Thursday 13: My Italian Father

This is for my Dad, who died at home January 12 years ago, surrounded by his family loving him non-stop. He had red hair and was born in Lexington Massachusetts--not exactly an authentic Italian like his mother and father. None-the-less, I know he would chuckle at this write-up of Italian Sunday dinners. And not too far from the truth.

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(This came to me from the Internet and I don't know who to rightly credit. Thanks to someone named Dian, who adds her/his comment at the end)

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Sunday Dinner for Italians

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1.Italians have a $40,000 kitchen, but use the $259 stove from Sears in the basement to cook.

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2.There is some sort of religious statue in the hallway, living room, bedroom, front porch and backyard.

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3.The living room is filled with old wedding favors with poofy net bows and stale almonds (they are too pretty to open).

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4. And a portrait of the Pope and Frank Sinatra in the dining room.

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5. Meatballs are made with Pork, Veal and Beef. Italians don't care about cholesterol.

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6.Turkey is served on Thanksgiving, AFTER the manicotti, gnocchi, lasagna and soup.

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7.If anyone says ITALIAN WEDDING SOUP, let him/her know that there is no wedding, nor is there an Italian in the soup. Also, the tiny meatballs must be made by hand.

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9.No matter how hard you know you were going to get smacked, you still came home from church after communion, you stuck half a loaf of bread in the sauce pot, snuck out a fried meatball and chowed down - you'll make up for it next week at confession.

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10. Sunday dinner was at 2:00. The meal went like this: Table is set with everyday dishes...doesn't matter if they don't match...they're clean, What more do you want?All the utensils go on the right side of the plate and the napkin goes on the left. Put a clean kitchen towel at Nonno & Papa's plate because they won't use napkins. Homemade wine and bottles of 7up are on the table. First course, Antipasto...change plates. Next, Macaroni (Nonna called all pasta Macaroni)...change plates. After that, Roasted Meats, Roasted Potatoes, Over-cooked Vegetables...change plates.THEN and only then (NEVER AT THE BEGINNING OF THE MEAL) would you eat the salad (HOMEMADE OIL & VINEGAR DRESSING ONLY)...change plates . Next, Fruit & Nuts - in the shell (on paper plates because you ran out> > of the other ones). > Coffee with Anisette (Espresso for Nonno, 'Merican' coffee for the rest) with hard Cookies to dip in the coffee.

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11. The kids go play...the men go to lay down. They slept so soundly you could perform brain surgery on them without anesthesia..the women clean> the kitchen.

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12. Getting screamed at by Mom or Nonna - half the sentence was English, the other half Italian.

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13. Italian mothers never threw a baseball in their life, but can nail you> > in the head with a shoe thrown from the kitchen while you're in the living room.

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and one extra:

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14 .Prom Dress that Zia Ceserina made you...$20.00 for material. Prom,hair-do from Cousin Angela...$Free. Turning around at prom to see your entire family (including Godparents) standing in the back of the gym...PRICELESS!

The hardest arithmetic to master is that which enables us to count our blessings.As ever,Dian

Chapters 10 and 11

Chapter 10

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How does some one become a lesbian anyway? Who would choose to be that different, to face family scorn, god’s wrath, employment discrimination, and safety concerns all in the same package?
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Alex, heterosexual small business owner, wife to Mike and mother to Andy and Amy, decided she would like Lily-the-Lesbian as soon as she pulled into Lily’s driveway and saw her garden. It was late May and Alex-the-Gardener had noticed the pink impatients confidently planted in front of two large leaf sorrels—the edible kind with the vibrant green colors that worked so well as a backdrop.

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“Hmmmm” she thought. “This woman knows what she’s doing. And she has her floral act together a week ahead of Memorial Day—risky but clever.”
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Lily opened the front door, smiled, and extended her hand to Alex. Alex reciprocated, scanning the room to see if her friend Willa had already arrived and surprised at how attractive and “normal” Lily looked. She stepped into the peach-creamed colored rectangle of a small hallway, its walls covered with photo frames and little arty doo-dads.

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At the urging and through the arrangements of Willa, Alex was attending the Bag Ladies Book Club for the first time. Willa had clued her in on several of the women already: Mairaid, a Web Designer who laughed easily and charmed the socks off everyone with that Irish brogue of hers that pronounced GAR-age instead of garage; Roberta, the School Psychologist whose daughter had recently become transgendered; Allison, the Nurse Case Manager who had been featured in the Boston Globe for pulling a teen from the Charles River and saving his life with CPR; and Lily, the hostess for the evening, who Willa had told her to especially check out because she thought they would get a kick out of one another.
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Where Alex was cute and solid and preppy-- remnants still from her high school days as a cheerleader and second runner up Prom Queen--Lily was tall and slim and graceful. In her mind Alex dubbed her a ‘designer bohemian’, dressed in a long sleeved tie-dye shirt that dropped to just above her hips and was perfect with her fitted jeans.
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This night a group of eight women were discussing Jody Poucolt’s My Sister’s Keeper. Alex noticed how confidently Lily offered her opinions, how thoughtfully she listened to everyone else, and how her easy going persona seemed to energize the room. She especially liked what Lily, a college instructor in English and Ethics, had to say about responsibility and obligation. As a wife and mother, that struck a chord in Alex.

