Blessed By The Evening Sun
A Reflection by Karen Alessi
It was rather an unremarkable day. The skies were overcast with no promise of a clear sunset. Our moods seemed to reflect the cloudy skies above. Towards evening we decided to go for a drive, rather than our customary stroll and avoid the ever-increasing crowds coming into town. We hadn't planned on staying out too long anyway.
As we drove we noticed the sun making a very late appearance. We could see it bursting through the trees, more brilliantly than the last few evenings. We began to see more and more of it and thought we might stay out a little longer and try to catch the sunset down at the cove. We could feel our spirits lifting as we hurried to a secret place Bonnie had discovered last year. I knew of five good spots, but I'd never seen this one.
The sun was in its final descent. The silhouettes of three or four fishermen could be seen in their chosen places along the ocean side, the black rocks of the jetty behind them. The sky was already giving off its pink cotton-candy colors and the shades of the choppy ocean waves had changed to variations of cobalt blue.
As we got in closer to the water's edge, where the shore line curved and the jetty ended, we began to see tips of dolphin tails. Getting as close as we could to the rocks with three young children, we started to see whole families of dolphins, playing and jumping, sometimes two at a time, under the sky now flooded with shades of blue and pink. The water sparkled everywhere in the moments before night settles in.
Karin was at an age now, where she saw it all. She loved it and mentioned the magic she felt all around her. Ian only five, was searching for treasures among the seaweed. Faith was contented to find little seashells and present them as gifts, especially for me. We lingered that way for awhile. Squealing and "oohing" and "aahing" until the light dotting the few houses in the area started to come through the not quite darkness of night. The little night bugs were beginning to outnumber us. It was the last stage of dusk.
As we soaked in the colors of the sky, the dolphins jumping, the fishermen silhouetted in stillness, the children giggling in unprompted delight and the orange glow of lights coming on in the distance, we couldn't help but feel God's love for us. Everywhere we turned; we were bathed in it and warmed by it, in body and soul. It hugged us and made our spirits soar! Thank you God for all your blessings and the gift of this wonderful day.
We reluctantly headed back to the car, turning every few minutes to catch one last glance and promising to come back again...maybe tomorrow.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
My Grandmother's Recipe
This September take a moment to build some lasting memories for yourself and your children. September 12, 2010 is National Grandparents Day; make a phone call, write a letter, bake some cookies with a grandparent. Today in our hurried lives stop, take a breath and stand still in the moment. Shut off the television, log off of the computer, ignore your email, skip that kick boxing class, simply stand still . Take the hand of your child and put it in the hand of a grandparent, start a memory, build a legacy that will last forever. Teach your children to embrace those that have walked down the path of life ahead of us, a path we too one day, will tread down.
I can still smell the sweet scent of sugar cookies and coffee cakes wafting from my grandmother’s kitchen. Dashing to the door, mouth watering, I ran. There waiting for my arrival was my grandmother, wiping her hands on her apron before she hugged me. A chair would be waiting for me, pulled close to the counter, an apron draped over it’s back inviting me to tie it around my waist. After my hair was pulled back into a pony tail we would go to work. Like every other baking day, this time was set aside for just the two of us. At first I think it was the sweet reward that I knew would come with a glass of cold milk at the end of our days that drew me in. Later it would be the time we spent kneading the dough and weaving the fabric of our lives that kept me coming. Through my awkward teenage years, well into my young adulthood, I kneaded and sometimes cried with her on baking day. I watched her hands become frail and her energy fade, yet we never missed a baking day.
I can close my eyes this very moment and taste those sugar cookies. Today I use her exact recipe, measure for measure, yet they have never tasted as delicious as when we baked them together. Standing in a kitchen miles away from my grandmother’s house, years separated from the girl I was, I bake those cookies in search of her. I cherish those memories I built perched on that kitchen chair beside her. I could not be who I am today without having spent those moments with her making cookies. I realize now, years after her passing, that her recipe card did indeed contain the proper ingredients and measurements, but that her love was the most important ingredient of all. I bake with my children, this very recipe, as they bake it now with my mother, their grandmother and each time a healthy amount of love is thrown into the mix.
“I will never know what it is like to be another race or gender. But I, and many others, if we are lucky, will know what it is like to be old.” ~Diana Couper
I can still smell the sweet scent of sugar cookies and coffee cakes wafting from my grandmother’s kitchen. Dashing to the door, mouth watering, I ran. There waiting for my arrival was my grandmother, wiping her hands on her apron before she hugged me. A chair would be waiting for me, pulled close to the counter, an apron draped over it’s back inviting me to tie it around my waist. After my hair was pulled back into a pony tail we would go to work. Like every other baking day, this time was set aside for just the two of us. At first I think it was the sweet reward that I knew would come with a glass of cold milk at the end of our days that drew me in. Later it would be the time we spent kneading the dough and weaving the fabric of our lives that kept me coming. Through my awkward teenage years, well into my young adulthood, I kneaded and sometimes cried with her on baking day. I watched her hands become frail and her energy fade, yet we never missed a baking day.
