Practically Laura

Famolare Shoes

She probably doesn’t think I read her post because she knows how I love to reminisce…but I didn’t comment.

Instead it prompted me to once again stop and think (and stop and think) and try to remember about high school.  In particular, I tried to remember what it might’ve been like to walk into the building on the
first day.

It wasn’t as if I wasn’t familiar with the high school anyway.  After all, my sister had just graduated from Sunset the year before—I’d visited several times. But Lisa was off at college, and, if she’d been born a year later, I’m not sure she would’ve entirely welcomed my presence.  As close as we are now, four years during the teens can feel like an unfathomable galaxy. 
Only the U.S.S. Enterprise of age can begin to bridge that distance(Live long and prosper.).

However, I bet Kristi and I found each other somehow, some
way.  I bet it didn’t take us long.  We may’ve even set up a place to meet before class for solidarity’s sake—then we wouldn’t have felt so alone.  If we met at the front of the school (and I’m thinking we did), we would’ve had a whole pyramid’s worth of concrete steps to climb to get to the main entrance.  It was the kind of concrete with microscopic little pebbles, the Dallas kind.  So if you kept your head down as you climbed this gauntlet, it was highly possible to be distracted by the tiny, bright dots of color embedded within the steps; it might’ve made it a little easier to ascend with all the potential onlookers perched around.

We would’ve noted each other’s new clothes once together,
including some ridiculous Famolare heels I’m sure my resourceful mother helped me to find on sale because I wanted to feel stylish; I wanted to feel like I fit in.  I vaguely remember some burnt red, linen-y pants and a long-sleeved striped, cotton blouse.  I wonder if those were the pants I chose to wear the first day.

I don’t think the shoes did the trick, by the way.  I think I just felt awkward.

Nonetheless and with Kristi, her presence would’ve done the trick; it would’ve been another welcome and welcoming distraction.

Because we almost certainly felt awkward together.

Soon we would’ve scanned the crowd for Sus and Lori and Lisa
D., eyes darting hither and thither, and almost unthinkingly registering the cute boys who passed us by.

But we could talk over the cute boys later.

Yes, these were the boys who might break our hearts in a few
weeks time…the boys who might teach us to be especially careful with our feeble, patched-up selves for a very long while.

Teaching me it was better to remain just friends with the Y chromosome (even if on a subconscious level)…for all the cuteness.  After all, like a fine work of art, cuteness can be admired best from a little distance.

Even more importantly, we girls always had each other after
the sometimes treacherous boys took their leave.  We didn’t necessarily have to talk the heartache over in any great detail, but we stuck around…we continued to be there.

Therefore, when my own daughter left for her very first day
of high school this past Monday, I prayed for many things.  But one of the most important things I whispered to God concerned her friendships.

After all…belonging…is pretty close to everything.

She's Pretty Good

We were sitting in church, and I could hear my mother singing.  It sounded pretty good.

“Mommy, why don’t you sing in the choir?” I ask her.

“Because my voice isn’t very good,” she replies.

But it sounded just right to me.  She was definitely choir-worthy.

Then I started back to drawing with my crayons.  Crayons were quiet and, while I was drawing, I was more likely to listen to the sermon.

I was in a school play, and we were singing “The Eyes of Texas.”  I had to make a giant Texas with eyes on it, but I couldn’t seem to get it right—the Texas was lopsided and the eyes were little squinty, lashless things.

Sigh

“It’s okay, Laura. I can help you with it.  It has to be big enough so they can see it well from the audience.”

And my mom made the best poster board Texas you’ve ever seen.  The eyelashes must’ve been four inches long.

We were camping in Tennessee, and, while playing with some other kids at the campground, I became frustrated and threw a Styrofoam cup full of snails and mud at one of them.

Apparently, he and his family were about to go out to dinner, and I had thoroughly messed up his only clean shirt.

I felt awful...I knew I should’ve controlled my temper.  He made sure I knew I would be in big trouble.

“I’m s-s-sorry, Mommy,” I stutter out on a sob.

“From what I understand, he deserved it.  You don’t need to cry.  Now where are those Kleenex?”

My new best friend, Julie, had these really neat red, white and blue suede shoes.  I wanted some just like them.

