First year back home 2009-our story

Featured

DSC05486

I edged closer to the tiny parking spot that stood above Frat row. It was a cement slab just big enough to accomodate a large vehicle but still unnerved me each time I navigated onto the platform.  Plastic bags were grabbed in batches and hauled over the rugged path and into the door of the old brick building. It was grocery day and that meant unloading and preparing a “fast food” meal including plenty of variety for those with dietary restrictions. I stuffed bags inside of each other forming a large ball of sacks that would be used for trash bags at a later time. Several packs of ground beef were placed into a large skillet and stirred, smashing them into smaller bits. The familiar sound of sizzling and the smell of taco meat would soon bring girls into the kitchen. Soos, Heme and Deeja made themselves busy with coloring books and crayons, cards and stickers. They placed themselves at a wooden table just outside the kitchen where residents would soon sit after dishing up their last meal for the day. Sullen faces stared blankly at my workstation and I knew that our discussion regarding school had still left them confused and fearful.

That day we had walked through the rickety wooden gate and into the school yard that lead to a side door. I kissed each one goodbye and delivered them to their respective classrooms, leaving my youngest for last. We had been to see the teacher days before and although she was inexperienced, she was also bubbly, kind and understanding. I was sure that everything would go as planned and so I walked with an air of confidence and pride.  We reached a brightly colored door that said Welcome to first grade. Other students sat at standard desks and tables, hanging hoodies and jackets on a coat rack, backpacks were shoved into cubbies and parents waved their goodbyes. The teacher nodded her head as if to tell me that it would be fine and it was time to leave. I gave a quick wave and returned the same way I had entered, leaving the wooden gate and parking lot behind.

From the upstairs window I scanned the school playground hoping to catch a glimpse of at least one of my four children. The recess bell rang and with it a massive exit from the side door of the one story school. Children carried balls and toys and quickly started in with their mid day break from books and lessons. A tiny figure stood alone in the large grass area, a hood tightly wrapped around the shiny hair of what appeared to be a small child. A stark contrast became unsettling as he crouched near the brightly colored playground equipment looking from side to side and finally giving in to tears. Classmates ran, laughing and giving chase, engaging in childish games that only youngsters play. Their smiles and shrieks of glee only heightened as activities progressed into throwing, catching and eventually climbing onto a metal structure. I watched him cover his face, firmly placing it into the school yard grass until a familiar figure with dark brown hair placed herself next to him and gave him the company he longed for.

Summer love-4

This series details the beginning and how I met him. The first few installments can be found here:

https://lynzrealcooking.com/2018/06/01/1-summer-love-life-story/

https://lynzrealcooking.com/2018/06/08/summer-love-2/

https://lynzrealcooking.com/2018/06/15/summer-love-series-3/

 

Spokane, Wa. 1982

Patterned tones now escalated to a racket that could no longer be ignored and sluggish fingers batted at the clock that sat on a maple nightstand just beyond my reach. The realization that I had overslept sent me into a panicked rush. There was still plenty of time to make it but it would be close. I jumped into the shower and slathered soap and shampoo everywhere quickly washing off the stench of grease and grime from the night before. Work clothes were pulled over wet arms and legs and a search for the soiled apron that had been washed and dried became my primary focus. Tossing sheets and pillows brought me back to the bedpost where the green apron hung and was then thrown into my bag.  I grabbed car keys, brushed my hair and walked out of the middle door and down the gravel driveway.

The sound of an engine roaring up the dirt road went unnoticed as I backed the car out from between two large trees. Honking from a brown vehicle just behind me prompted slamming on brakes, narrowly missing the front fender. No one ventured up the mile long road that wove and tucked beneath a heavy forest. Only five houses marked the path up to the end where the last home stood. White shingles, numerous decks and three floors stacked one on top of the other all comprised the wood house, topped with a triangular shaped skylight. Aunt Tutu had described it as the crazy house on the hill when she introduced us to this unique and well-hidden home that stood just overlooking her property. She could not imagine a family home that resembled a “bachelor pad” and had watched as it was built just 2 years before. But as we entered it was clear, this was the place and would be for some forty years to come.

The vehicle heaved and came to a loud stop just between my car and a large pine that towered beyond a blue and white speckled sky. It was him, the Middle Eastern man from the weekend before. Final words that day had indicated that he would like to visit and I had given a nod and grin, knowing this most likely meant nothing.  His arms wrapped around my waist and he reminded me that he was a man of his word and always kept his promise.