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uschi-the-listener · 2 years ago

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For oddman-the-oldman, who asked:

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Not as simple as it seems. Partly, it's detachment, being able to tune out all the background noise nagging for my attention. When that's done, having a project to do, like throwing pots on a wheel or crocheting an interesting pattern, or writing, or baking, or doing something with a tangible, satisfying ending.

What is your most marked characteristic?

Physical or otherwise? Physically, I'm very fat, noticeable from space, fat. Otherwise, people remark a quality I have that helps people feel calm, which is, believe me, ironic.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?

Another tough one. My Master's degree? My ongoing recovery from abuse and neglect? I feel good about both of those, but I think better than either of those is raising a healthy, intelligent, generous, kind, reasonably un-twisted son. He started out pretty amazing and I managed not to fuck him up too much.

What is your greatest fear?

Homelessness. It isn't rational, but it doesn't have to be.

What historical figure do you most identify with?

I can't answer this, though I reserve the right to edit this response if I can figure it out. I know myself too well, and historical figures too little to pick one.

Which living person do you most admire?

It changes periodically, but I think, just now, it's that heroic man who, armed with only a club, was able to lead the insurrectionists away from their intended victims.

Who are your heroes in real life?

Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez; Bernie Sanders; Mikhail Gorbachef; Gloria Steinem; Carl Rogers. A few others. You get my drift.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

My indecisiveness and executive dysfunction which encourage each other.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?

Cruelty.

What is your favorite journey?

I'm not sure I understand this question. Physical? Emotional? Mine? Someone else's?

I like train travel from anywhere to anywhere. I like the process of learning or teaching a new skill and seeing or feeling the light bulb finally come on. I am probably getting this wrong.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

Chastity. I suppose it has some value, but I have managed to maintain my integrity without it.

Which word or phrases do you most overuse?

"All-righty!" Makes me want to pull out my tongue and smack my brain with it.

What is your greatest regret?

Unkindnesses and mistakes from my past that come back to haunt me when I am trying to fall asleep.

What is your current state of mind?

Ruffled feathers. Slight annoyance. I just baked a sweet bread that looked easy in the recipe but was not in real life. I made it and baked it, and it looks okay, but it wasn't worth it, no matter how good it turns out to be.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?

'Family' is a confusing concept. If that includes my parents and siblings, I would make them be kind. If it includes my son, I would like it if he lived closer. Me and my husband? More active. Take your pick.

What is your most treasured possession?

I love most of my possessions. It's hard to say which I treasure most, like asking what song or book or work of art is my favorite. Picking one from the many is too mind-boggling for me.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

Mental illness with no option open to get help.

Where would you like to live?

I'm fine right here, at least for now.

What is your favorite occupation?

Therapist. Not easy work, or well paid, but when it works, it's beyond anything.

What is the quality you most like in a man?

Compassion.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?

Same same.

What are your favorite names?

Rose has always been a big one with me. Different names have different uses, though, and are often wrapped up in meaning for me. For instance, I love the name Hephzibah, but would not want to be named it. However, I named a beautiful orb-weaver spider Hephzibah, which suited her very well.

What is your motto?

I don't have one, but I often quote Socrates when he was purported to have said, "Be what you would like to seem." I guess that will do for a motto.

I was tagged by my dear friend oddman-the-oldman. I don't know who else to tag.

#oddman-the-oldman

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birchkillchronicles · 2 years ago

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Getting to Marigold

Chapter Ten

Daffodil Cream, Pistachio, Mulberry

“Sixteen ways to use oatmeal. That’s a lot!” piped up a small voice by her elbow.

Jeanie jumped. “Oh my gosh!” she yelped.

It was a Friday in late October, and Jeanie was expecting Chuckie’s kid to turn up with her mother sometime this afternoon. But it was still pretty early, and—deeply involved in reading her magazine—she hadn’t heard the little girl sneak into her craft room.

Turning to study the solemn olive-skinned child with deep-brown eyes and jet-black curls, Jeanie added more calmly, “You must be Tara Suarez. I didn’t realize that you and your mom were here yet.”

“She’s still downstairs with Tío Mark and Daddy and Ms. Bernie. You must be Ms. Jeanie. Daddy said I could come upstairs and look at my bedroom. I guess this isn’t it, though, ’cause of all the bookshelves. Besides, there’s no bed in here for me.”