I wanted what I wanted.

So when we went to buy shoes, my mom let me get a pair even more patriotic than Julie’s.  Mommy wanted me to get penny loafers or something else more in style, I think, but she let me make the decision.

“Do you like them, Laura?”

“Yes,” I quietly respond.

I’m not sure I  remembered to say thank you, but I was overjoyed inside.

We were at a boutique in North Dallas, and my mom was trying on multi-colored party pajamas.  She looked really pretty—I think my dad had a work party or something.

The saleslady mentioned the price, and it seemed to be first cousins with exorbitant to me.

“You can’t buy those, Mommy.  They’re too expensive,” I announce in an overloud voice.

“Oh, it’s all right,” she confidently answers with a little laugh.  Her eyes narrow with a look of purpose as she pivots precisely in front of the mirror.

She was right.  My normally frugal dad didn’t seem to mind at all.

My mom took me out of school the other day for no reason at all.  We went to all kinds of interesting antique places and out to lunch.  We found an old doll carriage, and she bought it.  She said Daddy will paint it for me, and she’ll make a little mattress and pillow for it.

Once the carriage was newly painted, she sewed the little pillow and mattress and covered it in pink gingham…just like she promised.   It matched my room and everything.  My doll was riding in style all over the house.

Squeak, squeak...squeak, squeak!

The wheels made a creaky sound as I wheeled it around, but nobody complained, not even a peep.

And I was too thrilled for words.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

Tumbleweed Thoughts No. 3: I Can't Pretend...

I hurt my back on January 1^st…and I’ve been in and out of physical therapy ever since.

And in truth, even though physical therapy has been a very good thing--I’m moving right along—I can’t pretend the whole back injury experience has been anything other than…well…a pain in the…(Do I really have to spell it out?).

But this isn’t the only area of my life where I’m unable to pretend…I’m a pretty open book for the most part.

Pretending isn’t a character trait.  I mean, only in my own head am I a good actress.

So…as I’m musing on February, and the various loves in my life (Actually, one just walked in the door.), this phrase becomes especially apropos because I can’t pretend I don’t want to plumb the depths of her existence.

I can’t pretend I don’t wish to be a fly on the wall.

I can’t pretend I don’t desire her to go to bed…and immediately asleep…as soon as we make her turn her lights out at ten.

I can’t pretend I’m not secretly enchanted she sneakily stays awake to read the book I’ve just purchased for her.

I can’t pretend I’m indifferent to whether or not she answers any and all of my questions.

I can’t pretend not to worry.

I can’t pretend I don’t get frustrated.

I can’t pretend not to be fascinated when she rambles on…because it’s pretty rare.

I can’t pretend not to think about her future.

And I can’t pretend I don’t love her with all of my heart.

Because I wouldn’t even try to pretend one of the most essential…most unbelievable…most miraculous…most strange…most lovely…most perplexing…most fear-inducing…most bittersweet things in my life isn't…having a daughter.

The Christmas Farm: Six + Two

The Farm, 1958  Photo by David Porterfield

In my family, we come in a series of two.

My dad has only one brother; my mother has only one sister.

Likewise, I have only one sister, and my husband has one sister.  My husband and I, in turn, have only two children (a boy and a girl), and my sister and her husband have two children.

My aunt (my mother’s sister) has two children...

I could go on, but I’m guessing you’re getting the picture.

Therefore, for my father’s brother to have six children was wonderfully, dynamically, in-your-face out of the box for an extended family which seemed (still seems) incredibly careful in the creation of offspring.

When we were at the farm on holidays, and my cousins were around…there was always something to dream up.

Though I think my sister and I were a bit like curiosities for our cousins…and I’m positive they were positive we were spoiled (How could we not be with only the two of us?).  Yet they seemed to love us and treat us as compatriots whenever we were together.

Furthermore, at Christmastime…in West Texas…the weather could sometimes be extreme, so all eight of us might be kept inside the fairly small house…contributing to our desire to conjure up inventive activities.

We would oftentimes set up clubhouses in two walk-in cedar closets in the spare bedrooms…I think I was usually in one closet with my cousin Ruth (and maybe Steve or John), and my sister Lisa would be in another clubhouse with Ann (and maybe Jim if he didn’t feel too grown-up)…Tom would’ve never been involved in such shenanigans.

