Pessimism Personified

Flashback prompt work from my old blog. Nine–yes nine!–years ago. How is that even possible? Dated September 28, 2004.

Cassie Stewart set off for town shaking her head and clicking her tongue as if her daughter were in the seat beside her and able to feel the full extent of her disapproval. It was at times like this that she wished there was some truth to that ESP nonsense that had once been so popular. The girl deserved a tongue lashing.

She’d taught her better. She knew it was rude to drop in unannouced. She knew it was wrong to invite oneself over to someone else’s home. The upstart had the nerve to argue that she was simply coming home. Bull. Home was what she moved away to. Noise, cars, fumes, city life and the morals of a cat. That was her home now. The farm was not her home anymore.

Cassie clicked her wedding ring against the hard steering wheel of her Falcon. Lordy, she wasn’t ready. Wasn’t ready to be bullied about the dangers of living at her age alone out there on the farm. About getting a reliable car. This “clunker” as it was fondly referred to ran like a dream except when it didn’t, and then Leroy Smith loved to see her come. He loved getting his hands on a motor that was a motor and not some conglomeration of newfangled computerized nonsense.

And so what if she died all alone on the kitchen floor from a stroke or something. It was a whole lot better prospect than dying from being shut up in some high-rise “assisted living center” which was really a fancified name for a good old nursing home, and came with a high rise price tag too. No way Henry’s hard earned money was going to be dumped in some CEO’s lap just so her daughter could rest easy at night after she’d had the nerve to move too far away.

She gave the wheel a solid thunk with the palm of her hand while she waiting at the next traffic light. She was missing The Price Is Right! And for what? To buy lasagna that her grandchildren would end up feeding the floor with. There would be noise and teasing the cat and sitcoms that turned her stomach and those side-wise glares she got when she’d crossed some unseen boundary with advice or discipline. Well, it was her house, she’d remind the missy. If she didn’t like it she didn’t have to stay.

Her wheels hit the curb with a satisfying jolt in front of Turner’s Grocery. Thomas stood in the doorway, chatting with someone she didn’t know. There had been a day in time what that wouldn’t have been possible. Cassie gathered her handbag and sighed. If she could be given one wish it would be to turn back the hands of time and render them permanent. Which time? That she would have to think hard about before she did it. But this aging nonsense was for the birds.

“Hi, Mrs. Stewart,” Thomas said with a smile after she slammed her car door heartily. “Kids coming for a visit again?”

(photo by Peter Mazurek)

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The prompt for this was from a random generator that I closed before I copied. Something about a pessimistic old lady. 🙂

Edited with BlogPad Pro

Cookies and Other Pressing Matters

I recently made an impulse purchase. This is not something I do often.

I was invited to a Pampered Chef Facebook party, a whole new avenue of temptation. Silly me. With just a couple of curious, unguarded clicks, there it was: my cookie press.

Not quite like hers, but will do

Nostalgia took over.

I helped my Grandma Lewis make cookies with a cookie press once. One time. I don’t remember what time of year it was, nor that warm-sugar smell of them baking. I don’t even remember how fabulous the cookies tasted.

I remember making them.

The dough had cream cheese in it and was yummy before it even went into the press. How could the cookies be anything but tasty on the other side? How fascinated I was with watching the dough ooze through the different disks at the bottom of the press and become the most lovely cookies I’d ever seen.

Of course I wanted to try my hand at it. It looked easy enough. It wasn’t. My enthusiasm was squashed when my attempts looked nothing like hers. She reassured me that it just took practice and gave me other jobs I could do, like sprinkling colored sugar over those beautiful shapes or filling centers with strawberry jam. I knew someday I would be able to press cookies just like her.

Grandma Lewis & Me

Someday would be a long time coming. Though I did press play dough every chance I got, so perhaps I got some practice in after all. We shall see.

The other pressing matters?

My Grandma Lewis was not deliberately trying to create a memory that would last a lifetime. She was happy to include me in an activity of her everyday life. Nothing can erase the warm simplicity of being together and being allowed to be childishly curious, determined, disappointed and reassured. It doesn’t take an expensive, coordinated “event” to make an impression. Yes, those parties will be well-recorded. Trips to the zoo or the circus are good times for bonds to be strengthened. But the everyday chores and activities hold great potential, too.

Thus it becomes a pressing matter to spend time with the children we love–our own, nieces, nephews, grandchildren, even the children next door. The more time we share, the greater their storehouse of memories. We won’t know in the moment which ones will hold a special place–and perhaps make a huge difference–in a young one’s heart.

Do it now. Don’t wait till later; we might not have the time we think we do to make more of them. I lost my grandmother when I was eight.

So now it is on to the pressing matter of real practice. Next time my great-nieces are here we will press cookies.

Do you have a similar childhood memory? What made it special?