“It’s cracked!”
I hold my grandmother’s teacup up to the light. You go quiet and look at me long. You know how I feel about my grandmother’s things, handed down. And you know how I feel about teacups in general. Each one I own holds a story. Some of the stories are new (my mom just got me a beautiful white and gold teacup for Christmas this past year). Some of the stories are old. Like the ones my grandmother’s teacup holds. Either way, I do not endure chips and cracks very well. It has ruined my mood.
“I’m sorry, ” you say. “Show me?”
I turn the teacup your way and point to the crack along an inner curve. There’s still a little tea wetting the bottom of the cup, but you put your finger into it anyway and run your tip lightly along the crack.
Now you whisper, “I’m sorry.” And I feel a little silly. It’s just a teacup after all. Just a thing. People shouldn’t care so much about things. That’s what everybody says. I’ve said it myself. But somehow I care about things. I care about this teacup. I care about the stories it holds.
“I can’t write when I’m in a mood like this, ” I say. “And anyway, who’d want to read about beginnings—those times that are supposed to be hopeful and promising—when I am not going to be cheery?”
I put my grandmother’s teacup down and my bottom lip pushes out into a grown-up pout that also makes me feel silly, but I want to do it, so here I am. It’s a beautiful morning. Tea, blueberries, the silver spoon, you and I laughing. And now… me. Pouting.
“Tell me about your grandmother?” you say.
“She was strong. She could push big wheelbarrows of manure up hill and down. She built a treehouse once. A huge one. Like a real house up in a crowd of trees. It was light green, and she painted the window frames dark green to match. There was a lake on her property, and every Sunday she got into her row boat and combed that lake to keep it free of water plants that would choke and ruin it. She made cherry pies for me every year on my birthday. She grew cherry trees, plum trees. She planted gooseberries, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries. Even a whole field of corn!
Once, I was following alongside her tractor-mower (she would mow acres of her property on that thing!) and the muffler looked so cool. Round and silver-rusty, with holes all over its top. Blue-grey smoke would puff out. I wanted to touch it. You know me. Touch, touch, touch. So I put my hand smack on the center of all those beautiful patterned holes. My skin peeled away. I had blisters for days and days. My grandmother changed the dressings, kept the skin clean, sprayed that cool anti-biotic pain-reliever stuff on my palm. When I cried at night, she came to my bed and put her hand on my forehead. ‘Liebchen, ‘ she’d say, and she’d recite a little German poem or hum a song.
I probably remember her zinnias most. Hot pink, yellows, reds, oranges. Petals layer upon layer, like fish-scales on a pin-cushion. Crowds of them everywhere! By the L-shaped driveway. In front of the little white house. Near the currant bushes. Oh, gosh. Her currant jelly. You never tasted anything like it.”
“You loved your grandmother.”
“I did.”
“And she loved you.”
“She did. She thought the world of me. Well, sometimes she drove me crazy. She was blunt. She had some hurts she couldn’t get past, and she spent her time telling me about them. I didn’t like that much.”
“But she loved you.”
“She did.”
“And you loved her.”
Now I am not looking at you anymore. I’m just listening to the sound of your voice. The way you care. The way you want to know. The way your voice holds all this and holds me too.
I pick up the teacup and look into the porcelain. I still feel silly when my eyes go moist and I put my finger into the cup, run my tip along the crack. But here I am.
Photo by Clearly Ambiguous. Creative Commons, via Flickr. Story by L.L. Barkat, author of The Novelist: A Novella.
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Elizabeth W. Marshall says
This is so intimate I feel compelled to turn away from the closeness of the story-telling. But then I am drawn to it too. Oh the families with bluntness in the gene pool. How I know 🙂 Eager to hear more of the beginnings. But every day past present and future holds that, holds them, holds story. You taught this well in this triology.
L. L. Barkat says
Interesting, Elizabeth. I know at least one reviewer of ‘The Novelist’ said it was very intimate. I guess I can’t seem to get away from that 😉
Oh, yes. I have the gene too.
Loving the philosophical turn of those final thoughts.
