My second post, and already I realize a lot of what I'll be including here are pieces of writing I've done about the little kiddos. It will be nice to have them all in one place.
But for now, I'm putting in a piece of writing that has bubbled up to the surface because of the recent trip Larry and I made to Winona, to visit a couple of cemeteries where relatives are buried, and to locate a few houses which were once occupied by some of those relatives.
There is an ongoing mystery about the house my brother Mark and I remember as that of our grandparents on King Street in Winona. Apparently the house next door was there house for some time, for sure when my aunt Mary Lou was growing up. The confusion comes from both homes being owned by another relative, which I won't try to straighten out here. "Shattered Vision" is about a trip to the house with the big front porch when I was about 7-1/2, the house Mark and I remember.
Shattered Vision
The clear and sunny January day sparkles; frosty trees shimmer and twinkle in the sunshine. We are half way to Grandpa and Grandma’s house on King Street in Winona, 72 miles from where we live. Dad is driving and Mom is quietly talking to him about grown-up things that don’t interest me. I am in the backseat getting sleepy from reading the Bobbsey Twins’ latest adventure, and from listening to the steady hum of the tires on the road. My younger brother and sister have already nodded off, and my own heavy eyelids beckon me to join them in slumber. My blue-framed eyeglasses are in the way as I attempt to doze with my head resting against the window, so I slip them off, fold the bows, and carefully tuck my beautiful blue glasses into the red rubber, flannel-lined, over-the-shoe boots Mom made me bring along “just in case”. The blue glasses will be safe there, out of my toddler sister’s view, should she wake up and want to smudge the lenses with her busy little hands.
The ride ends and Dad reaches over the seat to nudge my knee, waking me up. Jill, we’re here. Will you carry this bag into the house and give it to Grandma, please? I gradually awaken from my near coma of too-short sleep, grab the green and white bag, and slip on the red rubber boots over my black patent leather Sunday shoes.
Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes I trudge along the short gravel driveway to the back porch door. I must have rocks in my boots, I am thinking, because they feel so lumpy. Slowly it comes to me; I know what I have done, and I am immobilized by fear.
Have you ever seen pulverized glass? It’s like crushed ice—glittery, hard, and crystalline. As I reach into my boots and pull out my still beautiful but now slightly bent blue frames, my helpless fingers wiggle in the holes that used to contain the lenses that kept the world in focus. I start to cry, and then I sob, gulping down air and shuddering in fear. Dad and Mom will be furious at me for this—new lenses are expensive. Dad looks angry at first, but then he sees my tears and understands that being nearly blind is enough punishment for my carelessness. He gently touches my shoulder and says, Let’s go inside and get ready for Grandma’s dinner. She's making ham and her home canned corn that you like so much. We’ll get your glasses fixed tomorrow.
Revised 4/08
and I can see it needs more work!
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This photo was taken in the kitchen of my grandparents' home on King Street, a year before the fateful day when I shattered my blue glasses.
