Holiday Rush Job

~ Linda Wright

“Sure, just bring them over,” I heard Mom say.

It was two days before Christmas. I knew what the person on the other end had said because the same conversation happened each year before the holidays. Soon the doorbell rang and one of the city jewelers handed my mother a package bulging with several manila folders of pearls.

“I’ll be back to pick them up tomorrow,” he said and then he hurried off to his car.
During other weeks of the year, Mom took the bus downtown, filling her purse with the cultured pearls she picked up. She did this at least once each week. Each envelope also contained the selected clasp of silver or gold, and the specifications for the necklace. Each packet had a date indicating when the customer could pick up the completed necklace. Most were promised in a week and rush jobs cost the customer extra. Mom kept a tally sheet describing each job and the price she charged the jewelry store for her work. At the end of each month she would write out an invoice and drop it off for payment.

Before the holidays, and especially two days before Christmas, “rush jobs” were predictable. Mom would return from her trip to downtown and within a few hours the telephone would ring asking if she had the time to do just a few more.

Before I was born, my mother had worked in department stores. She still made fun of the desperate husbands who would come into the store on the afternoon of December 24th with no idea of what to purchase for their wife or lover.

Working from home, my Mom didn’t see the faces of the customers anymore. She would unload the satchel delivered to our door and begin work immediately at the jewelry table. The table faced one of the windows in my parents’ room. My father had constructed it of plywood to meet my mother’s specifications. There was a rim along each of the four sides to protect beads from rolling off and onto the floor. One at a time she would empty a packet, placing the beads in a row on the grooved hardwood sorting-board she used to organize the beads before stringing them. My Mom’s fingers and thumb would glide the thin wire-needle deftly through the hole in each pearl. Between each cultured gem, she formed a knot in the thread and slid it into place tightly. If the necklace broke no pearls would roll free and be lost.

Most days before Christmas, my mother sat at the jewelry table for five to seven hours each day. She would often be there when I got up in the morning and I would hear her return after she had tucked me into bed at night.

The jeweler would be back early the next morning, probably before his store would open for the day. Mom would hand him the pearls strung to the specified lengths and adorned with bejeweled clasps. He would graciously wish her a Merry Christmas and hand her a bottle of liqueur decorated with a bow.

It was Christmas Eve and too late for any more jobs except to bake cookies for Santa.

Baby Goes to Boston

~ Linda Wright
It is standard practice for doctors and hospital staff to ask questions. From dentists to phlebotomists each new encounter brings the inquiries:
 
“How did they discover that you had a bleeding disorder?”
 
“How old were you when your bleeding disorder was diagnosed?”
 
“Were you born with the bleeding disorder?”
 
The questions rarely vary and neither do the answers I give. I try not to answer mechanically, understanding that the medical professional in front of me has never seen someone with my condition. What I have is rare, a one in a million chance.
There was no evidence at my birth that I had a bleeding disorder. The family physician identified there was something wrong when I was still a baby. Each time I received an immunization shot, I developed a large bruise. At first, the doctor apologized for the bruises caused by the injections. Later, he began to recognize that my bruises indicated am underlying problem. I am sure that this was simply confirmation for what my mother already knew. The elderly doctor seemed like a physician from an earlier century. He still made house calls carrying his large black leather bag filled with stethoscope, small surgical tools and many bottles of assorted pills. His office was a room on the first floor of his home. He was wise enough to know that he could not make a diagnosis of my problems himself, but he did know who could. He recommended we go to Boston and see Dr. William Dameshek.
Dr. William Dameshek
My parents did not yet own a car and my father could not afford to take a day off from work. It was a half-day journey to Boston on the train. Because of the familiar nursery rhyme my father had read to me so many times, “Baby Goes to Boston,” I was happy to go on the trip. Mom had packed a lunch for us and the Raggedy Anne doll she had hand sewn. For me it was a grand adventure.
 
