I'm Proud of You (Aug 2024)

 My parents had said they were proud of me a few times in my life.  A few very select times.  Not connected to anything, and seemingly random.  The last time my father said it, I remember being surprised.  The look I gave him was a mix of confusion and disbelief.  You are proud of me? Why? 

I hadn’t done anything in my life worthy of their pride.  I was painfully aware of that.  Although I mostly did well in school, I didn’t go to college.   I was married and divorced twice.  My career was a series of jobs that eventually led to something stable and long term.  I don’t have any area of expertise.  I’m not an athlete.  I’m not a musician or artist. I’m not a great cook - I get by.  I have social anxiety (back in the day we called it being “shy”)

I’ve had a couple of people in the past tell me I was a decent writer.  I believed it to some extent.  My writing is a road to and from my soul.  It is, however, a road neglected and abandoned by travelers.  And then neglected and abandoned by me because of the lack of travelers. I have shared writings/blogs with friends and lovers, in an act of exposing myself, allowing myself to be vulnerable with them.  Often, they remain silent or do not even read what I have gifted them access to.  (When I was in couple’s therapy with my ex-husband, I expressed that I was hurt by his disinterest in my life & interests.  I stated clearly that one of the things that he could do to show he was inclined to ‘fix’ things between us and work on “us”; to show he was invested, was to read a novelette that I wrote inspired by his nieces.  He never did.  Not one page.) 

However, my parents hadn’t read much of my writing.   My father never had, my mother had read my adolescent & preteen poetry, but that is it.  

I have no marketable skills or talents - there is nothing that I am really good at.  Like REALLY good at.  An expert at.  My talent.   I don’t mean to say I am not good at anything.  I am good at alot of things.  I can do alot of things to the extent of getting by, but not to the extent of ‘expert’ or ‘talent’.  That being said - I am proud of myself.  For things I don’t think my parents would agree with or understand. 

I’m proud that I do have a decent job, working in an industry to help people, especially children.  This was something I always wanted to do - help kids who needed it.  It isn’t in the ways that I thought I would be, but it is within my skillset and personality.  I had planned to go into Mental Health  - to be a therapist or counselor.  I lacked the guidance and knowledge to do what I needed to get there.  I have met and worked with many individuals who did exactly what I said I wanted to do.  I don’t think I could be that person.   I worked my way through the system for 20+ years.  I am good at what I do.  I am proud of that, and I am proud that I am making a difference. (4) 

I am proud that I am not an alcoholic or drug addict or a criminal, nor have I ever been arrested.  The only police contact I have had is a couple parking tickets and accidents.  I cannot minimize that.  Both my parents had substance use histories.  Call it addiction or whatever.  My father was a drug dealer.  However - it was mostly marijuana.  It was illegal then.  They also partook in other substances (cocaine, crack, pills) most of which I was present for and witnessed at one time or another or more.  A majority of my cousins - my generation level - had also taken that road.  Drugs.  Crimes.  Teenage Pregnancies.  Children with multiple baby-mamas/daddies.  Living in sketchy areas, possibly living off of state or federal aid.  I had been asked - “what was it that made you not go down that road?”  I was challenged with this question, because I didn’t know.  There wasn’t a life event that scared me straight.  I also didn’t look at the way I was brought up as deviant or detrimental until I was much older and out of the environment.  In some ways, I was on that same road.  And then I wasn’t.  (3)

I am proud that I am a survivor.  I survived my childhood.  I survived being a child of parents with issues.  I survived being in emotionally abusive relationships.  I survived incidents of being attacked and abused.  I survived two parents dying horribly degrading deaths from cancer. (2)   

I am proud of my abilities as a mom.  I am a good mom.  It was harder than I thought it would be, and there were mom-skills that I did not have.  I faltered at times, there were things I did wrong, for sure.  It was not easy.   But I figured it out, and my daughter is amazing.  I am so proud of her, and I know that I did that.  (we did that).  I always felt that I was meant to be a mom.  So when I was faced with the idea that it wasn’t going to happen, I would not accept that.  Adoption was a challenge on its own, and navigating that was for the longest times one of the big things I was proud of.  Now that my daughter is now a full grown person, it is my work as a mom that takes place of that.  My ex once implied that I wasn’t a good mom, and it was the only insult that I would not tolerate.  Say whatever you want about my morals or my body or my intelligence, or my white-trash family or my status as a wife.  But above everything else - I am a good mom.  You cannot take that away from me.   (1)  

