I like that previous piece very much. Often with the kids when I find the pressure mounting I think of the future as the past, i.e., the memories I'm making right now. And surely it is enough to stop me from my petty concerns and frustrations and remember to be more loving and let the little things slide.
Your evocation of childhood summers in Maine is beautiful, I wish i had something equally evocative to share but I think as a kid I lived so much inside my own head in fantasies and books. I didn't have a lot of friends and the ones I did have were also kind of nerdy bookish types and we reveled in writing and passing notes making up jokes and stories. There is a certain sort of nostalgia for summer days, but mostly having to do with hanging out with my Dad doing something car related. It's those bonds with the now dead you're talking about too, the physicality of them finite, the memory of them ephemeral. But, if passed on, the bond is unbroken and it is almost as good as the concrete reality. But there are infinite stretches within that "almost" to be sure. Reality wants to teach you that missing someone you love that is dead is a self-indulgent nostalgia, what else can it be? I'm still trying to figure that out.
It's funny when I have memories the kind that pause you in your tracks, the kind that the wind brings to you through an open window on a summer's day, they're often of the trip I took in Europe by myself. Maybe it was reading all those Sherlock Holmes books that made the U.K. feel more like my childhood memories! (Problem is, Europe and its cultures really have nothing to do with me or my background. Paging adult identity crisis...) Anyway, I suppose we're not responsible for what speaks to us, although it's our choice whether to respond.
I don't find myself yearning for the past at all. But what I know I need to stop doing is this amorphous waiting although it's not done consciously. Living in the present sounds so simple, and I guess it is. But it feels like a struggle most times.
Alessandra-- I just found this bit of writing. I guess the time for writing comments is passed and it will only let me tag on. I think it makes sense that your Europe trip is what you pause for. I think that was your childhood. The time you let yourself be. The time when life that was swirling around you was just a backdrop to whatever you were doing in that moment. If you were a bit bound in books as a child, this was your "doing" childhood--your physical one. I'd love to read some accounts of that time. As I suggested before, you could copy old journal in or just write a recollection.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
What the wind blew in (L)
I'm sitting on my bed in an empty house. The wind has suddenly quieted, building up again for another roll across the tall grass out my window, laying it down in ripples like moving water. The sky is blue, the sun bright, the birds and insects of summer have crawled out to sound their approval. I am following through on my intent to write without editing without regard, to keep our blog alive, and to keep part of me alive, too.
Days like this bring back childhood memories of Maine. They call up ghosts of my grandmother, my aunt, and now my mother. Drawing them back to the sun, back to the wild blueberry fields, freshly mowed lawns by grills, the sloping grass of Walker Park, the dirt road that dusted my grandmother's green grass as we ran paths through it. When C and I first moved back to Maine, I was nearly suffocated by the ache of my yearning for those days. I'd drive to my mother's and aunt's for fresh fuel to keep the fires of my burning nostalgia for those days, for my grandmother. Somehow it seemed if the bittersweet was acute enough, I could somehow conjure up a portal in time to step back to those days of my long brown legs running free beneath a bathing suit, eyes squinting up into a camera.
When I had my children, I'd whisper the stories in their ears, hoping they could continue to chant my spell for resurrection after me. I'm sure I lost some of the moments of their sunny young days as they seemed to pale in comparison to the memories of mine. After all, there is no go greater power of summer memories than summers not spent at home. You can't recreate the magic of parents not being at the table they write bills at all year, next to the phone that can break the spell of a perfect summer moment to jar you back to reality.
There was no sound that could compete with the laughter of my mother and grandmother mingling together over a deck of cards. Though I think some of the power of our summertime happiness was created by the dark lonely shade of the rest of our lives.
In Maine, we had cousins and family and, somehow, money for ice cream. My mother never resisted buying my father as much beer as he could drink. My mother didn't yell, my father didn't snap, I wasn't hit by flying objects meant for one of them. They went fishing together instead. There was peace.
