Christmas 2012

 

The tree is up, the wreaths are hung and the Christmas Village is resplendent in glistening snow and twinkling lights.  The smell from the kitchen beckons and willpower is at its lowest.  It’s that time of year again, when every touching moment; every sentimental tale brings a k not to our throats and tears to our eyes.  It’s that time when we want to gather with our loved ones, put our arms around them, feel their warmth and keep them safe.

 

It’s a time of reflection....especially for those of us in the third, third of our lives.  It’s that time when we wish we had uttered more loving words, and fewer hurtful ones, had been more selfless and less selfish.  It’s that time when we realize just how fragile we are, how much we need love...to give it, to receive it.  It is also a time of renewal ...new beginnings and new opportunities and a time to vow to “Love deeper, speak sweeter, give forgiveness where it’s been denied.” (thank you, Tim McGraw) 

But most of all, it is truly a time of thanksgiving, and I more than so many, have such an abundance of blessings for which to be thankful.  As I’ve traveled  through life, I’ve done so without a roadmap, turned one corner here,  rounded the bend over there.... eventually making it to where I believe I’m supposed to be, safe and sound.   I’ve experienced events and encountered people along the way that have altered my life immeasurably.....more for the good than the bad.   And, as I reflect, I can’t help but be amazed at how incredible are those who have touched my life and how incredible were the moments we shared.    

I’m still in Arizona.  Thought I’d be back on the East Coast by now, but sometimes best laid plans to do go awry.  This is the 9^th Christmas following my move west.  While this one presumes to be a quiet one, there is special excitement in the air as we prepare for my youngest’s marriage early next year, and Christmas is being downplayed in preparation.   We will all be heading to Annapolis, Maryland, for that auspicious event.  It’s will be a bitter sweet occasion, Randy is my youngest, and I have to “turn him over” to another woman.    On the bright side, that other woman is a delightful, smart, affectionate young lady who brings him much happiness and comfort.   Plus, we add “another girl to our team”.   All of us, Danny, Jason, Joy, Gabby, Miranda, Galo and I and a few old and dear friends will be there at the Naval Academy Chapel on February 2^nd, to see him say “I do”.

          That being said, it’s time to close by wishing everyone a joyous and peaceful holiday and the vest rest of your life.  Not a day will pass that I don't think of each and everyone who has touched my life and a tingle fills my heart and a smile streams across my face.

                                                                          Mara

Fingers of One Hand

July 30^th is known as International Friendship day.  Yet it is not recognized in the US and is recognized only in a handful of countries.  The probable reason, to critics and consumers alike, since the celebration was originally proposed by Joyce Hall, the founder of Hallmark cards in 1919,  was to reject the effort as too obvious a gimmick to promote greeting card sales.    Well, I for one am glad that they succeeded, the critics and consumers that is.  We don’t need yet another benchmark day to make us feel guilty.  Don’t get me wrong.    Hallmark is wonderful.  Their cards put into words tear-provoking sentiments that people feel but can’t express.   But, as with other celebratory days, we would be more likely to pick up the card with just the right sentiments, put it in the mail and then forget for 364 days that we should live those sentiments.   Thankfully, friends don’t expect such affectations.  So Joyce Hall, thanks but no thanks for the effort. 

 I have no brothers or sisters, biological that is, but my life has been blessed with sisters, and a brother here and there, of my choosing, who to my good fortune have also chosen me.     And often I wonder if perhaps the bonds forged by choice equal or surpass those forged by biology.  I don’t know, and it really doesn’t matter.  I’m just grateful that those bonds exist, because my friends are my Other Family.

“God gave us our relatives.  Thank God we can choose our friends.”  Ethel Watts Mumford

A long time ago I heard someone speak about one of the signs of a successful life.  He described it as one in which, at its culmination, you would be able count one true friend for every finger of your hand.  I was quite young when I first heard this, and I don’t even remember the person making what seemed to me a profound statement, nor the occasion.  Eventually I rooted out the source, and the words have resonated with me far into my adult life. 

Long ago my father placed his hand upon my head
As he laid each finger down he Smiled at me and said
Some day son when you're a man you will understand
You'll only count your true friends on the fingers of one hand

(Lyrics by Charles Landsborough)

My parents both came from large families; my mother the oldest of 14 and my father the middle of 11.  They were raised in a small town, where everyone knew everyone else and many were related if not by birth then by marriage.  Friends were “BUILT IN”.  You didn’t need to go out and make friends.  For my parents, anywhere you turned “they” were there.  This was particularly so for my mother, whose father was a staunch authoritarian who felt that you didn’t need friends when you had family--and of course this fit the norm for the place and time during which my parents were growing up.  An integral part of my mom’s psyche, which she expected me to embrace, was that you must be wary of outsiders (meaning someone not related to you in one way or another): they were to be regarded with suspicion.   Yet, she was the nicest and kindest person I have ever encountered and the most loyal and generous of friends.  Her disposition, however, made her very selective of whom she allowed into her private sanctum.   Perhaps she had a fear of betrayal or suffered with a heightened sense of privacy.   So, while she didn’t outwardly discourage me from making friends, she didn’t encourage it, nor did she nurture my efforts.  My mother hadn’t needed friends.  With six sisters and six brothers and a myriad of cousins with whom she had shared her childhood and with whom she stayed extremely close, who had time for others?    She expected the same for me.  She forgot one thing: I didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and being the eldest child of the eldest child, I was without peer. 