“This is my craft room, Tara,” explained Jeanie. “But your bedroom’s nearby. I’ll show it to you.”

Waiting patiently to be guided to the room where her Daddy had said she should sleep for the next two nights, Tara watched with quiet interest as Jeanie put her magazine carefully away.

Now, of course—in deference to the youth of her visitor—Jeanie had been tempted to change out the guest bedroom’s usual linens and décor. But then she’d decided that she’d simply put away the Royal Doulton lady who customarily graced the dresser, switch out the Waterford crystal lamp for the one that she’d replaced with the mid-century-modern beauty in her craft room—and call it a day.

Who knew if the little girl would be freaked out by the unfamiliar space and simply refuse to stay? And why put in all the effort to make the room kid-friendly for just a couple of overnight stays a month, anyway?

So now, crossing the hall to the guest bedroom, Jeanie clicked open the door and ushered Tara inside. Where—out of the blue—the seven-year-old came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the light-beige carpet and, eyes wide, spun slowly around.

“This is so beautiful!” she exclaimed at last. “The sunlight just streams in!”

“Well, the room has a northern exposure, which can be tricky to brighten,” explained Jeanie, oddly gratified that the little girl had noticed, “so I used white lace sheers. And there’s a white roller shade that you can pull down when you want to go to sleep.”

“Oh, I just love the colour that you painted the walls,” continued Tara, still standing transfixed in the middle of the room. “Mommy said that I couldn’t paint my bedroom yellow because it would be gaudy—but this isn’t like that at all!”

“I used a neutral shade called Daffodil Cream,” specified Jeanie, surprised by how chuffed she felt by the praise from the child.

“And the bed is so pretty—” continued Tara.

“—it’s an antique birdseye-maple sleigh bed—”

“—and what kind of comforter is that?”

“That’s a vintage Irish lace counterpane, and I crocheted the pillow shams in a similar pattern to match—”

“Oh, can you crochet? Mommy can’t. She can’t crochet or knit or sew or do anything important. But Tawny Owl is starting to teach us at Brownies. We’re going to learn to do potholders—but I’d rather make something like those instead!”

“Well, I’ve got lots of yarn you can use, and maybe I can help you—”

“Hi?” A very pregnant woman in her early thirties stood smiling in the doorway. Tara’s mom, of course. She had the same olive-toned skin as her daughter and the same jet-black curls. “I’m Dolores Suarez-Boxer,” she introduced herself. “You must be Bernie’s mom. Your home is just lovely! Is this where Tara’s going to sleep?”

“Yes, well, thank you—” began Jeanie, again absurdly pleased, but Tara interrupted her.

“Mommy—! You said that yellow was not a restful colour or appropriate for a bedroom. But look at this—!” Tara indicated the whole room with a wide sweep of her arms. “Ms. Jeanie says it’s painted daffodil-cream—and she used white sheers on the window to bring in the sunshine—and the counterpane is vintage Irish lace—and she’s going to teach me how to crochet pillow shams like that!”

“Well, that’s very nice of her,” said Dolores, with a smile. “But don’t let Tara wear you out, Ms. Todd. She’s a bit of a fanatic about crafty stuff—”

“It’s Ms. Dinmont—but please call me Jeanie—and I don’t mind at all,” Jeanie found herself replying. “I’ve got tons of supplies in my craft room.”

“Yes, that’s right, Mommy,” said Tara to Dolores, obviously carrying on a long-fought argument. “Ms. Jeanie has a room just for crafts! And she’s going to teach me all about crocheting. And she doesn’t mind if I use some of her yarn!”

“Tara.” Dolores sighed, shaking her head at her forthright daughter. “Don’t be a pushy kid. Jeanie probably has a lot to do without spending gobs of time on you—”

“No, not really,” countered Jeanie. “If Tara’s enthusiastic, I certainly don’t mind. Bernie was never very interested in needlework as a child. Mostly she read by herself in her room. So, it’ll be fun to teach Tara a few tricks of the trade if she wants to learn.”

“How’s it goin’ up here?” came Chuckie’s voice from the hall. “You guys got Bugsy cornered yet?”

