I wrote this a few years ago for myself, mostly, but I've decided to share this real life event that happened long-ago in my family. I've split the continuous narrative into three parts so the length isn't daunting. The other two sections will appear on this blog within the next few days.
Madame Sylvia—Part 1
August, but with four children under the age of seven I barely had time to weep,
let alone reminisce and tenderly recall the happy parts of my mother’s life—the
kinds of things that help a twenty-nine-year-old woman process a profound and
personal loss. Other than occasionally excusing myself from child-tending for a
minute or two to bury my face in my pillow and cry behind the closed bedroom
door, my life continued uninterrupted as a homemaker, mother, and wife.
Only in the
evenings, after the children were tucked in for the night, could my sister and
I attend to the business of sorting through our deceased mother’s belongings. The
two of us were the sole remaining members of our family of origin, and Sis, too,
was rearing a young family. Gradually we sorted through Mother’s household
effects so we could relinquish her rental house to the landlord. After each
work session, we’d take things to our respective homes—kitchen utensils and
foodstuffs, artwork, and clothing. Records and books and china and silver.
Furniture. Photo albums. Bed and table linens, shoes, jewelry, and gift items
purchased for birthdays yet to happen. Piles for friends and thrift shops, piles
for us, too.
On one of those
nights, I broke down weeping as I unfolded Mother’s glamorous dressing gown
with flowing sleeves, a deep purply-blue kimono accented with a floral pattern.
The garment, along with a delicately tie-dyed sash of saffron yellow and rust,
had been a wedding gift in 1934 to Mother from an honorary member of my dad’s
family, a Japanese man who—as a student—had been employed by my grandparents. Mother
only wore the robe when she was getting ready to go out for a gala evening with
our father. She’d bathe and put on her best lingerie, then wrap herself in the
kimono to fix her hair, put on jewelry, apply lipstick, and perfume. Neither my
sister nor I could imagine giving away the kimono. Although I couldn’t
visualize myself wearing it (I am not the type to put on a glamorous cover-up
while getting ready for a dressy evening), I was happy to take it to my house.
Naturally, our
house with its six occupants was not long on storage space, so I rolled it up
in a paper bag and put it in a box in the basement. One of these days, I
thought, I’ll show the robe to my children and tell them about the happy times
when their Nana wore it—then I’ll find a place to permanently store it. Little
did I know that in just a few weeks the kimono would become intrinsically woven
into my own family’s history.
On that particular
blustery, rainy November evening, my husband was exhausted and trying to read
the newspaper to relax from the stresses of his workday. I had bathed, pajamaed,
and tooth-brushed the children so they were ready for their nightly story. They
often got silly before bed, but this night they were wilder than usual, pushing
and shoving and sticking out tongues and belching in each other’s faces. Although
they were just overtired and over-stimulated, in my head they were momentarily
monsters. I thought about the praise of strangers whenever we’d go anywhere in
public. “You have the sweetest, best-behaved children,” they would say in many
variations. Whenever I took my children anywhere, it was as if I were tending four
cherubs. But in my own home that night, I was tending fiends!
“Quiet,
children! I am not going to read to you if you don’t stop this now!” I might as
well have been talking to a wall. They were pushing and tickling each other,
wildly racing around the living room. Why
are they so rude to their mother when they’re so nice for strangers? I wondered. Why would anyone read to them when they are this horrible? I wanted
to scream in frustration.
Suddenly I had
an idea. Leaving the children in the living room, I rushed into the family room
where their dad was dozing off behind his newspaper. “Keep an eye on the children—they’re
absolutely wild. I’m in the midst of an idea,” I said as I started down the
basement stairs, “and answer the doorbell when it rings!” I grabbed the paper bag with the kimono and
sash, then tore back upstairs, darting into our bedroom to rummage through my
dresser drawers and the closet. I grabbed green linen high heeled shoes I’d not
worn in six years, a flowing scarf sitting idle since college, and wild dangly
earrings I’d bought for a part in a college, then rushed to the back door and
stepped outside.
Under the cover
of the patio roof, I pulled off my clogs, stepped into the heels, pinched on
the earrings, and tied the colorful scarf over my hair. I pulled the kimono
over my clothes, tying it with two wraps on the saffron-colored sash. I sprinted
through the rain by the side of the house, and breathlessly climbed the four
steps to the front porch where I reached for the doorbell.
I could hear
instant quiet from within. “Daddy, someone’s at the door,” called the oldest, her
voice was muffled but I knew exactly what she was saying. I had drilled into my
children’s heads that only an adult could open the front door if we weren’t
expecting company. As I waited for the door to open, I hurriedly put together
my opening lines. The door bolt turned and the door opened, sucking the storm
door into the doorjamb with a snap. Behind the glass storm door all four
children crowded, their dad behind them. I introduced myself as he unlatched
the storm door but before he could open his mouth to say anything.
“Good evening, children” I said in a thick, faked accent, mostly French, a little-bit Czech and German. I looked at each of them as I continued. “I am Madame Sylvia (Muh-dahm Seal-via) and I am a traveling storyteller (traffelling storytelleer). I read to children (shield-wren) before their bedtime (zehr bedtime).” I directly eyeballed my husband. “May I come in, sir?”
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