CHAPTER 3

MORNING LIGHT

            That first morning on the farm, the room was basking in white light as soon as the sun was in full effect. The white linen curtains with blue tassels that put on a light show of flashlight beams the night before were just as bad at covering the sunlight during the day. It was a hateful sight those first few days. Our regular caretakers, Aunt Jane, Louise, and Lewis were not morning people. They lived like vampires afraid of the morning light. Blackout shades and sleep masks covered the harsh living between midnight and midday.

          I struggled to stay asleep as the sun forced itself on me that first farm morning, but the smell of bacon and pancakes was more than I could bear. The front screen door slamming, the start of the old Chevy engine, and the sound of the old, woolly hound, Rascal, sealed the deal. I was now awake.

        I turned over to see Darby and, of course, she was gone. Gone! Boy, that girl could frustrate me. She knew I hated to enter a new space alone.

       What would later be diagnosed as social anxiety, would, at times, cripple me in moments like waking up alone that first day on the farm. A closed door with an unknown on the other side felt to me like a passage through another dimension or Alice’s looking glass. Hard to get through and terrifyingly mysterious.

          I made my way to the window first to reassure myself of where we were, on a farm, we had never been before. The site of the old brown barn, long sun-stripped of its reddish color was somewhat reassuring in the light of day. The clusters of brush and trees from the house to the barn spoke to the commotion we heard the night before. That Rascal was chasing something off the property made sense in the light of day with the thick vegetation between the house and barn. Also visible for the first time was the lone cabin, as he called it. It resembled more of a shack than a cabin, but the pieces of the landscape puzzle were finally coming together.

            From beyond the closed bedroom door, I could hear voices muttering back and forth, seemingly trying to talk quietly. The bark of a small dog inside the house and the shushing of it made it clear to me that the voices were attempting to keep the volume down as a courtesy because I was asleep, I guessed.

            Memories are funny things. Often, I wonder how reliable they are. My memories of that morning are also colored over by the sound of old-time music being played on the radio.  Soft sounds of the past wafting through the walls and door to the bedroom where I slept. There's a calmness to the sounds of those old songs that Grandma Mimi listened to that morning and every morning we were there.

            Music is a strange companion. The colors it plays in your mind shade the memories of the times you heard the melodies it plays. To this day, I can't help but think of the times on the farm back in my youth when songs I wouldn't normally like then, now, or growing up, take me back to happier times there with Darby and my grandparents. Timed memories that started that very morning with the sunny day and the smell of bacon and pancakes. Memories I would come to cherish and often chase as I grew up even to this point in my adult life.

            I opened the bedroom door and life sprang to action. I saw Grandma and Darby at the stove. Grandma was showing Darby how to twirl bacon in a crowded pan sizzling away. They certainly were chummy already that first morning.

            I noticed the pancakes staked high on the counter next to the stove. They called me to life. The kitchen table sat comfortably in the center of the room as a centerpiece of the kitchen and living room. The table was set with syrup, butter, and orange juice, with an old Vlasic pickle jar filled with water and what I thought were weeds – wildflowers to someone who appreciates what they are.

            Finally, the bark of the small dog grabbed my attention. Duchess sat on an old throw pillow at the feet of Grandma Mimi next to the stove, as if she was attached to a leash to my grandmother, she stayed close. She lay there hoping for a piece of bacon to be thrown her way. Eventually, I would see she was spoiled enough to get it.

            Duchess barked at me, announcing my entrance to my grandma and Darby. Duchess sat comfortably on that pillow, seemingly announcing to anyone who could hear her, “He's awake! He's awake! That boy who’s here is finally awake.” 

            Both Mimi and Darby turned to see me. My social anxiety got hold of me for a second but Grandma put it to ease.

“Good morning, sleepy head,” Grandma Mimi said. “Sit down and eat while it's good and hot.”

            In the light of day, her face was more cheerful than night. Her complexion was well-worn but smooth like porcelain on the balls of her cheeks. Her hair was grayer and her body fuller.

