Somewhere Hearts are Light - Baseball at the Alois

It is time to talk baseball at the Alois Alzheimer Center today.  I wear my Cincinnati Reds gear, as proudly as any Cleveland convert.  It is a concession I make every Spring and Fall - to cheer for the home team.

Mostly, my friends here in the sharing and writing circle, are or were Reds fans.  A few did not grow up here. One used to watch the Toledo Mud Hens, as he was originally from Findlay, Ohio. I want to ask him if he had ever been to Tony Packo’s (Klinger on MASH owned a restaurant there) but I would be pushing his memory over the cliff.

So we open with my interpretation of Casey at the Bat, written in the 1880's.  It is not quite James Earl Jones, but I use a little Kentucky twang picked up after years of living near the border to snicker, “That ain’t my style!”, and the audience delights in the performance. I do too. I am getting lost in the game.

N., always first to raise her hand and offer her story, tells us how her grandfather, a state legislator, used to read and perform the poem to her and her brother.  She was amazed he would make time for her, given how busy he must have been.

F.  just wants to talk about the baseball going “whack” then “zoom”, and he motions like one who knew how to hit it out of the park.

As we continue our give and take moments, K. talks about being left on the sidelines, and she never knew why. Only that she and her brothers were always into “some monkey business when it came to playing baseball”, and they played until the street lamps came on, and even later.

R. begins to share, then holds back. I sense this was a common pattern in her life.  When its time to write, she refuses, while the rest of the group busies themselves with words on paper, or telling us their words so we can transcribe them.

When it comes time to read aloud our stories, we go from ML. to W. to P. and N. Then D.  tells us, “We had to decide what to wear and how much money to take.” And RU., whose mother was the only baseball fan in the house, writes,  “She was always in front of the television. She would move the chairs and wouldn’t pay any attention to us.”

Around the other side we move to hear L., R., F. and D. who was obsessed with winning, and finally back to R. I am fully prepared to skip her, though I do always ask, when she blurts out, “Baseball was my second life.”

What she had heard this day, about stadiums, home runs, hot dogs and listening to games on the radio were a barrage of images that penetrated the bunker of her memory. In that one instance, a hole had opened up, as if someone had pitched a fastball right through her hippocampus.  “Baseball was my second life.”

When she uttered that phrase, it was like we all, circle members, staff and myself, had hit one out of the ballpark. Because from that, she opened up and shared how she didn’t know anything else, other than days sitting around the radio, listening to baseball games.

While R.’s revelations were the highpoint of the morning, there was poignancy in B’s piece, who related what baseball meant to me, and the many legions who still hear the game called on the radio, attend the ballpark, and renew their hopes each Spring.

“My dad and I would talk about the ups and downs of the world’s oldest game,” B wrote, apologizing for her writing, saying it wasn’t deep. But I, and others, objected. The attraction to the game exists for that sole reason – because baseball parallels the ups and downs of the world’s other oldest game – life.

3/27/2012

A Way Station - SWAN Day Revisited

Yesterday, I ran away to here. This building. It’s not much, a singular, non-descript gray building in the middle of Silverton.  The doors have now been painted a Chinese Lantern orange.  Someone pulled the old taxis bushes from the window box and planted a colorful array of pansies which sway gently in the wind or as I whisk by.

Upon entering, I am immediately greeted by old friends.  They are old friends in that we know each other in our souls and through our words, our writing words that is.  Everyone here is a writer, not because they have all published books, but because we believe that every one here is a writer. Everyone outside these doors are writers too.

It is SupoortWomen Artists Now (SWAN) Day. The vast interior of the building is filled with folk music, landscape art, intricate quilts, and laughs about bowling, middle age, white chocolate peppermint bark.  As I settle into a chair and put my purse on the floor, I let my shoulders down too.