My parents were thirty-six years old the year I was born.  Mom and Dad had been married for ten years by then. Life was hard in those post- World War II days. My parents were renting a cold-water apartment on the second floor of a three-story tenement. The gray stucco building had an exterior staircase. Mom cleaned when she was anxious. She scrubbed the kitchen floor on her hands and knees in the chilly, walk-up apartment as she worried about how the bills would be paid. My father took the bus to work, carrying his lunch in a tin pail. He did his share of worrying too.
 
On the day we took the train to Boston, my mother carried the cash that was required to see this world famous specialist. My father’s health insurance plan covered only hospitalizations, not doctor’s appointments. The money was more than a month’s pay for my father.
 
That day there were no answers. First, Dr. Dameshek ordered some blood samples to be drawn. He interviewed my mother about our families’ medical history. Then he performed a physical examination and talked directly to me. His white lab coat was meticulously clean and crisp. From the first, I liked this man with the round face and relaxed smile.
 
A week or two later a letter arrived from Dr. Dameshek. He had determined that I had congenital afibrinogenemia. Over the next few years, Dr. Dameshek followed my progress carefully. My mother and I made routine train trips to Boston four times each year. Each time he greeted me enthusiastically, as if I was his guest, not his patient. He never missed an opportunity to teach me something. His explanations were clear and simple while remaining accurate. He beamed when, at three years old, I could say congenital afibrinogenemia. “Knowledge will save your life,” he said with pride.

Cheese Soufflé

~ Linda Wright ~ 1 Comment
In my recipe file there is a recipe I have not made in many years.  It’s is handwritten in my own script and labeled, “Mrs. Snyder’s Cheese Soufflé.” I never met Mrs. Snyder; the recipe was given to me by one of my college roommates.
 
In September of 1968, after heeding the advice of friends who had gone to college before me, I packed my bags and headed for Boston University.
 
I had been assigned to a dormitory room in a three-tower 18-story building that housed 1500 students, 1000 young women and 500 young men.  All of the women were upper classmen except for me.  I had a letter from my doctor saying that I needed accessible housing. 
 
My first roommate’s name was Nancy.  She appeared impatient and angry much of the time.  I was, after all, probably like a pesky younger sister, an enthusiastic freshman. Nan had already made the transition to smoking dope and doing as little studying as possible.
 
Nan and I only lasted a short time as roommates.  She wanted to use my closet as well as hers and habitually searched the contents of my drawers.  I requested a new roommate when I discovered she was opening my mail.
 
When Eileen’s roommate agreed to trade rooms with me, I shifted my bags across the hall. Eileen had developed a reputation in the dorm as a gloomy woman. She had just returned from a year in France. Eileen was rarely seen talking to anyone; in the cafeteria she sat alone reading. She had covered the lights in her room with scarves, which made it appear cave-like. The voice of Edith Piaf crooned from her stereo system. She dressed mostly in black, her curly light brown hair crammed into a felt beret.
 
Eileen smoked unfiltered cigarettes, drawing a mystical puff into her mouth and then parting her lips while inhaling through her nose. I was very impressed by the curls of smoke that circled over her upper lip and then disappeared in front of her face as she inhaled through her nose.
 
It did not take me long to realize, however, that Eileen worked at looking moody and mysterious. It was not easy for a small town girl to appear sophisticated.
 
Mrs. Snyder was not from Paris, but from Vermont, like Eileen. I cannot recall why Eileen gave me a copy of the recipe, but it gave me great pleasure to make it for my parents when I went home on college breaks. 
 
That Cheese Soufflé recipe reminds me of Eileen. It appears to be foreign and complex, but the ingredients are as simple as a Vermont kitchen larder: butter, flour, milk, eggs and some shredded cheese. When combined properly and seasoned to taste, then left alone to bake slowly in the low heat of the oven, it creates a puff of intrigue.

The Naughty Bench

~ Linda Wright
On my first day of Kindergarten, I watched the other five-year-olds. Some were clinging to their mother’s skirts, some had tears and dripping noses, some where even whaling pitifully as they begged not to be left behind. Not me. I was finally on my own and I was going to have a great time. I was sure of it.
 