I also know I am a good person.  I play for “the good team”.  There were many times in my life that I was accused of NOT being a good person.  I know now that these people were hurt, sometimes by me, by my actions (I did not mean to hurt them maliciously, they got hurt in the process of me becoming my authentic self). Some were hurt in my name (“You were always the favorite”).   They lashed out at me from this hurt.  A hurt for a hurt.  I understand that.  But it did not make it true.  Because I was hurt by this, I questioned their accuracy at times.  

What makes someone a Good Person? There are so many opinions on that. I found multiple lists on the internet.  All of them included some of the ones on this list.  

• Empathy

• Forgiveness

• Honesty

• Prudence

• Respect for others 

• They apologize and/or admit when they are wrong

• Fortitude / Courage

• Generous

• Grateful

• Integrity

• Justice

• Responsibility

• Good listener

• Compassionate

• Non-judgemental 

• Consistent

• Strive to do better 
  

Certainly, there are things on this list that I can improve on (Prudence?) and things that as I get older I am better at (being grateful, apologizing).  I do strive to do better - I strive to be a better person, and I strive to be more authentic in my life.    

So why were my parents proud of me?  I had never given them reason to be proud of me.  What were they proud of?  That I existed?  That I was their daughter?  I had no influence on that.  No power or influence.  It was nothing I did or did not do.  Call that unconditional love, perhaps.  But Pride?  

I tell my daughter I am proud of her, often. And I am. I am proud of the person she is, and has become. I am proud of her when she does things that are hard for her. And things that would be hard for me too. I am proud of her for standing up for herself, for advocating for herself, for being herself. I am proud of her for doing things even if she is afraid or nervous. and I am proud of any part I may have had in that process.

Post-script:
I have the distinct feeling that my parents felt that I was not proud of them. Or was embarrassed by them. Or that they felt I would swap them out for someone else. Part of this comes from some things that I read in my mom’s journals, and just an overall feeling. I regret that they may have felt this way. They made choices that I didn’t agree with, yes. I loved them, and were proud of them. I was never embarrassed or ashamed of them, or where I came from. Who they were made me who I am. I relished having them in my corner.

 

ELISE (August 2024)

Well shit.

 

I tell anyone I can - and I make opportunities to , because it's a cool story, but also shows how much I love my daughter. I changed my last name to my daughter’s middle name.  And here’s why. 

When I got divorced, she specifically asked me to keep my last name.  I wasn’t sure if this was an arbitrary request, or perhaps a wish that things would go back to where it was the three of us , mom, dad & kid Sabatino.  So I asked why.  “Because I want you and I to have the same last name.”  whelp.  She got me there.  The shared last name was a secure link between her and I, something we literally shared.  So I didn’t.  She was 12.  

By the time she was 15 or 16 she said, “I don’t know why I said that Mom.  You can change your last name.”  Discussion.  But what about wanting us to have the same last name? “I thought it would matter, but it doesn’t.  Its fine.  You could change it.”  

Why did I need to change it? - why couldn’t I stay a Sabatino?  Because I wasn’t a Sabatino.  I pulled out of that clique.  I expressed displeasure with one of their members, and therefore I played for the other team.  This was shown to me in various actions, but said outright to me several times.  “They are MY family” afterall.  I was told that I couldn’t use the name to get things anymore  (not that I ever had, or even considered that was a thing).  Perhaps I should have thought about this when I used a pseudonym when I put my writing out into the world because I didn’t want to either capitalize on the “Sabatino” name, or be accused of that was why someone read it.  I also had the fear of “what if it sucks?” and have that connected to the Sabatino name.  I felt like I was taught to protect that reputation and name.  

 There were a few times when I was asked, “Oh are you related to Ed Sabatino?”  But I was also asked once about a different Sabatino that I had never even heard of.  It didn’t happen as much as I thought it would - because I was taught that it would.  “I hope you don’t mind if someone comes up to us at dinner and talks to me like they know me.” I asked “like , asking for an autograph?” he laughed, “Sometimes.”   - and if you pointed out to him that sounded a bit douchey he would probably look at you with those big brown eyes, shrug with a little smile and say, “but its true.”

