Practically Laura

My Imaginary Friends

Did you notice I mentioned a fictional character on my blog’s facebook page this week?

I was referring to the character Anne in Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery (Lucy Maud was a Canadian, by the way).

Everybody knows Anne, right?

Maybe I’m a lonely person (but I don’t think it really has anything to do with it), but when I find an engaging character, whether in a book or movie…when I truly relate to a character…they almost become like a friend to me.

An imaginary friend.

And truthfully, I have many imaginary friends.

There’s Anne, of course.  I love Anne.  I love her exuberance…her energy.  I love her creativity…I love her imperfection.

Then there’s Emma from the book Emma by Jane Austen.  I love her youthful, well-meaning but blundering ways.  I love her mind.  I love her growth.  I love her repentance.

Then there’s Captain Picard.  He’s terribly cool (I’m telling you they hit the gold mine when they lured Patrick Stewart into that role). 

And I have to say, I really like Leonard Nimoy as the original Spock…and Data.  Wouldn’t they both come in handy during an emergency…or even a hard day.

 
Live Long and Prosper...and Let Me Help You with those Groceries, Laura

I have to mention Harry.  He’s another orphan, after all.  Just like Anne.  I love how Rowling writes from his often-limited perspective.  But let’s face it…he’s resourceful, quick (which helps with the resourcefulness) and a little sarcastic.

I can definitely relate to the ‘little sarcastic’ part.

Yes, these are just a few examples of the many engaging characters which have come to life in my imagination.

And--believe it or not--I may think of them as I jog or drive (isn’t it scary) or grocery shop.  I may think of them as I listen to music or do housework.

I may think of them as I daydream, in other words.

So I guess it shouldn’t have been such a huge surprise to me, but it was.

When I started writing my own fiction…I didn’t just love my characters…I adored them.

Of course, many of the characters from the book I’ve been writing are loosely based on friends from high school (they know who they are, so you can breathe a sigh of relief).

But the best part…the really exciting part…was when I couldn’t contain them.

Yes, my characters have almost, almost come to life.

They didn’t want to be placed in a box of limited, high school memory.

Nope, they wanted to do things in unexpected ways.

Now, before you get too worried, I know much of this happens on the subconscious level…but it still feels very close to miraculous.

When you decide to write a story…and you have a very basic (or not-so-basic) idea of where you’re headed, it seems to allow the characters to take the steering wheel every now and then.

It feels as if they’re controlling the show…at least at certain points.

And they morph in previously unsuspected and delightful ways.

For instance, characters I based on my two closest friends from high school have become an amalgamation of each other.  Both characters retain traits from the people from whom they’ve been modeled, but they’ve additionally been put in the blender and mixed up quite a bit.

The entirely fictional characters are even better.  I never expected them to become as fully-realized as they now seem to me.

I mean, I laugh when they laugh…and I cry when they cry.

It’s one of the coolest things I’ve ever experienced from a creative perspective.

I’ve heard and read of other writers who’ve experienced the same thing.

But, for me, it’s all relatively new…which may make it seem even lovelier.

So now, when I jog or drive or grocery shop…I think of my own characters.

And I wonder what they’ll get up to next.

Maybe they’ll move to Montreal and struggle with the pronunciation of parapluie…or maybe they’ll move out to a dusty, dry farm in west Texas and sit and stare at the incredible sunsets…or maybe they’ll fall into a huge pothole in a terrible parking lot and never be heard from again.

Who knows!

But it gives me something to think about.

Thankfully, the imagination holds endless possibility.

 
Lexie isn't as Impressed

I See You

Every Sunday morning I can’t forget my privilege…the privilege of worshipping God.

As it seems to be at many churches, the musicians who facilitate the music portion of our service are very, very talented.

I often feel as if I get to go to a free concert on Sunday mornings.

In particular...this past Sunday while listening and singing along…and moving a bit as well, the music or very probably  the Spirit caused me to think on our spirit life…the indefinable quality we all possess of something more…the indefinable quality we recognize in others.

I guess it goes without saying (yet I can't help myself)...we’re greater than the sum of our parts.

Moreover, these thoughts recalled to my mind some strange ideas I would entertain as a child (or maybe they’re not so strange).

But I used to wonder why God placed me in this body…and not another body in another place or time.

