My Mother Gave Me Permission

This memory exists in sharp detail: Nine-year-old me, lying on my bed in a sweltering attic bedroom with sun-yellow walls and a nubby, multicolored rug. I'm listening to the radio: country music of course. I don't recall the name of the song that was playing, just that it was incredibly sad. A story of lost love, heartbreak, and loneliness. 

I felt all of it. I felt the devastation and the overwhelming grief. The pain of loving and losing. The longing in the singer's voice. At 9 years old, years away from truly understanding a broken heart, that song made me deeply, massively sad.

I dissolved into tears, weeping little girl tears over grown-up heartbreak, tears of recognition that the world--and specific people within it-could stomp on my heart. I remember drenching my pillow and feeling bewildered. Where was this strong reaction coming from? I knew I was too little to really get it, but my heart went on that journey anyway. And once I started, I couldn't stop: the wailing went on far longer than the song.

My mother must have heard me. Suddenly, there she was, sitting on the bed beside me, concern on her face. 

"What's wrong, Mon?" 

I told her I had just listened to a really, really sad song and it made me cry. As a mother now myself, I imagine she might have been relieved. No broken bones, no blood, no trauma, just good old-fashioned sadness. She asked what the song was about.

I felt silly, but blurted: "Someone broke up with the girl, the singer, and she was really sad about it, and the song was the story, and it was SO SAD!" Fresh tears erupted, rendering me a puddle once more.

She hugged me, rubbed my back, and let me be sad. She told me she understood, that songs can really make us feel things. I felt silly telling her why I was crying, but she didn't treat me like I or my feelings were silly. From a mother's point of view, she did a mundane mom thing: made a kid feel better about something kind of small. But this small thing has stayed with me my entire life.

I have often wondered why. It was a tiny moment in a busy, loud, sarcastic household. It was a blip, a sliver, a shred. There was no postscript or profound conclusion. It remains just a snapshot of a moment in time.

But the little girl who felt so much in response to a song? That's who I have always been. I've always been a crier. Tears come easily and I treasure them, knowing and trusting their cleansing power. My heart is stirred by the tiniest slivers of things: curtains lifted by a breeze, revealing a wall of family portraits; trash collected at the side of a freeway on-ramp, items once used, or loved, or needed by someone; a broken down barn on the side of a road. Always, I yearn to know the stories hidden in these blips and slivers, and frequently, I'm stirred to strong emotions by them. That's who I am, and that's who I was as a little girl.

My mom let me be that girl that day. As I grew up, I took pride in being "a feeler." It became, and still is, a big part of my identity. Being a feeler has helped me forge strong connections with my wonderful network of dear and plentiful friends. It has helped me be a mom when I see strong emotions in my kids. It has always been a portal to understanding other people. 

So maybe I remember that tiny moment because it was a memory of me being just 100% me, all in my feels and wailing away, and because my mom's response was to let me be 100% that person. Maybe I remember it because her hand on my back, and her soothing words, told me I could let myself feel everything, that I could just be myself. Maybe each time I remember that day, and see that 70's snapshot in my mind, she is still telling me to be exactly who I am.

Life is lived in the slivers and shreds that stay with us.

Happy Mother's Day, mom.

Knuckleheads, Home From the Dance

My parents were the cool parents: they let me drive around in our sleepy one-horse town before I was officially licensed. Emphasis on sleepy. Nothing ever happened there, so they figured nothing would ever happen to me.

And they were right...until they weren't. Until one night at 2 am, when my friend Samantha and I returned home from a dance in the next town over. No, they had not let me drive that far, but they did say I could take Samantha home once the friend who had driven us there dropped us both at my house. So we had enjoyed the dance and then a party afterward–no alcohol for me–and then arrived back at mom and dad’s.  

We hopped in the orange and white Volkswagon van I learned to drive on and headed across town. She lived up in the hills, relatively far away (but still: sleepy town, nothing going on, you get the idea). I had never actually been to her house, so did not know that she lived at the top of a very long, very steep driveway. We pulled up to the bottom, and I pondered the hill before me, one hand on the gear shift of the van. 

Now, the smart thing to do would have been to have Samantha hoof it up that hill. We were both quite smart teenagers, so let’s just say it was a glitch in the fabric of the universe that we did not use our smarts to make the decision in front of us.

Let’s do it, I suggested gamely, and up we went. 

The driveway had wide curves in it, and I did fine through the first one. On either side of us, the brown grasses of the Valley of the Moon waved in a gentle nighttime breeze, their carpet punctuated by scrub oaks here and there. I had enough speed going to be fine...at first. As the slope continued, and the second curve was upon me, I couldn’t keep the speed up. The van stalled, shuddered, and died, with little ole unlicensed, inexperienced me, gripping the steering wheel. A flush of panic headed up my spine, my hands trembled.  

We looked at each other. Nothing to do but try to start this bad boy up again, so I gave it a go. But after I started the engine, there was the small matter of needing to take my foot off the brake in order to give it some gas. Years later, I would become a bad-ass San Francisco driver who would have scoffed at the challenge, but I was not yet that driver by a long shot. I tried; I failed; I panicked. And the van started to roll backward.  

