a moral of the story
During my most malleable years, on days off from elementary school or times when I was too sick to learn appropriate grammar and maths, I was sent to Sister Wooldridge’s house. We called her “Sister” because my family originally knew her from an old church we used to attend and the habit of referring to other church members as official siblings was still common. As far as I can remember, most of the days I went to Sister Wooldridge’s house were caused by some sickness that truly debilitated me or made me want to fake the other half of the story in order to skip those painful, mandatory recorder lessons in music class.
Imagining staying at her place, however, the memories of childhood return. The first house I remember her living at sported an aged, partially-rusted, hanging chair on the porch. During warmer days, I remember taking my blanket to that undulating surface and falling asleep in the mild afternoon weather. I remember an upstairs room where, on at least one occasion, I played “dress up” with your granddaughter (was it?) and I recall having no useful approach to tying a neck tie.
At another house, one I believe you had unfortunately inherited after a friend’s death, I remember the living room with unusual detail. Were all of the walls made of glass? I think they were, for the most part. It was a sunroom, of sorts; and luckily enough, I remember there being yet another hanging chair ready for me to rock myself into dreaming. With the peaceful view of a green backyard, there was no resistance in me to ward off a restful slumber.
At this new house, I would watch The Little Rascals until my eyes became heavy. You would bring me peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches cut into four triangles that I could manage. I would wander through the room filled with Elvis Presley paraphernalia with wonder and awe, a room you kept in prime shape in respect to your friend who had passed - this was her shrine handed down to you. I recall that attic having a perfect semblance of one from Are You Afraid of the Dark? episodes, but with the pull of a cord the undiffused light would reveal the pleasantly antiqued truth, a transformation from fright to fascination.
Sister Wooldridge, I heard you left us. Yet, your history will remain written and embedded into at least one child’s mind. Let me tell you of my best memory of going to your place:
Of the many times my feverish self was dropped off with your care, I remember the sandwiches, I remember the resting, I remember the Little Rascals, I remember the Matchbox cars and Playdough; ironically enough, I do not have a single memory of feeling ill.
December 6th, 2006 at 1:04 pm
I also loved the following things:
- She knew that I didn’t like nuts in my cookies, so there was always a nut-free jar.
- The sandwich triangles were cool.
- She made her own Play-Doh, which was way nicer than the store-bought stuff.
- She made us feel like we were her own grandkids.
- She fed stray cats actual tuna fish, which would be like feeding stray kids caviar — I’m sure it made the cats feel like kings/queens.
Thanks for writing that well-expressed appreciation.
December 6th, 2006 at 1:43 pm
The Play-Doh was original? I didn’t know that! I clearly recall how I would run the Matchbox cars through it and have the wheels stopped up with blue and green Play-Doh. Somehow that memory sticks out.