BARK OF A WILLOW TREE

Bark of a Willow tree

And other oddities

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“Mark my words," I overheard my grandmother warning my mother. “She’ll turn out to be just like me. She’s already showing the signs.”

“Mom, don’t you think it’s too early for that kind of speculation? She’s only four years old. And let’s not forget that I’m your daughter and couldn’t be more different than you. Maybe she’ll grow up to be like me.” My mother, while trying to sound logical, had the tone of worry in her voice.

Yes, I was only four years old, but I knew and understood certain things that defied logic for a four-year-old.

Maybe here is the place where I should mention that I was in my grandmother’s parlor, plunking away at her very old upright piano and she and my mom were three rooms away in the kitchen.

Nanna’s house was an apartment that was called, at the time, a railroad flat. Upon walking in the front door, you were already in the kitchen. Turning left, you passed the tiny bathroom on the right. Immediately following was the dining room. As you kept walking in a straight line, you’d find the first bedroom that my grandparents used, immediately followed by the second bedroom and lastly, the parlor. One huge straight line from front to back! Being such an old building, there was no back door. Heaven forbid the kitchen should go on fire, you’d have to jump out the three-story parlor window. Oddly enough, the fire escape was attached to the kitchen window. So much for safety back in the early 1900s.

At the time I overheard (somehow) the conversation my mom and grandmother were having, I had no idea what they were talking about. Maybe had I paid more attention, I’d have known, but hey, I was only four and too busy plunking at the piano keys.”

I heard my mom say, “Tea’s ready, mom. I’ll pour us but a cup and I’ll call Margaret. I’m sure she’d like a small cup to go with her scone.”

My grandmother responded with, “Just remember, Mary, that we skip a generation. You’re very much like my mother was and I’m exactly like my grandmother. Stands to reason that Margaret would take after me. I know she’ll grow as I did and have the same powers and intuition. Don’t discourage her.”

While I didn’t have the ability to look through walls, I could feel my mother’s frustration and imagined her rolling her eyes, as she thought, “Oh for heaven’s sake.”

Between the ages of four and five, mom kept me busy teaching me to read and print. Once I hit my fifth birthday, she began teaching me to write in cursive and do arithmetic (lower level adding and subtraction). As my sixth birthday was approaching, she encouraged me to write poetry and short stories.

Maybe she’d erred in judgement in her motivating me to use my imagination. But then, who knew the monster she might be creating?

Getting back to my grandmother! Don’t we all want to back for a visit?

Yes, to my grandmother’s delight, I made up my little stories and poems. She was so proud to announce to her friends about the talent she said I possessed.

It was a cool late morning that May Saturday, when my grandmother decided to bake one of her famous apple pies. She insisted I learn. At eight, I didn’t care what she wanted to teach me, as long as I could spend time with her.

Mom was enjoying a cup of coffee when my grandmother spoke.

“Margaret, lovie, in the panty, please find for me the salt, sugar, lard, vanilla extract, and cinnamon. I’ve already measured and sifted the flour and sugar.”

My little arms full, trying not to drop anything, I carefully carried them to the kitchen table where I gently set them down.”

I looked at my grandmother and asked, “Nanna, I saw three strange jars I the pantry. They were in the back of a high shelf. Why do you have brick dust, pine needles and tree bark in there?”

Grandmother and my mom exchanged glances. I couldn’t tell if mom was worried or angry. While she didn’t say a word, her eyes spoke volumes. It was as though she put a veil over her thoughts.

However, there was a definite gleam in my grandmother’s eyes. As she looked at her daughter, my mother, even though she spoke not a word, I could almost hear her shouting, “her time is coming. It won’t be long now. Just trust me”.

Mom looked defeated and for a second, I thought she wanted to cry but rather than let frustrating tears fall, she sat a bit straighter, looked again at her mother and smiled. Her lips weren’t moving, but still the same, I heard her think, “I trust you, mom. I have to trust you. She’s my little girl and I know in my heart you won’t do anything to hurt her.”

My grandmother smoothed my hair with one of her arthritically gnarled hands and said, “They’re for a very special recipe, one you’re not quite old enough to learn. But the time will come when you will. You’ll learn that and other complicated recipes. But not now. For now, we’re going to bake an apple pie.”