What I Learned in A Snow Storm

 

Leslee the Grown-Up, does not and cannot bring herself to welcome the snow. The snow that greases the roads, rides in on shoes to make puddles on the hardwood floor, makes a big house seem like a prison cell, and keeps the sky dull pewter, that snow is not welcome. The adult practical Leslee, shudders at the mention of snowstorms and worries about things like enough milk, bread, and heat. 

Leslee the Poet, looks out at the day from a cozy spot beside the radiator. She sees, hemlock and pine trees in the yard festooned with white, she notices that the traffic lights have little hoods of snow as if the red, yellow and green lights are wearing lady Pilgrim caps. She wants to read about the “woods dark and deep” and forget she has promises to keep and miles to go before bedtime tonight.  

Leslee the Child, stands in the parking lot at Wegman’s catching snowflakes on her tongue even though it fogs up her glasses and Lucy van Pelt says that snow flakes aren’t ripe this time of year. Just watch the Charlie Brown Christmas special and you’ll see. This Leslee wants to get out the Christmas movies and make sugar cookies with all kinds of sprinkles on them. She wants to make hardtack candy, because evergreens look like candy with a dusting of confectioners’ sugar on them. She even would like to sled ride one more time. 

Leslee the combination of all three, sighs and says, “I guess there has to be snow, otherwise who would be so glad to see plain old grass again?” In boots, mittens and scarf, she steps out into a world transformed into a few vivid colors and a blanket of white.  

What I Learned From Two Houses

            Margaret, Jesse, Anny, Roger, and I walked around a lake high on a mountain yesterday. The Catskills have begun to turn somber, the riot of fall is nearly over, and black branches reached against a sky so pale blue it hardly had color at all. It smelled like pine needles and fall. 

High on a ledge looking down into the lake was a magnificent small house. It stood on solid white rock and was pale and natural, as if it was formed there like the white rock formations that tumbled into the lake, or the dwarf pine trees that grew around it. 

The house stood, boarded up, empty of anything but dust. Windows by the front door looked out into the woods and down the driveway. I peeked in a window by the there and saw a sweeping staircase of natural wood, a sunken living room. Dusty windows took up most of the lakeside wall of the house offering magnificent views of mountains and sky. No doubt if I stood in the living room, the quiet lake below would be spectacular.

Then I came home to host a meeting. One of my guests said, “How happy your house is.” People frequently say something like that. My house is full of color: an aqua living room, a deep red dining room, a pink office, a moss green bathroom, and bright yellow kitchen, make up the downstairs. I have family art and heirlooms, all over my walks, including the first Clarion Vulcanizing sign that my grandfather proudly hung above his business. My house smells like the cinnamon broom behind the front door, so guests won’t notice the cat box.

I have a collection of Blue Ridge plates that were hand painted by young women in the 1930’s to the 1950’s. The plates are mostly child-like flowers, yellow or blue, maroon and green, even a little purple. 

In my eyes that all goes together to make one warm hospitable statement, “Come on in! Glad to see you!” From the front yard, (see the picture at the top of this blog) to our own bright orange bedroom, we want you to smile when you get here. 

My house is open- armed. It doesn’t have a great view and it’s noisy because I live on a busy street. I can’t offer solitude or a mountain view, but you can take off your shoes and put your feet on the couch or even on the coffee table if it makes you comfortable.  

 If a house is a monument to the person who lives there, the lake house’s owner is cool, and correct and elegant. I hope my house and myself, are friendly, kind and welcoming. Come on in and have a cuppa coffee.  

What I Didn't Learn From My Aunt Charlotte

 

One amazing thing about my Aunt Charlotte, and there are many, is that she wakes up happy. At least she used to when I was a kid. It is possible that she heard my cousins and me coming and got time to wake up and compose herself but I would swear that you could wake her up and she would be smiling. She had great dimples, they would be showing, and she would say good morning and even call us something nice like sweetie or darling. 

            Now there are morning people and not morning people. 

My mother never said, “Good morning,” because for her morning and good don’t go in the same sentence. For me either. I might be hospitable and all, but don’t expect me to roll out any hospitality red carpet before 10Am. It is impossible. I’ve tried to make my brain work before ten and I just can’t. My mother never could either. We can’t even smile before 10.

So you can imagine my shock when we woke up Aunt Charlotte, and she smiled just as if she were glad to see us. Maybe she faked it. She’d talked most of the night to her siblings at my grandfather’s house. Understand that by talk I mean they’d argued about everything and then they had gone to bed at three or four in the morning, thoroughly happy with each other and the stimulating conversation. 

Only to be awakened by us a few hours later.

Now I have to tell you that waking my mother for a ride to school was taking your life in your hands. My mother did not function so early in the morning. She was a night owl, which never worked so well with us kids who wanted a ride the whole mile to school. It seemed like too far to walk, honest it did. We used to dare each other to wake her.

