Tag Archives: Family

Once Upon a Snowfall

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I was surprised to hear about regions that had received an early snowfall. I didn’t personally see it in my area but I thought it would be appropriate to resurrect a piece from my previous blog, My Punchline. It also was brought to mind after my recent post about Landscapes and remembering how it was.

Since I was young, I have always enjoyed hearing stories of how it “used to be”. A picture painted with words and a faraway look could transport me. Very often I found myself wishing I had experienced it firsthand. It never occurred to me that one day, I too, would have stories of how life “used to be”.

The recent mammoth storm created a beautiful landscape blanketed with deep snow and drifts. It also created the challenge of how to dig out and where to put the excess snow. I found that current conversations often mentioned how there appeared to be a lack of willing youth to assist with snow removal. We lamented that there were no children lugging shovels up and down the street offering to lighten the load. That’s not how we remembered our childhood. We would be shoveling not because it was expected but more importantly, it was the right thing to do. If a couple of dollars made their way to your pocket there was cause for celebration.

Although the current blizzard-like conditions should have brought a chill, I found that I was warmed by memories of those snow storms of long ago. In what seemed like an eternity, we would layer ourselves to protect from the cold. Gathering at the end of the Harshman’s yard we would prepare for some serious sledding. The Harshmans were an elderly couple and to my knowledge they had no children but that changed after each snowfall as every child in the neighborhood would find their way to that backyard.  It was elevated just enough, with a long and open stretch that would allow our gliders to fly. Within time there would be a mound constructed in the middle of a path to add lift and excitement to our travel downhill. Our enthusiasm was only tempered by the elements finding their way through our best attempt to keep them at bay by our winter outerwear.

Trudging home, dragging our sleds behind us, we knew that soon warmth would greet us. I felt betrayed when the sleeves of my coat would shift upward and no longer meet the edge of my gloves. The sting of snow on the exposed skin of my wrists would make me long for our toasty kitchen, warmed by a large pot belly cast iron stove. It sat in an alcove, fired up during the winter season, beckoning to us after our outside adventures. We would pull the crunchy remnants of snow from our outerwear and toss it on the stove. Those little crystals would dance and sizzle on the hot griddle until they disappeared as little wisps of steam. 

Nightfall did not exclude the presence of snowfall. My bedroom was located at the front of the house, facing the street. Enveloped in darkness, under a pile of blankets, I would be lulled to sleep by the sound of vehicles, their tires wrapped in chains, traversing the ever deepening snow. The scrape of a plow would often interrupt the stillness of the night. My father worked second shift and would travel four miles to return home nightly after midnight. Long before the Sheetz and traffic light occupied the corner, a plain intersection was part of the setting. Once home it would not be uncommon for my father to take a shovel, walk down to the intersection and assist his coworkers who had the misfortune to become stuck in a deeply covered area. The snow fence was not always successful in keeping the drifts from hampering travel. The fence, comprised of slats and wire, would run parralell to the road and could be used as a barometer as to the severity of the storm.

The memories are as clear in my mind as they were fifty years ago. Half a century has passed and life has changed. The pot belly stove was removed when my father renovated the kitchen. The alcove had become a walk-in pantry for my mother and the stove became a source of heat in a chicken coop my father converted into his workshop. The home no longer belongs to our family and the workshop no longer stands. Yet the recollection of the past is as much a part of me as my present being, usually bringing smiles but sometimes eliciting tears. Now, with the passage of time, I find I derive great pleasure of painting pictures with words and sharing how it “used to be”.

Veterans

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This blog is not late. Yes, as a nation, we celebrated Veterans’ Day on November 11 but our gratitude should be evident every day. That appreciation was personally instilled in me as a child. Later in life, as a Navy wife, I had the good fortune to serve the ship’s crew and their dependents as the Family Support Group President. The ship’s captain allowed me an open door policy and I felt that collectively we offered significant assistance to those who knew the hardship and sacrifice that came with the Navy lifestyle. Once we were enjoying life back in the civilian environment, I held the role of Emergency Service Director in the American Red Cross. For close to a decade I was charged with managing our service to the Armed Forces among other emergency programs. I might not have ever served as active duty but I felt in my own way that I did offer my time and talents in gratitude to those who served. I don’t hesitate to confess that I consider my efforts miniscule in comparison to those who wore the uniform.