I am carrying so much weight these days, not on my frame, not in my purse, but in my heart, my head.  I wanted to step outside all of that and be free for a time.  I was met by hearty renditions of the Andrews’ Sisters, Bei Mir Bistu Shein, To Me you are beautiful, originally sung at the Apollo Theatre, and a stirring tribute to Raison  d‘ Etre’s lead signer’s grandmother, as she imagined the two of them, sipping tea, listening to grandmother’s stories.  I leaned my head against a column and slipped away into this portrait she was painting.

Someone asked if I planned to read later, at the open mic readaround.  I had no copies of any of my work, other than a book published years ago, which languished on a bookshelf for others to take down and ponder.  I didn’t even have my smart phone, where I could have accessed my blog, and read one of many entries about Alzheimer’s, life in the city, or the sunflowers that grew rampant last summer.  I wondered if I had purposely left the phone at home to disconnect from the flurry of calls I had received earlier that day about the sale of my parents’ home.

No, I was hear to listen.  To hold others’ words.  That was no more apparent than when I found myself in conversation with a gentleman who had been one the guests on our podcast show.  His son had committed suicide but his son’s life was now being lifted up in a play.  He asked if I was available attend the reading of the script.  We discussed many facets of the play and life for a period of time, and I found myself realizing how gratifying it can be, to sometimes be the listener of the stories and not the teller.

To sometimes be the holder is equal an escape from ordinary life. If one is the teller, you are in the midst of trying to figure it all out.  But if one is the listener, you are holding the words upon their release, as one might a special gift. In it, you might find delight, sadness, or your own wisdom.

I left the day, with a tune by local artist, Shelley Graf, in my head – an earworm worth keeping around…”I’m amazed that her spirit dances on.”  And really, resilience is all we can ask for in this life, that, and a way station, a place and time to rest, contemplate, and gather strength from the journeys of others.

Women Writing for a Change

SWAN Day, 2012

 3-30-12

Learnings in Winter - Reflections from the Alois

Today. Winter, as a theme, or memory. Not a reality, not yet, not until later tonight, when the meteorologists are predicting accumulation. But here, at the Alois,  memories and learnings amass not just for the residents of the Alois Alzheimer Center, but for those facilitators who occasionally walk the path with these kind-hearted souls.

When we first began offering this class, one student, now quite the stinker, refused to read her words.  Following the first class, which involved the prompt, “I am From”, based on the poem by George Ella Lyon, F. took it upon herself to toss out her words. She remained leery for weeks, “What are you going to do with that?” she would point to the paper where she had hardly scribbled a word. Her distrust was alarming, but also understanding.

Someone had betrayed her words, her voice, many years ago. We had no knowledge of who, or when, but we hadn’t named the program, Found Voices, for nothing.  Our work and F.’s continued presence would prove out, and over time, we would watch her laugh, joke, and even flirt with the farmer-resident.

In looking back, our first mistake had been to call this a "class."  For the generation of 80-somethings, the word "class" brings back horrid memories. Teachers rapping rulers on knuckles, or the pressure of a deadline, or test, for material one didn’t know.  Certainly, each in this circle has a slight grasp on their condition, so the prospect of reciting poetry or recalling the dates of the Civil War was terrifying. And too, the proverbial red pen had once made its way to each of their papers.

Some of our participants, experiencing significant memory loss, often don’t comprehend they are in a “writing class”. They come for camaraderie, to hear a reading of Robert Frost, to share a memory or eat a donut. They might saunter in, without a care in the world. It is a benefit of their disease.

When my own mother was progressing into a new phase of dementia, she passed through anger and frustration, and into more light. Worries had been wiped off her face, a face which in the past had sported pursed lips and creased brows.  Of course, she still worries about who is coming down the hall, and “where is your father,” but her general trust in people around her is evident.

This condition, while beneficial, and a relief oftentimes for loved ones, is also cause for regret. For often, the person with memory loss cannot connect to other emotional aspects of their life, this including worries.  And while all their thoughts, or their daily take on life, are upbeat, there is sometimes a hollowness, as if they are trying to fill a cup that keeps leaking, and they can’t quite tap into how to plug the leak.

