A smell came to me today, winding its way into my soul, searching out a memory that I had forgotten.

Me and Dad in front of the house on Main Street

As I walked the halls of the school where I work, I didn’t know the origin of that smell and it didn’t even matter. No, what mattered only was that this particular smell took me back to my childhood, back to the days I would stand beside my dad watching him polish his uniform shoes.

My father was an Illinois State Police Officer for 25 years, which was all of my childhood.  As I walked down the hall, the smell invaded my senses, all these pictures and feelings and smells swirled around me.

My mind took flight and there he was, my dad, scrubbing on his shoes with that old brush, the shoe polish box sitting nearby. There I saw him, so handsome in his police uniform, in our old kitchen with his foot placed upon a chair, bent over, intently polishing away. Man, how those uniform shoes would shine!

No one knew as I walked down that school hall that my eyes no longer saw them. No one knew that my smile was not for them. No one knew that it was my dad who walked beside me now, filling that hallway chock full of memories.

Mom and dad’s bedroom was the only passage to the bathroom in our house. We had to walk right past their bed, past the closet, always aware of his uniform hanging in there.  I still feel myself stopping to peek up into the closet they shared.  I still can feel the mystery that was his career.

For our friends, we would delight in pointing out his gun in its holster on that shelf and that bright shiny star pinned to his uniform shirt. Ah, yes, we were proud, but never did we dare to touch that sacred gun. My gentle Dad would surely have taken a belt to us if we had. Or so we thought.

He hung his uniform pants by a belt loop on a hanger there in that closet. We all knew that he kept lots of coffee change in those pants pockets. Sometimes we naughty children would help ourselves to a small handful of that change and race up to the local candy store for a sweet bit of heaven. Surely he missed his change now and then but he never did say a word. Perhaps it was his way of indulging without actually spoiling us.

I don’t think we ever really realized how special he was. He was just our dad.  He worked hard and long. It was just what he did. It was just our life. Besides being a policeman, he was a farmer and provider for us twelve kids. When he wasn’t at one job, he was at the other.

I remember how he would sometimes take a different road home from the farm and honk like crazy and stick his head out the open window. Yelling a wild Indian holler, he would swear he saw a real live Indian standing high on a cliff above us.

Birthdays were crazy special when he was home. He would grab us up and shove us under his bed. Taking a board and grabbing a hammer, he would yell that we weren’t allowed to get another year older. He would swear he was going to lock us up and throw away the key. He would proceed to hammer on the board threatening to keep us under the bed so we wouldn’t be able to grow up. We would scream and laugh, knowing he meant no harm.

He often patrolled the third shift and mother would shush us and make us be especially quiet on those days. Poor old dad needed his sleep she would tell us.

Tiptoeing through their darkened bedroom, we really did try hard not to wake him on our way to the bathroom. So many times we thought him sound asleep as we tiptoed through on our way back out. But alas, he would reach out to grab us with an unexpected yell.  It would scare us, and then make us laugh. We thought he didn’t have the time or energy to play with us. We were so wrong. He gave us what he could.  I wish it had never stopped

When he was home, he was worn out, dozing in his recliner, watching gun smoke or the evening news on T.V.  I remember taking his shoes and socks off and feeling really good to do this for him. I remember stretching up to shyly kiss his cheek before bed.  I still remember how his rough, day old whiskers would scratch my lips and the way his old spice aftershave mingled with cigarette smoke. Sometimes he would give a little growl and snap at me like a dog and I would jump and giggle.

I remember when I first began to feel silly giving him a goodnight kiss. I would slink behind my  little brother as he kissed him first. I would feel my cheeks turn red as I gave him a quick peck. I thought myself too big a girl to kiss my daddy goodnight.

I wish I had never stopped.

Mom w/Andy and Dad w/me on laps. Evening with one of our priests. Becky and Peggy in the background.

We had a small family gathering this weekend. My sister, Amy, brought our mother’s bible and we all got a chance to look through it. This well-loved book was like an old familiar friend as Amy pulled it out. It had apparently lost its cover some time ago. The pages were heavily noted with her handwritings scrawled in the columns and passages underlined and sometimes triple underlined.  I came across three or four dried four leaf clovers pressed into the pages and had visions of her children and grandchildren bringing her piece of nature. How thrilled she would be as she would ceremoniously help that child find a book to press them in.

My sister, Peggy, and I took turns with mom’s bible. As we skimmed through, reading a noted passage here and there, we tried to understand what she may have been dealing with at that particular time. We were grasping to eek any little bit of knowledge from the writings. We wanted desperately for her to reach out from that old bible and give us some wisdom.  Just some little something that would bring a little piece of her back to us.

I can still see my sweet mother reading to us from that bible. After supper we were not excused from the table until we were all finished and she read us a passage. I remember the boys fidgeting but giving her respect and staying seated. I remember the girls with their heads bowed, resigned to giving an extra ten minutes before starting with the dirty dishes. I would follow along as much I could and try to discern what lesson she wanted us to receive. Somehow, my young mind would manage to drift but I was always secure in the knowledge that mom definitely had our spiritual back.

