TOUCHDOWN!!!!

I love college sports.

Football, basketball, and even a dollop of volleyball or softball.
Love ‘em.
But somewhere between a raucous cheer and group high-five; lives insanity.
Hiding innocuously in the adult XXXL football jersey is a dangerous disease.
And where better to study borderline mascot disorder than the

Florida vs. Florida State game.
Nowhere!
90,000 fans…short for fanatics…dressed in team colors. Team spirit buttons.

Team body/face paint.
90,000 loyal addicts; radios in ears, glaring at the replay screen, and texting their
cohorts at home to see if the call was a good one.
Babies and innocent children, brought to the 100 yard tent revival learning the words to the traditional prayers…da da da da da Go Gators Get Up and Go

or

Florida State, Florida State, Florida State Whooo…
Or is that Whoo-Amen?

Not that a tailgating 12 Step Program wouldn’t help;
“I am powerless over my reptilian worship,”

but do those 90,000 folks really believe that the quality of their fall and winter weekends should be left up to pubescent boys in tight pants and helmets?
Really?

I’m just saying….
Having raised many of the male persuasion, and even a few that played college sports, allowing these tall toddlers to help decide 72 hours of my emotional welfare, would not be a good idea.
No So Much!
So here I sit with Husband watching the replay of a football game that ended less than 24 hours ago, that he has recorded twice already, listening to him question the plays/calls of an event that his team won….is already over….won’t change….doesn’t matter….
I can’t help but wonder if there is any hope?
If this pigskin paranoia is genetic or learned?

If there is a cure or therapeutic clinical trial on the horizon?

…if…..if….if….
Hold on, I'll be right back; it’s the fourth quarter and we have to lock arms and sing….
WE ARE THE BOYS FROM OLD FLORIDA…
Good Grief Charlie Brown!

And Let it Begin With Me!

Take your Marks…Get Set….GO!

Black Friday, the till Christmas countdown, SALE!!!!
Amongst the stereotypically female genes I didn’t get; was the shopping gene.
The magnetic attraction to crowded Malls and busy boutiques…Me?

....No So Much.
So the air-raid-style droppings of sale flyers and coupons pass directly from my paper to my recycler.
Do not pass go; do not spend $200.00.
It’s not that I won’t shop. Or won’t look for the deep discounts or 'can’t walk away' sales.
It’s not that I won’t make a list. Check it twice.
Hide surprises. Google up some goodies.
Nope , I will proudly do my part to stimulate the economy, hunt and gather for the gang,
purchase pretty wrapping paper and tape,
and revel in the Christmas morning oohs and aahs.
But the competitive, camp-out, gotta-get, fight to the death for a rolling hamster from China or a video game that trains car thieves or couch potato athletes?
The fear of not having that must have gift?
Can’t do it anymore.
You see years ago, actually my first year as a shelter manager;
I watched the Children’s team make Santa bags for the families that would awaken Christmas morning in a Domestic Violence shelter. I watched these extraordinarily devoted, young case workers sort through piles of donations to find the almost

perfect doll or close enough stuffed animal.
The red, not pink, dressy dress or the slightly large football jersey.
And as the clock ticked down, I watched the residents walk down the dimly lit, holiday decorated halls, collect their black trash bag of “Santa shopping” and

offer emotional and tear accented thanks and hugs.
Some sobbed with relief.
For many, it would be the first Christmas with gifts for their little ones in years.
The only time some of these children would awaken to find that they had not been forgotten by that man from the North Pole.
That he “had” actually found them, even in this hidden place,

where they sleep wearing borrowed jammies and used socks.
That their secret wishes for a Barbie or winter jacket; a football or an art set;
had miraculously come true.
Even today, so many years later, I can still hear the victorious squeals of the Children’s Team as they reached the end of the night, having distributed the last bag of generously donated blessings, prepared the “ghost bags” for any family that might unexpectedly arrive in a police car later, as the downtown Midnight Mass bells ring out or the Sunrise Service choir

begins the second verse of Let There Be Peace on Earth.
Anonymously donated presents, Hefty bag wrapping paper, social working elves, and a double locked, metal chained front shelter door….hardly a Hallmark Christmas card…but for those women and children it was a glorious Christmas morning.
They felt safe.
They felt loved.
And just for a moment, all was calm….all was bright.
And I got to witness it.
That was the last year I can remember feeling the urgency of Black Friday.
But you know, maybe I will do a little shopping tomorrow morning, and I know just what to stand in line for….something that will fit perfectly, tucked under the pillow of a homeless child!

