RemembeRED: Caro Mio Ben

            I’ve been involved in theatre since the sixth grade. So I mark milestones by what show I was doing when they happen. My oldest niece was born just before Alice in Wonderland; I played Mary in Run for Your Wife when we were planning our wedding; I got pregnant when I was playing the Mayor of Munchkinland in The Wizard of Oz (don’t bother—I’ve already heard all the short jokes); and my Grandfather died while I was co-directing a production of Oklahoma!.

            “Mum and Dad are fine,” was the message my sister left. “But give me a call when you get the chance.” If Mum and Dad were fine, who wasn’t fine?

            Papa had been working in the yard, came into the house, sat down, and stopped breathing. And just like that his sweet tenor voice and kind brown eyes were gone. I sat on my piano bench, caught between disbelief and heartbreak.

            I wanted to do something. What could I do to help? My parents were on a plane back from their vacation in Italy. My grandmother was surrounded by her children. I would only be in the way. My husband held me as I cried and he would have held on for as long as I needed. But I didn’t want to stand there and cry.

            I had scheduled a pronunciation workshop to teach life-long Bostonians to sound like midwestern farmers and cowboys that night. I was late and I needed to go.

             The stage manager grabbed me when I walked in. “What’s wrong?” she said.

            Before I had kids, I was never late. “If I’m late,” I used to say, “Something awful has happened.”

            “My grandfather died,” I whispered.

            “Go home!”

            “No. This is where I need to be right now.”

            So I spent the next couple of hours drumming the “R” into the actors words.

“Say Bartlett Farm.”

“Bahtlett Fahm.”

“No, Bartlett Farm.”

“Barltett Fahm.”

“That’s better but the R needs to be in both words, Bartlett Farm.”

“Bahtlett Farm. Shoot! Sorry Vickie. Bartlett Farm.”

And on it went for the next two hours. Turning “Will Pahkah” into “Will Parker” and “cahn’t” into “can’t”. When it was over I thanked my actors. More than sympathy, more than a shoulder to cry on, I needed to immerse myself in something. It wasn’t the first time I learned that theatre is cheaper than therapy. And I’m sure it won’t be the last. 

This week's RemembeRED prompt for Write on Edge was to write a memoir piece in which dialects or colloquialisms feature prominently. I was really excited by this prompt since I'm from the Boston area and we have such a distinctive (and often BADLY imitated) accent. I was surprised how difficult I found coming up with a moment to use. This particular memory came to me just last night.

RemebeRED: The Box

            Finally! I thought I’d be on that shelf forever. Oh sure, she’s taken me down every once in a while—like at Halloween or if someone needs to borrow some stage blood or spirit gum. But it’s been ages since she’s brought me to a theatre. That’s where I belong, you know. I don’t belong on the top shelf of a closet with that dress she’s never going to fit into again and her son’s baptism outfit. I belong in the theatre making people look older, or younger, or tired, or scary. 

            She bought me back in the early nineties. That’s why my colors are so garish—teal and raspberry. They’re eighties colors really. She picked me up on clearance at the Poughkeepsie Jamesway and filled me with makeup from Max Factor and Ben Nye and Mehron. Before she found me she was using an ugly old fishing tackle box. Can you imagine?

            When she took me down on Saturday, I knew this time was different. She didn’t just rifle through me for one or two things. She cleaned my brushes. She threw away makeup that was past its prime. She emptied everything out and cleaned me with Clorox wipes. Those stung a little. But now I feel really sharp.

            She bought new makeup. She’s gotten smarter over the years. She didn’t bother buying a whole kit full of things she’s never going to need. How many skeins of crepe hair has she thrown away over the years? How much nose putty? This time she ordered a couple of containers of base and bought eye shadow and lipstick at Target. She even bought something called eyelid primer. Apparently in the new millennium, one needs to prime one’s eyelids.

I’m on my way! She left me on a chair in the living room next to some shopping bags. I bet they’re filled with costumes. I wonder who I’ll turn her into this time. Usually, I just make sure her pasty Irish skin doesn’t get washed out under the stage lights. But once I got to make her look like an old lady. Another time she was a witch with green skin and purple lips. I’ll be there for whatever she needs. I’m returning to the theatre. That’s where I belong.

