the objects

My father and his father were professional chefs and there was a spirited competition between the two.

Grandpa published his own cookbook: “What’s Cookin? in Florida, The private recipe collection of a master chef,” by Richard Nickerson.

The competition between father and son showed up with Dad’s frequent grousing about Grandpa’s choice to use only one of his recipes in the book. It did not satisfy him with the placement, either. Grandpa’s recipe appeared on page 14, Dad’s on 15.

About 20 years later, Dad hands me a book called “Sharing Our Best,” a cookbook by the American Culinary Federation. He opens the cover, points to a sticky note and boasts, “Here’s a list of where my recipes appear.” He clears his throat and continues, “That’s four more than what was in my father’s cookbook.”

I sometimes think Dad was so occupied seeking his father’s approval, he didn’t notice me seeking his.

While I didn’t inherit the desire to be a chef, I enjoyed helping in various kitchens Dad worked over the years. He taught me knife etiquette, the value of a sous chef, and that Lawry’s Seasoned Salt is the best. He preached, “Pepper the fat,” on a standing rib roast and “It should be at room temperature before it goes in the oven.”

The first prime rib I ever made was delicious. His directions weren’t in either of the personal Nickerson recipe collections, but I had them written on a scrap sheet of paper.

A scrap sheet I often misplaced and now know why. Dad wasn’t keen on phone conversations, so whenever I wanted to hear his voice, I used the excuse as a ruse to get him talking. I don’t know why I felt I had to do that.

The last time I made a prime rib was 18 years ago. I called Dad and wrote his instructions on a piece of grid paper torn from a binder. The way I repeatedly traced letters meant we probably talked for about 10 minutes after he riddled off the basics, yet once again.

Today, the sheet of paper, creased and wrinkled, offers information I could find anywhere. It may seem pointless to keep what appears worthless, but its value is unseen in the memory it holds.

His voice and words, from 300 miles away and a lifetime ago, transcribed during a phone conversation I can never have with him again.

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This is the 29th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.

The stretchy stirrup pants are beyond their original navy blue. They have faded and no longer fit. They’re too worn to donate. I keep them tucked in the back of a drawer because they hold in their fabric the autumn of 1985: the house on the lake, my youth, the promise of the life I wanted to live.

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This is the 28th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.

There is one spot on this entire earth I hold most dear in my heart. It’s a place that was created when a huge boulder rolled from a mountain eons ago, landed in the Coal River about 20+ feet away from the steep bank, and created a flow around at the Lower Falls in St. Albans, West Virginia.

Its position created a shallow creek-like area hidden from the road above by the towering trees. It also served as a barrier from the deadly current on its other side.

During the years of my youth, the rock was host to hundreds of picnics, campfires, and solitary visits. It bore witness to the never ending hunt for crawdads, rock skimming contests, and foolish moments when I tested the limits of my luck by stepping close to the drop off. I would get lost for hours staring into the murky green depths of the swirling water.

At 37 years old, I shared the fond memories of my time spent at the rock with the man I was dating. He listened when I told him stories about how I rode first my pony, then later my horses, down the bank to the stream.

He heard how the rock was my solace, my friend, my respite.

He said he wanted to be those things to me in June of 2000, in his suit, on bended knee in the gravel, beside the Coal River, an opened jewelry box in hand. The roar of the falls nearly non-existent as I heard him ask me to spend the rest of our lives together.

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This is the 27th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.

For 20 years, I’ve kept one of those touristy OBX license plates hanging on the wall near my workspace. It’s a reminder of a vacation my husband and I almost didn’t take in 2002.

The day before departure, my doctor called and said I may or may not have Hodgkin’s disease and it would be several weeks before I could see a specialist or know for sure. We debated whether to go but reasoned if the results were worse-case, then it might be a long time before another getaway could happen.

We tent camped in the Frisco Woods on Hatteras Island, facing the Pamlico Sound, nestled within a sparse tree line near the water. The “what if” conversation we avoided clung to us like the sweat drenched clothes that wouldn’t dry in the July heat.

One night, we woke when our tent felt like it was about to take flight. Rain pummeled the nylon walls. For hours, the wind howled and snapped the tie lines between the tent and the trees. The radio was static and there was no cell signal.

We held hands in the dark and together weathered both Tropical Storm Arthur and the inner cyclone of our greatest fear. It was here I learned of a place of peace within I never knew existed.

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This is the 26th story in the Objects as Waypoint Writing Project series.

In 1992, when my daughters were 8 and 2, we camped at Cave Run Lake in Kentucky. At the visitor center I found a book titled “Walk When the Moon is Full,” where the author describes 13 moonlight walks with her children and their nature observations. I fell in love with the idea and started the practice that summer.

The book spoke to a 28-year-old sleep deprived mother who was short on imagination.

I don’t know why I didn’t document the expeditions. Life got in the way. Priorities shifted. Years passed, the girls grew up and moved away, and the book got lost in the shuffle.

Enter my curious young granddaughter, Ellie.

I located a copy of the now out-of-print book to share with her and began the practice once again in 2021.

The book spoke to a 57-year-old grandmother and writer, eager to recreate the magic of full moon walks and record the adventures.

This past year we’ve walked together eight times when the moon is full and I’ve written stories about each one. I even illustrated a few.

This morning I looked up the author, Frances Hamerstrom and see she passed away in 1998. I googled the illustrator, Robert Katona and see he’s a wildlife artist of world renown. He’s also an expert falconer and the first artist in North America to paint falconry art. He is the innovator of the acrylic flow painting technique and created a form of art called Techism. I am in awe of his talent and work.

Today the book spoke to a 58-year-old artist always open for inspiration from those who have come before me.

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This is the 25th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.