By Anne Crawley
Conscience is less an inner voice than the memory of a mother's glance.
~Robert Brault
On the day that I was married, I took the usual "love, honor, sickness, health, etc." vows out loud. I made a few other vows to myself, one of which was to stay calm and understanding about the incredibly close bond between John and his mother. After all, he was thirty-three when I married him, and he had lived with this mother that whole time, so a few precedents had been set. The dating years had taught me that, in the choice between her and me, I might get a sheepish look followed by an apology in private later, but he would never take my side against her in front of her or others. My mother-in-law, in her own way, is a wonderful woman, and I could give her some unflattering labels such as "quirky" or "difficult," but what comes to mind most is "very loving," in a unique way.
Conscience is less an inner voice than the memory of a mother's glance.
~Robert Brault
On the day that I was married, I took the usual "love, honor, sickness, health, etc." vows out loud. I made a few other vows to myself, one of which was to stay calm and understanding about the incredibly close bond between John and his mother. After all, he was thirty-three when I married him, and he had lived with this mother that whole time, so a few precedents had been set. The dating years had taught me that, in the choice between her and me, I might get a sheepish look followed by an apology in private later, but he would never take my side against her in front of her or others. My mother-in-law, in her own way, is a wonderful woman, and I could give her some unflattering labels such as "quirky" or "difficult," but what comes to mind most is "very loving," in a unique way.
So I vowed to stay calm whenever he took her side, knowing that the results of hurting her were far worse than the results of letting me down. Or at least I hoped so.
And so it went for many years, smoothly as can be expected. My teeth are shorter from grinding them down, and the neighbors have become accustomed to my running out in the backyard to scream from time to time, but, overall, it has been smooth, except for a random holiday here and there.
As in all families, we had holiday "traditions," unwritten rules set in concrete, never to be changed. Christmas Eve was at my sister-in-law's because she knows how to do that seven-course fish thing so well. So Christmas Eve was his family's. Each Christmas Day, we attended church and spent the morning at home. Around noon, all presents opened, we headed to his mother's for homemade cappelletti and ravioli. Around four, we went to my mother's, pretending we were hungry because she had worked all day preparing a turkey or ham dinner. These endearing, if fattening, traditions were embedded in our lives.
As fate would have it, one year we just couldn't follow that routine. It had snowed, snowed and snowed, leaving us buried in feet of white powder. Our home is situated in a large natural wind tunnel between a sizeable lake and a pond, giving us a double lake effect, plus a wind chill factor worthy of the Arctic. We could barely open the door that day and had to force the dog to go outside to do his duty. No one was traveling; the roads were barely plowed, and TV announcers urged everyone to stay put. We almost did.
I knew there would be trouble. My mother-in-law began calling at 9:00 A.M. Those bags of cappelletti and ravioli that she had created were bursting out of her freezer. It was Christmas. They had to be eaten that day. Weather had no influence on her schedule or her cooking. I said no. She called at 10:00, 10:30, 11:00, 11:30 and 12:00, frantic by 1:00.
It was Christmas! There were ravioli! About 12:00, John had started to pace. From 1:00 to 2:00, we all shoveled, trying to move at least two feet of snow off the house roof, as it was leaking more than usual. Of course, this made him even hungrier. Thoughts of ravioli obsessed his genetically-driven mind. I said no. Then I watched in amazement as his primal instinct took over. He became crazed. Christmas and ravioli had to be honored! I said no — we would not go out in that storm just for pasta. At 3:00, he lost all control. "Get into the truck! Everybody!" he screamed as he grabbed for the phone, dialed and yelled, "Put the water on. We're on our way!"
It certainly was an exciting trip. We live at the top of a one-mile hill, followed by a bit of level road, followed by a two-mile downhill fondly known as The Wildcat, then a two-mile uphill stretch. There was no "over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house we go" because nothing could be seen but snow, waist-deep snow that sprayed out on both sides of the truck as we plowed our own path. We were on the road, off the road, in a ditch, in the opposite ditch, but my husband is a veteran of driving on roads like this, and his truck is built for this challenge. The girls were having a great time in their car seats, whooping at all the white spray. I had confidence in John and very little fear, although I realized that my mother-in-law's wishes were dominant again. In the true Christmas spirit (and because I just LOVE her pasta), I hung on and enjoyed being the only family out in that untouched winter wonderland.
We did not pass a single vehicle the whole way down, and the twelve-mile journey took more than forty-five minutes. The bleak, beautiful snow had brought the Valley to a halt — except for one blue Chevy avalanche on an "emergency" ravioli run.