Why was my soul created for this shell?

I’m not sure how it works to be honest.   I hope to someday ask the Source, but until then…it gives me something to mull over.

But it also brings forward other esoteric things to ponder.

I’ll start by admitting I’m an incredibly visual person.  I love to look at pleasing things…pleasing people, pleasing places, pleasing art.

Yet I believe…we quickly discover (if we mature at all) there are layers.

There are layers…and if we dare to peel them back…there is so much more to discover both of beautiful and of ugly.

Maybe it’s for the best…we have our shells.

But every once in a while…you catch a glimpse of something good and pure in another…something which transcends their shell…or whatever they’re trying to present…something which peaks through their armor…

And those are some of the best moments we’ll ever have.

And our best moments are those when we’re no longer seeing with our eyes…when we forget to look at the outside because the inside has us riveted.

When we see each other as God intends.

Doesn’t He push us in lovely and scary ways…

I just want to be able to say…I see you.

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…

Yolie

A little girl was born in 1911.

Her name was Yolanda.

Her parents immigrated to the United States from Italy before her birth, so she was the first in her family to be born in the new land.

I think her parents came through Ellis Island.

And I’ve seen pictures of Yolie’s beautiful mother; she died fairly young.

My father-in-law, Al, was also an only child, and despite his left-handed tendency toward mischief (there’s this caterpillar story) was considered pretty much perfect in Yolie’s eyes.

So when he met and married my mother-in-law, Marie…Marie was not granted the same perfection status which sometimes made for a rocky relationship between Yolie and she.

Eventually…Marie and Al had two children, Craig and Cheryl (because back in the sixties all the children had names which began with the same letter…it was some sort of rule).

Al worked for one of the big oil and gas companies. During the 1980s, he was banished from the land of milk and honey (New Jersey) to Texas (where very few others with Italian surnames resided) for no good reason.

Craig, the grandson of Yolie, had to change his plans for college. Instead of attending Rutgers or one of the other infinitely better New Jersey schools, he now decided to look for a university in Texas.

It made sense. He would be closer to his family.

So he chose Baylor, and that’s how we met.

In the meantime, Yolie and his other grandparents continued to happily reside in a place called Holiday City located in Toms River, New Jersey.

By the way…Holiday City looked like something out of the early sixties. When John Mellencamp sang about “Little Pink Houses,” he was probably singing about the southern equivalent of Holiday City. A 1980s snapshot would picture row after row of little white houses with small, tidy yards sporting a wide variety of garden sculpture. But, I have to say, the Virgin Mary figured pretty popularly into the equation.

Back in Texas and despite his very different last name, I could see Craig just reeked ‘good guy’ (and was handsome as well), so we started dating during the latter half of my senior year at Baylor.

The following summer, Craig planned a temporary return to New Jersey to stay with his aunt and uncle while he worked at a pharmaceutical company to make money toward his continuing stay at college.

This meant a three month separation for us…just when our relationship had barely gotten off the ground.

So Craig had a brilliant idea (I knew he was smart!). He would invite me up for a visit before his new job started. We would spend time with a friend in New York then head down to New Jersey to see what it had to offer. We even managed to get in some Philadelphia time.

But while in New Jersey, I would meet his extended family.

This is how I (The young, city-bred, Texas mongrel) happened to meet Yolie (the Italian-American, Jersey grandmother).

to be continued…

Tumbleweed Thoughts No. 2: A Precious and Unaccountable Thing

Friendship is a risky business…especially for someone as transparent as I.

Friendship love (and all love for that matter) is often beyond my reckoning.

How I’m drawn to another seems quite a mystery.

It’s rare I can define what pulls me to friendship.

But it seems as if there are certain people who hold out such welcoming…such automatic sunshine, I’m drawn in without my conscious thought.

Eventually, there will be times of slight discomfort…times of getting to know the real personality…times of getting closer…when it’s revealed they’re not really you…they’re not wired completely like you, but it’s usually okay.  You accept their differences, and they accept your imperfections…you move along…together.

Other people seem riskier from the get go.

They may seem a bit different…there may be a sense of unfamiliarity, or they may seem intimidating.  You may sense they’re holding something back.  They’re a tough nut to crack, as some might say.

