Excerpts from "A Safe Place"

By Karen A. Reynolds in honor of her mother, Carol A. Dovovan. Birthdate: Feb. 10, 1937

I came in from the cold, stumbling over my family and friends and all the boots and rubbers piles just inside the door. Snow filled our boots and was caked on our homemade hats and mittens. As we all stripped the cold, wet outside world off, my mom was always right there making sure we put everything on the heater to dry. She wanted to be sure that we had something dry to wear the next time we braved the cold; of course, she kept plenty of plastic Stroehmann bread bags handy to help keep our feet dry and warm too.

While walking through my old neighborhood recently, I was reminded how stable and secure I felt there. The houses were old, familiar, and inviting. Children were outside playing, scuffing their boots along as they ran. Their snow pants brushed together in a playful tune. They were oblivious to their sometimes coldhearted surroundings. They were running and laughing not even noticing the chilly temperature. As a child, I was fortunate I was safe. I was safe from the world, safe from harm, safe to just be.

Of course, I had my occasional brushes with danger. I once pulled my friend out of an icy creek. We were walking along a frozen stream near our house. The creek wound back and forth and , as we knew, was not very deep. What could go wrong? We came to an abutment, and she stepped on some thin ice covering a very deep pool of ice-cold water. She went down through the cracks, and somehow, even though I was smaller, I pulled her out. I walked home with her, and as scared as we were, we came out of the ordeal unscathed. Our safe place was still intact.

Even now in my adulthood when I'm feeling insecure and unsafe, I go to my mom. We sit in her cozy kitchen at the old oak table, worn with memories. The table almost fills the room. You can see the gouges and marks from all our childhood projects and family meals. Mom and I sit with our warm, smooth mugs of coffee. The steam rises into a moist, soothing fog around us. The outside world is nonexistent except for the icy crystals formed on the windows. She turns the back burners of the stove on to take the chill off. You can hear the burners hissing quietly as if to say, "Shh, it's OK."

Mom makes me feel real and confident. She hears my voice, and I'm not afraid to say what I am feeling. As we sit and talk, I feel the safety below me. I melt into it. I feel her arms around me. My childhood of safety and security is with me again. Mom can bring me there. Mom is my safe place.