My mother had this group of women friends that she met while in college. Like her friends, my mother did not attend college right after high school. Instead she got married, a job and a divorce, in that order. She was an “older” student. This amuses me because I view myself as an older student. Of course, my mom was nowhere near 40 when she returned to college, but she likes to say that was the trend “in her day.”
This group of women friends was a tremendous influence on me growing up, although I didn’t realize this until just recently. It wasn’t until I was older and in school that I discovered that all mothers were not like mine and her friends. They were a different breed of women. Unique, intelligent and assertive and for a time, the center of my universe.
Their clothing had a lot to do with my high opinion of them. In the winter they hid themselves in thick turtleneck sweaters with jersey wool pants that flared at the bottom. Their thin wrists jangled with bracelets and they left rooms smelling like Channel No. 5. In the summer their long brown arms held cold gin and tonics and their shoulders freckled in the sun. They wore big hats and sunglasses on the beach. Pictures of them from that time look like a snapshot collection from the Baudelaire sisters circa 1957, visiting cousins from Connecticut for the weekend.
They all attempted to smoke, danced tipsily to Sam Cooke records, and painted their toenails “kissing pink” in the afternoons. The husbands of these ladies spent their time either on the porches smoking or in the kitchen arguing the best way to cook a lamb shank. All the men in these families cooked. It wasn’t that my mom and her friends couldn’t cook or didn’t know how; it was just that the men did the cooking.
My mom and her friends all had their various families’ vacation together. We rented a large hunting lodge up north. The walls with the living room were covered with the trophies of past hunts. Deer and bear stared at you from every wall. One of my mom’s friends was so unnerved by their glass eyes that she hung all the dishtowels over their faces. This left the husbands to grumble in the kitchen, forced to wipe their hands on their shirts that were decorated with pictures of hula girls and pineapples.
These women read and discussed books, wrote dissertations, attended political meetings, took naps during the day, used the TV as a babysitter, drank early in the day, never left the house without lipstick, went skinny-dipping with their husbands in their children’s pool, went to work. These women told their daughters to go to college, get a Master’s degree, travel through Europe, get a job and then get married and have a baby, in that order.
My mother made no bones about the trails of motherhood, but she was honest about it being a blessing and a curse. She never made me feel the resentment she must have felt, but made me believe that women are simply better able to “deal with all the bullshit” life throws at you. It was if she and her friends said, “sure it is dreary, but it won’t kill you.” I will be forever grateful for this. It has helped me immensely.
I wonder what my daughter will make of the circle of women around me. What impact will they have on her upbringing? What will she take away from these experiences? Will she remember?
I feel fortunate to have known these women as a little girl and now as a mother myself. The part that is heartbreaking is watching these women die. Having to say goodbye to these women has been devastating for me. I don’t allow myself to think of the affect their death has had on my mother. We simply cannot speak about it. Rather, my mom and I share stories. What I remember and what really happened. My mother and I grow closer during these little chat sessions. We share a coke and swap stories.
“Remember how Barbara never drove with shoes?”
“Remember when Joanne would make popcorn at 3:30 in the morning?”
“Remember Chris teaching me water ballet and how she never got her hair wet?”
These stories give my mother and I comfort as we say goodbye to these magnificent ladies. These women that became “extra” mothers to me. Mothers that offered extra pieces of gum, sprays of perfume, a turn driving the car (me age 9), kisses on ouches, sunscreen on my cheeks, soft strokes with the hairbrush (except auntie Barbara, who always took half my scalp off), silk nightgowns to play princess, hugs at nighttime. These “aunties” have been my entire female world growing up. My heart is so heavy with sadness. How do I say goodbye?
8.29.2005
8.20.2005
rank
I remember the basement was dark and cold. The kind of coldness in which everything feels damp and a little rank. I was there with my boyfriend. Not my first, but certainly the most memorable. He had been so charming upstairs, in front of friends. Lots of smiles and sudden hugs from behind. He also kept my glass full of cheap liquor. I didn’t have to be forced to follow him down the stairs. I didn’t even get nervous at being alone with him, instead I was excited. He was so beautiful and I still couldn’t believe he had chosen me over all the other girls. Girls who were prettier, had more personality, were more experienced. But, I had no doubts as I followed him down the stairs.
