Padre Campanile was the family priest. He came to the house every Sunday to give my Nonna Elvira, her blessing and communion.
My aunts remember he was always “intridisce” the Neapolitan word for...Sepre li which is Italian for “always around'' but it means so much more than that .The intent behind Intridesce is “this asshole is always coming around here sniffing his nose where it don't belong!” Now how much more efficient is Neapolitan!!
Nonna Elvira, my great grandmother, was in a wheel chair due to an accident she had while trying to break up a fight between my two uncles Lello and Elio. Funny thing is, my two uncles now in their 60s play fight CONSTANTLY! I wonder how it has effected them....that the fighting caused their grandmother to trip over a step and break her hip putting her in a wheel chair for the rest of her life ?I'm sure as young boys that event must have had a huge impact on them. The family must have given them so much grief. Whats weird is that they act like those little boys whenever they are together. Its almost as if on some unconscious level they are trying to relive that moment in time in an attempt to repair it somehow.
. I shared a room with Nonna Elvira , in the house on top of the train station in the port of Naples. My Grandfather was “Capostastione Bonavita.” I've always loved the way that sounded. I'm sure he was a big shot in that little world. It was a big house with a huge terrazzo. I loved that house, I loved the terrazzo, the sound of the trains going by was thrilling to me. To this day train stations, train tracks and the rhythmic sounds of trains going by transports me instantly back., especially if the smells inside are of the Sunday ragu simmering on the stove.
Nonna Elvira was very religious. But she read romantic novels that she hid under the cushions of her wheelchair along with scissors and candy. .
In our room, She had a corner alter with a beautiful 3 foot tall baby Jesus, a painting of the Madonna and child. The 'Madonna Dorata.' A crown full of jewels on her head and the baby Jesus in her arms also adorned with jewels. There was also a bronze statue of the Madonna stepping on the horns of the devil and candles and photos of Nonno Peppino and rosaries galore.
Nonna Elvira and Nonno Peppino were wealthy in their times. Nonno Peppino owned Farmacias all over Naples. Nonna Elviras family had a church in 1800s, that's where all the artifacts came from. Nonna Elvira would sit in her chair at this alter three times a day. In the morning before La Collazione, breakfast , after La Mensa, the afternoon meal and right before bed every 'night after La Ciena, dinner. That corner was so commonplace to me as a child that I hardly remember noticing it but to this day I can recall the mysterious feelings I had while sleeping in the presence of it. More often than not Nonna would be asleep in her chair when I went to go get her so I thought praying was a good way to fall asleep.
When Padre Campanile came, he went into the back room with her to give her the communion. Now I think that he was just going back there to check up on all the treasures. He made Nonna promise the baby Jesus to the church. Luckily the Maddona painting and the bronze were already spoken for so he didn't get his hands on those items. Later my Mom saw the baby Jesus in an antique store on sale for more money than even God would have. I would not have believed that our priest was crooked if I had not had first hand experience with him.
I belonged to the parrochia , the childrens choir at his church. It was the logical place for me to go to get my first communion and confirmation. He seemed taller than the men in my family, he had very long thin fingers and spoke in a very soft voice. Almost a whisper, I remember thinking, is that the way he talked to God ? My family is really laud so I didn't think anyone talked to god. He taught me how to sound out the word “because” and every time I write it, I still have to sound it out beh ka oooo seh
I went to classes he taught, sang in the choir and prepared to kiss the 'ring of the Pope when the parrochia went to Rome for a field trip.
The mass was amazing, I don't think I had ever seen so many people in one place before. Il Papa said the mass in many different languages. When he spoke in your country's language you got to stand up. I felt proud to stand up twice when the Pope addressed the crowd in English and then again in Italian. I was the only one in my whole parrocia that was American and Italian. After mass we went to a park for some lunch and a game of calico that turned into a game of chase the American girl
. I remember Padre Campanile sitting on the park bench with another priest that accompanied us to Rome that day. I felt like the princess of the day. His eyes were all for me. All the boys wanted to chase me around the field. I was a fast runner and I could out run them all. I was also already developing the very beginnings of my now large breasts. At the time I did 'not wear a bra because it was not really even something that I thought about. I was however aware of my little nibs bouncing up and down as I ran as fast as I could.
