It was love at first sight. Those blue eyes of his. Sometimes they were a dreamy sparkling blue and you could just lose yourself in them as you stared at him and he looked back at you. Neither one of us wanted to be the first to blink, but it was usually me. When those eyes of his were that soft shade of blue-sky blue, I knew for a fact that his life was centered around me. No one else would do. Just me. And I have to say that I loved that about him.
Then there were those other days.... when his blue eyes turned cold. Blue like steel.... hard and non-trusting, ready to accuse you of not being all that he needed and wanted you to be. I had friends who saw those steel blue eyes and told me "There's another little person inside those eyes... the exact opposite of who was in there just a minute ago."
But how do you not love a blue-eyed cat? How do you turn your back on this fluffy long-haired Birman whose eyes penetrated your soul and just melted your insides down to the consistency of applesauce?
That cat..... that cat. A blue-eyed Birman. Long and silky-soft light gray fur, with lavender tips on his paws, his tail, his ears, his face. A picture-perfect cat-show-quality Birman, adopted from an animal shelter in a moment of weakness on my part. And all because of those eyes. I found him there one day but didn't take him home--- we already had a dog and a cat. But I just couldn't get him out of my mind all that day and night, and went back the next day to take him home.
It quickly became apparent who was the boss-kitty in that relationship. As beautifully regal as he was as an adult cat, he was merely cute and cuddly and totally irresistible as a kitten..... all of his lavender points hadn't developed yet, and he just had a silver-tipped splotch of lavender across his face. My husband started to call him "Bozo-Nose," a name which scrunched up that cat's face and made him appear severe and hateful. I don't think he ever forgave my husband for that nick-name.
For all the years we had that blue-eyed cat, he wouldn't let my husband pick him up, or barely pet him. He would walk away from my husband's touch and squirm and wiggle if my husband tried to pick him up.
I named him AngelBoy. We thought it was a little girl at first, and the kitten's ears were so big that they looked like wings. "Angel," I whispered to him, and he nuzzled into my neck. We quickly realized that we had a boy cat, and when I mentioned that to my husband's mother, she said "That's not a problem.... call him AngelBoy." I whispered that name to that bundle of fur and he nuzzled into my neck and put his paw on my face. AngelBoy. He didn't live up to that name as an adult cat. As he grew, his lavender points came out and his ears were in proportion to the rest of him. Such a beautiful cat... so beautiful that sometimes it hurt my heart to look at him.
That precious long-haired cat quickly decided he was a one-person cat, and I was his person of choice. My husband continued to call him "Bozo-Nose," AngelBoy continued to scrunch up his face and give my husband those hateful looks. When I was alone in the house, AngelBoy would follow me from one room to another..... sitting by my feet as I read, with his little furry head resting on my ankles. If I was writing at my desk, he would jump up onto a corner of the desk and watch what I was doing..... either he would be watching my pen move side to side along a piece of paper or he would be totally focused on the cursor of the computer.
If we had fresh flowers in the house, AngelBoy would daintily pluck a petal from one of the blooms and hold it gently in his teeth. He would bring the petal to me and drop it at my feet... a gift, an offering, or merely his way of telling me that he needed my attention. With rose petals, he would place them on the floor and then rub his face against their softness. It didn't matter what color the flowers were.... he loved them all, but especially the roses. I saved most of the flower petals he brought to me, pressing them into a little white envelope. But when AngelBoy started to break my heart with his behavior, the flower petals were only reminders of the damage.
That blue-eyed cat was smart enough to recognize colors... he loved anything blue..... certain deep shades of blue that we began to refer to as "AngelBoy Blue." He disliked anything with red or green, and he couldn't tolerate the color yellow at all. He wore a blue collar, with a little blue heart that dangled from it.... his pillow-bed was blue, and even his litter box. Blue.... his blue eyes just zeroed in on all things blue. I had a pair of blue silk shoes that AngelBoy coveted.... he would cry in front of my closet door till I opened it up.... and then he'd walk in and put his head on top of those blue silk heels and go to sleep.
My dad came to stay with us for a while when AngelBoy was less than a year old.... my father was with us for six months, and AngelBoy's allegiance switched from me to my dad. AngelBoy couldn't get enough of my father.... even following him into the bathroom and sitting on the edge of the tub while he bathed. When my dad and I walked through the back door together, AngelBoy would run to him first, rubbing up against his leg and greeting him.... and then, unless my father picked up one of the cat toys, AngelBoy would then say hello to me. I was in second place during those six months, but I understood the attraction between those two. My dad would play with that cat for hours on end..... until AngelBoy got tired and took a nap on my father's lap. My dad gave AngelBoy his undivided attention at all times, without having to take a break to cook meals, do laundry, clean house.
My father would sing Italian songs to AngelBoy.... he would call out his name and that blue eyed cat would come prancing towards my dad... and daddy would start to sing softly, because he didn't want to "scare the baby." AngelBoy would sit at his feet and stare at my father, listening to Italian lyrics as if he were fluent in the language. I would shake my head in wonder at AngelBoy's attentiveness to those songs, because if I played my Barry Manilow records on the stereo, that cat would scrunch up his face and walk to the other end of the house, as far away from the music as he could get. How could I have raised a cat that didn't like Manilow? I asked my dad that question and his answer was "Get some Caruso records... you've got an Italian cat here."
When my dad's visit was over and he went back to NY, AngelBoy searched the house for him. He would carry his favorite toys from room to room, looking for my dad, clearly missing him. His little cat-face didn't exactly scrunch up, but I would have sworn that he was moping, saddened, less cat-like than usual. I would walk into the back door and I would hear AngelBoy meowing as I put the key into the lock.... he would look up at me, see no one behind me, and he'd give one last pitiful meow and walk away. On those days, I could have sworn he was thinking "Oh, it's only you......"
