Posts
People find each other for a reason. I guess that’s fate. We all wander around bumping into and bouncing off each other. We get the answers as to why in bits and pieces, not in a Technicolor full screen version with a back story and a director's interview.
My friend Steve and I used to joke about it. We grew up two towns apart and still lived in the same place. Despite the fact that we went to lots of the same places as kids, teen-agers and adults and even knew some of the same people, we never met until we were over 50.
After he was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma he asked if I would be his health care advocate in the event he became incapable of making his own decisions. We did it legally with all the properly executed paperwork. We talked about the things he wanted and how he felt about death and dying and we got all of that straight. What we didn't anticipate was how sick he would become and that his hospitalization would stretch to almost a year. After a couple of months he began telling the doctors and nurses to "ask Linda" whenever something needed to be discussed. I couldn't blame him, it was enough just to hang on, to deal with the sometimes daily dialysis, the pain in his back, and the very understandable depression.
Four months in, he went into the Intensive Care Unit for the first time and my schedule became daily trips to the hospital and remained so for the duration. I had to agree and sign for every procedure, bags and bags of blood and platelets, surgeries, intubations. There were so many specialists I started a list just to keep their names straight.
The important thing was that my friend was waiting each day for me to come. The ICU nurses would tell me that he would ask them throughout the day what time it was and when I would be arriving. Sometimes if he was confused from the medication, he told them that he heard my voice and that I was standing right outside his door. When his vocal chords were damaged by the intubation tubes and he was unable to talk, he would take my hand and kiss it and mouth "thank you," over and over.
There were horrible bad times when he raged and hated everyone, including me. It was so hard not to view my dear friend as hateful and hurtful, and I confess to sometimes losing that battle with myself. "Why am I doing this?" I would wonder, “the rest of my life is on hold while I take care of this person who says such mean things.” Articulate Steve knew how to say beautiful words, and could sting so very thoroughly with them as well.
But in the end there was such a peacefulness. The last time I saw him he was drowsy and smiling. “I’m sleepy,” he said, “Go home. Thank you. I love you. “
I've never regretted any of it. I would do it all over again for my friend.
This brings me back to that fate thing and why we got to know each other in the first place. He used to say to me, "I know my mother sent you." Maybe she had a hand in it. There are many things that my sweet friend did for me that made his place in my life a gift from somewhere as well, but I question nothing. Why else would we have finally crossed paths, for such a short number of years, and at just the right time?
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
All of Us Veggies
If one more person asks, upon learning that I'm a vegetarian, "but what do you eat?" I'm going to drop a tub of tofu on them...which I don't eat anyway because I don't care what you do to it, it still tastes like the sponge I wash my dishes with.
People seem to think that taking away meat and poultry leaves Ethiopia. They forget that there is a whole realm of food out there that did not start out mooing or clucking, and since I'm not heroin chic emaciated, I must have found it. There are plenty of choices that make me have to work hard at keeping my jeans fitting the way I want them to.
Not long ago I was at a wedding where you were asked to choose what entree you preferred. When the waiter came to me, I made the mistake of telling him that I was a vegetarian and just to bring me whatever vegetables they were serving without the meat. "Oh no," he said, "I'll have the chef make you something special." He eyed me like a handicapped relative and patted my shoulder sympathetically. When we were served he set my plate in front of me and said, "Now there you go, just for you," and stopped short of, "you poor thing." There was a yellow squash sliced in half length ways, surrounded by carrots and broccoli. The "chief" must have whisked the squash past a pot of steaming water or turned a hairdryer on it (with the diffuser in place and set on low), because it was barely room temperature and still "thunked" when tapped on the table. The broccoli and carrots were raw. Everyone else had tiny browned potatoes and string beans almondine, all fully cooked to perfection.
I sometimes wonder if its some sort of weird subconscious punishment for the non-conforming, non-carnivores. "Here, eat this anemic looking squash, that’s what you get for not eating this nice filet mignon, what the heck is wrong with you?" They are also the "enhanced flavor Nazis" too. "No Seasonings for YOU!! Move to the back of the line."
