September 11, 2001

     I was in my grandmother's Italian hill town (Ariano-Irpino) that day. I had just had lunch with my friend Milena and we were walking back to her classroom for her afternoon sessions. She ran the English Lab School where she taught English, as well as Italian, French, and Spanish. 
     As we reached her class at the top of the stairs, an awaiting student starting talking to her excitedly. Milena translated what was being said. 
     Her first words were, "A plane hit the tower in New York." My immediate thought was "ooo, bad airport accident."
     The student explained more to Milena, who then turned and said, "Two planes hit the tower!" As she turned back to the student who was telling her more, I thought, "wow, a really bad airport accident!"
     Then came the words that put me in shock: "And a plane hit the Pentagon!" 
     She had to stay and teach her class, so I walked alone down the hill to my hotel. After somehow contacting my kids in San Diego to be sure they were safe, I watched TV for hours. Milena should have pluralized the word tower, or said Twin Towers, but maybe her student's information, or Milena's English, didn't translate it that way for me. 
     The broadcasts seemed surreal, not only for what was being reported, but for the way in which I saw them. All the English language broadcasts were overdubbed in Italian, and I understand almost no spoken Italian. All the chyrons at the bottom were overwritten in Italian, so I couldn't read any updates in English. I had limited channels to choose from in this rural area, but the videos and photos told me more than I ever wanted to know. 

    I immediately went to the phone in the lobby and called my kids in San Diego, worrying that attacks might have happend there to the headquarters of the Pacific Fleet, to the research institutes, to the military bases. All was okay in San Diego, except for the shared horror of the morning. 
    The next morning, I went down to the lobby for breakfast. The dozens of guests already there were quiet, and I felt like all eyes were on me—the poor American. I imagined, maybe hoped, that they were quiet out of kindness and respect for the tragedy that had just happened.
     That was eleven years ago, but it's still so real for me. 
     And still so surreal.

Bob's Big Boy—The "Way Back" Machine

     Bob's Big Boy is a restaurant chain that started in the 1930s. I think I first heard about them when I was in high school in the mid-'60s and remember being absolutely stunned that they had two patties in one hamburger sandwich...so innovative!
     After I got married and my kids were old enough for us to enjoy a restaurant experience, we would go there. After trick-or-treating one particular Halloween when they were about four and five, we went there. My son was the cowboy, and my daughter was the little witch all dressed in black. In those days, they were young enough to share a fish and chips dinner and be full afterwards. They passed along the salad to one of us because neither of them wanted it. Of course, we had to take a picture next to the tall Bob's Big Boy statue out front. My husband and I remember when the time came for them to each get their own dinner. They were growing up.
     Years later, when my husband and I were at the brink of breaking up, I took the kids to Bob's Big Boy for lunch, and I told them what was about to happen. They were 12 and 13 at the time. My daughter, unusually quiet, sat there, just absorbing the words; but my son spoke up. He said, "Great. That's all I need...divorced parents." My heart vaporized within me. 
     Back then, I was singing nearly every night in a local rock band, so the kids stayed with their dad, in their own home. He worked weekends, so I spent most of mine with the kids. We enjoyed the local mountains or the beach or Balboa Park; but quite often, those weekends included a meal at Bob's Big Boy, so we collected many more memories.
     These days, sighting a Bob's Big Boy is quite rare, but there is still one in town, so I invited my son, his wife, and their two daughters for dinner tonight. We oohed and ahhed over the Original Big Boy Combo and the hot fudge cake dessert on the menu, looking the same as they had more then 20 years earlier. 
     Kevin and I laughed together has he told his two daughters, ages nine and five, about him progressing from sharing a meal with his sister, to having his own combo plate, to moving on to the spaghetti with chili. Lily dabbled at eating her mac and cheese; but Kyra had the best applesauce and the best cheeseburger (only meat and cheese for her) ever! We found out that kids eat for free, so you know they'll be back. 
     And, once more, my son and I stood out front next to the Bob's Big Boy statue and took photos. 
     Tonight at dinner, I got the warm glow of having a reunion—not just with family, not just with one of my children, but with my entire past and with my children as teenagers and youngsters. 
     Bob's Big Boy proved to be more than just another restaurant tonight. It was a "Way Back" Machine of sorts, taking us 'way back' into happy memories while creating yet another for us to tuck away for future smiles.

