The view through windows that aren't there

Sometimes, when we strive for wider visions, to get around the troubles of the day, we must construct unusual windows. Windows that aren't there.

Let me tell you again about our old kitchen cabinet that had a window in it!

The cabinet was like one you might see now in an antique store. The lower part of it consisted of two big tilt-out bins, one for flour, one for cornmeal. These were topped by the wide counter, underneath which was a pull-out bread board for the purpose of rolling our biscuits, cookies or pie dough. Atop this counter, and recessed, were the several shelves for dishes. These shelves were supported at the back by a solid board about 15 inches from the counter top. Of course, recessed side supports too. It was this solid board in the back where one of these unusual windows came into existence.

Our kitchen was crowded with the necessary stoves and furniture. The only place Mama and Grandma could find to put the cabinet was across a window. This shut out much needed light from outside.

The situation was ingeniously remedied by knocking out that back supporting board, leaving the side supports to hold up the dish shelves.

When Mrs. T., a tie-cutter's wife, somewhat dimwitted, came to visit us for the first time, she couldn't get over our cabinet. Broken English exclamations echoed throughout the room. We couldn't see that our cabinet was any different from any others in our rural community.

"But," Mrs. T. said, "your cabinet has a window in it." She couldn't figure out the architectural maneuvering we had accomplished.

A few months later we were able to purchase a new, smaller, but more efficient cabinet. We arranged a place for it rather than across that much needed window.

"Let's give this old cabinet to Mrs. T.," Mama suggested.

A few days later Mr. T. came, with horse-drawn wagon, to pick it up. We felt good about our gift.

About two weeks later here came both Mr. and Mrs. T. returning the cabinet.

"For us it didn't have a window in it," Mrs. T. sorrowfully said.

We never explained, being dumbfounded that they couldn't figure it out. Mama, kind person that she was, said, "I doubt that they had a window that would fit the old cabinet."

We moved the cabinet to the smokehouse. The counter held smoked-cured hams and slabs of bacon. It was dark in the smokehouse and we missed the "window" too.

In ensuing years, after my sisters and I grew up, married and went our separate ways we often spoke affectionately of the "window" that wasn't there and began to ask each other what they had seen recently from such a "window."

It was a philosophical question. But at first we tried to make our answers humorous, such as: "I saw a rooster standing on a goat's back. Just riding along with the goat." "I saw a wallowing horse make ten tries before he could get all the way over. Rheumatism, I guess."

As we grew even older our answers were more in line with what we wanted to see in the future: "I saw a time when there were no more wars." "I saw a time when hatred was even eliminated from the dictionary." "I saw that old black panther, rumors of which scared us to death, come to sleep with Stacy's sheep."

I keep these old visions softly on the back roads of my mind. But, at the same time, seeing through my real bedside window, I note the maturing of another year. The pin oaks are so reluctant to let go of their leaves. In a quick wind, a few of them come down to blow restlessly across the yard, as if searching for a permanent resting place. Wasps are seeking winter shelter behind the gutters. In the distance, a crow unravels across the blue sky. Although I can't hear him, I imagine he is cawing, "Now it's my time."

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.