I've been offered things like carrots on a bed of lettuce at a dinner party "because I know you're a vegetarian," when everyone else is enjoying a plethora of nicely cooked veggies along with their meat, or some sort of pasta. I'm always tempted to reply, "Oh no, I don't want to be a bother. I'll just go out and graze in the back yard, I noticed some nice looking dandelion leaves on my way in."
I'm not a vegan, I never met an egg or a piece of cheese I didn't like. I put milk in my coffee. I eat some fish. That puts me in a technical "Pescetarian" sub category, I suppose. I still love the smell of steaks cooking on a charcoal grill, but I just don't want to eat them. Pizza and lots of Chinese food is still meatless, along with a zillion other things. I don't get freaked if meat touches my food. And when I was in Italy I tasted the salami and prosciutto in four different regions. I'm a vegetarian, not an idiot.
At that wedding of my cousin the beautiful bride and the uncooked squash, I shrewdly ate enough calamari and roasted peppers at the cocktail hour so that the "squash that thumped," was a laugh for our table. When the wedding cake was served the waiter looked at me and hesitated, holding the plate with my slice in his hand until I reached over and took it from him. Yeah right, are you kidding me?
People seem to think that taking away meat and poultry leaves Ethiopia. They forget that there is a whole realm of food out there that did not start out mooing or clucking, and since I'm not heroin chic emaciated, I must have found it. There are plenty of choices that make me have to work hard at keeping my jeans fitting the way I want them to.
Not long ago I was at a wedding where you were asked to choose what entree you preferred. When the waiter came to me, I made the mistake of telling him that I was a vegetarian and just to bring me whatever vegetables they were serving without the meat. "Oh no," he said, "I'll have the chef make you something special." He eyed me like a handicapped relative and patted my shoulder sympathetically. When we were served he set my plate in front of me and said, "Now there you go, just for you," and stopped short of, "you poor thing." There was a yellow squash sliced in half length ways, surrounded by carrots and broccoli. The "chief" must have whisked the squash past a pot of steaming water or turned a hairdryer on it (with the diffuser in place and set on low), because it was barely room temperature and still "thunked" when tapped on the table. The broccoli and carrots were raw. Everyone else had tiny browned potatoes and string beans almondine, all fully cooked to perfection.
I sometimes wonder if its some sort of weird subconscious punishment for the non-conforming, non-carnivores. "Here, eat this anemic looking squash, that’s what you get for not eating this nice filet mignon, what the heck is wrong with you?" They are also the "enhanced flavor Nazis" too. "No Seasonings for YOU!! Move to the back of the line."
I've been offered things like carrots on a bed of lettuce at a dinner party "because I know you're a vegetarian," when everyone else is enjoying a plethora of nicely cooked veggies along with their meat, or some sort of pasta. I'm always tempted to reply, "Oh no, I don't want to be a bother. I'll just go out and graze in the back yard, I noticed some nice looking dandelion leaves on my way in."
I'm not a vegan, I never met an egg or a piece of cheese I didn't like. I put milk in my coffee. I eat some fish. That puts me in a technical "Pescetarian" sub category, I suppose. I still love the smell of steaks cooking on a charcoal grill, but I just don't want to eat them. Pizza and lots of Chinese food is still meatless, along with a zillion other things. I don't get freaked if meat touches my food. And when I was in Italy I tasted the salami and prosciutto in four different regions. I'm a vegetarian, not an idiot.
At that wedding of my cousin the beautiful bride and the uncooked squash, I shrewdly ate enough calamari and roasted peppers at the cocktail hour so that the "squash that thumped," was a laugh for our table. When the wedding cake was served the waiter looked at me and hesitated, holding the plate with my slice in his hand until I reached over and took it from him. Yeah right, are you kidding me?
Monday, August 23, 2010
Steve's Summer Solstice
(Since this daily writing is in part due to the promise I made to Steve, this one is a about an experience I would never have had if I hadn't known him.)
The "Mermaid Parade" takes place every year, on the weekend closest to the summer solstice on the Coney Island boardwalk. It is a celebration of the beginning of summer, usually led by some mid-level celebrity as Grand Marshal, and anyone can be in it.