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“I mean how do you know when or why you just have to put yourself first?” she had asked the group.

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And Lily had said, “When you’re drowning, you know.”
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Everyone there liked Lily, Alex could see that. She was the kind of friend that Alex wanted. It wasn’t as though Alex lacked friends—she had been voted Personality Plus in high school afterall—but the truth was that for more than a year she had become generally bored with the elements of her daily life. It was difficult for her to face, but she was not happy.

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She and Mike had married straight out of college, Andy was born 8 years later, after they had both settled into their careers, and Amy a year later. She and Mike played whist every Friday night with Mike’s college roommate and his accountant wife, they took the kids to Disneyworld and rented a cottage on Cape Cod for two weeks every summer. They owned a fabulous 10 room Victorian house; both cooked dinnerfor the family; they had sex four or five times a week in four or five different positions. They communicated well and gardened together in true team fashion. Mike was a good father, a good husband, a good guy. It should have been quite satisfactory. But it wasn’t.
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On the third week of Bag Ladies, as the group was dispersing, Alex asked Lily to dinner. Since she was not sure if Lily--who she now knew taught college lit, volunteered on two non-profit boards, vacationed in France and owned a timeshare in Virgin Gorda--would accept her invitation, approaching her at all had required the effort of a small act of Congress. Alex wasn’t shy: she was a bona fide extrovert with a wicked sense of humor, but she often retreated rather than risk either embarrassement or vulnerability. This time, however, she had promised herself to push through and try. What could she lose by trying?

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“Lily” Alex said, “Would you have any interest in getting together sometime?”

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Lily smiled. “Sure”, she said.

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Alex was prepared. “What about the fondue special at Marsh’s Landing? It’s right on the beach and not usually crowded”

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“Sure”, Lily said.

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Alex was suddenly not prepared. She stuttered, “Friday night?”

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“Sure” Lily said.

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“At six?”

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“Sure”.

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Alex smiled. So did Lily.

Chapter 11

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In high school Alex began phoning a fellow cheerleader named Carolyn Jenkins. Carolyn responded cordially but it became pretty clear pretty quickly that she was too into her football captain boyfriend to expand her social circle to include a new friend.

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In college, on a sorority bet embellished by gaity and intoxication, Alex kissed her friend Roberta for a minute or more. She didn’t think much about it at the time, but on the drive back to her apartment, she thought about Carolyn Jenkins.

Chapter 9

Alex sent Lily a Christmas card which arrived seven months to the day after their last phone call. On the front were two women in fake fur white coats and hats, holding hands, with the caption, “BRRRR, I’d be out in the cold without a friend like you”. Inside Alex had written, “Don’t forget me Lily. I’d love to hear from you”.

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Lily had put the card in her sock and underwear drawer, safe from harm and out of sight, accessible for the still-pathetic moments when she would pull it out, trace her finger along the envelope fold, or put the card to face, craving Alex’ familiar scent.
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Sandwiched in between that call and that card, Lily had reluctantly taken six weeks of disability leave from her teaching position at Amherst College. She saw a therapist twice a week, joined a new book club, took her graduate students on a ski trip to Switzerland, adopted another dog, and lost 30 pounds--her already slim 5 foot 6 inch frame rejecting most of her now ill fitting clothes. She also began writing again, arranged playtimes with her 3 year old niece Amanda, and remodeled the back porch of her sweet one level six room ranch house on Tupelo Road. Several times a week, for 29 weeks, she forced herself to the gym and gratefully accepted the invitations and protection that her friends and colleagues regularly provided.

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Lily did all this earnestly and compulsively, some mornings dragging herself from bed without a thought to what would come, and others relying on Zoloft to propel her to campus where she would teach her English Lit and Advance Placement classes, fervishly hoping she could maintain the Coolest Instructor award the kids had ceremoneously given her one year.
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But nothing she did changed the haunting fact that first thing every morning, and last thing every night, there stood Alex-the-ghost—that cocky grin familiarly taking hold of her mind, Alex standing at the foot of her bed, her arms crossed in that ridiculous Ms.Yogi pose of hers, leaning on her right foot, reaching for Lily’s right breast and cupping both hands to her mouth, shouting with fanfare, “Ladies and Gentleman”, she would say, “Announcing the Grand winner of the Florida Melon Contest—My friend Lily!”.

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In these moments, Lily could barely push herself back to the present. She wondered how she was capable of becoming so pitiful. This soggy mess of a woman was not who she had ever been. It's not like she hadn't loved before. She had broken a heart and mended her own. But this: this was altogether different. This was agony.
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There were some moments when the thought of Alex simply wrapped itself around Lily’s legs and held her captive, her whole body firmly implanted on a ground of mush and misery. She was given no warning when that would happen: one time she had been at Wendy’s place with a group of friends, having burgers on the grill, another alone in her office grading papers, another walking Louie around the park. Th trigger, as she came to call it--could be a sound, a song, the movement of someone’s hands, the flicker of the light bulb, it could be anything for god sakes, and it would surge her back to her life with Alex.
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But what Lily hated most of all was the ever-present hole in her stomach. It never lessened. At first she thought it was an ulcer, or a tumor, perhaps some weird stomach disorder. When it persisted even after her annual physical confirming she was healthy—she came to understand that this was the scarlet letter of a broken heart.

