Christmas Solstice

(Solstice from the Latin word sistere - to stand still)

Quiet house, full house.
Sun greets Morning,
asking Night to extend a hand.

Lights flicker at the neighbor’s,
Santa having already arrived.
He won’t show
–across the street –
for hours or more.
He will have time to stop
scratch his belly, and the dog’s.
He won’t need Rudolph
when he sets down his sleigh
nor candles in the window.

The dog paces
waiting, wondering.
The coffee has grown tepid,
the children have grown up.
But in their waking sleep
they generate energy enough
to stumble from bed and upon belief -
the magic emerges with the sun.

12/25/2011
AJW

My Mother's Christmas Gift

Two months ago, my parents moved to an independent living care community nearby. They live independently only because my father’s mind is intact, if not his ability to sign Christmas cards. A caregiver attends to Mom’s needs once a week to give Dad respite, and encourage Mom to participate in activities around the community.

The monthly calendars published by the Lodge Community boasts all sorts of field trips – Cracker Barrel and Movie, the Mighty Wurlitzer at Music Hall, Sharon Woods in Lights. Many of these my father takes advantage of. Mom’s outings are limited in scope because of her attention span, and her “sundowning”. At dusk, she becomes anxious and wants to return home.

Within the community, there are activities for Arts and Crafts, Let’s Have Fun, Chair Volleyball, and Communion and Rosary. But there is also the Choraliers. A musically-inclined piano player, Alice, comes to the Lodge, and directs residents who choose to participate in choral practice once a week. Then, the group performs for various audiences in-house, families, and last week, traveled to another senior center.

At my urging, Mom “decided” to join the choir. The caregiver, Elizabeth, accompanied Mom to the first practice. No one had any idea how long Mom might sit. But Elizabeth was getting paid by the hour, so it was no matter to her.

For a few weeks, Mom attended practice with Elizabeth. Even Dad took Mom one week, and was forced to sing along.

The week before the Choralier’s performance in front of their peers, Mom was visiting at my house, rolling meatballs at my side. “What are these for,” she kept asking. “Wedding soup.” I replied, assuming she recognized the season of Christmas was always accompanied by Italian Wedding Soup. “Yeah, but whose wedding?” she pestered. “No one.” “Then why are we making these?” “Mom, it’s Christmas.”

Though Mom had just been singing carols, the concept of “the most wonderful time of year” was lost. We switched the music over to Frank Sinatra, and she whiled away the rest of the rolling with Frank’s music on her lips. When she walked away to look out the front door, a common chore of hers, Mom stopped mid-step and said, “You know, I always loved to sing. Ever since I was little.”

I agreed heartily with her, recalling her days dragging us to Midnight Mass so she could sing in the church choir, and too, she was part of the Resurrection Choir, which sang at all the funeral masses. Her voice, though not booming, was always perfect pitch, and devout.

“I wish I would have learned how to sing when I was little,” Mom reiterated.

I looked up puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I wanted to know how to sing.”

“Oh, like taking lessons?”

“Well, yes, something like that.” She beamed knowing I understood.

Mom moseyed off into the family room, to perform her other task at my home, closing the plantation shutters.

Monday of Mom’s performance arrived. I met up with Mom and Elizabeth, strolling through the lobby on their way to be seated for the show. Mom kept motioning for me to sit by her, in the choir’s chairs. I repeatedly signaled that I would sit in the audience. I took a seat near the front, but didn’t want to be distracting.

Like a young girl who spots her parents while singing in her first concert, Mom frequently waved to me from the back row. I would give a wave, we would lock eyes, and then sing in unison, “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas, just like the ones I used to know.”

On occasion, I had to look away from Mom, because I was in tears, reflecting on the years of Christmas past, her beautifully-decorated home, her perfectly round meatballs, and crisply pressed pizzelles. But Mom didn’t miss a note, singing happily - no, joyfully.

When I was five, my mother had bought me a Mrs. Beasley doll for Christmas. In high school, Mom gave me purple corduroy jeans as a Christmas gift. Over the years, her selections were conscious choices gleaned from scribbled lists, dog-eared pages of the Sears catalog, or a whisper from a sister.

Mom could not have known, that at age 84, the best gift she could have presented to me was her voice.

12/19/2011

Goodbyes Part I & II

I.

I am miles from home driving past whirligigs for sale

and berries baked in pies sold off Amish buggies.

A hundred trips have led me past signs

offering farm raised perch and kittens raised by hand.

In a few weeks or maybe months,

Mom and Dad will sell the thirty-year-old home.

I am afraid that no family home means no family.

Memories of our youth will no longer rock

our own children to sleep, the ghosts of our teens

will not keep them awake.

The pool table will have been sold despite parties it once held.

Wide mouthed canning jars will no longer

capture the juiciness of the summer.

And zucchini, fixed 1001 ways, will become a relic of the past.

A picture of Mom and Dad, squinting into the Sunday sun

as they stand on the cracked drive of 724 Lincoln Street,

will be all that is preserved.

Dad’s too wide blue tie stands out against his

white shirt with short sleeves - the style he wore

every day to the shoe store.

Mom still sports white pants - always black or white –

only now a few sizes less.

This day, my baby sister and oldest sister with her baby

march out from the garage to join and wave

as I reverse my course.

It is still tradition

that whoever is home leaves the Sunday paper,

the Saturday cartoons, the Monday morning wash,

to take up their role outside the garage

and stand side by side as the committee of goodbyes.

AJW 7/9/2007

II.

Today, as I bathe Mom, she is open to my bossiness,

only if Frank Sinatra flies with us, or Crosby croons

a white Christmas into existence in her very bathroom.

She even declares her legs need more lotion.

Dad tells me they did not attend Mass

for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception,

He also confesses to not taking Mom to choir practice.

After lunch in a noisy café, we hang

stockings embroidered with letters on the rocking chair.

Mom repeats names, “E for Ettore, J for Jean.”

Alright, I say, gathering my keys. You take care of each other.

Mom takes Dad in her arms, hugs him too tight.

“Oh we will. We take care of each other.”

Alright, I mutter again, trying to leave.

Mom cuts ahead, opens the door,

a chore she daily performs, expecting a guest who never comes.

She keeps it ajar while I walk out.

When I turn, Mom is standing in the hallway.

Dad is leaning through the open space.

The scene is reminiscent of goodbyes once hailed

from the garage of their family home.

Only now, they are piercing the blandness of a fourth floor hall,

waving wildly, wishing me buon viaggio

in my travels outside of their world.

12/8/11

AJW

Never Give Up - In Memory of D.

Reflections from the Alois –

Thanksgiving, we told the circle, was just a week away. Without any concept of time, each one shook their head in acknowledgement, but was unable to connect blue skies and sunshine with the typical rainy Ohio Thanksgiving in their

past.

We laughed about how many turkeys Americans might consume on this day, could it really be close to 250 million? And oh, the pounds of cranberries, and not just the kind that come in the can.

F. marched in with a new autumn orange sweater on, to match that of Leigh’s. I too had dressed up, and felt the occasion was a worthy one.

Per our usual routine, R., the assistant at the Alois, rounded up the residents who would be participating in the sharing circle. Looking back on notes from our first class, only ML. and W. and F. had been in continuous attendance. And too, B., whose had fallen off. She wore a trench coat inside now, where there was no threat of rain.