“Careful,” he said as I tripped on the last stair. I giggled with embarrassment. He must think I am a total dork. But he just smiled at me and took my hand. He led me over to an area that was set up with a blanket and pillows. He lay down on the blanket, smiled and said, “Lay down.” I sat down next to him. “Lay down,” he said. And when I hesitated, he sat up and firmly pushed me down on my back. I wasn’t scared, just nervous. I wanted to be whatever it was he wanted me to be. I wanted to be special, to be part of something, what that something was remained indefinable to me. “Relax,” he says in my ear. It wasn’t a comforting whisper; instead it was kind of an irritated and harsh voice. I was becoming troublesome to him. This always filled me with fear. Whenever I would grow tiresome or he would become weary of me I would desperately try to change. I was like a clown, trying to please him, but his moods changed so quickly, I was always at a disadvantage, playing catch-up.
And then, I cease to exist. Who I am no longer matters. I am there for one purpose, not my own, but rather for the service of someone else. Someone who said they loved me. Someone who said I was the one they wanted. Someone who like to use force and manipulation to get what they wanted. I close my eyes and try and put myself somewhere else. I keep shivering, but I don’t think it is just because of the cold basement. “Come on,” he is really getting irritated now. The next time he tugs at my underwear, I know better than to push his hand away. Doesn’t he notice I am not participating in this? Doesn’t he notice I am not moving? Doesn’t he notice I am invisible? He pushes his tongue down my throat and tears into me.
I am 15 years old. I am in a very cold and dark basement. My underwear is torn, but I try to put it on anyway. “Hurry up,” he says. He is anxious to return to the party. I follow him up the stairs. When we reach the top he holds my arm and turns me to face him, smiling he says, “there. That wasn’t so bad? It was nothing.” It was nothing. I am nothing. And I knew in that instant that it would always be this way. I would always be nothing.
The next morning I stayed in bed and told myself that I would never see him again. He should have known better. He should have been more careful with me. I get up to use the bathroom. I see the blood in my underwear and vomit. What I really know is that I have a choice to make. I can choose to never go back to him. I can choose to do what is best for me. I can choose someone who will love and respect me. I can learn to respect myself. But I made the other decision. The one that has me go back to him. The one that has me hating myself. The kind of self-loathing that turns violent.
It was a choice that I made. It has shaped and defined who I am today. It also will define how I raise my daughter. Because I never want Emma to be left in a cold basement thinking that if she doesn’t lie there and take it, some guy won’t love her. Everything in life is a choice.
Today, I choose to get up out of bed, to care for myself and my family, to love my husband and to thank God that I lived through all those cold dark evenings to see the morning.
“Careful,” he said as I tripped on the last stair. I giggled with embarrassment. He must think I am a total dork. But he just smiled at me and took my hand. He led me over to an area that was set up with a blanket and pillows. He lay down on the blanket, smiled and said, “Lay down.” I sat down next to him. “Lay down,” he said. And when I hesitated, he sat up and firmly pushed me down on my back. I wasn’t scared, just nervous. I wanted to be whatever it was he wanted me to be. I wanted to be special, to be part of something, what that something was remained indefinable to me. “Relax,” he says in my ear. It wasn’t a comforting whisper; instead it was kind of an irritated and harsh voice. I was becoming troublesome to him. This always filled me with fear. Whenever I would grow tiresome or he would become weary of me I would desperately try to change. I was like a clown, trying to please him, but his moods changed so quickly, I was always at a disadvantage, playing catch-up.
