Cackios and Beeps- a story about Billy

Beautiful memories are soothing and best when shared. To honor this sentiment, my week will be devoted to stories about Jule's six children--one story about each child each day-- starting with the oldest, Bill. You will be hearing these stories in my mother's voice as she narrates them to me.

"Our first apartment was in Parkchester, Bronx, NY. My best friend, Kathleen, lived in the next building, and her son Michael, and my Billy were two years old. We used to take the children out in the morning to play in the park, then have lunch together in either of our apartments. One day, we put some Cheerios on their high chairs. Billy said, “I like beeps.” Michael laughed out loud, pointed, and said, “Billy calls Cackios beeps!”

Friday Gifts

I continued talking to mom about her engagement period to dad. "Back in those days," she said, "people didn't give big shower gifts or have a lot of money, so your dad and I decided we'd exchange small gifts every Friday while we were engaged-- to get ready for our first apartment."

"Do you remember dad's first Friday gift to you?" I asked.

"Yes! I was really upset and so was my mother. It was a HUGE ironing board-the biggest ironing board you ever saw in your life. When we finally did get married and move into our tiny apartment, I had to store it behind a door because it wouldn't fit anywhere else," she said.

I asked her what she got for dad and she said she bought him mostly clothing since he had nothing to wear when he came out of the Air Force. "One week I'd get him five pair of socks, another would be a dress shirt," she said. Her other gifts from him were an iron, toaster, set of towels and practical things. She loved the odds and ends of dishes, pots and pans best. "It was so much fun opening those gifts every Friday. We enjoyed it from November to June in 1951 every single week like a little Christmas," she told me.

I can't help thinking how spoiled we are today when I hear how much these mundane items thrilled her. It hit me how the years have passed like minutes and all those once treasured items are long gone, but still feel so special in her memory, not so much for what they were, but for how they would be used: in their new apartment, love nest, home.

Engaged!

I asked Mom, "What was the happiest day of your life?" She thought for a few minutes and before answering a huge smile lit her face. "The day your father proposed to me," she said. From here on, her voice took on a youthful quality, she spoke fast and sounded more like one of my daughters speaking than a woman with breathing problems.

"Dad called me and told me to get dressed up to go to a party at Jane's in Scarsdale ," she said, still smiling, "It was dad's birthday, November 28th, 1951, and it was cold but clear outside. Your father always did special things on his own birthday," she laughed when she saw me shake my head. Continuing, she said, "We were going to a party at sunset. I put on my favorite dark green wool dress and he picked me up in grandpa's car. He was using grandpa's car at the time because he was working at Brunswick School for Boys and had no car of his own--he had moved back into his old house with Pop after his time in the Air Force. He was in a good mood but oddly nervous. He started driving on the Shore Road in Westchester County when he pulled off to the side and stopped in a grove of trees by the Long Island Sound. I was confused. I thought something was wrong. Then he reached over to the backseat of the car and pulled out a long rectangular box all wrapped in white with a huge bow on it. 'I have a present for you before we go to the party,' he said. He was sweating. I opened the box and there was a beautiful bride doll in the box with an engagement ring tied to it's ring finger. The ring was platinum with a single round diamond. I looked up at your father, and he asked, "Will you marry me?"

Mom's face went back to that very moment and she paused, remembering.

"Did you kiss?" I asked.

"Naturally!" she said. "Then I asked your father, 'What about the party?' and he said, 'There is no party!' We were so happy, and so excited. I wanted to tell grandma first, but your father said, "Let's stop and tell Pop first, since it's on the way,' and we did. Pop was sitting in his favorite chair in the living room when we arrived, beaming. I could tell he had been waiting for us to come. Pop got up from his chair, gave me a big hug and asked, 'Do you have any idea what you're in for?' We all laughed and I discovered that he had helped Dad pick out the ring. He had been putting aside money that Dad sent home from his time in the Air Force and that's how they bought the ring. From there we went to my mom's house and shared the news with her. It was the most romantic night of my life, and the happiest."

Independence Day

Freedom. We cherish and celebrate freedom and independence in our country today. While reading the newspaper, I can't help but feel something so much greater than luck or gratefulness. Having been born in this country, when I was, to the parents that nurtured me, seems more like a supremely divine blessing than simple luck or good fortune. I grew up in a home that was stable in every way (albeit, with a good does of the denial and surreal jollity that permeated the fifties and lasted into the sixties in our house). Compared to the flamethrowing curse-laden dish breaking fights, the domestic violence and infidelity that dominate the news and reality television today, I grew up in a fairy tale. Witnessing the violence of the Taliban, the turmoil in Iraq, terrorism in Europe and the middle east, and poverty in major pockets of the world, my fairy tale took place in Oz.

Thanks mom and dad, for teaching me that by taking care of family in the best possible way, I secure a tiny particle of humanity that contributes sanity to the whole. My hope is that today, all people that cherish freedom and peace achieve moments of them in their lives --anchors to keep them safe when it storms.

On Solitude

Marianne Moore, a poet, wrote that "the best cure for loneliness is solitude." This sentence explains my mother's demeanor. She spends a good deal of her day alone in her room, and yet everytime I visit her, or she comes downstairs, she is cheerful. I have asked her often, "Are you lonely? Are you bored?" Her response is always, "No, I'm content." On occasions, she has admitted to missing my father, but her missing him, I know, goes well beyond lonliness. His death has left a vacancy in her life that will never be filled, and yet her loving memories of him have colored in the darkness of her two years without him. She waits to join him, and she waits patiently. My mother has found solitude--that feathered cushion upon which she places her trust. A cushion that absorbs the outer noise so her inner voice is heard. She listens and finds safety in the space it provides.

Therapy

That which I most detest, I am.
Mom and I have been watching "In Treatment" on HBO. We thrive on watching others cry, lust, deny, and vent. As spectators, we can easily spot these patient's weaknesses and vulnerabilities, and we marvel that they can't see what we see. Like voyeurs, we are glued to the drama and especially enjoy the episodes where the therapist visits his therapist and behaves just as blindly as his patients.
As our own lives play out and we behave like humans do, it's comforting to know everyone else is just as nuts as we are. This is feel-good TV.

New Day

Where did this day come from? Out of the thick as molasses night air I could barely inhale dawned a crisp sunny morning with a breeze that ruffled the hickory's feathery leaves and nearly made the maples chime. "Want to have coffee out on the deck today, mom?" I asked. She has not left the house in weeks, now favoring the filtered chilled air that makes it easier for her to breathe in summer in Virginia. Nodding, she removes her oxygen and hangs the noose shaped canula over a chair stem. We step onto the deck and immediately I see her eyes close for a stretched moment in gratitude. She scans the backyard, so densely leafed out by now that we can barely see the houses that back up to ours across the creek. As she inhales deeply, a smile creeps in. It's her wedding anniversary today, but her husband died two years ago. He loved to sit with her out on this deck. As if called, our red cardinal flies to the feeder and glances at mom. Deciding it's okay to eat, he gets to work pounding out sunflower seeds. Her silver curl stirs in the breeze. "This is lovely, just lovely."