Memories Monday -- The Butter Lamb

 

 

Unitarian Easter is not a big deal, although my cousins and I dyed eggs, we had an egg hunt at church, and my parents gave me a basket every year until I had Betsey, when they gave her a basket.  I always made baskets for the dog and cat.

My friends got new dresses and even new undwear, but as my mother pointed out, it was usually too cold for spring dresses and they had to wear coats and no one saw the underwear anyway.  I wore my “nice pants” (the ones that weren’t jeans – my mother was old fashioned that way) and whatever shirt was clean. (It’s supposed to be a cold Easter again.  The girls are complaining about having to wear coats over their new dresses.  I told them to offer it up.  Betsey pointed out that Lent would be over by Easter.  I said, “Well, pray that it warms up.”  I am not up to a theological debate with a ten-year-old.)

My grandmother or one of my aunts would have everyone over for dinner. One year, I found a lamb made of butter holding a red plastic flag and sitting in a bed of green Easter grass at the grocery store and begged my mother to let me take it to the dinner.

She said, “All right, but let’s not tell Daddy.”

I asked why and she looked uncomfortable.  “Let’s make it a surprise.”

My cousins loved the lamb, even after I told them it was butter and not white chocolate, and my grandmother kissed me and told me it was beautiful

The others weren’t so enthusiastic.

My father snorted and Uncle Hank said it was meaningless superstition.  Then my grandfather, who had been raised an Episcopalian, but had broken his parents’ hearts by becoming an atheist in college, said that Those People didn’t think it was meaningless;  the lamb represented Jesus, who supposedly was killed for everyone’s sins so they wouldn’t go to Hell.  He started singing “Oh Lamb of God/Sweet Lamb of God . . . Oh, wash me in your precious blood . . .”  Jessica wailed, “Oh, the poor lamb!” and Jennifer started crying.

Aunt Pooh stepped in and said that even though it was almost dinner time, we could each have one piece of candy.  Jennifer wiped her eyes and said, “How about two?”

We did get two pieces and no one’s appetite was spoiled.  The lamb stayed on the table, but every year after that my mother went food shopping by herself around Easter.

“Lamb of God” is one of my favorite hymns, although some priests don’t use it for fear it will scare off newcomers.  Cilla loves to sing it around the house, although Betsey says she is a big moron who doesn’t understand what it means.

 

 

Mcdonald's Marathon --Alice Meets the Girls

Alice came to Girls’ Night and brought chocolate chip cookies.  That was a relief, because we had Easter candy that I’d set aside and a bunny cake that Karen had made.  I was afraid that as an Author she would be a fancy cheese and crackers person.  Nikki, who likes being irreverent, especially since Karen has become a churchlady and she feels outnumbered, brought a gigantic chocolate cross and apologized that she hadn’t been able to find one with Jesus on it.  Alice looked as if she didn’t know whether to laugh or not.  I thought Nikki would have wanted to make a good impression.  You never know who has what issues. 

“I hope you’re not offended,” I said.

“Oh, no.  I was just thinking that if they did have crosses with Jesus, it would be really neat if they made him out of marzipan.  You can’t get the details with chocolate.”

“I’d feel funny eating Jesus,” Emily said.

“Well, I guess you would.  But what about the Blessed Virgin Mother?” 

“I meant a marzipan one,” Emily said with dignity.  For a minute I couldn't figure out why everyone was laughing or shrieking, and then I got it. 

“Alice thinks of things nobody else has ever thought of,” Emily giggled, almost with a hint of pride in her voice, as if Alice were her granddaughter or niece.  (Mothers wouldn’t be proud; they’d worry about how you were going to get along in the world.  And I should know.)

“Charlie does, too,” Karen said, sounding like one of those mothers at parties who compare how quickly their children are being toilet trained over the guacamole.  “Tell them what you said about the Ugly Duckling.”

I felt like a child being called on to perform, proud but a little shy.  “Well, I said that the Duckling would have been so traumatized by being ostracized that he wouldn’t have been able to enjoy being a swan.”

“And . . .” Karen prompted.

“And I thought that maybe he would still be shut out because he was still different, especially since he was better looking.”

Alice nodded.  “I wonder if the ducks would have thought he was better looking – if they had any basis for comparison.  Not that it would make much difference.  Remember that old Twilight Zone with the woman who played Elly May Clampett getting plastic surgery?  She was beautiful, but it turned out that the operation hadn’t worked, because everybody else looked like pigs.  Fortunately, they sent her to an island with other people who had the same problem.”