I remember her sitting in the living room when I came home from being with my friends at night.  With only one lamp lighting the big old house, she would be there, reading it again as she awaited her teens to make curfew and be safely home. The nights that I would miss curfew, she still would be waiting up. I would be scolded. “I know what you’ve been up to!” she would say. I knew just to hang my head and take my tongue lashing as I sat on that cold fireplace hearth.  I never really knew what she was talking about, which sin to confess too. Because truth be known, I was probably guilty of whatever she thought I was up to, that and more.  So I would just sit there quietly until she would tell me to go to bed. I would slink upstairs and stay below the radar the next day, cleaning the house and doing what I could to get back into good graces with her and be forgiven.

Sometimes she didn’t need the bible to be open. She knew it’s passages by heart. Dad always took us on two week vacations in the summer. What a great time we would have. Dad wouldn’t shave for two weeks, he would relax and even joke and tease with us a little. This was something to us. Dad was a man of many responsibilities. With twelve children and two full time jobs he didn’t have much time to relax. Plus, he had to shave daily for his job as a State Trooper and we rarely saw him with whiskers. Vacations were a very exciting time for us.  But before we would venture out in our old station wagon, laden with luggage on top and packed with kids of all ages, pulling the Starcraft camper, mom would gather us in a circle. There in the living room she would quote from the bible as she prayed for our safety and probably her sanity on this adventure. I knew she would have her bible along and would sit beside dad in the front seat and pass the time with her two old friends.

That old book was the map to her whole life. She used it to help herself and her family along on our journey. She used it to keep her children safe as they played and grew all around her and again as they gained their wings and flew away. She used it when she was hurting, when she needed clarity and guidance. She turned to it in her happiness and successes. It was an everyday study for her. It brought her comfort and peace. Her old bible was her friend, her teacher, her confidante, her love, her peace of mind.

Andy with me standing beside him on the basement steps

Andy 14 and Sara 16 in Arizona on vacation with mom and dad

Last night, Randy and I watched the 2012 Women’s Gymnastic Olympics at my younger brother, Andy’s house. He now owns that great old house we both grew up in on Main St. It was an enjoyable evening spent with my old companion, his wife, Cheryl and daughter, Abbie. The U.S.A. Women’s team truly are the Fabulous Fierce Five. When it was over Andy teasingly offered to walk us out to our car. Laughing, I told him I thought we could make it okay on our own. I chattered away to Randy as we walked out the back door to our car. I guess that Andy’s back porch has one more step then I remember, I skipped it and promptly and heavily fell to the concrete landing below. I rammed my head into his garage but what I knew instantly, was that my knees and hands were burning. Sure enough, upon further examination, I had small scrapes on my hand and one knee. But the most damage was done to my left knee. A huge area had a layer of skin totally and deeply removed.

Later, at home, with Randy to doctor and wait on me, the pain and ugly open sore took me back to another time my whole body was covered in scrapes. This incident also involved my old companion and brother, Andy. You see, Andy has always been a special friend to me. The youngest two of a busy family of twelve, we often turned to each other for companionship. There were many times I realized his affection for me as we grew up together but the summer of my sixteenth year, Andy gave me my first real gift of brotherly love and loyalty.

We lived in a small Illinois town but my dad also owned a small farm about a twenty minute drive east of us. We spent many a day on the farm with my dad. Sometimes we were put to work, walking beans, tending the huge acre garden, helping to plant and harvest, and feeding the animals. Between the work we usually always had some time to create adventures. After the work was finished, we could be found climbing the old “monkey trees” in the northern wood,s pausing to quench our thirsts at a little spring nearby. Some days we would dive into the pond and have mud fights. There were  many hours spent swinging on a vine over the creek to drop just as you swung over the deepest part of the swim hole. When our hunger became too powerful as it often did with my dad working long hours and the lunch time sandwiches devoured hours earlier, we would make our way to the huge garden my mother tended. There we could eat all the fresh, raw potatoes, green beans and tomatoes our little tummies could hold. Life was good, we had everything we needed right there on that farm miles from civilization.

As I entered my teenage years, I found I no longer had time to climb trees and wade creeks. I had my driver’s license and a job. “Places to go and things to see” as my mother was fond of saying. Besides, my younger confidante, at fourteen, had discovered girls and was spending  a huge amount of his time on the phone. I felt as if we were growing apart and often yearned for the excitement of our earlier, care free summers. So when he came to me one day begging me to take him and a few of his friends to the farm to ride three wheelers, I readily agreed.

Besides the chance to spend a little time with my brother, I could work on improving my tan while they rode. I slipped a pair of shorts on over my swim suit and donned a beat up pair of sneakers. The boys rode for a while as I dozed in the sun. I could hear the birds chirping and the distant drone of the three wheelers lulled me as  I relaxed, enjoying the peacefulness of my father’s farm. After about an hour the drone became louder and I realized the boys were getting near. I sat up and watched as they pulled all around me. They were heading to the creek to take a dip and wanted to know if I would join them. At sixteen, I was taking pride in becoming a young lady, but the tom boy in me could not pass up the chance to have some fun. Besides, it would allow me time with Andy like the good old days. I agreed with the stipulation that I could drive one of the ATV’s.

