From The Ashtray Files

Tales That Keep You Connected

Blue smoke billowed to the ceiling from a Kent cigarette perched between the notches of a recently cleaned plastic, aqua colored ashtray. If you listened intently, one might hear a ballgame playing in the background but muffled from a door undoubtedly closed.

To the left of the sink, a glass liter bottle rested atop of a generous paper towel square. Alongside the bottle was my grandmother’s favorite tumbler filled with tons of ice and her preferred elixir, Pepsi.

At the beginning of each day, the choice tumbler sported the dark caramel fizz befitting a Pepsi; however, over the course of the day more and more ice was added making the Pepsi present more like an iced tea.

Down below in the basement, there was the slow rump rump of a washing machine’s agitator followed by the harsh slam of a clothes dryer door.

“I’m back you there?” A mature woman’s voice could be heard from the amplified telephone receiver specific for those with hearing loss that set parallel to the ashtray on the table.

“You must not be back from switching your warsh.” The woman concluded using a typical American midland accent.

Heavy healed, rhythmic pounds tracked up all 13 steps to reveal an older, busty woman about 5’ 3”, with bluish gray hair and eyeglasses who quickly swung herself onto the dinette chair, cross her suntanned legs, and grabbed the receiver ready to reconvene with her partner for the evening.

“Betty, you there?” Margaret asked her sister.

“Of course, Margaret. I was just speedier than you.” Always the quick-witted Betty replied.

“Well, I had to pretreat Joe’s shirts stained with coffee.” Margaret explained.

The Kitchen Doubled As A Sanctuary

My grandmother spent a lot of time sitting in her tiny, u-shaped kitchen at an aqua Formica, drop-leaf table. The table sported no safety features like today. I could’ve easily, and probably had many times, pinched my fingers in the spring if I wasn’t careful, but the risk was so worth it as I loved the loud sound of the boing notating the release and tightening of the table’s extension.

The kitchen’s aqua theme continued with matching but visibly worn chairs and a coordinating rotary phone with an obnoxiously long, coiled cord. The moment a child’s eyes set on the cord’s bounce; all you could think about was a jump rope.

At the end of most days, her bluish green table had all the ingredients for a full evening of conversation: the phone, an emery board, cigarettes, lighter, ashtray, and that tumbler of water-downed Pepsi.

When the rotary dial started to whirr, family gossip was soon to be shared and many a trouble resolved between my grandmother and her chosen sister for the evening. My grandmother, Margaret, and great aunts, Betty, and Mildred, often jibber jabbered into the wee hours of the morning. Over the duration of their laundry loads they discussed the simple and complex facets of life, sentimental about their history and the sometimes-forgotten details, laughter, and the future they hoped to experience together.

My three cousins and I witnessed these marathon calls during our three-to-four-day summer pajama parties. It was the 1970s, camp was set in front of a large picture window with flat sheets and pillows on the unstainable, likely highly flammable, living room carpet. The wooden front door was left open all night in the hopes of a slight breeze that might waft over the four of us through the metal screen door.

A sweltering, humid heat filled the room not only from the weather, but from the collection of oscillating and stationary fans that tried to combat the temperature. Most of our wisecracks were drowned out by the fan chorus, and yet unmistakably we could hear the usually warranted stern shush from our grandmother’s low and raspy order, “Go to sleep!”

A micro closet was on the pathway into the dining room which then spilt into the kitchen. This eclectic closet housed a strange compilation of resources and rations, along with an even odder concocted smell, like a record player and albums, large bags of Shearer’s potato chips and Old Dutch pretzels, and a mineral-oil treated dust cloth that sat atop of a can of lemon furniture polish.

The stench tickled our nose as we hovered at the edge of the tiny closet door, attempting to overhear the one-sided conversation over the buzz of fans mixed with our giggles. At the time, our grandmother’s chats seemed mundane, inside jokes baffling although we noticed sisterly tiffs could prove to be quite testy.

The Wit and Wisdom Continues

Now, our grown selves recognize the wisdom in those midnight calls. We reminisce and laugh using the same voice inflection of our departed loved one, recapturing the humor of our youth while we carry on their great tradition via telephone along with the modern flair of texts.

We might not have as much time or energy for the early morning calls, but it’s not uncommon for us to have a marathon conversation or have texts arrive at midnight or thereafter. Mimicking our ancestral ghosts is our intrinsic way to connect with one another, cope with some of the darkness of our childhood while managing the anxiety of our present, and the unknowns that lie ahead with our future.

In life, there are some chapters you’ll live in fear of turning the page and others so beautiful you’ll never want them to end. Every day, we write the lines of our story filled with chances taken and some missed, characters that float in and out of our lives while others that are stable, steady, and trusted wheeling fighting words one minute and tough love the next to teach lifelong lessons.

I Hope You’ll Join Me

For years, my husband has implored me to sit down and write my stories which is part of the purpose of this blog. Stories are a way to create connection and community which is what I aspire to build here.

Was the description of my youth familiar?

What are some of the ways you connect and create community in your life?