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Saying goodbye to this place.

We’ve just bought a little house. Our first. The bungalow we’ve been renting for the past five years will be someone else’s come March. That all still seems fictional right now. We’re only moving two blocks away, two blocks closer to the park, closer to Desmond, and closer to Felix. So it’s a good two blocks, a happy two. We will still walk to school and keep the same phone number. 

This is at once exciting and somewhat bittersweet. I will miss this short, dead end street and the neighbors that are part of our every day. I will miss the deep front porch and the lemon trees, and the place on the wall where we've marked Bob's growth since he was three. 

Bob is excited and nervous. This is the only house he can remember living in. He is most concerned with the logistics of moving the goldfish but he’ll get to find space in his new room for his Legos and Minecraft toys. In the new backyard there is a tree with the possibility of a future tree house.

January will be about packing and cleaning out and obsessively gathering boxes.

The new place has blue shutters and a big old stove, and just enough room for two adults a boy a dog and a fish. Soon, it will stop being "the new place" and just become "home."

Sweet Sorrow

 
We traveled all day and part of the night to get here. The beautiful matriarch of Mr. Rosenberg’s family was making a fast and graceful exit and we were coming to say goodbye.

We held her hand to let her know we were near. We spoke to her gently and she responded with a whisper. “I’ll call you next week, “ she said, joking.

We saw other family and held them close. We thought about the woman who would soon be leaving us.

Always turned out in carefully chosen outfits and matching jewelry, she knows what’s best for everyone. She often shares her views in the form of hand-written letters that rhyme. She is always right. She plays the violin and is a studied card sharp. She knows her way around a dirty joke. She makes brisket and strudel like no one else and though she tried to teach us her recipes no one can quite replicate them.

She loves the shore.

She loves us.

Her absence will leave a deep cavern in all of our lives.

We stayed for just one day.

We will be going home soon and so will she.

What Are You?

photo

I look in the mirror and I see new lines near my eyes and I see my cousins and my mom and my grandfather.

Since I was small, strangers have been compelled to ask me, "What are you?" They're not questioning my gender or what I do for a living. I know what they're asking. They want to know where my people are from. They want to know why I look like this, a little bit other, like I'm from somewhere else.

They try to guess. Are you part Japanese? Chinese? Korean? I thought you were half Thai or maybe Icelandic? They will speak Italian to me or French. The guesses are never right. How could they be? The answer is complicated.

My people are Spaniards and Basques that landed in New Mexico. They are dirt floors and sopapillas and riding a mule to school. They are Texans and Swedes and Irishmen. They are a tintype family photo in their best outfits and kids with no shoes. They are farmers and potters and bootleggers and plumbers. They are Virginians and Brits and politicians. They are on ships and on horseback and riding in beds of pick-up trucks. The are Okies and oil fields and cooks and bridge builders. They are Mescalero Apaches and grandparents and orphans and wash on the line.

They are out loud and they are secrets and they are all mine.

I answer, "Irish on one side, Indian on the other." That satisfies their curiosity. Some will even say, "I thought so." But I know they didn't.


***
Today I have linked up to my friend Heather's site at Just Write.

Violet, Less Blue

She was very thin when she got here and it wasn't because of a lack of available food. She was sad and had been living alone in the old green craftsman for four months. She had company a few times a day but it was no substitute for her lady. She missed her lady.

She's been with us for 10 days now. She has stopped hiding behind the washing machine. She lets us pick her up and hold her. She follows Bob around the kitchen. She will touch noses with Daisy the dog and has patience with our crabby, black cat, Pearl. She eats four times a day and she's gaining weight. She likes to talk and she likes to listen and she likes to hear her name. Violet, VeeVee, Violetta, Vi: she answers to all of them.

Jeff used to be allergic to cats.
I used to think I was a dog person. (Don't tell Pearl.)
And now?
Violet is ours and we are hers.

A Wedding in the Woods

We traveled to my cousin Tom’s wedding over the weekend. Like any true family gathering, there were tears and laughter, music, heartbreak, joy, dancing, expectations, drama, tortillas and an open bar.

Babies cried and were tended by their grandfathers. My son ignored lunch but ate four stolen cupcakes from the back of the wedding dessert display. It was hot and there was shade. Jeff played guitar and cousin Grat played the piano. There were funny toasts and blessings and sombreros. My mother and I took turns dancing with my cousin Dan and mom and I both realized that he danced just like my dad used to. Two families were joined together.


