Losing Giants

I learned earlier this week that “Uncle Manuel” had passed away. I knew he had been ill, and Mom and I had actually been speaking of him earlier in the day. Coincidence, I suppose. A friend (his nephew) posted this picture of Manuel and his siblings saying, “Today they are all together again. God bless them all.”

That image and the notion that they were ALL gone hit me hard. This is how I remember them – at the height of the late 70’s/early 80’s. The Greek community in my hometown was small but mighty. Greeks are a passionate people. They work hard and play harder. They are generous and loving to an embarrassing degree. They were a significant part of my childhood and my young adulthood. They were part of my big, fat Greek wedding.

I have very specific memories of each of them.

Thea Cia always seemed so glamorous to me. She was tall and had a million dollar smile. She was also a talented artist. Her wedding gift to us was a hand-painted enhancement of our invitation. She framed it for us. It is still on display in our living room.

Uncle Lacky was my brother’s Godfather, which is a pretty big deal in the Greek church. I remember him as a fast-walker and always having a smile on his face. We had many good times with he and Thea Helene in their home on Academy Circle.

Uncle Jimmy was dapper. He was always well-dressed and looked quite “Hollywood” to me. When I was working at a family restaurant in Fenwick Island one summer, he came in for breakfast early one morning. I was thrilled to see him. He left me a $20 tip on an order of pancakes.

And then, Uncle Manuel…he was very special. He was a character. He was Santa. He had a crushing handshake. He would shake your hand vigorously until your arm looked like a rubber band. Many times, I would run and hide because I didn’t want to shake his hand!

He was an imposing figure – literally a giant in my 10-year old eyes. He was tall and broad and had a booming, yet smooth voice. His laugh was hearty. And his heart was pure gold. I wouldn’t realize his pure genuineness until I was much older.

Just like all of his siblings, Uncle Manuel was a kind and generous man. He visited my father (another Greek giant), who is severely infirmed, weekly and played a penny game with him until he could no longer do it. He brought the priest to give my Dad communion. Beyond the church, he was a successful restaurateur and a mindful, serving citizen of the community. And he was a proud family man, raising five very wonderful kids with his wife, Thea Florine, and now many grandchildren.

It’s always hard to say goodbye, even if it has been a long and well-lived life. The loss of this “Greatest Generation” is significant, and I don’t know that we’ll ever see another one quite like it. I like to think I’ve learned well from these giants – how to work hard, the value of a dollar, the importance of family and integrity, and doing things the right way, not necessarily the easy way.

I sat in my hometown church and reflected on Uncle Manuel and others who have passed. I saw more giants (some of whom I hadn’t seen in 20 years) and they embraced me warmly. I heard the familiar hymns and chants, and smelled the incense. I was comforted by the ceremony and tradition of the service, and I smiled. I thought of how much my church has made me the person I am today. How the people of that church impacted me. And how maybe I could be a giant in someone’s eyes someday, too. I should be so lucky.

To Be A Better Daughter

Sometimes, we get so caught up in how WE feel and how hard something is for US, we forget about those around us. Or worse, we cast blame and aggravation on them for our stress, overlooking how they may feel. And then, sometimes, something happens that puts the proverbial mirror in front of your face, and you don’t much like what you see. That happened to me today.

After a fun and celebratory weekend at the Apple Blossom festival in my hometown, I spent an extra night with my Mom to take her to the Doctor the next morning. After all, she’s confused and forgetful and probably won’t remember what to ask the Doctor or what he says in return. I dutifully agree to take her. It’s what good daughters do.

We leave early (2 hours before her appt) to ensure her lab results will be ready in time. On the way, she tells me again to avoid this one stoplight, which exit to take, where to turn and where to park, even though I already know. Sigh. Her lab work is completed quickly and we have 90 minutes to kill. We grab breakfast in the coffee shop. She offers me half of her sweet roll, three times. I decline, three times. Sigh.