I live in a small town, surrounded by other small towns. Locally, it is not uncommon to see the Hometown Hero banners adorn the utility poles. If you are not familiar with the program, it is a tangible way for a hometown community to acknowledge those who served. Banners are displayed honoring veterans along the main streets in their hometown. The banners typically printed in red, white and blue show the individual in uniform, their name and branch of service. The era or conflict in which they were involved is listed additionally. I have often noted while in my car, waiting for a light to change, that there are several that note the ultimate sacrifice was made. Those proud faces accompany you while you make your way through town. It is easy to detect those whose activity came decades earlier. Their pictures displayed, frozen in time, above the streets they might have walked in prior decades.

I often share the fact that my father was career Navy. It offered him opportunities that he would have never had if he had remained in southern Georgia, where he was born when economic struggles were the norm. He saw the world, achieved his GED and rose to the rank of Chief Petty Officer. He never spoke of the horrors of war that he witnessed yet it was clear that he valued the bonds he held with his shipmates and what together they endured. We would never be able to honor him with a Hometown Hero banner as the locale of his birth was so very rural. He remedied that himself by enrolling in the US Navy Memorial. He is listed on the Navy Log, proof that he devoted twenty years of his life in service to something much larger than himself. Over thirty years has passed since his death and he is forever linked to those who also sacrificed selflessly.

I will continue to notice the Hometown Hero banners as I make my way through every town that displays them. I will look at those youthful faces and wonder where they are today. I know they all have a story to tell and certainly that story holds integrity and bravery. I also am painfully aware that I can never thank them all personally for their service and sacrifice. Yes, Veteran’s Day falls on November 11 annually but I don’t feel as a country we are bound to only celebrate this dedicated group of people once a year. As I write this, I am not at a loss for words. Those thoughts, coming directly from my heart, say thank you to those who served and ask that those who are currently standing in harm’s way are protected and remain safe.

Kinfolk

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My brothers and I are transplants. Our mother’s side of the family came from the Philadelphia area, first emigrated from Italy. My father was from South Georgia. We were transplanted as a result of his Navy career. Growing up just south of the Mason Dixon line, it was easier to see family on our maternal side and we also had the added benefit of having our maternal grandfather live with us. That offered us a built in connection. My father’s side seemed so distant as it was more difficult to maintain that connection. I have shared before that at the age of ten I first read To Kill a Mockingbird. It portrayed the era that my father was raised and I thought reading it was imperative to understanding my southern roots. I will also admit that Gone with the Wind gave me a very inaccurate picture of the environment where my father was raised. He had shared that he grew up on the Colton plantation. What I had envisioned was far removed from the dark brown framed humble abode which was the reality.

With my retirement quickly approaching, I had planned a trip to Savannah, Georgia, as a gift to myself. There was no familial connection to the area yet it was front and center on my bucket list. In conversations with my Georgian cousin we came up with a plan to visit Savannah and then spend time together becoming reacquainted as family. I won’t go into details but that plan was abandoned and I spent my week with family enjoying a long overdue visit. My cousin and I hadn’t seen each other face to face since we were young but our connection has become strong in adulthood. I felt totally comfortable with accepting her offer which embodied perfect southern hospitality. I still have plans to visit Savannah but I thought it was more important to delve deeper into my family’s history.

