Monday, April 30, 2012
Past Lives; Past Loves
How strange is it to have someone waltz back into your life after nearly twenty years—someone you've known for near half a century. The talk come easily; memories are shared; warm embraces exchanged; plans made for lunch, a walk on the beach, a ballgame.
I find myself joining in, yet holding back. It might take awhile for me to open my heart again to welcome someone in as a partner, a lover. Not out of fear, but out of lack of practice! Maybe I've lived alone for too long now. It seems that those 'old feelings' of companionship and love need some dusting off....
Monday, July 11, 2011
I Remember Dad, too....
My dad was a hard-working, unsophisticated sort of guy. He grew up on a dairy farm in upstate New York. His parents were Russian and Polish immigrants who worked hard and raised seven children. My grandfather also drove a cement truck to supplement their income.
Dad told us about walking five miles to the one-room schoolhouse, something I enjoyed hearing about but seriously doubted until we visited the farm in the late '80s. Someone else owned it by then, but we did take the time to check the odometer on the drive to the school. Yes, it was five miles. And, yes, it was small enough to have been a one-room schoolhouse.
Dad told about how he had an upper front tooth knocked out by a teacher who slapped him on the head after blaming him for wetting the outhouse seat. He said his face hit the side of the desk and the tooth broke. He also said that he didn't do it.
Dad loved baseball and used to play in high school. Pitcher, I think, until he broke his arm and the country doc didn't set it straight. When I saw him use a typewriter in his adult years, his right elbow stuck way out because of that. He played pick-up games with his Navy buddies when I was a little kid back in Portsmouth, Virginia. He's the one who loved baseball, was a die-hard Yankee fan, and had the game on each weekend during the summer. With him, I watched some of the greats play those televised games, and saw Roger Maris hit his 61st homer in '61.
I also remember going on the USS Missouri when I was a little kid. Dad was gone most of the early '50s on the Mighty Mo, off to bomb Pusan Harbor 14 times, and who knows what else. When in port, families were invited aboard for holiday parties. We got to go below deck for a Christmas party, complete with a Santa Claus and gifts, and once for Thanksgiving.
There was a band at one of these events and Dad said he was going to surprise Mom by playing his trumpet for her. The song was Ay, Ay, Ay, Dolores—her name. He lost his nerve, but I always thought it was a romantic idea. When I was five or six, I sat on the bell of his trumpet because it looked like the perfect size for my backside. I crumpled the bell a bit, but never heard a word about it or got punished. After Dad passed and we had to sort through what was stored in the garage, the trumpet was never found, along with many other family artifacts from long ago. Mom had passed eight years earlier and I supposed that she might have gotten rid of things before her death, but I have my suspicions otherwise that maybe one of my brothers, one who fell in with the wrong crowd, sold it for his own benefit. Just a hunch....
When I was about six years old, I caught poliomyelitis and was admitted to the St Mary's Polio Hospital in Portsmouth. At that time, Dad was stationed in Gitmo, as it's called: Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. From what Mom told me in later years, a Red Cross message got to him, telling him his little girl was in an iron lung. They flew him home immediately. Mom says he was a wreck when he got home. To make it worse, visitors were not allowed in the ward, so he came to the hospital as soon as he could and had to stand outside my window. I had been given the Salk vaccine (not be officially released for another year or so), so I was doing just fine by then, bouncing on my bed by the window, smiling and waving back at him while he stood outside, looking up at me, crying while trying to keep a smile going. I have two fabulous children of my own and can imagine the heartbreak he was going through at that time. A father's love....
I was looking for the WD40 the other day to de-squeak a hinge and remembered Dad using axel grease on our bike gears and chains so they wouldn't rust. He greased moving parts on his clippers, his lawn mower, our merry-go-'round, etc. He spent hours out back some weekends in his shed or on the patio with parts all around. Does anyone do that any more? Or is non-rusting metal the norm?
Dad was the fix-it guy for just about anything. A marine electrician by training, anything electrical was game for him. As he worked out some equations for his ship-board wiring project, I was surprised that he, who did not graduate high school, was using very complicated mathematics! Ohms and voltage and amps and resistance. All beyond me at that time, but I guess I inherited his match acumen since I became good at math myself and majored in it in college.