It is an amazing sight. The spectators number in the thousands to watch hundreds of costumed mermaids march or glide on intricate floats along with their under-the-sea male counterparts, accompanied by bands and musical groups of every kind. There are cover girl mermaids, elderly mermaids, cross-dressing mermaids, mommy mermaids with baby mermaids, and some mostly naked mermaids spray painted gold or silver.. People drape themselves in netting and necklaces of shells, hats adorned with starfish, and there are sequins and sparkles enough to gratify any gypsy soul, including my own.
After the parade, the celebration continues long into the night. There is music on the boardwalk and you can work your way down dancing to rock, hip hop, salsa, listen to steel drums, and toss coins into the instrument cases of some pretty damn good street musicians. Don't bother waiting on the never-ending line at Nathan's, there are a ton of ethnic foods to choose from, and inhale.
We took the subway all the way out, it stops a few hundred yards from the boardwalk, and is elevated and sunny once you get a little further along. The first few stops were pretty routine, but then mermaids started hopping on. Every shape and size, decked from the simple bottom of the sea creature to the most elaborate showgirl type. Each stop drew a few more, and suddenly the car became a traveling pre-celebration party, with everyone laughing and comparing costumes, a virtual sea of summer solstice strangers engaging the moments. I've ridden the subway back from Shea with a car full of Mets fans after they won (really), but even they were not as much fun as that bunch of mermaids-for-a-day we rode with.
Maybe the solstice has some scientific magnetic force that beefs up our endorphins, or plays on those receptors in the brain that make us happy. I'm not interested in that would be explanation. I think it was the sparkles and the music and nobody giving a damn if they looked foolish (they didn't) or silly. We welcomed the summer dancing barefoot with mermaids. How much better can it get?
The "Mermaid Parade" takes place every year, on the weekend closest to the summer solstice on the Coney Island boardwalk. It is a celebration of the beginning of summer, usually led by some mid-level celebrity as Grand Marshal, and anyone can be in it.
It is an amazing sight. The spectators number in the thousands to watch hundreds of costumed mermaids march or glide on intricate floats along with their under-the-sea male counterparts, accompanied by bands and musical groups of every kind. There are cover girl mermaids, elderly mermaids, cross-dressing mermaids, mommy mermaids with baby mermaids, and some mostly naked mermaids spray painted gold or silver.. People drape themselves in netting and necklaces of shells, hats adorned with starfish, and there are sequins and sparkles enough to gratify any gypsy soul, including my own.
After the parade, the celebration continues long into the night. There is music on the boardwalk and you can work your way down dancing to rock, hip hop, salsa, listen to steel drums, and toss coins into the instrument cases of some pretty damn good street musicians. Don't bother waiting on the never-ending line at Nathan's, there are a ton of ethnic foods to choose from, and inhale.
We took the subway all the way out, it stops a few hundred yards from the boardwalk, and is elevated and sunny once you get a little further along. The first few stops were pretty routine, but then mermaids started hopping on. Every shape and size, decked from the simple bottom of the sea creature to the most elaborate showgirl type. Each stop drew a few more, and suddenly the car became a traveling pre-celebration party, with everyone laughing and comparing costumes, a virtual sea of summer solstice strangers engaging the moments. I've ridden the subway back from Shea with a car full of Mets fans after they won (really), but even they were not as much fun as that bunch of mermaids-for-a-day we rode with.
Maybe the solstice has some scientific magnetic force that beefs up our endorphins, or plays on those receptors in the brain that make us happy. I'm not interested in that would be explanation. I think it was the sparkles and the music and nobody giving a damn if they looked foolish (they didn't) or silly. We welcomed the summer dancing barefoot with mermaids. How much better can it get?
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Trees And Other Souls
My office window gives me a minute to minute update of the weather. The view from my seat is the top half of the white building across the street and one slightly pathetic tree whose branches reach to this second floor horizon. I watch the seasons change through it, and on the worst work days I imagine that it waves in my direction reassuring me that there is life outside this workplace. Today I'm watching a torrential rain beating its leaves and the wind bending it side to side. I'm hoping that nothing cracks or breaks off causing someone to decide it is not aesthetic enough to be on the main street of this pretentious burb.
Appearance is what matters here, and I am so out of place... Alice through the looking glass in the form of a middle-aged day-dreamer in my favorite hippie thrift store skirt. It is in the air and in the cafe where they charge even more than Starbucks, and in the window of the elite "doggy store" where a sign in the window advertises "Just Arrived ! Italian Cashmere Sweaters." There are three banks and an investment broker on every block, a town furrier (cold storage on site for ALL your furs, ladies) and the Hummers still take up two parking spaces, gas prices notwithstanding.