You may have to work harder to unravel their mysteries…you may never completely unravel their mysteries, but you eventually learn them better…the comfort and welcome slowly seep in...over time.

In the end, you’ll find yourself meeting on common ground…wondering why they ever made you uncomfortable in the first place.

There is a third group.

They are the bad-first-impression makers.

You may try and hide your feelings…you may be successful at hiding your feelings, but you dislike them from the beginning.

Yet…somehow…you’re unable to shake them.  For whatever reason…in whatever circumstance…they’re part of your life, and it’s beyond your control.

Amazingly…wondrously…one day, these people surprise you.  You have a shared experience (either together or separately), and you truly learn…you shouldn’t let first impressions guide you.  There is more depth than first imagined…and it’s a good kind of depth…not a wrong kind of depth.

You learn to treasure them…to love them.

In all three cases…it’s a precious and unaccountable thing.

Tumbleweed Thoughts

I drove up to our local Pet store today and did a double-take.  Did I just read “Pet Tanning?”  On my second look, I realized it was advertising “Pet Training.”

I don’t have a reading disorder.

I’m just in a hurry.

Please don’t ask why.

Which leads me to my second thought or question:  Will I ever finish…everything?

Does it matter?

By the way, I think it’s okay to say ‘no’ when one is asked to commit to something.  I’m pretty positive we should think it over first…pray about it…I guess it depends on the commitment level.

And maybe we should think about the squirm factor.  You know…your initial reaction.  Does the request initially make you squirm…make you uncomfortable…make you dread…is it outside your comfort zone?

Actually, I think it’s good to push ourselves outside the zone every now and then…to try out something new…something risky.  Otherwise, life would be pretty boring.

But when do you know if you’ve gone too far?  How do you know if you’ve overcommitted or overstepped to the point of perpetual chaos?  How do we know if we’ve just said ‘yes’ to the final thing which will push us over the edge…which will keep us from being able to stop and look around…which will allow no time for daydreaming or hugging or listening? More importantly...are we guarding ourselves from the tunnel vision which blinds us to the immediate need around us?

There’s this tight rope we’re required to walk between being ineffective and falling into a well of out-of-control.

Sometimes my foot slips off on one side or the other, but I know it’s more than a foot when I’m either afraid and all my excuses sound lame in my head…or I’m not sure how I got there in the first place.

I’m still working out the answers…but this is one subject which tumbles around my head.

Deep Wishing Well

I see you surrounded by friends.  They accept you as you are…beautiful and wondrous…quirks and all.  You’re laughing; then you’re having meaningful conversation.  They’ve been your friends for so, so long...they’ve forgiven and you’ve forgiven.  Someone says, “Do you remember when…,” and you gleefully fill in the blank.  I think there might be a wicked twinkle in your eye.

I see you happily occupied.  You’re intent.  You’ve zeroed in.  There's  a little wrinkle of concentration between your eyes.  A person clatters by, but it hardly registers.  You love what you’re working on…really love it.  You have purpose while wearing your white lab coat (you don't care it's a little bit rumpled).   I see other people flitting around you.  They smile when you look up….but even if they didn't, you know you're in the right place...for now.

I see you listening to a song.  You've got that old red nano in your hands and some bright blue headphones in your ears.  You’re swaying back and forth and singing under your breath, but…in truth, you don’t care who hears because it’s all about the moment.  It’s all about what you’re learning…it’s all about how you’re relating…in the gathering of chords and words and wonder at the exponential miracle called music.

I see you travelling.  It’s too hot, but you have your bottle of water, your really cool straw fedora and your trusty, scuffed purple backpack; so you wipe the sweat from your eyes and keep pushing on…you may never walk this street again…and another wonderful photo op is just around the corner.  In the process...you discover the world isn’t flat but round.

I see you ringing my doorbell….then you knock, pounding in impatience.  We’ve been apart too long…but soon I open the door, and I see…I feel you in my arms.  You struggle a little bit against my desire to never let go, but you know I need this...so you capitulate…for a moment.  We walk side by side (you’re slightly taller), and I ask about your trip and your life and your everything.  It’s good to be together.

Name-Calling or Nickname?

As a family, we’ve had some of our most meaningful conversations in the car.

We’ve discussed various historical, theological, political and social concepts like basic manners, the deficit, World War II, human reproduction (I kid you not!) and the Trinity.

