Stories

The Christmas Tree

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Dec 2, 2024 category Stories

I set the timer on my Christmas tree so that when I come downstairs in the morning, I am greeted by its light. In the quiet, I sit in a nearby chair and look at the ornaments, remembering the ones who gifted them to me. Some I inherited after my parents died and I cleaned out my mother’s Christmas closet. Others were purchased for us by our children. Some of their handmade childhood ornaments adorn the tree.

The small glass ones that hung on my parents’ tree when they were first married are particular favorites. They are stored in “Shiny Brite” cardboard boxes barely held together after all these years.

I am emotional as I go through the boxes, when I think about the memories stored within each one. Decorating the tree is not just a task, but a journey of emotions. I’m not the same person I was when I bought the Mickey Mouse ornament at Disney World the year before I was married.

Last year the ornaments remained in their boxes as I was unable to have a tree in the house; the risk of infection due to my compromised immune system was too great. Instead, we put a tree on our screened porch where I could sit in the fresh air and look at the green branches. This year is different, the hayride to the orchard a particular wonder. Our home is small and my husband only wants a narrow tree to fill the space. None of the trees in the field would do, so my grandson chose a pre-cut that was just perfect.

I took much of the afternoon winding strings of lights around it, only to notice later that some of the bulbs didn’t work. I left it, content with the ones that did shine. One by one, I began to hang ornaments, some lower where the kids could reach; others higher so they would be at eye level. My grandson showed his sister the one that played music, and the wooden soldier whose legs kicked out to the sides when she pulled the string.

I photographed individual ornaments and sent them to friends who had given them to me. I wanted them to know I remembered and cared. This year I stand near the tree to get a closer look. And, I also sit several feet away to get an overall view of how each ornament is connected to the others.

My tree is a timeline of friendships and seasons. It is a reminder of those who have gone and of those who remain. It is a shining vision in a season of diminished light.

Reflection

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Nov 27, 2024 category Gardens, Stories

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. I know this because my Christmas Cactus flowered. I don’t ask questions, I don’t wonder about the calendar, I simply accept that this is the time it flowers each year.

My refrigerator is full of items to make an antipasto platter to bring to my daughter’s home tomorrow. My version of the traditional Italian appetizer will include cherry tomatoes on the vine and cotton candy grapes and oversized, red strawberries because my grandchildren like them. My son is home from graduate school and when we sit down at the table tomorrow, my family will be under one roof. For that, I am thankful.

Joe and I walked our three dogs this morning at Brandywine Park. I breathed fresh air, moved my body, observed the dichotomy of the creek, the rose garden, the iron bridge, and the tall office buildings. We walked beneath the underpass of I-95, listening to cars and trucks roaring by overhead. I stopped to photograph the reflection of the aqueduct, noting the beauty that extended beyond the structure itself, to the water beneath. In the process, I saw my own reflection cast by the sun behind me, making me look even taller than usual.

It made me wonder about reflections. As we stood there, I noticed Franklin looking up at me, his eyes questioning me. Were we continuing our walk? Did I have more treats for him? I thought about my love for him evident in his eyes.

Near the end of our walk, I stopped at a magnificent, gnarly tree. I marveled at its mystique. I wondered for how many years people had stopped to observe it. As I stared, ready to photograph its beauty, I spotted the gray squirrel camouflaged in the crook of the branches, the sun spotlighting its face.

It’s a time of year for reflection. Of this year, of years past. Of how today will be reflected years from now. I want to live my life with the kind of love that makes others feel cherished. And, like my Christmas Cactus, it doesn’t have to comport with an assigned time or season. It can bloom right now.

Firsts & Lasts

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Sep 15, 2024 category Gardens, Stories

It’s a quiet Sunday morning. I hear the hum of cars along I-495 though less than a typical rush hour morning. I arrived too late for the church bells announcing 7:00 mass at St. Helena’s. I settle in with coffee and rosary beads. I quiet Ivy as she barks at passing squirrels and rogue cats.