 I didn’t have a best friend until I was in 7^th grade.    Why?  I don’t know.  Instead, I had lots of pals, but not one best friend.  I always got picked to play on the team, albeit the last one;  the one who always got invited to a party but was never expected to be the life of the party, and I always managed to be in the school play, although after a frightful Mary in the Christmas story, I was never the lead again.  It didn’t bother me too much as long as I got picked, as long as I was included.   Plus I was smart, made very good grades and was a favorite among the parents.  They all wanted me to be their child’s friend, thinking I would be a good influence.  No one minded being friends with the “smart” girl.  Those were the glory days when being a nerd was not embarrassing.   But the concept of best friend eluded me.  Actually, I always felt more comfortable at arm’s length, preserving my privacy…even at a young age.   In junior high school I finally got a best friend, and I must say, coincidentally or not, this became a truly happy time in my life.  For the first time I experienced the joy of shared secrets,   of prolonged phone calls filled with nonsense about the things we had done and seen in school just hours earlier.  To have someone who could tell you things you didn’t want to hear but told you anyway; to have someone who would tell you things that no one else should hear -- that was real.  That was friendship.  That was best friend’s type of friendship.    It was a warm and comfortable and wonderful, and it was exclusive.

“A friend, one who knows all about you and loves you just the same.” 

E. Hubbard

After Junior High, my high school years were not particularly memorable.    I found adjusting to high school painful.  I was pretty enough, smart enough, friendly enough, but I was overwhelmed with the size of the school, the number students.   I was also consumed by the usual angst and insecurities of most teens where one look, one word could turn a day from glow to gloom.    The pretty girl in the morning’s mirror was a horrid mess in the afternoon shadows. 

“Why didn’t I wear the blue dress?  Why did I say “that”? There’s something wrong with me.  I just don’t get Algebra.   Does he like me, does she like me.”

 So it stands to reason that during moments of unjustified despair I should hear those words from my childhood again—those words about filling my hand with friends--and wonder if I was doomed to die without even one of my digits populated.  Those words echoed throughout when, I never had another best friend.  My junior high chum went to a different high school and while we remained good friends and saw each other as often as possible, it wasn’t the same.  And as I glided through the halls of high school, I made friends.  I didn’t belong to a clique or a cohesive group of friends.  Instead, I gravitated among circles.

Friends and wine should be old

– An old Spanish proverb

Over the years, a lot of friends have come and gone.  Every once in a while, though, I can’t help but glance toward my hand imagining who’s there.

I’m in my third third now.  Decades separate me from those anxious years.  I feel secure in the realization that it doesn’t matter how many friends you have at the end but how many you have encountered along the way.   Perhaps, because I’m fast approaching a time of my life during which certain things should not be left unsaid, I am trying to give voice to my emotions and pay tribute to those who have by choice of happenstance joined “my other family”.

As years passed marriage, family, children, work took a disproportionate amount of time out of daily living.  Most friendships forged during those years were only vested in the casual hi’s,  how are you’s and the occasional social event that brought people into closer contact.    Even when an encounter brought you close to someone with whom you wanted to stay connected and with whom you might want to  pursue a deeper relationship, chances were that the whole encounter would be relegated to the “I will give you a call later” dumpster.    At least that was how it was for me.  Life became a series of priorities and some things just seemed to move lower and lower on the list.    Having had children a little later in life than most of my peers, I also moved into the realm of taking care of grade school children and elderly parents at the same time.   It was a decade after starting on this path that I heard the term “sandwich generation” for the first time.  I remember, figuratively speaking, jumping up and down and shouting.  “Hey that’s me. Let me tell you about it.”    What little time I had for social outlets were confined to those “must do” events – school functions, funerals, and a wedding here or there.  Friendships?  Well they went farther down the list of priorities.  The later in “I will call you later” became never.   There was no time at the end of the day for that phone chat, a much longed for “talk over wine time” became an illusion.  

Today, kids run in groups. And while there is safety in numbers, it is hard to imagine that any one of them engage in meaningful conversation with one another.   Every once in a while I watch Say Yes to the Dress, a TV show highlighting the trials and tribulations of a bride deciding on the ultimate wedding gown.  I marvel at these brides and the number of bridesmaid to whom they have granted the honor of attending them on their wedding day.  For some brides, the number of attendants  would populate a small junior college.    Don’t they have Best Friends anymore?

A friend to all is a friend to none.

-Aristotle-

I’m kidding of course, but here’s my point:  During that time of my life I would have abandoned home and hearth for a few hours with one friendly soul, much less half a dozen.

Long ago my father placed his hand upon my head
As he laid each finger down he Smiled at me and said
Some day son when you're a man you will understand
You'll only count your true friends on the fingers of one hand

Some friends do come into your life, stay for a while and then by design or circumstances, depart, often taking a little of you with them.  Others just become a blip on your memory’s radar.  Others leave an indelible mark on your life, never to be forgotten and ever to be cherished.  Yet, all are friends reside somewhere with us, forever. Their entities are etched on our very soul, to be carried within us for all eternity.

How do I love thee, Let me count the ways.

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning-

And as I look back on my life I am not counting the ways, but the people that have touched me profoundly, infinitely.   

Delia, my high school chum: tiny as a mite; near and dear to my heart during 50 plus years.   Unwavering and encouraging; unafraid to dish out an occasional dose exactly when I need it.

 Martha, my high school buddy who gave me a glimpse of what the all-American childhood and home-life was all about.  Unfortunately, it was through her that I realized that my family was poor, or more politically correct – economically distressed.    Our friendship ended when she went away to Mercer, and I went to Community College. 

