savagemama

Yesterday I went to the grocery store for a few things and you know how that can be. But on this trip I didn’t come home with a $12 pint of huckleberries or a $25 bottle of shampoo. I got what I needed with my two children writhing in and out of the cart.

Bananas. Yogurt. Oatmeal. Butter.

The next thing on the list: dish soap. I sniffed a few different kinds and settled on one cheap, lemon-scented bottle. I threw it in the cart, told Lucille to stop climbing over the rail of the cart for the tenth time, and I was on my way. I circled the store trying to remember if there was anything I was forgetting. I passed the soap aisle again, on my way to the cash register, and whipped in quickly to exchange my cheap, lemon dish soap for Palmolive, the kind my grandmother uses. Then I headed straight for the clothes detergent and grabbed a jug of Gain. We didn’t even need clothes detergent.

As I packed my groceries into my car, I opened the bottle of Gain just to get a whiff. It smelled like my Dad. The Palmolive, my grandmother’s kitchen.

Standing in the Safeway parking lot all I could think was how much I miss them.
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At the beginning of this summer I had one goal, basic and simple. I wanted to have fun.

Last summer was decidedly not fun. We managed to pull off some elements of summer last year but afternoon dips in the river and walks around the block did not a summer make. Taking care of two children each day in the wake of meningitis was enough of a challenge that the days were few that I could take in a summer ritual like going to the swimming pool or biking to the baseball game.

So as the weather warmed this spring and the June rains fell I wanted to focus on having fun and to do it exceedingly well.
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What was that Steinbeck quote?

“I’m in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection. But with Montana it is love. And it’s difficult to analyze love when you’re in it.”

I used to have this quote thumb-tacked to my dorm room wall in South Carolina after I’d lived in Montana and wanted desperately to come back.

And it’s still true. I am in love.

And, yes, it’s hard to analyze it when you’re in it.

But let’s try.
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I have a little problem. And it comes in a red can.

It’s not a problem, I suppose. But maybe that’s what all addicts say.

My grandmother, who smoked cigarettes for the better part of 40 years, used to say it was the only bad thing she ever did. A life-long Southern Baptist who never had a drink of alcohol in her life, she justified her smoking through one open-heart surgery, then another nearly 20 years later. It was only after that valve replacement that she gave up her cigarettes. While she was in the hospital, chest cracked wide, I dumped the last few cigarettes from her only remaining pack into the toilet. I’d wanted to do that for 15 years.

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