We headed down the dusty road towards the bottom lands that held the creek. I picked up speed and the others followed suit. Soon we began racing and because I was the oldest, I was determined to stay ahead of them all. As we made the curve and headed down the steep decline that descended into the bottoms, I felt myself starting to lose control. The speed, the instability of the three wheeler, and my inexperience came together at this moment and I panicked. Instead of applying the brakes, I pushed the gas lever. Totally out of control by now, the three wheeler roared up the steep embankment and flipped over on top of me back to the road. That huge machine and I went into a slide for about twenty five feet.

Andy and the boys were close behind me and were quick to pull the heavy machine off of me. My swim suit had slipped down and my body was scraped from head to toe on my left side. As I stood up, the pressure on my left foot left me wincing and instant pain shot from my ankle. I reached out my bloody right hand to one of the boys for support and, in horror, watched as two of my fingers crumbled with a bone protruding from one of them. At this gruesome sight, the boy paled and turned away, holding his mid section. Andy had turned his vehicle around by now and was quick to come to my rescue and assist me onto his three wheeler.

We had no phone on the farm back then and no way to contact anyone. The nearest neighbor lived a couple miles away. As we sped back to the pickup truck, my eye sight began to dim. I yelled to Andy and he grabbed my arm around him and screamed “Just hold on tight!” He delivered me safely to the truck and helped me into it. By now, I could not see at all. I could hear my little brother’s shaky voice pleading with me to “just hold on a little longer”.  For some reason I lost my ability to speak, I could hear Andy’s panicked voice begging me and praying, but I could not reply to reassure him. I had lost my sight, my speech and my mobility. I couldn’t even raise a hand to pat him. I remember trying unsuccessfully to pull out of the darkness and comfort my frightened rescuer. I could only sit and listen. The sudden loss of so much blood had caused my body to go in to shock.

Later at the hospital, the doctor told me what I already knew. I was very fortunate to have a brother who “kept his head” and acted quickly when the other’s had panicked. I was so proud of my little brother and remembered the tender love and concern I had felt as he came to my rescue. It was at that moment that I realized we were not losing each other. We would go our own ways and take different paths but this day my baby brother had shown  me how deeply implanted love had already become in our young hearts. That special closeness that had been ours in childhood would continue to follow us as we grew.

We were directors and actors as we practiced plays on that front porch. With tales of monsters that were meant to thrill, the old porch transformed wonderfully into our stage, complete with drop down curtains.We ventured into our neighborhood and sold tickets to fill the mismatched chairs we provided for our audience.  I still can feel the coolness of that old white bed sheet as it was wrapped around me, the mummy of the play.  I laugh at the memory of our mother arriving home during our great production, so mortified that we dared such a scene right there on  Main Street for the whole town to see. “Those crazy Rauch kids, what are they up to now?”.

Ah and the “hippies”. My parents simply saw someone else’s children needing shelter and a meal and of course we took them in. Those young hitchhikers sat on our front porch, played their guitars and sang their counterculture songs to us. The naysayers must have got their eyes full and shook their heads. But did they know the things these young people brought to us? Did they know how kind and respectful they were to my parents, how patient they were as they taught us kids to macramé belts and necklaces? No those who weren’t present will never understand how those long haired strangers enriched our lives. “Those crazy Rauch’s, always bringing strange people to our town!”

I remember Sheri, the little girl from St. Louis. She was one of the inner city children that came to stay with us in the summer to get a taste of rural life. As I sat on the front porch playing jacks, she skipped around me singing a little song. Sara sponda Sara Sponda Sara sponda Ret Set Set..Ah do re o Ado re boom di o..a do re boom de ret set set ..a do re boom de o….How that song echoes when I see little children playing on the streets. In the civil rights turmoil of the 60’s and 70’s I know that the people drove by thinking “Those crazy Rauchs, bringing “Blacks” to our little town!”

A memory comes to me now of our beloved porch swing upon that front porch. How can a couple of chains and some old wood slats cause such merriment?  The rides we took, the places we went, the stories that were created to the rhythm and creak of that old swing. Big brother, George,  sat in the middle, reached his hands to the chains and pulled hard to flip us backwards. With peals of laughter,  we would swing upside down. Games were invented and turns were taken, pushing and swinging as high as the old ledge would let us. “Those crazy Rauch kids, they’re gonna get hurt!”

And then the evenings would come. And mom and dad and sometimes a big sibling would come out to join us. Here and there a bike rider or walker would stop to chat for a while, crickets and cicadas serenading their banter. Quiet as ghosts, we would slink out to the yard,  catching the fireflies and setting them free again. The sun would sink, the breeze would blow soft and for a while everything  in our little world would feel just right.  “Those crazy Rauchs, aren’t they something?”