By the time I decided that I was changing it, I was so tired of it.  Not to mention that every time someone used my full my name I was reminded of my ex.  I wondered if my current partner felt that way?  If every time he heard my full name it was a reminder that I “belonged”* to someone else before him.  (* I am referencing the way the naming system worked in history, not a D/m dynamic).  He said he didn’t think of it that way.  His ex-wife still uses his last name. He doesn’t think of her having his last name as a connection between them.  Their son, however, is. 

  

The kicker was when I was getting a colonoscopy.  Yes - a colonoscopy.  The anesthesiologist stands over me - is about to wish me a bon voyage and he asks that exact question, “Any relation to Ed Sabatino?”   

I say, annoyed, because here I am going in for a colonoscopy …. “ He’s my EX.”  This motherfucker proceeds to dotter on about the radio station and the morning show and … and … at one point he asks, “He’s a nice guy though, yeah?” Are you fucking kidding me?  Just put me under already, I say, “Well, he is my EX.”  the anesthesiologist offers a goofy smile shrug.  I’m not angry.  This guy is obviously a social idiot.  And he fits the demographic (the WPLR, Eddie Sab, Chz & AJ demographic).  I decide I can never tell my ex this story.  I cannot give him that ego boost.  Can you even imagine?  I can’t even get away from him in a colonoscopy. No, this name has got to go. 

  

I struggled a little bit on what I should make it.  I wasn’t a fan of my maiden name.  It was clunky on the tongue, semi hard to spell.  And it was my father’s, which was his fathers, and his mother’s.  I didn’t exactly want to go back to a connection with my grandmother.  She was a crazy mean lady. She was terrifying. I had no emotional connection with that name.   Or my dad.  Don’t get me wrong, I had a good relationship with my dad.  He wasn’t the best DAD, and I have my issues and childhood trauma.  Although, we certainly got along and could hang out. If I were to pick I would probably be more emotionally connected to my mother, and her side of the family - but her maiden name wasn’t fantastic, and it was just really her father’s name.  At some point the fact that every last name was connected to the men in the family started to gnaw at me.  Even though relationship wise our family is much more matriarchal.   The people we knew and saw were on the mother’s side.  Burwell. Seward. Burns. Still not an emotional connection.  I realized at some point I didn’t have to stick to last names, as so many last names can be first names and vice versa.  I had a desire to not be driven by the cliche of the men’s last names.  But in the end, they all are.  That’s just how our society in the US works.  I had a desire to not be linked with another man.  I had changed my name to a man’s for my first marriage, and then back to my father’s name, and then changed to my 2nd husband’s when we married.  I didn’t want to change it back to my father’s name.  It felt like punishment.  It felt like defeat.  Like I was moving backwards instead of forward.  Things I did not want to do.  I was not defeated.  I was moving forward.  

I came back to why K didn’t want me to change my name in the first place.  Because it was something we shared.  We shared a name. How could we continue to share a name?   Anna Kadence?  …. No. But Anna Elise? That is pretty.  It is a little one-namey-ish, like Prince, or Madonna , but its not.  

*

As I listened randomly to White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane, references made me chuckle as I remembered people used to call my mom Alice.  We don’t know why.  Her theory was because it kinda sounded like Gladys.  She said that multiple times, often even, when she would introduce herself, “Gladys”, people somehow heard or remembered “Alice”.  She took note of the coincidence, and flowed with it. It became her secret name.  Her joke name.  Sometimes her nickname with certain people. I asked her one time (as teenage girls do), “If you could change your name to anything - what would it be?”  Her answer was Alice.  She didn’t like Gladys that much. 

