Red Nose

Won't You Please, Please Help Me?

No, I am not above quoting the Beatles!

I was reading DC Blogs yesterday and clicked through to a very funny post from The Big Piece of Cake. The entry was delightful, but what really caught my eye was the blurb at the bottom about a show called Listen to Your Mother.

This show is about motherhood, Auditions are being held in February. Auditioners prepare and deliver an essay about motherhood, from being a mother to having a mother to just thinking about mothers. The pieces need to be personal, about 5 minutes long.

I've decided to ask for an audition. I haven't acted in a long, long time and I would love to get back into it. Of course, there are a lot of "ifs" -- if I snag an audition appointment, if I don't screw up the audition, if I get selected for the show...

But, as the Great One says, you miss 100% of the shots you never take, so I'm taking a shot.

And I need your help! Which entry should I use as my audition piece? I'll probably edit it to ensure it fits the time limit, but the bulk of the entry will be the same. Anyway, here are the entries I'm considering. Take a look, then pick your favorite in the following poll.

Today She Was in China
Who Knows Where the Spirit Goes
Three Hours in the Stationhouse
Holding Her Hand
She Just Wants to Go Home
Straight into My Heart

Thanks and wish me luck!

 

Strange But True

Once or twice a week Joe works a late shift, which gives me a chance to watch all of the weirdo reality shows that both fascinate and repel me.

I catch up on the toddlers in tiaras, I watch bars being rescued, and I listen to ladies say yes to the dress. Right now I'm watching "Taboo", which is featuring segments on female bodybuilders, a woman who has undergone pretty extreme tattooing and piercing and tooth sharpening, and folks who are into a form of body modification called bagel head, where saline solution is injected into the forehead in the shape of a bagel. I wonder if they go for a little schmear.

So the other night I was doing a channel spin and landed on "Long Island Medium," a show about a woman who is your quintessential big-haired, platinum blonde, stiletto-wearing gal who just happens to communicate with dead people. She does private readings and parties, and sometimes, right out in public when she leasts expects it, a spirit will speak up and she'll pass along the message.

I'm not going to speculate on whether she's a scam or not. Maybe she is; maybe she isn't. I've seen Ricky Jay debunk spiritualists and astrology, but I've also seen Joe after he saw a ghost at Antietam Battlefield.

Here's what happened.

While the Long Island medium lady was talking with a family about their mom, telling them what the mom wanted them know, a lump rose in my throat, my eyes misted over, and I felt Mom sitting beside me. It was a strong, warm presence -- not in me; beside me. And then I just broke down crying from missing her, from feeling her. I talked to her through my tears. And pretty soon the feeling faded away as the Long Island medium lady moved on to her next client.

Could it have been a visit? Could it just be a reaction to a silly reality show? Both? Neither?

Maybe I'm just nuts.

He May Be 30, But...

When I was in my 30s, married, a mother, and a grown-ass woman, I had appendicitis. After spending the day in the ER, I was admitted to the hospital for surgery that same night. Joe, having spent the whole day with me, went home to take care of SonnyeBoy. He called my Mom to tell her what was going on. She and my Pop were in Ocean City at the time, but as soon as she heard I was in the hospital, having surgery, she grabbed Pop and made him drive all the way to the hospital.

Visiting hours were over by the time they arrived, but that did not deter my mother. She and Pop couldn't find the ER entrance, so they waited at the front door until somebody left, then quickly slipped into the hospital. Somehow Mom bullied her way up to the OR and insisted on seeing me.

Meanwhile, I was lying on the gurney, floating on Demerol, when I heard a nurse say, "It's her parents!" And I knew immediately that it was MY parents she was talking about. Sure enough, Mom got in, made sure I was alive, talked to the surgeon, and then, satisfied that I would probably survive until morning, left.

But I told you all that so I could tell you how unlike my mother I am.

In practice.

In spirit, I am exactly like her.

So last night Joe and I were lounging around the living room watching The Thief of Bagdad on TCM when we both got a text and picture from SonnyeBoy. The text read: 

Guess who won't be going to work for awhile?

And here's the picture:

Well, as soon as I saw that, I grabbed Joe and...

No, I didn't. We did call immediately -- got voicemail, left a message -- and text furiously.

And he did call. He hurt his knee in the line of duty. It's in a soft cast until the swelling goes down, then an orthopedist will determine the actual extent of the damage.

He's got plenty of folks making sure he's okay. I'm sending him a care package shortly.

But I still kinda wanna jump in the car.

 

Ten AM

This photo is my Day 5 shot for the February Photo a Day project. The prompt is 10 am.

I confess -- I cheated a little bit. I did not take this picture at 10 am; I set the hands of the clock to that time.

