Mastering the Fine Art of Time Management
written by: Jenna Cornell
The stairs creaked and squeaked just as I remember them; each having their own particular tone likened to that of a choir. When I opened the screen door, I paused for a minute recalling the day I barreled through the screen ripping it to shreds. The old dog of Mr. Coopers would have surely eaten me alive had I not taken such drastic measures. I saw the French doors in front of me with their cherry wood and stained glass windows slightly more weathered than the last time I made my presence known in this place. The light gleamed out of the leaded windows in a rainbow variety upon my face. The previous time I was at this point was when Dad passed away two years ago. This Christmas was going to be quite a different one without him.
My mother transferred to me the proverbial duty of reading ‘The Night Before Christmas’ to my nieces and nephews. Apparently, she thinks I have some sort of storytelling magic, but I don’t think I can ever bring the theatrics and pyrotechnics to the story that my father always did. He had a bellowing voice and the innate qualities of a Shakespearian actor. He probably missed his true calling, but you would never know by his dedication to his family. With a deep sigh, I grabbed the doorknob and swung the wooden barrier open. Stairs to my right, hallway down the middle, sitting room to my left with a fire boasting red hot embers and a decorated family tree not far away. I was entering a sanctuary of sorts. Not one of the spiritual connotations, but one in which a person feels comfort, love, and safety.
Aside from the occasional crackle from the fire, the house was unusually silent. I removed my snow-laden shoes on the entrance rug, put my coat on the delicately carved coat stand, and strolled down the hallway toward the kitchen. Something good was simmering in the oven. Hints of apple, pork, and onion invaded my nostrils like the cold just minutes before. The kitchen timer controlled the room with its demanding clicks dialing down. I hated timers. Timed lessons. Timed multiplication tables. Timed tuba lessons with sheet music I never managed to grasp. They made sure to let everyone know that life is timed. It’s decided and succinct. There are no what-ifs, maybes, or perhaps laters. Life had a use-by date, and we were merely pawns in its officiated game.
The sitting room called to me, and I ventured through the swinging door. Many a time my brother and I were harshly reprimanded for running the Indy Circle as my mother liked to call it; sometimes smacking the trailing brother in the face with the full sway of the door. The fire added about 20 degrees to the room making it feel like a warm electric blanket. Dad’s chair, oh, how he loved that. He would sit down in it after supper and have a nice cocktail; nothing remotely stylish just a simple whiskey and Coke. I know there are many people who would look at that nightly ritual and criticize it as some level of alcoholism, but he really didn’t drink otherwise. It was something to end his long day of work and help him relax from the stressors that plagued him. He was a mechanic. One of the best in town. I remember when I was a boy, he would come home from work with his hair all frazzled, the mechanic’s suit grimed up, and car fluids so entrenched in his skin it was like cologne. It may be weird to say, but that smell came to be something of a reassurance for me. As I sat down in his mangled leather recliner, I felt as if he were there with me. The Victorian rose-papered wall, which when facing the kitchen would be the east side of the sitting room, housed the liquor cabinet. It was more like a buffet table that my parents stored various spirits in for special occasions. They always had the opinion alcohol should not be within view even if it was in the home. Too tempting, they would say to us. Out of sight. Out of mind. As one last farewell to him, I went over to the liquor cabinet and pulled out his favorite whiskey. Its pungent aroma flooded my thoughts as I twisted off the cap. The soft trickle emptied into my tumbler and sent me reeling back to the first night he took me out for a drink, “You’re a man now,” he said. He was never one for philosophical conversations. But somehow, he always knew the perfect time to sit me down and have a life discussion. I barely choked it down that night; quietly pretending I was indeed a man, but secretly knowing I didn’t fully understand the responsibilities.
I returned to his favorite resting place, drink in hand, and lifted the footrest. Eyes closed; I settled into the ambiance. A peaceful ambiance only he knew how to treasure. Oh, the amounts of laughter and frustration he must have felt over the years sitting here in front of the fire; all us kids running around like banshees. I can recall one or more times when Dad set his drink down and became a member of our troupe dancing around with grease-laden curls flopping about. My mother would run in and tell us to quiet down, and without hesitation, he would scoop her up like a little feather and dance some more. She mentioned him on the phone a few times since his death, talking of old times and good times, and all those times she would never get to have. I’m not sure what is more crushing: to be the child who lost a father or the child who must comfort the parent who lost a spouse. I don’t know. Maybe both work together simultaneously. Maybe both of us would heal one another of our grief. Maybe we never would be the same people ever again. Maybe time heals all wounds. Maybe it’s a vicious maniacal ruse we’re taught by others trying to manage the twisted ruse themselves. People who are bound by Time’s insensitive amusement to change on a dime just as I am bound to its dirty pleasure.
A thunderous crack startled me from my intangible conjecture. Presents of all sizes were stacked under and around the precisely decorated tree. So many in fact that I highly doubt anybody has been able to water the thing in a couple of weeks. Voices began to fill the air outside on the porch. I could hear them faintly at first and then almost like a firecracker exploding they entered my domain. I could take the stand that these invaders had violated my personal territory, but this too was something of comfort for me. Christmas would never be complete if we didn’t have loud, boisterous adults and children running here and there. I wanted to go and greet them with excitement; to jump out of my chair and join the dance, but I stayed put in my father’s favorite chair with his favorite drink mastering the fine art of time management.
- Mastering the Fine Art of Time Management - December 18, 2024