When naming Kadence - Ed and I were working through names.  We had a plan - names that we had picked out years prior.  Lucian Thomas if a boy.   Lucy was his beloved and treasured Nonnie.  Thomas was my dad. For a girl, Maddelina Lucille  -Maddelina was my father’s grandmother, who was beloved and treasured, went blind from her abusive husband punching her in the face, and diabetes (most probably just the latter, but my dad believed that the punching made that part of her body perhaps weaker) - it was her that the mirror, the radio, and the clock belonged to.  The clock that my dad said we couldn’t reface the worn away face of the clock.  To tell time, his grandmother would open the glass face door, and felt where the arms of the clock were.  He also said that the mirror goes over the radio, and the clock goes on the radio - but I’ve broken that rule already.  But this baby didn’t feel like those names.  This baby felt like her very own person, and needed her very own name.

  It felt like it should be something musical.  Because one of the factors that the birth mother picked us for was our love of music. We scrolled the internet for musical names.  Lyric.  Melody. Symphony.  Cadence…  And Ed was a drummer (get it?). But with a K.  and for short we could call her Kadie.  Like Katie.  But not.  Oh I fucking loved this name.  It. Was.Cool.  Kids with weird names always wish they had a normal name.  Kadie sounds normal.  Kids with boring names always wish they had a cool name.  Done:  Kadence, with a K.  And Ed liked it.  bonus .  So to the internet again for a middle name. What syllables go with 2 syllable first names.  Alice catches my eye.  Versions of Alice. Alyce. Elyce. Elice. Elise…. Like Fur Elise, which happens to be my favorite classical piece.  Elise sounds a little like Lisa too.  (Ed’s sister) .  Elise. Alice.  My daughter’s middle name is honoring my mom. 

Well shit.  It is now my Last Name.  

 

You've Made Me So Very Happy

I never expected this.  I wasn't looking for it. It just showed up, and took over.  I am glad. I am grateful and appreciative.  I don't have a crystal ball.  I don't know the future.  I only know the here & now.  Today. Thank you,  MLH. 

You've Made Me So Very Happy

Blood, Sweat & Tears

I lost at love before
Got mad and closed the door
But you said try just once more
I chose you for the one
Now I'm having so much fun
You treated me so kind,
I'm about to lose my mind
You made me so very happy
I'm so glad you came into my life

The others were untrue,
But when it came to lovin' you
I'd spend my whole life with you
'Cause you came and you took control
You touched my very soul
You always showed me that
Loving you was where it's at
You made me so very happy
I'm so glad you came into my life

Thank you baby, yeah yeah

I love you so much, it seems
That you're even in my dreams I can hear 
Baby, I hear you calling me
I'm so in love with you
All I ever want to do is
Thank you, baby
Thank you, baby

You made me so very happy
I'm so glad you came into my life
You made me so very happy
You made me so, so very happy baby
I'm so glad you
Came into my life
Mmmm, I want to thank you, girl
Every day of my life
I wanna thank you
You made me so very happy
Oh, I wanna spend my life thanking you
(Thank you baby, thank you baby)

Songwriters: Berry Gordy Jr / Brenda Holloway / Frank Wilson / Patrice Holloway

You've Made Me So Very Happy lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

I do not miss you

I do not miss you

Sometimes I go through the internet looking for stories or quotes or memes that portray how I feel.

There is nothing for this.

I'm better now. You've said.

I'm not that person anymore. You've said.

I miss my family . I miss us. You've said.

I cant help but wonder why you feel the need to tell me This changes nothing It means nothing It doesn't heal any wounds Or allow me to trust again It feels like a threat It feels like a move in a chess game A trick.

I miss my family . I miss us. You've said

I do not.

What you turned into

How you twisted my vulnerabilities against me

Changed everything.

Made me see you not as my Superman

But Lex Luther.

That smile. That charm.

That powerful manipulation.

I trusted you.

I gave you everything.

And you fashioned it into a weapon

How can I miss that?

How can any amount of change, change that?

There were better ways to handle things, I know.

I was scared.

I was tired.

I was empty.

I wanted to feel anything but diffidence and waste.

I was desperate for anything different than misery.

Literally anything.

Just a spark of light in the cave of despair was better than the pervading darkness.

This was my weakness.

I do not miss this.

I do not miss this feeling of never ending despair.

This desperation for any relief.

There were good times, You said.

But they were based on a lie.

A farce. A role.

A negotiation gone sour.

I can not miss that.

I want to be real

To be my authentic self.

To not pretend or compromise.

To be genuine.

I am tattered and flawed.

And I don't miss you.

Even though I know you are a decent person.

