No, I still haven't heard from George, but I do talk to dead people all of the time. My parents passed away a few years back. When they were still alive we lived several states apart and I did not see them often-a few times a year. In addition, we are part of an older generation who didn't communicate regularly. It's partially due to a lack of technology during my young adult years, combined with long-distance phone charges, but even so, it wasn't our way to be in constant contact. Things are different now-I talk to my older kids who have flown the nest most days, at least by text. If I had called my parents daily, however, they would have been a little perplexed and possibly annoyed. I can see them thinking, "Yes, it's a nice day but what the hell do you want? I'm busy here, for Pete's sake!"
Now that they are dead, however, I talk to them all the time. I talk to them about my kids, the family, decisions I'm considering, the song on the radio, memories, lessons learned, and the direction I'm traveling in. Literally. I am always asking them to help me get un lost. My father is especially good at party tricks, so for awhile I'd ask him for stuff, needing the constant reassurance that he was still paying attention.
"Dad, if you are there, can you give me a Jim Croce song?"
"Hey, Dad, gimme a sign, gimme a sign!"
"Okay Dad, this is totally random, but how about a good deal on cream-colored, 3-inch heeled pumps?"
In death, as in life, he has never let me down. I've stopped asking for things, though, because one day it occurred to me that there may be a cost for these things that I'm not aware of. No, I don't imagine there's a monetary exchange system where they are, but I can imagine some kind of energy exchange, and I don't want to tax his resources
Grieving is personal and different for everyone. Talking to my dead people is what comforts me. It's also quite handy when I'm talking myself into something. A purchase, perhaps, or an extra slice of pizza. I could call my husband, step mom, or my best friend, but they might have an opinion. An opinion that may not serve my purposes. My dead people, on the other hand, want me to have these things. If they didn't, I assume they would send a sign. In fact, they are a lot less judgemental now than they were as mere humans. I've heard heaven does that to a person.
Chicken out
Showing posts with label vi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vi. Show all posts
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Vi Chronicles: Charming Matty
I grew up in a family of people who love to fish. When I was very young, I could bait a hook, catch a fish, gut it and cook it. And I could eat it, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the process. The only thing I bait now is my husband. I'm a pretty good husband baiter, to tell the truth. But that's a whole other story.
We grew up inland, so mostly we fished in lakes. My Mom, Vi, and her husband, Tony, lived in the city for a long time, however, and the closest water available was the Atlantic. When I would visit them in the summers, we would fish off the pier.
One summer, we spent a lot of time on that pier. This wasn't a board walk pier, or a tourist pier, or anything romantic. It was just a pier. A lot of people fished there and it smelled like a lot of people fished there. It wasn't where you took a girl for a stroll and a stolen kiss. It was where fish went to die.
One day, I was there with Vi, Tony, their neighbor Matty, and his wife, whose name I've forgotten. Matty had a broken leg, probably well earned. He was reckless, impulsive, gregarious and the life of any party. That day, he was limping around in a full leg cast, aided by crutches. I was about 11 at the time.
My mom had given me a pole that I could use to "fish off the bottom", which basically meant, "sit down, behave yourself, and feel important with this pole that won't catch anything, while we adults use our much better casting rods to catch the real fish."
Or maybe I was reading too much into it.
There was talk about mackerel vs pollock and I believe it might have been mentioned once or twice that you had to use the casting rods to catch the mackerel, which were the better eating fish, but a little oily. There was also a lot of posturing and bragging, as the cold beers got passed around from the ever present cooler. I drank my "Sody-pop", as my mother liked to call it, and kept my eye on the prize, with my stupid ole fishing rod and no casting apparatus, while I kept one ear on the adult conversations to see what bits of grownup mystery I could capture in my net. I can see me sitting there, all blue eyed and brown skinned, with my denim cut-offs, dirty keds, and my favorite white striped t-shirt.
At some point, I got a bite. A big bite. And I yelled, "Hey! Hey, you guys, I got something here. I caught something!" Matty came over to help me pull it in. "Probably pollock or pickerel or something. Maybe a shoe", he told the others. Well, we kept working on it, and we pulled that thing in, and what do you think it was? A beautiful, huge, mackerel. "Well, huh.", Matty said, "Will ya look at that!" People made a big deal, and took pictures with their gigantic polaroid cameras of me and my two-foot fish. It was my little moment in the sun, until Matty had to go and steal my thunder.
