family – I'm too old for this …

November 21, 2020 17 Comments

The need to belong…gain acceptance, approval, support, and connection…in other words LOVE…is one of life’s basic fundamental needs. While it may not be all we need, it’s a helluva motivator. It can lead us to change just about anything…our behaviors, beliefs, attitudes, relationships, address…even our hairstyles and handbags (Birkin? 2.25? Neverfull?)

After all, being like the other kids is important.

We held our breath and gazed up in anticipation while they entered the room. All of them were smiling, nodding or waving, until Mrs. Varnes caught their attention away from us and onto her welcome to the kindergarten class. They stood watching her, unaware of the whispers between the children seated cross-legged before them on the floor. Murmurs of, “Which one is your mom?” and “There she is!”, echoed softly behind our cupped hands.

I didn’t answer right away. I couldn’t. My mother did not file in along with the others. She was at home with my younger sister and brother. Did I know that she wouldn’t be there? I can’t recall, but do remember asking myself, “Why did he have to come?” It was a mother’s open house, his very presence in the room was odd…

…and felt uncomfortable.

Still dressed in his heavy-duty work shirt, rumpled trousers, and thick, black belt, I knew my father no way resembled those of my classmates. Those dads wore white shirts and ties with sharply creased slacks and suit jackets. There was no way his bulky belt could ever fit through their refined belt loops.

On top of that, his thick, black wavy hair was badly in need of a comb, swooping down on one side of his forehead with a soft curl. He scratched at the telltale shadow on his face that all the other dads didn’t get until five o’clock. To have one at ten a.m. was totally inappropriate to me.

He shifted from leg to leg, looking down at the floor, occasionally glancing over at the teacher. He didn’t know what to do with himself. When he wasn’t clasping and wringing them, he crossed his arms and tucked his hands into his armpits, acutely aware of the dirty fingernails and scars from years of handling vegetable crates and box cutters.

In the wee hours, five nights a week, my father’s business commute was to the produce market in the heart of Chicago. After procuring vegetables and fruit for restaurants all over town, he delivered them to waiting chefs and kitchen staff early in the morning, returning home to sleep while all the other fathers “officed”.

When he was with his friends on Saturday night he was a handsome guy, sharply dressed, boisterous and teasing, but that guy was nowhere to be found this morning. I watched his discomfort as he stood amongst this flock of prim, perfectly preened mothers. In another time or place, he’d be flirting with them, but here at school he was completely out of his element. Despite having three children, I believe he was inhabiting the role of “parent” for the first time in his life, and he had no idea how to do that.

Of course, he thought he did.

At home he ruled the roost, flaunting his prowess and authority by whipping that big, black belt around and yelling. Hearing the “whoosh” as he pulled the belt out of its loops would send us running for cover. Not only weren’t we to be heard, but I don’t think he wanted to see us either. It was the way he was raised and I think he thought that being a father by emulating his made him a member of that exclusive club…a desire that went much deeper than his five o’clock shadow.

As I write this, I can feel his pain. At the time, I could only feel my own.

Perhaps, just once, if he had searched the crowd of whispering, excited children to find my pleading eyes and meet them with love and a smile. Perhaps then, I could have been grateful…thankful that he showed up. Perhaps then, I wouldn’t have noticed his tousled hair or rumpled pants and happily claimed him as mine. But because he never claimed me that way, not that day or really ever, I was hurt…embarrassed, and sorry that he was there at all.

Now I see it through a different lens.

Many strange practices have manifested in the name of love. Wanting to belong sometimes causes us to focus on someone or something to the exclusion of everyone or everything else and we don’t even know it. What we do and why we do it is not always in our consciousness and plays out in many different ways. If we’re lucky, we become aware of our behavior, which allows us to forgive and change it. Remorse over some of my own has afforded me the opportunity to become a better person. I am grateful.

All these years later, I have to give my father credit for trying. Without enough time to get home and spruce up before coming to school, he chose to give it a shot…to be present. Although, he wasn’t really present, was he? Standing there perhaps, but never engaging with anyone or anything around him…feeling as if he didn’t belong there, wishing to be anywhere else. It’s how I remember him throughout much of my life. Given that, it’s not surprising that dementia set in a few years before he died. The challenge was over…presence would never again be expected of him.

Back in kindergarten…

I scanned the mothers and spotted one with dark hair and a pretty face. She was tall and slim, wearing a fitted black dress with a white collar. Her black hat had a large brim and white scarf around the crown. I remember thinking that she was e-l-e-g-a-n-t and would do nicely.

After my appropriation, I could answer the girl on my left, so I pointed and whispered, “She’s that one, in the black dress.” I lied. “Ooh, she’s pretty!” As I was smiling and nodding in agreement, I was unaware that the boy in front of us, Mark, had overheard me, his eyes following my finger. He turned around and yelled, “Hey, that’s MY mother, not yours!” Oh, God, additional mortification!

Caught in my attempted deception, I mumbled quickly. Something to the effect that, “I was only saying she was pretty, like my mother…sorry…”. Paying his mother a compliment seemed to get me off the hook. Even better, it drew attention away from the fact that my mother wasn’t there and that the father all the children were whispering about belonged to me.

Moving on…

Many years later, Mark and I shared a good laugh when I reminded him about “borrowing” his mom that morning. We spoke not long ago, each reporting the passing of our mothers, mine in March, his in May. Our fathers died long ago. I hope all of them have found peace.

I wish my childhood had been different. I think, in one way or another, most of us do. Had I understood the significance of what was happening and how things play out, it would have saved years of misunderstanding and grief. Does it ever work that way?