What did I take away with me? I was already familiar with the red clay and the abundance of pines. Here in the north, we are fortunate not to fall victim to kudzu. This invasive vine can be seen everywhere, as it takes over hills, valleys and fields. The only plus I could grasp was the sea of green it created. Not every neighborhood has a wandering goat but my cousin’s does and I found it delightful. For the first time in my life, I tried boiled peanuts. That might be the last time they cross my palate as I think it takes a considerable amount of time to get use to the texture. I gave all the other southern fare a big thumbs up! Tender baby back ribs and the boiled shrimp was most enjoyable. I learned to appreciate many of the foods as a child since my father introduced it to us as part of our smorgasbord menu growing up. Good fried okra and pimento cheese is not considered a staple here, north of the Mason Dixon line, but I was grateful to find an abundance there. My cousin made a point to expand my sweet tooth and I found buttermilk and chess pies to be a wonderful dessert added as a delicious finish to a meal. It is amazing that we found so much time to talk, and catch up, when she spent so much time in the kitchen, cooking items to expand my horizons and waistline. We have talked about future trips and I hold out for the addition of peach cobbler and corn dogs the next time I am there.

Obviously I enjoyed my time visiting, eating and sightseeing. What I found more gratifying was the opportunity to meet my cousin’s grown children and her grandchildren, her husband and his siblings. It was important to me to understand what I had missed by not growing up there and fill in many blanks, as well as rehash family stories and histories. The last time I made a trip to Georgia I was able to visit with two of my aunts. They have since transitioned and I considered my brief time with them a gift. One expects the loss of their parents, and my aunts’ deaths, although mourned, didn’t come as a shock. What I do find unsettling is the loss of six of my Georgian cousins since my last visit. Little by little, I see time slipping away but I don’t want my southern roots going too. This visit has me reflect on the questions I wished I had asked earlier. In retrospect, I can’t make up for lost time, but I can change the future. Conversations and visits will continue and if they include fried okra and brewed tea, all the better.

Dump Runs

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In a previous blog, I mentioned that I began to take my trash to the dump as a cost saving measure during a very lean period in my life. It is a benefit offered to the local community, who choose to take advantage of its fee free establishment. Now that paying for trash pick-up is feasible for me again, I can’t explain why it remains more acceptable to make this run on Saturday morning rather than gathering my refuse and putting it out every Thursday evening. For some reason I grew to resent that weekly routine. Now I travel the back roads with my trash and recyclables and gaze out across the mountains. I believe I currently enjoy the backdrop more these days since I don’t have to cross that mountain daily for work.

I also have reason to believe that going to the dump is in my DNA. Yes, I might be the only person who admits going to the dump and feeling sentimental over the trip. It was not unusual for my father to utilize the local landfill. Our home was often under construction and he undertook various other projects that created waste. Since my father has been dead for over thirty years, protocols and regulations at the landfill have greatly changed. Ages ago, items were not bagged and they lay in a pile which allowed everyone access. I have no idea if there were signs that stated no one could retrieve items once they were discarded. If that was the case, my father, who always had a very ethical approach to life, ignored them. If there was something that could be salvaged at no cost, why not go for it? It may be cliché, but one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. It is not a stretch of the imagination to say my father’s childhood was challenging financially. His father died before my Dad even reached his teen years and I know what a struggle it was for my grandmother to provide for the family. It could be that is why my father was comfortable with dumpster diving before it became a popular activity. I doubt if anyone used the term biohazard when sharing what they scored at the dump. It didn’t seem to be much of an issue at the time.

My father chose not to keep these adventures solely to himself. It was not unusual for him to take my son along for the ride. During one of his reconnaissance missions, I recall him finding a plastic figure about four inches in height. It looked like it could have been some kind of action figure, just the kind my son and his cousins would enjoy playing with for hours. It was clear that this figure’s plight was to be discarded at the dump due to a missing head. Between his shoulders, where his head should have been, there was a screw. My nephew, who continues to maintain his creative streak into adulthood, named him Little Head Man. I don’t recall if Little Head Man was on the side of good or evil, but his distinctive feature fit well into my nephew’s narrative.