The bride’s gorgeous 97 year-old grandmother danced with my cousin’s son Max. He leaves in a few months to serve with the Marines in Afghanistan. Max’s mother, Theresa, and I took a turn dancing with Grandmother. She commanded us to show her our “moves.” Theresa lightly did the bump with her a few times. Grandmother then leaned over to me and said, “I think you’ll need to do that on the other side to put my hip back in place.”

It was beautiful. All of it. Families are my favorite operas.

Grandes felicitaciones and mazel tov, Tom and Lisa.

Out in the World

Photo from here

"Bob, we're going to Steve and Rene's tonight to meet baby Edgar."

"He's all done now?'

"Yep. He's all done. He was born two days ago."

"So he's not in a tummy in anymore?"

"Nope. He's out in the world."

"On earth?"

"Yes. He's brand new here."

"I will need to show him lots of things like Backyardigans and Storm Troopers."

"That's true."

"Maybe when he's bigger... So how do babies get out of tummies?"

"Oh. Well... often they come out of the part of the mama that's..."

"Where the pee comes out?"

"No, but near there. And sometimes the doctors make an opening across the mama's belly and bring the baby out that way. That's how you came out because you were too big to fit out the other way."

"Mama?"

"Yes?"

"I very need to talk about other things now."

"Okay."

"Boba Fett is a bounty hunter."

"He is."

The Dress Rehearsal

Four years ago today, I lay on the couch watching the Food Network. I was almost 39 weeks pregnant with Bob. I had gained a delicate 65 pounds during my pregnancy and it was quite apparent that 20 of each of those pounds was residing in my ankles. I had bronchitis and my wee son had kicked me so hard I had a broken rib in my left side. Coughing was an event. It was my first official day off from work and I was looking forward to some time on the couch with my feet up.

As I watched Emeril work his “essence” there were suddenly two Emerils, then three. Glancing away from the TV I saw that the room had also tripled. My vision was extremely blurry for a few moments and then it returned to normal. Then it wasn’t normal again and then it was.

Since I had become pregnant, any physical change I experienced, I looked up in the book What to Expect When You Are Expecting, or as I had renamed this frightening tome, What to Expect When You Are Expecting the Worst. I consulted my book of fears and found that blurry vision was a sign of preeclampsia, the high blood pressure that can accompany pregnancy.

I called my doctor. She instructed me to go to the hospital. She would meet us there. If it turned out that I had preeclampsia, we would be having a baby today.

Jeff raced home from work. I was ready at the door with my large I’m-going-to-the-hospital-to-have-a-baby suitcase I had packed six weeks previous. My bag was filled with everything every girlfriend and every book and every preggo website had suggested I might need for the trip. I had giant granny underpants and Hello Kitty socks and a robe long enough to cover my behind in the drafty hospital hallways. I was prepared as I could be for an event that was mostly out of my control.

At the hospital, we learned that my blood pressure was fine. I did not have preeclampsia. There was no explanation for my intermittent blurred vision other than “sh*t happens.” I was instructed to stay a few hours hooked up to the fetal heart monitor for observation, just in case.

I asked Jeff to retrieve a bottle of water for me from my suitcase. “And a protein bar, do you see those in there? They should be near the magazines.”

“Yep.”

“Thanks. Honey? Where’s your dad bag?”

“I didn’t pack my official dad bag yet. So I threw this together when we left the house.” He held up a small plastic Ralph’s shopping bag. I looked inside.

“So you have three pairs of tube socks and 2 packs of Extra spearmint gum.”

“Yeah.”

“And that’s it.”

“Yeah.”

“Seems complete.”

“I’ll do better next time.”

When I went into labor three days later, he added a toothbrush to the bag. He was ready to be a dad.

Full Disclosure

When we were 19, one of my closest girlfriends was helping her parents clean out a dresser and came upon a wedding photo of a bride and groom, the bride was her mother, the groom was not her father. Shocked and confused, she asked her mom about it. Her mom said, “It didn’t matter.” It didn’t matter until right then when her daughter’s world was turned on its side for a while as she reorganized her understanding of her family.

Another girlfriend confided recently that she felt like she had already waited too long to tell her elementary school aged kids about her previous marriage. She knew she was going to tell them eventually and was worried that it would be hard for them to hear it now that they had friends whose parents were getting divorced.

I have two previous marriages behind me. I took the experience of my gals into consideration. I discussed it with Jeff. We decided the time had come for me to talk to Bob about it before the news could be interpreted as a secret being kept and revealed.

“Babba? Come sit down for a minute.”