I ran a bit to impress Padre Campanile and a bit because I knew that Italian girls back then didn't run. But I was American I was in P.E. at the American school and I ran a lot.
Now I know why Padre Campanile didn't take his eyes off of me that day.
We all piled into the bus after a long wonderful day meeting the Il Papa kissing his ring running in the park. We were all very tired little people and the bus ride would be at least 3 hours of quite rest until we got home to our cozy beds. The kids were all fighting over who got to sit next to me. I loved it. As I settled into my seat I began dreaming of how wonderful the day was, how proud I was to be able to stand up twice at mass, how fast I was running and how all the girls wished they could run like me' and how all the boys couldn't believe that I could out run them. I was in a daze of self absorption resting and content.
My thoughts were interrupted by my friend Lucia who came to my seat to tell me that Padre Campanile wanted to talk to me. I made my way over to where he was sitting. “'Lucia said you want to talk to me.' “yes I do” he said in his whispery voice, “come sit here” He patted his lap with the palms of his hands motioning me to sit on his lap. I didn't think anything was wrong or strange, I often sat on Nonno Corrados lap or Zio Lelleos lap to talk with them. I had an affectionate Father, loving uncles and adored my Grandfather. I had no reason to believe that my priest was any different. So I sat on his lap. He began to ask me if I had a good time that day. ''Oh yes it was a very good day.'' Then He said that when I was running he could see my tzitze bouncing up and down. And why don't I wear a bra?. I felt my breath leave my body for a moment. I wasn't sure what to say? Was I in trouble, was that a sin? I was starting to feel like I had done something really wrong. Maybe girls aren't supposed to run. I thought, I need to go to confession and 'promise to never run again. Then he touched them. He said he needed to see if they were big enough for me to wear a bra. He kept his hands there and wouldn't move them. I started to feel sick to my stomach but I was so afraid of disappointing him I just let him keep feeling. I guess I thought I needed him to tell me if I needed to get a bra.. I remember looking out the window at the darkness going by. I wanted to escape but I didn't know what to say, how to stop it. I was just frozen. I knew it was wrong and the longer it went on the more wrong it felt. I just looked out the window at the darkness I couldn't see anything so I pressed my face to the window and cupped my hands around my eyes as if looking through binoculars into another world. I blocked out what Padre Campanile was doing and just fell asleep on his lap with my faced pressed up against the cold window looking into the darkness going by. I'm not sure what else he did or for how long. I didn't want to say anything to anyone. Because, well, I was confused about if he had even done something wrong. He was my Priest. He was the closest anyone of us would ever get to God himself. And actually that little girl in me still has a tendency to think he did nothing wrong. Plus if it was wrong... I didn't think anyone would believe me. But I did ask my Mom to buy me a bra.
I don't remember going back to the parrochia. My parents moved to another part of the city and it was just too far to take me there I guess. Plus I had fulfilled my catholic obligations of my first communion and since my Dad is pretty much an atheist I never had to go back... yay dad.
Anyways now I have the Madonna Dorata She sits proudly perched on my dresser.... but I do have to remove her whenever my husband and I make love , she just stares at me... with her little boy …..and her crown.
I swear that painting has some energy that is not of this world. I wonder if the 3 ft tall baby Jesus also has that energy, wonder where he is right now. Probably peering at some wealthy couple screwing their brains out
Monday, January 18, 2010
Friday, January 8, 2010
Mr Zimmerman
My Father was the Bandmaster for the Navy Band on the AFSOUTH Base in Naples Italy. Actually, I think he should write a book about his life, its so much cooler than mine!! Since I seem to have this obsession for writing conveniently coupled with a seemingly incurable post menopausal insomnia I'll write a few things about him myself? I guess he can always reference my book when writing his own. I dream big. Why Not.?
My whole life, and to this day, people come up to me and say.. "We love your father!"
He is a musician to the core. Started playing trumpet earlier than humanly possible. I don't think little kids have the lung capacity to really be good trumpet players. For that instrument you really need to be patient and wait till your body grows into it. Well, he stuck with it.
