Just As You See It

Photograph by Sarah Commerford, All Rights Reserved - 2016

I couldn't tell you exactly why the whole thing started, but I do know that taking in stray cats became the reason I got up in the morning. I have lived in this town, and in this house,  most of my 82 years. I married my husband, Ed, when I was nineteen, because he got me pregnant, and there was nothing else to be done about it. We raised three children here, but mostly, I did the work because Ed never showed much enthusiasm as far as I could see. In fact, if pushed, I'd say my kids never appreciated me either. Lazy, distant and soft, that's how I'd describe their personalities: flat - like when you hear a long, dull song on the radio that doesn't move you to do anything except change the station, hoping for better. You can see from my son, Jon's room, there wasn't a lot of imagination there.

Photograph by Sarah Commerford, All Rights Reserved, 2016

Ed died of a heart attack five years ago. I guess I missed having another person in the house, but we didn't have much to say to one-another in the first place, so having the quiet without the bothersome thought that something trifling should be said, simply to fill the room, was a relief.  When he wasn't watching the news, Ed sat in his study, off the dining-room we never used. He was an accountant, but he put in a lot of time writing letters to politicians he supported, like Ronald Reagan and George Bush. They wrote back, too, and sent along autographed pictures, as a thank you for the donations he made to their campaigns. I never got involved in politics, and preferred to read novels, so that was just another thing we didn't talk about.

Photograph by Sarah Commerford, All Rights Reserved, 2016

A few years ago, on a cool spring day, I heard a cat mewing in my back yard. There's no mistaking the sound of an animal starving - all that primal need and hunger rising up, howling to be filled. I put a plate of tuna and bowl of milk out my back steps, and before I knew it, one cat turned into ten, and ten doubled to twenty. In the beginning, they brought rhythm to my day, and soon, I was driving to Shaw's to buy the biggest bags of dry food they sold, and canned food when it was on sale. I named them all: Brandy, Petey, Socks, and too many others to remember.  Many of the cats were too wild to be pet, but as months went on and the weather turned cooler, the braver cats came inside to be fed. I set up a litter box, and laid soft blankets on the floor where they could sleep, and suddenly, kittens were born. What could I do? I fed them and did my best to keep them happy.

Somewhere along the way, I lost control of being in charge. The cats came and went as they pleased. They got into my kitchen cabinets and tore open whatever containers they could claw their way into. They climbed my curtains, and sharpened their nails on my couches and chairs. They walked on the counters and drank from the toilet, and soon, I couldn't keep up with changing the litter box, so they urinated on my rugs. Some of the bigger male cats fought, and often I'd come across dead or injured cats in closets, or under furniture. They brought in mice and dead birds, and generally took on the attitude that I was in their way. Neighbors became concerned, and some stopped by to check on me, but I wouldn't let them in - I knew things had gone too far, but didn't want them in my business.

Photograph by Sarah Commerford, All Rights Reserved, 2016

It was right around Christmas, when bad turned to Hell. The cats had chewed through some of the wires in the basement, and I lost my electricity. The smell in the house was so acrid, that I didn't dare open my windows, for fear of my neighbors knowing how things had gotten away from me. I didn't have enough food for the cats, and they were turning mean. Some nights, I couldn't sleep,  just trying to keep the cats from walking all over my bed and me;  they'd lick my face, chew my hair, and scratch my legs, leaving ugly sores that festered. I moved to another bedroom in the house, thinking they'd be happy to have my room all to themselves, but before long, they found their way into the ceiling, and tore out the tiles, jumping from the strapping onto my bed. They knocked all my books off the shelves, and shredded the curtains - nothing was beyond their reach. By then, I'd lost count of how many there were, but I knew for sure I was outnumbered in power.

Photograph by Sarah Commerford, All Rights Reserved, 2016

I think it was my neighbor, Lu, who called Elder Services. She had always been kind and genuine with me, and although I denied needing help, I could tell she knew there were big, big problems - something my children never bothered to concern themselves with.

