There is a group that write on a certain subject each Friday. The subject for this week was Breakfast. The group is composed of truly excellent and skilled writers including Ashok, Conrad, Grannymarr, Magpie, Marianna and Rummuser. So sit back and enjoy our different approaches to writing about the first meal of the day.
Breakfast Memories
The year is 1944 or 45 and I am eight years old. Our home is a duplex at 3419 Grand Avenue in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The duplex is a two story building, and our living area is all on the first floor.
My bedroom is the last room in the house and is off the kitchen and near the back door.
A crabby old lady named Mrs, McPheter lives above us on the second floor. I dislike her very much because I am always being told by my mother that I must be quiet, I must not disturb Mrs. McPheter. She tells me that If Mrs. McPheter complains Mr. Nelson who owns our building, will make us move. I not only dislike Mrs. McPheter, I fear her and Mr Nelson. In my secure world, they are the threat that could turn my sheltered existence upside down or so I believe.
It is cold in my room and the sun will not be up for hours, but my father is up. I can hear him dressing. Then I hear him coming across the kitchen. his shoes hitting the cold linoleum with a definite resolution. He is on his way to the basement to stoke the huge, old furnace. On the way, he opens my door slightly so that the heat from the kitchen radiator will find its way to warm my room a little.
I cuddle back into my blankets, waiting for warmth. I view my little room with satisfaction. My bed is a youth bed, small narrow and comfortable. My father armed with photos from Ladies Home Journal, and my mother’s encouragement has built a pretty little picket fence three quarters of the way around the bed. He has added a gate hinge on one side so that it will be easier for me to get in and out and he has painted it bright yellow; my favorite color.
Still too early to get up, I finger the little kittens on my bedspread. Each one has been lovingly appliqued to the course muslin top by my mother. Each little kitten is made of material from a favorite childhood garment. Already, I am learning the lesson of remembering.
Now I can hear others stirring. My mother is up and moving quietly around the kitchen as she begins to fix breakfast. My father finished with the task of warming the house, is having his first cup of coffee. Our dog, Terry has been put out for his morning constitution, and the cage of our canary, Denny, has been uncovered. He is chirping happily as the sky turns from dark to light grey.
It is time for my brother, whose bedroom is more in the middle of the duplex, to get up for school. It is his first year in High School and he must take a bus across town to the Catholic All-Boy High School, De La Salle. I snuggle down for a few more minutes and wait.
Soon the first whiff of fried bacon reaches my delighted nostrils. It is my father’s “piece de resistance” and although, mother fixes most of our meals, it is my dad that fries the bacon and if ever there was a gifted bacon maker, it is he. The aroma of the bacon every morning is our call to breakfast. Seldom do either parent have to say, “Time to get up.” The smoky fragrance of bacon always brings us to the table; my brother already dressed and ready for school and me, a mass of tangled curls, rumpled pajama, robe and often mismatched slippers.
I am certain that love wafts into lives with fragrances much lighter, sweeter, and perhaps more poignant, but the love I am remembering is the love that my father put into the frying of the morning’s bacon and his gentle pride in knowing how to call his children to the breakfast table without uttering a word.
