Connected by Stories

... her skillet is a tangible reminder that there really were people then, as now, who came to this country looking for a better life.

While visiting my sister recently, we came across an old cast iron specialty skillet used for making ebelskivers, a kind of pancake, muffin thing with fruit (or chocolate or cheese) inside. We remembered that our mother made these every July 4th holiday while we were growing up. Seeing the skillet conjured images of July 4th breakfast parties in our back yard with dozens of people sitting around in lawn chairs eating home made ice cream and playing in the pool.

The skillet originally belonged to Mom's grandmother who came to this country from Germany more than a century ago. For all we know, it was passed to Grandma Rickertsen from a previous generation. It could be older than we think. It's black and heavy and indestructible.

I never knew Grandma Rickertsen. She died before I was born. But I knew her son, my grandfather, who, when encouraged, would tell stories. Mom would occasionally chime in with details and editorial.

Having arrived in Nebraska shortly before World War I, Grandpa's family had to keep pretty close to the farm for their own safety. Americans at that time didn't take kindly to people with German accents. They could be agents for "the Hun."

100 years ago, just like now, immigrants were welcomed with prejudice and ridiculous ignorance. Why would there be German spies in Lexington, Nebraska?

Grandpa told me other stories from his youth: about mischievously digging up hidden beer buried by bootleggers during prohibition in the 1920s - he claimed he emptied the bottles and used them for rootbeer; and about waking up in the 1930s to see his new wife covered in dirt because during the drought induced dust bowl it literally blew through the walls overnight.

Without those stories, the dust bowl would only be a black and white photo. Prohibition would be nothing more than a cartoon. But because someone I know lived though and described them, I see those events as real, happening to living, breathing people.

And even though I never knew Grandma Rickertsen, her skillet is a tangible reminder that there really were people then, as now, who came to this country looking for a better life.  And they weren't just crowds waving on a ship in a crackly old newsreel. They were human beings who carried personal items, like skillets and recipes, with them.

Now we tell countless stories about my mother. There's the time a neighbor shot at her while she walked the dog; and the time she packed a lunch for me and my friends for a day of skiing. When we opened it at noon, we found a note that said, "Keep cold or die," a subtle warning that the mayonnaise might spoil and make us sick. The sandwiches were frozen solid.

Stories about Mom help us to remember her.

On the way home, Clyde and I stopped to see my niece, who I can't quite believe is all grown up and has a child of her own. My great-niece is not yet a year old, but has a winning smile and charming personality. Naturally, the entire world revolves around her. I was eager to hold Kaycee and couldn't help but think about how pleased Mom would be to meet her.

My mother is Kaycee's Grandma Rickertsen. I hope Kaycee gets to enjoy the stories about her great grandmother. Perhaps one day she'll inherit the ebelskiver skillet. I hope she knows it was Grandma Rickertsen's and what a treasure it is.

In case you're wondering, we made ebelskivers for July 4th,  using the recipe Mom attached to the skillet years ago before wrapping it up for posterity. They were delicious.

I Do Not Clean Alone

I don’t believe in ghosts in the usual sense, but I do believe that I am haunted by my mother every time I clean the house.

I hate cleaning more than anything. I’d almost rather go to the dentist. I really hate it. But is it worse than living in a dirty home?

I like to play a little game called, “How many inches of dust can you stand?” It’s even more challenging when I don’t feel well, like this week when I missed two days of work.

I won’t bore you with the details of my illness, but I will say that I knew I was feeling better when that little dust ball near the TV (the screen of which itself was covered in a layer that dulled the color of every broadcast) – that little dust ball I’d been staring at for 48 hours finally got to me. Like Lazarus, I rose from the sofa, summoned the Windex and went at it.

This is where my mother comes in. She wouldn’t tolerate, for one minute, a dust ball near the TV. Dust simply wasn’t allowed in her home. Her standards were extremely high. When I came to visit from graduate school one time, I tried to help her clean, and she yelled at me for vacuuming the stairs wrong. How many ways can there be to vacuum stairs? I stopped offering.

Mom was notoriously hard on professional house cleaners. Even near the end of her life when she could barely walk or talk, she’d leave sticky notes around the house reminding the cleaning woman to “dust the banister” or whatever was “forgotten” last time.

That’s why she haunts me now.

It’s all I can do to dust the surface of things. But her voice is in my head reminding me to get under the knick knacks, not just over the surface. She still tells me to get the floor’s edges, vacuum under the chairs, and dust WITH the wood’s grain instead of against it.

I don’t think she liked cleaning any more than I do. She was just tougher. Her sheer grit overcame any inclination to be lazy.

For several years, I hired a service to clean for me. I had to stop that when Charles, my 18 month old (kitten) came to live with me. Unlike every other cat in the world that I know of, he doesn’t hide when the vacuum is going. He chases it. In fact, he loves to help clean. Chasing the dust rag is great sport, and attacking the sheets as I throw them over the bed is tremendous fun (see photo). Making the bed always ends with a kitty sized lump in the middle. This makes hospital corners, which my Mom bent over backwards to teach me, very difficult. And it makes me unable to subject the cleaning service to his attentions. I would have to pay more for them to put up with him, or they’d accidentally let him out because he runs to the door whenever someone comes over.

It was only recently that I could overcome my mother’s voice as I cleaned the house. It occurred to me that I don’t have to feel guilty for not edging the carpet or washing the kitty nose prints off the windows every time. Or ever. Oh I still hear the voice – I just realize now that I don’t have to let it control me.

I live alone (well, with Charles and Lily). I clean for myself. If it’s good enough for me, it’s good enough.

My neighbor loves to clean. She vacuums every day. In spite of her cats and dog, the place is always spotless. I wish I loved to clean like that. But it will never happen. I’ll have to settle for not feeling guilty when I finally do run the dust rag over the tops of things and vacuum around the chair, and I’ll do the windows some other time. Maybe.