Nonna's Musings

I am a grandmother of Acadian and Italian descent with an opinion about everything and a life filled with folks who are tired of hearing it.

[pmcguffin]

I know...

I have no evidence, yet I know the truth.

He was a respected, trustworthy, Christian man, well known within the community as one who lived his faith according to the scriptures he knew so well. He was highly esteemed, educated, professional, philanthropic, and decent. Who would ever have believed otherwise? His colleagues revered him for his ethics. His family loved him, depended on him, those precious innocents who would have been devastated by the truth...if they could have ever believed the truth.

No. No one would have believed the truth, for he had so skillfully woven that tapestry of righteousness, then proudly wrapped it around himself and wore it like...power.

[pmcguffin]

A religion of madness...

"La follia del Capo era diventata la religione dei seguaci." -Gian Galeazzo Ciano, "I Diari di Ciano"

("The madness of the leader had become the religion of the followers." -Gian Galeazzo Ciano, "Ciano's Diaries")

[endless-unfolding]

“I want to meet no one; I want to say nothing; I want to go down and rest in the black earth of silence.”

— Robert Bly, from “Depression,” Eating the Honey of Words (HarperCollins, 1999)

[pmcguffin]

Deception...

Depression is deceptive. Not everyone is unable to get out of bed or put themselves together for the day. I'm not saying those days don't happen, but the stereotype of melancholia sitting in a bathrobe and socks, staring at the walls, mindless and lethargic day in and day out isn't everyone’s reality.

Many of us have to work, and we manage to haul our butts into workplaces where we struggle to crank out enough moxie to manage the multi-tasking, to keep up with the flow of details, to field the calls, to function.

That’s it, though, because work consumes all we have: the energy, the focus, the give-a-damn. “Peopling” against this fog is so exhausting, we are empty when we return home to our bathrobes and socks. Honestly, some of us are barely cranking out enough moxie one shift at a time.

Pray for our partners; they are picking up the slack and filling in the blanks.

[pmcguffin]

Gathering...

They came from the village and surrounding farms to share the work, to harvest, to pool their resources for a meal, to celebrate, to mourn, or simply to share the wine.  As nights grew colder, they would gather in the barn to share the animals' warmth.  Old men lit their pipes, young women nursed the babies, and everyone sipped the wine.  On crates, overturned buckets, or blankets spread over fresh straw, the gathered settled in for the night’s tale. The barn grew quiet.

We called her "Nonna Vecchia," which translates to Old Grandmother. Revered for her wisdom, Teresa Gandini Verita` had the gift of "knowing" and she could see "dentro gli ochi" and into your soul. Now, that old woman was known far and wide for her storytelling, and it would be her stories that drew folks into that barn.

Nonna Vecchia would pull a hot brick from the fire and place it on the ground beneath her long skirts, with her granddaughter sitting at her feet, sharing the warmth. Her aged voice crackling, she spun her darkest imaginings into macabre tales so ghoulish they prickled the spine.

Saturday nights with good neighbors fostered a sense of collective purpose.  They worked and played together, and on Sunday, they worshipped together.  The village was close-knit…until it wasn’t. 

Il Duce.  Blackshirts.  Informants.  Long-trusted neighbors and friends were turning on one another, and suspicion spread.  Whether swallowing the propaganda or simply trying to stay safe from the punitive regime, the result was the same -no one trusted anyone anymore, not even their own relatives. 

A neighbour went missing, taken in the dark of night with no warning, no explanation…just gone.  What did he say, and to whom?  No one spoke freely anymore about anything;  even an innocent observation could be reported as dissent. 

Teresa ended those story nights in the barn. She understood that any assemblage could look like a meeting of the Resistance, which might arouse the suspicions of overly zealous Blackshirts. They gathered no more during that regime, nor the one that came after, when Blackshirts became Brownshirts. Appearances mattered. Besides, who wants to share a bottle of tongue-loosening wine with enemies disguised as friends?

In the cafes, only the ancient survivors of war were bold enough to convene over an afternoon espresso. Harmless old men.

Even after Italy's liberation by the Allies, the atmosphere remained cautious for a very long time. Neighbors kept to themselves, avoiding the idle chatter and small talk that relaxes one into revealing more than they intended. 

