The meaning behind candied orange slices...
The summer after my Grandma Ree died, I worked at a hospital gift shop a few days a week while I took summer college classes. It was a fun job; I got to blow up bouquets of balloons when babies were born and gift wrap get-well-soon presents.
One day, I had the task of restocking the candy selection. As I refilled rows and rows of Snickers and Skittles, I came to the Sunkist candied orange slices, and I immediately gasped and dropped the package of sweets.
I could always count on a full supply of orange slices snuggled in my Grandma Ree's fancy crystal candy dishes. Regular visits to her smoky kitchen were the only reason they existed in my life; the only reason they mattered was because she took such great care in the maintenance of her candy inventory. She did not eat these things, and we didn't particularly like them. But because they were her careful selection for us, we ate them and loved them. And we probably should have savored them.
Today is the seven year anniversary of my Grandma Ree's death, and as usual, my thoughts are with her. The memories are mostly bittersweet now, as time and distance have been helpful and necessary aids in the healing process. But every once in awhile, I'm attacked with a seemingly ordinary piece of nothing, like a candied orange slice, that becomes absolutely everything in mere seconds when my brain makes the right connection.
It's taken awhile, but I realize that I'm lucky. Not only is my Grandma Ree in my dreams and my memories and my pleasant conversations with family and friends...she is in standard, boring, routine items, imbued with significance from my skewed perspective.
She's in wooden salad bowls, Breyer's ice cream, and Mike Shannon's voice on the radio. She's in The Price is Right, As the World Turns, and Miss America pageants. She's in organ music, RC Cola, and Solitaire. She's in Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein, The General Lee, and The Last Supper. She's in ceramic Christmas trees, ripe tomatoes, and ashtrays.
And so, I will think of her today, as I do every other day. And I will wonder where she's going to pop up next.
One day, I had the task of restocking the candy selection. As I refilled rows and rows of Snickers and Skittles, I came to the Sunkist candied orange slices, and I immediately gasped and dropped the package of sweets.
I could always count on a full supply of orange slices snuggled in my Grandma Ree's fancy crystal candy dishes. Regular visits to her smoky kitchen were the only reason they existed in my life; the only reason they mattered was because she took such great care in the maintenance of her candy inventory. She did not eat these things, and we didn't particularly like them. But because they were her careful selection for us, we ate them and loved them. And we probably should have savored them.
Today is the seven year anniversary of my Grandma Ree's death, and as usual, my thoughts are with her. The memories are mostly bittersweet now, as time and distance have been helpful and necessary aids in the healing process. But every once in awhile, I'm attacked with a seemingly ordinary piece of nothing, like a candied orange slice, that becomes absolutely everything in mere seconds when my brain makes the right connection.
It's taken awhile, but I realize that I'm lucky. Not only is my Grandma Ree in my dreams and my memories and my pleasant conversations with family and friends...she is in standard, boring, routine items, imbued with significance from my skewed perspective.
She's in wooden salad bowls, Breyer's ice cream, and Mike Shannon's voice on the radio. She's in The Price is Right, As the World Turns, and Miss America pageants. She's in organ music, RC Cola, and Solitaire. She's in Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein, The General Lee, and The Last Supper. She's in ceramic Christmas trees, ripe tomatoes, and ashtrays.
And so, I will think of her today, as I do every other day. And I will wonder where she's going to pop up next.
posted by quank at 2:28 AM
2 Comments:
beautifully put.
Grandmas are the best, I too have a ceramic christmas tree from my Bestama (danish for best of mothers/grandmas). She passed away 7 years ago 12/21/06, time does heal the hurt.
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