I inherited this clock from my mom. It originally belonged to my gramma; she received it as a wedding present in 1907. It's a Seth Thomas clock and still keeps very good time as long as it's kept wound up. It also chimes the hour as long as that part is wound up.

When my gramma moved in with us, she kept this clock on top of the piano, where she could see it from her chair. At one point, she got fitted for a hearing aid. As soon as the technician turned it on, she looked up at the clock and exclaimed, "Why, that clock hasn't ticked in years!"

Um, not so much, Gramma!

Oh, and that photo album? My mom got it as a gift from a nice old gent who dated her after my pop died. He was in his 90s; Mom was in her 80s. She liked him well enough and even let him take her on a cruise to Bermuda! She was very clear that the cabin had to have two beds, too. After the cruise, she dumped him. He had had an embarrassing "accident" at one point, and Mom decided she had already spent quite enough time cleaning up after sick old men. But she kept the photo album, and put that picture of her and my pop right on the cover.

Way to go, Mom!

 

Thanks for Visiting; I Miss You

This afternoon I took a nap in front of the TV set. The PBS series Moguls and Movie Stars was on.

I had one of my surreal dreams - I know, all dreams are surreal.

In the dream, I was watching the exact episode of Moguls and Movie Stars that was on. Now that's not so inexplicable; my brain simply transferred what my ears were already hearing into the dream. Anyway, I was sitting on a comfy sofa in a handsome rec room watching the show on a big, old fashioned console TV.

Then my father came in. I was quite surprised, but shouted "Hi, Pop!" He waved, then put on his coat and went out the door. I knew that he was going out to the garden, because he had on his weekend clothes. Then all these kids started coming down the stairs; I knew they were guests. I figured they wouldn't want to watch the show, so I turned off the TV and went upstairs to the kitchen. Just before I got there, my Aunt Ruth came out and said, "Oh hi! I'm so glad to see you!"

I was stunned, because I knew she was dead! So I said, "But you're..." Aunt Ruth interrupted me and said, "Your mother will be here in a sec." I saw her coming in and I waved...

...And then my brain realized that I was dreaming, and I woke up with tears in my eyes. Seriously, tears in my eyes.

But I'm happy for the visit.

My Mom, My Pop, and My Aunt Ruth, in the 1930s

 

Happy Birthday, Mom

Today is my mom's birthday -- she would have been 100 years old. There was a time when I thought she would easily make it to this birthday. What a celebration we would have had! Believe me, Mom would have made sure of that.

For the last decade or more, her birthday celebration has consisted of a big meal out on the town with as many relatives as could make it. For several years she made a point of being in Ocean City, her favorite place. One year, we treated her dinner at the Olive Tree (we had to wait about two hours; agony!). Another year we had a fairly mediocre brunch at Jordan's Rooftop Inn; afterward, we gathered on thte rooftop and had a family picture taken. Another year we went to Harpoon Hanna's.

At Jordan's Rooftop Inn - approximately 1995.

On her 90th birthday, we had a smallish (eight? ten? I've forgotten) gathering at Mrs. K's Toll House, a fine dining restaurant where my nephew worked. My Aunt Ruth was at that one; she was 93 at the time and still cookin' along.

Mom was a little miffed when my grandniece got married on her birthday, but she got over it (mostly).

On her 98th birthday, a whole bunch of us took her to a fancy schmancy inn for dinner. She ate very little -- pronouncing her very tender ribeye steak "as tough as a goat" -- but she drank a glass of wine and she reveled in her presents and she enjoyed herself to the hilt.

I asked her later on how she liked her party, and she said, "It was just what I wanted." And that, my friends, is a very good thing to have, on your last birthday in this world.

The Good Old Days

My mom used to wax nostalgic for her past, usually when confronted with some form of technology that she didn't understand or some behavior that she didn't agree with.

"My world is gone," she'd sigh.

At one point I asked her when she thought her "world" existed. She told me "Oh, the time around World War II."

I was born in 1952 -- which means her world was gone by the time she had me.

Thanks, Ma!

When I pointed this out, she scrambled and hemmed and hawed and said that of course she didn't mean anything bad about me (and my younger sister, I might add).

I let her off the hook.

Anyway, I told you that so I could tell you this: I saw Midnight in Paris this weekend. It's the new Woody Allen movie starring Owen Wilson as a neurotic scriptwriter who's working on a novel (he's clearly in a role that Woody would have played had he not been in his 70s).

(And yes, Woody's been a sleazy guy; I still like most of his movies.)

