The quickest side-glance, I stared. Near, this young woman stands, attentive, engrossed. Clenching, a blue passport in hand, nervously, poised. In a moment, she can board her flight. I could not see her face clearly, my stare not to be caught.
Repositioning my view, she’s in a puffy blue coat. It's terribly cold this spring week and soon snow is coming that will delay flights. Her coat was long. Her belly is now a large ball, the baby is almost due.
My eyes pop, a blue and yellow flag flowing. So very transparent and delicate. It touches the floor. The flag of Ukraine shelters her in flight.
Yip, its been awhile, but this tale needs telling. Many witnesses are now gone, leaving me to decide whether to perpetuate the tale. Its about this mink coat. It resides in my closet and I have placed it on EBAY. Not two days on EBAY, this coat has hidden history, unknown til this week.
Part of my youth was left behind when moving from my home Danbury, CT. Family bickering a strong contender, desperate need to escape youthful endeavors and the search for life’s meaning with little oversight.
But portions of those times at home, in a then small town were traumatic and humorous. Yes, many brilliant minds birthed from this town, many not escaping the 70s excesses, uncountable siblings, cousins or endless noisy gossip.
Childhood was cool, all my grandparents were near by. And my two grandmothers could not be more different. One never missed Sunday mass, the other a good bar. One said prayers at night, the other insisted there be no priest at her death. One college degree with the ability to read and write in many languages, the other borrowed my 1st and 2nd grade spelling book to teach herself. One called me her Joy, the other repeatedly advising “don’t get knocked up”. One directed any spare change to be placed in the church basket and if extra we could walk to the candy store. The other blurted “take $5 bucks and go the races”. One, comforting words “God see us as all his children”. The other "what’s your last name? Oh, your father was no good, a wife beating drunk!”. One, her father and engineer and many house helpers, the other her child home burnt to the ground and her mother raised 7 of 11 surviving children washing laundry, the lye wore her fingerprints off.
This story is about the other grandmother, indeed I loved them both. I was never allowed to sleep over; completely understandable. On visits, she had the most interesting walk-in wardrobe closet. In it a mink wrap and an array of 1920s dancing accessories and clothing. I’d play dress up for hours or locate her hidden jar of quarters.
She loved to tell a tale, her world was her home at her kitchen table. She rarely traveled and maintained nothing was out there. She ruled her home, her nest; all full control. Often, hot peppers warmed on her cast iron stove, maybe pasta in a pot next to it. Warm peasant bread with butter; I still smell it. Leftover dough to fry. However, refrigerator was mostly empty. Stocked only with pickled eggs and 12 ounce Budweiser cans in the veggie bin. Her cabinets also sparse; few dishes. Proudly belching “never more than would fill the sink and create work to wash”. Yes, almost too simple. Garbage was regularly burned with no permit, a frugal habit. Cigarettes' were hidden in a white wooden draw as she claimed she was quitting. Under linen, was a liter of whiskey, she claimed it evaporated or Aunt Dud, my grandfathers sister, was stealing it. Her bowed window, where the sun filtered through white transparent curtain, the smoking stand near her rocking chair; a ash-filed and Balucci peach cat waiting to be combed of nits. The rocking chair and stand wait for her in my living room. ( reupholstered, of course!)
Then, you could just pop in; customary’ no appointment needed. Except at her nap time in the afternoon. She’d offer you a cigarette and tell a vulgar story. And they were vulgar. Who is sleeping with who and who swindled or screwed someone out of money. Especially if they are related. And in my hometown, we were all cousins. “That one!! He/she is No good, she’d say. “Can’t trust them” she blurted, and remind you how they live in filth. She was tidy. A master at generalizing people, so very politically incorrect today, One bad sheep meant the entire clan was on the blacklist.
My relatives, on this side of the family, can fight over a broken nickel. Some were in the nickel robbing business, but they all like to gamble. Let’s leave it at most in business for themselves.
It's worth noting she was married, that is for another blog. I appreciate these grandparents. They shared a room all their life on the smallest bed, but rarely heard them talk to each other, rather bark. He was almost fully deaf. I think. Odd, she hugged her cat a lot.
Maybe when I was 11 or so, such a terrible fight over family business occurred. My dad and his brother never really spoke again. I recall the brother and his wife at my wedding, some 15 years later. Even with his brothers early death at age 56, we never spoke to that part of the family. The fight was over the family liquor store, each side felt screwed out of money. All I recall is the screaming and confusion. About 46 years pass maybe more, we reached out to those children of my uncle. We is my sister and I and the reunion of sorts was wonderful. It seemed natural to talk about our grandmother; such a character. I mention the mink coat in my closet. My cousin sings the tale returning her to life.