And J. ,when asked about, I was told, “She is too confused anymore to sit through a class.” J. who first wrote, “I am fun. I love to make silly jokes.” In recent times, she had simply sat to listen to our voices, and give hugs when requested. She would no longer be in attendance though she would always be part of any circle that we remembered. Our favorite remembrance of J. would be, as we discussed food, and she motioned, “those little crunchy things you pour milk over.” "Cereal," we shouted in unison. Her description is still a catchphrase for us, when we are at a loss for words.

As R. made her rounds, I asked about another one of our originals, as we like to call them. “Where is D.?” She hadn’t been in attendance all Fall. Rinda replied, “D. passed away last week.” This I was told before beginning our circle, and thus, my interaction with each resident took on new meaning, for I didn’t know when it might be the last.

I locked eyes longer, made more jokes at my own expense, and really listened, sometimes prodding them for more information than they might have first offered, producing a treasure chest full of sentiments.

After class, M., the activities director extraordinaire, spoke again about D., “We held the memorial service here, and her family then took her to be buried in Pittsburgh.” He explained how crowded the service had been, and that he was sorry he didn’t think to invite us.

I shook that off, as we acknowledged how residents come to feel like family here. “The staff really took an interest in D. She was a mess when she came, but everybody worked with her, to get her in the right meds, get her walking. They never gave up.”

They never gave up.

These words echoed in my head throughout the day, as I reflected on Mom's condition. Lately, I have been hit with an onslaught of peers moving their parent to a secure facility. I tell them nothing compares to the Alois, the staff, the treatment of the residents, how they support outside activities, how they push each resident.

When one enters the Alois, it is not with the intention that this is the end. It is with the goal of starting over, correcting mistakes by other medical or non-medical staff not as educated in the field of dementia, helping the resident re-establish a healthy routine which they might have fallen out due to lack of oversight, as is the case with my mother and when she finally stopped cooking or bathing.

I push my mom. It drives her crazy. Sometimes, she will throw an air punch at me and say, “Why don’t you just leave me alone?” I have answers for her, a play on my own fears, but even deeper, a resolve to never give up on Mom.

I see much of her in the women at the Alois- the reflection is in their eyes, their laugh, their singing. But mostly, I see Mom in their sheer effort to be awake in the moment, despite their physical and mental challenges – encroaching blindness, crippling hands, weakening minds.

Today, the circle, average age 80-something, gave thanks for their “good health”, having eyes and ears to still see and hear, for God and “Gospel friends”, family and “being included.” Today, I give thanks for D. and the rest of the circle, for Mom, for never giving up.

Observing Freedom at the Alois

Last week, we had the honor of facilitating our sharing circle at the Alois, with the focus on America and freedom. What began as a concept to ask the participants to write it means when they see the American flag went deeper than imagined.

We began with Emma Lazarus, her beautiful sonnet "The New Colossus" engraved on the Statue of Liberty. I had visited the Statue of Liberty a few summers ago, but somehow the meaning had more impact as I read her words. “Imprisoned lightening”, “Mother of exiles”, “sea-washed sunset gates”, all these phrases and concepts are missing from our everyday jargon that reference the Statue of Liberty. These stronger images are the ones that touched me most deeply.

As participants were asked, what the pictures in front of them meant, each was able to articulate a time when the war took life away from them.

N. mentioned herself, as a young wife, waiting for the return of her husband. She still waits today, though her husband has passed away.

R. mentioned, “I cant share.” I took this to mean she didn’t want to participate, but when gently nudged, I realized it was the pain she was bearing keeping her from sharing her words. “All those boys that died needlessly,” she finally uttered, with a sense of relief, but almost as if it were shameful to address death, or question our country’s motives for war.

R. was charged with ferrying the Japanese POWs to camps. We knew this about him, but he too was reluctant to share. Just opposite R. sat M., who bears scars of a bomb dropping in her hometown in Japan.

L. always with something upbeat to share, mentioned “I served in Korea from 52-54, but I didn’t do anything extraordinary. I don’t want to brag. I wasn’t special because I served. And those who did not serve should not be ashamed either.”

A different R, who, when presented with a picture of men in uniform across the war and ages, noted how many wars our country had fought. When prompted, the picture meant more than just men in uniform. “I was a young nurse. I was behind the lines, taking care of these men.”

And finally, F., always the quick-witted one. When shown pictures, she didn’t connect to any of them. But when asked to write, she shared, ”My brother went off to war. I remember my mother crying all the time.”

We closed our time that day with a rousing rendition of God Bless America. I was grateful for our work that day. I felt like the woman Emma described in her poem, “a mighty woman with a torch…from her beacon-hand glows world-wide welcome.” For liberating the words of our participants from some depth inside them, that we only touch for seconds. And while the words only last on paper, and their minds often travel elsewhere, their sense of freedom has lasted a lifetime.

How to Save a Life

They collected everything

church intercessions

for the poor and the homeless

memorial cards from funeral services

Vatican stamps and mint quarter

collections of all fifty states

a model train of the Thirteen Colonies

illegible notes from a trip to Italy

letters sent home from college

English translations

of notes written in Italian

silver tea spoons from the ’76 tour

their wedding cake topper

her garter belt

the original catering

and bar receipt for $42.oo

stoic Norman Rockwell plates

rosy-cheeked Hummel figurines

newspaper articles

about miracles and saints

but it was children

they collected with the most pride

always bringing them

from faraway places

back into the fold

to a table set for seven

10/15/2011

Quiet Ripening

Here is the silence

grapes

in their fullness

before bursting off the vine

curdled milk of sheep

sometimes waiting ages

beneath old walnut leaves and ash

olives before October’s press

anticipating goodness

that will ooze

from their inner selves.

the crescent moon

tiptoeing up the craggy shadow

to surprise Mount Amiata

All around, silence

Even the wind

carries the quiet

and brings stillness

to its seat on the window sill.

© Annette Januzzi Wick

Castiglioncello del Trinoro, Italy, October, 2011

In Memoriam: “Why Are Most Italian Men called Tony?”

He was the uncle that never grew old. Uncle Tony, my mother’s younger brother, would walk into any room, hospital, funeral, living room, kitchen, and begin his jokes before saying, “Hello.”

In a voice made raspy by years of cigarette

smoking, he would say, “Hey, Net Marie…there was a Pollack, a priest and a Dago….” And the room would erupt with laughter before the punchline. Despite Tony’s pride in his Italian heritage, there was always a Dago in his jokes, reflecting his ability and that of his ancestors, to laugh at themselves.

Flashback to a picture of my first Christmas. Uncle Tony is shot using a Polaroid camera as he plays Santa Claus for my siblings and me. I find another picture of him from 17 years ago, from my first wedding, and this is the youthful image I have carried with me. Dark skinned, black-rimmed glasses, a permanent tan acquired from his father’s genes and work outdoors in the concrete business.

Along with his jokes came his steady stream of curse words whenever Art Modell was mentioned. Uncle Tony was an ardent Browns fan. Actually, I could never pinpont the precise adjective used to describe his relationship with the Cleveland Browns. He was a season ticket holder for what seems like all of my life. We absorbed our passion for the Browns from him. I recall sitting with my mother on Sundays watching the game, and I swear, if she weren’t a proper Catholic, she would be cussing alongside of him. She would chastised my father who was a turncoat by half-time, but the rest of us muddled through the lean years, the Brian Sipe era, the Bill Bellichick times, and the present day, which would simply be called miserable.

Soon after college, my older siblings and I met for a Browns game, my brother Paul with his flask, me with my Browns blanket purchased a cold day in December. My then fiancé Devin was in tow, never having been to a Browns game. The wind blew off the lake that day, wouldn’t expect anything else. And I recall thinking Uncle Tony must be crazy to sit through this weather constantly. And so were we. My mom called the weather on Sundays Modell weather because if you waited a minute, it would change to blue skies. But I swear that never happened to me.