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I wailed, completely unsure which way to turn the wheel to stay on the driveway.  

“Go forward, go forward!” Samantha screamed. “I’m trying!” I screamed back.

Mayhem ensued as the van gained speed. I had no idea what to do, so naturally, I did nothing. I let the van go where its heart would take it, which happened to be off the left-hand side of the driveway, down over the waving brown grasses, faster and faster, until halted in its trajectory by an oak tree, that keeper of the California hills.

We stopped with a bang. Not injured. Not harmed in the slightest. Just completely freaked out, with the specific intensity of teenage girls. I burst into tears, while Samantha looked stunned and frozen, both of us entirely dreading whatever might come next.

Way up at the top of the driveway, a light went on. We looked up to see the silhouettes of her parents, pajama-clad, shoulders bunched-up against the cold night air, staring down at the Orange Blossom Special resting against one of their trees.  

We Left Resentment At the Lake

Yesterday, Tallulah and I went for a walk around Lake Merritt. We left at 8am, which apparently is excruciatingly early for a 13-year old person. The day before, she asked me if we could go for a hike. This being remarkable on many levels – not least of which the fact that she can barely tolerate my presence these days – I decided it had to happen. Then, by the time it did, she was just not that into me anymore. Ah, the difference a few short hours can make in the mother-daughter relationship.

I had to coax her with avocado toast and throw in a stop for hot chocolate just to get her out of bed. And before she would peel back the covers, she wanted to know where we were going. I guess she had to weigh the destination against her comfy pillow and warm blankets.  I had been researching places we could go that I wasn't already tired of and that were still open during SIP -- most of the places I thought of were closed.  Then I thought of Lake Merritt, which I've loved on my walks with Susan and would be new to Tallulah.

Perfect! I thought.  Meh, was Tallulah's general response.  Even still, with enough cajoling in the form of avocado, I got her in the car and off we went.

With. No. Aux. Cord. THE HORROR.

She wasn't interested in (a) NPR, (b) the radio or (c) the lone Scottish fiddle CD that's been in my player since fiddle camp last June.  We opted for silence.  Combine a reluctant teenager with an early-for-her morning and no acceptable music, and you get a very quiet car ride.

In my head: Mom's just over her behind the wheel thinking "It's OK...it's time together...it'so OK...it's time together..." and trying hard not to fill the silence just to make herself feel better.

The few sentences Tallulah did speak were on the order of "What is this place, anyway?" and "Are we stopping for hot chocolate first?" and "I said I wanted to go for a HIKE not a WALK."

With such enthusiasm, the morning was bound to be joyful!  Yeah, not so much.  Our walk consisted of me walking slightly slower than I wanted to and still staying two paces ahead of her – probably because she preferred it that way – and me biting my lip when I wanted to point out something pretty or interesting.

I couldn't help myself, after too many steps taken in silence, from pointing out a large collection of ducks and geese, one of which was drinking water.  Drinking water is a laborious process for long-necked waterfowl, as they take a drink and then have to raise their heads up high to let the water shimmy down their throats, gulping several times for what seems like a pretty small amount of water. I called this to Tallulah's attention, but alas, I misspoke:

Me: "Look at that duck drinking water: it's so much work for him!"

Daughter disdain dripping: "That's not a duck."

"Right. Goose. Look at the goose. My apologies."

More silent walking.

Families walked by chatting.  Friends walked by deep in conversation. Couples walked by engrossed in each other.  Joggers ran by all healthy and purposeful.  We plodded on in silence, mom in front, daughter two steps behind.

Around a bend, we encountered a flock of geese, easily twenty or thirty of them.

Me, playfully: "Look at all those ducks!"

Her: Icy stare.

More plodding.

Her, annoyed: "It's so hot out here!  Why did you make me bring a sweatshirt???"

More plodding.

Her, annoyed: "Are we going all the way around this WHOLE lake?"

Me: "Hell no, I've got better things to do than take a morning stroll with resentment."

I'm 99% sure I didn't say this out loud, instead beginning my answer with:

"We can turn right up there and go back along Grand Avenue instead of going all the way around.  I'm sure we'll pass a coffee shop along there too."

So we did.  We cut short the walk, which was only about 40 minutes long at that point, found a cafe and got her a drink.  She opted for raspberry lemonade, what with it being sweltering and all.

While we waited for her drink, I noticed we were right across the street from Children's Fairyland.  This spot is near and dear to my heart, from the countless trips Rick and I made here with our children in the early days of our parenting.  Later, the kids' Kindergarten class made an annual field trip here too, which we chaperoned whenever we could.  So many happy memories.

For some of us at least.  I was jolted out of my nostalgic haze by Tallulah:

"What's Children's Fairyland?"