Sandy: complicated by an early life filled with dysfunction, but sweet. Kind and supportive, especially when I needed her most.

Patti: tall and elegant, wise, pious; unwaveringly in touch with her faith, warm and engaging.  She made me want to be a better me.

Margie, my companion during the lonely early hours of the first shift at the Miami International airport where we both worked.  She was fun, cheerful; a frown never crossing her brow.  With a personal life a tad complicated, she had vowed to never let it get her down.  She made working through dawn fun, even for an inveterate night owl.   

Dottie: soft and gentle; mothering and nurturing even at the tender age of 16.  Sweetness and kindness then; sweetness and kindness now.

Joyce: charming, captivating, gracious; and what an incredible sense of style – made all the better by a generous and kind spirit.

Bonnie: a burst of sunshine with wit, intelligence and elegance.   Friends then, today and forever.

Debbie: fun loving with a quick wit, sometimes a bit …umh…risqué.  And she doesn’t hold back.   Strap yourself in and hold on. 

Then there is Lou, the quiet, shy girl sitting across from me in 10^th grade science.  It’s the first day of high school.  There are 4000 students at this school; I know not a one and I’m terrified.  She looks over at me and smiles; she has never forgotten my birthday.

Mike: the little brother I never had.

Ron: so shy yet so funny;  so intelligent; so detailed; so diligent;  he not only taught me  much of what I needed to know to do my job well, he also kept me in check;  he kept my impatient spirit from taking shortcuts;  he stopped me in my tracks.  When I said, “good is good enough”, he said, “you can do better”.   

Some not all.   I look at my hand again.

As life progresses it becomes more complex and tragedies begin to intrude.  Your friendships begin to be defined by tragedies rather than triumphs.  Visits to doctors to hear bad news; trips to funeral parlors to make final arrangements.  Your friendships begin to be cemented more often than not by those moments of despair, of loss, of pain.   Adversity does not diminish the friendship, it just takes it deeper, to a more visceral level where it is either pounded out of existence or cemented for eternity in the hopes that once the tears of despair dry, tears of joy will again surface.

“When you laugh the world laughs with you, when you cry you cry alone.”

Never was a statement less true.

 It took a tragedy that profoundly altered my life, that made me realize how desperately lonely a life can be without friends.     I lost my spouse.  He died and the grief and loneliness were paralyzing, terrifying. But in the depth of my grief I knew instinctively that my children had lost a father and did not deserve to bear the weight of my own sorrow.   And only during these days through blinding tears and emotional incapacitation could clarity reemerge with the help of a friend, then another, then another.  Those, whom I had relegated to the background, to the bottom of my priority list, began to resurface.  Through them and with them I found strength to see some of the most precious blessings of my life.

Later I lost a friend, not to death, but just lost.  Tragedy struck her, and when she emerged from her pain, she disappeared, for reasons only known to her.   I can only surmise that she had to run away from anything and anyone who reminded her of her pain.   I didn’t understand.  I still don’t.  

“A Friend in Need is a Friend indeed.”

My hand, I look at my hand.

Those that for years resided on the side lines emerged when I needed them; and without having to be called.    In my need, at the deepest point of despair, they came forward; they embraced me, sustained me, and are with me still.  

Bobbie suffered with me and for me.  She held a hanky while I wept; she lay with me and held my hand when sleep would not come to ease my wounded soul.   After the acute pain of loss and despair waned, she filled the empty chair at the dinner table, at ballgames, at music recital, to help me endure the fact that the father of my children, my real best friend, my husband, had died.  And she at least filled the physical emptiness to help dull my pain.

Annie:  That’s not her real name, but that’s what I call her.  Beautiful inside and out, but deplores her curly hair, which by all accounts is lovely, calling herself little Orphan Annie for the curls that emerge when the temperature hits 80.   She is unconditionally accepting and loving through good and bad times, and she truly is the sweet sister of my deepest wish.  

Renee: my shot of adrenalin.  I have never seen her tired, or unwilling to go that extra mile.  She’s taken my hand and guided me through some of the best places in Europe, taught me more about pro sports than anyone has a right to know and now shares my passion for orchids.  And her loyalty  never wavers. 

Carol: weeks, months go by, but a single phone bridges the passage of time and distance.  Talks linger for hours –politics, children, travel, books…the wonder of it all.  A Southern belle who loves Cuban food and salsa (the dance). that's my friend Carol.

Sue: my dear, dear sister-in-law, the best cook this side of Venus; who has created a strong, beautiful family; who lives a faith strong enough to move mountains and who inspires me to be better.

These are some but not all who have impacted my life.  And in between there have been so many others.  That they came into my life, stayed perhaps only for a moment or two and then moved on, does not diminish that while we shared the same earthly space, we were held together by bonds of kinship, loyalty and affection.    I have either been very lucky or very smart for I have been surrounded by people who have given me so much more than I have returned.  

My father once said to me, “Surround yourself with people smarter than you; then you will never stop learning.”

I will add to that...surround yourself with people that care and you will never walk alone.
 
 I should write a book describing these people; I should write a book about how they, not only touched but enhanced my life.  I should write a book to thank them.  But I can’t.  Instead, I dedicate this essay to them.   

To Those friends present, those friends gone, and those friends yet to come.

In Quiet Contemplation

In Quiet Contemplation

Sitting in the middle of my back yard there is a big wooden swing.  London, New York, the Grand Canyon notwithstanding, this wooden swing is one my most favorite places.