To each of you that have ever dropped off a love present for a stranger’s child, worked in a shelter or mission, collected food or clothes for others….
your kindness makes those moments possible.
Bless you.

And to my Grateful Dead loving, Children's Team Elves....Ms. Donna will treasure you always!

Do You Hear What I Hear?

OMG! OMG!
Oh….My…Gosh!

I might be too excited to sleep tonight!

I know this happens to me every year, but honestly, tonight is like the first time.

The first time!

In less than 15 hours, I will turn on my radio, and…and…

hear uninterrupted Christmas music for the next month.

Non-stop songs of peace and goodwill.

Alright, alright, the occasional reindeer ditty or Red Baron anthem will barge into

my commercial free Christmas Caroling.

But after a few verses of Santa and mistletoe, it’s back to Mary’s Boy Child and Light One Candle.

And then, on Friday, Husband and I will rush to the Depot, fondle a truck full of Christmas trees, select, purchase, name, and gather-up our newest addition to the family.

Then carefully, with a tiny tilt to the right and a tweak to the left,

she will be flawlessly placed in her new home.

The corner of our family room.

After a week or so of begging and badgering the fellas will exchange a free meal for our yearly

“wonderful Bevis family tree decorating” tradition.

Lights, special ornaments, childhood creations, no tinsel, and extra ribbons will be combined with love, laughter, sarcasm, and a John Denver and the Muppets Christmas CD sing-a-long.

But the bestest part is ritual is replaying, and replaying, and replaying, my Peter, Paul, and Mary ‘Christmas in Carnegie Hall’ DVD, filmed in 1998, sold in Thailand, purchased on Ebay,

and containing genuine Japanese subtitles!

OMG….OMG…OH….My….Gosh!

Will tomorrow ever come!

ROUTE 46 - WEEKDAY - EASTBOUND

“Donna, why aren’t you blogging anymore?”

“Donna, you need to blog again!”

“Donna, come on…I miss reading all those whacky things you write about!”

I wish I could say I missed memorializing all those moments of bedlam that best depict my days…

but I don’t.

Don’t get me wrong, I do miss the journaling relief of blogging.

The emotionally purifying, pore cleansing, colonoscopy act of releasing all matter into the universe.

The blank computer screen, slowly filling up with guffaws and good riddance.

Laughter and load lightening.

I miss the moment of written conception.

Of completion.

And though these past few months have been blessed with satire, not always intentional mind you;

they have also been filled with loss.

Death has interrupted lives too young.

One lionhearted, one kindhearted; both courageously said goodbyes on their own terms,

in their own way.

And nestled in their passing was the realization that when it comes to loved ones,

enough will never be enough.

All the melodic metaphors that man concocts to make loss more palatable are unfulfilling.

All the rhyming rhetoric about religion and righteousness are emphatically earnest,

but equally exasperating.

I needed an answer...and it appeared...
Be thankful?
Really, I’ll say it again, “BE….THANKFUL!”
Not because it makes sense or makes you feel better.
And surely not because it will make the nausea subside…No So Much.
Rather, because it is the duct tape to repair the heartbreak.
The Super-glue to piece the rest of life together.

Be thankful.
For in momentarily glancing beyond the insanity and destruction; you see the glory of humanity and the impervious nature of determination.
Be thankful.
Because woven in the shroud of hurt, are the threads of triumph.
A few weeks ago, I was walking Zipporah, and grieving.
My Ipod, Elvis, and I harmonizing to How Great Thou Art.
Blocks passed and if not for a traffic jam, I would have never realized I had an audience.
Or a congregation of one.
Dressed in a housekeeper’s apron,an elderly woman had been following me;
innocently heading to her bus stop.
My embarrassment over my public display of affliction, and a horrific singing voice oozed from my pores.
“Sister,” she began, “you sing it out and in no time you will find your answer.
And then you sing the songs of thanks.”
“You sure about that ma’ am?” I doubted.
“You be thankful,” she instructed, as her city bus snuggled up to the curb,
” and it will blow away the ache!”
Be Thankful!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Our regular deal!