Conciliation came only after their rage was extinguished by retribution. People shunned those who had betrayed them, refused goods and services to those who collaborated with their oppressors, and shaved the heads of desperate women before parading them through the streets.  Nonna told me those days were punctuated by a lot of angry hollering...much can be purged from the soul with a good scream.

Healing? Eventually, it came. The village would once again gather in that barn, where Nonna Vecchia would create new stories, ignited by the experience of those regimes.  War is ghastly, and she channeled the darkness of that time into what would be remembered as her most bone-chilling tales.

Teresa Gandini Verita`'s wisdom, discernment, and gift of knowing helped save them... even in the aftermath.

[pmcguffin]

Wednesday rituals...

Wednesdays were busy days for me, a newly married high school senior.  Wednesdays were a rush between after-school Thespian Club meetings and church. It was the general rule that if the church doors were open for the gathering of the brethren, we would be among the assemblage.  Being busy was no reason to miss the mid-week service, and by late afternoon, I was so frazzled I could barely think, so…  To keep dinner quick and easy, I turned to the convenience of “Tuna Helper.”

Every single Wednesday evening meant a plateful of that time-and-budget-saver-in-a-box, prepared as quickly as I could manage.  We hurriedly ate in time to wash off the day's grime, grabbed our Bibles, and propelled ourselves out of the apartment without a minute to spare. This had become my mindless Wednesday night ritual until the evening my husband asked if I could jazz the “Tuna Helper” up with something, you know, for a change, “…like…maybe…put peas in it or…whatever?”  Sure.  I could do that.  Peas, why not?  The next Wednesday was “Tuna Helper” with peas.  He said he liked it, so we ate it with peas every single Wednesday thereafter until he asked, “Uhm, I know I said I liked the peas, but do we have to have it like this forever now?” 

Seriously?  Why didn’t I make Wednesday “sandwich night” with a stash of hoagie rolls and a rotating selection of bologna, tuna, and peanut butter available?  Because a good wife cooks for her husband.

[pmcguffin]

The women in the kitchen…

The Wednesday night Bible study was moved to Thursday nights. We boarded the “home-groups” train that was trending in those days, and we were grouped according to which Elder’s house was proximal to ours.  Logistics, naturally -the Elders were engineers.

I was impatient for that first meeting.  This Catholic girl gets a little unnerved by those Sunday services where the preacher reads a Bible verse, then fiercely expounds on it, sometimes with an intensity that yanks him out of his jacket in his frenzy over all that hellfire and damnation. Nope, all that fired-up hollering from the pulpit never edified my spirit.  I longed for a calm, contemplative study where exchanging ideas and perspectives would enrich our spirits and foster closer friendships among this earnest little band of Bible scholars.

Thursday came.  I stepped into a spacious living room, settled on a large floor pillow, and rested against an ottoman.  The atmosphere was casual and subdued; it felt pretty good.  After the initial prayer, we opened our Bibles to the chapter of focus in the study, and before I knew it, I was happily engaged in a lively discussion.  One deacon leaned my way as he spoke, inviting me into a dialogue. He was erudite and eloquent, with a keen intellect and a wonderful sense of humor -I genuinely liked him.  Never condescending, he offered his perspectives while validating mine as we looked to the practical applications of the scriptures at hand, and I appreciated his wisdom.  It was good, to feel connected and valid. The moment was short-lived.

Once the meeting was over, the women retreated to make coffee. The men remained. I stayed until I noticed a raised brow with a directional glance toward the kitchen. Oh. I got it. I stood and slipped through the door to find the Women in the Kitchen caught up in animated chatter about diaper rash ointment and -I kid you not- whether it is worth the effort to wash and reuse plastic sandwich baggies. It was made clear that my input was irrelevant when I was told that until I have a baby, I "can’t possibly understand..." anything apparently.  I understood this:  the Women in the Kitchen were not my tribe.

Easing back into the living room, I sidled onto the sofa armrest.  The men were discussing the current socio-political climate, the Church’s place in the world at large, practical ways we could best minister to our community, and whether to address our need for more space by expanding or moving... the big picture. 