I live in the desert.  I moved here six years ago.  Back then the moonless night sky was black, unobscured by the incandescent glare of city lights and civilization’s attendant pollution.  Stars shone, primitive and unencumbered in the dark of night.  Today, development has begun its encroachment into the desert’s stillness.  The sky is no longer as clear and unfiltered as it once was.  The number of brilliant stars seems to have diminished.   I know they are still there; I just can’t see them.   Still, one of my most treasured pastimes, indulged in long after the dinner dishes are done, often after the nightly news has ended, when my neighbors have dimmed their lights and gone to bed, is to sit on that  wooden swing, lay my head back on the top of the back rest and gaze upward. 

 When I first started this almost nightly ritual, seldom did a night pass without it rewarding me with a falling star or two.  And several times over the past six years I have been caught up by the thrill of experiencing a meteor shower.  And, if you haven’t experienced the absolute darkness of night pockmarked by radiant points of light traveling at lightning speed right over your head at regular intervals for several hours at a time, you must add this to your bucket list.    Today the rewards are less frequent and less spectacular—no fault of the sky.  Light intrusion and pollution inevitably trail the influx of humanity.   Still, the pleasure of sitting in the dark, in utter silence, save the jingle-jangle melody of my wind chimes in the solitary quiet of the night verges on magical.  The soft quiet surrounds me and its singular pleasure caresses my every sense.   If it’s cold, I wrap myself in a soft blanket and with a warm cup of tea, often fortified with a dash of brandy (actually sometimes more than a dash); if it is warm (which it usually is in Arizona), a glass of wine.  I sit, relax and give in to the sky’s embrace, guiltily rejoicing there is no one around to intrude on my solitude, except my dog, who has no clue why I sit outside in the middle of the night.  Witnessing the vastness of the universe, it is hard not to feel small, miniscule.  The vast chasm beyond what the eye can see, and not being able to understand its complexity, is humbling.  But that doesn’t diminish the pleasure I derive from my star gazing exploits.

I tend to be excessive, maybe a mite OCD.   Soon after my love affair with the swing and sky began, I went out and bought a telescope in hopes of a greater engagement with the night sky.  Identifying the objects up in the heavens became an obsession.  While I’ve never been able to use the more complicated features of my telescope, I have been able to see Venus, the craters of the moon, and on one occasion, I was thrilled to locate Jupiter and spot 3 of its moons.

But looking through a telescope is a bit surreal, sterile, like looking at a digital image—fabricated, not real.   The sight through the scope, while startling and exciting, can’t replace the magic of the imagination when turning one’s head upward and focusing on the blips of light above. On occasion, I’ve spotted a rapidly moving object dissecting the night sky.  Shining like a planet, without a star’s pulsation, it gives itself away as not a celestial body but an earthly object careening around our globe, thrust into space for some technical purpose.  Maybe, it’s just a bit of space slowly orbiting ever closer to earth until it crashes, hopefully into some remote region of the planet.  Then again, it could be the space station or the shuttle when it’s on a mission.

I’ve learned to identify some of the more prominent constellations.  There is Orion, the Greek’s celestial incarnation of a hunter.  It is one of the most distinct constellations in the sky, identifiable by four bright stars, representing the hunter’s body, surrounding at equal distance a line of three bright stars, the hunter’s belt.    Descending from the belt is another line of three smaller stars which represent his sword.    To the left of Orion, from an earthly orientation, is the constellation Sirius, containing the Dog Star.   This constellation contains the brightest star in the heavens.  It is twice as dense as our sun.  And the “dog days of summer,” that particularly hot period of time which takes place from July through early September in Northern Hemisphere and from  January to early March in the Southern Hemisphere,  are so called because of the ancient Greek belief that the excessive heat was caused by the Dog Star’s close proximity to the sun.

I can spot the great bear, known to most as the Big Dipper, easily, but have a harder time spotting the little bear, or better known as the little dipper, despite the fact that when spotted  it looks like it is spilling its contents right into the larger basin of the Big Dipper.

 

Depending on the time of year, I look for Cassiopeia, who, according to Greek mythology, liked to boast of her unrivalled beauty and was referred to as the “vain queen”.   In autumn, especially early November, she shines resplendently in the northern sky.  The cluster of stars represents the queen sitting in her chair and the more prominent stars appear as a W.  Given to flights of fancy, I choose to see the W as an upside down M.  Why?   I’m Mara, Mom, Mima, Meems to the few and various who refer to me affectionately or familiarly.  And, one of my granddaughters is Miranda, so it seems almost appropriate that I interpret the symbol of the vain queen in the sky as an M.   I tell my granddaughters that no matter where they are to look up at the night sky and if they can spot Cassiopeia, the upside down W, they will know that wherever I am, I’m thinking about them and sharing a little secret connection with them.

