Daytripping Summer 2022

Lake Huron
The
Daytripper
Now we double back a bit toward TILLSONBURG
MI
ONTARIO SHOP
NY
LOCAL
A Moment in the Kitchen
By Gayle Etherington, Ancaster • from Daytripping Nov-Dec 2016 issue
Standing in the middle of the kitchen,
I stare at the geometric design on the
formica table. The swirling circles of
brown and mustard yellow, a forgiving
mistress in concealing a lifetime of coffee
rings, cigarette burns and the etched
initials of an old love.
The room is a time capsule. In fact, the
entire house is a scrapbook of a typical
farmhouse one sees dotted alongside the
roads of Ontario. Solid stone structures
that lay impervious, while families come
and go, leaving a backdrop of faded
gingham wallpaper, history and secrets.
I look down at the surface of the table
littered with prescription bottles, an open
McKenzie Seed Catalog and a milk glass
cereal bowl. The remains of what looks
like a bloated mass of Shreddies lay
hardening, covering up most of the ivy
pattern that clings to the rim. The only
clue that she has been here recently, is
the bright pink lipstick smear on the
chipped mug that sits half full of beige
oily liquid. I pat the stained knitted tea
cozy covering the pot and it is cold to the
touch.
Belly tightening, I turn and walk to
the sink. A gentle breeze lifts the flimsy
curtains and as they blow inward, my
fingers capture a piece of the fabric.
Years of sunlight have taken its toll but
the faded images of vintage toasters and
coffee percolators still bleed through
the cotton. A dark ugly memory streaks
through the quiet as I recall the day my
mother hung them up for the first time.
“Add a bit of colour to the room, don’t
you think Katie Cat?” she stated as she
climbed down from the rickety step stool
one of my brothers had made in shop
class. My response is a pile of lost words,
but I am left with the sick feeling of
intentional cruelty. A senseless slaughter
of a happy moment, my victim, a slight
woman who always seemed to get in the
cross fire of my teenage misery.
She was an easy target for my nasty
tongue, and as I mocked her lifestyle and
ideals, we clashed often. What I did not
realize at the time was that she could
sense my inner need to rebel and gave
me a safe place to do just that. In the
shadows just before sleep, I often relive
my careless words and the shame that
comes still brings me to my knees.
I should have made the biggest fuss
over these darn curtains. They would
after all, be the frame around her world
for the next forty years. I let the material
slip free, releasing it to the outgoing wind.
It was too quiet. Where did she go?
I never liked hearing the sound of my
own heartbeat. Right now, its echo battles
the cheap starburst clock that hangs
over the stove. The insidious ticking
reverberates off the walls, even though
the hands, made to look like a knife and
fork appear to be frozen permanently at
ten to five. My eyes automatically move
to the doorway where I half expect to see
the weathered face of my father coming
in for his dinner. A man of routine and
few words, I always felt his love for us
when I looked at his hands.
Crossing the room to the built in alcove,
I turn on the radio. The familiar click of
the worn knob lights up the greasy face
and the silence is filled with the crooning
of Johnny Mathis.
I notice the elf figurine sitting on
the shelf. His casual cross-legged pose
and impish smile were a part of my
childhood Christmas memories, and as I
wipe the dust off him, I wonder when he
stopped being put away with the other
ornaments. A creepy piece of plaster,
I spent far too many hours looking at
his snide little mouth and squinty eyes.
I turn him over and look at the generic
stamp on his bottom and the place where
his legs have been glued back together
after one of its many falls. He may be
worthless, but he has earned the right
to reign over this corner of the kitchen
while he can. With a newfound sense of
respect, I gently place him back where
he belongs.
The sound of gravel on the
driveway draws my attention
and my anxiety level is dialed
back when I see who is getting
out of the car.
Moments later I hear the
screen door slam and her voice call
out. “Katharine?”
“I’m in the kitchen, Mom!” I
holler.
She enters wearing the
yellow plaid raincoat she bought
for herself at Eaton’s in the sixties.
One pocket is torn, the other
swollen with used tissues. Her
flannel pyjama pants are tucked
into black wellies that are leaving fossil
like footprints on the linoleum floor. Her
thinning hair is sticking up in rooster
fashion and one lone curler still clings to
her scalp.
She is carrying a flat of fresh
strawberries in both arms. “Look what I
picked this morning,” she states, smiling
so wide her eyes all but disappear.
I return the smile, taking the fruit
from her to place on the counter. I can
feel where her gaze slips to and prepare
myself. “Not hungry?” she says as she
looks down at the unfinished breakfast.
I don’t have the heart to tell her that
it’s not mine. I can’t...not when she
smells like sunshine and earth. When her
cheeks and nose are pink from the cool
air and her bent fingers are still stained
red. Later perhaps, but not now.
I bring the dirty dishes to the sink
and wash away
the unwanted
mess.
“So, Mom,
I guess we are
making jam
today?”
Page 78
“Notice - drivers do not carry burritos” (sign on a Chipotle truck)
Summer 2022