It Didn't Seem That He Had Anyone

So, now what?  The man freshly retired from his 30 years as a factory inspector asked his mewing cat.  He had the whole day ahead of him.  He looked to noon as the day's pivot point.  What should he do with himself in these morning hours?  He watched his cat arch around his legs, its hair becoming tousled from his corduroy trousers.  He turned off the kitchen light, the sun now streamed into the kitchen, hit the rainbow maker he just put up with string and he watched colors on his terra cotta floor.  Maybe he should call Graham.  No, it was too early.  He saw the stray cats on his back porch hissing at each other and he thought he might like another cup of tea.  The sound of water coming to a boil was comforting.  He turned on the radio and listened to his favorite public radio classical music station, sat down and put his elbows on the table, chin in his hands, and felt the muscles of his back slump.  The clock chimed half past eight.  He thought maybe he'd call his daughters, or maybe his brother.  He wanted to thank him again for helping him out after his second story had caught fire the previous winter.  He didn't know his sister-in-law would be so accommodating.  He slept in that small pink room where a framed prayer of Saint Francis hung by the light switch.   Funny how one phrase still stuck in his head: '...grant that I may not so much seek to be understood as to understand...'  He felt so dusty and pathetic that first night eating dinner with them, a blond child at each end of the table, staring at him, whose names he didn't remember.  Then the kids went to bed and so did he, a pathetic adult-child.  He hated being there.
But, he thought with a chuckle, that fire was actually an answer to a prayer.  For he no longer collapsed in his bathroom, holding onto the metal towel rack, face contorting, eyes lifted upwards through tears, pleading: 'why?...why..?  Please help me...'  Nor did he whisper those incantations anymore to the full moon when she icily spot-lit his cheek as he lie in bed.   Yes, he was feeling less lonely now.  The kettle began to whistle.

Nonna's Kitchen and Beyond

Ever laugh yourself silly with your sisters over the making of instant microwavable blanc mange? Ever see your mom cry with tears of laughter as she stood helplessly at the kitchen sink while the large cherry flavor jell-o heart slid down the drain, the unmolding process gone awry? Ever troll country roads as a family in search of elderberry bushes – blossoms for pancakes and berries for wine? Ever have an after-swimming farmstand-fresh simple summer meal consisting of tomato sandwiches, corn-on-the-cob and Osterized chocolate milkshakes? Ever mail shoe boxes, full of homemade cookies, to your brother in college? Ever wake up on a Saturday morning to find your dad making silver dollar griddlecakes for the family? All of this and so, so much more happened in the heart of my childhood home - Nonna’s kitchen.

Ever wait anxiously for the marbled squares to come out of the oven, the tantalizing sweet smell letting you know they were nearly done? If so, or especially if not, turn to the Marbled Squares recipe on page 57 and mix up a batch of your own right now. While they bake, make yourself comfortable and browse the rest of this family cookbook, Nonna’s Kitchen and Beyond. With family-tested, family-favorite recipes and photos aplenty, you’ll taste the love on every page.

An Unorthodox Burial

My wife and I are painstakingly preparing their house for a third open house. My wife dusts the picture frames that line the mantle, while I mow the lawn. The house is impeccably spotless and everything is in order, just as it had been for the previous three. Our realtor arrives, gives us a kindhearted smile, and sprays the kitchen with the smell of fresh baked cookies. My wife and I leave the house and eagerly anticipate the results of the open house, hoping someone would fall in love with their home just as we had.

Our house has been on the market for over a year, and showings have been few and far between. The previous open houses yielded a paltry two visitors, but we try to remain positive. We really are in no rush to move, just seeking a larger home for our growing family. However, we are growing impatient with the lack of interest in our house, and cannot afford to drop the asking price any lower. We purchased this house within a week of it going on the market, and we really didn’t foresee any difficulty reselling it when we were ready to move again.