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“Oh God”, her friend Wendy said, “It took me three years to lose that feeling after Doug left me. You can’t really eat when your stomach feels that way”.

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“Three years?” Lily had said. “Three years?”

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“Sometimes”, Wendy’s voice dropped just above a whisper. “Lily, you’ll survive. You’ll love again. I know you will. This woman really did a number on you”.

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“It’s ridiculous,”,Lily responded. “I’m mourning what I hoped for, not even what I ever really had, for Chrisssakes,.I can’t seem to keep my footing, Wendy, no matter what I do or don’t do. If this is love…”

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Lily’s eyes filled and glissened like glass.

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“I know”, Wendy said, “I know”.

Chapter 8

“I expected it to be hard at first”, the letter continued, "After all, everything I did reminded me of you. I would put a Trader Joes can of fried onion rings in my cart and think,’Oh, Lily loves these’—remember when we forgot the green bean casserole in the oven and it took us two hours to clear the smoke out? Or I would see someone wearing pearls with a fake leopard coat and I would imagine you strutting across the room, looking like Rita Marino with your knee high black boots and that chenille blue scarf I always loved."

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"I expected a period of horrible pain. I was prepared for it. I focused on Andy and Amy. And when I watched Mike trying so hard to be more attentive and thoughtful to me, I tried to settle in with him, like it was before I met you. I tried so hard. For months. And then years. I wasn’t surprised when you didn’t respond to my Christmas card. Or to my phone message. By then I knew you needed me to keep away, if only to be sure I did not hurt you all over again."

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"But Lily, it never did get better."

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Lily put the letter down. She straightened her back and positioned her feet just so, remembering her how hard she worked at her posture in parochial school after Sister Agnes told her she would spend time in purgatory if she did not sit properly at Mass. She sat the way she was taught, now, perfectly aligned in the service of the Lord, waiting for the start of the organ pipes and the blessing of the Sacrament to tell her what the holy hell she should be feeling.
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She then walked to the kitchen, put on the kettle and prepared a cup of tea, wrapping her both hands and fingers around the cup as if its warmth would protect her. She then walked back to the couch, sat down with the overstuffed purple satin pillow behind her, and continued reading:
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"You know how I try not to dwell on emotions I refuse to face. But when I started feeling really sick, I needed you here. I’d go for tests and chemo and Mike and I would sit down with the doctors and all I could think is, 'I need Lily.'"

"When Dr. Chambliss told me I had progressed to stage 3, I broke down. Mike took me to the Easy Street Diner—remember that place? It’s where you and I couldn’t stop laughing when you dropped your nachos and they splattered all over that nerdy guy’s new shoes—the kind with those gross little tassles on them? Anyway, Mike was as shell-shocked as I was but he tried to comfort me, he really tried, and I tried to comfort him too, but before the bill came I put my face in my hands and all I could say was, “Mike, I need to call Lily.” His face turned white. He dropped me home and came back a few hours later. He looked worse than when we first heard my diagnosis. He didn’t say anything for days. We’d make small talk at dinner and go to Andy’s games together, but I knew he was trying to protect himself. I wanted to reassure him, to help him be safe, but I couldn’t.

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Finally, one night when the kids were out, he sat me down, told me he loved me, he thanked me for trying, he told me I was an asshole making the biggest mistake of my life, but he told me I should stop trying. He cried, Lily. He told me he would stay with me if I wanted that, help me through my treatments, work out something fair with the kids, give me a divorce, he told me he would let me go, that he knew I am not a bad person. We cried together, Lily, and I loved him then and there like he’s deserved all these years."

Chapter 7

Alex would be gone. They had both had prepared for this possibility a hundred times before, but never did they last even a day without reconnecting, never a week without reaffirming in some way what was rarely spoken but always present. But this time Mike knew. This time Lily would make sure that the outcome Alex desired was put forth and kept in place.
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Lily would shut it down so air tight there would be no way to come up for air and no choice but to hope that they would both re-emerge in some semblance of whole.

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That is what Lily had done, until six years later on a Saturday morning at 11:32 am, a letter from Alex Louise Fournier arrived in her reluctant shaken hands.

Chapter 6

It was three weeks after Andy's play that Alex had called, hysterical. Lily understood immediately.

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“I told Mike, Lily. I had to. He pulled it out of me and couldn’t lie. I told him yes, I loved you too. I told him. I hoped we could figure it out but he exploded, Lily. He threw the oriental lamp against the wall and stormed out. I won’t say what he called me. I didn’t dare call you, it was so violent. I was scared. He came back three hours later and he told me, then and there, I’d better choose. He said he would file for divorce the next day if I ever saw you again”.
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Alex was crying. Lily was stunned. She was not surprised— after all, who could blame her?-- this decent woman, a wedding band, a mother with these precious children-- her sexuality and passion and love and loyalty all misfiring at the same time? And yet, she could not believe Alex did not talk to her before she did this—didn’t she know hell would break loose?