This morning, two people with practiced, well-meaning smiles knocked on my door, and it was all I could do to get past the cats to let them in. They said they were Social Workers, but they didn't have to utter a word, because even if they could have ignored the smell of urine, they couldn't have gotten past the sad desperation that I had become. To be honest, and as hard as it was to let go,  I was relieved to get the help. Sometimes, things that take a long time to get tangled, can be undone in no time, when you find the starting point. They located my insurance documents, neatly filed in Ed's office, along with my purse, and assured me that I would be safe and cared for. I wasn't certain what would be next, but anything was better than this.  Other than that, we left the cats and everything in the house, just as you see it.

Just For Good Measure

Photograph by Sarah Commerford - All Rights Reserved, 2016

My Aunt Flora was a loving and violent woman. Without heels, she stood majestically at six feet, as if a wooden cooking spoon ran from the base of her delicate skull, right down her brittle spine. Without fail, her fine brown hair was pinned into a French twist, and other than when she was sleeping, she usually wore a gray, fine-ribbed turtle neck, as though trying to conceal her exceptionally long neck. That's how things were with her - hidden but obvious.

During her frequent and unpredictable bouts of rage, she reclaimed herself by cooking. No one in our family knew the source of her torment; back then, we simply called her inky moods, "The Jangles", as if they were something melodious to be hummed. But I promise you, they were never that. When they settled in on her, you got out of the way. She took to her bed, blackout shades drawn tight, sometimes for days. Other times she hurled knickknacks across the room, which somehow always got replaced. But never in the kitchen - that room was her heart, as if whatever it was she was missing could be found in the orderly cabinets of her beloved Angel D'Amour dishes, or in her little pantry, stocked floor to ceiling with meticulously hand-labeled glass jars of glossy peaches, sweet pears and stewed tomatoes.  If you look beyond the sink, you can see the pantry still, shelves lined with green and white ivy contact paper, window and all.

She claimed she was from France, although I never heard her utter a conversational word of anything resembling French, except when she slowly and lovingly let the names of her favorite dishes glide off her tongue: 'coq-au-vin', ' fi-let mi-gnon', or 'buche no-el',  emphasizing each syllable like adding an extra pinch of salt with flourish and confidence, just for good measure.

If you let your eye wander to the left, you can see a set of steps. That's where I sat when Aunt Flora was cooking, rapt with devotion, mixed in with a healthy dose of fear. She'd patiently entertain my constant flood of questions, all the while talking me through the process of whatever dish she was preparing, sometimes giving me a coveted job. Rinse, dice, blend, chop, saute, braise, roast. Whatever her fractured mood had been when she started, she was fully and elegantly reconstituted by the time she was done cooking.  Of course, her happiness never lasted, but I understood that her expression of affection was through slender green beans, sweet butter, and savory roasted chicken. Soups and stews and were seasoned or finished with heady bouquets of fresh herbs from her garden, efficiently snipped with razor-sharp sheers that hung by the back door. They're long gone now, but if you look between the kitchen door and the window frame, you can still see the hook that held them at the ready.

That was how Aunt Flora gave the best of  herself, and if she were alive today, moving about her clean, white kitchen, fragile and focused, she'd want you to know how to make last-of-summer pesto, because to let perfectly good basil go to waste in a sad fall garden would be unthinkable. Follow her directions - it would make her happy.

Last-of-Summer Pesto

2 bunches of basil, leaves picked, stems discarded - rinsed gently, but thoroughly
1 handful of toasted pine nuts
2-3 cloves of garlic
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 handful of  coarsely grated Regiano Parmesan cheese
Pinch of salt

Put all ingredients in a blender or food processor (a mortar and pestle will do as well)
Pulse until coarse (longer if you like a smoother texture)
Adjust for taste, adding more olive oil, a few more pinenuts or cheese
Spoon into an airtight container and cover with a layer olive oil to prevent discoloration

Refrigerate, freeze or serve right away over pasta, or use as a dip for vegetables or crusty bread

A Better Place

Photograph by Sarah Commerford - All Rights Reserved, 2016

My kids were always after me to paint our house the color of the sky. And because I could never say no, I did. It took me weeks to save up for the paint, and another month to get the job done. Painting isn't rocket science though, just labor, and I have always liked working hard.