After I caught the big fish, everyone started fishing off the bottom, as it seemed the good fish were biting there. Someone else caught one, and the mood became even more celebratory. Or maybe that was the beer. The problem with beer is that it has a window of jolliness, and once that window closes, things can get less jolly without much warning. Our window closed that day at about 7:30 PM. At that point, Matty's wife wanted to go home, but Matty didn't want to go, so they had words. Bad words. Then Matty, in a fit of anger, took his crutches and threw them in the Atlantic.
"WELL, THERE!", he said, "Now look at what you made me do!" and he turned around and limped back up the pier towards a good bar that had cold beer and no cold wives. The rest of us were shocked into awestruck silence for about a second, and then we laughed, even Matty's wife, because Matty was such a riot. Everyone forgot about my huge fish after Matty's display of manly bravado. Later on he cooked my fish and he declared it the best fish he ever ate. That was Matty's charming side. Lucky for him, he was more charming than not, and so usually got away with his impulsive drunken acts.
The next day some guys were out on a boat in the harbor. They saw a crutch floating around, and they pulled it in. It had Matty's name on it. One guy said, "Hey, I know Matty! He musta dropped his crutch!" He brought it over to Matty's house. Matty got 50% of his crutches back. Everyone laughed, Matty loudest of all.
Who do you know that's charming? And have you ever wanted to go back in time and hug the kid that was you? What would you whisper in the kid's ear before you released her?
PS I went fishing around for some info about fish to check my memory and I found this video. It is so reminiscent of those trips to the pier, that I had to show it to you. I laughed out loud when I saw it. I believe this is the State Pier in Gloucester, MA. We fished off the Portland Pier in Portland, ME. I borrowed it from a guy named Joey C. Thank you, Mr. C.!
We grew up inland, so mostly we fished in lakes. My Mom, Vi, and her husband, Tony, lived in the city for a long time, however, and the closest water available was the Atlantic. When I would visit them in the summers, we would fish off the pier.
One summer, we spent a lot of time on that pier. This wasn't a board walk pier, or a tourist pier, or anything romantic. It was just a pier. A lot of people fished there and it smelled like a lot of people fished there. It wasn't where you took a girl for a stroll and a stolen kiss. It was where fish went to die.
One day, I was there with Vi, Tony, their neighbor Matty, and his wife, whose name I've forgotten. Matty had a broken leg, probably well earned. He was reckless, impulsive, gregarious and the life of any party. That day, he was limping around in a full leg cast, aided by crutches. I was about 11 at the time.
My mom had given me a pole that I could use to "fish off the bottom", which basically meant, "sit down, behave yourself, and feel important with this pole that won't catch anything, while we adults use our much better casting rods to catch the real fish."
Or maybe I was reading too much into it.
There was talk about mackerel vs pollock and I believe it might have been mentioned once or twice that you had to use the casting rods to catch the mackerel, which were the better eating fish, but a little oily. There was also a lot of posturing and bragging, as the cold beers got passed around from the ever present cooler. I drank my "Sody-pop", as my mother liked to call it, and kept my eye on the prize, with my stupid ole fishing rod and no casting apparatus, while I kept one ear on the adult conversations to see what bits of grownup mystery I could capture in my net. I can see me sitting there, all blue eyed and brown skinned, with my denim cut-offs, dirty keds, and my favorite white striped t-shirt.
At some point, I got a bite. A big bite. And I yelled, "Hey! Hey, you guys, I got something here. I caught something!" Matty came over to help me pull it in. "Probably pollock or pickerel or something. Maybe a shoe", he told the others. Well, we kept working on it, and we pulled that thing in, and what do you think it was? A beautiful, huge, mackerel. "Well, huh.", Matty said, "Will ya look at that!" People made a big deal, and took pictures with their gigantic polaroid cameras of me and my two-foot fish. It was my little moment in the sun, until Matty had to go and steal my thunder.
