Greenland and Flipflops

(After a challenge given by A. S. King at Purnell School's 10th Annual Night of Creativity to write at least a 10-line poem using Greenland and flipflops as subjects-- in the span of about an hour-- here are the results)

I used to wonder why Greenland had that name
Floating near the Arctic, How green could it ever be?
It's a misnomer.
Like calling a fat guy, Slim
Or a tall guy, Shorty
But I think Greenland may be hearkening for a moniker of truth

I bought three awesome pairs of boots this winter
With a blizzard in October I was sure we would be crunching through snow
In our Easter dresses like we did in 2011
But global warming has confused my wardrobe
And the new footwear for Christmas in the Northeast
Has apparently become flipflops.

A Tribute To One of My Momma Heroes: My Friend Peggy

This afternoon I had a cell phone message from my mom. "Call me when you have a chance." Now, with my mom that could mean she wants to tell me that she saw my first grade teacher at the supermarket and she wanted to say hi, or that a friend of mine was in the local newspaper and did I want her to send me the clip. But there was something in the "call me" that seemed ominous. And while my grandmother is now approaching 101 years old, I spoke with her hearty sassy self just yesterday so I was not thinking the dread had to do with her. But indeed, there was dreadful news-- our very good family friend, Margaret "Peggy" Secor had passed away.

Now to gain some perspective on why I almost needed to pull over because stupid me was driving at the time, even though I was worried about a dreaded message--- but Peggy was not just a "family friend" she was FAMILY. My heart sank the way it did when I learned my Aunt Kitty had passed. That sense of a presence suddenly being ripped from your life, someone who just was supposed to "always be there" because they had always been there, providing strength and laughter and joy.

Peggy and her very large family were my parents' next door neighbors when they were living in Arkansas when my dad was in the Air Force. I don't know if I had been born yet when the Secors moved, because I do know they were replaced with equally awesome neighbors, The Beatty's with whom we still keep in contact-- but I do know my memories of Peggy and her brood start when I'm about in fifth grade or so and we went to visit her family in California. She had divorced her husband Gene at that point. And lived with four daughters and one son, and a Chesapeake Bay Retriever in Coronado, California, an island just off the coast of San Diego. What I remember that first encounter was playing Perfection and Boggle all night long. My mother is Peggy's youngest daughter, Andrea's godmother, and Peggy's son, Dan is my sister, Christie's, godfather, and I am Dan's son's godmother. So I guess we were always related in the Spirit.


Peggy's son, Dan, went to the USNavalAcademy (graduating in 1980) and adopted our family as his East Coast family, attending holidays with us, and essentially became the big brother I always wanted, for 4+ years-- shoot, I still kind of think of him as my older brother.  When I went to USC in 1984, it was only fitting that Peggy became my California Mom, then.

I visited Coronado every chance I could, not only to hang with Peggy who always made me feel so comfortable and at home, but also because that is clearly one of the most beautiful places on earth. One time she even let me bring 4 of my friends down with me, even though her little cottage couldn't really handle that many people. Peggy was just the right kind of "suck it up"-- "here give me hug" when my friend Janet stepped on a sting ray, receiving a bleeding sting that left her foot numb for hours. We all learned the "Coronado Shuffle" after that, that's for sure. I remember helping Peggy in her small backyard garden. Going to the carousel in San Diego. Looking admiringly at the painting she had by the artist who did the backgrounds for Disney's Sleeping Beauty. I bought my first pair of non-stud earrings with her in a street market in San Diego. She helped me pick them out. I loved them because the earring was all one fluid shape. Some artsy Swedish guy made them. I wore those earrings for 20+ years until they recently broke, and I still kept them. Because they reminded me of Peggy.

The first earrings I bought (aside from my studs). I was with Peggy at a street fair in San Diego. A Swedish craftsman made these and they were so unique. I wore them until they broke!! And then saved them, because I loved them and they reminded me of Peggy and all the fun times I had in Coronado.

I remember my senior year driving with my boyfriend at the time, John, in my friend Gail's car, and her brakes died. He wanted to turn around because we had some massive hills to go down to get into Coronado-- and I was like, No Way-- I have to see Peggy.  Even when I was a freshman in college, I called her "my friend Peggy"--- not "my parents' friend Peggy"--- she was my friend. Peggy had that amazing joi de vivre that allows a person to be ageless. She treated everyone as peers and if you were interesting enough and willing to walk long distances---she was fine by you. I've always tried to emulate that open age policy on my friends. Age does not determine intelligence, interest, curiosity-- so even though she was my mom's contemporary, she was "my friend Peggy."