Creative ideas, some lofty goals, and a good measure of healthy debate were happening in that living room full of men, with me precariously perched on an armrest -the only woman not in the kitchen.  They didn’t miss a beat.  No one noticed.  None of the men moved to make room for me on that sofa.  Not one.  Yet, there I sat like a glaring neon sign blinking in the face of their purposeful disregard.  Refusing to take the hint, I remained, invisible, silently swallowing swells of rage as those men planned our future and decided our places within it without any input from us -the Women in the Kitchen, and me.

On the drive home, I was confronted with my behavior.  Why couldn’t I sit quietly like the other wives, refrain from joining the discussion, and stay with the Women in the Kitchen where, I suppose, I belonged?  I wanted to scream, “Why aren’t the Women in the Kitchen invited to stay and encouraged to participate in the discussion?”  Instead, I tightened my jaw and muttered, “They weren’t talking about anything interesting, and since I’m not a mother, no one cares what I have to say.”  He asked me to try.  I bit my lip.

He doesn’t get it:  no one wants me, but the exclusion by the men is more than oppressive; it is insulting.  The Women in the Kitchen are their wives, the mothers of their children, and the ones who keep life going forward against all that would interfere.  They are the anchors in their homes, the very hearts of their families. It will be the Women in the Kitchen, without voices, bearing the burden of the men’s decisions.  Although the Women in the Kitchen are not seated at the table for discussion, they will be expected to strategize sacrifices from their household budgets to finance the men’s plans (imagine washing and reusing disposable sandwich baggies --do the men even know their wives do that?)  The Women in the Kitchen will be “holding down the fort” while the men devote their evenings away from their families to manage new and ongoing projects and church business.  After preparing breakfast to ignite the morning and ushering everyone to the day’s destinations, the Women in the Kitchen will be parenting solo until they get the children into bed.  Finally, once the men have returned home, these devoted wives (veiling their own weariness) shall cheerfully serve their husbands a carefully reheated dinner. 

Imagine.  Though they are the ones who create the very propulsion that provides the momentum to move the work forward, The Women in the Kitchen have no voices.

None, because the Women in the Kitchen are not invited to that table... except to serve it.      

[pmcguffin]

Tales from the night shift...

While routinely dimming the lights at 9pm, I tell the nurses, “I'm setting the mood, the only things missing are some candles and lingerie." 

When computer issues are beyond our in-house techs, I call "corporate" whereby I am immediately put on hold. I sit veiled in darkness except for the glow of my computer screen, and that awful music begins...low...slow...undulating with a rhythm that sounds like old porn music with the same loop replaying again, and again, until I reach my wits' end and half-expect Marilyn Chambers to come sashaying from behind a green door. 

I am jolted back to reality the moment "Jeremy" gets on the line with his sensuous Barry White voice, deep, sexy, and as I listen...in the dark...I swear I can hear the clinking of ice and whiskey in a fine crystal glass and the slow exhale of smoke from a Turkish cigarette.

[pmcguffin]

Life lessons from the neighborhood hub (things Mrs. Milam taught us)

• The greatest commandment is not a suggestion. Christianity is more than talk and a sermon on Sunday. Matthew 22:37-39 mentions loving God and loving your neighbor. Mrs. Milam showed us how to live that commandment.

• I had spent my childhood on military bases and the only gardening we ever did was to hide a tomato plant or two behind the zinnias in our quarter’s designated flower beds. At the Milam house, I learned to shuck corn, shell peas, and that real green beans had “strings” in ‘em (who knew?)

• Try new things. I saw Mrs. Milam pop a raw okra in her mouth once! A…raw…okra! The stuff of nightmares, I tell ya! I have since tried it…and lived.

• Elvis.

• Participation is mandatory. Ice cream always tastes better when we make it ourselves and everyone takes a turn cranking or sitting on the churn.

• Every child should feel loved, nurtured, encouraged.

• One can feast (and I do mean FEAST) without meat on the table, especially when the tomatoes are fresh, ripe, and juicy.

• Even company is included in the household labors. There is plenty of work to go around and the rewards are awesome.

• Elvis.

• Icing a cake is an art. One does not plop a glob of frosting between cake layers and then schmear the stuff around the sides. I still heat a spatula in hot water to smooth things nicely.