You are not evil.

I loved you, and for good reason.

You gave me hope and stability

Until you took it away.

You did the best you could

Until you couldn't.

You accepted me

Until the fantasy faded.

You loved me

Until you didn't.

And I won't feel guilty.

This does not mean I am a bad person.

This does not mean I am evil or at fault.

I do not have to forgive you.

I need only to forgive myself.

I'm glad you have healed
I'm happy you have moved beyond the anger
I'm relieved that you have made peace with your demons.
I'm sorry that we were casualties to that battle
But
I accept that sacrifice
If it's true. It's worth it.

A Year In the Life...Grandma Gladys

Extended Family & Divorce

I am no stranger to divorce and separation.  Like most people my age, growing up in the 70s, 80s, & 90s, it surrounds us.  From my parents, to aunts & uncles, to friends’ parents, to friends themselves.  It's a painful journey that affects so many people.  But it does not have to hurt so many people unless you let it.  Unless you decide to poison their perhaps rose colored view of the situation for your own benefit & to get sympathy and rally your troops.

 When a person gets married, sometimes the extended families mingle.  Sometimes they do not.  Sometimes the extended families bond quite closely with the new family member - they become accepted and loved as ‘one of the family’.  If this is truly meant and felt, then this love and acceptance is unconditional, and will not falter if the marriage dissolves.  This is what I have grown up observing, and being part of.  Exes invited to family gatherings.  In Laws embracing the Ex with arms open, hugs and kisses, and “you will always be part of our family.”   You became one of us, you are one of us, and we are not kicking you out just because you had a falling out with one of our clan. That is between you two, not us.  We are family. For each other, and for the children, and the children’s children.  There is never such thing as too much love.  

Unless the family is enmeshed.  That's a very real, very intense word.  And A very real thing. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enmeshment“where personal boundaries are diffused, sub-systems undifferentiated, and over-concern for others leads to a loss of autonomous development.”  For example one’s problems becomes everyone’s problems, one’s stress is everyone’s stress.  This is often hidden behind the reasoning, “because they care so much.”  Perhaps parents help or advise to the point where the children do not have to do things on their own, or take responsibility for themselves, again “because they care” or “are only trying to help”.  Help to the detriment that the children are not developing into their own individuals, learning skills to be independent, etc.    Any fight against this enmeshment is seen as disloyal or disrespectful.  And then if you enter divorce into the mix, that enmeshed core family is faced with an a deserter from their regiment (and I choose the military word on purpose, because it is much like this)   Hurt one, hurt us all.  Then they believe they are sticking with their family.  THEIR family.  Forgetting, or disregarding, that they had accepted the other as part of their team, as part of their family.  Perhaps that ex was actually never accepted then, never truly loved, never truly part of the family.

 Divorce is painful.  It's a long journey with all the degrees of grief.  And it's painful for both sides, whether it was a balanced decision or one leaving another.  It is still painful for both sides.  Having to let go of an extended family, that you thought loved you, only adds to that pain. Having to come to terms with the facts that mistakes were made, that your life will now be forever different, to forgive yourself, to forgive your partner.  To want to be happy, to want your partner to be happy.  So much conflicted emotions to deal with - conflict between you and your Ex.  Very personal private pain that is felt on both sides. Conflict that you may need to protect your children from.  And then to know that you will lose the love of the people who claimed to have accepted you, to love you, also.  To know that the children will be torn between two sides, not because you willed it, but because one side has fortified its defenses against you.

I have been told “I will always be your uncle, no matter if I am married to your aunt or not”.  I have seen Exhusbands and new fiances, at the same table with exwives and their new loves.  I have seen blended families not only at school or activities but at picnics and parties. This was the norm for me.

This is what I knew.  I am still learning, apparently.  

Afterthought:  I implore those who may "choose a side" out of loyalty; please remember that each person in a relationship is equally responsible for its success or demise.  And it has absolutely nothing to do with you.  Please remember who that person was to you, for you.  Remember that they were loving and supportive to you.  Remember that they were very much your family or friend, no matter who they were married to.  Remember that your relationship is separate from "their" relationship.  You are not part of that relationship.  What happened between them did not happen to You. They did not decide to divorce you.  They did not leave you.  You may find that they are exactly where you left them.  Loving you.  