Last summer there was a homeless woman who sat in the little park on nice days and took refuge in the train station when it rained. The townsfolk were outraged and sent letters to the editor and complaints to the cops. I walked past her many times, sitting on a bench with a bag at her feet and a winter hat on her short summer hair. If she wasn't taking a little cat nap she'd smile and ask me the time. My answer...1 o'clock, 5 o'clock, 10:30 AM,... always drew the same response, "Oh thank you dear, that's good." People called her “disgraceful' and 'dangerous.” They implied that she kept others from being comfortable in the park and made commuters uneasy in the station, no doubt quaking in their fine leather shoes and designer suits as they waited to hop a train to Wall Street. A few were more bold in their revulsion and said that she just made the town "look bad" and that somebody better do something about it before more of "them" appeared. Apparently they were convinced that the homeless have a hotline to advise each other of where the good benches are.
It was quite the buzz for a month or so, and then the powers that be had her ousted. “Sheriff, this town just ain't big enough for a couple of thousand millionaires and a little old homeless lady.” The little park with its carefully appointed landscape and fake fountain waterfall is perfect once again.
So, I worry about my tree. The sidewalk Gestapo here patrols for "neat" flower boxes, ornamental details and tiny shrubbery trimmed just so. What are its chances if it ends up with some branches stripped or missing a limb with a nasty open wound for all of downtown to see?
I worry about some of these people too. I worry about their souls.
Appearance is what matters here, and I am so out of place... Alice through the looking glass in the form of a middle-aged day-dreamer in my favorite hippie thrift store skirt. It is in the air and in the cafe where they charge even more than Starbucks, and in the window of the elite "doggy store" where a sign in the window advertises "Just Arrived ! Italian Cashmere Sweaters." There are three banks and an investment broker on every block, a town furrier (cold storage on site for ALL your furs, ladies) and the Hummers still take up two parking spaces, gas prices notwithstanding.
Last summer there was a homeless woman who sat in the little park on nice days and took refuge in the train station when it rained. The townsfolk were outraged and sent letters to the editor and complaints to the cops. I walked past her many times, sitting on a bench with a bag at her feet and a winter hat on her short summer hair. If she wasn't taking a little cat nap she'd smile and ask me the time. My answer...1 o'clock, 5 o'clock, 10:30 AM,... always drew the same response, "Oh thank you dear, that's good." People called her “disgraceful' and 'dangerous.” They implied that she kept others from being comfortable in the park and made commuters uneasy in the station, no doubt quaking in their fine leather shoes and designer suits as they waited to hop a train to Wall Street. A few were more bold in their revulsion and said that she just made the town "look bad" and that somebody better do something about it before more of "them" appeared. Apparently they were convinced that the homeless have a hotline to advise each other of where the good benches are.
It was quite the buzz for a month or so, and then the powers that be had her ousted. “Sheriff, this town just ain't big enough for a couple of thousand millionaires and a little old homeless lady.” The little park with its carefully appointed landscape and fake fountain waterfall is perfect once again.
So, I worry about my tree. The sidewalk Gestapo here patrols for "neat" flower boxes, ornamental details and tiny shrubbery trimmed just so. What are its chances if it ends up with some branches stripped or missing a limb with a nasty open wound for all of downtown to see?
I worry about some of these people too. I worry about their souls.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Timmy And The Teasers
(Note: Previously published in "Little Book of Poems and other Writings" 2003)
I stopped to have coffee after work with my dear friend Mike, still dressed in my nine to five persona skirt and heels and looking forward to winding down and sharing a little gossip. His 20-ish nephew was visiting with two friends in tow, using his home as a stopover for the night. They sat with us in the fading evening light, comfortably, youthfully slouched on couches and cushions.
Young men never seem to miss a chance to plunder one of their own. A continuous right of passage I suppose, inflicted on each other as they constantly try to one up even the closest of friends. They pounced unmercifully on Tim, the quietest one who was seated next to me on a small settee. “Yep, Tim doesn’t have a girlfriend.” They started in. “Do you believe that?”
