Sow There!

Looking back over one’s own life is like watching a movie.

In a film, the storyteller only describes the pertinent points — those things that had an impact and forever changed the story.

The older we get, our personal movies become epics. We’re all our own Scarlett O’Haras, making indelible mistakes and building our own triumphs, even if we don’t necessarily recognize it at the time.

And sometimes along the way we’ve lost friends who, for unknown reasons, have chosen not to continue the epic. Unlike Scarlett, they were unable to see that “tomorrow is another day.”

Thanks, Mom
My mother came to visit this week.

In the bustle of life, I don’t always remember all the silly times we had when we were “kids.”

Mom had recently been to a high school reunion with three friends from high school. The married “girls” took the trip without their spouses, so they were a giggly gang of four.

As mom recounted the reunion the other night, she was relaxing on a blow-up mattress on my living room floor, wearing jammies with the blanket pulled up to her chest.

She told the story the way she always does — with lots of facial expressions and pauses to punctuate the important points.

She said there had been about five “boys” who she was curious to see at the reunion, to see what they looked like after 40-something years.

Not all of the “boys” attended the reunion, she shrugged. That’s how it is. For whatever reason, some people decide not to take that look back.

One of the stories she heard was tragic, as some stories are.

There had been a boy who had tried to kiss my mother. I guess back then it seemed like a romantic gesture to try to drag a girl into the school bathroom.

That boy wasn’t at the reunion either. My mother and her three friends learned from the boy’s sister that he had died young, murdered in bed by the drugged-out boyfriend of his adulterous wife.

Another “boy,” one who made it to the reunion with his wife, had taken my mother to the prom when she was a freshman. Mom’s best friend from high school, my “Auntie Innie,” made it her personal goal to track him down at the reunion and asked if he remembered who he had taken to his prom. He still remembered my mom’s name.

When she told me the stories, there was light behind her from a floor lamp. Her wild, curly hair, with haphazardly-covered gray, was going every which direction as her head moved with animation.

She said she and her three friends went back to their hotel room that night, the four of them stretched out side-by-side in two queen-sized beds, and told old stories about their high school days. They giggled like the “girls” they were and had been.

My mom can be like that sometimes — silly and drenched in light — and the next moment poignant.
She’s always been that way — when she was 14, 26 and 44 — despite and because of all the mistakes and triumphs of this world.

Talking with her that night made me not so afraid of getting old.

Pearing down
I’ve been really fortunate this year as I have managed to thoroughly exploit my friends who have fruit trees. All throughout the summer, I stashed away apricots, nectarines and plums in the freezer.

Each morning Tommy and I make a smoothie, unloading the fresh or frozen fruit into the blender for a quick pick-me-up.

Alas, the fruit season started to wane and I’ve dipped seriously into my reserves.

But just when I thought it was all over, my friend Mandy visited. The visit was disappointingly short, but I managed to score three huge bags of pears.

Pears aren’t as suited for smoothies, but they make a good filler when mixed with the super-sweet frozen plums and nectarines.

Plus, I’m sure there are many recipes I could cook up this winter with pork and salads. I’d be delighted if readers would share some ideas.