Before you find your stomach turning thinking about the removal of items from the dump and being handled, know that all the treasures were washed well before they were used. I can recall how my father’s thoughtfulness extended to me one time that made me question his rational in determining what would be a good castoff selection. I have always enjoyed handicrafts and it wasn’t unusual for me to fill my time with sewing, crocheting or cross stich. My father, knowing this, spied a bountiful stash of yarn. It was burnt orange in color and had the texture of rug yarn. Although I appreciated his generous donation of yarn to my collection I was queasy about the thought of touching it. There was no practical way of washing it prior to its use and in order to make something with it I would have had to hold it in my hands for several hours. As distinct as the memory of receiving this contribution to my inventory of hobby items may be, the final destination of this yarn has been forgotten. I have a feeling it was returned to its original location, the landfill. I probably held a bit of guilt returning it with the adage of looking a gift horse in the mouth heavy on my mind. So strong is that memory that I will not purchase thrifted yarn to this day.

Yes, policies have changed and no one has permission to access the trash being brought to the waste management site. These days I consider the Saturday morning dump run a trip to the social mecca of my small town as it is easy to see people you know. I enjoy the usual comments about the recycling bins not emptied often enough and how short people like myself struggle with getting items in the bin without it all falling back on you. I appreciate the irony of seeing so many yard sales set up along the way, tempting you to stop and fill the void that your trash run might have created. Most of all, I enjoy my trips to the dump as they bring back memories of my father and a simpler time. I have never forgotten that upon return from the landfill we would enjoy the reveal of what surprises returned with my father. With this all tucked away as memory, it doesn’t take much imagination to picture my Dad riding shotgun when I go.

Going, Going, Gone

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In an ironic twist, I recently found myself making purchases at both a flea market and an auction. After my last post, More or Less, bringing items into my home appears to be a hypocritical choice. As much as I find it necessary to simplify my life and lessen the load I have collected over the years, I have never lost a certain level of sentimentality for certain items. Our mother, Rita, lived for twenty two years after the death of our father. Her home was filled with items acquired over time, permeated with copious amounts of love and memories. When she gave up housekeeping, I brought many of her items over to my home. I continue to call my style Rita Revisited.

I go through stages when I invest my time in auctions. I can remember the first one I attended. I tagged along with our father to one being held very close to our home. I don’t think I caught the main purpose of the event and I don’t recall if our father bid on anything. I do remember, being a child short in stature, I couldn’t see over the people standing in front of us. Our mother was much more a fan of yard sales as auctions made her nervous. She and Dad would spend Saturday morning scouting through others’ junk to find their treasures. They would pass items along to us that they thought might be helpful or needed. Maybe it was their hobby that now has me discern if I truly need something prior to bringing it home.

I have enjoyed auctions, although historically I am outbid. Many of them today are buyer friendly as you can review the items and place your bids online. The last time I attended an auction in person, I came home with sore feet and a sunburn. Recently I had picked up my online high bid items from an auction in my old neighborhood. I was aware of the house from living in the area. Being that it is well over a century old, I suspected it held character within its walls. I was right, it was apparent that the house had aged with charm. I had the opportunity to speak with the family on that bittersweet day. They lamented that they couldn’t keep all of their late uncle’s possessions but they would keep the memories of him and all the special occasions that they gathered there for holidays and events.

You might be curious about what items I am allowing into my home after sharing my battle cry about purging. I have begun collecting vintage handiwork: quilts, embroidered pieces and crocheted doilies. My plan is to repurpose them which pays homage to the time and talent it took to produce them and also gives them a new life that makes them available for daily use. I have a collection of these pieces from my maternal grandmother and her sister. I never had the opportunity to know them but I currently find it difficult to repurpose these pieces that they lovingly toiled over. My paternal grandmother was also very talented with needle, thread and crochet. In my own way I honor them. No longer present in this world, their legacy is very much a part of my life, but I am just not ready to take scissors to those items.

