Every now and then a recollection conjures up from a really good place in my memory bank. Back in a time when I needed it the most, there were certain people who would show up in my life with a simple act of kindness which I have carried with me all these years. Today, I thought of Della MacEwen.
Della lived two doors down and had been a sometime babysitter for my two younger sisters and I. Her teenage daughters babysat us every now and again on a Saturday night.
Della had arthritis, being a little kid at the time, I am not sure which type, but she had a hard time with mobility and her soft pale hands curled inward towards her palms. She had such a gentle way of speaking but with a small note of inflection; I knew to respect her. I loved her unconditionally. I would pretend and think she loved me unconditionally too.
She always new I would show up hungry. I hated breakfast cereal as a kid, especially the brands with loads of sugar. We always had loads of sugar cereal. I would just refuse to eat it and leave the house on an empty stomach. When we would show up at her house an hour before school and wait to catch the bus, she would make me toast.
Oh, how I loved her toast. She had whole wheat bread and I had never had that before. She used real butter and she toasted the bread just so. The bread would be piping hot and Della would slather on a large pat of butter and spread it around leaving tiny lumps of golden yellow along the way. When she handed me the toast on a paper napkin those tiny bumps of butter would still be formed but when I bit into them, they would disintegrate in my mouth. As if they were never really there. I can still remember the feeling, the smell and the taste of the salty butter soaked, gooey, bread.
Della had a piano and took the time to show me how to play. We both knew I would never be a Mozart. Neither of us cared. It felt good sitting next to her soft body on the piano bench. I watched in innocence when she played. Because of her arthritis, I could never see her fingers grace the keys. In my childish way I thought she must be magic to make the keys play such beautiful music without touching them.
Della MacEwen had been a soft place for me in a world that sometimes had been hard. I’m glad her memory came over me today. In some way it’s like seeing an old friend once again.
Chris Writes 