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“I told him I had to see you in person, Lily, I insisted on that”.

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“Why?” Lily had asked. She could barely speak. She could barely breathe.

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“I owe you that much”. Alex paused. It was a long pause, the kind when you wonder if the world might end then and there. “I will miss you”. she said.
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The last four words, spoken like slow-motion animation, tipped it and turned it over and upside down, an emotional frying pan spattering hot oil everywhere. Lily was devastated. Four words, “I will miss you”. The dye was cast, the deal was done—she had no part in a decision already made and an acceptance already firmly rooted deep within her—a worse-case burden that she knew even years ago she would carry for the rest of her life.

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“Let’s say goodbye now, Alex”, Lily had said.

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There was a pause. Probably more words were spoken, Lily thought, but they were meaningless. She remembered only the last sentence,

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“You can call me at work, Lily, anytime, you know”.

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There should have been so much to say. So much had been said already. So many times they had tried to make sense of what was improbably and impossibly true. But not this time.

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Lily held the phone to her chest until the shrill beep beep beep finally stopped. She placed the receiver, still off the hook, on the coffee table, stood up, and shut the living room blinds. She lay on the couch buried under a green chenille blanket until 18 hours later, when she forced herself to stand, walk down the hall into the bathroom, and scrub and shower clean as a glorious future encased in a present past violently swirled down the drain.

Thanksgiving Thursday 13: Part 2

I wrote the following post exactly one year ago. I still stand by it, so here it is again:

No humorous today: my Thanksgiving post is based on how quickly and unexpectedly things can change. I'm taking the opportunity to offer my very own advice about thanks-giving.If the shoe fits and the wind blows in any or all of these, please considering moving quickly. Move Quickly. It's the little putting-offs that causes big regrets.
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1. Make the Call I have 3 people I think about often. And yet, sometimes months and years go by and I do nothing. This Thanksgiving I will make the call.

2. Write a Love Letter It's a lost art. And it's a keep sake. Sit down and in your own way say "I love you" in bold letters. And then address an envelope and mail it.

3. Apologize I've made two apologies this year (both rebuffed--happy endings aren't sure things but the effort still counts). I owe one more. Throw pride in the waste basket. Life's too short.

4. Say Thanks Mom, thanks for the way you brought me up. jb, thanks for supporting me while I write. Gary, thanks for pulling me out of all those jams. I have a hundred 'thank yous' due. I'm starting today, one by one.

5. Take a walk It's a beautiful world out there. I snub nature at my own peril. How dare I get so immersed in my petty chores and endless responsibilities that I bypass the comfort and beauty of the natural order of things.

6. Remember Let those memories wrap their arms around you. Cry, honor, feel, visualize the people and events that have shaped you. Let your memories breathe.

7. Pull your documents together Wills, bills, insurance policies, IRA's: make it easy just in case your best friend jb is going through your papers and files, stunned and heartbroken, trying to put your affairs in order.

8. Be impeccable with your words This comes from The Four Agreements. Don't lie. Don't hide. Mean what you say. Keep your promises. Don't be sloppy with what you say and how you say it.

9. Touch We human beings need a minimum of 8 hugs a day to be happy and healthy. Make sure you get your quota. And make sure that's also true for the people around you.

10. Count Your Stars I dated a guy who did this all the time: he'd look up and count every star he had going for him. One by one. I learned this habit from him. It's a good one.

11. Tell Jokes Lighten up and remember what it's like to laugh deep. And out loud.

12. Be Conscious Since I'm alive and upright, I owe it to myself to keep my my five senses sharp. Keep your eyes and ears and heart wide open, all the time.

13. Never Cut What Can Be Untied I try to live by this principle. Remember it and you'll avoid alot of problems.

Thursday 13: Thanks-giving

Today in America is Thanksgiving. Though much of the folklore is myth, this tradition dates back to 1620, when the first Pilgrims landed at what is now called Plymouth Rock, where those that survived treacherously arrived by boat from England to escape religious persecution.
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Here's the actual scoop on what was and what wasn't part of the Pilgrim's thankful tables:
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1. Foods Available to the Pilgrims for their 1621 Thanksgiving:

FISH: cod, bass, herring, shad, bluefish, and lots of eel.
SEAFOOD: clams, lobsters, mussels, and very small quantities of oysters
BIRDS: wild turkey, goose, duck, crane, swan, partridge, and other miscellaneous waterfowl; they were also known to have occasionally eaten eagles (which "tasted like mutton" according to Winslow in 1623.)
OTHER MEAT: venison (deer), possibly some salt pork or chicken.
GRAIN: wheat flour, Indian corn and corn meal; barley (mainly for beer-making).
FRUITS: raspberries, strawberries, grapes, plums, cherries, blueberries, gooseberries (these would have been dried, as none would have been in season).
VEGETABLES: small quantity of peas, squashes (including pumpkins), beans
NUTS: walnuts, chestnuts, acorns, hickory nuts, ground nuts
HERBS and SEASONINGS: onions, leeks, strawberry leaves, currants, sorrel, yarrow, carvel, brooklime, liverwort, watercress, and flax; from England they brought seeds and probably planted radishes, lettuce, carrots, onions, and cabbage. Olive oil in small quantities may have been brought over, though the Pilgrims had to sell most of their oil and butter before sailing, in order to stay on budget.
OTHER: maple syrup, honey; small quantities of butter, Holland cheese; and eggs.
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2. Some perhaps startling omissions from the authentic Thanksgiving menu
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Ham. (The Pilgrims most likely did not have pigs with them).
Sweet Potatoes-Potatoes-Yams. (These had not yet been introduced to New England).
Corn on the cob. (Indian corn was only good for making cornmeal, not eating on the cob).
Popcorn. (Contrary to popular folklore, popcorn was not introduced at the 1621 Thanksgiving. Indian corn could only be half-popped, and this wouldn't have tasted very good.)
Cranberry sauce. (Cranberries were available, but sugar was not.)
Pumpkin Pie: (They probably made a pumpkin pudding of sorts, sweetened by honey or syrup, which would be like the filling of a pumpkin pie, but there would be no crust or whipped topping.)

3. Here at # 9, mist and fog lingered all day. The snow earlier in the week has mostly melted, and almost every store and business was closed shut. It's a quiet day, all in all. By choice our Thanksgiving was exactly that.

4. jb's colleagues sent her a small lamp in memory of her mother's death. We've set it on the front table, along with the beautiful plant our friend dropped off, and today we have set up a small shrine. If you look closely, you will also see Birdie and Frank the Dinosaur, which somehow is fitting.
5. I started the fire early this morning and it's been going all day. Nothing better....

6. This house is so damn comfortable. I don't quite know why.

7. Our menu today was roast beef, roasted potatoes, creamed onions, green beans and carrots. And gravy. I have finally learned to make decent gravy.


8. This is the smallest Thanksgiving table I've ever sat at: three of us. And yet, I'm relieved it was so simple and easy-going.
9. Here's a major reason for my motivation to keep it simple: the drama of getting my knee surgery in place and approved by insurance is almost over. Surgery will take place in eight days, a week from Friday. Not a day too soon. It's been a bear.

10. I can't say this has been an easy going time, so I won't. But I am aware of many many things to give thanks for. The first: three women who make my life worth living, make me laugh, bring me joy, and would take the same bullet for me I would for them. They know who they are....

11. And two men: one loves my daughter so much I will be forever grateful to him, and the other--well, the other is Mr. Ryan.

12. The Sky: I often look up at the blue blue sky and I am just totally amazed at the beauty of the Earth. How can this be anything but a miracle?

13. Words: I not only have words and more words in my life these days, but I also have people in my life who love words as much as I do. And colors. I have Colors and Words. And for that I am deeply thankful.

HAPPY GIVING-THANKS DAY

Hammering My Way to the Queen City Prom:Chapter 5

This addition to the love story of Alex and Lily is for my friend, Melissa, so she will have new WORDS on a snowy day:

Chapter 5

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Hearing about the kids was too much too much. Lily remembered the last time she saw them: it was a bleak drenched Friday afternoon and Andy, then 10, was playing Davy Crockett in his school play. Lily had winced at his raccoon hat and the thought that the hide of some skinned animal was on his head, some fluffy soft disgusting tail blowing every which way every time he moved, and Andy moved. He had forgotten one of his lines mid way through, but in or out of character he had charmed the audience into accepting the gibberish he skillfully substituted. Andy, with his wry wit and wide heart,-- was a good boy, a good sport, a son and brother any one would be proud of. Lily considered him her friend and he was good at that too. .
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And, Amy—she was 9 going on 16, that afternoon at the Why Not Diner begging her mother for the right to wear eye shadow even as she complained and whined about the gross looking sweet potato fries in front of her, smothering them in ketchup, then, as they celebrated Andy’s theatrical debut.

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Mike was working out of town as he often was so on that Friday afternoon, his two children, his wife, and Lily gleefully dodged raindrops and defiantly waved their umbrellas, criss-crossing around puddles and marching single file through parked cars, Lily with her hand protectively reaching for Alex’ elbow, guiding her for no reason really, but guiding her.They walked light, the kids on each side of them, laughing, teasing Andy about his improvisation, that afternoon when Lily dared to think this could linger. She and Alex had know each other for 3 years then, they had struggled and soared together, most nights talking past midnight on the phone like teenagers: they shopped and hiked and shared errands and energy, and only occasionally they put words to feelings that simmered and sometimes erupted.
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First Snow

This fulfills a special request to show the first snow as it is occurring outside my New England windows. I cannot provide a higher quality of ambiance because I cannot venture outside with my current right knee hobble.

So here it is so far. I am sooooo glad we have firewood nearby. There will be a fire at # 9 before the sun sets.

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MEN & WOMEN

I am sitting in the only seating area--one booth all by itself--on the entire left side of the cafe. My laptop is in front of me, I am sipping coffee, and I am in my own world writing. I am one of perhaps four people in the cafe--each of us spread out around the room.

Three men pass by and stop directly beside my booth. They are standing next to me having an animated conversation about something. None of them notices me.