He joined the Navy with the promise of being able to see the world and do the one thing he found most satisfying . Play his beloved trumpet. But my father doesn't just do something the best he can and then be content with it. No. Now see, most guys would be like "Awesome dude I get to play my horn and eat and sleep get paid and probably get laid! Why would I want to do anything else? " But Jake, he would never be happy with just that. Jake became the face of The Navy Band. The Navy Band was created to preform at ceremonies to greet the Admiral or to greet our brave military Fleets and in ceremonies to bestow medals of honor.
Jake realized that there was so much more these guys could do. Some of them were so good they deserved to receive a round of applause every now and then. Like the singing in a church, applause is not given much during these stuffy ceremonies. So The Band Master broke up the big band and created several small touring bands. He convinced the Admiral.. or whomever he had to,to sell this idea , that a touring band would do wonders for NATO relations with the Italians.
So the touring band traveled in their bus to picturesque little towns all over southern Italy. Someone would go ahead a few weeks and plaster posters on 2000 year old walls that read. "Maestro Jacobus and his Cinque South Band, here August 15 in the piazza. Show starts at 7:00 come early for a good seat.( insert photo of the poster in Patricia's house)
Jake and his crew would arrive in the village like Rock Stars. His lead singer Ed Posey an elegant dark skinned man whose voice.. even while talking... was so deep and so smooth that I imagined there was butter permanently melting in his throat. I once overheard my mother say that after a gig Posey got naked, jumped on a table, and began to walk as if he were on a fashion runway. She said all of his pubic hairs were neatly combed into a swirl all around is dark penis. Ed Posey was the closest friend my Father had in those days. Posey was like a brother to him and an uncle to me. It was Posey who rescued me when I opened the double doors of the bandroom one night to find a giant screen showing a hairy butt rhythmically bouncing up and down. That's all I saw, Posey with his long legs leaped down from the third level seating area scooped me up and carted me off so fast I didnt know what the heck had just happened.
A flurry of excitement hung over the piazza as the band unloaded all their gear, set it up, tested the mikes... test test.... test 1.... test 2, Sometimes I even got to say test test on the mike. Then the audience would take their seats in anticipation, lights beamed onto the stage, Posey the voice, Jake on the horn, Frank on the strings,Robbie on the keys and Dan the percussion. They would come out on that stage like giants, bigger than life. The small town Italian audiences with their chunky coral necklaces and shimmery shawls draped over pefectly sun tanned summer shoulders would dance and gyrate all night long. The entire piazza rocked. Jake even had a number he did in Italian where he actually, in classic strip tease fashion seductively removed his tie threw it in the audience, unbuttoned his shirt slowly maneuvered himself out of it then threw it in the audience while signing in a Louie Armstrong voice. '
None festa pero Al Uficio non andro Ongi Giorno sepre li, ma perche ? ma Perchi? Sta Mattina non mi va Voglio dare un calcio a tutta la citta. Amore Mio vieni anche tu, il capo uficio mandamo lo su!!! .
I wonder if the Navy ever questioned why this cat needed so many ties and shirts.
So my Dad was a star. Im sure he had his groupies and fans just like any other star.
One of his fans was my 4th grade teacher Mr Zimmerman. Mr Zimmerman was a Jolly ole Chap... No wait a minute .. he was Jewish! I just now figured that out!!! He had a beard that covered most of his face with the heaviest part under his nose and around his mouth so that his lips had to be super huge in order to even notice them when he spoke. He wasn't too much taller than my 10 year old height at the time. He did have a huge pregnant looking tummy. His tummy must have been so heavy to carry around because it caused him to have and long deep curve of his back. I don't think the evolution of man involved this body type. Think about it. Primitive man had to do some serious evolving of the spinal cord in order to be able to finally walk upright. I just don't think it would have happened with the deep curvature of the spine that a permanent giant pregnant belly would cause. The belly makes me think that there is a possibility that Mr. Zimmerman was an alcoholic. He did seem to be gone from the room for long inappropriate amounts of time. I remember seeing him on more than one occasion roaming the halls with a metal flask and frolicking around with Mrs. Fletcher ... my sisters teacher, next door.
