 | ||||
| Our English dining room, Cheadle Hulme, Cheshire, England 1973
It's
the season of reminiscence, and thanksgiving. A special thanksgiving
that comes to mind is my first one in our new home in England, where
Thanksgiving isn't even a holiday.
It
was a week day like any other in Cheadle Hulme, except ti was more
solidly sunny than most northern early winter days. Top of my agenda: take our
preschool daughter Anna on a mile or so walk across the village to pick
out a kitten. I'd seen the Free Kittens to Good Home sign at the green grocers and called the day before.
That's
it. No turkey, no brothers, mother, in-laws, etc., and definitely no feast. At that time at least in
northern England, trying to find cranberries or pumpkin would have been
as easy as searching for whale blubber. My husband Jim had a busy day
planned at the University of Manchester. This seemed logical earlier in
the week. But to my surprise, when Thursday actually arrived, I felt
something powerful missing. Like any stranger in a strange land, I was
adrift without the customs of home.
I
remember the day vividly, as I do only two other such days in my life.
Like most people, I remember my wedding day, the birthdays of our
daughters (two more came along after Anna) and other life changing
days. But the three most powerfully remembered days, are days of utter
pointless simplicity and delight. One cannot foretell the mysterious
election of this moment over that one.
I can see the curls of Anna's blond hair peaking out from her cream colored hat,
hand knit by Jim's mum; the gentle gusts of wind skittering dried
leaves as we walked; the feel of the air on my face; the clarity of the
sunlight and how it sparkled and refracted above and through the bare
trees. And the light mix of cumulus and stratus clouds--whites and
light greys--streaking across the bluest of skies. These images are as
clear as if this 40 year old day happened yesterday, no, more vividly than mere yesterday.
When
we found the detached Victorian house I opened the wrought iron gate
and wheeled Anna's stroller up the walkway to the front steps. The
mother cat's owner was delighted to see us, charmed to be party to the
selection of our family's pet, and finding yet another home for puss'
offspring. As we looked at the kittens, only four weeks old, their eyes
still closed, Anna wanted the black one, with white boots.
At
that time we didn't yet own a car, so we arranged for the owner to
deliver our kitten on Boxing Day, the day after Christmas. By the time
we left the house we were buoyant, chattering about what we needed to
buy for our kitten and what we might name him, as we walked back through
the gate, and on to the shops on the High Street.
I am reminded of questions asked by author V. S. Naipaul, in Among the Believers,
of an Islamic mullah and hanging judge in the ancient city of Qom, the
Islamic intellectual center of Iran, not long after the Revolution.
"What made you decide to take up religious studies?" Naipaul asked,
"How did you become an ayatollah?" He continued to probe, "What was your
happiest day?" Questions that cut to the meat on the bones of
character.
As
I pondered the last question, I'm struck by how revealing one's
happiest day is. Does one remember a day of accomplishment? From
childhood? Community? Mischief? Delight?
We
went into Tesco's and bought some cat food and a little brush. Next to
the Italian grocery store for dried spaghetti and tinned tomatoes,
quite different, I discovered, from the ubiquitous English Heinz
variety. Early afternoon we started making spaghetti Bolognese
for dinner, sans green peppers, unobtainable in Cheshire in
those days, and disdainfully referred to by our green grocer as, 'those Mediterranean vegetables.'
By
twilight, as early as 4 o'clock in the northern latitudes, Anna helped
set the table. By six Jim was home and as we were supping on our
English-style spaghetti. We decided to name our new kitten Jefferson.
He grew into a marvelous tom, a presence throughout the neighborhood and
a vital part of Anna's memories of England. As was that sweetest of
days, a day of thanksgiving whenever I recall it, all these years later.
|
No comments:
Post a Comment