A card table supported the sheeted tent that sheltered me while I sat underneath, leaning against the fluffy pillows of my bed. It was a familiar little world. I was seven years old and suffering from chronic bronchitis.
The vaporizer on my bedside table produced a minty mist inside my tent. My fever had subsided, but my croupy cough lingered. Every morning, my radio whisked me away to the enchanting woods where the Teddy Bears have their picnics. My teddy bear was a loyal companion on those musical adventures. Teddy and I sipped warm, sugary tea with squirts of tangy lemon and spoonfuls of golden honey as we played hide-and-seek in the pretend woods under the trees.
I sat snugly in my flannel pajamas and socks, with a hot water bottle warming my feet. The fresh smell of air-dried cotton flannel sheets fought a losing duel with the odor of fried onions. The stinky smell came from a two-sided shirt I wore under my pajamas. My mother had sewn the shirt with a leak-proof pocket to hold the offending fried onion poultice close to my chest – a housewife’s remedy against croup.
In sharp contrast, a pink woolen blanket with a shiny satin border carpeted my bed. As I closed my eyes for my morning nap, the soft, downy feel of the blanket, held gently in my hand, lulled me to sleep in safe, cozy comfort.
When I woke up, my mother brought me lunch in my healing tent. The steaming chicken soup and crispy saltine crackers were a feast I shared with my family of dolls, who stayed with me in my pretend house. I dressed them from head to toe in fancy outfits my mother had sewn during long winter nights before Christmas.
A wicker basket of paper dolls sat in one corner of my tent; another held coloring books and a cigar box filled with a variety of crayons. My mother decorated the inside of my tent by pinning pictures I had colored to the walls — the waxy decor was post-World War II.
I watched my shadow, reflected by the lamplight, move around the square of my tent. It reminded me of Alice in Wonderland, a giant grown too tall for her room.
The faint scent of Coty’s Emeraud cologne occasionally overpowered the Vicks in my tent. It told me that my mother had bathed and perfumed Taffy, my cocker spaniel, and was fluffing dry her silky, beige coat in front of the open oven. Her excited bark always signaled that my father had come home from work.
I shared my dinner of hot soup heaped with vegetables and fortified with ground beef with Teddy and my doll family. It was served with warm, salty biscuits and ended with shaky cherry Jell-O for dessert. I heard the soft murmur of my parents chatting, along with the gentle clinking of dishes, glasses, and silverware.
After my mother cleared the dinner dishes, she took the card table away from my bed for bedtime. Taffy’s feet padded quietly into my room, where she watched over my sleep.
The eucalyptus vapor continued to circle my head as if it were incense lifting my nighttime prayers toward heaven. In the stillness of my darkened room, my hands smoothing the soft, wooly feel of my pink blanket, and my toes wiggling into the warm, cottony sheets, I closed my eyes.
Now I lay me down to sleep… in a safe place, a healing place—created by my mother’s love.
Happy Mother’s Day! ©Pamella A. Russell