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Posts Tagged ‘Memoir’

What do you do when you’re sick? Take to your bed and yell for “Mommy,” or ignore it and go about your business? Well when you’re married to an Emergency Physician, and you’ve given birth to another, your response to an illness pretty much doesn’t matter. After all, you are NOT dying, so it’s not a true emergency – like say, anaphylaxsis, septecemia, or a gun shot wound to the belly.

It’s only a virus. Antibiotics won’t help. In fact, my doctors rant about how other doctors overprescribe antibiotics, which is why we are in a drug-resistant pickle. You’ll be better in a few days. So you’d best go about your business; take Tylenol every four hours, force fluids and try to rest. Because as Daniel Tiger says, “Rest is Best.”

When I was young and caught a cold, Nell would rub my chest with Vick’s. Then she’d wrap some sort of gauze around me and tuck me into bed. In hindsight, she grew up when a small splinter could turn into an infection and kill you. Penicillin wasn’t invented until just before I was born. Growing up in the first half of the twentieth century meant you were isolated when you were sick, people took a cold seriously. As Adelaide would say in her Lament, a person can develop a cold, or La Grippe, La post-nasal drip…with the wheezes, and the sneezes, and the sinuses really a pip!
In other words,

Just from worrying whether the wedding is on or off,
A person can develop a cough.
You can feed her all day with the Vitamin A and the Bromo fizz,
But the medicine never get’s anywhere near where the trouble is.
If she’s getting a kind of a name for herself, and the name ain’t his,
A person can develop a cough.
Read more at http://www.songlyrics.com/actors-broadway/guys-and-dolls

But I digress. Back to the 50s, once an illness had passed, Nell would make me an eggnog. I know, sounds disgusting, but it was so good. Guess she didn’t know about salmonella in raw eggs? Oh and to keep me healthy, she would shove a teaspoon of cod liver oil into my mouth every morning, followed by a chaser of orange juice. It took me many years to like the taste of orange juice.

Still, this spring cold is a bad one, it starts off deceptively simple enough – a headache followed by a runny nose. You are lulled into thinking you’ll be fine by the third day. Then your larynx closes up and you can barely croak, a fever sets in and after awhile your eyes get all gucky. If you have children in preschool, or you have a spouse that is routinely seeing infectious disease every day they go to work, then it’s likely you’ll catch  it. In other words, “You can spray her wherever you figure the streptococci lurk,
You can give her a shot for whatever she’s got, but it just won’t work.” The cough will linger, you’ll want your Mommy, and someone to bring you chicken soup.

On my way home I listened to the TED Radio Hour “Believers and Doubters.” http://www.npr.org/2013/11/18/245949211/believers-and-doubters

And I thought about the time I nearly died from septicemia after a miscarriage. Lying in a hospital bed in the Berkshires, I prayed the rosary with my Polish room mate because she asked me if I would in broken English. I found her beads in her bag, and the words came back, they flowed through me like a salve. It was like being wrapped in a warm blanket and tucked into bed.    CLR in Bathrobe

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Muscle memory is something dancers take for granted. We hear a certain music, and somehow our limbs begin to move to a primal beat, its choreography imprinted through hours and hours of practice. Lengthen that arm, stretch that foot just beyond its limits. The difference between a technically perfect performance, and a truly inspiring, transformative performance is nuanced and certainly cannot be explained with words.

One takes skill, while the other takes art. It will move the the audience. There will be tears. If you have never cried while watching the ballet, you may not understand.

One ballerina in the Nutcracker hesitated. She didn’t leap into her partner’s arms. I turned to the Bride and we both looked bereft. Sorry for her, and feeling so sorry for him. I could see it on his face, I could feel it in my heart.

It’s got something to do with trust, but not just in your partner. In order to let go, and truly fling yourself into the air, you must trust in yourself and then let go. And trust in God. Because we all fall at times, and it’s how we get up and do it again that matters.

A friend asked if I had any pictures from thirty years ago. Here I am looking over my shoulder before going out on stage. Bob caught me in the wings, in the dark with gingerbread soldiers and reindeer.

