My Nana

My grandmother, also known as Nana to us, was a first generation American. Her father was from Italy, and although her mother was born in Italy, she grew up in the US. While Nana wasn't a rocket scientist or an ardent feminist making significant contributions to society, she had a strength and perseverance I draw upon today.

My nana was one of eight children, and she was never one to back down from a fight. In fact, I suspect she liked nothing better than arguing for the sake of arguing. In many respects, she had a difficult child; her oldest brother died when she was a baby; her father was a rancher; she was a child of the Depression. She left school twice; the first time, eighth grade, she had whooping cough, from which she recovered. The second time, though, was tenth grade; she left to help support her family by working in a canning factory in their small town. She never went back.

She loved and respected her papa, my great-grandfather, so when he found a husband for her, she agreed to marry William. She was 20. William, or Bill as he was commonly known, was also a first generation American, and he married to please his parents. Nana and Bill settled in Cokedale, a small coalmining town west of Trinidad, Colorado, where Bill went to work in the mines. Nana's brother, Ralph, also worked in the mines, as well as a brother-in-law. My mother was born in this village, in a shack on a hillside that had no running water or electricity. Life was hard for Nana and Bill in the camp.

Although Bill wanted to join the military when WW2 started, he couldn't. What he could do, however, was move to Seattle and become a longshoreman. It was a well-paying job, and it helped the war effort. Nana and Mom followed once he was settled. From what I know of my grandparents, Nana was the extrovert, Bill was the introvert. She liked going out and partying with friends, while Bill preferred staying home. They fought frequently and loudly, Nana out-yelling Bill. By the end of the war, Nana and Bill divorced, a shocking act in the 1940s. Mom and Nana came back to Colorado, while Bill stayed in Washington for several more years.

Divorce 'stained' Nana, but she kept moving forward. Not even an hysterectomy at age 36 stopped her. However, her temper grew worse, and she began to take her frustrations out on my mom. Nana was a city girl who was born and raised in the country, and the life in a small town took a toll on her. By 1950, after being humiliated by a priest in church for being divorced, Nana decided to marry Pete, and ended up staying married to him for the next 54 years. Pete was a pervert and a horrible man, but my mom and I always thought that after causing her father disappointment over her first divorce, she didn't want to cause him any further pain or embarrassment with a second divorce. We never could figure out what she saw in him.

Nana and Pete moved to California in search of a better life in 1952, leaving my mom in Colorado with her grandparents. Nana wanted my mom to have a good education, so she kept her in Catholic school for 12 years, scrimping and saving to pay the tuition. She visited when she could, and she sent money when she could. However, by 1955, she wanted my mom in California with her, and so my mom moved to North Hollywood, where they were living, to complete her senior year.

Nana lived in poverty nearly all her life. She and Pete bought their first home in 1974; prior to that, she had always been a renter. Yet, as poor as they were, Nana delighted in grandchildren, bringing us kid treasures: slinkys, toys, bubble gum. I still have my first Pooh bear that Nana gave me when I was four. I slept with him for years. We never lacked for affection, love, or stuff where Nana was concerned.

What I most remember about her was her sense of fun. One night she decided she was going to teach me to blow bubbles with bubblegum. She brought home a large bag filled with gumballs, and our evening was spent chewing, flattening, molding, and blowing until I mastered bubbles. Nana favored bright red nail polish, so each time I spent the night, she painted my nails for me. When we stayed over, my brother could be pretty naughty, so Nana would go and "call my dad" to tell him what my brother was doing. We really believed she did that, until the night the phone rang while she was "talking to my dad." Actually, she'd go over, lift the receiver, pretend to dial, and then hold the buttons down so it just seemed like she was talking. Once it rang on her, she could never use that trick again.

Another night, Nana gave us flashlights, and we laid on her bed, flashing our lights on the ceiling and walls, learning how to make shadow puppets while she told us stories of her childhood. One story I will never forget involved a bear and her papa. Because their ranch was so far out of town, they had a hard time getting to school in the winter, so they had to go and stay with their grandmother Nucci. Nana and Grandma Nucci did not get along, so it sounded like time was pretty tough. One day, Nana saw her papa on horseback, coming to visit them, and he had a bear strapped to the horse. He knew his children needed meat, so he killed the bear and brought it for them to eat. Nana remembered the meat being gristly, greasy, and completely unpleasant to eat, but Grandma Nucci made her eat it.

My childhood was richer because of Nana. I have much more to say, especially this: I miss her every day.