And however un-inspirational you might find a closet…for us…it could work magic.  After quickly becoming reacquainted and trying to send the other club a secret message through the cedar-lined walls, we might admittedly be at a short loss of resources.  But never fear…because when you have nothing better to do…your sister and your oldest cousin, Ann, can decide we need to have a style show.

 One year in particular, they (miraculously) convinced Tom to dress up in what one might consider the height of hunting fashion--complete with a real gun.  Unfortunately, when Tom sauntered down the ‘runway’ wearing what every well-dressed hunter should’ve been sporting that season (with the gun propped on his shoulder) my grandpa became a little concerned.  It seemed no matter which direction Tom turned…he was pointing the gun at someone in the audience.  My cousin, Steve, says there was much ‘hollerin’’ until the correct position for safe gun handling was achieved.

I’m sure Steve’s right.

I’m also sure one of the adults had checked the gun to make sure it was unloaded before allowing us to use it as a prop.

According to Steve and Lisa, we would (somewhat) plunder the house and (very much) plunder our own possessions for anything which might contribute to the outfits being modeled.  Detail was important.  They recall something involving a Grecian toga, a housewife’s uniform complete with an apron from which all sorts of handy accoutrements dangled and my cousin, Jim, dressed as a preacher complete with tie, Bible and attitude.

Yes, we were dramatic…and in the more traditional Christmas sense as well.  Every year we gathered we would reenact the nativity story from the book of Luke.  Once again, we had to scrounge together whatever we could find in the house to complete our costumes.

Bathrobes figured prominently.

My cousin, John, as a shepherd (and I was replaced as Sheep 2)

Steve and Lisa recall whenever the bathrobes fell short, grandma would lend us sheets from the linen closet.  Steve also remembers us using Christmas ribbon for the wise men sashes.  One year someone constructed some sort of crown out of an egg carton.

I have to mention…the play parts were short with eight of us, so I’m pretty sure I was assigned to the role of Sheep 2 a few times.

Embarrassingly, I think someone pinned a cotton boll to my bottom at least once (This is what happens when you’re next to the youngest in a group of eight.).

After the stage lights were dimmed, we would crack open Monopoly.

I don’t remember much about these games other than they were killer, and…as one of the youngest…I usually lost.  However, we would sometimes play as teams which benefitted me a little.

I’m telling you…my sister and cousins were a bunch of scary, business-y sharks…because traditional Monopoly rules were boring, so one capitalist would lend money to another…trades were made outside the normal way…and the game could go on for two or more days.

Usually, the winner would walk away with a tremendous pile by Monopoly standards…twenty or thirty thousand…and the lowest loser might be in debt by a proportionate amount.

We also played delirious rounds of Spoons…games ending in people being injured while trying to grab a spoon from the pile.  And I think my cousin, Steve, might’ve been on the winning end once and instead of sneakily slipping a utensil from the group…grabbed the spoon and banged it loudly and repeatedly on the Formica surface as he brought it off the table.

Much chaos ensued.

Next…we had chores of course.  Usually the girls were called into service to wash and dry the dishes…my grandparents never had a dishwasher.  But, as we grew older, sometimes the boys would pitch in to help.  By the way, my grandmother purchased CorningWare plates for the grandkids when we were younger--I’m sure she wanted to minimize accidents--but we still continued to use them into our teens.  Once, Steve was helping us to wash the dishes and one of the CorningWare plates slipped out of his hand, flew across the room like a Frisbee and dented the refrigerator.

Speaking of delirious…one of the last times we were gathered at the farm for Christmas…my cousin, Jim, was attending what was then T.S.T.I. in Waco, and he drove to Dallas to caravan with our family out to the farm.  When we arrived, his family was not there yet.

 That evening…we were a bit bored…I guess we were getting older and were used to being more mobile…so we decided to drive to Petersburg (of all places) to look at Christmas lights.  I think we were in my parent’s car, but I don't think they had an eight-track or cassette player, so our only option for music was the radio.  Some West Texas station was playing ‘Feliz Navidad’…none of us were particularly excited about this song, but I guess we were tired…and silliness runs in the family (at least when we’re tired), and something unusually intoxicating happened while singing this unwanted Christmas carol and viewing the three red strands of lights gracing the Petersburg main street.