I observe my neighbor’s tulip poplar, filled with yellowing leaves, as it leans heavily toward another neighbor’s house. The back drive is carpeted in the leaves already fallen. I wrap myself in a throw blanket knowing soon I will be wearing coats out here.

Fall contains both beginnings and endings, firsts and lasts. It is particularly true as I watch for the hummingbirds. I saw the first one at my feeder on July 24. Since then, there have been regular visits. I learned only today that males do not show their ruby throats until after the first molt, so the ones I thought were female might well have been young males. I could distinguish between two of them as one would sit on the edge of the feeder and eat slowly and methodically; the other flapped its wings, remaining airborne, slowing only to stick its beak in the hole to gather nectar.

It’s been close to two days since I’ve seen either of them. My neighbor saw a large one yesterday near the white flowers of a blooming bush at the back drive, but my feeder remains empty. I wonder if the two that frequented my feeder all summer have begun their fall migration. I tried to note the last time I saw one. I wanted to write it down, but I didn’t. I expected to see it the next day, but I didn’t. It’s the same with the catbirds. Soon they will be gone, and I will see the first junco.

As my mother aged, I saved the birthday card she sent each year in case it was the last one. I still have that one from April 21, 2022. There is a children’s book that depicts a mother telling her children that if she new it would be the last time, she would have held them longer. When did I stop holding my children’s hands? When did they say, I’m old enough to go alone? And, now I think of that with my grandchildren. I asked the nine-year-old recently if he was too old to sit on my lap. He said yes, and we laughed. But, inside…

I will wait around a bit longer today for my hummingbirds. If they have left, I will think of their long journey. I will welcome others who are passing through from points further north. I will continue to change the nectar until there are no more sightings. I will watch the poplar bury the drive in its leaves. And, soon, I will welcome back the juncos.

Back to School

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Aug 21, 2024 category Stories

As is my normal routine, I fed the three dogs and one cat, made coffee, poured it into a specially-chosen mug, and made my way from the kitchen to the back porch. I invited the pups as I opened the door and immediately felt the change in the air. We were greeted with 66-degree temperatures, both refreshing and chilly. Unexpected, even. These changes tend to happen nearly overnight. There will be more hot days, but we’ve had our first chilly morning and the promise of more to come.

There was a cardinal and a wren sharing the food in the tray feeder. The hummingbird happily enjoyed his nectar. The dogs took their spots—Franklin on the elevated dog bed; Ivy on the love seat; and Stella on my lap. Graycie filled up the wicker tray on the ottoman in front of my chair. I held onto my coffee cup a bit longer, enjoying the heat on my hands. Fall was giving us a preview.

School is gearing up to start here in Delaware. Two young moms on my street are teachers. This week they are setting up their classrooms in preparation for their students’ return to school on Monday. It is a transition for both students and staff to leave behind the carefree days of summer for the classroom.

I remember the summer before sixth grade. Right before school started, I broke my glasses. They were a nice pair of oval-shaped tortoise shells and I was devastated when the optometrist said they’d have to order a new pair and in the meantime I could wear a loaner pair. They were not glasses I would have chosen. I couldn’t imagine going to school wearing those glasses. I also knew I had no choice. I was not the kind of kid who could fake it and squint my way through the day. I’d worn glasses since the second grade and my eyes only got worse thereafter. Glasses were not an option for me.

I felt so ashamed of those glasses. I tried to hold my head up when I went to school, but I’m sure my shoulders were rounded at the thought of what was on my face. Sixth grade was a big deal. It was the highest grade in our elementary school and I liked all the kids in my class. We had a teacher who had ulcers and would guzzle down pints of milk to help coat his stomach, “Through the lips, over the gums, look out stomach, here it comes,” he used to say. It was the fall of 1969 and he was a fan of the Mets who were playing the Orioles in the World Series. He wheeled a big TV into our classroom each afternoon so we could watch the games. If school let out before it was was over, I would run all the way home to see the end of the game.