After several minutes, I look up. They do not look down. Finally, I ask if they would mind moving. I smile and point to my laptop.

They are polite and accomodating. As they inch past me, one of the men says, "Oh, you must be working with numbers".

I smile again. "No, I am writing".

"Huh?" They look at me with less understanding, wondering why then I have asked them to move.

Only a guy would assume it's about working with numbers. A woman, I wisely believe, would simply know better.....

(smile)

Hammering My Way to the Queen City Prom: Chapters 2, 3, 4

A few days ago when I posted the first few paragraphs of the story I am currently writing, I was genuinely suprised by the encouragement and comments I received to share more. Thank you so much.

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For the time being, I will post a few chapters at a time. This is a work in progress: I can't promise I'll be able to keep up with posting to the end with any semblance of timliness. I have no idea when this story may even be finished.

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I've made the chapters brief for easier reading, and I will be honored if any of you are interested in following this love story between Alex and Lily. I will also very much appreciate any feedback you have at any time.

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If you decide to follow along, you might want to scan back, a few posts back, to Chapter 1 before you read on:

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Chapter 2

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“I couldn’t do it, Lily. I saw my Mother’s face telling me it was wrong, I thought about how much my husband trusted me, that Andy would hate me, my upbringing. It was carnal and selfish, and the only way I could attone was to suffer. Life without you would be the greatest suffering I could ever choose, so that is what I did. Even now I know I could not have lived with myself. I did what I thought was right, except I decided it would be easier for you if I ended it really badly. Of course you remember how bitchy I can be. So I let you think this had to be because the line that was crossed required a max punishment. I let you think I had gone along because I loved you, not because I wanted it too. And I told you it could never ever be, not even in the afterlife. I knew you wouldn’t call after I told you all that. I thought maybe time would put it all in perspective, and maybe some day we’d be friends."

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Lily was totally frozen. Six years—three of them pillow-over-head agonizing—melted down to a waxless mess, leaving this pristine letter with the little girl circular handwriting, explaining the unexplainable, karate chopping at the knees what had taken her six years to rebuild. Years ago there had been explanations and apologies before all words stopped, different spins at different times, and each one had hurt more than the last. But now, for god sakes, here was a closer-to-the truth apology, at the worse possible time.

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Here was an apology in this little girl circular handwriting two weeks before Lily would marry Max—two weeks before the firrst day in six years that Lily had finally broken free.

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Chapter 3

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The letter continued:

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“Every day for 2,067 days, I’ve tried to accept what I did and to understand why it had to be. It took more than a year before I stopped thinking about you constantly, and finally, over time, I settled into life with Mike and the kids. I knew I was no longer the same person, I knew I was missing an arm or something, but at least I had done the right thing. Everyday I hoped you found what you hoped for in me."

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Lily’s cheeks gave way to rising flaming anger. This was TOO much. “Found what I hoped for? How exactly, Alex? How exactly would I do that? I’ve had to settle too, you son of a bitch, and maybe it would be easier for me to read your obituary than this apology. You should know this Alex”
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And yet, Lily read on.

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Chapter 4

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A year ago.I got the diagnosis. I’ll spare the details but it’s touch and go. I’ve reeled and thrown dishes and grieved and prayed. I’ve done everything I can and know it’s hands greater than mine. I’ve soul searched and taken inventory, rearranged my time and sorted my priorities. Paula will help Mike with the kids, although Andy is 17 and Amy’s 16—remember when they used indelible magic markers on every sheet and pillow case in the house to make a Buddist temple in the living room—it’s pretty much the same madness now except it’s more about cars and clothes and midnight curiews. Bottom line: In case I die, I’ve taken care of everything.. Except this.

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Lily was convulsing. Unbelieveable. There was more to read but she couldn’t. She just sat on the couch, shook her head left to right, left to right, and sobbed, the kind where you can’t caught your breath, your face is soaked, and you know you’ll be avoiding people for a day or more simply because your red hollow eyes tell far too much already.

Thursday 13: The Devil's Mother-in-Law

Unbelievable. Just unbelievable.
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The last few weeks have been a torrential, tumultuous rainfall of missteps, loss, challenges and adjustments.
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And yet, here I am, a limping Hop-A-Long Cassidy, in my writing room, sipping coffee, finally working (on my own terms of course), and trying my damnest to juggle and smile my way through thorns and thickets. (I am very dramatic today). And here I am appreciating my 91 year old mother in the sweetest deepest of ways. Here I am feeling more deep love.
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This week's Thursday 13 is a review of the bright light and dark side of just that.
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1. Since she came here three weeks ago, my Mother has been waking up before dawn. I know this because she calls out "Help...Help" or "Hello...Hello". I jump up and go into her room. Fearfully and with relief to see me, she holds her soft hand out, I give her mine, and she asks, "Oh, kj, where am I? And where was I before this--did I fall?-- what happened to me?"

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2. I tell her about her fall in July and broken hip and weeks in rehab and I end by explaining that she is here with us to take a few weeks to determine the place she will be safest and happiest. A few night's ago, when she asked these questions, I said, "Mom, I think you've had a bad dream. In the dark, she looks at me, smiles, and says, "kj, this is no dream!" We both laugh and I watch her put her head on the pillow, now content.