“Daddy!” exclaimed Tara, as he entered the room with her rainbow kitten suitcase and a bag full of books, paints and craft supplies. “Just look at how beautiful my bedroom is!”

“Ya sure there ain’t no bogie-men hidin’ under the bed?” he grinned.

Tara rolled her eyes and laughed. “Look at the sunlight, Daddy! Look at this room! How could anything bad be living in here?”

“I’ll just check the wardrobe—” Chuckie dropped his daughter’s suitcase on the rug and swung open the wardrobe door with great bravado—to reveal nothing but assorted hangers on an otherwise empty pole. “Nope, it’s safe. Ain’t nobody home but us chickens!”

Ignoring her silly parent, Tara knelt by her suitcase and clicked it open it to reveal its neatly folded contents. “Ms. Jeanie—will you help me hang up some of my clothes, please?”

“Absolutely,” said Jeanie, stooping to take the sparkly deep teal top the little girl proffered her. “And we can stow the rest, if you like, in the dresser drawers.”

“That will be perfect,” said Tara with great satisfaction as she handed Jeanie a bunny rabbit hoodie. “Mommy—Daddy—you can go…”

And, with that, Dolores and Chuckie were dismissed. Then Tara and Jeanie spent a pleasant ten minutes stashing the child’s belongings while they chatted companionably about her choice of clothes and books.

In terms of clothing, Tara liked classic little girl attire. She didn’t like cheap plastic materials—like you saw sometimes at second-rate stores—and was extremely wary of mixing uncomplimentary colours and patterns.

Furthermore—despite her mommy and daddy insistence on reading her all the familiar children’s stories—Tara preferred books about ‘real stuff.’

Like books on how to bake cookies. Or how to craft bead bracelets. Or how people around the world lived inside their homes.

“But what I really like are colouring books for big people,” Tara specified. “Especially if they’re very fiddly…”

By which, Jeanie understood, Tara preferred the intricate ones that were sold to adults as an aid to relaxation. She, herself, had a trove of those books which, if the child was as careful with her colouring as she was with her wardrobe, Jeanie quietly decided that she could share.

This decision was boosted when, among the trove of personal treasures that Tara had deemed necessary to bring for a two-night visit, Jeanie uncovered a large case of professional-quality coloured pencils. Which, from the very neat and subtly hued examples from her colouring books which Tara proudly displayed—pistachio art nouveau lilies, intricate lemon paisley teardrops and whirling marigold sunbursts—the little girl was highly adept at employing.

Faced with such a meticulous child’s naturally artistic personality, Jeanie easily persuaded herself that it would be quite okay to invite Tara to store her pencils, paints, and colouring books in Jeanie’s craft room for the weekend. And, with this accomplished to the little girl’s satisfaction, Tara and Jeanie trotted down the back stairs to say good-bye.

While Bernie, Chuckie and Dolores—her belly bulging with the fraternal twins due to arrive in December—were gossiping idly in the kitchen, Tara’s stepfather, Mark Boxer, was sitting in Jeanie’s Danish-modern living room talking to Don. So, leaving the little girl to inform her mommy that “Ms. Jeanie says I can do whatever I like at her craft room desk,” Jeanie walked down the hall to find out what the men were discussing.

“Take my word for it. Whenever you folks are ready to downsize,” Tara’s stepdad, Mark, was saying, having appraised their home with a professional eye, “I can get you top dollar for a place like this.”

“Well, that’s nice, Mark,” Don replied, mildly. “And the minute that I have a near-fatal stroke—or Jeanie decides that she’d rather live in a fifty-six square metre condo—you can be sure that your number will be the first one we’ll call.”

Refusing to take offense, the real estate agent smiled. “Right now, you’re not interested. I get that, Don. But in a few years—when Bernie has moved out and there’s no one here to help with the yard work and the shovelling—perhaps what I’m saying tonight will ring a few more bells. And then—if I’m still with my Ottawa brokerage—I’ll be delighted to show you your best options.”