Re-do

One constant in life is the fact that mistakes will be made; it's only a matter of time. Regardless of best intentions, something might go wrong.

In fact, something went wrong this week; a mistake was made. As I wrote in my last post, I went to New Mexico on Monday, intent on learning more about assessment in IB. However, after a couple of hours in my class, I showed my teacher what I will teach, and I found out I was in the wrong class.

Asking around confirmed my suspicions; I was enrolled in the wrong class. Now, I could have gotten mad. I could have been nasty to people; I could have even insulted the gal who registered me for the class. But I chose not to do so. Why? Because it was a mistake, an honest mistake. Mistakes happen, and we can choose our response.

I came home last night, an exhausting six hours on the road. But it's nice to be home, and it's nice to know we are all fallible. We all make mistakes. None of us is perfect. What fun would it be to be perfect?

So next Monday I head back to New Mexico to attend the correct conference. I learned this week that I need to choose my attitude about everything, including being separated from my family for a week. I dreaded this conference because I'm not a social butterfly and because I don't like sharing rooms and bathrooms with strangers. However, by choosing my attitude, I can have a good time and enjoy the experience.

There are times when mistakes come with "re-dos," and this is definitely one of those times. I don't feel horrible about what happened, but I know to be more careful in the future; I know that I can drive 630 miles in 24 hours and survive, and I know that second chances can be blessings.

Flying free

Putting gas in my car today, I watched two majestic birds flying above the parking lot. Their wings widespread as they glided on air currents, occasionally flapping their wings, rising high into the air, circling, circling. I gazed at them until I could no longer see them, and then my thoughts turned to the trip I was about to take.

I'm in New Mexico, at a conference I initially wanted to attend with my teaching partner. He backed out, however, two weeks ago, and I'm solo. I've been pretty mad at him and about having to drive down here by myself. I missed the beauty of the situation.

At each stop, I saw different birds, wings outstretched, soaring, gliding, dipping, and climbing on air currents. I was enthralled with their grace, their beauty, their independence.

Because so many birds along my trip were engaging in the same behaviors, I starting thinking about independence and freedom. Much like the birds I watched, I too spread my wings, glided on air currents, and soared as I drove to New Mexico. Twenty years ago, I thought nothing of hopping in my car and driving somewhere for the weekend. I would push myself to see how far I could drive without stopping or how fast I could go. I didn't worry about speed traps or tickets, I enjoyed the freedom of the drive.

I drive long distances so rarely anymore, I have forgotten what it's like to be by myself in a vehicle. I sang to my favorite songs, talked to myself, and thought...thought...thought. I was flying free.

While my social awkwardness will prohibit me from making a companion this week, I'm okay. I will enjoy my freedom from domesticity and my independence. I have my own vehicle; I can go where I wish. I can do what I want. And while I will miss my family terribly, I will continue to fly free, to recapture a part of the me from 20 years ago.

Camping at the Reservoir

Camping at a reservoir can be a great deal of fun. The water is near for swimming or fishing; the park is generally well-maintained; and the campsites can hold us, our pop up camper, and our pickup. One problem I see with camping, however, has to do with other campers.

To wit: we went camping this weekend at the reservoir, and while there were some problems with our reservations, we ended up with a nice spot. It was near the bathrooms and had some shade. We also had a nice view of the lake, which was in walking distance. Perfect, right?

No, somehow we usually end up near those campers who can't define consideration nor who have ever heard of it. In fact, this has happened so frequently over the last several years, we can usually identify what types of problems we might have with our neighbors. The first clue is how much Bud Light they have with them. For example, a case or a suitcase indicates at least one night of rowdiness. When they loudly announce they're running into to town for more beer, we could have at least two night of noise.

Another way we can tell is how quickly we learn the names of the children they have with them. If we know "Lance" and "Bubba" by the time the pop up is set up and we're sitting in our camping chairs, we know we'll be listening to the folks yell, cuss, and scold those kids. Additionally, the sheer number of vehicles attached to a site helps us. One to two vehicles, we'll probably have some peace. Four to five vehicles, we're going to cut our camping trip short.

The last way we can identify problem neighbors is, of course, music. When they bring out the radio, we know we'll be listening to their music until 11 pm or later. Usually it's country music or rock 'n'roll, but it's still going to be loud. Depending on how much Bud they drink, they'll most likely think they're singers and serenade us as well.