Do objects have a memory? Does a rocking chair hold the essence of the snuggles it has witnessed? Does a pottery mug remember the comforting warmth it offered a struggling soul?
The dictionary defines personification as “the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, or the representation of an abstract quality in human form.”
Now it’s your turn to tell a piece of your story from the point of view of an object who bore witness in 400 words or less.

RemebeRED: Title and Tagline

This week, the good people at Write on Edge have challenged us to write a title and tag line for a time in our lives. 

God has a Sense of Humor

A girly girl with a love of audiences, cute shoes, and things that sparkle becomes the mother of little boys who like wrestling, playing in the mud, and fart jokes.

RemembeRED: Early

It isn’t a place on a map;

it’s a place in time.

It is dark at five AM;

my family is still asleep

It’s too cold to get out of my bed,

but I do anyway.

There is coffee in my quiet place,

and room for my thoughts to wander.

The old cat keeps me company,

he nudges my hands.

Sometimes the words come hard and fast;

sometimes they are slow and labored.

But they are mine;

in my quiet place.

This week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge was to write "Where is your quiet place? What does it look like? What happens there?" My quiet place isn't a place at all. It's the early morning hours I spend with my cat and my laptop. I've been writing so many words lately for NaNoWriMo that today's writing came out as a poem. At least I think that's what it is. 

Write On Edge: 100 Words

This week's assignment comes from the wonderful writer Galit Breen from These Little Waves. Her challenge for us was to conjure something: An object, a person, a feeling, a color, a season- whatever you like using no more than one hundred words. I managed to use exactly one hundred words to conjure a morning in our house. I bet it's a lot like a morning in your house.

100 Words from Mom

            6:35 am

           

Tiny feet pound down the hallway to the bathroom.

I close my laptop and finish my coffee in one swallow.

            Cinnamon Life cereal or scrambled eggs?

            Do you have gym today?

            Is your homework in your backpack?

            Brush your teeth.

            Your shirt is on backwards.

            Where is your saxophone?

            Tie your shoes.

            I don’t know where your jacket is.

            Fundraiser? What Fundraiser?

            Go use the bathroom before we leave… just try!

            Please lift the seat!

            What? Go back in and get it!

            I love you. Have a great day. See you this afternoon.

            Hugs and kisses.

            8:25 am

           

RemebeRED: Curtain Call

For this week’s memoir prompt, we’re going to let narrative take a backseat. Choose a moment from your personal history and mine it for sensory detail. Describe it to us in rich, evocative details. Let us breath the air, hear the heartbeat, the songs, feel the fabric and the touch of that moment.

Curtain Call

           It is so dark I’m afraid I’ll fall into the orchestra pit. Someone shines a flashlight from the wings to help me find center stage. My arms are covered in goose bumps and my skimpy costume is itchy where the netting is stitched to the satin. My heart is pounding like it does when I take a math test or when I go down a hill too fast on my bike.

            The lights come up and warm me. I can see the stage now—I am exactly where I’m supposed to be. The audience is still in darkness so I cannot see their faces, only the shapes of the people in the first row. My family is out there somewhere but I can’t tell where. I remind myself to smile.

            The music begins. It’s much louder than when I dance in my living room. I move to the rhythm as I’ve done a thousand times at home—standing on my toes and stretching out my arms. My racing heart begins to slow as I dance. I don’t have to force myself to smile any more. I have never felt so happy as I do at this moment. I don’t care any more that the costume is itchy. It’s black and shiny and trimmed with red sequins and white feathers.

            Too soon the song is over. The invisible audience claps. I love the sound. I curtsy deeply over the dusty stage and run into the wings. I am seven years old and this is my first curtain call.  

I'm sure any seven-year-old girl these days would consider this a very odd song choice for a dance recital. But it was "Creative Movement" class in the 70's and I loved it.

RemembeRED: An Old World Saint in the New World

            This is a late posting for the RemembeRED prompt from the Red Dress Club. This week’s assignment was to write about a class trip, so it’s only appropriate that this be a day late like most of my college assignments. I very rarely write about religion, so there are new waters for me to dive into.

An Old World Saint in a New World

            I was trying to follow along at Saturday afternoon mass as my children squirmed in the pew beside me. I have been told by a number of my fellow parishioners that my boys are well behaved during mass. It’s kind of them to lie like that. By the end, my patience is gone and I don’t always catch what Father Larry or Father Jim has to say during the announcements. But this week there was an announcement that got my attention. 