Forgiveness, whether you’re asking for or granting it to yourself and others, might be difficult, but it is how we heal and move on. It’s never too late to belong…gain acceptance, approval, support, and connection…whether across the table, the phone lines, or through a loving memory.

##########

full circle

October 23, 2020 12 Comments

When a parent dies, your brain may shut down for awhile to re-calibrate, or immediately conjure up all sorts of memories, both sweet and sour. The message could be profound and completely change your life, or be a charming, little vignette that softens your heart…perhaps a combination of both. No matter which emotions are triggered, welcome them, they have significance…they tell you something. Pieces fall into place, loose ends meet.

Wait for it.

Amongst the jewelry that came to me after my mother died this March, was an interesting, gold charm holder. She wore it dangling around her neck at the end of a very long chain. The charms were a varied collection of bells, crosses, and good luck talismans. Seeing it immediately took me back to those years of my adolescence and spoke “mom” to me.

I wanted to wear it, but not until I added the lucky charms from my own collection, making it “mine”. Removing her amulets, I began anew, combining and arranging each until the holder was full. I included all of her pieces, except for one. It just didn’t belong there anymore.

Each time I added the tiny, gold capital “E” to the mix, a voice distinctly said, “no”. I pay attention to those things, so I placed it in a box along with my parent’s wedding bands, knowing that the universe would tell me what to do with it eventually.

I sort of forgot about it. You may have noticed that the world demanded our attention elsewhere in the past several months and the universe has been busy sending more important messages to many of us.

“E” is for Eleanor

I’m sure you remember that during “lockdown” there wasn’t much need for anything except a change from day to night-time pajamas. Neither require a matching scarf, shoes, or the perfect pair of earrings. My jewelry and accessory drawers went untouched and unopened for months, as I’m sure did yours.

Once it was time to venture out of the house again, it became a journey of rediscovery Time to find each other and our place in the world, along with that forgotten clothing. Jewelry was hardly a priority, I hadn’t even worn a watch in months, so many weeks later, that exploration was my final destination.

One by one, I methodically opened each box inside of each drawer, approaching them with childlike expectation…Christmas morning on steroids. I had a wonderful time reacquainting myself with what had taken two lifetimes to acquire…both mine and my mother’s.

Reaching for the red velvet box, I had no recollection of what was inside. Cracking the lid, I spied the matching rings and the “E”. None of my nieces or nephews had been named after either of my parents, but didn’t one of the girls have “Eleanor” for a middle name? The universe interrupted my thought process with a boom. “‘E’ is also for Erik”. I had been thinking, “girl” so this obvious connection hadn’t dawned on me before. Of course, my youngest brother should have it. Duh…!

The youngest and the oldest

I was a freshman in college when Erik started kindergarten. At that time, he was doing small chores around the house to earn money…twenty-five cents for this…a nickel or dime for that. Not allowance, but payment for services rendered. A good system for kids.

He had saved “three whole dollars” to buy a birthday present for mom with his “own money”. Requesting I take him to a store that had “nice things that mom would like,” we went to Chas. A. Stevens at the local shopping mall. It was one of mom’s favorites and mine, too. Does anyone remember it?

He browsed through the finery with eyes big as saucers, blinking in disbelief at the price tags. I suggested we pool our resources and buy something together, but he wanted the gift to be from him alone. He also rejected the idea of somewhere less expensive, insisting upon a “store that mom liked”. I was tickled by his determination and enlisted the aid of a stalwart saleslady behind the jewelry counter.

She gazed down into his big, brown, hopeful eyes and was an immediate recruit. We tore through the trays of costume jewelry for something that would fall into his budget, but always came up short. Her final effort provided us with a sale basket of odds and ends.

Most of it was glitzy and just not mom’s style, but looking past the bling, I spotted a few gold-toned initial pins that had been marked down to three dollars. Bingo! Fingers crossed, I laid the remaining letters out onto the counter…no luck. “There isn’t an ‘E’ for Eleanor or a ‘P’ for Pappas”. He got up on tip-toe to eyeball the options before commenting, “But there’s an ‘M!’”

Professionally, my mother used her maiden name, but I was surprised by his suggestion. “Well, I guess an ‘M’ for Montesano would be fine”. Very annoyed with my rationale, he looked up at me and answered, “Nooooo, not Montesano…’M’ for MOM!” How could you argue with that?

A birthday surprise. .

A recent email from The Popcorn Factory asked if I wanted to repeat last years’ gift to my mother. Sugar and starch were always her preferred food groups and over the years, I’d sent her quite a variety in celebration of one thing or another. This year, I hadn’t forgotten her birthday, but I wasn’t thinking about it the same as in years past. She would have been 89 years old on November 2 and looked “darn good for an old broad” until the day she died.

In commemoration, I’m sending her birthday gift to Erik. Not the 6.5 gallon mix of caramel/cheese popcorn, but the little, gold “E” for his soon-to-be-collection of initials…because yes, he already has the “M”.

Would it surprise you to learn that while sorting out mom’s jewelry drawers after she passed, I turned up the “M” for MOM? I knew exactly what to do with it. Forty-nine years later, Erik had no memory of the event, but delighted at the story. I hope he treasures it as our mother certainly did.

I love happy endings, but I know that not all of them will be. Completion is very satisfying, nonetheless. Even if it takes fifty years…and with families, it just might! Don’t be afraid to tie those loose ends all together. When thoughts or things come around full circle, your life just might align.

Happy birthday, Mom, wherever you are!

belongingness

full circle