by Lisa Samson
“You hail from Lutherville too?”
“Born and bred. Well, sort of. Towson too.”
“Well, do come in.”
She’s very pretty, our Kirsten, slightly overweight. A pair of Levis hugs her hips, and a heathery sweater overlays a good-sized bosom. No makeup, but then, she doesn’t need any. Her voice sounds like I expected, soft and musical. “What brings you over this way?”
“I got your e-mail this morning, and an idea came to mind.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee? Or tea, perhaps?”
“Tea would be wonderful.”
“Come back to the kitchen.”
I follow her down the central hallway, gaping at the living room, the dining room, the drawing room, the music room, the sun room, and the den, and the antiques that fill them. “This is unbelievable!”
“These things are so old.” She points to an old high chair in the corner of the kitchen. “My great-grandfather’s.”
“No kidding!”
“No. This house is truly a museum commemorating my dead ancestors.”
“It’s gorgeous.”
“Funny, but I find it horribly depressing. I’m thinking about buying a sunny condo. Have a seat at the table.” She grabs a cherry-wood box from the counter, opens it up, and presents to me a selection of high-quality teas. “What would you prefer?”
“Oh my. What’s your favorite?”
“Hmm.” She turns it around. “Nobody’s ever asked me that before.”
Poor dear.
Oh, good grief, I’m even starting to think like my mother.
“Mother didn’t like tea at all. I kept this box and a hot pot up in my room. It was nice to be able to bring it out in the open. I just love good tea.”
“Me too.”
“Let’s see. There’s English breakfast, always a good choice. And green tea. I’ve got some loose green tea.”
“Love to try it.”
“I’ll make up a pot!”
She scurries at top speed, moving like a little squirrel beneath a freshly shaken oak tree. She fills a large kettle, the water drumming against the bottom. I smell something fresh-baked too.
“I can’t believe you’re sitting here in my kitchen. I don’t wish you to take this the wrong way, but your columns helped me through some pretty dark days.”
“Thank you.”
“No, the thanks are mine.”
She’s so normal.
She spoons tea into a ball, opens a cupboard that towers to the eleven-foot ceiling, and gently lifts down a Belleek teapot.
Sometimes in your life you know you are exactly where you were meant to be. I sit in that place, and man, it feels good. God’s working right now, and I get to be part of it. Anticipation fills me.
“Our tea should be ready in just a few minutes. Shall I set out a plate of cookies?”
“If it isn’t any trouble.”
“None at all. I baked them earlier. I can’t resist a good cookie.”
Her educated tone surprises me. She must be well-read, having been cooped up with Joan Crawford all those years. “Do you like to read, Kirsten?”
“I love to read. You as a writer must love to as well.”
“I used to read all the time. But I don’t have much free time anymore. My mother is very ill.”
“Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that.” And I can tell she means it.
“What do you like to read?”
“Of course, the classics. But I love women’s fiction, the empowering kind. I need that sometimes.”
“I’ll bet.”
She leans back against the counter. “It’s funny, but we hear all the time about our chains being forged by men, and yet, with women like me, and I’m sure I’m not alone in this, it’s other women who put us in the most severe bondage.”
Hear, hear! “We do try to live up to expectations, don’t we? Perceived or otherwise.”
“I think that’s the saddest thing. We find it hard to confront people and their expectations, and so we snap to, when maybe we’re misinterpreting the masks they wear. Maybe they long to rip off their own masks as well.”
“You said in your e-mail that you were seeking some community in your life.”
“Absolutely.” The kettle whistles, and she grabs it, pouring the boiling water into the fragile pot. I wonder how the delicate china handles the heat. Because it was made to?
I tuck that thought away. “Well, there’s a group of women that meet at my house. We call ourselves Club Sandwich.”
“That’s cute.”
I tell her the purpose of the group. “I thought maybe you’d like to come be a part.”
“But I don’t quite fit. I don’t have children.”
“But you know what it’s like to live under scrutiny, to rise to unreal expectations.”
She dips the tea ball up and down. “I didn’t always rise to Mother’s standards.”
“Then you’d fit in even better. What do you say? They’re awfully nice ladies.”
“I’ve no doubt of that. When do you meet?”
“Every other Monday night.”
“Are they all Christian ladies like yourself?”
“No. Most are. My neighbor’s Jewish, and she comes.”
“Good. I’m really trying to expand my life.”
She pours the tea into a cup with a portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie on the side and sets it in front of me. Her cup is bright with pink roses.
“I feel like I’ve been shot out of a gun, Mrs. Schneider.”
I wave my hand. “Please call me Ivy.”
She nods.
“And it isn’t any wonder, Kirsten. How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“That’s when a lot of people say life begins.” Actually, I believe it’s forty, but that’s not important, right? She raises her cup. “To life, then.”
“To life.”
To life.
21
My cell phone rings. I grab it from its resting place beside the cash register.
“What have you done with my bistro?” And a blankety-blank-blank-blank.
Stay calm, Ivy. Breathe, count to ten, do jumping jacks, whatever.
“Who have you been talking to, Brian?”
“Everybody. Not that you’ve called.”
