I Don't Believe in Signs, But . . .
- Elizabeth Ricketson
- 18 minutes ago
- 3 min read
By Elizabeth Ricketson:
Something was different. The dull light outside my early morning window was subtly illuminated. The first snow. A quiet glistened. The ochre earth was covered in white. Twigs and long-dormant grasses poked through the patchy blanket.
The gray November skies battled between a cold rain and soft, spitting flakes. Battling to get it seasonally right yet up against a lack of corporation. The struggle was obvious. More snow is in the forecast. Temperatures will plummet this week and the inches will stack.
The split-rail fence dusted in white. The rambling gravel drive now hidden. A mighty pine that proudly towers on our far lawn barely notices the overnight arrival. Not a branch bent under the weight, but I am buckling under.
Purity or despair? I wondered. Delighted by the first snow, yet my thoughts were as dark as night. I couldn’t shake it. Americans are hungry. SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program) is being callously and politically used. Denied. The games of an administration that is using our citizens and their needs as political fodder. Children, struggling families, and senior citizens are being unnecessarily deprived of food while the “president” wines and dines extravagantly. Hosting galas while cupboards and stomachs are empty.
I decided to post a painting on FB with the intent of auctioning it off. The proceeds would benefit the Vermont Food Bank. I have done this before with wonderful results. The community responded beautifully, and a sizable amount was given to the food bank several months ago. Feeling helpless, I decided to try it again. Hunger should not be any part of the American experience.
While posting the image of the painting, I included a small paragraph about my dad. My parents led by example and were my greatest teachers. “I will forever be the daughter of a grocer,” I began. As a young child, I witnessed my father on numerous occasions take care of those facing challenges. Quietly and respectfully, he would help anyone that asked. Often, they didn’t need to share their stressful circumstances, as he would observe dwindling purchases or a customer that hadn’t stopped by as frequently as they might. A worried look as they entered the store. A shaking hand as they opened a virtually empty wallet. He missed nothing and was first to help. I remember an elderly neighbor of ours growing up who was living off the remains of her family funds, and my father would create fabulous stories as to why a grocery bag full of nutritious food would find its way to her front porch each week. He felt a want, a desire, and a responsibility to his community. Protecting one’s dignity while filling stomachs.
I posted on FB and felt momentarily hopeful in my urgent request, wanting to help my Vermont community in the face of this exceptionally cruel administration. I headed into our living room to put the TV on to divert my sad heart and burdened brain.
When my husband and I were dating, he would visit my family home. My dad and he would watch TV together on a lazy weekend afternoon. My dad would often doze off in his tan wide-wale corduroy La-Z-Boy recliner. A man who worked harder and more hours than were available. Dad would joke that he went to sleep with the Patriots football game on and would wake up with the movie King Kong playing, teasing my husband, Jon, about changing the channel while he was asleep and choosing the absolute worst viewing option available. This may have happened once or twice, or possibly more, but it always led to wonderful laughter.
To my shock and amazement as the TV came to life in my living room, King Kong was playing. It wasn’t with Jessica Lang and possibly the actress was Naomi Watts, but King Kong dominated the screen as tears filled my eyes. My father was letting me know that he approved of my effort.
Today would have been his 108th birthday, and tomorrow he would honored Veterans Day as he was a proudly decorated WWII veteran.
“One father is more than a hundred schoolmasters.”
— George Herbert
A graduate of Providence College with a BA in English, Elizabeth Ricketson has always had a love of literature and the fine arts. In the 1990s, she studied figure drawing at the Rhode Island School of Design, spending years dedicated to understanding human form, movement, and anatomy. Elizabeth’s essays focus on life experiences and life in Vermont. Essays available for consideration.
Website: elizabethricketson.net
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