Madison720web

Memories
Mary Ann Kirby
My grandmother worked hard to keep me entertained, though.
She would drop me off at the swimming pool every day around 10am
with a pocket full of quarters for the vending machines and a dime
for the pay-phone. Unless I called, she would just plan to be back at
2:00–or sooner if it rained. If there was lightening, the lifeguard
would clear the pool. In those instances it might take a little longer
before she could make it back, but I was happy to wait. The cute
blond-headed teenage lifeguard smelled like a mix of Sea & Ski suntan
lotion, chlorine, and Flex shampoo. He was fifteen.
Once back home, I’d play the piano in my wet bathing suit until
I eventually ruined the finish on that old piano bench. She never said
a word about it, though—and never fixed it, either. And by 3:00, all
her afternoon coffee buddies would show up. They came every day–
for nearly thirty years.
Each day, seven or eight women (and whoever else felt like stopping
by) would show up for coffee and whatever sweet treats were on hand.
My personal favorite was an apricot nectar cake with a lemon glaze
icing that was kept on a plate under a heavy glass dome. They would
sit around the kitchen table and hoot and holler and talk about
everything you can imagine. And they’d eat that entire cake–but not
before saving a slice for me.
Sometimes I’d leave them to their business and walk
downtown to spend my loot on “allowance day”–
barefooted, no less. That scalding-hot pavement
and concrete didn’t deter me for one second
(another thing that’s changed with age). I’d get
$2 per week–unless the neighbors left their
soda bottles out for me to pick up and
return to the Jitney for a nickel apiece.
That sometimes meant I’d have an
extra forty-five cents or so to blow at my
discretion.
But most times I’d hang around and sit within eavesdropping
distance of the gaggle of women on in that kitchen. For two-hours
straight they would talk about books and recipes and their families.
They would talk about the new preacher, or peat moss and different
rose varieties. They invested in one another and knew everything
there was to know about each other. They were a sisterhood that,
frankly, our generation seems to know little about.
In the era of social media where friends are cultivated through
requests, invites, clicks, likes, and re-tweets, it seems we’re missing out
on the benefits of true face-to-face interaction and communication.
While visiting day-in and day-out for almost thirty years, that
group of women fed each other with their sheer love for one another
and their camaraderie. They shared life in real time–not with emojis
and hashtags but with real laughter and, in some cases, real tears.
At the age of 96, my grandmother passed away. There was a line in
her obituary that read, “Mary loved to visit with her friends. For decades
they met at her kitchen table for coffee–and their long-awaited
reunion will be extraordinary.” My grandmother had outlived them
all–and was the last of them to go.
Every day, these women would meet for coffee and talk about life.
They showed each other grace and gave each other
courage. They’d giggle and cackle until sometimes
erupting so uncontrollably that no words were
spoken for what seemed like an hour. All I could
hear was wheezing and gasps as they tried to regain
their composure. I’d be giggling, too. They were all great
characters in an equally great story. They were part of a tribe.
And at the end of the day, when their coffee cups were empty,
their hearts were full to the rim.
And, God willing, they’d be back tomorrow. What an
extraordinary lesson and legacy. l
Hometown MADISON • 55