After I caught the big fish, everyone started fishing off the bottom, as it seemed the good fish were biting there. Someone else caught one, and the mood became even more celebratory. Or maybe that was the beer. The problem with beer is that it has a window of jolliness, and once that window closes, things can get less jolly without much warning. Our window closed that day at about 7:30 PM. At that point, Matty's wife wanted to go home, but Matty didn't want to go, so they had words. Bad words. Then Matty, in a fit of anger, took his crutches and threw them in the Atlantic.
"WELL, THERE!", he said, "Now look at what you made me do!" and he turned around and limped back up the pier towards a good bar that had cold beer and no cold wives. The rest of us were shocked into awestruck silence for about a second, and then we laughed, even Matty's wife, because Matty was such a riot. Everyone forgot about my huge fish after Matty's display of manly bravado. Later on he cooked my fish and he declared it the best fish he ever ate. That was Matty's charming side. Lucky for him, he was more charming than not, and so usually got away with his impulsive drunken acts.
The next day some guys were out on a boat in the harbor. They saw a crutch floating around, and they pulled it in. It had Matty's name on it. One guy said, "Hey, I know Matty! He musta dropped his crutch!" He brought it over to Matty's house. Matty got 50% of his crutches back. Everyone laughed, Matty loudest of all.
Who do you know that's charming? And have you ever wanted to go back in time and hug the kid that was you? What would you whisper in the kid's ear before you released her?
PS I went fishing around for some info about fish to check my memory and I found this video. It is so reminiscent of those trips to the pier, that I had to show it to you. I laughed out loud when I saw it. I believe this is the State Pier in Gloucester, MA. We fished off the Portland Pier in Portland, ME. I borrowed it from a guy named Joey C. Thank you, Mr. C.!
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Vi Chronicles: How to Raise a Thief
Hi World,
My mother, Violet, had two sisters and seven kids. I was the youngest of my mother's kids, and the youngest cousin.
On the day I learned to steal, the three sisters, Vi (my mother), Tee and Lula, found themselves a pick-up truck and a willing teen-age driver. They packed a cooler with ice, coffee brandy and kool-aid, and hit the road. I'm sure there was another cooler full of sandwiches, but the coffee brandy cooler is the one that sticks in my mind because I was sitting on it, and every time a sister would hand her travel cup through the back window, I would have to move so that one of the older kids could whip up a White Russian, or a Vodka and 7, if the sisters were dieting..
The sisters were squished in the front, and the assorted kids piled into the bed of the truck, with the aforementioned coolers. For obvious reasons, this is now illegal, but back then it was an acceptable way to pass a lazy summer day, and keep a lot of kids occupied. My memory of that day is distilled to one long, flat stretch of road. The driver hit the gas, and we flew down that road, the wind whipping our hair into our eyes and dust flying everywhere, as we laughed at each other, raising our hands into the air to feel the wind fly through our fingers. Except for me. I did not participate in the finger waving because I was hanging on for dear life, trying to calculate my trajectory should we hit a bump the wrong way. I'm not called Chicken for no reason.
We came upon a corn field, and I guess the sisters decided corn was as good a dinner as anything, so the driver swerved to the gravel. The kids all piled out and into the fields, like well-trained soldiers. We grabbed as much corn as we could carry and ran back to the truck. The whole operation took about five minutes. Then we squealed back out, onto the blacktop, and headed for home, where the ill-gotten gains were husked, cooked, and gleefully consumed, under the watchful eye of Aunt Dot. Aunt Dot was the Aunt of the Sisters. She made the biggest chocolate chip cookies in the history of the universe, and she accused everyone of stealing and cheating at cards. Aunt Dot was a sore loser at cards but we didn't hold it against her. When you live in the company of a giant cookie architect, you forgive a few things. Plus, given the corn thievery, it's possible that her paranoia was justified.
I'm not sure why the sisters thought stealing corn was acceptable behavior. Maybe they assumed that the farmer wouldn't have planted his corn so close to the road if he didn't count on a certain percentage of his harvest being heisted. Or, maybe, they thought the farmer should have built a fence if he didn't want to share. More likely, after the White Russians (or Vodka and 7 if the Sisters were dieting), they thought it was funny.
