George Hartmann Box Set

by Kelly Utt

  “That’s sweet,” she says. “But it’s going to be hard for me to completely relax until this house is unpacked.”

  “All in good time,” I reassure as I pick up a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo out of a canvas bag brought in last night from the car, then turn on the warm water and step into the shower. “We have help.” Our new shower has herringbone tile on two walls and clear glass on the other two. I kind of love the idea of showering while on display for my wife. The deep soaker bathtub sits right beside the shower and has four gorgeous, tall windows above it, all overlooking the sparkling lake. This house has a ton of natural light. I know Ali is going to get good use out of that tub. We’ve talked about home birth and water birth for little Will. Maybe he’ll come into the world right here, in our bathroom tub. We’ll see what the midwives think when we meet with them next week. Midwives delivered both Ethan and Leo and we wouldn’t have it any other way for Will, assuming no complications, of course.

  “I know we have plenty of help with the house, and I’m so glad,” Ali says. “Hey, are you going to wear a flannel shirt today? You know how I love you in a nice flannel. And we have company coming. Your thick red, blue and tan one, maybe? Oh, and it’s going to be cold again today. How about one of your pullover sweaters on top? The gray one with the v-neck?”

  “I thought you were heading to the living room to be with the boys, but instead you’re still here, and you’re giving me fashion advice?” I tease. “I’ve been dressing myself a long time, Ms. Davies. I think I can handle it.”

  “Oh, you’ve been dressing yourself, alright,” she says with a smile. “Dressing yourself in t-shirts and jeans. It’s hard to even keep you in jeans when it’s more than 40 degrees outside. I’ll never understand how you go out in the cold wearing shorts. It doesn’t even seem to bother you.”

  “And?” I ask, wiping the steam off a section of glass and pressing my nose up against it while opening my eyes really wide. We laugh together. My goofiness is not an act. I’m that way by default. But I think it’s exactly what Ali needs. From what I can tell, laughter is a big part of a happy relationship. It’s certainly a big part of ours. Time passes, kids grow up, circumstances change, and looks fade. If you can laugh together though, I’m pretty sure that part endures.

  Ali slides out the bathroom door, still chuckling, and I finish my shower. Then I dry myself off with a towel, apply some deodorant, and head to the bedroom where my suitcase sits unopened in the closet. Might as well take everything out and hang it up. Not surprisingly, my red, blue, and tan flannel shirt is folded neatly on top along with my gray v-neck sweater and some khaki pants. Ali didn’t mention the khaki pants specifically, but I can take a hint. I’ll wear them for her. She must have packed them this way so I’d have the right outfit at the right time. Part of me wants desperately to throw on some old gym shorts and any t-shirt I can get my hands on. I mean, Mom and John Wendell aren’t here yet and I’m steaming hot. It feels like a million degrees inside my body, pretty much all the time. Isn’t every guy like that? Besides, as crazy as it sounds, I don’t think I’ve ever really gotten used to having more than a few items of clothing to choose from.

  Before I was born, Mom was a secretary. She worked the main reception desk at the local hospital where she handled all sorts of important matters like informing media about the status of patients brought in for emergency care and coordinating with family members so they knew what was happening with their loved ones. She didn’t earn much, but she was proud. It was honest, rewarding work. When I was born, she left her job and took time off to raise me. I don’t think I’ve ever told her just how much it meant to me, but I appreciate that selfless act more than I can adequately express. I’m a better man because of it. I know I am. I have all kinds of great memories of me and Mom together during the years before I was old enough to go to Kindergarten. She took me to parks for playgrounds and shared picnic lunches, to libraries for story times, and to beaches for swimming in the summer when it got hot and sticky outside. We did the classic mom and little boy stuff that good childhoods are made of. It brings a tear to my eye thinking about it even now. I know our family had financial problems because I heard about them when I got older, but I didn’t know about them then. Life was easy in those days. I remember all kinds of simple pleasures, like listening to the sound of Mom’s voice as she talked on the phone and absentmindedly stroked my hair. I could lay my head in her lap and doze off without a care in the world. I remember thunderstorms in the City and the smell of falling rain. I remember birthday cakes and balloons. I remember ice cream trucks broadcasting their familiar jingles in the neighborhood and the thrill of getting in line in time to score an orange push pop before they ran out. I remember the sweet breath and tentative mews of pet kittens, and I remember Mom nursing one particular little guy named Socks back to health after he was hit by a neighbor kid’s bicycle. She was a natural nurturer. I remember her sewing Halloween costumes for me, always honoring my requests no matter how complicated the pattern. She sewed me pillows and stuffed animals, too. I remember being lulled to sleep many afternoons by the sound of her sewing machine and the rhythmic motion of her foot on the pedal. I remember Mom bundling me up warm and safe when it was cold outside, and taking me out in the sled to play when the first snow of the season arrived. I remember the smell of homemade spaghetti and meatballs at supper time, and the jingle of Dad’s keys in the door on evenings when he made it home in time to eat with us. I remember my parents being happy together. I remember them dancing in the living room and kissing each other on the lips. And I remember the sheer bliss of staying up late to watch TV with them in their big bed, one of my arms around each of their necks. Dad was gone working a lot, but the time he was home always seemed good. I remember knowing that I was thoroughly loved by both of my parents, right down to the core.

