Eleven years into the game, I finally had the kitchen "bricked." I know that sounds odd, but that's what it was. The portion of the kitchen wall that holds my double ovens was always intended to be surrounded by brick - and it was just one of those projects my late husband never got around to. I finally took matters into my own hands this summer, and on the advice of a neighbor who is a restoration contractor, I hired a guy who is an absolute "artiste" with brick tiles. And I've been happy-happy-happy with the finished product. It's everything I dreamed it would be - and I only hope my husband can see it from his lofty perspective. He'd be pleased.
An added bonus to the project is two more kitchen cabinets for which my husband had squirrelled away doors and European hinges - and John-the-tile-man knew precisely how to install them. I ordered some free-standing shelves for the cabinets, and today was the appointed day when ever-faithful Donna, my cleaning lady, and I were to unload other cabinets and re-organize.
What I hadn't anticipated were the memories that would assail me as I encountered all the "stuff" that had been stowed away. There were the cereal bowls we'd used for breakfast when the house was only framed in - we had a little dorm refrigerator for milk and juice, and I'd acquired the bowls and some really cheap flatware at a local discount store. We sat on some stools, also purchased at the discount store, and ate at a "table," that was a sheet of plywood placed across a couple of sawhorses. It was fun, a little like "playing house," and we were grateful we could eat here at "home" instead of having to go to a restaurant.
Then there were the candles: dozens of votives, chimneyed candle-holders, big chunky candles with four wicks. I'd forgotten how much we relied on them before the house was wired - and still use them when we have a power outage. Some of the candle collection were housewarming gifts after we'd moved in. I even had two little old-fashioned oil lamps.
And my cookie tins - that I've had for decades to store the fruits of my Christmas baking labors. Now I can finally get to them without having to move half the kitchen. I remember my husband sneaking into them to grab an extra brown sugar cookie or a family favorite, a "moldy mouse." (It's a long story.)
Bowl by bowl, plate by plate, roasting pan by roasting pan, the memories of the events of almost 47 years of my life rolled over me, steamrolled me, squeezed my heart. So many of these "things" traveled with us to nine different homes from coast-to-coast, with ultimately three children, a bunch of in-laws and a flock of grandchildren.
And I felt so alone in today's work. It all went by like a sneeze, all those yesterdays. Forty-seven years is a long time, until you don't have them anymore - and you don't have your soul-mate to share the memories, the love, with.
Donna went off with a giant box of those yesterdays, to be donated to her church's give-away day this weekend. I am left with neatly-tidied cabinets, now stripped of things impractical for me to keep. It's bittersweet. I am at that point in my life where divestiture is almost mandatory, I just didn't expect it to come so soon - and I never expected to feel an ache in my soul over muffin pans.
Muffin pans. Are they worth my tears and heartache? They were my kichen treasures. They were 'us' - they were 'we' - and yes, dammit, worth some salty tears and a sob or two, with no apology for what they represented. I guess, because I've never been through this before, that this is the way life and death unfolds. I just wish it didn't hurt so much.
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