For me, at an impressionable almost-eight years, corn was a gateway vegetable. I assumed everyone's garden was up for grabs. I wandered the neighborhood vegetable patches, helping myself to radishes, rhubarb, cucumbers and whatever else looked edible in its raw state. I began hanging out with the wrong crowd, and moved on to night raids. On crisp fall evenings, when we were supposedly having a sleepover, we infiltrated the neighboring apple orchard. Then we went home, made popcorn, and got out the Ouija board. We stayed up 'til well past midnight, chomping apples, throwing popcorn, and talking about kissing. Just a normal Saturday night in the life of a seasoned produce thief.
This behavior continued until I was about 12 and determined, for myself, that stealing is wrong. The attack dogs in Lucarelli's Orchard may have played a part in my sudden streak of conscience. Not that I ever actually saw an attack dog in Lucarelli's Orchard, but that didn't matter. We knew they were there.
Hello World, I'm Chicken! I'm a recovering produce thief. (Welcome Chicken).
These days, I buy my vegetables at the farmers market. Or Whole Foods. Basically, I'll shop wherever there are no rumors of attack dogs.
Chicken out
The sisters were squished in the front, and the assorted kids piled into the bed of the truck, with the aforementioned coolers. For obvious reasons, this is now illegal, but back then it was an acceptable way to pass a lazy summer day, and keep a lot of kids occupied. My memory of that day is distilled to one long, flat stretch of road. The driver hit the gas, and we flew down that road, the wind whipping our hair into our eyes and dust flying everywhere, as we laughed at each other, raising our hands into the air to feel the wind fly through our fingers. Except for me. I did not participate in the finger waving because I was hanging on for dear life, trying to calculate my trajectory should we hit a bump the wrong way. I'm not called Chicken for no reason.
We came upon a corn field, and I guess the sisters decided corn was as good a dinner as anything, so the driver swerved to the gravel. The kids all piled out and into the fields, like well-trained soldiers. We grabbed as much corn as we could carry and ran back to the truck. The whole operation took about five minutes. Then we squealed back out, onto the blacktop, and headed for home, where the ill-gotten gains were husked, cooked, and gleefully consumed, under the watchful eye of Aunt Dot. Aunt Dot was the Aunt of the Sisters. She made the biggest chocolate chip cookies in the history of the universe, and she accused everyone of stealing and cheating at cards. Aunt Dot was a sore loser at cards but we didn't hold it against her. When you live in the company of a giant cookie architect, you forgive a few things. Plus, given the corn thievery, it's possible that her paranoia was justified.
I'm not sure why the sisters thought stealing corn was acceptable behavior. Maybe they assumed that the farmer wouldn't have planted his corn so close to the road if he didn't count on a certain percentage of his harvest being heisted. Or, maybe, they thought the farmer should have built a fence if he didn't want to share. More likely, after the White Russians (or Vodka and 7 if the Sisters were dieting), they thought it was funny.
For me, at an impressionable almost-eight years, corn was a gateway vegetable. I assumed everyone's garden was up for grabs. I wandered the neighborhood vegetable patches, helping myself to radishes, rhubarb, cucumbers and whatever else looked edible in its raw state. I began hanging out with the wrong crowd, and moved on to night raids. On crisp fall evenings, when we were supposedly having a sleepover, we infiltrated the neighboring apple orchard. Then we went home, made popcorn, and got out the Ouija board. We stayed up 'til well past midnight, chomping apples, throwing popcorn, and talking about kissing. Just a normal Saturday night in the life of a seasoned produce thief.
This behavior continued until I was about 12 and determined, for myself, that stealing is wrong. The attack dogs in Lucarelli's Orchard may have played a part in my sudden streak of conscience. Not that I ever actually saw an attack dog in Lucarelli's Orchard, but that didn't matter. We knew they were there.
Hello World, I'm Chicken! I'm a recovering produce thief. (Welcome Chicken).
These days, I buy my vegetables at the farmers market. Or Whole Foods. Basically, I'll shop wherever there are no rumors of attack dogs.
Chicken out
 |
| Corn begging to be stolen |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)