My grandmother's hat

At one point, my mother and I lived in western Pennsylvania with my grandmother and great-grandfather.  It was a life-changing year for me, but we'll do that another time.  This is about the hat.

So...

Every morning my grandmother got up... took a shower (she went once a week to get her hair "done", so she wore a shower cap.  I was fascinated.  That's how they did that in the olden days), put on her stockings, slip, and dress... and then... a hat. 

I was little - 4 years old maybe?  I didn't understand the hat.

"Gram... Why do you put on a hat every morning?"

Gramma Jo chuckled.  "I put on my hat every morning because I want to be ready.  Bertha (across the street) or Duckie (down the street) might be going into town and call to invite me to come.  If I'm not ready - if they have to wait for me - they might not invite me again.  That would never do."

"No Gram", I laughed, hugging her.  "That would never do"

I don't wear a hat, but I do get my shower and get dressed before I do anything else.  Something good might come up and I want to be ready. 

Thanks, Gram!

September 19, 2016

31 Years


My mother died 31 years ago, today.  She was 60 years old.

I hear people talk about the anniversary of their mother's (or father's) death - how much they miss them - all of the wonderful memories - how close they were.

"I miss her every day," they say, through tears.
  "I remember the times we....
...went to the movies
...met for lunch (or dinner)
...went shopping
...laughed ‘til we cried"

or...

"No one else will ever...
...love my kids as much as she did
...love me as much as she did
...be my champion like she was
...fill the empty place she left in my heart"

None of those things are true for me.  I wish they were.  I sometimes wonder what that must feel like.

For the first time in 31 years... here's the truth.  I don't miss my mother.  I didn't hate her. I sure didn't wish her dead.  My feelings about her weren't that strong one way or the other.

She had an emotionally difficult life.  I feel compassion for all that she experienced and I think it's great that she achieved so much.  The older I get, the more I realize how lonely she must have been.  For years (and sometimes, still) I let that be her excuse.  That way I can give her a "pass" for being a shitty, emotionally absent mother.  "She did the best she could." (She said softly with respect)

The truth (again) is that there was a sense of freedom after she died - freedom to be myself - freedom from constant disapproval - freedom from undermining my attempts at parenting.  Freedom... to just... be.  Not joy.  There was no joy when she died.  It was sad.  But there was freedom.

I'm not saying I didn't deserve her disapproval. I'm not saying I've done a very good job at much of anything.  I've missed the mark in almost every area of my life. I was the disappointment she thought I was.  For sure. She was just as much a disappointment to me as I was to her.

My parents were separated for about a year when I was four (I think I was four) and my mother and I went to live with my grandmother and great-grandfather.  It was a magical year.  I remember my grandmother and my great-grandfather and dozens of joyful experiences with each of them and the things we did together.  I don't have one memory of my mother during that period.  The only reason I know she was there was because my grandmother told me she was.

The earliest memory of a hole in my life where my mother should have been, was at the age of four.
Thanks to my grandmother and great-grandfather, it was also the first time in my life that I felt loved.
When my mother died, we had a memorial service.  It was packed with people whose lives were touched or changed (or touched AND changed) by my mother.  I heard story after story of how much she loved and was loved by all of these people (hundreds - mostly women).  If you measure success by the mark we leave on the world, my mother was a huge success.  She definitely left an impact on everyone she met.

When I die, I hope no one bothers with a memorial service.  No one would come.  I didn't touch lives.  I didn't change lives.  I didn't leave my mark - didn't impact hundreds. But if my children can say that they felt loved every day of their lives, I will have accomplished everything I hoped to accomplish in my life.

If one day... even one of my children can smile and say any of the following...

"I remember the times we....
...went to the movies
...met for lunch (or dinner)
...went shopping (you go, you get?)
...laughed ‘til we cried"

or...

"No one else will ever...
...love my kids as much as she did
...love me as much as she did
...be my champion like she was"

I hope that I leave joy,
hope, and laughter-filled memories
in the hearts of each of my children -
and love - lots and lots of love - 
no empty spaces.  ...then it's all good. 

Stole What????

Adventures and Misadventures

Stole What???

In the winter of 1968, Rich (my boyfriend at the time, later to be my husband and father of my children) stole his parents’ car (a white 4-door Pontiac Bonneville - '64? '65?) to come and see me at Slippery Rock State College.