But the one cluster of stars that captivates my imagination more than any other is a little family group, barely visible to the naked eye.  It is actually a cluster of hundreds of objects, but only a few dozen or so is visible.   When seen via the magnification of a telescope or even a high powered pair of binoculars, though, nine stars within the cluster explode in brilliant, unparalleled beauty, as much for their brightness as for their unique positioning within the group.   These nine stars, according to Greek lore, are Seven Sisters who are perpetually accompanied by their father, Atlas, and their mother Pleione, the 8^th and 9^th points of light.  In form, the group resembles a tiny dipper, and many people, when spotting this star cluster, mistakenly identify them as the Little Dipper.   Their compactness and closeness to each other evokes thoughts of a closely knit family group.   At least that’s how I like to think of it.  This star cluster for me represents my mother and her beloved sisters.  My mother is one of seven girls, half of a larger group of siblings, she being the eldest.   The image of these sisters, so close, so loving, so faithful in life, living for eternity in close communion in the heavens above is moving and comforting. When I first became aware of these stars, and I spotted this tight cluster, I could swear that one star twinkled with exceptional brilliance.  In a split second, I had an overwhelming sensation that my mother was with me, watching me from a distance.   That brightly twinkling star was her spirit, her soul, and her ever-loving care.  I envisioned her up in the sky in perpetual peace and comfort in the company of her beloved father and mother, waiting for the tightly knit bond of sisterhood to complete its cycle.   Recently it seems that another star in the cluster has become more luminous.  Whether this increased intensity is real or imagined matters not to me.  Not long ago, one of my mother’s beloved sisters died, and there is no doubt in my mind or in my heart that both my mother and her sister, holding hands, happily and tenderly, as they did on earth, basking just as they did as children under the gaze of their parents, are waiting to be joined eventually by the others.  For all eternity, the bonds of sisterhood will remain unbroken.

In my night reverie, in the magical stillness of the dark, I don’t feel alone; instead, I feel transported to a peaceful, spiritual place somewhere inside my head, near my  heart and in my soul, as I feel  my mother’s presence.     Often, I become emotional, unable to sort out the feelings evoked by the sight of those little stars and the magic above my head that surrounds them, and a hard, painful knot forms in my throat and a warm flush of emotion travels from my chest to my head.    Often I meditate; sometimes I find myself talking—to no one in particular.   But what I do feel is a primordial sense of oneness with my surroundings, a connection with the past and the future and a sense of permanence.   I feel a spirituality that I have never felt in prayer or in kneeling in pious reverence in an incense filled church.  And, I, the doubt-prone believer, become overwhelmed with acceptance that there is no randomness to the universe and there indeed exists a force that has placed everything and everyone in its proper place and in its proper time.    I feel rested, calm, renewed, and eager for the dawn of another day.

JUST FIVE YEARS

I have always had this overwhelming feeling that I was born either too soon, or not late enough, but not at the right time.  Somehow, throughout my life, I have been just a bit out of step with my generation, discovering causes, issues, music well beyond the time in which they were in fashion.  I was constantly pulled in different directions, torn between the need to conform and the need to explore, yearning to reach out to touch the unknown, but tethered to the safety of the familiar.  I felt alienated from the world that I inhabited, a stranger even to myself.  When I did venture out to explore the unfamiliar and to reach people, I did so slowly and tentatively.  Then I quickly retreated into the small life and small world with which I felt comfortable.      

While my cousins protested wars in far-off   places, half a world away, while they burned their bras, sat for interminable hours without food or drink enacting the political and social views they held close to their hearts, I sat and wondered, “Where is my passion? “Where do I find the burning desire to do something, anything with any semblance of danger, excitement?”    Moving to places like San Francisco, New York City, Washington, DC – places  where life was fast paced and challenging; wearing unconventional clothing, putting flowers in their hair, these were the marks that set them even further  apart from me, at a distance I could never hope to bridge.   I yearned to be like them.  I often thought I wanted to join them, but I couldn’t.   The reality is that you can’t just pretend to be what you’re not, and  try as I might, I was too terrified of the world to venture too far from the familiar.    I was paralyzed by fear of the disappointment I might cause should I veer too far off course and lose myself in the process.  Instead, I plodded along, never questioning, never challenging. And the reality was that my time had passed.

 The Sixties, a pivotal period during which I said goodbye to the warm protective world of childhood and embarked on a journey that would lead me to adulthood, whirled around me, moving much too fast, leaving me disoriented and unbalanced.    I escaped from the whirlwind by keeping busy, very busy.  I buried what little I had discovered about myself under the veil of conformity that avoided confrontation, avoided discord, and avoided disappointment to my family.   I hurried to grow up, aimed for the lofty ideals shared by my parents and grandparents but not by my generation, believing that by reaching that “pinnacle,” I would find acceptance and a sense of belonging.   I was a walking motto.   I was responsible, reliable, forthright and frugal.   Get a job; go to school; save money.  These were the choices I laid out for myself, .   I got a job; I went to school and I saved money.    I was molding myself into someone I thought others wanted, never thinking about whom I wanted to be, never becoming comfortable with one or the other.                      

Ever watch a marching band, with the guy with the tuba hopelessly out of step with the rest of  the band, struggling under the weight of his enormous instrument, desperately trying to pick up the beat?  That was me.  Yet, I sensed overwhelmingly that had I been born at little later, 4, 5 years, everything would have been OK.  I would have been right in step.

 Do I ascribe greater significance to the heavens that existed in one year than to the heavens that existed in another?  Do I ascribe some magical transformative power to one birth date versus another?   Possibly. Within my family’s framework, I was the bridge to the next generation, too young to be part of the lives of my younger aunts and uncles, but too old to hangout with my hip, more tuned-in cousins.  I was sandwiched between them, but just out of reach of either.    My aunts and uncles who had at one time been my earliest companions, moved away, grew up, married and had children.  Yet my cousins, truly my generation, were too young to fill the void, or so it seemed, as the closest one in age was only three years younger.    Three years doesn’t seem such a big difference, but for an adolescent, for a young adult, the difference was huge, an unbridgeable chasm.    As years passed, the chasm lost its enormity, but the imprint it had on relationships never did.