During the Browns’ seasons of winning, 1986, the year of the dreaded loss to the Broncos, my sister Laura and I camped out overnight at Sears for playoff tickets. We were successful only in that we got the tickets, but had persevered through what was probably frostbite, dirty jokes and taking turns driving to McDonald’s to pee. Uncle Tony was surprised, and proud.

When Art Modell moved the Browns to Baltimore, in the middle of the night no less, Uncle Tony was devastated. Laura and I composed poems to this dastardly deed. Her poetry won third place. Mine went into oblivion. I can no longer locate either of those poems, but our fervor was derived straight out of Sundays with Uncle Tony. Being a fan of Cleveland always required a heavy dose of stamina, a bit of faith and Uncle Tony smoking his cigarettes cussing out Art Modell.

Sundays with Uncle Tony was typical in most Italian families of our generation, we spent weekends with our extended families. Uncle Tony’s house was on 17th street. Grandpa DeLuca, who still lived there, would smoke endlessly in his chair. Uncle Tony, high strung, couldn’t sit still when the Browns were on. The cousins played out back, ran to the Lorain Creamery for ice cream and drank orange and grape Ne-Hi out of the frosted metallic glasses, playing cards in the basement. At the time, we were absorbing the meaning of family.

Uncle Tony appeared at my wedding, and funeral of my first husband Devin. He loved my father-in-law Don, and often traded barbs with him. Tony was the only one who put Don in his place when it came to joke-telling. No one could resist a good Dago joke, and Tony knew them all.

Q. How come Italian's don't like Jehovah witnesses?

A. They don't like any witnesses

Uncle Tony passed away last Thursday, from complications following surgery. I hear his voice in my head as I type, “Hey, Net Marie…did you hear the one about….” Why he called my sisters and I by our first and middle names remains a mystery.

I am disappointed my new family did not know him. My son did not experience the joy in having him as our Uncle. I am saddened my mother, now advanced in her dementia, cannot connect to the emotion of the loss of Tony in our lives.

But tomorrow, when the Browns play the Bengals, I will watch it on TV before traveling to his funeral. I will hear him in the stands, “G.D. this and that...” still be invoking Modell’s name. Every raucous in the crowd will be Uncle Tony. Despite the rain over the Ohio skies as of late, I pray the day will turn to Modell weather.

Even if I wait a minute for the weather to change, Uncle Tony never will.

Your Day So Far

There is a welling up inside,

like the day’s rain,

just waiting to happen.

You spill coffee

on the overly scotch-guarded chairs

at the mammogram station.

You say station because you belly up,

or breast up, to the machine,

while the technician fills the room

with talk of non-essential topics.

You squeeze your eyes,

she squeezes your breasts,

like a bartender crushing a lime in your drink.

You tarry along to the car dealership.

You pray your son turns out

as pleasant and attentive as

Travis, the service manager.

You avoid eye contact,

not for fear of him thinking

you are cougar-like,

but tears will fall if you meet human eyes.

It is only hormones, you tell yourself,

and telegraph that thought

to the woman seated beside you.

You want her to know you have regrets

about everything right now –

your parents’ care,

communication in your marriage,

leaving the dog without walking him,

starting to write a new novel

without finishing the last,

leaving your character “Celia”

without resolution.

When Travis displays your filthy car filter,

you hold it in no longer.

Tears stream down. He is appalled,

Perhaps never having had

girlfriend or mom.

You excuse yourself, pay for the transgressions

then scurry out into the rain.

While in the grocery store, you spot a friend’s car.

You debate, knowing your fragile state,

whether to seek her out.

But there she is, with her mother,

lingering in the peanut butter aisle.

You greet each other and hug.

You discuss Love Cake

and its simplicity.

You turn away to find the hard stuff,

Romano cheese,

as close to religion as you come on this day.

Suddenly disoriented,

you cannot locate the cheese,

you forget to pick out leafy greens,

coveted because you cannot stand

a bland dinner table.

With one open hand still remaining,

you reach into the cooler,

a breeze penetrating your hot skin,

and swipe off the shelf

a six-pack of bottled beer.

Helianthus

Early

summer,

beneath the iron trellis

a weed breaks through mulch,

my children chide me to dig it up.

One day, with pruner

toning down tomato plants,

I am tempted to snip at the weed.

Weeks go by, I am less at home,

stopping in for laundry

then leaving for the road.

Late July heat sears souls and skin,

encourages growth.

By some miracle,

where weed once stood,

a bloom unfolds,

a green sea anemone

readying for tides.

A golden sunflower

opens mid-week.

I am ecstatic,

my children retreat.

Five, ten, then twenty blossoms

perform sun salutations.

Just below,

another shoot presents more blooms.

Can it be if we are patient,

every weed will turn

into an object of wonder,

if only we forget its name?

The Summer I Grew Up

Summer has always been a season of firsts. First softball game playing second base for the “Jumpers” in my dyed-to-match-the-uniform Converse hi-tops. First time swimming in the deep end at Maude Neiding Pool. First summer job not related to the family business, working the late-night drive-through at McDonald’s. First real move after college to Cincinnati to work for a chauvinistic boss at Star Bank.

Always summer had been a pivotal season, catapulting me into a new realm where I understood, in an instant that my life had changed, as I rubbed out the dirt on the leather face of the softball, drove to my first outdoor summer concert in my dad’s Suburban or drank my first beer at a graduation party for someone three years older.

This summer has been no different.

The season opened late May with the graduation of our first daughter from Loyola of Chicago. I cheered and roared, while the Irish side of the family sat more reservedly.

To send one out into the world, gives one a sense of accomplishment and relief. You hold your breath as they pass through the portals of high school and college, and exhale a teensy bit when they saunter across the stage at graduation. You buy them a satchel for their first job, and relish in the comment, “I don’t need a gift, you gave me a college education.”

Following that occasion, Mark and I signed a design contract for a home in Over-the-Rhine, the neighborhood once famous for its riots ten years prior. But young people are flocking there, and though not young, we want to experience the rise of a once great town returning slowly to prominence as The Queen City. It will be many months before we move, but the architectural line has been drawn. We have made a statement to our children to carry on with their lives while we do so with ours.

At the start of summer, we shipped another daughter off to Tanzania, where she tracked rhinos, jumped over waterfalls and drank African beer. She created a blog to keep us abreast of her activities, and kept me in tears as I read her words, day after day, witnessing her growth and the cultivation of her writing voice.

The third daughter, whom we have hardly seen, has one foot out the door pointed in the direction of college next year, and the boy, we have shuttled back and forth while he experienced his first taste of summer jobs, as caddy and part-time baby-sitter.

During the span of July, we celebrated two fiftieth wedding anniversaries, one for Mark’s parents, one for mine. Alas, there will be one more this upcoming fall to remind us of our place.

Early summer, I had also begun the arduous process of locating the right care facility for my parents, as they age through Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s. We continued our tour through the months, traipsing through some communities resembling museums, and others that felt one step away from the graveyard. As Mom and Dad relinquish their rights as parents, so am I letting go of being their child, so that I can make the decision that best suits their needs.

Early August, my husband and I celebrated our five-year anniversary. We no longer look at each other as two parents the Fates cast upon the sea together to traverse through the turbulent teenage years. I look at my husband now and see my partner, my equal.