Andy, Me, Peggy, George (4 of 12 sibs)

Hey brother did you know?  I have all these memories of us growing up together? Do you have these memories tucked away too? How magical we were together, o brother of mine.

“Hello little baby, I see you through that old white wrought iron baby crib.” Do you remember that old four post bed with the brass knobs? Maybe I climbed in with you, I’m sure that would be fitting. Maybe I was just impatient for you to hurry up and be big enough to come play. Maybe I already knew the magic we would create.

You see little brother; I don’t have memories of mom bringing you from the hospital or changing your diapers and helping you to walk. Just memories of you and me and the fun we had. Remember that sandbox in your third year? My goodness we spent so many hours there building our bridges and sifting sand! It was there we first met the little boy, Jeffy, our blood brother and constant childhood companion.

I feel the sun of our summers together and see us running everywhere we went, the bikes we rode, ramping everything we could. The old barrels we would stand and balance on, walking them carefully across the yard. Everyone in our town knew of our wonderful bag swing and often would join us. The huge old walnut tree Y’d in the middle allowing us to swing from three levels.  We were acrobats in a circus and we owned the wind that blew passed our ears. The laughter, the arguments and the challenges I still can hear.

The trails, the swamp, the Indian village and the year the Quatman family bought our wilderness and began to build their lumber yard. We climbed and lay in wait on that dirt pile, aimed our toy guns and planned their ambush.  How dare they take over our land! We were too small to understand we didn’t own the trails and the swamp and everything on the land neighboring our yard! We hated them for stealing our world, for tearing down the tree with the grand two story tree house built by our older brothers. We refused to let them stop us. We played around them and knew to hide when we saw them coming.

Our brothers and sisters played beside us, sometimes present, sometimes not. Still, we reaped the benefits. Do you remember those clubhouses they created and the old store Peggy put up in the old chicken barn? Remember that nice old witch, Broom Hilda? Remember the night Jeff and George created the wind sail and we ran along beside that little red wagon as it sailed that windy night?

 Tell me dear brother of mine, where have the days gone, where is that creek we called “Sandy Beach”, the large tubes we lazed on as it took us along? So many memories we created without even knowing.  These memories seep from me and yet no one but you understands the places I have been, the adventures we created.

http://www.dio.org/parishes/st-francis-of-assisi-teutopolis.html

I hear the church bells toll just down the street. The tolling causes an ache and melancholy rings from my soul. The lonely sound marks the hour and I feel a pull, the church, or maybe it is God, calling to me. Where are you, where have you been, I miss you. The feelings and memories of the little girl inside begin to stir. As a member of a huge Catholic family, I was made to go to church very regularly.

Everyone in our small town was Catholic. Our school was a public one but even it was owned by the church.  We had nuns to teach us in their long dark garbs and funny headpieces that reminded me of the mouth piece of a whistle. They took us to church every morning and taught our religion classes too.  Each day started at school with the Pledge of Allegiance and was followed with the Lord’s Prayer.

We spent our time in church trying to pay attention. Somehow our minds would wander.  One of us would begin playing with our hands daring the next to twist one finger across the other and stack all five if possible. Soon giggles and whisper would be heard and then quickly silenced with a swat on the shoulder and a very stern look from whichever nun was in charge of us that day.  There are really only so many mind games and finger games and distractions a child can invent when made to sit unnaturally still and quiet for so much of their lives. Yet, the giggles and the games rush back echoingly clear when those church bells ring.

Some of the priests were so ancient and so boring. Some we couldn’t follow due to the monotone credence of their voice. Yet, there were a few, just a few, who had a twinkle in their eye and a gift of engaging even us small children. These few would come down from behind the alter or podium, walk up and down the aisle, calling on us by name,  gently talking to us like we were real people. Kids sat up straighter, craned their necks and ears to see and listen. We would actually pay attention and want to participate. Yes, I recall those gentle priests with fondness when I hear those old church bells.

Oh and those sweet, slow Sundays, our whole family would go to church together. Dad would go sit in the car and patiently wait until each kid eventually tumbled from the house. Quietly he would remain until mom appeared to take her place beside him. Away we would go in that old station wagon tucked so full with all his love.  I remember the feelings that ran through me as we took up two whole pews in that old church. The older kids, some sullenly, some motherly, some still trying to wake up, filled the spaces of those benches. Ahh, but they never knew they also filled the corners of a little girl’s soul. I felt so safe and secure and yet a part of something huger then my little mind could even begin to imagine. My dad would sing bass and my mom would harmonize right there with him and I thought I heard angels chiming in. I still feel these things whenever I hear those beautiful church bells ring.

Safe and secure and loved and a sense of always knowing what was expected of me. My family and my church laid the map of my life. I may have strayed and taken paths not approved of but my love of both of them has always managed to pull me back. I love God and I love the Catholic faith even if I rarely attend anymore. God, my family and my church were good to me through my childhood. When those church bells ring I remember I have been blessed.