Chronic alcohol abuse impairs nutrition absorption. Metabolically, alcohol is as efficient as fat in promoting obesity. However, alcohol unlike fat, displaces nutrients from the diet and interferes with the body's metabolism . Most dramatic is alcohols effect on the metabolism of the B vitamins Foliate and Thiamin. This has a toxic effect that produces inflammation and TA DA beer belly syndrome. ( Understanding Nutrition 11th Edition, Whitney and Rolfes pg 244)
One thing I do know for sure about Mr.Zimmerman, he thought he was a performer.
One year Zimmerman had a leading role in a play where my father was the conductor. The Little Theater Naples production of Guys and Dolls. I use to go to the rehearsals with my father and sit in the seats of the theater and watch as every week the show would come together a bit more until the glory of opening night. I got to know every phrase of dialogue every lyric in every melody that was played. I began to decipher the people that were talented and those that were just faking.
Mr. Zimmerman was not that great. I could tell because my Father paid absolutely no attention to him. If you're no good at what you do, he has no time for you at all. His best friends have always been people who have excelled in their craft... and there haven't been too many... But problem is, Mr Zimmerman thought he was hot shit. He expected me to come to class the next day and talk about what hot shit he was in rehearsal the night before and that all you people better go see the play.
I was kinda special in his class. I got to wash down the chalk board all the time.. big honor important job. I got to pass out papers.... Even bigger Job, here you are asserting a position of authority over the seated student. I was often hall monitor, and whenever something needed to be taken to the office it was me he trusted to get it there.
It was the year of the oral report. You could pick any subject. You had to find out everything you possibly could in that subject, make a visual board and once every Friday a student would stand in front of the class and make a presentation. The presentation would stay up for the whole week until the following Friday when the next students work would be the display.
I chose Trees. Not sure why I chose trees. But I managed to find dozens of pictures of trees. Probably from the New Encyclopedia Britannica... our Internet back then. Well, I proceeded to build my visual,cutting out as many images of trees I could get my hands on. I probably carved and cut up so many books, I must have gotten in big trouble for that. I got so carried away with it, it was the best visual of anyone, I was the star, I was the favorite, I was the daughter of Jake he was the coolest!!
So my visual was finally completed, an entire wall of many beautiful photographs of trees. Everyone came in from recess. Settled into their little schoolhouse desks rested their elbows on top, propped up their chins and prepared to listen to the most exciting report ever given at Forrest Sherman Elementary.
As I stood there in front of all of those listening eyes I suddenly realized I had absolutely nothing to say. So I pointed to a pretty tree with white bark, looked at the name that was printed in the lower corner. I said, "This is a B.I.R.C.H. tree Its my favorite.'' Then I took a bow. The kids all clapped and I sat down.
Mr Zimmerman didn't clap. Actually I think that from then on he realized I did not have that star quality that Jake had. My opinion as to how well he did in rehearsals began to lose its luster for him. I guess had I been at home doing my homework learning about trees, I may have had a better outcome on the report. But you know what .. I wouldn't trade those nights in that little theater for anything!! The richness of my experience in those velvety seats watching my beautiful father conduct the band while helping direct and coach the singers, the actors the musicians..the stage hands …..the props.... seeing it all come together to become probably some of the best productions that little theater put out... that was truly priceless.
So fuck you Mr Zimmerman.... You sucked anyways you fat ole fart.
>
My whole life, and to this day, people come up to me and say.. "We love your father!"
He is a musician to the core. Started playing trumpet earlier than humanly possible. I don't think little kids have the lung capacity to really be good trumpet players. For that instrument you really need to be patient and wait till your body grows into it. Well, he stuck with it.
He joined the Navy with the promise of being able to see the world and do the one thing he found most satisfying . Play his beloved trumpet. But my father doesn't just do something the best he can and then be content with it. No. Now see, most guys would be like "Awesome dude I get to play my horn and eat and sleep get paid and probably get laid! Why would I want to do anything else? " But Jake, he would never be happy with just that. Jake became the face of The Navy Band. The Navy Band was created to preform at ceremonies to greet the Admiral or to greet our brave military Fleets and in ceremonies to bestow medals of honor.