As for my physical makeup, I have more flab behind me, and as a matter of fact, plan to create a Facebook page for “My Backside”, so my husband can still “like” it. Early to give birth to my son and to every party ever attended, I am now in early menopause, with no particular end in sight. And despite my best efforts, my triceps flap just a little so I pretend they are eagle’s wings.

In a sense, these sweltering months have still comprised a season of many firsts, the foremost being the first time I actually felt like an adult, and not just acted like one.

A little Bruce to end this piece:

Well, my feet they finally took root in the earth, but I got me a nice little place in the stars

And I swear I found the key to the universe in the engine of an old parked car

I hid in the mother breast of the crowd, but when they said, "Pull down," I pulled up

Ooh... growin' up

Ooh... growin' up

Returning to a Life of Pigtails

Returning to a Life of Pigtails

8/12/2011

I sit across from my mother at lunch, Dad at her side. We are eating at Bucks, a rather rowdy establishment on weekends and during sporting events, but today, early afternoon, the only patrons are a few barflies and a table of elderly women, playing rummy.

My parents have been visiting for a few days, and our next destination is the Lodge Care Center, a long-term care facility located near my home. Dad knows this, but Mom's dementia blocks her understanding that a commitment would mean a move.

They are eating BLTs, which my dad still swears, “The best BLT in Cincinnati was down at that place at Findlay Market.” I nod, and say, “Paula’s,” then tell him she moved her café, but the restaurant perpetually wins Best BLT in the City award.

During lunch, we joke about their visits to Cincinnati over the years, when my sister Laura and I would tell them, “Oh, its right down the street,” and we would be driving to the west side from the east side just for dinner, which few Cincinnatians EVER consider. But we grew up in a family of drivers. My parents drove for miles to the Melon Festival. They thought nothing of caravanning us to the other side of Cleveland, if it meant the Feast of the Assumption in Little Italy, and homemade cannoli.

In the midst of our laughter, my mother stops. Her facial expression grows serious, “Oh Annette, you’re the best,” she says. But then she raises her finger and begins pointing at me, “But something you should have changed a long time ago was your hair, I don’t like those strings coming out of it.” She begins pointing, “You have one, two, three, four, why can’t you do something about them?”

Tears begin to leak out, not because my mother has just knocked my haircut for which people have stopped me on the street to rave about, but tears of happiness flow because that is the essence of my mother. She cut her words as sharp as her Christmas cookies.

During this same stay, she had told Mark, “Hey you’ve got a pot there,” and pointed to his stomach. She told Laura, “Hey you need a little sun on your legs.”

I am grateful for these snippets of my mother that reveal her true nature, and I revel in the fact that, despite the disease altering her mind, it has not altered her character.

In this state, Mom has a tendency to continue along the same lines of an idea for hours at a time, unless we introduce a new subject matter. For a while, driving to our new destination relieves her from the need to pummel me on the topic of hair.

We tour the care center, Mom walking endlessly, complaining often, and walking more as we tell her, “Just one more room to view.”

We return to my home, and are seated in the family room, with Enzo licking at Dad’s hands. Dad and I are attempting to have a grown up discussion about the pros and cons of the care community accommodations, when Mom interrupts the conversation.

“Hey Annette,” she says. I am grateful that today, she knows who I am, even if I look like the other sisters of mine floating around the house. She starts pointing her finger again, and I dread where this is going.

“You know, when I first met you…” she begins. I cringe, because we met in the womb, when I had no hair. Mom continues on, “I thought to myself, she is cute and all, but she needs to change her hair.” “Can’t you pull it back or something and get rid of those things sticking out of your head?” She jumps up with the energy of a five-year old and ambles over to where I am sitting.

“This is gonna hurt,” she warns me, “but you know, get rid of these things.” And with that, she yanks at the wisps that frame my face.

My father cannot believe what is happening. I too am wide-eyed, and laughing hysterically, when I should be in tears. Mom is pulling my hair as hard as when she made my pigtails in first grade.

In this moment of present joy, my laughter is derived from the sense that, Mom pulling on my hair is better than Mom not caring at all.

Chairs

Anniversary

Music Hall will rise each evening,

deserving of its view

from our third floor perch.

Chairs once folded up and in

will now expand,

and beg us to stay.

We will sit side by side

but will not

share the same view,

nor would we want to.

For you will see, rising high,

the pinnacle of the front gable.

The intricate rose window

will remind you

of a church you once knew,

and the faith of your foundation.

I will see light, sunshine

reflecting in the window

bouncing back over

centuries of people

who built Washington Park.

I will see city, all dirt and gleam.

The Pecorino will sting the tongue,

the asparagus will snap in half.

Both will rest dreamily between us,

as if food is the only thing

on which we could ever disagree.

The View from My Backyard

A View from the Backyard

7/26/2011

(pictured Austin, Davis, Reed, Cole, Blake, 2002)

It is not often one sits down to eat a meal amongst heroes, but yesterday was my blessed day.

A young man was seated next to me, lamenting the music choice of the DJ at an event we were attending, while chewing relentlessly on Montgomery Inn ribs. When asked about family vacations, he chattered endlessly that he didn’t have time for vacations, he’s got “stuff” going on… lifting for football season, then he shows me the picture of a young woman he had invited to attend the event with him. She had declined due to volleyball practice. He bemoaned another young woman whom he had accompanied to homecoming, said she wanted to get to know him better and then broke up with him shortly thereafter. Our table had quite the laugh. “Women,” I exclaimed, and my husband chimed in agreement.

The young man rose from the table and wandered about, talking to various guests. I was also privileged to sit at the table with this young man’s older brother. He talked about his summer spent away from his family, playing baseball up and down the East Coast at colleges such as UVA and UNC. He told me in the next breath that he would also be visiting Ohio State and Miami soon. Both coaches had made contact with him regarding their baseball teams. We laughed, “Thank goodness its not football!” (Sorry OSU fans!). When asked if he was considering East Coast schools at all, he mentioned the usual equation: out of state costs – minus scholarships = decision point. Having sent two off to college already, we understood the math of finding a college closer to home. He casually mentioned wanting to make is easier on his mom and dad. While his point may have been financially-driven, it was emotionally-packed too.

The first young hero was my backyard neighbor Cole. Struck by a batted ball two years ago, he suffered a traumatic brain injury, and on the road to recovery was met with many new challenges, including dystonia. His parents have traveled the country to find treatments (deep brain stimulation) that will allow Cole to regain more control over his motor movements. I love this boy, and had written about him before, how he held my son’s hand so many years ago and led him through the darkened wooded path that separated our two homes so Davis could be surrounded by this wonderful family of boys.

And while Cole was a first friend of Davis’, his brother Reed, the other hero, became the older brother Davis never had. Through teasing, baseball, food and general conversation, he modeled for Davis the actions - and antics - of an older brother.

As I sat through dinner, a fundraiser for children with TBI, I reflected on Reed, how he had matured since the backyard baseball days. And how much he had to grow up, when his younger brother was severely injured. And to speak of lifting the load of his parents was cause for me to hide my joy and tears. Not many teenagers could swallow the notion of making sacrifices for a younger sibling. While I assume he still beats up on Cole, compassion and determination have become his constant companions along the path these past two years.

The reality is that this has not been Cole’s journey alone. It has been a family trek. No one in that family has not been impacted by the turn of events on a warm May afternoon.

Before the fundraiser, I had been visiting with a sick friend in the hospital. Knowing she had been confined to a room at UC for over six weeks, I ruminated on my own marathon hospital visits, and certainly those of Cole and his family.

I was reading aloud to her a book of haiku, poems written mainly by Japanese poets, but also by the beat poets Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerourac. Poetry for me had always been a sort of prayer, but also an opportunity to capture a moment, like a Polaroid camera once did.