My childhood church: http://www.stfrancischurch.com/newsite/wordpress/?page_id=68

Let me start with the smell of the earth. This is the one smell that can instantly take me back to childhood. The heavy whiff of soil and the ground rushing up to meet me as my favorite old cutoffs tickle my legs, the pound of bare feet running across the lush green grass, rushing to get to that old barn. I hear those calls from within, the clubhouse and my brothers and friends await me to come join them? The plans we made, the overnight camp in the far corner of the yard with only a fire and a couple old sleeping bag to protect us, sneaking out to walk through that sleeping little town, feeling like we owned the world, stopping to “borrow” a watermelon or some tomatoes from a lonely old garden that someone else had tended so carefully. Oh the trees we climbed and the creeks we conquered. I hope to share some of these great moments in future blogs. But for now, a poem comes to my mind. A poem of youth and first love, my poem.

Summer Love

I remember you, I do.

Though you were just a boy

And I, a little girl.

You came to call me your friend.

I remember the fast wild rides on your bicycle.

My heart pounding ever fast

As I clung to your sturdy little boy body

The sound of speed surging in our ears.

I hold precious memories

Of campouts in my backyard

The transistor radio turned down low

While I rubbed your back

By the fires soft glow.

I recall the sultry days of a youthful summer

Sneaking out at night

To walk through that sleepy small town

And watch the morning sun awaken it.

I remember the hand holding

And the sweet innocent touches.

I remember scribbling my goodbyes

Onto the snow

And staring up at your window

When you moved away.

I remember the hot tears

And a little girls broken heart.

I remember you, I do.

~Sara Jane~

I watched with intensity and tucked many lessons away on my way up. I witnessed the struggles of my siblings with each other, with my mom and dad and with society. I can’t even begin to write all that I learned from them. I thought them all beautiful and wise and right. I never doubted who they were and never questioned that I would be as true as they were as I grew. My parents were good, gentle people. They loved to help others who were suffering and struggling. Their generosity knew no boundaries.

My story really begins as a waif of a child, all arms and legs, round brown eyes and a tangle of long dark hair. The sun kissed my skin and turned me a nice nut-brown every summer. In the years before my twelfth one, I had swam in my father’s creek, shirtless, and as free as the boys I ran with. I had climbed the vines and swung out above the water,letting go,fearlessly crying “Geronimo!” as I crashed to the waterhole below. My legs were always in motion. Running was the fastest way to get anywhere and my scrubby stubbed toes revealed this fact. Never did I care about the state of my hair, much to my sisters’ consternation. Much more important affairs drew my attention. I could pee, standing up, just like the boys. Well almost like the boys. I could slide into first base and pitch a mean ball. I was as fast on my bike and could ride a wheelie and ramp like Evil Knevil.

They named me Sara. It means “Little Princess” or so my father told me once upon a time as I sat on his knee. I don’t know when the memories replaced the years. I don’t know when I became me. At forty some years of age I have begun to awaken. I have begun to look back and forward at the same time. Until now I have been wandering, drifting, floating through life. And so now, I stop. I promise myself that I will make plans and goals. But soon, I save my document, turn off the computer and my real life begins again.

I believe that there are all these minute events and people and situations that come together and form each one of us. Wifts of cigar smoke from a grandfather, smiles of mischievous brothers, big sisters’ tugs on pony tails, best childhood friends, kick the can games, fast bike rides, campouts in the backyard and swimming in the creek. For myself, the creation of a woman began as the adventures of a tomboy.

I am the youngest girl of a family of six boys and six girls. That does not mean that I am the baby of the family. No, my brother, Andy, grudgingly holds that position. Though it seems as though we have always been the same age, Andy is actually two years younger than me. Andy and Sara, some would say, two peas in a pod, childhood companions, soul mates, and buddies. I looked up to him and he always watched out for me. We rose from the earth. Dirty little feet, tangled wind blown hair and the smell of the great outdoors clinging to our sturdy little bodies. Smudges on our faces never matched the one’s on our hearts. We were poor, we wore hand me down clothes and ran barefoot all summer long. We watched our parents and our older siblings struggle and work. We played in the spare moments around life’s hardships. Our pride was strong, our hearts true. We never thought we were poor. We adored our family and defended it with all the innocence of our days. We kept it’s secrets and followed the unspoken rules and expectations that were set before we entered it. “Use your manners” “pass all food to the left around the table” “Eat with only one hand, the other on your lap” “Use Please and thank You when asking for seconds” comb your hair, wash your hands and face before supper and no hats at the table.

Security came in knowing what was expected. Never be late for supper. Evenings were sacred with only one thing to do, gather at the table to partake in our nightly ritual. Twelve children around one table with mother saying grace while dad sat silently. After we were satisfied and the huge bowls of food depleted, dad would take out his cigarettes and shake one from the pack to light. Mom would set the pot on for coffee while the girls would clear the table. Even now as a grown woman, I find myself with a tug in the evenings. When the street is dark and the lights go on in the houses along my neighborhood, I long to burst into our house to have delicous smells fill my soul. I long to slink through the quiet darkened living room into the kitchen full of light and warmth and welcome, to see my dad patiently waiting for us to wash up and know that mom will be busy up until the last child sits, filling bowls and fetching dishes.