As I pay tribute to my ancestors, I question what legacy I may leave. I believe that each and every one of us is put on this earth for a reason. The majority of us will never know fame or fortune but within our small and personal realm there must be something that is left. I think of it as a ripple in a pond. Those concentric circles can continue on and reach farther than we might have intended or realized. For a long time I worked within my community. My hope was to make a difference in my small corner of the world. Now that I am beyond work and retirement is my reality, I revel in the fact that my time is my own. Satisfied with what I have achieved professionally I don’t want to drop the ball now. In the future, if there is a handcrafted item that brings joy to someone, than it was worth the effort. Putting words to paper brings me great joy and if there is something I have shared and it touches just one soul my time has not been spent in vain. Who could possibly be the proverbial high bidder on what is behind? I don’t mean our household goods and property but rather something we personally created. We have this one life, before it is going, going, gone, let’s not squander it.

A Father’s Day Post

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As I mentioned Mom in a Mother’s Day post, I would be remiss if I didn’t share some recollections of Dad on Father’s Day. It has been well over thirty years since he walked this earth. I miss that soft southern accent that never left him or his routine of pipe smoking and the scent of tobacco that would linger in the air. There are stories that he told which I hold onto with bittersweet emotion. They are just a small portion of the man he was. I would like to be a fly on the wall and observe, one more time, what a typical day would be like. What non important matters were covered by conversations no longer committed to memory? Why is it human nature to take so much of our daily lives for granted?

I was destined to be a Daddy’s Girl. My father, career Navy, made the trek from Norfolk, VA to Pennsylvania in a snow storm to greet me at the time of my birth. My three brothers and I were the recipients of many of his life stories. Being from southern GA, our father’s upbringing was so different to the one we knew. Hardship very much comprised his youth. It might have never been spoken out loud but I know in his heart, his desire was to provide a better life for us.

My father would recount the stories of his youth. He and his one brother, tried jumping off the barn roof with springs on their feet and once they pushed a winged crate out of a chinaberry tree to see if they could fly. One of them would hatch the plan to tie tin cans to the tail of their cow. The clattering sounds spooked the cow and she jumped over the fence, leaving her tail behind. I imagined that the cow wasn’t the only one with a sore bottom that evening. He would relish telling these stories. He didn’t dwell on the fact that he and his brother, as youngsters, would be the ones to find their father on the porch after suffering a heart attack. They struggled to get my grandfather into the house but his death was imminent.

Growing up in rural south GA, without a father, couldn’t have been easy. Dad was an avid fisherman. He never cared for hunting. He said he had to hunt to help provide meat for the table and it held no charm for him as an adult. He enlisted in the Navy with the theory that there was more to life than picking cotton. Dad would tell us about the good times he experienced in the Navy. I’m sure as a young boy he never thought he would have the opportunity to travel the world. His enthusiasm for the Navy rubbed off on me. My one high school term paper focused on Admiral Chester Nimitz, Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet during WWII. I got carried away with my research and read several accounts of battles at sea. I remember one graphic description shared by a sailor.  He stated that during battle you could see your shipmate die a horrible death, next to you, which would cause you to vomit. There was barely time for that human reaction as you would have to quickly return to your gun. I disclosed what I had read to Dad. He listened and quietly replied that yes he was aware as he was there. That was the only somber admission that I ever heard about his Navy career.

Dad managed to get two full careers under his belt before retiring at the age of 62. He was never at a loss of how to fill a day. He and our mother had raised the four of us and opened our home to our maternal grandfather who suffered a stroke later in life. He remained at home with our mother being his caretaker. Finally, after a life of hard work and providing for all of us, it was Dad’s turn to slow down and enjoy the freedom that retirement would provide. It was not to be. He was diagnosed with cancer, a result of being exposed to asbestos during his years in the Navy. Although he was willing to follow recommendations and treatment he was resigned to his accept his diagnosis. If he was afraid of what the future held, he never showed it. Upon reflection he said that those were the cards that were dealt him. He died one month short of his 66th birthday.