“Yeah, and they introduced her to this cute guy, and she was all ‘Eww.’”  Karen has a tendency to talk like a tweenager.  She is a librarian at a middle school.   

“I just hope he told them to bug off and found some nice swans to hang out with.”

“Or duck off,” Nikki said, and we started laughing again.

Alice is going to fit right in.

The next day, I called Nikki to ask what she thought about Alice as a prospect.  “Well, they seem kind of comfortable with each other.  I don’t know if that’s good or bad.  Great for friendship, not so much for romance.  But Alice likes her.  We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Did you feel any sexual tension?”

“Honey, I’ve been married so long, I wouldn’t know sexual tension if it came up and bit my butt.”  Nikki likes to sound world weary and sophisticated.  She says that’s what people expect when you’re married to a European.

I know she didn’t mean that, but I didn’t want to say anything and have her asking about the sexual currents in my life.  Actually I wouldn’t have known what to say.  I’ll have to talk to Ed about it. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beautiful!

The wedding was beautiful.  The weather was beautiful.  The church was beautiful.  The Parish Hall was beautiful.  The brides were beautiful.  The bridesmaids and flower girl were beautiful.  The junior ushers were beautiful.  Nobody spilled anything on themselves or had to go to the bathroom just before it was time to walk down the aisle.  (Betsey and Courtney, who had been watching wedding movies for weeks, had been concerned that they were going to have to help the brides go to the bathroom.  But the dresses were tea length, so it wasn’t necessary.  I told them I would take care of holding back anybody’s hair if she was throwing up.)

Ed ended up taking Kate and Janet down the aisle at the same time.  Kate said she needed someone to grab onto and she was afraid she would knock Janet over.  Ed said he had finger marks dug into both his arms.

 The Peace took fifteen minutes.  By the end of the ceremony, everyone over the age of twenty was crying, except the priest and the brides, who were beaming. 

The reception was beautiful.  The parishioners had outdone themselves with the food.  Everyone brought his or her specialty, so it was a giant potluck.

One of the ladies from Epiphany came up to me and said how lovely the children had looked and did my family have a church home?

“Oh, yes.  We go to Trinity.”

“Oh . . . Well, I’m sure it’s very nice.  I hope your enjoyed our service.  We really go all out.”

Kate saw what was happening and came over.  “Evelyn, you look lovely.  Did you try Dominick’s little quiches?  You know he’ll want your opinion.”

“Oh, of course.  Now don’t be a stranger,” she said to me as she hurried off.

“I was afraid this would happen,” Kate apologized.  “I should have said something to them about sheep stealing.”

I just laughed.  “We just have to keep them away from Cilla.”  I was not ready for “Please, please, please can we go to Grandma Kate’s church?” probably with some doctrinal arguments. 

I had been worrying about my father and Doug.  But I guess their mutual dislike of Janet made a bond.  Since Doug is not a dancer, my father even danced with Missy.

There were two bouquets to catch.  Cilla, and Courtney dragged my father up, and he caught Janet’s.   “Yet another grandmother to come,” Karen remarked to me.

“What's one more?,” I said.  “But her daughter can do the wedding.” 

 

  

Just Before the Big Moment

The kids tried to look serious, but they were too excited.

Processing

No turtles, no girdles

The Bride's Dance

What can I say?

McDonald's Marathon -- Trying to Avoid Being Tacky

Naturally Emily wanted to know what I thought of Alice.  I said I liked her and I hoped she would come to Girls’ Night.

“No, I mean as a prospect.”

Emily has been getting more attention now that the Lesbian community knows that she is interested in more than hanging out and getting away from men.  But it’s not going too well.  Everyone is either in a relationship, getting over a devastating breakup, or “going through a period where she needed to be free.”  But everyone wanted to be her friend and some offered benefits.  Emily couldn’t handle that and berated herself for being bourgeois, neurotic, and possessive.  I told her that the Brontes couldn’t have handled being a friend with benefits either.

So Alice is looking pretty promising.  Unless she is straight.

“Can’t you ask her?”

“It’s kind of tacky.”

At least when you date men you know where you stand.  The only uncertainty is when he is going to pounce.