However, we’ve also had our fair share of disharmony in the back seat.  For example, the other day we’re driving to C.G.’s and Super Girl’s various activities…one minute we’re happily belting out “Yellow Submarine” and the next…I hear name-calling.

“Well…you’re old and moldy!” C.G., my almost nine-year-old boy, shouts at his sister.

“Well…you’re a little wee baby!” Super girl, my thirteen-year-old, exuberantly responds.

“Whoa, whoa, guys! Stop the name-calling!” I command and then continue, “You know I have a very low tolerance for arguments.  I can’t believe you’re actually calling each other mean names.”

Surprisingly enough, I hear lots of laughter from the back seat.

“No mommy.  We’re just kidding around,” my oldest replies.

“Yep. Daddy gave us those names.  He calls us by them all the time,” the other proudly declares.

What?

I need time to process this little tidbit.

*******

The next night, I finally think to ask Craig about it.

He’s just gotten home from a long day at work, so, of course, it’s the perfect time for me to ambush him with my incredible interrogation skills.

“No.  I don’t remember calling them those names,” he absentmindedly answers.

“Are you sure?”  I say in my most skeptical tone.

“Okay, okay…wait.  Yes, now I remember.  Yes, we were joking around and I did call them by those names…the little beggars.”

At this point I’m thinking I should just give up.

I mean, if you can’t beat ‘em….you know the rest.

So when bedtime rolls around, instead of calling out their names, I decide to use a few I’ve come up with over the past few hours.

“Hey, Quasimodo and Esmeralda, get in beh-ed!” I sing-song up the stairs.

I know I’ve left something out so I pause to think on it before adding, “Oh yeah.  I almost forgot!  I love you!”

*******

Authors note:  I’ve used a bit of artistic license to round out the ending of this story, but the name calling did happen…and it originated with Craig.

I Remember: You

Author's note:  My sister recently celebrated a milestone birthday, so I decided to write her a little something in remembrance.  It's more of a poem than prose...or maybe a hybrid.

"Let it Be" by The Beatles is my song dedication to her...because we both love The Beatles. 

"Whisper words of wisdom...Let it be..."

I Remember:  You

I remember:   Your relief when Mom refused to throw me in the garbage as you requested….only kidding…I don’t remember that.

I remember:  You urged me to fly on wobbly wings among typical living room tables.

I remember:  You thought you were my mommy, too.

I remember:  You sat by me at a yellow breakfast bar…breakfast after breakfast of toast….yours with butter only or maybe cinnamon sugar….mine with anything sweet I could get my hands on.

I remember:  You played Barbie with me.

I remember:  You and I shared Sunday après-church Burger King fries.  They were a small.  You liked ketchup and mustard on your burger…I liked ketchup only.

I remember:  You had to take piano from the scary piano teacher…I didn’t understand it.  I still don’t…and she had a scary little Pomeranian, too….and her son had lots of snakes.

I remember:  You got your ears pierced at thirteen…about the same time I became persona non grata.

I remember:  You told me I was better than that.  I don’t remember why you said it, but I’m sure it was fitting.

I remember:  You picked me up at the station after I travelled hours and hours on a stinky Greyhound to visit you at college.  It was worth it.

I remember:  You were afraid of lots of little caterpillars in your room (that darn screen never fit quite right).  I helped you clean them up.

I remember:  You were brave and changed directions.

I remember:  You liked alternative rock…and I did, too….Simple Minds at the Bronco Bowl, but in separate cars with separate friends on different days.

I remember:  You allowed me to tag along to Scotland.  We bought plaid stuffed Nessies and other plaid things….and learned about wold cots.

I remember:  You searched and found and then wished.

I remember:   You cried….and later I cried.

I remember:  You proudly announced the impending arrival of your own little hope….and another.

I remember:  You bought the same Gap shirt as I…a whole country’s width apart.

I remember:  You became a teacher….only to discover you were one all along.

I remember:  You and I danced with abandon to old eighties disco tunes with our children…and laughed.

I remember:  You personified determination…for years and years and infinity.

I remember:  You sat down and burned me a “Welcome Home” CD after our return from Canada.

I remember:  You bought a better camera…and it turned you into Queen Butterfly.

I remember:  You challenged me to think.

I remember:  You.