I thank you for indulging me and my reminiscence of our father. We should all have stories to reflect upon for those of us who no longer have a reason to celebrate the day. For those who are fortunate to still have their father, I would suggest you listen to those stories and commit them to memory. You don’t know when that voice will be silenced. Let’s not squander the opportunity to keep them alive for the next generation.

Memories of Mom

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I would be remiss not to express my thoughts on motherhood as we approach Mother’s Day. It’s not that I am lured into the commercial side of the day but rather appreciate the recognition that it garners. Giving birth to my son will always be the most important thing that I accomplished while on this earth. The fact that he has grown into a thoughtful and caring man only adds to my joy. My focus is not on myself though, but rather my own mother. She has been gone for a long time but her presence is still felt today. Memories, from early in my childhood, linger and have my mother prominently at the center.

Mom had the misfortune to lose her own mother at the age of four. Several years later, her step mother was to also die at an early age. My mother and her sister were raised without the benefit of a lasting maternal role model in their home. Their aunts were there and offered what they could, but basically, they were motherless. I feel that this experience taught my mother a life lesson that remained with her. She understood what a void she had experienced in her life and ensured that my brothers and I would never suffer the same consequences. No, she didn’t make a pledge to longevity but rather loved and guided us with every bit of her being.

When I was very young, we made the move from Philadelphia to the location where my father had been stationed for recruiter duty. Totally in agreement, my parents felt like it would be a good place to raise children and that is where we stayed. Looking back, I believe that this made us a tighter family unit. We were removed from our extended family and were making our way in a new community. Initially we had depended upon each other. Our world would expand to include our neighbors and friends but I was much too young to exist beyond the circle of my family. It might have been different for my older brothers but I was very much attached to our mother.

As we acclimated ourselves to our new community the time came for me to attend kindergarten. It was only for half a day but it was my first venture into the world beyond our home. The day came when an open house was held for registration. I recall going into the large room with my mother. There were other children there with their mothers. The room was large, colorful and filled with a variety of toys and activities. As we made our way around the space I was intrigued by a toy that was perched on a shelf. It was a wheel with wooden letters placed upon a wire that encircled it. I was enthralled by the object. I’m sure I didn’t grasp the educational concept behind the toy but I remember the simple enjoyment that sliding the small blocks around the wheel brought. When I tired of it I turned to look at my mother. She wasn’t there. Immediately I panicked and began to cry. It didn’t take long to realize that my mother had only moved to the other side of the room. I was never in danger and hadn’t been abandoned but I have not forgotten the terror I felt when I couldn’t immediately find her. I was the same age that my mother was when she permanently lost her mother. I have a hard time grappling with a loss so profound at such a young age.

It is clear that my year in kindergarten was helpful in expanding my world. My time there can be considered a success. I made friends, some of who I am still in contact with today. With an increase in my social skills and all the other necessary requirements met, my classmates and I prepared for graduation. The girls must have been instructed to wear white dresses and come with a bouquet of flowers. It must have been enjoyable for my mother to choose a dress for her only daughter to wear for this rite of passage. Actually she must have reveled in the idea of having her little tomboy wear something so special. A white dress was selected and my bouquet would consist of deep reddish peonies. Since the flowers made such a nice contrast, my mother thought adding a red sash to my dress would really set it apart. Then she must have thought that to complete the ensemble the anklets needed to match. Bright red socks were selected to blend with the sash and flowers. Decades later, when the topic would arise, she would never concede that it was anything other than a perfectly matched outfit. Mercifully, I believe this fashion faux pas is something only my family remembers, albeit with laughter.

Thinking of how we were raised, again I am in awe of our mother. After we had relocated, my father had to complete his last tour of duty in the Navy, a six month deployment. When he retired from the Navy his next career had him work second shift. My mother had the unenviable role of often being the sole disciplinarian. It is no wonder that one night, after dinner, I made a rude comment about her choice of serving rice pudding. At that point she lost patience with me and I was sent to my room without dessert. Thank you, Jesus! She did a remarkable job of raising us but I am sure Dr. Spock never contacted her for parenting advice after that episode.