• Mrs. Milam taught me how to make roses out of icing, set them aside to dry, and put them on the cake…just…so.

• I learned the confidence to sew anything. At a time when she made everything her girls wore, even lingerie, I would sit and watch her lay out her fabric and we’d chat a bit. She shared her expertise and she introduced me to “Cora’s Nylon Shop.” That little hole in the wall was stuffed to the rafters with everything nylon. I loved it, and I mourn its closing to this day.

• Flooding basements can be taken in stride, as long as there is a toilet downstairs.

• The Lord comes first. Elvis is important.

• There is joy in being at the center of “the village,” you know, the one it takes to raise a child. I learned that all children belong to all of us, and we should watch out for them.

• Everyone should be welcomed, invited to share the work, and always included at the table.

• Laughter is powerful.

• Love is an active verb.

• There are rules for Elvis movies:

1. Everyone be quiet.

2. Assume the house mode of “every man for himself.”

3. No one is to bother Mom unless one is bleeding or on fire (and that means copious amounts of blood and the flames are close enough to lick the TV set.)

• Be happy with what you have.

Work hard for what you want.

Be thankful to God for everything.

[pmcguffin]

Playing with matches...

It was an era when neighbors were friendly, most fathers went to work while their wives stayed at home to raise the children, and everyone on the block kept an eye on the kids.  We lived “on post” in side-by-side cookie-cutter military housing we called “quarters,” with small, interconnected yards and a speed limit so low that a good runner could almost keep pace with the traffic.  There were no fences to separate us, gardening was limited to the designated flower beds, and every blade of grass stood exactly the same.  In spite of the protocols that defined our structured environment, those days felt free and easy and safe.  We used to call it a “normal childhood.”  Normal certainly looks different now.

Mrs. Shepard came over every weekday morning to have coffee with Mama.  It was Summer, and we kids were usually shooed out the back door where we played kickball and tag until we were spent, refreshing ourselves with water from the garden hose.  Mama would come to the window when we got too loud or too quiet, or to call us in for lunch.  This day was different.  No one was outside that day, and my brother had gone over to the Shepard’s quarters to play with Timmy and his little sister.  As for me, I stayed home with Mama and my books.

Except for the chatter from the women in the kitchen, the day was peaceful…until it wasn’t.  Little Maryann came running in the back door, arms flailing, screeching, “Fire!! They started a fire on the curtains!!!”  We hurried next door to see what was burning, and sure enough, the curtains were afire.  Our mothers frantically beat the flames into submission, then…they called our dads.  The boys didn’t know how it happened…they only lit a couple of matches…wanted to see if the dog was afraid of fire (she was) …never got close to the window…   Suddenly, the prickle of fear was in the air as we heard that dreaded phrase, “Just wait until your father gets home!”  

Home they came, and after settling the boys’ punishments, they surveyed the damage:  the wall could be painted and the curtains replaced, but that scorched carpet would be a challenge.  

We were living in “quarters” for crying out loud, and the last thing they wanted was to have to report the damage and deal with the fallout.  There was always the anticipation of transfer, and the best way to “clear quarters” was to keep things tidy at all times, so this would be handled quickly and discreetly.  The first stop was the supply hut for Army-standard paint and a new set of Army-issue drapes.  The next stop was the fabric store for yarn in all the colors in the carpet pattern and some curved upholstery/carpet needles. Tools in hand, they were ready to get started.

Now, I don’t remember the painting or the new drapes, but I will never forget the sight of our dads on their knees and elbows in the corner of that living room. With their butts in the air and their tongues stuck out, they struggled to weave the different colored fibers into the carpet, determined to match the pattern and completely hide the damage.  It was time-consuming, painstaking work, with a great deal of cussing throughout the process until, finally, we were all invited to inspect the completed project.  The yarn matched so closely, and there was an artistry in the perfect application of stitches and loops…no one could tell where the carpet was repaired, and there were no signs that the boys had ever torched the place.  

Pleased with themselves, our dads had honed some skills and were enjoying a measure of satisfaction in their accomplishment, our moms kept a closer eye on things, banning all unsupervised paying at the neighbor’s quarters for a while, and the boys?  Oh, yeah, the boys learned a couple of valuable lessons:  only play with matches outdoors, and don’t sweat the accidents because our dads can fix anything. 