And then it started. AngelBoy's accidents around the house. No room was spared in his quest to either mark his territory or announce his displeasure in the fact that his favorite person (my father) was no longer there for him. I spent a small fortune on carpet cleaners and wood polishes, and countless hours cleaning up after that cat. I bought additional litter boxes, so there would be one in each bathroom, one in the laundry room. The local carpet cleaning company would come once a month... the guy would walk into the front door and ask me "Still have that fluffy cat?" And I would say of course...... and the carpet cleaning guy would smile.
We brought AngelBoy to the vet's office countless times........ maybe there was something wrong physically that was making him have these little episodes. Countless blood tests, exams, even an X-ray.... that beautiful cat was perfectly healthy. Our vet told me that 'some cats are just like that..... and once they start this sort of behavior, they very rarely quit.'
AngelBoy hated those visits to the vet's office...... he let me know that fact with his 'accidents' as soon as we got back home. He also didn't like it if I rearranged the furniture, or if I had been out and didn't get back in time for his Fancy Feast lunch, because on that particular day he might not have been interested in the dry food I left out for him. He was full of quirks, that cat, and we either had to accept them or not. He was my cat.... I accepted them.... my husband thought AngelBoy was much too demanding for a cat, and of course he was, but after all, he was our cat. What else could we do but accept him?
I got so frustrated with AngelBoy at times that before I left the house on some days, I would call him into the laundry room, point to the litter box in there, and tell him: "Use that box, AngelBoy... before I leave this house, will you please use that box?!" And he did. Each and every time. He would walk into that box, do his thing, then walk out with a smug look on his beautiful face, as if to say "There. Are you happy now?" And I'd clean out the box before I left.... but when I came home, there was always a surprise waiting for me, and it wasn't in any of the litter boxes.
One of our neighbors was also a veterinarian and he suggested I make AngelBoy an outside cat. I just couldn't do that....... I'd had him declawed when he was a kitten, I'm sorry to say, and he would be defenseless out there. "Once a cat starts to go outside the box, they just don't stop," our vet/neighbor told us, just as our own vet had advised us. Our neighbor told us that he couldn't even begin to count the number of times he'd had to put a healthy cat "to sleep" because of this particular behavior. I just couldn't believe that my beautiful AngelBoy would continue on this path of kitty recklessness. But AngelBoy did. However, he also continued to use his box when I stood there and told him to. There was just no rhyme or reason to that cat.
The house we lived in at the time had a very big covered deck and porch around the back of the house. I told my husband that we needed to get it screened.... we could sit out there and not worry about bugs and mosquitoes.... and I could keep AngelBoy there so he wouldn't continue to have 'accidents' around the house. When my husband told me how expensive that project could be, I told him that it wouldn't cost any more money than a year's worth of carpet cleaning.
We had the screen porch installed. Our next door neighbor told us that she had never seen such a spoiled little cat. And of course she was right. But what could we do? We had this cat, he had us, and we had to find a solution to his thinking-outside-the-litter-box problems. We even went so far as to contact a well-known Houston pet psychic...... it cost us hundreds of dollars..... but even my husband (who wasn't exactly an AngelBoy fan) thought it was worth the money. The psychic told us things about AngelBoy and his 'living arrangements' that only my husband and I knew about. Everything she said about my blue-eyed cat was so correct.... how did she even know those things? We were so careful not to give anything away, not to say anything at all to give her clues. But she knew.... and she understood AngelBoy's behavior. She gave us suggestions, which worked for a little while.... but not for very long. "AngelBoy was the cat, and that was that," to paraphrase a cat book that I had been reading at the time. My husband thought maybe we should just give AngelBoy to the psychic.
There were days, and sometimes weeks, when AngelBoy was such a blessedly perfect cat. He would cuddle up under my chin at night, so close that it was like he wanted to become part of me. His paws would rub my neck and my face, softly, purposely, as if his cat-destiny was to let me know that he was truly my cat after all. And then there were days on end when I would go around the house saying "AngelBoy! What did you do?!" Of course he knew what he had done, and he would sit there watching as I cleaned up his messes, his 'accidents.' My husband said they weren't accidents at all..... that he did those things on purpose. On the days when I called the carpet cleaning guy to the house, AngelBoy would sit there and watch the man work... those blue eyes of his following the carpet guy from room to room, as if to say "You missed a spot....."
When we decided to move out of the Houston suburbs, I wondered about AngelBoy and his 'problems.' Moving out of the house that AngelBoy grew up in and seemed to love, in his own kitty way, wasn't going to be easy for that blue eyed cat. This house has porches and decks going all around it, but none of them are screened. There was no way, absolutely no way, that I could have let AngelBoy out on the porches of this house. We're out in the country here..... surrounded by woods and hills that are filled with coyotes and bobcats and who-knows-what-all. AngelBoy would have been the perfect target for those animals. In the sunlight, AngelBoy's fluffy gray fur was nearly iridescent with those lavender tips of color........ he wouldn't have survived out here on the property. And he was such a curious cat... I know he wouldn't have been content to stay near the house... he would have been off wandering, exploring.... in the middle of the pastures and probably even walking down the road as if he owned it.
Clearly, AngelBoy was not happy when we moved up to the Hill Country. As much as I loved this big old historic house, that blue eyed cat of mine just hated it. It didn't matter that he had screen doors to look out of..... he wanted his porch, and his porch furniture, and his Clear Lake City kingdom that he grew up in. And so it began.... the onslaught of 'accidents,' day after blessed day. I even got tired of hearing myself say "AngelBoy! What did you do?!" As soon as I saw the tell-tale marks of his displeasure, I just walked to the closet and got out the cleaning supplies.... and I cleaned...... and cleaned....... every day, every day.