Mom was blessed with a long life. Although being her only daughter and the closeness it brought, we never considered ourselves best friends. I held respect for her role as my mother. She did rely on me and we had some very honest and heartfelt conversations before her death. I told her that I planned on eulogizing her, just as I had done for Dad many years earlier. I confessed that I was going to share comical parts of her life. She would smile and had no reservations. As we held vigil around her bed during her last hours I wasn’t thinking about red socks or rice pudding. I told her that she did well by us and we would be okay. She let go and I can rest easy knowing that there was nothing left unsaid. She is missed everyday but I have no lingering grief over anything that should have been addressed. I can’t imagine how heavy that burden would be if I had followed a different path. I wouldn’t want anyone to travel that road and if I had any words of wisdom to share they would be simple and few: call your mother if you have the good fortune to still have her.

This is not the first time I have written about my mother. You are welcome to read another post on a previous blog: https://mypunchline.wordpress.com/2015/08/16/my-mother-and-loss/

Homesick

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So many times I cross paths with items I recall from my youth. It is with disbelief that I find these items are designated as vintage. Usually seeing them brings a smile but every so often I find tears forming. I am struck by the fact that beyond seeing something tangible from years ago, they are now accompanied solely by my memories. I grew up in an era that there were no phones to capture pictures or videos. Times like this can trigger a feeling of homesickness for my childhood, now just a memory from long ago. I miss the big rambling brick house, surrounded by maple trees that sheltered our three generations. More than that, I miss the people and the love that existed under its roof.

Our home was hot in the summer and chilly in the winter. We lived there without the benefit of air conditioning. Once released from school for the summer I would spend much of my time reading upon one of the many porches that surrounded our home. I would also enjoy sitting on a porch swing that our father actually fashioned into a patio swing with the construction of a metal frame. It was placed on the concrete patio that he created incorporating the landscape. Opposite the swing, a planter was placed. It was formed from a barrel, cut in half. Every year our father would plant coleus. I was not impressed. I always thought regular flowers would have been more attractive than the red, green and yellow foliage. Now I smile and think of him as I plant coleus in the flower beds found in my shady back yard. While I might have been dissatisfied with the choice of landscaping, our grandfather would be toiling in our large garden out back. His choice of uniform for such a chore was a straw hat, sleeveless undershirt and a handkerchief tied around his neck. He would lay out these pristine rows of vegetables and we would enjoy the bounty of his efforts. Days loomed long and endless in my mind as a child.

Days would come to an end and summer nights would find us, sitting in the dark, on the patio. The cooler night temperatures were a welcome change when they came but heat and humidity often seemed to be a constant. When we would turn in for the evening, the window fan in the stair landing was our only source of relief. Each of us would open a bedroom window, but not fully. A door stop of sorts would be placed at our doors to keep them ajar and to allow for the movement of air. The fan would be set to pull air through the house and the smaller openings to the bedrooms ensured everyone would benefit. At some point, during the night or early morning, the fan would reach the end of the set timer and it would shut off. The sudden loss of movement of the air and the quietness would be felt by all of us. Either our mother or father would get up, cross over the landing, and turn the fan back on. It was a ritual we knew well every summer night.

Those summer days would wind down and bring the season of autumn. All those magnificent maple trees would shed their leaves and we were tasked with raking. We would always make use of the large canvas laundry cart that our grandfather brought with him when he moved in with us. I’m not sure what lead to the decisions of which items and furniture would be brought from Philadelphia. He had once owned a laundry business and I recall the basement housed an unused press. We found the laundry cart was indispensable in capturing those leaves and transporting them to the compost pile. Playing in the leaves would, in time, become playing in the snow. There was shoveling and sledding in equal portions. Our home would transform at Christmas time. A large lit plastic Santa head would be hung for all to enjoy as they passed the house. Our stockings were hung on a hanger on the back of the closet door in the TV room. We had no fireplace and that was as good as any place to display them. I don’t recall anyone ever asking how Santa found his way into our home. There was always joy on Christmas morning as Santa never disappointed.