Upon returning to our house after the open house ended, our realtor tells us that only one person came to see the house; an elderly fellow. She mentioned that he was quite frail and he really enjoyed the family pictures that were on display throughout the house. The realtor did not anticipate him to make an offer because he said the stairs would be an issue. In fact, he didn’t even go upstairs and she wondered why he came in the first place because it was clear to see that it was a two-story house. The realtor also noticed that after he left the home, he spent a lot of time in the front yard looking at house. She thought, perhaps, this was the house he grew up in, and he just wanted to return to see how it looked so many years later.

Needless to say, we were a little discouraged and we seriously considered taking our house off the market. We could stay in the house for a few more years before we really outgrow it; the housing market would surely be different by then. We schedule an appointment with our realtor to discuss our options. As soon as my wife gets off the phone with the realtor, the phone rings. It is the realtor calling back asking us if she can show our house tonight.

We are excited, but trying not to get our hopes up; we decide to go out to dinner during the showing. As we finish our meal, my wife’s phone rings and it is our realtor with news that someone has put an offer on the house. My wife literally almost fell out of her seat.  We meet with our realtor to discuss the offer only to find out it is for the full list price of the home, so we joyously accept. As it turns out, a young couple is moving to the area due to a work transfer and our home is exactly what they are looking for.

The sale of the home goes off without a hitch. With the sale finalized, the realtor gives me the “SOLD” sticker to place on the for sale sign in front of their home. As I approach the sign, I notice a small area on the lawn that looks as if someone has been digging a small hole. As a man who pays meticulous attention to his lawn, I kneel beside the area to investigate. Indeed, the area is a whole that was subsequently filled. My curiosity peaked, I move away some of the dirt with my hands and find a small statue of Saint Joseph buried in the ground.

I stand in the lawn holding the statue of Saint Joseph, wondering how it came to be buried in my front lawn. As I stand there, I feel a presence behind me. I turn around and see an old man standing on the sidewalk.

“Nice statue you got there,” the old man says to me.

“Uh, thanks. I just found it buried in my front yard,” I reply.

“I know. I put it there,” replies the old man.

I look at the old man as if he was crazy and simply ask, "Why?"

The old man rests his arms on the fence post and explains,
"As I'm sure you are aware, Saint Joseph was the earthly father of Jesus of Nazareth. Besides being a good father, he was also a skilled craftsman. He taught Jesus the craftsman’s trade and always made sure Jesus had a roof over his head. This is the reason why he helps people locate the house they are looking for, which in turn helps the people who need to sell their homes. I buried the statue in your yard so that Saint Joseph would direct a new family to this house, just as he directed you when you found it."

"You mean there was a statue buried in the yard when we bought this house?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Let’s just say this old house means a lot to me, and I believe Saint Joseph will only bring loving families to such a wonderful home," replies the old man.

I plead to him, "Please tell me, I really want to know!"

With tears swelling, the old man looks away and says, "Maybe some other time."

With that, the old man takes hold of his cane and walks away. Still grasping the statue of Saint Joseph I call out to the old man, "Thank you!"

The old man does not turn around, just holds up his hand and gives a friendly wave.

September Topic: Saintly Curiosity

Whenever someone lost something at Nonna's, she approached the situation with a kind suggestion: 'Say a prayer to Saint Anthony.'  And this plea always worked.  I also heard stories growing up of Saint Martin de Porres who could teleport, and of humble St. Francis' infinite kindness. To my infantile mind, this all seemed so natural, but as I grew, I began to wonder, who are these Saints?  Who is this helpful being, Saint Anthony, who helped my Aunt find her keys?  What are they?   My mother-in-law, as I write, is getting herself ready to go on a pilgrimage to a neighboring village to celebrate the life of Saint Giles, where his relic, exuding healing energy, is on display.  So, I suggest we write about an experience we've had, real or imagined, with a Saint or Saintly being (bodhisattva, angel, master, etc.)  Or, if you'd prefer, write the life story of an imagined Saint.

Subtopic: Write the intro to a cookbook of favorite familial recipes.