Vicki Holmsten

My mother used to say the baking gene skipped generations in the maternal line in our family. She was no slouch in the kitchen and I never saw anyone turn down one of her cookies. But she did not love getting her hands in the bread dough the way I do, nor do I remember her making any cakes beyond the cake mix specials for family birthdays. According to Mom, her mother was the lover of flour and baking , and true to her prediction, I came by this love of baking. I have my grandmother’s wooden spoons in the jar on my kitchen counter. On days when the air feels right and my sourdough starter is ready to go, the spoons come out of the jar and I call upon the spirit of my Mormor to guide my next bread-baking adventure.

Honey Bear has resumed his rightful place as Head Bear in my house. He was relegated to the basket of old toys for a time, but Common Sense has prevailed and he is back in charge. He first came to me when I was confined to a crib, my fellow prisoner behind the bars of safety. Later, we listened to stories, explored the jungle in the backyard, directed the lives of the toys in the box, and napped even when we didn’t want to. He saw me through measles, mumps, chicken pox, and a number of sniffy noses, yet he miraculously never got sick himself. Honey Bear is showing some signs of wear and tear, as are we all. I remember my mother in her later years sighing and saying, “Ah, the vicissitudes of old age.” Indeed, Mom, indeed. But we’re hanging in there, watching the world go by, and trying hard to hang on to how much fun we had when we were Young and Beautiful in the wilds of our Land of Childhood.

When I was six years old, my big brother got married on  a snowy day in February. I was the flower girl with ivy in my hair and a green velvet dress to match the big girl bridesmaids. My shoes, purchased from Karlson’s Shoe Store in Hinsdale, were custom-dyed green to match my lovely dress. I felt elegant, even though my feet were squeezed tightly in the green shoes, the formerly white Kickette pumps, that betrayed because they shrank during the dye job. They pinched my feet. After the wedding,  it was snowing outside and my shoes got wet on the way back to the car. When we got home and the shoes came off, some of the green in the shoes washed out, but my lacy white ankle socks and feet were green. The little green shoes live on in a plastic bag on a shelf in my closet, waiting for someone to pick them up and remember.