He fixed other problems around home, too, like clogged plumbing. He'd even crawl under the house amidst the general debris, spider webs, and occasional dead creature that accumulated down there. I thought he was too brave.
Every summer, he planted a garden in our back yard. I'm sure this sprang from his farm upbringing; but Dad liked to stay busy. We loved the lettuce, radishes, cucumbers, peas, scallions, carrots, squash, melons ... whatever he planted. Besides, all that produce helped with the food bills.
Once in awhile, Dad would treat himself to some special item. One was buttermilk. He would buy only a quart since he was the only one who would drink it. He shook it up, then poured out one big glass, drank it down, then poured out the rest and drank it down. The other treat was a kielbasa sausage. He would boil the whole thing, two conjoined links, each about eight inches long, and eat chunks of it with mustard. If we were lucky enough to be around, he'd share it with us. Yum!
I missed my Dad a lot as I grew up. First, he was away because of the Navy, then he seemed to distance himself as more brothers were born after me, five in all plus my sister, and he probably didn't know how to relate to me as I grew up to be a young woman. I think he felt awkward around me, but I know he was proud of me.
This came to light when he and Mom made their solo appearance at a huge night club where my rock band was playing. I came to their table during the first break, to the very back of this huge club where they had to sit to tolerate the volume, and saw Dad with tears in his eyes. Mom looked up at me and said, "He thinks you're good enough to be on Lawrence Welk." High praise, indeed, from my Dad. The Lawrence Welk Show was probably the only other show he watched other than baseball.
Oh, I know Dad liked his beer and spent lots of time with the boys after work at the local bar, but he took care of us, always worked like a dog, took care of our home, sat in the pool with us every summer, grilled pork steaks like nobody else, and was there for the major events in our lives. He was 'old school' and didn't know how to express his feelings, so he held them in. I, unfortunately, did the same, but not well enough. When Mom was dying from her brain tumor, after years of headaches that dad got tired of hearing about, I remarked to him, "Well, you always said it was all in her head, and you were right. Are you happy now?"
I immediately wanted to disappear. I wished I didn't exist; that that moment hadn't happened. But all I could do was turn and walk away, leaving him sitting there alone. I never apologized. Talk about regrets.
I know Father's Day was last month, but I wanted to post all of this. It cannot change the past, but can serve to stir reflection and growth. I really love my Dad and miss him. He was a wonderful man with a great sense of humor and a distinctive laugh who always did his best through thick or thin. I keep him with me, in my thoughts, hoping I can still make him proud—like my singing did that night....
And, Dad, I'm so very sorry for that miserable remark I made so many years ago. You certainly didn't deserve that.
I love you!
Dad told us about walking five miles to the one-room schoolhouse, something I enjoyed hearing about but seriously doubted until we visited the farm in the late '80s. Someone else owned it by then, but we did take the time to check the odometer on the drive to the school. Yes, it was five miles. And, yes, it was small enough to have been a one-room schoolhouse.
Dad told about how he had an upper front tooth knocked out by a teacher who slapped him on the head after blaming him for wetting the outhouse seat. He said his face hit the side of the desk and the tooth broke. He also said that he didn't do it.
Dad loved baseball and used to play in high school. Pitcher, I think, until he broke his arm and the country doc didn't set it straight. When I saw him use a typewriter in his adult years, his right elbow stuck way out because of that. He played pick-up games with his Navy buddies when I was a little kid back in Portsmouth, Virginia. He's the one who loved baseball, was a die-hard Yankee fan, and had the game on each weekend during the summer. With him, I watched some of the greats play those televised games, and saw Roger Maris hit his 61st homer in '61.
I also remember going on the USS Missouri when I was a little kid. Dad was gone most of the early '50s on the Mighty Mo, off to bomb Pusan Harbor 14 times, and who knows what else. When in port, families were invited aboard for holiday parties. We got to go below deck for a Christmas party, complete with a Santa Claus and gifts, and once for Thanksgiving.