Candy

He was a bear of a man.  Stout and furry.  Slightly cuddly.   Glasses.  Short white gray hair.  Face clean shaven whenever he was in public.  He wore collared 3 button shirts and khakis or for his every day uniform; and suits to worship.  I say worship instead of Church because it wasn’t Church.  It was call the “Kingdom Hall” and it looked more like a convention hall than a church. Instead of a large crucifix there was a mural of Paradise on Earth: Lions laying with lambs, all of the animals living in harmony with the humans.  The humans: men and women of assorted races and shades, smiling and happy.

My grandfather was an elder in his  Jehovah Witnesses congregation.  This fact would scare away a lot of readers.  This religion is known for being the most aggressive in conversion, the most judgmental of sins and morals.  But this was not the man I knew.  Above all he was a kind gentle soul.  I had never heard him raise his voice in anger or frustration.  In fact, I had never heard him say a bad word about anyone, sinner or not.  He did not judge those who were different or believed different than he did, he merely accepted them as who they were.  He was , by all accounts, the kind of Christian (or person) they say we are suppose to be.  Giving, accepting, kind, humble and funny.  Whether you had accepted the “Truth” (what the JW called their doctrine) or not, he still treated you with respect and kindness.  It was God’s decision to judge in the end, not his.

As an elder, he would have to get up in front of the congregation and give “speeches”.  That's what they called them.  “Talks” or “Speeches” not sermons or benedictions.  And certainly they would reference the Bible.  Alot.  In fact you needed a Bible in your hand to follow along.  In the middle of a sentence, you would be directed to a passage … and then another, and another.  There was the constant hiss of pages being shuffled and flipped.  There is a very distinct sound that Bible pages make when they are turned (try it, reader, if you have a Bible nearby).  It's not like regular book pages - not really.  Bibles are made usually of woodfree uncoated paper, sometimes a composite  with linen or cotton to increase its strength.  There were several elders in the congregation, and in one service several of them would get up and give their talk for the day.  My grandfather’s bible was full of highlights and underlines, and notes in the margins.  And he gave the best “talks”.  Entertaining.  Funny.  Self-effacing almost self-deprecating. Teasing of my grandmother, mentioning of my father or I if we happen to be there.  But always, always a hit.  People after his sermons would come up to him, and to us, and rave about how poignant and funny it was.  Just oozing with praise of my grandfather.

The funny thing is - my grandfather never finished his schooling.  Which was common back then.  He went straight into the service when he was of age.  Fought in one of the big wars.  Lost a portion of his finger in a artillery mishap.  I have the  Purple Heart Medal of Honor to prove it.  He was not an educated man.  He was not well read.  He could fix anything you could give him, and make up some masterful gadgets to get jobs done around the house.  He excelled in tinkering in a masterful expert level way.  He was a working man.  Worked in a warehouse or factory most of his life; blue collar worker through and through.  Sure, he worked his way up to supervisor or foreman, of course he did.  But he was not a learned man.  In fact, I found out much later in my life, he could barely read or write.  But.  In came the “Truth”, in came the Witnesses and Bible study and …. My grandfather taught himself.  He improved  himself for that very cause, for the “Truth”.  And he became an elder, and come to read the verses like a scholar, and wrote sermons that would humble the best orators.  My grandfather.

And the children.  The children!!  They loved Brother Ardito.  (thats what they call eachother, Brothers and Sisters).  They ran to him.  They swarmed him.  Crowding around his legs.  He would tease them, hug them, love them.  And always … always had candy in his pocket.  In fact, his pockets were full of candy.  First it was penny candy - when there still was penny candy.  Mary Janes, Fireballs, those caramel things with the white centers (do they have a name???) wrapped hard candy, gum, Bit-o-Honey ... and then when the price of Penny Candy went up to over a penny he switched to LifeSavers.  And Mentos.  Mostly Mint Mentos if I remember correctly.  And sugar free mint LifeSavers.  Both of which probably helped his cause too.  With all those people coming up to him after his sermons, it would be nice to have fresh breath.

