From the Mamas:
If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, even if we don’t speak often, please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL MEMORY OF YOU AND ME.
It can be anything you want–good or bad–BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.
When you’re finished, post this paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON’T ACTUALLY remember about you.
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Peony, darling. Remember last Christmas, when we attended the annual Christmas bash at the White House with George and Laura? And how you tried to see just how the gingerbread house was held together–by licking the sides to see if the mortar was indeed Royal icing?
And remember how you just HAD to take off all the ornaments from the tree in the big front hall, just to make sure that all 50 states had an ornament to represent them? I think you had gotten it into your head that the decorators had slighted South Dakota or Wyoming. It was only after you alphabetized all the ornaments that you could rest easy about it. “Completeness is a virtue, you know” is how you put it.
Oh, and remember the bowl of Christmas punch, and how you spiked it–leading to your unforgettable rendition of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” on top of the piano–you know, the one you did a la Miss Piggy???
Only my being a Texan got us out of that jam–the president bein’ a down home boy and all. Wow! It’ll be a long time before I have more, um, VIVID, Christmas memories than that!
Was it April? Or May of ’63 when you were in bed with pneumonia and I read you Proust since it was the only thing that could make you sleep.
I’d suggested alcohol but you were only satisfied with Swann’s Way and then only in the original French. I butchered it enough to constantly bring you back to consciousness, your lips uttering whispered corrections. You didn’t seem to mind.
Ah but you were so tired! It reminded me of sleepless nights at alma mater where carol’d in the catacombs we read Greek myths benumbed by lines like “Incidit in Scyllam, cupicns vitare Charybdim”, and I pondered whether Scylla should be chosen over Charbydis and how the “Venus fly trap” got its name, while you wondered at Circe’s odd prescription and what possessed grown men to argue over the designated hitter rule…
Peony- I was just thinking of that night in the winter of ’89 when you walked over to my cabin in the midst of a winter storm. The power had gone out, so we sat beside the fireplace, keeping it full and roaring as we listened to the wind whistle over the chimney and rustle through the trees. We grabbed a jug of half-frozen apple juice, tossed in a few cinnamon sticks and some cloves and let it warm up on the stove.
You had brought your old, tattered copy of Chesterton’s Ballad of the White Horse- rarely have I felt the joy of poetry more than hearing you read it aloud by the soft light of the fire.
It was that summer weekend in 1981 at the lake (in Canada) that I remember best. Jumping off the dock into cool, fresh, clean water, fish nibbling at our toes,… And the “funny looking kitty” you wanted to pet, until it turned it’s white-striped back on you and blasted you full in the face with it’s stench.
The trees – the trees! – they wagged their skeltal winter fingers at us but we huddled for warmth, the warmth of companionship and bonhomie against the frigid wind.
Responsibility was a small herb in the kitchen garden then, not the huge shade tree it is now, now that we are battling demons both real and imagined.
We dabbled at irresponsibility beside the Village Green while our elders went about their bustle, their hustle, and you and I wanted to figure it out beforehand, to walk into it prepared, with all of our equipment on, never realizing for a moment that to wait to be prepared is to wait forever.