Rose Part 1

 Rose has been on my mind a lot lately. I miss her. Rose shared her stories with me. And there were many. I had a long string of text messages between the two of us that spanned close to a year's worth of conversations. I didn't know my save setting had an expiration date, so now I have just about a month's worth. It gets harder for me to remember all the grand exchanges with Rose so now is the time to capture them here as best as I can. They left a mark on me, an impression, her words of wisdom.

I turned to Rose when Andy was at his worse. He was at his worse for years. She loved him as I did, and understood my sorrow, and admired my fortitude, my tolerance, although we both wondered many times if our collective tolerance was love, fear, or ignorance. Now I see it as desperate denial but it bonded us, perhaps was why we ever became such close friends in the first place. To shroud a lost child until he finds his way back.

Rose told me that her dream, if she could leave a mark on the world, would be to have enough money to save all the unborn children from abortions. To have the money to support the mothers financially so that they would not have poverty as a reason to abort. To build homes where children saved from abortions could stay and thrive until they were adopted. Saving the unborn. Protecting the unwanted.

I have two cats sleeping on either side of me right now. Rose loved her cats. She missed them when she was in the hospital. She told me that they wouldn't leave her alone each time she returned from a stint at Virtua or Lady of Lourdes or Cooper. There were many happy reunions. 

Rose told me about Ed. About John. About Vince, Fred and Mario. But mostly about Ed. John was her husband, the father of her three, but Ed was the love of her life. Ed laid eyes on her at a house party of a mutual friend and liked what he saw very much. Ed would drink two beers every night after dinner and then smoked a joint. Two beers and a joint Ed. Ed planted a beautiful tree in the front yard as a present to Rose and each season it flowered magnificently as if attesting to Ed's ceaseless adoration. Ed would make Rose laugh each time he got an erection and asked "Now, what am I supposed to do with this?" I can still hear her laugh, hearty and genuine. I have only heard her cry a couple of times, but our conversations were fraught with laughter. Revelations and naughtiness. Confessions between confidants. 

All this exposure would mostly feel strange between a woman and the woman in love with her son. We were greater friends than we were family, and that makes sense since her family is disjointed, despite her best efforts to avoid that. Rose spoke of very fond memories of hosting large holiday dinners at her home. Whether or not the rest of them hold these memories as close to their hearts is a mystery. Close to the time she died, I remember Rose lamenting to me "I don't understand my children. They use to be close. Now it's like they are always mad at each other." Personally, I don't think any of them came close to taking after Rose in the "live and let live" department. Grudges had nowhere to dock in her kind harbor. 

Rose told me stories of her childhood. Of death, remarriage, a distant mother with a hard outer shell and a twisted relationship with her stepdad. A half brother who had an even worse experience than she did (although that is arguable) - as a teen, having to prove herself and her worth with cake decorating, a talent she carried over into her adult life as a side gig while at Conrail, adding even more hours to her long day by bringing in elaborately decorated cakes to sell to her co-workers. Rose told me toward the end of her days, that she finally made peace with her mother and spoke to her photograph, saying that she forgives her and loves her, always did. But that now she also understands. 

The Montessori School and Puppies

 My mother and I approached my son's preschool on foot, bypassing a line of cars waiting in the drop off car line. My son was not physically in this dream, but it was understood that he was a young child. (This has been a frequent theme as of late; my son being the age of a young child.) When my mother and I got to the door of the school, it was more like a window opening, the kind you see at an ice cream shop where you walk up and order and the transaction is done through the window. A receptionist greeted us and I told her we were here to pay the tuition. (Could be a subconscious reminder to pay my daughter's rent, which I have been putting off). Laurie S. (the head of school when my son was in preschool) stood in the background, behind the receptionist. The receptionist said the tuition owed was $95K. My mother began to write a check for that amount. I stopped her, saying that I was not letting her pay. My mother looked very confused and tired and sickly, like she was not in a good frame of mind, and she said was annoyed that I was stopping her from paying. (Could be the memory of the last time we went to lunch and mom got angry when I tried to pay the bill.)  I said something like, "if you want to give away $95K so badly, don't give it to this school. Give it to me!" There were puppies inside the school, behind the receptionist, three or four of them barking and running around like puppies do. 