“I have very exciting news,” said Father Larry. “Blessed Brother André Bissette of the Order of The Holy Cross will be canonized in October.” He went on to tell the parishioners about Brother André.

            I’m not the strictest Catholic in the world, but saints are one of the things I like best about my faith. The idea that someone Up There can run interference for us with the Man in charge appeals to me. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think we need to have that go-between. When I talk to God, I address my remarks directly to Him. But it’s nice to have an otherworldly advocate who has your back. And Brother André (now Saint André) and I go way back.

            In my senior year, my college choir took a trip to Montreal to sing in two basilicas. My roommates and I drove my little black Honda Prelude from Poughkeepsie to Canada with the sunroof open as we sang The Indigo Girls songs at the top of our lungs. There wasn’t enough room in the bus for the entire choir, so the director allowed us to take my car.

            We danced in nightclubs, found out that beer was cheaper than Diet Coke, discovered we didn’t like French food, got lost in a sketchy part of town, and serenaded some hockey players in the hotel elevator (they didn’t believe we were singers and we felt obliged to prove it). And of course, we sang with the choir. We sang pieces by Handel and Fauré at masses at St. Patrick’s Basilica and St. Joseph’s Oratory.

St. Joseph’s began as a humble wooden chapel built by Brother Andre who raised the money by offering students inexpensive haircuts. Today it is a grand copper-domed building—the third largest of its kind in the world. I was awed by the piles of crutches and canes left behind by those whose cures are attributed to Brother Andre’s miracles. I knew shrines like this existed, but I never expected to see one so close to home. There were places to pray for St. Joseph’s intervention for various things. I paused to light a candle at a sign that read St. Joseph patron des mourants (patron of the dying) for a friend with cancer.

We continued on to the choir loft of the Crypt church—smaller than the main chapel it seats an impressive 1,000 people. After we sang we began to look for the exit. A kindly security guard spotted us, conspicuous in our purple iridescent taffeta choir gowns (think of the ugliest bridesmaid dress you’ve ever seen and add a little more ugly and a little less flattering). “Would you ladies like to see Brother André’s heart?” he asked us.

“Sure,” we said. We really wanted to get back to the hotel, take off our gowns and find some more cheap beer, but he seemed so enthusiastic. I assumed the guard was speaking metaphorically. Perhaps we’d see an exhibit about Brother André’s miracles. The guard showed us a glass box behind a metal grate with the letters RIP sculpted on the top.  Inside was a human heart—Brother André’s heart preserved as a relic. We didn’t really know what to say as the guard looked at us expectantly. I think one of us mumbled, “Thanks for showing us this.” He asked us to sign a petition for Brother André’s canonization.

I thought about that signature when Fr. Larry told us Brother André had become a saint. I reflected on having a great time with great friends and singing beautiful music. My life had changed so much. No longer a student and now a wife and mother. I am in touch with my roommates through the miracle of Facebook. When I got home that afternoon I opened my laptop and wrote them a message, “Do you remember Brother André…”

RemembeRED: Twelve

            My son James injured his hand when he was eleven months old. Two of his fingers were crushed when the small table he used to pull himself up, fell down on him. We were fortunate that a plastic surgeon was on call at the time and stitched up his ring finger. His fifth finger was also injured but wasn’t given much attention because the ring finger was so severely lacerated.

These days however, that fifth finger is giving him some trouble. Writing is difficult for him and he is self-conscious of the way the finger looks. During a fever dream this winter, he screamed and cried while trying desperately to “fix” his fingers in his sleep. The next morning I asked his pediatrician to recommend an orthopedic surgeon to look at his hand.

This Friday we have an appointment at Boston Children’s Hospital. In preparation for that visit, I picked up the records of his original ER visit from our local hospital. I made the mistake of reading the report in the parking lot of the hospital. So many details of that day are crystal clear in my mind, but that clinical report written in black and white chilled me. As scary as the whole experience was at the time, I don’t think I realized just how serious his injury was until today. I didn’t really understand why they didn’t pay any attention to the lesser injury. Until I read the report, I had never heard the term “partial amputation” used in regard to my son.