I want him to know I’m glad I took that leap into his arms.
21551_1194777985859_3581712_n

Looking through some photographs I found inside a drawer
I was taken by a photograph of you
There were one or two I know that you would have liked a little more
But they didn’t show your spirit quite as true

Jackson Browne – Fountain Of Sorrow Lyrics | MetroLyrics

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Yesterday I attended a writing seminar on the art of the memoir. Putting one’s family on the page can be a daunting task, and yet it seems I’ve been doing this my whole life. It started when I was a young wife, and found myself alone on a mountain with a baby girl. From that first published piece in the Berkshire Eagle, “Guns in the Woods,” writing has been my salvation, a revelation of sorts.

Don’t bother trying to Google it. The Bride was probably around The Love Bug’s age, a toddler in a time before the Internet. We lived such a simple life when I look back. The memoir instructor asked us to draw a map, but I was puzzled. Where was home for me? Home. It’s not so much a place, as it is a feeling. Maybe because I was never quite at home with my foster parents, always traveling back to the Flapper in Scranton.

One house alive with brothers and a sister and ideas! Another house solemn, asleep and afraid of the dark.

Another early Eagle essay described what the Flapper must have felt when she learned we were at war. I had asked her once how she found out about Pearl Harbor on December 7th in 1941. She told me she was pregnant with my brother Jimmy (Dr Jim), and she was listening to the radio on a stool at the ice cream fountain in my Father’s drug store with her stockings rolled down around her ankles. I always loved these details. Details are the building blocks of a writer’s life.

By writing, I could somehow paint a picture of that scene in the drug store.

I wish I too could have read those comic books after school at my Father’s store. I wish I could have helped him compound medicine in the back room. I wish I could have climbed up on his lap while he was reading the newspaper.

But my life, my memories of Victory Gardens are different. Being stung by a bee on the foot, underneath Nell’s clothesline. Riding down the hill in Daddy Jim’s car to Mass, and then on to Zanelli’s for a Rocky Road sundae. The dreaded tick tock of a grandfather clock in the hall. I was too young to remember that Year of Living Dangerously.

Maybe I write to reclaim it. IMG_1849

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“Nothing comes from violence”

On this day, we remember the fallen.

On this day, we remember the innocent.

On this day, we will never forget.

http://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lB6a-iD6ZOY

We remember our neighbors from Rumson and Middletown, NJ

We remember Michael Patrick Tucker

We remember…

“Lest we forget how fragile we are”

 

 

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This is my 500th post as MountainMornings. I did start out in 2010 under a different pseudonym, trying to make sense of the wedding industry and how it would apply to my family. I wanted to stay in touch with friends I’d left behind when we moved South. There was a snarky edge to my writing.

And then I took a different course, and here we are. More than weddings, and more than 500 subscribers later, I’m not famous for food or mommy blogging; I lost my camera and take pictures with my phone; in fact I’m not famous period. I haven’t monetized myself or even considered branding, in fact, I’m pretty sure any babyboomer/emptynester/grandmother brand would fall far short of anyone’s ideal business plan.

Bob tells me whenever people ask what I write about, he says, “Anything that’s on her mind.”  And like most writers, it just feels good to sit down and type away. I can’t wait for inspiration, I learned that lesson writing for a newspaper (remember those?) with a deadline. But lucky me a little perspiration always pays off. Very rarely will I sit and look at a blank screen, and that never lasts long. The world is always throwing zingers my way, and my mind is always trying to connect the dots…connect my family and friends… and now you, my “followers.”

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

This is what’s bothering me today – the news out of the CDC and Doctor’s Without Borders that the Ebola virus is not being contained – did anybody else hear this news or are we all worried about nudie pictures in the Cloud? Here is the headline that is one day old already:

“Global Bio-Disaster Response Urgently Needed in Ebola Fight” http://www.doctorswithoutborders.org/news-stories/press-release/global-bio-disaster-response-urgently-needed-ebola-fight

Yesterday I watched a PBS short of a man with Ebola dressed in a red shirt escaping his clinic, running around a town while men in Ebola protected spacesuits were trying to capture him. It seems the clinic had no food or water for its patients so he made a run for it.