He knows my name is Donna, but he met Sylvia, my sister, first….and was smitten by her beauty.

“Hey Sylvia’s Sister, it’s Monday.”

After ten years of weekly conversations, exactly at closing time, you would think he would have shared his name or grown weary of our indistinguishable conversations. But his scruffy moustache, framing a cock-eyed mouth, rarely reveals his thoughts.

“Our regular deal today?”

“Absolutely! Go ahead,” I shout back, through the barely cracked coffeehouse door.

I’ve tried to broach the how, when, and why his life became so hard, but a crumpled brow and quivering lips, are the only answers I receive. Reaching back to social work days, I’ve offered suggestions for a place to get a donated winter jacket or tire for his bike. Consummately gracious, but shrouded, his thanks never divulge if he will actually seek help.

When demons have gotten the best of him, because he couldn’t get his prescribed drugs, or had self-medicated with Malt Liquor and Tylenol PM, I ask if he needs a ride to the Salvation Army Shelter. From his camouflaged pants pocket he pulls a Stephen King novel, with a library sticker, and a barely legible military ID.

Today, moved by his loyalty to come to work on such a cold-rainy afternoon, I pat him on the shoulder while handing him our ‘regular deal’… five one-dollar bills, and bag with a sandwich, fruit, and two cookies inside. Taking his hand, I compliment him on his commitment to his word. I praise him on being a good, honest man. I tell him I’m proud to be his friend. I thank him for the way the windows shine.

I speak from the heart, wanting him to hear that he matters.

My words devastate him, and as hard as he tries to stop his chest from heaving up and down and as quickly as he scurries to gather up his belongings, he can’t hold back the pain. Tears drenching his paper towel roll and bicycle handlebars….he cannot regain composure. His stained, but laundered “FUN IN THE FLORIDA SUN” sweatshirt sleeves now serving as both handkerchief and blindfold.

“Sylvia’s Sister,” his trembling, chafed hands pressed firmly to his face, hiding his mouth, muffling his words, “I used to be someone different. You’re my friend? You think I’m a good person?”

“I do,” I recite firmly, “you are all those things, but I’m so sorry I made you sad.”

Window Washer Man, his hard earned, bagged salary, tucked in a scuffed-up bucket does not respond. Loading sponges and glass cleaner into his frayed backpack, slinging it over his slumped shoulders; he pedals down the sidewalk, away from my coffeehouse window.
Turning off the “OPEN” sign, I lock the door, zip my jacket, and walk to the car.

It’s freezing outside!

I’m glad I snuck extra sandwiches and cookies in his bag, because he’s never accepted charity.
He’s too darn proud.

Give ten reasons why you must write...

Donna’s Top Ten Reasons For Writing:

10. Because it is cheaper than drinking all night and healthier than eating all day.

9. Because you can scream hysterically, using all CAPITAL LETTERS and the neighbors won’t hear you and call the cops who bring back

that jacket with extra long sleeves and the zipper in the back.

8. Because the menopause-pause, mentally searching for the right word, while fanning yourself, is not as noticeable on paper.

7. Because writing includes pounding on something, even if it is only a keyboard.

6. Because too often, the folks I need to say things to have lost one of their senses.

The common one!

5. Because unlike standing in the street doing my Town Crier imitation, writing gives me the opportunity to calm down, edit, revisit, and shamelessly exaggerate to make my point.

4. Because you can say, save, then delete the words you wish you had the “Pelotas” to say.

3. Because I’m a pacifist and hate the sight of blood, especially my own.

2. Because saying you’re a memoirist sounds better than being the family tattle tale.

and the number one reason I write:

1. Because I’m not spending 20 years to life anywhere I can’t take a hair dryer.

Lesson 4...Use your assigned quote and set the scene

"If I should"

Gertrude Stein said,

“You have to learn to do everything, even to die.”

But I must tell you, having tried it once; old Gert’s quote should have included better instructions or a syllabus with footnotes and a glossary.

A daily planner, with only one page, would surely be a help.
I guess I hadn’t planned on this moment being so scary.
So lonely.
So permanent.
That being said, I hadn’t planned on dying at the ripe old age of 42 either.
I’m not sure I know how to do this with poise. I mean I’ve put up an Oscar winning performance the past month. I have reassured, quoted the percentages, claimed an early victory, and even bragged about my plan to pose for Playboy after this is all over.
“Just wait until they do the women with scars issue! I’ll make us all rich,” I would tease,
“C-sections, breast tumors, hysterectomy,

and now a long and lovely open heart operation scar.”