And so, I feel compelled to write these words. To let the world know of the life I have lived and the feelings my heart has endured. Please join me as I ride this ride. Follow me as we wander back in time or zip to the present only to float somewhere in between and dream about the future. My blogs are simple musings on childhood and adulthood and life and everything in between. I have been given ROOTS and WINGS by my mother. I simply hope to share my wonderful roots and beautiful wings with the world.

When I was six years old there was a boy who sat on the opposite side of the class room to me, across the red carpet and in the desks with the oblong edges. He was older than me, taller than me and I was sure  he didn’t know who I was. And he performed one of the most memorable acts of my childhood.

He was the first boy ever to hold my hand.

I can still remember exactly how it happened. We were in school. He took my hand in the line as we waited to go inside after lunch break. He just reached our and took it. I can’t remember if I was scared or sad or in any way out of the ordinary. But something in my often nervous demeanour prompted a seven year old boy to hold my hand. We may have been talking, we may have been whispering, he may have even asked me if I wanted him to hold my hand. But then he did.  He took my hand right out of the air and held it within his. A gesture of kindness.

His hand was soft and warm and callous free. It was also strong and sure, it felt right to be holding it in mine.

The other children who waited to go into their lines, those who sat opposite us, did not fail to notice our hands interlocked with one another. There was no time to pull away, no time to change, I was used to their scorn, their laughter, but I knew he was not. I had rarely been so afraid of the words of other people, what they would say to take away this voluntary act of friendship, of kindness. But he didn’t let go. He held my hand firm. He whispered, “Just ignore them” and kept a hold of my hand. I was too surprised to tell him that I knew that I should ignore them, that I had too much experience in ignoring what they would say about me. Because he didn’t stop holding my hand.

A gesture of heroism on the part of any seven year old usually involves rescuing beetles fallen from leaves or held hostage in jars. But for this little boy, for this child, he never pulled away, not until we had to sit down. He held onto my hand all the way down the hall as the pastel and peach tiles sloped beneath our feet and our rubber soles shuffled against the floor. We didn’t speak.

I don’t think he ever did hold my hand again. He may have regretted the gesture. I didn’t care too much. That is to say I never wondered why he didn’t hold it again. It often crossed through the jungle of my mind why he did. He took my hand in his. That blonde and perfect boy, who, at seven years old at that minute in time was the most heroic creature I had ever come across. I’m still a little bit in love with him.

They

Get trapped

In your consciousness

Frozen

In the landscape

Of the mind

Sometimes

Leave indelible

Scars

And you

Become a

Spectator

Sometimes

Give you

Anecdotes

And you

Become

A Raconteur

Then

Through

The alleys

Of time

They revisit

You

Enticing

You into

Facing

Them again

Flooding

Memories

Of that

buried pain

I was always destined to be Mrs Doyle.

However, I get the feeling that I was filling a bit by the end. And I think my observational skills peaked with the fact about the Libyans…

Tea

Tea comes from the dried end leaves of a tea shrub. The evergreen shrub grows on the hillsides in the tropics, where there are are hot summers and plenty of rain. The end leaves are picked every three weeks. Each person in Britain consumes about 3.7KG of tea each year, which is more than the rest of the world except for the Libyans.

Tea looks like coffee… It tastes good. It feels rough.”

Tea looks like coffee. The tea has a strong smell. It tastes good. It feels rough.

I like the smell and taste of it. It is a brown colour. There are lots of different kinds of tea – Earl Grey, gunpowder and herb. It looks like tiny specs of sand except a different colour.

John Muir

Dear Little Shit:

The first few years of your life, I might dress you up as a different animal every day. I was inspired in Venice and by all the cute little animals toted around. I worry you might get an identity crisis from it though: Am I a panda bear? Or am I a tiger? Oh well. I think the animal onesies would help your dad a lot when it comes to dressing you, too, so maybe not a bad plan.

And I say, if you want to keep dressing up as a kid, do it. Let your imagination take you wherever it may go… (especially if these are second-hand recycled costumes–I am all for that). Be bold. Be imaginative. Be creative. Be who you really are (and if that’s a regular ol’ kid in regular ol’ clothes, then that’s great too).

8 am Butterfly princess stroll

Pirate in the middle of rush hour

Caped Crusader Princess... not really sure what she was.

Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK.

Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other.

Love quotes by kids

Dear Little Shit:

Someday you’ll want to know more about love, life, babies and other adult things. Daddy and I are more than happy to talk to you about those things and in case you would like an introduction while Dad and I argue over who gets the job, here is Julia Sweeney:

So I’m losing my hair. In approximately 37 days (give or take) I’m gonna be one bald mama. People keep asking me if I’m scared or nervous; they tell me they couldn’t do it; they ask me why I’m doing it.

