THE READER

by

Maryann McCullough

 

The newly purchased book had remained in its bag on the dresser for three days now. It wasn’t lack of interest that kept it there. There was a ritual to beginning a new book and, while not consciously chosen, the pattern was of many years standing.

It was a first meeting; decorum seemed appropriate when opening the cover for the very first time. Certainly, she felt, a new book shouldn’t be grabbed and gobbled when a few extra minutes were found in a busy day.

She had friends who chose to rush the process in a desire to know the outcome of the story. She couldn’t understand that sprint to completion. Why on earth would one shortcut the pleasure of reading by racing to the end! Her own style even involved a kind of coasting as she approached the final chapters of a favorite book.

The woman savored the slow process of getting inside the heads of the characters she would meet as she moved through the chapters. She was not a person without real people in her life. But her family and her friends expected things of her – availability, acceptance, answers. Those she met in her books imposed no such demands and she enjoyed the respite from responsibility. She carefully would avoid any prejudice potentially born of reading book reviews. Each narrative would by judged by its own words, not those of a literary critic.

The beginning was always an adventure. Whom would she meet? Where would the story take her? What new ideas would be found within the pages? Would she encounter a kindred spirit along the way? It was the promise of what might follow that made the beginning so special.

This was true to who she was: a child who loved the first day of school,  a young woman who favored spring for its promise of new life, a bride certain that today’s love would last a lifetime and now an older woman who rejoiced in the beginning of possibilities which began with each sunrise. The beginnings were the best part. In life, as in book selection, middles can get muddled and endings disappoint, but the beginnings always hold such promise.

 Now, it was time to take her latest selection off the dresser and out of the bag. Her work for the day was completed. It was not a warm sun with a gentle breeze sort of day. Those would always call her, like church bells on Sunday, with book in hand, to the patio.

The day was an uncommonly dreary one with rain and wind replacing the usual sunlit skies. But with a blazing log in the fireplace, a day well suited for a good book.

And would this be a good book?

She prepared a cup of chai tea and unfolded the Irish knit afghan made ages ago by a loving aunt and settled herself – book, tea, and blanket, on the couch across from the fireplace. Then she adjusted the lamp over her shoulder, opened the book to chapter one and read the first sentence “It was bitter cold, the air electric with all that had not happened yet.” She smiled slightly and read it again.  She liked the way the words were put together, the subtle but strong invitation to read the next sentence.

 And so she did.

It was just a beginning, but it was a good beginning. The fire would burn itself out. The remnants of tea would turn cold in her cup. But those remaining pages held a promise for tomorrow. That was a very good thing.

 

 

 

MRS. TILDEN

 

 

I was eleven years old when I decided I wanted to be like Mrs. Tilden when I grew up. She was different from the other women in our small neighborhood. Most of them had homes overflowing with little children while Mrs. Tilden had a studio.

Being the only big kid on our block meant that finding friends required a little more footwork. But there was one woman who lived at the end of our street who made me feel special—like a friend does.

Mrs. Tilden always wore pumps and her silver-streaked hair had a Grace Kelly look about it– always swept up, never a hair out of place. I would see her in her yard, garden shears in hand and wearing a big garden hat. She would cut flowers from her garden and place them in a flat basket to be arranged later for the large vase on her entry hall table. I’d thought only movie stars and rich Southern ladies did that kind of thing.

But, for me, the best thing was that studio. Not a den or a sewing room, but her own studio! Her “special place” had replaced their garage with its former solid walls now window-rich. I remember her white wicker desk where she sat and wrote her poetry and taller wooden table which held whatever sculpture she was working on at the time. Painting was her primary passion so several easels held paintings in various stages of completion. Today the smell of oil paint will take me back to my childhood visits to her studio.

The first time I was invited inside I knew I wanted the lifestyle of a creative person. I was not an artist, nor a fledgling writer. I just knew I wanted to be the kind of woman whose life required a studio.

I was able to spend time in that studio –first as a model for Mrs. Tilden and some other painters whom she invited to her studio on occasion. What fun to be paid to sit still!  That beat my usual employment as babysitter by a mile! She cautioned me not to let my feelings be hurt because some of her fellow artists “weren’t very good” and their portraits of me might disappoint. My Uncle Eddie told me I could no longer be Miss America because I had been paid to model. I thought that was funny but the idea made me feel special at the same time.

Mrs. Tilden also hired me to help when she had a formal tea for her friends. Her maid, a pretty young black woman and I poured tea and served those tiny little sandwiches and passed plates of petit fours. It may have been a job but I felt like I was a guest at an elegant party.