I didn't know what exactly was making me sick, but it was showing in my face and in my eyes.... the three months of unpacking and settling into this house..... the constant cleaning-up after AngelBoy.... getting used to this country setting after having all the conveniences of the city...... I just felt sick, all the time, for days and days on end.
AngelBoy's final insult came on a bright and sunny glorious day..... nearly all of the boxes were unpacked...... mirrors and pictures had been hung up.... all the furniture was in place........ and I was beginning to finally see the light at the end of that just-moving-in tunnel. And AngelBoy.... my blue eyed beautiful cat... was having his accidents all day long..... one after the other..... and with the last outside-the-box adventure of his, he stood there in place, looking at me, his face all scrunched up without a drop of cat-love in his blue eyes...... as if he were daring me to clean up that mess. "Go ahead and clean it up.... I'll just make another one."
I walked out of the room and closed the door...... I went up the stairs to my husband's office and sat down and cried. When he asked what happened, I told him "We have to put AngelBoy to sleep. I just cannot do this anymore." I had never ever said those words out loud before, but I knew that once they were out there in the universe, they couldn't be taken back.
My husband looked at me and said "Are you sure?" I couldn't speak, but I nodded my head yes.
And just like that........ as simple as that....... we went back downstairs, I put AngelBoy into his carrier...... and we drove to the nearest vet's office. I told him AngelBoy's story.... we knew for certain that AngelBoy was healthy physically, but there was something amiss emotionally.... the vet asked me how long AngelBoy had been behaving this way. I looked that man right in his eyes, and said "Twelve years." He didn't say another word. He got what he needed for the procedure, and asked me if I wanted to leave the room.
I stayed...... and I watched...... and I held that blue eyed cat till the very end of his last breath. When the needle went into his paw, my head fell against my husband's chest and it was hard even for me to breathe..... and so hard to believe what I'd just done. No going back.... there was no going back...... and as much as I hate to say this, I knew then, and I know now, that it was the absolute right thing to do.
AngelBoy's last day was in June of 2009. To this day, to this very minute, to this very second as I type, the pain and the loss is unbearable. Not a day goes by that I don't see those blue eyes. Of course, I remember all the loving qualities of my blue eyed cat..... it's so easy to forget his 'accidents' and his 'mistakes.' Those days when he scrunched up his face at me....... gone from my memory. It's the blue eyes and the rose petals that I remember..... his fluffy paw on my face..... and that blue eyed cat trying so hard to get so very close-close-close to me in the middle of the night.
We have had other cats before and after AngelBoy..... but none with blue eyes. I know that looking into the eyes of a blue eyed cat again would be impossible for me. There are still days that I can see those blue eyes of his... looking at me... claiming me for his own..... and I would like to believe that AngelBoy loved me right up to the end, as I loved him.
How can you not love a blue eyed cat who brings you rose petals?
Friday, September 27, 2013
Thursday, September 19, 2013
The Old Man's House.
The house was built by the man with his own two hands, for his wife and his children. The year was 1922 and the man and his family were living in Little Italy, in the heart of The City. The streets were too crowded, the apartment buildings were too noisy. The man wanted a different life for his family..... he wanted The American Dream.
The man and his wife had come to this country from Naples, Italy. They stood on a ship and cried as they passed the Statue of Liberty, knowing that the streets of their new country were paved with gold and filled with opportunity. All the man had to do was work hard and one day he would own a small piece of those golden streets. After their adventure crossing the Atlantic, the man and his wife didn't notice that the streets of their new country weren't made of gold. All they wanted was a place to call home. They found a small apartment that had too many steps up to their door and too few windows to let in fresh air and sunlight. "Not to worry," said the wife.... "There isn't much fresh air here, and precious little sunlight. This will do for now, but not for always."
When his family's life in The City became too dangerous for their children, the man bought a piece of property in the borough of Queens, away from The City, away from the dirt, the crowds, the noise. Because the man had worked extra hard and saved every dollar possible, he was able to buy two plots of land instead of just one. He and his wife would have more children.... they wanted a big house with enough property to plant trees and flowers and vegetables. The man's wife wanted windows.... lots of windows.... she wanted to be able to see their gardens from every room in the house. Queens was far enough away from The City.... they would have fresh air, they would have sunlight.
The man built their house in the middle of the two adjoining lots...... he dug out a basement and poured the cement foundation..... and then he started building up. On the first floor, there was an enclosed front porch with windows from one side to the other, a living room with more windows, a dining room with even more windows, a huge kitchen with two walk-in pantries, each of them the size of a small room, and each of the pantries had a large window. On the second floor, he built three bedrooms and a big bathroom. On the third floor, three more bedrooms. When the top three floors were finished, the man started working in the basement of the house...... two bedrooms, a bathroom, an eat-in kitchen, a wine cellar, and a small living room. The man wanted to build his house once, build it right, build it big enough for the children he already had, the children they hoped to have, and the grandchildren in their future.
In the 1920s, the man built this house for his family...... and his wife had more children to fill up those bedrooms. The house became a home, their piece of the American pie. From the wine cellar in the basement to the three bedrooms on the third floor, the man's house was a living breathing being all its own. When everyone in the family left the house for Sunday Mass, they would wave to the house, telling it they'd be back soon. "After Mass, we'll stop at Stallone's for bread and cake... and then we'll be right home after that." And the house seemed to understand. It stood proud when its family left, just as proud as it did when the family was inside the sunlight-filled rooms. "This home needs our family. The house needs us to live, to breathe, to be. Without all of us here, it's just a house.... when we're here, it's our home." And the man's wife said "This will do for now, and it will do for always."