I say I am scared and nervous. Then I tell them they could do it too–it’ll grow back. And I tell them I’m doing it because everything I’ve regretted in my life are the moments where I had an opportunity to speak up, to stand up for something or someone, to try and change something. These are opportunities in my life I’ll never get back. So I’m taking advantage of this opportunity.

Next month, your dad and I are shaving our heads to support children’s cancer research. Yeah, I know…. I run the risk of looking like a monk and I’m okay with that. The thing is, when I’m old and cranky and dying and yelling at you to change my bedpan, in between I’ll probably be spouting out the regrets of my long, fabulous life. And I know none of those regrets will be: “Why didn’t I have more gorgeous hair! Why didn’t I use more leave-in conditioner!” Instead, I’ll be thinking about all those moments I had an opportunity to be brave but I was too scared, nervous, or insecure. But these are the best moments of all–these are our moments to step forward and say “Hey, we need to be different about this”; or “We need to pay attention to what’s important”; or “Please let go of my little brother and stop bullying him–only I can give my brother a swirlie!”. (And no, you cannot give your brother a swirlie–that’s a huge waste of water). These are chances to affect change. While in an ideal world, these opportunities would be unnecessary, we live in a world rife with potential. But we need people who are willing to start the movement.

I hope you’ll be one of those people. I remember when I was a kid I heard some “friends” making fun of one of our overweight classmates. I didn’t know what to say–I was scared to say anything (maybe scared that I was actually wrong, that I’d be their next target or that I’d lose these “friends” who really were never friends to me to begin with) but I also knew they were wrong so I didn’t say anything at all. Her name was Tyne–that’s how bad I still feel about that moment. One day a girl did stick up for her and I felt so ashamed of myself for not having the courage to say something.

I guess what I’m saying is being brave doesn’t mean shaving your head (because in all honesty, getting rid of my hair doesn’t feel nearly as difficult as the moment I could have stuck up for Tyne). Being brave means acknowledging an opportunity to try and create change for the better and then doing something with that opportunity. That might mean supporting a charity at the risk of your own image or sticking up for someone because you know it’s right. It could also mean a million other things.

I just hope you know you shouldn’t be afraid of those moments; 1) the regret later will be far worse than any humiliation because of your damaged “image” and 2) because it just is the right thing to do and I hope we’ll have taught you to stick up for the right thing. Sometimes it’s scary but that’s how we learn courage.

I hope you know, we love you no matter who you are–gay, straight, dark-skinned-light-skinned, half-Asian. If anyone ever tells you any differently, I hope you either read this note and are encouraged to ignore mean comments… or you let us know, and I’ll spit-shine my shiv… (JK)

Michael McIntyre, Comedian, Live and Laughing

Dear Little Shit;

Michael and his sister aren’t the only ones who watched a bit too much television. I think I might have been a human TVGuide by the time I was 3. But I could pass off a lot of my childhood entertainment as educational–with Michael Jackson and Madonna’s early works blasting on the new broadcast MTV, we were watching history.

However, when I think about what children are watching today, my arse begins to twitch. (Actually, it’s more like my eyelids… I should really get this checked.) One day your father and I reminisced about the great TV shows we watched as kids: Reading Rainbow, Full House, Mr Rogers’ Neighborhood , PeeWee’s Playhouse, and Smurfs. (So, Bob Saget turned out to have a terribly adult vocabulary, PeeWee himself had a terribly adult hobby, Lamar Burton doubled as a blind Trekkie, and Mr Rogers’ arms looked like an art mural. Despite these things, they were all part of educational and didactic television series. And there’s nothing really wrong with Lamar Burton being a Trekkie other than that it confused me to see him in the morning teaching me about books and then in the afternoon with a weird headband over his eyes.)

In the past few years, as I’ve spent more time with toddlers and children, the more I am exposed to the awful television on these days. Maybe I am too sentimental about Elmo and  Papa Smurf but I hope by the time you are around and watching TV (I’m going to say you’re not allowed to watch TV until you can afford your own TV, but who really knows what will happen) there are better programs on that educate you in a stimulating and socially normal way. Lord/Allah/Buddha have mercy on my soul if I am reduced to watching this with you:

13 yr old Queens transplant(1968); teen bride(1970); loving mom(1974)
I only had my mom around for a short time. She passed away when I was eleven years old. Even though I’ve spent the majority of my life without her, I’ve always felt her presence in it. I can’t listen to a 70′s song, browse through a thrift shop or go shopping for a bag without thinking of her. It’s inevitable. When I was a little girl, she was my idol (aside, of course, from Andy Gibb). Her favorite things became my favorite things. Her tastes became my tastes.