[pmcguffin]

Patterns...

When I stopped calling every day, we stopped talking every day.

When I stopped calling every week, we stopped talking every week.

When I stopped calling every two weeks, we stopped talking every two weeks.

When I stopped calling every month, we stopped talking every month.

When I stopped calling...we stopped talking...

It was not until I stopped that I saw the pattern.  How sad it that? 

[pmcguffin]

Never again...

There is an old saying about "being at church every time the doors are open." That’s us.  Those doors are open, so here we are, though I am just not feeling it tonight (my chronic condition these days.)  As we step inside, an eerie sense makes the hair on my arms stand on end. I want to go home.    

Only the altar light is burning, shrouding the sanctuary in just enough darkness to set the scene and subdue the mood.  Dramatic.  I suppress an eye-roll.  We greet one another in whispers as though we were a conspiratorial cell of the French Resistance. Now, I don’t disparage the good that can come from the power of communal prayer -but these things?   It is hard to explain, but there is sometimes a layer beneath these orchestrated vespers that I find unsettling. Invasive.

“But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret... (Matthew 6:6)  

Shuffling my feet like a decrepit old drunk, I stumble across the threshold, and despite my efforts to slink beneath the shadows in the back row, I am piloted further down the aisle.  Chilled to the bone, I wish I had brought a sweater.  I stop walking, and without asking, I sit. I am tired.

I don’t want to be with people, not tonight.  I have a cold, which is my reward for helping in the nursery, of course, because Church is pretty much the only place I go (except to visit my parents, who aren’t sick.)  Since no one will keep their sick babies home and miss a Sunday service, I am now numbered among the afflicted. I can’t thank them enough.  My face feels on fire.  I should be comfortably nestled at home, on the sofa, in my jammies, chest slathered with Vicks Vapor Rub, clinging to my box of Kleenex, and peacefully sipping a steamy cup of tea -but no.  I could not make that happen, so I sit, quietly, hoping no one will notice.

Shivering, I reach for the sweater I forgot to bring.  I can’t shake the sense of impending doom that weighs heavily on my chest (or maybe it is the onset of pneumonia.)  Have I mentioned that I don’t want to be here?  My head weighs a ton.

The Elders begin to pray (not one woman among them, per, as I recall, Paul’s suggestions somewhere in I Corinthians.)  Offering their supplications, each voice rises and falls in turn...on and on...thanks to the two Pharisees who have long been saving their petitions for this performance.  It is a practiced cadence, this collective chorus of “Yes Lord, Amen,” the rhythm of which lulls me almost to sleep.  I shake myself awake.   

A chair is pulled to the altar with a declaration of the need for “healing in this place."  We are encouraged to come forward where the Elders shall pray by the “laying on of hands” (Hebrews 6:2) and the “anointment with oil” (James 5:14) and we shall by faith receive the "healing to come."  I slyly look around, trying to gauge...how many...  I sigh and dab my reddened nose with a wadded tissue.  Good Lord, I am so cold.

One by one, they come forward and the Elders pray for release, healing, and the casting out of whatever demon is causing their troubles. The pleas are fervent, unending... exhausting.  Anxiety continues to gnaw at my very bones.  This is excruciating.

Coaxed forward, I remain rigid. “You need this, you’re sick,” he whispers with a nudge.  I resist with a shake of my head, “It’s just a cold.”   He persists until I give in and slide into place.  The Elders anoint me, their voices rising as they press their hands onto my shoulders.  Oil drips down my nose and I reach for a tissue, but my arm is pinned.  One of them has pushed against me, leaning so damn close that I can feel his breathing against my neck.  He smells of coffee and mints, and his mouth moves against my ear as he hisses, “You neeeed…to confesss…your sssin.”  I cannot move.  Breath so hot, my skin feels scorched.  I fear my head will explode.  I shudder, smacked with the sudden realization of my growing dread.  A scream swells but it finds no voice.  I have lost my voice.  In here it has no place.