There was a band at one of these events and Dad said he was going to surprise Mom by playing his trumpet for her. The song was Ay, Ay, Ay, Dolores—her name. He lost his nerve, but I always thought it was a romantic idea. When I was five or six, I sat on the bell of his trumpet because it looked like the perfect size for my backside. I crumpled the bell a bit, but never heard a word about it or got punished. After Dad passed and we had to sort through what was stored in the garage, the trumpet was never found, along with many other family artifacts from long ago. Mom had passed eight years earlier and I supposed that she might have gotten rid of things before her death, but I have my suspicions otherwise that maybe one of my brothers, one who fell in with the wrong crowd, sold it for his own benefit. Just a hunch....
When I was about six years old, I caught poliomyelitis and was admitted to the St Mary's Polio Hospital in Portsmouth. At that time, Dad was stationed in Gitmo, as it's called: Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. From what Mom told me in later years, a Red Cross message got to him, telling him his little girl was in an iron lung. They flew him home immediately. Mom says he was a wreck when he got home. To make it worse, visitors were not allowed in the ward, so he came to the hospital as soon as he could and had to stand outside my window. I had been given the Salk vaccine (not be officially released for another year or so), so I was doing just fine by then, bouncing on my bed by the window, smiling and waving back at him while he stood outside, looking up at me, crying while trying to keep a smile going. I have two fabulous children of my own and can imagine the heartbreak he was going through at that time. A father's love....
I was looking for the WD40 the other day to de-squeak a hinge and remembered Dad using axel grease on our bike gears and chains so they wouldn't rust. He greased moving parts on his clippers, his lawn mower, our merry-go-'round, etc. He spent hours out back some weekends in his shed or on the patio with parts all around. Does anyone do that any more? Or is non-rusting metal the norm?
Dad was the fix-it guy for just about anything. A marine electrician by training, anything electrical was game for him. As he worked out some equations for his ship-board wiring project, I was surprised that he, who did not graduate high school, was using very complicated mathematics! Ohms and voltage and amps and resistance. All beyond me at that time, but I guess I inherited his match acumen since I became good at math myself and majored in it in college.
He fixed other problems around home, too, like clogged plumbing. He'd even crawl under the house amidst the general debris, spider webs, and occasional dead creature that accumulated down there. I thought he was too brave.
Every summer, he planted a garden in our back yard. I'm sure this sprang from his farm upbringing; but Dad liked to stay busy. We loved the lettuce, radishes, cucumbers, peas, scallions, carrots, squash, melons ... whatever he planted. Besides, all that produce helped with the food bills.
Once in awhile, Dad would treat himself to some special item. One was buttermilk. He would buy only a quart since he was the only one who would drink it. He shook it up, then poured out one big glass, drank it down, then poured out the rest and drank it down. The other treat was a kielbasa sausage. He would boil the whole thing, two conjoined links, each about eight inches long, and eat chunks of it with mustard. If we were lucky enough to be around, he'd share it with us. Yum!
I missed my Dad a lot as I grew up. First, he was away because of the Navy, then he seemed to distance himself as more brothers were born after me, five in all plus my sister, and he probably didn't know how to relate to me as I grew up to be a young woman. I think he felt awkward around me, but I know he was proud of me.
This came to light when he and Mom made their solo appearance at a huge night club where my rock band was playing. I came to their table during the first break, to the very back of this huge club where they had to sit to tolerate the volume, and saw Dad with tears in his eyes. Mom looked up at me and said, "He thinks you're good enough to be on Lawrence Welk." High praise, indeed, from my Dad. The Lawrence Welk Show was probably the only other show he watched other than baseball.
Oh, I know Dad liked his beer and spent lots of time with the boys after work at the local bar, but he took care of us, always worked like a dog, took care of our home, sat in the pool with us every summer, grilled pork steaks like nobody else, and was there for the major events in our lives. He was 'old school' and didn't know how to express his feelings, so he held them in. I, unfortunately, did the same, but not well enough. When Mom was dying from her brain tumor, after years of headaches that dad got tired of hearing about, I remarked to him, "Well, you always said it was all in her head, and you were right. Are you happy now?"