Now, I don't hunger for those days as much. I watch the wind rolling the grass as it used to in the fields out back of my grandmother's house. I feel a twinge, the wisps of an old spell settle in me to write. But nothing like the pining I had before my mother died. Maybe it's because that old pining brought me to my mother for more memories, for salve on my wounded yearning heart. Now it can only bring me to graves. The kids have tired of the drives past all my heart landmarks. They will either remember my songs, or they won't. I feel a lot less yearning these days. I don't know if I'm jaded or wise. But I'm leaving this writing now, posting it without re-reading, so I can go join my kids at our cottage on a sunny day. I feel a renewed charge to give them something more than whispers of memories, to try and give them some of their own days of shining peace.
Days like this bring back childhood memories of Maine. They call up ghosts of my grandmother, my aunt, and now my mother. Drawing them back to the sun, back to the wild blueberry fields, freshly mowed lawns by grills, the sloping grass of Walker Park, the dirt road that dusted my grandmother's green grass as we ran paths through it. When C and I first moved back to Maine, I was nearly suffocated by the ache of my yearning for those days. I'd drive to my mother's and aunt's for fresh fuel to keep the fires of my burning nostalgia for those days, for my grandmother. Somehow it seemed if the bittersweet was acute enough, I could somehow conjure up a portal in time to step back to those days of my long brown legs running free beneath a bathing suit, eyes squinting up into a camera.
When I had my children, I'd whisper the stories in their ears, hoping they could continue to chant my spell for resurrection after me. I'm sure I lost some of the moments of their sunny young days as they seemed to pale in comparison to the memories of mine. After all, there is no go greater power of summer memories than summers not spent at home. You can't recreate the magic of parents not being at the table they write bills at all year, next to the phone that can break the spell of a perfect summer moment to jar you back to reality.
There was no sound that could compete with the laughter of my mother and grandmother mingling together over a deck of cards. Though I think some of the power of our summertime happiness was created by the dark lonely shade of the rest of our lives.
In Maine, we had cousins and family and, somehow, money for ice cream. My mother never resisted buying my father as much beer as he could drink. My mother didn't yell, my father didn't snap, I wasn't hit by flying objects meant for one of them. They went fishing together instead. There was peace.
Now, I don't hunger for those days as much. I watch the wind rolling the grass as it used to in the fields out back of my grandmother's house. I feel a twinge, the wisps of an old spell settle in me to write. But nothing like the pining I had before my mother died. Maybe it's because that old pining brought me to my mother for more memories, for salve on my wounded yearning heart. Now it can only bring me to graves. The kids have tired of the drives past all my heart landmarks. They will either remember my songs, or they won't. I feel a lot less yearning these days. I don't know if I'm jaded or wise. But I'm leaving this writing now, posting it without re-reading, so I can go join my kids at our cottage on a sunny day. I feel a renewed charge to give them something more than whispers of memories, to try and give them some of their own days of shining peace.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Brainless
I am determined to write a new post, so I don't have to keep looking at my yearnful "poem." Trouble is, I don't know what to write. When we started this, we agreed it'd be a place to throw thoughts, frequently, with no worry to the quality of the writing. Now, I'm out to prove it. I am going to write a thoughtless bit, full of some of my current thoughts. Hey, ever keep a journal in the past? Maybe we should type in one of those passages, with or without our current reflections on them...
How about I talk about addictions? Recently learned that kids who do alcohol, tobacco, or any drugs before age 16 are more likely to become dependent on them because their frontal lobes are still forming, and they create receptors for the "drug" that wouldn't otherwise be there. Their brain develops around the drug and creates more of those receptors setting them up for needing it.
Is this, perhaps, why I seem to be so addicted to ALL the things I did before I was 16, or shortly thereafter? Boys, kissing, laughing, fun, music, revealing clothes, beer, boys, dancing, late nights, friends, reading, movies, being lazy, boys...? Is this why I don't seem to be officially a grown up? I can't seem to make those good choices of what is "best" for me. Is my 16 year old brain the culprit for why knuckling down, doing hard work, cleaning, and being disciplined are so difficult for me? Because I was never made to do them when my brain was forming? I clearly need to create some new brain receptors.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Days Gone By (For my children)
I found the small princess doll that looked like Belle.