Karen and Nikki were all excited about meeting Alice.  They even got copies of her books out of the library.  Karen said she was “a hoot.”  Nikki said she wrote like a “real wiseass in a twin set.”  She meant that as a compliment.

We tried to figure out if she was gay from her writing, but we couldn’t.  Anyway, that is bad criticism.  You’re not supposed to assume that a person’s work reflects their life.

 

 

 

 

Coming to Memories Monday --The Wedding!

 

Katherine Maria Parker

And

Janet Wilson McDonald

Joyfully request the honour of your presence at their marriage

Saturday, October 12

At two o’clock in the afternoon.

Church of the Epiphany

 

Reception immediately following the ceremony in the Parish Hall

 

Memories Monday -- I can't make soda bread, but then I'm English.

Josh discovered the old custom of pinching people who don’t wear green on St. Patrick’s Day.  Fortunately he didn’t get caught at school.  I could imagine his getting suspended and my having to decide whether Ed and I would go on the evening news as outraged parents whose child was being unfairly punished.  As they say in England, they’ll suspend your kid before you can say knife.  (I don’t know what this means, exactly, but they say it a lot in my English mystery books.)

Josh and Cilla both got me, but Ed had worn a green tie to work, so he was safe.  I told them that if they did it again, they would be severely punished (before they could say knife) and that I would tell their Dad.  I don’t like to be too specific, since I never know how much discipline I’ll be up to enforcing.

We had spinach lasagna, salad, peas, and orange soda (in honor of Northern Ireland) for dinner, with mint chocolate chip ice cream for dessert, along with Irish potato candies (butter, confectioner's sugar, and coconut rolled in little balls like potatoes and then rolled in cinnamon). 

In Case You Missed It -- "Memories of Joanna" by Alice Barrett

Memories of Joanna

Alice Barrett

Joanna’s beauty was not the kind that “hit you slap in the eye” as his grandfather used to say.  She didn’t wear makeup and her hair hung to her shoulders, often tied back in a tail, the tail of a sensible workhorse, not a spirited pony.  But there was something about her.  It seemed that she was above the tricks women used to attract men, and that gave her an air that one might eventually describe as beauty.

It was only gradually that he noticed her.  She was one of his wife’s friends, a voice on the telephone or a fellow guest at parties.  She listened more than she talked.  Sometimes, hearing his assertively extroverted wife’s end of a phone conversation, he wondered how Joanna, or whomever she was talking to, ever got a word in.

It was a party, though, that brought her to his attention.  He had wandered out to the patio to escape the noise and found her sitting on the glider.

“I suppose we should be mixing,” he said.  “Isn’t that what parties are for?”

Joanna smiled, “I’ve found that people don’t mix much unless they have an agenda -- to make business connections or hook up.”

“Hook up?”  He knew what it meant.

“Get laid.”  There was a slight smirk on her face, as if she knew she’d surprised him.

“So I suppose neither of us wants to do that.”  He had given her an opening, but either she didn’t see it or she was pretending not to.

“Did you ever know or read about people who say the only person at a party they want to be with is their significant other?”  she asked.  “Why bother getting dressed up or using the gas?  You can talk to them at home.”

“Food,” he said.  “And drinks.”  (And the chance to see women in their special occasion clothes, although he only thought that.)

“I’m not into drinking. This is diet soda.  But food, yes.  In fact, I’m going to get some now.  Can I bring you anything?”

“Oh, no thanks.”  Later when she didn’t come back, he realized that had been a mistake.  He would have liked her to come back.

After that, she kept popping up in his life -- her voice on the answering machine with a message for his wife, a chance meeting with her husband at the drug store.  And her name keep recurring.  An investigative reporter was (it seemed) constantly being interviewed about her latest book on a celebrated murder.  The convenience store clerk’s nametag said “Joanna” next to a unicorn sticker.  He started keeping a Joanna count and briefly wondered if he should include JoAnnes, but decided not to.

And then, damn her, she got into his head, a place where she had no business.  He was happily married with four children and two dogs.  But there she was.  He imagined having conversations with her – well not really conversations, because she didn’t say anything.  He could always imagine his wife’s replies, which he supposed was a good thing.  Joanna was probably (he couldn’t say for sure, of course) the kind of woman who, in his grandmother’s words, “wouldn’t say boo to a goose.”  Joanna would probably just look at the bird, as if daring it to say “boo” to her.