I was always disturbed and puzzled as to why I felt so strongly that I was born at the wrong time.   It wasn’t actually a feeling, though -- not intellectual, but visceral.  I don’t quite remember when it started.   I recognized that the answer lay somewhere, someplace in a time that I couldn’t remember.  Then one day, shortly after my mother’s death, as I was going through some of her few and humble possessions, I happened upon an old, fading black and white photograph, fragile with age, cracking and torn at the edges.  I held the picture tenderly, afraid that it would disintegrate and the time that it captured, so illusory, so delicate, would vanish.   It held an image of a young boy and a little girl.  The boy must have been four, possibly five years of age; the girl, no more than two.  It must have been summer, judging by the clothes they wore.    The little girl, with a pretty cherubic face,  had a bandana covering her head, more for affect than function.  The little boy was sitting on a tricycle, leaning forward as if preparing to take off, his feet on the pedals, his hands gripping the handlebar.    She was leaning against his back, holding his shoulders for support, one foot on the back step of the tricycle.  His face was in profile; hers was turned toward the camera, her cheek tenderly resting against the back of his head.   She was centered in the photograph, the obvious subject.   He was just a prop, a backdrop.  Behind the children, there was the image of three females.  They were sitting on concrete steps leading to what was the porch of a house, two on the first step, one on the second, ageless in the blur of the photograph, but in life young, as the sameness of their clothing suggested school uniforms.  With a jolt of memory, the photograph transported me backwards.

In 1945,  my mother and father were new arrivals in the United States.  They were not part of a prevailing culture.   With the Second World War raging, immigration, especially in the Southeastern United States, was not commonplace.   Their move to this country was not entirely voluntary - at least not from my father’s point of view. 

He was 29 years old, reasonably successful with good financial prospects, well able to provide his new bride, my mother, with many of the same comforts into which she was born.  They had a house, belonged to clubs, enjoyed the companionship of two large extended families and the familial comforts afforded by the closely knit community in which everyone knew everyone else, and in many cases were related by birth or by marriage.  My father was happily ensconced in the white-suited, male oriented culture of Cuba in the first half of the 20^th Century.    He could not imagine why anyone would want to leave.   I remember his reminiscence.  “Life was good,” he’d say.  “You worked hard, but you lived well.  You took life in measure.  Work a little, rest a little, and play a little.  Not too much, not too little, just enough,” he would tell me.  He had been a minor celebrity, or so I heard from others who knew him.   He had a beautiful, melodious voice; he was often invited to sing at local clubs and was a frequent performer for a local radio station.   He had a reputation of being a hopeless romantic.  He was a ladies man, endearing himself to their gentle sensibilities with midnight serenades, putting his emotions and sentiments to music.    

“ Cuba was the pearl of the Caribbean,” my mother told me.  She described her homeland in detail and would do so often, as if willing me to remember things I had never experienced.  Her images were so vivid, that I could see, I could smell, I could feel the hot Caribbean sun beating my flesh, and then miraculously sense the cool gentle breezes that came with nightfall.   Despite not having lived them,, the images became part of my faint, distant memories.  Cuba, with its green lush mountains, rustling palm trees and sweetly fragrant guava trees, bathed by the soft salty breezes from the Caribbean Sea, was a tropical paradise, populated by warm, happy, fun-loving people.   A sad silence engulfed my mother whenever she spoke about her homeland, her life there, her old friends, her home, and sometimes, thinking I would not notice, she would let a soft wistful sigh escape.  I don’t know if she realized that memories often sanitize and sanctify, often making us long for things, places and people whose essence exists only in imagined memories.   Regardless, what really mattered was that the memories were sweet, nostalgic and perhaps therapeutic.   

She was born in Guantanamo, a city nestled in the laid-back, countrified southeastern tip of the island.  Except for brief sojourns into nearby towns or into the country to visit relatives, the first time she traveled any distance away from the place of her birth was a visit to Havana on her honeymoon.  It’s so hard to imagine now, with jet travel and technology shrinking the world into a spans of hours and minutes, that she had never left the island.   In her time and culture, travel was something only the very wealth did for pleasure, and others out of necessity.  Even if she had been wealthy, it is doubtful her father, a stalwart of old-world culture, would have allowed her to go too far outside the reach of her own community of family and friends.   My mother was intelligent, loved learning, and was an excellent student.   When she outgrew the educational opportunities available in her town, rather than send her off to far away places beyond his influence and protection, into a world he perceived to be full of temptations and peril, her father sought out and hired tutors to keep her intellectual fires burning.  This he felt would keep her happy and content until she married.   She was the oldest of 14 children, and he, my grandfather, was a strong-willed, old-world patriarch who valued family and loyalty as much as he valued honor and honesty.   My mother was his favorite, her sisters, my aunts, have often told me, not without a hint of jealousy.  But, he did love them all, they would quickly add.  

My paternal grandfather’s family  had emigrated from Corsica to the New World in the 1860’s, specifically to Puerto  Rico, where he and his siblings (3 brothers and one sister) were born.   Early in his adolescence, he became his family’s patriarch, and seeking better opportunities, move to Cuba.    So the decision to move the family to the United States was not totally foreign to him. His decision was made in the hopes of stemming the decline of his financial resources and making a fresh start.  My grandfather moved to the US in 1943, with the rest of the family to move shortly thereafter.    My parents married in early 1944.  My mother  had left the safe haven of her childhood home, had just embarked on a new unfamiliar role as wife and homemaker, and was  ill-equipped to emotionally to handle the of separation.  The thought of her family’s impending departure totally undermined her sense of comfort, security and well-being.  Being left behind, not being in close proximity to her family was more than she could bear.  She couldn’t eat, she couldn’t sleep, and she implored my father to follow.     Reluctantly, concerned about leaving his own family, giving up his own circle of comfort and familiarity, he acquiesced, knowing that ultimately his happiness was dependent on hers.   My parents soon found themselves on the shores of a land, not so distant in miles, but so distant in language, culture, and even climate.