Six months into the worst Ebola epidemic in history, the world is losing the battle to contain it,” said Dr. Liu. “Leaders are failing to come to grips with this transnational threat. The WHO announcement on August 8 that epidemic constituted a ‘public health emergency of international concern’ has not led to decisive action, and states have essentially joined a global coalition of inaction http://www.doctorswithoutborders.org/news-stories/press-release/global-bio-disaster-response-urgently-needed-ebola-fight

We are a part of the coalition of inaction. We are leaving this crisis to the NGOs with church affiliations to trust in the Lord and pray that everything will turn out for the best. Well maybe praying will help, but it was that special serum and a ride back to Atlanta that saved Dr Kent Brantly and his colleague. And now another missionary doctor has the disease in Liberia. Are we going to wait for another “miracle?”

Both Bob and the Bride have received instructions on identifying the Ebola virus, containing it and reporting it should the virus show up in the US, in their hospital, and yes the new ER has 4 of those infectious disease rooms that can be sealed off with the air only going one way.

I used to worry about the threat of HIV/AIDS from needle sticks when Bob and I were first married. Often he would be called in to draw blood or start a line on these emaciated patients in the 80s because techs were either afraid or couldn’t stick a vein. It seems so naive now.

Here is another wedding picture of the Bride and Groom, with Grandpa Hudson, their officiant. He was once a medical missionary in Ghana.  J&M  0622

 

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They say you can’t go home again, not once you’ve left and established a separate life, an adult life. But today I tasted a real poppyseed strudel at the City Market, the kind my Slovac foster mother Nell used to make, and it brought me right back there, to Victory Gardens.

I tried making it once. I had to buy a new peppermill to grind the teeny poppy seeds, since there was nothing else I could think of in the 70s to do the trick. My attempt failed miserably and I just assumed you’d have to go to Czechoslovakia to find a poppyseed grinder. Julia Child lived around the corner in Cambridge, MA and I almost stopped her in the street to ask her how I might duplicate this luscious European pastry, but I guess I didn’t have the nerve. If only we had Twitter!

This week has brought back many memories. The Bride was just two years old when we started bringing her out to Martha’s Vineyard. We’d pack up the car and caravan with the dogs and our BFFs Lee and Al to a little, old, grey clapboard house at the wild end of the island, Gay Head. We’d dig for clams and bake bread. We’d ride our beach bikes past the dunes and watch fishermen docking with the day’s catch. We’d shower outside after an afternoon at Menemsha Pond, and pick ticks off the dogs in the evening. In short, it was always a delightful Spring.

Being with the Love Bug now reminds me of that toddler sense of wonder, the kind I experienced on the Vineyard with her mama. She looks for our neighbors’ horses, she sings to herself in the car, she bravely goes down a water slide twice! We run in the backyard to pick blackberries. When she takes a bite of a ripe peach, I see that same joy. Like a picture I have of the bride sitting at our Gay Head table with lobster, clams and butter all over her face and hair.

Sandy sheets and ballon animals from the City Market dance on my laundry line of time.

The Bride waiting for the ferry

The Bride waiting for the ferry

And sometimes I feel like I have gone home again.

The Bug with a blackberry stained mouth

The Bug with a blackberry stained mouth

 

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This morning Ms Bean started barking her crazy bark at the kitchen door. I looked and not seeing any deer, which usually has her starting off with a low rumble before she hits the crazy bark mode, I opened the door. She jumped, pranced out onto the deck craning her head up, and I looked up to see a Great Blue Heron swing down and away from the roof into the valley. Oh Bean, let’s not go chasing herons. Hawks are OK since they might decide to pick you up for a snack, but herons mean you no harm.

Afterwards, I recalled a snippet of last night’s dream. I dreamed about Buddha, and the Flapper. We were in a big, old antebellum house and Buddha didn’t want to go out the door. It was a special door on the side with muddy bootprints. My beautiful, white Samoyed-mix wasn’t comfortable walking on the wood floors towards the end. The Flapper was watching from the grand circular staircase. Maybe I remembered the dream because my children’s story has Buddha talking to a Great Blue Heron in a tree.