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
Well, for me, the reader, i love the intimacy of writing, the close connections between reader and writer, anything else, being held at an arm’s distance, held at bay, lacking a deep connection….well I am less inclined to be drawn to the words there. Because isn’t reading often an intimate act of connectedness? Loved Rumors. Will need to move on to The Novelist now:) And that blunt gene… it has taken me all of my more than half centuried life to learn to both operate around and to appreciate it. Hope the trilogy continues…
L. L. Barkat says
It is! I have often wanted to meet the authors of my favorite books, after sensing their presence in their works.
Now, about this trilogy. Did you sign me up for some kind of 3-book deal when I wasn’t looking? 😉
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
No. The three offerings on Beginnings. Were there three in the shoot. Did I hear rumors of three. I have enjoyed what has been and what will be of “A Book of Beginnings.”
L. L. Barkat says
Ah. Relief.
This was number five, so I have already met my quota 😉
(Nah. There’s one all ready for next week, as of 6:30 this morning 🙂 )
Maureen Doallas says
Morning Tea
A crack, and you go
quiet. It’s just a story,
after all, an inner curve
to run your way, to endure
what was supposed to be
hopeful, a pain-reliever
of a day.
You and I want beginnings
in a real house
with dark-green frames
and a lake on the property
and a field of cherry trees
and crowds of plum. Here,
I am,
you want to say, and I am
just listening. I know.
The rusty-silver spoon holds
gooseberries, and we are
so sorry for the old German
teacup, its lip pouting
on this beautiful morning.
Strong tea, for a grown-up,
is promising, you are telling
me, the tip of a finger at my eyes.
But your voice is porcelain.
L. L. Barkat says
this is beautiful, Maureen. I especially like…
You and I want beginnings
in a real house
with dark-green frames
and a lake on the property
That, and the porcelain voice at the end. Lovely.
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you. You always inspire me to find a poem in your wonderful prose.
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
Maureen, I am drop-jawed amazed at your ability to write poetry. More than that I have no words. Your gift is marvelous and has deep deep roots. (^^)
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you so much for your kind and very generous words, Elizabeth. The inspiration’s in L.L.’s words.
Donna says
🙂 wow…. but your voice is porcelain.
Will Willingham says
I can’t read the paragraph about pouting without my lip involuntarily pushing out. Even though I am smiling.
How do you do that? 😉
L. L. Barkat says
that is very funny! 🙂
I am pouting with you now for commiseration sake. And smiling.
Marcy Terwilliger says
Oh, how you know to stir up the memories in me and all can be so bittersweet. I believe this is my favorite conversation so far that you have had in your book.
You softly stirred the past in me.
Grandmother Lydia pasted down all
blue and white things to me.
The little pitcher with the long crack,
still held together from a long past.
Strong Lydia a Mother of many, a painter,
a gardener, a collector of many.
Hair so long, white and thin with
beautiful combs to hold it all in.
Hot tea every morning with me at her side.
She lived with us when Grandpa died.
Dad picked the cherries from the old trees
while Grandma made the pies as good as can be.
We had all those other berries too.
The red tractor, country living on a farm,
and always something to do.
Grandma’s old books were always a treasure to read.
Oh how I loved her and she loved me.
All those pretty things she gave to me are found behind glass in my parents cherry secretary.
L. L. Barkat says
honored to stir 🙂
i especially love the combs. I can see a poem just about the combs. And of course cherries are my favorite. 🙂
Marcy Terwilliger says
L.L. Barkat you would be an honor to meet, to sit down and eat cherries and have a cup of hot tea.
L.L. Barkat says
why, thank you, Marcy 🙂
I would love to eat cherries and have tea with you!
Donna says
I love this whole thing… and that you wrote anyway considering your mood and all 😉 which made it all the more, as Elizabeth said, intimate.
And… near the end, I somehow see it all, all the stories and feelings and moods, resting safely inside the teacup when you write “Now I am not looking at you anymore. I’m just listening to the sound of your voice. The way you care. The way you want to know. The way your voice holds all this and holds me too.”
And when you burned your hand I wondered if she would be mad at you, but she wasn’t. Such tender memories now in the teacup, strangely initiated by the pain of this injury.