When I was little, I was certain the center of the universe
was Deertrail, Colorado
–precisely my grandfather’s ranch on a hill overlooking that small prairie
town. On a six section piece of earth
he grew his own feed and a large herd of cattle. He was a gentleman farmer who managed well
and owned his own machinery and several box cars for storing the grain he
reaped. Most of the time, dressing up
meant adding a suit coat and bolero tie to the plaid shirt and jeans he wore
day to day. There was a barn with
milking stalls, a milk house at the base of a windmill and a large garage for
his machinery and his well kept car. The
place was always as clean and ordered as the tall white house that sat on the
crest of the hill.
That was my grandma Bartlett’s domain. Simply, but well furnished, always impeccably
clean, it was her testament. She was a
lady in all aspects. Though she was no
stranger to the hard work of a successful ranch, she was always dressed as
though she were headed someplace important.
Her short curly hair was always ‘fixed.’ I never saw her in a disheveled
state. Her dresses were not fancy, but they were nice, clean and well
maintained just like her house. She
wrote poetry, played piano and sang with deep feeling.
She was good at just about everything except cooking. All of her daughters were good cooks. Grandpa used to say they became good cooks in
self-defense. Yet even that comment was
never said as an insult. It was just a
playful expression of endearment –and without apology she would laugh and confirm it as
truth. Yet, what she lacked in culinary
ability, she outweighed in hospitality.
Benevolence, grace and sweetness followed her like a fan club. For many years, most of our holidays were
spent there in that peaceful, congenial spot with her organized blessing. The aunts and uncles and cousins arrived in
procession, bearing food dishes to compliment the efforts of the one or two
that arrived early to begin the meal in her well supplied, impeccably kept
kitchen.
After the meal, the men folk would congregate in the living
room in sleepy, overstuffed disarray to discuss things that men discuss
over a football game or whatever is on the TV at the time. The women would clear away the mess and visit
in the kitchen while the children chased cats, played games or discovered
wonders in the yard. At some point, strains of music would call us all to the living room to sing and play and
dance. Old range songs and Scottish folk tunes eventually gave way to hymns or
Christmas carols. Gradually, families,
one by one, parted off and took their journey home after numerous good-byes,
hugs and well wishes. My grandma
Bartlett was queen of the moment, ruler of the universe, for the time.
I can’t pinpoint the time at which things changed, or the
reason for the waning of her bright, colorful star. Perhaps the journey was
just too long for some to make. Perhaps the cousins grew
up and got too involved in other activities.
Perhaps the aunts and uncles just replaced the large family gatherings with their own
family time. We always had those times
with my grandparents, but the harmonies were less full, the table had a lot
more room and a lot less children.
At some point, my mom claimed New Years as her holiday. Our immediate family began growing with
in-laws and children and my mother began setting out a spread of food that
called in the masses. My grandmother
White, sometimes aunts and uncles, often friends, and eventually my grandma and
grandpa Bartlett would sit down with us at a collection of tables that stretched
the full length of our kitchen, dining room and living room, to tell stories,
laugh and devour. A good cook, what my
mother lacked in organizational skills, she made up for with a passion for fun,
a love of decorum, and delicious offerings of turkey or ham with all the
traditional trimming and a few original surprises, accompanied by ample desserts, to take us all the way through to evening.
We would eat the main meal until comatose and then sprawl out in various
places until we heard the siren of a ball game or the challenge of touch
football or ‘horse’ or, in the case of snow, sleds on the hill. Eventually someone would utter the word ‘pie’
and we would all run headlong to the controlling force of more food. As darkness began to fall, there would be
strains played on the old piano, a violin, perhaps a guitar and most times my
father’s harmonica. The family would
gather about and sing folk tunes and range songs and wind up with hymns until we
were all spent. Then the various visitors to our home would don their coats,
pile into cars and make their way back to their own worlds.
My mom also became known for an excellent decorating party
that left our home in Christmassy bliss.
In time, summer cookouts, Easter celebrations, church youth outings and
parties were added to her entertaining repertoire. She was good at it. She became the center of her universe, the
queen of the moment.
My own venture into being queen of the moment began in Hot
Springs, Arkansas where I hosted a weekly meeting of wealthy ladies in my home during
my 20s and started learning to be ‘all that’.
It was a very small universe, but for a few moments each week life
revolved around my execution of a plan and I was the center of attention. It was short lived and didn’t resurface until
the mid 80s when I began hosting family reunions, beginning with my parents’ 50th
anniversary. Eventually my skills enveloped Christmas Eve celebrations for my enlarging family
of families. There were also camping- or
boating- efforts which allowed me to be queen of the moment. I got into it and I enjoyed the role.
The celebrations within my tenure were always slightly
lacking the luster of the former queens.
I always wanted to . . . . ., well, but we ran out of time. There were no gorged snoozes spaced by manly
conversations. There were children
playing to pass the time, but only because of delays as a result of too much
planning and too little time. There were no family dance and sing sessions
around an old piano with various instruments chiming in and voices rising in harmony. I created my own inferiority long before the
decline. I don’t multi-task well and I
don’t delegate –ever.
However, with the extra income of a teacher added to my
husband’s good salary, I held no expense as a problem to creating a well
supplied event. I didn’t even consider
what I was spending until I tried to make sense of it and looked at the spread
sheet. But I didn’t care. What I lacked in the grace and organization
of my grandmother, or the talent and passion of my mother, I made up for with
dollars. For several years, it was all
good. The universe revolved well. But
gradually, the dollar did not rule and the universe began, as it had with my
mother and my grandmother, to shift, wobble and implode. My tenure as queen of the moment was ending. I did not fade gracefully. I don’t know whether my predecessors did or
not, for I was way too concerned with my own execution of the queenly office.
I still have my moments, though I must admit that there is
always something I wish to do that I just don’t make happen. There are others who have assumed or
transferred the starring role as my circle shrinks. One day, I will be that person who is simply
visited on the way to or from the great revolution around another star. It has already begun. My pull has weakened for whatever reason –it
doesn’t really matter in the larger scope of things. Time, distance, the creation of a new
dynasty, all add to the diminishing value of time and effort. But they will have to buy their own crown,
for I shall retire mine in a soft cushion of my memory, where I shall forever
be queen of the moment.
