Passaggiata

I live in a rural part of my town in Maine. There are few places that I can get to on foot that wouldn’t require packing for a half day passaggiattatrek. That’s why I looked forward to the Bean Supper this year. This is a destination that I could comfortably walk to and from and to which there was a good chance I could convince my daughter to accompany me.

As we walked along my road, the word ‘passaggiata‘ came to my mind. This is, as I understand it, the Italian custom of taking a walk through the town after dinner.  Historically, this is something my family has only practiced on holidays.

You know, hardly ever.

Other than the walk we took after Thanksgiving dinner one year, I am hard pressed to remember any other times we’ve done this. Why not? Okay, in the summer it’s because I am no match for those horseflies that will use every ounce of energy they have in their creepy little bodies to enter either my nose or my ears or, failing that, sting the crap out of me. But this time of year there is no good reason. Oh, yes, one: I’m too lazy.

Well, tonight I am happy to say that we walked to dinner, ate, and walked home. The rain felt lovely. Despite the deluge that was predicted, it remained fairly light so we didn’t get too drenched.The company of my daughter was much appreciated. I even entertain the thought of doing this again tomorrow night.

We’ll see.

Long time no see

dad (1)I went to see Melissa at Deep Blue Truth in Kennebunk today. I go every year (at least once) near my birthday as a present to myself. I always get messages from one or more of my friends and relatives that have died, and today was no exception.
When they come through, they always talk about something that is personal to me and to them. Something that helps me know that it is really them. Something that no one else would know. They give some kind of a sign.

Today, someone named John came through. Okay, so John is my dad, so that’s a no brainer. Melissa told me that he kept telling her to say ‘matches’, to talk about striking matches.

!

Last night, I was talking to my husband, telling him I needed to get some more matches to light candles, that I was down to my last 2 books.  I joked that I was just coming to the end of my dad’s stockpile of boxes of matchbooks that we found in his house after he died…in 1998.

Pass the kleenex.

Faith, Hope, and Charity

20140215-203534.jpgMy grandmother Emily, my mother’s mother, was the only girl in her family of five. Yep; she had four, count ‘em, four brothers. At least, that was what I thought when I was a girl. When I got older, she told me that she actually had three sisters. Triplets. They were named Faith, Hope, and Charity. Whether it was because they were so little when they were born, or that the family lacked enough cradles to accommodate three infants at the same time, they were bedded in three bureau drawers.

Unfortunately, their lives were short. They only lived about three months, I believe, when they succumbed to pneumonia. When she told me the story, I thought: Oh! that is so sad! Oh! There were really four boys and four girls in her family!

I also thought: Oh! I would have so many more cousins if they had lived!

Anyway, I thought a lot about those three short lives. I loved their names. I loved the story about the bureau drawers. I wanted to honor them in some way. Here’s what I do: Every time I knit something, I knit “Faith, Hope, and Charity” into the piece by repeating their names as I knit or purl, so that many times over I have wished these thoughts for the recipient of whatever I am knitting. I hope it makes them feel amazing when they wear it. I hope my triplet grand-aunts in heaven know that even though their lives were brief, all these years later, I am thinking of them and they are making a difference in my life, as well as (this is my hope) in the lives of the people who wear the FHC articles.

The kindness of strangers

My daughter was working in a project for her history class that required her to do a Jackie Chan impersonation. This required her to wear a gi ( full disclosure: until I googled it I was spelling it ‘gee’-my bad). Izzy did take karate years ago…for about 5 minutes. Needless to say, we did not own a gi.

So first, I put the word out to the Wells Women Facebook page but got no responses.
Next, I called my brother, who took judo and/or karate for years. “Sure, I have one,” he told me, “but I have no idea where it is,” he finished. “I know I didn’t throw it away,” he added, helpfully. No good. We needed it right away.
Then I had a sudden impulse to ask my friend Teresa. I don’t know why. I just did. And although Teresa didn’t have one, she knew someone who did.
Angela was willing to let my daughter borrow her gi, no questions asked. Because of the kindness of one friend and one stranger, my daughter’s Jackie Chan rocked!
Thank you Teresa. Thank you Angela.
:)

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Cardinals

cardinalI recently spent a few minutes (okay, hours) trolling the Facebook news feed and something caught my eye. Someone (sorry, I have no idea who or what or when exactly) posted that every time you see a red cardinal, that is a sign that a loved one that has died is saying hello to you, or something to that effect.

That’s nice, I thought.

Then a funny thing happened. I started noticing red cardinals.

  1. My friend Christine at work has a tapestry hung up in  her cube that depicts multiple red cardinals.
  2. I went to the movies to see The Nut Job (skip this one-see The Secret Life of Walter Mitty instead) and the bad guy’s side kick was a red cardinal. A squat, mean, nasty caricature of a cardinal, but still a cardinal.
  3. Today, I went to brunch at The Good Table in Cape Elizabeth and there in the foyer was a fake tree with cardinals all over the branches.

So, maybe this is just that phenomenon that happens to you when you are pregnant and you suddenly start seeing pregnant women everywhere you go.

On the other hand, this is the time of year that my mother and father died (mom 2/29/96 and dad 3/15/98) and so I am already thinking about them.

Maybe they are thinking about me, too.

Still becoming

The_Secret_Life_of_Walter_Mitty_1274874When my mother was 51, she was busy getting ready to die, but she didn’t know this yet. Well, maybe she did know it on some level, but she never talked about it with me pre-diagnosis so I really can’t be sure. Certainly none of us, her children, her husband, knew it yet.

I’m 51. At 51, I feel like I am still becoming who I am. At 51, her life was drawing to a close.

Seeing  The Secret Life of Walter Mitty has me thinking about things like this today. Walter Mitty is about  many things. It’s about living your life, but also it’s about how you live it. You can spend it offsides, thinking about what you wish you were doing or imagining all that you’d like to (someday) do. Or, you can, at any time, decide to actually do the thing(s) that you thought you could not ever do.

“You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.’ You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”

― Eleanor RooseveltYou Learn by Living: Eleven Keys for a More Fulfilling Life

In the movie, it was a fine line. Walter Mitty crossed it. I don’t think that my mother ever crossed it. I am wondering if I have crossed it.

Interwoven throughout Mitty are images of his past that are meaningful to him. They are there to let him know that a) he is on the right track and that b) both of his parents, his dad who had died when he was 17, and his mother who was still alive and baking clementine cakes for him, were there supporting him every step of the way.

For me, the real message of this movie is this: No matter what, we are always our parents’ child.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

hair 2I have long hair. Whoops, I used to have long hair.  I have a tradition. Every few years, when my hair gets long enough, I cut it off and donate it to Locks of Love. I have done this for years. My daughter donated her hair from her first hair cut.

I wasn’t sure how long it took me to regrow my braid so I checked back…had it been 3 years? Four? Nope. It’s been  less than 2 year this time! Who knew my hair could still grow that fast?

The minimum required to make a wig is 10 inches, which is just what I gave this year.

This time, for some reason, my daughter tried to talk me out of it. I couldn’t figure out what the problem was, so I asked her,

And she told me. “Mom, I don’t think you look good with short hair.”

Once again proving that some things are better left unsaid.

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