Jake realized that there was so much more these guys could do. Some of them were so good they deserved to receive a round of applause every now and then. Like the singing in a church, applause is not given much during these stuffy ceremonies. So The Band Master broke up the big band and created several small touring bands. He convinced the Admiral.. or whomever he had to,to sell this idea , that a touring band would do wonders for NATO relations with the Italians.
So the touring band traveled in their bus to picturesque little towns all over southern Italy. Someone would go ahead a few weeks and plaster posters on 2000 year old walls that read. "Maestro Jacobus and his Cinque South Band, here August 15 in the piazza. Show starts at 7:00 come early for a good seat.( insert photo of the poster in Patricia's house)
Jake and his crew would arrive in the village like Rock Stars. His lead singer Ed Posey an elegant dark skinned man whose voice.. even while talking... was so deep and so smooth that I imagined there was butter permanently melting in his throat. I once overheard my mother say that after a gig Posey got naked, jumped on a table, and began to walk as if he were on a fashion runway. She said all of his pubic hairs were neatly combed into a swirl all around is dark penis. Ed Posey was the closest friend my Father had in those days. Posey was like a brother to him and an uncle to me. It was Posey who rescued me when I opened the double doors of the bandroom one night to find a giant screen showing a hairy butt rhythmically bouncing up and down. That's all I saw, Posey with his long legs leaped down from the third level seating area scooped me up and carted me off so fast I didnt know what the heck had just happened.
A flurry of excitement hung over the piazza as the band unloaded all their gear, set it up, tested the mikes... test test.... test 1.... test 2, Sometimes I even got to say test test on the mike. Then the audience would take their seats in anticipation, lights beamed onto the stage, Posey the voice, Jake on the horn, Frank on the strings,Robbie on the keys and Dan the percussion. They would come out on that stage like giants, bigger than life. The small town Italian audiences with their chunky coral necklaces and shimmery shawls draped over pefectly sun tanned summer shoulders would dance and gyrate all night long. The entire piazza rocked. Jake even had a number he did in Italian where he actually, in classic strip tease fashion seductively removed his tie threw it in the audience, unbuttoned his shirt slowly maneuvered himself out of it then threw it in the audience while signing in a Louie Armstrong voice. '
None festa pero Al Uficio non andro Ongi Giorno sepre li, ma perche ? ma Perchi? Sta Mattina non mi va Voglio dare un calcio a tutta la citta. Amore Mio vieni anche tu, il capo uficio mandamo lo su!!! .
I wonder if the Navy ever questioned why this cat needed so many ties and shirts.
So my Dad was a star. Im sure he had his groupies and fans just like any other star.
One of his fans was my 4th grade teacher Mr Zimmerman. Mr Zimmerman was a Jolly ole Chap... No wait a minute .. he was Jewish! I just now figured that out!!! He had a beard that covered most of his face with the heaviest part under his nose and around his mouth so that his lips had to be super huge in order to even notice them when he spoke. He wasn't too much taller than my 10 year old height at the time. He did have a huge pregnant looking tummy. His tummy must have been so heavy to carry around because it caused him to have and long deep curve of his back. I don't think the evolution of man involved this body type. Think about it. Primitive man had to do some serious evolving of the spinal cord in order to be able to finally walk upright. I just don't think it would have happened with the deep curvature of the spine that a permanent giant pregnant belly would cause. The belly makes me think that there is a possibility that Mr. Zimmerman was an alcoholic. He did seem to be gone from the room for long inappropriate amounts of time. I remember seeing him on more than one occasion roaming the halls with a metal flask and frolicking around with Mrs. Fletcher ... my sisters teacher, next door.
Chronic alcohol abuse impairs nutrition absorption. Metabolically, alcohol is as efficient as fat in promoting obesity. However, alcohol unlike fat, displaces nutrients from the diet and interferes with the body's metabolism . Most dramatic is alcohols effect on the metabolism of the B vitamins Foliate and Thiamin. This has a toxic effect that produces inflammation and TA DA beer belly syndrome. ( Understanding Nutrition 11th Edition, Whitney and Rolfes pg 244)
One thing I do know for sure about Mr.Zimmerman, he thought he was a performer.