In looking for some kind of photos of those California Mom days, I found an old notebook from my awful Philosophy of Time class. Clearly, indicated from the notes and doodles all over the notebook, I didn't pay much attention to the class. This was me and my friends planning a getaway weekend to Coronado at "my friend Peggy's"

When Peggy retired from working for the IRS (I always thought that was so funny that she worked for such a hated agency-- because she was one of the nicest people I ever knew) she decided to move to England!! I thought that was the coolest thing in the world. She loved the country, loved its history, so she just moved there. I was so privileged to visit her twice in Holmfirth. The first time was in the summer of 1996 when I was studying at Oxford for a summer program. I hung out with Peggy for several days and grew to love, love, love her awesome border collie, Moss. We went on long walks in the woods and fields and from that day forward, I knew I could only have a border collie'esque dog with a one syllable name.  And my dogs Patch (1996-2010) and Jax (current) are testaments to the impact Mr. Moss had on me. Peggy loved museums and cathedrals and she knew a whole lot about architecture so much so that she even became a docent at the York cathedral not far from her home. On that trip I remember we both were tired from walking all day, so we thought we'd eat in, but then realized the pickings were slim. But we ate beets and cheddar cheese and discovered that was a delicious combo. I still eat that sometimes.

In the summer of 2000 I visited Peggy again with my 18-month old baby, Mari. We only saw each other for a day, but it was lovely and we sat in a park and watched Mari pick up cigarette butts and put them in the trash. It was hilarious.

I saw Peggy a couple of other times, on visits to my parents, but because of the distance to England, and the fact that all her kids lived in opposite directions from NJ, we really didn't have the chance to see too much of her. When I was separated from my husband in 2001, Peggy was a source of strength for me. I looked to her as one of the strongest, most amazingly alive people I had ever known, and the prospect of being husbandless, did not daunt me having her as a shining example of a strong independent woman.

Peggy recently returned from England after a bad fall and some problems with her legs. She went to live in Northern California, and that is where she suddenly passed. My mom got to talk to her last week and Peggy said that she was feeling down and depressed-- and my mom knew that was a bad sign. Because Peggy loved life and lived it every day.

A Print from Russia Peggy gave me, she knew I studied Russian and said she thought of me while she was travelling there.

A Kells Plate from Peggy, She knew I loved Ireland and Religion

Peggy, I am so sad I was not able to say good bye and thank you, and I love you. I know you knew that, but I really wish I had the opportunity to say it. I looked today for any kind of photos I might have of you and I and the adventures that meant so much to me. I'm sure there are some, somewhere, but they remained elusive today. So I leave the tribute of the artifacts that will keep you with me always. You were one heck of a lady, and I will miss you so very much. I hope that since we were always family in "spirit"-- that you visit in spirit when you can. Although, I think you may have already done that. In Spring cleaning my room, I came across a hummingbird pin I bought for you something like five or six years ago, but never sent. Hummingbirds always reminded me of you, so I would buy things on occasion and send them to you, but it seemed kind of a silly little pin to send all the way to England without something else. Now, I suppose I will keep that pin as a reminder of you and your free and energetic spirit.

I bought this hummingbird pin to send to Peggy. But I never did. Hummingbirds were her favorite-- next to Border Collies, though, They were definitely her favorite.

Peggy always sent Christmas cards from the Musician's Benevolent Fund, they were so gorgeous, I always saved them because they have pictures that span the full length of the card. I will miss getting these this year for sure.

Peggy, you will be forever a piece of who I am. I will always want to have a border collie to walk with. I will love beets and cheddar cheese. I will appreciate the art and history of many cultures. I will live life to the very fullest no matter my age. Rest in peace beautiful, strong lady.

Touched a chord

I was quite touched and surprised by the response to the previous post. Facebook friends re-posting all the way across the Atlantic, former students who are now mothers reminiscing on the teenage years I experienced with them. Just goes to show that Vladimir Nabokov and I are not the only ones infatuated and terrified by the entity known as the teenage girl.

