READING COMPREHENSION

Growing Together
It was time to repaint the kitchen, and my husband and I were discussing possible colours.
The children, sitting nearby, suddenly all spoke together: “Not the measuring stick!”
“No,” I reassured them in my mother-has-everything-under-control-voice. “Not the measuring
stick.”
The measuring stick isn’t an actual stick but the kitchen side of the door between our
kitchen and dining room. Along the edge we’ve commemorated each child’s growth by making a
mark indicating his or her height on every birthday. Over the decades so many coloured pens,
pencils and markers were used that the door came to vaguely resemble an abstract-expressionist
painting.
Names and dates reveal different handwriting, and I can tell by the script who measured
whom. An eight-year-old measured her three-year-old sister, a grandchild measured her
grandmother, my husband measured me. At parties, when this door swings back and forth
frequently, friends stop to read the name and dates. When we ask if the would like to be
immortalized, they usually grin sheepishly and back right up into place.
Many of those listed on the door are still growing; some have stopped. Some remain with
us only in memory. When my mother come to see our eldest daughter graduate from university,
we measured her too. It was her last visit to our home. We haven’t decide on the new kitchen
colour scheme yet, but one certain thing’s certain: wheter we paint the trim curry gold,
Chowning’s Tavern red or Federal blue, the back of the kitchen door will always remain white.
White with lots of names and dates in assorted colours.