“Feliz Navidad, Feliz Navidad, Feliz Navidad, blah blah blah blah blah…blah felicidad, I WANNA WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS, I WANNA WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS, I WANNA WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEAR-AR-AR-ART!!!! Feliz Navidad…”

I think you get the gist.

Somehow…the three red strands of light…the one and only Petersburg stoplight…some very humble homes strung with a few meager decorations…and this song…combined to create such hilarity for us that to this day…whenever the three of us hear the song, we think of the occasion.

I hate to end so abruptly, but my own Christmas preparations call. So I’ll end with a quick summarization.

Here it is:

Six + Two equaled much fun, laughter, silliness, inventiveness and (best of them all) Love at the farm.

The Love remains even now.

Six + Two

A Little Teaser: Petersburg, Texas

I'll be posting another Christmas farm story tomorrow...so I thought you might need a little bit of setting.  Here you go:  http://petersburgtx.com/default.aspx

Snowy View from the Road Fronting the Farm

The Christmas Farm: Unbelievably Catching

The Farm, 1958   Photo by David Porterfield

My grandpa loved me from the beginning.

He and I were both lefties, so maybe we had some sort of affinity.

Actually, he was ambidextrous…I developed some of those skills as the years progressed…like so many lefties (We learn to cope in a right-handed world.).

Or maybe as the next to the youngest grandchild…and a girl…I pulled at his heartstrings.

Or maybe he pulled at my heartstrings which pulled back on his because admiration is unbelievably catching.

All I know is that I loved him…and he loved me.

No questions asked.

I’m not sure how it developed

During our visits to the farm, I always wanted to go with him in the afternoon to feed the animals and gather the eggs…I think my dad and my sister were usually along.

So we would arrive at their house…and I would look forward to that particular part of the day in anticipation…it couldn’t arrive soon enough.

When it finally did arrive...when we walked down to the field where many of the cows would be out grazing in a pasture…I would get nervous around the big animals, and my grandpa would pick me up to carry me.

So I felt safe.

He would pick me up to carry me even when I became a bit too big to carry although grandpa was not a big man.  However, he was strong (all that manual labor).

He didn’t wear overalls like a stereotypical farmer, but he almost always had on jeans (Levis, of course) and a work shirt.  I think he had a denim jacket because I remember the feel of it under my fingertips when he held me.

My grandpa was a very self-disciplined man, by the way…he had to be in order to make a living on the farm.  And in my father, my grandparents raised a very self-disciplined son.

So you wouldn’t think there would be any whimsy to be found on their farm…but maybe Christmas brings out that softness…the whimsy…because one year we had something incredibly different show up in our stockings.

That particular year (and I’m not sure how old I was…probably around seven or eight), we arrived early enough before Christmas to end up at the grocery store in Plainview with my grandpa.

In truth, I think he may’ve been sent by my grandma to buy various items including things to fill up the eight grandkid’s stockings…and I remember my mother was along for the ride.

And--for some crazy reason--the grocery store had a big pile of coconuts on display which I found incredibly interesting probably because I loved (and still love) coconut desserts.

I was likely wondering what a real (unprocessed) coconut tasted like.

So I looked at the pile of coconuts…and I thought on it…and I asked my grandpa why Santa never left coconuts in our stockings.

Well…I don’t remember his response, but I do remember he and my mom looking at me and then at each other.

It wasn’t long before we paid for our groceries and left.

My Christmas-y Grandpa in a bright red jumpsuit (1980)

Christmas morning rolled around a few days later; Santa did show up.

My mom had previously made the kids felt stockings with our names on them (red and pink for the girls; green and red for the boys).  They were all laid out under the Christmas tree in a row…very orderly, very full and very self-disciplined.

However, when it was time for us to look into our stockings, I’m sure you can guess what we found.  Not only did they hold the obligatory apple, orange, nuts and peppermints…but a small coconut as well.

You see…a little bit of whimsy…of love…of softness had been added to our soldier-straight stockings in the form of a very hard, round, tropical fruit.

And every other year after, another would show up.