I immediately wanted to disappear. I wished I didn't exist; that that moment hadn't happened. But all I could do was turn and walk away, leaving him sitting there alone. I never apologized. Talk about regrets.
I know Father's Day was last month, but I wanted to post all of this. It cannot change the past, but can serve to stir reflection and growth. I really love my Dad and miss him. He was a wonderful man with a great sense of humor and a distinctive laugh who always did his best through thick or thin. I keep him with me, in my thoughts, hoping I can still make him proud—like my singing did that night....
And, Dad, I'm so very sorry for that miserable remark I made so many years ago. You certainly didn't deserve that.
I love you!
Thursday, April 14, 2011
I Remember Mama
When I was a youngster in the '50s, there was a TV show called I Remember Mama about a Norwegian family and their lives in San Francisco. This show came to mind as I was remembering my own mom, wondering what she might be like now at the age of 84 if she had lived.
I'm now seven years older than she was when she died at the age of 56. Had I died at that age, I would have missed the births of the younger four of my five grandchildren; missed the holidays and casual times with my children and their families; missed my friends, my work, my hobbies, my travels, my very life!
Mom wasn't around during the bleakest years of my life, partly caused by her passing which made me confront my own life issues, and eventually leave my marriage. I didn't know how to make the best of what I had, so I fell short. I have images of Mom always trying to make the best of it, too; but also somehow always falling short.
She was very social, but dad didn't like to have company over. He thought the house was always a mess. With two adults and an eventual seven children living in about 1000 square feet of space, it probably was always a mess, or close to it.
Mom always said she had "champagne taste, but a beer budget." And it was probably the beer that soaked up their budget since Dad didn't like to come straight home from work and usually stopped off for a couple of brews with the boys first. His after work stops sometimes led to several hours of brews with the boys, a late night home, and midnight arguments—not the life mom had imagined at the age of 20 when she was about to marry the dashing Navy chief who was seven years her senior.
After Mom had the first three of us, she wanted to get a job outside the house, but Dad, according to her, said, "No wife of mine is going to work!"—a reflection of the macho culture of the early '50s and the military pride that leads a man to have to prove "I can do this! I don't need your help!" Instead of a job in an office or factory, she went to work in the baby factory, having another four children over the next 15 years.
Yes, I remember mama ... hamming it up for the home videos, kissing an orange picked from our backyard tree in December in sunny San Diego (National City) so the family back in frozen Schenectady New York could see how great life was here; knitting granny squares for the sweaters and throws she would give away for Christmas or birthdays; head down over bills, trying to figure which to pay now and which could wait a bit; on the phone to the school to find out why one of my brothers had detention and telling them what they could do about it....
I remember her telling me about getting a phone call from my school when I was in first grade. Thinking it might be a friend of hers, she thought it would be funny to answer with a line she had just heard. "Phil's Bar & Grill. It's your nickel. Start talkin'" she slurred into the receiver with a lot of fake Bronx attitude. She then about melted to the floor with embarrassment when she heard, Mrs. Filimon? This is Sister Angela from the School of the Holy Angels."
I remember going to live at my aunt's and uncle's in Schenectady after high school and working at the G.E. plant there. Mom told me that her best friend Mary Johnson hinted afterwards that maybe I went away because I was pregnant, which was far from the truth. My mom told Mary to go to hell. Not sure they spoke after that.
I remember Mom's friends Mamie and Tony, an hispanic couple who lived a few blocks away and were godparents to my brother Jonathan. Mamie and Tony were foster parents over the years to a couple of dozen kids whose photos covered the living room wall in their home. For me, being raised with six younger siblings, I was amazed that someone would actually invite that kind of chaos into their lives; but the two of them seemed very loving and happy. I'm trying to recall if Mom ever told me how they met, but I can't. They lived down the block from Mary Johnson, so maybe that was the connection.
I remember that personal conversations were missing between Mom and me.
I remember that Mom always wanted more for me than she got for herself in life. She wanted me to go to college, and I did start, but dropped out my first year with pneumonia.
Yes, I remember mama. Something I don't stop to do often enough these days. I love you, Mom!