His parents were on vacation in Las Vegas or somewhere and Rich got a ride home to Levittown from West Chester on a Friday afternoon, took his parents' Pontiac and headed almost 370 miles to Slippery Rock State College with enough money for gas (barely) to “surprise” me.

Normally, that would have worked.  Life at Slippery Rock was pretty boring.  I didn’t date – didn’t party – was always either at the dorm or at the coffee house on campus listening to open-mic folk music or bad beat poetry.
Sometimes, I went home to Sharon, PA for the weekend with my friend Rose Gracenin, where we drank “Seven and Seven” and danced Serbian folk dances, in a circle, holding hands like the Greek dances you see in the movies - only these were much better because they were Serbian and involved Rosie. (Wild times!)  I always checked with Rich before I went to Rosie's, so... he knew there was no plan that weekend for a trip to Rosie’s.
ANYWAY… I had no idea he was coming.

There was a guy who lived on "the hill" (three dorms at the top of campus, on a very steep "lean-forward-when-you-walk-up-the-hill" hill) named George Sucha (pronounced SHUE-kuh), a senior from Pittsbugh.  George went home most weekends (I wish I had known that in the fall) and always took people who needed a ride to and from the airport – dropped them off on Friday evening and picked them up on Sunday evening.
George was a big guy – tree big – and as sweet as cotton candy.   He had been ill and just started a medication that could make him sleepy.  He had a class on Saturday morning, but promised several people a ride to the airport on Friday night.  He was concerned about falling asleep on the way back, so I volunteered to ride to Pittsburgh and back with him and either keep him awake - or drive.

We pulled back into the parking lot at Slippery Rock about 11:00 Friday night.  Sitting in the car finishing a cigarette (you were not allowed to smoke outside on campus), I was startled by someone pounding on the car window where my head was resting.  Guess who?
Rich opened the car door and he had that “fist through the wall” look on his face.  He arrived at Slippery Rock about 9:00 pm to find that I had gone to Pittsburgh with George and that we would be back sometime before midnight.  He had about two hours to imagine all kinds of scenarios – none of them with a positive “spin”.

At some point, George must have headed quietly to the dorm.  We never saw or heard him leave the car, but then… it had gotten pretty noisy in the parking lot.  I tried to explain, but it wasn’t exactly going well.

We were getting nowhere and we still had the problem of where Rich was going to stay.  It was way too cold (it WAS Slippery Rock in the winter) to stay in the car and boys were not allowed in the girls’ dorms.

Nothing to do but to call George to see if Rich could stay in his dorm.) George was the dorm adviser.)  It took almost 20 more minutes for Rich to calm down enough for me to call George.  It took George about 10 seconds to say “of course” and come out to take Rich back to the dorm (which was right next to my dorm).  It was a pretty sleepless night for me. I imagined the same for Rich.   I hoped George would be okay.

The next morning, Rich and 280 lb. George came out of the dorm together, laughing like old friends.  I was pissed.  I was up all night, worrying, and Rich slept like a rock after he and George became buddies.

George took us to breakfast and then we waved good-bye to George and headed to Pittsburgh for the day.  The day was going well… we talked and laughed and had a good time walking around Pittsburgh.

We went into a “hippie” shop in the city that sold “peace” jewelry, incense, astrological items of all sorts and the most beautiful water pipes.  I bought one for Rich that was a pale, depression glass green, with a long tube, so you could put the water pipe on the end table and smoke.  Right.  I was SO naïve that I thought the purpose of the water pipe was to cool tobacco for a lighter smoke than cigarettes.  Rich made no attempt to correct me – or enlighten me.  Years later, looking back, I was sure he was as naïve as me.  Now? I’m not so sure.  Color me gullible.

It was bitter cold and I had enough money for movie tickets so we went to the movies and saw Bonnie and Clyde.  We loved the movie, but when we got back to the parking garage, we realized that we had locked the keys in the car (we???).   Did I mention that it was finger-freezing, face-numbing cold?

I’ll just say there were a couple of good-sized dents in the side of that Pontiac that hadn’t been there the previous day.  Eventually ("eventually" was never Rich’s “jam”), someone saw our plight and offered to help with a hanger from the dry-cleaning that was in the trunk of their car.

