Memoir: Kala's Tree, part 2

Memoir:  Kala's Tree, a ongoing memoir of our niece Kala Hardy, can be found in its entirety by following the Kala Hardy cloudtag at right.



No organizing principle here, just what seems to want to be said in the moment.
Kala came to Chicago with us when she was two years and 10 months old.  Nora was seven months old at the time, a sitting baby rather than a crawling one.  From the first, Kala was kind to and protective of Nora.  As wacky as she could be, she was always solicitous of Nora's safety.  Once I took them to a lumber shop for a piece of wood to cover a window.  Nora couldn't walk and I had no stroller, so I had to sit her down on the pavement right by my foot to pop the car trunk.  A second later, I heard Kala holler "CAR!", turned my head, and saw her with one hand palming Nora's head, and the other arm pointing straight at a car that was entering the lot, her eyes focused laserlike on the danger. No car was going to run over her Nora.  Kala was three.

* * *

She moved fluidly between calling us Sean and Susan, and Daddy and Mommy.  Of course she knew she had parents, but we were her mom and dad "for now."

* * * 

Kala's verbal precocity might have been the most vexing thing about her.  She was ridiculously articulate for her age.  No lisping, no baby-style "r" ("twain" for train, etc.).  None of that.  Even though she still had 18 months of toddlerhood left, she talked like a 7-year-old - and had the vocabulary to match.  So of course, when someone talks like that, you think they are that old and expect them to behave accordingly, which is ludicrous.  Sean remembers at one point observing Kala at maximum spaz, caroming off the walls, and being tempted to say, "Stop acting like a 5-year-old!" - and then realizing that, in fact, she was only three at the time.

* * *

Kala had a true gift for mimicry. Her Grandma Pat had been having landscaping work done on the house out in California before we brought Kala back to Chicago.  Pat would frequently wonder in a slightly irritated tone, hands on hips, at the whereabouts of the landscaper, Tom Donnellan.  Within a couple of weeks, Kala had learned to run into the front yard, stand on the flagstones, arms akimbo, and ask in a loud voice, "Where's Tom Donnellan!?" in an uncanny imitation of her grandmother.

* * *

Kala came home from preschool one day to tell us about something she had seen at school.

"I saw a movie today."

"You did, huh?"

"Yeah. It was called Mozzarella."

[puts hand up, Jack Benny style]

"It was a movie about cheese."

* * *

Kala and I were both excited that James Brown was performing in Super Bowl XXXI's halftime show (incredibly, not available on YouTube).    She sat wide-eyed through the show, turned to me at the end of the typical over-the-top musical numbers, and said breathlessly, "When I grow up, I want to be a James Brown dancing girl!"  Oh Kala, me too.

* * *

Every summer, Grandma Pat would arrange for Kala and her younger sister Brenna to come visit in Swampscott, MA, during the time when our family was also visiting, so that we could catch up.  Frequently, Sean's sister Mary Pat would fly in as well, so we all looked forward to these mini-family reunions.  One sad and strange thing always stayed with me, though.  Every year, on the day Kala flew back, she and I would sit on the tiny loveseat in the sunroom and just sort of hug.  She would let me hold her like I did when she was little - and this was well into her adolescence.  I would tell her I would always love her, and she would cry.  Even before she died, I was disturbed by her crying in a way that I was too afraid to give voice to at the time.  But part of me wondered, even then, if the reason she was crying was that she was heading back into her messy, complicated life, and that maybe we might not see each other again?   Or maybe it's not that ominous: perhaps she was just crying for the relative safety and simplicity of living with us, of having clear rules and expectations and being kept on a parental leash.  Or perhaps it was a bit of both.  But when I heard she'd died, somehow it came simultaneously as a shock and not very surprising.

* * *

Once I bought an On-Cor entree.  Don't do it, no matter how poor you are.  They're really horrible.  This one was lasagna, which I had apparently overcooked, because some of the noodles on top were hard.  Having discovered one of these hard noodles in the bite of food she was eating, Kala pulled it out of her mouth, brandished the noodle and announced, "I don't like the bone." We still laugh thinking how bad a pan of lasagna has to be for someone to think it has actual bones in it.

* * *

Kala had a few odd habits about food.  She ate faster than any child, practically faster than any human, I knew.  She literally wolfed it down.  She once put something in her mouth so ferociously that she actually succeeded in chomping on her own hand, and gave a yelp in painful surprise.

* * *

Kala said she didn't like beans.  In fact, she loved beans, but she wanted to go on record as not liking beans.  So at least once a week, I served refried beans mixed with cooked rice and shredded cheese as "filling," which she and Nora enjoyed greatly.  Once Kala overheard me say something to Sean while she was eating a bowl of filling, stopped her spoon midway to her mouth, and eyed me suspiciously for a long, dangerous moment before deciding to go ahead and eat it.

* * *

I have a great weakness for chocolate.  I have a bad habit of buying chocolate for other people and eating it before I get a chance to give it to them.  One year, I polished off Kala's chocolate rabbit right out of her Easter basket.  Of course I am feeling terribly guilty about it, and I know I have to make good.  So I buy a huge candy bar and stick it in my shirt pocket, where she'll see it when I pick her up from preschool.  We pull up in front of our house.  I kneel down and unzip my coat so she can see the candy bar; her rising black brows and intrigued smile indicate I have her attention.  I confess to her what I've done and tell her I feel really bad about it, and that I've bought her this nice big candy bar to replace it.  She forgives me, I get a big hug and kiss, she takes the chocolate bar and all is forgiven.  Or so I thought.  Ten seconds later, our neighbor Mark walks up and says, 

"Hey, Kala, how're you doing?" 

Kala says, "Susan ate my chocolate rabbit."

Then she glances sideways at me and smiles - gotcha!