And then, I cease to exist. Who I am no longer matters. I am there for one purpose, not my own, but rather for the service of someone else. Someone who said they loved me. Someone who said I was the one they wanted. Someone who like to use force and manipulation to get what they wanted. I close my eyes and try and put myself somewhere else. I keep shivering, but I don’t think it is just because of the cold basement. “Come on,” he is really getting irritated now. The next time he tugs at my underwear, I know better than to push his hand away. Doesn’t he notice I am not participating in this? Doesn’t he notice I am not moving? Doesn’t he notice I am invisible? He pushes his tongue down my throat and tears into me.
I am 15 years old. I am in a very cold and dark basement. My underwear is torn, but I try to put it on anyway. “Hurry up,” he says. He is anxious to return to the party. I follow him up the stairs. When we reach the top he holds my arm and turns me to face him, smiling he says, “there. That wasn’t so bad? It was nothing.” It was nothing. I am nothing. And I knew in that instant that it would always be this way. I would always be nothing.
The next morning I stayed in bed and told myself that I would never see him again. He should have known better. He should have been more careful with me. I get up to use the bathroom. I see the blood in my underwear and vomit. What I really know is that I have a choice to make. I can choose to never go back to him. I can choose to do what is best for me. I can choose someone who will love and respect me. I can learn to respect myself. But I made the other decision. The one that has me go back to him. The one that has me hating myself. The kind of self-loathing that turns violent.
It was a choice that I made. It has shaped and defined who I am today. It also will define how I raise my daughter. Because I never want Emma to be left in a cold basement thinking that if she doesn’t lie there and take it, some guy won’t love her. Everything in life is a choice.
Today, I choose to get up out of bed, to care for myself and my family, to love my husband and to thank God that I lived through all those cold dark evenings to see the morning.
8.13.2005
auntie barbara
Dear Heidi & Shelly,
The news of your mom’s passing left me with a heavy heart. I understand she had been ill for some time, but this does not lessen your loss. I spent much of Friday thinking about “Auntie Barbara” and shared the many memories I have of her with my own children. Nikolas is familiar with my Auntie Barbara stories, in which your mom has been transformed into a type of superhero. One of his favorites involves Auntie Barbara racing about town in her little Carmen Gia, her auburn hair whipping about her face, adjusting her lipstick in the rearview mirror, on her way to retrieve candy stolen from children on Halloween night. In this particular story Auntie Barbara recovers the stolen candy to the town’s children and is hailed as a town hero.
This morning I told Emma all the things that I loved best about Barbara. To me she was pure fun and glamour. I loved her lipstick kisses, the way her perfume enveloped me when she hugged me, the heel on her shoe that seemed way too thin and precarious to hold anything more than a feather, her purse always filled with gum and candy, the way her laugh seemed to fill an empty room. I recall one train trip to Toronto in which Barbara indulged my every request for cokes and salt and vinegar chips. I remember sitting next to her, watching her read a magazine, peeking into her purse at her lipstick. She caught my eye and reached in her bag for the lipstick and with flawless execution; she reapplied her lipstick perfectly without a mirror. To my great joy, she turned to me and applied a slight amount to my lips. “Isn’t this fun,” she smiled to me. For me it was Heaven.
I can’t begin to imagine your loss, but I want you to know the memory of your mom will last forever in my heart and mind. My family has yet to spend a single day on a beach without sharing a Barbara story. There is something about being up north and near a beach that will call to mind stories about her. So much of my summers spent up north involve both of you and your mom. Evenings in the cottage are still spent with someone saying, “remember the time Barbara fed all the baby carrots to Molly,” our mutt of a dog that we dragged up to a cottage. Barbara always felt a kinship with dogs and was determined that all of their hardships should be rewarded with “treats” like coffee cake and ice cream. I see pictures of all of us at the Oak Grove Lodge and I long for those long summer days and endless nights, where music mixed with the grown up’s laughter.
There are so many things I will miss about your mom. As a little girl, she was everything I loved about being a grown up. I so wanted to have her elegant hands, finger polish matching her toes. I always felt special when she would say to me, car keys jingling in her hands, “ok kid, let’s go buy some chocolate.” Her mere presence excited me. Whenever she visited our home, her voice would float out from the kitchen, where she would be sampling Herb’s cooking, insisting she just wanted a “nibble.” Everything around her seemed to be charged with electricity. To me, she always seemed so full of life. This is what I will remember about your mom.
