fish until bedtime.
I live alone now, in my own small apartment. Most of the time, I eat dinner by myself. I usually don’t get lonely, but sometimes, when I find a recipe for spoonbread or make Mom’s biscuit recipe, I remember all the pandemonium and the noise and the laughter. It was crazy, sure, but it was fun. Most of all, it was family.
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