A convenient January blizzard blowing outside and a house-bound husband recovering from surgery, has me moving full throttle in tossing and reshuffling the endless mounds of paperwork and stuff. What to do with my descriptive essay from Mrs. Iglar's 7th grade class? And how about all the written proof that I once held Very Important Jobs in the corporate world? And in reducing my wardrobe by half, what vintage piece isn't going to be the next best thing? And then there is Clownie. What to do with Clownie?
Few people know that as a young child I was practically raised by a Sisterhood of Nuns. Real nuns.
Not the ruler-bearing, hand-rapping, pinching type of nuns. But ones who devoted their lives to providing nurturing, loving care to infirm elderly people. As in past vernacular, 'Old Folks Home' elderly people. When my parents first moved to Wisconsin with five children from ages nine to two, they rented a large Queen Anne rambler from the Sisters of the St. Elizabeth Nursing Home. Right next door.
During the early part of my Wonder-bread formative years (between the ages of two and six), my mother, once all my older siblings were in school, sprung herself from the singular world of house work and became a committed community volunteer and a competitive golfer. Her attention span towards me, her youngest, had been released of the Dr. Spock grip that had kept her razor-focused starting with my sister, my eldest sibling. Raising three sons in between us wore her out in the vigilance department. So basically, much of the time, I was on my own. I knew the rules...a big swat followed if I ventured down the driveway towards the street. But going across the driveway, through the hedge to St. Elizabeth's was okay and often encouraged.
It was entering a portal into another world. Kind of like Oz from the black and white of Kansas City.
My memory is of a Halcion pastoral setting. The Sisters toiled in their over-run vegetable garden always bursting with some sort of bounty for their kitchen. I would mosey between them, often enveloped in their long black skirts, encouraged to help in all their tasks. They clucked happily to each other in German. My favorite was Sister Valeria. She was a cook in the kitchen and I trailed her endlessly.
Learning to cook with love started for me in that huge, cheery, sun-filled room. I was mesmerized by what seemed like vats of fruited batters whipped up in commercial-sized Kitchen Aids. To this day, I cannot use a spatula to empty a bowl without thinking of Sister Valeria and being intent on getting every last bit. I learned also about thriftiness and cleverness as I witnessed their culinary creations.
Thriftiness and cleverness were part of the Sisters' creed throughout their community. Nothing went to waste. Bins of broad satin ribbons (saved from the endless delivery of formal floral arrangements) collected with bags of discarded cotton underthings and hosiery, that although were deemed unwearable, were still perfectly usable for their handiwork as they produced endless items for their gift shop. I was five years old when I received, Clownie, a colorful striped satin-clad sock clown
with a hooked nose and embroidered face. My mostly companion who still sits in my boudoir chair today. He has not aged well and would frighten a child at this point. And I am flummoxed. I should have parted with him years ago.
Every time I focus on him, or find him beneath a pile, I think of the Sisters who in their busy, task-
driven lives welcomed whole heartedly this young girl set adrift and who left a core of indelible life lessons with their gentle teachings and love. I wish there was a St. Elizabeth's home for our stuffed friends. In the meantime, the verdict is in, Clownie stays. Besides, he knows every last one of my secrets.
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