Valentine’s Day has come and gone. It’s the day when we celebrate romance by sending boxes of chocolate, and sweet cards to those we love. Yes, love is a gift, but it’s also a verb.
Here’s a story from my childhood to explain what I mean.
BTW, for those writer friends following the progress of my memoir, this is a chapter I may edit out, so I thought I’d share it here.
****************************************************************************************
It was the week of mid-winter school vacation, February, 1960. I was in second grade. The snow was deep. The air freezing, and after church we drove forty-five minutes to have Sunday dinner with the Swensons at their farm in Sharon Springs, New York. Arne was one of my dad’s oldest friends. He was a tall, ropey dairyman. Marta, Mrs. Swenson, was his round, smiling wife.
Arne sat at the head of the oval table in the middle of the dining room. His table was covered with a pink tablecloth, set with rosebud china, and adorned with three beautiful daughters: Cindy, the oldest, Karen, my age, and Trina, a blonde baby. Mrs. Swenson set a roast chicken before her husband and returned with steaming bowls of mashed potatoes and a gravy boat balanced on a saucer to catch any slurpy spills. We all dug in.
After dinner, the adults went through open French doors into the living room with two maroon armchairs and a squishy maroon sofa facing a roaring fire. Karen grabbed a pink and black afghan off the back of the sofa, and we wrapped up together on the piano bench in the drafty dining room. She opened the red cover of John Thompson’s Teaching Little Fingers to Play and showed me how the black ants on the page matched the white keys on the piano. With Karen’s help, I tapped out “Row, row, row your boat. . . life is but a dream.”
After a quiet afternoon it was usually time to go home, but this Sunday, my mom had packed my round, red suitcase with the loop handle and a white felt poodle on the lid because I was having a sleepover with Karen. I kissed Mommy and Daddy good-bye in the front hall next to a radiator draped with drying mittens. Through the open door, I watched the taillights of our black Ford station wagon fade into the frigid night.
Karen shared a room with her older sister. Mrs. Swenson positioned an old mattress in between the twin beds and made it with pink and blue bunny sheets. A tall bureau stood on one side of a frosty window. On the other side was a dressing table, its bubbled veneer topped with child-sized bottles of pink lotion and violet eau de toilette.
In the morning, Karen and I walked down the road to the barn. A concrete runway separated two aisles of cattle. Arne and his hired man were moving amongst the cows hooking up stainless steel milking machines that squished and squirted while the radio played country western tunes. Karen and I petted the big-eyed Holsteins looking out the barn windows full of cobwebs.
“This one is Maybelle. She’s going to have a calf in the spring.” Karen scratched the cow’s nose.
After a lunch of alphabet soup, Mrs. Swenson said, “You girls want to go sledding?”
Karen and I look at each other and squealed.
Mrs. Swenson helped us squirm into our snow pants and zip up our parkas. We pulled on our knit caps and flipped up our hoods. She bent down and tied red scarves around our necks and clipped our wool mittens to our jacket sleeves. All bundled, we were ready for the arctic.
Two Flexible Flyers waited on the front porch. We grabbed their ropes, waddled down the front walk, and trudged single file along the country road towards the pasture. Karen climbed over the fence, and I passed her our sleds. Our breath formed alternating clouds as we huffed and puffed up the steep rise.
The snow was covered with a glistening crust, so our boots broke through with every step, leaving jagged holes in the slippery slope. Finally, at the crest, we planted our bottoms on the sleds and placed our red rubber boots on the wooden cross pieces used to steer. Holding the ropes, we pushed off.
“Yee-haw!” We were riding bucking broncos across the snowy plain.
Down, down we slid, streaking shadows in the low winter sun. The thrill was but an instant. Without a word, we climbed the hill over and over. With each slide, we grew wilder, going down headfirst, then headfirst holding hands.
From cowboy to circus star, I stood on my sled, the rope taut in my snow-pilled mittens. The thin metal runners hit a footprint in the crust and lodged in the soft powder beneath. The rope yanked out of my grip. My chin cracked the ice. My slick nylon snowsuit accelerated my descent. Lips, nose, cheekbones rubbed and ripped against every icy opening in my path.
When Karen slid to my side, the snow beneath my face was the bright red of a bloody snow cone. We were both too terrified to cry. Silently we tossed our sleds over the fence and hurried for home. Up the country road, past the barn, down the walk.
Karen pushed the front door open. “Mommy!”
Mrs. Swenson carried me into the kitchen and set me on a stool beside the white enamel-topped table. She flew to the bathroom and returned with a box of band-aids and two clean blue washcloths. With eyes as big as Maybelle’s, Karen watched her mother fill a bowl with warm water. Mrs. Swenson wet the terrycloth and gently wiped my abrasions. Blood clouded the water as she rinsed again and again. Karen winced as a deep gash above my upper lip was revealed. Mrs. Swenson pinched the skin back together and secured it with two tiny blue band-aids covered in silver airplanes. She opened the freezer, pulled out an ice tray, and filled the dry washcloth with a handful of cubes. Gently placing the cold pack in my palm, she told me to hold it over my mouth. After gently peeling off my boots and snowsuit, Mrs. Swenson led me to the squishy maroon couch, and Karen tucked me in with the black and pink afghan.
I don’t know how long I laid beside the fire before Mrs. Swenson and Karen were back at my side. Cindy was holding the baby. Mrs. Swenson exchanged my bloody washcloth for what looked like an empty hamburger bun spread with butter. I sat up and took a timid bite. It was the best thing I’d ever tasted. An empty hamburger bun? At home we always ate Blue Bonnet margarine, so how could I imagine the glory of fresh, sweet butter, sun-kissed blades of summer grass transformed by the herd, churned, and spread with the kindness of a farmer’s wife?
The small scar above my mouth is still there, a constant reminder of the taste of my own blood, exchanged for something infinitely better.
The love of God is so much more than a box of chocolates, yet sometimes it’s just an empty hamburger bun.
For we are God’s masterpiece.
Ephesians 2:10 (NLT)
He has created us anew in Christ Jesus,
so we can do the good things
he planned for us long ago.
Thanks for the cover photo by Kostiantyn Li on Unsplash
Copyright Ann C. Averill 2023
Heart
Sucked me right in! Vivid images! Sweetest message! Thank you!