“ Old Timmy, 18 years old and no woman.” Rob jabbed an “18” into the air for emphasis. He continued. “We’re taking him to the city tonight…gonna get him a woman…old Tim’s never…”
As the only woman in the room and assuredly the person he was most embarrassed to be hearing this recital, I broke in. “The weather should be nice tonight for walking around in the city. Are you going into the village?” They were merciless. “Maybe Tim will have better luck in New York, he keeps striking out in Pennsylvania.” Rob shot back.
Because I was old enough to be his mother…but wasn’t…I could see that “old Tim” possessed the on-the-brink good looks that in a few short years would have his taunting friends vying for his young lady overflow.
He acknowledged their ribbing with downcast eyes and gave a swift apologetic glance in my direction with his long lashed, very deep blues. A tiny smile pulled at his sweetly sensuous mouth. Because I was old enough to be his mother… but wasn’t… I noticed that too.
The other guys pushed on with the attempted humiliation while Mike and I ignored them and talked around it all. A few minutes went by with Tim continuing to be un-responsive to their taunts. I glanced at my seat mate and suddenly noticed that while his head remained down, his eyes were aimed in my direction and fixed on my crossed legs, watching me unconsciously dangling one black high heeled shoe from my toes. He would glance away quickly checking to see if I had noticed, and then again allow his eyes to run down the black stockings, pause at the swaying heel, and slowly back up my leg.
To my knowledge, I hadn’t had my legs checked out by a man his age in quite some time. Because I was old enough to be his mother… but wasn’t…I un-crossed my legs slowly, inviting his full attention. Lazily I stretched each one straight out, a- la- Mrs. Robinson, before crossing back over. I continued to dangle the high heeled shoe, grateful that my stockings had survived the day without a run, and thankful that the gams are the last to go. His appreciation was palpable and made my own heart light with sweet recollections of men and lovers who were young long ago.
There, before his unsuspecting pals filled with their own bravado, Tim and I shared our little secret, neither of us letting on what we both knew. A few moments when the teasing of his peers was drowned out in his own unexpected stop along the way. I knew this sweet young man would soon realize with delicious surprise that he more then had what it took. I willed him the understanding that, used passionately and lovingly, it would make him a very happy man indeed and that most good things come at just the right time.
I smile when I remember that afternoon and my performance for an unacknowledged audience of one. My gift to a young man from a woman who was old enough to be his mother… but wasn’t.
I stopped to have coffee after work with my dear friend Mike, still dressed in my nine to five persona skirt and heels and looking forward to winding down and sharing a little gossip. His 20-ish nephew was visiting with two friends in tow, using his home as a stopover for the night. They sat with us in the fading evening light, comfortably, youthfully slouched on couches and cushions.
Young men never seem to miss a chance to plunder one of their own. A continuous right of passage I suppose, inflicted on each other as they constantly try to one up even the closest of friends. They pounced unmercifully on Tim, the quietest one who was seated next to me on a small settee. “Yep, Tim doesn’t have a girlfriend.” They started in. “Do you believe that?”
“ Old Timmy, 18 years old and no woman.” Rob jabbed an “18” into the air for emphasis. He continued. “We’re taking him to the city tonight…gonna get him a woman…old Tim’s never…”
As the only woman in the room and assuredly the person he was most embarrassed to be hearing this recital, I broke in. “The weather should be nice tonight for walking around in the city. Are you going into the village?” They were merciless. “Maybe Tim will have better luck in New York, he keeps striking out in Pennsylvania.” Rob shot back.
Because I was old enough to be his mother…but wasn’t…I could see that “old Tim” possessed the on-the-brink good looks that in a few short years would have his taunting friends vying for his young lady overflow.
He acknowledged their ribbing with downcast eyes and gave a swift apologetic glance in my direction with his long lashed, very deep blues. A tiny smile pulled at his sweetly sensuous mouth. Because I was old enough to be his mother… but wasn’t… I noticed that too.
