Looking out my Backdoor: The way we were raised

Turned out to be a surprise party at my house, planned by Ana and Leo, unbeknownst to either myself or Michelle.

I knew Ana and Michelle were coming over. I’d asked them if they would accept a lovely tooled leather stool that had no acceptable place to live in my home but I thought it would have several spots it would like to live at their place. Michelle said they had to be in town so would stop by to get the stool.

I’d considered asking Michelle if she’d bring her espresso machine but nixed that idea. But I decided to whip together a batch of scones to slide into the oven when I heard them turn off the highway.

In the way of vague plans, this one picked up a gang of hitchhikers along the way. The gals arrived shortly after the garbage truck turned down the lane so I never heard a thing until the jangle-clang of the goat bell at my gate. Ana and Michelle’s voices sang out a greeting as they came through the gate lugging a laundry basket filled with food items to prepare breakfast.

Ana put together breakfast burritos with all the trimmings. I slid the scones in the oven. Michelle set up her aging one-cup espresso machine. We had a regular restaurant going. Leo arrived and Janet walked over from next door. Talk about feast and flapping lips!

I like a good coffee. “I’ve thought about getting one of those small machines but then I’d want it every day and it wouldn’t be a treat.”

“It’s the way you were raised,” Michelle answered. “My mom is like that.”

“Michelle makes herself an espresso treat every morning,” Ana said.

The eyeballs of my inner understanding shouted “ah ha” and instantly carried me back in time.

My grandma, who raised me, had trunks of beautiful dishes and tablecloths and assorted treasures which were only used for “good,” special occasions, such as Christmas, only if we had guests.

For everyday use we kept a printed oilcloth on the table. Remember Melmac? And aluminum drinking “glasses?”

I was 13 when I made the decision that I would not have anything for “good.” Everything I had, beautiful or functional, would be put to everyday use. I rather prided myself for doing a good job of sticking to my decision.

“We are never completely free of the old ideas with which we were raised,” Michelle said, “No matter how vigorously we think we have scrubbed them out.”

“I’ll bring you an espresso machine next time I go to Phoenix,” Janet offered.

Once my guests departed, my mind began a walk-about of its own volition through aspects of my raising. I’d figured to review a long list negative things I’ve overcome. I’ve done it before.

Instead, I found myself thinking about the more positive traits, passed to me through family, and especially my tyrant of a grandmother.

Among things given me by this grandmother, who genuinely resented every minute of caring for me, who had raised seven children during the Depression after her husband died young, is an ability to approach problems creatively.

A good, if somewhat rigid, work ethic.

Self-reliance. Ha. Another double-edged sword, as harmful as it is a useful tool.

I was in grade school when I made my first skirt with a fitted waistband and placket closures with buttons, no pattern, no zipper, with Grandma at my shoulder. Consequently, I never met a pattern I didn’t alter and later abandoned patterns altogether. My way, by way of Grandma, is not better but surely is more fun.

In the kitchen, leftovers become soup or fritters or meat pies or pasta toppings.

I learned how to use all the parts of a chicken, including feathers and feet.

She taught me how to make something out of nothing, a skill I have needed at times. Running to town with the magic plastic is a last resort solution.

Perhaps, more importantly, she taught me to get up, make the bed and get on with my day, no matter what.

Thanks, Janet for offering to bring me an espresso machine. I’ve thought it over. I’ll stick with keeping that option for the occasional treat. I was raised that way.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].