We've had camping neighbors with barking dogs that seldom stop barking. Kids who scream until 11 pm or later. Neighbors drinking beer, smoking dope, and playing their music loudly while their kids sleep in their camper. Folks who cut through our campsite while we're sitting there. Those who set off their car alarms at 1 am. We even had some campers once who were partying hearty and shooting off guns.

We have been known to ask neighbors to quiet down, but now it seems like we never know how they'll react so we have begun to take other measures. I, for example, am stocked with earplugs, which really help. We've also started allowing our son to stay up late so he'll be too tired to hear the neighbors, falling quickly asleep. My husband doesn't have a problem falling asleep, regardless of noise, so I don't worry about him.

I guess what I don't understand is the "why" of this issue. Why do folks go camping in a campground, thinking it's okay to yell, get drunk, play music loudly, smoke dope, and shoot guns?? Although state parks have rangers on patrol, other campgrounds have campground hosts, and while a small part of their job is to help maintain the peace, they often don't want any trouble and will avoid dealing with these campers. We work hard to afford our camping trips and pay our fees; we have taught our son to be respectful while in campgrounds, not to cut through other occupied spots or shine his flashlight on others' tents or campers. When we play music, it's softly. We go are quiet during 'quiet hours.'

I guess this rudeness on the parts of other campers is simply a continuation of the rudeness people exhibit when they aren't camping. We thought by going during off-times like weeks rather than weekends, we'd avoid these types of folks. But we haven't. While this abominable behavior puts a damper on our fun, we are also learning to cope. I think it's good for my son to understand how to take a bad situation and make it good.

But I wish those people would stay home.

When I was newly pregnant, I did everything I could to take care of myself, but I ultimately ended up on bedrest. Those hours, days, and weeks were hard, and what made everything harder was that my mother was undergoing treatment for breast cancer. Her oncologist suggested that she participate in a study, and her treatment was aggressive.

I struggled with anxiety and depression over  my situation; each appointment, my doctors would say, "You're doing great! If you can make it to 24 weeks (or 28 or 32) baby might have a chance." While I was glad to do well, I was also anxious about whether or not I would be able to hold onto my baby. My mother's illness compounded my stress; she would call me, wailing about the shots she was about to get or just had, talking about how she wanted to die, and wondering why God was keeping her alive. To add more stress to an already stressful time, my best friend would call me each day, complaining about everyting. I eventually dreaded the ringing of the phone because it was either my mother or my friend. My husband was seldom around because of work, and my inlaws were less than supportive during this time.

My son was born healthy and normal. I was proud of myself for carrying him to term, and I was proud of him because he was so beautiful. But over the past few years, he's begun to develop some personality traits that make me think I didn't do as good of a job as I thought I did.

I think my son is depressed; he makes comments about how no one likes him and he has no friends. He's been doing this since he was about five. He considers himself fat, and he dislikes his body. What really worries me is that I might have passed my depression and anxiety during pregnancy onto him. My mother kept warning me to have a good attitude or else he would be affected in utero by my mental state. I tried hard to enjoy as much of my pregnancy as possible and to be happy, but now I wonder about him. His school counselor asked if my pregnancy had been traumatic, which it had, and now I fear I may have negatively impacted his mental development.

While depression runs in my family and in my husband's family, I know I have to watch for signs in my son. I'm growing increasingly concerned about his mental state, and I am considering taking him to a counselor to help him.

I feel that I have failed my son, and yet my intentions were good. Something feels off to me about him, and I can't decide if it's my own paranoia or if it's real.

To my first teacher of womanhood

Vacuum in hand I attack
              all
examples of humananimal habitation
as I suck up hair-skin-dirt
             the detritus
of life. I think of you, my first teacher
of cleanliness        of womanhood
             my introduction
Some thirty-odd years ago as I took hold
of that mechanical symbol of womanhood
             the vacuum.
I like(d) its noise, drowning out the world
I like(d) its perfunctory-back and forth-motion
             its orderliness
As it makes self-created symmetrical lines.

I stand here vacuuming, thinking on you
missing you   wishing for one lucid moment
                 where
I could pour out my heart to you
to say what was left unsaid
                  I
want you to know I love(d) you.
Only through your death I think I understand
                  you
and the complicated mother/daughter relationship
we had. You, my first teacher of cleanliness
                  of womanhood
                  I remember
Vacuum in hand, straight lines in the carpet,
Cleanliness and womanhood symbiotically joines
                  by a plug.

copyright 2011

Sands through the hourglass

It's warm today, the nice kind of warm where we can sit outside in comfort. A gentle breeze rustles the leaves on the trees, providing us greater comfort. Summer has begun.