“You’re a bonehead. There, is that what you wanted to hear? Because that’s all I’ve got to offer. That’s why I haven’t called. I’ve been here, keeping your job alive, not to mention trying to do my own, while looking after three kids and three parents.”
“I’m in rehab. What more do you want?”
“Nothing. In fact, I want nothing from you. And don’t you dare get on your high horse about the blue plate specials. You were running this business into the ground with all your hoity-toity nonsense. We’re doing a lunch business like you wouldn’t believe.”
“That’s not the angle I was going for, and you know it.”
I grip the phone. “Maybe. But I own a chunk of this business too. I do have an interest.”
“Well, if Rusty was home maybe you’d be getting some, and you’d leave me alone.”
Why do my siblings seem to think they can throw Rusty in my face?
“Oh please. Women aren’t like men, Brian. And most men aren’t like you. Now, are you done?”
“Not nearly. Who do you think you are, Ivy? The little sister taking over Mom’s role? And I hear you’re getting chummy with Dad these days too.”
I’m going to kill Brett.
“You’re the one that asked me to take him in!”
“I did not. I just told you of his circumstances. You took him in all on your own.”
I punch the End button.
I head back to the kitchen. Lunch in full swing, Matty and Garret do the chefs’ waltz. “Guys, what do you think about the blue plates?”
Garret checks on a pan under the broiler. “I like it.”
“Me too.” Matty. “Business has sure picked up.”
“Bottom line.” Garret.
“Okay, just making sure. By the way, the chicken croquettes are a big hit.”
“Cool.” Matty.
Garret nods.
So there, Brian.
Can somebody just beam me up to Mars?
I punch Brett’s number into the phone by the register. “So tell me again what a great guy Brian was before Dad left.”
“I know. He called me and complained too. Typical Brian. He can say all sorts of things about our lives, but heaven help us if we return the favor.”
“He cussed me out royally.”
“Me too.”
“You? Why you?”
“Basically because I was trusting enough to answer the darn phone.”
We laugh.
“Will we ever get to the other side, Brett?”
“Oh, we have to, Ivy. If we don’t kill each other first.”
Harry has dug out his saxophone, Trixie beats on a pot, and Reuben sings in a glorious baritone, which isn’t surprising. Rusty had to inherit it from somewhere. Lyra strums her guitar, and Mom sways on the couch as they all take the A Train.
Persy plays his GameCube. Oh well.
It’s funny how memory can be so selective. I remember Harry doing so little for us, but now I recall many nights when he played his saxophone to the old records, and Mom sang along, and Brian played his guitar, Brett her clarinet. I was Trixie in those days, banging away on a snare drum he traded for an eye exam.
That happened a lot, Harry giving services for whatever his patients might trade. Funny how I forgot that big bag of socks or sweet potatoes in his fist when he swung through the door at the end of the day, and the funny stories he told about the interesting folk who came his way.
“Boyd Horn was in today,” he’d say every April.
“What did he say this time?” one of us would ask. And he’d scrunch up his nose to ensure the right nasality. I’ll never forget this one: “Yes, Dr. Starling, my wife is fragrant with our first child!”
“Fragrant!” And we laughed and laughed.
Why did he leave all that? What did he run from? Or to? Somebody’s not telling us something, and the truth is, maybe I’m better off not knowing.
Mom screams. “What’s he doing in my house!” and points at Harry across the breakfast table.
“Mom? Harry’s been here for weeks. Remember? He’s been driving you to Family First sometimes.”
Why am I doing this? Obviously, she’s out of her gourd.
“Get him out of here! Please, get him out!”
Harry rises to his feet. “I’m going, babe.”
“Don’t you ‘babe’ me, you snake, you guttersnipe, you letch!”
Wow. Dorothy’s inhibitions have taken their final curtain call. I feel sorry for my father, but let’s face it, he’s had this coming for a long time.
He beats it down the basement steps.
“Come on, Mom. Let’s go to your room.”
“I’m not done with my breakfast, Ivy, and I’ll thank you not to browbeat me.”
I bite my tongue but can’t suppress a smile. It’s good to see her out of her shell, even for an occasion like this.
Everyone finishes up quickly. The kids grab their book bags and jump into Reuben’s car without being told it’s time to leave.
“I don’t want to go back to that place, Ivy.”
“Mom, it isn’t safe for you to be here by yourself.”
“I don’t care!” And she begins to cry. And I cry right along with her. Dear God, getting old is so frightening. I hope I just drop dead, still in my right mind, still healthy. Just drop dead and make it easy on everybody else.
Brett calls. “Brian’s here, in case you were wondering.”
“He’s out?”
“Yeah. I picked him up this morning. He’ll be at the restaurant tomorrow.”
“What about his apartment?”
“Evicted.”
“What about Mom’s apartment?”
“I don’t trust him to live alone yet.”
“Well, he can’t stay here. We’re bursting at the seams.”
“Did I ask you to take him in?”
“No, but I thought maybe you were hinting.”
She laughs. The tension scatters. “I’ve got him covered.”
“Thanks. Brian and I have never gotten along.”