“Thank you,” said Jeanie, briskly taking a seat on one of the teak armchairs. “But if Bernie is gone, and Don and I are too old to handle the grunt jobs, I’m sure someone younger will be glad to take a few bucks to give us a hand. For example,” she added, with a perky smile, “we’ve already got a lady who comes in to dust the woodwork and mop the floors—”

Which was because—in order to allow her to relax and recuperate while she’d endured her cancer treatments—it had been crucial that the level of household spotlessness had been upheld to Jeanie’s own high standards. So, Don had hired an energetic and very competent Filipina housecleaner named Mrs. Ramos as daily help.

As it turned out, having the extra leisure time to spend on cooking, gardening and hobbies had been quite appealing. And so—although Jeanie took pride in maintaining the sparkling kitchen and bathrooms herself—Mrs. Ramos had continued to come in for one morning a week to clean and do some of the laundry.

“—and also a contractor who handles all of the snow.” added Don.

Yet, Mark could not be dissuaded. “But—now that you’re retired—you’ll certainly prefer to spend five or six months a year somewhere warm,” he countered. “And, in the long run, buying a condo in the sunny south is cheaper than renting one. So, if you had one condo apartment here and another one there, you could live a pleasant turn-key life. You could summer in Ottawa and winter in, say, Florida or Costa Rica or Belize. And you’d never need to buy another pair of snow boots—”

“How very nice of you to assume that’s how we want to live,” scoffed Jeanie. And, “Just how much commission are you planning to make off our house, anyway?” chuckled Don.

“Now, folks,” backtracked Mark, still smiling pleasantly, “I’m not saying that being snowbirds is what you want right now. But time never stands still. And eventually you’re going to find that a house of this size is more of a burden than a benefit. The taxes alone must take a huge bite out of your budget. And why heat and air condition a giant place with rooms you hardly ever see? Now, I can—"

“Thanks, Mark,” said Don, standing to stretch. “But we use all of our rooms pretty regularly. And, for the present, we’re even more booked up than usual. Besides, next summer we’re hosting the family reunion to end all family reunions, and we’ll need every square millimetre in the place. So, what do you say, Jeanie? Do you have nefarious plans for supper tonight? Or shall we just phone for a pizza?”

“Pizza might be okay,” considered Jeanie, rising as well. “I had thought we’d do fish and chips because we’ve got a little kid here. But Tara might have more sophisticated tastes—”

“Tara!” laughed Mark, sliding up out of his chair. He’d recognized present defeat, but was glad to have planted the seed of real estate possibilities in the old couple’s minds. “She’ll let you know what she wants.” He smiled fondly and shook his head. “You never met such a persnickety kid in all your life.”

“I think your stepdaughter is charming,” said Jeanie, frowning as Mark dropped even lower on her personal hit parade. “There’s nothing wrong with a girl knowing her own tastes.”

“Um-hm,” said Don, with a raised eyebrow. “That’s certainly what you’ve always believed about Bernie.”

Jeanie turned sharply on Don. “I’ve always tried to keep Bernie’s best interests in mind—”

Don wasn’t going to get into that argument. So, he merely shrugged and softly replied, “I’m not saying that you haven’t, dear. So, what about supper? Shall we go consult the gang?”

“Yeah—and Dolores and I should be off,” said Mark, a bit disturbed that he’d awoken an on-going friction between the older folks. The statistics guys reported that more and more long-term pairs were heading for the divorce courts. But—although marriage break-ups often presented an opportunity for those in the real estate business—Mark still had enough romance in his soul to prefer the ideal of happily-ever-after. Especially for himself and Dolores—as well as for couples in his own parents' generation. “That drive to Hamilton’s not going to get any shorter. Dolores!” he called upon reaching the hall. “Grab your boots, Baby! We need to hit the road!”

Dolores appeared in the kitchen doorway and awkwardly skirted her burgeoning body around Don and Jeanie into the front hall.

“It’s been wonderful to meet you two,” she said as Mark helped her into her mulberry jacket. “I’m sure Tara’s going to be happy here. Like I said, though—don’t let her wear you out! We’ll be back Monday afternoon to pick her up after school. And Chuckie knows the drill. Bye-bye, Tara,” she called, gesturing for a hug to her daughter who was watching her leave from the opposite end of the hallway.

“I already said bye-bye,” returned Tara, distracted by some snippet of conversation behind her.

“Well—come give me one more cuddle and say so long to Tío Mark.”

