Archive for the ‘1950s’ Category

A Mom is Forever

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    Saturday, I was perusing the bargains at JC Penney’s, picking out a deeply discounted cute grey sweater to ward off the cold while waiting for the spring that I know is supposed to arrive any day now.

     While waiting in the long line, which moved incredibly quickly, I admired the clothes on the counter ready to be purchased. They were in pastel colors, the colors that are supposed to look best on me according to my “color chart”. Of course, I never buy the appropriately colored clothes because the deep discount bargain rack is my go-to shopping place, where pristine, professional looking, pastel colored items are rarely hidden. Thus my wardrobe consists of the browns, the blacks and the grays.

     On the cashier’s counter lay two different colors of pants, a light pastel peach and a business-looking tan. The peach colored sweater had three quarter length sleeves and pearl buttons on the neck and down the front. A matching, sophisticated shirt, obviously of wrinkle-free material had a crisp collar and matching pearl buttons on the sleeve. The clothes screamed success and professionalism, and were obviously not from the bargain rack.

     The woman for whom the clothes were being purchased was about my age, with hair dyed a honey blonde and a middle aged waist holding up a pair of jeans. What struck me most was her relationship with the woman standing next to her. The two of them were giggling conspiratorially, pointing at the clothes with a look of accomplishment, arms gently around each other’s waist. The other woman was much older, with similarly colored hair and body frame. They kissed lightly, among their smiles, and as they walked away with the precious bagged items, they seemed to bounce on air. It struck me that it was a daughter and her mother, with the mother buying her daughter some clothes for her work. As old as the first woman was, her mom still wanted to care for her and buy her the perfect clothes. It was probably a special occasion and they had the pleasure of shopping together to purchase the perfect gift, a joyful adventure for both mom and daughter.

     This scene ignited such an emotional flash back for me that I almost cried out. That could have been my mother and me if she was still alive. For my birthday, she would always take me shopping to buy two wonderful outfits that I would not have been able to afford otherwise. They would be in my perfect colors, and we wouldn’t care if they were on sale or not. We would go out to lunch at local restaurant and share a piece of cheesecake for dessert. It would be a special mother/daughter day, where my mom, eventually in a wheelchair as she aged, would still be my mom, maternally caring for my needs, an emotionally bonding experience for both of us.

     My mom passed away a few years ago. My heart is conflicted with joyous memories along with a deep sadness that hurts my heart. I sit here typing this with tears in my eyes, trying not to let them fall. Mother’s Day this year was especially meaningful. Only now, with her permanent etching upon my soul, do I really appreciate the things she did for me. I wish I could tell her I love her one more time…

 

Please consider purchasing my book; The Apple Tree: Raising 5 Kids with Disabilities and Remaining Sane.

With messy hair and an ear to ear grin

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One of my favorite cartoons as a child was The Jetsons. The portrayal of the future was colorful and amazing; cars flew around in the air and people chatted to each other on videophones.  Contemplating the “picture” phone, I shuddered with dismay.  I would NEVER want to talk to anyone on such a device, picturing myself answering with my hair askew, clothes rumpled and dirty dishes in the sink in the background.  If and when it was invented I would never use it, thank you anyway.  My regular phone would do just fine!

Who could have imagined then that one day we would chat on videophones as a normal part of life.  The first time it became significant to me was when my daughter who is deaf went away to school. Using a video monitor, we could chat in American Sign Language, which is SUCH a visual language.  Not only are the hand gestures important, but this special language includes facial and body gestures. For instance, she could sign “school okay”, with a facial grimace and thumbs down sign or with a smile that indicated “okay” was synonymous with “good”. Not to mention the fact that ASL is a visual language that cannot be conducted on a regular phone, and regular mom/daughter conversations would have been impossible. With modern technology, she can call anyone anywhere and an interpreter on her screen would interpret her words for the hearing person she called and sign back what the other person said.  Several times she has ordered pizza from Dominoes in this way, pleased with herself for her independence. She has had the great fortune of using this method for telephone communication during her lifetime.  How much more difficult would it have been had she lived 10, 20 years ago.

The other wonderful advantage of video chatting is being able to be a grandmother to my California son’s 2-year-old daughter.  We have been visiting with her by phone since she was about 6 months old.  I’d sing nursery rhymes and Papa would pretend to tickle her belly.  We were there as she developed, rejoicing in each new little trick she’d learn. When we see them twice a year at Christmas and for her birthday in May, Lailya readily runs into our arms for hugs, sticking her belly out so Papa can tickle it and sitting on my lap so the 3 Little Pigs story can be told in person. After all, she KNEW us because we graced her living room for games and songs every Sunday evening.

