Q is for...Quest

Do you remember any New Year’s Eves when you toasted the old year by saying, “Man! I am sooo glad that one is over!” ?

My worst year?  1999.  No doubt about it, that was the worst year on so many levels.  My 44 year old brother Bill died Dec. 12, 1999.  His death took my breath, my heart, and my sense of balance away from me. 

When we toasted the new Millennium, I was choked with tears, and wished I could have somehow saved Bill with the knowledge I now possessed.

Still, it was the holidays.  As a large group, we and my husband’s family went to see “Galaxy Quest”, just recently released.  The theatre darkened, and the popcorn & soda were going fast.

Suddenly, I was taken out of my blackness into this alien world with Tim Allen, Alan Rickman, Tony Shalhoub, Sam Rockwell, and Sigourney Weaver.  Their lives as actors on a defunct TV show, “Galaxy Quest”, had not gone well since its cancellation in 1968 or something.  They made their living by hitting SciFi conventions and even attending ribbon-cutting ceremonies at dinky electronics stores.

Faithful fans like Justin Long believed in the reality of the Galaxy Quest world. 

In the dark theatre, I laughed until tears ran down my face.  Strange how laughter and crying are so close in their physical resemblances.  But, I laughed, rolling in laughter.

Q is for…Quest, Galaxy Quest.  For me, the brave crew and I made a quantum leap together that day.

Sources used for this post:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:GalaxyQuestCast.JPG

http://1linereview.blogspot.com/2011/03/galaxy-quest-1999.html 

Sunday Dinner

We love you, Norman Rockwell!

I have taken 

Off my apron, 

Dried my hands.

Sunday roast is ready

And gravy is

Steaming hot.

Potatoes creamed

And buttered.

Peas and carrots

With butter and white sauce.

Table is set 

And people are gathering.

There will be

Dishes to be done after.

Oh, Lord help us,

There will be so many dishes!

Thank you, God.

Thank you for the food,

The hands that prepared the meal,

And the people gathered around.

Amen.

And, thank you, God, for dishwashers, microwaves, and

Kitchen-Aide. 

Amen

The Battle for Space and Grandma Housely

Sounds from the heavens rose to great heights....

The old church was a lovely peaceful place to worship with its great acoustics: wood plank floor, white plastered walls, oak pews, and vaulted wood ceiling.

Many worshipers found peace here....

Sounds bounced around that sanctuary.  Music, whispers from the back row, giggles from teenagers, and even the crinkle of a candy wrapper were  heard by the congregants.

A young family found a spot in the third row from the altar.  Coming late made the front pews the only ones open.  The three children settled in for the sermon. The oldest girl went to sit with a friend, while the mother took the fussy baby girl to the adjoining nursery where she could hear the sermon through the intercom.

The father smiled benignly through most of the sermon before dropping off to sleep. This was not uncommon, but usually the wife gave him the elbow jab.  Not today.

That left the three-year old boy who found enjoyment with his double-jointed fingers and his imagination.  Fingers could become galloping horses or speeding race cars.  Today his fingers were alien spaceships.  They were engaged in a fierce battle.

As the struggle for space domination heated up, the boy stood up to use the back ledge of the second row pew to help better stage the drama. 

Sweet Grandma Housely always sat there in the second row pew.  People who visited the church often commented on this saintly woman with her fluffy white hair and lovely pink hat. 

Bless her heart; Grandma Housely was blind, and very hard of hearing.  She could just hear the sermon if she sat in that spot, with her hearing aid cranked up to high.

The little boy situated himself directly behind her precious white head, and resumed the space battle. 

Zooommm.  Ch-ch-ch-ch!  Aaaaaa…kabooooom!  Crashhhhhh.  The fingers/spaceships faced off on either side of the white hair, pink hat planet.

The fingers/spaceships met at the pinnacle of the hat, and collided in a glorious explosion.  Kerrrr-aasshhhh!  Nooooo…ker-ploom!  P-shhhhhhh! 

The congregation held its breath, watching the battle, and waiting for the space debris to shower down on Grandma Housely’s head.  The pastor had paused to allow the dying alien fighters some dignity.

The final notes of music filled the church just about then.  Church ended.

Dear Grandma Housely stood and turned around.  “What a precious family you have,” she smiled to the young couple.  “So quiet, I didn’t hear a thing from them!”

 

Many glorious sounds reach to the heavens....

Generations

Child of my child

Lies in my arms asleep,

There, my father’s brow

Here, my mother’s smile.

Her father’s chin and her mother’s hair…

Generations and generations

Warmly wrapped in a

Soft

Pink

Blanket.

A Different Family Reunion

Amy Nichols Peck going to work at the Drug Store.

Family reunions were the annual event of my childhood.  On Labor Day weekend, Mom would snap the whip, and all of us crammed into the old Ford and drove.  The 'whip' was used to get my father to go; he hated all social events like this.  He hated going to his own family’s reunion, so he truly despised going to Mom’s family reunion.  He went; he knew life would be total misery if he didn’t.

John and Mary Nichols, Milford, MI

We always went to Pere Marquette Park along the Illinois River, close to Grafton, Illinois. The park was huge, and for a child, it was an unending adventure.  There are so many stories to tell about that time of my life.

However, I will instead focus on a current family reunion, of sorts.

When my parents died, gleaning through boxes and boxes of stuff became a huge task.  This may take years to do.  I finally opened a gray suitcase that was from my own Grandma Amy, and found such crazy wonderful items.

Art and Marion Nichols Fagan, little Barbara, Neva Stockings

Grandma was a quilter, I knew that already.  Here in this cheap suitcase was a stack of hand-stitched four-square blocks.  

 The fabric was summer-weight voile, which folded over my hand like silken strands.  Neat regular stitches were woven along.  

 I can picture Grandma Amy sitting in her rocker, listening to a record, and stitching carefully.

Great-Grandfather Nichols

Then there were the photos, handfuls of photos.  Some were old, taken before the turn of the 20^th century.  Ladies with Gibson Girl hair styles, white high-necked blouses, and long black skirts, children in sailor suits with knee stockings and high button shoes—most of all they were all smiling, with their eyes and their mouths.

Some were posing in stiff awkward poses.

Older photos had trained them to not move no 

matter what.

My grandmother was laughing with her sisters, 

posing and being silly.  She was unlike the Grandma Amy I knew.

Looking at them, I almost was there with them, on the grass, leaning against the porch post, or catching fish.  It was all so real, so familiar.

Milford, Michigan where Grandma Amy grew

 

A few have names on them.  Most of them do not.  But I see their eyes, and note a similarity with my siblings’ eyes.  The shapes of their faces are like my family’s faces. 

I am attending a photo family reunion.  None of us know each other, but with a little work, I might find out who they were and who they are.

For details on Pere Marquette Park, go to:

http://www.greatriverroad.com/courtesy3.htm

http://www.cityofgrafton.org/