Merry Christmas

The Christmas Farm

There’s a certain order to things…and one would be wise not to deviate.

For instance, there’s an unwritten rule in our family…whenever you marry (and if you live in Texas), you alternate holiday dates with your spouse’s family.

It’s only fair.

So from a very young age I learned this rule…which meant every other year we would spend Christmas at my grandparent’s farm in West Texas.

To give you a little geographic perspective…the farm is near a small, dusty town called Petersburg (which has a population of about 3 ½ people) and about thirty minutes or so northeast from Lubbock on one side and south of Plainview on the other.

I guess it’s in the middle of nowhere.

However, we would load up our large car with already wrapped packages (bows to be added on arrival) and head west.

The drive was about 7 or so hours, and I could go on a bit just on my recollections of trying to sleep or share space with my sister in what seemed a small (but by today’s standards was actually quite large) back seat…and about how our mother had to designate a no-man’s land in between us with her rectangular, beige, hard-sided overnight case to keep the peace…but I’ll stop there.

Yet we always knew when we were getting close to the farm because we could see the trees from far, far away in the mainly low-level landscape.  One was an enormous twenty-five foot pine, and another was a beautiful blue spruce of about fifteen feet.

When we were young, we would drive up to the sight of the huge pine lit with Christmas lights because my grandfather would climb into it to string them up…but as we grew older and my grandfather grew older, we would arrive to unlit trees in the yard.  Although my grandmother always made sure there was a smaller version inside the house situated perfectly in the pristine picture window (no smudges allowed).

Of course, my boy cousins took over the tree lighting as the years passed by, so it still happened…and really…it’s one of the best things I’ve ever seen, that tree…because you could see those lights for miles.  And maybe the lack of close neighbors with their own decorations made the first sight of those precious sparks so poignant…because when every house is close and bedecked…after awhile we no longer notice…the adornment possibly becomes commonplace.

But when it’s one or two in a place where it’s a miracle the trees have dared to grow to such heights…it makes an impact which can’t be taken away to this day.

It says something.

The Tree

 

Jim, Lisa and I decorate one of the smaller trees

Sadly Back to Normal

My children drove me a little bit bonkers this past summer.

They’re four and a half years apart in age, you see…and they often have problems getting along.

Their differing genders probably fuel the misunderstandings…I guess.

However, I know how I feel about it.

I just want them to STOP IT!

We would talk about their arguing…and they would agree with my reasoning…and five seconds later one of them would correct the other…and the other one would load up and fire back.

But in one of those crazy, miraculous things about parenting…when the buses came to pick them up for school this week, I felt like crying…even though we all needed a sanity break.

So I went off to jog and then to do some volunteering.

I miss them, but I’m doing fine.

Yet the summer wasn’t all bad.  We had some lovely moments.  

Like the day early in the summer when I took them to the zoo despite the scorching heat.  Super Girl and I took our cameras (Snap, click, snap!), and we made sure we got around to see all our favorite animals. When my contact lens started bothering me, they were concerned and helpful.   In fact, they didn’t argue all day.  It was fantastic.  We sweated, but we worked together to have a good time.

 
Together

Our vacation, by the way, was awesome.  We were in Washington State for almost two weeks.  We found out our kids like art museums…and we already knew they liked towers and cupcakes and aquariums and bagels and all things city.

And they can hike…especially C.G.  Craig and I were carrying heavy backpacks full of water, food and camera equipment along the trails.  At one point on a particularly steep trail…when I needed a break, I handed C.G. my backpack, and he took off up the hill with all the energy and enthusiasm of a nine-year-old boy…which he is.  During our explorations, we shared and appreciated visual experiences like banana slugs; water in all shapes, forms and sizes; craggy, powerful mountains; and moss without end.

 When we were at Olympic National Park and walking on the beaches…and Craig and I were overwhelmed with the beauty of God’s creation (with me manifesting my joy by constantly jumping up and down, whirling and throwing out my arms toward the sea stacks and telling the kids to Look around! for the five hundredth time), they were pretty quiet with their complaints despite the blisters forming on their feet, and the tides being too high to see the sea urchins we had hiked two miles out to spy (okay, C.G. shed a few tears over that one…He LOVES tide pool creatures).