By the time the 1930s ended, they had buried two of their children, leaving them with eight. In the 1940s, their four sons went off to join the Navy, the Army, the Marines. The old man walked around and around his house, praying for peace. Three of his sons came home, one was buried at Pearl Harbor. During the late 1940s and the 1950s, their three sons and their four daughters all got married, giving them the grandchildren they had hoped for. The house was filled to the brim with the man's children and their children. Sunday dinners and holiday dinners..... everyone came to the man's house..... the adults ate in the dining room, the children ate in the kitchen. The house was a living breathing being, hugging each family member as they walked in the door. "Family.... this is my family," said the man. "Family is always family, no matter what happens."
In the 1960s, divorce divided up parts of the man's family. The old man didn't understand his children's view of divorce. You had problems? Fix them. More problems? Fix those too... family is family, no matter what. Older grandchildren had joined the Army, the Navy, the Marines.... they went to Vietnam to fight. The old man didn't understand this war and he would walk around and around his house and pray for the war to end. All of his grandsons came home. In the early 1970s, some of the 'divorced' grandchildren drifted away from the house the man built. The old man didn't blame the grandchildren.... he blamed that thing called divorce. "Family is always family.... they'll come back when they're ready."
Before the 1970s ended, the old man died suddenly, without warning. Everyone went back to the old man's house for the funeral. After the burial, the old man's wife stopped going down the stairs to the first floor of her house. The kitchen was too lonely without the old man playing cards while she cooked. The bedroom was lonely too, but at least she could put her head on her pillow and sleep. The hours of sleeping erased the loneliness. Her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren came to see her every week. Her oldest daughter lived with her and took care of her mother and the house..... but the old man's wife died less than six months later. The doctor couldn't find a cause. The family said she died of a broken heart. The old man and his wife had been married for nearly 73 years.
In the 1980s, the oldest daughter lived in her parents' house with her youngest brother. They took care of Papa's house.... and Papa's yard..... and the memory of both Papa and Mama. Their brothers and sisters came to the house with their children and their grandchildren.... for Sunday dinners and holiday dinners. Everyone ate in the dining room...... even the little kids, who didn't know that their own parents once ate at the "children's table" in the kitchen. The brothers and sisters spent most of the family dinners talking about the 1930s, the 1940s, the 1950s..... and all of them agreed that the 1960s was the worst decade for the family. "We're still family.... that never changes."
In the 1990s, the old man's neighborhood began to change. The neighborhood had really been changing for twenty years, but no one in the old man's house seemed to notice. No one wanted to leave Papa's house. The original home owners in that neighborhood had passed away, and their children didn't want the old homes. They wanted to live either in The City where everything was at their fingertips, or they wanted a house out on The Island, where everything was peaceful and quiet.
One by one, the old man's children began to pass away. Everyone went back to the old man's house after each funeral. They talked about the 1930s, the 1940s, the 1950s....
The old man's grandchildren began to move out of the state. They didn't want to live in The City, and they didn't even want to live on The Island. They wanted out. Warmer weather. No snow in the winter. When the house next to the old man's home was robbed three times in three months, the nieces and nephews of the old man's oldest daughter convinced her to move. Out of the old man's house, out of the state. Warmer weather, no snow, no robberies.
The old man's oldest daughter packed up Papa's house with help from nieces and nephews. She asked everyone to take what they wanted, as long as they'd "take care of it always." Furniture and household items were shipped to Virginia, to Texas, to Arizona, to The Island. What wasn't wanted, or needed, was sold at auction. The oldest daughter took her most favorite things to Florida, to her new home with one of her nephews. "His house is very big, very nice. But it's too new. There are no memories here. It will have to do for now."
The oldest daughter celebrated her 100th birthday this year. Everyone in the old man's family who could make the trip south was there when she blew out her birthday candles and made a wish.
What did you wish for? What did you wish for?!
"I wished that we were all back in Papa's house, in the 1930s, the 1940s, the 1950s."
The old man's house is empty now, and has been for nearly five years. No lights glowing, no cars parked in the driveway. The grass needs cutting, the trees need trimming, the windows need washing. When the house was up for sale, no one wanted it. "Too old... no open concept.... too many windows. And who needs two kitchens?" The house looks sad, lost, abandoned. The few grandchildren and great-grandchildren who still live in better parts of Queens will drive by it from time to time, just to take a look. They tell their children stories of the 1950s, the 1960s, the 1970s. They wave to the house as they drive away. The house no longer stands proud, but it is still the old man's house.
What did you wish for?!
"I wished that we were all back in Papa's house........."
The man and his wife had come to this country from Naples, Italy. They stood on a ship and cried as they passed the Statue of Liberty, knowing that the streets of their new country were paved with gold and filled with opportunity. All the man had to do was work hard and one day he would own a small piece of those golden streets. After their adventure crossing the Atlantic, the man and his wife didn't notice that the streets of their new country weren't made of gold. All they wanted was a place to call home. They found a small apartment that had too many steps up to their door and too few windows to let in fresh air and sunlight. "Not to worry," said the wife.... "There isn't much fresh air here, and precious little sunlight. This will do for now, but not for always."
When his family's life in The City became too dangerous for their children, the man bought a piece of property in the borough of Queens, away from The City, away from the dirt, the crowds, the noise. Because the man had worked extra hard and saved every dollar possible, he was able to buy two plots of land instead of just one. He and his wife would have more children.... they wanted a big house with enough property to plant trees and flowers and vegetables. The man's wife wanted windows.... lots of windows.... she wanted to be able to see their gardens from every room in the house. Queens was far enough away from The City.... they would have fresh air, they would have sunlight.