I loved her dearly and I will miss her terribly. I will continue to share Auntie Barbara stories with my children not only because they will remind me of my own childhood, but also because I simply treasure these memories so much.
Please accept my deepest sympathies for this tremendous loss.
The news of your mom’s passing left me with a heavy heart. I understand she had been ill for some time, but this does not lessen your loss. I spent much of Friday thinking about “Auntie Barbara” and shared the many memories I have of her with my own children. Nikolas is familiar with my Auntie Barbara stories, in which your mom has been transformed into a type of superhero. One of his favorites involves Auntie Barbara racing about town in her little Carmen Gia, her auburn hair whipping about her face, adjusting her lipstick in the rearview mirror, on her way to retrieve candy stolen from children on Halloween night. In this particular story Auntie Barbara recovers the stolen candy to the town’s children and is hailed as a town hero.
This morning I told Emma all the things that I loved best about Barbara. To me she was pure fun and glamour. I loved her lipstick kisses, the way her perfume enveloped me when she hugged me, the heel on her shoe that seemed way too thin and precarious to hold anything more than a feather, her purse always filled with gum and candy, the way her laugh seemed to fill an empty room. I recall one train trip to Toronto in which Barbara indulged my every request for cokes and salt and vinegar chips. I remember sitting next to her, watching her read a magazine, peeking into her purse at her lipstick. She caught my eye and reached in her bag for the lipstick and with flawless execution; she reapplied her lipstick perfectly without a mirror. To my great joy, she turned to me and applied a slight amount to my lips. “Isn’t this fun,” she smiled to me. For me it was Heaven.
I can’t begin to imagine your loss, but I want you to know the memory of your mom will last forever in my heart and mind. My family has yet to spend a single day on a beach without sharing a Barbara story. There is something about being up north and near a beach that will call to mind stories about her. So much of my summers spent up north involve both of you and your mom. Evenings in the cottage are still spent with someone saying, “remember the time Barbara fed all the baby carrots to Molly,” our mutt of a dog that we dragged up to a cottage. Barbara always felt a kinship with dogs and was determined that all of their hardships should be rewarded with “treats” like coffee cake and ice cream. I see pictures of all of us at the Oak Grove Lodge and I long for those long summer days and endless nights, where music mixed with the grown up’s laughter.
There are so many things I will miss about your mom. As a little girl, she was everything I loved about being a grown up. I so wanted to have her elegant hands, finger polish matching her toes. I always felt special when she would say to me, car keys jingling in her hands, “ok kid, let’s go buy some chocolate.” Her mere presence excited me. Whenever she visited our home, her voice would float out from the kitchen, where she would be sampling Herb’s cooking, insisting she just wanted a “nibble.” Everything around her seemed to be charged with electricity. To me, she always seemed so full of life. This is what I will remember about your mom.
I loved her dearly and I will miss her terribly. I will continue to share Auntie Barbara stories with my children not only because they will remind me of my own childhood, but also because I simply treasure these memories so much.
Please accept my deepest sympathies for this tremendous loss.
friday
it is a beautiful day. the sky is streaked with pink and grey clouds. the tall green and brown grass bend in the breeze. i stare out at the lake and sip cold orange pop. the thick sweetness glides down my throat making my stomach ache. the children bring rocks from the lakes for me to observe. a flat black one shaped like a boomerang, a red one in the shape of a star, a green one with yellow freckles that looks like lizard skin. these treasures collect in the yellow bucket and will dutifully be driven home by me. each rock holding a special place in the kid's hearts.
nik squints into the sky watching a seagull scream across the lake. he turns to me with a huge smile on his face. "this is the life, mom." then, seeing the sadness on my face, stops smiling. this upsets me because i want him to know that even when their is sadness around you it is still ok to have some sense of joy, too. it is ok to smile.
