Seven Backpacks, a Heart Attack, and a Chocolate Cake

photo credit kitchen joy

She smiles often. She has four teeth…scattered along her gums. I’m not sure that I’m woman enough to smile if I only had four teeth.

She’s frail, appearing older than I know she is. Her life is harsh. Her poverty is not what makes it so.  

She was waiting for me by the gate today. Some days, she prefers to wave as she walks by. Some days, she pretends like she doesn’t see me at all.

Not today. Today she waited.  

She wastes no time with the pleasantries of small talk. She gets right to her point. “Did I miss the backpacks,” she quizzed.

“No, we didn’t give away school supplies this year," I replied apologetically. 

“Oh”. Her pause was long, emphasizing her disappointment. "I was in the hospital and thought I missed it. I had a heart attack. Three stents.”

She lifted her wrist. Multiple vinyl hospital bracelets still dangled there. “I keep these on in case I have to go back. In case I have another stroke.”  

My neighborhood friends aren’t much on small talk. They don’t ask about the family, they don’t comment on a new hair style and they don’t ponder if it might rain today. Their lives are more urgent than that.  

Lupe continued with her story. She was out collecting aluminum cans one morning. She felt funny. She had felt that way before, when she had her stroke.

She walked into the firehouse. Dutifully, they checked her over. Indeed, she was having a heart attack. As they were transporting her to a hospital,  she flat lined.  

She remembers it well. She was in her grandmother’s kitchen. Her grandmother had a beautiful chocolate cake on the table. Lupe was a child. Excitedly, she bit off a corner of the cake. Her grandmother scolded her.

"Ma’am….ma’am….wake up! Do you know where you are? What is your name?" She awoke in the Emergency Room with doctors and nurses surrounding her.

She brushed her fingers over her lips to wipe clean the chocolate frosting she was sure was still there. “I could taste my Abuela’s cake. It was delicious.”

Another pause. It seemed she longed for that moment again. Perhaps it was the ease of childhood or the comfort of her grandmother’s home.  

“Do you know if anyone else is giving away backpacks? I have seven grandkids and I don’t have anything for them to take to school.” Her reality startled mine once again.  

I’ve prayed for her as she wept when one of those grandchildren was born addicted to crack cocaine.

I’ve listened as she talked about her husband. A hardworking man who does as he pleases, including hitting her when the paychecks are small and the beer is large.

I’ve stood beside her at Christmas as she sang O Holy Night like an angel.

And I’ve smiled as she proudly displayed a huge bag of fresh okra that someone gave her from their garden.  

“Let me see what I can come up with and I will call you tomorrow,” I promised.   

I made my way to the check out. Backpacks – 2 pink, 3 blue, 2 mesh, spiral notebooks, crayons, glue sticks, pencils, pens, pocket folders, notebook paper.

“You must have a bunch of kids!” the cashier exclaimed. I smiled. “Something like that”.  

Back at home, the oven timer beeped. The smell of chocolate filled the house. The double fudge cake cooled on the counter while I loaded up the backpacks. I smoothed the thick frosting over the cake…twice. It had to be good.  

I pulled up to her home. I noticed a blue vinyl tarp on the roof. She would tell me later that the tarp was covering a large hole in the roof. It was fine most of the time…except when it rained.

I opened the back of my Suburban. She smiled when she saw all that was for her.  

“A cake…a chocolate cake!"

Delighted, she made multiple trips carrying the goods into the house. I offered to help, knowing that I would not be allowed inside. I know the boundaries…just like the days she doesn’t choose to wave.  

That’s okay. Today, I was allowed into her heart. And that’s just fine with me.

The Sugar Keep

My sister got the sugar keep. Each time I saw it in her kitchen, I wanted it. I was young and unmarried when such things were divvied up after my grandparents’ passing. I didn’t have much regard for sentimental things while I was chasing what I thought was my dream. After all, who needs an old glass jar? Yet each time I would visit my sister’s kitchen, there it was.  Its intricate edged glass, its tapered shape, its worn metal flip top lid…the old sugar resting at the bottom.

I wanted it – and she wouldn’t give it. It did fit in with her kitchen - at home with her antique spice tins and miniature tea cups. Why did I yearn for it so?

And then on a special visit last year, the sugar keep became mine in an instant. No begging, no teasing about it “going missing” after my visit….just a cheerful “sure you can have it”! Yeeesssssss, the coveted memento would finally be mine!   

I insured it was packed well. Layers of bubble wrap cradled it on the journey to my home 1200 miles away. When the box arrived – I hurriedly examined the contents. All was well.

“Where would I display it?”,  I pondered. The perfect spot beckoned from a small shelf in the living room. I stood back admiring the arrangement.  A gentle peace washed over my heart….and I remembered.

The table in my grandparents’ kitchen. The sugar keep, the salt and pepper shakers, the butter dish hiding creamy, soft butter beneath its metal cover - all grouped neatly atop the vinyl tablecloth. 

I thought of my Grandmother’s hands as she worked in that tiny kitchen.  She prepared scratch meals for my Grandpa every day. He would come home for lunch to that waiting table. Real meat, real potatoes, real vegetables from their garden.  

He would take his place at the head of that waiting table, my grandmother seated beside him, and they prayed. My grandfather was not a man of many words. And she didn’t expect many. They sat and they ate. Together.  I don’t remember much conversation. Maybe a “good dinner, dear” followed by a quiet “thank you”. It wasn’t necessary. They had commitment…covenant. They were walking through life together – every day. They worked together, prayed together, stayed together. That’s why the sugar keep from their table stirred so much within me. It wasn’t what they said….it was how they lived. That tapered glass jar - a witness now sitting quietly on my shelf. A reminder of lives well lived and a legacy that lives on.