Each year any combination of relatives on my grandmothers side would scrape up the money and fly to Las Vegas on a charter. I was not allowed to go. Understandable, but I recall my sister did one year, she would be a lawyer, not sure how that correlated. Perhaps good luck. I know of no other time this grandmother left Danbury, if it weren’t to see her sister in Brookfield or sister in law in Bethel, maybe 10 miles each way. Brewster, NY at least once to marry quickly :-).
Post marriage, during her working years, she would hoard her green stamps and quarters to get this mink coat. The coat I would play with in the wardrobe closet. Yes. The mink somehow in my closet in my home.
My cousin recounts the second hand tale of the trop.
A year crew of cousins piled in a plane to Vegas, all pumped. Positively a party plane and each is taking turns about how nice their hotel rooms are. Toasting, loud cheers all yelling over each other to be heard. Each extolling who is cheapest, a game. Comparing their room size, whether a single, or even a quad bedroom, a balcony or mini bar.. Calling each other cheap, no good the whole flight. Values equate to worth and having good fun at it. They arrive and transit to the hotel. Dinner time comes and they can not find my grandmother, Betty. Surprised she was not at the meal. she liked to eat. Drink too: whiskey and particularly a high ball.
The meal finishes, no Betty, They call the room no answer. They go to her room, no one comes to the door. House security is called, the room is opened. They can not find her.
Opening the closet, she is sitting there wrapped in her brown mink in the closet; hiding. Then, she opens the mink; buch naked flashes all onlookers, “None of you have this in your room!” Now that takes nerve.
That’s a Wrap. Glad you made it to the end. The mink was sold on Ebay $50. recently; my husband said it looked like rat fur.
This is a nice pic of her with grandpa, holiday time with the spiked punch. She is having a good time. I like her lipstick and that curled hair.
Georgia is the most beautiful Country. Consider touring it. Much of my volunteer work was in tourism and economic development. The people are loving, guests are a blessing. This country is a world model for community cooperation in managing Covid. People's health are first and the cooperation and value for life, the most important. I am so cared for everyday. Guided and checked in on routinely. A single visit can influence your compassion for others, widen your perspective of the world and deepen your faith. Today is strawberry farm visit. It should be yummy! Pictures to follow. A heartfelt thankyou to all my friends in Tbilisi, Batumi, Poti, Telavi, Akhaltsikhe, Martvilli and Kashuri. And most important my family and friends in the United States for their unwavering support and commitment on this trip and my time in PeaceCorps. I love you. BTW women rock the World! Hugs soon.
I will tell you a short story. One of the earliest stamps was from small village in Italy. The Island of Sicily Italy, about 2 or 3 hours south east of Palermo.
I visited with a girlfriend born in this incredibly quaint mountain village, so very ancient. At main square there is an enormous 800 year old church/complex, the stairs are so worn, steep and many. Slippery, a feat to climb. The clay colored stone baked, a result from the African trade winds carrying waves of heat; continuous sun . During my visit, I attended 8am Tuesday mass. Located deep in this a glorious fresco abbey; white iconic figurines climb the walls reaching ceilings that stretch. Women chant melodic high pitched hymns and the Italian Homily spoke directly to me. All I could here was the word “allora” inserted between words of hope. Allora, meaning “then” And then and then.
Not far the stair stoop, is the town center, a cobblestone square. Small outdoor cafes with small chairs to sip your espresso. Sugar is not custom, but a small sweet pastry. . Certainly no eggs. Dinner is mid day, then rest and evening dinner, sleep in, no 6am.Resting is a lovely cultural value.
While at the café, my good friend assists with both purchasing postage and card to send, I addressed it. She of course, is fluent. The post drop is not 50 feet.
In square are enough men, about 10 of them. They seem loiter; uncomfortable to an American, of the norm it seems here. I approach the mail drop, they seem to block it. They were blocking it. Polite to me, yet they would not let me drop my postcard in the box. I had to hand it to the local head. Who then put it in the box for me.
That's patriarchy.
He died btw about a year after that. He was called the mayor. His term was up.
So that is the Italy stamp story. I appreciate you saving them. That stamp like so many is beautiful. Of the many places in the World I travel, finding the post stamp hard, post card easy and drop box has become a tradition.
dededos
romaincrisis
kianamaiart
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