emma stays close to me all day. she catches me crying while i am cooking bacon. she thinks i am upset because she keeps stealing the bacon off the plate before it has cooled off. i assure her that my tears are not over the stolen bacon. although, i wish they were.
i feel a giant hole in my heart. a person i loved very much has died. i am sad.
nik squints into the sky watching a seagull scream across the lake. he turns to me with a huge smile on his face. "this is the life, mom." then, seeing the sadness on my face, stops smiling. this upsets me because i want him to know that even when their is sadness around you it is still ok to have some sense of joy, too. it is ok to smile.
emma stays close to me all day. she catches me crying while i am cooking bacon. she thinks i am upset because she keeps stealing the bacon off the plate before it has cooled off. i assure her that my tears are not over the stolen bacon. although, i wish they were.
i feel a giant hole in my heart. a person i loved very much has died. i am sad.
thursday
The clouds blow away and out comes the sun. we walk up the road and stand on the railroad tracks. Nik bravely walks the tracks ready to greet a train head-on. Emma is more hesitant, convinced that I will not tell them if a train is coming. I assure her this is not the case. She looks at me full of doubt. She is always doubting me. She second guesses me at every turn.
Later I watch my son swim in the lake. He has spent so much time in the water I think he has grown gills. He leads emma around the lake on a boogey board. Emma screams with glee and nik smiles back at her. I love watching them enjoy each other. I will remind myself of this moment when they bicker and argue later. They are finally arriving at a time in which they actually play with each other. I love to overhear their conversations in which they are planning a game and spelling out the rules for each other. I hear them being kind and supportive to each other’s ideas. I am amazed at the way they are able to resolve their conflicts.
My dark mood has lifted and dan and I agree that Wednesday would be the one odd day we have during each vacation. Nothing bad has to happen, it is just a day in which you feel out of sorts. We spend the rest of this glorious day peacefully with each other. Only arguing amongst ourselves for the bathroom.
Later that night I look at dan while he sleeps, amazed that he has chosen me to share his life. How I ever got so lucky I will never know. I thank my lucky stars and kiss dan’s nose.
Later I watch my son swim in the lake. He has spent so much time in the water I think he has grown gills. He leads emma around the lake on a boogey board. Emma screams with glee and nik smiles back at her. I love watching them enjoy each other. I will remind myself of this moment when they bicker and argue later. They are finally arriving at a time in which they actually play with each other. I love to overhear their conversations in which they are planning a game and spelling out the rules for each other. I hear them being kind and supportive to each other’s ideas. I am amazed at the way they are able to resolve their conflicts.
My dark mood has lifted and dan and I agree that Wednesday would be the one odd day we have during each vacation. Nothing bad has to happen, it is just a day in which you feel out of sorts. We spend the rest of this glorious day peacefully with each other. Only arguing amongst ourselves for the bathroom.
Later that night I look at dan while he sleeps, amazed that he has chosen me to share his life. How I ever got so lucky I will never know. I thank my lucky stars and kiss dan’s nose.
wednesday
Thunderstorms greeted me this morning. This did nothing to improve my mood. For some reason I am having great difficulty in pushing the dark clouds from my head. Emma and I are acting like unfriendly cats all day. Tears and anger fill the cottage. All is better late in the day after a nap. Emma crawls into bed next to me, smelling like sleep, full of regret. My tears wet her shoulder and I ask for her forgiveness. We promise each other that tomorrow will be better.
tuesday
I linger over my book while sitting in the lake in my chair. The waves push me back and forth, threatening to soak my book. I don’t want to finish this book. I have enjoyed it so much. Whenever I read a well-written book I hate to finish. I desperately want to know what becomes of these characters. Will everything turn out? Will she move to India? Will he ever find someone to love him? But in the end I finish the book. The last 10 pages took me over an hour. Only when I have finished a book do I turn to the back jacket in search of an author’s photograph. I study their face; as if I will be able to see why they write the way they do, what their inspiration might be. None, if any, of my questions are ever answered.