With my son being so far away, these visits were also parental support for him. He was very proud to be able to share his daughter with us, beaming with happiness when we told him what a great job he was doing as a dad and what an amazing daughter he has. He would ask our opinion on toilet training and how to get her to eat more vegetables. We were a family and chatting with him made the distance between us immaterial.

Now when I think back to the Jetsons and my aversion to using a video phone because my hair might be messy, I laugh.  Yes, this past Sunday, while singing, talking and laughing with Lailya and Francis, my hair WAS a mess.  I also had on a bathrobe because it was almost time for bed, (due to the 3-hour time difference between us.) With an ear to ear grin, enjoying our granddaughter’s antics, suddenly what we looked like wasn’t important at all.

I Know Why My Family Had To Travel

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I had always hated driving, which may have something to do with the fact that I traveled cross-country for most of my childhood years. My life lately includes a lot of it, with a granddaughter in Northern Massachusetts and a daughter attending school in Hartford. Surprisingly, I have learned to enjoy it! I find myself bopping away to music, using my right arm as a conductor’s baton, (one, two, three, four; the movements from music class carefully ingrained into me.) Worse yet, one can find me huskily singing along with great enthusiasm.

Taking non-highway routes as my father always did, the variations of scenery are fascinating. Children play on swings, grandmother sitting nearby, and clothes swing on a clothesline; do they use an old wood stove for cooking? Do they have an “icebox” instead of a refrigerator? Have I crossed over into the Twilight Zone? I remember driving through the same scenes as a child.

Many of the houses are memorable. One with natural wood and white shutters has a toddler standing in the window, waving, green curtains framing her. It is only after a few trips that I realize that that same child is always in the same position, waving, but wearing different clothing. It is not a child at all, but a doll that is lovingly cared for and placed in a prominent spot for all to see. Another red shuttered house has a flag waving on the front porch, a decoration to herald in the seasons and special occasions. With St. Patrick’s Day done and over, a Welcome Spring now blows in the wind. Driving, I take stock of such silly things as how much wood is piled in front of the lumber factory. (During the winter, the pile has diminished.) I was excited to drive by the nursery this spring.  During the winter after the holidays, it had withering Christmas Trees and wreaths, and was a  stark and unwelcome place. (The owners were probably enjoying sunny Florida.) Now, it is abloom with colors, flowers blazing in the sunlight, sunflowers winking at me, mums in pots and rose bushes awaiting planting.  Such a joyful place to drive by.

It was only as an adult that I realized that my dad and our family traveled so much because of his severe posttraumatic stress from the war. We criss-crossed the country, driving on the back roads. Driving hypnotized him into peace, keeping the awful memories at bay while experiencing the delightful ones of finding new places and exploring the many geographical areas of the country.

Driving the back roads has become more important to me now. No flash of highway exits and speeding cars, but leisurely driving through the countryside, relaxing my thoughts. Often, when observing the bright blue sky and puffy white clouds, the bright yellow sun will make its way down as a brilliant stream of light, and tears will inexplicably sting my eyes. Pure peace and joy. I have finally been able to fully understand the importance of traveling.

 

 

Please consider purchasing my book, The Apple Tree:  Raising 5 Kids with Disabilities and Remaining Sane.

Thank you for the support!

 

 

 

I am A Faux Kind of Woman

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Without the sophistication to realize the value of “real,” I am a faux kind of woman. It started when I was in my teens and I was given a beautiful little necklace of a dove carrying an olive branch with a diamond at the tip of the branch. The tiny stone fell out and it was replaced with a beautiful blue stone, (cheap glass, not a sapphire or anything “real”). I thought the blue matched the jeans that were my standard wardrobe at the time, and that necklace became one of my most cherished possessions.

When getting engaged and faced with the fact that getting a diamond was a tradition, my thoughtful hubby to be picked out the perfect engagement ring for me – a tiny diamond in the middle with navy sapphires forming the shape of a flower around it. It was awesome, and I still wear it today, not desiring a two- or three-carat diamond when my ring is so much more colorful and personal.

One of my first years married, my in-laws gifted me with a white fur coat for Christmas. I loved that coat, and wore it for every special occasion. It was exquisite; warm and toasty. I would not have preferred to have a “real” fur (unless the furriers hunkered down on the ice floes waiting for the polar bears to die a natural death and then made a coat out of them). Another favorite coat hung in my closet, and I received many compliments on it. It took me a while to realize that everyone thought it was leather and not the $24.99 jacket I had purchased on sale at JC Penney’s. It managed to fit me elegantly.