But the majestic, historic house I know well, it was Walter Place in Holly Springs, MS. My late brother Michael bought this house for his beautiful bride Jorja after they left the frozen tundra of Minnesota. She was raised here and her large family still lived among the hanging, humid wisteria vines in this delta dreamworld. I’ve been dressed in a hoop skirt to man the upstairs battle stations during their annual Pilgrimage. Walter Place is the jewel in the crown of this historic house tour. http://misspreservation.com/2012/06/19/101-places-walter-place-in-holly-springs/

In 1859…”Harvey Washington Walter “challenged [architect Spires Boling] to create something grander than the classic Greek Revival house with tall white columns” Boling’s response was the Gothic towers “topped with castellated battlements.”

gates

Walter Place is about to go up for auction, which is most likely why I’m dreaming about it. All the gorgeous antiques that Jorja assembled over the years to make her home a period masterpiece are now in the hands of Stevens Auctions for probably one of the biggest and best American antiquities sales in a very long time.

I remember looking out over the lawn to see tents sprawling as far as the eye can see of Civil War re-enactors, like Mrs Grant saw in real time. I remember the desk that the railroad tycoon Walter’s daughter used sitting under the staircase. She had to practice medicine in China since no one would accept a woman doctor. I remember my niece Lucia’s glorious wedding in the lush garden, with magnolia flowers from the estate on every table. I remember the peacock I gave my brother for his birthday flying free up into a tree when the groundsman tried to capture him. Like the heron did this morning.

I know you can watch the auction online July 11 and 12, but I don’t know if they will be accepting phone bids. You could probably call if you are interested, this is a business that must have a person on the other end of the line don’t you think? http://www.stevensauction.com/Calender.html And Jorja, I wish you love and light in this next chapter of your life.

Three Generations of Delta Beauty

Three Generations of Delta Beauty

 

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Note to new moms everywhere. Keep a journal! Because chances are, especially if you have a girl, there will come a time when your adult daughter will ask you exactly how you handled each developmental stage of your baby’s life. When Google doesn’t work, and her friends’ suggestions won’t do the trick, you will be called upon to offer up your advice.

So you must be prepared! And that’s when you’d better have a good memory.

Take naps for instance. My constant refrain was, “The Bride napped right up into Kindergarten, she loved her nap. The Rocker gave his up at two!”

All of that is true. Only I don’t recall how I knew it or accomplished any of it. It was over 30 years ago after all. There’s a picture of my girl all blonde curls spread out sleeping on her bed with her pink acrylic blanket and Barbie doll, so I do have evidence. And before my feminist friends complain, the Bride, we found out at the age of two, was allergic to mites. So all cotton or wool blankets, stuffed animals, rugs and curtains were removed from her bedroom. Sounds harsh I know, but I didn’t want to label her an “allergic” child or give her pills all the time.

Plastic Barbie was her only bedtime comfort.

And now I don’t feel so bad. A friend has just blogged about her solution to naptime troubles. She has an ingenious solution which involves a vintage plastic lunchbox that her mom saved for her grandson. http://www.babykerf.com/the-lunchbox-surprise/

How to get the toddler into his/her crib without the benefit of a bottle? How to get the toddler to stay in said crib and not try climbing out? How to get the toddler to stay in bed once they have left the crib behind? How to get the toddler toilet trained? And the list goes on and on and everyone has their two cents to say; and if you’re not the type of grandma to keep everything baby-related, or if you have a spouse who thought it was his duty to recycle all your children’s toys while you were away, or if your brain has just forgotten the day to day tasks of childrearing and only held onto the highlights, then you are out of luck.

This past weekend the Bride and Groom visited Walter Place in Holly Springs, MS. The Love Bug had a chance to play with her adorable toddler cousins Antonia (Tony) and Franchesca (Frankie). Thanks to my sister-in-law, and my beautiful niece Lucia for their hospitality. And thanks for adding their toddler wisdom to all those tricky questions. One day maybe the girls will dress up in hoop skirts for a Pilgrimage of their own.

from left: Frankie, Tony, Lucia, Bug

from left: Frankie, Tony, Lucia, Bug

And Bob and I are pleased to announce that this coming Thanksgiving, we will be giving the Bride and Groom hints about changing baby boy diapers! Talk about tricky!