If God didn't send him, then who did? The Husband Conundrum

Today I was likened to a demon. I was called a pig. A stupid ass. Then a martyr. Then a thief.

I am not shitting you. The accusations flew in from nowhere, disguised as pings from a pal. I thought this was over. Maybe it won't ever be.

The temptation to respond was palpable. Given such ripe material, who could resist? But that would only drive the knife deeper into an ever open wound. 

Funny thing is, she is right about one thing. I am part demon. Sometimes, evil feels good. 

                                                                                            Henry Fuseli, 1781

Clarity is a glass half spilled.

I have had a surge of unexpected energy and it motivated me to blog. Or perhaps it was the day I just had. Excuse me a moment whilst I turn off James Brown's YOWS-ing from xpn's Funky Friday segment ... I cannot compose my thoughts and listen to music simultaneously. Ah, that's better. The clicks and taps from the baseboard radiators and the Friday evening work traffic buzzing by are all I hear now.

Hot yoga with Dorian was how I began this Friday. Surrounded by 20 and 30 and 40 somethings, I feel like a powerful representation of what the new 55 looks like. I know it's not that old, but when I can keep up with and even surpass those youngsters, it feels like a super power reserved for only those who don't know what a Rolodex is. I think of how far I have come from when climbing steps meant sharp pain with each riser and squatting was impossible. How I can tolerate the intense heat and the drops of sweat that enter my nostrils and cling to my eyelashes like a prisoner valiantly withstanding a Chinese water torture. My lungs fill and my chest expands and contracts rhythmically as we are reminded that yoga is "breath with motion" and focusing on that clears my head for that 75 minutes. It is the only thing that is able to. Clear my head, that is.

Later, a sit down with my husband in a local bar. We have remained caring and patient with each other throughout this separation. It is time when important decisions must be made. Financial decisions. Divisional decisions. He insists it is so simple. I am made to feel like I am the antagonist, looking to complicate things unnecessarily and for selfish reasons. As is so many other aspects of our relationship, we disagree on the best way to handle this. We were partners, so I thought, in everything. But now, I am labeled a helper. This will all work out, as mom always says. Everything does. I pay the bill, and he thanks me for the drink. I say, laughingly, that's going in his column. He finds it unfunny and calls me insane and asks "you know what I can't figure out about you?" and I say don't tell me. Because after all this time, he should know.

Ma, tell me a story.

Not long ago, my son would ask me for a story as he drifted off to sleep. I’d always tell him tales of growing up as a 70s kid, making spook houses and backyard carnivals and bumper sledding. My son falls asleep with his phone. We all fall asleep with our phones. I remember how I used to fall asleep as a child. My mom sitting on the side of my bed, rhythmically bouncing so I’d feel a rocking motion, hand on my back and humming a song. Then, before leaving, she’d turn the crank on my music box, and the delicate tings of a lullaby filled the room. I’d sing the Apple Jacks lyrics to the melody and it fit perfectly. I can’t go back to being a kid, and times like these I wish I could. I can’t change the culture my kids will remember when they reflect on their childhood. Will they ever want to go back? I can’t relive the past. I can’t freeze time. I can still sing the Apple Jacks song, though.

Eulogy II

Coming up to one year since dad's passing. Now, my uncle (close to me like a dad) is failing. I never did get around to posting the eulogy I delivered for my dad on August 31, 2018 at St. Jude's Church, where I was baptized, confirmed, married. Where I remember hanging out in the parking lot with Lorraine, Lori and Linda, listening to The Shondells' Crystal Blue Persuasion blaring from the speakers of the Trabant on a hot summer carnival night...

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YO, Razz ...

As many of you know, that was one of my dad's endearing ways to greet you. 

YO, Razz! 

I can still hear him say it. It was meant for those he was happy to see. Today, you are all Razzes.

There were thousands of endearing things about my dad. It's difficult to know where to begin. Mostly, he shaped our lives in ways both colossal and subtle.

I want to start with a journal entry I wrote a few years back, one that I titled "You always want more."

"Looking across the table at my kids as we dine on sushi, I smile as I watch my son. He is fixated on the engineering behind chop sticks purposely rigged with a rubber band to make them 5-year-old friendly. The aroma of black tea as the cup nears my lips reminds me of pot incense. My daughter orders her usual steamed rice and edamame. 

Then, I overhear a request from a booth two doors down.

"Orange soda."