This life changing realization actually came to me the other day while getting out of the shower when I noticed our bathroom counter. As an avid watcher of “House Hunters,” the strict demands of the house buyers often fascinated me; people would be knowledgeable about what material was the most stylish and which material was mandated, such as marble countertops.

Looking at the cheap plastic countertop surrounding our bathroom sink, it looked like marble to me. The “tile” in the bathroom floor was just vinyl, and the white cupboard looked like wood (but was just particle board with the “wood” part uncurling in a few areas). The bright, cheerful flower arrangement on the back of the toilet was made of artificial flowers, and a plastic ivy plant curled around the circumference of the mirror. My whole bathroom was faux, and I was suddenly thankful that at least the toilet was real!

“Real” for me are the things that meet my needs. I am not envious of people with huge diamonds and marble countertops, but I admire their beautiful choices that are right for them. “To each his own,” my mom used to say. I may not always be perfect, but I’m always me, the “real” me!

Like a Breath of Fresh Air

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I’ve always dreaded the long winter months with all that cold and ice, but noticed recently that if I am dressed in a warm jacket with scarf, hat and gloves, the cold doesn’t seem to be as horribly frigid as remembered.  In fact, as I walked out our front door this morning with a temperature 23 degrees, a healthy dose of brisk air filled my lungs. It was a pleasant surprise.  The frigidity that swelled in my lungs really felt like the proverbial “breath of fresh air.”  It awakened me and I became acutely aware of my in and out breathing, (a technique for stress reduction that had previously eluded my abilities.) With the awareness of the winter chilliness inflating my innards, somehow the weight from the pre-holiday stressors leaked out.

Deep chilly breath in and out…my Thanksgiving turkey may have been dry, but hubby’s awesome smashed potatoes, squash and apple casserole, and pumpkin pie more than made up for it.  Why had I cared about the turkey?  With enough gravy, it was edible!

Deep icy breath in and out…the stress around the Thanksgiving table, with warring factions of children, became a thing of the past. As stressful as it was, there was nothing I could do about it. They are grown children who no longer reflect my beliefs but maintain their own truths and temperaments.  In one way, it is a relief to have them on their own, no longer my responsibility.

Deep arctic breath in and out…driving on Route 2 pre-New Year was an experience in hurry up and wait, and wait, and wait.  (Same experience trying to drive through Apponaug.) In retrospect, I did get to listen to beautiful Christmas music that I wouldn’t have had the time to do otherwise, plus traffic is now back to normal.

Deep frozen breath in and out…digging in the basement for the Christmas tree and decorations hidden under a pile of summer clothes, as well as putting the tree up with a minimal, scattered ornaments with no help from the children was a disappointment, but any reminders of such is now back in the basement, carefully put away to be easy to find next year. Out of sight, out of mind.

Deep bitterly cold breath in and out…buying the perfect gift for each was a concern, but the exhaling of cool, clean air convinced me I had the best of intentions and, in reality, there WAS no “perfect” gift, not one that I could afford anyway!

Deep frosty breath in and out…keeping the house clean through New Year’s Day while my son, his wife and daughter visited from California was a very hard challenge for me, making me anxious with every dropped tissue, spilled milk or spider spotted sitting up near the ceiling.  Pure stress, but throughout it I was still able to appreciate their company and enjoy their visit. Next time we will be going to THEIR house.

As enjoyable as the holidays were, the individual stressors had slowly added up inside me, preventing perfect New Year joy and relaxation. Perhaps I had finally accomplished the ability to use deep breathing as a relaxation technique. This was the first time I appreciated breathing in the frozen wintry weather, but it won’t be the last. On this cold, brisk day of January, that all changed.  It was like a breath of fresh air!

 

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Please consider purchasing my book, The Apple Tree:  Raising 5 Kids with Disabilities and Remaining Sane.  Thanks!!!!