Here's a great link to lyrics and a music video by Jonatha Brooke that my ever-so-awesome singer/songwriter friend, Jerzy Jung passed on.  I'll be starting a blog just dedicated to these thoughts on teenage girls and their mothers, it will be called Mommalesence and I will link as soon as I actually create it.  But writing it here is my way of making sure I do it.

Waxing Moons and Teenage Daughters

The moon is apparently 96% full this evening but considering the erratic emotions of my almost teenaged daughter, I could have told you that without even looking in the sky. My daughter turns thirteen in a matter of four months, and there has already been an incredible seismic shift in her behavior these last few weeks.

I've worked with teenage girls for over twenty years now, so I know this beast fairly well, probably too well to feel at all comfortable with the phase into which our family is entering. And yet, like the tentative fear/thrill one feels before going on a new amusement park ride, there is something slightly invigorating about the volatility of this unstable element under my roof right now. I suppose this is why I have been working with teenage girls for twenty years, because these are truly formative years. My daughter is "becoming" right before my eyes, that is exciting, but what is so scary is that we are walking the most ancient, most rickety, most threadbare of rope bridges across a cavernous abyss of the mother/daughter impasse. Any wrong move could be disasterous.

The question I realize now, more than "will she be strong enough to survive the perils", is, "will I be strong enough"? Will I be able to let her fail? Let her hurt? Let her make her own bad decisions without swooping in for the save? Can I guide without judging? Can I support without suffocating? Can I edge along the precipice with her, so she knows that she indeed is taking these risky steps of independence on her own, but she is not alone. I'm still right there. Can I watch her foot step on the creaky cracking boards and hang back enough to let her know that she must be courageous, but that I am still there to guide her through to the stronger slats if she'll take the time to listen to me.

When she turns her back on me, will I still stay within reach, so when she needs that guidance again, she'll still hear my voice helping her to the other side? I am flooded with these questions perhaps because the moon waxes for both mother and daughter, and as her emotions ebb and flow the tides pull me with her.

Last week it was a huffy "fine, then I'll walk", a lost cell phone without a mom blow-up, but then a decision to go "somewhere else" with a pretty severe mom blow-up and consequences. Further, today I had to let her deal with her own consequences because of irresponsible behavior, and when she wanted to run and hide, I had to make her face the music and make it clear that building resilience is one of the greatest gifts I can give her right now.

She is strong, I have faith she will thrive through her growth and maturing these next few years, but I also know I must be stronger so I can continually be there to nurture her along the way, no matter how tentatively we must walk that bridge together.

Living to be 100: Is it Genes, Joy, or Stubborn Will?

On this day in 1911 a little baby girl was born in Casorzo, Italy to Giuseppe and Giulia Datomo. Not too long after, they carried their baby on a boat to the New World where Giuseppe would set up his carpentry shop in Greenwich Village and taking advantage of weekly standing room only seats, this amateur musician would cultivate in his young daughter a love and passion for opera. Learning the delicate handicrafts of lacemaking and dressmaking from her mother, Victoria would, as a young woman, stand out among the crowd of other seamstresses at Butterick's Shirt Factory. She could sew faster and more accurately than any of the other women, such that Mr. Butterick, chose Victoria to help design the next shirt. While her design was bought by Neiman Marcus in Texas, she fought with Mr. Butterick about the design implementation arguing that the diagonal stripes were going in the wrong direction and no one would buy it now. She was right, but being a strong-minded powerful woman in 1934 didn't always make you friends in high places. That is, until Victoria's incredible passion for opera and, in particular, the rising star from Montclair, NJ, Dorothy Kirsten. Victoria was the president of her fan club, but then her personal secretary, and then her personal hairdresser, seamstress, absolutely-indispensible-everything personal assistant. And as Ms. Kirsten catapulted to fame as one of the Metropolitan Opera's most lucious mezzo-sopranos, Victoria was right there with Dorothy Kirsten every step of the way. To her death bed, in fact. And as we who know Vicki say-- "and beyond." Even though it was almost 20 years ago that Dorothy Kirsten passed away, you can be sure that Victoria Datamo Hillebrand keeps the torch of her devotion lit eternally. But that's a story for another time-- What we really need to celebrate is that Victoria is 100 years old today! And while genetics must certainly have something to do with this longevity, I would venture to say that the secret to my grandmother's centenarian success is a contribution of many factors.
-a sense of purpose for at least 95 years-- That purpose-- keep Dorothy's memory alive
-an utter distaste for illness of any kind in self or others -- I can remember being 8 years old and having a horrible cough on our way to Dorothy's home in Pauma Valley. "You had better stop that coughing right this minute, young lady. You are not sick."
-never having a driver's license-- directly this means that she has walked many, many miles in her life, but an ancillary to not having a driver's license means you never also had to deal with any of the stresses associated with driving, nor do you feel bereft and limited when that privilege is revoked due to your age.
-the fear of dying -- before the rift between her daughter (my mother) and she will resolve in some sort of forgiveness -- Forgiveness of the daughter for not measuring up to Victoria's incredibly demanding health expectations, and forgiveness of the mother for abandoning the daughter in order to pursue all things Dorothy.
-sheer stubborness and joie de vivre -- as all things in Victoria's life have been done on her terms only--- and frankly, despite her cranky posits that "god must be punishing [her] for letting her live so long", Victoria Hillebrand would absolutely not have it any other way.