  Things got a little more complicated when I went to school. I was carefree at first. But little by little, I became aware that not having a lot of money carried a stigma and might be an issue. A brat named Johnny Triff took it upon himself to enlighten me about the ways and means of the wealthier set. I didn’t realize rich families had cars until Johnny asked me why we didn’t have one. Imagine my surprise when I learned that rich families lived in entire brownstones by themselves rather than sharing the inside space like we did with other residents of tiny subdivided apartments. I’m sure Johnny was unhappy and just lashing out to make himself feel better, but his comments stung. Sometimes I didn’t have the right shoes, or the right designer clothes to suit him.

  Johnny grew bolder as I grew more uncomfortable. Once he found out my dad was the owner of Hartsmart, the harassment escalated even more. Apparently owning a chain of busy department stores meant we should have had plenty of money and the fact that we didn’t was hilarious in Johnny’s diabolical mind. I was too young to understand the realities of running a business and how revenue is very different than profit. I knew Johnny had a point. The stores were busy. And yet we didn’t have nice things like the people who shopped at my dad’s stores were buying. I thought maybe my dad was somehow doing it wrong. Or maybe it was something about me. Maybe he didn’t want to spend his money on me and Mom. That sounds crazy, I know. Kids take everything so personally. It was hard to sort out in my mind, but I came home crying more than once thanks to Johnny Triff. Mom had started working part-time by then. She was usually there when I got home after school to help me with homework and cook supper, but not always. A neighbor checked in on me when Mom wasn’t there. I kept that interaction to a minimum and said just enough to be left alone. I remember bawling my eyes out one lonely September afternoon when Johnny had told the kids at our lunch table I was adopted and that’s why my dad didn’t want to share his money with me. Mom and Dad were both at work. It was horrible. I knew what Johnny said wasn’t true. But I was in agony. A million thoughts raced through my young mind, most prominently, thoughts of how unfair it all was and how when I grew up I’d find a way to get enough
money for all the things I wanted.

  I was deep in an emotional tailspin when I heard a knock at the door and a friendly voice. It was Uncle Liam, stopping by to make me dinner and hang out for awhile. Mom was running late, so Dad had called him. Liam was young himself, in his early 20s at this point, but he was good with me. He dried my tears and we talked about privilege and wealth over tuna noodle casserole at the little kitchen table in my family’s tiny apartment. He told me about how he and Dad had grown up poor with Grandad and Grandmother Marks and Benny, but how they were truly and deeply loved. He told me how that love had overflowed right on down to Mom and me because Dad had so much to give, and he explained how love is worth so much more than money. We decided together that Johnny Triff must not have the kind of love I did, or else he wouldn’t treat other people so poorly. On that day, sitting there with Liam, something set deep inside me and I decided I didn’t need a bunch of money or material things. Those traumatic experiences had seared into my mind, into my bones, but it felt like Liam was showing me a way to tuck that all away and measure my wealth in love. From then on, I guess I got used to not having enough, and not having the right stuff. A set point had solidified, and I haven’t moved much from it. That’s probably why I’m having trouble moving from it now. I got the message loud and clear that love and people are more important than things. That’s the absolute truth in life and the world. It’s funny how it’s easier to understand and rationalize it all when you don’t have any money. Once you’ve experienced poverty and come to that understanding though, how do you go about coming to terms with the flip side of having material wealth and financial prosperity? I’ve got a ways to go.