On the rare occasion, the hole gets plugged, their cup will fill up, and they will tap into their reserves, and produce something akin to a fine wine.

Today, we readied the community room for the group. Our regular assistant was absent, so we waited on the staff to bring the residents to us. When they did, we ushered one group of residents that enter through the side door of the room. This I take it be the non-wanderers, or those that have been around longer, and therefore have stayed in the older wing.  I don’t ask many details about the residents’ lives, preferring to let them surprise me, let them show me their story, instead of someone else telling it for them.  First rule of writing. Show, don’t tell.

As this group of regulars, our long-time participants, were filing in, holding the hand of the person in front of them, one was missing.  The assistant mentioned N. would be right back. She was using the restroom.  We situated each as they entered the room, securing name tags, moving chairs, relocating walkers.

When I finally got around to saying Hello to N., she had removed her hearing aids, which drove me crazy. We would have to speak louder or move closer to her, but it was her prerogative.  She wanted to tell me something else though.

N. began, in her halting voice,  “I didn’t bring a pen.”  To which I replied, “That’s OK. N.   We have plenty.”  Then, she mentioned, “I didn’t know where I was going today.  I was worried this would be a class like school.”

She went on, “but then I learned I don’t have to worry.”

I don’t have to worry. What beautiful lines, what a mantra to speak over and again, as the flipping of the calendar sets fire to a hurried pace.  Here, in our circle, N. does not have to worry.

When N. began coming to class, some of the prompts at that time dealt with love and family. N. had been adopted, her memories on those themes were painful. Now, she shares writing that is honest, hopeful, devout.  After her last reading, I felt as I had been absolved of my sins for the week.

Her writings now are more light-hearted, more faith-filled. This could be due to her slipping into the next phase of her dementia, or a change in medication, or working with prompts that don’t touch on touchy subjects.

Or quite possibly, due to the safety N. feels in our circle, and that Winter cannot impact her inside, she no longer worries.

Jesus and Mary Go to Tampa 


After the cattle completed their lowing,
and the three Wise Men returned to Afar,
after the Star in the East ran out of hydrogen
and began to grow dim,
Jesus and Mary went to Tampa.

They stopped at Hamburger Mary’s,
a burger joint known for its inclusiveness.
There on County Road 574, they stumbled upon
Drag Bingo, and a show called Daphne’s Doll House.
Having tired of challah and soup,
Mary ordered the Hot Legs tossed in special sauce,
and, as a side, the Hail Caesar Salad.
while Jesus ordered off the menu for Little Lambs.

Upon hearing her name called out by the wait staff,
Mary stepped up to the mic for Mary-Oke.
As Mary crooned to Madonna’s Like a Virgin,
Jesus left room for dessert of fried bananas foster,
trying to erase the taste of hay from his mouth.

After that, the manager got an inkling
these two were on their way to stardom.
As Mary and Jesus prepared to leave,
she asked Mary to stand against
the blank wall nearest the kitchen
and drew a feint chalk outline around her.

She let them exit through the back door,
en route to San Marco, Texas for the outlet malls.
Meanwhile, the rest of Tampa flocked
to Hamburger Mary’s, lining the county road
to see the miracle they had just missed.

AJW
1/11/12
In reference to a news item about Mary’s image showing up in a Tampa Bay restaurant.

http://www.andrewzmorningshow.com/2012/01/11/the-virgin-mary-has-turned-up-at-a-restaurant-called-hamburger-marys/

Self Space

Self Space

 

Clean out the closet of your “self.”

Toss out right or wrong.

Some days, you will feel right.

            Remember those days.

Do not expect perfection but be open

            to humility.

Gather friends, hold them near.

            Keep writing more so.

Let go of the warm bed in

            winter’s mornings.

Do not write willy nilly, but

            with intention.

Proclaim that you are the goddess

you have been looking for.

Capture while you can the poignancy

of the transient moment.

You will never be done, you have

            barely begun.

1/1/2012

AJW

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