The nurse calls us back – weighs, measures, checks BP, etc. – all the while conversing pleasantly with Mom. The Doctor examines Mom, reviews meds, asks questions, and then turns to chat with her. This (and the 3-word test) is obviously an important part of assessing her mental health and well-being.

It’s direct and it’s raw. Watching your mother become emotional (and, yes, cry) when she responds to the Doctor’s question –  “How is Tom doing?” – is a humbling thing. In that instant, I saw her not as my fretting and forgetful mother who can exasperate me; rather, I saw her as an aging and tired woman who is deeply saddened and stressed to see her love in such an awful state. She is scared and lonely and hates getting old. I now understand this on a deeper level than I did just an hour ago.

Daddy’s infirmity has, subconsciously, superseded my concerns about Mom’s health. His obvious physical decline overshadows Mom’s mental state because, truly, she seems fine – a little flighty and forgetful, but fine. She’s not. She is watching the man she loves, her partner of 50+ years, fall prey to a horrific, insidious disease. The stress must be unbearable. She compensates by being pleasant and funny, and doting on her dog, and engaging anyone who will speak to her.

What the hell is wrong with me? How can I not see her challenges? How can I possibly twist her eccentricities into something that’s all about me? While I may not intend it to be awful and selfish…there it is.

Watching other people interact with my mother – treating her with kindness and patience – illuminates for me some unflattering shortcomings as a daughter.  Seeing her profound emotional reaction at her Doctor’s appt, yanks me back to where I need to be for her. I need to be present and kind and unyielding in my support of her. I need to clean out her fridge without admonishment. I need to purge her closet with jovial reminiscings. I need to be grateful for my time with her.

So, we go to lunch. We have a glass of wine and sit in the sunshine. We have a lovely, lovely afternoon together. I have the same conversation with her multiple times and smile; I answer the same question 3 times without changing the cadence of my voice; I listen to familiar stories with renewed engagement; and, I thank the Lord that she is still with me, that she knows me, and that she loves me, in spite of my dumbassery.

My granny nightgown is a time machine

I was shopping recently and spotted a very sweet, mint green cotton nightie with blue flowers. It had a few superfluous buttons down the front and a satin ribbon embellishment. I bought it because it reminded me of the nightgowns I would wear at Granny’s house. I would rummage through her drawer to find a cotton gown for sleeping.

Cotton was necessary because the summer nights on Hedge Hill could be very warm. I remember bounding into bed with Me-Maw – her bed so springy. My brothers would be on the equally springy bed on the sleeping porch just next to us. All windows and screened doors would be open to allow for the cross-breeze. The cacophony of night sounds would, eventually, lull us to sleep – crickets, frogs, whippoorwills, and the cluck of hens settling in at dusk.

We could still hear the adults playing cards in the other room, and I often felt sorry for Me-Maw that she was missing all that fun just to lie down with her grandbabies. But I guess she didn’t feel that way at all. With her lazy drawl, she would tell me funny stories about when my Mama was a little girl. I couldn’t imagine a more wonderful way to drift off to sleep than snuggled next to my granny who smelled of Prell and baby powder.

The house on the hill didn’t have AC and the plumbing was suspect – so much so that if you had to pee in the middle of the night, you used the chamber pot in the corner of the room. I kid you not! It was my first inkling that internal plumbing vs external plumbing for girls and boys was completely unfair.

The sheets were soft cotton and the cover would typically be a chenille – the kind that leaves marks on your face for hours. But they were crisp and cool and comfy. I would awaken to the smell of fresh eggs and bacon or sausage cooking. I could hear the coffee percolator doing its job, and the adults turning the pages of the newspaper. I would dress for the day, leaving Me-Maw’s nightgown on the bathroom hook for use later that night.

Now, my new granny nightie hangs on my own bathroom hook. I slipped the nightgown on tonight and pulled my hair into a ponytail. I have no idea how a material object can extract such tactile memories - I can smell, hear, feel and taste Hedge Hill. I sit on the couch and enjoy the cross breeze and listen to the sounds of the night, and feel all of 10 years old.  This granny nightgown is a time machine. <3

The view has changed

The view has changed. The recliner in the TV room previously held Dad, outfitted in his white tee-shirt tucked into his tighty whities, waiting for me to meet curfew. I was convinced this display was meant to either intimidate my date or embarrass me, or perhaps the both. Whatever…it was effective.