  The culture they left was barely on the periphery of a world war; the culture into which they entered was totally dominated by it.   There were food shortages, ration books, blackouts.  The war had taken its toll on the economy and good jobs, especially for someone with poor language skills. This was not what they had expected, I have been told.  It was worse, much worse, and, they were about to become parents.  Overnight, it seems, life became hard, very hard.  There are times when I think about my father, and I truly believe he never fully adjusted nor fully recovered from the hardship and the stress of those first years.

     I was born at home, in a huge old Victorian house in Ybor City, just outside of Tampa, Florida.   My grandfather had bought this house to accommodate his large family.  My mother had never been in a hospital, and when it was time for me to be born, she refused to leave the house.  So, that’s where I was born in the wee hours of the morning with the able assistance of a midwife.  It was a house brimming with people, including my parents, my grandparents, of course, twelve aunts and uncles (the youngest not even two years older) and an aunt by marriage.  The group also included one of my grandfather’s younger brothers and his wife and five children.  They occupied a smaller house next door. 

  There they were, all of them waiting in the parlor for the sounds announcing my arrival.  The future monarch of a vast and powerful kingdom would probably not have had as many people awaiting her birth, and you would have thought that with all of the births my family had witnessed, mine would have been a passing ripple in their daily routine.  Instead, I became a novelty, the object of incessant attention and concern, the center of their universe. 

During those early years, I lived in a protective cocoon.  It is short of miraculous that I learned to walk or to talk. I didn’t need to.  There was always a pair of arms wanting to hold me, a set of legs taking me for walks, someone anticipating my every need.  When one became bored or tired of me, there was always someone else to take his or her place.  Two faces, which are frozen in time for me, frozen in their youthful radiance, readily come to mind.  My beloved playmate, George, an uncle just barely two years older, so perfect in my eyes, with smooth, glistening olive skin, dark moody eyes, jet-black hair, my constant companion, my most favorite person in the whole world, the center of my little universe.  And another uncle, Gregory, so handsome, so strong, so gentle.  How I loved it when he lifted me up above his head and turned round and round and round until, through my giggles I begged to be put down.  I was the first one he asked to see when he came home from work, his green eyes lively and loving, and he never failed to kiss me goodnight.  My playful uncle, Emilio, Millo for short, was also a favorite,  Once he promised me a teddy bear from the county fair, and he didn’t disappoint, as he walked in with a Panda bear three times my size.  I loved them so.   

  I was 4 years old when, like a rapidly eddying pool, all of the loving hands and arms and faces that gave me so much love and comfort disappeared from my life.  I was too young to understand that what happening  was not instantaneous, that the event had been a long time coming, had been planned and rehearsed, but I didn’t know.   All I remember is a sense of panic and abandonment.  Even today, there are moments, particularly saying goodbye, even for a short period of time, when a cold flash of panic washes over me and I beg for one last kiss, one last hug.  Maybe that’s why for years I eschewed intimacy, protected my privacy, and had difficulty forging close relationships.  The prospect of loss was so threatening..

 Once again, my grandfather, that strong willed patriarch, revered and obeyed by his children without thought of consequence, had decided to move, and that meant the whole family.  The country was in recovery from World War II and the economy was growing, but the economic climate in Tampa had not been kind, and his business ventures had failed to flourish.  With the clouds of unrest forming on the horizon once more, this time in the Far East, if he was to make another move, it had to be now.   This time, though, much to my mother’s dismay and sorrow, my father said, “No, this time we cannot go.”    I don’t remember much.  My memories are wrapped up in emotion, feelings rather than thoughts and facts.  But I do remember my mother crying.  Sad, empty, hollow, are the emotion-laden words that I conjure up when I try to recall that time in my life.  Perhaps I’ve buried other memories.  I don’t know.  I went to sleep in a house full of vitality, laughter and chaos and I woke to find a house in turmoil, people talking in loud staccato voices, suitcases and boxes everywhere.  Some crying, some murmuring, some arguing—nothing that I could truly understand.  A truck in the driveway.  Men loading.  Crying, murmuring, arguing—those are the flashbacks.    A little later, amidst hugs and tears, the house drifted into solemn silence.  The people that made up most of my world were gone.  My mother was inconsolable.  I knew something terrible had happened, but didn’t know what, or the affect this might eventually have on me. 

My universe had shrunken to a world of three, and this world was now permeated with a strained and strange silence that would often go on for days on end between my mother and father.   No one took note of me, heightening my feeling of abandonment.  My mother was too overtaken by emotions to take notice of me, and my father was too busy trying to buoy her spirits while working two jobs to notice my discomfort.   My mother’s grieving did not end.  She became engulfed by a melancholia from which she never escaped.  My father threw himself into his work to escape her unhappiness.   As for me, the people dearest to me, beside my parents, were gone.  I was alone.  We were alone, my mother and me.     I, ever fearful that she might leave me too, did not venture too far from her sight.  My mother, becoming increasingly dependent on my companionship, did nothing to comfort me nor to encourage my independence.   I became her shadow, her best friend.    I guess that’s also when I began to “take care of her”, keeping her from being so lonely, trying to make her happy, not knowing that in the process I was giving up myself.