He even dreamed about her.  That was annoying.  He disliked dreams,  the good ones as much as the bad, since they offered happiness that didn’t exist.  And they came uninvited.

He would wait it out.  It had happened before. The last time was with his wife, and he’d fixed the situation by marrying her.  That was not an option.

So he went to the mega bookstore that also sold music as well as coffee and books, feeling oddly nervous and a bit guilty, but pleased with himself, like a child who has thought up a clever bit of mischief or a teenager sneaking the first cigarette or beer.

“May I help you?” asked the young clerk, probably an English or history BA, who told people she was “in retail.”

“I was looking for a Bob Dylan album.  Would that be in Folk or Rock or Alphabetically by Artist?”

“Are you looking for a particular one?”

“Well, the one with ‘Memories of Joanna.’”

The young woman went to the computer behind the desk.  After several minutes of frowning and shaking her head, she finally smiled.  “Oh . . .  Here it is.  But it’s Johanna and ‘Visions of’, not ‘Memories.’”

He bought the CD anyway, but didn’t open it for weeks.



Alice Barrett grew up in various Connecticut suburbs.  She currently lives with her two cats in various academic and literary institutions.  Her works include the short story collections Rather Bad Behavior and Meeting for Drinks, Going to Brunch and novels The Cod and The Wit of Our Words.

           

McDonalds Marathona -- Another Meeting

 

I didn’t think I should put this on the blog, in case Alice might read it.  I don’t know if she ever will, but you can’t be too careful.  But I have to get it down. 

 Karen and Nikki were excited when I told them I was going to have lunch with an Author.

“Maybe she’ll come to Girls’ Night In,” Nikki suggested. “I want to meet her.”

“Do you like her stuff?”

“Actually, I’ve never read any.  But I’ve never met a writer.”  I looked at her.  “Except for you.  Sorry, Charlie.”

“That’s better,” I said.  “We’ll have to be careful.  She might put us all in a book.”

Karen thought that would be neat.  “Maybe years later some biographer would figure out what characters were us.  ‘The beautiful Countess Whoever in Whatever was based on her great friend . . .’ Of course, if it was me, it would be, ‘The worn out soccer mom.’”

I suppose the character based on me would be the quiet librarian with a vivid imagination.  Nikki would be the American woman married to a charming European.  I couldn’t imagine what she would do with Ed.

At lunchtime, I walked over to Emily’s office.  I was nervous.  Alice had seemed very nice at the lecture, but maybe she was tired of fans.  She probably has groupies.

“Do I look all right?” I asked Emily.  I don’t know what looking all right to meet an author was.

“Sure, come on.  She won’t bite you.”

Alice was sitting at her desk.  She looked up and smiled and I thought of Duke when he sees the leash being picked up.  “Oh, hi!  I was just going to see if you wanted to go to lunch.”  She looked at me.  “You must be Charlie.  Emily’s told me a lot about you.”

(I said a prayer that she hadn’t told her about the blog or if she had, Alice hadn’t read that I had compared her to a Lab puppy.  Or that I’d wondered if she might be a prospect.)

“Oh,” I said.

“Nothing bad, of course.  She says you have a blog.”

Oh, no, I thought.

“I haven’t read it yet.  I didn’t want to get any preconceived ideas before I met you.”

Thank you, Jesus!    

“Of course, you probably have some preconceived ideas about me.”

“Now, be nice, Alice.”  Emily said.

“Oh, I wasn’t going to ask you what they were.  But whenever I meet someone, they always say I wasn’t what they expected.  I never know whether that’s a compliment or not.”

Alice had an arrangement of sentimental Victorian dog and cat pictures on her wall, and the opening of Little Women written in calligraphy.

“I got that at Louisa May Alcott’s house in Concord.  I could quote it when I was a kid.”

“’It’s so dreadful to be poor,’” Emily sighed.

“You have to look at your hands and sigh again.”

“I have cousins named Meghan, Joanna, Bethany, and Jim.” I said.  “His name is really James, and we called him Jamie until he figured out why.”

“That is so cool.”

“And my mother’s name was Louisa.  Most of the women in my mother’s family had literary names.  In fact, my grandmother was named Alice after Alice in Wonderland.”

“I was named after my great aunt, but people keep giving me Alice in Wonderland stuff.  But it’s nice to have a thing; people have less trouble finding presents for you.  I have some old Alice pictures, but I didn’t want to put them up here.  It might be a bit much.”