The man built their house in the middle of the two adjoining lots...... he dug out a basement and poured the cement foundation..... and then he started building up. On the first floor, there was an enclosed front porch with windows from one side to the other, a living room with more windows, a dining room with even more windows, a huge kitchen with two walk-in pantries, each of them the size of a small room, and each of the pantries had a large window. On the second floor, he built three bedrooms and a big bathroom. On the third floor, three more bedrooms. When the top three floors were finished, the man started working in the basement of the house...... two bedrooms, a bathroom, an eat-in kitchen, a wine cellar, and a small living room. The man wanted to build his house once, build it right, build it big enough for the children he already had, the children they hoped to have, and the grandchildren in their future.
In the 1920s, the man built this house for his family...... and his wife had more children to fill up those bedrooms. The house became a home, their piece of the American pie. From the wine cellar in the basement to the three bedrooms on the third floor, the man's house was a living breathing being all its own. When everyone in the family left the house for Sunday Mass, they would wave to the house, telling it they'd be back soon. "After Mass, we'll stop at Stallone's for bread and cake... and then we'll be right home after that." And the house seemed to understand. It stood proud when its family left, just as proud as it did when the family was inside the sunlight-filled rooms. "This home needs our family. The house needs us to live, to breathe, to be. Without all of us here, it's just a house.... when we're here, it's our home." And the man's wife said "This will do for now, and it will do for always."
By the time the 1930s ended, they had buried two of their children, leaving them with eight. In the 1940s, their four sons went off to join the Navy, the Army, the Marines. The old man walked around and around his house, praying for peace. Three of his sons came home, one was buried at Pearl Harbor. During the late 1940s and the 1950s, their three sons and their four daughters all got married, giving them the grandchildren they had hoped for. The house was filled to the brim with the man's children and their children. Sunday dinners and holiday dinners..... everyone came to the man's house..... the adults ate in the dining room, the children ate in the kitchen. The house was a living breathing being, hugging each family member as they walked in the door. "Family.... this is my family," said the man. "Family is always family, no matter what happens."
In the 1960s, divorce divided up parts of the man's family. The old man didn't understand his children's view of divorce. You had problems? Fix them. More problems? Fix those too... family is family, no matter what. Older grandchildren had joined the Army, the Navy, the Marines.... they went to Vietnam to fight. The old man didn't understand this war and he would walk around and around his house and pray for the war to end. All of his grandsons came home. In the early 1970s, some of the 'divorced' grandchildren drifted away from the house the man built. The old man didn't blame the grandchildren.... he blamed that thing called divorce. "Family is always family.... they'll come back when they're ready."
Before the 1970s ended, the old man died suddenly, without warning. Everyone went back to the old man's house for the funeral. After the burial, the old man's wife stopped going down the stairs to the first floor of her house. The kitchen was too lonely without the old man playing cards while she cooked. The bedroom was lonely too, but at least she could put her head on her pillow and sleep. The hours of sleeping erased the loneliness. Her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren came to see her every week. Her oldest daughter lived with her and took care of her mother and the house..... but the old man's wife died less than six months later. The doctor couldn't find a cause. The family said she died of a broken heart. The old man and his wife had been married for nearly 73 years.
In the 1980s, the oldest daughter lived in her parents' house with her youngest brother. They took care of Papa's house.... and Papa's yard..... and the memory of both Papa and Mama. Their brothers and sisters came to the house with their children and their grandchildren.... for Sunday dinners and holiday dinners. Everyone ate in the dining room...... even the little kids, who didn't know that their own parents once ate at the "children's table" in the kitchen. The brothers and sisters spent most of the family dinners talking about the 1930s, the 1940s, the 1950s..... and all of them agreed that the 1960s was the worst decade for the family. "We're still family.... that never changes."
In the 1990s, the old man's neighborhood began to change. The neighborhood had really been changing for twenty years, but no one in the old man's house seemed to notice. No one wanted to leave Papa's house. The original home owners in that neighborhood had passed away, and their children didn't want the old homes. They wanted to live either in The City where everything was at their fingertips, or they wanted a house out on The Island, where everything was peaceful and quiet.
One by one, the old man's children began to pass away. Everyone went back to the old man's house after each funeral. They talked about the 1930s, the 1940s, the 1950s....
The old man's grandchildren began to move out of the state. They didn't want to live in The City, and they didn't even want to live on The Island. They wanted out. Warmer weather. No snow in the winter. When the house next to the old man's home was robbed three times in three months, the nieces and nephews of the old man's oldest daughter convinced her to move. Out of the old man's house, out of the state. Warmer weather, no snow, no robberies.
The old man's oldest daughter packed up Papa's house with help from nieces and nephews. She asked everyone to take what they wanted, as long as they'd "take care of it always." Furniture and household items were shipped to Virginia, to Texas, to Arizona, to The Island. What wasn't wanted, or needed, was sold at auction. The oldest daughter took her most favorite things to Florida, to her new home with one of her nephews. "His house is very big, very nice. But it's too new. There are no memories here. It will have to do for now."
The oldest daughter celebrated her 100th birthday this year. Everyone in the old man's family who could make the trip south was there when she blew out her birthday candles and made a wish.
What did you wish for? What did you wish for?!
"I wished that we were all back in Papa's house, in the 1930s, the 1940s, the 1950s."
The old man's house is empty now, and has been for nearly five years. No lights glowing, no cars parked in the driveway. The grass needs cutting, the trees need trimming, the windows need washing. When the house was up for sale, no one wanted it. "Too old... no open concept.... too many windows. And who needs two kitchens?" The house looks sad, lost, abandoned. The few grandchildren and great-grandchildren who still live in better parts of Queens will drive by it from time to time, just to take a look. They tell their children stories of the 1950s, the 1960s, the 1970s. They wave to the house as they drive away. The house no longer stands proud, but it is still the old man's house.
What did you wish for?!
"I wished that we were all back in Papa's house........."