  I often think about all Mom and Dad did so I could have a good life. Every day. Every walk to work. Every trip to the bottom floor of our building to wash and dry laundry. Every mended button. Every pot of spaghetti. They paved the way. They poured their best into our family. For me. So that I could lead a fulfilling life and so I wouldn’t have the same worries they did. What a gift they gave me. We’ve come a long way in just a couple of generations.

  Lady and the boys are rolling around on the leather sofa happily when I walk into the living room. I still can’t get over these views of the lake from almost every room in the house. It feels like we’re on vacation. I can hardly believe this is our home. “Good morning, buddies!” I say to my kiddos. I plop down between them and squeeze each of them tight before planting kisses on the tops of their little heads. I love the smell of those little heads. I’ll kiss them as long as they’ll let me. They smell especially nice right now, like fruity-scented detangler. Ali must have combed their hair with it as she got them dressed for the day. I’m not sure how she even had time to get them dressed during the few minutes when I was finishing up in the shower and contemplating my childhood, but she did. “And good morning, Lady girl,” I add. Lady looks at me approvingly as Leo pats one of her front paws. She’s in heaven when she’s with these boys. Hey, I get it. She’s a dog who wants to feel useful. With them, she does. In many ways, she’s like a canine babysitter. Ali and I know we have a little more leeway when she’s around. We can step a little farther away, and we can take a little longer to check in. If they’re in any danger, Lady will let us know. That is if she hasn’t already intervened and taken care of the problem. In fact, that’s a big reason we’re comfortable with the boys sleeping upstairs in this big house. I’m not sure we’d be ok with it if Lady weren’t around.

  Ali is unpacking books and placing them on a set of low bookshelves at the other end of the room. “Get out of here, Mommy,” I tease. “You need a shower.”

  “Yeah, Mommy,” Ethan chimes in. “Daddy’s gonna make us creama eat. You go get clean and dressed up like a pretty princess.” I can’t help but laugh every time he says ‘creama eat.’ Ethan’s been calling Cream of Wheat that for as long as I can remember. I think it started back when he was littler and couldn’t say it right, but then the new name sort of stuck. It makes perfect sense when you think about it from a little kid’s perspective. Of course, Leo believes the sun rises and sets with his big brother, so he’s happy to call it ‘creama eat,’ too. “Creama eat, creama eat,” they both chant in unison. I tickle Leo’s belly as I hoist him onto one hip, then I grab Ethan and sling him around my other side so he can hang onto my neck and ride on my back like a little monkey. Ali flashes us her megawatt smile as she claps her hands together to dust them off on the way to the bathroom.

  “Let’s do it, boys. Creama eat happens to be one of my specialties. Coming right up,” I say. “What should we have in our creama eat this morning? Bananas? Raisins? Ohhhh, I know. How about cinnamon?”

  “Yeah!” Ethan says. “I want all of those things.”

  “Me, Daddy, too,” Leo says. He’s not usually a fan of bananas, but we’ll try them. I’ll add a slice or two and see if he eats those before I cut up an entire banana for him. You never know with a two-year-old. Tastes are always changing. I sit Leo in his booster seat and pull the chair it’s attached to towards the stove so he can get in on the action. Ethan climbs up onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island to get a good vantage point as I take out a small saucer and the Cream of Wheat box to get things cooking while we chat. This room has a view of the lake, too, and it’s magical.

  “This is a very special morning, because it’s the very first morning in our new house,” I say. “We’re going to live here a long time. We’ll eat breakfast right here in this kitchen many, many times. So many times it will be hard to count. We’ll sit right over at that table, or maybe some days we’ll sit here at the island. Some days we might even stand up to eat our breakfast if we’re in a really big hurry. But there will never be another first time after this one. Isn’t that special?”

  “Wow, Daddy,” Ethan says. “That is special.”

  “Wow, wow, wow,” Leo parrots.

  “Should we do something extra special when Mommy comes out of the shower to celebrate?” I ask. “Can you think of a way to make our special first breakfast in the new house extra special?” Never one to be short on ideas, Ethan takes less than a minute before he jumps up onto his knees, ready to tell us his plan.

  “I know, Daddy,” Ethan says as Leo’s eyes grow wide with anticipation. “We can make up a breakfast song and sing it together.”