The view now is my mother in a souped up recliner that has a remote. At the touch of a button she can stand herself upright without having to expend any energy whatsoever. This feature is nice for Mom but not necessary. This is the recliner we got for Dad once his legs failed him. As the Parkinson’s progressed, it was an earnest effort to buy additional time before having to move him to assisted living and then to full-time health care.

Seven years ago, Mom and Dad moved from my childhood home to their retirement community. They lived at Hawthorne Drive for 40 years.  It was the only home I ever knew. The view there was of the Lawrence’s beautiful farm behind our home. Ironically, the view at their new digs is also Lawrence land, which the Lawrences generously donated to Westminster-Canterbury.

The inside view mocks me – it’s the same, but not. It’s the same china, and rugs, and furniture…the coveted piano, and books, and artwork. But it’s not in the same place. My room is gone. Dad’s workshop is gone. Mom’s kitchen has shrunk. The cul-de-sac where I learned to ride my bike is not there; neither is the stone wall where Andrew split his forehead.

The spaces have been replaced. Dad’s bar is now the local Tavern. Mom’s painting corner is now the community art room. Their living room is now an organized library. Their massive garden is now a 2x10 spot.  Forty years of memories and stuff have been crammed into half the square footage. Even with the intense down-sizing of “crap,” it’s still too much stuff in this space.

While the view of tangibles has changed, the intangibles never will. We are thankful for our many blessings. We are thankful for our family. We are thankful for our health, regardless of where it is. Faith, hope, and love support the view we will always have. Writing these words is easy. Living them is not.

Meanwhile, I lounge in (now) Mama’s recliner, using the remote to achieve perfect supination. I consider the change of view. It’s not too shabby. In fact, it’s pretty comfy!

Regardless, the view has changed. The kids are now the caregivers.

Ode to a Bowl

I broke a bowl today and I cried. I didn’t cry because I cut myself. I didn’t cry because the bowl was terribly expensive. I cried because that bowl was the last of a set of 3 that tied me to someone very special. It was something tangible – something I could touch and feel, and then somehow feel her. And now it’s gone.

Bert and I married in 1989 and moved into an amazing old house on an even more amazing old street – Stuart Avenue in Richmond, Virginia. We had neighbors with whom we are still friendly today. They were a part of our daily routine for 11 years. You cannot help but bond with someone during that length of time, if only by their daily presence.

Across the street lived Mr. and Mrs. Moss – interesting because we possibly had some family ties (Momma’s maiden name is Moss), but we never found the connection. For 4 years we lived there with only an occasional wave across the street. That changed the day we brought our first-born home from the hospital.

Mrs. Moss marched across the street, formally introduced herself, and presented me with a ceramic rocking horse with a silk flower arrangement. “I am Ethel Moss and I live across the street. I just wanted to congratulate you on the birth of your daughter and let you know that I can watch her at any time. No charge.” Thus began one of the most impactful relationships of my life.

For our next six years on Stuart Avenue, Nana Moss became a part of our family. She was a surrogate grandmother to my girls. She was at family dinners and birthdays and Christmas. She was a caregiver and companion to our children. She helped me nurse them when they were sick. She helped me kiss boo-boos. She helped me remove splinters. She reveled in their every move and accomplishments, and thought they were as amazing as I did.

Nana Moss outfitted her house for the kids. She bought an entire video library for them – Arthur, Madeline, Little Bear, Teletubbies, and Barney. She had special sheets and towels for their sleepovers. She had toys and games and bubble bath, just for them. She would fix them her special mac & cheese and sherbet. Those specialties she served in these perfect sized little green milk glass bowls.