Jack wrote,

“The taste of rain –

why kneel?”

The author who had compiled these haiku also added her insights into the meaning and relevance of each. As she explained this particular one, she cited a Japanese phrase that translated to, “the poignancy of the transient moment.”

We cannot attach ourselves to the joy and pain of every living thing. But last night sitting at dinner, listening to talk about baseball and country music, I at once felt buoyed by my relationship with both these heroes.

It is a moment that I will remember, and remember the tenderness of it all.

Dear Menopause

Dear Menopause –

I am writing because have a few things to get off my chest, not including my droopy breasts. First, can I have my brain back? I find myself tending to the wrong dental appointments, working on Banana-gram brain teasers, perplexed while staring at a word already created – “suffix”. When I speak, words tumble out of my mouth as if I were dyslexic. When I write, word choice and sentence structure elude me. I never know what time it is, and despite asking that age-old question, my lack of knowledge is not as poetic as Chicago’s rendition might lead you to think.

Second, can you please turn down the outdoor thermostat? Enough of these days where the heat index registers 100+ degrees. I am getting hot flashes when I greet the UPS man at the door, and he mistakenly thinks I am coming on to him. Also, for the sake of my once taut stomach, I would prefer not to be wearing clothes that bare or cling, such is the case with summer wardrobes. I should have stayed in Oregon, at least ‘til menopause had passed.

Ok, third, and this one is important. Can you at least write down your schedule on my calendar? I tell my kids, and even my husband, “If its not on the calendar, it doesn’t happen…” They hear me squawk, whenever an event appears out of thin air but shows no signs of having been written down. You are no different. If you can’t put it on the calendar with any consistency, you have no reason to show up erratically, and unannounced.

Fourth, previously I asked about turning down the thermostat, but is there any way you can turn it back up? I get chills in the evening and, when reading a book, with a nice glass of wine, need to cover up my feet with an orange, green and white afghan crocheted for me by a friend.

Finally, can you get together with the Pope and put my husband first in line for beautification? I know Mother Teresa and Pope JPII are already in the Vatican’s piepline. But I am convinced that my husband’s cross to bear (without including my family) is equal to theirs. Yes, there is already a St. Mark, and he’s got a whole square named after him in Venice. But I am thinking something more along the lines of St. Mark of Stonemark Lane. Has a certain ring to it, right? Just please, no pigeons. He hears enough clucking from me.

Sincerely,

Me

An All-American Marriage

An All-American Marriage

A Fourth of July Mediation

7/4/2011

On July 4, 1961, Ettore Anselmo Januzzi married Vincenza Jean Giuliani. They were both children of Italian immigrants, one set of parents from Abruzzi, “near Pescara,” Jean would say, the other set from Calabria, “you know the Calabrese,” Ettore used to taut.

They were married on that day because the shoe store that Ettore’s family ran would be closed that particular federal holiday. Ettore’s brother would be married on a New Year’s Day, another holiday that the store was closed.

Their marriage would come to represent the best America had to offer. The union of two immigrant families, whose migration saved them from the impoverished Italy. The families were entreprenuers who created their own opportunities in the shoe repair and bakery business.

When Jean was born, her mother's friends insisted the baby needed an American name, thus Vincenza became Jean. As children, Ettore and Jean were encouraged to speak the English language, out of respect for their new country. They lost their mother tongue, and only occasionally, as when Jean was conversing with a cab driver in Italy, could either of them slip back into that place of prior ease.

Prior to marriage, Ettore had served during the Korean War. Jean had been a school teacher, then a religion teacher. Then, she was free to choose to stay home with her children. Anyone who knew Jean recognized she would have had a stellar career, but being at home was her desire, and her children and their friends would benefit from her famed ravioli and meatballs, her nutroll and the home she created with care.

They were free to choose the number of children they wanted to birth. No Chinese government stepped in to tell them they had too many daughters (four, gasp!). No Catholic authority figuring telling them to have more (gasp again).

Ettore and Jean choose public school education for their children because that too was the foundation of America. They trusted the government and the good people of the town where they lived would funnel their talents and energy into high achieving schools, that level which is still achieved today.

When it came time to move the family to larger home, Ettore paid cash for the home he would reside in for thirty-five years. None of their children ever wore Jordache jeans, and even though the kids were a from a shoe store family, they often went barefoot anyhow.

Through fifty years, they had access to health care, through which they sought out the treatment of breast cancer, kidney cancer, heart disease, arthritis, appendectomy and now, sadly, Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s disease.

Jean sang in the choir, at church funerals, baked the Eucharistic bread and gave out communion. Together, they worked church fish frys and the county polls every Election Day for twenty years. Ettore would still be working his shift today, if he didn’t feel bad about Jean not being able to do so. With her dementia, she just might throw the election the wrong way. And Ettore still holds a position on the county housing authority, using his time to assist those in need. He may, at this stage, have become a figurehead, but his presence and perseverance is a model to others.

They gardened and canned, and froze and sauced every vegetable and fruit they could get their hands own. They had no expectations other than the one that has recently been tossed out of our society, and that is to work hard. While their lives revolved around their children, with five, it would be difficult for it to be otherwise, the children were never indulged or led to believe that they were deserving of all their blood, sweat and tears, only some.

Though Ettore and Jean, in their hearts and blood, were Italian-Americans, they never insisted upon the hyphenation. They knew who they were.

The weekend of their latest wedding anniversary, they attended a baseball game, were given a rousing Happy Anniversary by a tenor Ettore happened to have worked with a while ago, and later, in church, were called “heroes” by the deacon in his sermon. To which they humbly dropped down their heads in tears and gratitude.

On July 4, 2011, on a starlit cool summer evening within view of the shores of Lake Erie, only blocks from the families’ original bakery and shoe store, surrounded by children, grandchildren and fireworks set to no music at all, Ettore and Jean Januzzi celebrated fifty years of marriage, an American marriage.

Mother's Day Revisited

Mother’s Day Revisited.

For Mother’s Day, I told Mark, “I don’t want anything, but I do want to be with my mom.” This proved to be quite the tall order, since my parents lived four hours away, and we were still obligated to picking up kids from college, staying put for other kids to work, and in general, wanting to give my dad a break from the winter winds of Amherst, which, as it was everywhere, had not turned yet to Spring.

I drove to Amherst and spent the night with my parents. It was rather late when I arrived, but both were waiting at the door, to welcome me. My mother, always happy to see me, hugged me. She will say things, “Oh Net, now, where did you come from?” And this I take to mean, where did you drive in from?

I tell her, “Cincinnati,” and she asks, “Is that with Mark Manley?” I shake my head yes, then we list all the children of the house, Cheryl, Shannon, Kaitlyn and Davis, and finally Enzo, the dog. Then she will say, “I remember Enzo was little just like this,”and she holds her hands about six inches apart. And she says, “Remember, you didn’t want that dog, that was our dog.” I agree, because its not worth wasting our time together rewiring her memory to include the fact that a few years back she and dad accompanied me to pick out what became my family’s puppy, and his first night with us was spent at my mother’s house.

We wake in the morning, and I pack for both of them. Well, my dad picks out his own clothes. I am tasked with getting mom to dress, and selecting a few clothes. She is adamant that she will wear her brown shoes, shoes that do not fit. But I figure we are traveling by car and I can encourage her to take off the shoes in the car. Days later, I would steal those shoes away and store them in the back corner of my closet, as they would become the bane of our existence throughout the entire weekend, my mother constantly asking for a shoe stretcher, and the rest of us scrambling to find out where she last left it.