I'm now seven years older than she was when she died at the age of 56. Had I died at that age, I would have missed the births of the younger four of my five grandchildren; missed the holidays and casual times with my children and their families; missed my friends, my work, my hobbies, my travels, my very life!
Mom wasn't around during the bleakest years of my life, partly caused by her passing which made me confront my own life issues, and eventually leave my marriage. I didn't know how to make the best of what I had, so I fell short. I have images of Mom always trying to make the best of it, too; but also somehow always falling short.
She wanted to travel, but never did, except for one trip to Australia and New Zealand that my brother and I gave to her and dad one Christmas. I might be wrong, but it seems that was the highlight of her life.
She was very social, but dad didn't like to have company over. He thought the house was always a mess. With two adults and an eventual seven children living in about 1000 square feet of space, it probably was always a mess, or close to it.
Mom always said she had "champagne taste, but a beer budget." And it was probably the beer that soaked up their budget since Dad didn't like to come straight home from work and usually stopped off for a couple of brews with the boys first. His after work stops sometimes led to several hours of brews with the boys, a late night home, and midnight arguments—not the life mom had imagined at the age of 20 when she was about to marry the dashing Navy chief who was seven years her senior.
After Mom had the first three of us, she wanted to get a job outside the house, but Dad, according to her, said, "No wife of mine is going to work!"—a reflection of the macho culture of the early '50s and the military pride that leads a man to have to prove "I can do this! I don't need your help!" Instead of a job in an office or factory, she went to work in the baby factory, having another four children over the next 15 years.
Yes, I remember mama ... hamming it up for the home videos, kissing an orange picked from our backyard tree in December in sunny San Diego (National City) so the family back in frozen Schenectady New York could see how great life was here; knitting granny squares for the sweaters and throws she would give away for Christmas or birthdays; head down over bills, trying to figure which to pay now and which could wait a bit; on the phone to the school to find out why one of my brothers had detention and telling them what they could do about it....
I remember her telling me about getting a phone call from my school when I was in first grade. Thinking it might be a friend of hers, she thought it would be funny to answer with a line she had just heard. "Phil's Bar & Grill. It's your nickel. Start talkin'" she slurred into the receiver with a lot of fake Bronx attitude. She then about melted to the floor with embarrassment when she heard, Mrs. Filimon? This is Sister Angela from the School of the Holy Angels."
I remember going to live at my aunt's and uncle's in Schenectady after high school and working at the G.E. plant there. Mom told me that her best friend Mary Johnson hinted afterwards that maybe I went away because I was pregnant, which was far from the truth. My mom told Mary to go to hell. Not sure they spoke after that.
I remember Mom's friends Mamie and Tony, an hispanic couple who lived a few blocks away and were godparents to my brother Jonathan. Mamie and Tony were foster parents over the years to a couple of dozen kids whose photos covered the living room wall in their home. For me, being raised with six younger siblings, I was amazed that someone would actually invite that kind of chaos into their lives; but the two of them seemed very loving and happy. I'm trying to recall if Mom ever told me how they met, but I can't. They lived down the block from Mary Johnson, so maybe that was the connection.
I remember that personal conversations were missing between Mom and me.
I was probably about eleven when I mentioned to her that my chest felt weird, like there were doughnuts under my skin. She didn't tell me I was growing breasts. No. She suggested I'd be okay if I just rubbed Vaseline on them.
One summer between my 6th grade and 7th grade years in school, I was sitting in the living room, watching TV when a Playtex bra commercial came on. Mom was behind me at the dining table, doing something, when I ever-so-casually said, "I gotta get me one of those." She sort of mumbled an "okay" and we soon afterwards went to buy my first bra, a 34B—and it was snug! Looking back now, I wonder how long she would have let me go bra-less before taking me shopping.
When I asked her how babies were born, she had Dad get a library book for me: Being Born. I read it and still didn't quite grasp the whole idea, only remembering that my folks got a library book for me. I asked a friend of mine what was meant by "the birds and the bees," and was told to ask my parents. Of course, that never went anywhere....
I remember that Mom always wanted more for me than she got for herself in life. She wanted me to go to college, and I did start, but dropped out my first year with pneumonia.
