Teach Me to Make Smoke Rings

by Joe Austin

Mrs. Moses stretched her arms above her head, feeling the aching muscles pull at her joints. She was sitting at the kitchen table, her size straining the chair beneath her. Her seven-year-old daughter, Varna, sat across from her, peeling potatoes over a torn brown garbage bag. She placed the skinned potatoes in a large brass pot.

"Not too much skin. Save some of the flesh," Mrs. Moses said. "Like this," and she extended her hand and Varna rolled a potato across the table toward her mother. She stopped it with her chubby hand and then Varna slid the knife across the table. She stopped that with the potato. Letting the peelings drop to the table tip, she showed her daughter how to properly peel it. Slowly, from the top, in a circular motion, around and toward the bottom, turning it in her hands, never slowing the knife, never lifting the potato until it was white and wet in her hand.

"See the eyes?" she held it up to Varna.

"The dots?"

"Yes. Eyes. Carefully dig them out with the top of the blade. Not too deep, though, just enough to get 'em out. I don't want no gouges in the potato."

"Okay, Mom."

"Now, try it right," she said. Mrs. Moses lightly slid the knife across the table and it stopped half way. Varna just reached her long arm out and picked it up, grabbed another potato, stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth and concentrated. Her eyes darted up to her mother and down to the blade, not sure she was doing it right and not wanting to do it wrong.

"Stop watching me, Varna. Watch what you're doing. You'll cut yourself."

Mrs. Moses just laid her hands in her lap and watched her daughter until all 15 were in the pot.

"Now, bring me the good knife. I'm gonna cut them down to size so they boil faster. When it's time to mash 'em up, call one of your brothers in here."

"I can mash," Varna said.

"Your brothers'll do it," she said.

Varna got the big knife from the drawer beside the sink and carried it delicately to her mother. She watched Mrs. Moses eye the potatoes in the pot and then she plucked one from it, examined it, looking for eyes and gouges and held it in one hand. She cut through it with the other, her thumb doing most of the work. Her hands were being kind and cooperative today and she knew cutting would be the easy part, but peeling, well, even on a good day Mary Moses might get through them, but the arthritis would pay her back later.

When they were through and the pot was simmering on the stove, Varna wiped down the table. Mrs. Moses took her daughter's hand and squeezed it.

"Good job, sweetie. Thanks. What would I do without you." Varna gave her mother a weak smile and helped her out of the chair. They moved slowly toward the living room, Mrs. Moses leaning most of her weight on her daughter. Varna, even at seven, was tall and strong enough to bear it. If she could be her mother's crutch, she thought, she could certainly mash a pot of potatoes. Mrs. Moses sat down in her big soft chair and pulled the handle on the side. Her legs went up in the air, but the hinges on the foot-lift weren't as sturdy as they once had been and the foot-lift hung awkwardly to the right.

"Okay, Mom?" Varna asked.

"Fine."

"Want anything?"

"Go watch the pot. Make sure the water's not foaming over."

"Okay."

"But don't touch nothing. Tell me what you see, Varna."

Mary Moses had been a big girl that had grown into a big woman, but no one could have predicted just how big Mary would become. After her three children were born, Mary's arthritis became increasingly unbearable, and, as the pain settled into her bones, lethargy settled into her mind. Since it hurt to move, some days she didn’t move at all. But no one ever accused Mary Moses of having missed a meal. It was usually left to Varna, the youngest, to fetch her something to eat. When Varna was seven, her mother was still mostly mobile, but she hardly left the house at all.

Varna looked at her mother with fear. Not that Mary was ever abusive toward her daughter, but because Varna knew she looked so much like her. She was a tall child, strong-looking, even at seven, and her face was the image of her mother's. Looking at her frightened Varna only because she saw that she could some day be her. More than anything, this scared Varna.

Conclusion—»