Shattered Glass
MARCH 25, 2020
I knocked down a very thin double hand-blown espresso glass early this morning while emptying some mugs from the dishwasher. I froze as it shot off the high shelf and shattered, hitting first my cooking counter, then the stove and finally crashed its way to the floor. I stood paralyzed, horrified at the mess I just made. Shards were everywhere.
Of course, I was barefoot.
I’ve been mostly barefoot since 1962. My father moved our family to California, in part, because of how clean and temperate it was compared to the bitter climate swings of New Jersey. Even as a child I could see it was beautiful here. Early June, warm and everything so green. I was only 5 ½ but already I loved running around without shoes. My parents didn’t argue about it, but it was hard for my mom to enforce my shoes when my Dad was also often barefoot. Asserting my right to bare my feet extended through Jr high school, where I’d often take the bus to the beach after summer school every day. Shoes were the first to come off, and after a day at the beach, walking the pier, I have vivid memories of filthy dirty feet. I wish I could capture that girl now, the one not too worried about dirty feet. Feeling proud of her callouses from summer days of hot pavement, not afraid of germs, or dirt, or even feeling dirty. I know by the time we all made it to the beach, we hit the water and washed off whatever grime had followed us to the ocean.
I can’t blame my fastidious and meticulous cleanliness on fighting breast cancer, and all that has entailed over the last 13 years. I can only blame my father.
I think I matured and internalized the adult voice of my father; the guttural (and cultural) “ulch” a sound of great disgust. Plus hearing him mutter “how disgusting” and other such derogatory comments pointing out the horrors of seeing other people who were, in his words, “dirty slobs”. Even the tiniest stain on a tee shirt was met with disapproval and disdain.
Message delivered, dad, loud and clear. Wear clean clothes. Have clean feet. Or perhaps it was the timing of my sudden boy craze that inspired me to shop for cute shoes and stop walking barefoot so much. Maturity like enlightenment, can happen in big bunches.
Barefoot, and standing perfectly still in my kitchen, surrounded by glass, I look for the closest pair of flip flops. Putting them on, I try to mentally hatch the best containment/clean-up plan. I am not a good cleaner-upper in these situations. Whenever I make a grand mess, my go-to joke is “well, it’s time to list the house”. This morning I feel overwhelmed by it all. And like I might cry.
This glass is everywhere. I feel paralyzed - the task at hand, potential deadly tiny shards of glass splintered all over my cook top, the knife rack, the counter, the drawer edges, the bar stools, and the floor. How do I keep people safe? What if there is a shard embedded in the rush seat of my barstool and it cuts someone?
It was still early for me, well before 8:00am. Today was a week post my last chemo infusion, my energy pretty low. My only intention was one small task; empty my dishwasher and instead it turned into marathon cleaning, wiping and containment project.
While I was cleaning my mind-chatter was loud. SHARDS! Now into full blown stream-of-conscious-girl, I flash back to a time when Rabbi Klein gave a bicentennial speech and I was honored to provide some original artwork for her slide presentation. I can recall vividly cutting up my art and reassembling to show these sharp edges, these shards. Later I know I will look for that collage artwork.
More mind chatter back to my dad. I realize it is his birthday today, he would be 90. I am laughing to myself thinking that if he walked in now, he’d probably still be wearing those crazy black glasses, plaid short-sleeved shirt with a pocket for his cigarettes he no longer smoked. He would not be the roll up his sleeves and help me type. He would likely stand at the doorway and point out shards of glass and other areas I may have missed cleaning.
More than my kitchen mess, I would love for him to see his (5) grown grandchildren. I can imagine his face turning emotional, his eyes filling with tears of pride. These (5) kids were the light in his life for the ten years he lived after my mother died. Two of them mine, and three of them my sister’s, the (5) cousins still thick as thieves. And now all young adults. With jobs, degrees, spouses and adventures. All independent but even so, I don’t think that would stop my dad from issuing safety warnings to all of us. Trying his best to point out the stumbles we may encounter. Where to be careful and of what to be careful. Now I know that’s what parents do. They try to protect and keep their kids and families safe.
My dad’s top slogan was “Watch how you go”. It was said at every departure, in the way some families say “Goodbye, I love you”. “WATCH HOW YOU GO” the all-time family favorite chant, my sister and brother-in-law say it to me anytime I leave their house and we laugh.
When we were young, my dad’s line was “watch Mother”. My mom had a physical handicap from surviving Polio, and we all did our utmost to keep her safe and stay out from under her feet. To be mindful. And of course, we always “watched Mother”.
I sweep and think some more about my dad and can picture his face smiling and laughing. We argued and butted heads all the time, but the memories that stir are all connected to laughter. We laughed often. I’m glad my memories have softened to the good, the smiling, the laughing and the feelings of love. It gives me hope that someday my own kids will remember me similarly. With kindness, forgiveness, love and understanding.
The floor is now swept and vacuumed. My counters are wiped clean. I’m confident there is not a spec of glass to hurt anyone who takes a seat in my home. The knives are all rinsed, the salt bowl emptied and washed. Sponges and dishes and containers line my windowsill, soon to be soaked in sunshine. My kitchen windowsill has become the emotional autoclave of my home. A safe space to further disinfect potential bits of corona-virus I may have missed.
In the late afternoon sun, the top of my sanitized barbeque becomes an outdoor autoclave; all adding to my sense of false security and what I need to survive. This barbeque sun-clave further sanitizes my broom, the dustpan, some Tupperware bowls, and the dog’s food bowls for safety sake.
All the sweatshirts that I wear to walk my dog hang outside from the gazebo. Airing out in the sun, killing any random corona-virus. I am obsessed with fresh air, “opening up the house” and airing things out. It is reminiscent of my childhood in a vague way, perhaps my mom used to open up the house, to let germs out and fresh air in. My own house, with every window and blind open, letting fresh air in, another sense of security. I take deep breaths and open up my lungs. I figure it cannot hurt.
Little did my dad know, when raising me with all his worries, that he would prepare me to be more careful, more diligent, meticulous and yes, a bisel mishuga (little crazy) about cleaning and washing my hands.
My father led by example; every night we set the dinner table with a white folded paper napkin under the fork, Emily Post style, to the left of the plate. Many nights my sister and I would need more than one little paper napkin, especially for a meal like lambchops, corn on the cob, chicken drumsticks, and the like.
Every night, when clearing the table, my father’s napkin remained in place, pristine. He’d hand it to us, laughing. Unused. He ate with his knife and fork. His hands were clean and meticulous as always. His nails always trimmed, filed, clean, groomed. Immaculate. It’s a high bar but turns out its timely and important. Glad I’m a clean freak like my dad. Glad my kitchen is put back together, and it feels safe and germ free. Glad my emotional autoclaves are holding up. I can use all the support I can get. And glad for that shattered glass and all the memories it crashed out of me this morning. Happy 90th birthday, dad. I miss you every single day.
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