Express Yourself

Express yourself, speak your mind, and free your soul!


During my teens, when my neuroses were just beginning to emerge, when my hormones created a constant manic-depressive state of mind, I turned to writing as an outlet. Rather than act out, color my hair red, sneak vodka from the liquor cabinet, I stole into my room, slipped onto the corner of my bed, my back against the way, knees raised in front of me to support my writing tablet, and I wrote. What I wrote, in retrospect, was probably more dribble than substance, not worthy for anyone else to read. But for me the words I put on the page, hurriedly and sloppily, so as not to lose the thought, were for me, prize-worthy. Those words were my companion, my reality and, my therapy. Any angst I suffered dissipated once the words began to flow. With those words, I created the world as I saw it, as I wanted it to be, and with my words I became whomever I thought I could be. At worse, with my words I extracted from my teenage soul all the bad energy that courses through a teenager’s cells. And, often I emerged from those pilgrimages into solitude with a clearer mind and a fresher outlook. In my generation, girls wrote diaries; then the diaries became journals. Every young girl received a “journal” as a gift at some point in her life. I eschewed the diary and the journal. I needed more space to capture my thoughts; the pages of the diary and the journal were too small. My writing wanted to SHOUT and jump off the page.





Then life happened, college, marriage, children, homework to oversee. Writing lapsed into a once a year event and only out of guilt... a few chosen words of endearment, a brief apology for not keeping in touch with promises to do better, only to relapse again, year, after year, after year. Every once in a while I wrote a masterful yearly summary of life's events. The words flowed, the emotions were touching and the warmth palpable, at least to me.



I did manage to make a living by writing, but it was not creative, it was not cathartic and it was devoid of inspiration. I became a technical writer, no byline, no credits. Mine was a “if this, then that” type of writing, used to express what users wanted from a computer program or what users need to do in order to use that program.



Now that I’m in the third third of life, the kids are grown and the long hours editing term papers and correcting grammar are long gone. Grandchildren are here, but some one else is doing the editing. I have once again discovered the therapy of writing. It affords me a way of expressing myself in a manner that spoken words cannot. I am more eloquent, more honest and more at ease when I’m writing. Despite my age, my maturity and life experiences, the same fears that gripped me at 14 still exist deep inside me, and my writing allows me to express and deal with these fears in a safe, non-judgmental manner. I can deal with long forgotten injuries, unfulfilled dreams, diminished aspirations, as well as the vicissitudes of life that keep tripping me up on my way to a nirvana that I know is just one good merciful act away.



My computer is my ally. What could I have done with spell-check, with grammar check all those years ago? I have embraced the internet as my new best friend, but at the same time, I do deplore it for the damage its expedience has wrought upon our language. While it has opened the world of information and opportunities, and like no other tool before, tremendously facilitated dialogue, it has also engendered a disregard for the beauty and subtlety of language. I bemoan how the internet—so egalitarian and utilitarian, so accessible, so valuable—has muted our ability to converse and express ourselves with well-striking appropriate language. We’re in a hurry, we “gotta send,” “gotta respond.” LOL, OMB, BTW, it’s a wonder anyone can still pass a spelling test.



We no longer write letters; we use the email, which is great, so quick so efficient and so cheap. But the price we pay for expedience has been at the expense of our eloquence. We now talk in LOL’s, OMG’s, BTW’s...We’ve lost our voice.



In my own way, I want to preserve the eloquence; I want to find a voice that will outlast me.



I remember the notes my mother treasured, notes from my father when he was courting her. I remember as a child sitting with her in moments of nostalgia that dominated her attention. I remember the delicate paper, the creases that obliterated parts of words, the musty smell, but most of all I remember her voice as she read the words to me... every once in a while skipping a line or two. During those moments, she stepped back into history, her history, and relived the feelings and the sentiments those written words had once conveyed. I no longer have these missives to enjoy. They were too fragile and due to lack of proper care did not survive the test of time, and whatever was in them died just as my mother did, leaving only faint recollections. But, while they existed, she treasured them.



How many of today’s generation, 50 years from now, will ever experience that retreat into their own history, will ever be transported by the touch, the smell of an old letter, of a loved one’s words jumping from the page, evoking timeless emotions, memories, and the sense of having someone watching over your shoulder? How many will discover the crushed petals of a flower within the faded pages of a love note?



My late husband was a warm and loving person, but a man of few words. He did have a knack for finding just the right card with just the right sentiments to give for special occasions. But when he died, those old and yellowed cards were of little comfort. I needed his words, not Hallmark’s. I desperately needed something more substantial to sustain me, to allow me to hold on a little longer to the past too rapidly slipping away. I went through all our shared mementos, but never felt the connection that I needed to help me in my grief. I longed for one last conversation. I desperately needed to "hear" his voice, listen to his words. Yet, there was nothing. Then one day, my sister-in-law, in an effort to comfort me in my grief, sent me a letter he had written to her many years before his death. In it he wrote of his life, his family, his trials and tribulation in a way that he could only share with a person whose history was so intertwined with his. It was never intended for my eyes, but now reading his thoughts justified my grief and reassured me that the memories I harbored were indeed genuine and real. I read the letter, and then read it again and again, each time deriving more comfort from the sight of his handwriting, and the “sound” of his thought floating off the page, and savoring an unbroken connection.





Thus, I want to leave a little part of me, that part of me that isn’t visible, but palpable only by an intensely perceptive soul. I want to leave something of myself, my true self—evidence of who I am, who I wanted to be, who I might have been.



So, for my children, my friends, I begin to write.





M.