I can close my eyes this very moment and taste those sugar cookies. Today I use her exact recipe, measure for measure, yet they have never tasted as delicious as when we baked them together. Standing in a kitchen miles away from my grandmother’s house, years separated from the girl I was, I bake those cookies in search of her. I cherish those memories I built perched on that kitchen chair beside her. I could not be who I am today without having spent those moments with her making cookies. I realize now, years after her passing, that her recipe card did indeed contain the proper ingredients and measurements, but that her love was the most important ingredient of all. I bake with my children, this very recipe, as they bake it now with my mother, their grandmother and each time a healthy amount of love is thrown into the mix.
“I will never know what it is like to be another race or gender. But I, and many others, if we are lucky, will know what it is like to be old.” ~Diana Couper
Monday, August 16, 2010
A bit more of Allison and Ryan
Ryan McJames, hometown hero, team captain, pitcher for Sanderton High stood in front of his bedroom mirror staring at himself, nervously pushing the hair away from his eyes. Downstairs in his living room sat a representative from one of the many universities courting this young high school senior. Dave and Eileen McJames were offering the gentlemen some refreshments while they all talked about Ryan’s possible future. Picking up his glove and rubbing it with oil was a ritual Ryan had begun so many years ago, today the smell of the oil was making him sick to his stomach. Nerves were never a big deal for Ryan, he had stepped onto the mound against a lot of odds and never faltered to nerves, why today? He glanced over at the picture of Allison they had made in a photo booth down bye the shore a few days ago, her smile was so big, he wished he was in that booth with her again. “Come on Ryan, shake it off it’s only a casual look see.” he told himself as he opened the door and headed downstairs. Running his fingers down the wall as he came down the stairs, Ryan turned the corner and entered the room. “Mr. Tuttle, thanks for coming bye, I see mom’s made you some of her famous lemon cookies.” Ryan McJames was on, the charm came easy for him, the room took notice of him right away. Mr. Tuttle may have thought he was courting James but it was quite the other way around. Ryan already knew where he wanted to go, how he was going to get there and when, poor Mr. Tuttle was merely a test run, a meeting to hone his skills before the ‘big game’. The group spent a little over an hour hashing out a would-be plan if the young Mr. McJames decided he’d found his collegiate home in the pamphlets now scattered across his mother’s coffee table. Ryan stood up to express his gratitude at the offers presented to him that day and reassured Mr. Tuttle that he and his family would give it great consideration. The representative left the McJames home feeling he had sealed the deal, like most people he thought exactly what Ryan had wanted him to think.
Allison smoothed down her hair, picked up her red purse and headed for the door. Color was something Allison was not afraid of, while most girls were wearing black she was wrapping a canary yellow scarf around her neck or sporting her new favorite red purse. You would never know by looking at her that getting dressed in the morning was an arduous task. Three or four outfits would lay across her bed before she decided which one fit her mood that day. The full length mirror that stood across from her bed was her worst enemy, it told no lies, hid no truths. The few times Allison actually liked what she saw in the mirror it was as if the looking glass was saying “you naive little thing it’s just an illusion”. Today Allison picked up her red bag, stared at that mirror in defiance trying to see what she knew was there, underneath all the pain, it had to be there.
Ryan rang Allison’s doorbell and was met by Mrs. Blake, a tall woman who had the faint hint of beauty still on her brow. She granted entry for the boy as she summoned her daughter to greet her date. The Blake house was tiny, the air was always thick and the curtains were always shut. A certain slant of light found it’s way through the window in the front room obscuring the bleakness. One could be fooled into believing that joy could be felt in this home, Allison knew the truth. Rachel Blake offered the young couple a drink of iced tea before she headed back to her room, Allison caught the tell-tale unsteadiness in her mother’s walk, she had been drinking. The girl quickly took Ryan by the hand and the two headed out of the house. Get in, get out as quickly as possible it was a routine Allison had come by as a young girl. When friends called for her she would crack the door open slightly and tell them to wait for her on the front steps. On the rare occasion that someone did gain entry, Allison would quickly grab their hand and head for the door, telling them that her mom didn’t really like people in the house. Ryan had become the exception he had been allowed to linger, Rachel Blake would spend a few minutes talking to the handsome boy, it made Allison sick. She wondered how Ryan could not see the mess that Allison saw, how he could stand the sight of her, how he could actually think she was worth speaking to. But there he was glad to see Mrs. Blake every time she opened the door, every time she offered him a glass of iced tea, or clumsily flirted with him. Allison kept waiting for the words to form at his mouth, for the look of utter disgust she had developed over the years, but they never did. The boy never spoke an unkind word about Rachel, he never mentioned that the smell of gin was on her breath, that her low-cut shirts made him uncomfortable or that she looked like a drowned rat even on her good days. Allison was glad of this even if amazed by it, perhaps Rachel’s retched life would finally stop ruining hers. The two hopped into Ryan’s shiny new car and headed for town. Allison looked back as if to see that nothing was following her, but it was, it all was, every bit of the last 10 years followed her every where she went. The music blasted from the radio, Allison held Ryan’s hand as they drove a bit too fast in that shiny new car of his, that vehicle that sped away from it all.
