Northern Yams
There is a photo of me when I was just a little girl; circa 1960 or so. Every once in a while, I go over the photo and the memories entwined. It was taken in my aunt’s kitchen and the background alone speaks volumes as to the era. There is an old stand mixer on the countertop behind me, as well as an electric radio, and a very sassy pair of curtains at the window over the sink. The cabinet and sink hardware is shiny and simple; plain and symbolic of the quieter, less stressful days of my youth.
I am standing there with my cousin, Bobby; my arm wrapped tightly around his waist as we smile for the camera. I have one foot twisted inward, my hand lightly turning up the hem of my lace trimmed dress. I am a 5-year-old prima donna — a diva of sorts. With my black and white saddle shoes, my carefully coiffed hair, and my obvious adoration for my cousin, I am the epitome of innocence and hope.
I love this photo, and even more, I love that little girl. I cannot help but wonder what I envisioned my life would be. I know my dreams must have included motherhood, a beautiful house, and days filled with all things domestic.
I had already expressed an interest in driving and my mother would let me slide across the bench seat of our car and hold onto the wheel; steering the car expertly on the road. I was usually wearing the cowgirl skirt and boots my parents had purchased from Sears, complete with a hat, silver guns with ivory handles and a holster.
That brave cowgirl would awaken in the middle of the night, positive there was a witch in her closet. She would cry out for the redheaded hero just down the hall who would stumble into her room, rub his sleepy eyes, and sweep her up in his arms. She would promise her parents she would never be frightened again if she could just sleep one more night with them in their soft, witch-proof bed.
The little girl in the photo did not know that someday she would experience the loss of her parents, divorce, unanswered prayers, and illness. Her dream of motherhood would never come true, her domestic skills would be cashed in for an entirely different sort of career, the witch in the closet would disappear, and her guns and holster would one day be considered threatening in a civilization obsessed with violence.
That little girl would love and lose, soar and stumble, laugh and weep, and go to battle against the monster that is cancer. However, on that day and in that kitchen, there was no room and no need for dark revelations. The days were more flavorful then. Most of us did not question the universe or resist the rules of civility. We found safe harbor in the arms of our parents, behind the stained glass windows of our churches, and in the walls of wisdom; our schools.
It was far from a perfect or an ideal world, however, and adversity thrived. We were on the cusp of yet another war and racism had firmly planted its feet on American soil.
On that day and in that kitchen, the woes of the world did not exist. There was no thought and surely no worry directed toward the future or the consequences of life. The little girl was not preoccupied with her body image, her wealth, or her rung on the social ladder.
If I could step back in time, I would urge her to remind herself of who she is; who she will always be. And, when the world bares its teeth, I would ask her return to that kitchen, that dress, those shoes, and that smile.
Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives in Connor with her husband, Dale, and their Goldendoodle, Barney Rubble. You may contact Belinda online at dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
