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From kindergarten to college, it's all there on the refrigerator door.
I know there is a great movement these days toward having “home altars”--places of reflection and journey-charting inside your very own house. It occurs to me that often these things happen naturally, and if that’s so, I might posit that, physically, the spiritual center of our home might well be…the refrigerator door.
There is a Polaroid picture of my oldest boy on the refrigerator door. He is wearing a surgical mask and gown, his eyes look intense as he studies a doctor's hands doing their healing work. Watching surgery is like going to Mars, my boy tells me. It is beyond a miracle. It is why he's going to be a doctor. When he graduates from college next week, he will begin his own long journey through medical school to Mars. But the Polaroid on the refrigerator reminds me of the journey he has traveled before this moment. For it is on this door that his life has been recorded. It is here that his big moments and small ones have been displayed in a kaleidoscope of changing scenes--grade-school report cards, dental appointment reminders, letters, vacation photos, prom pictures. And even as he continues his journey away from me, it is the scenes from this refrigerator door that I linger over.
October 1974: The boy's kindergarten class has done a footprint project, each child walking through paint, then stepping on paper. For some reason, there are five tiny blue feet on my boy's paper displayed on the refrigerator door. The teacher has written "Sean's feet'' in the upper left-hand corner.
November 1975: A note from the boy's first-grade teacher is on the door: "Doesn't always finish his work because he talks constantly. Needs to practice blending sounds and spelling.''
April 1976: The boy, 7, leaves a note on the door after a bully has picked on him: "Mom, Mikel lost my bays bol on purpis, and he maide me sit in a mud puddel and I am cryen. P.S. My durdy cloths are in the garbij.'' He still needs to practice spelling.
May 1977: The boy, now 8, has written a "baseball report card'' for his 3-year-old brother and displays it on the door for him: "Brendan's First Report Card on Baseball,'' it says on the homemade cover. Inside it says: "He hussuls very good for his age. He is smart. He is a good picher for his age too.''
July 1978: The boy has done something bad. He draws a red heart and leaves it on the door. Inside, it says: "To Mom. I'm sorry.''
March 1981: The boy, now 12, has written and illustrated a story, which hangs from the door. "The Curse of Herowista,'' it is called. In it, a slime man eats the main characters, Peter and Suzanne. The pictures are disgusting.
November 1982: A photo montage depicting "Who I Am'' is on the door. The boy, now in eighth grade, has used these pictures from magazines in his montage: a skier, a football player, a dog, a book, a beautiful woman, and a slogan that says, "I don't have herpes.''
March 1983: A letter from the boy, who has gone to ski camp in Colorado, is on the door: "Dear Mom,'' it begins. "I'm sitting in an airplane in Atlanta right now. Hold on. I'm taking off. I'm in the air now. The take-off was fine except I got sick. Luckily, I grabbed the bag on time.''
March 1985: A high school disciplinary report is on the door. Under "infraction,'' it says, "Kissing in the halls with Beth DePuy." Under "disposition,'' it says, "Two administrative detentions."
October 1986: A newspaper clipping from the sports pages is on the door. A paragraph in the story about a high school football game is highlighted in yellow marker: "Passing on the first down, Mike Zigrossi hoisted a rainbow. Sean Mullally gathered it in. On his way down the right sideline for a TD, Mullally broke four tackles and dragged three Crusaders with him."
June 1988: A list of things to pack for college is on the door: "Iron, ace bandages, James Thurber book, pillow'' are the first four items on the list. The final item is "refrigerator magnets.'' He is, apparently, planning to hang things on his own refrigerator door when he gets to where he's going.
Perhaps he is too old, now, for the refrigerator door. Perhaps the Polaroid picture is the last sign of his growing up that will appear here. I don't know. What I do know is this: There will always be something of the little boy who was cryen in a mud puddel on this door.
Always.
No matter how far his journey toward Mars takes him.
By Beth Quinn
Marilyn L. Ali
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