The wind swirled the snow into violent flurries outside of our glass-paned front door. The clock showed six in the evening, but it was already dark save for the reflection of the moon on the snow banks. In retrospect, it sounds like the beginning of a Little House on The Prairie story. In a way it was. That bungalow on Baise Avenue was our little house on the prairie of Lakewood, Ohio. A fire burned strong in our living room. Remorse for the burning wood and paper always filled me irrationally. I’d been told being burnt hurt, so why would we do that to something? My little sister’s hair -- her blonde curls half-squished from her toddler nap -- flew through the air as my mom spun her around. Music played from the radio.
Sugar magnolia
Ringin’ that blue bell
Caught up in the sunlight
Come on out singing
I’ll walk you in the sunshine
Come on honey, come along with me
The house was warm and bright and my mom often played summer music like this when it was freezing outside. She always tried everything to fight the unavoidable seasonal depression that accompanied Ohio winters. I only remember this storm because it was so close to Christmas, and we never got white Christmases on the west side of Cleveland. The lake affect always pushed the storms to the east, or even just several miles away on the coast.
Libby, my little sister, giggled and chirped as the spinning continued. She was bundled up in cream footie pajamas that had little deer on them -- deer in Santa hats. My mom was smiling. She was constructed of soft curves and warmth. Watching the world spin and disappear under a white haze of falling snow, I stayed perched on our large brown sofa. The cold could be felt through the window. I turned around to face the living room again as “Sugar Magnolia” ended and a new song began, a tune about bears in the woods. My mom put Libby down. With Libby’s chubby digits in her larger, more freckled hand, they walked back over to our work space in the dining room. I followed suit. My socked feet slid across the hard wood floors.
We sat together at our little kids’ table. My mother was petite and barely looked disproportionally large sitting in a child-sized wooden dining chair. We had two steel bowls sitting on the table: one contained popcorn for garlands and one contained popcorn for eating. The garland popcorn was plain, but the one for eating was drenched in Braggs and covered with nutritional yeast. Some of the latter was sprinkled on the floor for our cats to lick up with their sandpaper tongues. A little bowl of cranberries was on the table too.
My mom reminded us how to construct the garland. The first step was to be very careful because the needle was sharp. The second step was to not eat the popcorn for garland-making because she didn’t have anymore if we ran out. Then you strung the popcorn on and sometimes cranberries, but not too many cranberries because she didn’t have anymore of those either.
Too young to hold a needle, Libby handed Mommy the popcorn and cranberries in the order my sister desired. I scooted my little chair closer to my mother’s warmth. I wished she would help me too. Every now and then I ate a piece of garland popcorn.
“Can I taste this?” My small hand held up a stiff red berry.
“You may, but I don’t think you’ll like it very much.”
I put the little fruit hesitantly between my teeth. It was tart and gritty, I pursed my lips. I finished it just to make sure I didn’t like it and then quickly gulped down my little glass of soy milk to rid my mouth of the sour taste.
The thin panels of the stained-glass window above us creaked in the wind. I made no motion to lift my thermal-clad arm and hide my yawn. Writing this, I wonder where my dad was that evening. Stuck at work because of the storm? Or maybe taking a night class at Cleveland State?
By eight, I’d eaten more popcorn than I’d strung. My mother carried Libby up the staircase as I crawled behind them on all fours.. The attic had been renovated into a master bedroom with new, clean carpet. Libby and I cuddled up in the big sleigh bed, Mommy in the middle. Since Daddy wasn’t home we didn’t have to sleep in our own beds. That was the deal.
Squash, our rotund, orange cat, jumped in next, followed by his lanky, grey brother, Sneeze. They burrowed under the covers at Mommy’s feet. Libby was still fidgeting as I dozed off to sleep in our warm and peaceful home.