            “How did you sleep? Good I hope,” she asked. Turning toward Darby she said, “certainly longer than either of us.” Mimi shared a giggle with Darby which at the time got the better of my internal voice. As I had thought so many times before, Darby was racing to stay ahead of me. Still, those 28 seconds to birth reared up ahead of me.

            I approached and knelt to pet Duchess. As I did, she rolled over on her back to get her tummy scratched

            “Yes, Ma’am,” I answered Grandma.

            “Well good,” she said with a glowingly comforting smile. “Hope you're hungry. I wasn’t sure what you liked so I made a little of everything - pancakes, eggs, toast, hash browns, and bacon. Of course, Darby has been helping with the bacon.”

             Darby smiled at me. Confidently superior for getting up first. It'd take me years to realize that first didn't always mean something we thought it did when we were young.

              I looked over at the table and quickly realized what a treat this was. I thanked Mimi who was proud to see that her cooking was something to be so treasured.

              I'd come to learn late in life that Dad always loved her cooking and when Darby and I showed similar appreciation, it made Mimi feel good again.

              Grandma Mimi came over to the table and poured me a glass of morning juice and one of cold whole milk. “Darby, my dear. Why don't you come over here and enjoy the fruits of your labor and eat.”

              I sat down quickly, ready to dig in. As I picked up a fork full of eggs, Mimi stopped me.

            “Let’s not forget to thank the Lord for these gifts,” she said.

            It has been a long time since we had prayed. Aunt Jane, Gramma Louise, and Grandpa Lewis were not the religious type. With all we had heard about Grandma Mimi and Grandpa Jack, it surprised me that she would be a religious woman. Nonetheless, I put my fork down, bowed my head, and waited. Darby sat and followed my lead for once.

            It's interesting to note that neither Darby or I knew much about prayer. Yet, at that moment, we knew enough to close our eyes and bow our heads. I wonder to this day what movie, TV show, or book we learned it from. Our parents never really let on to us that they were the praying type. Knowing Mimi now, I know Dad was aware and I often wondered if he prayed. Losing someone you love your questions about an afterlife become stronger. I’ve resolved that for him, prayer was a private thing. His mother had shown him the way, she was now showing us the same.

            Grandma Mimi bowed her head, clasped her hands, and closed her eyes.

           “Dear Lord, thank you for these gifts this morning. And, for this food and the sunshine and for allowing these children to come here and spend time with Jack and me. It is truly a blessing. Amen.”

             We both responded with “amen” and then looked at each other before digging in. It meant something that she would thank God for the two of us being there. She seemed genuinely thrilled. We weren’t in the way or interrupting the life these grandparents wanted to be living. They, at least she, wanted us here.

             The front screen door slammed shut interrupting every thought in that moment. I expected to see Grandpa Jack coming in the door. I can recall the feeling in my body as I must have tightened up at his appearance. As it turned out, it was Fitch and not Grandpa Jack coming in.

            “Morning, Fitch,” Mimi called out.

            “Morning, Ma’am.” He approached the table with a smile.

              I was immediately drawn into his eyes. It was a bad habit of mine. I couldn't help but stare. I didn't do it out of rudeness or cruelness. I did it because it was different, and I would lock in on it and stare. Darby often told me it was rude to stare when she’d see me doing it at people with obvious physical disabilities. She would always pick up on it, and, like a mother hen, she'd call me out for it. It would make me so mad because my intentions were nothing but curiosity. Is it rude to want to see something unusual and outside the routine of your life?

           We're supposed to view what is new to us as normal but the mere unusualness it is in our life means it’s not normal. Perhaps, it becomes normal to us after we stare, we understand it, and the need to stare goes away. It is then that the unusual becomes normal to us because we take the time to look at and process it. This then makes it normal. Telling us immediately to stop looking, and ignore, only perpetuates the unusualness we see. Is it normal to tell us to stop looking at what is new to us and expect the situation or person to be accepted as normal?