Then we had quiet moments...moments when I would read aloud to them while we were sprawled all over the furniture.  My inner actress would manifest, and they laughed at all the right places, enthralled.

We’ve still not finished that book, and I’m wondering if they'll be too old for it next summer.

I hope not.

Super Girl started Tae Kwon Do.  It was so fun to see her doing kicks.  She looks like a natural to me…of course.

And C.G. earned his blue belt.  I have a picture of him…beaming…his face is the sun…his pride illuminates our everything…if only for that frozen moment.

So as the groaning buses rounded the corner taking them away…maybe it wasn’t so surprising I was sad.

Maybe it was right.

Maybe it was terribly right…to be sadly back to normal.

 
A Slug You Could Saddle Up

Yolie: Fini

Why am I writing about the grandparents?  Well…recently Yolie died; she was the last of the four.

She was ninety-nine years old.

In these last years she was living in Texas (a place she never dreamed she would live), so we got to spend more time with her…it was a blessing.

But she never liked the Tex-Mex being served at the nursing home…of course.

As a death often will, it reminded me of the little instances…little incidents of our first meeting…as unlikely and miraculous as any other, and I wanted to  write a few down…so I have.

I also asked my in-laws to share a few memories of their parents.

My father-in-law, Al, wrote:

My mother, Yolanda, was born during August of 1911 in Jersey City.  Throughout childhood until I married, we lived at 2011 New York Ave. in Union City.  When my parents married, they moved in with my grandfather, a widower, John…so until his death in 1971, they lived in Union City.  They moved to Toms River after his death.

Mom’s first job was with The Cattle Club in New York City.  I have no idea what she did, but she made lifetime friendships while working there.  Later, when I was in high school she was employed at Yardley.  Every night she would come home smelling like a lavender bush.

My grandfather, John, would cook dinner for us.  It was usually some Northern Italian dish with rice and veal—not the traditional Italian food.  Sometimes it was okay—sometimes I would pass for a p. b. & j sandwich but not often.  Usually, I was starving at suppertime…as after school we played football (two-hand touch) every day.  On the block where we played, everyone had iron picket fences, so when a ball was passed and hit the fence—Pop!!—I needed a new ball.  Dad would complain, but a new ball would quickly show up.

My father, Philip, was born on July 19, 1909 and died in 1998.

Dad worked at various jobs, but most of his working life was with Testing Machines in Amityville, New Jersey.  When he started with Testing, they were located in New York City, but the company later relocated to Amityville while he was working for them.  He had to take a train to N. Y. C. then another to Amityville.  I often heard my parents talk of moving to Long Island to shorten his commute, but it never happened.

We would spend two weeks at the Jersey shore every year.  My parents and cousins would rent a beach house.  My cousin and I would stay at least a month while each family had a two week stay.  After I married, my parents bought a house at the shore in Lavallette, but they sold it when they moved to Toms River.

Dad enjoyed retirement by doing things around the house.  I really think he was glad not to have the commute (one and a half hours each way).

They’re both buried in New Jersey.

I miss them both.

My mother-in-law, Marie, wrote:

One of my fond memories of my mother, Frances, was listening to her and Craig debating on political issues.  At times it was amusing to hear them try to get the upper hand on the debate.  They usually ended up laughing.

Another amusing memory was of Craig disguising his voice, and calling her to say he was phoning about a political issue pertaining to his party.  She was ‘not interested’, so she would hang the phone up not realizing it was Craig.

My father, Fred, had more than one job, but his love was music.  He played bass in bands.  Then in his mature years he played with the Garden State Symphony in N. J. and the symphony in New York.

I have fond memories of my father landscaping our yard in Atlanta.  He landscaped a beautiful azalea garden in the back yard, and when they were in bloom I thought of him.

Dad and mom stayed a month with us when we moved into our new home (in Atlanta).  We had a lot of fun together, but it was sad when they left to go home to New Jersey.

They are still missed.

************

I have a few last stray, funny memories to share…and a bit more.

Frances was a huge Yankees fan.  During our visits, I have memories of her sitting in her comfy chair near the T.V. glued to the game.  She was religious about it.