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Frozen In Time
The two pictures are tiny, cut into less than one-inch squares to fit into the two sides of the gold locket. There is a miniscule clasp on one side of the locket which allows it to open up like a book. When the locket is closed, it looks like a solid square of gold, and unless you knew it opened up to reveal those two pictures, you wouldn't think it was a locket at all.
I saw that square of gold every day for years. My mother wore it on a thin gold chain around her neck. Every day, no matter what she was wearing, that locket was around her neck. I doubt very much she slept with it on.... she was much too practical for that. Wear jewelry to bed? With pajamas? Not a chance. I imagine that every morning after she got dressed, she would put on her wedding rings, her watch, her necklace. I have to wonder how often she opened up the little gold square to look at the pictures that were inside. Or maybe she didn't have to..... she would of course know exactly what was inside.
On my very first day of school, I distinctly remember my mother bending down to re-tie the laces of my shoes. Black and white saddle shoes, regulation shoes to go with the Catholic school uniform of green and yellow plaid. As my mother tied the laces (which were fine to begin with) the little gold square dangled from the chain around her neck. Back and forth, back and forth went that locket. I remember staring at it as my mother tied those laces and told me to 'sit up straight and listen to the nuns.'
I had no way of knowing then that the little square of gold opened up to reveal those pictures. Had I known, I probably would have been asking my mother all day long to "Let me see..... let me see.... let me see the pictures." My mother was a practical woman. She wouldn't have had time for such endless requests.
There were a couple of years when the absence of that necklace was very evident. I remember wondering why my mother wasn't wearing it. And did she miss it? Did she lose it? Was she just too busy to put it on every morning? I never did ask. I learned early on not to ask questions. "People will tell you what they want you to know. Don't ask about anything else." To this day, I don't ask many questions. That's not exactly a good habit to have, and it's a very hard habit to break.
When I was in the fifth grade, that little square of gold re-appeared. But it wasn't on a chain around my mother's neck. It was on daddy's watch chain. He called it a 'fob.' Daddy never wore a wrist-watch. His timepiece of choice was a pocket watch, and he seemed to love it when someone asked him "Have you got the correct time?" My dad would smile, move his jacket aside, reach for the pocket watch and press that little lever to open the cover of the watch. Not only would he give the person the exact time, but he'd leave the watch open for a bit so the watch could be admired.
And on that watch chain that my dad wore every single day, there was that same little square of gold. Without a doubt, it was the little square that my mother had worn on a chain around her neck. Don't ask questions. People will tell you what they want you to know. I never asked. And that surprises me even now.
When my dad retired from his job, he still carried the pocket watch. My Uncle Mino offered to buy him a wrist-watch for Christmas one year, but daddy told him to "save his money.... or spend it on someone else." Daddy didn't want a watch on his wrist. He wanted his pocket watch, in his pocket, hanging on that gold link chain. Every couple of years, my Uncle would urge him to get a new watch. My dad insisted there was nothing wrong with his old watch. "I'll put my pocket watch up against your wrist-watch any day.... we'll see which one keeps better time," daddy would say.
When I was in high school, my dad told me that people didn't ask strangers if they had the correct time anymore. "Maybe everyone has a watch now," he said. "Or maybe it's just because they don't want to talk to people they don't know. That never bothered anyone years ago, but these days, you just never know." My dad gave me a wrist-watch when I started high school. He told me that if anyone asked me if I had the correct time, I should tell them that I didn't have a watch. "You never know.... these days.... they might be trying to steal watches."
My dad never went out of the house without his pocket watch. On the watch chain was that little square of gold. Always. In my twenties, my thirties, my forties. Always that little square of gold that once hung around my mother's neck when I was a child. And still, I never asked.
In my fifties, daddy passed away. After a while, my Aunt Dolly sent me my dad's jewelry case. "Your father wanted you to have that case," she told me over the phone. On the day the package arrived, I let it sit on the dining room table for a few hours. I knew the jewelry case was in the mailing box, but I didn't know what was inside the case.
The house was very quiet when I finally opened up the package. I was the only one at home. The cats were sleeping on the porch, the dog was sleeping in the hallway near my husband's office. The proverbial pin could have dropped in the dining room that day and it would have sounded like a sonic boom.
When I opened the jewelry case, my eyes took in all the "Safe Driving" medals from my dad's job with the NYC Transit Authority.... his medals from World War II.... his favorite fountain pens.... cuff links and tie-tacks.... the wedding picture of my dad and my mother, and his pocket watch on the chain, with that little square of gold. That was the first thing I reached for, my hands shaking and my eyes brimming over with little puddles of tears. That little square was so familiar, so smooth and shining... and I could see it dangling back and forth from my mother's neck as she tied my shoelaces on my first day of school.... and I saw it hanging from daddy's watch chain as we walked along Atlantic Avenue to get ice cream or walked into Radio City Music Hall.
I closed my eyes and just held that little gold square in my hand, rubbing it and turning it over and over and over.... and that's when my fingers felt the little catch on the side. The teeniest little clasp of gold that opened up that square and my breath stopped for a few seconds when I realized it was a locket. It had always been a locket, and no one had ever said.... and I had never asked.
Two pictures stared up at me...... my dad on the left, in his Army uniform, and my mother on the right, in her nurse's uniform. They were both so young..... they weren't even married when those pictures were taken...... they probably hadn't even met one another yet, and as for me.... I wasn't even a glimmer of hope or the wing of a butterfly at that time.
My dad is smiling in that picture.... his Army hat is tilted a bit to one side, and he looks so handsome and so happy, as if he's just made everyone laugh. I'm sure that photo was taken before he was shipped over to Europe, before he landed on the beaches at Normandy. And my mother... she is standing there in her "nurse's whites" with a bouquet of flowers in one hand and the biggest smile on her face. She is young, so young, and so very pretty.
