 |
|
|
A Letter to Mr. Keillor by Ruthann Cowell December 7, 2006 Dear Mr. Keillor, My dad introduced me to you about 25 years ago; an act for which I will always be grateful. It was my dad's way of sharing comfort. He found you shortly after my mom, his dearly beloved of 33 years, passed away at far too young an age. Dad soon tired of sandwiches and meals from the local diner, so he took out mom's recipe box and taught himself to cook some of his old favorites. We call it "casserole" here in Illinois, but I remember his equivalent of your tuna hotdish quite fondly. I had a standing invitation for dinner on Saturday evenings at his house. Little did you know, but you had the only other invitation. Dinner with a man of so few words could be rather quiet. You filled the house with an old familiar warmth as we communed without using words of our own. I know he took to you because of your images of coming up in church. You and he were of the same ilk. You two grew up together, only several hundred miles, and several years apart. You spoke of his church every week, only called it by a different name. Men on one side, women on the other, no make-up or jewelry and no facial hair, except for the old women. You spoke of a simpler life with no TV, but there was no time for TV because the garden needed to be weeded and harvested, the fruits and vegetables had to be put up for the winter, and the clothes did not hang themselves on the line. You spoke of a life with a good healthy dose of guilt to guide you through the day, and a strong suspicion of anyone who was not "unsary", a German word meaning "our own". For someone outside of his small town, and not even knowing of the Apostolic Christians, you were talking about his life. He had a safe haven in which to insulate himself, and even laugh at himself, for a short time every week. You brought him, and me, so much comfort and laughter when comfort and laughter came at a premium. I moved away to Florida about eight years later, only to return when dad's health started to deteriorate. Parkinson's Disease slowly ate away all he had worked so hard for and even whittled away at his mind. It was increasingly difficult to communicate with him. Words would no longer work, so I learned other avenues of communication. Mom's recipe for banana cream pie worked very well, as did a two week old Lab puppy from our second litter. "Tiny puppy with your eyes barely open, meet my daddy with his eyes rarely open." A cold wet nose on his warm nose made dad wince. The teeny puppy curled up in his neck and dad lay his head over to cuddle the small being. They both took a nap. It had been years since dad last recognized me and I was getting married. I was thirty eight years old and finally found the right man for me. He was forty one and had been waiting to meet me. He had a mom and step-dad, a dad and step-mom. I had no mom, and my dad was in such a declined state. My Love assured me we would get my dad to the wedding. We hired a nurse to bring him and he slept through the whole service, or so we thought. My tough Italian brother-in-law helped get dad in the transport van after the wedding and came back into the reception with tears in his eyes. He said that my dear daddy said, in words clearer than he had spoken in years, "didn't Ruthann look beautiful today?" As the only nurse in the family, I was responsible for getting dad to his doctor's appointments and making sure all of his health issues were addressed. He would get rather agitated bouncing around in the drafty, noisy transport van. One day I asked the driver to play a tape of yours during the trip to Peoria. As your soft, low voice came through the speakers dad's eyes came wide open, and as you continued in that familiar, slow cadence he grabbed the arm rests of his wheelchair and stood almost straight up with the greatest look of wonder on his face. He slowly sank back down in his seat, but the smile and tears continued. You got through the impenetrable fog, just like the banana cream pie, the cold puppy nose and the vision of his daughter barely escaping old maid-dom. I hope you count yourself in good company. I thank you for that day, and for all the Saturday evenings when you shared comfort and warmth with us. My dad died several years ago, but I have never forgotten what you did for him or for me. I just returned from a rather long road trip by myself. You kept me company in the car. We went through Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter, Love, Hope, Faith and Humor, not to mention Songs of the Cat several times. My dad gave me that tape. I write this as my 19 year old Siamese sits on my lap. Some day I will recite "In Memory of Our Cat Ralph", but put in the name Meyer: my sweet old boy with the chipped fang and the "jiggly eye" from an injury he sustained in his younger years. If it weren't for memories of younger years, who and where would we be now? With sincere gratitude and wishes for your happiness and continued success, Ruthann Cowell About the author: I believe this letter to Mr. Keillor incudes most of the important bits of my life. I am now a retired nurse, turned baker. Baking is something my sister I learned early in life in our mom's kitchen. Some of my fondest memories are of baking away the whole day with them in the kitchen, or in the cellar canning and freezing food from the garden. I am now part of a co-op of bakers at a small town bakery in Lacon, IL. My dear husband and I have 5 kids, two of them feline and the other three canine. We enjoy a simple life of work, and playing with our three Labs on the Illinois River that runs through our town. | | | |
First Person Archive Most recent: 2008 August July June May April March February January 2007 December November October September August July June May April March February January 2006 December September | |
 |
|
|