In a blink of an eye spring would be upon us. Days would pass, seasons would change and years slipped away. Sounds are the backdrop to the memories of those days. The sound of a train passing less than a mile away, the chain covered tires on a snowy road, and the voices, now forever silent. I recall our grandfather saying he chose to speak English as he was an American. He was indeed, but one who never lost his Italian accent. Our father’s speech would match his pipe smoking tradition, one that was slow and deliberate. He might have left the red Georgia clay behind but his soft southern drawl remained. When we sought our mother, she could be found in the kitchen, outfitted in her cobbler apron and humming as she cooked and baked. Thinking about it now, she had a slight nasal quality to her speech but it is one that I would be overjoyed to hear again. I miss those days, those ordinary, mundane days. Life will always offer special moments but it is the regular day to day activities that consume our time. Don’t blink, they pass so quickly. Pay attention and hope that homesickness doesn’t have a reason to often come visit your doorstep.

My Grandfather’s Legacy

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Some of the fondest memories of my grandfather are the two of us comfortably seated in the overstuffed swivel rocker in the living room. My father had reupholstered it in an Americana pattern that was popular at the time. I would be sitting in my grandfather’s lap and he would recite humorous verses keeping time with the rocking. He had made the move to live with us. How wonderful was that, to have a grandparent full time to love and entertain you?  It was wonderful until I became a teenager and resented having an additional disciplinarian in the house. I suppose it was a rite of passage but one I have grown to regret.

I question why I didn’t appreciate the courageous man he was, while in my youth. It was hard for me to imagine him as a teenager, bravely coming to America from Italy. I recall the stories he told me about his ventures in his new country. I enjoyed the humorous nature of his tales. He and his brother had lived in the attic of a boarding house. One night during a storm, an icy mixture came through the window close to where my grandfather laid his head. The next morning he couldn’t move and quickly realized his hair was frozen to the bed frame. He was both resilient and feisty. He also had shared the story surrounding one of his first jobs. While working in the tin factory, there was a movement to unionize the workers. It was during this period he found himself cornered in an elevator with an imposing and threatening figure. This intimidating man asked him if he was for or against unionization. Not knowing which side this individual was on, but thinking quickly on his feet, my grandfather replied that he “no spoke the English”.

At a certain point in his life, the challenges he faced became much more difficult. Married and blessed with two daughters he would lose his wife and newborn son within a week of each other. Finding love again, he was to become a widower once more shortly thereafter when leukemia claimed his second wife. For the next 50 years he would make his journey without a life partner. There might have been a time when he was bitter but that was not present in the man I knew.

Some of the memories I have remain so clear. He could peel fruit with the precision of a surgeon. He enjoyed gathering with his friends for a Sunday afternoon game of pinochle. After dinner he would often have a cup of coffee with a drop of anisette. These were the things that one would know from sharing the same living space but there were other things that I wouldn’t have known without some prompting. I was given an assignment in a public speaking course while in college. We were tasked with interviewing an individual who had experienced a historical event or timeframe. I will always be grateful for my wise instructor who ultimately would give me the best of all gifts.  By choosing my grandfather as the subject matter I learned a part of my family history that might have gone unspoken and unknown. My grandfather’s family lived in the Marquis’ house, located in an olive grove by the Adriatic Sea. My grandfather claimed that it was “devilishment” that had him immigrate to the States. I had a great aunt that lost her life during a bombing in World War II. None of this would have been known to me without asking. I have the good fortune of still being in possession of that cassette tape from long ago.

You might be wondering what the point is, beyond my fond memories of Grandpop. I have come to learn that everyone has a story. There are those who quietly relish the idea of having someone show an interest and ask what that story might be. There are things I will never know about my family’s heritage. So much that I could of, would of, should of plagues me. I suggest you ask for those stories; listen to those tales. Once that voice is permanently silenced it will be too late. What “devilishment” is just below the surface waiting to be uncovered?