As clear as a bell, I can still hear my brother's
announcement. It wasn't said with the
same fervent enthusiasm broadcasting the arrival of Uncle Charlie's Ice Cream
truck which brought children of all ages racing to the street circle for a
summer treat. Nor did I detect a hint of
wonderment as to how it arrived there in the first place. Instead, his candid statement simply floated
from his lips to my ears and we both just stood there looking at the blue
enameled roasting pan that held a lukewarm pot roast ample enough to feed a
large crowd. No other words that I
remember were spoken between the two of us that day and I imagine one or both
of us simply walked into the house to tell our parents it was there and that we
watched from a distance as our grandmother dropped it off. Over the years I have often reflected about
what happened, but try as I might I seem to have mixed ideas stored in my
memory vault about a seemingly scant moment in time that would leave such a
profound impact on our family.
I would have been turning 14 that memorable summer which
placed my younger brothers ages at 13, 10 and 6. Officially a teenager and well past having any interest in hunting tadpoles,
snakes and lizards, I was more than happy to spend summer days at our house on
Elias Drive hanging out with friends, but more often than not, we were still
spending much of our summer vacation in the Laurel Highlands. The boys, still relatively young, had each
other for entertainment and paid minimal attention to me unless they were
conniving up schemes to set my adolescent nerves on end. Being 14 and thinking I was all that, my
siblings had become nothing more than pesky and annoying little brothers and I
couldn't wait until it was time to go back home and leave all my boring,
country mountain days behind me. Little
did I know that by summer's end, I would get my wish.
I remember, as a little girl, the first time I saw the
land where the cabin was to be built. My
parents, grandparents and the rest of our crew all drove up to look at the
acreage but there was little to look at as it was nothing but trees. As a child with limited scope of what it
would become, within a few years it unfolded before my eyes as a one-story
rustic cottage with the earthy scent of a dirt basement that always seemed to
linger throughout the rooms.
The cabin itself wasn't exceptionally large. Three ample bedrooms and a large open spaced
area provided all the eating and lounging area needed for the extended Carr
family to enjoy as a home away from home.
Equipped with all sorts of mish-mosh furnishings that my grandmother
would pick up at an antique or used furniture store where she loved to shop,
she found a huge dining room breakfront that stored everything from food to
kitchen gadget and dining supplies and still remains there today. There were antique trinkets such as toasters
that opened from a side door where the bread had to be turned to toast the
other side, to an old organ that you pumped with your feet that I never heard
anyone play even once. At the end of the
large room was the only source of heat-- a large cast iron potbelly stove that
blazed in the evening and was left to smolder all night. In the cold, early mountain mornings, we
were always glad our great grandmother, Mimi woke up early, lit the stove and
within minutes the cabin was toasty warm while the smell of percolated coffee
filled the air. As we climbed out of our
soft, feathered beds, you would hear the radio playing softly in the background
as my Grandma Carr loved listening to classic church hymns and old-time country
music. She loved Patsy Cline and she
would often times be whistling right along with the tune. On the stove, our standard oatmeal breakfast
was piping hot and just waiting for us to slathered it with sugar and
milk. Lunches were light but dinners
were hearty. There was always a huge
chicken or meat roast along with potatoes, gravy, veggies and bread, but
usually just enough as leftovers were rare and extra potatoes were mashed to
help fill our stomachs.
One particular Sunday at the cottage, my Aunt, Uncle and
cousins, Mary and Clint were visiting for the day and we all sat down together
to eat dinner. My Uncle, somewhat of a persnickety
kind of guy that always organized his plate so that the different foods didn’t
touch, was shoveling his mashed potatoes around making a sort of volcano that
would hold his gravy. In the meantime,
everyone was passing the food and chowing down.
When he finally finished his potato sculpture, he looked up and realized
that all the meat and veggies were gone.
None of us will forget the look on his face and it was always a funny
story that was re-told over and over again.
From a child's perspective, it was a simple life
surrounded by an extended family of love and security. For a long time, there wasn't a TV at the
cottage, so we gathered together each night at the big table to play card games
such as Hearts or Pig while our grandmothers filled the kettles to heat the
sink water so the dishes could be hand washed.