In the distnace I can hear birds tweeting and trilling, dogs barking and howling, airplanes overhead. All of these sounds pale in comparison to the sound of pages turning quickly beside me. My son has decided to reread his Hardy Boy books, and he's devouring them like they're dessert.

While we can hear the burbling of the hot tub as it waits for us to get in, we can/t. My son with his fractured arm, me with my lasik-enhanced eyes. Neither of us can go near the water.

We've played the "what do you want to do game," but neither can agree. He wants to ride his bike, I want to go shopping. He wants to play Monopoly, but I want to side outside. Really, the time to relax is nice.

I love how he scoots his chair next to me; he's crawled in bed the last couple of mornings to cuddle. I treasure each of these small gestures, storing them to recall when he's no longer interested in hanging out with me. Until his broke his arm, he wasn't interested in spening much time with me, and we had already begun to plan what he'd do. But now, he's my little prisoner, at least for a few days.

I never thought, when he was a baby and I was too tired from working and earniing another degree, that our time together would run out. It's like watching the sand in an hourglass run out; I'm watching his childhood run out, and it seems to run faster and faster as he grows older.

So whle our summer hasn't been exceptionally thrilling to this point, it's been good. We're together, and that's all that matters.

The Pink Bowl

When I was a child, my mother constantly used a pink Pyrex bowl she had received as a wedding present. We used it as a mixing bowl, a salad bowl, and a pasta bowl. As we grew older and found "newer and better" bowls for her, we give them to her and she'd use them a few times. And then they would be relegated to the bowl cabinet and out would come the pink bowl again.

After 44 years, the paint is faded and scratched in places, but it is still in amazing shape. I've been thinking about the bowl a lot lately, and I know that someday I would like it.

Naturally, my desire for this bowl has little to do with its usefulness, although its multi-purposefulness would come in handy. Instead, I have the memories associated with it, those same memories that wash over me frequently. Happy times, sad times, angry times. The bowl seemed to be the center of our dinnertime, although I didn't realize it as a child.

I find myself missing those happier times. Maybe it's my age. Maybe it's my situation. I know that there were some wonderful times we had as a family, prior to moving from California.

Summers were spent at the pool. My mother was afraid of water, so she'd sit on the other side of the pool fence with her chair, her book, and her cool drink, watching us cavort in the pool with our friends. I'm sure today her behavior would be considered neglect, but in the 1970s, she wasn't the only mom sitting outside the fence. We ate salads galore during those hot summer months, often out of the pink bowl. I find myself making different salads as the days grow hot, replicating my childhood, just with fancier salads.

Winters in California were spent in the yard, playing soccer, riding bikes, tossing a baseball, and suppers, when my father was home, often consisted of pastas, stews, roasts, mostly served in the pink bowl. My mother liked to bake, and the pink bowl became a mixing bowl for chocolate chip cookies or, our favorite, peanut butter cookies. We'd stick our filthy hands into the bowl when she wasn't looking and scoop out some dough, popping it into our mouths, trying to look innocent.

Now, in my forties, the pink bowl symbolizes my mother and my youth. I don't want to seem greedy and ask my father for it, but I know one day it'll have a special spot in my own cabinet.

Summer vacation, so far

It has arrived! Summer! Lazy days at the parks or at the pools. Evening walks with my husband and the dog. Bike rides. Laying on chaise lounges, watching clouds pass by. Sounds delightful! But...and there's always a but...

Summer has, so far, consisted of doctor's appointments for my son and me. Lasik for me, a broken arm for my son. Dreams of the pool...dashed! Bikes rides...dashed! Guitar lessons...dashed! Granted, I know I don't sound sympathetic, which is only partially true. I do feel for him, on one level. I know the discomfort of a cast. However, a broken arm is a hard lesson for him to learn, especially when it's an "I told you so" lesson.

My classroom does not have traditional desks. Instead, we have tables that seat two people. Each time my son is in my room, he asks to walk on the tables. This last time, regardless of how often I told him no, he was determined to walk on the desks. All went well until he tipped one over and landed on his wrist. And now it's broken.

While I'm writing this, he's inside having a pity party. What is it with boys? Why don't they listen to their mothers? Why do they have to find out things the hard (and usually expensive)way?  I have this fantasy that he'll learn from this experience, but I know he won't. Instead, he'll remain my lovable, stubborn, and argumentative son, the one who must learn the hard way .