I don’t remember leaving. In the car, I sit in stunned silence, feeling strangely defiled.  Once home, I open the linen cabinet, grab a clean washcloth and unwrap a new bar of soap. I let the shower run hot before stepping into the steam, where, under the scalding spray, I furiously scrub every inch of my skin until the water runs cold and I emerge, purged.  Dripping and shivering, I wipe the misted mirror to reveal a reflection I no longer recognize.

I open my jar of Vicks and inhale slowly, deeply, inviting its stinging vapors to clear my head and reawaken my senses. Anger swells, and I make a promise to the face in the mirror:  Never again, for I will find my voice and reclaim my space--no matter how long it takes.

[pmcguffin]

Secrets...

‘Tis a deep melancholy, the isolation that is born from our secrets. 

Hushed whispers in the darkness are long buried by the passage of time, yet the remnants echo, softly, a solitary souvenir. 

Clandestine liaisons leave us lonely; there is no reminiscing over tea in the company of a confidant. 

In solitude, we will carry the burden of our hauntings, closely guard our memories, and savor the bittersweetness of our lingering emotions...for the rest of our days.

[pmcguffin]

“Walk this way...”

Life isn't quite the same without Mama's commentary.

Last night, while shopping, we found ourselves behind a woman with so much jiggle in her backside, we couldn’t tell where that butt was going to swing from one aisle to the next.  Prodigious it was, and as one who sports a big fat behind of my own, I was duly impressed.      

All of that booty power was wrapped in leggings stretched so far beyond their limits, the Lycra finally surrendered to a permanent state of relaxation.  Without an ounce of Spandex left to contain the shake, and with nary a hint of underwear, her ample butt looked pretty naked beneath that gossamer-thin jersey.  She wore a pretty little knit top that barely covered her midriff, and no.  The mom in me wanted to grab a tunic off the rack and take her to the mirror section for a brief lesson on proper coverage!

Anyway, that lady sashayed and quivered back and forth in the aisle, swaying hither and yon, with a good portion of her tights crammed into a butt crack so powerful, it ate a little more fabric with every step she took (how could she not feel that?)  Suddenly she stopped, and without warning backed into the face of a little kid behind her, and oh!  The eye-popping expression on that boy's face pushed us right over the edge. 

Tom and I stopped, paralyzed with suppressed laughter until she was out of range and we could give in to the hysteria.  We laughed ‘til we cried. Finally, Tom managed to gasp, "Man, if your mother was here, she would be losing her mind."  

[writingdotcoffee]

What you read is as important as what you write.

Margaret Atwood (via writingdotcoffee)

[pmcguffin]

A good pounder...

When I was a child, Daddy puttered, and wherever Daddy puttered, I was right there with him.  He had a little corner for making “doojigs” --those little lures with the feathered bottoms that were a sure thing for catching rainbow trout.  I spent hours watching him pour molten lead into little molds to which he had affixed the bright tails, and I waited impatiently for them to cool.  The refraction from the heated metal fascinated me, and I was captivated by his precise painting of the eyes and the way he wound thread around those necks with a little schmear of contact cement just…so. He was an artist, a genius, and I was convinced that my daddy could make anything.  

Meanwhile, Mama was busy taking care of us and our home, creatively stretching every dollar to meet our needs. My mother could make some truly impressive dinners with that limited budget, but those “economy cuts” of meat needed a little extra work.  She commented every time she grabbed her meat mallet that she wished she had a “good pounder” like the chef had at the Hotel Milano, for it had some weight to it. Daddy told her he’d fix her just what she needed.  He then took the lid off the mayonnaise jar, grabbed an old carving fork from the drawer, and slid behind his little doojig bench.  He poured hot lead into that mayonnaise lid, cut the tines off that fork and set the handle into the molten metal.  When it had cooled, he presented that crude mallet to her as though he had fashioned it from pure gold, “Here, Cicci.  Here’s a ‘good pounder’ for ya.”  Mama smiled the moment she felt the weight of that hardened lead in her hand, it was heavy. It was crude but serviceable, she loved it, and Daddy was proud he had pleased her.  Oh, we didn’t give much thought to lead poisoning in those days, and the meat was always covered for pounding, so we were safe enough, I’m sure.  Yes, I still cover the meat for pounding, and yes, I still use Mama’s “good pounder.”  

I miss those two souls every single day.  

[pmcguffin]