Basketful of Bittersweet Apples

Basketful of Bittersweet Apples

                                         

When I was a young mother with three children, Ralph Jr. age 5,

Steve, age 3, and Sarah, several weeks old, it was my turn this particular morning to drive carpool for several kindergarteners to private school.  I had let Steven and Sarah sleep until the last possible minute, devoting my time to getting Ralphie ready.  Since the round trip was only forty-five minutes, I did not take the time to feed Steven Breakfast nor to nurse Sarah.  It was such a nice Spring day that I let Steven go barefoot and in his little cut-off pajamas that were unhemmed and frayed.  So, off we went picking up two other children on the way!

We had this marvelous “Old Betsy,” a 1965 Chevelle Malibu bought new by Ralph before we married and kept as a friend and faithful servant of our family.  “She” always worked well with very few problems, one of which we could get irritated with.  Occasionally at first, then more frequently as she aged, her linkage would stick in first gear.  This could be remedied by lifting the hood, putting your hand down by the hot engine and manually “jiggling” the linkage arm.  I got so good at it that I could accomplish this rather quickly in the dark at a stop light and never get burned.  But I always got grease on my hands.

This lovely Spring morning of early May 1974, in a glorious display of New England Spring blooms, two blocks past the second kindergartener’s home, Betsy’s linkage stuck at a stop sign.

I did all my usual jiggling and then all else I could reason to do to no avail.  Grease was under my fingernails, on my face and arms, as well as all over my hands; and I had not enough towels to clean myself properly.

I decided the most expedient thing to do to get the children to school on time was to use my friend’s car and worry about Betsy later.  Picture this: a greasy lady with an infant in one arm and a three year old in the other (He’s barefoot, remember?) and three five year olds with metal lunch boxes loudly banging as we all run back the two blocks.  I am sure we were a conspicuous parade!

I managed somehow to get them to school on time driving my friend’s car.   I returned my friend’s car and returned to Betsy.  Upon the advice of my friend’s neighbor, I whacked Betsy in the linkage with a mallet, to which she promptly responded favorably, and we were on our way home.

Since we lived three miles past the market, I felt it prudent to stop for bread on the way home; so we stopped and went in.  Steve, shoeless had to ride in the carriage, so I carried Sarah, now wide awake and hungry.  The bread is always at the back and opposite side of every grocery market when you are in a hurry:  today was such a day.  I got the bread and started for the checkout miles away where a line was forming just to make my morning more exciting.  I became aware of Steve’s condition while standing there.  His little legs and face were smeared with the grease from my hands and arms, he had dirty feet, and uncombed hair.  Add to this his raggedy little pajamas and he was a pitiful sight!

This dear, hungry, dirty little tyke looked up at me and started asking for bread.  Of course, holding the baby and with greasy hands, I couldn’t oblige, but exhorted him to wait until we got home.  To this he cried, streaking his already dirty little face.

Then my hungry little baby cried out her complaints and tried chewing her way through my dress for breakfast.  Within seconds, her diaper overflowed soaking the front of my dress as I held her close to me.  Then her cries “triggered” my ample supply of “breakfast” to come soaking through the front of my dress.  The express line was VERY slow that day.

My lovely, peaceful, and nostalgic pleasure in the beautiful New England Spring was somewhere else other than in that market.  I imagined what everyone was thinking and I wanted to vaporize; but I had to pay for that bread!  As we finally got to the cashier and I was tearfully paying for the bread, a precious elderly woman behind me reached out and patted my arm and said “Don’t    worry about this, Dear, I’ve been there, too.”

I managed a slight smile and got out of there quickly; however,  I never forgot that lady.  I knew she knew what all those frowning people didn’t.  And we both shared the same glorious humiliation in similar circumstances that motherhood had carried us into.

I have never forgotten that lady’s face nor her words.

When you see someone with a basketful of bitter apples, and you know the taste, help them carry it and get through to the sweet wine in the end.  They will never forget you.