2022 Nonfiction Runner-Up: "A Housewife's Everlasting Tale" by Raelynn Slipke
Photo Credit: Raelynn Slipke
a housewife’s everlasting tale
I am new to the life of living outside of my parents’ house with a fresh set of dark bangs and a “just keep rockin” tattoo spanning the length of my forearm. I blink, the inside of my grandmother’s Hoxie house in front of me. My parents (with new speckles of salt and pepper in their hair) and distant family members are meandering through moments of my grandmother’s life. Chestnut-stained wooden cabinets and lightly painted walls with picture frames cover my retinas and the feeling of plush beige carpet slides beneath my feet. I’m sitting at the end of her family-sized table. It’s usually decorated with a fresh vase of flowers from a neighbor, now replaced with a slew of boxes and albums stuffed with photographs in front of me.
Grandmother and I had spoken just a few weeks prior as I called from my dorm room. My appearance was decorated in a soft white sweater, dark lashes, and rosy cheeks. I was prepared for my first date in which I acted perfectly feminine. I spent the evening asking questions and laughing softly (a performance I am not sure was whole-hearted) while reassuring Jack’s affections for me. Now, she’s gone. Now, the two empty rocking chairs by my sides speak volumes in their silence: one reserved for my Granddad’s ornery chuckle that’s been absent for nearly a decade and the other for my grandmother’s eyes struggling to stay open as she tries to take in every moment of her visitors.
Was it everything she hoped it would be?
The signature pale skin next to strikingly dark hair, now known as Slipke genetics, across the face of a woman coated in ivory quickly calls my attention to a single photograph. My gaze meets the image of the loving gaze between Grandad and Grandmother on their wedding day on September 26, 1950. I assume that their wedding was nothing short of magical as their evident love for one another and their undying love for God were both present in St. Joseph’s Church that day. The adoration in my grandfather’s eyes was never privy to the gaze of her husband; I saw every passerby meet my grandmother with this same gaze.
“Your grandmother was the nicest lady I’ve ever known. She was truly so special.”
Coated in lace and silk, most fail to see the Catholic beliefs, farming rituals, and kitchen habits handed down to coming generations hidden between the folds and flows of her elegant gown. (My pearl rosary sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the rest of my possessions and the empty sour cream and butter containers turned into reusable Tupperware left as evidence of her affections to this day.) My grandmother raised a family of ten with a small amount of help from my grandfather that is no longer acceptable. She unrelentingly poured love and forgiveness into everyone until her very last breath, rarely accepting the same care in return (a sign of strength in her eyes). I often wonder if she served others with the intention of making herself feel holy, if she truly was the type of angel I no longer believe in, or if she was forced by the society of her age into a type of feminine care I am incapable of.
Was it everything she hoped it would be?
For the first 3 years of my life, I spent my time between Little Kats Daycare and my grandmother’s lap in her large house in the miniscule Catholic town of New Almelo, Kansas. Located 10 miles from the closest gallon of milk or carton of eggs, the brick Slipke family home sat in the middle of a plot of scraggly buffalo grass that took up the entirety of the West side of Lincoln Street, putting a cap on this unincorporated town. The yard was littered with bushes in shades of green, a rarely used circle driveway enclosing mulch and rose bushes with horrible thorny vines, and a wire clothesline hung on two white “T” shaped poles.
Once I gained the ability to walk, we spent most of our time outside trekking through the scraggly buffalo grass to the edge of the property. We picked inedible, juiceless “blueberries” off the towering Eastern Juniper trees that surrounded the yard as a boundary between the Slipke family home and the pasture of bulls waiting on the other side.
“Grandmother, can we PLEASE go get some blueberries?”
“Yes, Raelynn,” she replied with a gracious smile.
“Would you like to swing with me Grandmother?”
“Of course, little one.”