She wanted me to travel, which I did somewhat, but years after she died.
She wanted me to wait to get married, which didn't happend since I married six weeks short of turning 20. I had my son exactly three weeks after I turned 21. Mom had me one week before she turned 21. My Grandmother had my mom about 4 months after she turned 21. It seems we had a pattern going there—for a few generations, at least.
Yes, I remember mama. Something I don't stop to do often enough these days. I love you, Mom!
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
The Protective Powers of Food
Got home last night and wanted to cook the big Russet potato I had, so I sliced it up, sautéed it in olive oil (good so far, right?), sprinkled on onion powder and garlic powder (I was out of the real thing), and freshly milled black pepper. Then I thoroughly enjoyed each bite ... with catsup. Yum! I hardly ever use catsup. It's good!
Okay, so my diet went due south when I added the catsup; but, after relaxing in my La-Z-Boy and reading for awhile, it went even further south when I brought out the tequila and fresh limes. Lemme see. What is the pattern of doing this? Oh, yeah: Salt, tequila, lime. Repeat.
Only two shots. All natural ingredients, right?
Only two shots. All natural ingredients, right?
Even though I sat and read another hour or more, I never felt the tequila. The olive oil and potatoes must have protected me! Yes?
Or ... maybe it was the catsup!
Monday, March 14, 2011
Coincidence? Sure Makes Me Think....
Last week, I happened to catch the movie Deep Impact on TV—an asteroid races toward earth, hits the southeast coast of the US, and tidal waves wipe out the eastern seaboard within minutes. Then, last Friday, the Japan quake and tsunami. Taken in context, the special effects on TV were amazing; but the actual photos from Japan were horrifying. So many people dead with little or no warning, unable to escape in time.
Makes me think how life can change in the blink of an eye ... or a twitch of the ground. Makes me think about appreciating what I have while I have it. Makes me think I need to be sure to say 'thank you' and 'I love you' more ... before an unexpected blink of the eye takes away a person I love.
Makes me think how life can change in the blink of an eye ... or a twitch of the ground. Makes me think about appreciating what I have while I have it. Makes me think I need to be sure to say 'thank you' and 'I love you' more ... before an unexpected blink of the eye takes away a person I love.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Make Mine a Double
What's the point behind single-ply tissue?
Does anyone actually count it out by the number of squares?
Heck, no! You go by feel!
Single-ply? Roll out twice as much, or until it feels right in your hand.
Don't argue with me now. You know I'm right....
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Temptation? Or Maybe Not...
Does temptation exist if you don't resist? Or does the term 'temptation' imply resistance on one's part? And resistance to something you should not have, should not do, or should not think?
I can't be 'tempted' with beef liver, for example. I hate it. Always have. Always will. Even my wonderful kitchen goddess of a grandmother could not spice it up or saute it up with enough onions to cause me to ask for more. And I'm never 'tempted' to do an extra push-up or run an extra lap ... or do much formal exercise at all, frankly! But a piece of rich, dark chocolate or a glass of full-bodied red wine? No resistance there! So are chocolate and wine temptations for me, or not?
Maybe temptation contains the idea that something pleasurable could be harmful if you overindulge. Chocolate or wine, in moderation, bring pleasure to my senses—and even benefit to my body. Perhaps temptation kicks in only with that desire to go back again and again, to have more, to overindulge! Desire. Temptation. Yep, twins....
I can't be 'tempted' with beef liver, for example. I hate it. Always have. Always will. Even my wonderful kitchen goddess of a grandmother could not spice it up or saute it up with enough onions to cause me to ask for more. And I'm never 'tempted' to do an extra push-up or run an extra lap ... or do much formal exercise at all, frankly! But a piece of rich, dark chocolate or a glass of full-bodied red wine? No resistance there! So are chocolate and wine temptations for me, or not?
Maybe temptation contains the idea that something pleasurable could be harmful if you overindulge. Chocolate or wine, in moderation, bring pleasure to my senses—and even benefit to my body. Perhaps temptation kicks in only with that desire to go back again and again, to have more, to overindulge! Desire. Temptation. Yep, twins....
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