The ride to Cincinnati is uneventful thankfully. We listen to (according to iTunes) 28 Frank Sinatra songs, and Mother knows every word. Sometimes, I wonder if she still dreams about Frank, the way we all did when we were teens, and had that one idol (mine was Bruce). We settle into my home, where Mom still knows where the cereal is kept, having spent a year’s worth of nights here over the years. But this time proves to be more a challenge. She does not like to be alone in a room. She forgets where the bathroom is. I sense another step in the progression of her disease. But I set that aside because this is Mother’s Day weekend.

When she is dressing the next morning, I want to get her mindset away from wearing tan so she won’t want to wear her brown shoes. I set out black pants and a black sweater. But she has pulled out the tan outfit. The confrontation begins. “Mom, you wore that yesterday.” “How do you know, are you God, that you know what I wore yesterday?’” I am arguing with a teenager here, for this I am certain. “ I tell her, “Yes, I am God and I know what you wore yesterday.” She retorts, “Well I don’t want to wear that today.” We settle on an outfit she can wear with gray pants. I am exhausted and it is only 8:30 a.m.

I take her for a pedicure. She is being pampered, with her feet soaking in the warm water. Rachel, the pedicurist whose mother is 90, is accustomed to dealing with stubborn wise women. She carefully tends to Mother’s feet, as if she is washing the feet of Jesus himself, I swear. When Rachel tends to Mom’s ingrown toe nail, Mom squirms, then tells Rachel jokingly but not, “You’re going to send me through the roof.” This gets such great laughs throughout, that Mom repeats it often.

We dine with the family three nights in a row. When we are out to dinner, she tells the waiter each time he arrives at the table, “I would like pasta and a salad,” and this is while he is only bringing waters or drinks. None of us are ready to order, but she is.

She sits in church on Sunday, and I am the one with the pursed lips, telling her to be quiet, because she is busy waving to the little children. She is enthralled by little children, wherever we are. She leans over and whispers, “ I used to be into God and Christ.” And I nod then ask, “What about now?” and she says, “Not really anymore.” Somehow her disease has freed her conscience too and for this I am thankful.

The sun comes out and in the middle of the day, we sit outside. She is the original sun worshipper, I move the sun chairs two or three times, because she wants to be where Dad is, and I am trying to give Dad a break. So, I shuttle chairs from front yard to back, to front to back. Dad soon leaves us, but I bring out the music player again, and we play more Frank. She asks, “Hey, who is that?” And I know she knows, so I wait for her to tell me. And slowly, she does.

The Summer Wind plays, so I reach for her hand and encourage her out of the chair. We dance to Frank, we are all anxious for Spring here and at her home. We cheer for the “summer wind, a fickle friend,” and sway to the breeze blowing across the patio.

It was a beautiful Mother’s Day, despite some of Mom’s physical ailments removing her from the party at times. But she ate ½ of her dessert, then went to find Dad and ate all of his. I don’t think that day had any real significance for her, except that she was with those who loved her.

When Mark and I drove Mom and Dad back to Amherst the following day, we made a few more stops than usual for gas, bathroom (Mark), bathroom again (me). We were driving in a rental van, due to car in the shop. So, I would help buckle Dad and Mom into the bucket passenger seats.

When I went to my mom’s side, she reached for me and pulled me into her chest., and says, “Love you”. “Love you too Mom. I lay there for a moment, my head resting near hers, and chills engulf my being.

Over the weekend, I had been parenting Mom, as she returns to a child like state, I am leading her to bathrooms, telling her what to wear, or what shoes not to wear.

I don’t know I that am equipped to mother my own Mom. “Mother” is not a role, a title, or for that matter a position of prominence. There are no degrees, certificates, or graduation. But I do know, in that moment of buckling Mom into her seat, what I felt wash over me was pure grace.

Laughter as Salve

Laughter as Salve 04-07-2011 Reflections from the Alois Sharing Circle

“I think this is a little crazy. What are we going to do with this? This “Jabberywocky” is crazy. What is “brillig” and a slithy tove?” F. could read well enough, but she was always leery of materials Leigh and I would bring to the Sharing Circle. Our day of silliness was no exception.

We had planned to make the participants laugh. Perhaps we wanted to laugh, more so than they. So, we opened the class with the explanation about laughing. I told the residents to close their eyes and just listen to the “Jabberywocky” poem. Even if the words were made up, the rhythm still existed to help create a story. And there were enough standard nouns and verbs, they could piece together a story, regardless of whether it made sense.

But so much in their world does not make sense. Their caregivers become strangers. Their homes become deserted islands with unrecognizable inhabitants. Names for their favorite food slips away on the dirty dishes.

While I tried with a tour de force to read Jabberwocky well enough for the circle to imagine a story, my reading may have fallen a little flat. Not to be discouraged, we had planned for a second poem to read, “The Owl and the Pussycat.” They found this poem much more to their liking, apparently an owl marrying a pussycat, with a turkey as priest, and a pig as a pawn shop king with a ring to peddle, are an easier sell to this crowd. Words, real words, not made up ones, still mattered to them.

The laughs were coming about, one by one. So we continued on with our next exercise, a podcast playing of Who’s on First, with Abbott and Costello. Thought the repartee was quick, the podcast also had a laugh track in the background. Now, some people might find those offensive, as if a studio executive is telling us what is funny. But the laugh track served it purpose that day, to remind the circle that this was funny, the notion of Who’s and What being a proper noun.

The goal was to get them in the mindset of considering what makes them laugh. Made up words, made up stories, mixed up stories. So, we threw in a mad-lib, despite Leigh’s last minute anxiety over whether this was an exercise that might create undue pressure on them to retrieve words or recall them. Over the phone that morning, we revised the plan to only include one mad lib, that being a nursery rhyme of Little Miss Moffett.

We began by brainstorming, asking them to give words for fruit – apple, banana and W. produced strawberry after much prodding of naming red berries. Then, we moved on to words that rhymed with “day”, so we got gay and bay, and when we ask J. to produce a word, we offered a few that others had mentioned, and after this she arrived at her own, way.

The final group of words to collect were animals, and just like that, out of the chute, D. said, “Jackass”. The entire circle began laughing, before they understood how we would use that word. Then we collected dog, and from J., who speaks to us mostly with her eyes, we retrieved the word giraffe. At first, as she was describing an animal with her hands, I asked, does it have four legs?”, s J. answered, “yes”. “Is it a horse,” I asked. “No,” J. shook her head. J. continued to make a large motion, so I asked, “elephant?, horse?” and then finally, because a new little giraffe had been born at the zoo the other day, “A giraffe”, and she shook her head, “Yes.”

With that in mind, Leigh produced a poster board with the original Miss Moffett rhyme on it, which we all recited. Then, we picked out one word from each category, and used those words in place of others, within a new rhyme.

“Little Miss Moffett, sat on her apple” (Laugh, laugh, laugh)

“Eating her curds and gay” (Laugh, laugh, laugh)

Along came a jackass who sat down beside her

And here the laughing was loud enough to cause us to wait to complete the rhyme.

And frightened Miss Moffett away.

Now, we put them on center stage, by asking them to write, “Who or what do you think is funny?” Amazingly so, with the prolific writers we have had, no one produced a body of work longer than a sentence with the exception of G. This surprised us, until we later determined that we need to lead the circle down a narrow path when asking them to write, offering something more specifics, such as “The person in my family who is funny… or “A clown is funny because…”

We closed our circle as usual, with the naming of “how the circle felt today” and many stated that it felt good. Afterwards, we discussed who in the room was ticklish. As I asked each in turn, every resident had a smile on his or her face, and L. offered, “Well, I don’t really know if I am, but I might like to find out.” Even P. who sits stoically through class, though that is more disease than disposition, cracked a smile at the thought of her feet being tickled.

