Rubber Boots, Bloomsburg, the universe, and my mom

This is one of those times in life that can't be defined in an articulate way. Tons and tons of rain fell onto Bloomsburg and surrounding areas and now this place has been declared a disaster area. Fortunately our house didn't become part of this disaster; we were spared all the ruin and devastation we've seen our friends and neighbors have to cope with. All three of us--Michael is home for a week before starting his job at Columbia--have been doing volunteer work in Bloomsburg to help. We put together buckets of cleaning supplies that are being distributed. Right now Michael, I think, is in Fernville, this really cute little town attached to Bloomsburg that, according to my son, is in total ruin. The last time I saw my husband, he was driving our pickup truck which was loaded with rubber boots.

I helped initially but yesterday I decided to do something different. I stayed home, did some housework, and cooked a hot, appetizing dinner--complete with that casserole everybody likes made of French cut green beans, mushroom soup, and dried onions. I even baked brownies from scratch. And when the men of my family walked in, soaked, exhausted, and starving--they took showers, got into clean clothes and gobbled up the meal I cooked. And the part that brings tears to my eyes is that they were both so grateful for this; they kept telling me that everything smelled so good, the green beans were wonderful, the baking brownies were sent from heaven.

So I thought about my mom. Every day for years she did this--executed tasty, balanced meals while on a budget, served them on a clean table, made sure that the Pittsburgh Press was ready for my father to read. And I realized--I rarely do this. I just don't do this kind of thing. For one reason, my husband is a wonderful cook and does a lot of the cooking and all of the foodshopping. It's easy, when your husband is competent at something, to slide into a slightly hazy state of mind and let it go. Who wants to make a fuss about cooking anyway? You have to scrub the pots and load the dishwasher.

But it felt good yesterday. And I thought about my mom (and I called her to tell her all about this educational day) and thanked her. I also thought about my husband. I put several issues aside that have been worrying me and thought about him. What could I do to make his life easier? Well, I took a whole split chicken breast out of the freezer, made an Italian tomato salad using the tomatoes Peter grew in his garden, and I plan to bake fresh corn bread. Also, there is a corner of our front porch where Peter likes to sit and read in the early mornings so I cleaned up all the dust and dead insects and cobwebs and made his corner nice and clean.

While I did these things I felt a part of Bloomsburg, the whole world, and the universe. Take a look back at the first sentence I wrote--these are times that can't be articulated. Well, if you can't articulate them you make symbols. When the men who have been giving aid to helpless, hopeless people walk into the house, it means something if the kitchen smells like cooking garlic and onions and green beans and chocolate. Then, you call your mom.