Tag: childhood

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Baked Alaska

I made Baked Alaska for our Christmas Eve dessert this year. Mmm.

A dreamy, imaginative girl, I held Baked Alaska up as a symbol of the life I might one day lead as a writer, with an apartment in New York City, trips to Paris, and exotic dinners in fancy restaurants. This was loosely based on movies, music, and my mother telling me about Baked Alaska. It sounded exotic, sophisticated, and divine! I don’t quite remember her circumstances, but I’m fairly certain she must have had that pleasure before she married my father and gave birth to us seven kids in the short span of ten years. As a single woman, she had a fun-loving group of girlfriends, took some wonderful trips with them, spent all the money she earned as a secretary on beautiful suits, hats, and travel. It sounded as if she, my aunt, and their friends most likely treated themselves to a few luxuries on those trips.

Paris! Paris! (The brooch is of the Eiffel Tower.)

My mother played the piano and as a girl, she had dreams of one day being a concert pianist. I imagine that her dream, much like mine, included a polished, sophisticated life, though she never spoke of that. I remember her playing certain pieces as we lay in bed at night–a Chopin waltz, “Anitra’s Dance,” from Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite–both of which I later learned. She would not have described herself as dreamy or imaginative, no, but I think I came by those traits naturally. I bet she pictured herself living a very different life from what she ended up living, as did I. I know she didn’t have as much luck or as many choices as I did, to fashion her own life as she wanted, though.

I have zero regrets about the life I’ve had. Oh, I guess I wish I’d been more adventurous when I was young, traveled more, lived larger. I ended up living very far from my heart’s friend, the sea, but here where I am, I have a truly lovely community of friends that I would not give up. No. I did what I was comfortable with, began to love nature far more than I did as a young woman, and found ways to live a creative life with my three wonderful and amazing sons. I have a small house that needs many repairs but which is filled with modest treasures that I and others have created. It’s not in New York City or Paris, but in humble, lovely-in-its-own-way, Missouri. I have a small piano and a somewhat ragtag group of piano students. I paint. I write these letters and you, my darlings, read them. I even figured out how to make Baked Alaska right here in my own kitchen! It’s a wonderful life.

Inspiration comes from surprising places. This week it came in the guise of a dessert that got me thinking about my childhood, my mother, the piano, and my many dreams. That’s the beauty of writing. It takes you on a journey.

“Books are the plane, and the train, and the road. They are the destination, and the journey. They are home.” ― Anna Quindlen, How Reading Changed My Life

“Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you.
You must travel it by yourself.
It is not far. It is within reach.
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know.
Perhaps it is everywhere – on water and land.”
― Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

“For me, becoming isn’t about arriving somewhere or achieving a certain aim. I see it instead as forward motion, a means of evolving, a way to reach continuously toward a better self. The journey doesn’t end.” ― Michelle Obama, Becoming

If you’d like to see my new paintings online, go quickly here. They will be there through January 5, 2023. (Good God! 2023 already!) Be sure to click on the thumbnails to see the whole picture! If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. If you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. And if someone forwarded this one to you, you can sign up here to receive the letters right in your Inbox. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”

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Christmas Past Present & Future?

Although winter, the cold, and all the clothes one has to wear try my patience, I do love Christmas. It was, of course, more fun both when I was a child and when my boys were little. I have lots of fond Christmas memories. But even now I love the whole idea of it, the lights, the special meals, the carols, the gift buying, the secrets, the festive atmosphere, and of course, the cookies.

When we were kids, on Christmas Eve our aunt and grandmother would come over and we would be sent upstairs while Santa arrived. My dad would do the “HoHoHo-ing” at some point and soon after, we were called downstairs again. Wow! Presents were piled under the tree. I’m not sure why, but at least as far as I knew, none of us ever wondered how my parents knew just when Santa would arrive or why Santa would have been okay with them being there when he brought the gifts. We just enjoyed it as it was. And one year, my sister Pat claimed she had seen a sleigh and reindeer in the sky!

When Cole was still pretty little, he asked for and received a dog for his birthday. I still have the note he left for Santa that year, and I get it out every Christmas so I can hold it and smile over it. “If you have a extra bone we have a new dog.” So modest and so sweet. Peter, on the other hand, suspecting that I was Santa, left a large onion on a plate on the mantel, rather than cookies. Santa left him a note that said, “Dear Peter, Thanks for the onion, but onions give me gas and Mrs. Claus hates that.” I ended up making that into a Christmas card. He also rigged up some bells on his stocking one year, with the idea of catching Santa in the act.