Inevitably, my parents returned. My grandmother’s undivided attention and the consistent loop of Puff the Magic Dragon on her record player would end for the day. My parents emphasized that my grandmother didn’t have to devote so much time to entertaining me. Perhaps the truth was that my grandmother loved pouring her energy into me: the leftover energy of no longer having to care for her kids. The love that my parents understandably often seemed too tired after a long day of work to give me was effortlessly donated by Grandmother.
Was it everything you hoped it would be?
I was in my third year of life when my grandmother and grandad moved into a neighboring town, leaving the beloved Slipke home vacant. Since its construction in 1963, the New Almelo home had been privy to Slipke occupancy for the entirety of its existence. Creating new memories for the wood-paneled walls and orange and brown carpet to hold on to, a smaller Slipke family (my parents, siblings, and I) moved in. My father’s definition of home finally fulfilled. Meanwhile, my definition of home turned upside down.
New remnants of my childhood now cover the home of some of my earliest memories. The rose bushes with horrible thorns ended up in my backside consistently throughout my adventures of learning to ride my bicycle. My favorite swing set shows its extra years of use through the new scratches in the white paint. The wire clothesline regularly served as a net during a round of badminton on a breezeless day.
Was it everything he hoped it would be?
As a teen growing into a woman in the Catholic Church, I wondered for the first time how she gave so diligently to 8 children. How she woke up every morning and packed her husband’s lunch. How she managed to do the laundry, feed the baby, get the kids to school, clean the house, and have supper on the table by the time Edwin returned home from work every day. Yes, it was an expectation of my grandfather, and of society. However, perhaps she felt she was meant to serve. And yet, throughout my years spent in the Slipke home I looked myself in the mirror and forced myself into dresses on Sundays. I got down on my knees and devoted myself whole-heartedly to the Catholic lifestyle of feminine pleasures and attitudes. Yet, I still couldn’t make myself desire that kind of life. (It turns out that the side effects of living someone else’s life are worse than I ever could have imagined). Was I just too selfish and:
Was it everything you hoped it would be?
With the simplicities of childhood behind me, I entered high school with the pressure of perfection firmly planted on my shoulders. Brady, a boy I had been talking to for months, told me his aunt had died. Meaning he couldn’t go to the high school dance with me. I wasn’t all that surprised when my friend Shelby told me it was a lie. The night after I found out, I was talking to my father and my mom about how humiliated I was that he would lie to me. My father, the son of the woman I so deeply adored, told me “Make sure you don’t burn that bridge, Raelynn. You have to be forgiving.”
With the news of his lies fluttering around the school, Brady accompanied me through the night. I was covered in a magenta dress as I endured the discomfort of having him touch my waist for an entire night surrounded by the source of my rejection. The coming weeks were full of hiding the recovery process of knowing how poorly he had treated me because I had forgiven him. My thoughts couldn’t help but wonder if I was embodying the femininity I had always desired. And the truth is, I was. The question is, is it the type of femininity I truly desire?
Was I everything you hoped I would be?
The blurred shades of black and cream of the photograph come into focus once again with my sweet grandmother clear in my vision. “I forgot how much time Grandmother and I spent together when I was little.”
“She always said she missed you dearly when they moved to Hoxie. She loved getting that quality time with you.” A family member calmly relayed the sentiments of my grandmother to me, not knowing the impact they had on a little girl with the mere desire to be loved.
Am I everything you hoped I would be?
Jack, Brady, my father, and the Slipke family home remain as reminders of the process of the girl who was victim of false restrictions of femininity becoming the woman I see before me today. Perhaps she would love me more than ever, but at times I still wonder:
Am I still everything you hoped I would be?
Raelynn Slipke is in her final year at Kansas State University pursuing her B.A. in Psychology. Raelynn plans to become a Marriage and Family Therapist in the future. She is involved in a psychological research lab on campus and is a barista at Flight Crew Coffee on Poyntz Ave. Raelynn enjoys reading, going on walks, watching Criminal Minds, and having long conversations with friends in her free time.