“Okay… Did someone die?’

“No. Why would you ask that?”

“Are we having a talk?”

“Yes, but it’s not about anyone dying.”

“Okay.”

“So Bob, sometimes when people get married the two people decide that it’s not a good fit and they get unmarried. It’s called a divorce.”

“I’m going to marry Daisy and Pearl.”

“When you’re old enough and you and the dog and the cat all decide to get married, we can discuss it. So what I want to tell you is that before I met Daddy I was married and unmarried - divorced, two times.”

“Did those guys die?”

“No they didn’t die. No one died. They are both good guys but not good matches for me so we were unmarried. Then I met Daddy. We are a good match and we are a family.”

“And you and daddy are staying married?”

“We are staying married. I just wanted you to know about my other marriages. Do you have any questions?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure honey, what is it?”

“Do you know I was kidding when I said I was going to marry Daisy and Pearl?”

“Good to know.”

Wild Parrots and Wood Floors

When my mom moved last year, I got custody of a number of large plastic bins containing artifacts from my childhood. Handling the toys and books and records belonging to much-younger-me, so many childhood memories resurfaced. My first hazy recollections are from my third and fourth year.

Bob will be four years-old in May and I wonder what he will remember from this time in his life.

Bob, will you remember…

…the sound of the flock of wild parrots that flies over our house everyday around four o’clock?

…playing the drums with your father?

…the weight of my bracelets that you like to pull out of the jewelry dish and line up on the windowsill?

… this week’s preferred reading: Llama Llama Misses Mama?

…the sweet dog that follows you around the house?

…Wallace?

…the fish mobile that swims in the air above your room?

…the words to the Wonder Pets theme song?

…chasing waves on the empty beach?

...the Enchanted Railroad at Descanso Gardens?

…your great grandmother Sylvia playing the violin in our living room?

...rainy day hot cocoa?

...our secret handshake?

…falling asleep during dinner in a booth at the coffee shop?

Will you remember the feel of your quilts, the sound my shoes make on the wood floors, the smell of the redwood tree near the driveway?

I realize I have no say in this matter, and you really don’t either, but I hope they are all good things. I really do.

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Melva

A pop psychology favorite question of the late 1970’s was, “If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?” The answer was a window into your psyche. You consider yourself a Giant Redwood? Narcissist. You’re a Weeping Willow? Depressive. In 1981 Barbara Walters infamously posed the question to Katharine Hepburn who replied, “I’d probably like to be an Oak. They have great strength.”

My mom tells the story of a time years ago when she asked my grandmother the tree question. My Gram Melva announced that she would be a Christmas tree. Melva was a fun, sparkly, center of attention type, the life of the party. She loved glittery costume jewelry and sweets, and “Santy Claus.” In 1981, she instigated a legendary whipped cream food fight at my Great Uncle Leon’s kitchen on Thanksgiving. When she turned 65, she took up bellydancing.

If you asked a Christmas tree what kind of person it would be, it would undoubtedly say, “Gram Melva.”

Signs of the Season

When I was a kid, every year around Christmas time, a box would arrive in the mail from Lolly. Lolly was my great uncle’s mother-in-law, a soft and huggy lady who lived in Borger Texas and wore a house-dress and apron at all times. She was kind enough to remember us every holiday.

Each member of our family received crocheted slippers handmade for us by Lolly. These over-sized baby booties were usually powder blue and featured drawstring tie closures with decorative pompoms. Each pair always gift wrapped in an empty Ayds Diet fudge candy box, the slippers were a sure thing. Like a Charlie Brown Christmas and the smell of cinnamon, the arrival of the slippers meant that Christmas was close.


After a few nights of wear, our toes would begin to stick out of the holes in the large weave crochet, thus heralding the new year.

Her Old Songs

The Song of Songs, Lucas and Moya, 1914

Last spring, we lost a member of our family when Jeff’s step-dad’s mother passed away. Meda, short for Andromeda, (I know. Coolest name ever.) was a sweet lady with a sharp sense of humor and she took crap from no one. We miss her so much.

We had the pleasure of getting to spend many Sunday afternoons with her at her house, especially after Bob was born. We shared stories and ate ice cream. Bob had his first cone in her backyard. As Bob got older, he would pull himself up to a stand, holding on to the edge of her piano and bang on the keys.

When Meda died, her piano came to live at our house. It is an upright, Grinnell Brothers of Detroit and a real beauty. My favorite discovery about the piano was inside the bench: hundreds of pieces of sheet music dating back as early as 1901. Clare de Lune and White Christmas and Love Is a Many Splendored Thing. Songs made popular by Perry Como, Kate Smith, Lena Horne and Hoagy Carmichael, each one a treasure.