The first time Rachel Blake picked up a drink for any other reason than to be social at dinner was the day she realized her husband was not coming home. She sat in her kitchen staring at a life she had not known really, a life she had built but never felt was hers. Now alone, it all made sense to her, it all had meant nothing, the years, the hours, the minutes had ticked away for nothing. The gin found it’s way into her glass that day, deadening the pain, erasing the thoughts that danced in her head. The descent was slow, the wrecking ball merely chipped away at first, Allison and Jerry thought their mom was just grieving from the lose of her marriage, they had no idea she was grieving for the lose of herself.
Allison smoothed down her hair, picked up her red purse and headed for the door. Color was something Allison was not afraid of, while most girls were wearing black she was wrapping a canary yellow scarf around her neck or sporting her new favorite red purse. You would never know by looking at her that getting dressed in the morning was an arduous task. Three or four outfits would lay across her bed before she decided which one fit her mood that day. The full length mirror that stood across from her bed was her worst enemy, it told no lies, hid no truths. The few times Allison actually liked what she saw in the mirror it was as if the looking glass was saying “you naive little thing it’s just an illusion”. Today Allison picked up her red bag, stared at that mirror in defiance trying to see what she knew was there, underneath all the pain, it had to be there.
Ryan rang Allison’s doorbell and was met by Mrs. Blake, a tall woman who had the faint hint of beauty still on her brow. She granted entry for the boy as she summoned her daughter to greet her date. The Blake house was tiny, the air was always thick and the curtains were always shut. A certain slant of light found it’s way through the window in the front room obscuring the bleakness. One could be fooled into believing that joy could be felt in this home, Allison knew the truth. Rachel Blake offered the young couple a drink of iced tea before she headed back to her room, Allison caught the tell-tale unsteadiness in her mother’s walk, she had been drinking. The girl quickly took Ryan by the hand and the two headed out of the house. Get in, get out as quickly as possible it was a routine Allison had come by as a young girl. When friends called for her she would crack the door open slightly and tell them to wait for her on the front steps. On the rare occasion that someone did gain entry, Allison would quickly grab their hand and head for the door, telling them that her mom didn’t really like people in the house. Ryan had become the exception he had been allowed to linger, Rachel Blake would spend a few minutes talking to the handsome boy, it made Allison sick. She wondered how Ryan could not see the mess that Allison saw, how he could stand the sight of her, how he could actually think she was worth speaking to. But there he was glad to see Mrs. Blake every time she opened the door, every time she offered him a glass of iced tea, or clumsily flirted with him. Allison kept waiting for the words to form at his mouth, for the look of utter disgust she had developed over the years, but they never did. The boy never spoke an unkind word about Rachel, he never mentioned that the smell of gin was on her breath, that her low-cut shirts made him uncomfortable or that she looked like a drowned rat even on her good days. Allison was glad of this even if amazed by it, perhaps Rachel’s retched life would finally stop ruining hers. The two hopped into Ryan’s shiny new car and headed for town. Allison looked back as if to see that nothing was following her, but it was, it all was, every bit of the last 10 years followed her every where she went. The music blasted from the radio, Allison held Ryan’s hand as they drove a bit too fast in that shiny new car of his, that vehicle that sped away from it all.
The first time Rachel Blake picked up a drink for any other reason than to be social at dinner was the day she realized her husband was not coming home. She sat in her kitchen staring at a life she had not known really, a life she had built but never felt was hers. Now alone, it all made sense to her, it all had meant nothing, the years, the hours, the minutes had ticked away for nothing. The gin found it’s way into her glass that day, deadening the pain, erasing the thoughts that danced in her head. The descent was slow, the wrecking ball merely chipped away at first, Allison and Jerry thought their mom was just grieving from the lose of her marriage, they had no idea she was grieving for the lose of herself.
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