The first day of school was scary for me. Where would I be sitting? Who was in my class? But, I was excited about having homework the first night, especially math, if it was easy. I liked my new, clean notebooks, drawing girls, hearts, and peace signs on the fronts. I loved recess when we would play kickball out in the field behind the school.

There was a boy in my class who struggled with classroom learning. I liked him. Once, after a test, he brought his paper to me. He had gotten all ten problems wrong, and he asked me to check to see if the teacher had made a mistake in grading it. I checked each one, and he did, in fact, get them all wrong. For the last problem he had written a “one” as an answer. When I solved it, the answer was “ten”. With my pencil, I carefully added a zero to his one to make a “ten”. I did it as cautiously as I could, making sure no one was watching and that I had matched his writing the best I could. I went back to my friend and said, “Look, you got the last one right.” He went directly to the teacher and showed him the correct answer. The teacher said there was no zero on there when he graded it and my friend said there was. I never told anyone in the class what I had done. Not the teacher, nor my friend. If I had to do again, I would have done the same thing.

School can be hard for some kids. The work. The friendships. The drama. And it can be fun. The work. The friendships. The drama. The best teachers are the ones who remember what it was like to be a kid. As the temperatures cool and the buses hurl down the streets, I think of those kids and those teachers. And I remember what it was like to be a kid.

Close to Home

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jul 12, 2024 category Gardens, Stories, Uncategorized

I walked Ivy to Edgemoor Road this morning; really, we walked each other. Prior to the past year, she and I had walked that path each day for over three years, sometimes leaving so early on winter mornings, that the dark would cause us to rush off of Rodman Road to Brandywine Boulevard where we were safe on the sidewalk.

There was a rhythm to those early mornings, a familiarity of buses and sanitation trucks, cars gliding through four-way stop signs, kids waiting on street corners for the school buses. I knew the names of most people and dogs we passed: Bob and Skyler; Joan and Riley; Snoopy and his dad or mom (whose names I never learned) Deb and her daughter’s dog whom she took when she moved out.

When Franklin came to live with us, I would walk Ivy first and then repeat the walk with Franklin. People along the way would ask if this was my first lap or second. I noticed when people stopped walking. The man with the knee wrap; Deb, whose daughter took the dog; Valerie with the very short hair and huge smile who yelled, “Hello, Miss Denise!” when she saw me. I wondered about them. I wonder now.

Along the way I observed who cut down a tree, moved a rose bush, or planted new flowers. Once a man turned on his sprinkler right as Ivy and I were crossing in front of his house and he apologized profusely saying, “I’m mean, but not that mean.” He was not mean. He used to leave cuttings for me from his rose bush, apricot in color. Another woman, a kindergarten teacher at a local Catholic school, has a huge tulip tree on her front lawn. I stand under it in spring and wallow in its fragrance. She told me once that she grew up in that house and has photos of herself under that tree on Easter mornings.

Mr. Winston Black lives in the big ranch on the corner. He speaks with a thick accent and uses a walking stick to navigate the hills. He does not like the cold winters here and often travels to his home country until the weather breaks.

On today’s walk, the weather was warm with rain forecasted. We’ve had a heat wave lately and the thought of temps only reaching 80 degrees, though very humid, was welcome. I thought it would be a good time to try the walk. What used to take me 35 minutes, today took one hour. My steps were small and painful. Still recovering from my year-long illness and side effects from medications made me more like the tortoise than the hare, but I made that walk. Me and Ivy.

We passed all the usual places. Tom’s fig trees were huge, his apple tree dotted with red fruit, his olive tree silver and flowing, so much taller than last year. The man with the rose bush did not seem to be around. His grass was overgrown, the rose bush no longer produced flowers where he had moved it to the side yard. Deb’s house looked empty, though the lawn had been cut. When I waved to the bus drivers, they did not beep as they used to. Things seemed different today.