From what she told me, Nana Moss had a difficult and unhappy childhood. Her experiences clearly impacted her personality. She was acerbic and difficult, but oh so steadfast in her love for our children. She was flat out angry when Bert and I moved 22 miles west. She didn’t speak to us for days. I assured her we would still see her frequently, and we did. I drove the kids to see her 2-3 times each week. I called her every day. I drove her to the Doctor. I took her shopping. The girls and I would take her to lunch, or simply sit on her stoop and drink iced tea. We were friends. She was a part of my every day.

About 6 years after we moved, Nana Moss was diagnosed with a brain tumor. At her request I, along with another former neighbor, managed her medical decisions. We arranged for 24-hour nursing care. It was the most difficult thing I’d ever done…to watch her slip away and leave us. It was a long, stressful, and sad year. The day she died, I cried into my pillow like a baby. My loss was intense. I had lost a friend. I had lost someone I spoke to every single day for thirteen years. My children were devastated by the loss of their Nana Moss.

 

It’s ridiculous to think a bowl, an object, can hold you closer to someone…and yet, it did. Every time I used one of these bowls, I thought of Nana Moss and I smiled. Every. Single. Time. Continuing to serve my children ice cream in those bowl connected me with her.

She was 37 years older than I, but she was my best friend for many years. It was unique and special and sweet. Through her stubborn and strong personality, she taught me how to not take shit from anyone, how to speak my mind, how to do whatever the hell I wanted, and how to be so very grateful for all my many blessings.

I inherited 3 bowls after she died. Over the years, I broke one and then another. I would use that final bowl whenever I craved comfort. I cherished it. And then today, it slipped out of my hand when unloading the dishwasher, hit the floor, and smashed

. It was so unceremonious. I was home alone. I sunk to the floor to pick up the pieces and tears filled my eyes. I thought of Nana Moss and smiled and pouted and cried.

It’s just a bowl, but so much more. Who knew a bowl could hold so much?

Farewell and Goodbye

Tonight was our local high school’s graduation. As a School Board member, it is the highlight of my year to watch each student walk across the stage to receive his/her diploma. It’s exciting and sweet and hopeful and nostalgic.

Some of the kids stride confidently across the stage, eager to shake the Principal’s hand and receive the diploma. Others skitter across quickly, barely looking at the Principal as they grab the diploma and run down the stairs. And there’s always the handful of kids who boogie or saunter or strut rather comically, eliciting hoots and howls from the audience. It’s fun and funny!

The walk across the stage speaks volumes about one’s personality – it’s almost as though you can tell what their futures will look like. Except that you can’t.

While we said farewell to these kids tonight – wishing them to “fare” “well” in the coming years, we said goodbye to another kid who walked across this stage just one year ago. On that day, one never would’ve guessed that Cole would be gone one year later. He was a bright, funny, loved and pretty amazing young man. He was on the cusp of great things. It is a tremendous loss.

The emotional rollercoaster of saying farewell to the Class of 2014 and saying goodbye to Cole, all within 24 hours, is really too much to bear. I swallow the lump in my throat as I watch the graduates move their tassels and throw their caps into the air. I hold back the tears as I hear Pomp & Circumstance during the recessional. I smile with somber pride as I watch the graduates posing for pictures, hamming it up with their friends, and just BEAMING with relief/pride/happiness that they have graduated.

It was this same scene last year for Cole. He walked across that stage – confidently, I’m sure. He was happy and on top of the world with his friends. He posed for pictures with his loving and proud family. He had a great summer. He went off to college. He played baseball there and even received the team's Newcomer’s Award – quite an honor.

His family and friends will lay him to rest tomorrow. It will be a moving celebration of his life, but also incredibly difficult to say goodbye. So, let’s not. Instead, let’s say farewell.

Farewell acknowledges a parting, with the expectation that you will see each other again – wishing them well until you’re together again. Goodbye has more permanence to it. With that in mind, as a person of faith, it really is more of a “farewell” to Cole than goodbye. RIP sweet boy. Until we all meet again…

What I learned today: Life is short. Carpe diem.