Sparrows, celery and onions and Grandma's Love

The aroma filled up my awareness as I tried to blink awake in the dim light of a snowy dawn. The smell was strong and fresh, pungent but sweet as it rolled out of the nearby kitchen where my grandmother sautéed celery and onions as a first step toward making the dressing for the Thanksgiving turkey. My parents, sister, aunt and uncle and cousins lay around me scattered around the family on cots and air mattresses still sleeping. The only sounds I could hear at first were the sizzling vegetables and the soft breathing noises of my family. Then as I woke up more I could hear the raucous twitter of small birds outside the door that opened to the patio.


I tiptoed over and around my sleeping family to peer out the window to see what the fuss was about. The window in the door was edged with hoar frost and fogged over from the warm moist air. I pulled my pajama sleeve over my fist and rubbed a spot in the window so I could look out. I saw a dozen or maybe even two dozen sparrows flittering about pecking at dark dots on the snow that had fallen during the night. My grandmother had tossed out the remnants of the bread crusts too crumbled and tiny to mix in with the dressing. The tiny birds would have a little feast of their own to celebrate the holiday. I watched the birds for a while trying to track the flight of just one bird at a time but the movement was too quick and too erratic to follow. It only took a few minutes for them to clean up all of the crumbs and then, as though they were all connected by a string, they vanished into the falling snow. I wondered how they had found the crumbs so quickly after my grandmother tossed them out on the patio.

I worked my way back across the room toward the door to the kitchen being careful not to step on my sleeping family. The footsy of my faded superman pajamas was worn and slippery so my foot slipped a little against the vinyl floor as I step over my sleeping sister. I finally reached the sliding door that separated the family room from the kitchen. I slid the door between open enough to step through and the first thing I saw was our yellow Labrador Gypsy standing by the table looking into the kitchen. I was then blasted by the full force of the aroma of the cooking celery and onions in almost the same instant I saw my grandmother standing beside the stove with a potato in one and a shiny peeler in the other.

She was wearing a house coat and pink step –in slippers and over the coat was a full length red and white gingham apron that tied in the back. For my grandmother, a smile was a normal expression and this morning was no exception. Her countenance was soft and her eyes twinkled with delight at the sight of me. I flooded with warmth from the toes my footsy pajamas to my ears.

“Good morning, honey,” she said. “Gypsy is always such a big help for me in the kitchen in case I drop something on the floor.” It is little wonder that she and the dog worshipped each other every day of Gypsy’s life.

If I responded, I can’t remember what I said. It does not matter because what I did next was much more important than anything I could have said. I padded around the dog into the kitchen and into the soft arms of grandmother and she hugged me close to her. I wanted the moment to last forever but of, course, it couldn’t. Unexpectedly, though, as I write these words the hug comes back to me in rush of memories. Nearly a half century of time has been erased in a blink. The moment is now suspended in time, a little boy in the arms of his grandmother.

My grandmother could love like no one else I have ever met. Now in this moment of warmth I can understand what we mean when we express belief in the communion of the saints. Through time and space and from world to the next I feel loved. I feel her love. The gift I have been given is to no longer mourn the past, to regret what has been lost but rather to bring those moments back to life and let them live again. I celebrate her life and her love and I now understand that her love has always been a constant in my life.

From that snowy Thanksgiving morning in my grandparent’s tiny house in Anaconda to this day, the smell of frying celery and onions takes me back to that day. It does not matter who is at the stove, even if it is gift I give myself, when I smell that aroma, I feel love. Right now there is a supply of celery and onions in the refrigerator ready to peeled, chopped and fried for the dressing for the turkey we will share with family for dinner. I can hardly wait.

It is time for me sign off now. I am suddenly motivated to go find someone to hug and a yellow dog to pet. Wonder where that came from.