3. One night my mother wakes as usual but this time she is fully aware of where she is, where she was, what has happened. She is not happy about it at all. She firmly says, "Why is God treating me like the devil's mother-in-law?"

"Mom", I ask. "Did you make that term up?"
She laughs. "I think so". Her green eyes sparkle when she laughs

4. My mother is playing Crazy 8's every chance she gets. We've hired two homemakers to relieve me a few hours a day and on weekends, and she's turned them both into card sharks.

5. This is very similiar to having small children at home. I have to plan my errands, work, and social time in advance and with coverage. No spontaniety for me these days.

6. We have looked at 3 places for my Mom to move to. All are within 15 minutes of me. None is perfect.

Place # 1: Nursing home, too few activities, too much downtime, plenty of hugs, responsive and wonderful aides, consistently above average because it's where my Mom has been the last three month.s

Place # 2: Nursing home, double the activities, not sure about hugs, tiny teeny rooms the size of large closets, highly recommended all around.

Place# 3: Assisted Living Center, memory unit with triple the activities, no hugs (that I could see), private lovely room, questionable aides, I felt more negatives than positives.

7. I'm getting used to my Mother being here. I hate not having more free time, but you know, I'm amazed how nice she is. And how patient I am.

8. We've finally come up with chores she can do. She's insisted on helping out, and it's been hard to know what to say to that, given that she is still abit unstable and needs a walker. However, she is now setting the table, washing and wiping the dishes (I had to let go of using the dishwasher..) and folding clothes on the couch.

9. Never ever underestimate how important it is for an older person to feel productive.

10. I am regularly cooking again. More meat than I'm accustomed too, but hey, I hope I stay in this groove.

11. My dear jb, who has just lost her mother and is facing her own version of major surgery, is so sweet to my Mother, it almost makes me cry.

And while i'm on the subject of the Devil's Mother-in-Law, here's the breaking news on my knee surgery:

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12. It got CANCELLED! At the last minute! %&***!!@ (every swear in the book).

What else could happen?, you might ask. I asked myself the same question. Standing in my kitchen, shocked that an insurance oversight screwed up the surgery I was leaving for one hour before learning it was cancelled, I called Ces, told her the story, and asked if I should laugh or cry. She didn't hesitate."Cry!", she said.

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13. This brings me to Now. Here. It's been an ok day, actually. I expect the ##$&&*! surgery will be rescheduled for early next week, I anticipate a smooth recovery, and all's relatively well in the household. I must really be an optimist. I certainly keep trying even when I'm barely muddling through. On second thought, afterall, if there's a better choice out there in the cosmos, I'm not aware of it.

Only the Beginning

I've come to know I am a Writer. I have to write.

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I write poetry. And self-help books. And essays. One first draft novel. A few short stories. And in the past few weeks, a love story that I find, to my distinct surprise and pleasure, is writing itself. With the exception of my writing group, I'll be keeping this story under wraps until it's done, except for this brief beginning. I am posting these few paragraphs because I believe I am finally, truly, a writer--not the most talented writer on the planet, certainly not the most well trained and educated, but the stories I write are mine to tell in a way that only I--and not another soul--can.

Hammering My Way to the Queen City Prom

May 2007

Her first thought was “Never!”, this hysterical exclamation shouted in her head with a high heel thump, followed by a more reasoned, “No, No, No, it’s a joke”.

But there was the envelope, the kind usually reserved for international mail, with seven 39 cent stamps in the right hand corner, her wide scribbly name and address dead center, and a return address that stopped her cold. Cold as in frozen. Frozen as in hypothermia. Hypothermia as in chilling vulnerability.

The letter inside was written on eight pristine pieces of white linen paper, the handwriting less circular and more controlled, as though the writer was trying to reign in her thoughts by lassoing her words.

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Dear Lily,
For years I’ve thought about this letter. I owed you an explanation you never got and I will understand if you have no interest or need for one now. But I hope you will hear me out. I have been carrying these words for seven years now, and it is only because I because I may die that I find the need and the courage to tell you the truth.

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Lilly remembered the time she was hit in the face with a random soccer ball. It knocked her to the ground so fast it was minutes later before she felt the force of the impact. This is how she felt now, a full body reflex so sudden and violent she barely had time to feel the sucker punch, before she felt the rush of tears. She acted instinctively fast to protect the letter from getting irrepairably smudged, and that reflexive act was her second surprise.

WOW...

It's been a tough few weeks--a surprising number of difficult events tripping over one another:

Sadly, jb lost her Mother a few days ago. This blog is not the place to say much more than that, exceptthat jb has been courageous and loving throughout her trip to say goodbye and her return home with her heart filled with the hope that her Mother is now lovingly at peace.

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In the last couple of days jb's been blessed with prayers, calls, cards and sweet arrivals at the back door. Today our friend Tracy came by with a beautiful plant and card. Yesterday this "edible" flower arrangement arrived from jb's work colleagues. How cool is this--fresh fruit flowers on sticks!