One year Zimmerman had a leading role in a play where my father was the conductor. The Little Theater Naples production of Guys and Dolls. I use to go to the rehearsals with my father and sit in the seats of the theater and watch as every week the show would come together a bit more until the glory of opening night. I got to know every phrase of dialogue every lyric in every melody that was played. I began to decipher the people that were talented and those that were just faking.
Mr. Zimmerman was not that great. I could tell because my Father paid absolutely no attention to him. If you're no good at what you do, he has no time for you at all. His best friends have always been people who have excelled in their craft... and there haven't been too many... But problem is, Mr Zimmerman thought he was hot shit. He expected me to come to class the next day and talk about what hot shit he was in rehearsal the night before and that all you people better go see the play.
I was kinda special in his class. I got to wash down the chalk board all the time.. big honor important job. I got to pass out papers.... Even bigger Job, here you are asserting a position of authority over the seated student. I was often hall monitor, and whenever something needed to be taken to the office it was me he trusted to get it there.
It was the year of the oral report. You could pick any subject. You had to find out everything you possibly could in that subject, make a visual board and once every Friday a student would stand in front of the class and make a presentation. The presentation would stay up for the whole week until the following Friday when the next students work would be the display.
I chose Trees. Not sure why I chose trees. But I managed to find dozens of pictures of trees. Probably from the New Encyclopedia Britannica... our Internet back then. Well, I proceeded to build my visual,cutting out as many images of trees I could get my hands on. I probably carved and cut up so many books, I must have gotten in big trouble for that. I got so carried away with it, it was the best visual of anyone, I was the star, I was the favorite, I was the daughter of Jake he was the coolest!!
So my visual was finally completed, an entire wall of many beautiful photographs of trees. Everyone came in from recess. Settled into their little schoolhouse desks rested their elbows on top, propped up their chins and prepared to listen to the most exciting report ever given at Forrest Sherman Elementary.
As I stood there in front of all of those listening eyes I suddenly realized I had absolutely nothing to say. So I pointed to a pretty tree with white bark, looked at the name that was printed in the lower corner. I said, "This is a B.I.R.C.H. tree Its my favorite.'' Then I took a bow. The kids all clapped and I sat down.
Mr Zimmerman didn't clap. Actually I think that from then on he realized I did not have that star quality that Jake had. My opinion as to how well he did in rehearsals began to lose its luster for him. I guess had I been at home doing my homework learning about trees, I may have had a better outcome on the report. But you know what .. I wouldn't trade those nights in that little theater for anything!! The richness of my experience in those velvety seats watching my beautiful father conduct the band while helping direct and coach the singers, the actors the musicians..the stage hands …..the props.... seeing it all come together to become probably some of the best productions that little theater put out... that was truly priceless.
So fuck you Mr Zimmerman.... You sucked anyways you fat ole fart.
>
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
More thougths about our Mother
this thing, writing, it helps me to calm the incessant voices in my head. I like the permanence of a writing. A thought is fleeting, a conversation can be distored but a writing is authentic. I can have these thoughts, write them down then let them go and move on. Plus I’m having a blast!
More thoughts about our mother.
Everyone is now running to their linen closets to iron pillow cases..... what have I started??? Actually, Patricia got the linen ironing gene. She has always had a passion for ironing. She once said “There is something very calming and wholesome about taking an unrecognizable crumpled up piece of material, sprinkling lavender water on it, passing the iron over its wrinkles while smelling the aroma of fresh smooth lavender steam purifying, breathing new life into it.” I don’t know … I dont get it. She has curly hair so perhaps thats what that whole thing is all about.
But I did the dishes tonight with my mothers presence. I washed every pot until it shined. I polished each glass to perfection and I lovingly put away every knife and fork into their rightful spot in my very orderly silverware drawer. I shined the stove until it looked like it had never had the pleasure of a sloppy meal. And I got on my hands and knees to wipe down the floor making sure that not one crumb would be left behind. Then as I stood there admiring my sparkling kitchen, I rubbed cream on my manicured fingers and took a deep breath of satisfaction knowing that I had done my very best work. I'll sleep well tonight. I haven't left any unfinished business in the sink. This, I have decided is my new years resolution. To do my very best work on anything it is I am doing and to never leave any unfinished business in the sink. In order to do this I will need to carry my mothers presence with me. But not all of her..... She can keep some things to herself…. (Like chasing people around the house with a broom stick threatening their lives)
What I will need will only reveal itself as I grow. . What I don't need I will ignore.
