This has been a 36 hours of many blog postings, some shared, many deleted. Here’s one that it is my pleasure to present.
Once upon a time, many years after Dad died but several before Mom slipped from us, I learned the power of reframing events. Sort of a “sliding doors” with actual happenings.
Since everything we know about a situation is at heart a made-up story ~ which is how you end up with a Rashomon situation, where multiple people recount the same event in very different ways ~ why not take a difficult situation & zoom it in a different direction than it apparently took?
I did a lovely reframe a couple years back, inspired by Niece Lumber in Lambertville. Niece Lumber is big enough to have satisfied Mike & small enough to suit Dad. Mike could have been in charge of the non-saw dusty parts of that reframed Lockhart Lumber & Kerry, if she’d wanted to, would have been a wow of an executive manager, keeping everything flowing, with the vendors & suppliers & customers devoted to her.
Dad would have kept a hand in with some designing, but slowly would have been weaned to maybe two long-time clients; the rest of the designing would have been handled by a brilliant team of artists & draftsmen.
In that reframe, Mike gradually took over the reins, leaving the design department in the hands of an experienced craftsman. It’s totally contrary to what actually happened, but it is a lovely “what if.”
Am doing the same with Mike & Kerry’s visit. In the reframe, Mike gave us a call as soon as they learned they were visiting Scott & Kimberly, with a bop up to Bryn Athyn. We would have set up Monday from breakfast, but before then I would have made sure to get over to Sandstrom’s with my cast iron skillet, exquisitely seasoned dredging flour, a couple sticks of butter, milk & a basket of perfectly ripe tomatoes – I would have whipped up a mess o’ fries, which I have to say rival even Mom’s. Thick slices dredged in the seasoned flour then dropped, hissing when they hit the foaming butter in the hot cast iron skillet, tossing in fresh pats as needed, turning over each slice just before it goes from dark to burnt, cooking up a passel of slices/wedges/end pieces for the luscious pan gravy, ladled over a plate of the wonders.
We’d get in our catch-up visit at Monday breakfast, because the two of us would be riffing off Lockhart memories as I cooked my way through to nirvana. They’d still do their thing the rest of the time, but Mike would head home to springtime in Australia with the lingering taste of long-ago summers, courtesy of a heaping plate of fabulously fried tomatoes, under a blanket of gravy, that held memories of Mom in every bite.