“Mrs. Bevis,” a soft voice spoke as the ceilings lights flickered on,

“You need to take these meds within the next 30 minutes. I always like to give my patients a little time to get their last thoughts in order,

So, I’ll be back in a few.”
“Already? Really?” I asked, my voice cracking like that of pubescent boy!
“Now, remember, you will not awake again until after the surgery and you will be intubated and unable to speak. Do you have any final questions?” the nurse inquired nonchalantly.
“No, thank you,” my mouth said politely, while my mind screeched something about using the words ‘final’ and ‘last’ in this situation.
I glanced at the generic hospital room clock,

wondering how quickly 5:30 am would become 6:00am.
I needed to stop horsing around. Wasting my precious minutes.
I needed a prayer; a good 12 years of Catholic school, can’t miss, Holy Roller prayer.
“Bless us O Lord, and these thy …gifts…”
Are you kidding me?
Thirty minutes away from perhaps being on perpetual time and all I can remember is Grace,

the blessing before we eat?
Come on Donna, it’s 5:37 and you need to hunker down and get serious.

Think! Think.
You've seen enough movies, heard enough tent revival songs. Read enough memoirs.
You must have some profound words left to say,
Just in case.
Words with presence. Meaning.
Hurry up!!
How can you be so calm? No desperate death bed promises? No angst, disappointment,

fury at all you had hoped to do? No apologies?

Regrets?
Well, regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again too few to mention, I did what I had to do….”
Donna, for the love God! How on earth did Frank Sinatra sneak into your might be,

could be, death bed scene?
And now that I think about it, how did I end up in this final act?
Intently staring at a clock, now reading 5:48, as if my life depended on it.
I mean really, there I was, minding my own business, raising a house filled with sons. A career that was more avocation than vocation. A darling husband, that I have cherished since first we met. And what about my family history of physically, though not always mentally, healthy folks? So how come 96 years old Nana Granny is still sucking down pureed pasta, and I’m lying here with a bad heart and matching aneurysm?
The ultimate buy one, get one free combo....No So Much.
Tick…tick…tick…5:54 am
Come on back, Donna. I have faith in you. Come on, focus.
You hear those squishy footsteps in the hall?
Breathe….breathe…You know, maybe, just maybe it is simply time for my earthly life to end and my eternal life to begin. And maybe, just maybe it will be fine.
Perfectly fine.
For now, I’ll just lay me down…..lay me down….
Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I…
If I should…
“Mrs. Bevis, it is 6:00, and here are you meds. Now you just relax. Everything is going to be over before you know it,” the nurse reassured,

“In just a few minutes you should be sound asleep.”
Should…..If.....

If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Hey Donna, you did good and if you come out this, I think you need to give old Gertrude Stein a second chance too.

Happy 30th Birthday Rino B.!

(This was originally posted two years ago,

but it was one of Rino's favorite blogs)

Simply Rino B.

I could see it in the nurse's eyes.

The darting looks between her and the doctors.
The whispers.

The fearful stares.

And as hurried movements and medical linguistics increased,

I knew our newborn son was in trouble.

It would be hours before Larry and I were solemnly informed

that we were the proud parents of a dying baby boy.

And like a modern midnight Mass reading, there was no room at the inn.

No nearby neo-natal unit with an empty crib.

Not one tiny bed for our precious second born son.

A transport to the Air Force base in Pensacola was ready, but he wouldn’t survive the flight.

The Last Rites followed an ICU Baptism.

IV needles taped firmly in both sides of his bloodied, shaved scalp removed any doubts that September 13, 1979 would be a day that changed our lives forever.

And tonight, as we toasted his 28th year and exchanged parent/child conversations about life, and grandchildren, and a wife…not necessarily in that order…

I touched his curly dark hair, patted him on the cheek.

I remembered the prayers and pleas offered from that hospital gurney so many years ago. And somewhere between that frantic ambulance ride down a moonlit

Bayshore Boulevard into the Tampa General’s preemie unit;

and his dark imported beer order this evening,

we were given an extraordinary gift.

Lawrence Richard III…our Rino B.