Tonight doing the dishes I was aware of the pride that she must feel for her things, for her environment and most importantly… for herself.
How do we inherit this pride of ownership? Is it that she grew up in poverty, post war, hungry, desperate to stand out in a family of 6 siblings, yearning for the attention of a mother who herself was an orphan, who had seen her family lose everything they owned? Perhaps the strength of your character is born of such beginnings. If that's the case then sisters, we are doomed. There is no way we will ever reach that level of order. We were raised in an environment that begged for nothing. Or did it????
Anyways, next Im setting up an ironing station. Stay tuned... should be Fascinating!!!
More thoughts about our mother.
Everyone is now running to their linen closets to iron pillow cases..... what have I started??? Actually, Patricia got the linen ironing gene. She has always had a passion for ironing. She once said “There is something very calming and wholesome about taking an unrecognizable crumpled up piece of material, sprinkling lavender water on it, passing the iron over its wrinkles while smelling the aroma of fresh smooth lavender steam purifying, breathing new life into it.” I don’t know … I dont get it. She has curly hair so perhaps thats what that whole thing is all about.
But I did the dishes tonight with my mothers presence. I washed every pot until it shined. I polished each glass to perfection and I lovingly put away every knife and fork into their rightful spot in my very orderly silverware drawer. I shined the stove until it looked like it had never had the pleasure of a sloppy meal. And I got on my hands and knees to wipe down the floor making sure that not one crumb would be left behind. Then as I stood there admiring my sparkling kitchen, I rubbed cream on my manicured fingers and took a deep breath of satisfaction knowing that I had done my very best work. I'll sleep well tonight. I haven't left any unfinished business in the sink. This, I have decided is my new years resolution. To do my very best work on anything it is I am doing and to never leave any unfinished business in the sink. In order to do this I will need to carry my mothers presence with me. But not all of her..... She can keep some things to herself…. (Like chasing people around the house with a broom stick threatening their lives)
What I will need will only reveal itself as I grow. . What I don't need I will ignore.
Tonight doing the dishes I was aware of the pride that she must feel for her things, for her environment and most importantly… for herself.
How do we inherit this pride of ownership? Is it that she grew up in poverty, post war, hungry, desperate to stand out in a family of 6 siblings, yearning for the attention of a mother who herself was an orphan, who had seen her family lose everything they owned? Perhaps the strength of your character is born of such beginnings. If that's the case then sisters, we are doomed. There is no way we will ever reach that level of order. We were raised in an environment that begged for nothing. Or did it????
Anyways, next Im setting up an ironing station. Stay tuned... should be Fascinating!!!
Monday, January 4, 2010
who will win
I'm up at 310 am because I have been summoned to send in more troops. The sticky gooey enemy has infiltrated more of the environment and the troops have been diminished because the commander in chief is asleep at the helm. SCHETUTU!! which is neapolitan for SVEGLIATI!!!which is Italian for WAKE THE FUCK UP!!! so i sit straight up in my bed leave the comfort of the sounds of my sleeping husband tiptoe down to the kitchen get a glass of cold water and fire in the glucophage at 500 mg bombs bam bam bam bam 2000 mg that should do it for awhile.
my body is in an all out war for territory. Not sure when or why it started but my cells have decided that they will not open the door to the incessant knocking of insulin who has come knocking only to deliver a package of glucose that the stupid cell needs in order to do any work. So the stubborn asinine cells are keeping their doors locked for some dumb ass reason and its wreaking fucking havoc in my body. The glucose has nowhere to go so it hangs around in my bloodstream taking up residence in places like my nerve endings. Its sticky and gooey and it chokes the life out of whatever it comes into contact with because it has no home. It has no idea what the hell its doing in my blood stream. Its intended place is very specific. Go into the cell and create energy so the body can do its job efficiently. BUT NOOO. What is it anyway with those guys... my cells ? Do they just not hear the knocking? My pancreas then decides ok lets send in MORE insulin to knock harder or maybe if there is enough it will just be enough to break down the walls and force an entry. Problem then becomes a giant sticky shitty mess of too much insulin and homeless pissed off glucose just waiting to kick some nerve ending ass. This is where the commander in chief can send in the help. The glucophage guys, they know how to speak the language of the cell door keepers. They say, hey look you guys... stop being a bunch of pussy ass pricks, you need this, just lighten up and let yourselves be saved. So the ambassador glucophage escorts the insulin that deposits the glucose in the cell. Ah asafamadonna!!! The cells then are able to get back to work at keeping the entire system running well. Duh But if the commander in chief is also a sleeping dog then what the hell chance does anyone have. Ive thought about pulling out the troops all together because of possible damage to other not so delicate organs like the liver. but shit the liver, that mamma is like invincible, the multitasking kick ass and take no prisoners she has to do is incredible. The liver, shes got my back. I can count on her to save my ass in so many situations but i kinda want to save her for the real disasters.