The other guys pushed on with the attempted humiliation while Mike and I ignored them and talked around it all. A few minutes went by with Tim continuing to be un-responsive to their taunts. I glanced at my seat mate and suddenly noticed that while his head remained down, his eyes were aimed in my direction and fixed on my crossed legs, watching me unconsciously dangling one black high heeled shoe from my toes. He would glance away quickly checking to see if I had noticed, and then again allow his eyes to run down the black stockings, pause at the swaying heel, and slowly back up my leg.
To my knowledge, I hadn’t had my legs checked out by a man his age in quite some time. Because I was old enough to be his mother… but wasn’t…I un-crossed my legs slowly, inviting his full attention. Lazily I stretched each one straight out, a- la- Mrs. Robinson, before crossing back over. I continued to dangle the high heeled shoe, grateful that my stockings had survived the day without a run, and thankful that the gams are the last to go. His appreciation was palpable and made my own heart light with sweet recollections of men and lovers who were young long ago.
There, before his unsuspecting pals filled with their own bravado, Tim and I shared our little secret, neither of us letting on what we both knew. A few moments when the teasing of his peers was drowned out in his own unexpected stop along the way. I knew this sweet young man would soon realize with delicious surprise that he more then had what it took. I willed him the understanding that, used passionately and lovingly, it would make him a very happy man indeed and that most good things come at just the right time.
I smile when I remember that afternoon and my performance for an unacknowledged audience of one. My gift to a young man from a woman who was old enough to be his mother… but wasn’t.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Wisdom
Not so long ago, my Granddaughter had a great affinity for Band-Aids. Immediately after a greeting hug and kiss, she would ask in her tiny girl voice, “See my Band-Aids?” and pull up the legs of her pants to reveal four or five cartoon-character-ed adhesive strips across each leg.
Of course this Grandma would seriously ask about the circumstances of each. She would shrug her little shoulders at every inquiry, but continue to point down the line until all received the proper sympathetic consideration.
If I was fortunate enough to be there at bedtime, I would hold her sweet weight in my lap while she listened to the story she had chosen. Reluctant to give in to sleep, she lasted until the book was finished. Then she would point to a spot on her arm or leg, say “boo boo” in her sleepy voice, and offer it up for attention. Again and again, her fingertip resting on unblemished skin, we’d repeat the ritual. After each healing kiss, she would sigh and burrow in closer until her eyes closed and the deep breathing of her innocent sleep began.
I often think about her wisdom. How simple to ask for what is needed with no further thought for justification in the request.
How wonderful it would be to offer up that place that needs comfort, attention, reassurance. Perhaps one of the rough spots we face every day. Or maybe one of the ones that never go away.
The child in me envies the ability of the very young to understand what we often forget. How simple it is to offer your heart to be kissed and made better.
Of course this Grandma would seriously ask about the circumstances of each. She would shrug her little shoulders at every inquiry, but continue to point down the line until all received the proper sympathetic consideration.
If I was fortunate enough to be there at bedtime, I would hold her sweet weight in my lap while she listened to the story she had chosen. Reluctant to give in to sleep, she lasted until the book was finished. Then she would point to a spot on her arm or leg, say “boo boo” in her sleepy voice, and offer it up for attention. Again and again, her fingertip resting on unblemished skin, we’d repeat the ritual. After each healing kiss, she would sigh and burrow in closer until her eyes closed and the deep breathing of her innocent sleep began.
I often think about her wisdom. How simple to ask for what is needed with no further thought for justification in the request.
How wonderful it would be to offer up that place that needs comfort, attention, reassurance. Perhaps one of the rough spots we face every day. Or maybe one of the ones that never go away.
The child in me envies the ability of the very young to understand what we often forget. How simple it is to offer your heart to be kissed and made better.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
The Family That Picnics Together
(This is another "dusted off" piece, but in keeping with yesterday's entry, good food for thought. If anyone in my family is insulted, I apologize. I love you all.)
We were approaching the due date of our annual family reunion picnic. My father was one of seven children who married and pro-created Catholic-ally, and I have twenty seven first cousins who are mostly married with children and grandchildren. There are only three of the original seven left, two uncles and an aunt.
When everyone shows up, we are our own little village...or circus depending on the pull of the universe and any one or forty three personalities having some sort of delusional off day. Last year, half of them were in a snit, and in the spirit of some weird unity, an entire block declined to attend. I was trying to remember exactly why this morning and had to think for a few minutes, which is always the way of a past unpleasantness whose origin is never as important as the result.