Surprisingly enough, about five years ago Yolie told me she had trouble understanding me when we first met in the eighties.  This is particularly funny because I don’t even come close to having an extreme Texas accent…now my brother-in-law is another story (No worries…I understand you, Steve.).

Every day I realize how blessed I’ve been to stumble into these incredible families.  Families who started their lives in the U.S. by selling rags on the streets of the city are three generations later…encompassing a group of seven cousins--four with college degrees (one soon to attend college)…three of those with masters degrees and all successful.

They’ve lived the American Dream.

They’re living the American Dream…it has the slight flavor of oregano, but it’s still American.

 
Laura on the Jersey Shore - 1987

Yolie: Team isn't Everything

Being from the south…and I need to be careful how I say this…but there appeared to me to be a general feeling those from the north considered us prejudiced solely based on our place of birth.

Did they actually believe this of us?  I’m unsure…some yes…some no, yet it seemed to be knowledge not so much spoken as impressed upon us at birth or by some weird social osmosis.

Therefore, when I would hear Craig’s grandparents speaking of their fellow card players and neighbors in terms of ethnicity, it gave me the impression there was more prejudice going on in the north than the south.

After all, I grew up a city girl.  My neighborhood was pretty well and happily integrated.

I was proud of this fact.

Later on…I decided I may have been mistaken about the grandparent’s habit of adding titles to their card buddies' names.  For example, there was ‘Alice, The German Lady’ or ‘Eleanor, The Jewish Lady,’ etc.

In retrospect…I think for them it was a manner of identification.  It was almost like stating the team a person roots for at the World Cup.

I’m almost positive either would have been happy to be identified as ‘The Italian Lady.’

Of course…their own team was the best team…everything Italian was best…but it didn’t keep them from treating me (and others) with kindness and hospitality…and, for that, I’ll always be grateful.

They never seemed sorry their grandson (full-blooded, Italian American) introduced them to a potential family member…not from New Jersey, not Catholic and without a real ethnic identity.

And it may have been as early as the first visit I felt compelled to share with them…the non-facts of my ancestry.

“I’m Scottish, Irish, Native American, French…and who knows what else.  My family has been here forever…,” I shared with a shrug.

They looked at each other and then smiled back at me.

I think they had already given up on Craig’s family returning to the Catholic Church; my Protestantism was definitely out of their comfort zone, but they didn’t let it affect how they treated me.

Conversely, the whole Catholic, Italian, northern thing was pretty much a novelty to me.

I’ll admit…I was curious.

It was different.

There were times I was sitting there observing and soaking it all in like a giant sponge.

It was a wonderful novelty…like all the food rules, or I guess you could almost call them traditions.

By the way, the reason the salad was sitting at the edge of the table untouched during the big meal I described in my last post…was because they preferred to eat it after the main portion of the meal.  They believed it helped with digestion.

And let’s face it, after a meal that large…any help in that direction was probably a good idea.

Earlier that day (forever known as The Day of the Big Meal), Grandpa Fred was cutting up some Italian sausage to put on crackers.

So Fred and Phil, the other grandfather, were hunched over the plate in the small den off the kitchen when Craig and I walked in.

We wondered what they were getting up to.

Fred decided to share, so he invited us over to partake of the ‘hot’ sausage with an obviously contained smile on his face.

I’m wondering now if the grandfathers had ever had to share this particular treat.  I’m guessing the grandmother’s shied away from the potential of an incredibly fiery tongue.

Well, I was from Texas and loved spicy foods…with a passion.

I wasn’t shying away.

You see, in Texas the ability to handle spicy foods is practically a rite of passage…and I had passed it with flying colors…several years back.

So I think he and Phil hoped I would be hopping up and down and begging for water after the first miniscule bite.

They were ready for some fun at my expense.

But much to their disappointment (and mine), it didn’t seem to have any bite.

I chewed…and thought it was okay but kept wondering when it would kick in.

It never did.

So Fred and Phil stared and stared…waiting for steam to drift from my ears, or my head to explode, but nothing happened.

To this day, Craig and I are still snickering about this little episode….

More photos from the first trip:

 

 
Laura in Philadelphia (Looking 80s)

 
Craig in New York (Dreaming Business Dreams)

to be continued…