Maybe people were on vacation or walking at different times of day, but my walk was not as I remembered it. Things had changed over the past year and I wasn’t there to see the gradual movement. I may try again another time, or I may find a new path to walk.

When Ivy and I turned off of Brandywine Boulevard, onto Rodman Road, I saw the man who works on his garden while his Dalmatian runs off-leash. He asked how I was feeling and said it was good to see me out. I waved to the woman in the rental, the one who collects weeds with her mother and makes ink-prints and explained the whole process to me the other day. I am thankful for my neighbor’s full garden and smile thinking of her one-year-old daughter popping cherry tomatoes into her mouth. I appreciate the pots of flowers placed on my front stoop by another neighbor who thought I’d appreciate a pop of color.

It felt like progress to make that long walk, and I sensed a level of success for having achieved it. But, I realize things have changed while I’ve been gone. Sometimes change is good. Maybe. While I write, I watch the familiarity of the flurry of birds at my feeder: the yellow goldfinches, the gray catbirds, the orange house finches amid the pastel pink echinacea, the hot pink hibiscus, the long winding vines of the honeysuckle. Sometimes, the most beautiful things are very close to home. But you have to look for them. Like the inconspicuous flowers of the hedge that surrounds our patio. If you don’t look close enough, you won’t see it.

Nuggets of the past year

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 23, 2024 category Furry Friends, Stories

A Northern Flicker came through the yard today. I was on the porch and saw a bird sweep by from my left to my right, landing on my neighbor’s fence. Shortly after, a Mourning Dove landed to the left of the Flicker. At the time, I didn’t know it was a Flicker. I thought it was a Dove, but its manner of flying made me question that assumption. So I looked closer and saw red on the nape of its neck. He flew to the back drive, alone, where it began to pick at food from the ground. It went under another neighbor’s fence, but quickly returned to the drive. I grabbed binoculars to be sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing. Yes. The longer beak. The spotted feathers. The red nape. The size of a dove. The large black spot on the chest. It was him. Confirmed. And, then he was gone.

Today is the one-year anniversary of my diagnosis. The day the doctor said the results were not what we had hoped for. Then words like blasts and cancer of the blood—”which is what you have”—and AML, and his tiny writing as he wrote Acute Myeloid Leukemia with preceding MDS on a piece of paper. I expected it based on some of the results I had seen on the patient portal, but hearing the words made things so final. Joe was with me and seemed more shaken than I was at the time. I asked if I could expect to feel better at some time and the doctor was so positive and said, yes, and then said more words that included a new chemotherapy protocol with fewer side effects and a shorter treatment time and later on, a stem cell transplant and then things began to swirl. I had a list of things I needed to do prior to treatment: more visits, more labs, CT of heart, PICC line placement, cancellation of vacation at the shore, the telling me that my neutrophils were so low, that if I were to get sick right now, he would hospitalize me.

I remember tutoring a student online that afternoon, and meeting Joey at St. Patrick’s in the city for 5:30 mass. Some time that week, I went to my grandson’s baseball game and before leaving the car a woman from the insurance company called to say how much of the stem cell transplant they would cover and I felt overwhelmed. It may have been the day before that I found out, or maybe the same day, time got very mixed up for me, and I was trying to absorb it all slowly. Anxiety had already taken me. I remember saying to Joe, “I feel like I’m drowning.”

One of the hardest parts initially was telling my family that I had leukemia. Joe knew. I told my son at Mass. I told my daughter. And then I told my brothers and sister. I felt afraid, vulnerable. We had just lost our mother in January and now I had cancer. I assured them of all the things the doctor told me. All the positive things. That the treatments are so good now and that I was expected to be cured. And, I was exhausted. I told close friends, but I didn’t tell everyone because I didn’t have the energy to answer questions or to carry any heaviness when it was enough to just breathe and not get washed away in anxiety and depression.