  “Okay,” I respond. “Good idea, son. Do you have a song in mind?”

  “Not yet, Daddy,” Ethan says as if I’m asking a completely silly question. “That’s why I said we have to make it up. You know, from our imaginations.”

  “Oh, I see. Right.” I say. “How should we start?”

  Leo’s gears are turning now and he’s ready to add to the discussion. “And clapping!” he says gleefully, smashing his chubby little hands together and bouncing up and down in his seat.

  “You’ve got it, Leo. There will definitely be clapping!” I reply. Both boys are thinking hard, but I know I had better step up and pull things together for our extra special made up song. One good thing about toddlers is that they’re a captive audience. I’m pretty sure I could make up a terrible song and then sing it out of tune, and they’d still like it because I’m their daddy. With that boost of confidence, I’m ready to begin.

  “Okay, I think I have an idea,” I tell them. “How about we pick a song we already know and then we change the words to make it our own?” They both look at me like they think they understand, but also maybe not. “I’ll show you,” I say. “Like, if we use a tune from a song we know and add different words. How about Wheels on the Bus? We all know that one, right?” I ask. They nod eagerly and we sing through it together to get a baseline.

  “Now, what if we changed the words to something like The Hartmanns in the kitchen go cook cook cook, cook cook cook, cook cook cook, the Hartmanns in the kitchen go cook cook cook, on their special first breakfast morning,” I sing, to instant rave reviews. “How about that?” I ask. Leo giggles uncontrollably and Ethan is so excited he has to climb down to
the floor so he can dance along. Lady sits up and then prances around a bit, happy because the rest of us are.

  “I know, Daddy,” Ethan chimes in as he lifts up his elbows to march along. “Next can be eat, because we eat after we cook.” I put Leo back onto my hip and we all sing together: “The Hartmanns in the kitchen go eat eat eat, eat eat eat, eat eat eat, the Hartmanns in the kitchen go eat eat eat, on their special first breakfast morning.”

  “Excellent job, Ethan! Now again with clapping like Leo suggested,” I say as we launch into a repeat, this time louder and with lots of enthusiastic clapping. We try out variations on what the Hartmanns in the kitchen do, including drink, sing, play, and dance. Soon Ali hears the commotion and comes to join in the fun. She dances around the kitchen gracefully while her wavy hair dries in a sea of delicate wisps. I stop to pick up Lady’s front paws, so she can walk upright like a person and the boys can barely contain their delight. When the ‘creama eat’ is ready, we add our bananas, raisins, and cinnamon, and we gobble it down. We share a pitcher of smooth chocolate milk, and we wipe our chins with soft napkins. Mission accomplished. This is a morning we won’t soon forget. The most important people in my entire world are right here, and I’m finally going to get to spend plenty of time with them now that I’ve moved over into the civilian world. I am a happy man.

  4

  A Glow

  The rest of our Saturday unfolds just as nicely as the morning did. Mom and John Wendell arrive on time and we split up to accomplish our tasks as planned. Ali, Mom, and Leo stay at the house to meet with our interior designer, while John Wendell and Ethan go along with me to run errands. I realize I had better pick up more groceries than just fruits and vegetables if I want to feed everyone coming into town, so after the farmer’s market, we add a stop at Harold’s Food Market over on South Meadow Street. It’s another one of John Wendell’s favorite places. Of course, he doesn’t complain. Harold’s is a grocery store which also has a cafeteria-style eatery popular with the retired set. I find the food in the eatery a bit bland, like I do most other cafeteria-style food, but John Wendell doesn’t seem to mind. The three of us talk it over and decide to eat lunch right here at Harold’s. We figure we’re already here, so we might as well. I had thought about trying out a new pizza restaurant called Pepperoni Parlor, but we can hit The Parlor, as it’s affectionately becoming known, one day next week. We have time. I don’t report to Cornell for another nine days. And even after I start work, I expect to be able to get away for lunches with the family. When we’re done shopping and eating lunch, we head to Icy Scoops for what is arguably the main event. As usual, their frozen treats do not disappoint. I’m not sure whether it’s Ethan or John Wendell who is more excited to get their hands on a sweet, cool waffle cone with creamy goodness inside. Ice cream is timeless. It unites generations, and it certainly unites ours. We’re grateful for the simple pleasure.