I haven’t played the piano since eighth grade. I think it’s time for some more lessons. Thank you Meda.

For Me and My Gal; Leslie, Goetz and Meyer, 1932

Easter Parade; Irving Berlin, 1933

Goodnight My Love; Gordon and Revel, 1936

Do You Really Want to Hurt Me; Culture Club, 1982

A New Family Tradition

My husband Jeff grew up in East Lansing Michigan, a land where apparently they have autumn and the leaves change colors and fall on the ground and you have to rake them and everything. Autumn for him also meant an annual Rosenberg family trip to Uncle John’s Cider Mill in St. John’s Michigan.

This year, some 20 years since his last visit to Uncle John’s, Jeff was feeling especially nostalgic for the apple picking, doughnuts, and corn maze-ness of his youth. We packed ourselves into the station wagon and headed out of LA into the wilds of Yucaipa, an area a couple of hours away, previously only known to me as an off ramp on the way to Palm Springs.

For Jeff, the highlights of that day are as follows:

8:30 am Exit driveway.

8:32 am In the car on the way to breakfast, Jeff dribbles hot coffee from a leaky travel mug down the front of his light blue shirt.

9:10 am Seated in a booth at the Coral Café, Bob orders a hot cocoa to go with his pancakes. When the cup arrives, Bob reaches for it, Jeff moves to block and the scalding chocolate leaps from the cup onto Jeff’s face, shirt, and pants. Jeff receives minor burns. Bob is concerned. “Oh no Daddy! This is terrible! I wasted my cocoa!”

11:30 am Arrival at the quaint and lovely Snowline Cider Mill. Two bottles of cold cider purchased. Three ounces of the contents of one bottle rushes straight to the front of Jeff’s left pant leg.

11:50 am While I stand in line to get cider doughnuts for the guys, Bob finds a really good stick in the orchard and tests it out by cracking it over Jeff’s head. No broken skin. Some swelling.

12:40 pm Bob enjoys a Frankenstein cookie on a stick. I purchase two hot, spiced ciders for Jeff and myself. Cider applies itself directly to front of Jeff’s formerly solid blue, now not so subtly patterned shirt front.

12:55 pm There is a situation in the men’s porta-potty that involves Bob stripping naked. Urine and other fluids are adhered to Jeff’s pants in the process.

1:15 pm In our attempt to pick fresh raspberries, Jeff is repeatedly pricked with tiny stickers and comes away with 14 smashed berries in a green produce basket and two smashed berries on the back of his pants.

2:25 pm Back on the road, Jeff reaches for a bottled water. I mention that when the water runs out, if he is still thirsty, he can then suck on his shirt. This comment is viewed by my husband as less than supportive.

I love autumn.

Five Years Ago Today

Five years ago today, I put on my first date uniform (jeans/black high heeled sandals/black knit empire waist top), flat ironed my hair, and emailed my date itinerary to my friend Karen to make it easier for the FBI to track my whereabouts just in case this was the internet date that finally went wrong. This was to be my 53rd first date of the summer. I had a system. The system involved a spreadsheet.

I had been on some second and third and even fourth dates, but it almost always only took one date to “know”. Know that his divorce is “sort of almost” final. (#22) Know that he was gay as a box of birds. (#15) Know that he had insisted on meeting for dinner at an expensive restaurant, then when the bill came tallied up my half – the only guy ever to not pick up the bill. (#36) Know that I had dated his brother - awkward. (#25) Know that he had looked at my resume on internet movie data base and oh-my-god was he actually pitching an animated sit-com to me over Korean barbecue? (#41)

When describing the guys to Karen, I used their identifying traits to label them. (Stalker Creep. Dude Looks Like a Lady. Mom Jeans Guy.) Like an FNG in Vietnam, better not to learn their names. Due to a story he had shared with me via email, #53 was identified as Naked Drummer. I tried to reserve judgment.

For some reason, I broke many of my first date safety rules with Naked Drummer. I gave him my address. I let him pick me up. When he came to get me, I let him into my apartment. We went to dinner at Noshi Sushi. None of that is prudent behavior (including Noshi) and I do not recommend any of it.

Naked Drummer and I talked until the restaurant closed around us. When the bill came, Naked Drummer totaled my half with tax and tip. Again, I knew. I knew he was the best guy ever.

Reader, I married him.