But I know with all my heart that those children were NOT coming to him, drawn to him like the Pied Piper because of his pockets full of candy.  They were drawn to him because he was like Santa Claus , in a world that didn’t allow Santa Claus.  Sure he had a bit of a belly.  He was joyful and friendly.  He was generous and kind.  He laughed and he smiled.  He was hope and fun in their regimented life.  He celebrated their youth and vibrancy and returned it with a elder’s wisdom and love of life.  I almost thought it was coincidence that he always had an extra piece of candy for whichever little kid came to him.  Until I stumbled upon his stash.

He had a little corner of a built in cabinet that he kept paper and pencils and assorted items, AND his candy.  What I found were packages and packages of Mentos and  LifeSavers.  It was like discovering Santa’s toyshop.  “Ooooohhh that’s where it comes from.”

I know I have a romanticized memory of my grandfather.  But I think that’s quite ok.  I know he wasn’t perfect.  To hear my grandmother say it, “He was not a saint.”  (although she was bat shit crazy so I’m not sure if I would take her word for it anyway.)  But we all need heroes.  And I’m fine with him as one of mine.

2016 Reading Challenge - A book that was banned

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Banned for being homoerotic and suggestive. The book was feared to have "corruptive influences" Oscar Wilde himself was persecuted for immoral acts (homosexual relations)

2016 - Reading Challenge: A book recommended by your child, spouse or best friend.

A Day No Pigs Would Die  By Robert Newton Peck  

(spoiler warning!!)  

Recommended by my husband, who as it turns out is quite sadistic, and might very well hate me.

What is Love?

(please read the post script at the end, added June 4, 2015

What is Love?

I started writing this blog entry with the idea that I had something to say – when really, I have nothing to say at all.  All the things that I am thinking about love, have been thought.  They have been said, and written about, many times over.  And yet – I feel like so many have forgotten.  And keep forgetting on a regular basis. 

So what is love anyway?

When I was a teenager – I had an intense epiphany where I believed I had discovered the meaning of life.  It was love.  Sounds so cliché now. “Love is the reason we live.” I theorized.  It could be adapted to any religion, all religion.  It was the “truth” that everyone sought.  But yet, everyone – all these great philosophers and cosmic soul searchers have been trying to figure this out since the beginning of time,  I, at 15, figured it out.  Before I even had a real relationship.  If I figured out the meaning of life at 15 – what did that mean about the rest of my life?  I had it all figured out.  Now what? 

But what is love?  If Life was Love, and Love was life – what did that mean?   

Photographs and Memories

Photography is a way of feeling, of touching, of loving, what you have caught on film is captured forever… It remembers little things long after you have forgotten everything. - Aaron Siskind 

Photographs and Memories

If your house was on fire, and you could only save one thing (not counting living beings), what would it be?

Chances are you said “photographs” or some variant of the like.

Some families tend to treasure the single moments captured on film more than others.  Those families with shelves upon shelves of albums and picture frames.  Shoeboxes and hard drives stuffed to the brim.  But given that question, even the individual with the paltry wedding album and school portraits will still answer that question the same way.

Death Sucks - the Truth

I can not find the words that are strong enough to say that :  I was forever changed when my mother died.  It sounds so cliché. And mundane and obvious.  But it is NOT obvious.  If you have not lived through losing a parent yourself, you have NO idea what it is like.  Literally.  No. Idea.  Someone once told a friend of mine when she lost her mother, “I never knew my father, so I know what its like.”  Um, NO.  That is nothing like it.  At. All.  In fact, that has its own little ball of issues and emotions of its own, that are extremely valid and powerful, but Nothing like losing a parent. 

(Can we take a moment out to address the phrase “lost”.  As in “I lost my mother”. No, I didn’t lose her.  I know exactly where she is.  Or rather, perhaps I don’t.  But I know exactly where she isn’t.  Here.  On this Earth.  She is not LOST.  Or then there is “Passed away” – I’m not even sure what that means, “Passed Away.”  Is that like, Expired?  Yes.  My mother certainly Expired.  But more so, she Died.  She’s dead.  MY mother died.  And I suppose that makes me sound bitter or harsh about it.  People use these phrases to soften it.  It’s not soft.  It shouldn’t be softened.  It is bitter and harsh.  She’s dead. …. Which is why I am writing this actually, let me continue ….. )