Instead, I entered a room full of rules that were as rigid as the wooden blocks stacked neatly in the corner. My fellow classmates and I were called into the school by a bell and not allowed to leave until the bell rang again. We were taught how to raise a hand before speaking. We were required to ask permission to go to the bathroom; how punitive it seemed. It wasn’t the independence I had hoped for when I cheerfully waved good-bye to my mother and set off on my own.
 
The Elementary School principal had wanted to keep me from enrolling in public school. Her reasoning was that I might be seriously injured on the playground. My mother presented a doctor’s letter certifying that I was fit enough to go to school with the other children. The principal was not assured, and she assigned me to a bench with the naughty children during recess each day. My sentence on the bench lasted seven years. It was enforced when the other children went outside to play and even when they were indoors during recess. Apparently the Principal believed that learning to square dance would also be hazardous to my health.
 
Some days, I sat alone on that hard wooden bench. Other days I shared the space with another child. We understood what it meant to be labeled as broken, or too much trouble in the classroom. Many of these children became my best friends. I worked at enhancing the myth that the bruises on my legs and arms came from fighting in the schoolyard. It wasn’t hard for me, I had a quick temper and was unafraid. Besides, I had the reputation of sitting on that bench each day while the good children were allowed to play.
 
There was also a hint of truancy in my files. Each time a report card was sent home to my parents for their signature it noted the number of days absent. The total absent always exceeded the number of days in attendance. Each of the bruises needed ice, elevation and rest to stop the internal bleeding. After a tumble or scraped knee, I would spend at least a week in bed.
 
The forced inactivity bottled up my anxiety like compressed steam. The longer I was out of school, the less I wanted to return. My stomach would tighten as I realized that soon my mother would be writing one more succinct letter of excuse to the teacher. I worried about what the other children had learned that I had missed. Would there be a test that day that I would fail? In truth I often returned to the classroom having learned more at home than those who had perfect attendance records. That didn’t matter though; I knew I belonged on the naughty bench. That was where the “bad” children sat.

Mercury in Retrograde

~ Linda Wright ~ 1 Comment

It started slowly, as usual. The airplane I was supposed to board was taken out of service for repairs and it took several hours before a replacement was put into service. By then, the connecting flights had to be rescheduled. I arrived at my destination, not at noontime, but during rush hour traffic on Friday evening. Tired, stiff, and cranky from sitting in airports most of my day, I had just enough time to drop my suitcase at the hotel before leaving for the scheduled dinner meeting.

The return flight on Monday was delayed by weather conditions. Arriving home I discovered that the cable television was out of order, the Internet connections were sporadic and my car had a strange rattling sound coming from somewhere behind the front tires. One night the refrigerator spontaneously began a loud grinding sound. The dog began to whimper and limp.  The vet could determine no visible reason and prescribed a pain killer. The cat intensified her compulsive tail-nibbling disorder (We call it CT-BD.) A spider bite on my leg became infected. The prescribed antibiotics left me fatigued and more irritable than I was already. Spending hours day after day with the network technical support personnel did not help my mood.

Was it Murphy’s Law or Mercury in retrograde? Or are those just two ways that we humans use to make sense out of these reversals. It’s now been four weeks and I believe that the minor catastrophes have begun to abate… for now.

It is a little early to tell. As of this moment, I have grown accustomed to the car rattling and the television not working. When life begins to spin backwards, I find it an opportunity to re-evaluate my priorities. Have I once again become too comfortable with things moving in a forward direction?\The cat and the dog, like me, are experiencing aches and pains of aging. Their symptoms remind me of their mortality and of my own. Mercury, I have been told, is only visible at sunset I believe there is a personal retrograde that comes with age. I am reminded that the best advice is to use back-up systems, find alternative solutions, and pay more attention to the details. At times that is difficult enough