 

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Happy Mother’s Day to one and all. This post will have to be short since I’m busy being  a Nana currently. Nothing can prepare you for the look in your grand daughter’s eyes when she sees you again. It’s not heart warming, it’s heart melting – literally your heart just implodes inside itself. Kaboom, or “TaDa!” as we like to say.

I know I’ll never have to pick dozens of bees out of my son’s clothes again. Or sit in an ice cold skating rink and cheer him on to do ice hockey battle. I’m done sitting on the sidelines for my daughter’s cheerleading at Mini/Mighty/Football games. And I’m finished hosting sleepovers of girls doing their nails while watching Dirty Dancing. Teaching them to ride bikes and drive cars was mostly Bob’s job, but the rest of it – the messy, miraculous ritual, the day-in-and-day-out care, love, feeding, clothing, nursing and management job was the job I signed up for.

And I was just starting to realize that my job was done. That in fact, they wouldn’t really need me for the rest of their lives. Meaning that Bob and I could pat ourselves on the back; after all, we’d raised two, count ’em two, happy, confident, compassionate and fairly successful kids! Ahem, I meant adults.

But before we could get too comfortable in our new roles as parents of adult children, we became Grandparents. And now I know that all the miraculous love and bliss that babies bring into their new home, it just gets squared when you become the Nana. Because you realize it’s not the end of the world when they bruise their knee, or follow behind you cutting down all the perennials you’ve just finished planting. We take a longer view, we know this thing called childhood doesn’t last that long.

So when the Love Bug just spontaneously snuggles her damp head under my arm while I’m reading her a story about a monkey named George, I melt. Being a Grandmother is the reward for all those sleepless nights and teenage moments of angst. Grandparenting gives us another chance, to love unconditionally.

Watching Little League Baseball last night

Watching Little League Baseball last night

Well I’m on my way, I don’t know where I’m going
I’m on my way, I’m taking my time, but I don’t know where
Goodbye to Rosie, the queen of Corona

By Paul Simon, Me and Julio

 

 

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I recently discovered a website called “Letters of Note.” http://www.lettersofnote.com Whoever thought of digging up old letters from famous, and not so famous, writers was genius. It all started with an obit that EB White wrote for his dog Daisy, who happened to be sniffing the flowers in front of a shop when a carriage careened into her. Most of us know White because of his spider named Charlotte; he is masterful at writing for children. I always thought that a good children’s writer had to have never really left childhood behind. There had to be a Peter Pan quality to him when he wrote about Daisy; that she was born, “an unqualified surprise to her mother.”

My Cardigan Welsh Corgi, Tootsie Roll, was extremely surprised when she delivered her brood in the corner of the living room, on the good rug, and NOT in the whelping box I had so carefully arranged in the family room. And as most doggie people know, each and every one of her puppies had a personality all its own. One was sweet and cuddly, one was aggressive and always first to dine. One loved to explore and one was always hiding. Blaze, the one we kept, was the alpha male. He seemed to know he was in charge of his siblings from the moment he opened his eyes. I was writing for the newspaper back then, but now how I wish I’d put pen to paper about the pups.

I am thinking of writing some small poems about our dog Buddha for the Love Bug. I’ve already asked my artistic sister Kay to illustrate a story or two. Buddha came from the SPCA at the Jersey Shore and looked a little like a polar bear – he was a hundred pounds of white fluffy Samoyed-mixed love! So tell me what you think of my first attempt at a beginning?

Buddha Springs into Action

Buddha awoke and stretched himself

Gently into downward dog

Looking up, he thanked the tree

Shimmering in the morning fog

The tree was full of birds

Singing sweetly, flapping wings

Dancing in her branches

A Blue Heron was the King

“Good Morning Buddha Bear,” he said

“Happy day to one and all”

The big white dog sat down at once

To hear the sea wind call

Buddha Bear in the Blue Ridge

Buddha Bear in the Blue Ridge

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