She complained as we walked in. "What took so long? The pasta is getting cold!" Unbelievable. I almost decided not to eat at all when she nagged like that, but even I could not hold out against Margaret's homemade ravioli and sauce. I felt thankful and peaceful that we could spend Christmas together — at least our branch of the family. John's two sisters and one brother never made it, thereby proving to their mother — neglected on Christmas — that their love for her was nowhere near as strong as John's. John beamed.
My mother lived nearby, but we didn't stop in. She would have been shocked, appalled, furious, unbelieving that we had left the house in such weather. The ride home was faster, the road almost hidden in the night. Our tracks were the only ones through the snow. John once again made it seem like a Sunday drive in the park, even though he was working hard to keep the truck in line. By the time we got home, we all knew this had been a Christmas to remember.
Someday, I hope I have a child who loves me, or at least my cooking, as much as John loves his mother and her ravioli. But I will insist that they stay home until the roads have been plowed.
And so it went for many years, smoothly as can be expected. My teeth are shorter from grinding them down, and the neighbors have become accustomed to my running out in the backyard to scream from time to time, but, overall, it has been smooth, except for a random holiday here and there.
As in all families, we had holiday "traditions," unwritten rules set in concrete, never to be changed. Christmas Eve was at my sister-in-law's because she knows how to do that seven-course fish thing so well. So Christmas Eve was his family's. Each Christmas Day, we attended church and spent the morning at home. Around noon, all presents opened, we headed to his mother's for homemade cappelletti and ravioli. Around four, we went to my mother's, pretending we were hungry because she had worked all day preparing a turkey or ham dinner. These endearing, if fattening, traditions were embedded in our lives.
As fate would have it, one year we just couldn't follow that routine. It had snowed, snowed and snowed, leaving us buried in feet of white powder. Our home is situated in a large natural wind tunnel between a sizeable lake and a pond, giving us a double lake effect, plus a wind chill factor worthy of the Arctic. We could barely open the door that day and had to force the dog to go outside to do his duty. No one was traveling; the roads were barely plowed, and TV announcers urged everyone to stay put. We almost did.
I knew there would be trouble. My mother-in-law began calling at 9:00 A.M. Those bags of cappelletti and ravioli that she had created were bursting out of her freezer. It was Christmas. They had to be eaten that day. Weather had no influence on her schedule or her cooking. I said no. She called at 10:00, 10:30, 11:00, 11:30 and 12:00, frantic by 1:00.
It was Christmas! There were ravioli! About 12:00, John had started to pace. From 1:00 to 2:00, we all shoveled, trying to move at least two feet of snow off the house roof, as it was leaking more than usual. Of course, this made him even hungrier. Thoughts of ravioli obsessed his genetically-driven mind. I said no. Then I watched in amazement as his primal instinct took over. He became crazed. Christmas and ravioli had to be honored! I said no — we would not go out in that storm just for pasta. At 3:00, he lost all control. "Get into the truck! Everybody!" he screamed as he grabbed for the phone, dialed and yelled, "Put the water on. We're on our way!"
It certainly was an exciting trip. We live at the top of a one-mile hill, followed by a bit of level road, followed by a two-mile downhill fondly known as The Wildcat, then a two-mile uphill stretch. There was no "over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house we go" because nothing could be seen but snow, waist-deep snow that sprayed out on both sides of the truck as we plowed our own path. We were on the road, off the road, in a ditch, in the opposite ditch, but my husband is a veteran of driving on roads like this, and his truck is built for this challenge. The girls were having a great time in their car seats, whooping at all the white spray. I had confidence in John and very little fear, although I realized that my mother-in-law's wishes were dominant again. In the true Christmas spirit (and because I just LOVE her pasta), I hung on and enjoyed being the only family out in that untouched winter wonderland.
We did not pass a single vehicle the whole way down, and the twelve-mile journey took more than forty-five minutes. The bleak, beautiful snow had brought the Valley to a halt — except for one blue Chevy avalanche on an "emergency" ravioli run.
She complained as we walked in. "What took so long? The pasta is getting cold!" Unbelievable. I almost decided not to eat at all when she nagged like that, but even I could not hold out against Margaret's homemade ravioli and sauce. I felt thankful and peaceful that we could spend Christmas together — at least our branch of the family. John's two sisters and one brother never made it, thereby proving to their mother — neglected on Christmas — that their love for her was nowhere near as strong as John's. John beamed.
My mother lived nearby, but we didn't stop in. She would have been shocked, appalled, furious, unbelieving that we had left the house in such weather. The ride home was faster, the road almost hidden in the night. Our tracks were the only ones through the snow. John once again made it seem like a Sunday drive in the park, even though he was working hard to keep the truck in line. By the time we got home, we all knew this had been a Christmas to remember.
Someday, I hope I have a child who loves me, or at least my cooking, as much as John loves his mother and her ravioli. But I will insist that they stay home until the roads have been plowed.
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