Why did they code name him Geronimo?

I thought I was disturbed by the events of last evening and today because the American people celebrating the death of Bin Laden really made me gasp. The death of one man cannot end terrorism, the death of one man cannot bring back the lives already lost to senseless terrorist attacks. And the death of this man, creates a martyr for those violent dangerous people who followed him, so now they can hate the murderers of their beloved leader and rally together. This has all sat strangely for me and I was heartened to hear that many people directly involved with the events of September 11 and other terrorist attacks led by Bin Laden-- all of these people have been much more subdued and introspective about the complexity of emotions this event has prompted. But tonight, in learning that they code named Bin Laden Geronimo--- NOOOOOO. I am utterly appalled with the crass historical mockery the special forces have committed. Geronimo was a nobel warrior, a resilient leader, and man of unwavering courage-- and the U.S. government killed him by essentially keeping him captive for 23 years. Is that really the parallel we want on this day?? An example of our country's racist, classist hegemony in committing genocide on a native people? Yeah, that's appealing. Anyway-- just had to get that off my chest.

Posting here on 5/5/10: Guess it wasn't just me who felt the need to get that off my chest--

CBS NEWS STORY
Detroit Free Press
Tulsa News

Poem for Jerzy

VENUS IS A SIZE 12
By Leslie B. Patient

VOLUPTUOUS
Feel the word in your mouth
Vo- Lup- Chew- Us

Voluptuous as crimson velvet cushions
stuffed to full roundness
your hand smoothing with the extra pressure
to sink into the luxury of something delectably
soft and secret

Voluptuous as sun-fed vineyard grapes
Glistening with drops of morning dew
Their juicy globes enticing your lips
To part in exhilarating anticipation

Voluptuous as verdant rolling hills
Dotted with Spring crocuses
Splashes of royals and radiance
Your eyes feast on the curvaceous earth
Longing to lie in her fertile valleys

Voluptuous as the cool and bodacious sculpted alabaster of the
Armless Goddess of Love
Her hips, all forty Inches sized 12, marbled perfection of she
Whom we should emulate

Go Ahead Giorgio,
cut your sleek angled lines for single digit bags of bones
Drape your runway skeletons with shimmering silks
That jut with collar bones and elbows
Choose the flat barren bellies of pre-pubescent
Cosmetically engineered faux female bodies
So that grease-fat fed morons can drool over bikini unclad torsos
And fabricated photo-shopped femmes fatal
Only to themselves

Rush (Limbaugh) scoffs
At Michelle (Obama’s) vision for natural healthy living
Bending in the garden to plant the seeds of
Self-confident children fed on foods that
Spring from mother earth and not in Petri dishes
Cancer-causing concoctions
Zero calories, zero life force

Rush (Limbaugh) scoffs and says
“Well, she ain’t exactly a swimsuit model herself!”
and I think
No.
She is not.
And I thank god.
Because it is her abundant realness that exudes a strength and stillness
That says to me there is a fullness of
Womanity
Which gives me the courage to strut my
38-31-40 five foot nothing self
with potent pride that rejoices
in the double digit dress size of
The Goddess of Love
And I can call to the silvery moon in my own alabaster nakedness
Aphrodite is our muse
We are all Venus
And we are all called to be
Voluptuous.