A year ago today. The day I saw a Northern Flicker in my yard. The day that I am in full remission. The day that I am still recovering and dealing with GVHD. The day that I went with Joe, and our dogs, Ivy, Franklin, and Stella to Sleeping Bird Coffee. The day that I went in with my mask on and ordered my own food. The day I drank a cappuccino and ate a bacon, egg, and cheese on sour dough bread with fig jam. The day I came home and am sitting up in bed with Stella at my side, writing these words and watching the stream of the remaining eaglet at the Duke Farms Eagle Nest get ready to fledge. The other left yesterday.

I feel a bit like this eaglet. Not quite ready to fly, but positioned to do so. Resting. Waiting for the conditions to be right. A fish in the nest in the event of hunger. The eaglet on the branch. Between here and there.

Drive That Car, Grandma

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Feb 1, 2024 category Stories

I come from a long line of unconventional women—none more so than my grandmother. When other women of the 1940s were married to their homes, my grandma did everything she could to get out of hers.

Grandma was the sole child of two incompatible parents. She married her own version of an inharmonious partner and had two children, one of whom was my mother. Grandma was the steady bread-winner of the family, serving sandwiches, donuts, coffee, and sodas from a food truck at an industrial park in Yonkers or making bread at Duvernoy Bakers for city restaurants. She was required to work holidays at the bakery, so she prepared a big meal for her family the day before. Mom invited her friend Elaine to that meal, while Elaine invited mom to her house the next day for their second holiday dinner.

She dyed her hair red and used long clips to create waves, Roaring-Twenties-style. She sported high heels, dresses or skirts, and bright red lipstick. She read Ellery Queen paperbacks, attended local basketball games, and indoor car-racing events. She followed her beloved Dodgers until they left Brooklyn and defected to Los Angeles. She always hated the Yankees.

Grandma had a great sense of humor and was the life of most parties. One night she joined my mother and some of Mom’s high school friends at the bowling alley. After Grandma released the ball, the snap broke on her skirt. As the skirt began to fall past her hips, she caught it on the way down. She laughed; Mom’s friends laughed; those at the other lanes laughed. Mom told me, “She didn’t care. She just re-hooked it.” She attended a picnic with Mom and her friends once wearing shorts and her ever-present high-heels.

In Mom’s neighborhood, most people didn’t drive—not the men, and certainly not the women. The stores and churches were accessible on foot; the Alexander Carpet Shop, which employed most residents, was in walking distance; everything else could be gotten to by bus or subway. Grandma wanted to drive. One day she announced to my mom and my uncle that she was buying a new car. The three of them went to get the car at the home of the older woman who had kept the car in her garage—for years. Mom, eleven years old at the time, saw the car and said, “Oh, my God! I thought it was a new car!” Instead it was a Hupmobile which even in 1947 looked ancient to her. It was a four-door sedan, dark maroon with tasseled shades in the rear windows. It had wooden spokes and balloon tires with tubes inside. It was so massive that Grandma needed to put blocks on the pedals in order to reach them.

She was not deterred. Determined to get her license, she practiced on this beast of a car. When she went to her driver’s license appointment, the man who would be testing her asked, “Did you drive that car here?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“You passed!” he announced.

Grandma set in motion a legacy of forward-thinking women in our family. She went out when others stayed in. She spoke up when others remained quiet. I suppose she was thought to be an independent woman. It’s likely she had to be.

Birthday Boy

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jul 15, 2021 category Stories

July 14, 2021

Today is Rockland’s last day of being five. He’s announced he does not wish to turn six.

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, because I don’t like the bathrooms in first grade. They’re bigger. And, they’re dirty,” he said.

When he was three, he didn’t want to become four because then he wouldn’t be the same age as Bryce Harper’s number. He’s reconciled that by telling me he still has Bryce’s jersey.