Tonight, Rino’s rascally dimpled grin, not so very different from the one that peered

at me from the rails of his big-brother Charles' hand-me-down crib,

appeared when we sang him the traditional birthday song.

It grew wider when Charles insisted that he had been handed the wrong fortune cookie …

the one that read...

“Your cheerful attitude is your greatest asset!”

“So,” Charles inquired dryly, “is there any chance that this cookie really belongs to me?”

No So Much!

Give it to Rino.

And he did. And we hugged.

And we howled.

And we told Rino how very much we love him.

And how proud we all are.

And then these fine sons, these boyhood buddies, stuck chopsticks in their lips like walrus tusks and made pornographic shadow figures in the flickering candlelight.

Do you two want to go to your rooms?

Happy Birthday my baby boy!

Lesson 6: Rewrite an old scene that you cherish.

The Eighth Stage of Grief!

I'm not sure why I secretly snapped this picture with my cell phone.

Or why I printed it for posterity.

My three, teen-age nephews, faces as grim as their dingy white sport socks, no shoes, tattered gym shorts, and three ill-fitting sport coats, all standing in Mother's kitchen.

Date stamped February 4th.

Perhaps one day the preposterous irony of this picture would be a story told without blubbering all over my keyboard?
Perhaps today is the day?
Dad had been gone less than 24 hours when we noticed Mom's new role as boss was exhausting her. Too much to do. And when we realized that sister number three, Sylvia's, sons were without proper pallbearer attire I suggested,
"Mom, why don't you take a nap and I'll go get the boys some clothes?"
Sister Sylvia's husband was employment challenged, and though she worked three jobs to keep her family afloat, their finances were always underwater, rarely coming up to catch a breath.
"Really Mom," I nudged," We'll just run up to the outlet stores and get the boys some church clothes."
Wanting no part of a nap or spending money unnecessarily in this recession,
Mom stepped away from the kitchen table, leaving her bowl of cold soup and casket flower catalogs.
"Put your wallets away!
No need to buy anything. Wait right here," she said, as she rushed back to her bedroom.

The creaky wooden closet doors opened and closed and into the kitchen marched this not yet merry widow, with three different suit coats.

Now, Sylvia's sons are built like nesting dolls.

Max is a six-footer with a muscular build. Zack, 5'10" or so, narrow and sinewy! Dear Dylan, the youngest, all of 5'7" with a fireplug physique.

Max was handed Dad's newest jacket. A brown and beige checked beauty!

And with the help of some twisting and contorting, there Max stood in his grandfather's jacket.

Max's thick arms, looked like they'd been swallowed by a hound's-tooth Anaconda.

His wrists and fingers dangling from the fabric's grip,

he finally summoned the courage to utter,

"Grandma, this jacket is too small."

Scrawny Zach stood by the stairs, draped in Dad's smokey black tweed.
The shoulder seams, hanging like raglan sleeves, near Zack's narrow biceps.
The lapels drooping like the wings of an underfed vulture.
"Grandma, this jacket is too big," he mumbled.
Dylan's face was red.
Fresh tears etched in his morning application of acne cream.
But there he was, swallowed by a navy blue frock, with tarnished buttons, that just moments before was a well-worn men's sport coat, tailored perfectly to Dad's 6'2" frame.
He stared at the pocket flaps resting below his gym shorts,
but before Dylan could utter a sound, Mom declared,
"Dylan, that jacket is just right!"
Softly, Dylan whimpered,
"But Grandma, when I put my arms down you can't see my hands!"
"Oh, Dylan," Mom reassured, "it will be perfect if you just stand up straight!"
As Mom exited stage left to hunt for matching ties,
the three caballeros, thankfully with no access to a mirror, looked at me for attire approval,
"So?" they muttered, "Do we look sorta Ok?"
"No So Much OK," I winced.
"Aunt Donna," Max whispered, "This is just wrong. Please, do something! It will be like Granddaddy's own clothes will be carrying him down the church steps.
Please?"

But before I could begin to preach about the little known eighth stage of grief,
doing what you're told,
a threatening voice echoed from the other end of the house.
"Don't anyone move!" Mom bellowed,
"I've found the matching ties and three pairs of dress shoes!!"

The Marine and the Princess

Cuz was the only man that ever called me Princess.
Not that I had done anything to earn that title.