By then we were in the hall.  I saw that Alice had taped literary cartoons on the door.

We had lunch at a pizza place around the corner.  Emily and Alice both had classes and I had to get back to the library.  “It was great meeting you,” Alice said.  “Maybe we can do dinner and go someplace fancy.  Or lunch again.”

“That would be terrific,” I said.  We exchanged phone numbers and email addresses and I wrote down the name of the blog for her.

 

As soon as I got back to the library, I got on my blog and deleted the entry about Alice.  I didn’t want to scare her off.

 

Memories Monday -- Barbara Pym Meets Sex and the City

 

 

 

Since the bridesmaids were all under 12, we decided not to have a bachelorette party.  But I decided to have a girls’ night at the house and invited Karen and Nikki.  Ed graciously agreed to take Josh camping.  I should have known how the evening was going to go when the first thing Karen said was, “I got a lavender heart cake.  I was going to get one shaped like a vagina, but then I remembered the girls would be here.”  (Never mind my current and future mothers-in-law.)  “Anyway, I was too embarrassed to order it.”

“This is daring enough,” I said. “The lady at the bakery probably thought you were a Lesbian.”

Karen looked pleased.  Then she looked sheepish.  “Actually, I was going to order one for after the girls went to bed, but the lady asked me if I wanted it with or without coconut.”

“What for?”

“Well, did I want the cake to have a Brazilian or not.  I couldn’t go through with it.  And anyway, I didn’t know.”

Thank goodness she didn’t call Janet to ask.  “Oh . . . Well, what do you want to drink?”

I’d picked up a lot of fancy intellectual finger food from the deli that all the professors use and Nikki brought cheese and crackers and grapes.  We had four kinds of potato chips for the kids (plain, onion, barbecue, and salt and vinegar) with spinach-vegetable and classic onion dips.  I put out some olives, too.  As my mother always said, “Olives are so festive.”

Karen and Nikki had never met Kate, and they were surprised when she hugged them.  They’d never been to an Episcopal service and experienced The Peace.

By the time we’d sent the girls to bed and opened the third bottle of wine, we had stopped watching our language.  Nikki asked Kate if her collars were plastic or what.  I’d tell you, but I don’t remember.

“So, how did you meet?”

“Well,” Janet said, “I was at a conference about poverty or something and Kate was on a panel on    ‘How do we really feel about the poor and what can we do about it?’  Afterwards, I went up to her and said, ‘When you take your collar off, do you take the stick out, too?’”

“What stick?” I asked. 

“You know,” Nikki whispered in my ear.  “The one up her butt.”

Kate didn’t even blush.  “I said, ‘It depends.’  An hour later we were making out in the ladies’ room.  It was one of those single ones,” she added quickly.

Janet did blush.  “Just kissing.”

“If I remember correctly, there was some tongue.”    That was when we all started squealing.  Betsey and Cilla came down complaining that we were keeping them up.

“Good one,” I said.

So we all had a contest to see who could eat the most salt and vinegar chips without having something to drink.

 

 

 

Memories Monday --Poor, dear Charlie. Batshit crazy, but so lovable.

Kate’s tendency to launch into Therapist-speak is one of those lovable idiosyncrasies that people reminisce about when you die.  (Especially since she never was one; before she was a priest she was a community organizer and state lobbyist.)  Of course they may not realize that it was lovable as long as you’re alive.  I brought this up to Ed when I told him about the fight.  (Or, as Kate would say, “difference of opinion.”)

I want to make sure Ed knows my foibles are lovable while I’m still around.  I asked him if there was anything I did that he found “quirky.”

“Well, you pick the chunks out of the granola when the kids aren’t around.”

“You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

“No, but I don’t like granola.”

“What else?”

“Well, those English expressions you use.  Like ‘before you can say knife.’  And 'happy as a sandboy.'  And you call the fruit and vegetable store ‘the greengrocer’ and the dishtowels ‘tea towels.’  And the way you say ‘dog’.” (I don’t know what it is about the way I say dog, but for years that was my trick at parties.)  “And the way you want to have discussions about things nobody has ever thought about, especially when I’m trying sleep.”

 “What else?”

“Charlie, we have to go to work tomorrow.”

“Don’t you want to know what your quirks are?”

Ed sighed.  “Sure, why not?”

But I was too tired to think of anything, and I fell asleep before you could say knife.