Today we went to the Delaware Art Museum. He insisted he wouldn’t like it and declared it would be boring. We parked the car and he told me he would remember where we parked when we left. We walked along the path of the outdoor sculpture garden on our way to the main entrance. He asked me the names of the sculptures as we passed. Circle of Lines; Three Rectangles Horizontal Jointed Gyratory III; Orifice II.

“What’s that one, Nonna?”

A bronze sculpture sat at the end of the group. I asked Rockland what he thought the name of this one was.

“I don’t know. Maybe Crying Guy?”

The name on the plaque was Crying Giant.

“How did you know that?”

“Well, because sometimes I put my hands on my head like that when I cry.”

We left the late-morning heat for the air-conditioned indoor museum. The woman at the desk greeted us kindly, took my money, and at my request, directed us to some of the highlights to be found in the building. The boy who said he would be bored ran ahead, looking at the paintings.

“Nonna, see that picture of the lady over there? That’s a self-portrait,” he said.

He continued along asking me the names of different pieces of work. He identified the painting of George Washington and a bust of Abraham Lincoln. He was unhappy when I told him we would take the stairs instead of the elevator. He said it wasn’t fair.

Upstairs we saw a life-sized steel horse sculpture named Riot. Within the body of that exhibit were the letters R, I, O, and T, which Rockland discovered before being told not to stand beneath the sculpture by a cranky security person.

I decided that outdoors would be safer, so after a visit to the restroom and another quick look at our favorite paintings, we went back out to the sculpture garden.

“Hey, Nonna, what’s that one over there?”

We walked over to get a closer look, past campers lined up having their snacks, and near a girl who was having hers alone. I made sure to stand near her as I told Rockland that this one was named Monumental Holistic VII.

“Monumental Holistic VII?”

“Yes. That’s quite a name, isn’t it.”

The little girl looked over her shoulder at the 168 x 96 x 108 inch structure in whose shadow she sat. The still-five-year-old moved on to a shady path calling me to follow along. We sat on a bench to rest before following signs to the The Labyrinth. Built on the site of a former reservoir was the biggest labyrinth I’d ever seen. We entered excitedly and a bit too loudly for the contemplative man walking its paths. He did not greet us.

“We need to speak quietly,” I told him. “Like you’re in church.”

He tried. He couldn’t. I didn’t care. He moved through the trails gracefully until he began to run and slid on the loose stones, hurting both his knee and the palm of one hand. He cried and told me he wanted to go home. Within three minutes he was back on the path. He reached the center before me, but told me he took a shortcut. I decided I would, too. When I spoke to him in the center, I heard my voice echo back to me, and thought how I’d love to come back here and do this again.

We left, explored some more of the grounds, and proceeded to the car, which he did, in fact, find with ease. Off to Sleeping Bird Coffee: me for a cappuccino and salad, he for a bagel with cream cheese and a hot cocoa. The library was next. I had a book on hold, and he chose two books on the solar system. I chose two others.

Back at my house he announced that he would be staying in his room all day tomorrow because he wanted to remain five. He conceded to coming out if everyone promised not to celebrate his birthday. I gave him his birthday penny and he ran for the special box on a shelf in the living room. In the box are the other pennies I have given him—one for each year of his life, and one for the day he was born.

2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020, and 2021.

“Let’s count them all, Nonna!”

He told me he was excited about his party. He told me who was coming. He said I could come early if I wanted to. He said there would be a water slide and his friends would be in both the front and back of his house. If there was someone I wanted to talk to, he would go get her for me.

My daughter came to pick him up but not before we played soccer, watched videos, did some summer school work, played with a puzzle, and sat on the couch with Graycie the cat and Ivy the dog. He read a book to Ivy, preparing her for therapy visits where she will listen to students read. He made us a peanut butter and banana sandwich.