It's a lovely, lovely movie. Sweet, funny, poignant... a pleasurable little fantasy for grown ups, especially in this summer of comic-book action flicks and raunchy comedies. The plot is simple. Gil Pender, his fiancee, and his almost in-laws are on a trip to Paris. Gil is in love with Paris, especially with the Paris of the 1920s -- Oh, the writers! The artists! The culture! -- and would love to have lived then.

In a magical sort of way, he gets his wish.

I'll stop there because I don't want to spoil the movie too much.

But it got me thinking -- do we all wish we'd lived at some other time, in some other place? I used to think I wanted to live in a different era. And then I start thinking about indoor plumbing, and antibiotics, and air conditioning.

The past may seem romantic, but that romance generally makes us forget about the harsh reality of those times.

We've got this time. Time to enjoy it.

And do see Midnight in Paris -- it's great.

A Collection of Souls

I had to do Mom's final tax return last month, which meant that I had to root around in the records a little bit. I found her wallet in the blue steel records box and went through it to ensure that there wasn't anything else that I needed to take care of. (I suppose it's time to throw it out, but I can't quite do that yet.)

At any rate, I found her stash of prayer cards -- 23 of them. At Catholic funerals, these little cards are provided as remembrances of the deceased.

The cards generally have a holy image on the front and a prayer on back, along with the name of the person and the date of the death. Some of them have Jesus, several have the Blessed Mother, a couple have nature scenes.

This one is oldest one in the collection; it's the prayer card for my paternal grandmother, who died on December 31, 1929. The front says "Death can never separate those who are bound together by the ties of pure love."

This one commemorates my brother, Johnny, who died October 25, 1950. I never knew him; he died two years before I was born.

She also has my Pop's card (of course) and her nephew's card, and the card from the pastor of the church. She has the prayer card for my gramma's best friend, who died in 1974. The rest memorialize her friends, except for this one:

I'm not sure what to do with them -- well, I'll keep the family ones of course -- but it seems a little disrespectful to just throw the rest away. They remain little pieces of memory, remnants of lives. I suppose I could add them to mine.

Yes, I have some too; my own little collection of souls.

 

 

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of Mom's death. I thought about going to the cemetery today, but I didn't. It just didn't seem like something I wanted to do. I mean, what would I do there? Stand by my parents' grave and my brother's grave and cry on this bitter cold day? I can do that just fine here and stay warm. Really, there's more of my mother right here in my living room than there is in the cemetery. I can look in every direction and see her in the art on the wall, the antique clock ticking softly, the photos on the side table.

That was quite a day, one year ago. I was sitting right here with two of my pals, doing crafty things, when the nursing home called. The nurse said that Mom had expired.

Expired. LIke a coupon.

My pals hugged me, Joe held me, I started making calls. My sisters, my brother, the funeral home... then we drove out to the nursing home because I had to do something; I couldn't just sit at home. I thought we had let enough time elapse that the funeral home would have already picked up her body, but I was wrong. The young woman who was taking her away was still there. She asked if I wanted to see her.

I thought about saying no, but I didn't. I said yes. Since I wasn't there when she left, I thought I should take a last look before I packed up her few remaining things.

So the young woman unzipped the carrying bag and I went in the room. I let the tears come as I touched her cool skin and kissed her forehead and looked at her still, peaceful face.

And I said goodbye to my mother, one year ago tomorrow.

 

Gnashing Of Teeth

Well, I'm a little under the weather. I've had this weird ache in my head -- it feels like someone pinching the bridge of my nose.

I suspect that I ground my teeth to a fare-thee-well last night. I know why, too. It was because I had a pretty vivid dream.

Do you ever have "theme" dreams? I mean, dreams that might differ in the details but have the same general feeling or progression? I have a few: Angry Yelling dreams, Stuck on Steps dreams, Anxiety about Events dreams. And in the last year, Mom dreams. (Go figure.)

I had this particular dream between six and eight this morning. I woke up early, but since Joe was working the late shift and I'm on vacation, I rolled over and went back to sleep.

The dream was both a Mom dream and an Angry Yelling dream. At first, the dream was that I was helping Mom move into assisted living. One of old men tried putting the moves on her, but she was having none of it.

Then the scene morphed. I was in the assisted living office and the accounting person was trying to get me to pay Mom's bill. She said I had to pay it, but I could set up a payment plan. I got really angry and said that I could only pay $1 a week because that was all I could afford, and anyway, what was this payment for?

The accountant said it was for my Mom's maintenance.

I yelled, "But she's DEAD! What kind of maintenance could she possibly need?"

And then I woke up.

So yeah, Angry Yelling Mom Dream, accompanied by gnashing of teeth.

I suppose I might experience some more of these sorts of dreams as the anniversary of her death approaches. It is, I'm sure, a sort of a psychic working out of missing her and moving on.

I'd best be sure to wear my nighttime mouth guard.