I didn’t watch the doctor stitch (I had passed out while watching my husband’s hand being stitched in the ER a few years before and I didn’t want to repeat the incident). I focused on trying to console James, as he lay restrained and screaming. I rubbed his arm and shoulder and whispered, “It’s going to be okay.” His eyes kept rolling back into his head and I thought he would pass out. There were moments I prayed he would. The surgeon was unfazed and just kept working. It took twelve stitches to repair James’ finger. Today was the first time I realized how many stitches went into my baby’s tiny hand.

This post is a response to the RemembeRED promt from The Red Dress Club which asked us to fill in the blanks: “The first time I ____________ -ed after  _____________-ing.” I loved the idea of this prompt and I really wanted to write something funny. I searched my brain to think of something to write about and came up with nothing. Then today, I found myself crying in the parking lot of the hospital thinking about James’ hand. It isn’t funny and it’s rushed, but it’s from the heart.

This was taken a couple of weeks after the accident.
I keep a copy in my wallet to make me laugh when I need it.

RemembeRED: Our Morning Goodbye

           This week's RemembeRED prompt from The Red Dress Club was to write about affection. 

Our Morning Goodbye

            It’s a hot September morning. The boys grumble because I’ve forced them to wear “church clothes” to school. They’d much rather be in tee shirts emblazoned with Sponge Bob or Star Wars characters and athletic shorts. It’s the first day of school—only one of two days that I insist the boys wear a shirt with a collar and khaki shorts or pants. The other day is school picture day. I’m sure they’ll grumble when that day comes too.

            I take a snap shot before the boys leave for school and we head up the hill to the bus stop. They race ahead of me, their green and blue L.L. Bean backpacks bouncing along. We arrive with a few other neighborhood families. The moms ask each other about their summers and try to keep the kids from getting grass stains on their new clothes. The kids play and compare their new sneakers.

            The yellow bus comes around the corner. “Here comes the bus,” I call to my boys who have wondered off to investigate the ants on the sidewalk. James jumps up, runs and plants a kiss on my cheek so quickly I can barely feel it and races to the front of the line to board the bus. Owen goes more slowly. He gives me a hug, we kiss each other’s cheeks and he climbs the steps of the bus. He turns towards me and waves. I blow him a kiss. He catches it and puts his hand over his heart then blows one to me. I catch the kiss and place it on my heart.

            We perform this goodbye ritual every day at the bus stop (and again at bedtime). The bus can’t leave until it’s complete. There are days when I am in a hurry or feeling stressed and I can’t help but feel impatient for him to just give me a peck on the cheek and hurry on his way. But I know these days are numbered. Plenty of kids younger than him walk away from their parents without a backward glance. Next Thursday is the last day of third grade for Owen.  How long will my sweet boy take the time to give me a multilayered goodbye? On my better days I remember that our morning farewell is a blessing.

Yesterday morning I had to hurry home to meet an appliance repairman at the house. I was nervous that he would arrive before I returned from the bus stop.

“I’m going to start walking back home as soon as the bus stops.” I tell my boys.

“You aren’t even going to say goodbye?” Owen asks me.

“Of course I’m going to say goodbye. I’ll just have to make it a quick goodbye.”

“We better do it now then,” he insists. He hugs me, kisses me and blows me a kiss. I catch it and place it over my heart.

RemembeRed: Taking Center Stage

This week's memoir prompt from The Red Dress Club was to write about a graduation. It could be any graduation.

Taking Center Stage

We were twenty minutes early and the church basement was already standing room only. Mothers made sure the graduates had clean faces. Grandmothers were trying to keep younger siblings in their seats. Fathers checked to make sure the batteries in their cameras and camcorders were fully charged.

            “When it going to start?” Owen whined.

            “In about 20 minutes.” I told him.

            “Why did we have to get here so early?”

            “So we could get a place to sit. If we had come any later, there wouldn’t be any seats left. Be patient. James sat through your preschool graduation, not to mention more soccer games than I can count.”

            “I know,” he sulked.

Two years ago it was James who squirmed impatiently in the metal folding chair waiting for Owen to graduate from Children’s Ark Preschool. The school had been a part of our lives for three years. The first time I dropped Owen off, it took me twenty minutes to wrestle James back into his car seat. He was two years old then and it was the first time Owen was going somewhere without him. He didn’t want to leave the school’s brightly colored décor, sand table, play kitchen and indoor play structure. James wanted to stay and play with his big brother and all the other children.