It reminded me of days gone by—of sweet desires—
squeaky toys, stars and moons and skies of clouds.
When hair was twisted, crunched, or in curls, and I knew just how to make you happy. But had no clue how to be myself.
I only knew to drown in moments full of babies’ savory odors, squeals of joy, and salty tears. All of you in a circle around me—corralling my importance.
Sunlit days overflowed with parks green, chilled by oceans, dripping with ice cream—the passenger seat full of Mema or Aunt Edith. Islands loomed ahead, while smooth rocks and shells shaded like the sunset waited for us, below chipped picnic tables on uneven ground.
Autumn leaves fell on dreams of a future where an apple pie would rule majestic from the center of a bare shining table in a cozy clean kitchen. I would stand handing out cookies to my babies as they flowed home from school into my cinnamon fantasy that first found its seed in my grandmother’s sunlit afghan 15 years before.
On brisk days of reality, I pushed strollers and recounted days gone by to tiny ears alongside bow lips that only opened for “Ma ma ma ma ma ma ma” and did not yet know, “Enough.”
Russet snapshots flash—a baby in red on a flat rock in Appleton’s ridge, sweet full cheeks flush in plaid on a blanket covered with leaves at Aunt Edith’s stoop, and a perfect chin beneath a crown of curls that finally dips down in sleep as R.E.M.’s relentless lullaby around the sun works its magic, as the van passes the “Witchy Pumpkin” yet again.
Winter was crisper than autumn, the sharp bite of Northeasters edging out sunny dreams. These days brimmed with Mema in Ames, Walmart, Penny’s—donning her Santa cap as I tried to recreate her magic. It’s so cold here, I do not want to drift back, save for those few balsam weeks.
Spring blooms eternal in southern places, but up here only my dreams of summer could take root in the chilled muddy ground. I chased them impatiently into Aunt Edith’s kitchen for tea as little hands reached in the cookie drawer and we made ready for a drive. Mema’s office would be surprised by a lunchtime visit and little feet would not want to touch the brittle frosted grass of winter’s cold grave.
Those days my best friends were old ladies and my favorite memories were remembering ones older still, all my dreams were merely dreams, and I was trying to be what I had imagined I would be, not what was my share of destiny.
This is where I drift back to now, with a sweet small ache for cocoon days of dim lights by a bedside where tiny feet kicked as I lifted them to change—to days when a trip to the store could bring time with my mother or Aunt, simple favorite foods, and a bright light in small eyes.
I don’t know yet how to reconcile the longing for such company as I’ll never have again—the yearning for a mother, for a family with roots deep in the earth. But I plow on, up hills framed by blueberries with small hands in mine, that grow despite my pleas. I look at the eyes of changing faces and try to keep focused on a path still into them, so that one day we can drive by old places and tell new stories in between, and sweet desires will have safe haven and new dreams will be discovered.
It reminded me of days gone by—of sweet desires—
squeaky toys, stars and moons and skies of clouds.
When hair was twisted, crunched, or in curls, and I knew just how to make you happy. But had no clue how to be myself.
I only knew to drown in moments full of babies’ savory odors, squeals of joy, and salty tears. All of you in a circle around me—corralling my importance.
Sunlit days overflowed with parks green, chilled by oceans, dripping with ice cream—the passenger seat full of Mema or Aunt Edith. Islands loomed ahead, while smooth rocks and shells shaded like the sunset waited for us, below chipped picnic tables on uneven ground.
Autumn leaves fell on dreams of a future where an apple pie would rule majestic from the center of a bare shining table in a cozy clean kitchen. I would stand handing out cookies to my babies as they flowed home from school into my cinnamon fantasy that first found its seed in my grandmother’s sunlit afghan 15 years before.
On brisk days of reality, I pushed strollers and recounted days gone by to tiny ears alongside bow lips that only opened for “Ma ma ma ma ma ma ma” and did not yet know, “Enough.”