Regrets…I’ve Had a Few

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As we age, it is common to have a few regrets of things we have or haven’t done along the way. When I was a child, (and traveled cross-country with my family,) I never got out of the car to see the Grand Canyon. Always on the move, I was used to short stops at tourist attractions, the Grand Canyon being no exception. I regret my choice stay in the car because of crabbiness, carsickness, stubbornness or what have you. I simply went back to sleep with a pillow over my head to block out the beautiful colors of the sunset. Also during childhood, I did not have the joy of playing in our ocean state waves. Living on a lake, my parents never felt the need to visit the ocean, and the only ocean I saw was near my public school, Oakland Beach. Nice beach, but not so exciting on the wave front. It wasn’t until I was 16 years old and able to drive with my friends to the beach that I realized RI had waves that were unbelievable! All those youthful waveless years wasted…

I regret never telling my dad of my love for him. As a sensitive child, I misunderstood his detachment from me, seeing it as a sign of my un-worthiness of his love instead of the mental illness he suffered. Only when I aged and he was gone did the truth become clear, and by then it was too late.

I regret the Christmas when I hid 5-year-old Dinora’s Littlest Mermaid bedspread under her bed. Pointing out that Santa had left a gift under her bed, she looked at me in shock and started crying hysterically. Was I telling her a BIG FAT MAN had been in her bedroom when she was sleeping? Seeing how upset she was, I quickly reassured her that really was no Santa Claus, causing an even bigger burst of tears. Strike one against me for prematurely destroying a little girl’s fantasy!

My latest regret came this week. Against the advice of others, an older family friend had chosen to keep her terminally ill husband at home rather than send him to a Hospice nursing home even though his physical care would be a challenge for her own aging body. A month ago I combed through the card store, finally finding the perfect card to express my support for her and to provide encouragement. I was too late in sending it. Her husband passed away this week, relegating my card to join the flow of regular sympathy well wishes, not special at all.

From now on, I will welcome Mother Nature and keep little girl’s dreams alive. People whom I admire will be lavished with praise, and people whom I love will be told, often and heartfelt, that they are loved, the same way I wanted to tell my dad so many years ago.

 

 

“God Don’t Make Junk”

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This used to be my mom’s favorite saying. She believed it all of her life, but never as much as she did after the birth of my brother, Curtis. When she was pregnant with him, she was unknowingly exposed to German Measles, thus affecting him with Rubella Syndrome.

Curtis was unfortunate to acquire all of the accompanying diagnosis; he had a severe hearing impairment, congenital heart disease, an intellectual disability, an odd head shape (like a smooshed pear,) a cleft lip and palate, autism and was legally blind with crossed eyes that wiggled back and forth. (Additionally, when he was a teen, he developed schizophrenia, but that’s for another story…)

Because I was only 4 when he was born, I thought he was the cutest thing in the world! He was my BROTHER, after all. I delighted in feeding him formula through an eye dropper, trying to quell his kitten like hunger cries. I loved to rock him in the rocking chair, all bundled up and warm. He was a delight to me!

Curtis’s life in our family was as amazing as mine. Loving, adventurous, interesting, and accepting. Anywhere we went, I would explain to quizzical stares that he was born like that and he might look different, but inside he was the same as everyone else. In fact, he had an amazing sense of humor and would laugh at anything! He loved to eat peaches and watch Sesame Street. As I extoled my brother’s virtues, I could see their stares soften with understanding and acceptance.

The “gawking” role was reversed when I was a parent, and this moment is etched into my mind. Francis and I were at the zoo. He must have been about four years old because I remember pushing his sister, Dinora, in a stroller. Nearing a pen of vastly ugly pigs snorting mud, Francis exclaimed, “Look, mom! One of the animals got out of the cage.” I looked over and saw a horrified mother with a toddler in a stroller. A disfigured toddler, with a gaping mouth like Curtis used to have. And the child was snorting bubbles and drool. Taken aback and horrified by what Francis said, I took his hand and we walked over to the stroller. I smiled at the mom and told her what beautiful eyes her child had! I asked her if it would be okay if we touched him, and Francis and I leaned over and gently rubbed the child’s chubby little hands, which opened and closed in excitement. “He really seems to be enjoying the zoo!” I said, as we parted, smiling knowing little smiles at each other.

I then took Francis aside and explained that God makes all types of children, and “God don’t make junk!” His observational comment was an innocent one, (especially because he is legally blind,) but it provided an opportunity for a valuable lesson.

Every mother wants to be proud of her child, and to have others share in her positive feelings. Every child is a joy! Imagine yourself in the mother of a disabled child’s shoes. Have empathy for that mom. Join in her admiration of her child, and maybe you will also internalize the concept that “God don’t make junk!”

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For more stories about Curtis’ childhood and our adventurous family, please, read my book. Here is a link:

https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-apple-tree/id538572206?mt=11

The Apple Tree: Raising 5 Kids With Disabilities and Remaining Sane

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