            It's still something as an adult I debate. It seems to me society thinks it's rude as a measure of wanting us to ignore the unusualness of a situation or person. We all have our unusualness. It’s our individuality and unusualness that gives us the confidence to accept someone else equally unusual or different. Never mind. I ramble.

            Anyway, I stared into Fitch's eyes trying to determine how they were able to work independently of each other. As I stared, one of Fitch's eyes met mine. In the moment before I could look away, Fitch’s one eye rolled around in a circular motion clockwise. He followed it up with a wink and a smile. I was immediately embarrassed that I had been caught staring in the eye. His lasting smile then reassured me that Fitch knew well that my curiosity was not out of rudeness but of discovery. I was relieved at his acknowledgment and grateful my sister hadn't caught on.

            Fitch pulled out the chair at the end of the table, swung his leg over the top, and sat down.

            “Looks good! As always,” he said as he immediately dug in. I was immediately struck by the fact that he didn't pray or say grace. He sat and dug in.

             Fitch had a hearty appetite for sure. He began by scraping the rest of the eggs onto his plate and then proceeded to grab a handful of bacon. Darby and I were both surprised by what appeared to be his greed. He didn't flinch. Finally, as he began to reach for the juice across the table, his eye met Darby’s.

            “You’ll soon learn there is no time for manners at the breakfast table on a farm. It is eat or be eaten, literally.” Fitch said to my sister.

            “Fitch don’t tell them that,” Mimi interrupted.

            “It’s the truth, Ma’am. These kids need to learn right away that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. You’re both gonna need all the energy you can muster. Better eat up. You have any blackberry jam, Ma’am?” he asked.

“You bet.” She went to the fridge and pulled out a small jar with no label on it.

“That reminds me,” she said. “I better head over and start picking again. It is that season, you know. I’d love to show Darby here how to do some canning this summer.”

            Darby had no idea what she was talking about, but it brought a smile to her face, nonetheless. We both picked up the pace with eating. Eating with Fitch was like eating out of a dog dish with other dogs. You had to get your head in there, stake your claim, and not let anyone else get what you intended to eat.

            Fitch asks, “Where’s Jack this morning?”

            “He’s off to Smitty’s store for some nails or something or other. Says he wants to get that fence mended this week.”

            “That fence was mended two days ago. He knows that…” Fitch said, and Mimi’s eyes caught his. Mimi gave him a look, noting she did not want him to make a scene. Was Grandpa Jack avoiding us?

            “So anyway,” Fitch said. “After breakfast, I will take these two on a tour of the farm. They ought to meet everybody, you know.”

            Mimi answered, “That’s a great idea.”

            Everybody?

            The three of us continued to eat and clean our plates. Fitch was an expert at using his toast to sop up every remaining bit on the plate. Syrup and eggs and whatever else had remained, he slid a piece of toast through and caught it all together. Darby was disgusted by the sight of the concoction of food. Her face showed her horror which delighted me. I was soon following his lead, which annoyed her and her manners.

          Fitch made his plate shine even though it was dirty. Not a morsel, crumb or smudge remained. He'd say, “Well, I did my job, Miss Mimi, now all you must do is rinse it and save it for tomorrow.” We’d come to hear him say it at every meal.

         Of course, Grandma Mimi would always wash the plates completely anyway. Although it made sense that when we cleaned our plates with a last bit of toast or biscuit or dinner roll, it made her job much easier. For that reason alone, it felt good to do. It always tasted good too.

         Grandma Mimi never once sat down at the breakfast table to eat, instead, she picked here and there as she continued to work around the kitchen. She stayed busy finishing up the pancakes on the griddle, washing the dishes in the sink, or straightening something up that she deemed was needed. With Duchess by her feet the whole time, Grandma Mimi sometimes dropped that occasional bacon or piece of toast to her as a treat. Duchess had good reason for her contentment with Grandma Mimi.

        The sound of the old-time radio playing, the sizzle of the bacon, and the percolating coffee pot; sounds of content based on the memories of that day and living.