I want to immediately scream NO ICE. And at that moment, I realize how very different this dinner out with my kids is compared with those of my youth.

You see, growing up in the recession-burdened seventies in a blue collar neighborhood with a Depression-era father meant dinners out were either for a special occasion, or must involve a too-good-to-pass-up coupon. The special occasion was usually a birthday. As for the coupon, it was almost always McDonalds. I can still see him at the counter, always finishing his family of five order with TWO large orange sodas, NO ICE. And three extra courtesy cups.

So to this day, I am compelled to respond NO ICE to any mention of orange soda. And that is exactly what I did that evening in the Japanese restaurant. I chuckled to myself as I did so and thought of those days gone by, and all the other instances where my father's rationing and frugality made for good natured dad bashing conversations between my siblings and me. We eventually came to realize and appreciate that being raised by a spendthrift had no ill effect on us. It taught us conservation rather than wastefulness. It motivated us to work harder to earn more if more is indeed what you want. 

The only think I want more right now, is him.

My dad was a party. He was an aging child full of awe, finding humor in just about all situations. He was ever-questioning himself and others on topics both simplistic and profound. He possessed delightful spontenaity, whether it be coming home with a stray pet, a curbside treasure or another mechanical dancing figurine to add to his man cave decor. He had a sly style of slipping in clever one liners when you least expected it. Even though rendomly expressed hundreds of times, I never not laughed at Joe Bananas and His Bunch, music with a peel! He was extremely resourceful, and could and would fix anything, from Lincoln Continentals to lawn chairs. He was much smarter than he realized. His heart was immense. He was loved and respected by many, but not as much as by his devoted wife of 58 years, Catherine (yay, mom!) whom he cherished and with whom he flourished. And by his children. 

My dad will continue to bless our lives as we remember what he taught us by example, and as we share memories of him with each other. I thank all of you for being here this morning to celebrate his life. 

Eulogy

I'd like to read to you a portion of a travel journal I keep. This is from 2013, and it describes moments from the day that Pop introduced his home town, Maida, to my children.  It is titled Day Three In Maida. 

"Nonno pours espresso, thick and black, while Giovanna pins whites along the terrace clothesline. She has finally changed her blouse from the lively floral printed sleeveless to a plain blue tee.  Nonno still wears the button down he sported at the airport upon our arrival. Change is not common here.

We hike the steep road leading to the town square, "la piazza". Tall, rugged walls of slate gray rock to our left, a guardrail bordering our right. And beyond, the Appennino mountains rise and then fall, offering a glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea. The town is a series of dilapidated layers. Nonno leads us to the house where he was born. It resembles a large stall made of weathered burnt orange brick, pale stone and cement. One floor, one door, and a terra cotta shingled roof out of which sprouts vines and weeds and tangled thorny branches. Eight children lived in that house, once upon a time. He points to a small courtyard just below, and tells my kids that this is where he kept his donkey, many years ago. 

"And my girl-a-friends, I bring here, too," he confesses only to me, smiling. I laugh, and imagine this, his inspiration point ... Two teens, bathed in moonlight, sharing romance atop a scrappy, work-worn mule."

Reading this again, I am taken by how this one casual exchange exemplifies so much of that which defined my father-in-law. His humble beginnings. His powerful work ethic built upon being the eldest of a large family, and doing whatever was needed to provide. His ever-present pride in his roots and family, most especially of his son, the true light of his life. His charisma and passion for finding love, which he so successfully accomplished by marrying S, my mother-in-law, a beautiful woman who adored him and whom he cherished as well. His humor. And how hilarious he could be at the most unexpected times, like that afternoon in Maida. Or the thousands of other times we made memories together. Pop always made us laugh. He was generous and quick to happily share himself, from good stories to a good meal to the shirt off his back.

Most of all, he made us feel loved and protected. He made others feel welcomed, appreciated, valuable. He saw the potential in people, and cultivated it, just as he lovingly and diligently cultivated flowerbeds and his amazing vegetable garden. Gabe, Gabriele, Gabi, Nonno, Pop ... enriched so many lives, simply by example. I bet you are thinking of how he had an impact on your life, and you are grateful for that. We are all very lucky to have those memories, and to have been influenced and loved by one so loved. On behalf of  S, and our children, I thank you for sharing these memories and this morning with us.