My dear Mother has completed rehab. for her broken hip and has moved in with jb and me for a month or so, while we figure out the best long term living situation for her. She uses a walker to get around, has physical therapy at home 3 times a week, and we've hired a couple of "companions" to stay with her a few hours at a time since she cannot be left alone and I HAVE to get out of the house at least once a day.

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I love my Mother and she is a wonderful person. She will not be able to live alone again, she thoughtfully and understandably does not want to live with us, and her memory leaves her often confused and sometimes afraid about how she has come to be here and what will happen now. We do not have an extended family locally around to pitch in and that makes for a difficult situation--even me the optimist is struggling to stay above water.

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The only thing I can say is love and resourceful planning will take care of this in due time.

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SO. Not an easy time, right? But wait: there's more!

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Yours truly is having knee surgery this Thursday. I should be laid up for a max of two weeks, just in time to help jb because she TOO is have knee surgery--much more extensive than mine, with a much longer recovery period.

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Holidays? Well....I like the Holidays. This year? Well.....I can't really say. I'm mantra-ing one of my favorite sayings, "Ride the Horse in the Direction She's Going". As well as, "Bend, Like a Tree".

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Ok: that's enough campaigning for the sympathy vote. Plus I know how to end with a bang.

SO: May I re-introduce Mr. Ryan, who is now crawling, smiling with four teeth, and preparing to be the recipient of his No-Name Grandmother's destiny with her new guitar.

A SHELTER in the STORM

Doubt thou that the stars are on fire;

Doubt thou that the sun doth move;

Doubt truth to be a liar;

But never doubt that I love.

William Shakespeare,
Hamlet


It is not your job to make something happen--

Universal forces are in place for all of that.

Your work is to simply determine what you want."

Esther & Jerry Hicks, compliments of Jessie.

Thursday 13: SIGH....

How I would like to write a witty comical Thursday 13 today. Instead, I'm choosing the messier path of congruence. I'm not even sure what to write, but I'll at least try to make it real.

1. After three months of rehab. for her broken hip, for the first time in my life, my mother is temporarily living with me while we all figure out her needs and options.

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2. She is a wonderful terrific magnificent person, with a great sense of humor and a never-ending desire to do her share, but let's face it: the natural world does not facillitate grown adults sharing an established life and living space with a parent. I know this arrangement occurs frequently in some cultures, and maybe my life is too full for its own good, and I'm trying to be calm and sweet, but hey!--this is hard for both of us. (I also know I may get some flack for this: I mean no offense).

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3. # 2 affected my twice a year writing group at the Big Yellow. There, a dozen or so writers and songwriters get together, write, read, sing and share for the better part of a weekend. With a knee problem I didn't know I had, and a mother unsure of her surroundings, I hobbled in and out this sacred event with rollercoaster emotions. But when it was all over, I can only say it was again totally wonderful. This is a special group of people who will again reconvene next April. I have no doubt some of us will become successfully "established" in the craft of writing.

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4. I am buying a guitar. Then I am going to learn to play it. Then I am going to sing songs outloud, even though I can't carry a tune.

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5. Every year I tell myself I want to be done with buying Christmas presents by Thanksgiving so I can spend the holidays baking and making artistic-type things. I also think if I start early, I won't have those sky high credit card bills. I fail every year, but that doesn't stop me from trying.

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6. I hate malls and avoid them, except for book and stationary stores.

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7. This is partially why I do not like my wardrobe. I don't shop enough to find really cool clothes, even though I like really cool clothes.

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8. I forget that I have a temper. Sometimes getting mad is helpful to me and sometimes it's unnecessarily hurtful to others. Recently I overreacted to a perceived slight: I went to bed feeling justified and woke up feeling terrible. That must be where the term "sleep on it" comes from. I am shocked when I just "snap", and that's what I did.

9. I've gotten better at understanding that my interpretation of something isn't the same as someone else's, but that doesn't make it any easier in the heat of the moment--not until we both know it's about understanding and/or compromise, not about winning or losing. Would you rather be right or happy? No contest.

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10. jb and I finally won our battle with the City for their snowplow damaging our fence. It took 22 months 3 denials, and 4 appeals of our claim. That temper of mine swings into high gear when something doesn't seem fair, and it doesn't matter whether it involves me or someone else. I couldn't find a lawyer to take on this little fence injustice so I handled it myself. And I'm glad and proud we won afterall.

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11. Our friend Liz just celerated her birthday and we found the perfect wall-hanging present for her. She opened it, held it in front of her, and said with the widest smile, "Oh, my God--it's me!"

12. Here he is: Mr. Ryan. Can't you just tell what an interesting fascinating wonderful human being he will always be?

13. I found this visual on someone's blog and cannot remember who to thank for it. But it got me thinking that I want my blog to be worthy of this "award", "announcement", or whatever else it may be. I'm into kindness these days, and I say this after I've spent the last 24 hours being quite a jerk....

Addendum: From nowhere comes # 14, complements of Jimmy James' "Living From the Heart Blog":

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You learn to speak by speaking, to study by studying, to run by running, to work by working; in just the same way, you learn to love by loving. St. Francis De Sales

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Hope it's a good weekend.