And goodness knows my scrawny build, teeth too big for my mouth, and unruly head of corkscrew curls, did not naturally command that nickname.

An unlikely little girl princess for sure!
But, to him, I was just that.

Kerry Massari was a Marvel comic book prototype;

dressed in starched Marine Dress Blues.
Strong.
Handsome.
Charming.
A master of the Martial Arts.
His New Orleans accent flavored our conversations and each of his visits to Tampa were highly anticipated and deeply treasured.
Kerry was larger than life.

And to our proud Italian family, whose only legitimate weapon was a butter-knife, Cuz was a real life super hero. Heck, his uniform even came with a saber!
From Vietnam chopper pilot to well respected land use attorney, Kerry was an authentic character.
Respected or feared he managed to evoke intense emotions; identical to those he possessed.
Brilliant, funny, loyal, compassionate, and generous.
Decent, honest, fair, and kind.
Faithful. Always faithful… Semper Fidelis
No need to waste a stamp on his Sainthood application….Catholic or otherwise.
Cuz a saint? No So much.
He was stubborn. Focused. Extreme. Calling him pig-headed would

be insulting to our foraging friends!
A shrewd businessman. A devote of fine wine, precious stones, and golf. Long before it was in vogue, Kerry practiced the healing art of meditation and deep controlled breathing. He loved to hunt and especially valued the bonding camaraderie that

occurred in the hunting camps or duck blinds.
He was a voracious learner that filed away his studious conquests in

thousands of manila file folders.
Cuz loved his fellow man, but he only really liked a few of them.

He was not a collector of friends or acquaintances. Rather, like his carefully selected and meticulously aged vino, Kerry’s inner circle was a combination of people he trusted and intimately cherished. And how we cherished him.

His relationships rooted in hours, days, even years of profound conversations.
Discussions.
Arguments.
Ruminating and refining.
Typically occurring over fine food, French bread and sweet cream butter.
Then after dinner, more wine and a smoke on the porch.
Cuz’s cigarette perched firmly in one corner of his mouth.
The corner that hung a little lower when he smiled his contagious grin. And when that smile became a laugh he released a deep, cackling roar that was part inhale, part embrace.
Kerry loved to laugh and neither illness nor infirmity had a chance in his presence. Oh, physically his body bore the scars of battles with the Viet Cong, with disease, with age. But mentally; his saber like will to live dismembered each and every assault.
And last week, when the time came, he decided that he would march,

not walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

Refusing to allow pain or cancer or Parkinson’s to define his existence.
Or his passing.
And when cowardly Parkinson’s made the simple act of swallowing his latest adversary, he refused to lay down his arms and slip quietly away. Refused to be captured. Refused to be still and silent.
Instead Kerry mounted a swift and vengeful counter attack… French bread slathered with butter. Andouille sausage. Yellow rice and chicken. Strawberry shakes.
He smoked.
He drank.
He talked.
He laughed.
He told death “I will come when I’m damn good and ready!”
And he did just that.
It wasn’t pretty, but as Cuz always preached, battles are not for the weak.

War is in fact hell. And his final fight was a classic.

A withered super-hero in a tattered recliner giving more than he was receiving.
A final hug.
An eternal kiss goodbye on the forehead.
A firm, strong, steady handshake of approval.
A wink and vintage grin.
Kerry Massari was victorious! He is now free to explore the heavens and rekindle old friendships. To sit with his Maker and ask all those questions he had been mulling over for years, and, for sure; to characteristically initiate debates with his God!
Cuz was the only man that ever called me Princess.
And his Princess will miss him.

To Debra, the hero in his life and his loving wife, and to Darren, Chris, Kendra, and little Sam; my deepest sympathy and love.

Lesson 3: Find something on your kitchen counter and write about it

$5.99 a Pound!

I bought my first bag of this season’s Bing cherries today, and before the elderly bag-boy closed the trunk lid, I rescued them. They rode home in the front seat with me;

close by for nibbling and reminiscing.
Mother and Daddy couldn’t afford cherries for seven.

It wasn’t personal; it was a simple lesson in the difference between needs and wants.

A definition that stood alone, sans prepositions or political correctness....

"Yes" or "No" were complete sentences in childhood.

The declaratory variety at that.
Summers at Nana and Nano’s house were different.
My younger siblings always invited, but always declined.