Harder to Fall

     There is the old phrase "the bigger they are, the harder they fall". That might apply to our expectations in love. At least for us older folks.
     We fell in love more easily when we were younger. We suffered our share of breakups along the way; so, as we got older, we lowered our expectations.
     We don't expect to find someone who would be perfectly suited to us. At least not easily.
     Because we learned about compromise, we know we will not find someone whose views and opinions match ours. Not exactly.
     We expect that "all the good ones" are taken, so we have to settle for second best.
     No, you are saying, this is not true. I agree. But we have grown a bit numb to the process.
     And that's where we run into trouble.
     We have learned to ignore our expectations. We won't consider fanciful expectations, until they look like more of a sure thing than they used to. We tend to ignore them until they go away. Unless we fall in love.
     That is when all the blood drains from our brain and we again do stupid things, like daydreaming about a future as half of a loving couple, imagining our new sweetie pie being fawned over at family events, even envisioning that certain ceremony that unites two into one....
     The deeper we fall, the less the brain works, the more hope takes over, and the bigger our expectations become.
     Then reality strikes. The feet turn cold. The looming commitment is spurned. Our big expectations tumble.
     And the bigger they are, the harder they fall....

A, B, C, C, C, C, ....

     My friend Rachel's husband died yesterday in the small, dark hours before dawn. She is only 33. Her husband Brian was 41. They were married not even six years. Their son Lucas, who they call Luke, is about three.

     She is a friend, but I never actually met Brian. Rachel is the daughter of José, who I dated for about a dozen years, mostly during the '90s. 

     Rachel was about nine when I first met her. Our August birthdays are one day apart, and we are both typical Leos, but in our different, generationally-appropriate ways.

     I saw her a couple of times during my time with her dad, but knew her mainly through his words, his memories of her as a toddler: her straight, black hair hanging down to her 'culito'—his Spanish term for her baby bottom; or, after his divorce, Rachel standing at the screen door, crying her eyes out, watching him walk away after a visit. He said those moments killed him. 

     In 1997, before my son's wedding, I wanted a make-over and went to see Rachel at Merle Norman's. 

    José and I broke up the next year, but stayed in touch. Rachel knew that, and she called me in 2003 when her dad was hospitalized in a coma. She told me he might not make it. I immediately drove the hundred miles to sit with him. He didn't move; but, for one last time, I held his hand; told him how much I still loved him; that I knew how much he loved me, too; and that it was okay to let go and find peace.

     He, too, died later that evening, in the small, dark hours before dawn.

     I lost track of Rachel for awhile, but somehow found her again. Maybe it was Facebook. I can't remember. Rachel posted her life on Facebook, telling when Brian's cancer was treated, went into remission, or resurfaced. Her friends rallied around her.

     I baked a carrot cake for them, coincidentally Brian's favorite. Rachel was to meet me to pick it up, but sent her sister instead. Brian had taken sick very suddenly and had to be rushed to the hospital.

     At another time, we were to meet for lunch. After waiting awhile, I called her. Oh, no, you have the right date and time, she told me through her tears; then apologized because she was at the hospital with Brian. He had again taken a sudden turn for the worst.

     In 2011, we got together for dinner and talked long about her situation, and also about José, laughing and sharing stories. She knew he was no saint, but we agreed that we loved him dearly and we knew how much he loved us in return. 

     In early 2012, Brian was admitted to the hospice on an urgent basis, something that would recur several times before he passed. Rachel came to my place that first time, in tears over his suffering, her heart breaking for fear of losing the love of her life, about Luke losing his dad, about Brian's own sorrow for not being there for Luke as he grows up, and about her fears of coping afterwards. So much for one to take on...at any age.

     A, B, C, C, C, the Big C, Cancer, Cancer, Cancer. That's what took Brian yesterday. That's what took my ex's wife of 20 years in 2009. What took my dad in 1990. And my mom in 1982. And friends. And classmates.

     On Facebook, I see so many posts of anti-cancer images and slogans, with entreaties for all of us to 'like' and 'share' them "if you are against cancer." If? Are you serious?

     A, B, C, C, C, ... C me die. C me die. C me die....

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.... 

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! 

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 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!