“Okay.” Willingly, Tara came forward to hop into her mom’s arms and give Mark an affectionate embrace.

“We’ll see you on Monday—”

“I know, Mommy—you already said so.”

“Well, I—”

“Dolores!” frowned Mark, but with a gentle chuckle. “Enough with the good-byes.”

Laughing a little too, Dolores gave Tara a final kiss and allowed Mark to usher her out. Tara watched until the front door closed and then skipped back to the kitchen without another word.

Jeanie and Don followed the little girl down the hall to where Chuckie was sitting having a cup of coffee with Bernie at the granite island.

“Okay, Tara. Fish and chips or take-out pizza for supper?” asked Don.

Tara took a serious moment to consider her options. “What kind of fish is it?” she finally enquired. “I’m only asking ’cause cod is too fish-y. And I don’t like much breading. And I do like some chips—but not ordinary French fries.”

“Mademoiselle Princesse.” Chuckie bowed low before his daughter’s exacting tastes.

“How about pizza then?” asked Jeanie, who—supposing that most small children like nondescript offerings that remind them of fast food—had bought a package of brand name battered fish sticks and some uninspiring frozen potato fries. “We can order a couple of different ones and then everyone can have the toppings he or she prefers.”

“Can we have anchovies?” asked Tara.

Bernie smiled. “If cod is too fish-y, Tara, how can you like anchovies?”

“I like anchovies,” asserted Don. “And bacon. And black olives.”

“And I like bacon and black olives on my pizza, too,” nodded Tara. “So—if you don’t, Ms. Bernie—then Mr. Don and I can share a pizza and the rest of you can get whatever you want.”

“Horse feathers and porkypine quills it is, then!” cheered Chuckie, “But I got a call at seven-thirty tonight. Could we all go eat-in, instead?”

“Okay, yes. I was thinking you might need to hustle off,” nodded Don. “Let’s all drive to the pizza place downtown. And then we can drop you off at the theatre after supper. Bernie, do you want to phone in a reservation?”

Nodding, Bernie unpocketed her phone and wandered into the family room to make the call.

“And maybe I can go see Daddy’s show tonight?” piped up Tara.

“Not a chance, Bugsy.” Chuckie gave her a serious shake of his head. “Mommy and I said ‘no,’ remember? This play’s too scary for you.”

“Yes, but—”

“What’s Rule Number One?”

Tara sighed, but dutifully recited the rule. “If Mommy and Daddy have talked about it, what they’ve decided goes.”

“And Rule Number Two?”

Tara rolled her eyes ceilingward. “No whining about Rule Number One.”

“And Rule Number Three?”

“When in doubt, refer to Rule Number One,” Tara grumbled and then offered, “But I was allowed to see you in your play last summer—”

“Different play. Different role.” Chuckie gave his disappointed daughter a sympathetic smile. “You’re going to come back here tonight and start heading for bed at eight like always. Any questions, my darlin’ daughter?”

Tara sighed.�� “I guess not, Daddy.”

“Then, give us a big smile, Bugsy! At least you don’t gotta eat horse feathers on your pizza like me,” groaned Chuckie.

“Or banana peppers,” smiled Bernie.

“Or ham and pineapple,” shuddered Jeanie.

“Oooh—I hate those too,” winced Tara. “You won’t ever make me eat a Hawaiian pizza, will you?”

“No, never! Just anchovies, bacon, black olives—and kale,” winked Don.

“No kale!” specified Tara.

“Okay. No kale,” promised Don.

“See? Now you’ve got everything going your way,” smiled Jeanie. She was really going to enjoy having a little girl around the house…

“It’s the little things that make life worth living,” chuckled Don. “Right, Bugsy?”

Tara levelled a stern look at him. “Mr. Don. Don’t you start calling me that!”

“Sorry about that, Bugs—er, Tara,” apologized Don. “It’s an easy habit to pick up…”

“But her name is Tara,” emphasized Jeanie, lending the little girl her earnest support.

“Understood,” acknowledged Don, seriously. And, exchanging amused glances with Tara’s daddy, he went into the mudroom to pick up the portable booster seat that the seven-year-old girl would need for a trip downtown in their family car.

#original novel #gettingtomarigold #satire #summer theatre #theater #parenting #grief/mourning

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