            Our family fell in love with the small program that I stumbled upon while searching the internet for preschools. I had driven by the Lutheran church a thousand times and never noticed the small yellow and red sign that read Children’s Ark Preschool. I never knew that little gem was there. The boys and I visited the school and I had a very strong good feeling that this was the right school for us. It was nurturing without being stifling and stimulating without being overly structured. The children said grace at snack time, participated in a Christmas pageant, and had discussions about the gentle and loving nature of God.

Before graduation.

            The graduation ceremony was in two parts. In the first part the children performed songs about the seasons. Afterward, the children would put on their graduation caps and capes to receive their diplomas. While James’ group sang a song about summer, he kept his fingers in his mouth. To anyone who doesn’t know James, it looked like the nervous habit of a shy kid. But James has never been shy. He has always been happiest in the middle of a crowd of children. 

            “Why is he doing that?” I wondered until I remembered him showing me his wiggly tooth earlier in the day. I didn’t think much about it at the time. He was only four years old. I figured that wiggly tooth would wiggle in his head for a weeks.

            But moments later, he pulled the tooth out and stared at it. At first I was the only one who noticed the little boy center stage who had stopped singing. Everyone else of course, was watching their own children or grand children.

When the song ended he whispered to the director of the school, “Mrs. Rogers, I lost my tooth!” he held the baby tooth out to her.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the director announced. “We’ve lost a tooth!”

James showed off his new Jack-o-lantern grin and giggled madly. His transition from little kid to big kid began center stage to a standing ovation. 

After graduation.

RemembeRED: Taking a Break

 This week's RemembeRED prompt:

"I think we've been too nice to you.

It's time for another image prompt.

Write about the first (or second) memory that comes to mind when you see this:"

 

Taking a Break

            I was sitting in my little black Honda Prelude fiddling with the sunroof control. It was too cold in the car with it open and too hot with it closed. A lot of other drivers had gotten out of their cars to get some air. I looked at my watch. It was almost 7:00. Curtain was at 8:00. A police officer was walking along the row of stopped cars.

            “Any idea how much longer it will be?” I asked him.

            “No idea,” he said.

“I’m in a play at Marist at 8:00,” I said. Strictly speaking, I wasn’t in the play. But I was the makeup person. I needed to make a 22-year-old college student look like an aged King Lear. For now I was stuck in some side road off of Route 9 waiting for the President Clinton’s motorcade to pass by.

“You knew the president was going to be in town,” he said unsympathetically.

He continued walking down the line of cars until he was out of sight. I held back tears. The actor playing Lear was going to be pissed.

            It was the early 90’s and only doctors and lawyers had cell phones. They were the property of the well to do, not standard equipment for students like they are today. Even if I could walk to a pay phone, no one would have been at my house. They would all be at the theatre.

            I hunted around in the floor of my car for a cassette (remember those?) to listen to. For some reason the only tapes I could find were The Rolling Stones and Beethoven’s 9^th. Neither matched my mood so I sat in silence—angry at myself for not planning better, the police for keeping me here and the president for being delayed.

            We were finally allowed to move our vehicles at 7:45. The curtain was scheduled to go up at 8:00. I drove to the theater, parked my car and ran to the green room. When I arrived, another member of our group had begun Lear’s makeup. He looked profoundly relieved when he turned over his brushes to me. Lear’s base had already been done. I needed to use a darker make up to create contours in the space under his eyes and paint on his age lines. As I moved the brush closer to his face, he grabbed my shaking hand.

            “Go have a cigarette,” he said.

            “But the curtain time was five minutes ago,” I said.

            “We can wait. Go have a cigarette.”

            “And I don’t smoke”

            “I don’t care. Go have a cigarette.”

            I was at the time, one of the few members of the theatre group who didn’t smoke. I had grown up in a house smelling of smoke and it just didn’t interest me. I took the proffered cigarette and went out on the loading dock and lit up. Taking a moment and stepping out of the situation was enough to make my hands stop shaking. There were a number of things that would have had the same effect—going for a walk, eating some French fries, getting a hug from a good friend. I crushed out the cigarette and went back inside. I finished Lear’s makeup and the curtain went up only a few minutes late.