Keys retrieved, Good Samaritan thanked, we headed back to Slippery Rock – in silence.
Rich stayed with George again on Saturday night, and then left early Sunday to head back to Levittown to drop the car off and get a ride back to college with a friend before his parents arrived home from their vacation.

It was not the best weekend ever, but at least we got to Pittsburgh - AND Rich made a new friend.

Dumbest Thing I Ever Did

Adventures and Misadventures

Dumbest Thing I Ever Did

In the late fall of 1967 (November maybe?) I hitchhiked 61 miles from Slippery Rock State College (at the time – University now) to Pittsburgh, PA with the bright and oh-so-handsome, red-headed, Ronnie Koch (very Ed Sheeran) of Long Island, NY?

The previous week, my boyfriend (Rich) called to tell me that he missed me and that I had to come home.  I didn’t have the money to fly home or any other way to get home, but I knew I was going.

Enter Ronnie Koch – a classmate, who desperately (yes, desperately) wanted to go home to Long Island to see his girlfriend.  He was so desperate to go home that he told me he’d buy my plane ticket to Philadelphia (via Allegheny Airlines – they supposedly didn’t have a flight plan -  they followed the roads) if I would hitchhike to Pittsburgh with him.

You see, I was cute then (stop laughing).  Some might even say “hot” (if they said “hot” in the 60s – which they did not).  Ronnie was sure it would be much easier to get a ride with a cute, well-dressed girl as a traveling companion. (Ronnie was astute)

Why did we hitchhike?  There was really no other way to get to Pittsburgh - unless you had a ride.  There was a bus, but the bus took you the wrong direction to Grove City, PA.  Then there were two more bus switches to get to Pittsburgh IF you could make connections.  The buses didn’t run very often so it was very possible to get stranded somewhere between Grove City and Pittsburgh.  Not an option.

So we hitchhiked.  True, it was a “different time”, but I had still never hitchhiked before.  I was excited, but scared to death.  (Ronnie was persuasive)

Ronnie wore a navy blue, pin-striped suit with a tie and vest (Ronnie’s family had money – Long Island, right?).  I wore a red and black buffalo checked suit, with a black turtleneck, black fishnet stockings, and black heels (remember the song by Cake about a short skirt and a lonnnnnnng jacket?  Yup!  I lived that song.) We looked good!  We were about 5 minutes out of Slippery Rock when we scored a ride clear to the airport in Pittsburgh.  Ronnie was a genius.

And I was home.

Did I ever hitchhike again?  Not a chance!

Park HERE!

Mom
March 2, 1925 - September 19, 1985


November 19, 2016

On our way to Kate’s soccer tournament.  Richard texted me to let me know that parking was tough – reminded me to have my handicapped placard out.  They were limiting the number of cars they let in.

It brought back a memory of going to the King of Prussia Mall with my mother at Christmas back in the olden days - when I was a kid.  It was nearly impossible to find a parking place.  My mother spotted an empty spot a couple rows away, so she told me to get out of the car, run across the parking lot and stand in that space until she could get there so that no one could park there.

I did as I was told, but I was mortified – and afraid.  People honked their horns at me – screamed at me – drove their cars right up to me – almost running me over.  I stood there and cried until my mother was able to pull into the spot. I have no idea how old I was, but I was young.

Just another 'good time'.

Feeling Groovy

Mom
March 2, 1925 - September 19, 1985

November 22, 2016

The 59^th Street Bridge Song played on Pandora today and immediately I smiled and thought of my mother (not two things that often happen simultaneously).  I don’t think she knew any of the words except the chorus, but she was great at “ba da-da da-da-da-da, feelin’ groovy”!  I cherish the good memories. 

Slow down, you move too fast
You got to make the morning last
Just kicking down the cobblestones
Looking for fun and feelin' groovy  
Ba da-da da-da da-da, feelin' groovy 

Hello lampost, what'cha knowin'?
I've come to watch  your flowers growin'
Ain't cha got no rhymes for me?
Doo-ait-n-doo-doo, feelin' groovy  

I got no deeds to do, no promises to keep
I'm dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep
Let the morningtime drop all its petals on me
Life, I love you.  All is groovy.
                                          ~ Paul Simon ~