“No kidding, Sherlock. Well, you’ve got enough on your plate. I do realize that, Ive.”
“Thanks for that, too.”
I tell her about Mom’s outburst.
“No way! That’s hilarious.”
“Yeah, it was a regular barrel of monkeys.”
“Sorry, but you’ve got to admit he deserved that.”
“You know, I thought it would bring some satisfaction, but I actually felt some pity for Harry.”
“You don’t know him the way I do.”
I beg to differ, but I only say, “You’re right.” I’m not up to a brouhaha today.
“You going in to the restaurant?”
“No, the boys have it under control, and Mom refuses to go back to the day-care place. Luckily there was a thirty-day trial period that ends tomorrow. She’s in her room watching a soap.”
“Where’s Trixie?”
“In there with her. Did I tell you she’s finally potty-trained?”
“You must be thrilled.”
“You have no idea.”
“What do you have going this afternoon?”
“Mom’s got a test over near St. Joe’s.”
“I’ll take her.”
“Really? Thanks.”
“Marcus just has to know he’s not all I’ve got going.”
Hey, whatever her reason for doing this, I’ll take it. “How’s the campaign?”
“Fine. Lots of bucks coming his way. It’s been busy, and it’s only March. I don’t know what it’s going to be like come September.”
“Well, I’ll be home during the day. Come by whenever you like. Coffeepot’s always on.”
“I may just take you up on that.”
Finding the female heroes of Baltimore County? Piece of cake. Mitch paved the way with this newsletter. I’m always talking to cool women. But this one came to me by another channel.
Women Wonders, Column 1
by Ivy Starling-Schneider
Mrs. Geneva Parker, born in 1930, whirls through life with the joy of a child. In her tiny home in Essex, she’s raised ten children, six of them her own offspring, three brothers, and finally her sister, Elaine. Her parents died when she was sixteen. Forty foster children have since passed through her little cottage as well, mostly newborns, older children occasionally.
“I think newborns are better than candy! Sweeter. And let’s face it, you don’t want to kiss a peppermint drop! Of course some of those babies stayed on a little longer, and we had us a good time.”
Geneva has directly impacted the lives of over fifty children. I had the privilege of sitting with her in the VFW hall up in Bel Air, where several of her biological children now live. Called the Geneva Summit, it hosted over a hundred people devouring pit beef and bay wings, drinking Coors or Cokes, laughing and kissing the cheek of the woman who held loving court in an easy chair set up by the water fountain.
The stories would take an entire issue of this paper to tell, probably more, but when I asked Geneva to name one thing she did that gave these children stability, her reply surprised all of us.
“Roller skating. No one left my house without knowing how to cross over at the curve, skate backward, and do a decent doubles skate.”
How did that make a difference?
“If you can keep your feet beneath you wearing wheels and traveling on a slick wooden floor, you can keep your feet beneath you anywhere.”
More memories flowed from those standing around. They recounted times when Geneva took them skating, held their hands, lifted them up when they fell, kissed their hurts with tenderness. “Now get right back in there
and try again!” she always said, according to Leon, one of the foster children, now thirty-five and a paramedic. Helping professions abound in the legacy of Geneva Parker: a doctor, four teachers, a handful of physical therapists, a social worker, even the town barber, who assures me his chair is a place of refuge.
“We wouldn’t be where we are today without this woman,” more than one of her kids said. And looking at this kind-faced lady who still pats cheeks and hands, it’s clear the truth has been spoken.
Bada-bing, bada-boom. I send the column off with the file of pictures I shot at that sweet reunion. Oh man, I like this so much better. It isn’t about me now. Not even remotely!
I found Geneva through Dani. She went to school with one of Geneva’s foster kids and was over there all the time herself. At the last meeting of Club Sandwich, at which Kirsten was a big hit, Dani told us, “This lady, Geneva Parker, was my saving grace. My mom never has been well, and those afternoons I sat with Geneva, looking at old picture albums or watching a soap … I realize now that’s what kept me going.”
“So your mother’s always been ill?”
“Not physically, like now. But mentally.”
“I had no idea!” Debbie.
“Yeah, it was pretty bad sometimes.”
Krystal leaned forward. “Did she drink?”
“Yeah. Although I didn’t realize it until I was older.”
“Self-medicating.” Krystal. “I see it all the time at church.”
“Where’s your dad in all this?” I asked.
“He died last year. They were both older when they had me. He was a great man, though. Unskilled, worked several jobs to keep food on the table. Unfortunately, that left my mom to me, and it wasn’t long before the roles reversed.”
“How old were you when that happened?” Brenda.
“About nine, I guess.”
Debbie shook her head. “Tell me why life is so sad.”
I had the pat Christian answer, but that night it didn’t seem to apply.
But sometimes, like now, sitting at my kitchen table, Old Barbara fired up, writing about Geneva, a beam of light shines. If there were no pain, there would be no place for the Genevas of this world to work, to succor and heal and distribute the loving mercy God so longs to give us.
There’d be no doctors or nurses, no ministers, no social workers, no rescue-mission workers. We’d be missing a large bolt in the cloth of living, and we’d not be wise, for there’d be no lessons from which to learn.