I closed the lid of my dad's jewelry case, but held that locket in my hand as I called my Aunt Dolly. I told her the package had arrived safely. I asked her about the locket, hoping she would know. "There's a little gold locket in here..... it has pictures of my mother and my dad.... do you know anything about that?" Of course she knew.....
"Your father gave your mother that locket before they got married. Your father cut those pictures very carefully, to make sure they would fit into the locket. I remember the day he cut them, right here on my kitchen table.... he measured them three times before he cut them with a razor blade to make sure they were perfect. Your mother wore that locket every day, every day, every day.... but when she left your father, she didn't take any of the gifts he had given her. When your father realized your mother wasn't coming back, he wore that locket on his watch chain every day, every day. He never took it off."
I told my Aunt Dolly that I remembered seeing that locket on a chain around my mother's neck when I was little..... and I remembered seeing it on daddy's watch chain when I got older. "I didn't know it was a locket, Aunt Dolly. I didn't know it opened up.... I had no idea there were pictures in that square of gold."
And my Aunt Dolly said to me, very quietly... "Why didn't you ask?"
My mother and my father were married for ten years. They were divorced for 47 years. My mother wore that locket on her necklace for nearly eleven years. My dad wore the locket on his watch chain for 46 years. They both died in the Summer of 2008, less than two months apart. Three weeks after receiving the jewelry case with the locket, I had a jeweler attach the locket to my gold bracelet.
The wedding picture that was in my dad's jewelry case was one of two that I remember as a child. A larger photo, identical to the smaller one in daddy's case, used to hang on the dining room wall in our house in Woodhaven. When my mother left my dad, she took that picture with her, but she carefully cut around the image of her groom..... the remaining picture was kept for years in a cedar chest, the bride without the groom. In my dad's jewelry case, the 4x6 picture had been taped to the inside top of the lid..... it would be seen when the case was opened. I put that picture in a pretty frame, the handsome groom and the beautiful bride. It sits now on a buffet sideboard in our living room, next to the wedding picture of my husband's parents. Friends will comment on both pictures... I just tell them that those are our parents' wedding photos. I don't mention that my husband's parents were married for nearly 50 years...... and my parents were divorced for a longer time than they were married. The two young couples look radiantly happy in the pictures, and that's all that matters to anyone who didn't know them.
I celebrated my 61st birthday this year....and I wear that gold square locket on my bracelet. I don't wear it every day, every day..... if it ever got lost, there would be no replacement. On the days I don't wear it, I open up the locket and look at the pictures of my mother and my father. I see how young they were..... my father is handsome, my mother is beautiful.... they are happy and they are smiling. They were filled with life, with hope, with possibilities. And within each of them, there was the glimmer of me, waiting somewhere, just waiting to be.
And every day now, every day.... I wonder if it could be possible..... could they look now as they did in those pictures.... are they once again young and happy and smiling.... and together? Photographs, whether old or new, capture just the moment and freeze it for eternity... there's no way to tell, by looking at a photo, what happened just before or what will come afterwards.
Dreams and wishes are made of hope and possibilities.
I saw that square of gold every day for years. My mother wore it on a thin gold chain around her neck. Every day, no matter what she was wearing, that locket was around her neck. I doubt very much she slept with it on.... she was much too practical for that. Wear jewelry to bed? With pajamas? Not a chance. I imagine that every morning after she got dressed, she would put on her wedding rings, her watch, her necklace. I have to wonder how often she opened up the little gold square to look at the pictures that were inside. Or maybe she didn't have to..... she would of course know exactly what was inside.
On my very first day of school, I distinctly remember my mother bending down to re-tie the laces of my shoes. Black and white saddle shoes, regulation shoes to go with the Catholic school uniform of green and yellow plaid. As my mother tied the laces (which were fine to begin with) the little gold square dangled from the chain around her neck. Back and forth, back and forth went that locket. I remember staring at it as my mother tied those laces and told me to 'sit up straight and listen to the nuns.'
I had no way of knowing then that the little square of gold opened up to reveal those pictures. Had I known, I probably would have been asking my mother all day long to "Let me see..... let me see.... let me see the pictures." My mother was a practical woman. She wouldn't have had time for such endless requests.
There were a couple of years when the absence of that necklace was very evident. I remember wondering why my mother wasn't wearing it. And did she miss it? Did she lose it? Was she just too busy to put it on every morning? I never did ask. I learned early on not to ask questions. "People will tell you what they want you to know. Don't ask about anything else." To this day, I don't ask many questions. That's not exactly a good habit to have, and it's a very hard habit to break.
When I was in the fifth grade, that little square of gold re-appeared. But it wasn't on a chain around my mother's neck. It was on daddy's watch chain. He called it a 'fob.' Daddy never wore a wrist-watch. His timepiece of choice was a pocket watch, and he seemed to love it when someone asked him "Have you got the correct time?" My dad would smile, move his jacket aside, reach for the pocket watch and press that little lever to open the cover of the watch. Not only would he give the person the exact time, but he'd leave the watch open for a bit so the watch could be admired.
And on that watch chain that my dad wore every single day, there was that same little square of gold. Without a doubt, it was the little square that my mother had worn on a chain around her neck. Don't ask questions. People will tell you what they want you to know. I never asked. And that surprises me even now.
When my dad retired from his job, he still carried the pocket watch. My Uncle Mino offered to buy him a wrist-watch for Christmas one year, but daddy told him to "save his money.... or spend it on someone else." Daddy didn't want a watch on his wrist. He wanted his pocket watch, in his pocket, hanging on that gold link chain. Every couple of years, my Uncle would urge him to get a new watch. My dad insisted there was nothing wrong with his old watch. "I'll put my pocket watch up against your wrist-watch any day.... we'll see which one keeps better time," daddy would say.