We had talked about doing a picnic for years and finally got it together just three seasons ago. After the first one, e-mails flew back and forth between the cousins about how much fun we'd had and how it brought back so many memories of us all growing up together. We had shared many 4th of July celebrations, riotous loud affairs when our young parents joined in to toss water balloons and horseshoes, and bocce that went on all afternoon. Of course, they were Italian picnics with the best food anywhere and all my favorites, Aunt Millie's eggplant parmesan and my grandmother's anisette cookies to name just two.
My father's brothers and sisters remained close by all their lives, to the benefit of everyone. Sunday visits to one or the other were the rule in a time when nobody was too busy for a leisurely afternoon. It seemed everyone was thrilled to be together again.
Then somebody got insulted somewhere between the fall and the following summer. There are a few versions of who did what and what was said to who. A couple of nasty themed e-mails were hurled and copied into the entire family e-mail address list. Many tried to soothe over the situation and some didn't want to get involved for fear of making it worse. There is no lack of loud and pointed communication skills in this family. I suppose the ensuing hard feelings still exist because I just learned that the succeeding group would not be attending again due to each individual having "a prior commitment."
One aunt turned 90. One uncle is 85. We cousins are in our 40's and 50's, with a few past the 60 mark. There have been some serious medical issues.
I don't know if any of my relatives read this blog, but who gives a damn who said what to who. Did you forget how nice it was to say "Hey, do you remember.... ?" That we looked at each others grandchildren and said, "Did you ever think.....?" We share this one remarkable family, warts and disappointments included. Get over it. Get on with it. Let it go. I don't want to be standing in some cemetery listening to your regrets.
POSTSCRIPT: After this was written, two of "the cousins" passed away. My brother John, and my cousin Dennis. May they rest in peace. And yes, I stood in the cemetery and listened...
We were approaching the due date of our annual family reunion picnic. My father was one of seven children who married and pro-created Catholic-ally, and I have twenty seven first cousins who are mostly married with children and grandchildren. There are only three of the original seven left, two uncles and an aunt.
When everyone shows up, we are our own little village...or circus depending on the pull of the universe and any one or forty three personalities having some sort of delusional off day. Last year, half of them were in a snit, and in the spirit of some weird unity, an entire block declined to attend. I was trying to remember exactly why this morning and had to think for a few minutes, which is always the way of a past unpleasantness whose origin is never as important as the result.
We had talked about doing a picnic for years and finally got it together just three seasons ago. After the first one, e-mails flew back and forth between the cousins about how much fun we'd had and how it brought back so many memories of us all growing up together. We had shared many 4th of July celebrations, riotous loud affairs when our young parents joined in to toss water balloons and horseshoes, and bocce that went on all afternoon. Of course, they were Italian picnics with the best food anywhere and all my favorites, Aunt Millie's eggplant parmesan and my grandmother's anisette cookies to name just two.
My father's brothers and sisters remained close by all their lives, to the benefit of everyone. Sunday visits to one or the other were the rule in a time when nobody was too busy for a leisurely afternoon. It seemed everyone was thrilled to be together again.
Then somebody got insulted somewhere between the fall and the following summer. There are a few versions of who did what and what was said to who. A couple of nasty themed e-mails were hurled and copied into the entire family e-mail address list. Many tried to soothe over the situation and some didn't want to get involved for fear of making it worse. There is no lack of loud and pointed communication skills in this family. I suppose the ensuing hard feelings still exist because I just learned that the succeeding group would not be attending again due to each individual having "a prior commitment."
One aunt turned 90. One uncle is 85. We cousins are in our 40's and 50's, with a few past the 60 mark. There have been some serious medical issues.
I don't know if any of my relatives read this blog, but who gives a damn who said what to who. Did you forget how nice it was to say "Hey, do you remember.... ?" That we looked at each others grandchildren and said, "Did you ever think.....?" We share this one remarkable family, warts and disappointments included. Get over it. Get on with it. Let it go. I don't want to be standing in some cemetery listening to your regrets.
POSTSCRIPT: After this was written, two of "the cousins" passed away. My brother John, and my cousin Dennis. May they rest in peace. And yes, I stood in the cemetery and listened...
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