Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘childhood’

Eleanor on the Plane

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on December 10, 2024| 1 Comment »

The world will see her again!

At first I didn’t see the tiny child on the floor by the window seat. I had taken the first aisle seat available on the rapidly filling flight. The slight young woman in the middle seat gave a faint, but not unfriendly, smile. 

As we readied for takeoff on the flight from Philadelphia to Nashville, the mother coaxed her child into her seat and explained that it was time to buckle up. Squirming and protests ensued, but mom persisted, and the curly-headed girl gave in. Her mother murmured, “I hope we don’t bother you.” I assured her that they would not.

I soon gathered that the child’s name was Eleanor. Judging by her well-developed speech, I guessed she was about four years old, though small for her age. During the safety presentation, she divided her attention between the flight attendant and reorganizing the placards in the seat pockets. 

Then she quite sensibly said she needed a nap, and her mother, who had shadows under her eyes and a weariness in her voice, heartily agreed! But they would have to wait until the seat belt sign went off. This explanation did not pass muster with Eleanor, who unleashed a barrage of questions:

Why do we have to wait? If it’s not your rule, Mommy, who made the rules? Why can I take the seat belt off then and not now? What does the seat belt do? How long do we sit here? How far to get home? I need to sit on you to sleep. Can I sit on you and wear the seat belt? How much longer?

Mom, with strained patience and a low tone, tried to answer each question, but Eleanor didn’t have time for the answers! Her thoughts raced on to the next topic, so her mother tried distraction next. They discussed cloud shapes, and what clouds are made of, and how home is under the clouds.

Mother and daughter shared a symmetry together, a rhythm in gestures and voice that reflected many hours of happy chatter and play. When at last the plane leveled off at the adequate altitude, Eleanor escaped the seat belt and sat on her mother’s lap. Within minutes, they both drifted off to sleep. I couldn’t help but glance over at them. 

The mother looked to be in her early 20’s, with glowing alabaster skin and a slender, petite frame. Her golden and barely auburn curls, clipped up haphazardly on her head, fell against her neck. Eleanor, with her own blond curls, clutched her flannel blankie in her sleep. Her tiny toes peeked out below, sporting sparkly purple nail polish. 

Eleanor fit into the curve of her mother’s body perfectly, as if she remembered the womb from which she came. The mother’s arm wrapped gently around her child, laying claim to this young soul who still felt part of her own. 

The sight stirred motherhood memories in me, since buried under 35 years of living and tension, changes and growth. Once I held my babies just so, until they elbowed and kicked their way free and flew away. Now their children push away from them, chasing adulthood. I am two generations away from the symbiotic love and pain of holding my little ones in my arms. 

Sometimes, in the tableau of life, we come upon a scene so breathtakingly beautiful that it burns away all the dross and debris of humanity, and we can see the best of us. Time takes a deep breath. Then the clouds change shape, and the moment passes. 

Eleanor stirred from her nap, and her mother sighed and sat up. As Eleanor made a tent with her blankie, then ate a snack, climbed in and out of her seat, and finally settled into a movie on mom’s phone, we visited. They had travelled from home in Houston to New Jersey to see the grandparents. 

Even after reaching Nashville, they had a two hour layover and one more flight to go. We deboarded, and I took a short walk before finding the gate for my connecting flight to Dallas. By chance, I saw Eleanor and her mother at the opposite gate. Eleanor had found a second wind, cavorting around the chairs and giving commands to an imaginary playmate. 

Her mom was just about done, slumped in a chair, with her hair almost totally escaping from its clip. Her fatigue palpable, she struggled to stay vigilant and keep a watchful eye on Eleanor. Unaware and innocent, Eleanor knew her mother as an extension of herself, and had no idea of her mother’s struggle. 

I walked over to ask if I could pick up some food and bring it to them, but Eleanor had eaten a Lunchable, and mom said she didn’t need anything. The mother in me wanted to make her eat; she looked way too pale and fragile. But I also wanted to respect boundaries, so wished them well on the last leg of their journey home. 