Russet snapshots flash—a baby in red on a flat rock in Appleton’s ridge, sweet full cheeks flush in plaid on a blanket covered with leaves at Aunt Edith’s stoop, and a perfect chin beneath a crown of curls that finally dips down in sleep as R.E.M.’s relentless lullaby around the sun works its magic, as the van passes the “Witchy Pumpkin” yet again.
Winter was crisper than autumn, the sharp bite of Northeasters edging out sunny dreams. These days brimmed with Mema in Ames, Walmart, Penny’s—donning her Santa cap as I tried to recreate her magic. It’s so cold here, I do not want to drift back, save for those few balsam weeks.
Spring blooms eternal in southern places, but up here only my dreams of summer could take root in the chilled muddy ground. I chased them impatiently into Aunt Edith’s kitchen for tea as little hands reached in the cookie drawer and we made ready for a drive. Mema’s office would be surprised by a lunchtime visit and little feet would not want to touch the brittle frosted grass of winter’s cold grave.
Those days my best friends were old ladies and my favorite memories were remembering ones older still, all my dreams were merely dreams, and I was trying to be what I had imagined I would be, not what was my share of destiny.
This is where I drift back to now, with a sweet small ache for cocoon days of dim lights by a bedside where tiny feet kicked as I lifted them to change—to days when a trip to the store could bring time with my mother or Aunt, simple favorite foods, and a bright light in small eyes.
I don’t know yet how to reconcile the longing for such company as I’ll never have again—the yearning for a mother, for a family with roots deep in the earth. But I plow on, up hills framed by blueberries with small hands in mine, that grow despite my pleas. I look at the eyes of changing faces and try to keep focused on a path still into them, so that one day we can drive by old places and tell new stories in between, and sweet desires will have safe haven and new dreams will be discovered.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Is That a Phone or my Tinnitus? (L)
In a moment of revelation, I set my cell phone ringer to sound like an actual phone ringing (or some electronic imitation thereof). I decided I'd like to have my first thought when I hear it ringing be, "Hey, a phone is ringing!"
I enjoy imagining my purse on a park bench between my grandmother (were she alive) and me and hearing her say, "Well, I'll be, is that a phone ringing in your purse?" rather than, "I think I'm going crazy, I hear Pachelbel's Canon!"
I have a low brow Tracfone that doesn't give me the option of choosing the song that best suits my personality of the day. But even if I did, I think I'm sticking with a phone sounding like a phone. When it rings at the beach, there's no longer a domino effect of other mothers madly searching their bag. At first, everyone would just state quite confidently, "It's not my phone", because, after all, it didn't sound like music, it sounded like a phone. Now, they just look at me and say, "Your phone is ringing" before I can even slip my hand into my bag.
Maybe somewhere deep down inside me, I'm a bit old fashioned, even if I do Facebook. I would never "lol" for the simple reason that I would never write "laugh out loud", so why would I abbreviate it? I spent the first few years thinking it meant "lots of love" and that my nieces really liked me more than I thought they did. When I watch my daughter type an email (which I just broke down to), I want to slap her hand as I see her backspace over "see you later" and re-type "c u later". I tell her that's for texting (which she can't do because I won't let her have a phone) or IMing (which I also won't let her do) when time and space is limited. But she read in American Girl that it's better to write that way in an email because it then takes less time for your friends to read it. I told her it was promoting stupidity and American Girl should be ashamed. I was driving so I couldn't see her, but I'm pretty sure I felt her roll her eyes.
I've broken down and let her wear skinny jeans, if they aren't too tight, and I've even been known to "OMG" in an IM (it somehow seems less sacrilegious, and I say the full phrase around many a Christian). So, maybe it's just a matter of time before I give in to some things. Maybe you'll drive by my daughter when she's in high school, wearing skin tight jeans texting "LMAO" on her cell phone to some boy she's never met from Facebook. But for now, I take comfort in knowing that if my grandmother could read my emails she would understand every word I wrote, and if she heard my cell phone ringing, she'd actually say, "You'll turn that thing off when you're with me or, by God, I'll leave you sitting here".