After cards and dishes, the large bathtub was filled with hot kettle
water for our baths. But along with the
water warming on the stove, something else was heating up. By the end of summer things were boiling and
the whistle was blowing loud and shrill.
Our last car ride home from the mountain that day was
uneventful to me and my brothers. In
fact, whatever was spoken between my mom and my grandmother while we were
outside playing never made it to my always-listening-ears. The only remnant remaining of their
conversation was the pot roast that was supposed to be for dinner at the cabin,
but left by my grandmother on the driveway.
It would be ten years before my mom and her parents spoke again. Ten Thanksgivings. Ten Christmases. Ten Birthdays. Ten Anniversaries. In the time it took to cook a pot roast, our
family was changed forever.
Over the years I gleaned bits and pieces of what
happened, but was never really able to put it all together as there were too
many missing segments to assemble this large and challenging puzzle. And although I never understood the cause,
the big picture was simply-- our family was broken and my brothers and I
innocently endured the sad results. It would be forty-six years before I made
the difficult and emotional decision to return to the cabin for a weekend
visit.
My grandma was an important part of my early childhood
and to this day, I can still smell the scent of her as I remember how she
snuggled me close to her full-figured yet cozy embrace. She loved the outdoor swing that hung between
two large trees and with the sway, she would always sing or whistle. I remember the feeling of sleepiness
snuggled in beside her with the slow motion of the swing and to this day enjoy
the rhythm while reading on my porch swing.
My grandmother had an odd idiosyncratic, nervous pick she always did to
a small bump on her hand and I vividly remember her piercing blue eyes that
smiled at me as she brushed and braided my hair. Always taking me along to grocery shop in
Somerset, the car rides were filled with radio music and her whistling. She always drove exceedingly slowly while her
eyes darted to and fro forever looking for trash to treasures to fill the cabin
and her eclectically, messy home.
Living but three doors away from my great grandmother,
Mimi in Swissvale, she often could be found sitting with her on the small front
sun porch of McClure Avenue where her lap was always available for me when I
came to visit. Thanksgiving and
Christmas were always at Mimi's house where several tables were assembled end
upon end making room for the entire family to eat together. Quietly sneaking into the kitchen fridge, I'd
often squirt a dollop of whip cream from the can into my mouth where my grandma
Carr would wink, spank my bottom and then shew me from the room.
These vivid childhood memories replaced the visits and
family time we shared. Sadly, despite
the reconciliation between my mom and her parents all those years later, things
never truly returned to normal for our family.
With the passing of so much time, the bonds we formed faded along with
all the memories that should have been made, but were sadly lost. It didn’t need to be this way, but self and
anger got in the way and the sad realization was that everyone really did love
one another. If only that love, as God
commands us, had flourished, grace would have covered it all and there could
have been forgiveness, healing and unity.
So many years wasted due to bitterness.
But who am I to judge?
I’m as imperfect as they come and can irritate the best of them with my
tenacious energy and outspoken, yet heartfelt ideas. My passion for my hobbies is at times
overbearing and my love for spoiling my grandchildren is all encompassing
because I simply adore them! I am
bluntly honest to a fault and at times can have a sharp tongue with a quick
temper. But the most valuable things I
discovered as a child about family unity through my loss are these.
No matter what happens, I will forgive you. No matter who is right or wrong, I will call
you. No matter the hurtful words or
deeds done or said in anger, I will always be willing to move forward. No matter the past, I won’t hold the future
against you, because, here is the truth.
Ten years goes by in a flash and when it’s gone, it’s
gone.
Like all of my family stories, I write with transparency
about the good, the bad and happy and sad, because just as most families, we
weren't perfect and I wouldn't have us any other way. And while this was certainly a sad chapter
in my life, it didn't encompass my entire life story. I had a wonderful childhood and cherish the
many great memories of our summers in the mountains. But these words as well as my experiences can
be used to grow and learn from.
It's easy to get stuck in the past where it steals from
the present and the future.
SO, if there’s a pot roast
in your driveway, just make a meal out of it — a great big family meal -- where
there's enough food and love to cover it all!