He hugged me before he left. I told him I loved him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Nonna.”

Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.

A Chosen Friendship

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jun 22, 2021 category Stories

Friendships don’t blossom out of nowhere. It had been my experience that they developed out of proximity, shared interests, good fortune. It was rare to choose a lifelong friend, but, choose, I did, on a Sunday morning in 1998.

Our family had just moved to a small mountain town in northern New Jersey where I knew no one outside of my home other than the realtor who had sold us the house. My husband had been transferred to a nearby office, my children were starting school, and, soon I would be alone in this unfamiliar environment where it was not uncommon to see a black bear at one’s bird feeder.

We explored the new town: the antique stores, the library, the ice cream shop near the lake, the coffee shop on Main Street. I felt like a visitor, passing through on her way elsewhere. We attended a number of churches, but hadn’t found one that felt like home until we landed at the little white church across the street from the coffee shop.

My family of four sat toward the front nearest the windows. Still feeling disconnected, I looked to the front of the church for something to anchor me: the familiar cross, the keyboard, the pulpit. The worship team walked out, testing the microphones, checking in with one another about songs and whatever it is that people discuss in whispers. It was then that I saw her.

She had blonde hair, an attractive smile, and an effervescent personality that made it hard for her to stand still. She was part of the team, and yet, she seemed uniquely independent. When the music started, she began to sing, and her voice was like that of an angel—a gritty, accessible, free-flying angel. I was certain that if this were 1969, the woman would have been at Woodstock. I knew I had to meet her.

After service, I tried approaching her, but she was surrounded by people. I waved, nodded my head in an appreciative manner, and politely bowed out. I thought about her all day. That blonde woman.

In the early evening, my husband and I took our children to a small neighborhood lake. While they played in the sand, he and I sat on a bench near the water. Waves of sadness were beginning to wash over me—feelings of not belonging. Lost in my thoughts, I looked out onto the water. From across the lake, an object came into focus, a rowboat gliding in our direction. It was a comforting site, a slow, methodical movement across the sun-drenched water. As the boat got closer, I noticed there was one person inside, steadily rowing, rowing, rowing. It was the woman with the blonde hair.

She pulled up to the dock, wrapped the rope around a cleat hitch, and walked over to a nearby bench. With a rapidly-beating heart, I said hello, and when she seemed approachable, I introduced myself, telling her how much I had enjoyed her singing that morning. Her name, I learned, was Cathy.
We spoke for over an hour—eventually sharing one bench. I generally take my time with new friendships, assessing their reliability before sharing too much of myself. But, she and I trusted one another immediately. There was a heart connection that allowed us to both speak and listen. In the early days of our friendship, our conversations revolved around raising school-aged children. Through the years, those conversations evolved to deeper matters of mothering adults, and nurturing grandchildren. We have allowed ourselves confessions without judgment, admissions without explanation Always there was room for our own interests and the sharing of dreams, paint colors, gardening tips. There were tears, and always raucous laughter.

After eight years, our family moved to Maryland and eventually to Delaware; Cathy remained in New Jersey. Distance was never a deterrent to our friendship, no matter the miles. Sometimes we’d meet halfway and spend the day shopping and having lunch in New Hope, Pennsylvania. In summer we’d meet at the Jersey Shore. We’d visit in each other’s homes. She’d share irises, wild geranium, astible, purple coneflower, black-eyed Susan, and primrose from her garden, and I’d plant them in the soil of my new home.

Though much has changed over the 23 years of friendship, what remains is our love for one another.. What continues to grow from the roots we established on that park bench on a lake in a mountain town in northwestern New Jersey, are the strong branches of a well-established friendship, and the blossoms of shared hopes and experiences. I am reminded of the choice I made while sitting in that little white church on a Sunday morning, and I am forever grateful.