Case in point. Here are a few of my mom’s “favorite things” (and mine, as well) – a sequined disco tube top, vintage Gucci clutch and the ever beautiful Diane von Furstenberg. DvF was her idol, the woman she molded her style after. My mom read her book entitled “Diane von Furstenberg’s Book of Beauty: How to Become a More Attractive, Confident and Sensual Woman” so many times, I lost count. In fact, she would quote it all the time. Kaftan tops, chunky necklaces and wide-bottom pants were my mother’s wardrobe staples. She loved her suede fringed hobo as much as her box-shaped handbag or Gucci envelope clutch. She was an amazing disco dancer (she and my father won many dance contests in the late 70′s). I would sit on our red velvet sofa for hours watching them practice their routines. In my eyes, she was a goddess. Fierce when it came to style, but sweet in every other respect. She was, by far, the kindest human being I’ve ever encountered. A true “flower child” at heart. Perhaps this is the reason why, after 26 years of being apart, my mother remains my favorite person. Her sense of style and devotion to fashion were admirable, but it was her outer as well as inner beauty I’ll cherish the most…..

I would tag along with my grandparents on their doctor’s appointments, and, although I loved hanging with them (yes, I was weird that way), I loathed the noise that resulted from a room full of old Cubans talking about the old country and their many physical ailments. As more and more “viejitos” would sit down in the waiting room, there was a palpable increase in the decibel levels inside the room. Eventually, it became a shout-fest to see who could talk the loudest (usually the oldest curmudgeon in the room won out).

Once I began to get over my fear of loud Cubans, I really started to enjoy being around them. Sure they were loud (and some were even obnoxious), but they were, for the most part, fun, well-meaning and oddly informative. Some were downright wise. There’s nothing that a loud Cuban loves more than to spout out small tidbits of wisdom called “refranes”. My grandfather was a grand aficionado of famous Cuban refranes. His favorite one was “Dime con quién andas, y te diré quién eres”. Basically it means a man is measured by the company he keeps. He used it to lovingly lecture me on the importance of picking my friends. I find it ironic that he loved that refran the best seeing as how most of the company my grandfather kept was made up of loud-mouthed Cubans who were anything but intellectuals. Their idea of being smart and clever was telling a good, dirty joke and knowing how to fix their broken-down cars without the aid of a mechanic. Irony, you are indeed a b—h!

I never judged my grandfather by the company he kept because he was every man’s friend. He was incapable of slighting anyone, and that’s why everyone wanted to be his friend. He didn’t have a judgemental bone in his body. Little did he know that his favorite refran would shape all of my future relationships and the way I pick and choose my friends to this day.

I can count my true friends on one hand with a few fingers left over. And that’s fine with me. Good friends are about quality, not quantity. I know I’ll never be everyone’s friend like my grandfather was. I’m simply too judgemental for that to be my reality.

In the end, I’m a self-righteous know-it-all who thinks she’s better than most people and doesn’t mind telling everyone just that. Oh, and I’m also a loud Cuban. HA! I’ve finally embraced my Cuban roots, abuela. I know you’re proud of me up there in what I am sure is an equally loud, Cuban-infested heaven

Today I’ve been thinking a lot about the earth and whether I’m doing my part to make sure that my impact on the planet is minimized. Now, I do live in an apartment, so it’s not like I can run out and plant a garden over the weekend, but I am cognizant of the fact that buying produce at Target is not doing anything for the environment, nor are Target’s vegetables necessarily prime produce. Luckily, the city that I live in has no fewer than three farmer’s markets, though I hardly ever get to peruse them because it’s one more stop on my list and it becomes inconvenient.

This year I’ve been trying to change my life, in the sense that I want to be more aware of the consequences of my seemingly mundane choices. Does buying an acorn squash at Target have a negative impact? Can I manipulate my “to do list” to make it more efficient and make that stop at the farmer’s market rewarding, and not aggravating? 

I don’t remember my dad ever pushing for my family to eat more fruits and vegetables. Perhaps he was just frustrated with the lackluster quality of supermarket produce. Hell, it’s been YEARS since I’ve had a tomato that rivaled the speckled heirlooms that my grandmother used to harvest from her side-yard. Perhaps my dad thought more deeply about the planet than I knew. Perhaps he wanted to make a better life for himself by eating healthier and giving up his vices. Maybe he didn’t know how.  Maybe he felt stuck.

In the last year of his life, my dad regressed into his childhood, the results  of hard-living and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder brought on by the Vietnam War. One of the most painful memories I have of this period is a rare extended-family meal out. We were at a faimly-style restaurant, with my aunts and uncles piling their plates high with fried food and gloopy sauces. My dad came back to the table with a plain salad. No dressing, no salt, no spices. Plain. For some reason, this memory is hard for me because it represents a lack of enjoyment–a lack of interest in the meal itself. The salad was just there, without accompaniment, and without a cue that the main course was coming.  Smothering a salad with dressing makes it a vehicle, a segue.  My dad just ate his plain.

Perhaps his body was crying out for the simplicity of the earth’s bounty. Maybe he had transported himself back to a previous meal–perhaps one from his childhood, or when he was in the Navy. I don’t know.  The point is, I’m trying to recast this memory into something positive, and find a way back to a trusting relationship with my father. Maybe we aren’t so different.