CHERISHED
REFLECTIONS
Written by M. Melody Tuli
It had always seemed strange to
me when younger, that I hadn't really acquired many if any,
of my family's traits. Of course it wasn't unusual for families to
all resemble one another or look as though the entire clan had been
pulled through a Xerox machine. However, the opposite is true for
families to look as complete strangers, yet live under the same roof.
But in the latter of situations, there are usually traits from other
personalities, views, common likes and dislikes.
Not to mention the numerous inherited family ties. None of the above
mentioned could I find about me with my family life. Not only did
I look and feel different, as though the wallflower gal at the first
spring-fling dance. Maybe it was being the only child, the only one
residing at home with my parents that made me feel so all alone.
My brother was eighteen years my senior. I had nephews from my sister's
marriage some only a few months from my age. This left many controversial
conversations for Mother and her many acquaintances. I was the original
late bloomer. My sister was a dark haired, dark eyed beauty. Here
I was this skinny red headed, freckle-faced, goose-berry-eyed kid.
I was the only red head in our family. My grandfather had once been,
but I hadn't known of his misfortune.
The common question repeatedly asked in our home by our numerous guests
was, "my goodness Eddy, where did that child get that red hair"? My
mother's name was Edith.
She would simply smile for her response, and then look at me as if
I were the guilty party.
So, I began my search to, in fact, find the missing relative in question
for this carrot-top of mine. Goodness, I felt had nothing to do with
my dilemma.
Weeks then months went by. I felt my search had ended with no prevail.
Finally, one afternoon while playing a vigorous game of hide-and-seek
along with about two dozen other neighborhood children, the count
down began. "5, 10, 15…" then I felt my fingers clench the sideboards
of my grandfather's white washed tool shed. We were all congregated
in his backyard. Along came the trash truck for it's weekly service.
The men at that time who road the trucks were also called, "honey
dipper's", which had nothing to do with bees or honey. They hauled
away garbage and cleaned the out houses.
These were during the Great Depression days. You were very blessed
if you had indoor plumbing of any kind. We didn't. I had to pump water
from our well, fill up a bucket at a time. Then pour it into Mama's
wood burning stove. It had a tank at the back, a reservoir built beside
it to keep water warm as she cooked. Which was also used for our bathing,
we did behind our coal burning stove in our living area. Bathing was
done in a large tub, usually with homemade soaps of lye, oatmeal or
lard. Lavender scented soaps that Aunt Tillie had sent to Mama but
that was used just for special occasions.
You could always count on a fresh baked loaf or two, or Mama's potato-water
bread or her light bread rolls. There were many cold days and nights
that I prayed we'd had indoor luxuries.
I feared my face had shown the horror I had been thinking. Thinking
so loudly that surely that old Jack Blackmere would hear. Or perhaps
he could hear the rapid beats from my heart. Could he see me hiding
behind grandpa's shed? I grabbed the hem of my bleached muslin dress,
to make sure there was no sight of me. It wasn't so much the fear
of him, as the idea with my childish thoughts. He had a broad back
and arms like lead pipes. Enormous! The most terrifying thing of all
was his full flaming red beard and locks. With imagination running
wild, my thoughts were a whirlwind. Maybe I really belong to old Jake?
Could it be he's coming back for me?
Oh, what dreadful questions. It would seem I was the only little redheaded,
freckle-faced girl around. How long would I worry and wonder?
Mother received a Western Union telegram. She waited for what I thought
had been hours before opening it. I stood anxiously awaiting beside
her flour-coated table. She wiped the flour and dough from her hands
on her blue and white-checked gingham apron. She read, but never a
word out loud. I stared at the movement of her hazel eyes from side
to side.
Then in a nonchalant voice she said, "Well, it seems your cousin Dell
Mae is coming this summer for a visit. She is your Uncle Ned's baby
girl. He has a sheep ranch in Wyoming. She's only a year or two older
than you, Margie." My heart was filled with overwhelming joy!
"Come on Margie," Mama said. "We'll be late for Dell Mae's train.
Oh, look at your hair, it's just straight as a pin. Let's go."
My sister drove us to the train depot. It must have been at least
a two-hour drive. Mama talked on and on, about as fast as her crochet
hook moved. She made several lace doilies by the time we reached our
destination. Dell Mae's train was ten minutes delayed. I chewed my
fingers as Mama and sister chewed the fat. The hard iron locomotive
finally came to a halt. As the smoke cleared the conductor sorted
the baggage. He picked up one small, well-used case as the train doors
opened. My eyes stared at a wonderful red headed, freckle-faced, gooseberry
eyed little girl. Dell Mae was dressed in a starched flour-sack smock.
As soon as our smiling eyes met, I knew this was indeed my family.
A sense of belonging finally calmed my weary spirit, but most importantly
that cherished reflection of Dell Mae's beauty and mine…
Cherished
Reflections
Written by M. Melody Tuli.
Published in The Mountain Laurel River Review- November 1989
About 1,075 Words
Short Story - Fiction
First Rights
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"Cherished Reflections" was written in honor of my
Mother,
Marjorie M. Spader and her childhood
memories.
May 5, 1920 - August 22, 2002.
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