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Birthday Princess (L) June 4, 2009
Today is my first birthday without my mother. To say my birthday without my mother doesn’t feel the same seems redundant. Without our mothers, we would have no birthday. There isn’t a mother in the world that doesn’t remember something about her child’s actual “birth” day. The details of our children’s first Christmas, first Easter, even first birthday celebration get fuzzy and blend together. Pain makes memory more vivid, emotional or physical. It makes sense that this day remains crisp in a mother’s mind, the memory of a small human making its way out of your body in one form or another.
But this morning when I woke up, I was surprised to find that umbilical cord was still there, the end now dangling in the netherworld. I could pull it in hand over fist, and find its end raw and unattached. I waited for the reassuring calm and comfort that my brother and father have spoken of feeling enveloped in, as they feel my mother’s presence. But like my sister, I felt nothing. My mind then moved on to guilt. Wasn’t it too bad that I never said to my mother, “I can’t imagine a birthday without you.”, or “thanks for the life”, or even a simple, “thanks for all the birthday spoils”, of which there were many.
What my mother lacked in patience for traditional mothering throughout the rest of the year, she attempted to make up in holidays and birthdays. I often feel the strain as a mother to try and live up to the exuberance of my holidays past, and the generosity of my mother in my children’s holidays and birthdays.
When we were little, whether our birthdays will filled with just our family of 5 or with a few friends thrown in, there were always streamers and balloons and cake and numerous, numerous presents. The last present was always hidden in a treasure hunt led by creative, witty clues all written in my mother’s neat slanted script. Later in life, when she lacked the energy or ability to do the actual “leg work” of a party she was still always ready with the cash fund and usually some general orders. No one’s birthday went by without a dinner, a cake, ice cream and some presents, even when cash was tight.
My mother’s indulgence has damaged my real world expectations. When C and I were first dating, I remember being stunned when he forgot to buy me a present. How could that be possible? I was the birthday princess! This year, lacking the drive of my mother’s birthday spirit, C asked me “Do you want a cake?” I looked at him as if he was crazy, as if he had just asked me would I need my feet for the rest of the day or would I like them chopped off. You see, my mother has spoiled me. What a shame, now that I am acutely aware of just how much, that I can’t spoil her back.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Fuggedaboudit
Easter night I saw there was a preview for the TV show "Real Housewives of New Jersey" and OK, I bit. Being real, kind of a housewife, and definitely from NJ, I was curious. The characters? housewives? were an extended family with the men "in construction" and the women have children, buy stuff, and work out. And they're Italian. Ummm, hello? Italian, from N.J. and "in construction"? Isn't that white-people-speak for mob? You know like when someone leaves their job to "spend more time with the family"? Or when a guy has a "neat apartment, likes show tunes and Barbra Streisand"?
It's pathetic that this is the extent of being Italian American. I was a big "Sopranos" fan, I thought it was incredibly realistic and well done. I saw a lot of the people, places and things on the screen that reminded me of my relatives (one of them actually was a relative...). But there was at least some human drama--decisions made, actions taken. A wide range of characters and viewpoints. This reality show is so incredibly vapid and horrible (yes I can tell that from watching 15 minutes! Let me rant!) but I can't even really whine about stereotypes because these people are 100 percent real. Of course there's a lot of control in editing, but let's not split big hair.
I'm not going all b.s. highbrow on you either. I love me some mindless tv like the next person. During the first sleepless new baby months I watched a marathon of America's Next Top Model and then like a coke addict pawing through a shag carpet hoping against hope for a little forgotten nugget, started flipping thru the channels looking for more. Dark days. TV-watching does trigger the same responses as drug addiction. But I'm getting off my topic here.
I guess despite the fact that these people are fascinating in a trivial way and entertaining like a car accident, I'm just done with this stereotype. It's gotten so incredibly stale. Here's some other wops from Jersey: Bruce Springsteen, Janeane Garofalo, Tom Perrotta. More like these, please.
In the meantime I'd rather hang with the real real housewives of NJ, i.e., my friends down the street. Eeeeey. Fuggedaboudit.
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