So now that everything seems to be in order again i can go back to the saftey of the sounds of my sleeping husband. buona notte
my body is in an all out war for territory. Not sure when or why it started but my cells have decided that they will not open the door to the incessant knocking of insulin who has come knocking only to deliver a package of glucose that the stupid cell needs in order to do any work. So the stubborn asinine cells are keeping their doors locked for some dumb ass reason and its wreaking fucking havoc in my body. The glucose has nowhere to go so it hangs around in my bloodstream taking up residence in places like my nerve endings. Its sticky and gooey and it chokes the life out of whatever it comes into contact with because it has no home. It has no idea what the hell its doing in my blood stream. Its intended place is very specific. Go into the cell and create energy so the body can do its job efficiently. BUT NOOO. What is it anyway with those guys... my cells ? Do they just not hear the knocking? My pancreas then decides ok lets send in MORE insulin to knock harder or maybe if there is enough it will just be enough to break down the walls and force an entry. Problem then becomes a giant sticky shitty mess of too much insulin and homeless pissed off glucose just waiting to kick some nerve ending ass. This is where the commander in chief can send in the help. The glucophage guys, they know how to speak the language of the cell door keepers. They say, hey look you guys... stop being a bunch of pussy ass pricks, you need this, just lighten up and let yourselves be saved. So the ambassador glucophage escorts the insulin that deposits the glucose in the cell. Ah asafamadonna!!! The cells then are able to get back to work at keeping the entire system running well. Duh But if the commander in chief is also a sleeping dog then what the hell chance does anyone have. Ive thought about pulling out the troops all together because of possible damage to other not so delicate organs like the liver. but shit the liver, that mamma is like invincible, the multitasking kick ass and take no prisoners she has to do is incredible. The liver, shes got my back. I can count on her to save my ass in so many situations but i kinda want to save her for the real disasters.
So now that everything seems to be in order again i can go back to the saftey of the sounds of my sleeping husband. buona notte
Sunday, January 3, 2010
I'm 48 now. What happened to all that time. How much life has been lived on my watch that Ihave missed. I'm not a writer, I'm not an accomplished artist, I'm not a singer in a band, I'm not the fastest runner in the group,I'm not the best swimmer in the meet, what happened to that girl? is she really gone. It is said that our cells continue to reproduce and die off in cycles so that after a few months you can be considered a brand new person. The lungs have the capacity to completely recover from nicotine poisoning if given the chance. The body has a tremendous capacity for survival. Our brain has a gentle way of keeping us from feeling the wretched pain that encounters us in our journey by hiding the raw emotion that accompanies the memory. Some people don't appreciate or trust the true gentle nature of the human brain so they live in agony for a lifetime. And some people never give their lungs a chance to show how absolutely marvelous they can be. Whats this all about? I want to open a few accounts in my lost memory bank and attempt to relive some of the moments that have been elusive yet could have been instrumental in shaping the girl that i have become. I'm going to trust that my wise and all knowing brain will guide me to the moments that are the most significant. I'm going to trust that my body will, with my permission begin the process of healing itself. All the stories that i will encounter will be logged in this blog. They no longer need to reside in my head. I can let them go as they fall off the pages of this blogeshpere. My sister will be my compadre in this adventure as we both share our lives growing up together in Naples Italy with our beautiful Neapolitan Mother and our Handsome American Father.
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