Mostly I see the back of Emma today. Her hair is growing more and more blonde each day. Every now and then she turns her face and her profile makes my chest tighten. I remember stroking her soft nose while she slept in my arms. Staring for hours at her profile trying to understand this amazing little creature.
As I bob in the lake, Nik swims out to me. He is fearless in the water, or at least, wants me to think he is fearless in the water. “Watch this!” I tell him how amazing he is and what great progress he is making with his strokes. Then I impress the hell out of him when, after several failed attempts, I succeed in performing a handstand in the water. He swims over to me and says, “that was totally awesome, momma!” I swell with pride. It isn’t often that I knock his socks off. Usually it is me that is left feeling impressed with the ease at which he moves through his life. I am left speechless at the careless way in which I am being discarded in his life. I secretly relish the moments in which he still needs me. In which, I am the sole comfort to him. The quiet moments I have alone talking in his bed carry me through the days in which he seems to abandon me completely. At times, he is still my little boy and likes it when I remind him of this fact. I like it, too.
Mostly I see the back of Emma today. Her hair is growing more and more blonde each day. Every now and then she turns her face and her profile makes my chest tighten. I remember stroking her soft nose while she slept in my arms. Staring for hours at her profile trying to understand this amazing little creature.
As I bob in the lake, Nik swims out to me. He is fearless in the water, or at least, wants me to think he is fearless in the water. “Watch this!” I tell him how amazing he is and what great progress he is making with his strokes. Then I impress the hell out of him when, after several failed attempts, I succeed in performing a handstand in the water. He swims over to me and says, “that was totally awesome, momma!” I swell with pride. It isn’t often that I knock his socks off. Usually it is me that is left feeling impressed with the ease at which he moves through his life. I am left speechless at the careless way in which I am being discarded in his life. I secretly relish the moments in which he still needs me. In which, I am the sole comfort to him. The quiet moments I have alone talking in his bed carry me through the days in which he seems to abandon me completely. At times, he is still my little boy and likes it when I remind him of this fact. I like it, too.
monday
I sit and gaze out on the lake. Such a feeling of peace fills me. My cup runeth over. I watch my Emma run up and down the shoreline, playing tag with the waves. Her blond curls dance in the wind and one of her shoulder straps slips off revealing her perfect tan lines. I watch the waves push the rocks over my toes, occasionally nestling small rocks between my toes. I reach down and pull up a handful of color, red, blue, grey rocks tumble out of my hand, returned to the lake.
Emma plays with a piece of seaweed that gets tangled around my chair as I sit in the lake reading. Or rather, attempting to read. My kids continually thwart these attempts with, “Mom! Watch this!” Emma names her seaweed companion “George.” Emma and George play a game that involves lots of running and yelling and Emma saying, “Oh my gosh, George! That was close!”
As I sink lower and lower into the lake by the rocking power of the waves, my legs start to float. I find myself feeling weightless. What a wonderful feeling. I give up on reading and swim in the warm green water. How refreshing. I glide along, allowing the gentle push of the waves to carry me along. I am tiny and alone facing out on the lake. A moment of calm. I turn and look to the shore to find my little brown berries playing on the beach. Nik is full of smiles continually jumping in and out of the water. Emma is running this way and that, talking all the time. What pure joy!
Emma plays with a piece of seaweed that gets tangled around my chair as I sit in the lake reading. Or rather, attempting to read. My kids continually thwart these attempts with, “Mom! Watch this!” Emma names her seaweed companion “George.” Emma and George play a game that involves lots of running and yelling and Emma saying, “Oh my gosh, George! That was close!”
As I sink lower and lower into the lake by the rocking power of the waves, my legs start to float. I find myself feeling weightless. What a wonderful feeling. I give up on reading and swim in the warm green water. How refreshing. I glide along, allowing the gentle push of the waves to carry me along. I am tiny and alone facing out on the lake. A moment of calm. I turn and look to the shore to find my little brown berries playing on the beach. Nik is full of smiles continually jumping in and out of the water. Emma is running this way and that, talking all the time. What pure joy!
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