On the east
facing wall, cups and bowls tip sideways in the cabinets and are ready to
spread a rainbow of mix-matched Tupperware durability across the cluttered,
honey-comb tiled countertop at any given time.
On the opposite wall,
legs of wiry spaghetti stand upright in the stock pot for a time, as
a Mason jar of home-canned tomato sauce sprinkles the range. The percolator, the salt and pepper
shakers, and an aluminum canister holding a generation of lard never leave
their station; sending false promises of bacon into the air anytime the
oven heats up.
And today, a sticky
gravy of cinnamon and peaches licks past a lattice crust sending smoky saccharinity
through the 800 square foot farm-style house.
Looking out the
window above the sink, past the trinkets and the up-cycled jelly jar that holds an
accidental collection of twist-ties and brightly colored plastic barrettes, her
mind is busy but she doesn’t share what it’s busy with.
And a cloud of black
cherry Flavor-aid plumes as tap water hits the bottom of the pitcher.
It’s 4:00 and the sun is still hours
away from setting. In exchange for a tidy kitchen tonight, she’ll offer a
round of pop-bottles to the girls tomorrow, whether they want the job or not.
“Lala, come help Gramma set this
table!” Aunt Lois calls into the yard. “Julie, Dawna, you too!” That's the adult table she's referring to. The one for all the aunts and Grandma. Whether here, or across the ally at his house, Uncle Danny takes his meals in front of the television, most often alternating between Grease, Alien, and a George Strait special which he plays on the Betamax.
“1, 2, 3…” we hear,
all the way to 20. “Olly olly oxen free!” And then squeals emerge from hidden
corners of the four-lot property.
My breath is damp as I hold my shirt
over my mouth, still hiding behind the garage and the grape vines. And then the shouts, “Aaaahhhhh, don't
catch me!” “Run, Nita! Run!” Followed by laughter. A brief argument ensues between the boys and the girls about what’s really “home base.” But it’s cut short
by my grandmother's pronouncement, “Dinner!”
And with that, fifteen pairs of dirty
bare feet pound toward the back door. Each jockeying for position in a
single-file line that tends to break rank bulging three wide, here and there. A few tears are
shed, as the less favored fall to the outer edges, and others claim someone’s
butting.
Another six
mouths are already at the “little kid table” on the back porch. Two tucked into
old-style high chairs--the type with metal trays. The others are boosted up via an eclectic
collection of a worn out Webster’s Dictionary, two sets of Yellow Pages, and a
stack of last week’s subscription to the Sacramento Bee.
Within minutes, everyone is served and sets of best-friends
have scattered around the yard. Some are on swings, others in the half-built
tree-house. Some have even climbed on top of the chicken coop. My crew and I? We are the tame ones, sitting on the back stoop, gushing about boys, and hairstyles, and sleep-overs.
At nine, life is good, especially when you're living commune style for the summer. Because half a cup of
noodles with a splash of color and a slice of toasted Wonder bread is enough
when you’re with cousins. Especially when there's a promise of peach cobbler for
dessert.
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