A Day of Remembrance

I'm feeling nostalgic this morning.  I know it's really not unusual for me to go all sentimental on any old fall day, but today this wistfulness is making itself known in every way possible.  It's tugging at my tender heartstrings and making me pause to properly remember these tokens that are taking me back in time and place.

The smell of cinnamon buns baking away this morning took me back to my elementary school days.  My Mom dropped me at the home of family friends every morning on her way to work.  The S. family lived in a huge, pretty, white house just blocks from the school we all attended and miles from my home.  Sometimes I'd arrive when it was still dark out and the children would be asleep.  From where I would sit pretending to read in the den or the living room or the library, I'd hear their house come alive and smell those cinnamon buns perking up in the oven.  At that point my bowl of Corn Flakes or Cream of Wheat was no longer cutting it, but I would never accept one of those rolls no matter how desperately I wanted one or how many times I was kindly asked.  I couldn't.  I wouldn't.  I couldn't because there were five hungry kids in that family and never enough to satisfy all their mouths without another taker.  I wouldn't because what I really craved was my Mom to be able to make cinnamon rolls for me in our own house before school.  Somehow the very idea of enjoying their hot breakfast made me feel like a traitor.  I'm taken aback that at my daughter's age, I was already assimilating complex feelings and emotions with regard to how my family was different than others and it made me feel fiercely protective.  Truth be told, I still cannot choke down one of those cinnamon rolls from a can, but occasionally I buy them.  When I do, I always think of the S. family, and I do so fondly.  They were good people, with a warm house and warmer hearts.  T. Bone and Miss Bit like these impostors, but they definitely prefer my homemade version.  My kids get a hot, home cooked breakfast most mornings because I didn't.  I know they appreciate it.  I appreciate that I am able to do this for them, and I appreciate the sacrifices my Mom had to make as a single, working parent to provide for us.  I guess I have a rather complex relationship with cinnamon rolls.

After T. Bone scarfed down three and got all his vocabulary words right for today's quiz, I kissed the top of his head (the body part always offered) and went to wake Miss Bit.  I tripped over the pile of clothes we purged from her closet last night.  A pile I couldn't bear to actually rid of right away.  Now that...that is melancholy.  The differences between the give and keep piles are evidence of years passing.  Cool has replaced cute without a doubt.  She's just lucky that she's truly outgrown most of it.  I think she did appease me today by wearing one of my old favorites...a dress with matching leggings.  Gasp! A dress!  I refrained from telling her she looked cute.   

Since it's 40 degrees out, I went looking for a hat.  The first one I grabbed was one of my Mom's.  Her Irish hat.  I put it on. Come to think of it, Miss Bit did tell me I look cute.  Apparently, cute is OK for me, but not for her. Come to think of it, the hat looked cute on my Mom too.  I can picture her in it...her brown, thick hair flowing out beneath it as she sits on the back of a motorcycle in her driveway ready for adventure.  I think it was a day just like today: cool, crisp and colorful.   And I see her wearing it again sitting on the deck at Powell Lake.  It's summer.  It's hot and humid, but she's cold and she has no hair.  She waves to us as we go off on the boat.  There will be no more adventures for her and we are all trying to come to terms with this.  Obviously, I'm still trying to come to terms with this.

I relent that it is just going to be one of those days, and I haven't even left the house yet.  Today I resign to wear my thin skin as if it's body protecting armor because I know it does my heart and soul good to reminisce.