My older friend even taught me to paint – smock, easel, oil paints, horsehair brushes – the real deal! My “Bird on a Branch” wasn’t very good. It never made it to a wall in our family’s home. But Mrs. Tilden took time to teach me. For a moment in my young life I was an artist.

All tolled, I probably spent less than 48 hours in the company of this mentor and  friend from my childhood as we moved from that neighborhood the following year. But those were some really memorable hours for me.

As I am writing and savoring her memory, I am wondering if she knew she was making a difference in my young life. I wish time travel could bring her back. I would invite her to our home and serve her tea (likely iced tea, in Phoenix) on our patio and then I would take her into my “special room.”  She would see some of my published stories, now framed and adorning one wall. She could open the large wooden cabinet and see my collection of dog-eared sketch books and the stacked plastic boxes containing my paints – one box for watercolors, one for acrylics, and of course, one for oils. She would see the stand holding all my paint brushes with their tips properly pointing upward.

She would know then. I wouldn’t even have to express my gratitude. She would know she had made a difference.

 

MARY’S HOUSE

 

When I recall my childhood home, it is the three story on the corner of Franklin and Oak in River Forest that comes to mind.

There were other houses up and down the street owned by Murphys and Kennedys and Careys and such that were home to large Catholic families, I believe ours took the prize for Catholicity because, well, Blessed Mother lived there

 My mother was ahead of her time in her appreciation of the sacred feminine. Blessed Mother claimed more wall space than Jesus, especially in the living room where more than forty framed images of Mary adorned the wall above our sofa. She was not the only evidence of piety in the living room. A large beautiful glass cabinet held statues of saints – close to forty of those as well. I was generally anything but a smartass as a child, but when we children actually went into our living room I would sometimes genuflect ― ­a gentle nudge at the piety of the place.

 But Mary wasn’t just a living room sort of person. She was present in the heart and hub of the house – the kitchen. A blue and white porcelain statue of the virgin holding a loaf of bread stood on the counter near the sink.         

Blessed Mother appeared comfortable in the outdoors in all kinds of weather.  Her three foot statue stood right in the middle of the birdbath which was right in the center of our large backyard. She survived not only all manner of weather, but games involving balls in motion, and even an out-of-control car that drove through our hedge and planted itself just feet from Mary’s position of honor.

The girls’ bedrooms occupied the second floor of out home. We were five sisters and I think each of us had a small statue of Mary, which in the month of May became a shrine fronted by a drinking glass filled with whatever flowers the neighborhood provided. I would gather a handful of violets,  place their little stems in a water-filled shot glass in front of my Blessed Mother.

The boys (There were five brothers as well.) lived on the third floor. I avoided going up there and don’t know if Blessed Mother ever made it up all those stairs.

Sometimes in addition to the many images of Mary that were a permanent part of our home, we had a very special meeting with Mary. The “traveling virgin” came and a shrine was set up in our home, complete with vases of roses and gold lame cloth backdrop. Neighbors came and we prayed the rosary together.

Now my mother was a woman who did things in a big way. Big house. Big family. She wore big hats and when she consented to a dog, we bought a Great Pyrenees, a really big dog. So the omnipresent Marian focus of our home is not surprising. My mother claimed Blessed Mother as her best girlfriend.  Not surprising we saw so much of her.

What I am finding interesting is that I am my mother’s daughter. 

If you walk into my living room, on the wall facing the street you will find a collection of images of the Blessed Mother. My collection began one summer when son Michael was in Argentina, son Casey was in Spain and son Colin was in Russia . Independently each son chose to bring a surprise gift to me on his return stateside and, with no coordination involved, each chose an image of Blessed Mother. And then, as their world travel ventures continued, Madonnas from Africa and China and so on were added to the collection, which now fills a good portion of the wall.

Mary is not without a place to enjoy the Arizona sun as well. The Christmas that Michael surprised me with a four foot tall Lady of Guadalupe, Colin did the same with a competitively-sized Miraculous Medal statue. Each is now nestled in greenery and seemingly happy beneath our sunny skies.

 And so, I look around and realize that with no intent or agenda or  (alas) piety on my part, I have become my mother. Well, at least I have her Catholic home.

To those who knew my mother, my reference to her as a really pushy broad shows no disrespect. She was a person who made things happen.  So, as I ponder this really Catholic house that is my home, I can’t help but wonder. With her demise, did my mother still want Blessed Mother to take care of me? Did she whisper to her grandsons that I needed those statues and images of “her girlfriend” to be on lookout, to keep an eye on her first-born daughter way out there in Arizona?

Wouldn’t surprise me.