My father built our little camp in 1959, the year I was born. Every summer we'd pack up the car and drive from Boston to Milford for our family vacation. To me, it was going to the other side of the world. We held on to the property, even after my parents were gone, and in the late 70's I moved there with my babies, shortly after my husband and I split up.  I planted a perennial garden out in front, with stones I hauled in from the back field, along with daffodils. If you look carefully, you can see them along the edge of the garden. Shrubs and window boxes gave everything a settled feel, and in the back yard, there was plenty of room for my kids to run. We had everything we needed, and as small communities often do, our neighbors watched out for my family, welcoming us with offers to babysit, shovel our driveway, or help with odd jobs that might be too much for a single woman raising two young children.

I did the best I could with my daughter, Ella, but honestly,  nothing I said or tried ever helped her for long. As mothers do, I begged, pleaded and even bribed her to follow rules and acquiesce, even just a little. I sought advice from family, friends, counselors, clergy and the police, but none of it changed a thing for good. By the time she was 15, she'd stopped going to school and one by one, her friends fell away. She slept more, and except for little moments of light, depression took a dull and permanent hold of her. Yet, every afternoon when I'd get home from work, she'd be waiting for me, right there on the front steps, cigarette in hand, her long dark hair cascading over pale shoulders, still in her pajamas. She was the kind of deep sad that makes a mother's hopeful heart weary.

Ella died in our sky-blue house when she was 17. That was 20 years ago. There's a lot of good that happened between the time we moved and my daughter's death, but none of those things matter much as I look back, because from the day she was born, Ella chose her own hard path - some children just do. I tried to give her everything I had, and teach her about the world in a way that meant something lasting, but sometimes, people are taken from you as fast as a lightning strike, even though you almost always see it coming from miles away.

Lying on the floor of her bedroom in the back of the house, was the last time I saw her, a syringe still in her arm, paraphernalia scattered around her, along with the things girls treasure: glitter nail polish and pink slippers, her yellow flowered quilt, barrettes and her diary that remains packed away, locked and unread. People said that drugs took Ella - and I guess they did, even though it always seemed to me that she opened her arms to them like an eager hostess. Nothing could compete with the promises of relief they made her, even while clawing her body and soul to shreds from the inside out.

Right after we buried her, my son and I packed up and moved. I haven't been able to sell the house, because I need to come back now and then to be near Ella. I no longer remember her voice, or how she smelled, but I will always know the places she was. More than anything though, it's her dark and irreverent humor I hold onto; the way she made me laugh, even though I knew her cynical outlook never helped her happiness. She was smart, I can tell you that, and rarely accepted what others thought was perfectly fine. I always said she would have a made a fierce defense attorney, because she could argue and twist me around until I couldn't remember what the problem was in the first place. That's how she usually got her way. I simply gave in because I got too worn down not to.

In Ella's eulogy, the minister said she was in a better place. I know my girl, and she would have challenged that statement as pure conjecture, and for once, I would have agreed with her. The only place she ever should have been, was right here on earth with me.

Not Everything is Hard

Photograph by Sarah Commerford - All Rights Reserved 2016

There was a time when living here wasn't all bad. We had a nice little lot with a few apple trees and a stream running through the back. All in all, it was almost as good as the house we lived in before my brother went to Afghanistan and my dad went off the rails.

It wasn't big, as you can see, but I had my own room in the loft over the kitchen, and unless it rained exceptionally hard, we were, for the most part, warm and comfortable. You'd be surprised how little you really need when you have to make big choices about small things. You have to let go.

Besides my room, and the stream, the kitchen was the place I liked the best. I'll admit that we didn't have the best appliances, and our propane tank was often empty. But you adapt. Some might think that cooking in a trailer is hard, but we had a little two burner stove, a microwave, a mini fridge and a sink with running water. A girl like me learned early how to make a meal out of half empty boxes of anything.  I liked to say that if you put a pot of water on to boil, the meal practically makes itself.

Here's my best and most filling recipe:

1 box or macaroni or shells
1 can of tomato sauce
 A few squirts of ketchup
A few shakes of grated Parmesan cheese (optional)

Boil a big pot of water
Add macaroni or shells and cook until soft
Drain
Mix in sauce, ketchup and cheese

Serve in bowls.