When I was in high school, my dad told me that people didn't ask strangers if they had the correct time anymore. "Maybe everyone has a watch now," he said. "Or maybe it's just because they don't want to talk to people they don't know. That never bothered anyone years ago, but these days, you just never know." My dad gave me a wrist-watch when I started high school. He told me that if anyone asked me if I had the correct time, I should tell them that I didn't have a watch. "You never know.... these days.... they might be trying to steal watches."
My dad never went out of the house without his pocket watch. On the watch chain was that little square of gold. Always. In my twenties, my thirties, my forties. Always that little square of gold that once hung around my mother's neck when I was a child. And still, I never asked.
In my fifties, daddy passed away. After a while, my Aunt Dolly sent me my dad's jewelry case. "Your father wanted you to have that case," she told me over the phone. On the day the package arrived, I let it sit on the dining room table for a few hours. I knew the jewelry case was in the mailing box, but I didn't know what was inside the case.
The house was very quiet when I finally opened up the package. I was the only one at home. The cats were sleeping on the porch, the dog was sleeping in the hallway near my husband's office. The proverbial pin could have dropped in the dining room that day and it would have sounded like a sonic boom.
When I opened the jewelry case, my eyes took in all the "Safe Driving" medals from my dad's job with the NYC Transit Authority.... his medals from World War II.... his favorite fountain pens.... cuff links and tie-tacks.... the wedding picture of my dad and my mother, and his pocket watch on the chain, with that little square of gold. That was the first thing I reached for, my hands shaking and my eyes brimming over with little puddles of tears. That little square was so familiar, so smooth and shining... and I could see it dangling back and forth from my mother's neck as she tied my shoelaces on my first day of school.... and I saw it hanging from daddy's watch chain as we walked along Atlantic Avenue to get ice cream or walked into Radio City Music Hall.
I closed my eyes and just held that little gold square in my hand, rubbing it and turning it over and over and over.... and that's when my fingers felt the little catch on the side. The teeniest little clasp of gold that opened up that square and my breath stopped for a few seconds when I realized it was a locket. It had always been a locket, and no one had ever said.... and I had never asked.
Two pictures stared up at me...... my dad on the left, in his Army uniform, and my mother on the right, in her nurse's uniform. They were both so young..... they weren't even married when those pictures were taken...... they probably hadn't even met one another yet, and as for me.... I wasn't even a glimmer of hope or the wing of a butterfly at that time.
My dad is smiling in that picture.... his Army hat is tilted a bit to one side, and he looks so handsome and so happy, as if he's just made everyone laugh. I'm sure that photo was taken before he was shipped over to Europe, before he landed on the beaches at Normandy. And my mother... she is standing there in her "nurse's whites" with a bouquet of flowers in one hand and the biggest smile on her face. She is young, so young, and so very pretty.
I closed the lid of my dad's jewelry case, but held that locket in my hand as I called my Aunt Dolly. I told her the package had arrived safely. I asked her about the locket, hoping she would know. "There's a little gold locket in here..... it has pictures of my mother and my dad.... do you know anything about that?" Of course she knew.....
"Your father gave your mother that locket before they got married. Your father cut those pictures very carefully, to make sure they would fit into the locket. I remember the day he cut them, right here on my kitchen table.... he measured them three times before he cut them with a razor blade to make sure they were perfect. Your mother wore that locket every day, every day, every day.... but when she left your father, she didn't take any of the gifts he had given her. When your father realized your mother wasn't coming back, he wore that locket on his watch chain every day, every day. He never took it off."
I told my Aunt Dolly that I remembered seeing that locket on a chain around my mother's neck when I was little..... and I remembered seeing it on daddy's watch chain when I got older. "I didn't know it was a locket, Aunt Dolly. I didn't know it opened up.... I had no idea there were pictures in that square of gold."
And my Aunt Dolly said to me, very quietly... "Why didn't you ask?"
My mother and my father were married for ten years. They were divorced for 47 years. My mother wore that locket on her necklace for nearly eleven years. My dad wore the locket on his watch chain for 46 years. They both died in the Summer of 2008, less than two months apart. Three weeks after receiving the jewelry case with the locket, I had a jeweler attach the locket to my gold bracelet.
The wedding picture that was in my dad's jewelry case was one of two that I remember as a child. A larger photo, identical to the smaller one in daddy's case, used to hang on the dining room wall in our house in Woodhaven. When my mother left my dad, she took that picture with her, but she carefully cut around the image of her groom..... the remaining picture was kept for years in a cedar chest, the bride without the groom. In my dad's jewelry case, the 4x6 picture had been taped to the inside top of the lid..... it would be seen when the case was opened. I put that picture in a pretty frame, the handsome groom and the beautiful bride. It sits now on a buffet sideboard in our living room, next to the wedding picture of my husband's parents. Friends will comment on both pictures... I just tell them that those are our parents' wedding photos. I don't mention that my husband's parents were married for nearly 50 years...... and my parents were divorced for a longer time than they were married. The two young couples look radiantly happy in the pictures, and that's all that matters to anyone who didn't know them.
I celebrated my 61st birthday this year....and I wear that gold square locket on my bracelet. I don't wear it every day, every day..... if it ever got lost, there would be no replacement. On the days I don't wear it, I open up the locket and look at the pictures of my mother and my father. I see how young they were..... my father is handsome, my mother is beautiful.... they are happy and they are smiling. They were filled with life, with hope, with possibilities. And within each of them, there was the glimmer of me, waiting somewhere, just waiting to be.
And every day now, every day.... I wonder if it could be possible..... could they look now as they did in those pictures.... are they once again young and happy and smiling.... and together? Photographs, whether old or new, capture just the moment and freeze it for eternity... there's no way to tell, by looking at a photo, what happened just before or what will come afterwards.
Dreams and wishes are made of hope and possibilities.
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