WHILING THE TIME

Scrolling down the “Notes” spot on my I-Phone, to little bits and bobs jotted with a clumsy finger as I wait outside school, for Chris at a store, at the oil-change place.   Typos and odd segues intact, with one little moment at the end which, by default, should be the last thought put down, but I can neither remember nor decipher it into sense.

 

Not that this graffiti would be of interest to anyone, including myself, here ‘tis, just because I must have had a reason---grocery lists, random bits for the blog, reminders which are past understanding now they’ve cooled.

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Straw. Lemons  Gr. Toms   Little pasta  Romaine or butter lettuce Baby carrots  Eggs  White Cheese  Sesame oil  tahini

 

Barbara’s voice

 

 

 

Department stores with tubes in the ceiling, and the way they went POP when they were sealed and sent.  Salesladies born scowling, with identical layettes of black serge and gabardine and low-heeled Latin-teacher shoes laced tight as their corsets.

 

Lady-clerk school must have given courses in frown and disdain and dissatisfaction, and some of the black-garbed league had earned a Ph.D in that slow-measuring up-and-down lorgnette glance which deemed us all wanting. 

 

 

 

Those ladies all wore severe black, with chains on their glasses, which were perched on nosetips (the better to scorn you with, My Dear) or resting on their bosoms between moments of terse and abrupt.   That lot could have joined Jon Snow at THE WALL, wiping out the Wildlings with a glance.

 

Our mothers DRESSED to be worthy to shop there, and some of my friends were so frightened of the ladies that they just hated setting foot in the place, no matter the fancy dress or occasion. I never shopped there myself, but only held Mother’s purse while she tried things on.   But even then, the squinted looks and palpable “don’t you dare touch anything and I sincerely hope I don’t have to touch YOU” in the air would have been enough to send my Mary Janes scampering for the parking lot had it not been for embarrassing her.

 

She’d never have dreamt of putting me forward for one of their pricey offerings, both for the expense and for her shame at having those strict-opined stares leveled at me, those pursed lips, poised for disapproval, directed at us both---at me for my little tree-climbing, skint-knee chunky self, and her, for her part in owning such a graceless little hoyden.

 

But there was always the talented, non-judgmental Mrs. Barbee, of the rustly fabrics and the powdery presence, and who made all of us little girls feel pretty as princesses, if only for that one damp-hand piano recital or festive Easter morning.

 

Ironman putting on his greaves.

 

Unknown soldier remembered with soft stroll-steps and chin-stiff reverence.  The five-note larks which never change save for volume and enthusiasm.

 

 

 

The exciting cold of a Winter attic when a visiting friend sparks a

a hunt for a pattern or old bit of lace or that crinoline petticoat that went with the poodle-skirt.  The freezing echoes on a dusty wood floor and the lifted lids of trunks revealing forgotten snips of past days and lives as the frigid air lends its own shivers to the anticipation and recognition from within.  Stark cold spaces have their own way of making memories warm as those in teacups.

 

(At an Amish Inn)

Heel-of-the-bread toast sagging warmly as I ate it ruminatively off the flat of my hand, like a child with a slice fresh from the oven.  It folded itself in two as I ate, the last two bites a butter-and-strawberry jam sandwich.   All the butter and conglomeration of spices made their coffee cake taste like Grandpa’s barber shop.

 

 

 

And the last, cryptic entry:

 

Glaciers Indiana mini muffin shooterseric one to my little refect.

 

No wonder I can’t find my keys.