We have always had dogs, but Miles is the one who has loved Christmas the most. He has a good nose, so he found the stockings filled with treats quite intriguing. But more fun, since he loves tearing paper, he likes to help open our gifts. It brings a bit of zaniness to Christmas and a rather jolly mess to the living room floor.

Miles in the wrappings and Rufus in his Santa hat

Now our Christmases are usually cozy–just me, Oliver, Miles and Rufus–but we have a good time. (Miles gets to open the gifts.) Once in awhile, Peter or Cole will come in from NYC, and once in a great while, both! But not often. And one day, I’d like to be in NYC at Christmas time. But it’s a difficult time to travel and now even moreso. I think we all wonder, will it ever be as we all remember? I like to think it might be even better.

I have an adorable six-year-old piano student from Greece. His mother told me he was ready for Christmas, as he had written his letter to Santa. I asked him in an animated voice, “Are you going to go see Santa?” and he said solemnly, “No. Coronavirus.” Sigh. I hope Santa brings him everything he asked for. And I hope you get everything you’re wanting this year, whatever that may be.

“One can never have enough socks,” said Dumbledore. “Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.” ― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone

“One of the most glorious messes in the world is the mess created in the living room on Christmas day. Don’t clean it up too quickly.” ― Andy Rooney

If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. And if someone forwarded this one to you, you can sign up here to receive the letters right in your Inbox. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”

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Home Sweet Home

I made a rough watercolor of the cabin my sister and I stayed in at the bottom of the Grand Canyon 3 years ago.

My brother sent a photo and news video recently about a house we lived in as kids (below). There had been a fire and the friends and neighbors were rallying to help out the family. That house was not much when we lived there, and the story brought back a flood of memories.

We moved there when I was 7 years old. It was a tiny little house in a rundown neighborhood on the outskirts of St. Louis. But we had loads of fun there. I remember that very well. The house had an upstairs, more of an attic, divided into two parts. My three brothers had the side with a sliding door and we four girls shared an even tinier space with no door. We girls slept head to foot in two hospital beds our Aunt Marie, a nurse, had acquired. And we had a ton of fun, even in that tiny room. We played a sort of football game on the beds with rolled up socks, a game I’m pretty sure I made up, dubbed Hike 44. Though we were jealous of the boys’ “bigger” bedroom, we enjoyed invading their territory when they weren’t around.

Our house, sixty years after we lived there.

We’d moved there from a house my parents owned, in which all seven of us kids slept in the same bedroom. That neighborhood was nicer, though, and there was a white fence across the front and a patio my Dad had made in back, with large squares of different colors of concrete. Apparently, Dad had intended for us all to move back to California, where he was from, and he sold that house. But something fell through and we were stuck. So we moved into that little tiny rental, where Dad used to say if you were sitting on one side of the living room you’d be touching knees with whomever was sitting on the other side. We lived there for three years.

There were two houses past us to the east, and beyond them an empty lot that we took advantage of, for all sorts of adventures. Another great feature was the ditch on the other side of the house. All for our fun. We played cars and trucks in that ditch, dared each other to jump across, and had even more fun when it rained, making little streams, dams, and lakes. There were many times when I couldn’t bear to go in for dinner. That is also the house where we girls played the game of being witches, wearing a blanket or sheet on our shoulders and running around the yard, under that characteristic Midwest pre-thunderstorm green-grey sky. As tiny and cramped as that house was, we had all kinds of fun there.

I photographed this interesting house on a trip to Montana with my siblings.

Across the street from us were Mr. and Mrs. Fredericks, an older couple with no children. I was a very shy little girl, but for some reason I spent time at their house, just on my own. They had a sink in their basement, which I found very unusual, and she pronounced it “zink,” which was also interesting to me. One time I bragged to Mrs. Fredericks that my waist was 24” (apparently not bothered that made me a rather chubby little girl). She couldn’t believe it and said she’d give me a quarter if it was true. She took out her measuring tape and I got my quarter!

I bet my parents were pretty unhappy to have landed there with seven kids all crammed together. I’m pretty sure I would have been, had I been the adult. I might even have felt a bit desperate. I wonder if they knew how little it mattered to us kids?

It was just one of the four houses we lived in when I was growing up and definitely the lowliest. But it was still home to us kids and I have many fond memories of living there.

“You haven’t really been anywhere until you’ve got back home.”

― Terry Pratchett, The Light Fantastic

If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you like this letter, you’ll find past letters and poems on my blog. And if you know someone who would enjoy these letters, go ahead and forward this one!

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”