You see, our Italian grandparent’s house was old.
Nana and Nano were old.
Books and records? Also old.
Dog? Really old!
And those endless tales from the past? Oldest of old!
Year after year when my sisters cowered from the offer, I packed my book-bag and waited on the porch for Nano's Edsel's horn..
It was magical!Meals were all my favorites.
A trip to Sears meant two new outfits…that didn’t have to be part of the sale tag or the grow-into collection.
Chores…No So Much!
Television, no early bedtime, and long walks in the neighborhood where the size of my feet and the curls in my hair were discussed in three different languages.
Stories of the old country and first seeing the Lady in the Harbor from the bow of a ship were summer reruns, but Nano’s passion made them fresh and new. His damp eyes glistening in the setting sunlight made me yearn for her welcome too.
Every afternoon, about dusk, Mr. Joe’s Fresh Fish and Produce truck would crawl down the brick streets. The clanging sound of its hanging metal scale, dangling on the back of the old blue truck, would draw us to the sidewalk and there, Nana would buy me a handful of fresh Bing cherries.Up the stairs, to her porch landing I would scamper with a brown napkin full of deep red delights. I would count and savor each and every one, reassured that Mr. Joe would return again tomorrow and another handful would be mine.
Again.
And again.
Until it was time to go back home.
Every summer Bing cherries sit on my kitchen counter, in Nana’s favorite pasta bowl, an offering to all who pass by and a reminder to me of two childhood gifts; the blessings of both indulgence and necessity.

Lesson 2: Those Were the Days My Friend....

**When the only children on milk cartons were the “Pagan babies”! Yes, every Lent in Catholic elementary school we diligently saved nickels, in special little milk boxes, so our class could adopt a Pagan baby and actually name it. (Always Joseph and Mary of course)

**When your family had four daughters, and three accounted for chapel veils on Sunday morning, and you were the one wearing a bobby-pinned Kleenex on your head to Mass.

**When your family had to make sure they had the necessary money for the weekend, because you could not get cash out of a “wall” whenever you needed it.

**When your TV had three channels and one of them was in a constant state of snow-fall, and hard to see. And at midnight, they played the Star Spangled Banner and the stations went off air until tomorrow.

**When a party line had nothing to do with illegal drugs or the Electric Slide. You better not listen in!

**When you had one TV, one phone, and one bathroom in your home. When your family had one car and you were blessed.

**When the only famous people you could think of, with only one name, were Liberace and Elvis. (Charo came later!)

**When drying clothes required the sun, a line, and clothes pins.

**When you had a “gas wars” and nobody got killed. Instead you got 4 gallons of regular for a buck! (Do they even have “regular-leaded gas anymore?)

**When cars didn’t have seat belts and the most dangerous seat of all was on the hump, in the front seat, because your mother could swat you without pulling over.

**When eating out was a special treat and special treats were related to extra-ordinary behavior; not just doing well in school or behaving in church.

**When your teachers were less concerned about your self esteem and more concerned with your self -discipline. Ever spend a recess with your head on your desk because you misbehaved?

**When communists lived in Red States , not Republicans. And being green meant you were nauseous not a naturalist.

**When the Laugh In line “you bet your bippy” was the naughtiest thing you heard on TV.

*When the only one talking about sending someone into space was Jackie Gleason;”right to the moon Alice”

**When reality TV about families presented role models like Andy Griffith, Lassie, Leave It to Beaver, Bonanza, Little House on the Prairie, and The Waltons!
**When you thought 50 was really old!

**When you were supposed to listen to the voice in your head: it was your conscience.

School Days!!!

Remember when your Kindergarten teacher would hang your class work on the bulletin board?
Right there in the open, for all to see?

Little foil stars or coveted “Great Job” ink stamps, pressed into the upper corner?
My "Writing Your Memoir" coach believes that public ritual or public ridicule is the best recipe for successful memoir writing and requires we each begin a blog to post our class work.

Then, we have been instructed to email updates, or facebook the links, or tweet on twitter, each completed assignment.

In essence open our classroom door for others to see!

Sounds like an educational exercise.

Sounds simple enough....Right?....No So Much!

But, I agreed to following the syllabus and next time I will read the small print, regarding publishing your homework, more closely!

So, welcome to my class and my bulletin board!

*Some of my essays have been reworked, following mandatory guidelines, from Gifts Without Bows.