Eleanor won’t know or understand until much later in life the thousands of sacrifices and gifts of the heart, from tiny to grand, that her mother laid down before her. The world will know intelligent, spunky Eleanor someday–maybe as a prosecutor in a courtroom, or as CEO of an innovative company, or as a scientist on a relentless search for a cure. 

And perhaps we will also see her as a mother, shaping a young character with selfless love and gentle wisdom.

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved
Note: None of my content is AI generated. Ever.

Thank you for reading! Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing on joyous Road on Substack & Joyce Martin on Medium

If you would like to support my writing, please do so here: https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

Read Full Post »

Grandma’s Last Gift

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on October 3, 2024| Leave a Comment »

The valley sloped down in a sweep of color and texture, rich even in mid-winter. The tiny white church rested on the facing hill, just visible through the bare trees. Behind me stood my childhood home, vacant but recognizable.

I could picture myself hurdling down the sidewalk in my wagon and crashing into the yard gate, or sledding down the hill after a good snow. We sheltered in the cellar during storms, and Mother made it a cozy and secure refuge.

This was home. And with me were my two brothers and sister. We all came to be here again because of Grandma. Grandma’s death had brought us all back to Missouri. We had buried her in the cemetery at the end of the valley, and we had lingered to visit the old farm and piece together our past.

Grandma, like many of her generation, grew up poor and hard. She lost her hearing and her mother to scarlet fever at the tender age of 7. When she married, she and Grandpa raised their children in the cradle of the Meramec River Valley in Missouri in the 1930’s. Times were hard, and Grandpa would hire out to work when he could, while they struggled to keep their own farm going.

Their community life centered around the church and school on one side of the valley. Neighbors shared their struggles when in need and bounty when they had it. They knew each others’ faults, many trials, and tiny triumphs. They were a family of common experience, isolated from a changing world by the hills surrounding them.

Grandma was often called out to serve as a nurse, working up her home remedies for those recovering from childbirth, fevers, and countless ailments she had no medical name for. She took pride in her reputation as a healer, but quietly resented her lack of opportunity to become a properly trained nurse. Over her lifetime, she developed an odd collection of superstitions, folklore, herbal acumen, and medical knowledge. We all learned not to mention any symptoms, serious or otherwise, around Grandma unless we were ready for a thorough treatment with one of her mysterious concoctions.

Economic necessity forced the little family to eventually leave the country and move to the big city of St. Louis. Steady work and modernity beckoned. They lived frugally, but they had enough. Later they moved further out to the suburbs. But in all those years away, home always meant returning to the connections and memories of the little valley.

Grandma and Grandpa had 3 children. Grandma outlived her husband and my mother and uncle. She lived a long time, serving as a grandma and neighbor to many. She could be stubborn and superstitious. She had a capricious and mischievous sense of humor. She loved kids because she still wanted to act like one. She was a teller of tales, mostly embellished with each telling, which made them all the more interesting.

She hoarded everything from fabric to old magazines, and canned enough fruit and vegetables for an army division. She knew the old ways of making soap and making do, but she adapted to the new ways too. For a time she drove the winding Missouri roads with a speed and fearlessness that belied her age.

Age and illness finally caught up with her, and in her 90’s she had to be placed in a nursing home. She scarcely recognized even those closest to her and lived within a confusion of past memories and current experiences. We were grateful when she eased out of this life and into another. Grandma would not have wanted to linger in a fog of dementia.

Life is circular. My mother had married a young man from the other side of the county, and they came to live in that same valley that follows the way of the Meramec River. They spent years there, cradling the growth of their young family. I was the youngest of 4 children, and we moved from Missouri when I was 3. My memories of that time are snapshots in my mind, vivid but fleeting and few. The family stories fill out the gaps in my recollection of that time and place.

To stand in the yard of the old farm house with my grown siblings was a moment of exquisite meaning.  It was the closest I have been to the beginning of who I am in this world.

Grandma’s life spanned almost an entire century and touched hundreds of souls.  It gives me hope that we can all live in a way that brings good to the world. Thank you, Grandma, for this last gift.

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated. Ever.

Thank you for reading! Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing on joyous Road on Substack& Joyce Martin on Medium

You may tip my writing at: https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

Read Full Post »