Grandma’s Elusive Apple Cake

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 18, 2021 category Stories

Growing up as I did in the 1970’s, home cooking was the norm; eating out was the anomaly. Unless you counted Friday nights at McDonald’s, or breakfast at the pancake house after First Holy Communion, meals were served at our rectangular Formica kitchen table. Accompanied by wooden chairs that we dragged across linoleum floors, it was my family’s gathering place.

In our home, Mom was the recipe-follower. She taught me to cook and bake by adhering to precise measurements. If the recipe called for a teaspoon of cinnamon, she used a teaspoon of cinnamon. The only variant she allowed herself was to add a dash of nutmeg to her crumb cakes and pumpkin pies. She is nearly 85 years old, and still does not deviate from this method. There is no need to try something new and ruin an entire batch of cookies with all that butter in there, when you could just follow directions.

Her recipes are written down, some on scraps of paper stuffed into backs of old cookbooks, others on index cards, still more in a green, flowered three-ring binder. A smaller notebook is only for Christmas cookies. Some she’s transferred to her computer, making it easier to share with friends. Many of these same recipes are on index cards in my wooden recipe box, written in my young hand, or in my mother’s original script: bracciole; corned beef and cabbage; date nut bread; deviled eggs; goulash; Irish soda bread; Italian meatballs; lasagna; pasta e fagioli; sausage & peppers. When I married, my husband and I sat down to meals suitable for six; all of my recipes were for my family of origin—Mom, Dad, my two brothers, one sister, and me.

Dad had his own method of cooking. He opened the refrigerator and created something out of whatever he saw in glass containers or Tupperware bowls. Leftovers were never just leftovers. Instead of simply using up the old, he created the new. A random carrot, a stalk of celery, a hunk of ginger, a piece of meat along with an onion, spices, and soy sauce became essential ingredients for fried rice. Consequently, asking him for a recipe was an exercise in futility. If I wanted to know, I had to watch. If I asked him how long to cook something, he’d respond, “Until it’s done.”

Mom’s mom didn’t write down recipes either. Instead, Mom observed and asked questions. Then she wrote. The one recipe she never did obtain, however, was for my grandmother’s apple cake with warm lemon sauce. Grandma made it in a yellow enamel 8 x 8-inch square pan. It was a small cake, narrow in depth, not necessarily dense, a little light. Grandma would peel an apple picked on a trip to upstate New York. Her favorite was Macintosh, but she used any apple she had. She’d stand over the cake with the apple and slice it right there with a fruit knife, placing the slices on top of the cake and pushing them down into the batter just a little. When it was still warm from the oven, she sliced the cake and placed a piece on each of four plates: one for Mom, Uncle Bobby, Grandma, and Grandpa Sparky. Each person poured hot lemon sauce—as much as they wanted—on top. There were never leftovers. Everyone loved that apple cake. “Even my father,” Mom said.

Over the years, my mother tried to duplicate this recipe. Even when my grandmother was still alive, yet no longer cooking, Mom would bake an apple cake using a recipe she found. She would bring it to my grandmother, who took one look at it and made a face. Mom would say, “Just try it.” Grandma took one bite and said, “That’s not it.”

I have two of my grandmother’s cookbooks which mom and I have scoured for that apple cake recipe. We found some which Mom has tried, but to no avail. The last time I visited Mom, she said she found a new recipe for apple cake which she is going to try. This one called for salted butter and she never uses salted butter in her baking recipes. Maybe the salt is what gives it the right flavor. She’ll try. Yet again.

I wonder if what makes a recipe special is its connection to the person who made it. Taste is memory. It is experience. It is love. It is a reminder of those who have gone before us. It is what keeps my mom trying to find an apple cake recipe like the one her mother made. The one that brought her whole family together in the kitchen until every last crumb was eaten. Maybe Mom will never be able to duplicate Grandma’s apple cake because it is not made in their kitchen on Lake Avenue in Yonkers, in that yellow pan, with apples from Upstate. Yet she’ll continue to try. And, hope.