…upon
an old
brass bell
gathering
dust
in my mother’s
front hallway*
I’m five years old, living in the house on Stoneyside Lane. Like my siblings, I’m out playing around the neighborhood: collecting berries from bushes, riding my bike, sweet-talking neighbors into giving me Lorna Doone Cookies.
Then I hear the bell cutting through the late afternoon air. I know what it means, and so do my brother and sisters: we’d better be home for dinner before that sound stops. In fact, every kid in the neighborhood knows to go home when that bell sounds.
It’s 1979. Late October, 3:30 a.m. I’m home asleep when a sound rouses me from my slumber. It’s…no. It’s not…it is. The brass bell. My mom’s ringing it – am I dreaming? From a Pavlovian place in my brain, I emerge from my room, wandering with my brother and sister down a hallway and through hazy rooms toward that bell. We congregate at a front hallway that’s engulfed in flames before escaping together.
I’m 35, a full-on adult now and mother to my own kids, and the honorary I’ll-be-the-one-to-drive-in-to-help-with-stuff gal. My parents are moving, downsizing, casting off. There aren’t a lot of possessions I covet, but when I see the bell, I know exactly what I’m taking back to Chicago with me. It doesn’t work at calling my own kids back home (believe me, I tried), but I keep it in my front hallway nonetheless.
That bell still occupies a place of honor right by my front door. My mom is gone, and even though I’m 53 I could still use some mothering now and again. And when I do, I walk to the front hallway and look at that bell, remembering it’s there to call me home.
*after William Carlos Williams
Soapbox: The Way I see Things 
Lainie, what a beautiful slice — bringing us back to when the bell served such an important purpose and bringing us to the here and now, where the bell is a constant reminder of your mother’s love. You’ve said so much here, with a minimal amount of words…it’s perfect!
Thanks, Giovanna. And thank YOU for being such a gracious host of the writing group on Thursday!
Thursday nights have now become one of my favourite nights of the week. An opportunity to connect with other teachers –and writers — about the craft and about our lives. What a gift!
Wow, this is gorgeous. Moving. Full of both tenderness and suspense in one short piece. Thank you.
Thank YOU, Cheryl. It’s weird…I wasn’t thinking about the suspense I was building, just retelling things how my little-kid brain saw them. But I see it now. =)
Lainie,
What a marvelous narrative. I love the rewrite of WCW’s poem, the playful story about being a child playing, and the. that gut punch of fire that could have been so much worse if not for the bell. Of course that bell belongs in a place of honor. And you have crafted this so perfectly. It’s a study in authentic, excellent writing. Bravo!
Thanks, Glenda. That bell is definitely the source of family folklore, and I smile to think about all of the starring roles it played in the retellings over the years.
What a wonderful memory and now you have that bell reminding you that when you need it, your mom is still there ready to give you advice.
Thanks! It’s amazing to me how someone like my mom can be so present and absent, all at the same time.
Love this connection to your mom! I enjoyed the way you structured your writing, moving from poem to prose and showing us different stages in your life through your changing connection to one special object. Strong work!
Thanks, Sharon! I think this was an example of a time where I sit down to write without a clear road map and the words take me where they want to go. I’m proud of this one. =)
Such a loving slice, Lainie. Such a tender connection to your mother.