How was this possible?  How could she not know Fairyland?  Where had we gone wrong that this special place was not firmly fixed in her memory?  Incredulity...shame...parental regret...wondering if her gangly arms and legs would fit inside Mother Hubbard's shoe if we tried to make up for lost time and brought her here now: many things went through my head.  It was so striking to me, I texted Rick.  And then I sat on Grand Avenue, waiting for T's lemonade, soaking up the sun and feeling disappointed in our sad, plodding little walk and in myself for failing to be the same parent for #5 as I had been for #1 and #2 and probably even #3 and maybe even some for #4.  Time goes too damn fast and I don't know how it slipped away from me.

We picked up her drink, and walked on.  The skip in her step returned only when we could see the car, and her escape from the entire tortuous morning seemed finally at hand.

But then on the drive home, lo and behold, the sun that had shone down on all those lake walkers finally emerged in my car.  She actually DID remember Children's Fairyland, Mother Hubbard's shoe specifically, which prompted her to remember other funny things about Kindergarten and childhood and pretty soon, stories were spilling out of her and she was chattering and giggling and lovely. My heart eased. I got the time back.  She even forgot how annoying I was, and did not recoil from the sound of my voice! Victory! Only 15 minutes in the car, but suddenly the sad, plodding little walk was golden and perfect.

And just like that, we left resentment at the lake.


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Preserve Your Memories

Post title nod to Simon and Garfunkel

My camera is broken. That beautiful photo above? Public domain, not mine. I've watched many priceless moments come and go this week, moments I definitely would have captured for posterity or my FB status updates. Sadly, those moments will now have to rely on my swiss-cheese brain to stay alive, which pretty much means most of them are doomed.

There is something kind of poignant about relying on memory alone, making a day that much more special because nothing remains to prove that it ever was. Hopefully, I will remember at least a few of the uncaptured yet captivating things we saw today: the wonderful old graveyard we visited...the ornately carved tombstones from the 1800's with entire life stories contained in birth dates and death dates...the lizards and the frog the kids caught (and released)...the grave rubbings we made of flowers, crosses, and birds...my friend Miriam giving Lady E a piggy-back ride, their faces bright with the setting sun as they looked out over the oak covered hills. Oh, and my four year old asleep on a raised grave. That was a sight. My little sweetie, curled up like...well...an angel, snoring away on top of some long gone Italian person's lichen-covered final resting place. It was a shade creepy.

I'm pretty sure that last image will stay with me for a very long time. The others I will try to hold on to, but I fear they will flit away. Thank God for photographs and the worlds they preserve for us. Thank God for blogs, so we can write about those worlds when our cameras are broken.

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Hook and Eye

Not very many people use hook and eye latches anymore. They're a bit outdated, I suppose. But there are two in my mom and dad's house, and I love them.

Lest you think I have some strange attachment to bits of metal, let me tell you the story of how they came to be on the doors of the two bathrooms in my childhood home, and then you will know why I love them.

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My mom and dad hosted my wedding reception in their backyard. It was a gorgeous June day. Early that morning, the preparations began, with family, friends and workers carting tables and chairs, spreading linens, and readying the BBQ. It was a lively, crowded scene.

Two of our guests, our friends Margaret and Lola, arrived to dress, having driven up early in the morning in more comfortable clothes. Both were in the category of our "older" guests, and because of this, I was especially concerned about their comfort. They were also extremely honored guests; they have both had a profound, wonderful impact on our lives, so I wanted them to both enjoy themselves and feel well treated.

The old, quirky house of my childhood was not built with locks on the bathroom doors. Somehow, this was never a big deal when I was growing up. We all got fairly used to hollering or knocking to establish vacancy. I never recall, even in my intense teen girl years, caring much that the bathrooms did not lock.

But on the day of my wedding, my two dear, older Austrian friends did care; the prospect of having someone walk in on them was, I am sure, horrifying.

The beautiful part of this story, at least from a bride's perspective, is that most of it occurred without my knowing anything about it.

I was at the house, getting dressed, with my sister and other bridesmaids. I was, as was natural, a bit self-absorbed. I had no idea that Margaret and Lola were having "dressing room issues."

But I do remember seeing my dad, all decked out in his classy tuxedo, walking out to his studio, rumaging around, returning with tools. There, amid the flurry of activity, the people running to and fro, guests in the way on the deck, my dapper dad calmly found two hook and eye sets, got the right tools, went into the house and made our bathrooms lock-able. For Margaret and Lola. Before I even knew they were having a minor tizzy about the lock-less bathrooms.

Such a small, simple thing. But on a day when you are hosting 260 people in your back yard, when you've got a million details to see to, I think it takes a special kind of grace to screw hook and eye assemblies into place, especially to do it calmly. He took care of my friends; I heard about it later. But now, whenever I'm at their house and in one of those bathrooms, the hook and eye latch reminds me of my wedding day, my good friends, my lovely father, and the care he and my mother took that day to make everything perfect.

Saturday was Dad's birthday. This post was supposed to have been written and posted that day. As with everything else in my life, it didn't get done until a bit too late. So two days later, here it is, straight from my heart and my memory, to my dad on his birthday. Happy Birthday Dad, and thank you so much for the hook and eyes.

Love, Monica



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