Laughter is a complex emotion and what we find funny is subjective, and also unnamable. While we admitted to ourselves having some disappointment in the output of writing that day, there could be no doubt as to the output of fun we had.

If laughter was the salve to even one cell where pain or sadness dwelled, then this work brought healing into their day.

Opening Day Signals

The weather forecast is not promising, though I have sat through a few Opening Days with long-johns beneath my jeans and Reds’ shirt. I will once again shiver until the game's end, unless it appears downright hopeless. And even in that case, I may recall a certain year, when the Reds were down by 3 going into the bottom of the ninth. We walked out, my son, aunt and sisters, all lamenting another loss on Opening Day. But soon, we heard fireworks, and other fans were running alongside of us, with radios attached to ears, jumping for joy. Barry Larkin had just hit a gram slam home run. Reds win. Reds win. (Davis - Opening Day, 2011. Reds. Win.)

So, I sit this morning, after enduring a few taunts from husband about money spent on scalping two tickets. I suspect he is jealous that I choose my son Davis, over him. But it only because of tradition that I do so. That, and a sense of obligation to honor what’s past and what is present.

I had always been a Cleveland Indian’s fan. I still am, or at least, I admire them from afar down in the reaches of the Ohio River valley. I don’t drive the four hours north to see a game, mainly because if I am to undertake that drive, I would rather spend it with my parents, heading into the ninth inning of their years here on earth.

My roommate in college was a bat girl for the baseball team. The entire team became friends, as well as potential love interests. As a bleacher creature in the old Lakefront Stadium, I was subjected to the summer wind that always felt more like Artic Blast and rooted for Doug Jones, the Stopper. I had a crush on Omar Vizquel and used to call him, Oh my, Omar. But mostly I loved how swiftly and effortlessly he moved to the field the ball and make the throw to first. I have seen ballet in the ballplayers and honestly, enjoy it more than the Ballet itself.

After moving to Cincinnati in my twenties, I went to Opening Day with my sister and a friend who would later become my husband. We hung out at Flanagans, before, during and after the game. I managed to secure a ticket to the first game of the 1990 World Series and looked hard to find a broom for the celebration that year on Fountain Square.

I have fallen off my couch while watching the Indians collapse in the World Series in 1997. I was living in Portland and it was the Fall of Devin’s diagnosis of cancer. I felt like if the Indians could overcome their troubles, then that victory would be transferrable.

After reluctantly moving back to Cincinnati, Opening Day came with a joyful memory attached – Despite his cancer relapsing, Devin attended the game with his friends from Dayton. It was rainy and cold, and I dropped him off and picked him up. I would have pinch-hit or been designated batter or swept the field to be a part of that moment. Devin would pass away that September.

That is where memory leaves off and tradition begins. Devin’s family, including grandparents, uncles and aunts were n Red’s fans. Grandpa Howard attended most Opening Days, of his 80 some years. A part of me wanted Davis to experience that connection to his extended family. Another part of me felt like I could stop time, by standing in the place where Devin stood, and continue the streak he began, to march on, in his place. We would watch the parade, cheering for Marge Schott, because I adored who I knew she was on the inside, and not who many appeared to think she was on the outside. I understood the need for her persona in a male dominated world.

But what occurred to me this morning, as I read many quotes about baseball, was this. I started going to Opening Day to embrace a city I never wanted to come back to, because I did not want to leave my beloved Oregon. I committed to Opening Day, as a way to put my stake in the ground in this southwestern Ohio town and say, I’ll live here - until I go back.

I continued going to Opening Day, in recognition of time spent in my youthful twenties, beginning a career, meeting Devin, life filled with promises, cup filled with beer. And then, as a homage to Devin and his legacy. As always, this final loss caused me to act most passionately.

So, I came to be a Red’s fan, reluctantly, the way I come to most things in my life - a hesitant, reluctant widow then writer, wife to a Cincinnatian, a stepmother of teenage stepdaughters, mother to teenage son.

I could wax poetically about the time I spend with Davis each year, and how I usually find something about the game and the day that reflect on where we are in our relationship. While that is all true, I buy my tickets each year, now in my eleventh because Oregon is a plane ride away, if I need to touch base with sea. Because my new husband Mark and I are close to signing a piece of paper that will put me in close proximity to the start of the parade at Findlay Market, a purchase that will challenge and solidify our marriage for certain. Finally, I buy those tickets because it is not baseball the game that beckons me each year, but the constancy of the tradition that signals I am here to stay.

Luck or Healing?

2011-03-30 Luck or Healing?
Reflections on the Alois sharing circle.


Leigh and I sit in a coffee shop every few weeks, contemplating our next sessions for our sharing circle at the Alois Alzheimer Center. While we first began calling these sessions writing circles, we changed course, so as not to cause undue pressure on the participants to perform.

Sharing circle seemed appropriate in ways that date back to indigenous cultures who use the “sharing circle” to resolve issues for or amongst its members. These issues can often be contentious, emotional. The circle helps in healing by encouraging the opening of the heart, telling the small truths or the big secrets, unburdening themselves. Everyone is allowed to speak, with no particular time limit and no interruptions are permitted.

The elders hold the space, while souls spill out their deepest troubles. Men and women alike take part. Throughout the time of the circle, prayers are continuously offered up for the sufferer, to find relief from their emotional or physical pain.

This image comes to mind when we facilitate the sharing circle at the Alois. While roles are reversed, and we, the younger, take on the role of elders in the indigenous tradition, we recognized that we are not always the wiser.

Our most recent circle fell on St. Patrick’s Day, so we created a circle around this theme. The activities director directed the room be decorated with green balloons and a cake with a shamrock on it. I carried in a potted shamrock plant, which enthralled each participant, as they held it in their hands, said their name, then passed the “luck” on to the next person.

The poem for the day was The Shamrock, by Andre Cherry, written in the late 1700’s. How fun it was to read this poem to them with my fake Irish brogue. Several times I had to stop myself from slipping into an English accent instead. If I sang some of the words, the brogue flowed much more smoothly. My daughter Shannon, a petite red-hair, accompanied us that day. Dressed in green, she captivated the participants who commented routinely, “Boy she sure looks Irish.”

Following the reading of the poem, we always have a musical component. Sometimes, the residents sing along. Other times, they nod their heads in enjoyment. Danny Boy and Galway Girl streamed forth from my music player. For whatever reason, “I’m looking over a four leaf clover” did not make the transfer to my player. We warbled the words instead.

Then came our writing time. We offer a line or thought and ask them to write on that idea. We are somewhat specific, even not leading, as this helps them to focus. The residents are like me when I shop, less options make my life simpler.

The first prompt was, “I feel lucky because…” And many wrote to this beautifully.

The second prompt, devised after a few emails back and forth with Leigh, were, “At the end of the rainbow, I hope to find…” T. wrote, “my wife”, others included “my family” and yet another write, “peace and quiet.” While we had considered this an open-ended question, many of the writers had not. They were able to complete the sentence and put down their pens, with not too much thought associated with it.

I couldn’t help but wonder, how would they have responded, if I had utilized the other prompt we considered, “I feel unlucky because…” Leigh and I often joke that she likes to keep things positive. And she is the most uplifting person I know to be around. On the other hand, I like to dive deep, to push for more.