So when we woke Aunt Charlotte and she smiled, it seemed miraculous. Then she would agree to take us swimming or somewhere fun later in the day. She was sweet and pleasant, and I was in awe. She set a high standard for me: to be the mom that woke up smiling. 

I never quite made it. The best I could do was stand in the kitchen holding my coffee cup while my three kids bustled around and got ready for school. Maybe I made lunch three or four times in their school careers. I did drive them to school occasionally, but they never expected me to talk. 

Recently Margaret told me that she used to hate waking me up from my Sunday after noon nap. She was afraid of her dear mother. I definitely do not wake up smiling. 

I have to hand it to my Aunt Charlotte. I have a lovely mental picture of her, with her dimpled smile and tousled hair, but I still have a hard time believing anybody can wake up that sweet and happy.        

What I Learned From Uncle John Jaquish

My Uncle John Jaquish was my mother’s brother, the first of eight kids and then he went and had nine kids of his own Barb, Charlie, Mike, Tommy, Dick, Stephanie, Nancy, Laurie, David. (I did that without even looking!)   

 

I used to love to visit his house because I always felt like I belonged to some wonderful big group when I was there. 

I used to like getting a hug from my Uncle John. His face would light up when I came in the room, and he would give me this one armed squeeze that would nearly squeeze my breath out. A one armed squeeze that said he was glad to see me. Me, Lessie as I was called back then. He had nine kids and was glad to see one more. I never got over it. 

That hug let me know that I belonged to a huge family, the Jaquish’s. Not just his nine kids but I belonged to my mother’s other brothers and sisters too. I had a place that was home and they were glad to see me there. 

That hug let me know that I was someone worth noticing. I don’t remember having a lot of conversation with my Uncle John. He lived at our house for a while as his job relocated him to Clarion and he looked for a house for his family. I remember he was always interesting and asked me questions I didn’t know how to answer. 

But that hug let me know it was okay if I couldn’t think of what to say. I remember he was loud too. He had loud opinions and a loud laugh. One time I read this description of the laugh of a character in a book: his laugh,” the author wrote, “sounded like nails falling into an old pail.” I always thought Uncle John laughed liked that.

When we visited Grandpa in Tunkhannock, I listened for that laugh and then ran into the kitchen where he’d be sitting with a cup of coffee. He’d get up, greet me, and give me that hug, which I waited for and was a little scared of. I’d giggle—as soon as I caught a post-hug breath—and run off to play with his daughters and my other cousins. Just knowing I’d been hugged was good enough for me. 

Those hugs were like the hand stamp you get at a concert. Once I was hugged, i could come and go and prove I belonged with the big rambling bunch of cousins as we roamed Tunkhannock or the hillside behind my grandfather’s house. 

He passed away in 1985 but I learned a thing or two from him. I drink coffee today because I wanted to be smart and have a million opinions like him. I give out hugs because I remember how good those side armed squeezes felt. I knew I was important and that I belonged and I had the hug to prove it. 

What I Learned From the Pros

(Or: Don’t Tell Anybody That I Like to Exercise.)

“You can do it, I know you can,” Sue said looking me right in the eye.

She thought I could do rehab exercise, huh? Nobody ever told her that my idea of exercise was shopping, or that high school gym class gave me a stomachache. That I thought endurance was reading into the night to finish a Dean Koontz novel. Or that I wasn’t the athlete in my family. I wasn’t the one with the muscles or ability.  

            All my life people told me I couldn’t, but she made a rehab program for me and said I could. I seriously doubted that, but she was the expert. If she thought I could do it then I tried it. When she congratulated me, I grinned really big. 

They other therapists at Pro Rehab talked to me as if they believed I could do the push ups, lift the weighs, or use one of the various exercise balls, or machines. Sue or Angela, or Mary Claire said with assurance that that I could do twenty-five repetitions. First I could do five, then ten, then finally the full twenty-five. 

I did it, mostly because they thought I could. They always challenged and encouraged me. When I got discouraged, they reminded me how far I’d come. Even Kristen greeted me warmly from behind her receptionist’s desk as if I weren’t a gym-class-loser.   

  

My shoulder felt better. I acquired arm muscles for the first time since I carried my kids around as babies. Then a true miracle happened. I moved on to a wellness program. They gave me a plan, and I do it. Me, Leslee Clapp. They help me if I need it, but I exercise because I want too.  

I can do one hundred crunches. (Don’t tell anybody, but I look forward to them.) I also look forward to becoming more fit. But mostly I look forward to their attitude rubbing off on me. I can do it because they say I can. They are truly pros at motivation and I am amazed at what they’ve talked me into believing about myself. Thanks, Pro Rehab; I’ll never adequately explain all you have done for me.