What words did the residents leave on the table that day because we didn’t use the “I feel unlucky” prompt?

I go back to the primal sharing circles. Members were encouraged to bring their deepest troubles, so that their hearts might shatter open and then heal. One of our regular “contributors” did not share that day. She pushed the paper away and kept repeating, “Its personal.” Would she have written, had she been asked to consider if she felt unlucky? Would she have found healing?

The Moon and Venus Ballroom Dance

Every once in a while, my senses are heightened by looking skyward....



The Moon and Venus Ballroom Dance


The moon and Venus climb together over the horizon,
The party soon ending,
night music quieting down.

Venus sashays past the moon coquettishly
flashing a golden dimple in a beam
that sets the core aglow.
She bats her eyelashes as she takes in
the tall cold drink that is the moon.

The moon shrinks back in her presence.
Her hold on his orbit is clear.
Aware of their pending split,
he continues his rise in the East
for the gift of one last glance

They travel their course
entwined like grapevines,
crossing behind, then in front of each other,
while sparks of star dust
fly off their heavenly forms.

How We Stand Is Important

A few weeks ago, I had the honor of interviewing Jeff Smith, a writer in one of the WWFC co-ed classes. Jeff had come to WWFC while his son, Whit, had been incarcerated at a federal penitentiary. While in prison, Whit became a victim of an erroneous assault charge, and deciding he could take no more of his present condition, took his own life. Jeff and his son had exchanged a multitude of letters and thus, Jeff’s name had been mentioned as a podcast guest last summer. His grief, the most recent portion of it, would have only been a year old.

When Jeff first dropped off a copy of the compilation of letters he and his son traded, it was the holiday season. Following the buzz of the season, I stopped one bright cold January day, when the New Year was just rolling over and answering the wake up call, to read these words.

Jeff and I met for coffee following my reading and together, we developed an outline that would encompass letters, blogs and eulogies. The day of the interview unfolded with a quiet hum as opposed to the usual buzz on the day we produce a show. The circle opened with candle, intentions, introductions and a poem.

William Stafford wrote, How you stand here is important. How you

listen for the next things to happen. How you breathe

And the show began. Through a grueling hour, with breaks for tears, and water, Jeff and I created a container to hold what was precious to him, the words of Whit, their relationship, Whit’s death, how others viewed his death.

Whit had experienced challenges as a young man, a rampant mind trapped in a body that was supposed to sit in school all day. The more he was contained, the more he wanted to be free. Until finally, he was forced, via incarceration, to make peace and bring his old self in line with the new. He used letters to his father, and blog postings to the outside world to do so.

Though Whit’s voice had been silenced in solitary confinement, Jeff’s authenticity in dealing with his son helped form Whit’s voice, a voice filled with anticipation and imagination.

As we wrapped the production, we read the poem again. How you listen for the next thing to happen.

A yogi friend had shared a Ganges River meditation that involved ridding oneself of the non-essentials in life to come closer to one’s core, imagining those trimmings had been turned to ashes and encapsulated in a vessel that would be placed in the river. Toss flowers in the river, alongside the vessel, as a send-off and watch it float away.

Whit knew how he stood would be important later on, for his father, for those who loved him. In this interview, listeners will hear how Whit pared down his life to the essentials of forgiveness, compassion, and yes, love. The audience will be rooting for Whit to persevere.

Listen, breathe, and take in this podcast, as an extraordinary man courageously calls forth words of wisdom while standing in the river of his grief.

Brainstorming on Love

Valentine’s at the Alois

There is a suspended moment in time from when we instruct participants in our writing circle on the activity that we are about to embark upon, to the time in which they take the pen to paper and begin to write. Even those that cannot physically write will attempt to compose a line that might correlate to what has been offered as a prompt. Some writers call that moment inspiration. Others call it breath or soul. As observer, as well as facilitator, one might also call it love.

The theme for this February morning is Valentine’s Day. Most participants, suffering from a broad range of memory loss symptoms, do not know Valentines’ Day is four calendar days away. When escorted into the activity room, surprised residents catch glimpses of red and purple balloons, a pink tablecloth and boxed candies on the table.

We greet each in turn, with a smile and a nametag, for us to remember. We too are memory challenged, and the roster often changes just enough to throw us off. Brief discussions occurred – “J: It’s cold in here”, “M: Don’t those balloons look fancy.” L: “What is the topic today?”

Poetry and Valentines. We are careful not to refer to this hour as a writing class, for writing brings up memories of crass teachers rapping knuckles with rulers or marking up one’s life story or belabored poem with a red pen. We are also sensitive when using the word “Love.” There is so much emotion in that word, which we want to encourage, but not inflict pain.

When L. is informed we will be reading Anne Bradstreet, Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Edgar A. Guest, he responds with enthusiasm in his radio voice, “I know Edgar Guest. He was a poet from Detroit, had his own show for a while, colleagues didn’t like him too well.” L. is also aware he may be asked about love. The theme is evident to some. He speaks aloud, “I wonder if I am an emotional man. You know, I enjoy learning, but I don’t know if I exhibit a lot of emotions.” But L. will stay because of Edgar. Only minutes later, when L is asked to share with the group about Edgar Guest, L. will draw a blank. We capture in the moment what we can.

We open the circle with a candle, asking each participant to say his or her name. Some are prankish. F. calls herself Pete. P. states her full name. J. struggles to speak her name so we name her into the circle. We begin reciting the poetry, first Anne, then Elizabeth, then Edgar, selecting works that represent not only spousal love but universal love and friendship.

Next, we begin brainstorming about people to whom they might like to write a Valentine. Brainstorm when written out seems an ironic word choice as during the past months or years of the participants’ lives, they have experienced their own brain storms when memories are trapped in the tangles of their mind. Their only hope is staying rooted in the present and being supported by those who will weather the storm with them. Ideas begin to flow and extend from grandmother, teacher and brother, to the obligatory spouse or children. We write these down for all to see.

Then, the real brainstorm occurs. We instruct participants to begin writing at the top of their homemade Valentine, Dear _______. “Let’s write a letter to this person. Tell them what you loved them for, why you are thankful for them.”

In this instant we hold our breath, and dive into the waters of memory with them. Some begin immediately. Some look confused. We sit and review and write with each contributor who needs us. We prompt, we cajole. We mourn and celebrate. Twenty minutes pass.

We step away from the tables and turn down the volume on Louis Armstrong singing, “I can’t give you anything but love.” Whether through our transcribing or their own movement of pen across paper, in front of each participant lies a body of work.

Each contributor is asked to read his or her Valentine aloud. Those who cannot read will entrust their words to us to share. When the circle makes its way to L., he is not too proud to ask, “Well, I would like someone to read this for me.” His eyes are pooling with a tear or two, so one of us lifts his Valentine to read, careful to breathe before giving a voice to his words.

“Dear Grandma,

Thanks for all the love that you expressed to me when I was just a small boy growing up in the grocery.”

There is more from others:

“Dear R. - You have a smile that cannot be forgotten.”

“Dear T. - I love your quietness at times.”

“Dear Mom – Thank you for encouraging me to be a nurse.”

“Dear D. - The best son and helper that anyone can be.”

“Dear T. & K. - I wish you lived closer.”

There is never a full narrative elicited from these writings, only the fascinating fragments of the participants’ stories that come to life on paper.

We have incorporated various themes in our (not a) writing circle, including The Secret of the Sea, I’ll Fly Away, What I Would Dress as for Halloween, all producing smiles, sighs and admiration. But only love could let loose these fragments that float in the space between idea and paper, in a way no other subject could.